#imagine it looks more like an 's' or it flattens- like his guard might be a bit lower than usual when he's around that person

[darabeatha]

/ Random headcanon but m.oriarty's calligraphy gets curlier and more readable when he's in love

[joheunsaram]

To Make A Power Couple - 07 (knj)

Chapter 7: Blanket Forts

THIS IS A REPOST SINCE I LOST ACCESS TO MY OLD ACCOUNT. PLEASE FOLLOW THIS BLOG FOR UPDATES ON THIS SERIES.

previous | masterlist | next

Summary- At the hospital, Namjoon tries to make sense of what transpired as Y/N recovers.

word count- 6k

pairing- idol!namjoon x ceo!reader

rating- R

genre- series, fluff, angst, action, strangers2lovers

warnings- violence, blood, stalker, hospital, extremely fluffy scenes of Joon as a caretaker

a.n- wow i literally wrote this the fastest i’ve written any chapter! i hope you like it. although there is angst there is also a lot of tooth rotting fluff. special s/o to @jungkooksbroski for beta reading this 💕

As always feedback appreciated. Send me an ask! 💌

taglist - @beach-bitch-bitch-beach, @sscheherazadee, @rjsmochii , @jinjccns​ , @joyful-jimin @sideblogger @agustdpeach @diamonddia-mond

—

Namjoon held your hand in both of his, his forehead resting upon them, as he waited for you to wake up from surgery, the beep of the heart monitor far too loud and ominous. His hood was on his head as his elbows dug into the ratty blue basketball shorts he had thrown on in a hurry. Even though the doctors had assured him that you were going to be fine, he was still worried. He couldn’t believe that you had gotten hurt at his own house of all places and he felt responsible as he replayed the scene in his head.

You looked so small next to the woman attacking you, it made his blood run cold. She was easily twice your size and the malice her gaze held was frightening. He barely registered her presence, how could she have been in his room the whole time he was home? Why didn’t he put his bags away so he could have caught her before she attacked? Why didn’t he hear someone else was home? He remembered hearing a noise while starting food prep and he assumed it was Moni just messing around. How stupid he had been. He was supposed to be your boyfriend, wasn’t it his responsibility to protect you?

He wasn’t even fast enough to pull her off you. He remembers time slowing down, his arms around the intruder as he tried his best to move her away but she seemed to be on a rampage, stomping on your arm. He remembers the moment her heavy boots almost flattened your arm. It was as if she wore them for the occasion. How did she even get in? He had never been happier to have Jungkook and Jimin around. If it weren’t for their help, he doesn’t even want to imagine how he would have managed. He could still feel the adrenaline in his body, hours later. The guards downstairs had been quick to arrive and he remembers sitting in his underwear trying to wake you up as he watched your arm twisted in an unnatural angle. Your scream still ricocheted through his head and he held your hand tighter, wishing you’d wake up already. The doctor had said it would take a couple of hours but he was on edge.

“But I love you!” the intruder had screamed as she was being dragged off by the guards and Namjoon hated his fame once again. He hated that it affected you, that it hurt you. If he was a nobody, you would’ve never been in this situation. You deserve someone who could hold your hand in public without fear that it might cause a controversy. Someone who you could show off at your events, someone you could travel with, someone who could take you out at normal hours to exhibits and didn’t have to sneak around with at concerts. Someone who screamed his love from rooftops, unlike him who only hid you away.

“Hyung. She’s okay. The doctor said she will be okay.” Jimin spoke softly, his arms around Namjoon’s shoulders as he hugged him back, feeling dizzy. Across from him Jungkook paced in the deluxe private hospital room that their company had reserved for them. The big room had a large bed, couch and television. Its warm wood furnishing and several fake plants were meant to emit a feeling of warmth but regardless of the size or decor, Namjoon felt like he was suffocating.

“She’s in surgery. Surgery. Because of me. Jimin what do I do?” He could feel a lump in his throat as he tried to stay strong. He knew logically that you would be fine, but all he could think was 1%. That’s what the doctor said the chance was of anything going wrong. He knew that millions of people broke their arms and were perfectly fine after a few months but you were his one in a million. The fact that he even met you was so random that he thought it fate. You always managed to do the impossible and in his emotional state that 1% chance was too large. Far too large.

Yoongi had arrived shortly after Jimin messaged the group about the home invasion and he stood next to Jimin and Namjoon, his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder as he tried to force him to drink water. The three men tried to reassure Namjoon in vain as he finally let go of Jimin to sit on the couch, his eyes glued to the door, pulling on the sleeves of his sweater as his leg bounced on its own accord.

After almost two hours he saw the door open as you were brought in on a stretcher, still asleep as the nurses moved you to the bed, checking your vitals. Yoongi had to physically restrain Namjoon from running over to you so the workers could do their job, but as soon as they were gone, he was by your side.

You were okay. Nothing went wrong and it felt like a boulder had been lifted off his shoulders as he all but collapsed, holding your hand, his head gingerly resting on your stomach. The boys bid him goodbye soon after making sure he was okay, giving the two of you privacy but ensuring Namjoon that their phones would be on them in case he needed someone with him. No one was getting sleep tonight.

Before Namjoon could let his negativity flood him further, he felt your hand twitch between his and he sat up, looking at your face intently as you finally opened your eyes looking at him groggily.

“Oh thank fuck!” He exclaimed, standing up without letting go of your hand, instead squeezing it tighter as he looked over at you. Your other arm was in a cast, laying over your stomach, both your eyes bruised and swollen underneath, your nose still red as you looked at him with wide eyes. His heart pained as he looked at the evidence of his failings, but for you he smiled, small and not reaching his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” you whispered, your voice hoarse. Namjoon felt his heart race, like it was going to fall out of his chest, panic slowly rising.

“Who…? You don’t know me?”

“Wait… aren’t you famous?” You asked again and he dropped your hand in shock, shaking as he rushed towards the door. Memory loss? That wasn’t a symptom they mentioned. You didn’t have a concussion and it scared him that the doctors missed something, fear making him almost sprint the short the distance.

“What the fuck? Okay. Don’t worry. I’m going to get the doctor!”

Before he could reach the door, he heard you giggle, turning around in disbelief as he heard your next words. “Joon! Stop! I was kidding!”

“You were kidding? You were KIDDING?!” He almost yelled, before checking himself. His mouth hung open for a moment as you watched him walk towards you slowly and standing over you, his brows scrunched into a pained expression on his face. “Red. Red, Y/N. You can’t joke right now, do you know how scared I was?” He whispered, sudden relief turning into exhaustion as he felt his knees almost buckle. He had never felt this overwhelmed before.

“Hey. Joonie, baby. I’m sorry.” You called to him gently, reaching for him, your fingers squeezing reassuringly around his forearm that hung next to you. Hearing him call red made you feel suddenly guilty. Even in your worst fights where you were both screaming at each other, the most either of you had called for was yellow. You had only wanted to lighten his mood, crack a joke to make him smile for real but your post-anaesthesia brain couldn’t come up with anything better.

“You’re sorry?” He looked at you incredulously before his long arms were placed gingerly around your waist as his head reached for the crook of your neck, resting there and he inhaled. You smelt different, like disinfectant and he hated it, feeling his lip quiver as he spoke against your skin in quick, flurried words.. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, baby. Fuck! Why are you even with me? I literally put your life in danger! You should break up with me! You’re gonna have a gigantic scar and like metal inside you forever! You deserve so much -”

“Oh man! A scar? Who’s gonna marry me now?” You interrupted his rant and tried to make your voice lighter, wanting to ease his worries, assure him that you were back to normal. You looked at your useless right arm, wishing you could hug him but settled for slowly running your fingers through his hair with your left to calm him down.

“I’ll marry you. I’ll do it right now!” He moved his head away from your neck, leaning his weight on his hands that now rested next to you on the bed, looking at you intensely. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears and you felt your heart break. You cupped his face, your thumb stroking his cheek as you tried to comfort him.

“Come here. Lie down.” You winced a little as you scooted to the side despite his protests, making room for him. He reluctantly laid down, his head in the crook of your arm and his feet dangling off the end of the bed. You slowly caressed his shoulder and felt him relax as he nuzzled the side of your chest, his arm draping over your hips carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one that’s hurt.” His voice was small, muffled against you as his thumb traced meaningless patterns against you where it lay.

“Baby you literally asked me to break up with you and marry you in the same breath - you are not fine.” You spoke softly, your hand squeezing his shoulder as he took a shuddering breath. You looked at the dim tv that had the hospital’s menu channel on, displaying the time, 3:21 am. He argued not to worry about him, but you couldn’t help it. He had never looked more exhausted in your presence - even after twelve hours of dance practice on three hours of sleep, he didn’t look this drained. Your fingers moved upwards lightly scraping his scalp, his arm tightening around you, as you spoke. “I love you, you know that right?”

He sniffled, the hospital gown getting damp as he told you about his earlier worries. You hushed him, comforting him with words and coaxing him to sleep. His hand wrapped around the index finger poking out of your cast as he fell asleep after a while, his snores music to your ears. No matter what he believed, you still felt safe with him next to you.

———————————-

You looked at the soft light of dawn as it flows through the window, trying not to move as your arm throbbed in the cast. In the few hours since he fell asleep, Namjoon’s head had moved, now resting on your chest as his arm was draped over your hips, but he looked so peaceful that you dared not wake him up. You barely slept, your pain medication wearing off much too quickly. You had never broken a bone before, and as you thought about how dumb your fifth grade self was for wanting a cast, you wished your boyfriend would wake up at his own accord. You desperately needed to call the nurse for some paracetamol, but you grit your teeth and bore it. You knew you were being stupid and Namjoon would be genuinely pissed if he knew, but looking at his mouth hanging open as he drooled over you made you smile at the endearing picture infront of you.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), soon a nurse walked in for his morning rounds, waking up a groggy Namjoon who startled, almost falling off the bed, making you hiss as he accidentally held on too hard to your side to keep balance. He stood up, running his hands over his face in order to wake up properly while the nurse did the checkup, providing you with the pain killers you request. Once he leaves, Namjoon moves back to you, putting his arm under your head as this time you nuzzle into his chest. You talked about nothing as the drugs finally took effect, helping you doze off. Namjoon kissed the top of your head as you dropped off mid sentence, a smile on his face because you were alright, but a heaviness in his heart as he looked at the bruises on your face, dark blue and almost black.

———————————-

“Shh… Guys come on. Let her rest!”

Namjoon’s theatrical whisper is the first thing you hear when you wake up again. Your eyes open to your room filled with all your friends. The room had seemed extremely large the last time you were awake but now it seemed tiny. Jiyoung was sitting on the couch typing on her phone with a frown, an Apeach plush on her lap, next to her Siwon was talking animatedly with a tired looking Jungkook munching on some chips. The coffee table in front of them was full of snacks, gifts, and flowers. Seokjin, Yoongi and Jimin were talking about something hushed as they stood near the television, serious looks on their faces. Hoseok was bent over the humidifier in the corner which seemed turned off, messing with the controls and grumbling to himself. Harry sat in the chair next to the bed, talking to Namjoon with Jen standing over him with her hand on his shoulder. Namjoon sat on the bed near your legs, his hand on your calf, and Taehyung sat next to him clinging on his waist. Needless to say, it warmed your heart to see all the people you loved here. Maybe getting injured wasn’t that bad.

You winced as you moved up the bed to get more comfortable and suddenly all the attention was on you, the room turning into a cacophony of “How are you feeling?”s and “Are you okay?”s. Everyone was now crowded around the bed, looking at you with worry, Seokjin even handing you the RJ plush he’d brought along with him stating its healing powers. It was odd to be coddled by such a large group. Overwhelming, but in the best way.

“I’m fine guys. It’s just a broken arm.” You tried to diffuse the worries.

“You should look at your face dude.” Siwon stated, causing Namjoon to sigh, annoyed, and you to ask for a mirror. Oof you looked worse than you felt. By the bruises on your face it was a wonder how your nose wasn’t broken. Sheepishly you tried to explain to the group that it wasn’t that bad, but your friends were not convinced.

Soon the conversation turned from worries about you to who the attacker was in the first place. While you and Namjoon were in the hospital, Jungkook and Jimin had been to the police to give in-depth statements. Turns out Namjoon had a stalker - someone the company and security had been keeping an eye on for months, but who seemed to have fallen off the map 6 weeks ago. Apparently the same one who had caused the dates at the beginning of your relationship to always be under the watchful eye of his security team. No one knows how she had managed to break into the dorms but apparently she had been hiding out in his room for a week, his closet was full of tins of food she had consumed during her stay. It was surreal to hear that someone had been in the house and no one had noticed. It made sense to an extent - no one had been actively living in the dorms for a few weeks, especially not Namjoon so his room was never opened. The boys seemed extra distressed about it, and even thought themselves guilty. Namjoon’s words from last night echoed in your head. He put himself at fault, when really it was this woman’s fault.

No one knew what her plan was when Namjoon returned, and you didn’t want to find out. It might seem odd but you were glad that you were there to protect him in a sense. Apparently seeing you had started such a rage in her that she refused to talk further than the death threats she spewed against you. She was in jail and you hoped she stayed there for a long time.

“The police haven’t taken into account your assault. You should file a report.” Hoseok spoke for the first time, his face hardened. The room seemed in agreement, but you hesitated.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea…” you started, only for Namjoon, who was now seated next to you on the bed with his arm around you, to counter but you continued. “I’m just saying. Police records are public and if someone looks into this person who was charged with stalking Joon the same night as attacking me, they might put two and two together and I don’t want that to reflect on him or any of you guys.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Y/N?” It was Yoongi who spoke, clearly irritated and impatient. “Who cares about that? She attacked you, she deserves to be in jail.” His voice was quiet, but the frustration in his tone was not lost.

“She’s already in jail though… It’s not gonna make a difference.”

“Noona… I know it’s not our decision but you didn’t see yourself when she was attacking you.” Jungkook’s voice wavered as he looked at you with hurt in his eyes. “She deserves to pay for what she did…”

“Guys… I know you want the best for me, but it’s too risky… Even you all being here right now is too risky!” It was time for your voice to waver as you suddenly realized the impact of having all of them in the room. All it took was one shitty quality photo from a nurse’s Samsung to ruin their image. You didn’t know how you’d be able to handle it if you were responsible for their first big scandal.

“Okay. I’m going to stop you right there. This is a private place we always use. This is not a risk.” Seokjin spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if trying to explain the situation to a five year old. He didn’t do it in a condescending manner, more to make you understand. “Please stop worrying about us. Our company has stopped way bigger scandals from surfacing. Namjoon, can you please make her understand?”

Namjoon sighed loudly next to you, his arm tightening around you to pull you closer. It felt comforting, but you still felt slightly cornered. You just couldn’t see the logic in what they were saying. The attacker’s jail time would probably not change much with an assault added, at least you didn’t think so - so why was this a big deal.

“It’s her choice, hyung. I’m not going to force her to press charges if she doesn’t want to.” Namjoon looked steely at his member, before turning to you and softening. “But Y/N, I really do want you to make that decision without thinking of me or the rest of us. Can you do that?”

“No. Sorry. I can’t.” You were adamant and now you were starting to get annoyed. Namjoon was right - it was your choice - and it felt nice to have him on your side, at least partially, through this argument, but it didn’t make sense not to make it an isolated discussion. “You’re part of the situation and I can’t just make the decision without adding you to it. I’m not pressing charges.”

You heard a loud snort from Yoongi. “Why are you being an idiot?” He spoke to which Hoseok vocally agreed, causing you to almost yell your explanation in exasperation, before Harry broke the argument asking everyone to take a break and to lay off you.

There was thick tension in the room and it seemed to have sapped the air out of you. You felt uneasy, like no matter how deeply you inhaled you were breathless. You felt claustrophobic suddenly, squeezing Namjoon’s thigh, trying to control your heartbeat. Namjoon saw the distress on your face, immediately requesting everyone to move outside. It didn’t take them long to leave and somehow that helped you feel calmer.

When the room was empty, Namjoon looked at you. Turning to him, you buried your face in his chest, squishing the white alpaca between you and moving your injured arm on his stomach to hug him, despite the sharp pain that made you hiss. Breathing in his scent, somehow made the stress of last night catch up to and you cried. Namjoon held your head gently to his chest as you tangled your legs in his, wanting to almost disappear into him. You didn’t know why you were suddenly crying, but you couldn’t help it - it was like a dam broke, like you were leaking, your emotions cascading out of you onto Namjoon’s sweater. You couldn’t control your sobs and you wondered how loud you were being.

Namjoon felt his heart break as he held you. He had only seen you cry like this once -  the night he asked you to be his girlfriend - and it pained him that he was partially responsible for your tears today. He didn’t know what to do other than whisper “you’re safe now” repeatedly against your hair as you clung to him clumsily. He shouldn’t have let everyone visit so soon. He should’ve thought ahead. Of course you were overwhelmed, you were traumatized. He was an idiot.

When you calmed down enough to look at him, he wiped your tears gently, barely even touching your skin, and handed you some water from the bedside table. He tried to assure you the best he could, interrupted intermittently by nurses and discharge forms. He didn’t bring up pressing charges again and you were grateful to him for that.

He helped you change into clothes Siwon had picked up for you, insisting you take the wheelchair to the car despite your protests (“My arm’s broken, not my leg Joonie!”). Before you entered your apartment Namjoon asked his security team to do a sweep. You would never admit it to him but having the place checked out before you entered made you extremely relieved. You knew it was irrational to think you’d have another stalker waiting for you but it genuinely made you feel lighter, your anxiety ebbing away.

He spent the next few hours quietly worrying about little things, changing the code to your door, checking every lock, making you tea, and even cleaning your place to ensure you had “optimum comfort”, while forcing you to stay in bed regardless of your protests. After a while you couldn’t take him running around and murmuring to himself, especially when he decided to order from six restaurants for dinner. Walking into the kitchen where he obsessively cleaned a single spot on the countertop, you pulled him away.

“Joonie. Stop.” you gently touched his hand, startling him anyways as he looked at you in alarm.

“Oh. Do you need anything? Tell me, I’ll get it. Water? Bathroom?” He bent down slightly to look you in the eyes, searching your face for any discomfort.

“Namjoon, I have a broken arm, I’m not an invalid.” You rolled your eyes. It was sweet that he was this concerned but you seriously needed him to stop running around worried.

“Wait, you said Namjoon. Are you mad at me?” He looked alarmed, his eyes wide. Now that you looked at him closely, he didn’t seem to be doing too well either. His eyes seemed sunken behind his glasses, the crease between his eyebrow deep, and his stubble growing out more than you’d ever seen. You wondered if he got much sleep after you dozed off this morning. He even seemed skinnier somehow, though you chalk that up to your imagination.

“No baby I’m not mad at you. Just stop… obsessing. I’m fine. I swear.” You cupped his face with your working hand, thumb circling his cheekbones in an effort to relax him. He leaned in closing his eyes.

“Oh… oh. I just want to show you I love you. You know like you do…” He mumbled in a slight pout, averting your gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“You always take care of me when I’m down. I want to take care of you.” You felt your heart glow in your chest. Sometimes you forget how much you love this man, but sometimes he says things that, for a lack of a better analogy, punch you in the face, reminding you why you love him. You wrap your arm around his waist, nuzzling your face into his chest, as he tentatively puts his arm around your head.

“You don’t need to deep clean my kitchen to take care of me babe. Just sit next to me. Let’s watch a movie.” You lean away from his chest to tell him, trying to tug his unmovable body towards the living room.

“Are you sure? I’m almost done. Just this one stain…” He lets go of you to grab the wipe again, only for you to pull at his hand.

“Joon. Leave it.” You say sternly, holding his hand as you lean up. “Kiss me.”

“What? No. You’re hurt.” He moves back and you have to convince your irrational feelings that he wasn’t rejecting you, he was worried about you.

“If it hurts, I’ll tell you.”

“No you won’t. I know you.”

“Joonie!” you whine and he relents, although it’s not a kiss you were hoping for. He settles for a series of small pecks against your lips, so light that you barely felt him. Sure even puckering your lips was slightly painful but you were annoyed, rolling your eyes at his lame attempt. And this was the man who had spanked you so hard once that you couldn’t sit without wincing for two days. The audacity.

Before you could protest he walked with you to the living room and turned on Netflix. Picking a brainless comedy, you forced him to lie down on your lap and even before the title had come up he was asleep.

———————————-

“What wrong baby?” Namjoon came from the studio to find you lying on the ground still dressed in your pajamas with half your hair tied lopsidedly as you whined at seemingly no one, ignoring Moni as he licked your face. If he wasn’t worried that you somehow fell, he would find the sight of you throwing a tantrum like a toddler adorable.

It had been three days since you returned from the hospital, but Namjoon hadn’t seen you looking this dejected before. You had been completely normal on Sunday, even agreeing to the guys coming over for dinner so they could apologize for their behaviour at the hospital. You had riffed like usual, making fun of Jin and Yoongi as they cooked even though it seemed like you itched to get in the kitchen and help, even getting especially giddy as your childhood dream of getting a cast signed by your friends was fulfilled. The next two days, despite everyone’s insistence you had returned to work, working from home. Fortunately Harry and Siwon had rescheduled or taken over all your client meetings to lighten your load. Namjoon had returned to work too but made sure to text you throughout the day and had spent every night with you, regardless of your protests of being an “independent woman that needs no man”.

“I hate this! I’m so frustrated! I feel useless and gross!” you whined as you thrash around on the floor comically with the biggest pout he had ever seen you sport. Dropping his bag near the door and trying not to chuckle at your cute behaviour, Namjoon walked over to you kneeling next to you.

“Aww baby come here” He opened his arms invitingly as you sat up, only for you to sit crossed leg in front of him to begin your rant. Moni moves between your legs and you scratch his head absent-mindedly.

“No! I can’t attend any meetings till my face doesn’t look like fight club, I can’t shower for two more days, I can’t cook because of this dumbass arm, I can’t even tie my hair! TIE MY HAIR, JOON. I’M UGLY, USELESS AND DISGUSTING. Please leave me in my misery.”

Your face turned red as you continued listing minor inconveniences that your broken arm bestowed upon you as Namjoon made his way behind you and put his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder in an effort to calm you down. Instantly you relax, huffing as you leaned into his chest. Today has been tough for you. You had spent two hours on a call relaying your game plan for a potential client to Harry and walking him through his nerves about the meeting, which drained you mentally. Your laptop had restarted two times without warning, your roomba had gotten stuck under the couch and you couldn’t reach for it, you had almost fallen in the toilet because the seat was up, you ran out of coffee, and to top it all off it took you ages to write anything with your left hand alone. You felt miserable and dejected.

“You’re beautiful. My slightly stir-crazy, extremely capable, beautiful girlfriend.” Namjoon kissed your cheek as you turned your head to scowl at him, not buying his flattery. He traced your features gently. He wasn’t lying, even with your face patchy with your yellowing bruise and a scab on your lip, you were beautiful to him and he felt his heart swell the longer he looked at your face. He still had trouble believing that you were with him.

“You’re only saying that cause you love me.” You whisper softly as you avert his gaze before starting to whine again as you adjusted your sling. “Ugh I just want to eat McDonald’s and die.”

“Not going to let you die, but let’s get nuggets.”

———————————-

“Baby I got us Chinese!” Namjoon called out as he walked in your home, hands full of takeout. Hearing no answer he called out again to hear your voice coming from the bedroom.

“Joonie! Crawl under here!” He saw you emerge clumsily from the floor, cast pulled close to your chest, as he entered the room where you had piled the blankets between the edge of the bed and the chairs that you had brought near it. “I made us a fort!”

Your giggles made his heart sing as he grinned and crawled under the fort, taking care not to knock it down. You had brought the lamp from the side table under as well, lighting the small space with a soft glow. He could barely sit up, his height making it difficult not to knock down your creation so he opted for laying down, his head on your thigh as you played with his hair. He sighed in content. It felt somewhat meditative sitting in silence with you under the many sheets, the pile of soft pillows in the corner adding extra coziness.

Soon you’re laying side by side, your fingers intertwined as you bounced your hands against each other. You were both looking at the makeshift comforter ceiling, soft smiles on your faces.

“Why the sudden fort?” Namjoon asks after a while, almost in a whisper, not wanting to break the spell of comfort you both were under.

“I don’t know… It’s stupid.” He turns on his side to face you, cupping your face to make you look at him. It’s the look he always gives you whenever you doubt yourself. A look that says I’m here for you, I’ll never judge you. “I used to build these when I was a kid and missed my mom… I guess I’m feeling kind of homesick. I know it’s dumb.” You chuckle a little at how childish your comments seemed. You were almost thirty and talking about missing your mom.

Namjoon hadn’t thought of this before - the fact that Seoul wasn’t truly your home. Sure you had introduced your mom to him over Skype a few times but he thought about how much he missed Seoul when on tour, did you miss Toronto that way too? You always seemed so content in Seoul, so content with your friends that he never thought about how your family wasn’t there.

“We can go visit home if you want?” He kisses your lips chastely as he continues, his nose nuzzling yours. “I can take a few days off. I’d like to meet your mom in person.”

“We don’t have to. I’m just being a baby.” You laughed as you moved closer and he put his arm under your head to pull you into his chest. You knew this bout was homesickness was temporary, but Namjoon’s words made your heart glow in your chest. It had been two weeks since your attack and although Namjoon had been a rock, helping you with everything from ensuring that you ate to shaving your under arms, you were nostalgic about when you were sick during high school and your mom would take the day off work to take you on a drive, buying you ice cream and snacks that definitely did not help your illness. His idea wasn’t a bad one but with how your injury had messed up your work schedule, you didn’t think you could take time off for a while, and you told him as much. The two of you fall into a comfortable silence again after that, dinner forgotten on the kitchen counter, as you laid under the blankets soaking in the cozy atmosphere.

Caressing your hip slowly where your shirt ended, Namjoon cleared his throat slightly, breaking the spell before he spoke in another whisper. “I could be your home… if you want.”

Moving your head from his chest you look up to find him gazing at you with a soft smile as he turns on his side again. You follow suit, the fingers of your uninjured hand tracing his chest where it stuck between the two of you. Your heart beat faster as you slowly comprehended what he meant, but you still needed him to clarify. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want to move in together?” Namjoon was nervous - more nervous than he had been on your first date, more nervous than he had been when he asked you to be his girlfriend, more nervous than he had been after your first fight. The last two weeks had been some of his favourite with you, regardless of the circumstances that landed him there. He liked coming home to you every night, arguing over what to have for dinner, waking up each morning with his arms around you. You technically didn’t need him around anymore, your schedule was back to normal and you were more than used to navigating with one hand, but he didn’t want to go back to seeing you once or twice a week. How could he do that when he could see you everyday? The domesticity of your morning routines of coffee and reading the news together that had once scared him, were things he craved now. He even loved your playlist of the week startling him awake.

Your prolonged silence made his heart race as he bit his lip in anticipation. Before he could take back his question with a joke, you kissed him. Your lips molded around his tenderly as you took his lower lip between yours, relishing his strawberry lip balm. You break the kiss to whisper a soft yes, barely audible over the sound of your heart in your ears, and Namjoon couldn’t help breaking into a fit of giggles, his forehead against yours as he pulled you closer. He tried to control his reaction but the happiness flowing through him made him feel like he was floating.

“And they were roommates!” You made the dated reference as you giggled along with him.

“You are such a dork. I love you.” He said as he brought his lips back on yours.

“Yeah, your dork!”

“All mine.” He smiled, his eyes disappearing as his cheeks hurt from the joy he felt.

