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pascalpanic · 4 years ago

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Miller Morales Mechanic Shop (Frankie Morales x f!Reader)

Part One of Miller Morales Mechanic Shop

Summary: Something is wrong with your car. What, exactly? You have no clue. So you bring it in to some professionals- who also have a toddler running around the shop.

W/C: 2.3k

Warnings: language, Frankie is a dad, brief mention of divorce and trauma bc poor Frankie, there is a child heavily involved in this so if you don’t like kids this isn’t for you :)

A/N: WELCOME TO PART ONE EVERYONE! This is such a cute AU and I’m BEYOND excited to start sharing it with you all! I don’t know how many parts this will be or anything but I can’t wait to take it and run with it.

Marisol Morales behaves for very few people. One of those is Ben Miller. Unfortunately, she has decided to break her own rules today.

Frankie loves summer. He loves his little girl playing outside in her baby pool, taking her for walks around the neighborhood with their three-legged dog, all of the fun parts. The hard part is when the nanny goes on a vacation and Mari has to come to work with him.

Benny and Frankie, ever since the chaos that was the Lorea mission, run a small mechanic shop together. Miller Morales Mechanic Shop isn’t necessarily the busiest place in town, but they make enough to get by and have some disposable income too. Mari loves to hang around the shop with her daddy and uncle. She’s there more than Frankie would like, but he supposes it’s not the worst thing in the world. When Frankie and Jules split and Frankie won full custody, he’d hoped a nanny would take care of most everything when Mari is home all day in summer. Sadly, he was in for a rude awakening when no Mary Poppins showed up on his doorstep.

It’s normally not too bad; Benny hung the moon in Mari’s eyes. If she won’t do something for her daddy, which is still somewhat rare, she’ll always do it for her Uncle Benny. That makes the day run much smoother. Mari has a whole host of quiet-time activities and toys to play with, and the men generally trade off periods of either working on the cars or being with the little girl.

Her favorite activities at the shop include drawing on the concrete with thick sticks of chalk and playing with her toy helicopters and planes. Benny insists tanks are cooler, but Mari prefers flying her Polly Pockets in the chopper, running through the garage and making flight noises. She’s a smart little thing; for her age, she’s picked up big words and can make sentences out of three words, which is quite a stretch for a baby just over two years of age. She calls for Benny and Daddy and knows the names of his tools: wench, scu-dwive, and her favorite, win-seeled wipe fwuid. She loves to babble at customers while they get their oil changed.

Being shit with cars is no fun. It only increases the anxiety when some light flashes on your dashboard. The lights can mean so many things that you find it ridiculous; “check engine”? Check it for what? To save yourself the anxiety, you find your nearest mechanic and pay them to deal with it.

Today, as you pull over into a gas station, you check your phone and find that the nearest shop is a place you haven’t heard of. It must be new. Miller Morales Mechanic Shop, 0.6 miles away. The name implies something more local and homegrown. You’re more than willing to support a place like that, so you start up the engine, pray you don’t explode, and make your way over to the shop.

It’s nearby, like the map indicated. The outside is a quaint little place, tucked in a strip mall next to a coffee shop, a dentist, and an insurance agency. The three car bays are empty, and knowing next to nothing about how these shops work, you pull inside and park your car, letting it run as you wait for an employee. The bell dinged to let them know you were here, so you stay patient and listen idly to the hum of the talk radio show from your car’s speakers.

After a minute or two pass, you realize that maybe this wasn’t the right place to be. Maybe you were supposed to go in the front or something. Concluding that you probably aren’t where you’re supposed to be, you turn off the car and get out only to be greeted by the sound of buzzing lips.

You can hear a baby’s voice, mimicking some kind of vehicle’s sound, and for a second you’re worried this place must have you hearing things. Then, from a swinging door to the front comes a little girl, running and babbling to herself about her toy helicopter.

She has a head full of dark brown curls, tied back into two puffs with pink scrunchies, and matching pink leggings and a t-shirt far too big for her, the back emblazoned with the shop’s logo. She’s barefoot, tiny feet slapping against the cold cement.

“I told you I had to piss, Fish!” A man’s voice shouts from one end of the garage.

“No you didn’t, dipshit!” Another man shouts back. Being caught in the middle of their argument is quite comical, if you’re being honest with yourself. “She’s fucking two! You can’t leave her alone like that, man!”

The first voice is matched to a person as a tall blonde man emerges from the customer service side of the shop. “Marisol Morales, come here,” he insists sternly as he rolls up the sleeves of his jumpsuit. “Come on, you’re gonna trip.” Ben is embroidered on a patch over his heart.

She pouts at him before stumbling forward and continuing to run, stopping as she sees you and looking up in confusion. Her lower lip sticks out in a pout as her eyes scan your face, as if she’s trying to remember if she knows who you are. “Hi,” she finally concedes as you bend to her level.

“Hi there,” you smile and hold out a hand. “What’s your name?” You pick her up, holding her on your hip so that she doesn’t trip, like Ben so desperately feared.

The second, unknown voice shouts for the little girl again before boots clunk on concrete up to you, rounding your car and stopping. This must be the girl’s father, you realize, as you rake your eyes up his body. He wears the same navy blue jumpsuit as the other man, though it’s unsnapped over his chest, exposing the white t-shirt beneath. The patch on his chest reads Catfish. He wears a ball cap and warm brown curls peek out from under it. He has scruff and a hooked nose that perfectly matches the one on the little girl. “I Mari,” she introduces herself proudly.

“Hey, leave her alone, Mar,” the man shakes his head as he hoists her up to hold her on his hip. “I’m so sorry about that,” he says with an embarrassed smile, showing a dimple beneath the scruff on his chin.

“No, it’s not a problem,” you laugh then set her down and tell the little girl your name. “Aren’t you just the cutest?” You chuckle as she looks at you. She blushes and buries her face in the man’s chest, giggling shyly.

He looks down at the little girl then up at you again. “Well, uh, hi. I’m Frankie, and you’ve met Mari already.”

“Your daughter?” you ask as you look at the pudgy little girl, who now stares at you in awe.

Frankie nods and adjusts his ball cap, pushing his hair back with it. “Yep. Our nanny is on vacation, so she gets to hang out around here,” he chuckles and kisses her head, setting her down. “Go see Benny, yeah?” He asks her. She happily waddles off towards the blonde man, who gives you a wave then heads into the back. “What brings you in?”

“Would you laugh if I told you I don’t really know?” You admit with a shy smile. “My check engine light came on while I was on the highway. I don’t know the first thing about cars, so I was hoping you’d figure out what that meant.”

“Nah, no laughing here,” he nods and gives you a genuine smile before looking over at your car. “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. I’ll have you pop the hood for me and I’ll give it a look?” He asks.

“That would be great. Thank you,” you tell him, the desperation for his help in your voice. Now that you get the chance to really look at him, he’s quite attractive. His eyes are deep set and a beautiful brown, and they crinkle when he smiles. Facial expressions only accentuate the lines in his face, but he’s certainly not old. His eyes still hold his youth.

“No problem.” He leads you to the car and you pop the hood open before getting out. “Could I take your keys?” he asks you. “Just so I can turn it on and off and all that good stuff.”

“Yeah, of course,” you nod frantically and hand them over to him. “I’ll… be in the waiting room?”

“That’s how we usually do it,” he chuckles as he takes the keys from you. “Just shout for Benny if Mari annoys you again.”

That makes you frown. “She’s not annoying at all. She’s adorable,” you smile as you look over your shoulder and see her and the blonde man playing together.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he laughs and points his wrench at you as he walks to the hood of the car.

Shaking your head, you can’t help but laugh as you head back to the waiting room. You walk in and Mari perks up, turning to look at you. “Hi! Playing helicopter,” she tells you in her stunted speech as she holds up the toy.

“You sure are,” you nod and sit next to her. “Can I play?” You ask, looking up at Benny, silently asking him the question too.

He nods and Mari squeals happily. “Friend!” She shrieks and hands you another helicopter. “Go pew pew, okay?” She drags them across the toy mat like they’re cars, and you follow suit.

“Okay,” you laugh. Looking up at the blonde man, you extend a smile his way and introduce yourself. He’s busy repairing a Barbie dollhouse with a screwdriver.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ben, Benny, whatever you wanna call me.”

Driving your helicopter around the ground, following Mari’s lead, you chuckle. “No preference?”

“Fish calls me Benny.”

“Fish?” You ask and tip your head.

“Frankie, whatever. We’re buddies from the service. His code name was Catfish,” the man explains with a shrug, testing the hinges of the plastic door.

That makes you smile down at Frankie’s daughter. “Really, just buddies? Could’ve sworn you’d be brothers,” you tease the blonde, blue-eyed man. “Does Frankie know how to do his daughter’s hair?” You ask and fiddle with her two pigtails.

“Yes, he does,” Frankie insists as he walks out to the front, cleaning a wrench. “But just barely.”

You look up at him, embarrassed. “Her pigtails just look a little messy. Then again, she was running around like crazy,” you laugh and watch her rush over to Frankie, insisting he pick her up.

Bending down to grab her, Frankie groans at the ache in his joints. “She was. I could use some pointers, if you’ve got ‘em.”

“Of course,” you nod and stand too, brushing the dust from the concrete floor off on your pants. “What’s the verdict on the car?” You ask.

Frankie turned, watching as Benny walks out to the shop, but he turns back to face you. “Oh, right. The engine was misfiring, and unburned fuel was being put into the exhaust system, and that damaged the catalytic converter.”

You nod as you listen to him, really staring at his face more than anything. He’s just so damn pretty, you note as you admire the curve of his nose, his slightly sunken and dark eyes. His lips look beautiful and soft, even though they seem a little chapped. When he stops talking, it takes you a second to process it. “I don’t know what that means,” you admit with a shy smile. “I told you. I don’t know shit about cars,” you laugh, playing it off like you were lost when you were really lost in his eyes.

He shakes his head and laughs, bouncing Mari on his hip. “Your car is gonna need some work. Couple hours,” he shrugs. “If Benny and I get to working on it together, an hour and a half, maybe?” He admits.

“Yeah, that’s great. I can watch Mari,” you offer.

Frankie would never be this trusting normally. You’re a straight-up stranger, but your demeanor is good enough for him. Besides, you’re right here. He can check on the two of you every so often, and Mari seems to love you. “That would be great,” he smiles. “You really don’t have to.”

“No, I have nothing better to do,” you chuckle and look at the little girl. “You wanna play?”

Mari nods excitedly and Frankie sets her down. She rushes back to her toy mat and you watch her go. “Thank you, again, for fixing all this.”

“Just doing my job,” he nods. This time, it’s his turn to admire you. He stares at your face, examining the curves and angles that make you up. Your eyes are kind and warm as they follow the little girl, and he can see that he’s making a good choice here.

When you sit down, Mari comes and sits cross-legged across from you. “What are we gonna play?” You ask her, looking at her wide variety of toys. Her pile includes dinosaurs, Matchbox cars, lots of toy helicopters and planes, Barbie dolls, and a plastic tea set.

“Tea party!” She says and hands you a tiny plastic cup and a felt muffin.

“Oh my goodness,” you gasp in a fake accent. “How delightful!”

Frankie peeks over his shoulder at the two of you. He could really get used to that sight.

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @deltadebelleza @tacticalsparkles @queridopascal @wintermuteway @maievdenoir @dobbyjen @beskarboobs

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kuromitos · 3 years ago

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Special Order: Vanilla Latte with a love confession on the side

Megumi Fushiguro x Reader (ft Toji Fushiguro)

Summary: Local high school romance between cafe barista and regular customer.

WC: 1k

Content: Crappy writing towards the end, Bad Grammar, Cafe Au, Mutual pining, Toji being an noisy parent.

Three blocks away from your school, there's a shopping district that you felt kinda indifferent towards. Coming from a more popular and busy area, the small district that only has 2 clothing stores, a bookstore that never has any new books, a rental DVD store that really just takes up space, and a Bunch of vacant spaces, you never had any interest in going there ever.

Until a month ago. Walking home after school, exhausted and a little cranky, you passed the shopping district and noticed something...different. Towards the end of it, you see a group of girls,all of different ages, huddled around one of the vacant store spaces. They look too happy and excited to be hanging out there just for fun so you decide to investigate. When you got there, you quickly found out what the common was about. A new trendy coffee shop opened up and seems pretty popular but why? You wondered and quickly got your answer.

The storefront door opens up to reveal the prettiest boy you've ever seen. An teenage boy with navy blue eyes that compliment his long lashes, pale ivory skin that has no acne or blemishes on it, and the wildest hair you ever seen that manage to both stand out and blend in with his features. He held the door in one hand while also holding a clipboard in the other. "Asami ,Party of 5. Your table is ready. Three hot chocolate and one bagel for Makoto are ready to be picked up and one triple foam latte for Kei are ready to be picked up." He said while checking the clipboard to be completely sure he got the right names.

The group of girls started to decrease in numbers til they were all gone except for you. Frozen in place near the window because you were mesmerized by that boy. Already walked back inside, He didn't ask if you were going to come in and order, He didn't even notice your present, probably because he was busy working, but you didn't even care about that. You didn't have to be a genius to know why the cafe was so popular. When you get people that look like models working there,it's bound to be a hit with young folks.

Sadly due to the fact you only had 50 cents to your name currently, you couldn't go inside and see the pretty boy again. But you did visit the next day when you had enough for one item, A vanilla latte. You weren't a big fan of coffee but needed to order something on the menu (You also wanted to hear them call your name like they do on TV.)

For about three months since that first technically second visit you followed the same routine, you order the same drink, at the same time after and you try to do the same thing,Start a conversation and get to know the pretty boy, and fail the same way every time. If it wasn't cold feet it was the fact he was so one note. Only answering in short response to the point you start to think he hates you.

"How has your day been?" "Fine" "Do you have any hobbies or interests?" "Not really." "Do you like animals at all? I like any kind of animal ``''I like dogs." "Really!? I love-" "Hey Lady! You're holding up the line." "Oh. Sorry. I'll have my usual"

Not really a talkative guy. But you still got some info in the end. His name is Megumi Fushiguro and the cafe is actually his family,his father's specificity, and he has two dogs. So you making progress...kinda

Even so, the same routine of short responses is starting to get to you. You try not to listen to the nagging voice in your head that's telling you he actually thinks you're annoying for bothering him every day with questions but the damn bitch got a mega phone and wont shut up. Sure there's moments when the voice goes away like when he remembers how you like your drink or when he notices when your appearance is different than usual. The highlight for you was when he got you a free cookie, it was because he messed up your drink by accident but it is the thought that counts, but when the moment is gone she comes back with vengeance.

You start to get worried and sometimes consider not going for a while but you decided against that. Nice atmosphere and great place to study, which is what you need today. Got a big test coming up and you might need a nice vanilla latte pick me up. With that in mind, you head straight to the cafe. Since you were studying for a test this time and had to get your textbooks and everything, you took a little longer to get there than usual. Which is evident in the cafe itself.

For some reason everything felt different and a little odd. For starters Instead of the usual early to late teens demographic , it's mainly college age to middle age women here. ONLY women here. The atmosphere is usually nice and refreshing now it's more dampened. The biggest change is the person behind the counter; instead of the quiet, distant, pretty boy Megumi there's a 6ft guy, with bulging muscles that barely fit his shirt and has the face of a killer. Definitely a big change from Megumi.

"Hello there,honey. What would you like today?" Your face starts to heat up from hearing that for multiple reasons. Being called a nickname like that from an older guy, the casual way he said it like it's normal. And his voice! So nice and deep. Sounds to be no older than thirty. "Umm.. I'll just have my usual." "Your usual? Haven't heard anyone say that in awhile. Must come here often to say that with confidence." That's right. I only come here when Megumi is working, of course he doesn't know.

"Sorry about that. I only came here earlier in the day. When it's this other guy-``''You mean Megumi,right? He got off early today because he got school work." He seems to know alot about him. I remember Megumi saying something about his family owning this place. He must be a family member of his. Too young looking to be his dad. Maybe an older brother? Uncle? Cousin?

While you were trying to figure out the family tree, the older man was starting to get impatient. "Hey kid. Do you still want that drink or not?" "Huh? Oh right. I'll have a vanilla latte please. That's all." "Okay. And the name for the order is?" The moment you give him your name, the man behind the counter starts looking at you a little odd. It starts to give you the chills. "You wouldn't happen to be y/n from Jujitsu tech?" With a confused look on your face you nod your head to him. "These Y/n? Vanilla Latte y/n? Wow I can't believe I finally got to meet the actual y/n in the flesh." Huh? What is this dude talking about? You think while looking at this guy like he grew a third head. "The actual y/n? What are you talking about?" "My son talks about you all the time with me. Seems to be pretty smitten with you. You're cuter than he said." "Your son? Who are you talking about?" And the answer wasn't what you expected. "Who else? Megumi."

'One answer' megumi. Mr. Serious and focused. He likes me? Like actually like me?? I know this alot to take in but remember you're talking to your crush's dad. But after hearing your crush like you back unexpectedly like that. I understand your awkwardness "Umm actually I don't want the drink I just remembered something back home so I'll be going now. Bye. Nice meeting you, sir" with that said, you left the cafe and decided to study at home. You also thought about getting to the cafe earlier to try talking to Megumi more. Might even tell him about today.

A/n: I wrote this pretty late and just did it on a whim. So if this sounds weird I'm sorry

Tagging: @yuuta @daynada

#anime #jujutsu kaisen #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fluff #jujutsu kaisen megumi #jujutsu toji #toji fushiguro #megumi x y/n

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440mxs-wife · 4 years ago

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No One Hunts Alone

Pairing: Dean x Reader. Other Characters: Sam Winchester, Ruthie (Reader’s BFF) and Amber (OFC’s), Jim and Trevor Morrison (OMC’s)

Word Count: 6460

Warnings: Some mutual pining, Reader is a little stubborn, dreaded class reunion, mostly fluffy though.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You were putting away some freshly folded laundry when your phone buzzed in your pocket. The screen showed the call was from your best friend, Ruthie. "Hey, chickie, what's going on?" you asked. Silence. "Ruthie? What's wrong, honey?" you insisted. Your panic level escalated with each passing silent moment. "Please, Ruthie, answer me," you pleaded.

"Hey," Ruthie finally answered softly. "Listen, I know you said you wouldn't be able, or didn't want to come back home for the class reunion, but...." she trailed off. "I really think you should reconsider. Please. There's something weird going on around here. You know, your kind of weird," she emphasized.

Dammit. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger and sighed heavily. "Yeah, okay. I'll pack up tonight, and leave early in the morning. I can bunk with you, right?" you asked.

"Of course you can stay here, you never have to ask. You know that," she gently chided. "Just you, though? You're not bringing the Wonder Twins?" she asked.

"Nope, just me," you replied. For now, anyway. They have too much going on already, wouldn't want to be a bother to them, you thought. You heard a knocking at your door. "Ruthie, I gotta go. Someone's at the door. I'll text you before I leave tomorrow," you promised.

You opened your door to find Dean standing there. "Hey, sweetheart. Ready for our Movie Night in the 'Cave?" he asked.

Ordinarily, you'd jump at the chance to spend any amount of time you could with Dean. But you had to pack tonight so you could easily slip out in the morning. "Is that tonight? I'm sorry, Dean, but I'm kinda tired," you replied.

"Aw, come on, it's still early. Please?" Dean tried his best to give you the puppy dog eyes.

"Not tonight, Dean. I'm sorry, I'm just tired and I have a lot on my mind right now. This thing with Ruthie--" you stopped short before you gave everything away.

"Wait, what 'thing' with Ruthie, is everything okay?" he asked with concern. Dean knew how close you and Ruthie were, that you were more like sisters than best friends.

"It's just some local stuff. It's probably a bigger deal in her mind than it actually is," you explained, hoping he'd buy it.

"Well, if you're sure," he remarked, raising one eyebrow. "But you owe me for missing our regular Movie Night," he grinned and tapped the end of your nose.

"Put it on my tab, Winchester," you teased. "Goodnight, Dean," you replied softly.

"Goodnight, darlin'. Sweet dreams," he responded. You closed the door and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh of relief.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After he left your door, Dean walked into the library, where Sam was sitting at the table, reading. He looked up to see the concerned look on his brother's face. "What's up with you?" Sam asked.

Dean explained that he had just reminded it was time for your usual Movie Night in the Dean Cave, but that you had backed out. "So what, Dean? Maybe she really is tired and has a lot on her mind," Sam defended.

"Nah, I think there's more to it than that, Sammy. She said there was a 'thing' going on with Ruthie, then tried to play it off as no big deal. Some kind of 'local' situation," Dean muttered.

"You want me to check online, see if there's anything resembling a case in her hometown?" Sam asked.

"For right now, let's just keep an eye on things, see what happens. There has to be some reason she didn't or doesn't want me--er, us--knowing what's going on," Dean replied. Sam nodded in agreement but grinned internally at Dean's almost confession.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You went to bed shortly after packing your bags and stowing them in your closet. You felt a twinge of guilt about turning Dean down for your Movie Night, considering your feelings for him. As far as he was concerned, you have been and probably always would be just his best friend. For you, though, it was more than a crush. Yep. You were full-blown, head-over-heels, heart eyes, Cupid's-arrow-in-the-butt, in love with Dean Winchester.

Too many times, you were almost caught staring at him, wondering what it would be like to be held in his strong arms. Or kissed by those plump, perfect lips. One look in his forest-green eyes and you were a goner, throwing almost all speaking ability out the window. For all his strength and take-charge attitude, though, he let you see his tender side as well. The one that brought you tea when you weren't feeling well, or held you close when you watched a horror movie in the 'Cave. How tenderly he dressed your wounds after a hunt.

Yep. In love with your best friend, and you couldn't do thing one about it. Not without it becoming awkward around the bunker when he didn't return your feelings. Sam figured it out a long time ago, but you made him promise not to say anything to Dean about it. So far, so good, but you weren't sure how much longer you could go without him finding out.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The way Ruthie sounded on the phone made your heart clench, especially when she said it was your kind of weird. She knew what you did for a day job and that it was important, even though she didn't like thinking about you in danger.

Ruthie didn't give you many details, but because she was involved, that made it personal. Despite having so little to go on, you knew you had to drop everything and go. There was no way you were going to trust another hunter to handle it.

There was always the hope that it was a 'milk run' kind of situation, and that you could cover it on your own. If not, you were sure that you could call Sam and Dean for help, though you considered that as a last resort. They have enough to worry about. No, you thought, this one's on me, I can do this. I have to do this myself. You rolled over, closed your eyes and tried to get some sleep.

Early the next morning, you quietly slipped out of your room with your bags and locked the door behind you. Using one of the secret passageways, you silently made your way to the garage, undetected. Your weapons bag was put into the warded compartment under the trunk bottom, with your other duffel bag on top. Before you left, you turned off the GPS function on your phone so you couldn't be tracked. You texted Ruthie, then eased your car out of the garage and headed for your hometown.

Your route out of town took you by one of the nearby parks where Sam usually went for his morning run. You hoped that you had left the bunker before him, to reduce the chances that he would see you as you drove past him. Just as you passed the park, you saw a familiar figure in a navy blue jogging shorts, sweatshirt and beanie. The figure turned his head in your direction and you knew you'd been made. Welp, you thought. So much for a clean getaway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam turned his head just in time to see you drive past the park. He stopped on the path to stretch, then pulled out his phone to call you.

Next to you on the seat, your phone rang. A quick glance at the Caller ID showed that it was Sam, but you chose not to answer it at first. Immediately after it stopped ringing, it started again, so this time you picked up.

"Hey, you're up awfully early, what's going on?" Sam asked.

"Nothing, Sam, I'm running some errands," you explained.

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" he shot back.

"Believe what you want to believe, Sam. Listen, I have something that I need to handle. I'll be back in 2, maybe 3 days, tops. Bye, Sam," you replied.

"No, wait, don't hang up! I'm headed back to the bunker now. Just please pull over and wait so that Dean and I can catch up to you. Whatever it is, we want to help. Please," he implored.

You thought about doing as he asked, but then you realized that they have enough to worry about in their own lives. Surely you could handle this one case by yourself. "I'm sorry, Sam. You guys have enough to deal with on your own, I can't put this on you. I have to do this on my own. Please understand. I'll be home in 2-3 days," you said. After you hung up, you turned your phone off.

Sam knew there wasn't a moment to waste. Whatever you had going on, he knew it was better for you to have back-up, despite what you thought. He hightailed it back to the bunker to wake up Dean and try to figure out what you're doing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"She WHAT?!?" Dean roared.

"I saw her on the highway, headed out of town, so I called her to ask what was going on. All she told me was that there was something she had to handle, and she'd be back in 2 or 3 days at most. I tried to get her to pull over and wait for us, so we could go with her. She said we had enough to deal with on our own, that she wasn't going to put this on us. Then she hung up, and I haven't been able to reach her since," Sam explained.

Dean cast his eyes downward and shook his head. "That stubborn woman. Doesn't she know that I--we--would drop everything to help her? That hunting alone in a highly emotional state is dangerous? What if something goes wrong, what if she zigs instead of zags and she ends up getting hurt? Or worse?" he whispered the last part.

Sam studied his brother as he ranted about you and your decision to hunt alone. Granted, he had the same thoughts as Dean, that he was worried about you, but with Dean....it was more. "You care about her, don't you?" he asked.

"Of course I do, Sam! She's my best friend," Dean snapped.

Sam gave his brother an epic bitch face. "C'mon, Dean. You know what I'm talking about," Sam admonished.

Dean couldn't form the words at first, so he just nodded. "Been wanting to tell her for a long time, man. I decided that last night was time to 'nut up or shut up', which is why I waited until our Movie Night in the 'Cave. I was going to tell her everything," he explained. "She's amazing, Sam. So sweet and kind, smart, she's got the best sense of humor and she's an awesome hunter. Damn gorgeous, too."

Sam chuckled softly at his brother's assessment of you. "So, you said this had something to do with Ruthie. Wouldn't Ruthie's house be the first place she's going to go?" Sam asked, to which Dean nodded. "Okay. I'm going to go shower, then we're gonna pack up and head in that direction. You with me?" Sam inquired, his hand out for Dean to take.

"Yeah, let's do this," he said as he locked hands with his brother to bring him in for a bro hug. Dean caught a whiff of Sam's shirt and immediately drew back, waving in front of his nose, which was wrinkled in disgust. "Whoa, dude, you reek! Get to the showers, man, before I pass out!" he grinned. Sam shook his head, and as he left, Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder.

