#impressive that my sister can have a slight headache and it excuses everything

[xolaanii]

me, sick as fuck: i can't go give english classes tomorrow i'm sick

my mom: if you don't want to go that's all you have to say

me, still sick: 😕😑 sounded blamey but okay

[dragonshost]

Day 58: JennyLu

I have no excuses for this one.  It’s just pure, unadulterated wish fulfillment.  In my defense, who wouldn’t like to be carried in a strong female mechanic’s arms?  I am only human.

On FFN - link

On AO3 - link

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Armada Day 58: Missing The Train Jenny x Lucy

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"I can't believe I overslept!" Lucy panted, her feet pounding the cobblestones as she sprinted through the streets of Crocus. "I'm gonna miss my train!" Thankfully it was early enough that most of the residents were still at home in their warm beds, and the rest of the visiting guilds weren't in as big of a rush to vacate the city as Lucy was. Or maybe they had just all managed to awaken in time and weren't running pell-mell in the semi-dark down dew-slickened cobblestone roads.

Which proved to be slicker than she had initially assumed, her foot suddenly sliding out from under her. A screech erupted from her lips as she crashed to the ground, landing strangely on her arm. It throbbed where her shoulder hit the cobblestone, and her ankle burned. Fantastic. Even if it was nothing serious, there was no way Lucy was going to be able to make her train after all. Not at the pace her new injuries would force her to adopt.

Using her good arm, Lucy pushed herself into a sitting position. She sighed as she saw the state of her clothes. The road wasn't exactly clean by any means, and the morning dew had turned the grime into mud. Hopefully it was early enough that no one had witnessed the spectacle she'd made of herself.

Well, sitting in the middle of the street wasn't going to get her anywhere fast. With a groan, Lucy gathered her legs under her and made the attempt to stand. Another yelp burst from her lips as pain shot up her leg and she fell back to the ground. Her vision clouded up with bright flashes of light, she furiously blinked back rising tears. "It's not that bad," Lucy wheezed under breath. "One more try." Once again she tried to stand up, only for the pain to rush upwards once more. This time she was ready for it, though, and although a whimper did escape her throat, she managed to stand up. "There. I've had worse."

Determined to make it the train station - maybe she could exchange her ticket for a later one - Lucy hobbled a few steps forward. Greatly favoring her leg, she made it about ten paces from where she initially fell before she called the endeavor quits. Lucy wasn't sure if it was because the injury was worse than she thought, or if she was just used to Wendy healing her all the time, but holy stars above did it hurt. And a headache was starting to bloom in her skull, probably from gritting her teeth too hard and too long. Spotting a bench, Lucy eked out a few more steps from her injured leg before collapsing onto it.

Lucy panted heavily, feeling more cold water seeping into her behind from the wet bench. Wasn't it already July? Why was everything so wet? Exasperation made her burgeoning migraine even worse. Shaking her head, she tried to clear it, only to make the pounding worse. Fantastic. Absolutely fantas-

"Are you alright?" a sweet voice asked, startling Lucy so badly she nearly fell off the bench. Great. Now her chest hurt, too. Adrenaline sparking like lightning in her veins, Lucy twisted to see who had addressed her.

It was a tall woman, with blonde curly hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the top of her head. "Sorry to startle you," the stranger apologized. The expression on the woman's face was warm... unlike her clothing. A light purple sports bra and matching spandex shorts showed off the woman's many assets - her long legs, heavy bust, and magnificent abs.

Realizing she was staring, Lucy felt her ears burn despite the other woman not pointing it out in the slightest. "No, it's okay," she said. "And um... I'm fine."

The other woman gave Lucy a pointed look. "Your ankle looks too red to be 'fine.'"

The heat from Lucy's ears crawled its way over to her cheeks. "I... might have taken a bit of a tumble," she admitted. Was it really that red? Lucy peered down at it. Now that she looked a little closer, it did seem to be swelling spectacularly.

"Mind if I take a seat?" the woman asked, though she had already moved to do so without waiting for Lucy's response.

"Wait-" Lucy tried to warn her, but wasn't swift enough.

Surprise danced across the other woman's face as cold water no doubt sank into her butt as well.

"Sorry," Lucy mumbled. "I was about to warn you, I promise."

The woman let out a light laugh. "Don't worry about it - I should have watched where I sat." She gestured at Lucy's leg. "Is it alright if I take a closer look?"

Lucy's nodded minutely, and the woman gently raised Lucy's leg to her lap. "At first glance, I'd say it's sprained." Then she frowned. "How long ago did this happen?"

Lucy gave her a half-shrug. "Just a couple minutes ago? I was running, and I slipped and fell." Now that she was looking more properly, the woman seemed vaguely familiar to Lucy, and the guild mark on her arm even more so - Blue Pegasus. Lucy wracked her brain tried to put a name to the woman's face but came up empty.

Frown deepening, the Blue Pegasus mage laid cool fingers on the joint. "Does this hurt?" She prodded it gently. When Lucy hissed in pain, she withdrew her hands. "Please tell me you did not try to walk on this."

Sweat ran down Lucy's neck. Whether it was from the pain, the sheer hotness of the woman touching her, or from the warning tone in the woman's voice she wasn't immediately certain. "Um... yes...?" she answered tentatively. Lucy pointed down the street. "Just over there."

The woman stared at her long and hard, and Lucy withered a bit under the harsh gaze. "Is that... bad?" she ventured.

She shook her head slightly. "Yeah, it is, but mostly I just can't believe you managed to get that far with a broken ankle."

"Awesome," wheezed Lucy. No wonder it had hurt so much. "So I'm definitely not making it to the train station. At all."

"Not on this foot, you're not," the woman confirmed. "Can I help you to your guild's inn?" At Lucy's surprised expression, the woman smiled slightly. "I don't forget a face. And your guild mark is very lovely. Your guild has a healer, right?

Lucy held her marked hand close to her chest and tried to calm her raging heartbeat. "Yeah, but she's probably already left on the train that I've probably just missed." Why had Makarov booked her team such an early train?! You'd think that after a dragon invasion and a midnight ball that a girl would be allowed a decent night's sleep, but apparently not! And more to the point, how was it that the rest of her team had managed to make it and hadn't even spared a thought about whether she was coming or not?! It was a role reversal that Lucy definitely did not care for.

"No worries. I think Sherry from Lamia Scale will be at my guild's inn," the woman offered. "And her cousin is a healing mage as well. We'll ask them for help." Gently, she lowered Lucy's leg off her lap and onto the ground. "Here, I'll help you walk."

Accepting the offer, Lucy allowed the other woman to hook an arm around her, only to bite back another yelp of pain as the woman chose the wrong shoulder.

"...Did you hurt this shoulder, too?" the woman questioned, lowering Lucy back onto the bench.

Lucy nodded, furiously trying not to cry. "Yeah. I landed on it. I think it's just wrenched, though."

The other mage contemplated the problem for a moment. Then she shrugged. "Guess it's a princess carry, then."

"...What-wait whoa!" Lucy suddenly found herself airborne, supported only by the other woman's strong arms, and her face eye-level with her impressive chest. "Y-you don't have to carry me!" she squawked in protest, heat consuming her entire face down to the tip of her nose. The tall amazon was carrying her. Princess-style. Holy stars above.

"Don't worry about it," the woman stated, already walking down the road. "You're not heavy, and my guild is just up there."

Lucy clammed up at that, and tried to keep her eyes to herself. Which proved to be too difficult, so instead she just looked up at her savior's face. The Blue Pegasus mage was beautiful, but not wearing any makeup that Lucy could see. Which made sense for an early morning run. There was a slight smattering of freckles across her nose that Lucy found to be incredibly cute, and her eyes were a very pretty light blue.

True to her word, it was a brief journey to the inn Blue Pegasus was using for the duration of the Grand Magic Games. The older woman shouldered the door open with ease.

Only to find the both of them swiftly swarmed by concerned guild members.

"Lucy!" Hibiki Lates exclaimed in immediate recognition, his face bright with genuine delight. "What brings you here? Looking for a bit of fun?"

"H-Hello, Hibiki," Lucy greeted awkwardly. Did the man not notice that his guildmate had her in a princess carry, or what?

"Have you come to join our guild instead, Big Sister?" Eve questioned, blatantly ignoring the fact that he was now older than Lucy.

"I-idiot!" Ren chided Eve, flushing heavily under his tan. "Though I... can't say I would mind if... the lady... came around more often..."

"Some room, please, boys," the woman told them. "As you can see, she's hurt her leg. Ren, can you get Sherry to bring Chelia over? This lady needs some healing."

"Oh, of course. Be right back." The man left for the stairs, confirming the suspicion that his fiancée had indeed spent the night.

Eve also backed down willingly, but Hibiki pouted and remained where he was. "Are you sure you don't need any assistance...?"

"I'm sure she doesn't need your help to change her clothes, Hibiki," the woman said with a pointed look at him. "Let Sherry and Chelia know that she'll be in my room."

Hibiki sighed, and reluctantly stood out of the woman's way. "Sure thing, Jenny."

Wait, Jenny?

The name through Lucy for a loop, and her gaze returned firmly to the model's face. No wonder she had looked familiar to Lucy. Makeup made a scary amount of difference sometimes. Not that Jenny wasn't already gorgeous without it, though.

Lucy gave Hibiki a short wave as Jenny passed him by.

"Visit with us a bit before you leave!" Hibiki urged. "It'll be good to catch up!"

"I'll try."

"You and Hibiki know each other?" Jenny questioned, curious. "Were you a thing in the past?"

Lucy coughed and spluttered at the mere thought of it. "No!" she said, emphatically waving her hand. "I was just a part of the Oracion Seis suppression team from Fairy Tail is all, so I met the Trimens there. We didn't even talk all that much. He's just... uh..." Lucy let out another cough, though this one was born from embarrassment. "They're all just super... friendly."

"Super flirty, you mean. Sorry, it comes with being a member of this guild." Jenny paused in front of a door. "Can you open this for me?"

Reaching out, Lucy turned the door knob, gaining them entrance into the room. "You don't lock your room?"

"The boys know better than to touch my stuff without permission... and so do the women."

Lucy repressed a shudder. It had been brief, but she had seen Jenny's battle form during the Grad Magic Games. And now that she had been carried by said woman for more than a block... yeah, Jenny was not someone to mess with if you weren't as powerful as Mirajane.

Speaking of which... Jenny was nothing like how she'd come across during the tournament - either as a guest or a participant. Was it like the Trimens? A stage persona expected of a member of Blue Pegasus?

Jenny set her down on her bed. "Let me get you something to change into..." She trailed off as she headed for the room's closet. She briefly thumbed through its contents before her face lit up. "Ah ha," she declared as she found what she was looking for. "Luckily for you, I always pack a couple extra sets of clothes, just in case." Turning back, Jenny walked over and handed them to Lucy. "I hope you don't mind that they're my maintenance clothes."

"No, no!" Lucy vehemently protested. "I don't mind at all! I'm just super grateful you're lending me anything at all! Thank you, you've been so nice to me! Honestly, I'm not sure how I can pay you back."

A smirk crawled its way onto Jenny's face. "No, not at all. Just knowing that I've been of help to one of Mirajane's guild mates is enough of a reward for me." Malice dripped off the name of her former opponent.

...Okay, maybe it wasn't entirely a stage persona. Was this part of some elaborate plot to get back at Mirajane for the bet? Was Lucy in danger?

"I'll be right back with an ice pack and some water," Jenny announced, heading for the door. "Be right back."

Lucy choked on her own spit as she caught a glimpse of the humongous wet spot across the back of Jenny's tight shorts as the woman departed.

...No, she was definitely not in danger, she decided. Not from a woman that had willingly sat in cold water for her and had even lent Lucy her own clothes to wear. Lucy's clothes had probably gotten Jenny fairly dirty as well.

Lucy held the soft, off-white and well-worn shirt up to her nose. It smelled of laundry detergent, with a faint trace of oil from the black stains that marred. The old jeans were much the same, with splashes of paint across the thighs and calves of the fabric.

Surprising, just like their owner was proving to be.

Maybe Lucy would take up Hibiki's offer to hang around for a bit after she was healed up, and find out much more about the real Jenny Realight.

[xx-thedarklord-xx]

Thine Enemy is Sweet (Part 5)

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

“Run that by me again,” Harry said as he laid on Malfoy’s floor; the ceiling had been bewitched to look like constellations and he was mesmerized. “You’re saying Ron can just walk in? No invite? No date? Nothing?”

“Longbottom too,” Malfoy said distractedly as the sound of rustling parchment could be heard. Harry wasn’t sure what it was, but he’d been invested in them for an hour.

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s a pureblood for you.”

“Sounds unfair.”

“Sounds like you’re jealous.”

Harry scoffed. Talking to Malfoy was always a headache.

“How do we get Seamus in?”

When Malfoy didn’t answer, Harry tilted his head back the best he could. His view was upside down, but he could tell that Malfoy was still looking over the paperwork.

“What are you doing?”

“None of your business.”

“If you frown like that anymore, you’ll get wrinkles.”

Malfoy’s brows furrowed as he peered over the parchment. “I’m not frowning.”

“You were.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Ah,” Harry said slowly and sagely. “But you aren’t sure.”

“Why must you always annoy me?”