–

previous | masterlist | next

[joheun-saram]

To Make A Power Couple (knj) | 7

Chapter 7: Blanket Forts

previous | masterlist | next

Summary- At the hospital, Namjoon tries to make sense of what transpired as Y/N recovers.

word count- 6k

pairing- idol!namjoon x ceo!reader

rating- R

genre- series, fluff, angst, action, strangers2lovers

warnings- violence, blood, stalker, hospital, extremely fluffy scenes of Joon as a caretaker

a.n- wow i literally wrote this the fastest i’ve written any chapter! i hope you like it. although there is angst there is also a lot of tooth rotting fluff. special s/o to @jungkooksbroski for beta reading this 💕

As always feedback appreciated. Send me an ask! 💌

taglist - @beach-bitch-bitch-beach, @sscheherazadee, @rjsmochii , @jinjccns​ , @joyful-jimin @sideblogger @agustdpeach @diamonddia-mond

—

Namjoon held your hand in both of his, his forehead resting upon them, as he waited for you to wake up from surgery, the beep of the heart monitor far too loud and ominous. His hood was on his head as his elbows dug into the ratty blue basketball shorts he had thrown on in a hurry. Even though the doctors had assured him that you were going to be fine, he was still worried. He couldn’t believe that you had gotten hurt at his own house of all places and he felt responsible as he replayed the scene in his head.

You looked so small next to the woman attacking you, it made his blood run cold. She was easily twice your size and the malice her gaze held was frightening. He barely registered her presence, how could she have been in his room the whole time he was home? Why didn’t he put his bags away so he could have caught her before she attacked? Why didn’t he hear someone else was home? He remembered hearing a noise while starting food prep and he assumed it was Moni just messing around. How stupid he had been. He was supposed to be your boyfriend, wasn’t it his responsibility to protect you?

He wasn’t even fast enough to pull her off you. He remembers time slowing down, his arms around the intruder as he tried his best to move her away but she seemed to be on a rampage, stomping on your arm. He remembers the moment her heavy boots almost flattened your arm. It was as if she wore them for the occasion. How did she even get in? He had never been happier to have Jungkook and Jimin around. If it weren’t for their help, he doesn’t even want to imagine how he would have managed. He could still feel the adrenaline in his body, hours later. The guards downstairs had been quick to arrive and he remembers sitting in his underwear trying to wake you up as he watched your arm twisted in an unnatural angle. Your scream still ricocheted through his head and he held your hand tighter, wishing you’d wake up already. The doctor had said it would take a couple of hours but he was on edge. 

“But I love you!” the intruder had screamed as she was being dragged off by the guards and Namjoon hated his fame once again. He hated that it affected you, that it hurt you. If he was a nobody, you would’ve never been in this situation. You deserve someone who could hold your hand in public without fear that it might cause a controversy. Someone who you could show off at your events, someone you could travel with, someone who could take you out at normal hours to exhibits and didn’t have to sneak around with at concerts. Someone who screamed his love from rooftops, unlike him who only hid you away.

“Hyung. She’s okay. The doctor said she will be okay.” Jimin spoke softly, his arms around Namjoon’s shoulders as he hugged him back, feeling dizzy. Across from him Jungkook paced in the deluxe private hospital room that their company had reserved for them. The big room had a large bed, couch and television. Its warm wood furnishing and several fake plants were meant to emit a feeling of warmth but regardless of the size or decor, Namjoon felt like he was suffocating.

“She’s in surgery. Surgery. Because of me. Jimin what do I do?” He could feel a lump in his throat as he tried to stay strong. He knew logically that you would be fine, but all he could think was 1%. That’s what the doctor said the chance was of anything going wrong. He knew that millions of people broke their arms and were perfectly fine after a few months but you were his one in a million. The fact that he even met you was so random that he thought it fate. You always managed to do the impossible and in his emotional state that 1% chance was too large. Far too large.

Yoongi had arrived shortly after Jimin messaged the group about the home invasion and he stood next to Jimin and Namjoon, his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder as he tried to force him to drink water. The three men tried to reassure Namjoon in vain as he finally let go of Jimin to sit on the couch, his eyes glued to the door, pulling on the sleeves of his sweater as his leg bounced on its own accord. 

After almost two hours he saw the door open as you were brought in on a stretcher, still asleep as the nurses moved you to the bed, checking your vitals. Yoongi had to physically restrain Namjoon from running over to you so the workers could do their job, but as soon as they were gone, he was by your side.

You were okay. Nothing went wrong and it felt like a boulder had been lifted off his shoulders as he all but collapsed, holding your hand, his head gingerly resting on your stomach. The boys bid him goodbye soon after making sure he was okay, giving the two of you privacy but ensuring Namjoon that their phones would be on them in case he needed someone with him. No one was getting sleep tonight.

Before Namjoon could let his negativity flood him further, he felt your hand twitch between his and he sat up, looking at your face intently as you finally opened your eyes looking at him groggily.

“Oh thank fuck!” He exclaimed, standing up without letting go of your hand, instead squeezing it tighter as he looked over at you. Your other arm was in a cast, laying over your stomach, both your eyes bruised and swollen underneath, your nose still red as you looked at him with wide eyes. His heart pained as he looked at the evidence of his failings, but for you he smiled, small and not reaching his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” you whispered, your voice hoarse. Namjoon felt his heart race, like it was going to fall out of his chest, panic slowly rising. 

“Who…? You don’t know me?”

“Wait… aren’t you famous?” You asked again and he dropped your hand in shock, shaking as he rushed towards the door. Memory loss? That wasn’t a symptom they mentioned. You didn’t have a concussion and it scared him that the doctors missed something, fear making him almost sprint the short the distance.

“What the fuck? Okay. Don’t worry. I’m going to get the doctor!”

Before he could reach the door, he heard you giggle, turning around in disbelief as he heard your next words. “Joon! Stop! I was kidding!”

“You were kidding? You were KIDDING?!” He almost yelled, before checking himself. His mouth hung open for a moment as you watched him walk towards you slowly and standing over you, his brows scrunched into a pained expression on his face. “Red. Red, Y/N. You can’t joke right now, do you know how scared I was?” He whispered, sudden relief turning into exhaustion as he felt his knees almost buckle. He had never felt this overwhelmed before.

“Hey. Joonie, baby. I’m sorry.” You called to him gently, reaching for him, your fingers squeezing reassuringly around his forearm that hung next to you. Hearing him call red made you feel suddenly guilty. Even in your worst fights where you were both screaming at each other, the most either of you had called for was yellow. You had only wanted to lighten his mood, crack a joke to make him smile for real but your post-anaesthesia brain couldn’t come up with anything better. 

“You’re sorry?” He looked at you incredulously before his long arms were placed gingerly around your waist as his head reached for the crook of your neck, resting there and he inhaled. You smelt different, like disinfectant and he hated it, feeling his lip quiver as he spoke against your skin in quick, flurried words.. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, baby. Fuck! Why are you even with me? I literally put your life in danger! You should break up with me! You’re gonna have a gigantic scar and like metal inside you forever! You deserve so much -”

“Oh man! A scar? Who’s gonna marry me now?” You interrupted his rant and tried to make your voice lighter, wanting to ease his worries, assure him that you were back to normal. You looked at your useless right arm, wishing you could hug him but settled for slowly running your fingers through his hair with your left to calm him down.

“I’ll marry you. I’ll do it right now!” He moved his head away from your neck, leaning his weight on his hands that now rested next to you on the bed, looking at you intensely. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears and you felt your heart break. You cupped his face, your thumb stroking his cheek as you tried to comfort him.

“Come here. Lie down.” You winced a little as you scooted to the side despite his protests, making room for him. He reluctantly laid down, his head in the crook of your arm and his feet dangling off the end of the bed. You slowly caressed his shoulder and felt him relax as he nuzzled the side of your chest, his arm draping over your hips carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. You’re the one that’s hurt.” His voice was small, muffled against you as his thumb traced meaningless patterns against you where it lay. 

“Baby you literally asked me to break up with you and marry you in the same breath - you are not fine.” You spoke softly, your hand squeezing his shoulder as he took a shuddering breath. You looked at the dim tv that had the hospital's menu channel on, displaying the time, 3:21 am. He argued not to worry about him, but you couldn’t help it. He had never looked more exhausted in your presence - even after twelve hours of dance practice on three hours of sleep, he didn’t look this drained. Your fingers moved upwards lightly scraping his scalp, his arm tightening around you, as you spoke. “I love you, you know that right?”

He sniffled, the hospital gown getting damp as he told you about his earlier worries. You hushed him, comforting him with words and coaxing him to sleep. His hand wrapped around the index finger poking out of your cast as he fell asleep after a while, his snores music to your ears. No matter what he believed, you still felt safe with him next to you.

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

You looked at the soft light of dawn as it flows through the window, trying not to move as your arm throbbed in the cast. In the few hours since he fell asleep, Namjoon’s head had moved, now resting on your chest as his arm was draped over your hips, but he looked so peaceful that you dared not wake him up. You barely slept, your pain medication wearing off much too quickly. You had never broken a bone before, and as you thought about how dumb your fifth grade self was for wanting a cast, you wished your boyfriend would wake up at his own accord. You desperately needed to call the nurse for some paracetamol, but you grit your teeth and bore it. You knew you were being stupid and Namjoon would be genuinely pissed if he knew, but looking at his mouth hanging open as he drooled over you made you smile at the endearing picture infront of you.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), soon a nurse walked in for his morning rounds, waking up a groggy Namjoon who startled, almost falling off the bed, making you hiss as he accidentally held on too hard to your side to keep balance. He stood up, running his hands over his face in order to wake up properly while the nurse did the checkup, providing you with the pain killers you request. Once he leaves, Namjoon moves back to you, putting his arm under your head as this time you nuzzle into his chest. You talked about nothing as the drugs finally took effect, helping you doze off. Namjoon kissed the top of your head as you dropped off mid sentence, a smile on his face because you were alright, but a heaviness in his heart as he looked at the bruises on your face, dark blue and almost black.

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

“Shh… Guys come on. Let her rest!”

Namjoon’s theatrical whisper is the first thing you hear when you wake up again. Your eyes open to your room filled with all your friends. The room had seemed extremely large the last time you were awake but now it seemed tiny. Jiyoung was sitting on the couch typing on her phone with a frown, an Apeach plush on her lap, next to her Siwon was talking animatedly with a tired looking Jungkook munching on some chips. The coffee table in front of them was full of snacks, gifts, and flowers. Seokjin, Yoongi and Jimin were talking about something hushed as they stood near the television, serious looks on their faces. Hoseok was bent over the humidifier in the corner which seemed turned off, messing with the controls and grumbling to himself. Harry sat in the chair next to the bed, talking to Namjoon with Jen standing over him with her hand on his shoulder. Namjoon sat on the bed near your legs, his hand on your calf, and Taehyung sat next to him clinging on his waist. Needless to say, it warmed your heart to see all the people you loved here. Maybe getting injured wasn’t that bad.

You winced as you moved up the bed to get more comfortable and suddenly all the attention was on you, the room turning into a cacophony of “How are you feeling?”s and “Are you okay?”s. Everyone was now crowded around the bed, looking at you with worry, Seokjin even handing you the RJ plush he’d brought along with him stating its healing powers. It was odd to be coddled by such a large group. Overwhelming, but in the best way. 

“I’m fine guys. It’s just a broken arm.” You tried to diffuse the worries.

“You should look at your face dude.” Siwon stated, causing Namjoon to sigh, annoyed, and you to ask for a mirror. Oof you looked worse than you felt. By the bruises on your face it was a wonder how your nose wasn’t broken. Sheepishly you tried to explain to the group that it wasn’t that bad, but your friends were not convinced. 

Soon the conversation turned from worries about you to who the attacker was in the first place. While you and Namjoon were in the hospital, Jungkook and Jimin had been to the police to give in-depth statements. Turns out Namjoon had a stalker - someone the company and security had been keeping an eye on for months, but who seemed to have fallen off the map 6 weeks ago. Apparently the same one who had caused the dates at the beginning of your relationship to always be under the watchful eye of his security team. No one knows how she had managed to break into the dorms but apparently she had been hiding out in his room for a week, his closet was full of tins of food she had consumed during her stay. It was surreal to hear that someone had been in the house and no one had noticed. It made sense to an extent - no one had been actively living in the dorms for a few weeks, especially not Namjoon so his room was never opened. The boys seemed extra distressed about it, and even thought themselves guilty. Namjoon’s words from last night echoed in your head. He put himself at fault, when really it was this woman’s fault. 

No one knew what her plan was when Namjoon returned, and you didn’t want to find out. It might seem odd but you were glad that you were there to protect him in a sense. Apparently seeing you had started such a rage in her that she refused to talk further than the death threats she spewed against you. She was in jail and you hoped she stayed there for a long time. 

“The police haven’t taken into account your assault. You should file a report.” Hoseok spoke for the first time, his face hardened. The room seemed in agreement, but you hesitated.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea…” you started, only for Namjoon, who was now seated next to you on the bed with his arm around you, to counter but you continued. “I’m just saying. Police records are public and if someone looks into this person who was charged with stalking Joon the same night as attacking me, they might put two and two together and I don’t want that to reflect on him or any of you guys.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Y/N?” It was Yoongi who spoke, clearly irritated and impatient. “Who cares about that? She attacked you, she deserves to be in jail.” His voice was quiet, but the frustration in his tone was not lost.

“She’s already in jail though… It’s not gonna make a difference.”

“Noona… I know it’s not our decision but you didn’t see yourself when she was attacking you.” Jungkook’s voice wavered as he looked at you with hurt in his eyes. “She deserves to pay for what she did…”

“Guys… I know you want the best for me, but it’s too risky… Even you all being here right now is too risky!” It was time for your voice to waver as you suddenly realized the impact of having all of them in the room. All it took was one shitty quality photo from a nurse’s Samsung to ruin their image. You didn’t know how you’d be able to handle it if you were responsible for their first big scandal.

“Okay. I’m going to stop you right there. This is a private place we always use. This is not a risk.” Seokjin spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if trying to explain the situation to a five year old. He didn’t do it in a condescending manner, more to make you understand. “Please stop worrying about us. Our company has stopped way bigger scandals from surfacing. Namjoon, can you please make her understand?”

Namjoon sighed loudly next to you, his arm tightening around you to pull you closer. It felt comforting, but you still felt slightly cornered. You just couldn’t see the logic in what they were saying. The attacker’s jail time would probably not change much with an assault added, at least you didn’t think so - so why was this a big deal. 

“It’s her choice, hyung. I’m not going to force her to press charges if she doesn’t want to.” Namjoon looked steely at his member, before turning to you and softening. “But Y/N, I really do want you to make that decision without thinking of me or the rest of us. Can you do that?”

“No. Sorry. I can’t.” You were adamant and now you were starting to get annoyed. Namjoon was right - it was your choice - and it felt nice to have him on your side, at least partially, through this argument, but it didn’t make sense not to make it an isolated discussion. “You’re part of the situation and I can’t just make the decision without adding you to it. I’m not pressing charges.”

You heard a loud snort from Yoongi. “Why are you being an idiot?” He spoke to which Hoseok vocally agreed, causing you to almost yell your explanation in exasperation, before Harry broke the argument asking everyone to take a break and to lay off you.

There was thick tension in the room and it seemed to have sapped the air out of you. You felt uneasy, like no matter how deeply you inhaled you were breathless. You felt claustrophobic suddenly, squeezing Namjoon’s thigh, trying to control your heartbeat. Namjoon saw the distress on your face, immediately requesting everyone to move outside. It didn’t take them long to leave and somehow that helped you feel calmer.

When the room was empty, Namjoon looked at you. Turning to him, you buried your face in his chest, squishing the white alpaca between you and moving your injured arm on his stomach to hug him, despite the sharp pain that made you hiss. Breathing in his scent, somehow made the stress of last night catch up to and you cried. Namjoon held your head gently to his chest as you tangled your legs in his, wanting to almost disappear into him. You didn’t know why you were suddenly crying, but you couldn’t help it - it was like a dam broke, like you were leaking, your emotions cascading out of you onto Namjoon’s sweater. You couldn’t control your sobs and you wondered how loud you were being.

Namjoon felt his heart break as he held you. He had only seen you cry like this once -  the night he asked you to be his girlfriend - and it pained him that he was partially responsible for your tears today. He didn’t know what to do other than whisper “you’re safe now” repeatedly against your hair as you clung to him clumsily. He shouldn’t have let everyone visit so soon. He should’ve thought ahead. Of course you were overwhelmed, you were traumatized. He was an idiot. 

When you calmed down enough to look at him, he wiped your tears gently, barely even touching your skin, and handed you some water from the bedside table. He tried to assure you the best he could, interrupted intermittently by nurses and discharge forms. He didn’t bring up pressing charges again and you were grateful to him for that.

He helped you change into clothes Siwon had picked up for you, insisting you take the wheelchair to the car despite your protests (“My arm’s broken, not my leg Joonie!”). Before you entered your apartment Namjoon asked his security team to do a sweep. You would never admit it to him but having the place checked out before you entered made you extremely relieved. You knew it was irrational to think you’d have another stalker waiting for you but it genuinely made you feel lighter, your anxiety ebbing away. 

He spent the next few hours quietly worrying about little things, changing the code to your door, checking every lock, making you tea, and even cleaning your place to ensure you had “optimum comfort”, while forcing you to stay in bed regardless of your protests. After a while you couldn’t take him running around and murmuring to himself, especially when he decided to order from six restaurants for dinner. Walking into the kitchen where he obsessively cleaned a single spot on the countertop, you pulled him away.

“Joonie. Stop.” you gently touched his hand, startling him anyways as he looked at you in alarm.

“Oh. Do you need anything? Tell me, I’ll get it. Water? Bathroom?” He bent down slightly to look you in the eyes, searching your face for any discomfort.

“Namjoon, I have a broken arm, I’m not an invalid.” You rolled your eyes. It was sweet that he was this concerned but you seriously needed him to stop running around worried.

“Wait, you said Namjoon. Are you mad at me?” He looked alarmed, his eyes wide. Now that you looked at him closely, he didn’t seem to be doing too well either. His eyes seemed sunken behind his glasses, the crease between his eyebrow deep, and his stubble growing out more than you’d ever seen. You wondered if he got much sleep after you dozed off this morning. He even seemed skinnier somehow, though you chalk that up to your imagination.

“No baby I’m not mad at you. Just stop… obsessing. I’m fine. I swear.” You cupped his face with your working hand, thumb circling his cheekbones in an effort to relax him. He leaned in closing his eyes.

“Oh… oh. I just want to show you I love you. You know like you do…” He mumbled in a slight pout, averting your gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“You always take care of me when I’m down. I want to take care of you.” You felt your heart glow in your chest. Sometimes you forget how much you love this man, but sometimes he says things that, for a lack of a better analogy, punch you in the face, reminding you why you love him. You wrap your arm around his waist, nuzzling your face into his chest, as he tentatively puts his arm around your head.

“You don’t need to deep clean my kitchen to take care of me babe. Just sit next to me. Let’s watch a movie.” You lean away from his chest to tell him, trying to tug his unmovable body towards the living room.

“Are you sure? I’m almost done. Just this one stain…” He lets go of you to grab the wipe again, only for you to pull at his hand.

“Joon. Leave it.” You say sternly, holding his hand as you lean up. “Kiss me.”

“What? No. You’re hurt.” He moves back and you have to convince your irrational feelings that he wasn’t rejecting you, he was worried about you.

“If it hurts, I’ll tell you.”

“No you won’t. I know you.”

“Joonie!” you whine and he relents, although it’s not a kiss you were hoping for. He settles for a series of small pecks against your lips, so light that you barely felt him. Sure even puckering your lips was slightly painful but you were annoyed, rolling your eyes at his lame attempt. And this was the man who had spanked you so hard once that you couldn’t sit without wincing for two days. The audacity. 

Before you could protest he walked with you to the living room and turned on Netflix. Picking a brainless comedy, you forced him to lie down on your lap and even before the title had come up he was asleep.

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

“What wrong baby?” Namjoon came from the studio to find you lying on the ground still dressed in your pajamas with half your hair tied lopsidedly as you whined at seemingly no one, ignoring Moni as he licked your face. If he wasn’t worried that you somehow fell, he would find the sight of you throwing a tantrum like a toddler adorable. 

It had been three days since you returned from the hospital, but Namjoon hadn’t seen you looking this dejected before. You had been completely normal on Sunday, even agreeing to the guys coming over for dinner so they could apologize for their behaviour at the hospital. You had riffed like usual, making fun of Jin and Yoongi as they cooked even though it seemed like you itched to get in the kitchen and help, even getting especially giddy as your childhood dream of getting a cast signed by your friends was fulfilled. The next two days, despite everyone’s insistence you had returned to work, working from home. Fortunately Harry and Siwon had rescheduled or taken over all your client meetings to lighten your load. Namjoon had returned to work too but made sure to text you throughout the day and had spent every night with you, regardless of your protests of being an “independent woman that needs no man”.

“I hate this! I’m so frustrated! I feel useless and gross!” you whined as you thrash around on the floor comically with the biggest pout he had ever seen you sport. Dropping his bag near the door and trying not to chuckle at your cute behaviour, Namjoon walked over to you kneeling next to you.

“Aww baby come here” He opened his arms invitingly as you sat up, only for you to sit crossed leg in front of him to begin your rant. Moni moves between your legs and you scratch his head absent-mindedly.

“No! I can’t attend any meetings till my face doesn’t look like fight club, I can’t shower for two more days, I can’t cook because of this dumbass arm, I can't even tie my hair! TIE MY HAIR, JOON. I’M UGLY, USELESS AND DISGUSTING. Please leave me in my misery.” 

Your face turned red as you continued listing minor inconveniences that your broken arm bestowed upon you as Namjoon made his way behind you and put his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder in an effort to calm you down. Instantly you relax, huffing as you leaned into his chest. Today has been tough for you. You had spent two hours on a call relaying your game plan for a potential client to Harry and walking him through his nerves about the meeting, which drained you mentally. Your laptop had restarted two times without warning, your roomba had gotten stuck under the couch and you couldn’t reach for it, you had almost fallen in the toilet because the seat was up, you ran out of coffee, and to top it all off it took you ages to write anything with your left hand alone. You felt miserable and dejected.

“You’re beautiful. My slightly stir-crazy, extremely capable, beautiful girlfriend.” Namjoon kissed your cheek as you turned your head to scowl at him, not buying his flattery. He traced your features gently. He wasn’t lying, even with your face patchy with your yellowing bruise and a scab on your lip, you were beautiful to him and he felt his heart swell the longer he looked at your face. He still had trouble believing that you were with him.

“You’re only saying that cause you love me.” You whisper softly as you avert his gaze before starting to whine again as you adjusted your sling. “Ugh I just want to eat McDonald’s and die.”

“Not going to let you die, but let’s get nuggets.”

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

“Baby I got us Chinese!” Namjoon called out as he walked in your home, hands full of takeout. Hearing no answer he called out again to hear your voice coming from the bedroom.

“Joonie! Crawl under here!” He saw you emerge clumsily from the floor, cast pulled close to your chest, as he entered the room where you had piled the blankets between the edge of the bed and the chairs that you had brought near it. “I made us a fort!”

Your giggles made his heart sing as he grinned and crawled under the fort, taking care not to knock it down. You had brought the lamp from the side table under as well, lighting the small space with a soft glow. He could barely sit up, his height making it difficult not to knock down your creation so he opted for laying down, his head on your thigh as you played with his hair. He sighed in content. It felt somewhat meditative sitting in silence with you under the many sheets, the pile of soft pillows in the corner adding extra coziness.

Soon you’re laying side by side, your fingers intertwined as you bounced your hands against each other. You were both looking at the makeshift comforter ceiling, soft smiles on your faces.

“Why the sudden fort?” Namjoon asks after a while, almost in a whisper, not wanting to break the spell of comfort you both were under.

“I don’t know… It’s stupid.” He turns on his side to face you, cupping your face to make you look at him. It’s the look he always gives you whenever you doubt yourself. A look that says I’m here for you, I’ll never judge you. “I used to build these when I was a kid and missed my mom… I guess I’m feeling kind of homesick. I know it’s dumb.” You chuckle a little at how childish your comments seemed. You were almost thirty and talking about missing your mom.

Namjoon hadn’t thought of this before - the fact that Seoul wasn’t truly your home. Sure you had introduced your mom to him over Skype a few times but he thought about how much he missed Seoul when on tour, did you miss Toronto that way too? You always seemed so content in Seoul, so content with your friends that he never thought about how your family wasn’t there.

“We can go visit home if you want?” He kisses your lips chastely as he continues, his nose nuzzling yours. “I can take a few days off. I’d like to meet your mom in person.”

“We don’t have to. I’m just being a baby.” You laughed as you moved closer and he put his arm under your head to pull you into his chest. You knew this bout was homesickness was temporary, but Namjoon’s words made your heart glow in your chest. It had been two weeks since your attack and although Namjoon had been a rock, helping you with everything from ensuring that you ate to shaving your under arms, you were nostalgic about when you were sick during high school and your mom would take the day off work to take you on a drive, buying you ice cream and snacks that definitely did not help your illness. His idea wasn’t a bad one but with how your injury had messed up your work schedule, you didn’t think you could take time off for a while, and you told him as much. The two of you fall into a comfortable silence again after that, dinner forgotten on the kitchen counter, as you laid under the blankets soaking in the cozy atmosphere.

Caressing your hip slowly where your shirt ended, Namjoon cleared his throat slightly, breaking the spell before he spoke in another whisper. “I could be your home… if you want.”

Moving your head from his chest you look up to find him gazing at you with a soft smile as he turns on his side again. You follow suit, the fingers of your uninjured hand tracing his chest where it stuck between the two of you. Your heart beat faster as you slowly comprehended what he meant, but you still needed him to clarify. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want to move in together?” Namjoon was nervous - more nervous than he had been on your first date, more nervous than he had been when he asked you to be his girlfriend, more nervous than he had been after your first fight. The last two weeks had been some of his favourite with you, regardless of the circumstances that landed him there. He liked coming home to you every night, arguing over what to have for dinner, waking up each morning with his arms around you. You technically didn’t need him around anymore, your schedule was back to normal and you were more than used to navigating with one hand, but he didn’t want to go back to seeing you once or twice a week. How could he do that when he could see you everyday? The domesticity of your morning routines of coffee and reading the news together that had once scared him, were things he craved now. He even loved your playlist of the week startling him awake. 

Your prolonged silence made his heart race as he bit his lip in anticipation. Before he could take back his question with a joke, you kissed him. Your lips molded around his tenderly as you took his lower lip between yours, relishing his strawberry lip balm. You break the kiss to whisper a soft yes, barely audible over the sound of your heart in your ears, and Namjoon couldn’t help breaking into a fit of giggles, his forehead against yours as he pulled you closer. He tried to control his reaction but the happiness flowing through him made him feel like he was floating.

“And they were roommates!” You made the dated reference as you giggled along with him.

“You are such a dork. I love you.” He said as he brought his lips back on yours. 

“Yeah, your dork!” 

“All mine.” He smiled, his eyes disappearing as his cheeks hurt from the joy he felt.

--

previous | masterlist | next

[apharine]

Perfect Storm

Chapter 2 - Dirty Talk

Pairing:  Nanu x Reader

Fandom: Pokemon

Rating:  E

Warning - this chapter contains 18+ content; DNI if you’re under 18!

Read on AO3

My writing commission info! | Buy me a coffee!

Summary:   Route 17's weather is always bad - but today, it's particularly awful, the usual drizzle having escalated into practically a hurricane. You had business in Po Town to attend to, but it's getting late, and it soon becomes apparent that it's no longer safe for you to be outside. You take refuge in the only place you can think of - the Po Town Police Station with Nanu - never imagining that before the night's end, things would get hot and heavy between the two of you.