After Sam left the room, Dean pulled out his phone and dialed your number, only to have it go straight to voicemail. He decided to lay it all out on the line and let the chips fall where they may.

"Hey, sweetheart. Listen, Sam told me you're on your way out of town, on a case. I-I know you have your reasons for doing this alone, and I hope you'll tell me sometime. But please, honey, whatever you do, be careful," Dean pleaded.

"I'm....I'm not gonna lie to you, I'm kinda freaking out right now, 'cause you're out there, alone, and you don't have to be. I wish you were here with me, because then I'd know you were safe. Please call me back when you get this," he ended the message and started packing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ruthie was sitting on her front porch when you pulled your car into her driveway. You got out of the car, grabbed your duffel bag with your clothes and headed into the house. Ruthie's husband, Jim, was waiting inside the door and gave you a hug when you came in. He took your bag and put it in the back bedroom, where you would be sleeping. Ruthie gave you a hug as well and asked you to join her in the kitchen while she made you something for lunch.

A plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chips and two cookies was placed in front of you. "EAT. Then, you're going to tell me why you didn't want the Lumberjack Brothers to join you on this case," she remarked grimly. "You know, they've been calling me, asking what's going on and if I've seen you. They're worried about you, sweetie, especially Dean. He sounded miserable," she added.

You dropped your head to the table. "Oh, man, that is the last thing I wanted. I thought I'd come here, take care of things and that would be it. Zip, zap, no muss, no fuss. I can see now that was a mistake," you admitted. You pulled out your phone and turned it back on, only to see about 10 missed calls and 4 voicemails from Sam.

There were twice as many calls from Dean, but only one voicemail message. You punched in the code and waited for the recording to start. What you heard was the last thing you expected. Instead of an angry tirade, you heard the concern, the understanding, but mostly the fear in his voice that you were out here on your own. You realized that you had made a huge mistake in thinking you could work this case without them. Time to face the music, you thought.

With trembling fingers, you accessed your contacts list and selected Dean's number. You wondered if he'd even pick up, and if he did, how would he react to you calling him? You had to try, had to start somewhere. Just as you were about ready to hang up, you heard, "Hello? Sweetheart, is that you?" he asked.

"H-hey, Dean, it's me," you answered. There was an audible sigh of relief on his end. "Dean, I'm sorry for leaving and not telling you where I was going. I--" you started to explain, tears threatening.

"Never mind that right now, just listen. Sammy and I are on our way to Ruthie's right now, so stay there with her and Jim, where it's safe. We should be there in a couple of hours, hopefully less. I am very much looking forward to hearing your explanation of why you thought hunting on your own was such a good idea," Dean replied sternly.

You swallowed back a sob at hearing the disappointment in his voice. "Yes, Dean," you choked out. "I promise I'll wait here, talk to Ruthie and see if we can figure out what's going on," you whispered.

Dean agreed that talking about the case with Ruthie and getting some details down would be a good idea. "Hey?" he called.

"Yes, Dean?" you answered.

"Whatever this is, whatever is going on, we'll figure it out and fix it together. Remember, sweetheart?" he inquired softly.

"I do, I remember, Dean. See you soon," you responded.

After you hung up the phone, Ruthie pointed down the hall and ordered you to go get some rest. She said she would wake you up when Sam and Dean got there, and then you all could talk about the case.

You thought about protesting, but you figured you'd made enough bad choices already. Finally, you relented and trudged to the bedroom at the end of the hall. Once inside, you changed into more comfy sleep clothes and crawled beneath the blankets. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you were out cold.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Around a couple of hours later, you awoke from your peaceful slumber to voices and laughter in the kitchen. You splashed some water on your face, took a swig of mouthwash then pointed yourself towards the voices. Ruthie looked up to see you standing in the doorway. "Hey! There she is! Did you enjoy your nap, honey?" she asked.

You nodded. With your eyes transfixed on Sam and Dean, mostly Dean, you tried to gauge their mood. Sam rose from the table, coffee cup in hand. He motioned that he was going to get a refill on his coffee, and as he passed by you, he squeezed then patted your shoulder.

"I'm going to get some coffee," you mumbled. As you walked by Dean, he stood up and you knew he was following you.

He brushed his knuckles up and down your bare arm. "Can we talk?" he murmured. You nodded and led him by the hand out to Ruthie's back porch. Dean stood next to you at the railing, neither of you speaking at first. You turned to Dean and opened your mouth to say something, then closed your mouth again as if you'd thought better of it.

"Okay, I'll start then," Dean remarked. "That night I asked you to watch a movie with me, this was what you were talking about with Ruthie? A case?" he asked.

"Yes. She told me about the stupid class reunion a while ago, and I had already decided that I didn't want to come back for it. But, when she said something else was happening here that was 'our kind of weird', I had to check it out," you replied.

"But why didn't you tell me or Sam about it? Why did you think you had to do this all on your own?" he demanded.

"Dean, we just got back from a series of back-to-back hunts. You and Sam were exhausted, I was trying to give you guys time to rest. Besides, you two have enough going on, you don't need me adding to your list," you retorted.

"So, what, you don't think you need rest as well? Last time I checked, you got thrown around pretty good on that last salt-and-burn we did," Dean snapped.

"Dean, she's my sister! No matter what, no matter when or why, if she calls, I drop everything and come running. That's how it works," you shot back.

He put his hands on your shoulders then ran them down your arms and cupped your elbows to pull you closer. "Sweetheart, I understand that, really I do, but you are just as important to us. If you had brought us in on this case, exhausted or not, we would've dropped everything for you," he affirmed.

You laid a hand alongside his face. "I know, Dean, and I'm sorry for running out like that on you and Sam," you replied gently. "Let's go back inside and Ruthie will fill us in on what she knows. Then we can hopefully fill in the blanks," you started to walk back into the house.

Dean caught your hand in his and pulled you back to face him. "Hey. I'm still a little upset with you," he declared as he narrowed his eyes at you a bit. Then he cupped your cheek and caressed it with his thumb. "But I'm also glad you're okay and that we're working this together," he added, softening his gaze. He pressed his lips to your forehead in a lingering kiss and you closed your eyes to savor the moment. "Come on, let's head inside to see what we're dealing with," he said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You and Dean walked back into the kitchen, hand-in-hand, which did not escape anyone's notice. "I was just starting to tell Sam what I know, Sis," Ruthie informed you. "I was in the grocery store the other day, and I heard someone mention Trevor Morrison's name."

"Ugh," you remarked, rolling your eyes and making a noise of disgust. "And?"

"And, they were saying that he just got back from some overseas trip, and that there was a late-night delivery to his house the following day," Ruthie explained.

"How big was the delivery? Did anyone see any strange markings on the package?" you inquired.

"No one mentioned seeing anything strange on the box. Size-wise, not that big, maybe the size of a phone book and about as thick," Ruthie answered.

"Sam, do you think you can patch in to the cargo plane manifests and figure out what it could be?" Dean asked.

"Let me see what I can do, Dean," Sam replied, taking out his laptop.

While Sam was getting his laptop set up, Dean noticed the troubled expression on your face and pulled you aside. "What's the deal with you and Trevor Morrison?" he asked.

You took a deep breath to calm yourself before responding. "He's an ex-boyfriend from high school. We were supposed to go to Prom together, but we sorta didn't after I found out that he cheated on me with the head cheerleader," you muttered.

Dean put his arm around you and rubbed his hand up and down your back. "I'm so sorry that happened to you, sweetheart," he murmured.

"I got it, here it is. The Grimoire of Astaroth is what Trevor had delivered to his house," Sam swung the laptop around to show everyone the packing slip.

"So, what's the significance?" you asked. "Who's Astaroth?"

"Astaroth is a demon, who makes his appearance by riding a dragon-like creature and carrying a viper in his right hand. The lore says he knows the answers to the Past, Present and Yet to Come, and can discover all secrets," Sam explained.

"That's an awful lot of power in the hands of one man," you warned. "We need to get in to his house and retrieve that Grimoire."

"Leave that to me, dear sister," Ruthie said with a smug grin on her face.

You quirked an eyebrow at her statement. "And just how do you propose to get us in there?" you asked.

"I can get everyone tickets for the reunion. You go in with Sam or Dean, then Jim and I will go in with you. Whoever doesn't go in is in charge of surveillance, telling us where the cameras and security guards are. Sound good?" Ruthie suggested.

You, Sam and Dean looked at each other in silent communication. "It's worked for us in the past, I don't see why it won't work this time," you acknowledged. "Which one of you is going in with me?" you asked.

The boys looked at each other, brought up their fist for Rock, Paper, Scissors. You and Ruthie both rolled your eyes at the way that this was being decided, but you knew this was the easiest way. "Okay, winner goes in to the party, loser is stuck with surveillance," Dean said.

"Ready? One, two, three!" Sam counted. He chose paper, while Dean chose scissors. A smile as wide as the Grand Canyon broke out over Dean's face.

"You bring your 'Fed threads'?" you asked.

"Always, sweetheart. What about you? Do you need to go shopping for something to wear?" Dean inquired.

Ruthie spoke up. "I'm sure I have something she can wear. I might have picked something up for her when I was out shopping for my own dress," she added with a wry grin.

Your eyes narrowed at her. "Did you set this up just to get me out here?" you exclaimed.

"Relax, would ya? No, I did not set this up, but there is definitely something weird going on. You coming out here is just a nice little side bonus," she stated simply. "Come on, let me show you what you'll be wearing."

"I'm going out to the car and get our bags," Dean announced.

As you walked by Sam, you caught him chuckling quietly to himself. You took hold of the open sides of his flannel shirt and yanked him downward. "You lost on purpose, didn't you? You KNOW he always chooses scissors, and you planned your move accordingly, right?" you remarked, then let go of his shirt.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. If you'll excuse me, I have to set up surveillance," Sam replied, still with a smirk on his face. "But you're welcome," he said in a sing-song voice.

"Yeah, right, you have no idea what I'm talking about," you mumbled. "Ruthie! Where's this dress you have for me?" you barked then walked down the hall towards her room.

"Step into my office, sister dear. It's time to make some magic!" Ruthie declared.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Where did you get this dress? It's gorgeous!" you whispered.

"You'd better hope Dean's wearing socks, because you're going to knock them off of him when he sees you," Ruthie smirked.

"I don't know about that, but thank you so much for this," you turned and gave Ruthie a hug.

The floor-length dress was a one-shoulder, with the strap encrusted with crystals in a starburst pattern. The bodice was black, which continued down the length of the dress until it faded into a deep red at about knee-level. There was a band of crystals at the waist to divide the top half from the bottom half. A pair of black pumps completed the outfit.

Ruthie even did your makeup for you which was great, because as a hunter, you didn't have much call for it. She curled and fluffed your hair, pulling it back on each side with crystal-encrusted clips. "There, I think that should do it, don't you think?" she remarked.

You stared at yourself in the full-length mirror, trying to recognize yourself. "Whoa. This can't be me. Is it?" you asked.

"Of course it is, silly," Ruthie chuckled. "Now wait here while I get ready, then we'll walk out there together. I'll go first, save the best for last," she giggled, while you just shook your head at her in amusement.

While the two of you were getting ready, Dean slipped out and found a place that was able to rent him a tux at the last minute. He was looking forward to going to this party, because it meant he'd be going with you on his arm.

Ruthie was wearing a floor-length navy blue dress, strapless, with a gathered bodice. The pattern was criss-crossed in the chest area, so it held everything in place. "Okay, Sis, it's your turn. Come on down!" she called.

You stepped into your black suede pumps and nervously strode down the hall, fidgeting nearly the entire way. Sam saw you first, a look of surprise mixed with wonder flitted across his face. But his was not the opinion you sought, the one that meant the most to you was yet to be determined.

Dean raised his head and locked his eyes with yours when you stepped fully into the room. His eyes widened and his lips slightly parted in amazement, then closed. He slowly walked towards you and held out his hand for you to take, which you did. Dean raised your hand to his lips, brushing them gently across your knuckles. "Wow. Sweetheart, you look gorgeous," he rumbled in that deep, sexy voice of his.

You could feel the heat rising from your neck, all the way to the ends of your hair. "Thank you, Dean. Might I say, you look particularly handsome yourself in that not-Fed-suit tuxedo," you noted with a small curtsy.

"Whaaaat? This old thing?" he replied then held out his arm for you. "Shall we, milady?" he asked.

"We shall, good sir," you answered, taking his arm and feeling him tuck yours in close to his side. "Here," you reached into your small handbag and pulled out the keys. "You can drive my car, because I know there will be valet parking. And there's no way you'll let anyone park Baby except you," you remarked.

"You're right about that, darlin'. You trust me to drive your car?" Dean asked.

You stopped him and stared straight into his emerald eyes. "I trust you with my life, Dean. Why wouldn't I trust you with my car?" you reasoned. When the two of you reached your car, Dean opened the passenger door and waited to close it until you and your dress were all settled.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The short ride over to Morrison Manor was mostly silent, except for the rumble of the engine. Dean took hold of your hand and interlaced your fingers. Every once in a while, you'd catch him looking in your direction, so you sent him an encouraging smile. He would respond by lifting your joined hands to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. The toothy grin he gave you afterwards was more than enough to make your heart flutter in your chest.

Dean pulled up to the valet station, stepped out and hurried over to your side of the car to open your door. He held out his hand to help you exit the car, which you readily accepted. Just before you entered the manor, Dean tugged on your arm to pull you back a little. "You ready for this?" he asked softly.

You looked at Dean and gave him a soft smile. "Yep. We go in, get the Grimoire, then get out. The rest of it, facing everyone in there? That's nothing. I don't owe anyone an explanation, nor am I required to have lived up to their expectations. I'm good with who I am, with who you and Sam are. I'm proud of us," you replied while you walked into the event.

Dean leaned over and placed a lingering kiss to your temple. "Let's do this," he murmured against your skin. You nodded slowly and the two of you walked in behind Ruthie and Jim.

Sam's voice came over your earpiece. "Okay, I've found it. The book is in his study, but unfortunately, so is he at the moment. You'll have to do something until he's clear," he informed you and Dean.

"Come on, sweetheart. Dance with me," Dean said, leading you to the dance floor. You followed, and Dean took your left hand and curled his fingers around it. His other hand snaked around your waist and splayed across your back. The contact of his fingertips on your partially bare back caused you to gasp at the sensation.

"Relax, darlin', it's just dancing," Dean whispered in your ear.

Easy for you to say, you thought, with your heart beating a mile a minute. At that moment, the voice you never wanted to hear again was demanding your attention. Your dance with Dean was interrupted by none other than the former head cheerleader, Amber.

Dean must have sensed your apprehension because he tightened his hold on you all the more, making sure you knew he was there for you. "Do you trust me?" he asked. You nodded slowly.

Amber stood in front of you and Dean, holding on to Trevor's arm. "Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her presence. I thought you weren’t coming," she drawled. Shifting her attention to Dean, Amber let out a low whistle. "Wow, she must have paid a fortune for you," she sneered.

"Excuse me? That happens to be my wife you're talking about, and I think you should be a little more respectful," Dean snapped.

"Ha! You expect me to believe that? You and her, husband and wife? Prove it. Let me see the ring," Amber demanded.

You looked around nervously, but when your eyes met Dean's, he gave you an almost imperceptible wink. "Honey? You left this on the sink in the bathroom, remember? You must've taken it off while you were getting ready for tonight," Dean pulled a ring out of his pocket and slid it onto your left ring finger. He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to where he'd just placed the ring.

Amber gave you a snort of disgust and stormed off, while Trevor shook his head at Amber's lack of manners. "Excuse me, I have a business matter to attend to," he left you and walked off in the opposite direction as Amber.

"That was smooth, and quick thinking, thank you. Where did you get the rings?" you inquired.

Dean wiggled his left hand for you to see his ring before grasping your left hand. "Remember that museum job where we went undercover?" he asked, to which you nodded. "Well, these are the rings we used for that case. Good thing I kept them in the glove compartment all this time," he declared.

"Thank you, Dean. I don't know what I'd do without you," you remarked, leaning into his embrace.

"No thanks necessary, darlin'," he replied while his hand settled on the small of your back.

"Uh, guys, I hate to interrupt, but a window of opportunity just opened to go into the study and grab that book," Sam interjected.

Dean released you from his hold and grinned as he searched your face. "Ready?" he asked. You nodded your head enthusiastically and took his outstretched hand in yours. "Then let's get this thing and go home," he remarked.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Around 90 minutes, a couple of slices of pizza and a beer or two later, everyone had returned to Ruthie's house to relax. The Grimoire of Astaroth was safely stowed in the warded compartment in the trunk of your car to escape detection. Once you returned to the bunker, it would be catalogued as had been done with other charmed or cursed objects.

"Who's up for another round?" you asked, rising from your chair at the kitchen table. Everyone raised their hand, so Dean got up to help you. Before you could open the refrigerator door for more beer, Dean caught your hand and motioned for you to follow him outside. Curious, you slipped out the back door to the porch and into the cool night air.

"You warm enough?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," you replied just as a shiver ran through you.

Dean chuckled. "Come here," he said as he unzipped his sweatshirt and wrapped his arms around you from behind.

"Mmm, that feels nice, thank you," you sighed and closed your eyes.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," Dean began. "You've been my best friend for the longest time, and I wouldn't trade that for the world. That's why what I'm going to say next is so difficult," he added.

You turned around in Dean's arms to face him. "Dean, no matter what it is, you know you can tell me and I'll still be your best friend," you tried to assure him.

Dean looked up to the starry sky and took a deep breath then locked eyes with you again. "I hope so, sweetheart, because I wanted to tell you I'm in love with you," he declared.

"What?" you whispered.

"It's true. You're smart, kind, you have the best sense of humor, even though you still laugh at my feeble attempts at telling jokes. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know, and your dedication to family is almost stronger than mine. As was just recently proven, I believe," he chuckled.

"Yeah," you returned his chuckle.

"And for me to say you're so beautiful just doesn't even cover it. From your eyes that look at things from a different perspective, to your cute little nose that crinkles when you're researching. From your smile that brightens up my day just to see it, to hands that are tough when swinging a machete and soft when sewing up an injury. Ones I can't wait to have roaming over every inch of my body while I'm taking my sweet time to learn every inch of yours," he explained.

"I had no idea you felt this way, Dean, but I'm glad you told me. Kinda makes what I have to say next so easy, which is I'm in love with you too. I have been for a long time, but I didn't want to give up what we had if you didn't love me. So I kept my feelings to myself," you finished.

"Oh, sweetheart," Dean whispered.

"There are so many things I love about you. Such as, you like to show the world how tough you are, but I know about the flip side of that. The one that tenderly patches me up after a hunt or takes care of me when I'm sick. Or holds me in his arms so I feel safe from my fears, real or imagined. The side that knows when something's bothering me and won't let up until it's out in the open. And believe me, you're no slouch in the looks department," you giggle at the last part.

"Really? Well, don't stop now, baby, I think you're really on to something," he replied.

"Let's start with the eyes. I know I can tell you anything and I won't see an ounce of judgement in them. Plus, they kind of shine when you talk about the things you love, like music," you started.

Your index finger began tracing a line down the edge of his jaw. "Your smile is contagious and it lights up the room. And last but not least," you whispered, inching ever closer. "I really want to know how soft your lips are. So, for the sake of science," you closed the gap and meshed your lips together with his.

The kiss itself was perfect, all you'd ever imagined, and then some. Your lips left his for a brief second until he recaptured them and dove back in for more. As your mouths moved in tandem, Dean's tongue swept along your bottom lip to request access, which you readily granted.

"Mmf, sweetheart, I love you so much," he murmured against your mouth. He nudged your head upwards to trail a path of open-mouthed kisses across and down your neck. Once he reached the place where your neck met your collarbone, he attached his lips and sucked at the skin. When he pulled back, he had left a mark there for all to see. "Now everyone will know who you belong to," he grinned.

"My heart was always yours, Dean. Always and forever," you sighed. "I love you."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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#dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #spn #supernatural #spn imagines

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onyourzeus · 4 years ago

Text

• beat of my heart | ydw

ykcyj ➝ arskyh

title: beat of my heart pairing: yoon dowoon (of day6) & you genre: fluff, non-idol!au, college!au words: 4.3k

author’s note: finally, a dowoon fic that i thoroughly enjoyed writing (hence how long it is) it went on a different track than planned, but isn’t that how most of my fics are turning out to be? lol. please do enjoy!

this dot fic is part of the falling asleep on the bus scenario i intend to write for each day6 member. check out the others: wonpil (currently only have 2/5 completed)

any requests? check my pinned post if i’m accepting any at the moment, thanks!

there isn’t a lot that occupies dowoon’s mind. he gets classified as an introvert by people who have known him for years but this doesn’t mean too much for him

sure, he likes to keep to himself and only open up to people he’s trusted for a while which… is the kind of life he wants to lead

with that being said, other things that goes under Dowoon’s Approved Interests would be: playing the drums, playing a ton of games, and… animals

upon entering college, he wondered if he’d have the free time to care for animals just like when he was younger, volunteering at the nearest animal shelter in which everyone who worked there knew who he was

and always regarded him as the shy little boy but also borderline an animal whisperer. it gave dowoon lots of fun memories to look back on his childhood, and for a moment he considered studying veterinary science to continue his passion for loving dogs cats and everything in between

but another love of his life was introduced in first year high school, and that is the drums. as his social circle expanded (as much as he permitted it to, so not by a lot), so did his club activities in music and even playing as a filler in different bands became his priority (next to academics)

he still visited the shelter from time to time, it wasn’t something he could just drop so easily; bonding with stray-turned-angelic pets waiting for their forever family was his form of therapy, in a way, when music got too complicated at times or when he’s struggling with a class

and then there’s playing league or overwatch or pubg to release stress in a more high-energy fashion

so when the time came that he needed to choose a major, the first thing that came into mind was music theory. he wanted to get better at playing drums, understanding notes, and improving his performance skills overall

he’s experienced frustration over figuring out the rhythm for certain songs he liked to play before, so this is what made him decide that music is the type of interest he’d want to pursue as a career

and bonding with animals… well, would be just that. this way, he doesn’t get burnt out with the one hobby he feels much peace with. his happy place, if you will

so imagine dowoon’s surprise when he learnt of a volunteering organization on campus that caters to helping out local animal shelters on the weekends. literally what he has been doing since he was a wee lad

it was perfect timing to have passed by the club booth during intro week, he already planned on auditioning for the established bands on campus (day6 sounds like a perfect fit for him, tbh) but he hadn’t reached that level of confidence with his drumming skills yet

distracting himself with going to the shelter every so often would help him leave the dorm for a bit (his roommate ha subtly asked many a times for him to ease off of the mouse clicking during the late hours of the night and shouting, “gg” over and over)

the first few times he went to the org’s events at the shelter, it was… a little awkward

one, he didn’t know anybody and two, he isn’t exactly the cute little shy 10 year old he once was that knew every auntie and uncle in his small town.

and everyone else in the event… already seems to know each other. dowoon recognizes the guy who handed him a flyer talking to the animal shelter coordinators up in the front. he had been lost in the crowd of his peers that he has no idea what’s going on

he just wants to pet sum dogs and play laser pointers with cats, is that too much to ask for?

suddenly, everyone had dispersed into groups and apparently you choose where you want to be included in

great, dowoon is just smiling awkwardly to himself as he feels the tips of his ears blush bright red

“hi! dowoon, right? do you have a group to join?” he whips his head to the sound of your voice, just a few feet ahead of him. he’s confused as to why you knows his name, so he points to himself and feels the flimsy paper nametag attached by double-sided tape on his shirt

oh, duh. they had the new prospective members do it a while ago

he sees your name too, and remembers it in the back of his head like a prayer

dowoon shakes his head, perpetually shy and blushing hard now. you feel a sense of guilt singling him out like that in the crowd, so you approach him more closely and signal to follow you

“i’m part of the board members, and we don’t have enough people in our group so you can come join us!” as publicity chair, it is your duty to make others feel comfortable and welcomed in the org. and this is your time to shine

“we’re looking at some bigger doggos today, do you have any pets, dowoon?” you try to make polite introductions as you lead the group to where you’re assigned. like a lost puppy on his own, dowoon follows suit. he’s grateful for some guidance, and actually seeing the animals calm him down for a moment

and it doesn’t feel like everyone’s staring at him anymore as he hears chit-chatting surrounding the place

so he focuses his attention on you instead, and he somewhat regrets it

he’s not those guys who don’t have girl friends, but most of the friendships he’s formed with them are due to the fact that he was introduced by a mutual friend

so dowoon is, how do you say it, entranced by the way you talk about your first big dog in the house

and the two that followed after, and how you stopped playing with your friends from the neighborhood

because all you needed in life were your golden retrievers and newfoundland

dowoon finds himself sharing his own childhood experiences of spending time at a shelter, but never having a dog of his own

“family allergies,” he shrugs and you pout for him in frustration

wow, he’s never seen someone so invested by the fact that he never got to own a pet for himself

“well, dowoon,” you tell him as you’re approaching the section of big dogs, “i hope you enjoy your time here. this is one of the biggest shelters near campus, and fortunately a lot of dogs and cats get adopted every month!”

your enthusiasm for #adoptdontshop makes dowoon feel excited again, he’s just itching to be back doing what calms him down in a therapeutic sense

you instruct the other members to join in a pair or a trio to assist the shelter coordinators with grooming some of the dogs and going for their scheduled walks

this makes dowoon suddenly panic inwardly again, why does everything have to be done in groups?