“I thought that was your role.”

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

“Do me a favour and kindly shut the fuck up.”

Harry huffed before he looked back up to the ceiling. “Why did you tell me to come over if you were just going to be ignoring me?”

“Is baby jealous?”

“Don’t call me that,” shuddered Harry.

“If you must know,” Malfoy’s tone suggested Harry didn’t. “I’m looking over the planning party’s orders.”

Harry sat up cross-legged and narrowed his eyes. “Planning party?”

“You thought Nott was going to plan his own engagement party?” Malfoy snorted. “Nott of all people.”

“How did you get the orders?”

A slow satisfied smirk crossed Malfoy’s face and it was creepy.

“I have my ways.”

“Did you know that you’re kind of scary?”

The smirk grew wider and Harry shook his head in response. Malfoy was a lost cause.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Malfoy ignored him as he moved to the fireplace. The address wasn’t recognized but Harry was curious enough to move closer.

Before he got close enough to see, Malfoy shoved him out of the way—hard.  

“Idiot,” Malfoy hissed. “You can’t be seen.”

Harry rubbed his elbow where he had slammed it against the wall. He was going to kill Malfoy.

“Welcome to Vintage by Design,” A bored tone drawled, and he could see Malfoy’s already rigid posture stiffen further. “You’ve reached our Floo service. My name is Bramble, how may I be of help to you?”

“Bramble, is it?” Malfoy sneered, and Harry felt for Bramble, he did. “My name is Draco Malfoy and I’ve got a problem.”

A crash and audible scrambling could be heard, and he had to bite his cheek to stop from laughing.

“Ah, Mister Malfoy,” Bramble stumbled over his words. “A problem? I’d be happy to help.”

Malfoy smiled but it was condescending and his sympathies for Bramble went up.

“I’m sure you are.” The disgusted tone was reminiscent of their Hogwarts years and Harry didn’t miss it.  

“I was tasked with speaking to your company,” the last word was said with such palpable distaste that Harry grimaced. “About the entertainment for the Nott & Greengrass party. I’m not sure why it’s all wrong.”

“I—you Mister Malfoy?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“The Nott & Greengrass party?”

“Are you stupid?”

“I—It’s just that our coordinator for the entertainment was D—”

“Me. Look at the paperwork one more time. It says D.M. That’s me.”

“One of my co-workers said something about McMillan—”

“Did they now? You thought McMillan of all families was going to show up?”

“I did think the likelihood was slim,” Bramble muttered, and Harry could hear the confusion. “The last generation was more progressive.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Clearly, Vintage by Design was for higher class wizards.

“You said there was a problem, sir?”

“The person I booked for entertainment is not who is on the list.”

Rustling could be heard over the crackle of the fire, and the urge to look was strong, but the glare Malfoy sent him was stronger.

“It looks like the Weird Sisters Reunion show was booked for the party.”

What? The Weird Sisters were having a reunion? He hadn’t ever realized they broke up. And they would do it for Nott? Harry had always known there was a reason he didn’t like them.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. You see, they were my backup plan not the original.”

“I’m sure we can cancel; Nott will have to pay the cancellation fee though. The Weird Sisters are not cheap.”

The pleased smirk on Malfoy’s face caused Harry to snort softly into his hand.

“What should I put down for the entertainment, Mister Malfoy?”

“I have been lucky enough to get a Quidditch star to agree to attend and he’s got something planned.”

“What?” Harry wheezed. He slapped his knee when Malfoy glared at him. He couldn’t help it. Seamus a Quidditch star?

“Oh! Not as grand as the Weird Sisters but I have heard that Miss Greengrass is a Quidditch fan. She’ll appreciate that. May I ask who it is?”

Harry couldn’t help the loud half-choke, half-wheeze that left him. The sound was croaked, and he worried his lungs would fail him.

“Is everything okay over there?”

That had Harry laughing harder and he couldn’t help but stomp his feet. The laughter wouldn’t stop, not even when Malfoy shot a stinging hex at him.

“Yes, I think my cat is dying, that’s all.”

“We can continue this another time.”

“No, continue, I never liked the bloody thing anyway.”

“Oh, um,” Bramble hesitated, and Harry snorted. “Who did you say the Quidditch star was?”

“I didn’t,” Malfoy drawled. “The team is the Tornadoes if that helps.”

“Alright. I’ll go ahead and cancel the Weird Sisters and set aside an invite for the Tornadoes player.”

The laughter left Harry as he sat up straight. Wait. That was it? Malfoy just… just did it? That easily?”

“Should there be any further questions, I would like to know,” Malfoy said, tone hard and eyes narrowed. “I was not pleased when I saw the orders.”

“I—I’m terribly sorry to hear that.” Bramble sounded scared and Harry kind of wished he had that effect on people.

“How sorry?”

He couldn’t help but be impressed when Bramble rushed to offer discounts should Malfoy need a party planner in the future.

It wasn’t until Malfoy closed the floo on Bramble who was still offering apologies that Harry was able to relax.

“Forget kind of scary. You are full-blown scary.”

“You,” Malfoy growled. “You almost blew it.”

“Well excuse me, a little warning and I would have laughed before the floo. You can’t just surprise me like that.”

“That’s not an explanation,” Malfoy argued. “That’s an excuse.”

“A good one.”

“I disagree.”

“Who cares what you think.”

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry mocked with a slight sneer.

“I cannot wait until this is done with, so I never have to see you again.”

“Please,” Harry scoffed. “You’ll miss me.”

Malfoy opened his mouth only to close it and shake his head. A small victory.

“What exactly do you expect Seamus to do for entertainment?” Harry asked with a small chuckle. “He’s a reserve player, never played an official match. No one’s even going to know who he is.”

“I’m sure he’ll come up with something.”

“What? You are going to let him come up with a plan?”

“Why not?” Malfoy absentmindedly asked as he began to look over the paperwork again.

“That’s a horrible idea. He’s going to make a mess.”

“And?”

“And he’ll probably try and steal someone’s jewellery or a damn plant if they have a greenhouse.”

“I’m not seeing the problem.”

Harry threw his hands in the air. “What do you mean you don’t see a problem? He’s going to draw so much attention to—ohh.”

“Knew you’d catch on eventually.”

Harry didn’t appreciate the snark, he really didn’t.

“You want him to be the giant mess that he is.”

“Exactly.”

“That company is going to lose so much business.”

Malfoy arched a brow, not bothering to look up. “Do you care?”

“Not really.” Part of him felt like he should care, but there was nothing.

“Now that Seamus is taken care of,” Harry sat down next to Malfoy, ignoring the unfriendly glare. “What about Dean?”

“I said I had a plan, didn’t I?”

“No shit,” Harry scrunched his face up. “I meant, what is it?”

“Why don’t you figure it out for yourself?’’

“Huh—”

All the papers Malfoy had been obsessed with were dumped into his lap and he had to scramble to catch them all before any fell.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Malfoy placed his hands behind his head and stretched his feet out until a footrest appeared out of nowhere. “Go on, pull your own weight here.”

“I’d like to think I have been.”

Malfoy snorted harder than was attractive. “You’re full of shit.”

“I got my friends involved, didn’t I?”

“No,” Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “I did that.”

“It still counts.” He refused to admit Malfoy was right. Instead, he picked up the first piece of parchment. It was a list of guests that could show up, no guaranteed attendees.

“That one is useless.”

“Is it?”

Harry frowned down at the list before he peered up into Malfoy’s too smug face.

“You’re trying to confuse me.”

“Am I?”

“Stop it!” Harry hissed when Malfoy’s brows arched. “Just sit there quietly, not saying a word. I know that’ll be hard for you. You like the attention and—”

“Potter, you’re the only one talking. Quit rambling.”

Harry harrumphed louder than necessary as he moved onto the next one. It was a list of food, equipment, decorations and donations. Nothing caught his attention and he was going to skip that one too until he caught sight of a small footnote.

Painting on loan, preferably from the National Artistry Wizard Museum or the National Wizard History Museum, will check options.

“Wait,” Harry reread the whole page and triple checked the footnotes. “Nott wants a fancy schmancy painting behind him while they eat?”

“Does that surprise you?”

No. It didn’t. Nott liked to draw attention to himself, something Harry never liked, it made him uneasy.

“Has Vintage by Design already chosen the place?”

Malfoy shook his head as he picked at his robes. “They haven’t picked a painting either.”

It was obvious what Malfoy was insinuating, but he wasn’t entirely sure Dean would go for it.

“You want Dean to ask the museum if his painting can be on loan?”

“Oh no,” Malfoy leaned forward into Harry’s personal space. “I want you to ask the museum.”

“Why me?”

“Use your brain Potter, I know it must be hard, nothing up there, but do try.”

“Eat my arse, Malfoy,” snarled Harry.

Malfoy’s eyes twinkled as his lips twitched and Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“You want me to?” Malfoy’s nose scrunched up in amusement, and Harry was not amused. “Can’t say I have a lot of practice with that. Usually been on the receiving end, but they say you only live once.”

“Malfoy,” Harry tried to scoot away but Malfoy followed him until Harry’s back pressed against the arm of the sofa.

“Hm, yes, Potter?”

“What are you doing?” The question came out breathy and he placed his hands on Malfoy’s stomach to act as a buffer between them.

“Waiting for you to answer my question.” His face was so close to Harry’s that he could smell Malfoy’s cologne.

“I don’t need you to eat me out.”

Malfoy laughed, actually laughed, and he couldn’t process it fully before, “Not the question I meant, but alright.”

It took embarrassingly long for Harry to realize he meant the museum.

“Well, if Dean asked, they might wonder why, right?”

“Mhm,” Malfoy prompted as he moved Harry’s hands. “Keep going.”

“I can’t think of why you’d want me to ask unless it was my name that would make them.”

“Right.” Malfoy’s hands were wrapped around his wrist and it was distracting. What was he doing?

“I don’t know how a painting on loan would work,” the last word came out as a choke as Malfoy placed a hand on his chest. “I’m sure they would want someone to go with the painting.”

When Malfoy said nothing, Harry tried to figure out if that was by design or if he was planning something.

“I could ask to talk to the creator and then Dean could be the one to come with.”

“Good job, Potter,” Malfoy whispered a breath away, noses touching.  

Oh. That wasn’t fair. Praise should not be given so close to his lips.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?”

“Playing a very dangerous game.”

“For you or for me?” Harry pushed against Malfoy’s head until their foreheads were pressed together.

“I’m always in it for myself, didn’t you know?” It was self-deprecating and Harry could tell it was an insult Malfoy had been told.

“Then make it dangerous for you.”

Malfoy’s eyes searched his, no smirk on his face, no twitch of lips, just open curiosity.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “I don’t. I don’t even know if I want it.”

The sound of the floo could be heard but they didn’t move.

“Then perhaps, another time,” Malfoy whispered just as footsteps and voices could be heard.

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Ron’s complaint was heard before he was seen. “She was suspicious of me!”

“It is Hermione after all,” Dean pointed out. “She’s bound to know you’re being suspicious.”

“I still think it’s a bad idea.”

“We know, Neville. You’ve said it enough.”

The sound of the floo went off again and Harry was still staring into Malfoy’s eyes. Had they always had specks of blue in them?

“How many times do I have to say not to leave me behind?” Seamus huffed. “Merlin none of you care about me.”

“And you two!” Seamus yelled, making Harry jump and jostle Malfoy slightly. “Quit snogging every time we come by.”

There was no use pointing out that they hadn’t, but it was a dangerous game as Malfoy put it.

“Make me,” Malfoy said and with the way his eyes were still on Harry’s face, he couldn’t tell who Malfoy was talking to.

“Malfoy,” Harry started but couldn’t think of what to say after that. There was something unfinished, only he couldn’t understand what it was.

The curiosity vanished and Malfoy’s face returned to no emotions and cold eyes as he got up and moved away. Harry wasn’t as comforted by it as he thought he would have been.

“So,” Ron plopped down on top of Harry’s legs and put his head on his chest. “What did we interrupt?”

“Nothing.” The truth came out before he thought better of it. “Nothing at all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Harry ran his fingers through Ron’s hair and sighed. He wasn’t sure he believed himself either. The whole fake boyfriend was a lot more trouble than it was worth.

“What do you mean I’m the entertainment?!” Seamus cried, and for the second time that day, Harry cracked up.

-TBC-

---

Alright, it’s probably not as funny as I think it is lmaoo but I did crack up a few times while writing it. Gigi can attest to that. Speaking of Gigi, I’d like to thank @snortinglaughter for being my wonderfully beautiful  beta who I adore 

I’ll tag those who asked soon. Thank you! Hope you enjoyed it

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from @xxinvisiblexx and anon. Enjoy, everyone! ♥

Words: 2091 Warnings: fluff, slight concussion

It was the morning of your big day. The day your loving father had been planning for since you had been born. Your wedding. Your marriage to an ugly and old aristocrat who was known for treating his wives like whores. According to your father, it was the only purpose of your existence. To help him improve his status, to introduce him to the fine world of the rich. You, however, had a different idea of what direction your life would take. So you had planned, for weeks on end and calculating all possibilities and chances.