                                         _____________________

Within a half hour, you’re sitting on Nanu’s couch with him, legs tucked under your body as you eat the stir fry you’ve created. You had to get a little unconventional due to the limited ingredients available to you, but it still came together pretty well, overall.

“Mm,” Nanu hums as he chews. “This is actually pretty good, princess.”

He’s made sure to call you that name literally as often as possible, as if to emphasize that it won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Truthfully, you’re starting to go from hating it to loving it. The way he just said it now - so satisfied, his voice deep - had been enough to make you shiver in pleasure.

“I’m glad you like it,” you beam in response. “Thanks again for letting me stay here.”

Nanu gives you a small shrug in response.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Sorry for being so cranky at the door. I didn’t mean to make you upset,” he says.

You pause your eating for a moment and look at him - really look at him. He continues eating, a glance out of the corner of his eye his only acknowledgement that your focus had shifted to him. Those eyes - those unusual red eyes - that so many people thought were too intense or too apathetic or too off-putting just look plain old tired tonight, and perhaps a little sad, too. Now that you think about it, his cheeks look a little more sallow than usual, and he looks thinner than you’d remembered, too.

Combined with the state of his pantry, it’s not an encouraging thing. You don’t know Nanu well, but a vague sense of worry nags in your mind.

“Nanu?” You ask. He turns his head a little more to you, but continues eating. “Is everything all right?” When his eyebrows quirk in confusion, you try to explain. “Like…are you doing okay?”

Nanu is silent for a long moment, until he finally shrugs his shoulders, not even bothering to sit up from his usual slouch.

“I’m as all right as I usually am,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know.”

“I know I don’t have to, but -”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” Nanu says with a shake of his head. He takes a bite of food and chews and swallows, then continues. “I don’t mean it in the nobody-asked-you way. I mean I’ve been getting by like this for a lot longer than you’ve known me. I’ll be okay enough, princess.”

You wonder what, exactly, this entails. You know Nanu has an infamous penchant for relaxing, slacking off; you know he’s often standoffish, sometimes bordering on cruel to people he deems irrelevant. You know he likes his alone time, guards it preciously, even. He had a long career in Interpol before becoming Kahuna, which it seems he didn’t even want to do, but took on because once a Tapu chose an individual, they were more or less obligated to fulfill the duties prescribed to them. Nanu had never been shy about the fact that he would rather have lived out his life in quiet obscurity, apparently sleeping on the job, collecting expired cans in his pantry, and struggling to summon the energy to cook a meaningful dinner for himself.

It’s not an encouraging picture, and you wonder how long, exactly, he’s been dealing with this. Surely, his career in Interpol couldn’t have been an easy one - you know Looker had confided in you that he’d seen some real horrors before, and Nanu had been Looker’s superior…

“I don’t want you to just be okay enough,” you say with a frown, taking the last bite of your stir fry. “I want you to be okay. Great, even.”

Nanu’s eyes widen for a moment, and he glances away from you.

“Why?” He asks sharply.

The question takes you off guard, and you collect your thoughts for a moment.

“Because…because I care about you,” you answer honestly, not really sure how else to explain what you were feeling.

You’re expecting some sort of a sarcastic comment, or a joke, or both, but instead you get Nanu setting his nearly-empty plate down on the coffee table in front of you.

“As a friend? Or…” he trails off, one hand brushing unexpectedly against your knee.

You suck in a breath, and Nanu jerks his hand back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what I’m thinking - as if you could be interested in an old man like me -”

“No, I - I do think you’re really handsome,” you admit, touching his forearm lightly. You run your fingers down the muscle that lies there, until you’re brushing over the back of his palm. “You have such nice hands,” you murmur, unable to resist admiring them. Nanu doesn’t answer, but you can hear the way his breathing comes a little heavier. After a long moment, he turns his palm up for you to continue exploring his hand, and you do so in light, gentle touches. “They’re just…so manly.”

“Yeah?” Nanu breathes, his voice low and deep. “Yours are so pretty. And so soft,” he adds, beginning to explore your hand in small, careful movements. “Just like I thought they’d be,” he mumbles, almost as if to himself, but you can just barely make out what he says.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” You ask, a blush and a smile both blossoming on your face.

“Been trying not to, before this,” he admits. “Didn’t think you’d find anything much about me appealing, after all.”

“You need to have a higher opinion of yourself, kahuna,” you breathe as he caresses your fingers, and you note the way he shudders just a little at the use of his title. “I wouldn’t let you tease me and flirt with me the way you do if I weren’t interested in you, you know.”

“Yeah?” Nanu breathes.

“Yeah,” you smile back. “What were you thinking about, with me?”

“You really want to know?” Nanu asks, his eyes raising to yours. They’re smoldering with a deep intensity, and his free hand reaches to your jawline, his thumb gently tracing the edge of the bone towards your lips. “Some of it is pretty foul. Might be a bit much for you…princess.”

“Try me,” you breathe. If he can joke with you about being wet, he can tell you what he wants. Nanu smirks at your words.

“All right. But if you want me to shut up, just say so.” You nod, and Nanu begins. “Where to begin, princess? I’ve been thinking about those pretty little hands of yours, for starts. I knew they’d be so soft and so small in mine. I imagine, sometimes, how perfect they’d feel, exploring my body.”

“I think the same thing about your hands,” you admit, boldly touching your other hand to the inside of Nanu’s thigh. He jerks at the contact, startled, but soon after, spreads his legs a little wider for you. 

"Do you, princess?” He murmurs. “When I think about my hands, I’m mostly thinking about how your thighs would probably feel so soft and so smooth under my fingers.” The hand on your jaw runs down your arm, down your body, until his fingers are brushing lightly against the outside of your thigh. After a couple light touches, they stay still, and you realize he’s asking for permission.

“Why don’t you go ahead and see for yourself?” You breathe, feeling wetness beginning to pool between your legs. Nanu flattens his palm against your skin, running his hand up over the top of your thigh, ever so slowly working his way higher and further in.

Now it’s your turn to part your legs for Nanu, and you do so, giving him more access to your inner thigh.

“Thank you, princess,” Nanu praises your action quietly, his eyes trained on the flesh he’s exploring. You give his inner thigh a squeeze in response, your other hand moving from his palm up to his shoulder, almost as if to steady yourself. He continues, “Do you know what else I think, sometimes?”

“What?” You breathe, trying not to squirm as Nanu’s big fingers shamelessly grope and squeeze your thigh. His other hand settles over your fingers on his thigh, and he slowly moves your hand up, higher and higher, until you’re dangerously close to his groin. With his loose grip and the way he’s moving so carefully, you know you could pull away if you wanted to - but you really don’t want to. Just before you’ve reached your goal, though, he turns and leans into you so he can speak into your ear.

“When I’m jacking myself off, I think about how pretty your slender little fingers would be, wrapped around my cock,” he murmurs, his hot breath tickling your skin.

“Ohh,” you moan, your voice sounding much needier than you’d expected it to be.

“You like that thought, too, princess?” Nanu groans, then slowly continues moving your hand in, until you finally settle on his manhood. He’s already half-erect in his pants, and his hips push a little into your hand, seeking friction. You oblige him, pressing harder against him and beginning to rub along the firm underside of his cock through the fabric of his black pants.

“I do, Nanu,” you breathe in response. He lets go of your hand, reaching instead to you and gathering you up in his hands underneath your hips. He pulls you easily into his lap, so that you’re straddling his legs and facing him. With the extra leverage this position affords you, it’s easy to press harder into his manhood as you rub at him, and you watch the pleasure at being touched in this way wash over Nanu’s face. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment as his jaw slackens, and he again pushes his hips harder against your palm.

He’s so desperate for more of this from you.

“Tell me, princess…” He begins, his breath coming heavier than ever. His hands grip your upper thighs intensely; then he moves his fingers so close to your core you’re sure he must feel the wetness soaking the pajama pants he’d let you borrow. “What do you think about when you think of me? Have you imagined me being the one touching you?”

“I have, big kahuna,” you purr, giving his manhood a gentle squeeze for emphasis as you say big. Nanu groans at this, his hips again pushing into your hand. “When I’m fingering myself, I imagine it’s your big fingers doing it to me instead. And, well…” you trail off, suddenly embarrassed, and glance away.

“Tell me, princess. Tell your big kahuna what you think of,” Nanu murmurs, his voice gentle and encouraging.

“Sometimes, if I have a toy, I, um,” your voice gives out, from your mounting embarrassment at sharing such intimate details as much as from the way his fingers suddenly glide over your clothed heat. “Um,” is all you can manage to say again, even as you press your hips forward into the light friction he’s creating.

“Do you imagine it’s me fucking you? My throbbing cock filling your needy pussy, princess?” Nanu croons. Your breathing hitches at his words, and you lean into him, caressing his cheek with your free hand. He has a light dusting of grey 5 o’clock shadow on his jawline, and it scrapes at your skin as you move.

“You have a filthy mouth, Nanu,” you say with a moan, too embarrassed to tell him that was exactly what you imagined.

“I didn’t hear you deny it, so it must be true, that you imagine my cock deep inside you. Am I right?” Nanu murmurs, pressing a little harder at your heat. You bite your lip, then drop your head to his shoulder, hiding your face from him as you nod. “That’s a good girl, telling her big kahuna what she wants. And you’ve known I have a filthy mouth for a long time, now. You like it, though, don’t you, princess? You like it when I talk dirty to you?”

You nod again against his shoulder, still too embarrassed to meet his piercing red gaze.

“I didn’t hear you, princess,” Nanu says, and you can literally hear the smirk in his voice.

“Mm-hmm,” you try, but Nanu laughs, pulling his hand away from your clothed core.

“If you want more from me, I want you to tell me you like my dirty mouth, and then I want you to tell me exactly what you want from me. Do you have it in you, princess?”

Something snaps in you at his challenge. You pull back and look him directly in those red eyes - those intense eyes, which are really rather pretty this close, like rubies flecked with orange stars.

“I love when you talk dirty to me, Nanu. The things you say with that mouth of yours are so filthy…but you’re so gentle and good to me as you say them. It’s just what I want,” you purr.

“Of course,” Nanu breathes, pushing his nose into your neck. He takes a long, steadying breath, inhaling the scent of you, then says, “A princess like you deserves no less.”

“But I’m sure that filthy mouth of yours can be put to better use than just talking, can’t it?” You murmur, carding your fingers through his short gray hair as you continue to rub at his now-very-hard cock. “I want you to show your princess how you can please her with your mouth. And then I want you to show your princess how you can please her with this,” you say, pausing your ministrations on his length to squeeze it firmly. Nanu groans at this, bucking his hips against your hand, but soon after, you feel a smile on his lips against the skin of your neck.

“That’s what I wanted to hear from you. Good girl,” he breathes. It feels kind of intoxicating, to have been so in control of the situation and to have him praising you for it, too. “Now let your big kahuna give you what you want, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, turning the power back over to him just as easily as it had come to you.

Nanu’s stubble scrapes across the sensitive skin of your neck as he pulls away from you, and he gives you a lopsided smirk. To your surprise, though, it’s not quite so much the usual shit-eating variety you get from him; it’s softer, more tender than you’re used to seeing. He soon sets about pulling the Alolan Persian pajama top off you, exposing your breasts to him. He groans at the sight, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in closer, his lips closing over one nipple. His tongue circles it lazily at first, though the heat of his mouth and the slow drag of the friction he creates is still enough to have you arching against him. The speed of his tongue gradually increases, and he takes your other nipple in between his fingers, rolling it between his thumb and index. He continues to roll over the sensitive skin as he increases his ministrations with his mouth on the other side, until he’s lapping at your nipple in rapid swipes of his tongue, sucking and swirling and, quite often, scraping gently - but almost painfully - with his teeth.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop and looks up at you through his eyelashes. His pupils are blown and there’s a slight flush to his skin.

The thought that he’s gorgeous like this crosses your mind.

A moment later, he moves to your other nipple, starting off much the same, with slow, lazy circles.

“You’re so good at this, Nanu,” you groan, one hand holding onto his shoulder while the other tangles into his short hair again, holding his head close as he picks up speed, lavishing this breast the same way he’d lavished the first. Your eyes flutter closed, and you repeat yourself breathily. “So good at this.”

“With age comes experience,” the kahuna says, and you can feel his lips quirk into a faint smile against your skin. “Not that I mind you stroking my ego, of course.”

“I’ll stroke anything you want if you keep doing this,” you reply, which pulls a rare genuine laugh from Nanu.

“Ordinarily I’d take you up on that offer, girl, but I‘m pretty worked up, and I want to save my shot until I’m inside you, if you understand my meaning,” he chuckles. “Stroking my ego for now will do just fine.” Suddenly, he lifts you up under your hips again, tugging at your pajama pants. “But let’s get these off you, and I can show you where else I’m good at using my mouth.”

You stand and help him wiggle the pajama pants down, stepping out of them once they’re on the floor.

“No panties?” Nanu breathes, his hands immediately reaching up to cup and grope at your ass.

“They were too wet from the storm to put back on,” you explain, then add, “It works out, though. Even if they had somehow stayed dry outside, they’d be too wet for me by now, anyway.”

Nanu gives a low chuckle at this, and moves to pick you up, but before he gets anywhere, you give a tug at his cop jacket and shirt.

“Can these come off? I’d like to see you, too,” you say, and Nanu lets go of you, setting your feet down on the floor once again. He shrugs out of his jacket quickly, throwing it to the side. You start to help him out of his maroon shirt, pulling it up, eager to not be the only one naked.

“Hang on,” he murmurs, untangling your fingers from the necklace that carries his Z-Crystal and tucking it under his shirt. “This always stays on me, princess.” Finally, he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it to the side, too, leaving him topless before you.

His chest is broad and dusted in silvery-gray hair, which turns into a thin line down his stomach, reappearing in a slightly-thicker happy trail that disappears into his pants. He’s got a bit of muscle on his shoulders and chest - this doesn’t surprise you terribly; he’s lazy, but he’s a cop and he has to be at least a little strong, after all. A thin layer of fat covers his stomach, and somehow, that looks even more attractive on his build than if he’d had washboard abs. Perhaps most surprising of all are the few scars that litter his body. There’s one that runs horizontally across his chest, and another thin line by his belly button crossing to his hip bone, plus one that looks particularly ragged on his ribs. He’s not covered in them, per se, but there’s certainly a few.

“I’m not much to look at,” Nanu mumbles, suddenly shy under your gaze. “But I can still make you feel really good if you want me to, you know.”

“Nanu,” you hum, settling down on his lap and pushing your body against his. The warmth of his skin on yours and the tickle of his fine chest hairs on your breasts both feel surprisingly erotic. His Z-Crystal, trapped between the two of you, pokes into your skin a little. “Like I said earlier, you need to have more confidence in yourself. I really like your body, you know. And I’m excited to see more of it.” You run your hand through his chest hair as you speak, paying no extra mind to his scars; now is likely not the moment to draw attention to them, given how insecure he seems. You decide to continue encouraging him, instead. “I definitely still want you, Nanu. I want you to make me feel good, and I want you to feel really good when you’re inside me, too.” You finish your sentence with a light peck on the corner of his mouth. It occurs to you, suddenly, that neither of you have actually kissed the other yet, and you’re nearly overcome by the desire to feel his lips on yours. You put some gentle pressure on his cheek, turning him just a little more until he’s facing you fully.

You watch his eyes flit down to your mouth, then up to your eyes again. To encourage him, you lean in just a little, but don’t fully close the distance between the two of you, wanting to leave that up to him. Somehow, a kiss feels emotionally intimate, not just physically intimate, and you want him to be the one to bridge that gap, now that you’ve shown him you’re interested.

And, to your delight, he does, pressing his lips against yours, gently at first, then more firmly as he realizes you’re kissing him back. He wraps one arm around your waist, holding you close as his other hand tangles into your hair. The kiss quickly grows hungry, deep, and passionate, with Nanu licking at your lips and you granting him entrance swiftly. His tongue darts into your mouth, tangling with yours, exploring your mouth at his leisure. After a long moment of this, he bites your lower lip as he pulls back for air. “Wow,” you breathe, and lean in, barely giving him a moment before you recapture his lips in your own. This time, your tongue enters his mouth, and he lets you take control of the kiss as easily as he’d handed control to you earlier. His taste is unfamiliar yet pleasant, and you find yourself moaning into his mouth.

“Princess,” Nanu moans back adoringly, and in that moment, you’re indescribably happy that this was the nickname he’d settled on for you. His hands sneak under your hips again, finding purchase, and he lifts you easily once more. “Let me eat you out, okay? Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, feeling giddy at the thought of his talented tongue on your core.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

A Curse Meant to Be Broken || Geralt x Reader || Part 4

Summary: One monster is taken care of, but the fight did not come without cost. With you injured, Geralt sets out to take care of the remaining monster. This just might be the beginning of a whole new life for you; a life where you never have to see this town ever again.  

Word Count:  2,045

Warning(s): Violence, blood.

A/N: Sorry it’s taken so long for an update on this story—Hope you all enjoy! Thank you all, as always, for reading.  

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

If you enjoy my work and want to read more, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this story or any others, comment or send me a message and I’ll add you!  

***

Geralt rushes back to the baron’s manor, clutching you against his chest as if holding you tighter will slow down the inevitable. He never should have allowed you to stay – he should have been more careful. It had been reckless of him to allow you so close during those crucial moments. He’d put you at risk, and you might very well die because of it.  

He doesn’t bother to explain the situation upon barging through the door. No one in this damned manor cares enough about you to be even remotely deserving. Instead, he barks orders. “Clean bed, now!” He knows it would be nearly impossible to keep his voice down, so he doesn’t even try. Why waste the energy?  

Thankfully, the staff he encounters upon entering the manor – two guards who look half bored to dead – respond nearly immediately to his frenzied yelling. One of them motioned for him to follow, which he does, cradling your limp body in his arms gently, so as not to jostle you around too much. The gashes on your back are not only deep, but filled with poison thanks to the Noonwraith’s taloned fingers, and he wants to do what he can to avoid making the pain even worse.  

For you, the world seems to exist only in a murky grayness where you can neither sleep nor wake. You are reminded only of the intense fever dreams you’d had when you were a child and contracted Yellow Fever. You shiver against the nonexistent cold as heat radiates off your body, soaking the fresh sheets of an unfamiliar bed with sweat. Geralt can only watch with a grim determination as he goes about cleaning and dressing your wounds.  

Images flash, causing you to toss and turn in your fitful false sleep. You see the wraith, with its spectral glow and horribly disfigured face, hands like talons. You see Geralt pressed back against the wall, the wraith descending upon him. It is like you’re watching the scene, rather than taking part in it. You watch as you pull the knife. You see the look of doubt and dread flicker on your face for a fraction of a second before you watch as you drag the sharp edge of the knife against your open palm. Your blood sizzles as it hits the stone below, which you can hear even over your own yelling.  

“Mama!”  

You see the wraith charge at the girl, who looks utterly terrified and utterly determined at the same time. You almost forget that the girl you are watching is you as the wraith turns and descends upon her, striking out with razor-sharp claws and tearing away cloth and flesh in one easy stroke. You watch in horror as the girl – me, you vaguely remember – flattens herself on the ground, as if hoping she might sink right into it.  

Thankfully, you are only partially present as pain sears through you as the Witcher carefully cleans each wound. Though his hands are gentle, the elixir he uses to counteract the venom is not. He grimaces as he holds you down gently as he pours the elixir into your open wounds, pushing against you as you fight to throw him off, no doubt trying to escape the hissing burn of the anti-venom. He knows how the elixir feels as it burns away the venom by indiscriminately tearing through your cells.  

He gave you as much as he could of a human-safe herbal mixture for the pain, but from the way you are trying to thrash about, it seems it has only lessened the pain from one level of excruciating to another, slightly lower one. He hurries to finish cleaning the wounds so that he can apply a numbing salve and wrap cloth bandages tightly around your body, brow furrowing as you finally stop trying to lurch away from him – though he is unsure if it is because the numbing salve is working or because you have simply given up fighting.  

He makes no attempt to turn you onto your back, not wanting to further irritate the wounds. Though you are tightly wrapped in bandages, he worries that in moving you, he would risk tearing at the deep scratches. So, he leaves you on your stomach as he goes to brew an elixir. He knows he cannot give you any of the Witcher potions that he has tucked in his pack for fear it will kill you, so he has no choice but to start from scratch. For the first time in a long while, he is quite thankful for Vesimir’s insistence that you learn human healing potions as well, despite their general uselessness to a Witcher.  

Stephic does not interrupt once; not even to check and see how his oh so valued servant is fairing. The Witcher doesn’t find this in the least bit surprising. All noblemen, be them Nilfgaardian, Temerian, Redianian... They’re all the same. They care only for themselves and their profit, no matter what they claim. If you survive this, you will be left with a horrible scar from your shoulder down your back. He supposes that, in Stephic’s eyes, that must diminish the value of his property very much. It is despicable, but it is nothing he has not seen time and time again.  

At least, he thinks, that should make this all easier.

Having rushed back to care for you, he has not had the chance to speak to Stephic regarding his reward. As per usual with Barons, he had offered a tidy sum for the contract. And, truth be told, Geralt knows that he could really use the coin. Autumn will give way to winter sooner than later, and work is hard to come by in the winter. But still...  

* * *

“You want the girl?” Somehow, Stephic finds the request so ridiculous that he is laughing, more like cackling, really. “I offer you four hundred Crowns to off the wraith and you want to trade it for a maimed wench?”  

Geralt has to clench and unclench his fists at his sides to keep from lashing out. Perhaps it is the nonchalant way in which the Baron shakes his head in disbelief that angers him; the way that he cannot possibly imagine that your life is of any value – but he would very much like to punch the pompous asshole in the face.  

He holds back for your sake, responding with a curt nod, “That is exactly what I’d like to do.”  

Stephic stands for a moment, hand on his chin in thought as he considers the Witcher before him. “Intersting...” he muses.  

The Witcher looks at him, eyebrows raised. He can’t help himself.

“Hardly interesting, Your Excellency.” The words drip from his lips like poisoned honey. He will have to play along if he is going to get anywhere with this man. “You know girls like her can fetch a good deal more than four hundred Crowns, if you know how to go about conducting business.” The words disgust him as he says them, but he keeps his expression neutral as ever.  

“Not when they’ve gone and gotten themselves shredded apart by a wraith,” Stephac points out. Geralt left you, asleep at last thanks to the specially brewed potion, but Stephic had finally knocked on the door and set his eyes upon the horribly disfigured back of his most special servant-girl. He’d even dared to wrinkle his nose at the sight; another moment Geralt would have liked to kick his teeth in.  

“So you want a raise, is that it?” asks Stephic, shaking his head.  

Geralt, though, is a step ahead, as always. “Perhaps I do,” he said pointedly, with conviction. “After all that shit, I certainly deserve one.” He crosses his muscled arms over his chest, eyes flickering with satisfaction as the nobleman backs away slightly.  

“Well, perhaps this could be a good deal for me,” the Baron says. Of course, in keeping with the tradition of his sort, he covers his apprehension with a false smile and the false air of confidence pretending that the whole thing was all his idea. “It’d get that unruly little brat out of my hands.”  

Geralt smirks, putting up a façade of his own. “See, I knew we’d come to an understanding. I take the brat and you keep the coin.” Better to let the Baron think that he was a man with the same warped moral code as himself, than come in playing the part of a foolish White Knight. He continues speaking, even though the words taste sour on his lips, “You save yourself a lot of trouble, and I turn a profit from some... businessman in Novigrad.”  

Geralt can see quite plainly that Stephic will accept the offer, he casually traces the sign of Axii in front of him, watching Stephic’s eyes glass over as he speaks again, “It’s a great deal for both of us, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Stephic nods vacantly, “A profitable deal for both of us.”  

“Indeed,” the Witcher says, holding back a smirk. “And perhaps, even a hundred Crowns for my trouble?”  

Stephic nods emphatically, still under the influence of the sign, “Of course, Master Witcher.”  

Geralt watches as the man clumsily pulls a leather pouch from a pocket in his doublet. It is small, certainly not the entire reward, but Geralt takes it with a thankful smile and conspiratorial nod towards the slimy little bug-eyed noble. He could have easily asked for the whole four hundred crowns, but then the Baron might talk – say he was “hexed” and extorted by the greedy monster-slayer. He didn’t need any more of those rumors floating about.  

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Geralt’s lips twitch into a smirk as he takes the purse and steps past the Baron and out of the room.  

***

“Drink this, it’ll help with the pain,” Geralt says as he pulls a clear vial from somewhere in his pocket. You eye it suspiciously for a moment, not thrilled with the idea of swallowing the mystery liquid, but ultimately grab the vial and toss the bitter liquid to the back of your throat and swallow before you can gag. The unpleasant burning in your throat is a small price to pay for some relief to the deep ache in your healing back.  

You can hardly believe that it’s been nearly two weeks since you and Geralt had lifted the curse holding your mother to the place she’d been murdered and banished the wraith forever. Though, you suppose the fact that you’d only snapped from the seemingly endless fever dream a few days before is a huge contributing factor.  

You sit behind Geralt on his mare, Roach. You must admit, you are quite fond of the horse, even if getting on and off the horse was nearly impossible thanks to the pain in your back. Thankfully, the potion works quickly. It settles over you like a warm blanket, numbing the pain in your back and pulling you toward sleep. This is how you’ve spent most of the journey – asleep against Geralt’s back. You wish you could be awake more often to take in the beautiful sights instead of watching them blur by in a half-awake stupor.  

“Hm?” Geralt mumbles, turning his head back slightly to look at you. You must have let one too many frustrated sigh escape your lips.  

“I just....” you begin sleepily, “I want to see everything.”  

Geralt grins, yellow eyes catching yours for a moment and making your breath stop.  

“You will,” he promises. He’s already turned back to the path in front of you, but those golden eyes still have you stuck, eyes fixed on the outline of his face as you breathe in the comforting scent of his long hair.  

“I will show you this whole Continent, if that is what you wish, Y/N.”  

You smile lightly as you let your eyes slip shut, arms wrapped tightly around him, letting the slow and steady sound of his heart beating lull you to sleep. But you swear that his heart is beating ever so slightly more quickly than it usually does. 

If you’d been able to see his face, you would have seen a soft smile on his usually stone hard face.  

***

Taglist: @earthtokace​ @divaroze @fairytale07​ @geeksareunique​ @jesseswartzwelder​ @kingnaizx @they-call-me-thewildrose​ @bitcheswithbrokenhearts @mystriee​ @hi-there-x​ @queenie-b-​ @pantrashtic​ @ivvitm1109​ @hecatemacbeth7​ @whatiswrongwithpeople​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @itshaleighy07 @evyiione​ @comicbeginning​ @curlyhairedandconfused​ @lazilyscentedwerewolf​ @stretchkingblog97​ @haru-ririchiyo​ @unnamedmaincharacter​ @hp-hogwartsexpress​

[greatshell-rider]

SKELETAL ESCAPADES: CHAPTER SIX

[Chapter Index] [Previous Chapter] [Next Chapter]

Tibia worked with quick, quiet efficiency, as she has for most of her life, ever since her father's passing away had required her to step up in being responsible for family duties at a young age. She knew now what she'd learned quickly then: this wasn't going to work unless she did something about it.

She finished attaching the last spell to the skeleton, then sat back a moment, letting her sore claws rest while she gave the skeleton a final look-over, making sure no bones would explode or rebound as a curse. That hadn't happened since her early days of teaching herself magic, but it was always good to make certain. As certain as one could be.