“want to come with me?” you ask him in the middle of his inner monologue. you’re met with a look of surprise similar to how he reacted when you called out his name just a few minutes prior

“me? you’re not partnering with anyone else?” you shake your head, “as you can tell, they’ve already made up their minds. you’re one of the only new people i saw come to our event today, so i’ll be glad to show you around!” and you genuinely are. it’s rare to see a newbie look so obviously excited to be here, let alone by themselves

usually the people you’ve come to know who join your events are just there for the instagram stories or a pseudo-date of some sorts. you’re happy they’re helping out the shelter with taking care of the pets even for a few hours in the day, but their intentions lie far and beyond with what you have in mind joining the org

however, having approached dowoon and giving him your usual spiel on your love for dogs— he was actually listening and nodding along to the right moments!!! it was so refreshing, especially with the way he’s just excitedly tapping his feet right now awaiting where you’ll lead him next

“oh, let’s hang out with lady! she’s actually going to be adopted soon, but i want you to meet her,” you lead dowoon to one of the bigger stalls on the right where lady was. you call out to her, and immediately you see a tail of a fawn colored pitbull sway back and forth

she comes near you first, sniffing and licking at your petting hands. lady senses dowoon standing idly by your side, and you’re about to tell him how to approach the dog when dowoon does it for himself

he bends down to her level, lifts up a loosely closed fist and lets lady smell her first. “hi lady, nice to meet you. my name is dowoon,” he coos at her, finally lady lets him in her space as her tail wags even faster

“that’s amazing,” you point out, “we had a really hard time teaching her to trust new people”

dowoon shrugs, grinning while he’s at it and you can tell how modest he’s trying to be. but the way he’s rubbing lady’s belly and chuckling at her snorts make you believe that dowoon knows what he’s doing. and he’s enjoying it to the fullest

“thank you for trusting me, miss lady,” dowoon tells the dog who has completely fallen in love with him too. you just watch him, in awe of the scene before you until dowoon looks your way

he catches you having a weird, goofy smile and so you fake cough your way as an excuse and tuck a hair beneath your ear. “does she need to go for a walk?” he asks you, tone inquisitive and hands busy petting lady much to her delight

“we can, y-yeah,” you find yourself a little out of breath, so out of the ordinary for you. but you comply to his wish and ask the coordinator for lady’s leash and the record book.

and that’s kinda how you and dowoon started hanging out a lot on the weekends. after that first event you met him, you’re quick to tell him about the incoming ones the org has for the following weeks (albeit some were supposed to be a secret, you couldn’t resist) and that you’ll be really happy if he came

for the pets, of course

dowoon had informed you that he’s trying to join a band on campus, so he might not be at every event you described. although he’ll do his best, for all the other dogs and cats he hasn’t met yet. you become curious about the guy, but not enough confidence to ask about this band or anything other than his love for animals

so for the next few weeks of the semester, whenever you get to lead an event you’re always looking for a shy boy in the crowd. and 80% of the time, dowoon comes through

there are instances when the other board members ask you to proceed with a diff group or a diff task, and before they can sweep dowoon away from your group…

“ah, actually he’s interested in becoming my intern, so i think it’s best to keep him under my wing!”

“we’re doing interns??? now?? i thought we canceled that—”

“he’s just interested, nothing too serious or finalized but yep— ah, dowoon, over here!”

what a save, and gladly dowoon didn’t hear

he’s actually formed a few acquaintances within the returning members, and it makes you proud to see him come out of his shell a lil

even if you don’t know much about him yet, just his major and the band he’s trying out for (which is looking very good, in his terms) as long as dowoon voluntarily wants to attend the events, it’s a success to you

“who are we meeting today chief?” dowoon would tease you once the event has started, and it’s becoming a running theme in your guys’ greetings

hmm, you decide, major,” is what you’d call him (as you squeal and squirm involuntarily inside) “bathing ole’ mister winston or trying to teach tiny toffee how to sit and stay for more than two seconds?”

dowoon visibly shudders, remembering the time the english mastiff mister winston slobbered him so much as a form of thanks for keeping him squeaky clean, and you basically laughed at his face for 15 seconds straight

“let’s teach toffee some tricks today,” he relents as you already knew the answer but wanted to see reactions of his flashbacks

you’re not sure if any one of the board members have noticed your particular liking to dowoon. if they did no one said a word because the whole point of the organization is

to have fun with animals and prepare them well for their furr-ever home, which is what you and dowoon love doing together. there’s a kind of synergy that you feel being with dowoon and working with one dog

dowoon knows more techniques on how to calm down anxious dogs than you’ve ever learned being in the org

you have to admit sometimes you’re still skittish, jumping from loud sounds or yelping in response to mister winston pawing at you (and his paws are bigger than your face)

or maybe it’s the fact that dowoon is there teasing you instead, intentionally hiding from you when you need a helping hand only to return with a handful of kittens in his embrace. “sorry, they were calling out to me and i couldn’t resist.”

you’d roll your eyes and attempt to get upset, but the way his own shines and his shy giggle coming out of him when the kittens fight their way to nuzzle against his cheek— it’s harder than you thought

anyway, you tell yourself that you’re keeping dowoon by your side because the two of you learn a lot together, and the back and forth coordination you have with tougher to care for dogs makes the job easier, it’s really that. it really is

or maybe it’s more… because as the weeks go by and dowoon couldn’t come round the shelter on the weekends, he asks if you want to see him practice with the band he’s joined

unfortunately, a lot of the times clash with your events or other school related activities, so dowoon insists on sending you videos of him playing the drums

it was a wild ride of messages, to be honest, because at first the camera would just be showing the ceiling, and then it would be recording his shoes, then just the surface of a drum until the vibrations shake it off of wherever dowoon was putting his phone against

nevertheless, you’d listen to how he plays the instrument he truly loves, and it was another side of him that got you feeling enamored

the day has come that there was no event at the shelter, and dowoon alongside other day6 members were having a busking session on campus grounds

“i’ll record you this time, dowoon, you don’t have to rely on faulty angles and physics anymore,” you tell him minutes before the gig started. you’ve seen dowoon give off a positive, excited aura in the shelter, but being with his bandmates and sitting in front of his drums— you’re observing a different side of him

and it’s addicting. to watch

“oh, guys by the way, she’s the one i was telling you all about,” you hear dowoon tell his members while you stand on the side. a question mark pops in your head, what does he mean by that???

soon after, everyone introduces themselves to you and shakes your hand. and you’re stunned, having known their names before (courtesy of dowoon) but not really associating a face with it

“you didn’t tell me your friends are good looking,” you tease dowoon, “you’re hanging out with the right crowd,” you add, poking him on the side to watch his reaction

and you get what you wanted, ears blushing and hands shoving you away playfully

around you, a crowd has started forming and you notice people from the org watching on the sidelines too

posters fill up the air with names of the members— and even dowoon

huh, why does that hurt a little inside (maybe you should have made a poster too? you glance at dowoon to see him gazing upon the cheers of the crowd and perhaps his name in sharpie, enclosed in hearts by his supporters)

that hurt a little more too

you shake away the weird feeling, and remind yourself that you’re here to record him for the first time, and to listen to him play live

when they finally begun their performance, you became more speechless than you thought. you’ve gone to indie music gatherings before and have watched a couple of up and coming bands do their thing

but day6 is something else— and most especially, you know the drummer

the ones those girls behind you are screaming your ear off for

he’s a god with the drums, eyes closed in parts that require careful and soft beats but you see the fiery look in them once the song comes up to its peak

it was thrilling, it was a sight to behold. dowoon in his other element, another side of dowoon you’d love to get to know more of

you resist from screaming his name so that your recording doesn’t sound ugly (you’re sending it to him after all), but that doesn’t mean your heart isn’t beating as loud as the rhythm of his drums

a few times during the performance, you catch him looking at your direction, but you’re not sure so you just raise a thumbs up with one hand while the other holding your phone feels strained as they go on

it’s ok, it’s all for dowoon

an hour later, their set ended with a bang and girls and guys alike flock to the members to get a poster signed or something else of theirs (dowoon had already given you a pre-signed poster. friendship benefits?)

you didn’t want to leave without congratulating him for a very successful first gig, so you sit by the benches. a little farther away from the platform where they performed to give yourself fresh air, and understand why your heart continues to pound so hard and so fast

and the cheers for dowoon’s name playing back in your mind

it’s the after show adrenaline, you tell yourself, rewinding the footage you recorded to pass the time

your mistake since it was all just dowoon

there were times when you “accidentally” zoomed it in his face, and kept it there. for minutes on end

god why does he smile like that, stop you’re hurting my HEART

“someone’s a fan,” a low, litling voice creeps up behind you

and your first instinct is to punch the invader of your personal space

which you did (albeit not as strongly as you wanted) but when realizing who received said punch…

“dowoon holy shit WHY WOULD YOU GO BEHIND ME LIKE THAT”

“I DIDN’T KNOW YOUR REACTION WOULD BE SO VIOLENT”

so uh, there you suddenly are

in the college’s nurse office

with the drummer of what seems to be a rising band on campus, dowoon

getting his bloody nose (literally) checked out, and asking him serious questions without you in the room

“did she really think i’d punch you like that???”

“i think it was really nice of her to look out for me, you know,” dowoon smirked, and the two of you had already come out of the office and you were ready to actually punch him for real this time

but you decline your desires because you still feel a bit guilty

a part of you knew it was dowoon, the voice was a dead giveaway, but you’re “logical reasoning” says you didn’t want him, nor anyone, to see you admiring his face on video. playing it on loop

“i’m sorry,” you finally say, cringing at the turn of events tonight “can you still make it to the band’s after dinner party? can you still eat with your nose like that?”

“you’re so weird,” dowoon replies, pinching the bridge of his nose as he elicits a short “ow” of pain, and you can’t help but feel so terrible

“ughhhhhh dowoon pls say i didn’t break your nose or else your fangirls will hate me”

“what”

“you heard me don’t make me say it again”

“say what again :)” at this point he’s just messing with you, his nose doesn’t look crooked anyway and he definitely knows there were girls fawning over him!!

“c’mon, i’ll pay for the uber to take you to the restaurant,” you urge, it’s the least you can do for physically hurting the person who seems to be confusing you what draws the line between being a friend and… potentially liking them more than that

dowoon doesn’t respond, just shakes his head no and walks alongside you

“what do you mean no???” you’re baffled, why would he decline such a good offer??

“no i’m not going to the dinner, it’s fine i get to see them every day,” he reasons out. he stretches his arms and evokes a yawn. “besides i’m pretty beat from the gig, so i’m just gonna crash back at the dorm”

you’re not convinced, what if he’s just pretending to be sleepy so he doesn’t bother you anymore? biting your lip, you contemplate on persuading him to go but buying his dinner (you’re not sure how that will work) until he stops in his tracks and

pinches your cheeks

to stop you from thinking as your eyes land on his

dowoon huffs, eyebrows creased with concern as he says, “you look like one of the dogs we fed last week who wanted more food in his bowl, but he doesn’t know he’s on a diet.”

he.. really compared u… to a dog????

“what do you mean by that,” you counter, cheeks heating up from the sensation of his fingers pinching at them. not too painful, but enough to consciously feel the pressure of his touch on your face

not to mention his focus is all on you

“you’re upset because i won’t give in to your apology gift,” he explains further. “but really, i’m fine. you didn’t break any bones, and you aimed for my nose. if it were my hands that got hurt then it’ll be a different story”

you groan outwardly, not knowing how to best him out of his logic

“c’mon the bus is coming soon, let’s call it a night,” he says, releasing your cheeks from his grasp and instead, tugging at your hand to follow his lead this time

you don’t let it go

once you enter the bus, dowoon finds an empty two seater and slides right in by the window seat, patting the one next to him. you reluctantly take the spot, still reeling from the way he held your hand so effortlessly, still confused about how you feel about him, still wanting to make it up to him

“is there an event tomorrow?” dowoon asks, escaping you out of your reverie. you churn your brain to think as this is a good opportunity to divert your attention somewhere else

“i believe so. i’m not leading the event, but it’s basically adoption day at the shelter. did you want to come?”

“of course, if you are”

“oh,” that caught you off guard… he can always come to events even if you aren’t, he’s a member now and he’s good friends with the other board members…

“if you’re not, then are you busy doing something?” he yawns again, eyes becoming droopier by the minute as the bus takes it leave

“not really… we can go… together,” you attempt to string coherent sentences together, but the sight of dowoon dozing off at the electric hum while the bus moves entrances you

his pale soft skin contrasts the tiredness in his voice, trying to keep himself away by answering you

“mm. yeah, i’d like to go with you...anywhere… with you,” he starts mumbling, head dangerously close to colliding against the window

silently, you chuckle. and admire the hardworking effort you’ve seen dowoon achieve so far, it makes you momentarily forget about figuring out your feelings

cause it’s kinda obvious with the way you’re seeing him right now, usually you’d tease him, take a picture for blackmail or even feel slightly awkward sitting in the bus next to each other

but right now, you admire him. and wish you can talk to him more about the band, about his dreams, about going to events “as long as it’s with you”

you hear him continuously mumble string of phrases that are incomprehensible at this point, and instead of making fun of the guy (you’ve done enough damage to his nose), you gently tell him, “sleep, dowoon. i’ll wake you up when your stop is here.”

“mmkay,” he gives in, breathes out heavily and

leans against you

resting his head on your shoulder, even making himself more comfy by nuzzling his cheek by the junction of your neck

in a way it sets your heart aflame

but on the outside, you feel at ease. that he can easily take the hit with his nose just mere moments ago and willingly let his head, and his mind rest for a little right by your side

you don’t have to wonder about your feelings anymore

you’d want this to happen more in the future, and hopefully

you’re just wishing upon a star here, that dowoon feels the same

#day6 imagines #day6 scenarios #day6 au #day6 x reader #yoon dowoon imagines #yoon dowoon scenarios #yoon dowoon au #dot series #by:jiae

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svftheartcd · 4 years ago

Text

* maris racal, cis woman + she/her | you know marisol flores, right? they’re twenty-one, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, their whole life? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to let’s get married by bleachers like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole windows filled with plants, rolled up sleeves of an oversized sweater, and believing in love at first sight thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is march 10th, so they’re a pisces, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( kennedy, 21, cst, she/her )

hello hello i’m kennedy and i’m super excited to be here!!! i apologize if this intro is a little messy, i’ve never been good at them. i have a pinterest board for her here !!

*ryan bergara vc* with that being said... let’s get into it

background

for as long as she could remember, marisol’s parents were never happy. it was clear to everyone around that the two no longer loved each other ( if they ever did ). classic case of staying together for the kid. not that they were really around often enough for it to make much of a difference. her mother would leave for weeks at a time, only vaguely saying that she had work when pressed on it. her father at least tried to be there for her whenever he could but those times were rare. he worked as an architect in the next city over and worked long hours (and suspiciously seemed to stay even later whenever her mother was home).

marisol was often left in the care of the elderly woman who lived next door. a nice woman named irene with an incredible garden in her backyard. or at least, it was incredible to little marisol. these times at her neighbor’s home introduced marisol to her love of plants and just nature in general. she would spend hours helping irene with her garden, learning everything about the plants within it in the process. for her tenth birthday, she was gifted a book on how to identify wild plants and a blank journal. irene would take marisol out every weekend to identify (and sometimes collect) wild plants in the area and would help her record her ‘findings’ in said journal. soon enough, it was filled with drawings of plants (that slowly got better and better over time) and marisol’s observations about them. these formative experiences would be what eventually leads her to study botany.

marisol was very desperate for her mother’s approval growing up. she had herself convinced for a long time that the reason her mother was never home was because of her. that she just wasn’t good enough for her to bother being home. so she worked harder in school and strived to get the best grades. she got involved in various clubs and programs offered at her school, including theatre. but no matter what she did or how hard she worked, nothing seemed to work.

marisol’s parents would finally divorce when she was sixteen. her mother would stay with a friend during the divorce proceedings. she would take marisol out to eat or to a museum every few weeks but that was about all marisol saw of her during that time. then. as soon as the divorce was finalized, she just left. marisol would still see her over the years although usually on holidays or special occasions. despite all of this, she still holds her mother in high regard and remains just as desperate for her approval as she was when she was a child. every time she comes into town, marisol is spending every minute she can with her.

marisol’s relationship with her father improved after her mother’s departure. seeing the effect everything had on his daughter, he began working less and spending more time at home. he encouraged her to continue her extracurriculars and made sure he was there for every school event. and while she doesn’t live with him anymore, she still talks to him regularly and goes to his house every sunday to have dinner.

personality

very positive! always tries to see the best in people even if everything tells her that she shouldn’t, she strongly believes that everyone has some good in them. has probably gotten her into trouble a few times tbh

hopeless romantic. definitely believes in love at first sight but like obviously not for everyone (gestures at her parents). she just believes that it does happen for some people and think it’s just beautiful when it does. loves love! has honestly gotten a lot of her expectations for love and relationships from movies and tv shows so they’re a little skewed.

can be a little shy when you first meet her but it honestly doesn’t take a lot to get her talking. and if you get her talking about something she’s passionate about? good luck getting her to stop. she just has a lot of thoughts and feelings.

people pleaser. she just wants people to like her. often puts other people’s needs and feelings before her own. honestly has a really hard time when someone doesn’t like her and will go out of her way to try to make them like her.

she’s sensitive, it is honestly really easy to make her cry. whether they’re happy tears, sad tears, angry tears, etc. has definitely cried over the stupidest things too like a commercial for dog food or a silly meme.

fun facts

is currently going to the local community college... would have gone to the state college but she’s not super comfortable with driving long distances yet and she’d like to improve her gpa a bit first

her favorite movie is the princess bride <3 she used to watch it like once a week in high school yes she had a problem

is unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your outlook idk) a musical theatre kid.... hadestown is her favorite. she listens to it when she’s feeling sad.... also when she’s feeling happy. honestly she just listens to it a lot.

she’s recently gotten into flower pressing and is just having a blast with it! has briefly considered opening an etsy store for it but isn’t sure yet.

favorite video game of all time is stardew valley. which isn’t saying much because she doesn’t play a lot of video games but still. she absolutely adores everything about it, seems to encompass most of her interests which she thinks is just great

has a lot of plants scattered around her place and yes, they all have names. is looking into getting a venus fly trap bc she thinks they’re neat...

works as a barista at kahlo’s!

bisexual <3

wanted connections

roommate(s) - roommates are always cool! must be okay with her plants... she has a lot of them honestly

best friend!!! everyone needs a best friend... i like the idea of them just being like the Exact opposite of her but honestly down for anything...

friends - just give her some friends... she is a very sweet girl ok she treats her friends very nicely.

crushes?? mayhaps?? - mutual... unrequited... whatever i just like crush plots they’re cute

exes maybe? reasons for not working out can be anything... angst always welcome but i do like a good ‘used to date but are just now good friends’ idk

other people who go to the community college ofc... uhhh coworkers... regulars at kahlo’s.... fellow plant lovers.... honestly open for anything and everything!!!

#irvingintro #i hope this makes sense...

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thiswasinevitableid · 4 years ago

Note

For the Meet Ugly Prompt: #23 Sternclary NSFW if you can :)

23: our mutual friend has been talking us up to the other and when we finally meet, we have to tell them that we’ve been in a feud for the last six years (and I can’t stop thinking of all the nice things our friend has said about you). NSWF

“EeEEH, I’m so excited for you to finally meet him.” Aubrey tugs her uncle down the hall, “he’s practically like another uncle to me, and he’s really such a fucking amazing cook--he made all the stuff tonight--so he’ll go with your whole foodie thing-”

“Critic, firebug, food critic” Stern smiles at her.

“Right, right, and he’s got the hunky lumberjack thing going that you know you love.”

“Geez, you buy one calendar-” he elbows her, chuckling. Then the world screeches to a halt.

“Mr. Cobb.” He nods, polite as he can manage with rage-horns blaring in his head.

“Stern.” The bearded man nods back, pushing off of the counter where he’s leaning, glass in hand, talking to Dani.

“Why do I have the bad feeling you two know each other.” Dani looks at her uncle nervously.

“You remember when Amnesty was first getting off the ground and we were struggling to get anyone to take us seriously? This” he points to Stern, no anger or ice in his voice but plenty in his eyes, “is the fucker who gave us the bad review that set us back months.”

“I was doing my job, I’ve told you that a dozen times since then, it was nothing personal. Unlike what you did afterwards.” He replies coolly.

“Oh for fucks sake, I apologized for that.”

“Yes, two years after the fact, which hardly makes up for arguing with every review I wrote so forcefully that Hayes pulled me from the review circuit for months and made me do cookbook reviews instead.”

“Poor Stern, had to do a slightly different desk job while I was terrified the restaurant would go under.”

“You ended up fine, and if the food at Hornet is any indication, you improved.”

“Lucky me, getting such kind words from the illustrious Joseph Stern.”

“I was trying to-”

“Nevermind. I gotta go check the stuff on the grill.” He reaches the screen door to the back yard, then turns, “and I appreciate the thought, kid, but he’s just not my type.”

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

The problem is, of course, that Stern is exactly Barclay’s type. Or maybe he’s everyone’s type, all nice suits and handsome face and perfectly slicked down black hair. They’ve run across each other at plenty of food functions in the city over the last six years, and Barclay always feels like a scraggy mountain man standing near him. It doesn’t help that Stern talks about food the way other people talk about fine art, and Barclay could listen to him do it all day.

He also tells really, really corny jokes when he thinks no one is listening, and Barclay hates his mouth for how many times it’s laughed at them.

Making amends is the right thing to do, but every time he considered it his whole being--piloted by his ego-- recoils.

But they’re going to be family soon. And his niece doesn’t deserve to deal with their feud. He picks up his phone, Stern’s number on his desk thanks to Dani’s wedding planning list.

Me: This is Barclay. If you’re still reading, I think we should meet and talk things over. For real, not in the way we keep fucking up.

Stern: Why?

Me: Because your niece and my niece are getting married and I don’t want us bickering like jerks at the wedding.

Stern:Good point.

Me: Meet me at the Arch? Bar there is good.

Stern: Ok. 8 tomorrow work?

Me: See you then.

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

Stern fights the urge to shred his napkin as he waits at the bar. Maybe this is a set up, or a trap, or-

“Hey.” Barclay announces himself with a tap on the shoulder. His auburn hair is hanging loose, and the blue shirt he’s chosen brings out the brown of his eyes and the copper in his beard.

Stern should stop staring.

He picks up the drink menu as Barclay sits down next to him, “Um, the, um, I can buy. Consider it another apology. What do you get?”

Barclay gives him a mild smile, “How about you pick for both of us?”

It’s an olive branch wrapped in a challenge, and so Stern studies the menu carefully. Chooses the Bigfoot, a mixture of bourbon, chocolate bitters, with a splash of cherry soda, for Barclay and and the Roswell (smoked prickly pear juice and tequila) for himself.

“Good choice.” Barclay smiles at him over the rim of his glass, the first genuine smile he’s ever sent his way, and he straightens proudly at the praise.

“I remember the drink menu at Hornet was bourbon heavy.”

“Goes with the food, but yeah, it’s my booze of choice.”

“So…” Stern swirls the toothpick in his drink, “how do you suggest we go forward?”

Barclay sighs, “Was kinda hoping you had some ideas.”

“Look, how about we agree that when we’re together for wedding planning stuff, we don’t talk about our history, restaurants or food that isn’t specifically related to the wedding menu?”

“Deal.” Barclay finishes his drink, “what do we talk about instead?”

“Books?” Stern signals the bartender, orders them both another round.

“Works for me. Hmm, lemme guess, you read those big-ass historical ones.”

Stern snickers, “I prefer mysteries, or well done travelogue.”

“You’ve read Bourdain, I’m guessing?”

“Of course. He put me on to a cooking memoir by, by, oh damn it all, he wrote that Madeline series.”

“Bemelmans! Shit, I love his memoirs. They’re my comfort reads along with My Life in France.”

“Classic.”

Before Stern even knows it, an hour has gone by, they’re three drinks in, and he has a new reading list. He also sees now why Aubrey thought to set him up with the cook; Barclay is easy-going and friendly, even stopping their conversation to exchange hellos with several staff that recognize him, a needed counterpoint to his own professional demeanor. That soft, deep voice slips under his skin, sets his nerves humming, and Stern wants to move closer, let those capable hands do whatever they wished to him if it meant Barclay would keep stealing appreciative glances at him.

Then he puts his foot in it.

“....food was just a little heavy, like how it is at Amnesty.”

Barclay frowns, “have you even been back there lately?”

“No, I assumed I’d be forcibly shown the door.”

“I would’ve been tempted, but I’m a fucking professional, thank you very much.”

“Besides, it wouldn’t prove your point; I know you’re the exec, but you don’t cook there anymore.”

“Hold the fuck up, it’s my cooking you think was the issue?”

“I didn’t mean that, just that...no, actually, I did mean it. That menu never played to your strengths.”

“That so.” Barclay slams his glass down, the dram undercut when he flashes an apologetic look at the waitstaff before standing in Stern’s space and looming over him, “my house, Tuesday at seven. I’ll show you exactly how good that menu can be in my hands.”

“I look forward to it.”

Barclay leans closer and whispers “bring an appetite” in his ear, voice just shy of a growl.

Somehow, Stern doesn’t think he’ll have trouble doing so.

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

Stern knocks on the door of the modest house. He knows Barclay is now worth quite a bit of money, so the fact he’s chosen an A-frame that looks like it belongs in Tahoe is charming. As was the afternoon they spent with their (clearly relieved) nieces testing out wedding cake ideas. Barclay even laughed at his corny puns and complimented his flavor choice (and how the suit he’s having fitted for the ceremony fit him).

“Come in.”

He steps into the house, finds the kitchen off to the right, just beyond the dining room. There’s only one place set at the table, and when Barclay comes into view he sees why. The taller man is in his chefs whites, hair tied back, making Stern relieved he’s wearing a suit.

“Should I…”

“Take a seat, first course is gonna be out shortly.”

“Right, of course--what’s that sound?” Something is whining behind a door down the hall.

“Hmm? Oh, just Sass, he heard someone come in and wants to be the welcoming committee. He’ll chill out in a sec, he has a dog puzzle there to keep him occupied.” Barclay turns back into the kitchen as Stern sits down. Thanks to the pass through, he can watch as he pulls down a plate and sets three parcels of dough on it.

“You’re getting tasting portions” he sets the plate down, “I’m not blowing through a bunch of ingredients just to prove a point. Smoked salmon pierogies to start.”

Stern takes one bite and knows he’s beaten. The filling is perfectly seasoned, feels like butter in his mouth, and the dough is impeccably made. Maybe it’s a fluke, but all three are gone before Barclay sets the next plate in front of him.

“Bacon, arugula, goat cheese, and blueberry jam on sourdough.” The aroma from the sandwich is intoxicating.

The first course was not a fluke, and he moans after taking a bite. Barclay chuckles, turning back to the kitchen.

“So, Aubrey told me something interesting.” Barclay says casually as he slices what looks like lamb, “she said you don’t only write about food.”

“Oh lord.” Embarrassment creeps up his back, so he focus on his meal.

“Weekly World News is almost as good a byline as the Times.”

“Please don’t say more.”