It was the morning of your big day. And you had long fled your father's home and hidden in a popular hotel for overseas travellers. You knew the owner—and he had offered you a single room for a price that you could actually afford. Then, tomorrow morning, you would board the first ship to England. You had always wanted to see this country... the opportunity was perfect. To start a new life, far away from married life and cruel grooms.

“Excuse me... I am looking for a young woman.”

Your blood froze. You knew that voice. Looking up anxiously, you dared a look. It was him. Your forced fiancé. Out of all places, why would he look for you here? Quickly, you looked away again. He was speaking to a young couple two tables next to yours. It was a little coffee shop attached to the hotel you were in. With your heart beating in your mouth, you hoped he would not recognise you.

 -

Sir Thomas Sharpe frowned. Apparently, so it seemed, it was fairly common for Americans to simply speak to strangers. It was risky for him and Lucille to come back here, after everything that had happened with Edith. He had thought he loved her... and she had proven to him that he did not love Lucille either—at least not in the way she longed for him to. Now, Edith was gone but his blue eyes were wide open. He wanted a wife. He wanted a woman who adored and loved him... without having to poison her. Lucille had not accepted it, not really. But the last thing she wanted was to lose Thomas.

“A young woman?” He repeated incredulously.

The stranger nodded. “My... fiancé.” You shivered when he gave him a detailed description of you. The man he was speaking to... he was English. You could tell by his accent. And then... making your heart skip a beat... he glanced in your direction, matching what he had just heard with what he saw. Your eyes met—your body felt like it had been ignited.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, sir. I have seen no such woman.”

You breathed out, relieved. As soon as your so-called fiancé had gone, you stood, frantically, to hurry back to your room which you did not intend to leave again until your departure to England tomorrow.

It was then you suddenly heard the smooth voice of the stranger speaking directly to you.

“Excuse me... I could not help but introduce myself. Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet. My sister Lucille and I live in Allerdale Hall in the north of England.”

Oh. A man of royal blood then. You swallowed thickly. Was it safe to trust him and tell him your name?

“I'm... pleased to meet you, Sir Thomas. My name is (Y/N). Thank you. For what you did…”

"You are welcome. He... does not seem like a decent person, if I may be honest with you."

“No, he... my father wants me to marry him. Today... today we were supposed to be wed. I... escaped. I am boarding a ship to England tomorrow.”

Again, Thomas frowned. You were beautiful, you were strong... and you were in need of his help. If he was going to do things differently from now on, he might as well do the right thing to try and make up for the sins he had committed over the last few years.

“If you don’t mind me asking, do you know where you will be staying?” He asked concerned.

“Oh, no... not yet. I stole a bit of money from my father to afford this hotel for a few days... but... I... I will try and find some work as soon as I arrive.”

“Why don't you come with me and my sister? We can always use an extra pair of hands. I'm afraid I am unable to pay you but I could offer you a room in our manor.”

Your eyes widened. Could it be? Luck? Hope? A decent man? For the first time in your life?

“I... that... that would be... I couldn't thank you enough.” You stuttered.

Thomas smiled and nodded. “Meet us tomorrow at seven o’clock, at the pier. I am sure you will like England, (Y/N).”

 -

“Thomas!” He had had some concerns at first. A young woman—petite compared to the workers he usually hired—could you really be of help? If anything, he was intrigued by you. Your audacity to flee and start your own life, your will to live independently and your cheerful nature whenever you were around him… You were a woman he could imagine marrying one day. Lucille did not particularly like you, of course. She was jealous, worried that he would grow to love you and abandon her; and she had been furious when he had told her about the offer he had made you.

By now, at least she had come to accept you. To her, you were a willing helper, one of Thomas’ lackeys if you will to help him build his clay-mining machine. And even Thomas himself was surprised. If it wasn’t for your hair, the youthful sparkling in your eyes and your cleavage which you only managed to hide in winter when it was cold, he would in fact mistake you for a hard-working and independent man. But he did not. What he saw was a beautiful, strong and intelligent woman he slowly began to feel more affection for than he intended to.

You would not want to marry him. You had fled and settled down in England to run from marriage… he was not going to force you into another now. Besides… you might take it the wrong way if he asked. Would you think he would throw you out of the house if you refused? Would he send you away? Lucille was thoroughly capable of such things. Thomas, however, was not.

Smiling gently, he put down the hammer and turned, joining you at the back of the machine. You had made progress—your ideas had both surprised and impressed him and most importantly… they had helped. No longer was there any need to seduce innocent women to steal all of their money.

It was just… he wanted you. His longing gaze rested on you day in and out, glued not only on your body but also your smile. You were different. Different from Edith and different from everyone else he had ever met. You were his equal in ways other women had never been, not even Lucille. You had enchanted him, jinxed him even.

And little did he know you reciprocated his feelings. You had brushed it off at first. Thomas was your hero. He had given you shelter, an occupation and a new home. He was there whenever you needed a shoulder to cry on and most importantly, he cared. But just because he was the first man who treated you this kindly… that did not mean you had the right to fall in love with him… right?

You had noticed the looks he gave you, of course, felt his hot glances on your body. Electricity rippled through you whenever you accidentally touched while working on his machine and the tension you felt clinging onto your limbs like the claws of a dozen angry kittens set your body on fire.

You were standing on top of one of the shovels, attempting to loosen whatever had caused it to get stuck again—it was a problem you were currently facing regularly.

“Can you check if the cogs around the engine all work? I can’t seem to find anything here.”

“That I will.” Thomas smiled, hesitating for just a brief moment before doing what you had asked. One of his other workers joined him, shifting and trying the gears until he accidentally started the engine. Now it always took a while for it to start running smoothly which in return disabled switching it off again instantly.

It was only then Thomas realised you were still standing on top of one of the metal shovels.

“(Y/N), get down there, quick! Be—“ He did not get to finish his sentence. You let out a high-pitched scream when you fell because of the sudden movement of the machine, your head colliding with the cold and hard metal. You never noticed how you blacked out and landed in the powdery snow beneath you almost lifelessly, not how Thomas shouted your name again so loudly he even alarmed Lucille who came hurrying outside. Panting, he rushed to your side and knelt down, examining your head carefully. No blood. That was a good sign. A slight concussion, perhaps… they would have to call a doctor immediately.

“Lucille!” He began desperately when he spotted her approaching curiously. “Send for a doctor.”

“It will take him hours to reach Allerdale Hale.”

“Just do it!” Thomas swallowed thickly. He never raised his voice against his sister. But you were hurt… and partially, it was his fault.

With parted lips, he picked you up from the frozen ground and carried you inside, ordering his workers to take a break in the meantime. The one who had turned on the machine he would deal with later.

Inside the house, he carried you all the way up to his room and laid you down on his soft and cosy bed, draping the blanket over you to keep you from shivering and hoping to God that your unconsciousness would only last for a few minutes

He was shaking when he sat down on the bed, reaching for your hand and warming it in his palms after wetting a towel in the bathroom and putting it on your forehead to ease some of the oncoming headache you would most likely experience soon. Your hands were almost rougher than his and at the very same time… so soft he longed to cover it with gentle kisses.

About fifteen minutes passed until you finally came about again, moaning quietly. You squinted, nausea and a terribly annoying pain in the back of your head overwhelming your senses in an instant.

“(Y/N)…” Your eyes flew open slowly, meeting Thomas’ worried gaze, your hand comfortably warm in his. “How are you feeling?”

“Like… my head hit your monstrosity of a machine.” You chirped.

Thomas smiled. “Should I get you a glass of water?”

You nodded, waiting patiently until he could bring the cool liquid to your lips and help you drink a few sips.

“Lucille called a doctor. He will come check on you in a few hours’ time.” He paused, looking down guiltily.  “I’m sorry… this should not have happened.”

“Thomas…” It’s okay, you meant to say—but it was hard to focus and move your lips to form proper sentences.

“You should rest a little more. You are not to leave this bed for at least three days, I will make sure of that. Don’t worry about the machine for now. Your well-being is much more important than the clay.”

Gathering your strength, you tightened your grip in his hands, squeezing him gently. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring for me.”

“I will always care for you, (Y/N).”

You smiled weakly, already half asleep and almost as if you were still dreaming. “That sounds like I promised you my hand in marriage.”

Thomas chuckled lightly. “That I would love for you to do, darling.” He admitted quietly.

“You… would?”

“Yes.” Returning your smile, he leaned forward to press a tender kiss on your forehead after removing the towel again to refresh it for you. His lips parted, both in surprise and joy when your last mumbled words right before you drifted off to sleep again reached his ears.

“I would… love that, too.”

It certainly was one way to get engaged. Now all he had to do was buy you a ring to slip on your finger as soon as you woke again.

 -

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

e-Missary

It’s the 27th here, so I’m posting my Steter Secret Santa fic. 

Happy holidays to my giftee @hotpinklizard and I hope you enjoy! 

And thank you to @stetersecretsanta for putting this whole thing together! 

Peter Hale has a tension headache building behind his eyes, a nephew who has picked the wrong time to have a crisis of conscience, and a bound and gagged college freshman in the trunk of his car as he speeds north along Highway 101. This is not how he intended his weekend to go, but Peter is nothing if not adaptable.

“I’m calling Mom,” Derek says, stony-faced.

“Come now, nephew.” Peter flashes him a smile. “No need to be hasty.”

There’s a barrage of dull thumps from the trunk of the car.

“I’m calling Mom,” Derek repeats.

Peter sighs as Derek digs around in his pockets.

“Where’s my phone?” Derek growls, his eyes flashing.

“Did you leave it on the top of the car when we stopped for gas?” Peter asks. “People do that all the time.”

“Why would I…” Derek trails off, words replaced with a more menacing growl this time as he realizes exactly what happened to his phone, and exactly who is to blame.   

In Peter’s defense, Derek should be more careful with his personal belongings and not leave them where they can be so easily pick-pocketed. Like in his pockets. That’s just asking for trouble. Perhaps Peter setting his phone on the roof of the car at the last gas station will teach him to be more responsible in the future.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Peter promises.

He will, too. Peter is always as good as his word—although, crucially, never any better—and none of this is Derek’s fault. Peter blames Alan Deaton for this entire mess, actually. Peter has never trusted Deaton. Never. Deaton is too difficult to read, and Peter has never believed that the emissary’s goals align exactly with those of the Hale Pack.

Former emissary’s.

Peter leans down to turn the volume up on the radio, hoping to drown out both Derek’s growling and the incessant thumping from the trunk. They’ll both tire themselves out sooner or later, right?

The rousing strains of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries fill the car. It seems like appropriate musical accompaniment for the shitstorm Peter is currently well and truly headed into.

No, this is definitely not how he intended on spending his weekend.

None of this is his fault, for the record. Peter would like that very clearly stated. It’s all Alan Deaton’s fault. And it started three weeks ago back in Beacon Hills.

***

 “Excuse me?” Peter asks in the sudden silence. “You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?”

His sister Talia leans back in her chair and gives him a look. The look. The one she’s been giving him since the day he was born. The Peter-I-can’t-believe-you-please-act-like-a-civilized-creature-for-once-in-your-life-for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy look. It’s what Talia does. And Peter ignores it, because that’s what he does.

“I assure you I’m not joking,” Alan Deaton says in that insufferably calm manner of his that makes Peter want to tear his throat out. “I’m going to move to Minnesota and start up an organic dairy farm.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Peter says, narrowing his eyes. “For starters, nobody would choose to move to Minnesota. And secondly, you don’t get to retire, Alan, you’re our emissary!”

Peter doesn’t like Deaton, but that doesn’t mean the smarmy asshole just gets to walk away. Deaton is their emissary. It’s a sacred trust. There were blood oaths involved. Retirement is not a fucking option.

“Peter’s right, Alan,” Talia says, sounding way too calm for the situation.

Of course Peter’s right. Peter is always right. Really, the sooner people realize this fact as one of the immutable truths of the universe, the better off everyone will be and the more smoothly everything will run.

Deaton looks as serenely unruffled as always. He inclines his head a fraction. “I assure you, Talia, that the welfare of the Hale Pack remains my highest priority.”

Peter folds his arms over his chest. He can barely suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

Outside, he hears the patter of little paws in the corridor. Peter prowls closer to the closed library door and growls lowly, just to remind any small eavesdroppers that now might be a good idea to be elsewhere, and is rewarded by the sound of the pups skedaddling away again. Sometimes being the alpha’s left hand means drowning her enemies in their own blood, and sometimes it means stopping small excitable children from barging into meetings. It’s a mixed bag.

When he turns back to Talia and Deaton, it’s just in time to see Deaton slide what looks to be a business card across Talia’s desk.

Talia picks it up and inspects it. “What’s this?”

“That,” Alan Deaton says, “is the name of a spark who can act as your emissary until you find a permanent replacement.”

“Alan,” Talia says. “He has a website.”

“Stiles offers an online service,” Deaton says calmly.

“Online,” Talia repeats, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

Peter stalks forward and holds his hand out for the card.

Stiles the Spark, it reads in unnecessary cursive, e-Missary online services.

What. The. Fuck?

Peter has always been interested in magic. Unnaturally so, actually, since most werewolves have an aversion to it. That aversion is more cultural than biological. For creatures that surround themselves with magic, werewolves shy away from practicing it. It’s why human emissaries are so necessary for packs: to place wards, to enhance the strength of the pack bonds and the alpha, to use their magic to protect, to defend and—if necessary—to attack. Magic is elemental. It’s tied intrinsically to the pack, to the land, and to the heartbeat of the magic user.