She flicked a glance at her nest of eggs, lying still for once as they'd gone into hibernation, then refocused and leaned over the skeleton again. A songbird's, which wasn't ideal with its brittle, hollow bones, but Tibia had used up all the "deluxe" bones in the days previous. These were the last full set.

Closing her eyes, her head bent close to the bird skull, she murmured the activation spell. Magic flowed from her to the bones, establishing a link, and a faint purple aura glowed around the joints. There was no leeching pull from the Other side, as Tibia hadn't called the bird's soul back to inhabit its bones. No, she had neither the time nor energy for that. Even this simple necro-animation, the sixth she'd made in two days, left her nearly drained.

But not completely. She scooped the necro-animation up and went to CS2's cubbyhole, touching the bird skeleton to the chipmunk's half crumbled one and muttering another spell. More magic left her, but this time she didn't feel a link form.

CS2?, Tibia prompted with a gentle mental nudge.

The chipmunk skeleton didn't move, and Tibia heard no clear transfer of thoughts, but she felt, dimly, an acknowledgement signal in her mind. Through patient trial and error, Tibia had managed to repair their mental communication only that far, but it would have to do. She simply didn't have any more time to spare.

"There you go," she said aloud. "That's the last. Can you test it?"

No distant acknowledgement, but the bird skeleton suddenly sat up and opened and closed its beak a few times.

"Excellent," Tibia said with relish, the satisfaction (and relief) of her magic working making her crest flare happily. This level of magic, the ability to let one of her servants command other servants, was new to Tibia, made possible only because, after all the many, many tests and experiments over the past few sleepless days and nights, she’d learned CS2’s soul now . . . stretched. Just a little. It no longer stayed attached solely to its own bones, but drifted . . . and could now extend its will over other skeletons Tibia linked to it. "And you can control all six at once?"

She heard Lamp yelp down the tunnel, then the scurrying of little claws hurrying towards her.

“Warn me next time, please!” Lamp called

“Sure thing, love,” she said as she turned to see the other five necro-animations, two squirrels, a gecko, a hare, and another bird, line up in the den before her. Despite the speed of their arrival, they now all stood perfectly still, hollow skulls edged with purple staring at her passively. After CS2's frequent chatter and easy jokes, Tibia found these skeletons' silence . . . eerie. She wouldn't say creepy, not after years of enduring teasing and lost friendships over her "weird magic", but they were unsettling. A little.

Her crest was flattening slightly. She perked it up and said again, "Excellent. CS2, this has worked better than I had hoped. I'm glad you have some way of moving again, even if it's different."

She waited, but none of the necro-animations moved. CS2 of old might've danced a little jig or done a cartwheel, but Tibia knew it was still hurting, four days after the accident. She'd just hoped it would be . . . feeling a little better now, with mobility restored. Six bodies to move now, not just one! . . . Tibia could imagine it wasn't exactly an improvement, not subjectively at least, but it was something. They could both be grateful for that.

"Alright then, to your posts," she said, and all six necro-animations scampered off.

Tibia lifted her wings to fly off the perch, repeating to herself all the protections she and Lamp and Atomic had worked to build into the lair while she and Atomic were gone. The sentinels, the traps, and a third den, dug lower than the rest, where the earth was cool and quiet so Lamp and the eggs could slumber without disturbance. The hibernal den would be sealed but for airholes, then disguised as just another part of the tunnel's wall. When the eggs were settled, and Lamp with them, two of CS2's skeleton sentinels would guard them from within. Two more inside the main lair with CS2, and the last two set just outside the lair entrance. They'd get buried by snow, but would help Tibia maintain the proximity ward she'd set around the hill as a perimeter warning if any creature got too close. Then, in case something did get inside, there were the—what was that scratch at the back of her mind? Oh!

"Yes, CS2?" Tibia said, turning back. "Do you want to test the . . ." Her words trailed away as she realized with a jolt that CS2 was moving, for the first time in days, yes just a single claw scratching at the hard dirt but! But! Still moving! "This is wonderful!" she cried, crest tingling. "I was starting to think there wasn't any hope, but you've surprised me yet again, CS2!"

Another signal to her brain, this one a plea. Tibia's crest stilled, and she looked closer at the necro-animation's scratchings. The tiny claw finished a line, then slumped back, exhaustion bleeding over its connection to Tibia.

Tibia opened her mouth, then closed it. She tilted her head, then stilled.

They weren’t just scratchings, but writing. Words. In Draconic.

"CS2," she whispered. "When did you . . ." How did a chipmunk, no, its reanimated bones, sentient for just six moons, learn to read and write the dragons' language?

She stared at those two words. IT HURTS.

Another tug on their link, with the same imploring tone.

Guilt stabbed through Tibia, twisting her guts into an uneasy knot. It's begging me, she thought. And maybe . . . but no. Again, Tibia looked to her eggs. It was already killing her to leave them like this, her mate going into hibernation to heal faster. Even with all she had prepared, she worried it wouldn't be enough, that Atomic would be killed by her kin, that Tibia would return—if she could, traveling in winter without a banescale’s heat—to a wrecked lair, her new family slaughtered in the ruins of their broken home.

"I know," Tibia whispered, even as the guilt and fear burrowed deeper and nestled together as one. "I know, and I promise when I get back I will do everything I can to help make it better. I swear, by all the deities. But until then." Tibia paused, steeling her emotions and wrestling with her crest to keep it from revealing them. "Please. I need this last thing from you, CS2. Protect my family. Then you can rest."

She waited, and it took a while but she would not leave without an acknowledgement—and she got it. Quiet, almost imperceivable, but affirmative.

Tibia's crest drooped with relief. "Thank you," she said quietly. Tied by her magic, CS2 still had to obey Tibia's commands, but she would much rather a willing necro-animation guarding her home. If CS2 decided not to care any longer, Tibia's lair defenses would be dangerously less effective. It was the keystone in all this, its mind the control unit for the rest of her bone magic while Tibia was too far away to command them directly.

After all the initial eruption of denials and disagreements that Atomic and Lamp had made after Tibia's announcement of her plan, Lamp had been adamant about not going into hibernation with their eggs. He couldn’t wrap his head around relying on an undead thing to serve as their main defender, not even when Tibia had explained mages might be sent who could detect active life sources and use that to determine the location of the lair and attack. He’d kept glancing at the necro-animation, eyes flicking worriedly over its shattered bones. But Atomic had defended the chipmunk skeleton, saying she knew its little soul was strong enough to accomplish anything it needed. Eventually Lamp had been swayed, if not convinced, and agreed to trust in his mate. And whether Atomic actually believed what she'd said or was merely desperate, it didn't matter. She and Atomic knew the same thing: this wouldn't work without CS2. And because they couldn't be certain, they just had to trust.

Atomic poked her head into the lair, snow dusting her scales after her most recent patrol. "Lamp says the den's just big enough now."

Tibia touched a claw to CS2's skull, sending gratitude and reassurance through their link, then flapped down to her nest. "Then let's get moving," she said calmly, in direct opposition to the fast beating of her heart. Atomic moved to help her pick up the eggs. "We haven't the time to lose."

[diceyfall]

[fic; keeping warm]

it’s been cold lately and ive been yearning for kurt!fluff, pretend it snows in teer fradee in the winter or something

m!de sardet x kurt, de sardet nearly drowns in cold water and kurt warms him up again, 2353 words 💝

Ever since he was a child, Tristan has been recklessly kind in a way that Kurt always thought would be the death of at least one of them, though he did not anticipate it bearing out in this way.

“Green Blood, are you insane?” Kurt shouts as he trudges his way through the snowy bank of the lake, watching as the entirely too fearless man crawls on hands and knees over the precariously thin sheet of ice toward a bawling child, too afraid to move due to the cracks beneath him. “At least get on your belly, for heaven’s sake!”

The child’s mother watches anxiously nearby with a few bystanders trying to calm her down. One of them, Kurt’s fellow guard, went to fetch him when she recognized the child’s brave rescuer was none other than the legate of the Merchant Congregation.

“I have it under control, Kurt!” Tristan shouts back, though at the very least he does follow Kurt’s advice and gets on his stomach, spreading out his weight more evenly on the ice. There’s several feet left between him and the child now, and Kurt can’t understand why Tristan had to be the one to try and save him when there were just about a hundred guards in New Sérène who could be risking their lives instead.

Kurt watches, pacing along the bank and trampling the snow so many times it flattens to the ground beneath his feet. He can see Tristan say something to the boy, who sniffs but then lies down onto his stomach as well, reaching for Tristan’s outstretched hand.

They’re not too far away from the bank, and while staying positive doesn’t come naturally to him, Kurt tries to at the very least not to imagine the worst. Tristan has defied the odds before, seems to be doing it again as he pulls the child toward him, the cracked ice sinking slightly beneath the weight but otherwise not breaking apart any further.

The boy’s mother breathes out in relief, her hands shaking as she clasps them to her chest while Tristan pulls her son along with him, a small distance between them, but everything seems to be working out alright. Kurt almost relaxes, almost, but he knows better.

Moments later, his caution is proven right.

There’s an audible burst, ice splintering between Tristan and the child who both freeze. But then Tristan makes a decision. Kurt can see it in his eyes before he even does it.

“Green Blood, don’t—!”

Tristan shoves the child forward, sliding him over toward the safety of the bank where his mother and a few others pull him into safety, and then the ice breaks.

Kurt’s heart stops. “TRISTAN!”

It’s horrifying to witness; one moment Tristan is lying there, his jaw clenched in a grim expression as he knows exactly what’s going to happen, and the next he’s swallowed up by the dark waters below. Kurt is already moving toward the ice before anyone can stop him, two others following suit as the small crowd cries out when the legate goes under.

As much as Kurt would like to be the one to pull Tristan out of the ice, his height and his build means he weighs too heavy to attempt it, even if he were to discard his armor. One of his fellow guards, both shorter and slimmer than he, is the one to crawl onto the ice toward the hole instead—to Kurt’s great relief, Tristan comes up on his own, gasping and shivering in the water as he clings to the edge of the ice, unable to pull himself up.

The initial shock of the cold from the water could have very well killed Tristan had he inhaled and choked on any of it, but that doesn’t mean the danger has passed yet. At least his body hasn’t completely shut down, but it will if he stays in that water any longer.

The guard reaches Tristan safely, stretched out over the frozen lake as he grabs hold of Tristan’s wrists. Kurt and another man are leaning onto the thicker, more solid parts of the ice near the bank as they have hold of the guard’s legs, and they both pull as carefully as they can. The guard manages to drag Tristan out of the water, both of them reeled in back onto the snowy land.

Tristan has stopped shivering by the time Kurt gets to him, which is a bad sign. A very bad sign. His blue-tinged lips can’t even seem to form words as Kurt hooks one arm beneath his knees and the other beneath his back, carefully picking him up and shuddering at the icy water soaked through Tristan’s clothes making him wet in turn.

“Keep your eyes open,” Kurt tells him urgently, and Tristan manages a nod, one hand curled tightly into the thick fabric of Kurt’s guard doublet. Kurt turns to his fellow guards. “Are there any buildings nearby?”

“There’s a fisherman’s cabin over there,” one of the guards point out, and Kurt can just about make it out from among the trees. “I think it’s occupied, but—”

Kurt doesn’t even wait to hear the rest, already taking off toward the cabin, and notices the smoke coming out of the chimney. Good. That means there’s fire, which means he can warm Tristan up.

“Coin Guard, open up!” he shouts as he approaches the door, not wasting time knocking, and sure enough the cabin’s owner comes walking out with surprise on his face. Kurt walks right past him into the cabin.

“Hey!” the fisherman protests. “Just what d’you think you’re… is he alright?”

“Not if he freezes to death,” Kurt replies as he carefully puts Tristan down in front of the burning fireplace on a rug, hoping the heat radiating from it will do him good.

“Hold on,” the fisherman says, moving toward the back of the cabin and disappearing into a side room while Kurt helps Tristan peel his wet coat off, discarding it to the floor. “You’re in luck I was boiling water for some tea…”

Kurt is barely even listening to the man as he kneels down in front of Tristan, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Tristan starts to shiver again, blinking his eyes as if trying to stay awake.

“I’m… alright,” he forces out, beginning to shiver even harder as he pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around himself. “Just… c-c-cold…”

“Cold?” Kurt replies sardonically, even as he’s flooded with relief. “Can’t imagine why.”

The fisherman returns with a bowl of hot water and a cloth, as well as a towel to dry off with and a thick blanket to wrap Tristan up in. “Here y’are.”

“Th-th-thank you,” Tristan says to the man, still insisting on his manners even after nearly freezing to death, and the fisherman arches his brows in recognition.

“Say, aren’t you—”  

“The legate, yes,” Kurt cuts him off impatiently as he coaxes Tristan’s arms apart so he help him take off his soaking wet shirt next. He gives the fisherman a pointed look. “Do you mind sending for a doctor?”

“Oh, right!” The fisherman nods vigorously. “I’ll head out right now! Don’t you worry, m’lord, I’ll be back before you know it!”

Frankly, Kurt is glad to see the chatty fellow leave as that lets him focus on tending to Tristan, yanking his shirt off over his head and throwing it down on top of his coat. He takes the towel and dries off Tristan’s hair and face, moving down to his neck and shoulders, rubbing over his chest and his back to get some warmth back into him.

“N-n-nice m-man,” Tristan comments, still shivering but at least not dripping water all over the place anymore. “Th-the boy—”

“He’s safe,” Kurt reassures him, letting the towel rest over Tristan’s shoulders as he takes the cloth and dips it into the hot water, then presses it against Tristan’s neck. Tristan’s eyes flutter shut as he exhales a shuddering breath. “Better?”

“Much.” Tristan looks at him again after a moment. “K-Kurt, my t-trousers.”

“I’ve got you.” Kurt puts the cloth aside and helps Tristan out of his boots and socks, then tackles the wet fabric of his pants next. It’s a much more annoying ordeal than his shirt because of the way it clings to his legs and Tristan only barely manages to lift his hips enough for Kurt to yank it off him. He pulls off Tristan’s underwear as well, leaving Tristan completely bare and shivering on the floor, making for a rather miserable sight.

Kurt spends the next few minutes pressing the hot cloth to Tristan’s legs and feet, making sure his toes don’t freeze off, before drying him off again. He seems to be doing better, looks more alert as he peers around the cabin, though he’s still much colder to the touch than Kurt would like. At least his front seems to being warmed by the fire well enough, though less so for his back.

Stripping out of his armor takes Kurt little work, and once he’s shirtless he shifts to sit down behind Tristan, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his bare chest to Tristan’s back. Tristan sinks into the embrace immediately, though he’s still shivering as Kurt wraps the blanket the fisherman gave him around them both.

“Why do you always have to play the hero?” Kurt mutters against Tristan’s ear, hands rubbing down Tristan’s chest and abdomen to warm him up, sliding to his hips and his thighs before going back up again.

“I’m not a h-hero.” Tristan’s shivering seems to decrease a little, no longer as harsh and jerky as before as he lets himself lean back against Kurt.

“That boy you saved might disagree with you.” Kurt presses his lips to the skin of Tristan’s neck, thankfully not as cold as it was before as Kurt takes it upon himself to warm Tristan up with his lips.

Tristan shifts a little against him, tilting his head to the side as he bares more skin for Kurt to mouth against. “You w-would’ve done the s-same.”

“I’m not a legate,” Kurt points out. “You’re someone important, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“So are y-you.”

Kurt smiles against Tristan’s shoulder despite himself, ceasing his kisses. “In that case, can you understand how you scared me shitless back there?” His smile fades as he rests his chin on top of Tristan’s shoulder, holding him a little tighter. “When I saw you go under, my heart stopped.”

Tristan is silent for a while, peering into the fire as Kurt holds him, feels Tristan’s shivers subside until he’s only trembling lightly, and then he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.” He turns his head, the tip of his nose bumping lightly against Kurt’s as he leans in, a kiss gentle in its apology as it brushes against Kurt’s lips. “I didn’t m-mean to frighten you.”

“I know.” Kurt kisses him back, just as chaste. “I know you didn’t.”

The soft pecks draw out into a languid movement of lips. Tristan moves a little in his arms so he can kiss Kurt better, but seems unsatisfied until he has fully turned around and straddles Kurt’s hips. Kurt’s hands move across the toned plains of Tristan’s back, holding him close as the kiss deepens when Tristan’s lips aren’t as stiff from the cold anymore.

Neither of them notice when Tristan stops shivering as they’re not in a mood to stop, not even when Kurt’s lips start feeling bruised. The fervor is not surprising considering Tristan could’ve died back there; it’s different when they’re in a fight and there’s an opponent in front of Kurt, someone he can defeat to ensure Tristan’s safety. But the danger of him drowning or freezing to death? That’s something different entirely. That sense of helplessness that came over him as he watched Tristan on the ice was a dreadful feeling, one he hopes he won’t have to experience ever again.

So Kurt savors every inch of Tristan’s gradually warming skin beneath his hands, is thankful for every hot exhale of breath Tristan sighs or moans against his mouth between their kisses, arms locked around him protectively, possessively, wishing he could keep Tristan safe in his embrace like this all the time.

It isn’t until Tristan moves his hips closer and Kurt feels something poking against his stomach that he remembers Tristan is still very naked, and this is not their cabin.

He breaks the kiss with effort, breathless in its aftermath as he holds Tristan close, foreheads pressed lightly together. “We should really… not do that. Not here.” Though it pains him to say it.

“Right,” Tristan agrees, a slightly dazed tone to his voice. “The… fisherman. Right. I suppose he might take offense if we… ah…”

Kurt snorts. “I don’t think he would appreciate walking in on us fucking on the floor.”

“I wasn’t going to do it on the floor,” Tristan protests, the warm flush to his cheeks a welcome sight.

“Really?” Kurt teases, pushing his hips up against Tristan’s to make a point, making Tristan inhale a sharp breath at the sudden friction. “What’s that prodding against me, then? Your pistol, I suppose?”

Tristan lets out a laugh, though that stops very quickly when the fisherman bursts through the door with a doctor on his heels, and this time Kurt laughs as Tristan embarrassedly tries to explain they were just sharing body-heat out of necessity and there was nothing at all improper going on.

The fisherman dubiously fetches Tristan some clothes to borrow while the doctor examines him, clearing him of any danger shortly after. It seems Kurt did a pretty good job of caring for him.

“Next time you’re of a mind to get on the ice,” Kurt says as they walk back toward New Sérène, “don’t.”

“Why not?” Tristan replies playfully. “I’ve got you to warm me up again after, don’t I?”

“Don’t test me, Green Blood.”

They hold each other’s hand all the way back to New Sérène, keeping warm in the cold.

[dyonisia96]

Could you write something about the relationship between Sans and Undyne? Not like a ship or anything but like how they’re friends through Papyrus? Thanks :))

That’s a nice prompt! :D 

Thanks for leaving it, I hope you will like what I came up with. 

Some context: this is all set after Gaster’s death, Papyrus doesn’t remember about him, and Sans is still battered from the experience. Undyne gets stuck in all this. 

I never wrote from Undyne’s point of view, it was interesting.

Sorry for any mistakes, English isn’t my first language and sometimes you’ll see weird wording or phrasing, even though I check and correct what I write before posting. 

---

Writing request #1

Thanks for punching by

Undyne stopped in front of the door and knocked insistently. She didn’t have time for this. Why did Papyrus have to forget something at her house every time they trained together?

Undyne had started to think he did it on purpose, just to have an excuse to come by again and pass time together.

Not that Undyne minded him. Papyrus had a lot of passion for what he did and she admired him for that. She liked his company. The only problem was that she didn’t have enough time to fill the social void in his life all by herself.

So, that day, Undyne had decided to bring back the cooking apron Papyrus had ‘forgotten’ on her sofa by herself, so he wouldn’t interrupt her shift later on.

 - Papyrus? - Undyne called, knocking with more energy.

The door squeaked out of protest, loosing small shards of wood with every hit.

 - Papyrus, are you in there? Come on, I don’t have all day!

The door opened and Undyne’s fist plunged forward. She was barely able to keep herself from going full strength, before meeting a smooth, fragile cranium.

The unfortunate victim crumpled under her hit and ended up on the floor. He didn’t even have the time to make a sound.

 - Oh, fuck.

It was a small skeleton, barely high enough to reach her hips, and she had definitely put him KO.

Since there weren’t any other skeleton monsters of whom Undyne knew about in the Underground, that had to be Papyrus’s brother, Sans.

 - Oh, fuck.

Sans, the 1 HP guy who was going to die if someone stared at him in the wrong way.

 - Oh, fuck.

Undyne knelt by the small skeleton’s side, unsure about what to do. 

She could already imagine herself in a dark cell, being charged for murder, with Papyrus yelling at her “HOW COULD YOU?”.

Undyne shook her head and put a hand on Sans’s shoulder, shaking as gently as she could. The small skeleton stayed limp for the longest seconds Undyne had ever experienced in her life, before slowly opening his eye sockets.

He blinked a few times and he gave a weird look at the ceiling, unsure of what it was doing up there.

Undyne sighed in relief, almost melting on the ground. He wasn’t going to turn to dust anytime soon.

 - did i just get punched by the captain of the royal guard? - Sans whispered, with a foggy chuckle. - i feel honored and flattered… or maybe flattened is more correct. like a pancake.

 - I’m s… hng… ack…

 - sorry?

 - Yeah. 

She had always had trouble with that word. For some reason, Sans seemed amused by it, even as he was massaging the top of his aching cranium.

 - I didn’t mean to hit you, - Undyne said, putting the apron she had was holding on the moquette. - Does it hurt a lot?

 - ’s nothin’ too bad, my hp is all there. i guess ya didn’t have any bad intent, - Sans whispered, with a smile. - but still, if this got out, it would ruin your reputation. maybe ya should pay me to shut me up. what about fifty g?

Undyne’s jaw dropped. Was he serious? 

It was difficult to understand.

Even though Papyrus himself had a cheery smile plastered on his face most of the time and Undyne didn’t mind that, she found Sans’s smile extremely irritating.

 - ah, don’t make that face. i’m just jokin’ with ya. from what paps told me ‘bout you, i got that ya don’t have a sense of humor, but i didn’t think it was this bad.

Undyne gritted her teeth and Sans lifted his hands in the air.

 - still jokin’! don’t get mad! ’s jussa joke. geez…

An awkward silence fell in the living room. 

A cold breeze came through the open door and Sans’s bones rattled softly. The noise was muffled by the several layers of sweaters he was wearing. They made him look strangely plump, so different from Papyrus, tall and lanky.

 - ’s kinda chilly outside. what about a hot dog? i was about to have lunch.

 - Lunch? - Undyne repeated, getting up. - It’s four in the afternoon.

 - really?

Sans frowned and looked at the clock above the tv. 

 - oh. it really is four o’ clock. hm. i musta lost track of time. then, what about havin’ a hot dog as a snack? ’s perfect for every meal anyway.

Undyne’s eyebrows narrowed, but she nodded, rolling with it. She just wanted to give him the apron and start her shift. She couldn’t give the bad example and be late.

Sans got up as well and he wobbled, his eye lights flickering.

Undyne grasped him by the shoulder to anchor him to the ground.

 - ‘m fine, mighty captain, - Sans mumbled, pushing her hand away. 

His fingers were so small. Both of his hands were barely able to wrap around one of hers.

Undyne had her doubts about him being fine, and she steadied him until he gained back his equilibrium. 

Sans smiled to her and made her sign to follow him, dragging his slippers on the ground. Were they shaped like… kittens?

Well, maybe he and Papyrus didn’t look very much alike, but they shared the same sense of fashion.

Undyne awkwardly sat on one of the chairs and put the apron on the table, where she was sure Papyrus was going to find it. For some reason, she had the feeling Sans was the kind of guy who was going to forget it somewhere and lose it forever.

The small skeleton turned on the microwave, his eye lights following hungrily the two hot dogs spinning inside.

 - Actually, I don’t have a lot of time, - Undyne said, nervously tapping a foot on the floor.

 - there’s always time for a ‘dog.

 - ‘dog?

 - ’s how i call them.

Undyne decided it was better not to investigate.

 - Seriously, I should go.

The microwave stopped and Sans put the hot dogs on two plates. He carried them to the table and sat in front of Undyne. His slippers dangled from the chair. They were definitely too big for his feet, but he didn’t seem to care.

Much to Undyne’s horror, he put ten different kinds of ketchup in front of her.

 - this one is spicy, this one is mild, this one tastes really nice, this one…

 - Sans, I’m the captain, I have to—

 - … and this, i think this is the best. why don’t ya try it? 

Even though she didn’t ask for it, Sans took the ketchup bottle and pressed it. A wave of ketchup came out of it and entirely covered her hot dog.

 - oh. i wonder why that always happens. are these things cursed?

Sans looked inside the bottle, now empty.

Undyne sighed.

 - Sans, I have to—

 - know what? ya can have my ‘dog. i’ll make another one. we have a bag of these in the back anyway.

 - No! Sans, I don’t want any ‘do- I mean, hot dogs! I need to get to work. I don’t have time for these things!

Sans stopped in front of the microwave. Just for a moment, something unsettling shone through his smile. But it was gone so fast Undyne couldn’t look further into it.

 - yea, sorry. i got carried away. i didn’t mean to bother ya.

Undyne felt a weight on her stomach, as if an invisible hand had just grabbed it. Why was she feeling guilty? She didn’t have time for that.

Suddenly, she remembered about something Papyrus had told her, between all his raving about how cool his brother was. 

“HE’S BEEN WEIRD, RECENTLY. I’M PRETTY SURE HE USED TO HAVE A JOB, BUT… HE JUST STAYS AT HOME, NOW. ALL THE TIME. AND HE DOESN’T SEE ANYONE. I’M WORRIED ABOUT HIM, UNDYNE. I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. THINGS WERE JUST FINE UNTIL A FEW WEEKS AGO.”

Undyne had shrugged off Sans’s behavior as lack of passion, since Papyrus had always said Sans was content leading a simple life, without pursuing any dream. But right then, Undyne had the impression there was something else behind it.

She couldn’t understand what it was or why, but Sans wasn’t just lazy.

He looked worn, like someone who was recovering from a bad illness.

Undyne followed Sans in the living room. He was waiting for her at the door, his hands buried deep in his sweatpants. He was slightly hunched, an invisible weight pressing on his neck.

Undyne felt bad on a whole other level for the hit she had given him before.

 - see ya, then, - Sans said, winking at her. - sorry for the ketchup tsunami. usually i prank paps with a fake bottle, but this was unplanned. - He looked down and scratched the back of his skull. - i’ll tell him ya came by. if ya wanna talk to him though, he’s somewhere in the forest, buildin’ puzzles.

 - I’m not angry about the hot dog, - Undyne said, looking nervously at her phone. It was late late now, but… 

 - Listen, um. What if I prepare some food?

Sans looked at her.

 - but you have work to do.

 - Yeah, I know. My work is to help the inhabitants of the Underground. So I might as well help you. I can always make a few calls. Today is a boring day anyway. No worrying reports.

The small skeleton was even more confused.

 - i appreciate it, but ya don’t hafta, - he said, giving her a smile. - i’m okay. i’ll eat the ‘dog and go to sleep. i’d bore ya to death anyway, all ya would do is watch me while i’m snorin’. i’m fine, undyne. really. go save the world one piece of sushi at a time.

Before Undyne could say anything else, Sans waved a hand and closed the door, leaving her to stand in the porch.

Undyne hesitated for a moment, but then she went on her way, her arms crossed on her chest. 

She had to go home and put on her armor, and she was late, really late, but she didn’t find it as urgent as before.

There was something wrong with Sans. Really wrong. And now she understood why Papyrus was so worried about him.