“Bigfoot is my boyfriend’ was especially good.”

“Oh lord, you looked them up?”

“Yep, Aubrey gave me your pen name. I had a blast reading them, you should, uh, let that funny side out more.” The oven shuts and he returns to the table leaning against the counter of the pass through, “gonna be a minute more on the third course. How is it so far?”

“Incredible.”

“Glad to hear it.” Barclay wipes his hands on his apron and Stern has a moment of clarity; the cook is nervous.

“Can I tell you something nobody else knows? I, um, I’m working on a pitch that combines the two. I want to travel to famous paranormal locations and write about local food at the same time.”

“That sounds amazing.” Barclay pulls out a chair, “do you know if anyone’ll take it?”

“I’m trying some magazines and websites first, to see if they’ll pick it up as a series, which’d make it easier to jump to a book later on.”

A timer dings and Barclay stands, returning with a lamb pot pie for one that Stern eats without concern for how conspicuous his sounds of delight are getting.

Dessert arrives on a small, round plate. Stern tucks into the airy chocolate strawberry cake with raspberry sauce on the side, notice Barclay already washing up. Pity, he was hoping he could stay and talk awhile. There’s only a bite or two left when he decides to admit defeat.

“This is one of the best meals I’ve ever had, Barclay. Whatever you were trying to prove, you proved.”

“Good.” Is all he gets in reply.

“Barclay, I have to know: I wasn’t the only critic to give a less than stellar review of Amnesty when it opened. We both know that. So...why me? Why act as if I was the one who wronged you.”

Barclay turns, wiping his hands on his apron before hanging it up as he sighs, “yeah, you weren’t the only bad one, but the Times held more weight than any other food section in the city. When you reviewed us we were floundering, and when I saw it I just, I almost gave up; I’d put everything, my heart, my soul, my last dime, into Amnesty. And here was some critic basically dooming us. But once I was done being upset, I got pissed, threw myself into proving the bad reviews wrong and you, uh, you became the avatar for every critic who wrote us off as not being fancy enough to compete in the food scene here.”

“Are, did you make me your fucking mental punching bag?” Stern stands just as Barclay leaves the kitchen.

“Yeah, and I’m not fucking sorry. That spite was the kick I needed.”

“And it nearly cost me my job, and my reputation!”

“Maybe you should have lost both, given that you helped Hayes shoot down anyone who threatened the old guard.”

“No I fucking didn’t! I fought him time and again to let me review new chefs, feature them, praise them. Lord almighty Barclay, I’m not some soulless fucking machine who just does as I’m told. In fact-” they’re toe to toe, his lower back to the table, as he pulls out his phone and searches, “even in my review, the one you hated, I was defending you, telling people to give you a chance.”

“Like hell you were.” Barclay snorts.

“I’ll prove it, here” he clears his throat, reads off an excerpt, “Chef Cobb is clearly talented, with a sense of flavor that’s at once exciting and comforting. It is my hope that as Amnesty leaves it’s growing pains behind, we will see incredible offerings from him. There.” He tosses his phone on the table, “see?”

Barclay stutters once, twice, then mutters, “finish your meal, Stern.”

“No, not until you apologize.”

“Jesus christ, just eat the fucking cake!”

“Make me!”

Barclay inhales, long and measured, as he reaches around Stern and picks up the bite of cake. When he holds it to Stern’s lips, he keeps them in a firm line.

“Open. your fucking. Mouth.”

“Fuck youOghm” he flails backwards, hand landing on his plate as Barclay shoves the cake into his mouth. He’s never had sweetness applied so forcefully, and the part of him that isn’t annoyed is screaming with arousal.

He swallows, feels something sticky on his fingertips.

Barclay leers, rumbles, “that’s bet-”

Stern smears his hand across his face, streaking raspberry sauce on his cheeks and mouth.

Barclay licks his lips, growls, and lunges forward at the same moment Stern grabs his shoulders and pulls. Teeth connect first with his neck, then his lower lip before Barclay shoves their mouths together, moaning when Stern tugs their hips flush. Grinds against him so hard the table digs into his back as they yank ineffectively at each other’s clothes.

“Tell me, Stern, four courses enough for you?”

“I’m satisfied. Barely.” He bites Barclay’s ear, making him grunt.

“Barely? Barely? Fine, think I got one more you. On your fucking knees.” Strong hands shove him down by his shoulders, or they try to; he’s already dropping, panting in anticipation as he fumbles with Barclay’s pants. When he finally gets a look at his cock he groans hungrily at the size, lips staying parted as Barclay guides it between them with one hand and yanks his hair with another.

He’s craving, praying for, and expecting roughness. Even so, he gags when Barclay thrusts as far as he can, toes curling and eyes watering as he bumps the top of his throat again and again.

“Fuck, fuck, there we go” he tugs his hair, wonderful pain prickling his neck and making him moan, “oh fuck yeah, every time I do that you tighten, so good, so fucking good.” He tightens his hold, fucking his mouth harder as Stern brings a hand up to stroke the base of his cock, “nmm, yeah, that’s it, show me what those hands are good for, god, fuck, Joe.”

Stern whimpers, delighted at how his name sounds in that rough, demanding baritone.

“Shit, fuck, you want something else to swallow tonight?”

He nods, paws at Barclays thigh.

“Then you, fuck, you got it, fuckfuck Joe, baby, that’s it ohfuck.” Cum spurts down his throat and he swallows like he’s starving, licks and sucks when Barclay orders him to finish it all.

As soon as the cook releases him, he drops to his knees on the hardwood next to Stern. Stern, for his part, is wondering if Barclay will at least let him hide in his bathroom a few minutes so he doesn’t have to drive home hard and soaking wet.��

Then his back hits the floor, one calloused hand cupping his face and the other yanking his pants open so messily a button goes flying.

“I, you, you don’t have to-”

“Do you want me to?” Barclay pauses, meeting his eyes with such genuine, tender concern that he melts like butter in a pan.

“Lord yes.”

Barclay’s hand slips beneath his boxer-briefs, three fingers sliding into him when he spreads his legs.

“Fuck, fuck, ohlord, Barclay, just a little shallowerAHfuck, yesright, right there.” He cranes his neck and Barclay gets the hint,dipping down to kiss him to the slick sound of his fingers fucking into him.

Jerking his hips, he can’t find the friction he needs, so he reaches between them and tilts Barclay’s hand so his dick can drag across his palm. His vocabulary has diminished to affirmation laced profanity (or profanity laced affirmatives) and Barclay is faring the same, growling praise in his ear as he gives him more pressure to rut against.

“Lookit you, god, shoulda known you’d look as good fucking as you do eating. Take me so well, gonna find every way to fill you.”

“Please.” He whispers, eyes squeezing shut in concentration.

“Gonna spread you out on a table and eat you like a fucking gourmet meal, gonna fuck that perfect mouth til your so full of cum you can’t swallow any more.”

“Lord, Bar, Barclay, please don’t stop, don’t tease.”

“Who said anything about teasing?” A tender kiss to the corner of his mouth even as the hand fucks him hard enough to make him cry out, “you’re my new favorite taste, babe, and I got so many fucking plans for you.”

Stern cums so abruptly his leg kicks out and bangs his heel on a table leg, but he doesn’t feel it. His would is the pleasure speeding through him, the repetition of Barclay’s name, the affection that overwhelms him and the fear nipping at it’s heels.

He comes back to himself on his side, face nestled against Barclay’s chest.

“Christ, think we both needed that.” The cook sighs, content, and pets his hair.

“I, um, I certainly no longer feel the need to argue with you over things from six years ago.”

“Me neither. And, uh, I’m sorry for being a dick for so long.”

“And I’m sorry for the spot my review put you in.”

Barclay laughs, shaking his head, “only took six years and some killer sex to get us there, huh?”

“It is pretty silly, in retrospect.”

“Your foot okay?”

“Uh huh. I, um, I can be out of your hair in a moment.”

Barclay raises an eyebrow, “because you want to be or because you think you should be?”

“The second one.”

“Don’t gotta leave on my account. In fact, uh, I, uh, I was hoping maybe you’d stay. I want to test out some breakfast ideas on you. Also I like cuddling you and don’t want to stop.”

“A compelling argument. Though we should move to the bed.”

“On it.” Barclay stands, scoops him up with some effort, and carries him precariously to the still-shut bedroom door.

“Damn it.”

“On it.” Stern reaches out and turns the knob, whereupon Barclay barely gets him to the bed without dropping him, as Sass is boinging about their feet.

“What kind-”

“Rottweiler, corgi, spaniel. I think. Not sure where the huge feet came from.” Barclay cuddles up next to him as he strips off his clothes. As he rolls under the covers, Barclay nuzzles his cheek.

“Would, um, would you like to try having a, um, a different kind of relationship? Like a dating one?”

“I’d love it.”

Barclay’s smile is pure bliss, and when he kisses him, it’s the best taste in the world

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #chef AU #meet ugly #prompt fills #trans stern

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sinagrace · 4 years ago

Photo

This summer marks the tenth anniversary since the announcement of The Walking Dead creator Robert Kirkman’s Skybound imprint at Image Comics, and today is eight years since I left the company as its Editorial Director. I had no intention of waxing nostalgic or posting about this fun and weird chapter of my life, but I’ve been cooped up in an apartment watching my dog as he recovers from surgery… so I’ve got nothing better to do than look at old pictures and post on social media. Being a comic book editor is not an easy job at all. Most folks think it just means emailing people about deadlines and checking for spelling errors, but there’s so much more that goes into the job, especially when you’re working in the field of creator-owned comics. The list of responsibilities is absolutely boring to recount, but I’ll just say that for as mind numbing or menial the tasks may seem, the consequences of going on autopilot and not double checking everyone’s work can lead to catastrophic printing errors with all the blame set on who??? The editor. What’s funny is that I didn’t necessarily want the job. I was really content working part-time on Rodeo Drive and growing my illustration portfolio (I’d been doing the Li’l Depressed Boy with Mx Struble and had finished illustrating a Middle Grade book for Amber Benson at Simon and Schuster). The opportunity to work full-time in comics and learn under a guy as respected as Robert appealed to me. Of his books, I was a fan of Invincible, and more to the point: I really appreciated his brazen defense of creator-owned comics in a Big Two market. Politically, I felt okay giving so much of my life to his journey. At one point in the interview process, Robert asked me if I was familiar with him and his work. My answer was sincere: “I’ve read some of your stuff. I respect you, but I’d never wait in line to meet you.” When I got the job offer, I was still on the fence. My friend Tyler always reminds me that he basically told me to just take the job and decide whether I liked it after I was there. He pointed out that the first ninety days are a mutual trial period for employee and employer. It would totally be fair for me to say in the first three months that the job wasn’t right for me. I’m glad that I listened to his advice, because being present for The Walking Dead’s ascension from beloved bestselling comic book to actual factual international phenomenon was an experience that I deeply treasure and will never have access to for the rest of my life. Even though my main duties were about the comics, I found myself getting tipsy at award show after parties, handling business affairs in talk show green rooms, sitting in development meetings with video game creators, picking up props from creature design workshops, and- the most bizarre scenario of them all- driving my tiny car around big rigs to drop off a pallet of merch at a shipping yard in the South Bay. My first year at Skybound was absolutely crazy, and getting my friend Shawn in the position of Director of Business Development was all too necessary at that point. Between the show’s success and the launch of a handful of original comics, my responsibilities grew to include foreign licensing, copyright filing, convention planning, editing the collected editions, liaising with collaborative partners, and the occasional bit of merchandise design. It was a lot to handle, and I look back fondly on the late nights when Shawn and I would walk down to Pinches for dinner, devouring burritos and chips before putting more hours at the office. We formed intense bonds with the production folks at Image Comics who were putting in the same hours at the Berkeley office. The stress and hard work was always worth it when you’d pull off a miracle like shipping Walking Dead every three weeks on time for a 100th issue to come out at Comic-Con with a smattering of variant covers- including a chromium cover that required multiple printers and so much advance planning. (As I’m typing this, I also am remembering that I was still drawing The Li’l Depressed Boy and working on my graphic novel Not My Bag on the side. Considering I hadn’t done any drugs at that point, I have no clue how I did all of that and still found time to sleep.) Being an editor is a pretty intense grind, and if you’re not a career editor, then the eventual burnout will hit super hard. I loved my job, and I loved the artists Robert chose to work with… for the most part, they were all kind and hardworking folks dedicated to the craft. I met one of my best friends on the job, and I was able to bring in my favorite people along for conventions across the continent. There were extraordinary highs, but the gig was taking a toll on me. I was answering work emails in Texas on Mx. Struble’s wedding day. I worked six out of the seven days I was in France for my sister’s wedding, and still got yelled at for something going wrong. How do you delegate instincts to someone? “Double check the file size because sometimes so-and-so will scan things wonky,” or “zoom in at 300% because the clipping path will look fine in the preview image but the sword is actually creeping into the logo.” I was starting to mess up, and after a point, it became clear that I needed to transition as a full-time writer and illustrator. It’s eight years later, and I’m still so very happy that I took the job. I may have pulled a lot of hair out, but I learned so much about storytelling and the business of making comics from one of the most iconic guys in the business. I always let my editors know how much compassion I have for the work they have to do, and try to never add problems to their already busy days. Some production designers may still hate me, because I learned all the tricks in terms of how late you can push something at the printer… but I’m getting better, I promise!! I know how valuable it is to connect with local retailers and with readers, because they’re all coming from a place of just loving comic books so darn much, and they’re the ones doing the major work in helping build successful titles. Skybound is now a decade old and has a staff of over fifty or sixty individuals pushing the brand to new and exciting places. Robert is still someone I admire for how hard he tries to inject vitality into the direct market. I *still* get people coming up to me saying that they thought I was a girl because of my name in the Walking Dead letters column. For as crazy as the freelance creator lifestyle has been the last eight years, I wouldn’t change it for the world. It’s been scary, and sometimes hand-to-mouth, but I’d never have had the bandwidth to take on all the opportunities that started coming in recent years if I was still an editor, and I wouldn’t have been as great an advocate for myself in business dealings if i hadn’t learned from Robert. HBD Skybound. X.

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pocket-full-of-wonder · 5 years ago

Text

Title: Warmth Summary: Shouyou was okay, he was, but all that changed. Fever and tension high, Tobio looks after his very sick partner.

(Queerplatonic KageHina, hurt/comfort, sickfic, like literally just 11k of self-indulgent sickfic, LOTS of cuddles/snuggles, soft comforts, heavy on the comfort, fever, worried Kageyama, no angst here y’all just hurt/comfort sick-fic style)

(((Warning(s): hospital (temporarily), emetophobia)))

Read on AO3

Tobio has never seen Shouyou sick before.

Shouyou and Tobio have been living together for about a month now, splitting the rent in a small apartment in a small downtown neighborhood. They work separate jobs, play volleyball with the locals and are trying to figure out university, taking some classes here and there on the side in preparation for entrance exams and whatever else the colleges will throw at them. They’ve had plenty of ups and downs with each other, especially since officially becoming partners—in-court in high school, and now off the court as working adults.

In hindsight, their relationship had always been there, though they hadn’t put actual thought into it until now. It’d been such a mutual part of them that living together just seemed… right.

And, also in hindsight, it’s weird that he’s never seen Shouyou sick before considering how long they’ve known each other. There were times in high school where Shouyou had called out because of a head cold and Tobio or someone else on the team would bring him his homework, but he always bounced back within a day or two. And he’s been trying to be better with taking care of himself lately, too, trying to get a decent amount of sleep every night and making sure he eats and hydrates enough throughout the day. He’s still gotten head colds here and there but it’s never been a big deal. He barely has to take sick days.

This time is different.

Shouyou has been sick for the past several days now, and running a fever at that. It isn’t… that high? Or, Tobio doesn’t think it’s high enough for him to be panicking, but he’s still concerned. And Shouyou hasn’t been able to stomach anything, either, or stay on his feet for more than a few minutes at a time. The better part of the week has had him in bed, feverish and miserable and quiet. Shouyou is never quiet. That concerns him, too.

Tobio goes to work the first day or two, because he expects Shouyou to be up and at ‘em by the time he gets home, but, no, he stays in bed. His fever doesn’t go down. And it’s by day three that Tobio finally calls in sick and stays home to take care of him.

He’d like to say it gets better from there, but it didn’t. On the night of day four, Tobio’s concern finally turns into something more akin to panic.

"You're dehydrated, I know you are," Tobio says, holding out a small glass of water. He keeps the room dim; the last thing he wants to do is disturb Shouyou’s headache. "You've gotta keep something in your system if you wanna get better."

Shouyou moans and shivers, drawing the blankets further around himself. Tobio’s stomach twists a little. “No,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “If I drink it now I'm just gonna throw it up.”

Tobio bites his lip. “You don't know that.”

“I do. Trust me.”

Tobio wants to argue, but if the past few days are anything to go by, he’s absolutely right. He settles the glass on the bedside table to try again later and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Do you need anything?” he asks. “Is there something I can get you, or…?”

Shouyou shakes his head, but stops short. “It’s… it’s really hot…”

“We’re trying to sweat your fever out,” Tobio says curtly, but not without sympathy, and he draws the blankets further around Shouyou’s trembling shoulders. “You just feel overheated because of your fever.”

“I know,” Shouyou mumbles, curling in tighter on himself. “S-Still sucks, though.”

Tobio sighs again. He really wishes he could do more, but knows by now that, when it comes to stuff like this, all he can really offer is comfort.

“Alright,” Tobio says, shaking his head, “scoot over.”

Shouyou does, and Tobio slips underneath the blankets with him. It isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. It’s sort of become a nightly thing for the two of them. Shouyou wastes no time curling against Tobio's side, and Tobio lets him, wrapping his arms around Shouyou's shoulders even while Shouyou's uncomfortably warm forehead digs into his collar.

He sighs again, but it quickly turns into a hiss when his fingers brush the back of Shouyou's neck. "You're burning up..."

"Y’hands are j’s cold," Shouyou slurs, eyes closed. "Temperature's always messed up..."

"My hands aren’t cold," Tobio corrects sharply, settling his palm over Shouyou's temple. "Which means you’re really burning up."

Shouyou hums, unconcerned. "M'kay..."

Tobio runs his fingers through Shouyou's sweat-damp curls. "You know what I should do?"

"... Dunno...?"

"I should take you to the ER. I should’ve taken you to the ER yesterday.”

"No, this is fine," Shouyou murmurs, snuggling closer while Tobio strokes his hair. "I don't need a hospital."

"You do if you're dehydrated."

"M'not dehydrated."

"You’ve been sick for days, Shouyou." The words sink in for him, and he bites his lip. "I really should take you in. They could set up an IV, they could help you."

"M'fine. I'll get better on my own.”

“You haven’t been getting better on your own.”

“I will. M'just tired right now."

Tobio sighs again, and he knows it won't be the last time. "If you still have a fever tomorrow," he opts, "then can I take you in? Just so they can check and make sure you're okay?"

Shouyou must pick up on the concern in his voice, because he nods. "M'kay," he agrees. "M'tired of being sick..."

"Yeah, me too," Tobio agrees, brushing Shouyou's hair off his burning forehead. "Sorry."

"S'okay… you're doing everything you can. Thank y’."

"You're welcome." Tobio smooths back his hair and shuts his eyes. "Try to get some sleep. We'll see how you feel tomorrow."

Shouyou nods, and moments later, he's sound asleep. After monitoring him for a little while longer, Tobio follows in suit.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They don’t even make it to morning. It’s barely an hour later that Shouyou is choking bile into the bedside trash can, and Tobio can’t take it any longer.

“Okay.” He keeps his voice controlled, because stress makes Shouyou sicker and he cannot put him through anything else. “Okay, okay, Shou, we’re going to the ER.”

Shouyou coughs into the trash can without protesting, which might be one of the most worrying things about this. Tobio gives him a tight, to-be-continued hug with a promise that he’ll be back and swings himself out of bed, making record time as he snatches up everything they need. He starts with the most important things, running to and fro, frantically skimming his mind for where he put his damn wallet and the house keys. He ends up with Shouyou’s set of keys and only sees it first because Shouyou has a cute little dog bobblehead attached to it.

He stuffs everything into a backpack, along with enough t-shirts and sweatpants to last them a few days (just in case), and then he shoves his shoes on his feet and takes his haul back into the bedroom. Shouyou is where he left him, only now he’s hugging a pillow to his chest and his eyes are red and watery. Partially from exertion and partially from what Tobio can only imagine (but really doesn’t want to) is stress and fear and exhaustion.

He sits by Shouyou’s side, careful not to rock the bed. “Hey, dumbass,” he whispers, gently tucking some of his sweaty hair behind his ear. “We need to get ready to go.”

“I don’t want to be sick in the hospital,” Shouyou croaks, squeezing the pillow tighter and burying his face into it. “I’m s-supposed to have work soon, I can’t be in the hospital, Tobio, I can’t—”

“They’re going to get you feeling better, Shou,” Tobio soothes, at a loss for what else to say. Shouyou has never been this sick before. He winds an arm around Shouyou’s shoulders and tugs him up against his side. Shouyou curls his knees in close and lets go of the pillow to cling to him instead, arms around his waist and blistering forehead digging into Tobio’s side. Tobio blanches (that fever is way too high, god, it’s way too high) and ignores the sick feeling in his stomach. “You’ve been sick for too long, I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Y-You’re doing a great job,” Shouyou whimpers, but curls impossibly closer anyway which basically tells Tobio all he needs to know about how Shouyou’s feeling right now. “You aren’t doing anything wr-wrong, Tobio…”

“I know, I know. Shh.” Tobio strokes back his hair for a moment before settling his hand on his forehead. He’s really burning up… “I know, dumbass, I know. But I’ve reached the end of what I can do alone, okay? I need to get you to someone who can make you feel better.”

Shouyou chokes on what sounds like a sob and buries his face in Tobio’s side. “Y-You’ll stay with me, right?” he rasps, voice pleading and scared. “U-Unless you don’t want to—”

“Stupid.” Tobio flicks him on the temple. “Someone has to look after your dumb ass. I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”

Shouyou relaxes a little, and Tobio untangles them and gets to his feet again, this time coming back with Shouyou's favorite hoodie. He helps Shouyou sit up and put it on, feeding overheated, sweaty limbs through the sleeves and trying not to dwell on just how limp he is, how Shouyou tries helping but is too weak to. Tobio straightens the collar, pulls the hood away from his face and gives Shouyou a tight but gentle hug afterwards. Shouyou sinks into it, and Tobio rubs his back when he sobs.

He gets his own jacket on next and slings the backpack over his shoulder. After helping Shouyou with socks and shoes and tugging a face mask over his face, he clicks out the lights and they’re ready to go.

"I called us an Uber, they'll be here any second," Tobio informs, phone still in hand. He sinks down beside Shouyou and immediately threads his fingers through his hair. Shouyou trembles violently and leans into the touch. "Do you want me to carry you?"

Shouyou shakes his head and folds himself into Tobio's side again, grasping fistfuls of his jacket. "N-No, I can walk," he manages. "M-Maybe just… st-steady me, if I need it."

Tobio strokes his hair and nods. "Okay. Tell me if you change your mind."

Shouyou nods against him, around the same time Tobio's phone goes off. Tobio swipes it up and reads.

"Our ride is here," he says, ignoring the anxious butterflies in the pit of his gut. Usually they'd take the train but getting Shouyou down to the station like this would be next to impossible. And he doesn't want Shouyou to be embarrassed by too much attention on the train, either. "C'mon, Shou, let's go.”

He takes Shouyou by the forearms and gently, gently hauls him to his feet. Shouyou staggers on unstable footing and Tobio catches him, curling an arm around his shoulders and pressing him close.

“Easy, easy, I have you, stupid. It’s okay.”

"S-Sorry," Shouyou whimpers, trying and failing to straighten himself up. "Headrush. I-I’ll be okay in a second.”

Tobio swallows and bites the inside of his cheek. "It's okay. Let me help you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall."

Shouyou nods and they head out together, Tobio keeping him pressed into his side and Shouyou clutching at his jacket weakly. Shouyou seems so small like this. Tobio tries not to dwell on it. He can think about it after Shouyou’s gotten help.

The Uber driver is kind, though worried at Shouyou's state. Tobio explains what's going on in the briefest way he can and the driver nods, opening the door for Tobio before climbing back into the driver’s seat. Tobio tosses the backpack inside and takes Shouyou’s hand. Shouyou’s eyes are glassy, and he doesn’t look like he’s actually seeing much of anything. Tobio doesn’t trust his coordination. He squeezes his fingers.

“Do you think you can stand by yourself for one second?” Tobio asks, trying not to think about how warm and clammy Shouyou’s hand is. Shouyou nods, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, and Tobio tightens his grip on his hand again and climbs in the backseat first. He tosses the backpack onto the floor to free up the seat and holds his arms out to Shouyou. He gives his hand a gentle tug. “Careful, don’t hit your head.”

Shouyou practically falls into the vehicle with a strangled, startled yelp, but Tobio was ready for it, and he catches Shouyou with one arm curved around his shoulders and the other in the crook of his knees.

“Careful, dumbass,” Tobio says, wrapping his arms around him and holding him steady. Nothing happened, but Shouyou is breathing hard enough to scare him again. He strokes the side of his face, ignoring the heat there. “I said I’m here to help if you need me, remember? Take it easy.”

Shouyou apologizes weakly, eyes glazed over and tear-filled and Tobio just, doesn’t have it in him to be upset. He gives him a brief but tight hug. After making sure his hands, arms, and feet are tucked safely in the seat beside him, he pulls the door shut, gets their seatbelts snapped and hollers to the driver that they’re ready to go. The driver speeds down the road and Tobio holds Shouyou close, letting him bury his face against his neck while he breathes hard. Tobio doesn’t think he’s ever seen or heard Shouyou breathe like this, not even after an intense volleyball game or after they raced until their lungs burned and their feet were blistered.

It scares him.

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re fine,” he whispers, half to Shouyou and half to himself. He runs his fingers through his hair, hoping the action is even just a little bit soothing. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Shouyou muffles a noise into his jacket, knees digging into Tobio’s side. Tobio presses his forehead into Shouyou’s damp hair.

“I love you, too, it’ll be okay.”

Their driver is pushing the speed limit, just a little. Tobio has it in his mind to thank him, give him a good rating. But it’s a thought so far in the back of his mind that it might not be attainable so long as Shouyou is in this state.