There’s no fucking app for it, basically.

Peter wants nothing more than to tear the business card up into shreds, and shove the pieces up Alan Deaton’s ass.

Deaton just smiles slightly. “Stiles is more than capable of maintaining the wards and monitoring the telluric currents online, I promise you.”

“We’re talking about magic, Alan,” Talia says. “Not tech support.”

“What’s the difference, really?” Deaton asks, a slight smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

Talia blinks at him, like she’s actually thinking about it.

Shit.

She’s actually going to fall for his enigmatic bullshit. 

“Talia,” Peter says, voice low in warning.

Talia takes back the business card, and looks at it thoughtfully.

“Talia,” Peter repeats.

His sister meets his gaze and shrugs. “It can’t do any harm to look into it, Peter.”

Fuck Alan Deaton, fuck Minnesota, and fuck Peter’s life. Because of course it won’t be Talia looking into it, will it? No, it will not. This is absolutely going to be a job for her left hand. And, like wrangling the toddlers away from secret meetings with the emissary, it’s going to be one of the shitty jobs.

Peter can just tell.

 ***

 Talia, against Peter’s advice, makes contact with the emissary. Or, rather, the e-Missary. Jesus. Peter detests him for that butchering of the English language alone.   

“His name really is Stiles,” Talia tells Peter the next morning over breakfast. “He’s a freshman at Stanford. He’s been practicing magic since he was fourteen.”

“That’s hardly a ringing endorsement if he’s still practically in diapers,” Peter points out.

“He comes with a recommendation from Satomi.”

Okay, so that’s a surprise. Satomi Ito is the alpha of a pack in a neighboring territory, and she’s no pushover.

“I don’t like it,” Peter says. “I don’t care if Deaton says he can work his magic remotely. That’s not the point. The point is, an emissary is supposed to have a bond with a pack. How the hell are we supposed to know if we can even trust this Stiles if we can’t scent him, or hear his heartbeat?”

And that’s the crux of the matter. Werewolves rely on scent, and on body language, and on a thousand different tells in the way a person presents themselves. And none of those things work via email. This spark could be laughing at them while he plans to dismantle every one of the magic protections Alan Deaton has set up around the Hale territory, and they wouldn’t even know it.

It’s dangerous.

Peter lowers his voice. “How do we know he isn’t working for some other pack at the same time he’s worming his way past our defenses?”

Werewolf packs aren’t what they once were, but that’s not to say there are no longer any fangs hidden behind polite smiles, or claws in a handshake. And the Hale territory is very attractive. A faithless emissary could easily sell them out to the highest bidder. And while that may not be a likely scenario, it’s still Peter’s job to consider it. He wouldn’t be his alpha’s left hand if he trusted too easily. The requirements for the job of left hand are a keen intelligence wrapped around a suspicious nature, an aptitude for intrigue that would make Machiavelli proud, and a strong stomach when it comes to bloodshed.

Peter is over qualified.

He was born over qualified.

Talia reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder. “The contact specifies that he’s to work with only one pack at a time.”

Peter waits.  

Talia digs her fingers in to the muscle of his shoulder. “Look into it for me, won’t you, Peter?”  

Peter nods, his eyes flashing.

Stiles the Spark had better be exactly as trustworthy as he promises, or he’s going to be in for a world of regret.

 ***

 For all of her initial caution, Talia spends an hour on the phone with Satomi Ito, and then signs the contract with Stiles the Spark on a Monday afternoon.

“Satomi vouches for him,” she says, as though that settles the matter. “And I’ve spoken to him. I think we can trust him.”

“Are you serious?” Peter is aghast.

“It’s fine, Peter,” Talia says. “I’ve made my decision. Let it go.”

It doesn’t settle the matter at all. Not for Peter.

“Besides,” Talia says, “the website thing is very modern.”

She says it as though Peter should be amused, or at least grudgingly impressed.

Peter is neither.

On Tuesday morning, the air shimmers in the Preserve as the wards pulse and surge. There’s a burst of ozone in the air, the smell of a sky before the storm, and then it passes.

On Tuesday evening Alan Deaton inspects the new wards, declares them good, and packs his car and heads for Minnesota.

Peter hopes that the first time he tries to milk an organic dairy cow, it steps on his head and crushes his skull.

 ***

 Derek is never going to be a left hand. The boy is… well, Peter loves him dearly, but he’s a marshmallow. Even the leather jacket and the brooding eyebrows can’t hide that for long. Peter has always been amused at how differently they present. Derek tries to look like a bad boy even though that mask is as flimsy as rice paper. Peter, on the other hand, comes across as charming and friendly. By the time people see Peter’s fangs, it’s way too late.

Derek is not Peter’s first choice for a sidekick, or a minion, or whatever the term is whenever the left hand needs a little backup. Hopefully the term is not co-defendant. Peter’s first choice for business like this would be Cora, but she’s away at college so it’s Derek who accompanies him on his trip to the Bay Area to find out what they can about Stiles the Spark.

They don’t even have his full name, but they do know where he lives. Not that it was easy information to find. Peter had to call in a huge favor to get the address. But all the VPNs and proxies and whatever the hell else the spark used to hide his location—Peter is not especially tech savvy—were no match at all for Peter’s contact in the NSA. Really, it’s a travesty how the government spies on its own citizens, but it’s so useful.

Stiles the Spark lives in a small studio apartment in Charleston Meadow. The building is old but reasonably well maintained. It’s nothing special at all, although Peter has no doubt the rent is exorbitant. Welcome to the Bay Area.

Peter and Derek park a little way up the street, and then they wait.

Peter flicks through the contract the spark signed with Talia. The one where he agrees to work exclusively with the Hale Pack for the duration of the contract. It’s a six week contract, with an option for an extension if both parties agree. In those six weeks, Stiles the Spark will take care of defensive warding, do whatever general protective spell-work is required of him by Talia, and respond to any formal communications made by other packs. All the very basic duties of an emissary, but Peter deeply distrusts handing those duties over to a stranger, however highly recommended he comes.

He glares at Stiles the Spark’s illegible crawl of a signature on the contract, and feels his upper lip curl up in a snarl.

“You’re sure this guy is plotting to backstab us somehow, aren’t you?” Derek asks.

“I’m not sure of anything,” Peter says. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

“Not everyone,” Peter agrees. “But it only takes one.”

Derek presses his mouth together a little tightly, and if he’s not thinking of Kate Argent right now then he damn well should be. If it hadn’t been for Peter following Derek to one of his assignations with his secret girlfriend, Kate Argent might have killed them all. So no, Peter will never apologize for being suspicious-minded.

“Does Mom know we’re here?” Derek asks after a moment.

“She asked me to look into things,” Peter says, neglecting to mention that she later rescinded that order.  

Derek’s brows pull together. “But does she know we’re here?”

Peter does him a favor and doesn’t answer that directly. Derek is a mama’s boy. He hates disappointing Talia. Given that she’s the alpha, it’s no character flaw at all but Derek doesn’t even give himself any wriggle room. It would be unthinkable to him to act without his alpha’s explicit permission. He wasn’t always like this, but with Derek it’s once bitten, twice shy. Just another legacy of Kate Argent.

“It’s fine, Derek,” Peter says, his mouth curling up in what he intends to be a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, I promise.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced.

Once Peter has got this spark thing sorted out, he’s going get Derek very, very drunk on wolfsbane-infused whiskey, take him to a club, and encourage him to make some reckless decisions with some pretty people. The boy really needs to loosen up. Most importantly, he needs to learn that it’s entirely possible to get laid without having to fear for his life, and that the act of putting his dick inside someone has no correlation at all with whether or not they’re plotting to kill him and his entire pack. Really, the chances of that happening more than once are infinitesimal, right?

It’s past noon when a young man appears from the front of the apartment complex in an explosion of plaid and flailing limbs. He looks like a typical college kid: bags under his eyes, a backpack flung over his shoulder, mussed up hair, and clothes that have never seen an iron. Peter watches his progress from the front steps to the sidewalk with an amused sort of disinterest—the kid is clearly not a spark. He is too young, too clumsy, and he gives off the same commanding aura of power and control as a kitten chasing a ping pong ball across a newly waxed floor—but Peter watches him because there’s nothing else to watch. Which is why he’s paying attention when the kid trips over his own feet, and the contents of his backpack go flying.

Paper and pens and other detritus scatter all over the sidewalk.

A gleaming silver laptop… does not.

It just hangs in the air, a foot or so above the ground, with the kid’s hand outstretched toward it. For a moment nothing moves, and then the kid hurries forward and plucks the laptop out of the air. He shoves it into his backpack with a guilty expression on his face, and then gets down on his hands and knees to collect everything else. Moments later he’s back on his feet, jogging toward the battered old blue Jeep parked further down the street.

“Did that…” Derek murmurs, and shakes his head. “Did that just happen?”

Peter feels a thrill run through him. It’s not very often that he’s surprised.

“Well,” he says, craning his neck to watch as the Jeep roars off down the street. “I think we’ve found our spark.”

 ***

 Stiles the Spark lives in apartment 4F. It’s the work of minutes for Peter to pick the lock. He feels a buzz of something like static in the air as the door swings open, and then all the air is abruptly sucked out of the room, the edges of Peter’s vision darken, and Peter gets a whiff of a scent that makes his fangs drop and his claws extend just as the door slams shut in his face again.

Well then.

It looks like they just tripped the spark’s alarm system.

Good.

Because if what Peter just smelled inside the spark’s apartment is indeed the case, then this information gathering mission just turned into something very different indeed.

And Peter will take the spark apart very, very slowly with his claws until he tells them who he’s really working for.

  ***

 Derek isn’t Peter’s first choice for a sidekick, but he does make excellent bait. He’s fiddling with the lock on the door of apartment 4F when the Stiles the Spark returns, while Peter, thanks to the judicious application of a teensy bit of magic and the handy placement of an incredibly ugly ficus in the hallway of the apartment building, doesn’t even register as a blip on the spark’s radar. Of course, the spark is way more fixated on the guy trying to break into his apartment.

Peter was counting on that.

The boy is magnificent, really.

He strides down the hallway toward Derek, and he’s no flailing, clumsy student now. He’s a whirlwind, a dervish, a force of nature.

“Who sent you?” he demands, voice as low as a predator’s as he stalks closer to Derek. “What do you want?”

He could call up storms with that voice, Peter thinks. Call up storms and rain down fire. All the electricity in the air seems to gather around him as he moves. It crackles, and the air shifts and shimmers around him.

He’s incredible.

A part of Peter almost wants to see how this will play out—he imagines something with thunderbolts—but Derek is looking increasingly terrified, like a fluffy little bunny cornered by something with fangs, and Talia will never forgive Peter if her baby doesn’t come home in one unblemished piece.

“What are you doing here?” the boy demands, closing the distance between him and Derek. “Who the hell are you?”

Peter almost reluctantly steps out from the shelter provided by the ficus. “He would be the distraction, sweetheart.”

The boy spins back to face him, and his mouth drops open just as Peter blows a handful of iron filings right in his face.

The boy is magnificent, but he has fuck all situational awareness.

His eyes roll back in his head and he goes down like a sack of rocks.

“And you must be Stiles,” Peter says with a smirk.

 ***

 Thump thump thump from the trunk.

Well, apparently someone is still very unhappy about his travel arrangements. 

They’re still about two hours from Beacon Hills, which means they’re an hour and a half from Peter’s cabin. He calls it his cabin in the hope that it sounds quaint and charming, but Laura insists it makes him sound like the Unabomber, and Cora calls it “Uncle Peter’s little den of torture.” Peter prefers to think of it as his little den of intensive practical applied information gathering, but that just doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily. It’s less of a cabin and more of a bunker, to be honest, and it is filled with everything Peter needs to get Stiles the Spark to talk.

He grips the steering wheel tightly, fighting the urge to let his claws descend and ruin his new hand-sewn nappa leather steering wheel cover. He’s a werewolf, not a Philistine.

Thump thump thump.

Derek gives him the side eye. He’s still pissed about his phone, probably, and also probably about the fact that he’s become an accomplice in an abduction. And probably that whole using-him-as-bait thing back at the apartment building. Still, the boy could stand to lighten up a little. Nobody died.

Yet.

Peter turns the stereo up.

Thump thump thump.

Stiles is cuffed in iron shackles—wrists and ankles—in the trunk of the car. He is blindfolded and gagged. He is wrapped up like a burrito in a blanket made out of steel wool, which can’t be very comfortable, but contains enough iron to keep a moderate dampner on that magic of his.

And preventing him from using his magic is one thing, but maybe Peter should have slipped him a roofie too. Still, every mile brings them closer and closer to the cabin, and it’s not like the spark is going anywhere in the meantime. And how much damage can he really do, locked securely in the trunk?

Thump thump thump CRACK.

Fuck.

“What the hell?” Derek asks, twisting in his seat as though he’ll actually be able to see what’s going on in the trunk.

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He can only deal with one annoying fucking irritant at a time, and right now that irritant is Stiles.