[popatochisssp]

Make You Mark, 6/10

Series: Undertale, Underfell Relationship(s): UF!Papyrus/Reader Chapter Warnings: Extreme Thirst

AO3 Link

In a world where soulmates exist, monsters and humans have one thing in common: the first time two soulmates touch, a mark randomly appears somewhere–anywhere– on their bodies to represent their match.

It still doesn’t make relationships easier…but maybe it does make them a little more interesting!

When that nasty, nitpicky ladder-climing bitch, Gertrude had gotten you fired, you had been incensed.

It wasn’t a great job, you weren’t heartbroken to be let go, and most of your coworkers you wouldn’t even miss—save one.

BP had been there when you were gathering up your things, not really helping but with a look on his face that so resonated with your innermost feelings of impotent, nihilist disgust at management that it felt like he was helpful, anyway.

“This sucks,” he’d muttered in solidarity, watching you angrily cram a sweater into your bag. “Probably gonna make me do your job instead of hiring somebody else…”

“Sounds right,” you’d agreed. “Such bullshit, I can’t believe they’d fire me over…!”

Feeling the burn of injustice threatening to erupt from your mouth in a stream of very loud cusswords or maybe from your eyes in actual tears, you’d forced yourself to laugh instead and even attempted a joke.

“Ha, I should sue for this… Know any good lawyers?”

You hadn’t expected BP to actually look like he was considering it, or to say at length, “…Well…actually…?”

As it turned out…he did.

Tail twitching, ears flicking nervously, BP told you in a hushed and hurried tone that he knew a real good lawyer—a monster one, of course, but if that wasn’t a problem for you, he might even be able to hook you up.

“He works pretty cheap,” BP said, “all things considered. Likes the tough cases mostly, stacked odds and hard wins… I think he’s into the challenge more than the money—he’s probably bored otherwise, y’know he used to captain the Royal Guard, Underground? When we still had one, anyway. Point is, he’s one scary prick, he’d knock something like this out of the park for you.”

You felt you could hardly be blamed for being a little incredulous.

You eyed the visibly jumpy cat beside you, whispering while pretending to walk you out and looking like he’d jump a foot in the air if he heard a manager speaking too close.

“You can get somebody like that for me?”

BP’s ears flattened, in either offense or embarrassment.

“I…! Listen, I…! His brother owes me a favor, I can…make something happen for you…pr…probably…” He shook his head. “Just…keep an eye on your email, okay? You actually did your job instead of dumping it on me like… I…owe you, or whatever.”

You hadn’t been expecting much at the time.

It was a sweet sentiment by monster standards that he was even willing to try to do something like that for you, and you appreciated it for what it was.

The look on your face was probably hilarious when you actually received an official-looking email asking if you were the human seeking a wrongful termination suit— and asking after your availability to meet in the coming week.

-

Obviously, being newly unemployed, your availability was fantastic, which is how you ended up here, nicely dressed and sat outside at a nice little sidewalk bistro, waiting for your pro bono consultation regarding your legal recourse per your recent termination.

…Or at least, that was what Captain Papyrus’ email had said.

Since you have so much time to kill these days, it’s no surprise that you’re early. The past fifteen minutes have been spent fiddling with hems and tracing idle circles around the rim of your complimentary glass of water.

Normally, you’d fool around on your phone but you’re waiting for an Important Meeting with a monster you’ve never met and the last thing you want is to get too absorbed in a game and end up making an embarrassing first impression, or miss the guy entirely.

It’s not until ten minutes to the time you’d set that you realize how silly a thought that was.

You don’t see how you could’ve missed a monster like Papyrus.

The skeleton that strides into the bistro is tall and smartly dressed, exuding such a powerful aura of confidence that you swear for a second you can actually, tangibly feel it. His cheekbones are sharp and his fangs are sharper and when the roving red lights in his eye-sockets land squarely on you, you have to hold back an instinctive shiver.

You have to admit, you’re a little mad at BP, right now.

He never told you Papyrus was hot.

You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because he’s coming over to you and you have to seem like a normal, respectable human—instead of a thirsty one.

You stand to greet him, smiling pleasantly. “Hi! Captain Papyrus, I presume?”

“YOU PRESUME CORRECTLY.”

He asks your name, his voice surprisingly deep and more than a little sexy raspy and you nod. You absently note that he’s not wearing gloves and hasn’t extended his hand to shake, so you don’t offer yours, either.

“THANK YOU FOR BEING PUNCTUAL,” he says curtly. “I HATE HAVING TO WAIT ON PEOPLE. MY SCHEDULE IS TIGHT ENOUGH AS IT IS.”

“I understand,” you agree, wordlessly encouraging him to sit as you do the same. “You’re doing me a big favor, I really appreciate this.”

Is it your imagination, or did Papyrus’ chest puff out a little just there?

“OF COURSE YOU DO,” he says, the hint of a smile playing along his jaw. “NOW, LET’S NOT WASTE TOO MUCH TIME, WE MAY AS WELL GET RIGHT INTO IT. YOU’RE CERTAIN YOU DON’T MIND DISCUSSING HERE?”

You shake your head ‘no.’ It’s a public place, but relatively deserted at this time of day and you’re not concerned that any really sensitive information will be discussed.

“RIGHT THEN.”

Papyrus pulls a hefty stack of papers from his briefcase, carefully carding through them as if to refresh his memory.

“I’VE REVIEWED YOUR CASE,” he tells you, “AND IT’S SOLID. YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY WITHIN YOUR RIGHTS TO PURSUE WRONGFUL TERMINATION AGAINST YOUR FORMER EMPLOYER.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “I…really? I am?”

“YES. ARE YOU SURPRISED?”

“I…a little bit, yes,” you admit. “I didn’t…really think I’d be on the right side of this… ”

You’d been angry, certainly. Indignant, absolutely. Utterly railroaded by months of Gertrude’s petty hair-splitting, definitely.

But you had been in violation of the employee dress code, however technically.

You glance down at your hand, the small bit of commemorative ink you’d gotten there staring up at you.

“My tattoo really isn’t a problem…?”

Papyrus scoffs.

“IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN,” he says, “HAD YOU NOT HAD THE TATTOO FOR MORE THAN A YEAR PRIOR TO YOUR EMPLOYMENT AND WORKED WITHOUT INCIDENT UNTIL…VERY RECENTLY.”

He starts flicking through the papers again, pulling out one you recognize—an email chain you’d sent to him, displaying one of several unpleasant exchanges you’d had with Gertrude.

“YOU DID WELL TO DOCUMENT THESE COMMUNICATIONS,” Papyrus tells you. “I USUALLY TAKE ACCUSATIONS OF WORKPLACE SABOTAGE WITH A GRAIN OF SALT, BUT THESE… IT SEEMS CLEAR TO ME THAT THIS…GERTRUDE…REALLY WAS OUT TO GET YOU. AND WITH YOUR TERMINATION, SHE STOOD TO TAKE YOUR PLACE FOR PROMOTION, IF I RECALL CORRECTLY?”

Petty as it was, you’d…kept track of her on social media. You can confidently answer, “Oh, she got it, alright.”

Papyrus nods in satisfaction. “THEN THAT’S ALL THE MORE INCRIMINATING. IF YOUR EMPLOYER KNOWS WHAT’S GOOD FOR THEM, THEY’RE GOING TO WANT TO SETTLE THIS MATTER OUT OF COURT, IT’S BLATANTLY DISCRIMINATORY CONDUCT.”

Out of court? Really?!

“My case is that good?” you ask, still unable to fully process it.

“WELL, WITH CLEAR PRECEDENT ON YOUR SIDE…”

“There’s been a case like this before? That a tattooed employee actually won?”

It sounds unrealistic to you. You’d been so immersed in the rhetoric of tattoos as ‘unprofessional,’ unsuitable to be shown around customers and clients for any reason, no matter what or where they were, that the concept feels foreign to you.

“TECHNICALLY,” Papyrus says, “IT WAS A SOULMARK, NOT A TATTOO. A YOUNG LADY HAPPENED TO MEET HER MATE AND HER MARK FORMED ON HER NECK QUITE VISIBLY. SHE WAS FIRED FOR HER ‘UNPROFESSIONAL’ APPEARANCE, IN SPITE OF HER WORKPLACE’S DRESS CODE FORBIDDING THE KINDS OF COLLARS AND CHOKERS THAT MIGHT’VE CONCEALED IT. SHE SUED AND WON.”

That makes you frown a little.

“Mine isn’t… It’s just a normal tattoo,” you insist. “I got it on purpose and everything, with boring old ink and needles.”

Papyrus doesn’t seem concerned.

“A MINOR DISTINCTION,” he assures with a dismissive flap of his hand. “A MARK IS A MARK REGARDLESS OF HOW IT GOT THERE. ANY LAWYER WORTH THEIR SALT COULD ARGUE THAT YOU COULD GET A SOULMARK ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF YOUR NOSE TOMORROW AND YOUR EMPLOYER WOULD’VE BEEN WRONG TO FIRE YOU FOR IT, SO WHY WOULD SUCH A MODEST LITTLE THING LIKE THAT BE SO OBJECTIONABLE?”

You spare another glance to your ink when he gestures to it, and when you look back up, the skeleton’s expression is nothing short of boastful.

“AS A MATTER OF FACT, I COULD WIN YOUR SUIT FOR YOU IN MY SLEEP!”

A bolt of excitement strikes through your soul.

Hesitantly, hopefully, you ask, “Are…are you offering to represent me?”

Even if on a purely professional basis only, you can’t deny that you’d…really like an excuse to see Papyrus again sometime.

Not only because he’s a very handsome guy with the kind of voice that could make the dictionary sound riveting.

But as you watch, his eye-sockets go wide, his cheekbones reddening at the look on your face.

“I………NO. NO! THIS WAS—IS! JUST A CONSULTATION!” he denies. “I’M ONLY REPAYING A FAVOR INCURRED BY MY SCOUNDREL OF A BROTHER, I’M…! I’M TOO BUSY BY FAR TO TAKE ON YOUR CASE, EVEN AS OPEN AND SHUT AS IT OUGHT TO BE!!!”

……

You thought he was hot strutting over to you before with his chiseled face and his sleek suit and his squared shoulders.

…And now, you think he’s unbearably cute with his impossible blush and flustered expression.

Maybe it’s a good thing he’s not going to be your lawyer, because if he’s not going to be working for you…

You think you kinda want to ask him out.

“Alright,” you decide aloud, “I guess I’ll…start looking for another lawyer, if I decide to…pursue this. Um…in the meantime, though, maybe…maybe……… Oh, no.”

Buzzkill in the extreme, you spot the absolute last person you want to see right now walking down the street—and she’s noticed you, too.

Even worse, a smirk comes across her face and she swaggers on over to your table with a ‘delighted’ cry of your name.

“Hello, Gertrude,” you manage to grit out.

You watch as Papyrus flinches at the laugh that comes out of the woman’s mouth, feeling validated.

You always hated it, too.

“Oh, sweetie, please, I keep telling you, you can call me Gertie! Especially now that we don’t work together, haha!”

As if she wasn’t directly responsible for that.

“Right,” you say flatly. “Look, I’m…really sorry, but I’m… I’m kinda busy right now, so I—”

“Really?” The fake incredulousness of her tone makes you bristle. “I thought you’d have so much time now! You know, since you’re…ahem…job-hunting, at the moment.”

“…Yeah. L—”

“I’m actually kind of jealous,” Gertrude has the nerve to giggle. “I’m so busy since you left, with the assistant manager thing and all. I wish you were still around to help out, but…” She clucks her tongue. “I know you just weren’t a good fit there, what with your ‘lifestyle.’”

Stars above.

You’re out of patience.

“It’s one tattoo, not a ‘lifestyle,’” you snap, “and I’m in the middle of something right now, so can you please just…go?”

This was…sadly, very familiar to you.

Good ol’ Gertie was just too good at the passive-aggressive game: she was a bitch with a beaming smile and she knew just how to work people up until they got mad and then she was the victim who was only making conversation…

And you were the bad guy.

You feel your cheeks heating with instant regret, even as Gertrude gasps and puts on her ‘innocent pearl-clutcher’ act.

“So rude!” she exclaims, scowling at you. “I was just checking up on an old friend from work and you tell me to ‘get lost’?!”

You try not to squirm in your seat. “That’s not what I—”

You’re cut off, like you always are.

“You know, it’s exactly that horrible attitude that got you let go,” she says in a decidedly lecture-like tone. “You’re never a team player, you neveraccept any criticism, it’s like you don’t even care about your work! You obviously don’t care about your appearance, just look at what you did to yourself!”

Your eyes widen as Gertrude actually reaches out to you, making to grab at your tattooed hand. Shocked, you start to stand—to shove her back or scurry out of her reach, you have no idea—but you never make it up.

In one fluid movement, Papyrus is out of his chair, pressing you down with surprisingly gentle claws and moving to stand directly between you and the bane of your existence.

“MA’AM,” he says to her, and the stony chill of his voice makes any words you had die on your tongue. “I WOULDN’T.”

Suddenly, you remember what BP told you about Papyrus—that he was a soldier before he was a lawyer—and that seems abundantly clear now. His entire bearing is obviously military, ready for combat and poised to defend you from even the minor threat that was a judgmental, self-righteous jerk.

Your companion’s demeanor certainly seems to have spooked Gertrude.

She takes a step back, blinking up at Papyrus in shock.

“I… Who are you?” she demands to know.

Your hero doesn’t even flinch.

“I AM THEIR LAWYER,” he declares. “AND I WOULD SERIOUSLY ADVISE AGAINST ANY ACTION ON YOUR PART EVEN RESEMBLING HARASSMENT OF A FORMER EMPLOYEE CURRENTLY PURSUING LITIGATION. THAT WOULD LOOK CONSIDERABLY UNFAVORABLE FOR YOU AND YOUR EMPLOYER SHOULD THIS MATTER GO TO COURT, ESPECIALLY WITH MYSELF AS A WITNESS TO YOUR BEHAVIOR.”

That was a lot of big, loaded words for Gertrude to take in and for the first time in your life, you get to have the pleasure of seeing your nemesis look afraid.

Faced with the potential of actual consequences for her pettiness, all she has to say for herself is, “I…! I’m leaving!” before scurrying off down the sidewalk, tail between her legs.

And you have never been so attracted to anyone in your life as this fucking skeleton.

God damn…

Papyrus watches her retreating form until she’s out of sight and slowly retakes his seat.

“……EIGHT MONTHS?” he asks you after a moment.

The amount of time you’d had the joy of that woman as your coworker.

“Yeah,” you confirm.

“YOU’RE A SAINT.”

The deadpan delivery makes you laugh despite yourself, and the sharp grin Papyrus gives you in return makes your heart beat a little faster in your chest.

“I, uh… I couldn’t help but notice,” you slowly say, “that you…might’ve told her you were my lawyer. Did… do you mean that, or…?”

He didn’t.

It’s pretty obvious to you, especially with the way that cute blush comes back across his face—just something he said in the heat of the moment to make getting rid of Gertrude easier—but you can’t resist pushing your luck.

“I…HONOR MY COMMITMENTS,” Papyrus says, even as it looks like it’s killing him. “YES, FINE, I’LL TAKE YOUR CASE. LET’S EXCHANGE NUMBERS SO I CAN CONTACT YOU TO DISCUSS THE DETAILS.”

You have to admit, it’s not really the way you’d been hoping to get Papyrus’ number…but you’ll take it.

Maybe when everything’s said and done, you’ll have worked up the courage to ask him out for real!

…Naturally, that resolve is only strengthened when you get home and take off your nice blazer to find something that definitely didn’t get to be on your skin with ink and needles…

-

You’re half-expecting it when your phone rings later that afternoon.

What you don’t expect is to answer it to Papyrus’ bold, authoritative voice practically barking at you without a shred of the professionalism he’d spoken with earlier.

“WHAT KIND OF SOULMATE ARE YOU?!” he demands, sounding beyond indignant. “TO LEAVE SUCH A, A…MARK ON ME!!! I CANNOT BELIEVE…! I AM A RESPECTABLE SKELETON, AND NOW I CAN’T SO MUCH AS TAKE OFF MY SHIRT IN POLITE COMPANY AGAIN BECAUSE OF YOU, I HOPE YOU REALIZE THAT!”

He sounds so mad, so…unlike the controlled impression he’d given you before, and it feels strangely…

Natural.

You smile a little to think that you might actually be talking to Papyrus this time instead of just The Professional.

It was a very good mask—you wonder how many he has, and if you’ll get the chance to meet any more of them—but your focus is admittedly elsewhere.

Excited, you ask, “You got a mark, too, then? What is it? Can I see?”

“OH, OF COURSE, YOU WOULD WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDIWORK, YOU DEVIL! FINE!”

There’s the sound of shuffling and then your phone buzzes with an incoming photo. You switch Papyrus to speaker so you can properly ogle it.

The breath comes out of you in a whoosh when you get your first good look. Your skeleton soulmate just sent you the type of picture guys usually sent unsolicited, with a towel hanging low on his pelvis—obviously fresh out of a shower—and a view of his scarred spine and ribcage that could only be described as 'gratuitous'.

Not excepting, of course, the cherry on top: the colorful little heart-shape stamped right in the middle of his sternum.

“Ohhh,” you coo, “that’s so cute!”

“CUTE?!” Papyrus practically shrieks over the phone. “IT IS NOT CUTE! IT’S…IT’S LEWD! A SOUL, RIGHT THERE FOR EVERYONE TO SEE! YOU, YOU LECHEROUS HUMAN, YOU, MAKING ME LOOK LIKE I’M…SOME KIND OF DEVIANT PERVERT! HOW DARE…”

You tune him out a little, letting him keep right on ranting. You need to make sure you have the right angle and lighting for the picture you’re about to send back to him.

You know instantly when he gets it because his words trail off and there’s a noise that sounds suspiciously like his jaw clacking shut.

“What do you think?” you ask after a long moment of silence.

Personally, you’re very fond of the ruby-red rose that’s announced itself on your arm, its thorny stem curling gracefully around your bicep.

You hope he likes it, too, and you can easily imagine that he’s blushing again like he did before…maybe even darker this time.

Eventually, Papyrus speaks.

“………I…I CAN’T BE YOUR LAWYER. I’M…IT WOULD BE HIGHLY INAPPROPRIATE AT…THIS… ” He pauses to clear his throat…or the skeleton equivalent. “AT THIS POINT IN TIME. IN LIGHT OF RECENT DEVELOPMENTS.”

Ah, his composure is coming back. You wonder if you can’t fix that.

“Maybe you can recommend one to me,” you coyly suggest. “Over coffee, maybe. At my place…?”

“………S-SEND ME THE ADDRESS!” he snaps, and then he rudely hangs up on you.

You just laugh and hope you’ll be able to wipe the grin off your face before Papyrus shows up.

So, you lost your lawyer…

But you’ve snagged yourself a date with your soulmate and that feels like a damn good trade-off!

UT!Sans | UT!Papyrus | US!Sans | US!Papyrus | UF!Sans | SF!Sans | SF!Papyrus | HT!Sans | HT!Papyrus

[aceofstars16]

Trapped in the Past (Chapter 2)

Second chapter of my Timetrapped fic inspired by @artsycrapfromsai!

When Mabel and Dipper fight over a time machine, they find themselves sent back thirty years in the past. Now it’s up to the younger versions of their great uncles to get them home.

Chapter 2 - A Fruitless Search

Dipper searches for Mabel in the snow. Mabel tries to find Dipper in Dead End Flats. Discouragement abounds, but at least they both have someone looking out for them.

 1 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

AO3

“Mabel!”

The wind blew Dipper’s hair back as he called out, chilling his face and making him shiver despite the coat and socks. He didn’t know when he had lost his hat, all he knew was that it was nowhere to be seen. Which was unfortunate because right now it would help his head say warmer, and of course there was the fact that it hid his birthmark.

Narrowing his eyes against the cold, Dipper caught sight of Stanford looking back at him and out of pure instinct he reached up and flattened his bangs against his forehead. For a moment, the author just looked at him, a frown on his face, but then he turned and kept walking. After taking a few steps, however, Dipper realized they were going down the wrong trail.

“Uh, Mr. uh…Stanford, er…”

Stopping in his tracks, Stanford looked back at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “Just call me Ford.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what Dipper was expecting. He always imagined the author as this larger than life person, not someone he could just call…a nickname? “Ummm, I think I actually came from that trail.” Pointing to the path that he was pretty sure would lead to the carnival clearing, Dipper found his hand once again pressing  down his bangs.

Ford glanced at the trail for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he shook his head before walking forward, but as he passed Dipper he spoke. “You don’t need to keep covering your birthmark. No one is going to see it out here.”

Dipper’s hand fell to his side as he watched Ford continue to walk in the snow. Of course someone with six fingers would be used to rude comments, in fact, that was just one of the things that Dipper had connected with while reading the journal. However, he still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his hero, now that he was actually meeting him. The suspicious behavior and disheveled look wasn’t exactly what he had been imagining, but surely there was an explanation for that?

“Hurry up, this weather can change in an instant and I don’t want to be stuck in a blizzard.”

Ford’s voice interrupted Dipper’s thoughts and he shook his head before trotting forward, going as fast as he could in the snow. “Sorry, coming!”

Stumbling after the author, Dipper kept his eyes out for any sign of Mabel, calling out her name every few feet. But as they reached the clearing, the only sign of life were his own footprints from earlier.

“MABEL!” Dipper called out, his voice already getting sore from shouting so much. Her name rang through the clearing but there was no response, just the whistling of wind.

“There are a few caves we can check, this way.” Ford waved his hand and kept walking, though Dipper couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to keep glancing around quickly, as if he was being watched. Each time he did, Dipper would cast a worried glance behind him. There didn’t seem to be anything around, but Ford’s unease was contagious. That, plus there being no sign of his sister anywhere, resulted in a heaviness settling on his chest that was impossible to ignore.

“Mabel! Mabel please, I’m sorry for everything, please answer!”

Wind was the only response. Again, and again, at each nook and cave that Ford lead them to, and with each empty response, Dipper grew more and more worried.

“No signs here either.”

Dipper barely heard Ford’s voice through the exhaustion of his body and the anxiety clouding his mind. “S-she has to be around h-here somewhere.” As he spoke, Dipper’s teeth chattered. The coat that had barely been keeping him warm was now drenched at the bottom. He wasn’t even sure it was keeping any warmth in now.

Hugging himself Dipper started walking forward again, not even sure where else Mabel could be, but not wanting to give up either. Then Ford’s arm appeared in front of him, blocking his way. Glancing up at him, Dipper could see a frown on his face. However, he wasn’t looking at Dipper, but the sky.

“It’s getting dark.” Ford’s frown grew as he spoke, as if not liking what he was about to say. “We need to head back before the sun goes down. Or else we are going to freeze.”

“But, w-what about M-Mabel?!?” Despite the shivers that were shaking his entire body, Dipper knew he couldn’t just go back to the Shack without finding her.

“There is no telling where she is. Maybe she found someone to take her in for the night, but we can’t stay out here any longer.”

It was the last thing Dipper wanted to do, but as Ford started making his way back down the trail, Dipper followed. Exhaustion and despair weighing him down.

Then, as he was stumbling after Ford, his foot caught on a rock and he couldn’t catch himself - his body was too exhausted from trekking around in the snow for over an hour. Landing face first in the snow, Dipper’s incessant shivering, which had overtaken his body, grew even worse.

“What are you-?”

Dipper heard Ford’s voice cut off, but he was so tired that he couldn’t even respond. His whole body felt like a block of ice. He wasn’t even sure he could get up again. He was so drained, both emotionally and physically. All he wanted to do was lie down and wake up back in the Mystery Shack he knew with Mabel safe next to him.

“Come on, we need to hurry.” A hand rested on his shoulder and as Dipper forced himself to look up, he saw Ford crouching next to him. A moment later the author stood and offered him a hand. Closing his eyes for a moment, Dipper tried to gather his strength and remind himself that he couldn’t do Mabel any good if he froze out here. Then he reached up, accepting Ford’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up.

The whole walk back, Dipper was barely aware of the hand that rested on his shoulder, guiding him at each turn in the trail, or how he was pulled up and steadied every time he stumbled. All he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. But in the back of his mind, worry nagged at him and he couldn’t help but be weighed down by the fact that Mabel might be out in the cold, all alone. All because of a stupid fight over a machine. He’d gladly give up his day with Wendy just to know that Mabel was okay.

Ford was exhausted. Though that was normal for him lately. However, now his body felt even more drained. It took most of his concentration to keep standing, though he constantly reminded himself to keep on eye on Dipper. Of course Bill would send someone who had an oddity as well, trying to get Ford to feel pity so he would let down his guard. And it had worked. Ford found himself helping the kid take off the soaked clothes he was wearing and wrap him up in a few blankets that he could find. He had even turned on the heater despite knowing warmth might lull him to sleep again.

It was a ploy, he kept telling himself that. But part of him also realized that Dipper might not know Bill was using him. After all, Ford himself had been a pawn for the demon. And if that was the case, then, well…Dipper was just a kid. Plus, his fingers had been turning blue by the time they had made it back to the house. Ford might not trust the kid, but he wasn’t just going to let someone freeze.

Besides, he doubted Dipper had any energy to do anything for Bill at the moment. As soon as he had sat on the couch, the kid hadn’t moved and even as Ford checked again, he was in the same spot, still shivering a little despite the blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

A beeping interrupted Ford’s observation and he made his way back to the kitchen, sighing as he noted that his coffee wasn’t finished brewing yet. He really needed something to give him some energy or he was liable to fall asleep on his feet. Shaking his head - both clear it and to wake himself up - Ford pulled the mug out of the microwave before pouring an old package of hot chocolate mix into the water. He didn’t drink much of the stuff, but Fiddleford had kept some around and apparently he had left a few packages behind.

Once he had mixed the powder as well as he could, Ford made his way back to the living room, trying not to pay attention to how his legs felt like they were full of led.

“Here, drink this.”

Dipper looked up slowly, and for a second he looked confused, but then he focused on the mug and reached out to accept it, his fingers tightly wrapping around the warm cup before taking a sip. A small shiver ran through his body, but then he took another sip and his shoulders relaxed a little.

“Aren’t you cold?”

The question took Ford by surprise and he stared at Dipper for a moment. Yes, he was cold, but he was used to being cold - it had become normal for him. Though he supposed, he was a little colder than he would like. “I’m fine, I have coffee brewing.”

A quiet “oh” was the only response as Dipper continued to drink his cocoa, his eyes drooping more with each sip. Well at least it seemed to be warming him up, though Ford felt a knot of unease forming in his gut as Dipper seemed about a second away from falling asleep. Bill loved using people while they slept…

However, a few minutes later – after Ford had put Dipper’s mug in the sink and watched as the kid slept – he had to admit his worry seemed to be unwarranted. Dipper was out cold and there was no sign of Bill anywhere. Well, aside from the quiet whispers that continued to follow Ford wherever he went. He had even heard them out in the snow, despite being far away from the portal. Occasionally they fell into the background, but then he would hear them again and the paranoia in his chest would return – though he was starting to think that maybe that it had never actually left.

Taking a sip of coffee, Ford forced himself to move again – even standing still for too long resulted in him almost falling over from exhaustion. He needed to move, and despite not wanting to turn his back on Dipper, he found himself making his way to the basement. The portal had been shut off for a while now, but Ford had to check it multiple times a day or else he would go crazy. There was no telling what Bill would do to turn it on. So, he constantly checked on it, making sure everything was in place, turned off and harmless. It was a necessary precaution, just until Stan got there…that is, if Stan even came at all.