The car pulls up in front of the ER, and Tobio thanks the driver if a bit haphazardly, taking Shouyou by the shoulder and shaking him. Shouyou murmurs incoherently.

“We’re here, Shou, come on,” Tobio says, unbuckling their seatbelts. Shouyou won’t sit up straight. “We have to go, come on. They’ll be able to help you, I promise.”

The driver opens the door for them, and Tobio decides screw it and pulls Shouyou into his arms, securing his hold before hauling them both out of the vehicle. Shouyou murmurs something Tobio can’t make out before he curls into his chest and clutches at his collar. Tobio hates how light he is. He’s never been this light before, he’s not supposed to be this light. It shouldn’t be this easy to carry him.

“Thank you,” Tobio says to the driver when he thinks about it.

The driver nods. “Best of luck to the two of you.”

Tobio nods, ducks his head in a short bow and speeds off toward the entrance. He hears but doesn’t acknowledge the departure of the car behind them. Shouyou’s skin is far beyond burning, hair sweaty and breath fogged against Tobio’s neck. He hopes it isn’t as bad as it seems. He doesn’t know what he’d do if it’s as bad as it seems.

The automatic doors open for him and he sprints inside, immediately slammed by the scent of antiseptic and an atmosphere of fear and forced professionalism. Tobio wants to yell at someone to take Shouyou, to help him and to help him now, because he needs help now, but starting a riot isn’t going to help.

In his arms, Shouyou squirms weakly. “I c’n walk, Tobio…”

Tobio doesn’t want to put him down, but he understands. There are already a lot of eyes on them, and Shouyou has never been one to like too much attention when they’re off the court. Tobio nods reluctantly and sets Shouyou on his feet. He’s unsteady, and when he tips into Tobio’s side, Tobio is ready to catch him.

“Take it easy,” he says, any trace of anger or annoyance completely gone. He doesn’t know when or even if it’ll ever be back. “Come on, let’s get signed in.”

He moves on autopilot with Shouyou leaned against him, and they wait in line for the receptionist. There are two people in front of them; a mother holding her sobbing daughter, who’s holding an arm twisted beyond what it should be; and ahead of them is a man, limping horribly, with bloody bandages around his knee. Tobio keeps Shouyou’s gaze distracted elsewhere and is half tempted to cover his eyes for him.

When it’s their turn, the receptionist is kind and helpful, but efficient and professional. Tobio explains the ups and downs of what’s been going on: his fever never broke, it’s been down, but it keeps getting higher, he hasn’t been able to stomach anything the past few days, no, he doesn’t have any allergies that we know of, we haven’t been out of the country recently, yes, he’s otherwise healthy, and they’re taken back by another nurse clad in blues and whites to take Shouyou’s vitals.

The thermometer says 39.4. Tobio knows that isn’t good, but doesn’t panic this time because they’re in a hospital and there are doctors who can help him. He sits beside Shouyou on the bench and lets him lean into his shoulder while the tests are run and Shouyou pliantly sits and lets it happen. Blood pressure, pulse, height, weight. Tobio wishes they would get on with it because he doesn’t see how knowing how tall Shouyou is will help them make him better.

“Is this correct?”

The nurse shows Tobio a bracelet: Hinata Shouyou, followed by a combination of numbers and terms he doesn’t understand. But he nods, because that’s Shouyou’s name and it’s spelled correctly, and the nurse secures the bracelet around Shouyou’s sweaty wrist. His hand falls into his lap as soon as the nurse lets go. Tobio grasps his fingers, and Shouyou squeezes back weakly.

“We’ll have you sit up front for a bit,” the nurse says sternly, typing things into a computer. She’s not nearly as kind as the receptionist, seems a bit fed up with her job, and Tobio’s on edge enough to snap at her but doesn’t because it’s one in the morning and he can’t put Shouyou through any more stress. “It won’t be long before we call you back. Here.”

She reaches around and hands him a plastic container, and he hopes to whatever gods are listening that Shouyou doesn’t feel sick enough to need it. He nods and decides not to thank her because with Shouyou as sick as he is, he does not appreciate her attitude.

He helps Shouyou up and back into the main part of the ER, with Shouyou more dead-weight than ever before. There aren’t many people here, which he guesses fits the ungodly hour, so it’s easy to find a small, out of the way bench where they can sit and Shouyou can have some quiet.

“Here,” Tobio says, taking Shouyou by the forearms and guiding him down onto the bench. He doesn’t let go until he knows Shouyou won’t topple over. “We good?”

Shouyou nods with a small hum that sounds more pained than anything; Tobio drops into the space beside him; and Shouyou wastes no time tipping to rest his upper body in Tobio’s lap. Tobio pets his hair, leaving the plastic bin on the floor and settling an arm around Shouyou’s stomach, gently stroking his side. Shouyou’s hoodie is sweat-damp in places now, and every bit of exposed skin is hot to the touch and a combination of pasty white and sickly flushed.

Tobio swipes his thumb back and forth across Shouyou’s hairline, gentle. “You holding up okay?”

“Th-Think so,” Shouyou murmurs, though he pulls his knees up against himself. “Wanna sleep.”

“You can sleep,” Tobio says. “It might help you feel a little better.”

Shouyou shakes his head. “Don’t wanna sleep here.”

Tobio smiles a smile that he only ever gives to Shouyou, only it’s softer than it’s ever been before and in the end, he just feels sad. He keeps carding his fingers through his hair. “Just close your eyes, then. I’ll hold you.”

Shouyou breathes a shaky thank you and Tobio leans over him in what he can only call an awkward-hug-situation, where he can’t properly hug Shouyou but he still wants Shouyou to know that he’s there and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Shouyou squeezes Tobio’s knee, and Tobio catches his hand and squeezes back.

Every time a nurse comes in to call on someone, Tobio is ready to haul up and carry Shouyou after them, but they don’t call Shouyou’s name. Several others are called back; the woman and her daughter with the broken arm, the man with the bleeding knee, another man with a bleeding, crooked ankle who came in after Tobio and Shouyou, and even this one bizarre case where someone came in so angry that he almost attacked the receptionist and had to be physically restrained by security.

Tobio kept his hand over Shouyou’s ear during that, glad they were out of the way enough to not be in the line of fire. He really, really doesn’t want to be here, and more than ever wants to take Shouyou home and let him get better there. He curses his helplessness and almost damn wishes he’d become a doctor himself, if just so he could make sure Shouyou was okay a hundred percent of the time and never have to come to places like this.

Someone else comes in and is immediately taken back by the doctors. Shouyou’s chills become so violent and scary that Tobio gives up his own jacket and settles it over Shouyou like a blanket. Tobio understands that Shouyou isn’t dying and that there are people in this building worse off, but the protective partner in him wants them to prioritize him. Or at the very least tell Tobio how much longer it’ll be before they’re seen.

Another person comes in and is immediately taken back by the doctors. Shouyou trembles and, every so often, lets out a small, dry sob. The first time it happened, Tobio thought he was gagging and scrambled for the bin—but no, Shouyou is just stressed and sick and anxious and exhausted and frustrated, enough to break down.

Tobio really, really wishes the doctors would hurry up, and the only reason why he doesn’t bounce his leg is because Shouyou is pillowed in his lap, finally still, and he will not mess this up.

Except it’s right along that line of thought that Shouyou squirms unexpectedly and sits up, so quickly that he almost bonks his head into Tobio’s.

“Whoa, hey, hey.” Tobio steadies him by the shoulder when he sways in his seat. He looks even worse than before, ashen in the face and eyes carrying a sort of haze like fogged glass. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Shouyou cuts himself off with something that is a gag this time, and Tobio makes the right call snatching up the bin and shoving it under his chin. He doesn’t necessarily throw up, because there’s nothing there left for him to bring up, but he does heave and choke for a while, and all Tobio can do is brace him through it.

“It’s okay, Shou, shh. It’s okay,” Tobio whispers, rubbing his hand from Shouyou’s elbow to shoulder in gentle but consistent movements. “It’s okay, breathe. Try to breathe. It’s okay.”

“Wh-Why does this keep happening?” Shouyou gasps, voice nothing more than a croaky shamble of what it should be. He sounds desperate, and his sobs aren’t dry anymore. “I-It hurts, wh-what’s wrong with me—?”

The fit is over, so Tobio sets the bin on the floor and pulls Shouyou into his arms, tucking his head under his chin and cupping the back of his head.

“Your body’s just under a lot of stress right now,” Tobio says. “It’s trying to make you better, it just doesn’t know what it’s doing. That’s why we’re here, Shou, so the doctors can help your body help you.”

“Wh-Why’s’it taking so long?” Shouyou hasn’t asked the question yet, even though they’ve been here for a good long while. He’s been patient, trying so hard to be patient and not to complain but he’s at a breaking point, and he’s just. He’s sick, he’s tired, and Tobio really, really wishes he had a good answer.

“I. I don’t know.”

Shouyou’s breath hitches. “T-Tobio—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Tobio asserts quickly, running his hand up and down Shouyou’s back through his hoodie. “Don’t panic, dumbass. Your body’s already freaking out on you, you don’t need to give it another reason to screw you over. Just… breathe.”

Shouyou drags in a shuddering breath.

The automatic doors open, a new patient comes in and is taken back immediately by doctors. Tobio wants to scream.

He loses track of time. It could be twenty minutes, it could be several hours. His phone clock says 2:36. It feels like they’ve been here forever. Shouyou is having a harder time getting and staying comfortable now, constantly twisting and squirming and asking Tobio when the doctors are going to see him. He spends most of his time with his upper body in Tobio’s lap, and Tobio spends all of his time coming up with new ways to try and ease some of the pain.

It’s 3:24 when Tobio finally decides enough is enough. He’s just about to have Shouyou sit up when Shouyou beats him to it, shooting into an upright position much like last time. Only something is noticeably different. He looks like a deer in the headlights. A very tired, very delirious deer in the headlights.

“What’s wrong?” Tobio steadies him again, hand on his shoulder. “You need to throw up again?”

“I-I…” Shouyou swallows thickly, and it almost has Tobio reaching for the bin. “I don’t… I don’t think so? I just… I-I feel really bad, l-like…”

Tobio studies him, gripping his shoulder. “Bad like how?”

“I… I don’t know, I just—”

His voice trails off, his eyes roll back in his head, and he pitches forward like a broken doll.

“Shouyou—!”

Tobio’s knees slam into the tile floor and his arms take Shouyou’s limp, unmoving form. His heart pounds so hard that it taints the edges of his vision black. Shouyou’s head is a dead weight in his arm and his chest heaves with every gasped, panted breath.

“Shou?” Tobio touches his face, brushing his hair away from his face once, twice, again. “Shou, can you hear me? Shou?” He pats his cheek. His skin is too warm, everything about Shouyou is too warm. And too still. “Shou, Shou, come on, stupid, come on—”

Shouyou’s face is slack, eyes closed, cheeks a horrid, flushed shade of red. He doesn’t wake up. Something in Tobio’s heart snaps.

“Someone help me!” he shouts, numb to the sound of his own voice. “Help him, please—!”

Footsteps hail the arrival of doctors and nurses, everyone talking at once and touching Shouyou’s face and wrists and neck. Tobio clings to him, and only just holds back the urge to break down.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks, blubbering and hysterical. “Wh-Why won’t he wake up?”

He isn’t answered. Everyone’s talking too fast and too much, using terms he’s never heard before and doesn’t care to listen to. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder and says they’re going to help Shouyou. Another team of nurses comes running toward them, wheeling a stretcher.

Tobio holds Shouyou closer and whispers, “I-It’s going to be okay, okay? They’re going to help you, they’re gonna help you, I—” Shouyou’s face is slack, eyes closed, unresponsive, and his skin is an ashen pale gray that makes Tobio want to throw up. Tobio cradles him close, touching his face, smoothing back his hair. “I’m here, I’ll be here with you, it’s okay, sh-shit, please be okay, please—”

He has to be physically dragged away from Shouyou while the doctors load him onto the stretcher and take off with him down the hall. A nurse beckons to him, a silent permission that Tobio doesn’t need because he’s following them one way or another, and he tears after the stretcher down long hallways and into one room after the next, test after test, with the feeling of Shouyou’s raging fever permanently seared into his skin.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Shouyou wakes up slowly, feeling marginally okay if just a little bit tipsy. He’d definitely take ‘a little tipsy’ over how he felt before. The only words he can use to describe how he felt before are agonized and scared.

He’s thinking about Tobio before he realizes he can think again, and that horrible haze isn’t in the forefront of his mind anymore. He cracks his eyes open slowly, wincing at the harsh overhead lights and hoping he never has to see them again. The beeping machines and cool wires against his skin says it all. They’re still in the hospital.

Or, at least, he is. He doesn’t know where Tobio is and he’s too scared of being disappointed to ask.

“Shou?”

Except.

Shouyou blinks up at a familiar silhouette, a welcoming shadow beneath the starkly white and too, too bright overheads. Shouyou wants to smile, but he’s too sore and too tired and he still feels too sick to muster the energy.

So instead he rasps out a weak, “Tobio?” and hopes Tobio understands.

He does. Tobio beams, but his eyes are sad and there are tears on his cheeks.

“Hey, h-hey.” Tobio’s voice trembles in a way it’d never trembled before, and his hand shakes equally hard when he touches Shouyou’s cheek and brushes his hair out of his face. “Hey, dumbass, hey. There you are.” He draws a shuddering breath, ducks his head for a long moment and squeezes Shouyou’s hand. “God, oh my god, Shou—”

He hugs him, snaking his arms between Shouyou’s shoulders and the bed and burying his face into Shouyou’s neck. It happens so fast that Shouyou struggles to keep up with it, but Tobio’s weight, while heavy and breath-restrictive, is something he can be absolutely sure of. He brings his arms up weakly and wraps them around Tobio’s back, turning his face into Tobio’s hair. He breathes.

“Hey yourself,” Shouyou wheezes.

Tobio responds by burrowing closer, and Shouyou shuts his eyes and lets himself focus on Tobio’s breath, his heartbeat, his warmth. It’s nice.

Shouyou bonks the sides of their heads together gently. “I missed you.”

Tobio chortles breathlessly. “I didn’t leave, dumbass.”

“I know. But I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Me, too. I...” He inhales. “I’m glad you’re okay. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t okay.”

Shouyou hums softly. “But I am okay.”

“Yeah.” Tobio doesn’t hesitate. He nods against Shouyou’s neck. “Yeah, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

Shouyou runs a shaky hand through Tobio’s hair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tobio asks the doctor if it was pneumonia (which, Shouyou said it wasn’t, but an anxious, sleep-deprived Tobio is an unreasonable Tobio) and the doctor assures him that, no, it wasn’t pneumonia, just a very bad, very tenacious flu virus.

Apparently Shouyou’s family has a history of low immune system and anemia, which could explain why the virus did such a number on him. The doctors are waiting for his fever to break and for him to build some strength back, and then he can go home.

“How long do you think it’ll be?” Tobio asks, standing with the doctor while Shouyou dozes. “His fever’s gone down…”

The doctor’s smile is kind and understanding. “I can’t imagine more than a week,” he says. “We do want to make sure we’ve given his immune system the pick-up it needs to be able to fight this off. But, you’re right, his fever isn’t concerning anymore, though we do want to keep an eye on it. He’s got a strong will, I’m sure you’ll be able to take him home in no time.”

Tobio nods. He wants to take Shouyou home now, and get bundled up on the couch with tea and ramen and make fun of cheesy game shows until they fall asleep on each other.

And that will happen, just. Not as soon as Tobio wants it to happen.

“Thank you,” he says, bowing low. Once he’s straightened out of it, he continues with, “I appreciate all you’re doing. And your honesty.”

“Of course.” The doctor nods shortly, smiles one last time and leaves the two of them alone. Tobio draws a breath and returns to Shouyou’s bedside, sitting down beside him and stretching out his legs.

Shouyou taps him on the knee. Tobio turns his head and smiles, reaching down to brush his hair away from his eyes.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, dumbass.”

“You too,” Shouyou says, still tapping his knee. He peers up at him. “You look tired.”

Tobio exhales sharply through his nose. “Well, duh. We’re both exhausted.”

Shouyou hums and pauses, thinking. He continues to tap Tobio’s knee absentmindedly; it’s a little habit he picked up about a year ago, tapping Tobio’s arm or hand or knee or leg whenever they’re sitting together. It’s something Tobio is used to and familiar with now, so much so that feeling it brings on immense comfort and reassurance.

“Do you know what would make me happy?” Shouyou asks.

“What?”

“If you went home and took a shower and a nap.”

“You know what would make me happy?” Tobio catches his hand and squeezes it. “If you got better.”

“I’m getting better,” Shouyou says, blinking up at him lazily. “You going home and taking care of yourself for a while isn’t going to change that.”

“I know,” Tobio assures, “but—” He searches himself a moment, looking for something worth the argument. “I just… don’t like the thought of you being here by yourself.”

“Aww.” Shouyou scoots closer, resting his head on Tobio’s thigh. “You’re sweet. But, it just means I’ll be extra happy to see you when you get back. You’ll be able to get some proper sleep, too—don’t give me that look, I know you haven’t been sleeping. And you’ll be able to grab some more clean clothes. I know we’re running out of them.”

Tobio bites his lip, raking his fingers across Shouyou’s scalp gently. That visceral something in his chest, when Shouyou collapsed in the ER lobby… he’s never going to forget that feeling, much less when it’s so fresh in his mind.

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll be okay here, Tobio,” Shouyou says, smiling this time. “When you get back we can watch dumb cooking shows and cuddle.”

“We can watch dumb cooking shows and cuddle now.”

“No, you smell bad. Go take a shower.”

Tobio snorts. “Like you smell any better.”

“I have an excuse, okay.”

“Anything can be an excuse if you try hard enough.”

Shouyou shoves him, and it takes Tobio aback, how weak it is. Either Shouyou really doesn’t mean it or he really doesn’t feel well.

“Okay but seriously,” Shouyou says, “I’d really like it if you went home and took a shower, and it’s not because you smell bad. You’ve been here for a while, right? It won’t hurt you to just run home for a little while, get some sleep and take a shower. That sorta stuff.”

Tobio swallows. “I just… I don’t know, Shou. I’m worried about you.”

“I know, I know you are. But, Tobes, I’m worried about you, too. You’ve taken such good care of me, and I’m being taken care of here, too, so I want you to take care of yourself now.”

‘Selfless’ isn’t necessarily a word that describes Shouyou, but he does have a special heart for other people, especially the people he loves. Tobio is reluctant for obvious, understandable reasons, but Shouyou’s okay. Or at least he’s close to being okay. The doctors are here to help him if he needs someone, and it’s not like Tobio won’t be coming back. He probably won’t be gone for more than an hour. Maybe half an hour if he hussles.

And, he’d be lying if he said a shower didn’t sound really nice right about now.

Tobio heaves a sigh and, judging by that little glint in Shouyou’s eyes, he knows what that means. “Alright, I’m letting you win for once,” Tobio says. “But just this one time, got it? You have to earn every other victory.”

Shouyou cackles. “Alright, alright, yeah.”

Tobio rolls his eyes and Shouyou moves off him so he can stand up. Shouyou curls into the pillows and Tobio tucks the blankets up and around his shoulders. The somewhat rougher texture reminds him to grab a throw blanket from home; if Shouyou’s going to be stuck in the hospital for a while, he at least deserves to be comfortable.

Tobio smooths the blanket over him. “You’re sure you’ll be okay here?” he asks, just in case.

“Positive,” Shouyou says, nodding. “I’m just gonna sleep, honestly. I won’t even know you’re gone.”

“Good, good.” Tobio presses his hand to his forehead. He’s still warm, but it’s nothing compared to what it used to be. “Alright. Sleep well, alright? I’ll try and be back before you wake up.”

“Take your time,” Shouyou says, smiling gently. He’s already nodding off, eyelids heavy and stubborn, so Tobio squeezes his hand one more time before heading out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tobio hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until he unlocks the door and steps into the apartment. The place is eerily quiet without Shouyou’s light and warmth, and he used to like the silence, but ever since meeting and knowing Shouyou, noise had become his normal in the best sense possible. Silence used to mean peace and tranquility, but now, silence means an absence. Silence means an emptiness. Silence means Tobio is alone and he would do anything to have Shouyou in his arms.

He locks the door behind him and takes a long, cold shower. He hopes it’ll wake him up some, maybe give him a pick-me-up so he can leave and see Shouyou again, but he’d promised Shouyou that he would take a break. And while Tobio might not necessarily care about a break, he does care about Shouyou, and he did promise him.

So Tobio takes a shower, gets dressed, changes out the bedding and flops facedown onto it, breathing deeply. His body must take it as a go-ahead to shut down, because even though his mind is telling him ten minutes, ten minutes and then I’ll leave, his body has already decided what it wants, and he sleeps soundly and deeply through every alarm he’d set.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Wow,” Shouyou says, beaming at him, “I didn’t think you’d actually listen to me.”

“Wasn’t planning on it at first,” Tobio says, dropping the backpack off on the nearest seat as he crosses the room. “But you had a point. So.”

“Of course I did!” Shouyou says, still smiling stupidly. He’s actually sitting up now, with pillows propped between his back and the headboard. “I’m glad, you look a lot more like yourself now.”

“So do you,” Tobio says, sitting down beside him on the bed. Shouyou scoots over to give him more room and they sit parallel to each other, shoulders touching. Tobio tucks Shouyou’s hair behind his ear again. “I haven’t seen you smile in weeks.”

“It’s been like, one week,” Shouyou says, still grinning. “You’re just a drama queen. Drama Queen of the Court.”

Tobio snorts, knocking his head into Shouyou’s shoulder and leaving it there. “Dumbass.”

“Jerk.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Softie.” Shouyou ruffles his hair. “Oh! You promised dumb cooking shows and cuddles.”

“I did.”

“Wanna?”

“Definitely.”

It doesn’t take very long to get situated. Tobio covers them with a throw blanket he brought from home, and Shouyou wastes no time at all snuggling into his side, though still mindful of the IV and monitoring wires. Tobio isn’t sure the doctors especially want him sharing a bed with Shouyou, and they did bring him a stretcher which lies empty on the other side of the room, but they haven’t told him he can’t, and until they do (and maybe even after they do), he’ll be here.

The cooking show is one of those competition types where all the competitors have a dramatic bake-off with lots of sabotaging, self-sufficiency and sobbing involved. It isn’t really something to watch as much as it something to have going on in the background. His main focus is really on Shouyou, whether it’s watching Shouyou cry with his favorite contestant after their tragic defeat, watching Shouyou laugh at failed attempts from his least favorite contestants, reminding him not to fist-bump so high that the IV stand rattles, or otherwise holding him close and stroking his head. Shouyou might not be entirely well yet, but he’s more like himself now.

Night falls soon after. The nurses come back and double-check Shouyou’s vitals, almost ignoring Tobio’s presence entirely. They don’t tell him to leave, though, or that he has to sleep on the cot. Maybe they’re scared of him, who knows. The nurses file out and in comes the doctor, who tells them that Shouyou’s recovery is going well enough for him to be discharged within the next couple of days, granted he doesn’t throw up anymore and his fever doesn’t rise.

“We’re still monitoring everything,” the doctor says, “but we are hopeful.” That isn’t all he says, but it’s the most important thing Tobio latches onto. Hopeful. That’s good. And a few days is a lot shorter than an entire week, and that’s good too.

The doctor leaves them to sleep, turning off the light on his way out upon their request. They go back to watching the cooking show, and Shouyou is so close to Tobio that he’s practically on top of him, curled against him as a warm, familiar weight, and Tobio is happy. He feels Shouyou’s forehead again, and he still has a fever, but he’s okay, now. As long as Shouyou is happy and okay, then Tobio is happy and okay, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sweltering agony wakes Shouyou in the middle of the night. His stomach is twisted, coiled like trapped vipers, and it feels empty but he still wants to throw up. The haze is back in the forefront of his mind. He isn’t aware of very many things, just that he hurts, it’s too hot, stop, please stop, and Tobio has him in his arms.

Shouyou opens his eyes. It’s just as dark as it was when they were closed. Tobio’s chest rises and falls against him, steadying and sure and Shouyou tries focusing on it, he tries setting his mind on Tobio’s breath and his heartbeat and the feeling of his arms around him, and he tries to breathe, too, but he can’t. His throat is thick, stuck in a way that makes him wish he could cough but he can’t, he wants to cry but he can’t, and the only thing he seems able to do is burn.

The last thing he wants to do is wake Tobio up—Tobio’s been so worried about him, so tirelessly looking after him with abandon, leaving no regard left for his own health. He talks a good talk, plays a good game but Shouyou knows how anxious he’s been, how anxious he is, and how much stress all of this has caused. He can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, hear it in his breathing. Tobio is tired, he’s stressed, he’s anxious, he’s exhausted and Shouyou doesn't want to add to that. He doesn’t want to make it any worse than it already is.

But he hasn’t felt this bad—he’s never felt this bad before, not once. Nothing’s ever hurt this much, nothing’s ever scorched this much, he feels like he’s trapped on the inside of a burning building with his chest and stomach pinned with rubble and he just—he just wants it to stop—

“Tobio?” He hates the sound of his own voice, hates how loud it is and how pathetic and he hates that he keeps putting Tobio through this but he doesn’t know what else to do. “T-Tobio.” Carefully, half-hoping Tobio won’t wake up, he pokes him hard in the shoulder. His toes curl. “Tobio.”

Tobio shifts and stirs, and Shouyou withdraws his hand and wishes he could curl up small enough and tight enough to never be seen again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up, what’s—” His hand on Shouyou’s head stills. A palm presses into his forehead. Shouyou sobs dryly. “Shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Shouyou whimpers. Tobio is scrambling for something, clutching him against his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m so s-sorry—”

“Shit, shit, shit—” Tobio’s voice is frantic, and he jams the call nurse button four times, rapidly. “Don’t apologize, don’t— shit, how did it get this bad?—It’s okay, Shou, it’s not your fault— god, please, don’t apologize—”

The way Tobio is clutching him isn’t reassuring, it’s desperate, like he’s out at sea and clinging to a liferaft. He’s never been good at handling emotional distress, nevermind Shouyou’s and his own. Shouyou wishes he could reassure him but he’s too busy trying to keep his own composure as best as he can. They were supposed to be going home the next couple of days, and now—

“Shit, where the hell is the doctor—”

“I’m sorry,” Shouyou sobs. Tobio stills. “I-I ruined—”

“You ruined a whole damn lot of nothing,” Tobio hisses, holding him securely against his chest. Shouyou wants him to let go. He wants him to hold tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize, dumbass, don’t you dare.”