It takes longer than Peter would like to reach the nearest exit on the highway, and longer than that to get the car to somewhere secluded enough to actually pull over and sort this little bastard out. When he parks behind the shelter of a copse of trees, he and Derek get out and inspect the damage. The tail light is hanging by the wires from the back of the car.

Peter really, really hopes that nobody saw the kid kick it out and then called the police with his license plate number.

He opens the trunk.

Stiles is a mess. He’s still half-wrapped up in the blanket, but he’s struggled enough that he’s opened up patches of abrasions all over his arms and his face. His skin is covered in sweat and smears of blood. His gag is still in, but his blindfold is askew. One eye, golden-bright and piercing as an owl’s in the late afternoon sun, stares up at Peter narrowly.

Peter smiles at him, and extends a clawed hand toward his face.

Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

“Damage my car again,” Peter says, keeping his voice low as a prayer, “and you’ll regret it. What’s that saying?” He drags a claw gently over the boy’s sharp cheekbone, not quite hard enough to draw blood. “An eye for an eye?”

Stiles holds his gaze, and there’s murder in it.

Peter slams the trunk shut again.

There’s no noise at all from the trunk for the rest of the drive.

 ***

 It’s getting late by the time they reach the cabin. It’s almost winter, and the evenings are beginning to draw in earlier. There’s a chill in the air, but nothing a werewolf can’t handle. Peter and Derek haul Stiles out of the trunk of the car, and both get the benefit of that baleful one-eyed stare as they manhandle him toward the cabin. Stiles smells like electricity, and touching him, even bundled up as he is in his abrasive steel wool blanket, makes Peter’s skin prickle. Stiles is breathing heavily, and sweat has slicked his hair to his temples. His heart is thumping as fast as a rabbit’s.

Peter disarms the alarm system and unlocks the cabin door. He steps inside and turns on the lights. They’re halogen. Bright and unforgiving.

Stiles sucks in a breath as he sees what’s waiting for him.

The cabin is… well, it’s a clearly been build for one purpose, and not a nice one. It looks like the sort of place specifically designed to torture and dismember people with the minimum of fuss, and then possibly use their skin to make gloves out of. Not that Peter has ever done that. But if he wanted to, here would be the place. It’s more Hannibal Lector than Buffalo Bill. It’s clean, but that doesn’t mean it’s not ominous.

The main room is windowless. It has two very large stainless steel counters that run lengthways down the room. Underneath the counters are drawers and cabinets. There is a large gleaming sink on the far wall between them. The resemblance to a morgue isn’t entirely accidental. The room also has a polished cement floor that slopes gently toward a drain in the corner. So much easier for cleanup.

There’s a sturdy chair in the middle of the floor.

Peter and Derek manhandle Stiles onto the chair, and then Peter opens one of the many cabinets and pulls out a length of iron chain. Heavy as hell. Peter uncuffs Stiles’s ankles, and then wraps the chain around Stiles’s left ankle, winding it up his leg as far as his knee and pushing the blanket out of the way as he goes, and then winds the remainder around his right leg in a similar fashion. He secures it with a padlock.

Iron, of course.

Only then does he pull the blanket away from Stiles. Only then does he pull off the skewed blindfold, and tug the gag out of Stiles’s mouth.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Stiles says, voice rasping. “Cosy.”

Peter smirks, and glances at Derek, who is lurking uneasily by the door. Then he fixes his attention on Stiles again. “Isn’t it?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes like he really thinks he’s in any position to be demanding answers. He’s certainly got balls. If Peter couldn’t hear the rapid thump of his heart or smell the way that adrenaline sours the edges of his scent, he’d almost think Stiles was unafraid.

But Stiles is way too clever to be truly unafraid.

His sharp gaze is taking everything in: Peter, Derek, the cabin. Peter can also see him trying to flex his legs to test the give in the chains. There is none. His cuffed hands are resting in his lap, and his long fingers are mapping the lock, as though he’ll find a weakness there. He won’t.

Peter only smirks, and flashes his eyes at Stiles.

“Werewolf,” Stiles murmurs. “Werewolves don’t use magic.”

“Well, I’m no spark but I know a trick or two.”

“As you clearly demonstrated at my apartment,” Stiles says. His voice is level, but Peter can tell he’s plotting sixteen different methods of murder behind those lovely eyes of his. “Iron filings and a binding curse, right?”

“Simple but effective,” Peter says.  

“Huh.” Stiles seems strangely unimpressed for someone who hit the floor like a brick. “So, where’s your alpha?”

“I’m afraid it’s me that you’ll be dealing with, and not my alpha.”

Stiles leans forward in his chair. “No can do, V-neck. I’m an emissary. I only deal with your alpha.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Peter lies, keeping his tone honey-sweet. “Were you under the impression we’d be following protocol here today? The abduction didn’t clue you in at all?”

“Fair point.” He voice rasps and he clears his throat. For a moment he regards Peter narrowly, and then he turns to look at Derek. He widens his eyes. His bottom lip trembles slightly. And no. No, that will not do. Because Derek is exactly the sort of person who will fall for that vulnerable Bambi bullshit, and it’s taken Stiles the work of moment to pick him out as the weak link. Smart boy.

Peter moves a few paces to the right and blocks Stiles’s view of Derek. “Well then, let’s get down to business. Who are you working for, Stiles?”

Stiles holds his gaze. “That’s something I’m happy to discuss with your alpha.”

“Stubborn,” Peter says approvingly. “Funny thing about stubbornness. I’ve discovered it’s inversely proportionate to the number of fingernails a person still has.”

A corner of Stiles’s mouth twitches. “That is funny.” He wrinkles his nose. “I should probably tell you that I don’t do well with threats.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm.” Stiles rolls his shoulders and blinks up at Peter. “I have ADD. All this back-and-forth posturing bullshit that you werewolves enjoy so much? I mean, I appreciate that you’re trying to create like a sense of impending doom here and stuff, but I have the attention span of a hummingbird on speed, so, honestly, while you’re building up to your big scary moment, I’m sorting through the six thousand tabs I’ve got open in my brain instead. You should probably just save yourself the effort and cut to the chase.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Stiles?”

The cuffs on Stiles’s wrists clink together as he shrugs. “I already told you, V-neck. I only talk to your alpha.”

Peter steps back for a moment, and regards the spark curiously. He’s an interesting one. A strange little puzzle indeed. He smells a little of fear, but there’s something else there as well. There’s a brightness in his eyes that Peter distrusts. What a shame that Stiles is so keen to skip the friendly little chat and get right to the torture: Peter is sure he’d make a bright conversationalist. If they’d met in different circumstances, Peter might not be able to resist the challenge in those eyes. Or resist the temptation to end the evening with Stiles’s long legs thrown over his shoulders as Peter fucked him hard enough that the boy saw several previously undreamt of dimensions when he came. And Peter could absolutely do that with his dick. It’s phenomenal.

What a shame that it’s never going to happen and that Stiles has already dug his own grave. Figuratively, at least. Peter will get Derek onto the actual digging later. But the moment Peter opened Stiles’s apartment door and smelled the unmistakable scent of another werewolf permeating the place he’d known that Stiles had lied to Talia, and that he had to die.

Stiles’s eyes widen when Peter opens one of the cabinets and begins to lay out a series of shiny implements: knives, pliers, thumbscrews. Clink clink clink against the countertop.

Stiles’s throat clicks as he swallows.

Derek growls, low and worried.

Peter selects the pliers first. He steps toward Stiles, and speaks softly. “We don’t have to do this, Stiles.”

Stiles bites his lower lip. “We don’t?”

“You could just tell me who you’re working for, and we can stop before we even start.”

“Right.” The word comes out on a breath, and for a moment Peter thinks that he’s going to fold. Then he meets Peter’s gaze again, and holds it. Fragile and courageous at the same time. Peter almost regrets what has to be done when Stiles shivers. “I… I can’t.”

His heartbeat is steady. He’s not lying.

What a shame.

Peter takes Stiles’s hands in his, and wrenches his arms out straight. The cuffs clink and rattle as he positions the pliers. “Last chance, sweetheart.”

“I…” Stiles’s expression shifts suddenly. Sharpens. Hardens. “I’m not going to let that happen, asshole.”

There’s a sudden burst of blinding white light, and Peter is thrown clear across the room and into the wall. The wall cracks, and so does his skull.

His last thought before he blacks out is that that spell with the iron filings wasn’t worth the money he paid for it. 

 ***

 Peter comes to in slow degrees, and finds that it’s his turn to be tied to the chair. With rope woven with wolfsbane, no less. Really, that might be his own fault for keeping it in the cabin. He blinks around the room and sees Derek standing in the corner, his arms folded over his chest and a frown on his face. There’s a circle of ash fencing him in. There’s one around Peter’s chair as well.

And Stiles the Spark is going through the cabinets, making interested humming noises whenever he finds something that catches his attention. “Is this Nordic blue monkshood?” A low whistle of approval. “Nice.” He rattles around for a moment longer. “Holy shit. You have the Petit Albert. I only have a PDF of this.”

Peter growls.

Stiles straightens up, cradling the grimoire gently. His eyes are bright and his smile is wide. “Wow. After my alpha rips your throats out, I’m definitely stealing this.”

No, today is not going to plan at all.

“Who’s your alpha?” he asks. Might as well know, right? Might as well know exactly which pack is planning to attack his, even if he no longer has the power to stop them. “Who are you working for?”

Stiles sets the grimoire down on the counter and picked up a knife. He turns it over and over in his hand, the blade glinting in the light.

“Oh, V-neck,” he says. “You and Eyebrows here are in a world of trouble now.” His smile grows, teeth gleaming. “I’m the emissary for one of the most powerful packs in the country.”

Peter regards him steadily, while he runs through a list of potential suspects in his mind. Deucalion? Satomi? Which one of them has betrayed Talia? He’s going to figure out a way to come back and haunt whoever the fuck it is.

Stiles leans towards him. “You just picked a fight with the Hale Pack, asshole.”

What?

Peter’s brain short circuits.

What?

From over in the corner, Derek says, “What the fuck?”

Peter couldn’t have said it better himself.

 ***

 “Oh, my god.” When she sweeps into the cabin, Talia is not happy. “What the hell have you done, Peter? I told you to leave it alone!”

Peter tugs at the rope, ignoring the burn. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Talia! He’s lying! He stinks of another pack!”

“What?” Stiles flails, a flurry of limbs and plaid and indignation. “Fuck you! But also, okay, yes, my best bro in the entire world is a werewolf, but my emissary work is totally separate from that, and I fully disclosed it to Alpha Hale!”

 Talia looks at Peter like she really, really wishes she’d been born an only child, and then takes a moment to fuss over the abrasions on Stiles’s face and arms courtesy of the steel wool blanket. “Oh, my god. You’re bleeding.”

And meanwhile Peter is still tied up in wolfbane-infused ropes, but apparently that’s no big thing.  

Stiles wrinkles his nose and flushes under Talia’s attention, and looks for the world like a little kid. Peter half expects Talia to whip out a handkerchief, spit on it, and clean his face like a total mom. When fuck knows if anyone should be applying saliva to that face then it should be--

No.

It is not healthy to be sexually attracted to smartass little fuck weasels who manage to get the upper hand on Peter. But it’s so rare that anyone does. And Stiles has beautiful eyes. And lips that would looks amazing wrapped around Peter’s dick.

Peter totally wants to have hate sex with him.

Stiles smirks under Talia’s ministrations, and glances over at Peter like he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Peter hates him.

Peter wants to hate him all night long, and in various positions.

“I’m fine, Alpha Hale,” Stiles says, like butter wouldn’t melt. “Totally okay. I was never in any real danger.”

And there’s the rub, right? The little asshole could have broken free at any moment. It was nothing but a game to him.

Except…

No, that’s not fair. He’d been doing exactly the same thing as Peter, hadn’t he? Trying to figure out who was attacking the Hale pack. Which, Peter hates to admit, is a level of loyalty he hadn’t expected from someone getting paid by the week. Suddenly that recommendation from Satomi doesn’t seem so strange.

 “I mean, this is like an extreme level of exfoliation,” Stiles says, touching his abraded cheek carefully, “but it’ll be fine. I’ll tell people I face-planted on the beach or something. They’ll swallow it.” He flashes a disarming grin. “I have a history of being gravity’s bitch.”

Talia looks completely charmed.

“Excuse me,” Peter says, “but this rope actually burns.”

Talia gives him a look that says he totally deserves it, but then looks questioningly to Stiles instead. Stiles grins, and shrugs, and waves his hand, and Peter watches as the rings of mountain ash surrounding him and Derek curl away and tidy themselves into little piles, and the rope around him loosens and falls off.

Stiles winks at him, and wiggles his fingers.

Peter isn’t sure if Stiles is laughing at him, or threatening him.

It might actually be both.

  ***

 Stiles spends the night at the Hales’ house, eating pizza and laughing loudly, and making Talia promise that she won’t tell his dad he’s in town because he’ll never forgive Stiles for not dropping by.

“Holy fuck,” Derek whispers, his head in his hands. “We kidnapped the sheriff’s son.”

 “Let it go, Derek,” Peter says, tossing back a few fingers of whiskey. “That was hours ago.”

Stiles laughs, and grabs for the bottle. “You two are my favorite kidnappers ever.”

Peter hates him a little less than he did back at the cabin.