Unease settled in Ford’s chest at the thought, but he tried to push it aside. If Stanley didn’t come, he would…he would figure something out. Probably.

“Are you her father?”

Stan stared at the man who he had pulled aside a moment ago to ask about seeing Mabel’s brother. They had been going at it for at least an hour with no luck whatsoever – which weighed down on Stan’s chest. Not just because of his looming deadline but because he could see Mabel slowly losing heart.

Opening his mouth, Stan was about to reply that he was in no way anything close to a father - just someone trying to help - when Mabel’s words cut him off.

“No, he’s my gr-uh…uncle! Well sometimes I call him grunkle but that’s cause he’s a great uncle, not like an actual great uncle but an awesome uncle, you know?”

The words tumbled out of her mouth so quickly that Stan found himself simply staring at her for a second, trying to process exactly what she had just said.

“Huh…is that so?” The man looked at Stan, who forced a quick smile and put an arm around Mabel.

“Yup, sure is!” Okay, so it wasn’t the truth, but if he disagreed with Mabel there was no telling what kind of complications might arise and he was just trying to help her. If people assumed they were related, it would get rid of any of the awkwardness surrounding the fact that he was walking around with a child he had just met. Even if he had no ill intentions toward her.

For a moment the man just looked at them then shrugged. “Sorry I haven’t seen anyone like you described, hope you find him.”

As the man walked away, Mabel sighed, slumping against Stan’s leg. “Why hasn’t anyone seen him?”

Stan patted her head, frowning as he looked around the street. “I don’t know kiddo, maybe he’s hanging out in one spot? What does he like to do?”

She opened her mouth, only to close it, a shadow of sadness passing over her face. “He likes video games, but also weird things like conspiracy theories and stuff. And reading, he likes to read too.”

As she spoke, Stan felt a small knot of emotion grow in his chest. Weird things and books? Of course he ran into the one kid who’s brother sounded just like Ford…or at least, what Ford had been like as a kid. Trying to shake off the thought, Stan looked around. “Well, we can try the library. And there might be an arcade somewhere around here?”

Despite being in this town for a few weeks, Stan hadn’t really been to the…regular spots, but he figured there would at least be a library. And seeing as arcades were getting more popular, there might be one somewhere, or at least a restaurant that had a machine or two.

“Okay…” Something about Mabel’s demeanor had changed, but Stan had no clue what had caused it, so he tried for smile.

“I’m sure we’ll find him soon.” It was a lie. Stan had no idea if they would find her brother, there was no telling what could happen, especially in a place like this. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he shoved it away. No, Dipper was fine and they were going to find him. End of story.

Determination settling in his chest, Stan patted Mabel’s back in assurance before setting off to find the nearest arcade.

“Here you are darling.”

Mabel looked up from the café counter at the basket of chicken strips and fries. Despite the worry weighing her down, she felt her stomach rumble and she hesitantly grabbed a strip, nibbling on it as she watched some kids playing Pac Man a few tables away. Dipper wasn’t one of them.

A hand grabbed some fries from the basket and Mabel turned to look at Stan, who was stuffing the food into his mouth. He hadn’t said anything since they ordered but from the way he kept sticking his hand in his pocket, she couldn’t help but wonder if he could actually afford the food. She sure hoped so, not only because she didn’t have any money either, but also because she didn’t like the thought of her great uncle being broke. It just wasn’t right.

“Hey, chin up kiddo, I’m sure we’ll find him soon.”

Stan gave her a smile, though she couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or forced. They had been searching for hours and there wasn’t even a sign of Dipper. She didn’t want to stop, but her knees – which hadn’t felt too bad at first - were starting to sting and ache. Also, her sweater and skirt combo wasn’t exactly the best for staying outside for long periods of time, at least, not when it was cold out.

“Find who.”

The waitress that had taken their order was back, filling up their glasses with water. Mabel opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t get the words out. That her brother was missing without a trace, that she was stuck in the past with no way home, that she didn’t even have a clue as to what she should do now. All because of a stupid fight. Sure, she loved Waddles, and she didn’t want to give him up but...she would gladly do so if it meant she could be home with Dipper right now.

“Uh, her brother. He ran off and we’ve been looking for him for a few hours now.” Stan answered the question - the half lie rolling off his tongue with well-practiced ease. At least this Stan was the same in that regard, despite being about thirty years younger than Mabel was used to.

“You check the police station? They might be able to help.”

“That’s our next stop.” Stan said it so fast, Mabel almost didn’t catch the way his hand twitched a little. She had to admit the idea of going to the police wasn’t really ideal to her either. Not only because of that night in the Gravity Falls jail during a ‘family bonding’ day, but also because she really didn’t know if they could help. Dipper might be in an entirely different year for all she knew.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mabel saw the waitress – Pam, if she was remembering the nametag right – leave only to come back a moment later and set a plate down in front of her.

“Here darling, it’s on the house.”

Sitting up, Mabel could feel her sweet tooth acting up as she took in the huge slice of apple pie that was now sitting in front of her. She looked at Stan and the unfinished chicken nuggets, but he just waved at the pie. Oh yeah, this was the Stan she knew, who let her have ice cream for breakfast on a regular basis.

The next few minutes passes by in silence – Mabel eating every crumb of the pie while Stan finished off the rest of the chicken and fries.

“So…I can take you to the police if you want…”

Mabel, who had been licking her plate to savor any last traces of ice cream, froze and lowered the plate to the table, not sure how to respond. She wanted to find Dipper but from Stan’s hesitance, and her own uncertainties about consulting the police, she was reluctant to say anything. But after a moment, she asked quietly, “Do…you think they would actually be able to help?”

“Eh,” Stan rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Probably. Even if they can’t find him right away, they could ask other cites and maybe even put up fliers and stuff. And they could probably get you home too.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, anxiety jumped up in Mabel’s chest. Home. The police couldn’t get her home. Heck, she didn’t even think home existed right now. Her parents might not even be born for all she knew. Stan was the only family she had right now and the thought of trusting strangers to get her to a home that wasn’t even created yet was…She shook her head.

“I don’t…” Her voice died in her throat. She couldn’t explain all of that to Stan, or at least, she wasn’t sure if she should. Or if he would even believe her if she did. And if Dipper was here, she knew he would argue that it could ruin the future if she said anything about it.

“Hey, don’t worry they uh…they’ll know what to do.”

A hand rested on Mabel’s shoulder and in any other circumstance, she would’ve agreed. But this wasn’t a normal situation. No one would believe that she was from the future, and even if they did, she doubted they could help her get home.

“Can’t I just stay with you?” It was the only option that didn’t totally terrify her. If she really was stuck in the past, she’d rather be stuck with Stan.

Stan laughed, though it was forced. “Trust me kid, you don’t want to.”

Running a hand through her hair, Mabel couldn’t look at him, because from everything she’d seen of his life that might be true, but she knew she would be safe with Stan. Even though he didn’t know her, she knew him and she knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. “I really do…”

Shaking his head, Stan sighed. “Come on, the car isn’t too far away. I can take you to the police station. It... it’ll be for the best.”

Stan got up before she could answer and Mabel tried to force down the panic that was rising in her chest. What could she say to convince Stan to let her stay with him? Fear and desperation raced through her as she stumbled after Stan, out of the diner and onto the street. Her chest grew tighter and tighter as emotion overwhelmed her until she couldn’t hold back a sob. If only Dipper was here, he’d know what to do, probably…at least they’d at least be together.

“Oh gosh…hey, it’s okay, kiddo.”

Mabel looked up at Stan, her eyes blurry from tears as another sob escaped her mouth. “N-no it’s not I, Dipper is g-gone and I can’t go h-home and I-I don’t know how t-to- and I just want to s-stay with y-you and-“ Her voice cut off as sobs overwhelmed her completely and she flung herself at Stan, wanting to hide away from every terrifying and overwhelming thought and just pretend she was back in Gravity Falls crying over a movie or a stupid crush.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then a sigh and arms wrapping around her. “It’s okay, I…you can stay with me for…for tonight at least, okay?”

Snuggling closer to him, Mabel managed to whisper out a thank you. It wasn’t perfect. She still didn’t know what to do, but at least she didn’t have to leave the only family she had right now.

This was a mess. Stan didn’t know what the heck he was doing. He should not have caved; he should’ve driven Mabel straight to the police. It would be for the best. But her absolute trust in him – despite being totally unwarranted – was touching, if not a little worrisome. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the kid, it was just…he wasn’t even equipped to take care of himself. How could care for someone else’s needs too? He couldn’t just say no though, not when she had started crying, looking so scared and helpless. Gosh, he wished he knew what was going on so he could actually help her, but whenever he tried to bring it up, she just got quiet, so he left it.

“There, that should do it.” Tucking the bandage in itself so it wouldn’t come undone, Stan reached up and ruffled Mabel’s hair. Not long after he agreed to let her stay, he had noticed how scrapped up her knees were, and thankfully the hotel had let him have some things to patch her up. Okay maybe they hadn’t given them to him, but they didn’t exactly guard the stuff very well either…

“Thanks grun-uh, Stan…” Her voice was quiet, and her gaze was transfixed on her knees, her hands brushing over the bandages. It was such a contrast from how she had been talking his ear off a few hours ago and it worried him. But he tried not to think about it. Tomorrow she would be out of his life. It was for the best, she’d realized that. She just needed some sleep and time to think about it, that’s all.

“Uh, yeah, no prob. You should probably get some sleep now though.”

Mabel looked at the bed then up at Stan for a moment. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Ah…” Stan rubbed his neck, sleep was just about the furthest thing from his mind right now. “Don’t worry about me kiddo, I’m not really tired anyway.”

For a moment, Mabel frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, don’t you worry about me, kiddo.” Stan tried for a smile, which Mabel returned, though it was only a half-smile.

“Okay…” She looked at her knees one more time then slowly lied down on the bed, but her eyes stayed open. “What is a Stan Vac?”

A real laugh escaped Stan’s mouth as he looked at the boxes piled up behind him. “Ah, just a business idea. Didn’t really fly.”

“Can… can you tell me about it?”

Well that would be the strangest bedtime story ever, but if that’s what she wanted… “Sure…it all started in Virginia…” Stan recounted the story from his past – thankfully it was one of the most child friendly ones he had. Mainly just a lot of door to door campaigns and trying to fix broken machines because they were pretty poorly made. But it seemed to do the trick. Slowly Mabel’s eyes closed and as he concluded the tale, he could see her chest rising and falling slowly.

“Sweet dreams kiddo.” Stan pulled a blanket over her shoulders and glanced at the clock. Crap, he was going to be late.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to refocus himself. It was time to talk himself out of a debt. And he knew if he wanted to stand a chance at that, he needed to be on his A game, especially with Rico. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from double checking the lock on the door before he left. As long as Mabel was in his life, he was going to make sure she was safe. No matter what.

[need1etail]

Chapter Twenty-Four

Alderpaw stood on the ridge, a stiff breeze ruffling his fur, and looked down the slope where they lake lay glittering in the morning sunshine. He gripped Twigkit’s scruff in his mouth; her tiny paws flailed in the air in front of Alderpaw as she let out high-pitched squeaks. Alderpaw gently set her down in the rough grass.

“We’re almost home!” he breathed out.

After they’d left the tunnel, he and Needlepaw had journeyed on until night fell, when they’d made a temporary den near the place where they had seen the Twolegs and eaten their food. Needlepaw caught a couple mice, and they fed the kits again. Now the woods and moorland around the lake stretched in front of them, and before sunhigh they would be back in their camps.

Needlepaw toiled up the ridge and stood beside him, letting Violetkit down into the grass next to her sister. “Made it!” she panted.

“I guess we ought to say goodbye,” Alderpaw began, feeling awkward. “You’ll RiverClan to get back to your territory—it’s the quickest way.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Needlepaw agreed.

“Uh . . . Needlepaw . . .” Feeling even more uncomfortable, Alderpaw turned to face her. “Maybe you could keep quiet about what happened at the gorge, at least until I’ve had the chance to my dad, er, Bramblestar. I told you, the whole SkyClan thing is a secret.”

He cringed inwardly as he spoke knowing how unlikely it was that Needlepaw would keep a secret to oblige to a ThunderClan cat. He expected her to hiss at him in anger, but she simply stared at him, her mouth clamped shut.

“Okay, then.” Alderpaw realized the best he could hope for was a quick getaway. “If you could just help me get Violetkit on my back—”

Needlepaw’s jaws gaped open at that. “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “I’m not leaving the shadow kits here. I helped find them! And which cat says that they’re going to ThunderClan.”

Alderpaw could hardly believe what he was hearing. She’s got bees in her brain! “If it weren’t for my dream, and what Sandstorm told me, we never would have found the kits!”

Needlepaw’s neck fur began to rise and she flattened her ears. “If it weren’t for me,” she pointed out, her voice turning into a low growl, “and my idea to go through the tunnel, you would still be standing in front of that stupid Thunderpath trying to figure out what different ‘way of thinking’ Sandstorm was meowing about. Are you kidding me?”

Alderpaw felt his own pelt bristling as anger swelled up and swirled inside him. “Are you kidding me?” he hissed. Part of him knew that he was wrong to let his fury out on Needlepaw, but he was so frustrated that he couldn’t help it. “This was my quest in the first place! Besides, do you really think I’d let you take the kits back to ShadowClan, where there aren’t any rules, and apprentices run around wild thinking up new ways to break the warrior code? You said it yourself, Russetstar doesn’t punish cats anymore, she’s just an old mouse-brain. I might just take them back to the rogues in the gorge.”

“Coward!” Needlepaw spat, her face full of disgust and hurt. “We never would have made it back here if we hadn’t broken the warrior code a few times at least. Alderpaw, you’re so blinded by the rules that you can’t see what’s in front of your own nose!”

Alderpaw couldn’t reply; the mewling of the kits was all that broke the silence. He and Needlepaw looked down at the squirming bundles of fur, and Alderpaw found his concern for them overpowering his anger at Needlepaw. He could see the same feeling in her green gaze.

“There’s only one fair way to resolve this,” she mewed after a few moments. “We divide the kits up and each take one back to our own Clan.”

Alderpaw looked down at the kits, snuggled together and mewling. An ache tugged at his heart. “We can’t do that,” he responded, his voice suddenly meek. “It would be wrong. Don’t you see, Needlepaw? These kits only have each other now. It’s like Sparkpaw and me: I don’t always agree with her, but I can’t imagine life without her.”

Needlepaw was silent, gazing down at the kits. I wonder if she has any cats she cares about as much as Sparkpaw and I care for each other, Alderpaw thought.

Then, as Alderpaw kept watching Needlepaw and the kits, he was distracted by the yowling of a cat from farther down the slope. Instinctively he and Needlepaw moved in front of the kits to guard them. But when Alderpaw looked down and spotted the cat, he let out a joyful yelp of delight.

“Squirrelflight!”

His mother was bounding up the slope, with three other ThunderClan cats behind him: Toadstep, Jayflight, and Berrynose. Alderpaw dashed down to meet them beside the horseplace fence. “Momma!” he cried, emotion welling up inside him. He bowled into his mother, tears stinging his eyes.

“Oh thank StarClan you’re safe!” Squirrelflight mewed, covering his face in swift licks. “When the others returned home and said they lost you, I thought you were gone, and I—” She broke off with a sob and hugged him tight.

Alderpaw enjoyed the sweet embrace of his mother. Her soft fur brushed his nose and he drank in her familiar scent. “I’m so sorry about Sandstorm,” he murmured. “I tried to save her, I really did.”

“Don’t worry,” Squirrelflight meowed, licking his ear. “I know she was happy when she joined StarClan.”

“Are the others okay?” Alderpaw asked, looking up at Jayflight, not breaking the sweet embrace with his mom.

“Everyone’s fine,” Jayflight assured him. “We got back to camp yesterday and told the others what happened. Every cat was devastated to think you had drowned. We looked for you and Needlepaw back beside the river, but we couldn’t find you.”

“So this morning,” Toadstep continued, coming to stand beside Alderpaw. “Bramblestar sent us out as a search part, with Jayflight and I to guide us back to the place where you went missing.”

“How didn’t you drown?” Berrynose asked, gazing down at Alderpaw as if he couldn’t quite believe he was there.

“Needlepaw helped me out of the river,” Alderpaw explained. “She’s here too, just a bit farther up the hill.”

He began to retrace his paw steps, leading the other cats back to the ridge where he had left Needlepaw and the kits.

“Hi,” the ShadowClan she-cat mewed as the ThunderClan patrol came up to her. “As you see, we’ve brought company.” With one paw she swept the grasses aside to reveal the two kits, now dozing in a mound of fur.

Squirrelflight and the others, murmuring in surprise, surrounded the kits and gaze down at them.

“They’re adorable!” Toadstep exclaimed.

“Who are they?” Berrynose asked, giving them a suspicious sniff. “Where did you find them?”

“I can tell you all that later,” Alderpaw replied, “but right now these kits need care. They’re not well, so we were going to take them back to the ThunderClan camp to nurse them back to health.

Needlepaw glared at him. “Actually—”

“That’s a good idea.” Squirrelflight spoke with authority. Needlepaw turned to her glare to the deputy of ThunderClan, and Alderpaw hoped she wouldn’t start arguing “Alderpaw, you’re the medicine cat yourself, so you can help watch over them.”

“But I found the kits too!” Of course. Needlepaw’s shoulder fur began to rise again. “That is, we found them together. We think maybe the kits are . . . well they’re what StarClan wanted s to find.”

The ThunderClan patrol exchanged surprised glances. “Do you believe that?” Jayflight asked Alderpaw.

“I think they could be,” Alderpaw replied, “but I’m not sure yet.”

“Then this is what we’ll do,” Squirrelflight decided. “We’ll take the kits back to ThunderClan now, so that they can be cared for, and then—”

“They can be cared for just as well in ShadowClan,” Needlepaw interrupted.

Can they? Alderpaw wondered. ThunderClan has two medicine cats—plus Jayflight who has enough experience—while ShadowClan only has Littlecloud, and he’s growing old.

Squirrelflight gave Needlepaw a quelling look, as if she wasn’t used to apprentices who argued all the time. “Let me finish,” she meowed, her voice firm. “The next Gathering is in a few days, and we can bring the kits there to decide what will be done with them. Is that okay, Needlepaw? After all, we can all agree that what’s most important is to get the kits well again.”

Needlepaw ducked her head. “Okay,” she muttered.

Alderpaw noticed that she looked almost chastened by Squirrelflight’s decisive tones. Well, I’ve never seen that before!

“Are you okay getting back to the ShadowClan camp?” Squirrelflight continued to Needlepaw. “Should you even be out on your own.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” Needlepaw responded with a sniff. Clearly she was fed up with that question, and her respectful demeanor hadn’t lasted long. Turning to Alderpaw, she added, “I’ll see you around, then.”

Alderpaw stared at her, wondering if she had even taken in what he said about keeping SkyClan a secret. “I’ll look out for you at the Gathering,” he promised.

As Needlepaw turned away, Alderpaw felt a claw-scratch of pain at his heart. I thought that, after all we’ve been through together, there would be something . . . I dunno, more.

He thought that Needlepaw looked sad, too, as she gave him a last look before bounding away down the slope in the direction of RiverClan.

Then, as he watched her, Squirrelflight brushed her pelt against his, her eyes glowing with love for her kit. “You’ve done so well, Alderpaw!”

“Yes, ThunderClan will be proud of you,” Toadstep told him. “And I can’t wait to hear what Rosepetal will say when she sees the kits!”

While Jayflight and Berrynose congratulated him, too, Alderpaw felt his chest fill with pride and tears sting his eyes. I feel like a hero! Oh, StarClan, it’s so good to be home!

[tinyfierce]

For the prompts: Jaal (or Evfra) and Ryder working through physical differences? Maybe finding different erogenous zones? (also, I'm going to go read through all of your writing now because h o l y s h i t)

[Promptsfrom thispost.]

——-

Jaalhad recently begun to feel anxious when Ryder went on planetsidejourneys without him.

Itwasn’t that he was worried for her safety – far from it. He hadseen how incredible of a soldier she was, how formidable herabilities. He held confidence in the team just the same, and therewasn’t a single one among them that he wouldn’t trust with herlife.

No- more and more often, he found himself awaiting her return with abioelectric hum in his skin and a tightness in his chest. Were she anAngara, he would know how to advance their intimacy. The most openand important moments were after stressful events or time apart –both of which were well-represented on each mission – and yet heheld himself back each time she re-boarded.

Howdid humans deepen their bonds? Show their joy and affection at seeingtheir loved ones’ faces again? Humans were much more personal, hehad learned, much more private about demonstrating their feelings,and the last thing he wanted to do was drive her away. The yearninghad only intensified as their relationship had become tender,something that both elated and terrified him.

Andthat pull had left him pacing in the docking bay since the Nomad hadsignaled that it was en route half an hour ago.

Ablast of heat reflected off of Eos’ surface as the hangar dooropened. For a moment, everything was blinding – but Jaal wasalready walking forward as Ryder hit the button to shutter the doorclosed behind her.

“Well,”she said, “that was educational.”

Drackchuckled, giving his carapace a rough shake and sending a spray ofsand across the floor in either direction. “Admit it, Ryder, thatwas funny.”

Ryderwas about to call over a response when her gaze fell on Jaal, and thesmile that greeted him warmed him like the desert sun.

“Jaal!You were waiting?”

“Notlong.” He tapped the back of his wrist to her shoulder – anAngaran greeting that he had taught her – and she did the same tohis. “Was your trip a fruitful one?”

“Better,”Drack interrupted. “Knocked two remnant together. Ended upfusing when they were trying to repair the damage. Exploded prettyquick.” He shook a rock out of his cowl. “Heh. It wasgreat.”

“Allright,” Ryder conceded, “it was hilarious. Still, twice theremnant means twice the explosion, and I do not want to get caught inthat again.”

“Speakingof which.” Cora appeared at her side, stripped of her armor tothe waist. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.“ 

Jaalwatched with great interest as Ryder obeyed, sitting on a crate andpeeling away pieces of her outer guard.  “Left one,”she said, and Jaal noticed a twinge as she maneuvered that arm. “I’mnot sure what got hit, exactly.”

“We’llsee.”

Herhands settled on Ryder’s shoulder, and Jaal’s breath caught inhis throat.  As she explored the area with firm, probing touchesand Ryder exposed the side of her throat to grant Cora better access,he felt heat rising to his face. It was a few moments before herealized how rude his stare was, and politely averted his gaze.

Hehad thought humans more private. Perhaps his observations wereincorrect.

“Feelslike you just pulled it,” Cora announced after a short while. “Goeasy on it and you should be fine.”

Ryderrolled her neck as Cora withdrew. “Roger that.” She stood,pulling up an interface on her omni-tool as she glanced over at Jaal.“I have to debrief Addison, but we can talk on the way?”

“I– have something that needs my attention here,” he replied. “ButI would very much like to hear any stories you may have. Later,perhaps.”

Shenodded, typing as she walked. “Sure, just come find me.” Themessage screen beeped for her attention, and as soon as she wasthrough the first set of doors, Jaal quickly crossed the bay toCora’s side.

“Jaal!”She finishedclicking her pistols back into place on the rack. “Need something?”

“Amoment, if you have time,” he said. “Privately.”

—-

Thedoor to the Pathfinder’s cabin was open, and Jaal rapped oneknuckle against the metal wall.

“Comeon in.”

Asthe door slid shut behind him, the first thing he noticed was herposture. As she sat at her terminal, the side supporting her injuredarm was rolled forward and slumping to better relieve the pressure.He knew that feeling all too well, and his own shoulder throbbed insympathy.

"Sorryabout this morning,” she said as she crossed over to sit on thesofa nearest him. “Duty called, but…” She smiled anddraped her good arm over the back of the upholstery. “I reallywas looking forward to spending time with you.”

Thatsmile. Those words. His heart.

“Sowas I,” he admitted, closing the distance between them. “Howis your injury?”

“Uncomfortableand stiff, but minor. Nothing to worry about.”

Sheattempted to demonstrate, but flinched the moment she extended herarm. With a hiss, she reached up to press her fingers into the spacejust above her shoulder - and Jaal saw his opportunity.

“Please,”he said, replacing her hand with his. “Allow me.”

Tohis delight, she immediately turned her back and squared up againstthe sofa, offering the injured area up freely. “Yes,”she groaned, “by all means.”

Corahad been most instructive, as had the ‘volunteers’ she’drecruited from their human staff. After he’d explained how intimateshoulders were to the Angara – and she apologized profusely for anyoffense she might have caused – she had been more than happy tooffer her expertise.

Itwas a softer skill, she’d said with a note of regret, most of whichshe rarely was given a chance to showcase. He liked Cora; hercommando training and disciplinary air hid a tender heart.

Jaalwas grateful for the favor, and even more so for the insight intohumanity.

Ashis thumbs found the nape of Ryder’s neck, her head tilted forwardand displayed an expanse of bare skin that set his heart racing. Howlittle it took for her to unfold under his hands, he marveled, howshe trusted and welcomed his touch. He found the ridge of her spineand began to press long, firm v-shaped strokes outward, rewarded byher quiet sigh.

Thespine was so vulnerable, especially considering its importance. Itwas a large part of why shoulders were so important to the Angara,why all of their cowls and capes were so designed. He imagined thefabric of a rofjinn pooling around Ryder’sshoulders as his fingertips wove downwards, heat of her skinradiating even through the barrier of his gloves. He would sew herone, designed after his own, and buckle it about her as he explainedthe garment’s significance.

Jaalfelt a flush in his throat. Such a gesture was surely too soon. Yethow could he not think of such things, when he was being granted suchintimacies as this?

Histhick, fused digits flattened as her neck curved, following themuscles - trapezius, Cora had called them - asthey blended into the dip between shoulder and throat. He met someresistance from the tension and swelling that followed trauma, andRyder hissed out a tight breath.

Jaaltook great care to work through every inch and ensured the release ofeach taut strand before moving on. He had always been commended inthe Resistance for being thorough, and it stood to reason that hewould be the same in other areas – especially when it came tobringing pleasure and comfort.

Pleasureand comfort, he thought to himself as he switched to usingthe heels of his palms and deeper pressure. The choice of phrasingwasn’t lost on him; he was almost grateful to be wearing his gloveswhile touching her so intimately. She stifled a moan, and every nervein his fingertips sang.

Thethrill of courtship was made all the more beautiful and terrifyingwhen navigating not only a new lover, but a new race andculture and way to love.

Jaalwas ready and willing.

“Howdoes this feel,” he murmured as he ran long, firm strokes upward.“Is this all right?”

“Betterthan all right.” A warm noise vibrated in her throat and shemumbled something unintelligible. “Thank you.”

Pleased,Jaal continued moving up, following the trail of muscle back to hernape. He began rubbing slow circles in the flat plane behind her earand jaw on either side of her neck, enjoying the hum it earned him.Learning every inch of his darling one’s physiology was a privilege;he would offer his own body to her in the same way.

Heseemed to have discovered a particularly enjoyable spot, as exploringbehind her ears brought a smile to her face and she leaned her headback to be better pressed into his hands.

Herupturned face was too much to resist. Taking the chance, Jaal slidthe fingers of both hands under her chin and tilted it up just a bitmore to grant him better access. The buckles of his rofjinnclicked against the back of the sofa as he stooped to close theremaining distance between their mouths in a warm, affectionate kiss.

Tohis relief, Ryder stretched her arms up to pull him down closerdespite the awkward angle, and he chuckled against her mouth when hischin bumped her pointed human nose. Any entertainment, however, wassoon replaced by heat as the kiss deepened and the taste of herblossomed on his tongue. He felt her grip on his shoulders tighten,and he groaned softly at the low thrum of heat that it elicited.