Shouyou knows Tobio isn’t angry at him, just angry at the situation. But considering how much of ‘him’ is in the situation, it doesn’t make him feel any better. He chokes, and the tears finally spill forth and there’s no holding them back. Tobio runs his hand up and down his back, squeezing his shoulders, holding him close. Nothing helps.

An unsuspecting nurse pokes her head in, and the white stripe of light from the cracked door is enough to blind him. Tobio shouts at her. She leaves without closing the door and Shouyou can hear her pounding, retreating footsteps, amplified like bombs.

A moment passes. Or maybe several moments do.

The room explodes in a crescendo of noise, color, and an atmosphere crushing enough to still his breathing. The only thing that goes through his head is he hopes they don’t make Tobio leave. He isn’t—he isn’t dying or anything (right?) so they shouldn’t have to, he just—please, don’t make him go—

Too much is happening around him. There are hands on him, instruments on him, questions thrown at him that he can barely answer and immediately forgets what they were afterwards. Everything is just— haze, it’s nothing, it’s noise and hurt and unfamiliar, unwanted touches and he just wants to go home, they were supposed to go home—

“Shou, you need to calm down, you’re breathing too hard,” Tobio says, voice quiet and scared. “They’re gonna have to sedate you if you don’t calm down, it’s okay—”

Shouyou chokes a sob. “W-We were supposed to g-go—”

“I know.” Tobio hugs him tight, pressing his forehead against the top of Shouyou’s. “Shit, damn it, I know, I know. But I need you to not think about that right now. Come on, dumbass, not thinking is what you do best, don’t go changing that now.”

Shouyou gasps out a shaky, teary giggle, and it’s one of the most reassuring things Tobio has said all day. He’s sure the doctors are glaring at him for it but he knows Tobio, and he knows what he’s trying to do. And he appreciates it.

Tobio’s hold becomes less desperate and more gentle, more like himself, more like how they are on casual days spent lazing about the house. When Tobio speaks, his voice is soft. Almost uncharacteristically soft. And Shouyou clings to every word.

“I know you’re disappointed, and scared, and I am too, but we’ll deal with this together, alright? Just like we always do. Nothing’s changed. Shhh. Breathe. It’s going to be okay.”

Shouyou still feels like he’s burning up, like there are coiled, knotted springs in his chest and stomach and his sight is still blurred with tears, but, he can breathe now. Just a little. Just a little more than he used to. Tobio’s hand runs up and down his back. The doctors and nurses around them fade out and Shouyou focuses on Tobio’s presence. It helps.

“As long as we’re together?” Shouyou croaks, and hopes his voice is audible enough.

It is. Tobio holds him close. “We’re invincible.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The episode can be narrowed down into Shouyou having an allergic reaction to the medication they put him on. Tobio just about bites the doctor’s head off. It’s nobody’s fault; Shouyou’s never had to be hospitalized like this before, he’s never had these medications before, there was no way to know before now and they luckily caught it before it got worse, but still. Tobio is very clearly upset and no amount of apologies make that better.

Shouyou’s still too weak and out of it to keep him from chewing out the doctor, but Tobio still ends up apologizing (to both of them) when the adrenaline has worn off. Since it was just the medication and not a full-blown relapse, there’s still a chance of them going home on time granted nothing of this sort happens again (which, hopefully it won’t, because Tobio may in fact kill somebody).

“Idiots, I can’t believe that happened.”

“It’s not their fault, Tobio. You know that.”

Tobio heaves a groan that says, yes, he absolutely does know that but is pissed enough to ignore it. He’s been noticeably upset ever since Shouyou regained coherency. Upset and overprotective.

Which is understandable. Shouyou isn’t nearly as intimidating as Tobio, but he’d do the same thing, feel the same way. He doesn’t really want to think about Tobio ever being in a position like the one Shouyou was in so he abandons that train of thought almost as soon as he boards it.

He listens to Tobio’s heartbeat instead, and Tobio rests his cheek on the top of his head.

“You feeling any better?”

“Little bit,” Shouyou says, and sighs. “I… I guess I’m still just kind of. Sad.”

“Yeah.” Tobio nods. “Yeah, me too. I’m sorry I yelled at you before. I was just— god, I don’t know what happened, I just—”

“I get it, it’s okay,” Shouyou says, and proves his point by pressing in closer. He can still smell the shampoo Tobio washed his hair with yesterday (it was just yesterday, it feels like ages ago), and he finds comfort in its familiarity. “I’m not mad at you, and I knew you weren’t mad at me. We’re okay.”

Tobio exhales longly and doesn’t say anything else, but Shouyou knows he understands. Shouyou absentmindedly taps Tobio’s forearm.

“Do you wanna sleep?” he asks.

Tobio exhales again, sharper this time. “Dumbass, I should be asking you that question.”

“I beat you to it. Loser.”

If he’d been feeling any better, Tobio definitely would have pushed him off the bed. “I wouldn’t say no to sleeping.”

“Then you should. I’ll wake you up again if I need you.”

“You sure?” Tobio’s voice is uncertain, but Shouyou can hear how tired he is. He nods.

“I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

Tobio rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I’m worried about, dumbass.”

“Then you can sleep without any trouble.”

“Dumbass.”

“Seriously, I would feel better if you slept.”

Tobio sighs, and it’s resigned enough for Shouyou to know that he took it to heart. “Alright, alright. I’ll sleep. Wake me up if I crush you on accident, okay?”

“You won’t, but alright.”

Tobio leans into the headboard and shuts his eyes, and just moments later his breathing evens out, and he’s asleep. Shouyou isn’t surprised one bit. He taps at Tobio’s forearm for a bit afterwards, thinking gentle, non-committal thoughts, and then before long he’s dropping off, too.

The rest of the hospital stay is… fairly straightforward. Shouyou can’t convince Tobio to leave again (which, understandable, but infuriating all the same), and they spend most of their time watching crappy cooking competitions and romcoms and whatever else the TV has going that’s worth even making fun of. They find a baking channel—food without the competition—and the cakes absolutely baffle them. Neither of them really understand how baking works, much less stuff like cake and icing and frosting and layers and cream fillings. It’s mesmerizing. So that takes up another good chunk of their time.

They run a crap ton of tests on Shouyou, though, especially the first couple of days. They want to make sure it was actually an allergic reaction to the medicine and not something else, which leads to a lot of tests that bring back Tobio’s anxiety and leads to Shouyou having little to no energy for the rest of the day. The tests aren’t strenuous, but they take time, and he’s been sick and exhausted and dizzy for so long now that it’s taking a toll on him to bounce back.

Tobio’s presence is soothing, though. Tobio might not always be soothing in his speech and he’s abrasive, especially towards the doctor and nurses, but just his being here is enough to make Shouyou believe everything is going to be okay. He waits until Shouyou is sleeping before grabbing food down at the cafeteria and is always back before Shouyou wakes up. The situation still sucks, but it doesn’t suck as much as it would if Shouyou were alone in this place.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if he were alone.

Days pass. Shouyou gradually regains his strength. The night his fever breaks has Tobio celebrating, with a smile bigger than Shouyou has seen from him in a while. Shouyou doesn’t feel very celebratory, and he’s sweaty and gross and tired and the absence of the fever brought what felt like a whole new wave of tiredness, but it means they’re one step closer to home. Tobio holds him close that night, just like all other nights, and ignores every protest Shouyou has about his being disgusting.

“I’m gonna make you smell gross,” Shouyou complains, though he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t love Tobio’s arms around him, cradling him while his head spins and the world tips. And he’d be lying if he says he wants Tobio to let him go. “M’all nasty… n’ gross...”

“No, you’re getting better,” is Tobio’s argument, as he holds him securely and rocks them back and forth. “You’re getting better, Shou. I don’t know about you, but that’s the best news I’ve heard in months.”

Shouyou smiles weakly and headbutts Tobio’s chest. Tobio strokes his side and pets his damp hair.

Beneath the exertion and bone-deep tiredness, they’re happy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The day they head home is a victorious one. Shouyou declines the nurse's wheelchair because he feels well enough to walk out on his own, and he must look like he feels well enough to walk on his own, too, because neither Tobio nor the nurse put up an argument. Shouyou definitely feels like his old self, and Tobio even said that he looks like his old self, which is even better. The morning they’re told he can be discharged, he’s bubbly and cheerful, thanking every nurse and doctor he comes across whether or not they helped him in particular. By the afternoon, Tobio and Shouyou have filed the discharge papers, and they’re clear to go.

Tobio phones another Uber to come pick them up, and it just so happens to be the same Uber who took them here in the first place. The Uber is ecstatic and expresses how happy he is that they're alright and well, and once they’re in the backseat with seatbelts snapped, they’re homeward bound.

They haven’t traveled for long when Shouyou catches Tobio staring at his visitor bracelet and leans over, hooking his chin on his shoulder. “Whatcha doin’?”

Tobio keeps looking at his bracelet. “Wondering how hard it’d be to chew through this damn thing.”

Shouyou laughs softly. “We’ll be home in five minutes, dummy,” he says, “you can wait for a pair of scissors.” He looks down at his own bracelet, too, with his name and case number (and now, the medication he had a reaction to. It has a funny name that he can’t pronounce). It’d be nice to have it off.

The Uber drops them off in front of their apartment, and Shouyou thanks him brightly, once again declines Tobio’s offer to help (“I’m fine, see!” he insists, and almost trips on his way out of the door. Tobio shrieks at him), and they thank the driver a final time before heading inside.

“You’re like a dog waiting to go to the dog park,” Tobio says, sorting through his keyring. Shouyou rocks and bounces beside him. “You’re gonna overexert yourself, dumbass. Chill.”

“Okay, I will,” Shouyou says, and promptly doesn’t. He feels a little dizzy and tired, which the doctors said was normal, but that doesn’t make him any less excited. They’re finally home.

Tobio swings the door inward and turns to him. “Your Majesty.” He bows mockingly, gesturing inside.

Shouyou flops a curstie and bounds inwards. He doesn’t make it past the genkan before he has to stop and take it in.

It’s just like it’s always been. Cheap couch, coffee table, busted TV set that barely works. The air is a bit stale because neither of them have been here in a little under a week, but Shouyou hardly pays that mind. They’re here now. It won’t be stale and quiet for much longer.

He hears Tobio follow behind him, pulling the door shut. Shouyou takes a long, deep breath. It smells like it always smelled, familiar and comforting and, well. Home.

"Home sweet home," he says.

Tobio nods, slinging the backpack onto one of the dining chairs. They’ll unpack it later. "Home sweet home,” he breathes, and Shouyou spins around to smile at him. Tobio smiles back.

And that’s really the bulk of what Shouyou gets to do, because the next thing he knows he’s being guided by Tobio down the hall and into the bedroom, where he’s sat on the bed and told to stay. It happens so suddenly and so quickly that he forgets he doesn’t want to go to sleep until after Tobio is turning away.

“Tobio, I told you, I’m fine,” Shouyou says, “you don’t have to worry about me. If I feel faint I’ll just lay down again.”

Tobio is having none of it. “No, you won’t,” he says, tossing the blanket over him and tucking it around his shoulders. “You’ll push yourself until you wind up hospitalized again. Dumbass.”

“I learned my lesson before!” Shouyou protests, sitting up again. “You look more dead on your feet than I do. I’ll heat up the soup and you can sleep for a bit.”

“No.”

“Tobioooo.”

“It literally takes five minutes.”

“Exactly! Which is why you shouldn’t have a problem with me doing it!”

“Nope, sorry.” He takes Shouyou by the shoulder and urges him to lay down again, which Shouyou does, though reluctantly. “It won’t take long. Try and get some rest until then, alright?”

Shouyou sighs, but words can only take him so far when it comes to Tobio. He doesn’t usually listen as far as his own well-being is concerned. “Fine,” he says. “Just hurry up.”

Tobio bonks their foreheads together gently and leaves the door cracked on his way out. Shouyou stares up at the ceiling for a while.

"Idiot," he murmurs.

He waits exactly five minutes before swinging himself out of bed, bundling a blanket in his arms and pattering quietly down the hall and into the living room. He knows exactly what he's going to find.

And, he's right. Tobio is on the couch with his head pillowed by his arms, fast asleep with his phone blinking on a downwards timer of 10 minutes.

Shouyou smiles softly and rolls his eyes. "Dummy," he whispers, spreading the blanket over him and bending down until he can press their foreheads together. "Stupid dummy."

Tobio sleeps on. Shouyou terminates the alarm, leaves the phone silenced on the table and heads into the kitchen. He can make the soup in Tobio's stead.

And, making the soup is the easy part. He swings himself through their kitchen, singing loudly to himself with the knowledge that it'd take a metal concert to wake Tobio now. He isn't the best at cooking but heating up the soup is easy enough (though he does bring it to a rolling boil by accident).

The harder part comes after the soup is finished, because he doesn't want it to get cold, but he also doesn't want to wake Tobio when he's sleeping like this. He hasn't slept this soundly probably since Shouyou first took ill. He needs it.

So.

Shouyou ultimately decides to put a lid on the pot and leave it while Tobio rests. Worst comes to worst he'll have to reheat it.

He's feeling marginally more lightheaded now, though, and sleeping is a lot more appealing than eating. He makes his way back into the living room, where Tobio is now curled on his side, and he wastes no time lying on the couch with him, draping an arm around his shoulders. Tobio immediately hugs him and yanks him close, so suddenly that it draws a yelp from Shouyou.

But he smiles, and runs his fingers through Tobio's hair.

"Stupid dummy," he repeats fondly. "What am I supposed to do with you, huh?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Tobio wakes up, it’s dark as all hell and they’re still on the couch. He doesn’t quite register the ‘they’re’ part of that for much longer.

Shouyou is on top of him, curled into his chest with his knees digging into the back of the couch, fingers clutching fistfulls of Tobio’s t-shirt. There’s a blanket twisted and bunched in awkward places around them, uncomfortable and not doing its job, but Tobio finds he doesn’t care enough to do anything about it. His phone is on the coffee table. He reaches for it. All his alarms were silenced.

He heaves a sigh, but a knowing sigh, not a frustrated one. “I was going to sleep after I made the soup.”

“I made the soup,” Shouyou murmurs without hesitation. “And now we’re both sleeping. So. We both win.”

“We didn’t eat anything.”

“We can eat later. Midnight-snack style.”

Tobio squints at the clock. “It is midnight.”

“Two in the morning snack, then.”

Tobio sighs again but he doesn’t have any objections to give on the matter, not really. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t comfortable this way. Comfortable even with the blanket twisted around and underneath him, with Shouyou’s weight on his chest, with Shouyou’s elbows and ankles digging into him. Just being home with Shouyou is all the comfort he needs.

He breathes in a long breath. Shouyou still smells like hospital and antiseptic and—well, like someone who’s been sick in the hospital for a week, but there’s still some of Shouyou buried beneath all of it. His hoodie is clean and smells like their laundry detergent. And a shower or two later, the gross hospital stench will be gone. Things will be normal.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Shouyou murmurs, sounding close to sleep again. “I know these past two weeks have been really hard for you. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Tobio holds his head to his chest and pets his hair again. “Thank you for holding on. You were so damn strong, you know? That was scary as all hell, but you did really, really good. Brave, stupid dumbass. God, I love you.”

Shouyou laughs gently, and it’s one of the most wonderful sounds Tobio has ever heard. “I love you, too.”

They’ve been saying that a lot to each other. It isn’t usually something they make a habit of, just because neither of them are good with words and it’s easier to share their affection with a look, or a smile, or a touch. But the verbal confirmation is a comfort, too. Like being wrapped in a warm blanket, handed a mug of hot cocoa and told everything is going to be okay.

And they are okay. They sleep, they wake up around 2am and eat soup, they sleep again, they watch TV, they rest, they take it easy, and they’re okay. As long as they have each other, there’s nothing they can’t overcome.

#cloud writes #haikyuu!!#hq #fanfiction #fanfic #qpr kagehina #kagehina #queerplatonic relationships #hurt/comfort #sickfic #sick hinata shouyou #kageyama tobio #this is just soft fluff for the sake of soft fluff #kageyama is worried and taking care of a sick shouyou and thats the entire fic #cuddles #comfort #fever #whump

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popatochisssp · 6 years ago

Note

Obviously no pressure, but if you wanted to share your ideas on house pets, there would be great interest from at least one person. But headcanons are closed and I totally respect that (this very ask aside sorry). No pressure to do anything!!! just wanted to let you know that it seems like fun info.

Sans (Undertale): Strongly inspired by a fantastic fanfiction I can’t recommend enough, he has a cat affectionately named Catsup (Norwegian Forest Cat). Of course he does. Pretty typical story here, he more or less went to a shelter, locked onto the biggest, fattest cat there, and filled out the paperwork to damn her to a life of having a pun for a name. He...may have only gone to the shelter because he was hardcore struggling with depression and his brother read somewhere that pets can help a little, but that's...that’s neither here nor there. Catsup turned out to be a perfect fit for Sans in spite of his initial attitude of, 'I'm only doing this to make Papyrus happy'-- she's probably just about as chill and lazy as the skeleton himself, content to flop over just about anywhere, anytime and hang out. Her laidback nature was a blessing for Sans, a first-time cat-owner who didn't really know what he was doing or what she needed right away. A more high-maintenance cat probably wouldn't have been as forgiving and there'd have been a lot more stress on everybody before he got it figured out. Now, he considers Catsup his best little pal and doesn't even need to be reminded to change out her bowls and her litter. He's surprisingly responsible, when he actually really cares about something.

Catsup’s Quirks: Likes it when you gently slap her belly, always gravitates towards the room with the most people in it, often appears in unusual places that it seems like she shouldn't have been able to get to

Papyrus (Undertale): He...begrudgingly missed working with the Canine Unit once the Royal Guard was officially disbanded... It took him awhile to be able to openly admit he was interested in getting a dog, and when he did, he had standards-- it had to be a smart dog, one that could learn tricks and follow rules, unlike a certain annoying creature that’s plagued his life and home and special attacks in the past!!! So he did a lot of breed research, found a local, ethical breeder for the kind he was looking for, and went to pick out a pup. Spike (Border Collie), so named for his incredible coolness, is a perfect fit for his energetic skeleton friend and loves to run, exercise, and learn new tricks all the time!

Spike’s Quirks: Learned to wipe his feet before coming inside just by watching Papyrus do it, hams up his tricks and sometimes does them without prompting, never leaves the park without an impractically large stick to bring home

Sky (Underswap Sans): You will literally never get him to admit the real reason he got a dog companion because he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s such a silly reason... He saw a video online of a dog delicately eating a watermelon and while most people would’ve had a kneejerk reaction of, “I NEED TEN,” but not gotten any, he had the same reaction and just...talked himself down to one. And so came Poff (Samoyed), a big ol’ floofer who’s a lot like her master when it comes to levels of energy and affection. She’s happy to follow him around on patrols, training sessions, and even through obstacle course...so of course, she tends to get very dirty very quickly. Luckily, Sky’s diligence in grooming her keeps her coat as white and fluffy as her namesake!

Poff’s Quirks: Loves baths, tap dances at the mention of treats, doesn't chew her toys and just hoards them instead

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): He wasn’t really in the market for a dog, himself. He was just along for the ride when his bro was picking up Poff, when he happened to hear the most hilarious sing-screaming sound he’d ever heard in his life. He followed it all the way to the little fellow who would soon be known as Smoochie (French Bulldog), and he sure seemed upset about...something? He never really figured out why, he was laughing too hard from hearing a sound like that come out of something so small and weird-looking. He didn't try to adopt Smoochie that day, much as he loved his sound, but he found himself going back to the shelter a couple times just to check on and play with him. After two or three months with no one else adopting the little prima-donna, he figured he might as well commit and take him home. He's a fun little dude and Paps hasn't regretted it for a second, but he's forever in denial about just how much of a Dog Dad he's become since. It's totally normal to carry your dog around in the hood of your sweatshirt, isn't it???

Smoochie’s Quirks: Screams a lot, will eat food out of peoples’ hands if they’re not paying attention, jumps higher than it seems like he should be able to

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Like most things in his life, he didn’t put a whole lot of planning or forethought into getting a dog. He was out one night, decently drunk, and a friend of a friend of a friend of a coworker was talking about this dumb dog he had that was supposed to be a guard dog but couldn't do it worth a damn because he was too friendly. The guy was yammering about how to get rid of it and something about that struck a chord with Jasper. It was pretty soon after monsters surfaced and maybe that's why it felt...important to him? He was probably just drunk and emotional and soft that he even stepped in or said anything, but it is what it is. He’s a skilled enough conman that it didn't take him long to talk the guy around in circles until he was willing to pay Jasper for the privilege of taking this animal off his hands and in short order, he was almost bowled over by the big dog that planted its paws on his shoulders at their first meeting. Jasper immediately renamed him from something cliché and 'intimidating' to Tubbs (Rottweiler) for how heavy the goofy bastard was and then brought him right home. His brother wasn't particularly pleased and swore he would not be caring for this beast, but he never had to; Jasper kinda missed having something trusting and affectionate to take care of, and Tubbs has been daddy's little fatty ever since.

Tubbs’ Quirks: Shreds even the heaviest duty toys, lays on people as if he were a lap dog, drools rivers if somebody's eating food around him

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Who am I to defy literal years of fanon...? His first meeting with Doomfanger (Persian) was about as clichéd as it gets-- a scrawny, dingy, scraggly and matted cat scurrying out of an alley in the rain. She went right up to him and, well... it was love at first mew. He scooped her right up, bestowed a fittingly intimidating name upon her, and took her home with him, in spite of the fact that she looked more like a mutant rat than a cat at the time. After shaving the mats off, bathing the dirt away, and getting her some regular food, though, Doomy actually ends up being an exceedingly beautiful feline! He credits his attentive care and grooming for her pristine, silvery fluff and will brag about it at a moment's notice, but he's just ever so slightly in denial about her sweet and gentle nature. Doomfanger is a vicious killing machine, a true apex predator that nothing stands a chance against! That's...that’s obviously why he carries her around so much... And why he plucks her away from any other animal that comes near her like some sort of mother hen-- he's minimizing the bloodshed! If he let her loose, there would be no survivors!

Doomfanger’s Quirks: Meows in peeps, avid shadow-chaser, extremely receptive to handling

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Hey, anyone remember FGTC? This one cameo’d in that fic, she may seem familiar~ So...he wanted a pet. At first, he thought a cat would be good, fierce independent hunters that they’re reputed to be...but after spending time with a lot of cats and not really clicking with any, he was forced to concede that he was just more of a dog person. In hindsight, of course that’s what he was looking for: a loyal companion to (literally, ha!) dog his steps and follow his orders. Before he can actually, intentionally start looking for one, though, the universe works its magic and he finds one digging around in the garbage out behind the house. The emergency vet he brings the scarred and skeletal stray to tells him that, judging by her injuries, she was probably bait in some dog-fighting ring somewhere and got thrown away when she wasn’t useful anymore. Well. Fuck that, Princess (Pitbull) deserves better than that, and she’ll have it! He takes on the duty of nursing her back to health and earning her trust and it isn’t long before she shows her true colors as the loviest sweetheart of a dog that ever was. She’s utterly useless as an attack/guard dog, but her barks are loud and intimidating, and she obeys commands at the drop of a hat, so Mal doesn’t hold that against her. She goes with him just about anywhere she’s allowed and he shows her off with the same enthusiasm you’d expect for a pedigreed Best in Show dog.

Princess’ Quirks: Wags with her entire butt, will kiss the moment someone’s face is in range, barks at doorbells both real and on TV

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): He didn’t mean to get a cat, not really... He was just following along with his brother when Mal was kicking around the idea of getting one, and Mal may not have clicked with anybody there, but he sure did. Actually... Kitkat (Manx) may have picked him and he’s just along for the ride. Kitkat was kinda young at the time, a little smaller than all the rest and also...no tail??? But what a personality, loud and playful and super sweet and...when it was time to leave the shelter, he just...he couldn’t bring himself to do it without her, he was in love! It’s mutual, at least-- she latched right onto him pretty much instantly and is pretty much never not with him whenever he’s at home, following him around from room-to-room.

Kitkat’s Quirks: Bone-rattlingly loud purrs, loves to play fetch, prone to 3AM zest for life and zooming all around the house accordingly

Slate (Horrortale Sans): I actually wrote about this one! But the gist of it is...he likes cats. Eventually got confident enough to go get one and zeroed right in on the weirdest-looking, least adoptable cat in the shelter he volunteers at. Slinky (Cornish Rex) was deaf, kinda ugly, and a whole lotta weird, but hell, she’ll fit right in at home, yeah? And so she does! She wrecks a lotta shit and is loud as hell, but stuff is only stuff and Slate’s never had an issue with noise. Actually...she really helps him out with his sleep and focus issues, it’s hard to drop off or dissociate when you have a cat in your lap, yelling at you at batting your face because it’s Play Time or Dinner Time, wake the fuck up!!! She’s a bastardous gremlin, but he loves her to bits.

Slinky’s Quirks: Clumsy and bad at judging distances, loves ankle-looping, insists on sniffing all people-food but never actually tries to eat it

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Following the trauma of the underground and the ensuing massive outpouring of empathy from humanity at large, monsters were made aware of many therapeutic resources that they could take advantage of, one of which was therapy animals. Papy naturally thought this was a wonderful idea...for other monsters, who were of course far more psychologically-damaged and not quite so good at enduring as himself. But...his brother does volunteer at an animal shelter, and he goes to visit him on occasion so he's made friends with a lot of animal people. This is how he hears about a therapy dog in need of a new forever-home due to complicated circumstances with her former owner, and well... it would be rude not to offer the Lady (Borzoi) a place to stay! He’s surprised by her appearance at first, having expected something more like a golden retriever or some kind of shepherd??? But he's very quickly charmed by her and actually feels more than a little bit of kinship with her no stranger to being long and oddly proportioned, himself-- and they're both doing their best to make it look graceful instead of weird. Since Lady proves to be a sweet and gentle-mannered dog, Papy just sort of...never bothers trying to find other accommodations for her. She’s welcomed wholeheartedly into their home, which she repays with plenty of unconditional love and effortless emotional support!