But only a little.

In the morning, Stiles checks the wards he installed remotely in the Preserve. Peter accompanies him.

“So, you’re the left hand,” Stiles says, stopping to pick up a twig and snap it.

“That’s right.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow. “I presume you’re usually a lot better at it.”

“I am, actually.”

“Good.” Stiles’s smile fades and something dark flares in his eyes. “Because I really like your pack, Peter, and I really like your sister and I’m going to be the best emissary money can buy you guys, but fuck diplomacy. It only gets you so far. Sometimes the only way to protect your pack is to strike first, and strike hard.”

Peter feels a rush of warmth, and pleasure. “That’s always been my philosophy.”

“Then I think we’ll work very well together,” Stiles says.

“Until your contact expires.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Guess you’d better use that left hand Machiavellian brain of yours to give your sister some reason to extend my contract.” His eyes dance. “Or give me some reason to stay.”

Peter steps forward and closes the space between them. “Oh, yes. And what might you suggest?”

Stiles’s breath smells like the maple syrup he drowned his pancakes in at breakfast. He turns his head so that his mouth almost brushes against Peter’s jaw line, and Peter feels a flare of heat rush through him. “Well, how about you take me home and fuck me so hard I can’t leave the bed, for starters, and we’ll see how it goes from there?”

 ***

 After six weeks, Talia extends Stiles’s contract.

After six months, Stiles joins the Hale pack officially and closes down his e-Missary service.

Peter takes great pleasure in tearing up one of those obnoxious little business cards.

“Peter!” Stiles complains, yawning and stretching awake. The sunlight filtering through the curtains paints his pale mole-dotted skin golden, and the hickey on his throat a vivid shade of eggplant purple. “Stop going through my stuff.”

Peter climbs onto the bed and straddles him. He showers him in the confetti of the destroyed business card. “These are a crime against the English language, Stiles.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“It’s why you love me,” Peter says.

“Yeah. Fuck you, but it totally is.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Now didn’t you promise me that grimoire if I blew you this morning?”

Peter growls, and lets his fangs drop. “Ready whenever you are, sweetheart.”

When it comes to blowjobs, to making out, and to rapid exchanges of snark that inevitably lead to fucking in odd places—they’ve been banned from Whole Foods—it’s not a lie at all. But generally? Peter has never been ready for Stiles, not even a little bit.

There aren’t many people who can keep Peter Hale on his toes, and of course it took a smartass little spark with a dirty mind and a capacity for plotting revenge that easily matches Peter’s own to do it.

And of course Peter loves every minute of it.

He might be a borderline sociopath with an ego larger than the GDP of China, but hey, doesn’t he deserve nice things too?

Conventional morality says absolutely not, but fuck it.

Peter leans down and kisses his Stiles.

He’ll take them anyway.

You can also read this on AO3. 

[giraffles]

Stay The Night

forgot to post this one here, whoops! some post-canon sweet taakitz for y’all, because I’m weak for these boys. 

Stay The Night (Taako/Kravitz)

His solution, brilliantly, is to not sleep. Not until he falls over from exhaustion or passes out while cooking. He's even got everyone fooled that he's a-okay. At least he thinks he does. No one says otherwise, and that suits him just fine.

you can also read it on AO3 here!

The world doesn't end. And that's a good thing, because they didn't have a backup plan. There was no second chance, no desperate bid for freedom, no tedious reset. It was all or nothing. And they came out on top with all the sweet victory they could ever want. Against all odds, they won. They won, and it's a flood of joy and relief and tinged with a little disbelief. And it's absolutely exhausting. Taako isn't sure if it's physical or mental or just an ungodly combination of both. Maybe it's the weight of over one hundred years of memories finally catching up to him. It's a lot to have lived through, and then to have lived through again, much less cobble back together a coherent understanding of his place in the world. Like, holy fuck. That's a lot to wade through. Sometimes it gives him such a bad headache that it's easier not to think about it, and focus on the here and now. On rebuilding. On reconnecting with those he'd lost but some how found again against all odds. Lup has taken to finding new ways to scare the living hell out of everyone, from floating through the bureau at night to phasing through walls. She even startled him and wasted a whole pot of soup when she popped her lich head up through it. (He had chased her, for all the good it wouldn't do, while she cackled and made full use of her incorporeal form. It had been equal parts nostalgic and aggravating.) Magnus carves ducks in between rebuilding jobs, even though Fisher has long since departed their universe. Merle is trying, and mostly succeeding, to boost morale as they shift through the wreckage, finding what can be saved and mourning what cannot. Everyone is there. Everyone is safe. And yet there's this looming feeling of impending doom that just won't quit. It's as though that through the act remembering, Taako has forgotten what it's like to feel safe. Ignorance really was a sort of bliss, as much as the fuzzed out edges of his life had caused a constant turmoil, because now it's a struggle to stay on top of everything. So much is the same and yet so much can never be the same again. You can't go through something like the apocalypse and not be changed. Sure, at his core he's still Taako, from TV, a living brand name, a hero to be sung about down the ages; but now he's a different kind of Taako. Literally. It still takes a lot to convince himself he doesn't need the illusion spell every morning, and sometimes he does it anyway. Just a little. Nothing too noticeable, but enough to make him feel better, especially on the very likely chance that he hasn't slept much. Sleep is hard now. Meditation is straight out the fuckin' window. Nights and days get stretched together when he's plagued with either insomnia, or worse, the dreams. No, not dreams, because that would imply fantastical but harmless mind adventures. These are memories. Always back to the goddamn memories. The worst ones, the times they almost didn't make it, when he had to watch friends die or feel the cold sting of death himself. Or memories that his brain decided to make up new, more grim endings; his sister, turned to ash, his boy, bleeding out on the floor. Endless rounds of games in a horror carnival that leaves everyone he ever cared about in pieces. Things that leave him awake and gasping and on the edge of tears. Things like that. His solution, brilliantly, is to not sleep. Not until he falls over from exhaustion or passes out while cooking. He's even got everyone fooled that he's a-okay. At least he thinks he does. No one says otherwise, and that suits him just fine.

Date night rolls around. Taako has been looking forward to it all month, a distraction and an excuse to monopolize Death's free time. No business talk. No family. No not-actually-family-but-kinda-sorta-maybe-adopted family. Just the two of them, together, for a nice evening. And god, did he need a break. There's still so many loose ends to tie up, so many things that still need to be sorted out. Not to mention the new void of what the hell he was going to do with his life now. Kravitz stops when he sees him. He squints at Taako, and frowns. "Are you okay?" "Just fine, babe," as fine as he could be, really, "Why, didja forget how gross I looked now?" When all else fails, self-deprecating humor is where it's at. He can preen and put himself down at the same time. Win-win. Kravitz pauses, brows knitted and looking at him intently, seemingly gathering up the right words. "Taako," he begins carefully, "When was the last time you slept?" "Dunno. What's today?" The reaper sighs. He rubs his forehead. Taako drapes himself lovingly in his arms. He's dizzy on an endorphin high and ready for a night out on the town with his most beloved bae. Even if said bae keeps looking at him with such a sour face, and-- "You're going to bed. Right now." "Oh no--" Taako attempts to bolt, but has already made the fatal mistake of allowing Kravitz so close. He might not technically be alive, but he has all the strength of a man his size, and Kravitz has him in a vice grip. He struggles. Any other day of the week and he'd be admiring those guns, but today they're helping commit a great betrayal. Taako whines. "Babe! C'mon!" "No," Kravitz picks him up and starts carrying him inside, "You look like I should be collecting your soul soon, and frankly, that's a little alarming." Taako does his best to wriggle out of his grasp, but it's fruitless. Kravitz can be just as stubborn as he is. Taako resorts to flailing and complaining. However, neither of those slow down the reaper, who's drawing ever closer to his dormitory door. "I don't need sleep! It's for the weak!" "Yes, you do," Somehow Kravitz manages to keep a hold of him even as Taako flips himself upside down, which is both impressive and infuriating, "We can go out another time." Taako huffs and crosses his arms, braid swinging freely and dragging on the floor. This sucks. He can't even get one lousy night to not think about how overwhelming everything is. Kravitz is the worst and he hates him. (He doesn't, of course, he adores his hot boyfriend who's sometimes a skeleton, who's both a badass and a giant dork. He's just mad at him at the moment.) Taako gives him the silent treatment. It's harder to do than it looks, because he'd much rather be vocal about the injustice that's happening to him. Kravitz sighs again. "Taako--" "I'm not talking to you." "Love, please," the pet names have come out, and he resolves to not let it affect him, "You know I care, right?" "I guess," Taako pouts as he's gently set on a couch, "But I wanted to spend time with you." Kravitz looks conflicted. Taako sulks and makes a point to avoid eye contact. So maybe he's a little cranky for only sleeping three hours out of as many days. It's still not fair. "I could stay." Kravitz says. He blinks dumbly up at him. "Do what now?" "Stay with you. While you get some rest. That's a lot creepier out loud than it was in my head." "Do you even need to sleep?" "No," Kravitz admits, "But I wouldn't mind. I mean, if you wanted me to. I don't have to. But I could, I have the whole night off, not that I expected to... do anything. For the whole night. I should stop taking now? I'm stopping now. Sorry." He can't believe he's in love with such a ridiculous, stupid, wonderful, and kind person. Entity? The definition was kind of up in the air for that one. Taako doesn't have to look to know that Kravitz is blushing, probably all the way up to his ears, off-kilter and rambling. He's still wrapping his head around the idea that there are persons out there who, honest to gods, want to put Taako first. Taako doesn't even think Taako deserved that. Sure, that's not what he tells people-- because no one needs to know how bad the inner battle gets. In some ways remembering has made it easier. In others, it's that much harder now. He thinks, that maybe, it would be nice to have someone at his side. Someone who liked him before his life's story got broadcast through reality. Taako considers the proposal for a moment. "Okay." "Okay?" "Okay as in, you best be ready to get super snuggled. I'm clingy as hell." Kravitz gives him a shy smile. "I think I can handle that."

Kravitz has a bigger frame than he does-- nothing like Magnus or Killian who are built like brick shit houses, but he's not as slight as Taako is. Even as a flipwizard, there's not much he can do about genetics and non-athletic career choices. It takes him a minute to fish out some of his more drapey clothes that have half a chance of fitting Kravitz. As much as he enjoys the suit and cloak ensemble, it's not exactly practical sleepwear. And it would be a shame to excessively wrinkle it. Unless it was gonna be in a sexy way, but that should probably wait until another time, when he's fully present for all the fun. Taako's fanciest skirt goes flying across the room, landing on a bookshelf that has less books than colorful knick-knacks and choice pieces of junk. The first time Kravtiz had come over, in a panic he had tried to cover everything in sheets instead of cleaning up, but somehow managed to trip and pull them all down at once. It had been equal parts hysterical and mortifying. Kravitz said that his collection of garbage was 'charming'. Taako still isn't sure he believes that, but it's still sweet. What's also sweet is the way that Kravitz pointedly looks away, trying to be respectful or something-- as though they haven't fucked wildly on various flat (and not so flat) surfaces around his room. He's flustered and it's still as cute as the first time it happened. And nothing would top that first morning, that so called walk of shame where Merle gave them a knowing wink when they came down for breakfast, and Taako had 'accidentally' burned his pancakes in return. At least everyone else had a little more tact and kept their opinions and eyes to themselves. None of them also wanted burned pancakes. But he sets aside those more recent and pleasant memories for pajamas instead, wiggling into them and undoing his complicated orante braids as Kravitz dons his spare clothes. They're still a little tight on him. Taako is very okay with this. "Just sleeping." Kravitz says firmly, catching his gaze. He pouts back. "Not even a little smooching?" The reaper pauses and seems to think on it a moment, though he knows what the answer will probably be. Taako makes his eyes extra big and disarming anyway, having perfected the cute puppy look years ago. You could never be too sure. "Fine, a little smooching," Kravitz yields, "But you have to get some rest." Taako dramatically falls forward into those strong arms again, knowing he'll be easily caught and securely held. "Then take me to bed, big guy." He doesn't miss that breathless laugh, and revels in the way his heart lifts as he's easily swung up and onto his unmade bed. There's no illusions here that if Taako really wanted to he could have a dozen different spells incapacitating his lover, leaving escape for him wide open. Power acquired over decades of study and practice and mad dashes across planes has given him abilities previously only talked about in legends. And so maybe he is a legend, something that should be mysterious and untouchable, always sought but never found. Just like a light they'd once chased through realities. A story to be sung, a name to be called in hushed tones, an abstract ideal to be strived towards. So it's nice, he thinks, when Kravitz looks at him like a person. When Kravitz gets frustrated with him, exasperated, or even bemused. When he looks at Taako like he's the whole world and then kisses him like it's ending all over again. It's nice to have that grounding force to remind him that he's not entirely a fuck up and that he's also not just a product of good marketing. He never thought it would matter to him so much. But it does, and every action is an affirmation, from the way Kravitz smiles at him to the way he runs fingers so gently through his hair. It's wonderful and it hurts and it's so good. He's drunk on the feeling of being wanted. "It's... not too cold, is it?" Kravitz asks him nervously as he curls up on that broad chest, nestling into the crook between neck and shoulder. Yes, he's cool to the touch-- he's never been anything approaching warm since Taako met him. But he's gotten used to it, adapted even, because Kravitz doesn't feel icy and doesn't leave him with a chill. It's almost pleasant in weird way. "S' fine," he mumbles back sleepily, "Kinda nice, actually." Already something is different from all the other times he'd recently crawled into bed or dozed off in the foyer. Something shifts, puts a damper on the rolling anxiety and dread. It takes him another few long moments to realize it's an aura of safety that he's been missing. A bit of calm in a turbulent sea that's been threatening to sink him for weeks. There's no heartbeat beneath his ear, and he's sure the breathing part is either habit or for his own benefit, but it's a piece of normalcy that soothes beyond a doubt. It's something he hadn't realized he even needed. Something solid. Something real. He wraps his arm around Kravitz and holds tight. Taako hadn't been kidding about the clinging part, knowing full well from his days of youth he had a tendency to latch onto things (or someones) in his sleep. This is still different, a conscious effort not to let go of a tie keeping him close to home. Because petty fears and insecurities only seemed to grow as time went on, feeding on each other and plaguing every thought both conscious and not, bringing him to the vicious cycle he was now caught in. And while usually the words would flow so easily, he now found them strangled in his throat. They died before Taako can give them a voice. Kravitz must have felt the tension reverberating through his body, because a hand comes up to push circles into his back. Yes, they've banged countless times, but this is a different intimacy. A different context for something slow and sweet. And he suddenly feels bad for being so needy and high maintenance, but can't summon the energy to do anything about it. "I'm right here," Kravitz murmurs into the darkness, "I'm not going anywhere." And really, that's all he needs to know. That there's someone there. That it's safe to let go.