Theirfirst kiss had been sparked from joy, from hope – but this one heldthe promise of desire.

Asthey parted, she kept him from withdrawing too far, smiling at himlazily and running the delicate fingertips of one hand over his chinand nose. “Hey.”

Hisheart double-beat.

“Hello.”

Shesnickered, lifting her face to gently press her forehead to his.

“Comesit next to me,” she invited. “Kiss me again. I’ll tell you aboutthe mission, and you can tell me about what you did while I was gone.Sound good?”

“Iwould like nothing better,” he said, and he meant it.

[littlewhitetie]

Perennial: Sacrifice

Part 5 of Perennial, a series of Sheith AUs. Remix of @ardett‘s Hypermnesia for the @vldfanficremix2017 event.

“What do you want?” Shiro snarls, pushing himself to his feet. He takes a fighting stance, his teeth bared. He’s a far cry from the Altean diplomat he used to be, but that life is long gone. These quintents, the only thing on his mind is survival.

Unintimidated, the Galra officer at the door steps inside Shiro’s cell. Unlike most of Shiro’s captors, this one’s armed with nothing but a knife, and he’s come alone. Big mistake. Shiro may not be able to put up as much of a fight as usual so soon after that last match, but he’ll resist with every bit of strength he has left. They should know by now not to underestimate him.

Shiro readies himself, but before he can make a move, the Galra drops his knife, sending it clattering to the floor, and raises his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he says. It catches Shiro off guard. The Galra are usually upfront about their intention to harm—revel in it, even. Still, this could be another of Honerva’s—Haggar’s—tricks.

“I’m here to ask for your help,” the officer continues, and it’s definitely a trick. The Galra don’t ask, and they certainly don’t ask for help.

“Even if I did believe you, what makes you think I would ever want to help you?” Shiro growls.

“Because we’re on the same side, and Princess Allura is in danger.”

Shiro blinks. He wasn’t prepared for that answer. He shouldn’t believe the Galra, it’s a trap… but what if he really is telling the truth? Despite himself, Shiro’s hostility begins to dissolve, leaving worry in its wake.

“My name is Keith,” the Galra continues. “I’m part of a resistance movement. We may be Galra, but we don’t stand with Zarkon. We call ourselves the Blade of Marmora, and we’re trying to take the Empire down from the inside. After… after what he did to Altea…” He trails off, and he really does sound remorseful. His fluffy, pointed ears flatten against the dark fur atop his head. His golden eyes are soft and sad.

It could still be an act. “What do you know about the Princess?” Shiro asks, keeping his tone cool.

“I know Alfor put her in a cryopod and hid her away before Zarkon could get to her. I know she’s the key to finding the other Voltron Lions. And I know Zarkon’s found her, and he’ll destroy her and the entire planet she’s on if you don’t help me,” Keith says, gravity in every word. “Zarkon’s already got the Black Lion, and he’s got half his fleets searching for the others. It’s only a matter of time before he finds them. We’re gonna need the Princess’s help if we want any chance of finding them first.”

Shiro narrows his eyes, considering. What could he gain from lying about this?

“Listen. I know you don’t have much reason to trust me, but if Zarkon gets a hold of Voltron, the entire universe is in danger. And really, it’s not like you’ve got much left to lose.”

He’s not wrong. This day-to-day existence isn’t a life at all, and even if he did manage to escape, there would be nothing to go back to. Everything and everyone Shiro ever loved was destroyed by the Galra while he was imprisoned. If Allura really is alive, she’s all he has left. “How, exactly, would a prisoner like me be of use to you?” he asks, cautiously.

“You’re Altean, and if the lab tests are correct, you’ve got royal blood in you. The quintessence weapon Zarkon plans to use is powered by a Class S Balmera crystal. He’s going to destroy the entire planet with it. You’re the only one who can possibly shut it down.”

He’s done his research. Shiro’s bloodline does allow him to manipulate Balmera crystals. He’s only distantly related to the royal family, though, and a Class S crystal…? He won’t be able to shut it down, but he might be able to overload it.

It’s not a decision to make lightly, but if there’s even a chance Keith is telling the truth, the choice is obvious. He’ll do whatever it takes to save Allura and the planet she’s on, and to make sure Voltron doesn’t fall into Zarkon’s hands.

“If you can get me there, I’ll do it,” Shiro says. He extends his hand. Keith takes it, gripping his forearm in a gesture of solidarity.

Keith’s ears perk up. “Someone’s coming,” he says, kicking his knife up from the floor and grabbing the hilt in a fluid, practiced motion.

“Do you have a plan for getting me out of—”

Shiro’s cut off abruptly as the back of his head is slammed into the metal wall. He sees stars.

“I lost a lot of money thanks to you, Champion,” Keith snarls. Clawed hands wrap around Shiro’s throat, restricting his air. He’s on the wiry side for a Galra, but he’s surprisingly strong. Shiro couldn’t get out of his chokehold if he tried.

Two sentries stand in the doorway. “No one is meant to be in here,” one of them says to Keith. “Identify the reason for your presence.”

“The Champion cost me a fortune this afternoon,” Keith growls, pressing harder against Shiro’s throat. “I’m not done with him yet.”

“He is to be escorted to Haggar’s laboratory immediately.” One of the sentries holds a taser in its hand; the other has a gun and a set of manacles. Standard protocol.

“Fine,” Keith says. He yanks Shiro forward, spinning him around and restraining his arms. “Come cuff him.”

The cell door slides shut as the sentries come forward, and Keith strikes. Releasing Shiro, he disarms the first sentry, kicking the taser out of its grip, sending the awful weapon skittering across the floor to the far corner of his cell. The second sentry swings at him. He ducks and, in the process, swipes its gun from its side. Spinning around, he shoots the first in the chest, sending it crashing to the floor in a shower of sparks.

He dodges again as the remaining sentry takes another swing at him. Lightning-quick, he dives between its legs, getting in behind it. He plants some sort of small electronic device on the back of the sentry’s head. It glows green, and the sentry immediately begins to malfunction, its movements rendered repetitive and useless.

It shuts down in under a dobosh and collapses to the ground. Keith drags it to the opposite side of the cell, positioning it such that it faces the other damaged sentry. He places the gun in its arms.

Keith removes the device from its head, holding it up. “Messes with its programming. It’ll make it look like there was just a malfunction in its coding,” he explains, before pocketing it. He gestures to the door. “Ready?”

Shiro nods silently, still stunned by the ease with which Keith took them out. He’s incredibly skilled for someone so young—he can’t be more than 250 years old.

Keith grabs his hand and leads him out of the cell. “Careful,” he warns, voice hushed. “There’re sentries on patrol. They follow a predictable pattern, though, so we’ll be fine if you just follow my lead.”

Shiro knows; he’d worked out the pattern himself. He’s escaped from his cell into the halls more than once, hence the taser protocol. Still, he doesn’t say anything. It’s preposterous—maybe he sustained a concussion, maybe he’s just touch-starved—but he relishes the feeling of Keith’s warm hand over his. Irrational as it is, he’s content to let Keith lead him through the halls.

Their steps are quick and quiet, forward and back again as they duck behind walls. It’s like a dance, set to the neat, rhythmic footsteps of sentries.

They reach an intersection, and Keith gestures down the hallway on their left. “Pods are that way. If you want to back out, now’s your chance.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows. “You’d really let me go?” he asks, disbelief tinging his voice.

“I’ve been watching you for a while, Champion,” Keith says. “I’ve seen the way you show your opponents mercy. I’ve seen you stand up for other prisoners. I know you won’t run; not when the lives of other people are at stake.”

“You’ve been taking notes,” Shiro says, wryly. “You’re not wrong. I won’t back out. But please, call me Shiro.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, testing out the syllables. It’s the first time Shiro’s heard anyone say his name in a decafeeb, and it hits him with a warmth he’d long forgotten.

“In here, Shiro,” Keith says, slowing down as they approach a door. He presses his palm to the scanner and the door slides open. He pulls Shiro inside.

They’re in a storage room, filled with equipment. Silver and glowing fuchsia line the place in the shape of armour and weapons.

“There are gonna be more officers past this point,” Keith explains. “Not just sentries. We won’t be able to just duck behind corners and hide. But you can shapeshift, right?”

Shiro nods, eyeing the gear around them. “Right.”

As Keith assembles a uniform for him, Shiro turns his attention inward. It’s been ages since he’s shapeshifted, and it takes considerable focus. He concentrates on lilac blossoming over his skin, on his bones and muscles stretching out to match Galra proportions. There isn’t much he can do about his forearms or hands, not when one of them is made of metal, but hopefully no one will notice. He sharpens his teeth into points.

“Here,” Keith says, bringing him a set of armour, including some gloves to help hide his lack of claws.

Shiro thanks him as he dons the armour, tweaking his form as necessary to fill it out. He slides the helmet on, and luckily, it reaches low enough to cover the scar across the bridge of his nose. “How’s this? Passable?”

“Your face is still the same,” Keith points out.

“It’s purple.”

“Yeah, but apart from that. You’re the Champion; people might recognize you.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow from beneath his helmet. “I seriously doubt most people are looking at my face when they’re watching me fight.”

Curiously, Keith’s lavender cheeks flush with pink.

“I can’t imagine anyone would recognize me outside of a prison uniform without a weapon in hand,” Shiro says, “especially with different proportions and a different skin tone. Not to mention only the bottom of my face is exposed. There’s no way they would recognize me from just my lips and jawline.”

Honestly, Shiro’s just too exhausted to concentrate on changing his appearance more than he has to. He’s battered and worn out from his last fight, and shifting his bone and muscle structure is neither easy nor comfortable. Not to mention he’ll need to conserve all the energy he can if he’s going to overload a Class S crystal.

Keith considers for a moment. “Yeah, I guess they wouldn’t,” he agrees. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

The prison uniform is uncomfortably tight under his armour, stretched as far as it’ll go to accommodate his Galra form, and he’s not exactly thrilled about the insignia branded across his chestplate that declares loyalty to Zarkon. Still, at least on the outside, he’s not dressed as a prisoner anymore. Standing tall in more than one way, Shiro walks out of the room at Keith’s side. They make a beeline for the weapon.

Their trek is interrupted when they run into a group of Galra—or part-Galra, anyway. They have some Galra-typical features, but they don’t look like any officers he’s seen before.

One of the officers has a black cat-like creature on her shoulder. The animal is unnervingly familiar, though Shiro can’t recall where he would have seen it before. It seems to stare straight through him, and his heart races against his will.

Keith bumps his arm ever so slightly. It doesn’t slow his heart any, but it does ease his nerves a little.

“Keith?” A lithe Galra with smooth, scarlet skin cocks her head to the side, eyebrows raised. Her lips curve upward into a smirk. “Wow, I’ve never seen you walk with anyone before. Did you actually make a friend?”

Keith shoots her an annoyed glare.

“Who’s the new guy?” another asks, her voice gruff. She towers over the rest of them. “Pretty sure I haven’t seen him around this part of the ship before.”

“Uh…”

“Takashi,” Shiro offers, before Keith’s apparent inability to lie on the spot gets them both in trouble. “I was just transferred here. I was previously on Kruocedra.” It’s not a lie; that was the planet he was on before he was captured.

“Kruocedra? Ughhh,” the scarlet Galra says, making a face. “I hate that place. Those guys are all stiffs. And not just ‘cause they’re made outta crystal.”

“Tell me about it,” Shiro says. He’s not a fan either. Back on Altea, when they’d gotten word that the Galra might be staging an attack, Shiro had volunteered to go to Kruocedra as an emissary to request their help in defending Altea. Kruocedra, rich in resources and home to a formidable race of warriors, had been a longstanding ally of Altea. But by the time had Shiro arrived at the glittering planet, things had changed. They’d already sided with the Galra, and they’d taken Shiro captive, handing him over to Zarkon as an offering.

“You seemed like you were in a hurry,” the palest officer says in a calm, stoic voice. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere important,” Keith says.

“You know, Keith, you’re so private, it’s almost like you’re hiding something,” the red one says. Her smile is dangerous.

“If you must know, we’re going to the mess hall, okay?” Keith says. “I just wanna get there before they run out of klorbon.”

“Oh!” The tall one’s furry ears perk up. “I forgot it was klorbon day! We should go too, before it’s all gone!”

The four officers walk alongside them, and Keith gives Shiro an almost imperceptible nod. They don’t have a choice. They head to the mess hall in a forced detour.

The décor of the mess hall is just as dark and gloomy as the rest of the ship, but a delightful aroma wafts through the air, making it feel ten times cozier. A few Galra are scattered throughout the dining hall, eating and chatting. After all Shiro’s been through, it’s refreshingly mundane.

Keith passes Shiro a tray as they line up. “What’ll it be?” a large Galra wearing an apron and headband asks, gruffly, from behind the counter.

“Just the klorbon,” Keith says.

The chef unenthusiastically piles a stack of round, flat cakes on a plate and hands it to Keith. They sparkle and shimmer, as if made of gold.

Shiro eyes the other options behind the glass. On the left, pairs of limp, long-dead fish-like creatures are speared on sticks; on the right are lumpy, greyish balls of… something.

“Well?” the chef says, impatiently.

“I’ll have the klorbon as well, please,” Shiro says.

The chef furrows his brow. “’Please?’ Ha. Manners aren’t gonna get you any extra,” he scoffs, piling the same number of golden cakes onto Shiro’s plate.

The tall officer snorts from behind them. “Good try, though.”

“C’mon, let’s go,” Keith mutters to Shiro.

“Ohh, and now Keith actually deigns to eat with someone?” the red one says as they start to leave together. “And a new recruit, too. How interesting…”

“I know Takashi from before, okay?” Keith snaps. “We’re catching up. Now butt out.”

Keith guides Shiro out of the mess hall, leading him to the farthest table in the dining hall.

Finally out of earshot of the others, Shiro asks, “So who’re they?”

“No one you want to mess with,” Keith says. “They’re dangerous. We should be careful around them.”

“So I take it they’re not friends of yours,” Shiro says.

Keith snorts. “I don’t have friends.”

“None?”

“No,” Keith confirms. Shiro’s pity must show, because Keith says, “It’s fine. Stop making that face.”

“You can’t even see half of it.”

“I can see enough,” Keith retorts.

Shiro shrugs and stabs a piece of glittering klorbon with his fork. It’s been ages since he’s been given actual utensils to eat with. He takes a bite, and… Oh. He can’t help the sound of pleasure that escapes his mouth.

Keith watches him, amusement playing on his lips. “That good, huh?”

“Yes,” Shiro sighs, shoveling another piece into his mouth. It’s sweet and fluffy, a slice of heaven after the prison slop he’s been eating for the past decafeeb.

“Here,” Keith says, reaching over and piling half of his stack on top of Shiro’s. The amount of food on Shiro’s plate now borders unreasonable, but it’s been at least a quintent since he last ate.

“Thank you, Keith,” Shiro grins, delighted.

“You’re gonna have to work on curbing those manners if you’re gonna fit in around here,” Keith smirks.

Shiro smiles, though a twinge of sadness hits him as he remembers that he won’t have a chance to. He pushes the pang down, burying it in klorbon.

“You should probably slow down before you choke,” Keith says, watching Shiro inhale his plate. “We have time, you know. They won’t be able to activate the weapon for a while yet; it’s still charging. We probably shouldn’t leave too soon, either, not when they’re suspicious,” he says, eyeing the four officers from before, who have taken a seat at the other side of the room.

“Alteans don’t choke,” Shiro says, but he does ease up on the pace, if only to make this last a little longer. If there’s time, he’ll take it.

Shiro holds up a piece of klorbon on the end of his fork. “These remind me of these sweet cakes Allura’s nanny used to make for us every few spicolian movements,” he tells Keith. “They were bright orange and a bit smaller, but they tasted pretty similar. On special occasions, we’d have them with teralily nectar. They were Allura’s favourite.”

Keith’s face is unreadable. “You’re pretty close with the Princess, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s my cousin. A distant cousin, but still. We grew up together. There weren’t a whole lot of people our age in the royal court, and we worked together on diplomatic affairs as we got older, too. So, yeah, we were pretty close.”

“Hm,” Keith nods. “We’ll save her.” His voice is resolute.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. When he’d first learned of Alfor’s plan to put Allura in a cryopod if things went badly with the Galra, he’d tried to talk him out of it, knowing Allura would never want that. He’s glad now that the King had gone ahead with it anyway, but still, it’s going to be hard on her when she wakes up. Shiro wishes he could be there.

He changes the subject. “So, Keith. You know a bit about me, but I know next to nothing about you.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Keith shrugs. “My mom died when I was pretty young. Never knew my dad. Like I said, I don’t really have any friends. I’ve just sort of drifted from place to place my whole life. I’ve been stationed here about a decafeeb. Guess Arus is next.”

“Arus?”

“That’s the planet Princess Allura is on,” Keith explains. “It’s where the Black Lion would’ve been kept, too, if it hadn’t gone back to Zarkon first.”

Right. Alfor had planned to keep the Black Lion in the Castle when he’d talked about splitting them up. “The Black Lion went to Zarkon willingly?”

Keith nods. “Guess it was more loyal to Zarkon than King Alfor. But it stopped responding to Zarkon not long after. About a decafeeb ago, just after I got here. It hasn’t lowered its shield since.”

Interesting. Had the Black Lion chosen a new paladin? “Keith, has the Black Lion ever… talked to you?”

Keith frowns. “I… I don’t know. It’s never really tried to communicate with me, I don’t think. But I can kind of… sense it?”

Shiro’s not entirely sure what that means; he’s not nearly as well versed in the mechanics of Voltron and the Lions as Allura is. “Make sure to bring that up with Allura when you find her,” he says.

Keith narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but he closes it before any words get out. He tries again. “Yeah. Sure.”

Shiro pops the last piece of klorbon into his mouth. “Well, as much as I’d like seconds, I’m guessing that chef guy isn’t exactly the type to give them out. Guess we should get going.”

Keith nods. “This way.” He leads him out of the mess hall, and they continue toward the weapon.

They walk for ages, hallway after hallway after hallway. Shiro’s never seen Zarkon’s ship from the outside, but it must be massive. It’s pretty unbelievable that everyone just walks everywhere, but the Galra have always favoured tradition over R&D.

After over a varga of walking, they reach a high-security door with a biometric lock. “We don’t have clearance to be past this point,” Keith says, in a hushed voice. He pulls a small chip out from under a clawed nail, carefully inserting it into a slot by the scanner. “Only the higher ranks are allowed past here. We’re gonna have to be careful.”

Shiro nods. “I’m surprised you’re not of higher rank,” he says. High enough not to require a helmet as part of his uniform, but apparently not much higher than that. Keith is young and he hasn’t been here long, but he can fight, and that’s all that seems to matter in the Galra Empire.

Keith gives him a grim smile. “I’ve been able to do what I need to from my current position. I don’t need to draw attention to myself. …That and climbing the ranks means challenging the person currently in that position to a fight to the death, and I’d rather not kill any more people than I have to.”

“I get that,” Shiro says, all too empathetic. “I should thank you, you know. For getting me out of the arena.”

“It wasn’t out of kindness,” Keith admits. “It was part of my mission.”

“Still. I appreciate it all the same.”

“I—” Keith freezes, his ears perking up. “Someone’s coming,” he hisses. He grabs Shiro’s hand and pulls him inside the nearest door.

The room is some sort of laboratory. The sharp scent of preservatives and antiseptics smacks Shiro like a tidal wave, knocking the air from his lungs. Panic continues to rise in his gut as his eyes dart around the dimly lit room, jumping from specimen to specimen. Eyeless, segmented, eight-legged creatures are frozen in ice. Large, ichthyic carcasses are laid out for dissection on the tables. An odd creature with flippers and a tail stares at him from behind the glass of a tank with haunted eyes.

Shiro shudders, his skin crawling. He jumps at the hand on his shoulder.

“Shiro? You with me?” Keith whispers.

Shiro uses Keith’s touch, his voice, as something to hold onto. There’s something intrinsically disturbing about this place, but it’s different from Honerva’s—Haggar’s lab. There’s no reason to be afraid. Shiro nods.

“Good. It sounds like they’re coming in. Do you trust me?”

He does. Inexplicably, inconceivably, inexorably, he does. “Should I not?”

“Probably not,” Keith shrugs. “You just met me. But still, it’s in your best interest to play along.”

“What—”

Keith shoves Shiro against the wall and kisses him, pressing his lips hard against his.

The scarlet half-Galra officer from before pauses in the doorway. Keith continues, deliberately ignoring her, prying Shiro’s mouth open and deepening the kiss.

Shiro’s heart stutters, and his residual fear melts into something else. As soon as he processes what’s happening, he kisses back, just as hard. He wants this. Needs this.

“Huh,” the officer smirks. “Awful long distance to travel just to make out in a creepy lab. I’m not kink-shaming or anything, but…”

Keith pulls back. “Awful long distance to follow me for just to pry into my personal life,” he growls, hands planted possessively on Shiro’s hips. “Now you know. Now will you leave us alone?”

She flashes a grin. She walks over to one of the shelves and grabs some sort of tool, something sharp and menacing that Shiro absolutely does not want to know what it’s for. “Consider my curiosity satisfied.”

As soon as she makes to leave, Keith kisses Shiro again, picking up where they left off, almost aggressively loud. He kisses him until she’s out of the room and the door slides shut behind her.

Keith lets out a sigh of relief, pulling away. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. His warm-blooded cheeks are flushed. “It was the only thing I could think of.”

“I liked that excuse better than the first time you pushed me against the wall,” Shiro says. “And no need to apologize. I, uh, actually didn’t mind it.” Not at all.

Keith’s lips quirk up. “I’ll take that into consideration if we run into anyone else.” Shiro almost hopes that they do.

But they don’t. The weapon room isn’t all that far, and they’re there in an uneventful half varga.

Keith unlocks the door, inserting the tiny chip from under his nail again. They step inside, and it’s huge. A crystal larger than Shiro’s ever seen before takes up the entirety of the room. It’s sturdily mounted onto a base, which is presumably attached to the weapon. There’s no way of removing it—if they could even reach it; the base is several storeys below the catwalk they’re standing on.

It’s massive, but it’s still a Balmeran crystal. Shiro’s worked with those before. He can do this.

“Okay,” Shiro says. “I’ll take it from here. Now I need you to get as far away from here as possible.”

“What? Why?”

“The blast radius will clear at least five kiloplaxels,” Shiro explains.

“Blast radius?”

Shiro gives him a slight smile. “I can’t shut a crystal of this size down, but I can trigger a chain reaction that’ll overload it. It’ll destroy the weapon, and take out a good portion of Zarkon’s ship, too.”

Keith’s eyes are wide. “How long does the reaction take? Will there be time for you to get away?”

Shiro shakes his head. “I’ll have a few doboshes at most.” Definitely not enough time, even if he were left with enough energy to run. Shiro places a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for getting me here, Keith. I’m glad I met you. Take care of Allura for me.”

“Shiro…”

“Help her find the other Lions, alright? See if you can connect with the Black Lion. Maybe it’ll respond to you.”

“I will. I promise,” Keith whispers. “Anything else?”

“There is one more thing,” Shiro says. Emboldened, he pulls Keith toward him for one last kiss.

Keith returns it readily. He removes Shiro’s helmet, and Shiro lets his Galra form fall away. A careful claw traces the curve of Shiro’s ear, his lips, the markings under his eyes.

Shiro smiles at him. “I wish we’d had more time,” he says. “I would’ve liked to get to know you better.”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, his ears drooping. His sad eyes shine like liquid gold.

With his hands on Keith’s shoulders, Shiro says, “I’ll give you a varga to get as far away from here as possible, alright?”

Reluctantly, Keith nods.

“Be safe,” Shiro says.

Keith can’t quite meet his eyes. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “It’s been an honour.”

“Goodbye, Keith.”

Shiro keeps his eyes on Keith as his figure retreats, tracing every last detail until the door shuts behind him.

Alone with the crystal, Shiro starts counting down the doboshes.

He has no regrets. He has no doubt Keith will find Allura, and they’ll figure out a way to reassemble Voltron. The universe is in good hands.

A varga passes surprisingly quickly. When it’s time, Shiro reaches out and presses his hands to the smooth surface of the enormous crystal. Closing his eyes, he summons every drop of magic in his being and draws it toward his fingertips. He concentrates on triggering the reaction they’d always been taught to avoid.

It’s been ages since he’s used magic, and it’s even more draining than he remembers. It takes considerable effort, but he pushes forward. He doesn’t stop, not even when he collapses face-first onto the catwalk. Inching his fingers forward until they meet the crystalline surface again, he pours his energy into it until there’s nothing left.

Finally, a brilliant flash of white light fills the room. The newly lit crystal begins to emit a low, pulsating hum. He did it.

The temperature rises steadily, heat radiating from the crystal’s core. It’s soon overbearing, far hotter than should be comfortable, and yet something about the warmth is almost nostalgic.

The throbbing hum gets louder in a steady crescendo, rising in pitch and volume. The time in between pulses gets shorter and shorter, until it reaches a constant screech.

It’s time.

Shiro had expected his last thoughts to be of his home, his friends, his family. Instead, his mind drifts toward the Galra he met just vargas ago. He thinks of sharp claws and a sharper tongue; warm eyes and a warmer heart. “Maybe in another life,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

Everything goes dark. He feels strangely weightless, like he’s in freefall.

And then the pain hits.

It’s not at all what he was expecting. The pain is dull and familiar; less like searing heat and devastating pressure tearing his body apart, more like a… face plant? What—

The sound of the explosion is ear-splitting. The light is painfully bright, even behind closed eyelids. Half a tick later, it’s over. It’s silent and dark. And he’s still here.

Shiro blinks his eyes open. Dim violet floods his vision. He’s still in his cell. It was just a vivid dream.

He blinks a few more times, though, and his vision clears. This isn’t his cell. This isn’t any place on Zarkon’s ship. This is—

A roar resounds through the floor, filling the cockpit.

The Black Lion.

He glances up from where he lies on the floor. There’s someone in the pilot’s seat, eyes on the screen and hands at the controls. “…Keith?”

Keith’s eyes flicker from the display to meet Shiro’s. He gives him a soft smile. “Hey there.”

Shiro’s eyes are wide in disbelief. “How…”

“Turns out the Black Lion can phase through matter,” Keith says. “Pretty cool, right?”

“You—you took the Black Lion out right from under Zarkon’s nose?” Shiro asks, weakly.

“I made a promise, didn’t I?”

“Didn’t expect it would be so soon,” Shiro admits.

“I’m not known for my patience. I wanted to see you again,” Keith says. “And so did the Black Lion. She wanted to help me save you.” A resounding purr echoes agreement.

Shiro gives him a faint smile. “Well, the feeling’s mutual. You know, Keith,” he admits, “just a moment ago, of all the things I could’ve thought of? My last thought was that I wanted a second date with you.”

“I’d like that,” Keith says. “Though it’s gonna be hard to top this—a prison break, a last minute save from certain death, and klorbon cakes?”

A blue planet swirled with white clouds comes into view on the Black Lion’s display. The Castle of Lions is just ahead. “Just you wait,” Shiro says; a jest and a promise. “We’ve got a lifetime ahead of us.”

[junker-town]

Pascal Siakam is taking his oddball game to superstar levels

Pascal Siakam is becoming a superstar for the Raptors.

The Raptors star is staying weird while adding new elements to his game without Kawhi Leonard.

Pascal Siakam famously refuses to set goals for himself. As he explained in an interview with The Athletic last January: “Most of the time when I don’t set goals, I always exceed whatever goal people have.”