Lady’s Quirks: Spins in circles when excited, very polite when begging for table scraps, never barks but howls often

#cinaminamin #headcanons #undertale #sans #papyrus #underswap #us!sans #us!papyrus #underfell #uf!sans #uf!papyrus #swapfell/fellswap #sf!sans #sf!papyrus #horrortale #ht!sans #ht!papyrus

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gukyi · 6 years ago

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the snow globe effect | knj

summary: when a freak blizzard hits and leaves you and kim namjoon trapped in the library together on the eve of new year’s eve, you realize that when life hands you lemons, you make lemon snow cones.

{librarian!au}

pairing: namjoon x female reader word count: 10k genre: fluff warnings: ill-advised usage of book shelving carts. please don’t do this i can’t be held liable. it feels like slow burn except it’s snowing, so it’s slow freeze. a/n: happy new year, everyone!!!! here’s my gift to you to round out 2018. quite frankly, i think that this is some of the best writing i’ve done all year. i had so much fun writing this fic, so i hope you guys enjoy!! promise we’ll get back to gukyi’s regularly scheduled programming (aka i’ll start writing the things i say i’ll write) soon!

fic playlist: promise by jimin, crystal snow by bts, and moonchild by rm.

“Happy New Year’s,” your coworker, an elderly woman named Gretchen who shows you pictures of her daughter with her wife and their five dogs when you’re on break, says as she gathers her belongings from her desk, leaving just you and Namjoon to man the rest of the library. Not that it’s busy in the slightest—nobody wants to go to the library two days before New Year’s Eve when they have all of their last-minute party shopping to do—but still, it’s a decently large library.

“Bye, Gretch,” you say casually, scanning in a couple of books, the familiar beeping sound ringing out from the ten-year-old computer in front of you. “Tell your daughter I said hello.”

“Will do,” she chuckles. “Hope you guys will be alright. They’re saying it’s supposed to blizzard tonight.”

You shrug. Nobody really believes the weather forecasters anymore, not after the freak incident a couple of months ago when they said a surprise October snowstorm would hit the area and then it was sunny and warm. “I’m sure we’ll be okay. It hasn’t even started snowing yet.” You look up at the big glass windows across the library just to double check that it is as overcast and chilly as it was fifteen minutes ago.

“Alright, but stay warm,” she orders with a smile before waving goodbye to you and Namjoon, who’s standing in the back with a complimentary employee scone in his mouth. You don’t think you’ll have any problem with that—you’re wearing your thickest sweater and the library always has its heat on high—but you do pull up the weather on your phone just to see for yourself what the meteorologists are saying about the supposed incoming snowstorm.

WINTER STORM WARNING IN EFFECT FROM 4PM TO 12AM. 18 INCHES OF SNOW EXPECTED. TRAVEL DELAYS MAY OCCUR. STAY INSIDE.

“Psh, yeah, right,” you mutter to yourself, this feeling too much like a boy who cried wolf kind of situation. Not that you think the weather is a fluke, but you can’t say you have too much faith in the predictions. The day before New Year’s Eve and a freak snowstorm? As if. It’s your last day of work for the year—no library with its metaphorical head screwed on straight would be open on New Year’s Eve—and you only have two more hours before you’re free for the next few days. And all you really want to do is stuff your face with the obligatory New Year’s Eve party hors d'oeuvres.

“You know,” a voice says from behind you, deep and husky and warm. You can feel Namjoon’s body heat on your back, the thick cardigan wrapped around his body doing nothing but increasing the local temperature. “They might actually be right this time.” You whip around in the spinny chair to face Namjoon directly, scaring the apparent bejeezus out of him as he jumps up with all of his might, like a cat introduced to a self-moving mouse toy. “They as in the, uh, the meteorologists. Those are the they. I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Namjoon,” you say, calming him. His eyes are wide behind his thick-rimmed black glasses. He looks like he’s about to shrink into the beige cardigan that’s already on the verge of swallowing him whole.

“It’s because there’s a low pressure front over us right now,” Namjoon says, doing that thing you’ve noticed he does whenever he gets nervous, which is becoming wordy. He doesn’t talk much normally—too busy checking items in or shelving books or making jokes with the old ladies who are library regulars—and it’s not like when he does open his mouth he becomes a stuttering, bumbling disaster, but any time you strike up a meaningless conversation with him it turns into a word train. “So this low pressure area, which is called an extratropical cyclone, pushes warm, moist air up and if it’s over a mass of cold land then the cold air will cause the moisture to turn into snow. And apparently there’s a lot of water vapor in the air right now and it’s been below freezing for about a week, so they’re saying snow.” He seems to want to talk more, mouth opening again, but he shuts it immediately.

“Didn’t know I’d be getting a Weather Channel lesson today,” you comment snidely, smiling to yourself. Namjoon looks frozen solid, the only body movement his blinking eyes. “I’m kidding. Thanks, Namjoon. Maybe you should drop this job and go become a meteorologist. You’d certainly be much better than the geezers on TV.”

“No, I couldn’t, I don’t look good on camera.” A lie. Namjoon doesn’t know you think this, but he always looks good. Lived in. Cozy. Like he dressed for himself and not for anyone or anywhere else. “Besides, I’m having enough trouble paying for college as it is. Another degree is not in the cards.”

“What do you major in, again?”

“I’m doing a double in political science and philosophy,” Namjoon says like he’s talking about the cereal he had for breakfast this morning.

“Maybe it’s just because we’re on break right now, but those words just broke my brain,” you tell him intellectually. You’re pretty sure Namjoon could toss you into next year if you were to ever challenge him to a friendly game of Employee Jeopardy!. “So do you just… study meteorology on the side? A hobby, perhaps?”

Namjoon chuckles. “No, I just thought it was interesting. Especially because of that freak not-snowstorm a couple of months ago. No one can really be sure about anything anymore.”

“If that is not the mood,” you hum in solidarity. “But it’s not snowing right now.”

Namjoon looks up at the gigantic windows that your back is turned to, expression unsure. “I don’t know, those white globs outside look like snow to me.”

Shocked, you whip your chair around to find it, lo and behold, already beginning to flurry outside, the sky raining down gently, not like it’s crying but like it’s just bitten into a powdered sugar munchkin from Dunkin’. What? It wasn’t even precipitating in the slightest five minutes ago. Gretchen said goodbye to the both of you, the last two suckers left watching over this barren wasteland of a library, and you swore you could make out some sky behind those clouds.

Now it’s dark, snowing, and you’re stuck here for the next two hours.

“Already? Jeez, that was fast,” you say, flabbergasted. You just made yourself look like a total fool in front of your supernaturally intelligent coworker, and now he’s watching as you eat your words like they’re a three-course meal.

“The weather likes to creep up on you like that,” Namjoon says sagely. “Like you don’t realize it’s coming until it’s already arrived.”

You huff. You hate admitting when things are right and even worse, when they’re true.

“I still doubt it’s going to snow eighteen inches though, right?” You say, trying to retain at least a small semblance of your dignity. Though at this point, you may as well just chuck it out of the library window and let it float away with the rest of the snowflakes. “That seems like an awful lot.”

“You never know,” Namjoon says. “But right now, looks like a bit fat zero on the ground to me.”

“Pretty sure that that’s just because it started snowing like, two minutes ago.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Namjoon says, forcing out a chuckle that sounds more like a horse whinny.

You don’t respond, too busy mentally cursing the meteorologists for being right about the snow. Or cursing the snow for letting the meteorologists be right. Regardless, Namjoon takes your silence as cue to go back to doing the rest of his own work, scanning in recently-dropped-off books before placing them on a cart, ready to be shelved. You, on the other hand, twist back and forth in the office chair with your feet unprofessionally resting on one of the stools you use to get to the high shelves as you organize the online requests from other libraries in the area.

Most days, working goes like this. You and Namjoon are in your own little worlds, doing your own little things, occasionally breaking out of your personal bubbles to crack a bad joke to another coworker. You do your duties as a library employee and mind your own goddamn business. You and Namjoon aren’t close. Just friendly. Enough so that it warrants a mutual smile when you two pass each other on campus once in a blue moon, but nothing more than that. Nothing more than the press of tight lips together as you acknowledge each other’s existence, both during work and outside of it. Most days, this is how it is.

“See you,” another one of the regulars, a girl who’s working on her graduate degree at your university, says as she’s walking towards the exit of the library, coat zipped up tight around her body.

“Leaving already?” You ask. “You’re typically one of the ones we have to kick out at closing.”

She smiles guiltily. She’s told you before how much she prefers working in the quiet of the library rather than her own apartment. “Yeah, since it’s snowing. I’m worried that they’re gonna shut down the buses.”

“It hasn’t gotten that bad just yet, has it?” You ask, taking another quick glance at the window. The gentle flurries have turned into something much more menacing, big clumps of snow that land on the ground with thuds instead of light pitter-patters.

“No, but I hear it’s going to. Better to leave now than to be trapped,” she says. “But I’ll see you guys in the New Year, right?”

If only you had the luxury of leaving the library. “Yeah, see you. Hope you get home safely.”

“Thanks,” she says with a grin, way too warm for this time of year when everything is just variations of cold. “I hope they’ve salted the roads enough, at least for the time being. Wish me luck. Bye, Namjoon.” She waves to him as she passes by the adult circulation desk where the two of you are camped out, the automatic door hissing as it opens for her.

When she’s gone, Namjoon places the book he was sneakily reading under the desk—Being and Nothingness by Jean-Paul Sarte—on the table, the chair creaking as he stands up. “I’m gonna do a lap and see if anybody else is here.”

You nod as proof that you heard him, but say nothing. Namjoon walks out in front of the desk before making a right, heading to check all of the usual places where the usual suspects will hide amongst the bookshelves, hoping not to be found. You severely doubt anybody’s left in this building, the snow making for a major turn-off for library attendance. The girl that left is frequently the last patron in the library on normal nights. You’ll be genuinely shocked if Namjoon finds anybody else.

Sure enough, Namjoon returns empty-handed. Not that that automatically means nobody else is here—he’s not allowed to kick people out until official closing time—but you can tell from the resigned look on his face that he and you are the last two poor, unfortunate souls left to rot in the library for the next two hours.

In a way, it’s sort of comforting, knowing that you’re the last two people in here. Sure, someone could waltz right in through the automatic doors without batting an eye, settling in until closing time, but you don’t think anyone will want to make a purposeful trip out to the library on a night like this, in weather like this. It’s dark and snowy and cold and leaving the comfort of your own private residence is probably the last thing the general public wants to do.

You have the library to yourselves for the rest of the day. Then, the moment the clock strikes six, you’re out in an instant.

“Nobody?” You ask him. He shakes his head, settling back into his chair and picking up his book. “Damn. Don’t think I’ve ever been alone in the library before.”

“You’re not alone,” Namjoon says without looking up. He licks his pointer finger before turning the page. “I’m here.”

The clock striking five o’clock means that you only have one more hour of sitting in silence as you finish up the last of your work responsibilities before being free. The clock striking five o’clock also means that for roughly the past hour it’s been snowing, the flakes getting thicker and thicker as time slowly ticks onwards. And it also means that because of all of those weather conditions Namjoon was mentioning earlier, there’s already a hearty layer of snow on the ground, blanketing the Earth in white around you. It seems to have even bested the salt they’ve put on the roads, a thinner but still formidable layer of white covering the asphalt.

This does not bode well.

“How deep does it look now,” you deadpan to the boy across from you. He’s gotten half of the way through the book within the past hour. It looks to be about an inch-and-a-half thick.

Namjoon pauses his reading, peers out the window, and tilts his head to the side slightly, thinking. “Looks like three or four inches.”

“Ugh,” you say. It’s the only conversation you have for the next forty minutes.

Namjoon is nice and easygoing, but also incredibly inoffensive. On more than one occasion you’ve walked into work and totally overlooked his presence. Not because he’s quiet as a mouse or always disappearing, but because he’s almost never doing anything that appears on your radar. He’ll be shelving books while you’re at the checkout desk, then he’ll walk behind where you’re seated and start doing work of his own, and then you get the fright of your life when he drops a book and it clatters to the floor. But inoffensiveness isn’t something you have the right to complain about, especially not in a library work environment where 90% of your day is spent sitting behind a desk watching as the seconds go by. Namjoon’s not a coworker you’re allowed to complain about.

The snow is piling up outside. Namjoon’s getting deeper and deeper into the enormous book in his hands. Your phone battery is slowly decreasing as you play Piano Tiles over and over.

This is how your days normally go.

It’s actually a real fucking shame that you and Namjoon know each other only and exclusively through work. It’s a shame because Namjoon is a genuinely decent human being who you’re almost positive you’d be friends with if you interacted outside of a work environment. And it’s a shame because you know that, if given the chance, the right time and the right place, you’d get to know him for who he is and not who he appears to be.

In your hands, rudely interrupting what is likely your thirty-fourth round of Piano Tiles of the hour, your phone vibrates with a text message.

Nayoung (5:46PM): hey will u be alright?? i know ur still at work but Nayoung (5:46PM): they’ve shut down public transport bc of the blizzard Nayoung (5:47PM): idk how you’ll get home

What.

“How deep is the snow now?” You ask loudly, breaking the peaceful silence of the giant clock ticking away and the heavy yet soft plunks of snow on the window across from you.

Namjoon looks up from his book, less than a quarter left to read, and squints to look at the snow outside. Not that there’s much to look at other than a blanket of white and a navy blue sky, areas closer to the library illuminated in an ugly haze of orange ground lights. “Looks like it’s half a foot.”

“Fuck,” you say, collapsing back in your spinny chair. You’re sitting in the one with the funky back, so with the force of your figure pressing against it, it dislodges itself, making your breath hitch in fright as you momentarily feel like you’re falling.

“Whoa, you alright?” Namjoon asks, eyes wide. He looks too scared to come over to see if he can help you, like he thinks he’ll only make it worse if he does.

You topple off of the chair, landing on the carpet below you with a thud. It’s rough under your fingertips, and tickles the exposed skin between your socks and your cuffed jeans. With a great big push, you pop the backing of the chair back into its place and dust yourself off. You find that the floor of the library is actually quite comfortable, as floors go.

Tired, inconvenienced, and in despair, you huff to yourself, camped out on the floor as Namjoon watches you from above, where he’s seated in an actual chair and not on the carpet like a toddler, with concern and fear lacing his features. “I hate the snow. Why couldn’t there just be less water vapor in the air? Why couldn’t the extratropical cyclone be over a land mass that isn’t balls cold?”

Namjoon’s blinking at you like you’ve sprouted three heads and a handlebar moustache.

“What?” You ask, almost challenging him. You feel bad for being so aggressive—you’re usually much more laid back when you’re working, but desperate times (snow) call for desperate measures (unbridled rage).

He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. His expression is soft. “I didn’t know you actually listened to me.”

The surprise in his voice makes you, for some reason, sad. Like he didn’t expect you to actually be paying attention to him when he was telling you something, having a conversation with you. Like it’s normal for him to assume that the other person isn’t listening to what he’s saying when he speaks.

“Of course I was listening,” you say quietly, much quieter than the rest of your unusually boisterous disposition. “I always listen to you.”

It’s not much, not when the only times you regularly interact are when you’re asking him a question about a book that a patron checked out or complaining about how many overdue items you’ve had to track down, but it makes him smile to himself, warm and dimpled.

“The truth is,” you say, getting up off of the ground so you can speak to him without having to crane your neck, and also so it feels less like a kindergarten classroom and more like, perhaps, a library, “I’m mad because I underestimated how bad the snow would actually be, and now they’ve shut down the buses because of the snow and I have no way of getting home. So.” You follow up with a couple of finger guns for added effect.

“Wait, they shut down the buses?” Namjoon asks, eyes going wide, made even wider by the distortion of his prescription glasses. He sighs, but you can barely see his chest move under his cardigan. “Looks like I’m in the same boat as you.”

You pause. “I didn’t know you took the bus.” You’ve had the same shifts more than once. You think you’d remember seeing him getting on the bus at the same time as you.

“I don’t,” Namjoon says with a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “My friend Yoongi normally picks me up since he works at the music store nearby. We try to coordinate our shifts, but he stayed home today to produce, so I had to take the bus. Or, I did, until this happened.”

“So, we’re stuck here,” you deadpan. Namjoon nods.

Saying it out loud makes it real, which is your least favorite part about this. Saying it out loud solidifies the fate you already knew you were destined for but were foolishly hoping would be wrong. Now that you’ve declared it, now that Namjoon agrees, you know you’re doomed. There’s nothing else you can do—not when the blanket of snow outside is only getting higher and the weather doesn’t look like it’s getting any lighter.

At least the library’s heating still works.

“Great,” you say sarcastically, making the intelligent and executive decision not to lean back in your chair for fear of falling off of it again. You lean forward onto the desk, elbows resting against the surface as your hands cup your chin.

Namjoon looks like he has no idea what to do. So he gets up and gets a drink from the water dispenser, flipping the tap so cold water pours into the insulated water bottle he always brings to work with him. He returns to his seat, having almost finished his book, when—

“Your friend produces?” You ask him, and there is really nothing quite like the way Namjoon’s face lights up like the fireworks on New Year’s Eve when you mention his friend. Like all he wants to do is talk about the people close to him.

“Yeah! He does,” Namjoon says enthusiastically, with a head nod so violent it causes his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose, resting on the button tip. “He’s really into music production, always has been. He learned the piano when he was little and now he works on songs for smaller artists from the area. One time he skipped on buying milk for us for a whole month—he’s in charge of the groceries—because he wanted to save money for a new synth, but I wasn’t able to eat my cereal so I just bought one for him instead. Actually, he—”

“You guys live together?” You interrupt, although you don’t really want to, not with the way Namjoon’s expression has lightened, animated itself.

“What? Oh, yeah, we’ve been living together for two years now.” Namjoon nods. “Sometimes I’ll come home to him blasting some new piece he’s working on, or hear him rapping into the kind of crappy microphone he’s got attached to his desk in his room. He makes his own music, too, and I think that he’s great and that he should send out demos, but he says he doesn’t want to get involved with the mainstream music industry. Says it’s too cutthroat. Which, I agree, but I think he would be such a refresher, you know? Because he’s so down-to-earth and just a generally wonderful person. I have some tracks of his on my phone, do you wanna listen?”

You don’t really have a choice—not that you were going to say no—because Namjoon’s already fumbling for his headphones, fingers digging through his pockets to pull out the white cords, knotted together in a tangle. Namjoon doesn’t need headphones—the library is empty save for the two of you, and it’s closing time now—but his fingers quickly work to untangle them. As he’s doing so, he rolls over to you, closing the gap between your chairs and your bodies as he finally pulls the last knot loose.

Namjoon hands over the earpiece for you to have, the shortness of the wires bringing you closer than your chairs can manage on their own. Next to him, you can feel the heat radiating off of his body, thick and warm from his knit cardigan. Maybe from the way his eyes are all lit up, too.

He fiddles around on his phone briefly before pressing play, and it’s quiet for a second before you can hear the rough, gravelly voice of who you assume to be Yoongi echoing throughout the headphones. There’s an anger to his voice, but not so much a furious kind of anger as much as it is a determined kind of anger. A resilience, like he’s rapping this to prove someone else wrong. It’s good. It’s brand new, but refreshing. The song cuts to some instrumentals, the intensity of them matching that of his voice, which then fades out as the second verse begins.

But this voice is different. It’s thicker in a way, less raw and jagged, smooth around the edges. Warm, but with that same determination in the tone. Then, you realize—

“Oh my God, is this you?” You ask in shock, wondering why you didn’t recognize the owner of the voice the moment you heard it. Now that you know who it is it seems obvious, like it had been staring you in the face all of this time.

Namjoon blushes, cheeks turning red when he notices that you’ve recognized him. He sounds different in this song than he does at work, loud like he wants to be heard, mad like he has something to be said, but still the same. Still the same honeyed tone, like sugar dissolving into tea.

The song ends, and you hand the earphone back to Namjoon, letting the pads of your fingertips rest in his palm.

“Yeah,” Namjoon says shyly, curling into himself. “I—I don’t rap, often. Not as much as I’d like, but Yoongi insisted I write this verse myself. I’m not as good as he is—”

“Are you kidding?” You say, shocked but pleasantly so, like you’ve just gotten a wonderful surprise. “It was amazing! Namjoon, it was so good. I’m serious.”

“It was all him, really—”

“No, you were on that track too. You sounded great, Namjoon. Like a rapper. A real one, too. Maybe it doesn’t have the music industry flair but that was real music, Namjoon. I loved it,” you say, insistent that Namjoon get it through his thick skull that his contribution was worthy. “You and your friend both have a future in music-making. It was beautiful, Namjoon.” Then, “Your voice is beautiful.”

Namjoon blushes again, like he can hardly handle such massive compliments. You think he deserves more than the measly flatterings you can give him, like perhaps a star on Hollywood Boulevard, or at least a Grammy or three, but for right now, this is all you have to offer.

“Thank you,” he says softly, smiling to himself.

“If you ever make more music, Namjoon,” you tell him honestly, truthfully, meaningfully, “I’d be happy to listen to it.”

Namjoon grins.

If you thought time passed slowly while you were at work, it somehow passes even slower now that you’re not. You think that, at this point in the night, you’d give anything to just have more library-provided tasks to keep your mind active and your hands busy, because you’ve played so many rounds of Piano Tiles that when you close your eyes you can still see the flashing squares of white and black. Curse your responsible nature and your desire to always finish 100% of the things assigned to you before the day is done. Now, you have nothing left to do. Next to you, Namjoon’s placed his feet up on the desk, bright yellow argyle socks peeking out from under his clean-cut slacks. He finished the book ten minutes ago and looks equally as bored as you do, resorting to fooling around on his phone because nothing else in his immediate vicinity looks interesting enough to read. You think you see a Nicholas Sparks novel in the corner over there, untouched.

It would be different if you were alone. If you were the only worker left in the library as the snow settled down outside, trapping you inside like frosting cementing a gingerbread house to its platform, then it would feel futile. Feel like an exercise in solitary confinement, though you’d probably end up resigning yourself to reading the plenty of books at your disposal.

But you’re not alone. You’re with Namjoon. Namjoon, who you don’t really know outside of the library, have been given glimpses of who he really is through things like his fashion, his word choice, his music. Namjoon may not be the life of the party but he’s not someone to forget, either. You’ve always said that if you were given the opportunity to get to know him for who he is, you’d take it. Now, the opportunity is staring you in the face. You’d be a fool not to listen to it.

Feeling like a kid dragged out to a party with his parents that forgot his DS at home, you decide to take matters into your own hands, refusing to suffer in this non-awkward awkward silence any longer.

“Come on,” you declare, standing up from your seat, putting your phone facedown on the desk as you do. Namjoon looks up from his spot in the chair opposite yours, and his phone is low enough for you to be able to see what he’s doing. He’s on a color-by-numbers adult coloring book app. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Namjoon asks, but he doesn’t say it snarkily, like he’s not expecting a very intelligent response in return. He asks it genuinely, out of pure confusion.

“Around. The library’s big and we have nothing to do.” This is starting to feel like a red-eye flight. “We should stretch our legs, get in our daily steps.”

“I don’t exercise much,” Namjoon says to himself, but he obliges, getting up alongside you. He places his phone right next to yours.

It’s not like you have a lot of ground to cover. Despite your library’s size, you’re still restricted to it. You can’t leave it because you’d end up locked out if you did, so it’s assumed its position as Your Entire World until further notice. Maybe the snow will let up eventually.

“What do you want to do while we go on our walk?” Namjoon asks by your side. You’re already turning the corner into the children’s department.

You think for a second. More silence would be peaceful and comforting, but you’ve been sitting in relative total quietness for God knows how long already, and your mind needs stimulating again. It feels like it’s been dormant for 84 years.

“Let’s talk,” you say, keeping your eyes trained on anywhere except him. It’s weird, being this close to him. He’s not a stranger but you can hardly call him an acquaintance, either. And the label coworker feels too formal, too professional, too restricted. You’re college students who just so happen to be employed at the same library. You’re not office workers who see each other on a nine to five basis without ever saying hello. It’s different. “Tell me anything.”

Namjoon seems to ponder this for a moment, trying to think of something to say that isn’t the standard ice breaker. You’re not here to listen to him say, “Hi, I’m Namjoon and I like eating pizza.” You’re here for something real.

“Did you know that crabs can swim sideways?” He asks, turning to face you. It is the strangest and most wonderful answer to the prompt you could ever think of. He’s grinning. He must love this.

“No, I didn’t,” you say. “Now that I think about it, actually, it makes sense. If they can walk sideways, there’s no reason why they can’t swim sideways.”

“Yeah!” Namjoon says enthusiastically, bouncing on his feet. “It’s cool, isn’t it? Crabs are a lot cooler than we give them credit for.”

This is the nicest conversation about crustaceans you think you’ve ever had. “That’s really interesting. Do you have any more facts about crabs I should know?”

“They communicate through sound,” Namjoon continues. He must have an entire bank of crab facts up in his brain. “Drumming, mostly. And this weird flapping sort of sound. But a lot of crab species are solitary, so they don’t get to talk much. It makes me sad.”

“Don’t be sad,” you say, reaching out to hold his arm. Not his hand. Specifically not his hand, despite your original trajectory being closer to his hand than his arm. “It’s kind of like us, right? We don’t talk much.”

“We’re talking now,” Namjoon says. “And we should talk more.”

“Well,” you say, passing by the play area, where wooden rocking horses and big Lego blocks sit idly, waiting for the next kid to entertain for the duration of their brief attention span. “We’ll just have to work on that, don’t you think?”

“Tell me something about you,” Namjoon insists. Not that the crab fact had any sort of relation to him, but you learned something anyway. You learned that crabs can swim sideways, and you learned that Namjoon is delicate. Soft. Selfless enough to tell you about something he loves rather than something he is when asked a question. “I think you’ve heard enough of me talking about crabs.”

“What?” You say, feigning offense. “I would never. I love your crab facts, thank you very much.”

He grins and it makes you wonder how many times he’s whipped out the crab facts to an unsuspecting crowd. Makes you wonder if everyone loves listening to him as much as he loves talking about them. He gives you a nudge, prompting you to answer him.

“There’s not really much to tell,” you admit. You’re not the most interesting person. Certainly not when you’re next to Namjoon, who seems to know a little bit about everything. “I don’t have a bank of random but welcome factoids like you do.”

“Well, you must have something to tell me,” Namjoon declares. “Everyone has a story.”