[reaping-cain]

9. An Awkward Kiss for your favorite pair!

I saw this while going through my inbox and it’s been a while since I wrote anything, so here you go. Cullen x Kaeran in Single Fereldan Man Seeks Female Companion verse…set just before the housewarming, because why not?

Fluff and weirdness, 1175 words

Kaeran was running around in a frenzy, getting everything sorted and in place for the housewarming party. She even had Cullen return to the grocery store to exchange a bag of chips because who throws a party and only has the blandest flavour on hand?

“But it says ‘Classic’,” he said defensively.

Kaeran knows that she’s patient and understanding, but with so much at stake, it wasn’t happening.

Sensing her distress, Cullen left without another word along with the bland bag of chips.

She was going to apologize to him when he got back. She had to, otherwise she was going to feel guilty the whole night.

Fortunately, there was help from Cullen’s sisters and Rhona who came early to help with preparing extra dishes, setting the place for maximized party space. She noticed her cousin pushing the couch flush against the wall, leaving a huge gap in the center for people to mingle.

“There, all clear.” Rhona wiped her hands in satisfaction.

“Don’t get your hopes up, I know that look,” Kaeran chided.

“What look?” Her cousin replied a little too innocently.

“You’re hoping that this party devolves into a beer pong tournament.”

“Well, if it goes that way…”

Rubbing her temples, she can feel a headache coming. “Fine, but only a few rounds and only if you can wrangle three other souls into it. I don’t want my first impression with Cullen’s side to include cops showing up because we’re being loud.”

Kaeran knows that it probably won’t come to that, but at this point she’s preparing herself for the worst case scenario, including the unexpected and uninvited appearance of her ex. It doesn’t help that with the slight throb of a looming headache comes the flood of irritation across her face. She had stopped taking the cream for a week and her skin was rebelling; some days the salve helped and Kaeran completely forgot the pain, but when the air was dry she suffered. Today was a beautiful day, especially for a housewarming, but the air was a tad on the dry side and with Kaeran fussing with her face earlier, she could feel how hot her face felt and her skin did not appreciate the extra layer of makeup concealer.

Right now she was desperately trying not to claw at her own face.

The doorbell rang and for a moment her heart stuttered. Was it time already?

She walked to the entranceway and frowned at Cullen who looked incredibly (and adorably) sheepish on the other side of the door. He had to hunch over a little to peer through the panel of glass, waving at her and then pointing down to the doorknob. Oh.

Kaeran took the few steps to the door and narrowed her eyes slightly. He must’ve understood her meaning and pulled a different bag of chips for her to inspect. Satisfied, she unlocked the door and let him in. The space in the vestibule now crowded with Cullen taking up most of it and peering down at her with a smirk.

“Rhona must’ve locked the door after you left.” She offered, trying to fill the silence. She wasn’t one to do that, and sort of felt silly now doing that.

“No worries, I’ll just make sure to have my key on me next time.”

“I appreciate you going back out, I’m sorry if I was a bit curt. I’ve got a lot on my mind and I know it’s not an excuse to treat you that way.”

“Hey, it’s alright. I didn’t think you were actually mad at me for my questionable choice in chips, I should’ve asked if you had a preference. I’m not really good at this whole housewarming thing.”

“I’ve never thrown one before, just been to a couple of Rhona’s.”

“Well, I think you’re doing a great job and if you need to delegate anything to me, I’m your man.”

“My man, sirrah?” She bats her eyelashes in quick succession while folding her hands across her chest. How does he manage to diffuse her foul mood? She really couldn’t have asked for a better roommate.

He plays along and bows, when he looks into her eyes he gently extricates one of her hands, nestling it into his larger one. Ever the gentleman, Cullen places a chaste kiss between her first two knuckles; it’s a brief contact, the rasp of his stubble against her skin a mix of shock and warm indulgence. He seems to recollect himself faster and it’s when he straightens that she notices his flushed face.

“I-I, um…” His hand so desperately wants to rub the back of his neck, chasing the flush from spreading further.

“It’s this heat, clearly getting to us both,” Kaeran soothes, alleviating him of further embarrassment.

“Think you two can be any more weird?” Rhona shouts from the kitchen. Her question startles them both, making Kaeran chuckle. She stands taller, leaning against Cullen to give him a friendly peck while trying to grab the bag from his hand.

However, the lines of communication are crossed. While Kaeran retrieves the bag from his grasp and leans up to plant a chaste kiss for his trouble, Cullen clutches the bag to him in reflex and confused, turns his head sideways. The shift causes Kaeran to stumble and her lips miss the mark entirely and are presently fixed on the corner of his mouth.

It feels as though they’re frozen in place for an eternity. In reality, it takes a few seconds for both to register what happened and react. Both give up on the bag of chips (which tumbles to the ground, unimpressed), and while Kaeran moves backwards, eyes wide and fingers pressed to her lips, Cullen crowds into her, hands reaching while slightly out of breath.

“Kaeran…” He wants to apologize but can’t find it in himself to. What was there to be sorry about? Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he didn’t regret it. He could see now that she was at war with herself, unsure how to process. She didn’t recoil from him, only belatedly retreated.

Kaeran was about to say something when Rhona called out again, “Hey, can I use the mortar and pestle to smash avocado?”

That seemed to snap them both out of their trance. Both tried to salvage the situation and failed by interjecting each other with the same thought. A small laugh diffused the tension between them but only enough to allow quick glances at each other while moving further into the apartment.

Kaeran went into the kitchen to scold her cousin and vowed to hide her mortar and pestle (which Rhona seemed very keen on using one way or another) and Cullen went to his bedroom to change. Though what happened in the vestibule wasn’t entirely gone from their minds, both fell into their role as hosts with ease. It wasn’t until Dorian’s arrival that what happened between them came crashing down once more.

“I’m here now, the party has offi—WHO LEFT A BAG OF CHIPS ON THE FLOOR??”

[95liners3rdmember]

Worth It

Chapter Eight: Monday Madness

Word Count: 4294

Chapter Seven: Visitor

Another Monday, another headache.

First I let Natalie dress me for work, claiming that being dressed to impress will make me feel better. It took her forever. I even told her there was no point since I was going to be in the studio all day.

But no! She got her way. That’s how I ended up in a black skin tight long sleeves shirt, white checkered pencil skirt and of course black heels on this fabulous Monday morning. I won’t lie, it's a jaw dropping outfit but it’s not made for choreographers. Letting her finish up instead of arguing she spent another 30 minutes playing with my hair and makeup, another waste of time. Playing dress up almost made me late.

Last night I was looking forward to this morning but that all went south when the other departments decided to draw out the meeting. And now here I am, almost two hours late to practice. My phones been buzzing off the wall between the backup dancers, BTS and my sister. No wonder I already have a migraine. It doesn’t help that my contacts has been driving me crazy all morning, if they keep up I’ll have to take them out.

Pinching the bridge of my nose as the legal department presents another slide on social media usage, fuck it’s probably about the photo but honestly I’ll be worried when Bang PD asks about it. A knock on the door causes the person to stop. It opens quickly as Namjoon steps in with a sweet, dimpled smile. He bows slightly before speaking.

“I’m sorry it interrupt but Ms. Y/l/n was due at practice almost two hours ago.” His sweet, school boy charm works on everyone in the room as I’m excused, being told that I’d get an overview.

As the door shuts I groan my frustration out as Namjoon snickers beside me.

“They’re lucky it was me instead of Yoongi Hyung. He wouldn’t have been as nice. Oh, nice outfit by the way. Very professional.” There’s a slight teasing tone in his voice that makes me click my tongue. Rolling my eyes as I opened my office door, I head straight to my dance clothes. Like Yoongi oppa is intimidating, he’s probably the biggest fluff ball of the group he just hides it.

Scrambling to get my clothes together, my vision blurs with each blink. Screw it. Tossing the pile of clothes on my desk I dig through my cluttered purse. Why am I such a mess today? Lord bless it.

Quickly I take out my contacts and place the black frames on my face. It feels strange but comforting at the same time. Instantly my migraine turns into a mild headache. Turning back to Namjoon I frown at his goofy grin.

“Nice glasses, come on. You can change later. We’ve already been practicing.” Whatever. Throwing everything into a gym bag, I follow behind him while I scroll through my email. Apparently the person who’s helping me teach the backup dancers is going to start this afternoon after the members are finished for the day. I’ll just hang around for that, I have a feeling I’ll be drained after this.

Music bombards my ears as I enter the room. It’s easily ten degrees hotter and it’s no question why. All of them are covered in sweat, bangs clinging to their foreheads with pink cheeks. They must’ve gone through a few different choreos while waiting on me. Six sets of eyes turn to me and I can’t help but feel like I’m under a microscope as Taehyung comes closer. His eyes trained on examining my outfit. Out of all of the members he’s the biggest fashion enthusiast.

“You look different y/n.”

“Hopefully it’s good, anyways enough about my outfit. I heard you’ve been practicing.” Waving him off, I go over to an empty chair, holding onto it for support while I take these contraptions off my feet. The floor is cold against my bare skin as I walk over to the group. At this point they should be able to do a run through without my help. As I go over to get the music ready they all rush into their starting positions.

Rushing back to the empty side of the room, I watch each one closely with a smile threatening to grow with each passing second. It’s amazing how quickly they’ve nailed the choreo, they don’t play around when it comes to work. Now that they are done with this one, well besides a few tweaks, time to learn another. Given their work ethic, come Friday morning we will be working on the third.

As the song whines down I walk closer with a huge smile plastered on my face. Hobi comes crashing towards me with his sunshine smile screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Ahhh! We did it!” I can’t help but jump excitedly with him. I’m so proud of them.

Still laughing like an idiot, I let go of his hands and smile at the others. They seem to share the same feeling as they all highfive and hug each other.

“It looks good. All that really needs to be done is to tighten up the moves but we can move onto the next one.”

Breathless yes’s fill the room as they search for a drink, the room fills with the smell of sweat and the weirdly strange scent of man. Jimin catches my attention with a side smile, looks like he’s still thinking about the conversation from last night. Slowly moving towards him, I bump his arm earning a small laugh.

“Are you going to be able to dance? I mean that skirt looks pretty tight.” Jimin jokes as he returns the bump, so he’s in a good enough mood for jokes. Two can play that game.

“It’s not impossible.” Smirking, I lower my voice and lean in a little closer.

“Are you okay? I mean, after last night.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Promise.” He smiles but his voice lacks conviction, lacks absolute sincerity. Maybe I should give Namjoon a heads up, because who knows if anyone else has the same feelings.

“Alright then, if you say so. Let’s get started on the next one.”

“Noona, are you trying to kill us?!” Jungkook groans just as we finish another set, sweat pouring down his face. I can’t lie, I’m exhausted too. My tank top would’ve been long gone by now if I wasn’t around seven men. So I had to resort to pulling my hair into a tight bun and going down to my running shorts.

The room is filled with a humidity that makes my skin crawl, all of us are panting for breath. We’ve accomplished everything that I wanted for today, Mic Drop went pretty well. It definitely needs to be worked on but overall it’s ready. Next week we will get into DNA and Idol. Those two ...it's going to be a long week.

“Ya, quit complaining. But I agree with the maknae, I’m getting ready to call it a night.” Jin says with a huff as he literally drops to the ground, his chest heaving with each breath. Did I push them too far?

With sore and shaky legs I walk over to the fridge and grab an arm full of cold bottles. Passing them out quickly, we all sit in a circle to cool down. Stretching out my legs, I look around as the boys all have their eyes closed in relief. Even Jimin and Hobi seem excited for practice to almost be over.