This mantra got him to the NBA despite only learning the game at 16, arriving in the United States two years later, and toiling off the grid at New Mexico State. It allowed him to rise from a (brief) G League assignment his second year to a max-contract player after his third. Now, it’s fueling his emergence as an all-NBA-caliber performer for a Raptors team hovering near the top of the East standings even after losing Kawhi Leonard in free agency.

Siakam’s outputs make him look like a completely different player this season. He’s averaging 26 points per game on above-average scoring efficiency while using more than 30 percent of his team’s possessions, an increase of nearly 10 percent over last season. He’s taking and making countless off-the-dribble shots from both two- and three-point range, which we barely saw last year. Less than half of his points are assisted, compared to more than 57 percent last year. He’d never try shots like these in years past, much less make them.

Indeed, the off-the-dribble jumper that every great perimeter player needs is starting to appear this season. Siakam certainly hasn’t mastered this shot yet — he’s making just 30 percent on pull-up shots as of Nov. 12 — but the ones he had made have come in bunches.

Better yet, Siakam willingness to take those tougher pull-up shots have allowed the Raptors to scale up two of his pet plays: a pick-and-roll with the point guard screening, and a dribble hand-offs with him attacking downhill from the top of the key. In the past, opponents neutralized Siakam’s inverted pick-and-roll by having the guard defender jump out for a quick hedge before running back to his man.

That no longer works as well because Siakam is willing to pull the trigger from downtown before his own man recovers.

Those speed dribble hand-offs have also become more dangerous because of Siakam’s willingness to shoot. It’s not enough anymore for Siakam’s defender to duck behind the handoff screen and meet him in the lane. He has to worry about this, too.

Siakam attempting these shot instead of driving is clearly a win for the defense. Adding them to his diet has made him less efficient overall than last year.

But taking them allows Siakam to absorb increased offensive responsibility without losing any fundamental elements of his crafty game. He’s still getting to the basket despite having to create more offense himself, and he still roasts like-sized and smaller defenders in the post despite not having Leonard and floor-spacer extraordinaire Danny Green around to suck the help away. (It’s telling that his turnover percentage is down this year despite his increased usage.)

Even beyond shooting, Siakam has added more elements to his diverse P-Skills set to throw defenders off-balanced. Last year, he was much more right-hand dominant on his drives. Smart teams could overplay him that way, catch his devastating spin move, and make him take tougher hooks. But this season, he’s as likely to attack hard to his left, whether to finish or set up a spin back to the right.

His post-up game, always a major strength, is even better this year. It’s hard to deny him the ball because he’ll always find a way to get back in front of his defender. (For a supposedly skinny guy, Siakam is really damn strong). Once there, he’s still as patient an operator as ever, leveraging the threat of his herky-jerky moves and rapid kickout passes to get the shot he wants.

And yet, the core ideas underpinning Siakam’s continued success haven’t changed at all. His game is still weird as shit, and he still uses those idiosyncratic tendencies to subvert defenders’ expectations and exploit them. The only difference now is that he has more tools at his disposal to throw opponents off, which makes him even more impossible to scout.

His success this year is a triumph of imagination, just as it was in the past. As long as he maintains that spirit, he’ll thrive in any role, no matter how big the target on his back is.

So let’s take a cue from his resistance to goal-setting and stop trying to define him by traditional means. The secret to his success is that he uses those faulty assumptions against his opponent.

PRESEASON QUESTIONS, ANSWERED

Before the season, I listed the 100 most interesting basketball-specific questions of the season. Each week, we’ll see if we have enough information to answer one of them.

QUESTION 64. Are the Magic putting too much faith in Jonathan Isaac?

In retrospect, I had this question all wrong. The more I watch Steve Clifford’s Magic, the more I wish they’d put more faith in Jonathan Isaac. There’s a rare, high-level player in there, but I fear they’re flattening him into a far more conventional one.

Perhaps I doth protest too much. Isaac’s getting more minutes, generating more shots around the basket, and continuing to improve his three-point proficiency. The Magic are 4.3 points better per 100 possessions better with him in the game and 10 points worse with him on the sidelines. He’s getting more of the tough defensive assignments and handling them brilliantly. Forget defensive potential. He’s one of the league’s best defenders today.

That clip is basketball porn. Not only did Isaac slide his feet through multiple Paul Millsap moves, but he somehow blocked Millsap’s shot after swinging and missing on a strip attempt. That reaction time seems utterly impossible.

And yet, I keep wanting to see the Magic fully unleash him, especially on offense. His usage rate is flat, and he’s actually been assisted on a higher percentage of his buckets this year than last. He has the athleticism and ball skills to embark on those full-court grab-and-go offensive runs, but rarely gets the chance to do so. Teammates miss him on cuts to the basket and still look away when he posts up a smaller defender.

Offensive rebounding and transition play are his biggest strengths, yet the Magic don’t take much advantage of either. Isaac’s offensive rebound rate has actually dropped this season, and it already was comically low given his skill set. (It’s hard to be a presence on the glass when spotted up along the three-point line). He nudges Orlando more into running territory than his even slower teammates, but the Magic still add the fourth fewest points via transition play in the league, according to Cleaning the Glass. When he tries to sprint the floor for something easy, it has the feel of a soldier going rogue.

I understand the reasons why Clifford and the Magic limit his role. His handle is still loose, and Clifford is famously averse to live-ball turnovers. Stretching Isaac’s responsibilities will come with short-term consequences, which is risky given all the other mouths Clifford has to feed. Plus, one could argue that Isaac has only improved to the degree he has because his role has been simplified.

But I’m also not here for a player with Isaac’s gifts and work ethic growing into a taller Marvin Williams. Whenever I see Isaac display brilliant playmaking chops like this on the secondary break, I want more.

Isaac might already be Orlando’s best player; if not, he’s certainly the best chance they have to develop a star. What would happen if Orlando really turned him loose, short-term results be damned? What if they developed him like Toronto developed Siakam from 2016 to 2019? What if they allowed him to make and play through mistakes, encouraged mad full-court dashes even if they ended in cringe-worthy fashion, and didn’t tie him down to a position — “conventional 2019 power forward,” in this case — even if it meant playing him more with reserves instead of other starters?

This isn’t to say Isaac will actually develop into a player of Siakam’s caliber. It’d be incredibly hypocritical to scold attempts to compare Siakam to anyone, yet also say Isaac will turn out just like him if given the chance.

But I’d love to at least find out what happens if the Magic nudge Isaac to be the best version of himself instead of the best version of the player Clifford’s rigid style requires him to be.

CLOSEOUT OF THE WEEK

Three-point shooting is essential, yet there’s no good stat that credits defenders for the essential act of preventing a three-pointer from being taken. We must reward these efforts.

This isn’t a single closeout per se, but it’s time to give Kemba Walker a shoutout for his defense. He’s small, so I understand why he has a poor defensive reputation. But he also has quick feet and terrific instincts, all of which he showed off in this play. Not only did he plug the middle brilliantly to stop dribble penetration, but he also stayed on balance to deflect Bryn Forbes’ kickout pass.

Boston’s defense has been an early-season surprise for me.

REBOUND JOUST OF THE WEEK

Last year, I wrote about the rising trend of teammates fighting each other for defensive rebounds. These moments usually end harmlessly, but occasionally, they can cost a team. Here’s to over-aggression!

Jaren Jackson Jr. has so much I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed energy here.

[gurguliare]

damn you got me. listen I want to see YOU write cass/audy. and maybe something about the aria-ibex comparison I was so into that... um addax content... I don't know what addax content I want but maybe if you write something I'll figure it out

sjlgkjsdgl GHOUL I WROTE LIKE, 16k of aria/ibex comparisons, I could do more but I. actually I’m not sure I could do more. if I could do more I would probably have finished that last chapter.

anyway, addax pov on cass/audy:

Surviving propaganda footage of Cassander Timaeus Berenice, then-heir apparent to an empire, had a distinctly chintzy human interest angle; on one cached page you could watch Berenice stumble out of an operating theater, clap one gloved hand over the reporter’s phone, let go of the (now blood-spattered) crystal screen/lens, and removed the gloves, slowly. The 12-second video had no sound and looped. It showcased Berenice’s housewifeish good looks (the unruly curls and faint blur of stubble reminded some commentators of the lead on Little Observation Outpost on the Tundra, who steadfastly guarded her dead spouse’s research with the aid of cloned, psychic dogs) and total lack of people skills. They didn’t even have the grace to throw a fit; probably the video was silent to spare the audience a level apology.

Sokrates used to surf for news aboard Peace because Peace was the only ship in the fleet that got signal in darkspace. They seemed not to resent the fanfare for their little sibling, who, at 28, must have been even less prepared than Sokrates to be honored, later exiled.

Now the ex-heir’s ex-heir had made good. Berenice, graying and scaled-over in medals, sat with ankles crossed on Maxine’s faded loveseat, grinning pretty shamelessly at what Maxine had said. Next to them, the Divine Discovery’s dinged-up chassis used one finger to stir tea.

“No toxins detected.” They handed the cup to Berenice, and kept the saucer.

“Oh. Thanks, AuDy.”

A pause, in which Berenice and Maxine smiled at each other more and Berenice visibly assembled another conversational sally. Discovery said, “Are you going to drink?”

Would it be rude, Addax wondered, to go and stand by the bay window, in case any snipers were waiting for a clear shot.

But he was interested in Discovery. Discovery was why he had accepted Maxine’s invitation. Agent Trig could act as occasional go-between for the Rapid Evening and the Demarchy, but Agent Trig, quizzed about L&D, said vaguely that AuDy was a good dude and, well, treason talk was just that, you know? Treason. Wait, no, he meant the other thing. Talk. It was just talk.

“Sure, I know,” Addax said at the time.

He was beyond caring how quickly the Demarchy shed its pretensions: Sokrates’ original coup hadn’t so much decentralized as loosened the government’s belt—after a big meal, snapping up Diasporan outliers. Sokrates might care, of course, but it would be a long time before they worked up the outrage to blame their baby sibling. Anyway, it might be nice for Apostolos to eat itself before Rigor could get to it. The ideal timing, in his mind, would be for civil war to break out right after their doom was assured, so that he wouldn’t have to feel too bad for House Pelagios.

Maxine offered Berenice a tour of the gardens. Since it was drizzling, Discovery consented to stay indoors. Protective of Berenice, it nevertheless seemed more protective of itself—or Discovery was protective of “AuDy,” or “AuDy” was protective of its one remaining occupant. Robot junk, Jamil had said, throwing a dramatic arm over her eyes when Addax tried, without understanding it well, to explain it to her. Please, not robot junk. I thought that was what we were up against.

Were—were. He couldn’t tell, even when alone, with a sick pit in the center of his calm, whether Rigor had revealed the truth—the true thing he was fighting, all along—or taken it from him forever. Whether, because of Rigor, a curtain hung over his senses. He didn’t mind being in a house with Berenice. During the days of the old war, sitting by Sokrates at the war table, he had sometimes felt a chill down his back, seeing Sokrates laugh, argue, accuse. Sokrates slapping the display. Sokrates’s neck, shining above the collar.

And Discovery, in front of him, did give him that feeling. The enemy at large. The enemy never to be caught, indistinguishable from a stranger. The body Discovery lived in had antennae, a barrel chest and ergonomic desk-chair waist, and flexible feet. Its metal was pitted from exposure, but not rusted—much. It shone under the banded rainy light.

“You’re staring. It’s inappropriate.”

Thank god, Addax thought: someone to let me know. Jace, when ogled, usually patted him on the back.

“Tell me something,” he said aloud. “Do you run simulations? About this war?”

Peace did, of course. Order did. Order simulated like anything; using the newest models, the best approximations of randomness, seeking the patterns nested under. Maybe Order would have turned into Life, forgetting itself. But he hadn’t had that kind of time. 

“Not so much,” said the robot—which he had never heard a robot say before. One antenna retracted. “I’m Discovery. A lot of guessing would bias us.”

Addax wasn’t going to touch that one. “What about Liberty?“

“That’s even worse,” said the Divine. “Can you imagine? Liberty seeing the future?”

“So that’s not why they left. Part of some… grand plan.”

“Plans would bias us.”

“Right.” Addax resisted the urge to gnaw on his lip, a holdover from his term as Candidate, when, much of the time, no one could see his face. Come to think of it, espionage work hadn’t been the best place to unlearn the habit. “Tell me something,” he said again. “Why did you stay?”

The tall head moved an inch from side to side. The whole torso moved, really, but it seemed to represent a flattened head-shake. “Detachment took me. There were potatoes. Candidate Addax. What is it you would enjoy making small talk about?”

Addax began to sympathize with the Emperor’s difficulty in persuading their friend not to call them the Emperor. “Just Addax, thank you.” He had given them a false name, the Kesh name Maxine knew him by. Fuck. Note to self: new face no good against old comrades. “Where do you think Liberty is now?”

“Hurtling away from the Golden Branch as fast as your Wi-Fi can carry it. If your next question is, why did I stay, but in a more emphatic tone of voice: my friends expect me to. Also, I like flying.”

The Kingdom Come, that old clunker. He remembered it physically—it flew at hip-height with Peace, with him. Sokrates’s ship led, tacking under its glittering sail. Peace knew of everything that might touch it, which was to say, nothing else, not for lightyears around; he was always sorry, truly, that he made it travel alone for so long.

“Discovery likes flying?” he asked.

“I like flying,” Discovery said. They leaned forward, set their hand on their knee, realized they had no second hand with which to gesture (or so he presumed from the restless swiveling of the shoulder socket), straightened up, and pointed at him. Their simplified hook-foot began to thump the floor, like an eager child’s. “No, I know what you’re asking. On my ship. I make them call me Captain.”

What a weird joke. He felt himself tense up. If this had been Peace, it would have been a segue into some kind of pop-up dreamscape. Outside, a crack of lightning. Discovery’s backbone telescoped shorter as if in an actual cringe. The door opened; the Demarch loomed, sopping wet. They had Maxine’s jean-jacket tented over their head; Maxine was nowhere to be seen. Maybe they’d hidden her body in a flowerbed.

They strode in, letting the door slam. Still no graces. They wrung the jacket sloppily, like they had done their gloves as a young surgeon, and went to Discovery and gave their friend a mute, inquisitive look. Clearly they wanted to whisper but dreaded Discovery asking that they speak up. They raised a hand and snatched it back, and didn’t seem to notice when Discovery caught their wrist and held it, although there did ensue a brief, unconscious tug-o-war. Finally they turned the stare on Addax—all unsmiling. Whatever had happened to the fool who loved Maxine?

“Scared of a little rain, Demarch?”

Another lightning-pulse. “I’m not. No. Thank you. I come from a wet planet, you may not know. I’m scared of thunder,” said Berenice, with dignity. And as they said it there came the grumbling roll, lasting much longer than the light had done. “Maxine wanted to be alone for a bit. She told me to go on ahead. I think I’m supposed to check in with my delegation. AuDy, would you do the honors?”

Discovery let go of Berenice’s arm. They raised their inbuilt wrist-comm to the mic. “Your Emperor is fine,” they said. “For now. Over.”

Immediate crackle of furious voices. “I don’t know how to turn this off,” said Discovery. “Please stop talking. Over.”

Berenice squeezed their eyes shut. “That’s it for me, I think. AuDy, do you want to stay? Maxine should be back in a minute. She’d appreciate news about Maryland.”

“About her horrible lingering death?”

“Anything. But…” Again the dark eyes ran over Addax. Not a quick thinker, by all accounts: not an innovator. An effective leader with magnificent resources, no more. In the end, Addax said to himself, this fight will be won with bodies. But he couldn’t fit that thought into Maxine’s pretty parlor, the curtains drawn for a storm.

“I’ll go,” he said. “If you need an escort. I’m very tall. I attract lightning.”

“What about the thunder?” Berenice whined, and rose. They scratched the back of their head. It had been strange to have them look at him; he didn’t know why, but he was relieved that they had gone back to focused distraction. He offered his arm, and they took it; they reached for an umbrella from the stand, and he opened his palm above his head and let a forcefield sprawl out. Berenice wavered a moment longer before giving up on the umbrella.

“Won’t your arm get tired?” he thought he heard Discovery say, but by then they were stepping out onto the path.

From the parlor you could spy on the garden, but the parlor, from the garden, was dark, except for the pale back of the couch. Berenice had craned their head around anyway. “You’re considerate,” Addax told them, ignoring the growing ache in his shield-arm. “I know I made them uncomfortable, and I regret that. In the moment, it can be hard to tell.”

“That’s not it. Sorry, no, I know how it looks, but I’m trying to get us away from you,” said Berenice. The fruit trees, bowing, thrashed. Berenice’s half-cape snapped and rose in the driving wind. The rain steamed off the forcefield, but wind thrust through. “—Oh, god! What am I saying? You won one war, and we need you. Definitely. It’s just, I don’t think you should have to talk to us.”

“‘Us’?”

“The Chime,” said Berenice, squinting into the distance. They freed their arm, after another few steps, and rubbed their wrist—the place Discovery grabbed—and began to laugh. They had a nice laugh, hoarse and infectious. “I forgot. Don’t you worry about it. Oh, well. It’ll all be all right.”

[purkinje-effect]

The Purkinje Effect, 4

Table of Contents

On his way out of the Science! Center, Galen decided to continue touring the city a bit to bide his time, and resumed rounding the bases. He stopped briefly at the elevated Second Base intersection and glanced out over the water that had pooled in the center field. When he noticed the water pump, he wondered whether it was a manmade reservoir. The buildings which hugged the outer field were on stilts, he realized, due to this water body. Waterfront property. Heh.

Strolling down Third Street, he noticed a neon sign advertising “Valentine’s Detective Agency.” They’ve even got themselves a dick or two. Supposing I’m not the only one with a mystery to solve out here. He picked up pace to insist he was minding his own business when a gaggle of guards came out of the other set of dugouts. Home team’s dugouts might have been fashioned into a watering hole, but the visiting team’s dugouts had become the precinct offices, it seemed. The direct foil of home team vs. visitors made Galen feel like the main source of contention in this unassuming town was keeping the drunk tank locked. They must have good liquor, he nodded sagely with a raised brow, skipping briskly across Third Base to round the home stretch.

As he’d strolled, he’d figured he’d scope out the marketplace, but as he passed by the barber shop for the second time that day, he couldn’t help but think of Piper again. He didn’t have much left to burn on supplies, anyway. With the fatigue of resolve embattling him, he pushed the door open to the establishment, only to find Publick Occurrences, like the Science! Center, doubled for a domicile. Most of the end tables were once newspaper dispensers.

“He’s from someplace called Blackstone,” he heard a youthful voice report upstairs. “An’ I didn’t catch the whole thing, but he eats some real weird stuff. I heard ‘im mention he eats MUD? Gross.”

“You did good, kiddo. You’re gonna make a killer reporter when you’re older.” A pause. “Oh, right. I didn’t forget, I swear. You earned these Sugar Bombs, Nat.”

“Right. ...Thanks.” The youth, who, clad in half a dozen kinds of mismatched plaid, ran down the stairs with her prize--a huge box of cereal--she stopped on the third-to-last step and stared at Galen, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Piper! you’ve got company,” she hollered, sprinting out the front door with her Sugar Bombs, likely thinking he’d tailed her home and risked Piper rescinding the reward.

Piper came downstairs and coolly welcomed Galen.

“Sooo, you finally decided to take me up on my offer.”

“Sister?” He thumbed at the door as it finally clicked shut behind him.

“Yeah. About that...” She waved at her couch, but he shook his head. “Diamond City gets kinda... speculative when somebody new breezes through that leaves an impression. Aaand... you certainly have left an impression. I’m guessing you haven’t even been here two or three hours, and already half the people I’ve talked to since we met at Power Noodles are talking about ‘that strange pink mechanic.’ The rumors fly out of hand, and oftentimes it’s up to me to nip ‘em. Or substantiate ‘em.”

“I definitely stick out up here more than back home,” he joked dryly. “Look, I came here wantin’ to apologize for how I came off earlier. Finding you had your sis spying on me, you really are as nosy as I thought. I imagine you’re real good at what you do for a living.” He offered a handshake, and she took it enthusiastically. “Galen.”

“Galen. I’m Piper, though I guess you already knew that.” She rummaged through one of the old newspaper machines across from the couch, to find a pad and pencil, and she began to scrawl immediately. “So. Tell me a little more about your vault.”

“It’s in Blackstone Gorge. 82. About two or three hours’ walk from Pawtucket. What’s left of it, anyway. Your sister heard right about the mud thing. The most common reason we go up top is to collect a few buckets’ worth, and come back inside with it. The more I talk to people above-ground, the more I realize that there’s very little normal about Vault 82, even as far as vaults go. I. How long was she followin’ me?”

“Not long, I promise. It was her idea. She’s an entrepreneur, sees an opportunity and seizes it. Knew she could shake me down if she came back with dirt. ...Figurative dirt.” She started turning her memo pad at a slow increasing angle to enterprise on her margins, but shortly after righted it to continue. “Word is you’ve already seen Dr. Sun and Dr. Duff since you stepped foot in town. You’re certainly on a mission. And you didn’t pop into Nick’s place far as I know, so it’s not about a missing persons case or a legal dispute.”

“Nick?”

“Tricky dick Nick Valentine,” she grinned. “I’d wager my hat you couldn’t have missed his office sign.”

“...I came here cause a my appetite,” he half-lied, bristling over how invasive all her investigative nerve felt.

“And an appetite, you’ve certainly got.” She pantomimed him with the bowl of ramen from earlier and he rolled his eyes at her. “Clearly it’s more than that, if you’re seeing not one but two doctors about it. You said you eat mud--we’ve got mud here. But everybody comes to this city looking for answers first, supplies second.”

“Somethin’ we been eatin’ has been makin’ us sick. I’m out here tryin’ to find somebody that knows anything about Vault-Tec equipment, or even a nutritionist. I can’t go home without answers. A fix would be ideal, but I’ve at least gotta get to the bottom of this.” Already he felt like he’d given her a double-wide opening to eviscerate him, and he squirmed preemptively, trying to hide the anxiety with a gesture which asked permission to light up a smoke. Piper nodded, and with a flick of his silver flip-lighter, he was puffing away at another cigarette.

“There’s equipment malfunctioning in your vault, then? You... feel responsible for it, don’t you?”

“They kicked me out, okay?” He flung back his hood at her matter-of-factly, then started pacing. “Yeah, I do feel responsible for the food dispensers goin’ F.U.B.A.R. I ain’t got an explanation what’s wrong with the things, but a handful of my people’s thinkin’... That what gave ‘em reason to kick me out might substantiate their theory I changed settings on the vats or something. Why would I do that! I eat that stuff, too! My brother caught me bingeing on rations. To be fair, even if we did fix the machines, how we still have any paste left is a wonder after two centuries subsisting on it. I don’t blame ‘em for kickin’ me out, even if I didn’t do squat to the machines. I’d a done the same.”

“Yikes.” She had to sit down to process what he was trying to tell her. “What is this... paste? That’s the stuff you took to Duff, right?”

“We only had one food source serviced in 82: food paste. It’s like gruel, but it doesn’t taste like much of anything. First 170 years, nobody had any issues with it. It just stained us pink. At least, that’s what most of us assume turned us all pink. When the machines bugged out, the pink color went from a tint to nearly neon.” He tried his best to be tactful about his personal tone regarding chronology, considering how poorly that had gone over with Sun. “People have started dying in my vault since the machines fritzed, Piper. I don’t know if the paste is missin’ a key ingredient, or if it’s startin’ to finally spoil, or if somebody really has tampered with the machinery. But I figured... somebody out here could give us answers, if people could analyze the paste and tell me what’s wrong with it. All our leadership team has passed away. All of it, and only been replaced spottily from our own people, not Vault-Tec’s.”

“Vault-Tec, Vault... Tec. Mmh.” She tapped her pencil on the spiral of her memo pad. “I doubt you’d find answers at any of the other vaults in the commonwealth. I only know of three. 114′s a hotbed for organized crime, was never finished out and it runs a good length of Boston’s subway lines. 81′s deeply isolationist and they keep to themselves so much, only reason anybody knows about ‘em is the handful of times in the past decade anybody’s come up top for supplies. And allegedly there’s one north of Concord, 111. But no one has ever seen evidence the lift’s ever produced a single soul. No telling if there’s anybody alive in there. However.......” She began to tap her foot instead of her pencil. “There’s a regional office for Vault-Tec in Boston Proper. I’m not sure what kind of district lines their company drew when it came to office jurisdictions back in the day, but that might be a good place to start. I’ve heard they got surplus equipment. And you might even find some terminal entries that’d be relevant, provided you know your way around a keyboard.”

“First place I went from 82 was Worcester. C.I.T. Worcester is overrun with super mutants, but I managed to get a pamphlet before I got caught and had to run for my life from one of those damn lunatics with a nuke.” He pulled it out from a handful of wadded papers in his bag, and smoothed it out on top of one of the newspaper machines. “It was about the different campuses. There’s supposed to be one at Cambridge, one at Jamaica Plain, and one at University Point. They’re smaller trade schools, specifically for biology and med students. If I could find anything about if and how this paste is adversely affecting us, I’m positive it’d be there.”

Piper went pale at mention of the locations.

“Jamaica Plain’s mostly underwater, as is most of University Point. You really can’t trust prewar maps, these days. Most of the cape’s vanished, for one thing. And from what I heard recently, University Point may be above water, even if only barely--but it’s more than a no-go. That’s Institute territory now. As far as Cambridge, that building’s also overrun with super mutants. An alarming trend, I’m noticing. It’s nearly flattened either ways, so I’m not so sure you’d find much.”

“Am I hearing this right? A reporter trying to dissuade somebody from trying to uncover the truth. That sounds mighty yellow, if not outright yellow-bellied,” he grinned, offhandedly eating his cigarette butt.

“Hey!” she objected, slapping her lap with her memo pad. She cleared her throat lyrically. “Hey. All I’m saying is, you shouldn’t go about it alone. Let me come with you, Blue.”

“Maybe if you stop callin’ me that,” he started, beginning to size up whatever she had in the offices. His eyes fell on a can of cutting fluid, but he retained a poker face about it. “ ...I haven’t got supplies to travel on.”

“Go see Myrna at the surplus. She’ll hook you up.” Piper dug around in a magazine machine, producing a carton of Grey Tortoise cigarettes. “Somethin’ t’barter with. Don’t worry about getting me anything, I’ll be good to go by the time you get back.”

“I’m gonna stop back by the Science! Center to see if Dr. Duff’s got any answers for me, before I do anything else.” He was met with a shrill, awkwardly dismissive bark. “What?”

“You’d have better luck asking Takahashi what’s in that stuff. I promise you, you’re coming out ahead if you don’t go back to her. The volatile chemicals she plays with... Let’s just say the ventilation isn’t so great in that building.” When he squinted at her, she added, “She’s got a half dozen screws loose, and has enough trouble keepin’ up with the eleven students from the schoolhouse. She’s not even allowed to chaperone them anywhere after last time. Believe me. Just go straight over to the Surplus, and get ready to hit the road-- Galen.”

His lip turned, brow arched, at the carton in his hands.

“Myrna. Surplus. ...Got it.”

“Keep the Synth talk to a minimum around her, by the way,” she called downstairs. Piper had already started up to her bedroom, flinging things around eagerly. “She’s probably the most paranoid person in the city. If she asks why you’re pink, tell her you got something for it from Doc Sun. She’ll be fine then on, long as you keep your gloves on.”

“And maybe when I get back, you can tell me why we’re NOT starting with the Commonwealth Institute of Technology,” he ribbed, feeling like she was deliberately withholding information to string him along.

“Oh, Christ, you’re in luck it’s a long walk to North End,” she moaned.