“Great job today, sorry if it was too tough. This week we’re just going to be working on these two as a group, Jimin and Jungkook we will do your solo choreos this week too.”

The looks on Jimin and Jungkook’s face are priceless as their brothers pay their backs a little too enthusiastically. Jimin’s pout just makes them laugh a little louder as we all gather our bags.

Bending down I start to neatly fold my clothes, I feel someone come behind me and lean down.

“What are your plans for the night?” It’s a hushed whisper but I can tell the owner without even looking.

“I was going to enjoy a nice quiet night home. Why Joon?” Smirking I stand back up straight and force my head to look straight up at him. Sweat covers his forehead with strands of hair clinging to his skin, pink stained cheeks and heavy eyes. But underneath that I can see that there’s an ulterior motive is to his question.

“Come to my studio in twenty. I have something to show you.” Before I can even question him, he’s already leaving the room. What could he possibly have to show me? He’s so full of secrets and thoughts that there’s no way of preparing. The last time he told me he had something to show me, I signed a contract with BigHit.

The room clears out slowly, Jin and Jungkook seem to hover as I cleaned up the mess of water bottles. With a little bounce in my step I return chairs to their homes and gather my bag. I can feel their gazes on me as I move around the room without a care. The faster I get this over with, the faster I can get home. All that’s left is to get the two members to leave.

Turning on my heels as I throw my bag over my shoulder I’m shocked to see that only Jungkook is in the room. His nose is scrunched up as he watches whatever is on his screen. Coming up to him I tapped him on the shoulder to break the spell. He jumps lightly before rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I got sidetracked.”

“It’s okay, but shouldn’t you be back home?”

“Well I had something I wanted to ask you.” His voice is deep and it makes me feel small, well smaller than I already am compared to him.

“Uh, yeah sure. What’s up?” I want to smack myself for sounding like a dazed teen but honestly Jungkook hasn’t been this serious around me.

“Did Jimin seem off during practice? He came back later than everyone else last night and I was worried. None of us can figure out where he went. Namjoon hyung said he went for a walk but I don’t know…”

I can’t tell him the truth, that Jimin stayed late last night at my house while he searched for the answer to an unanswerable question. Why would Namjoon cover for him too? Unless he already knew what was going on.

“I think everyone was off, it was a hard practice. I wouldn’t worry too much Jungkook. Everyone needs alone time to sit and process their inner thoughts and feelings.” It’s the best answer I can give him as I lead him out of the room, flicking the lights off just before the door shuts with a loud thud.

At the elevator I give him a small smile and wish him goodnight. Once the doors shut and the machine starts to move I make my way to my office to grab my purse, then I’m off to Namjoon’s studio.

The halls are empty as I limp to his door. Knocking twice, I twist the handle and I’m met with Namjoon laying in the center of his floor looking up at the ceiling. Humoring him I drop my bags and plop down beside him. My back screams in pain but besides that it’s nice to have a moment in silence.

“Do you want to talk about last night?” So much for silence. Shrugging I turn my head to the side to look at him.

“I’m guessing you knew Jimin was with me.” Guilt hits me for some strange reason. My stomach starts to churn.

“Yeah. He’s been keeping something to himself for a while now. I think he just needed to talk to someone that wasn’t us. Jimin woke up with a new attitude, I’m guessing whatever you two talked about helped.”

Then why was Jimin acting so strange around me? Just when I think we’ve taken a step in the right direction. But at least our talk last night helped somewhat. Though I highly doubt that he’s completely free of those thoughts. All of them carry such a heavy burden, the way that they are rising in popularity it’s has to be taking a toll on everyone. Not just Jimin.

“What about you Joon?” My voice crokes out as his face turns toward mine. The usual sparkle in his eyes isn’t as strong.

“Being the leader can’t be easy, I know you feel like you have to carry everything on your shoulders even though you don’t have to. Those boys would do anything for you and each other.”

“I knew it would never be an easy job. Over time I thought it would get easier, but some days I even wonder if I’m worthy of being called the leader.”

“Why’s that?” Has Namjoon seriously been questioning himself? By the sullen look on his face I can tell that the answer is yes. But to what degree I have no clue.

“Some days are good, when we feel on top of the world. But others...it feels like we’re back to being those rookies all over again. Like our hard work just isn’t enough.”

I let his response soak in as I think carefully about what I want to say. I’ve known Namjoon for years, I’ve gotten to know where his biggest insecurities lie but I have really been able to do anything about it. Not until now.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you write a song or practice a choreo. The end it’s the same result, you learn the lyrics and steps whether you want to or not. It’s muscle memory. But what makes the difference is the sincerity behind them. If you are miserable or unhappy then you won’t have the outcome you want. You’re happiness is one of the most important pieces to this crazy life.”

Now it’s his turn to sit and brew over the information, sitting up from my spot I lightly tap his chest. A small grin forms on his lips, a barely visible dimple peaks through. Groaning I pull myself up completely from the floor, my muscles are screaming for some sort of relief. Namjoon continues to stare up at the ceiling, his jaw slightly pushed forward as the wheels in his mind turn faster. If only we could see what goes on in his mind, it would be incredible.

“I’ll see you tomorrow okay? If you need me I’m a phone call or a floor away.” Trying to muster a smile I grab my bags and I catch the curt nod as I open the studio door.

The silence makes my stomach twist as I walk down the hall towards the exit. Both Namjoon and Jimin have openly expressed that they’re having a hard time. Maybe it’s time for them all to sit and talk because now I have no doubt that everyone is feeling similar.

“About time you got home! I’ve been bored all day.” Well it seems like Nat caught up on her sleep today. Music fills the apartment and the smell of food hits my nose as I round the corner to see my sister dancing like an idiot while cooking. My stomach growls under my shirt, the granola bar and protein shake weren’t enough for lunch. Dropping my bags on the ground, I kick off my shoes and immediately sit at the counter top.

“Looks like you’re in a good mood. What’s for dinner?”

“Just some spaghetti. It’s Nana’s recipe and I know that you’ve missed her cooking.” My heart jumps in my chest as I sit up a little straighter. A wide smile spreads on my face as I bounce in my chair. I used to help Nana make the sauce when I was younger, she would let me cut the tomatoes but really I ate more than I cut.

Nat points towards the living room with a spoon as her lips curl up into a smirk,” You got a package today.”

A package? The last time I got one of those it was from Jimin. Sliding out of my seat, I freeze as I see the box sitting on the coffee table. What in the world…

A small black box has an envelope wrapped up tight with a black ribbon on the lid. My hands gently pick up the package and return to my seat at the counter. Who in the world would have sent this? This can’t be for me, it’s nowhere near my birthday and I really don’t have anything to celebrate. All I can do is stare at the bow. There’s no logo on the box, no signature on the card, nothing.

“Open it already, I had to sign for it so I know it’s yours.” Sighing, I slowly pull the ribbon and open the envelope. It’s a typed sentence so I won’t be able to figure out who wrote it.

‘Thank you Y/n.’

Natalie comes bouncing over to read the note as I open the lid of the box. My breath catches in my throat and my mind goes blank. A silver chain stands out against the black velvet interior and a small opal gem shines under the bright lights. Why would someone send me this? And why is my gut instinct telling me that Jimin was the one who sent it? Was this why he was acting strange today?

A thousand questions start filling my head and before I can stop myself I’m sliding my shoes, box in hand, out of the door with Natalie’s voice yelling at me. The elevator ride goes by in the blink of an eye and I find myself knocking on the boy’s door. It’s not long before Yoongi opens the door with a shocked expression, his eyes look down to my hand and he moves out of the way.

“Second door on the right, Jimin’s the only one in his room.” Sliding off my shoes next to multiple others I make my way down the long hallway. Raising my hand up to knock, my whole body freezes. I can feel two pair of eyes on me from the main room as I just stare at the white door. What am I doing here? This is completely unlike me. Normally I can think situations through. All confidence and adrenaline gone, my body stiff with anxiety. Lowering my fist, I place the box on the ground in front of the door and turn to exit. Yoongi and Jin stare at me with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry for barging in, I’ll never do it again. Good night oppas.” Bowing lightly, I turn on my heels. Sliding back into my shoes I make my way back home. I wasn’t gone as long as I thought because Natalie is still leaning against the doorframe with a baffled look. The wooden spoon still in her grasp.

“What th-”

“Not now Natalie. Let’s just eat dinner, I’m exhausted.” Sighing I let my hair down and go straight to the kitchen to make myself a plate. The door slammed loudly behind me as my sister her way behind me. I can feel her eyes staring into my back.

“Want to talk about it?” This time the tone in her voice shifts from teasing to worried. Honestly I don’t even know what happened just now. I should’ve never went upstairs, it’s not my place to go to their home and expect to be let in and welcomed. I’m their choreographer, not their friend.

“No, let’s just eat. I’m exhausted.” My phone starts ringing from my bag and I roll my eyes as I fill my plate with food. There’s no way I’m answering my phone at all tonight unless it’s from the company.

“I know better than to push you into talking about something you don’t want to.” Nat’s right, if she keeps going I’ll shut down and lock myself away in my office no matter how tired I am.

“So what’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“Meetings and working with my new assistant. The members are being fitted tomorrow before their small photoshoot on Wednesday when you’ll be visiting.”

“Visiting?”

Giggling, I nod my head yes as I stuff my mouth with food. A warm feeling fills my chest as I get a taste of home cooking. It reminds me of Sunday nights back at home, family dinners filled with laughter and love. Every Sunday night we would eat the same meal. Now I really can’t wait till the U.S part of the tour. Maybe while we’re near my hometown I can go down for a day and see my grandmother.

“Surprise! Wednesday you’re going to work with me and you’ll be shadowing the stylist while the members do a photoshoot.”

The squeal that comes from my sister’s mouth makes me choke on spaghetti noodles. Coughing up a lung, she wraps her arms tightly around my shoulders. Pushing her away, I swallow the food in my mouth and try to catch my breath.

“You’re the best sister ever. Ah I need to plan my outfit! There’s no way I can show up in anything plain.” With those words she takes off to my bedroom leaving me alone in silence.

Buzz...buzz...buzz…

Rolling my eyes I jump up to fish my phone from my purse. There’s a dozen messages from Jimin, Namjoon and Yoongi. I don’t have the mindset to answer any of them. Right now all I want is a shower and sleep. Cleaning my plate, I trudge down the hall into the bedroom. Natalie has her entire suitcase dumped out as she pieces together outfits. Before I can make it into the bathroom, Natalie whistles and opens my closet. There are pre planned outfits hanging with shoes on the shelf above them. Natalie really was bored.

Steam escapes the room as I exit into my bedroom, my muscles are still sore but not as bad as earlier. My feet lead me straight to my bed, falling face first into my pillow. Today has been a really weird day. Tomorrow better be a complete 180 of today or I just might go crazy.

“I think she’s asleep for the night Jimin.”

Jimin? What is he doing here?! Quickly I throw the covers over myself and bury my face even further into the pillow. This reminds me of the times when I was a kid trying to fake sleeping so my parents would catch me awake past bedtime. My heart pounds in my chest as I try to even out my breathing. I should’ve just checked my phone earlier.

“Oh, maybe that’s why she wasn’t answering her phone.” His voice sounds defeated, like the other night out on the balcony. Now I want to get out of bed and talk to him, but I can’t move.

“I’ll let her know you came by.”

“Thank you Natalie. And could you give her this?” Please tell me he didn’t give her the box back. I listen carefully and the front door closes softly. Pulling the blanket up further to my face I squeeze my eyes tighter as the bedroom door creaks open. Natalie lets out a small sigh before making her way to my side of the bed. I hear her mess with the charging cable on my nightstand and set something on the top. Sounds like she’s charging my phone for me.

“I know you aren’t fully asleep, but I’m not going to ask. Tomorrow talk to him. Please.”

The light switches off and the door shuts softly, cracking my eyes open I stare up at the ceiling. Turning my head to the side I see the outline of the box sitting on my nightstand. Reaching for my phone, I open up the newest message from Jimin.

Jimin: ‘Please accept my gift. Tomorrow I will explain in person. Good night y/n.’

The other messages catch my eye as I scroll through.

Jimin: ‘Yoongi hyung told me that you came by, I guess you figured out I sent the box.’

Jimin: ‘This is a thank you present. You helped me a lot the other night and I wanted to show you.’

Jimin: ‘I guess I’ll bring it to you.’

The others were wondering why I didn’t stay to say hello or why I didn’t bring Natalie with me. Yoongi oppa’s message is the one that really catches my attention.

Yoongi: ‘I know that you must’ve been upset with Jimin, but he’s coming from a good place. Last night he told me about your talk together. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Jimin smile like he did at dinner. Thank you.’

Tears build up in my eyes. Has he really been hurting that much?

Clicking on Jimin’s name I start typing as I sniffle back a sob.

Me: ‘Meet me for lunch tomorrow in my office.’

Hitting send, I toss the phone back onto the nightstand and roll into the covers even more. My chest tightens even more as I try to clear my mind. It seems that there’s more going on with the boys then they let on. Every fiber of my being wants me to dive right in and start helping them. But if I do then I’ll cross every professional line there is. I could lose my job and be sent back home.

But at this rate, I’d rather try and lose everything than to see them fighting a battle that’s tearing them down.