“Okay, but some stories are like children’s books and some stories are like Tolstoy’s War and Peace,” you reason.

Namjoon frowns at your comparison. “Both equally as fulfilling,” he protests. “It just depends on who’s listening in.” So wise, so philosophical. Anything that even borders on self-deprecation Namjoon turns into a life lesson. He’s like a college professor. Or a grandfather. “We’re surrounded by books. You must have one of your own.”

“So insistent,” you muse fondly. Normally you would find such encouragement to be pressuring and awkward, but it’s not that way with Namjoon. It’s less feeling like you have to talk about yourself out of obligation, and more like you’re going to talk about yourself because you want to.

“I just want to get to know you,” Namjoon admits guiltily, like it’s a crime for him to have such a desire.

“Did you know I changed my major three times?” You prompt, making him raise an eyebrow. It’s no secret you’re an indecisive piece of trash but it’s a better conversation-starter than “My favorite animal is a dog” or “I like to sleep.” And it makes Namjoon raise an eyebrow in intrigue.

“Really?” He asks, all lit up. “What did you want to be originally?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I was an English major, then a history major, and now I’m in linguistics. Not necessarily the most employable of fields.”

Namjoon makes the kind of sound a balloon makes when it’s losing air. “Are you kidding, those are super employable fields! Anything can turn into a job if you try hard enough. I mean, I’m literally majoring in philosophy, but since it’s something I enjoy I’ll find a way to make a career out of it. Maybe not something super lucrative, but something that will make me happy. That’s important.”

“Doesn’t music make you happy?” You ask, wondering why he didn’t major in that instead. He seems to know an awful lot about the subject—more than you do, for sure—but it’s as though he doesn’t see a future where he and music can be joined together.

This question renders Namjoon relatively silent. You’ve rounded the children’s department, weaving through the back bookshelves lined with nonfiction, Dewey decimal markers decorating the tops of the shelves so that patrons know where to find the book they’re looking for. Namjoon’s eyes are tracing the outline of each book you pass, scanning the titles that peek out on the covers, the spines.

“It does,” he admits, perhaps more to himself than to you. It’s not as though you couldn’t figure that out for yourself—no matter if he’s talking about himself or his friend, his face lights up like nothing else when music is the topic of conversation. “But it’s not really something that’s a trustworthy career path. I wouldn’t want to go into music performance or anything. I just—”

“Who says it needs to be a trustworthy career path?” You interrupt. You feel bad for doing it so often, but Namjoon needs to hear something about this that isn’t coming from himself. “You don’t need to rearrange your whole life around music. You can still major in political science and philosophy and make music. You can make a name for yourself through the songs you and your friend produce without having to change your major three times like I did.”

Namjoon looks like he doesn’t really know what to say to that.

“Maybe it’s just me, but you have a future in music-making. There’s a whole world out there for you and your friend to explore. You shouldn’t hole yourself up in your apartment together spitting fire that nobody will ever hear.” In an attempt to get his full attention you stop in your tracks, turning to face him so he’s forced to face you, as well. His eyes are bright, dark brown, deep and endless but laden with flashes of worry, of doubt. “You’re good at so many things, Namjoon. It’d be a fucking crime if you didn’t do as much of them as you could.”

Namjoon smiles.

You keep walking.

There are only so many times you can walk the perimeter of the library before getting immensely bored. By the third lap, you begin to figure that there are better ways to spend your time until the snow subsides and the local transportation system starts back up. Next to you, Namjoon’s also getting restless, fiddling with his cardigan and his glasses and fingers. Every now and then you will point something only remotely funny to him, like the title of a book or trees outside, and the two of you will chuckle halfheartedly to yourselves before settling back into silence. It’s not that awkward, or at the very least, the two of you are trying your hardest not to make it awkward, but there comes a point when you need to stop before the Dewey decimal signs are ingrained in your mind.

You could, you know, read, but no matter how much you love being surrounded by books and cultivating a love for them in others, reading seems remarkably boring right now. Maybe it’s just the fact that if you wanted to read you could while on the job. Being here, being trapped, and most importantly, being unsupervised has created this sort of incessant desire to disobey the laws of the library. The feeling of freedom makes you want to see how free you can be.

After all, there’s no one else here to stop you.

“How much do you work out?” You ask. Perhaps it’s a random question, but you’ve got a purpose to it.

Namjoon looks caught off guard. He looks down at his body, at the cardigan wrapped around his torso making him look much buffer than what’s underneath, and smiles sheepishly. “Not much. Not at all, really. Most of the time I burn my calories by slipping in the shower.”

That is the most endearing thing he could have responded with.

“Well,” you say, coming to a halt in front of one of the empty adult circulation carts. Typically, the pages will fill these with books to place back on shelves, but now there’s an empty one right in front of you, and a whole entire library to explore. “Think you can push me around on one of them?”

Namjoon looks awfully frightened the entire time, even as he’s steadying the metal contraption so that you can settle on top of it. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? I don’t think these carts were built to hold this much weight, Y/N—”

“Psh, it’ll be fine. I’ve shelved books the thickness of your head on these carts and everything’s been fine,” you say, hoping to God that you don’t come crashing through it because breaking it means paying for a new one. Unless you and Namjoon can come up with an incredibly believable lie, but you’ll burn that bridge when you come to it.

“I don’t know about this, Y/N,” Namjoon says, but he doesn’t seem to be making an attempts at stopping you. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of some dumbass cart.”

“If I do, will you kiss it better?” You ask, sort of joking (but also sort of not). Namjoon freezes up for a moment, tensing his body as he grips tightly onto the handles of the cart. “Come on,” you say to break the ice forming amongst his bones. “You’re the truck driver and I’m the cargo. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

“This is nuts,” he mutters to himself, but instead of worry lacing his features there’s a smile in its place. He pulls you away from the wall where the cart was parked and begins to push you, slowly and slowly as he gains momentum. You nearly topple off the damn thing in the beginning, but you keep your ground by quickly grabbing onto the handles, where Namjoon’s hands rest. The touch is fleeting, warm and soft but only for the moment it takes for you to regain your balance, but you swear you can feel little sparks where your skin touched his.

After a couple longer passages between bookshelves, Namjoon’s developed something of a rhythm, like he’s pushing a million watermelons in a shopping cart in front of him.

“Are you still okay?” Namjoon asks loudly, over the sounds of your giggles at the rush of adrenaline through your body, the feeling of your bloodstream, electrified.

“Yes, I am, keep going, keep going!” You encourage, smiling and smiling and smiling because it’s like you’ve created your own little rollercoaster, right inside of this library on a cold, snowy night. God, if your manager saw the two of you doing this, she’d probably fire you instantly. Unfortunately for her, she’s safely tucked inside her warm house. Sucks.

At this point even Namjoon’s broken out into a beautiful grin, mouth open wide like there isn’t a care in the world that’s crossing his mind. He’s awfully strong, much stronger than he gives himself credit for, and so despite the fact that you’re sitting on top of a rickety metal book cart with nothing else to keep you padded and safe, it feels like you’re in control.

Famous last words, really.

Amongst all your giggles and laughter and bubbles, Namjoon turns a corner too roughly, too quickly, and suddenly you find the cart colliding with one of the newer displays, a smaller bookshelf with all of the latest releases lining the wood. It’s not so much a head-on collision as it is Namjoon t-boning the damn thing, the side of the cart smashing together with the front of the display.

You feel a jolt run through but you’re still safe and sound, albeit your breath is a bit quicker. The cart didn’t take much of the damage, but what has is the bookshelf, books clattering to the floor at your feet as Namjoon curls back into his cardigan like a pillbug.

For a second, you’re silent.

And then, you laugh. You burst into giggles, letting the wave of hysteria wash over you at how fun this is, no matter the damage you’ve caused. Things can be fixed. They can be replaced. This is a library—people have treated the books more horribly than you have. There are much worse things to do to the books then cause them to clatter to the ground from a bookshelf that’s as high as your waist.

With Namjoon still steadying the cart, you hop off of it, moving it out of the way so that you and Namjoon can clean up the mess you’ve made. This is by far the most fun you’ve ever had on the days right before New Year’s Eve, when you’re usually struggling to complete some last-minute resolutions from the closing year or out shopping for the subpar party you’ve been invited to attend.

Together, you and Namjoon kneel down to redo the book display, flattening out any bent pages and smoothing over any dents in the covers. Instinctively, the both of you start arranging them by alphabetical order according to author, Namjoon handing you the right book without even needing to be prompted as you slowly begin to put them back on the shelf.

“That was fun,” you tell him. You don’t think you’d take back a second of it.

“Yeah, it was,” he agrees. “Oh, look, we’ve dented the shelf.”

Sure enough, right where the handle of the cart met the wood of the shelf there’s an indent, a little dip in the otherwise pristine design. From afar, it’s hardly noticeable, but once you move a little closer you can see the shadow where it rests.

“You think they caught this on the security cameras?” You ask, looking around the ceiling. Even though you’ve never actively sought out any sort of video-recording device while working, you have a sneaking suspicion that they’re here.

“Even if they did, I’ve asked Gretchen and she says that they haven’t checked them for years. There’s never been a need to,” Namjoon says. Normally, you’d peg him for someone who would worry about something like that, fearing that, if found out, it would cost him his job. But now, he seems much more carefree.

There’s a final book on the floor, one written by someone with a last name that begins with Y, so the two of you reach for it at the same time, intending to place it in the last empty spot on the shelf. As you do, your fingertips touch, the book not big enough to separate both of your hands as they hold it together. It’s so high school, so Hallmark movie, but it makes your heart beat faster all the same.

When you’re finished, the two of you get back up and dust yourselves off, taking the cart back to its rightful position along the wall before heading back to the adult circulation desks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun in this place, and I hide in the shelves and read Harry Potter when I’m bored,” Namjoon admits as the two of you settle back down.

The moment you hit the back of the chair, the power cuts out.

For a couple of seconds, you and Namjoon wait in silence, hoping that there’s a generator that will kick on and bring back the central heating and lighting that you don’t necessarily need, but would vastly prefer over cold darkness. But when thirty seconds have passed and it doesn’t look as though there’s anything coming on any time soon, you sigh. Even outside the lights have shut off, the snow that was once decorated in an orange glow now blanketed in darkness. If you squint, you can see it still piling up. Eighteen inches, they said.

“I’m surprised it took this long for the snow to cause a power outage,” Namjoon says like he’s impressed at how long the library’s power source held out. “It must be at least a foot out there by now.”

“At least this didn’t happen while we were cart surfing,” you reason. You suppose the damage would be much more catastrophic if the power had gone out while you were mid-adventure. You lean back into your chair a bit too far again, but even in the darkness Namjoon reaches his arms out to catch you before you fall to the floor.

“I think we should migrate to the chairs over there,” Namjoon suggests with his hands held tightly around your wrists, keeping you stable. He nods his head towards the big, comfy ones meant for reading, a little oasis in the sea of bookshelves.

“Good call,” you say, quickly getting off of the chair and dusting off your legs. Not as if they need any more dusting. You just need something for your hands to do that isn’t holding onto him.

You settle into the two enormous grandfather chairs, decked out in a floral pattern that looks like it may or may not be one hundred years old. Namjoon seems to relish in the comfort, pulling his legs up and wrapping the cardigan around his body impossibly tighter. It’s like he thrives in the darkness, feeling much more at home when the lights are low and the moon is high, hidden behind the clouds that have trapped you inside.

“I don’t get to do this much,” Namjoon says aloud. Not like he’s speaking to you directly. Like he’s just letting the world know.

“Yeah, this is the first time I’ve been snowed in at my place of employment too,” you joke.

“That’s not what I meant,” Namjoon says with a smile. “I mean, I don’t get to just sit and relax very often. I’m always busy.”

“All work and no play makes Joon a dull boy,” you say sagely. You think that Namjoon’s on the verge of chucking one of the paperbacks at your head, if the roll of his eyes is anything to go by.

“No,” Namjoon says, somewhat exasperated. Not necessarily at you, but at life. “It’s just—I love what I do, and even though it’s technically considered work I enjoy studying and being in university and working towards a degree or two, and I like being here, as well. Staying occupied is good for me, because if I’m left in silence for too long I start thinking about things that worry me.”

“Like what?”

“The future,” Namjoon says. “I know that everyone’s scared of the future, but I don’t like thinking about it just as much as the next guy.”

“You don’t need to invalidate your fears, Namjoon,” you tell him. “Your worries are as valid as everyone else’s. Just because someone else fears the same thing doesn’t make yours less important.”

Namjoon’s silent, but even in the darkness of the library, cold and isolated, you can see him smile to himself. Like your words are all the reminder he needs. The new year’s almost here. If he wants to start anew, rebuild himself piece by piece, there’s no reason he can’t start now.

“I’m just worried that—”

“You don’t need to explain why if you don’t want to,” you continue. “We’re almost through with this year, and anything you have yet to accomplish can be dealt with next year. I’m scared of the future too. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with my degree, and thinking about grad school gives me a headache. But the future is almost here, it’s almost the next year, and we can blossom then if we haven’t already.”

Namjoon hums softly to himself. “You’re so wise, Y/N. Maybe you should be the philosophy major instead of me.”

“Oh my God, no, I think my brain would explode if I was a philosophy major,” you say quickly. “No offense.”

“Bold of you to assume my brain isn’t already totally fried,” Namjoon jokes. “Where’d you learn to be all deep, though? I don’t know if linguistics is as philosophically stimulating as it could be.”

“Pfft, all we do is talk about dumb English is as a language,” you tell him. “But I don’t really think I’m that deep, or wise. I think I just picked up a couple things from the best.” You give Namjoon a nudge, your elbow pressing against the thick sleeve of his cardigan. He grins softly, eyes closed like he can hardly bear such compliments being paid to him. He deserves so much more than the ones you can give him, though.

In the dark of the night, the silence of an empty library, it only takes a couple of questions to get to know Namjoon. For who he is, and not who he seems to be. There’s so much swirling around in his brain, as he furrows his eyebrows and twiddles his thumbs, anything and everything from meteorology to crab facts to his doubts. Namjoon is the kind of person that makes you wonder why you didn’t speak up before, why you didn’t try earlier, because now he feels like someone that would leave a hole in your life if he left. There’s so much more to him than meets the eye, as cheesy and cliche as it sounds. There’s a kind of aged innocence to him, youthful and wise all at once. Like he knows what he’s destined for but excited for the journey to get there.

He’d make a fantastic musician.

“Have you composed anything by yourself?” You ask. Namjoon nods. “Will you play me one?”

He’s allowed to say no and you wonder, for the brief second of silence that follows, if you’ve overstepped a boundary. He was already resigned about his music to begin with, but he’s beginning to open up like a lotus flower in the spring, slowly but surely showing you what’s inside. He pulls out his phone and his headphones, this time much less tangled, and offers one to you.

“It’s called Moonchild,” Namjoon tells you softly before pressing play.

It sounds much different from the song he showed you earlier. Raw, the same kind of raw, same kind of exposed feeling, but less angry. Less of an anger and more of a wistfulness, nostalgia seeping out of the lyrics and the instrumentals and bleeding into your bones, your bloodstream. Namjoon’s expressionless as the two of you listen in, feel the heavy but certain beat of the drums echoing throughout the headphones. It’s the kind of song that makes you wish it wasn’t snowing or cloudy, so you could peer out the window and see the moon waiting amongst the stars, keeping watch over the world until the sun will come to take its place.

When it’s over, the first thing you say is, “Is that what you think of yourself? A moonchild?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says like it’s a weight being lifted off of his shoulder. “I mean, it’s hard to explain but I just feel connected to the moon more than the sun. Maybe because she’s so lonely.”

“She’s not lonely,” you tell him, interrupting him. “Just because she’s bigger and brighter than everything else in the night sky doesn’t mean she’s alone. There are all of those stars to keep her company.”

It’s your way of reminding Namjoon that no matter what, he’s not alone. He has Yoongi, and he has you, too.

The darkness, no matter the time, always makes you tired. You begin to stop fighting the way your eyelids are starting to droop closed, the only reason you’re still awake being the chill that’s settled into your bones, the heating having been long shut off.

“I’m getting tired, aren’t you?” You ask with a yawn. Never pegged yourself as someone who would sleep in the library, but it’s not like you have anywhere else to go.

“It’s getting somewhat late,” Namjoon agrees.

With another yawn, you curl into yourself, pulling your knees up to your chest to conserve as much body heat as you can. The chair you’ve practically dug yourself into is comfortable, but does very little for your overall temperature. You’re so tired, you barely notice the way Namjoon gets up, peels the cardigan from his body to place over your frame, until you feel the thick fabric laying on top of you. At the sensation you dart back up to see Namjoon settling back into the chair, significantly less warm.

“What? Namjoon, take this back,” you insist, holding the cardigan out for him to grab.

“No, you looked cold. I’ll be fine, I swear,” Namjoon insists with a shake of his head.

“No, I refuse. This isn’t some Titanic-type bullshit. Your cardigan is big enough for the both of us,” you say. If Namjoon won’t take his sweater back, you’ll just take matters into your own hands. Cold but insistent, you get up from the grandfather chair to sit on the couch opposite it, a kind of ugly forest green that’s hidden by the darkness. You make yourself comfortable, body digging into the couch cushions, as Namjoon watches you. “What are you doing? Get over here.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen at the prospect of having to be buried under the cardigan next to you. It’s a large article of clothing, that’s for sure, but not big enough for your bodies to be under it without touching each other. Not that you mind.

“Come on,” you insist, holding out the cardigan so there’s room for him to join you under it. Namjoon’s steps are slow, hesitant, but he does as you say and slides in next to you. You arrange the cardigan neatly over your bodies, the extra body heat not just from the blanket but also from him already making you sleepy. You even make the daring decision of resting your head on his shoulder, less padded from lack of fabric but comfortable and warm all the same.

“Feels like we’ve gotten closer because of this snowstorm,” Namjoon says.

“We’re literally cuddled up under your behemoth cardigan,” you point out.

“Not just that, I mean in general.”

You hum your agreement.

“I’m glad,” Namjoon says, and even though you aren’t facing him you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah,” you say. Under the sweater, you feel your hands interlock with his. This time it’s no accident, but he doesn’t shy away like he would have before. Instead he holds your hand tighter, pulls you closer (you tell yourself it’s because he’s cold), and lets his body relax, tense after years and years of wear and tear. “Me too.”

The next morning is particularly bright, from the sun reflecting on the bright white snow piled up outside. It feels like you’re straining your eyes, blinking and blinking to get them to adjust to the change in light, like someone on Photoshop has switched the saturation bar from black to white. On the table in front of you your phone is buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, left for so long without any sort of contact that it��s going through withdrawal.

Nayoung (8:37AM): Y/N WHERE ARE YOU Nayoung (8:40AM): DID YOU STAY AT THE LIBRARY Nayoung (8:45AM): ANSWER ME !!! Nayoung (8:45AM): ARE YOU SAFE Nayoung (8:45AM): I’M ABOUT TO CALL THE POLICE Y/N WHERE ARE YOU

You (8:51AM): I’m fine Nayoung! Stayed overnight at the library!

Nayoung (8:52AM): oh thank god alright!! well, the buses are back up and running so please come home :(

Next to you, Namjoon’s soft, continuous snores are slowly subsiding as he stirs awake, a couple grunts leaving his lips before his eyes finally open. You turn to meet him when they do, and at the sight of you, first thing he sees in the morning, he grins lazily to himself.

“What time is it?” He asks as he slowly sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His cardigan sits in a pile on the floor in front of you—you must have kicked it off in the night.

“It’s nearly nine,” you tell him. “The buses are back up.”

“That’s alright,” Namjoon says, voice thick with tiredness. He sounds even more attractive like this, though can hardly believe that’s possible. “I’ll probably just call Yoongi to come and pick me up.”

“Oh, well, I don’t want to miss the next bus, so I should just—” Before you can get up off of the couch, Namjoon’s reaching out for you, pulling you back into him, tucking you into the curves of his body. A small gasp leaves your lips as you fall into him, but the noise morphs into a pleasant hum as his arm wraps around you.

“No,” he grumbles into your shoulder. “Stay here. You were warm last night, right?”

“The warmest,” you tell him. Despite everything, it was one of the best sleeps you’d had in a long while.

“Then there’s no reason to go,” Namjoon says. “It’s not like anyone else is going to come in. It’s just you and me.”

Eventually, you do manage to escape his grasp, pulling him up with you as you stretch out your limbs and get ready to go. His friend is parked outside, the snowplow having already come to shovel away the snow in the parking lot outside. Namjoon pouts at the lack of warmth but you just hand him back his cardigan. That’s enough warmth for now.

“We should do this again sometime,” you say jokingly as you’re walking out of the library, Namjoon making sure to lock it up on your way out. “It was fun.”

“I don’t think we need an impending snowstorm to enjoy each other’s company,” Namjoon says.

“It was certainly cozy.”

You don’t know where you’ll go from here. You’ve exchanged numbers but you never see him on campus as it is, your paths only ever crossing when you have the same shifts at the library. But it’s different now—you can feel it in the air around you. Maybe you’ll start making time for each other, make efforts to align your shifts and cross your paths. There’s more to life than what’s already given to you, you realize. Some things you need to take into your own hands.

“I hope the next time I see you won’t be at work,” Namjoon admits, a light red flush decorating his soft cheeks.

“How about we go out for coffee sometime? I mean, we’ve already slept together, so I think a date would be in order,” you suggest.

“A date?” He asks cheekily, though you know he’ll say yes.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

A whistle. The two of you turn to look at Namjoon’s friend, who’s rolled down the window just to shout at the two of you. “Hey, lovebirds, hurry it up! My car’s heating isn’t working and I want to get the fuck home!”

“I’ll text you, okay?” Namjoon says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You feel the sparks again, where his lips met your skin. Next time, you’ll see what electricity you’ll feel if you press your lips on his. “See you soon.”

Namjoon scurries off to get into the passenger seat of the car, leaning forward to wave out the window. A gust of wind blows by as they drive off, and white falls off the empty branches of the trees that surround you, like it’s snowing all over again. Though it’s cold, though there’s eighteen inches of snow by your shins, there’s something in the air that feels different than before.

Namjoon (9:12AM): I miss you ♡

You smile.

⇒ hmu with feedback or just talk to me here!

#namjoon fluff #bts fluff #bts scenario #bts imagine #namjoon scenario #namjoon imagine #bts au #namjoon au #bts drabble #bts fic #namjoon fic #namjoon drabble #w: the snow globe effect #2018 IS OVER BITHES !!!! MISS YOU NEVER

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pi-cat000 · 6 years ago

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 28)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25 Lewis POV 3, Mystery POV

Part 29: here

VIVI POV

The sky is overcast, darkening grey, blocking out most of the afternoon sun. A strong wind is funnelling around the cars and buildings, blowing hair over her face and eyes. Vivi pauses, narrowly avoiding a cyclist who appears suddenly on her left. She shuffles about restlessly, hurrying forward once the coast is clear, dodging any remaining pedestrians and drivers between her and the car park. Mystery, to his credit, takes the jostling like a champ, sitting patiently in her arms. She hates the thought of leaving him alone in the truck for any length of time, but she doesn’t have his lead and doesn’t trust him enough to just leave him outside the hospital. No matter how well behaved a dog he is, he is still a dog.

The area around the hospital is thankfully familiar enough that she can cut down a side street and reach the truck well before the estimated ten minutes are up. When Arthur had first gotten his licence, they’d spent a lot of time loitering around the open mall, none of them really having enough money to buy anything.

She places Mystery on the ground while she searches her shoulder bag for keys. A loud growl has her pausing, attention snapping down. That’s a sound she rarely hears. Vivi begins scanning for whatever set her dog off. Of course, she immediately spots the shifty-looking man leaning up against a car on the row directly across from her. Angry brown eyes meet her blue ones. Any serious concern is stayed when the man pushes forward to exhibit a pronounced limp. Arm in a sling, with a heavily bandaged torso just visible beneath an equally ragged leather vest and jacket, this guy has been on the losing side of one to many fights.

“Hey. You got a moment?” Is grunted at her. Mystery growls. She glares, trying to seam as unfriendly as possible. Vivi definitely doesn’t have time for whatever this is.

“Saw you arrive with that dude in purple, sportin the purple hair-do. He doesn’t work at that weird-ass diner in Tempo, does he? Called ‘Pepper and salt’ or whatever.”

Okay, the angry, injured stranger is asking about Lewis. Not what she had expected.

“Do I know you?”

“No. But you might know the guy I’m after. Goes by the name of Arthur. That ring any bells?”

Vivi turns, planting herself forward a step, giving the stranger a thorough once over. She doesn’t recognise him. Any Tempo resident would know the name of the Pepper diner, so he is not a local. Was this a distant relative of Arthur’s? He looks nothing like Arthur, but that’s not an indicator of much.

“Who?” She plays dumb.

“Average height. Blond hair. Works at Kingsman Mechanics. Knows that dude you were just with…” The man continues, irritated, making a sharp gesture towards the hospital. Vivi is reminded that Lewis is waiting for her and that she should cut this short. Unfortunately, with all the Arthur related mysteries happening around her, she is now very curious.

“Don’t know him.” She says shortly, “But… I can pass a message to the guy I’m with if it’s about something important.” If this is a relative, then the timing suggested he’d be here for Lance. But the mysterious stranger hadn’t asked after Lance. Only Arthur and Lewis. That’s weird.

An increasingly angry scowl, “I’m after a mutual acquaintance actually.”

“An acquaintance of Arthur’s?” How many shifty characters did Arthur know? This guy, and apparently one more? Was this guy the source of Arthur’s odd behaviour?

“Yeah.”

“What sort of acquaintance?” She pushes.

“The not nice kind.”

Why does that sound super ominous? “You want to elaborate on that a bit?”

The fact that this mysterious man is acting intentionally vague is doing nothing except increase her interest. It is almost too convenient that he is here right now. Mentally, she apologies to Lewis. Hopefully, he will be fine without her for a while longer because she is definitely going to be more than ten minutes.

There is more suspicious glaring which transitions into an appraisal. Vivi waits expectantly, unfazed. Eventually, mystery stranger pulls out a cigarette pack, puts one between his teeth, lights it with his good arm and offers the box in her direction.

“No thanks.” She rejects promptly.

A shrug and a grumbled question follows her response. “You ever been to the old mines out near that cave system? The one a few hours drive from here?”

“No.” Though not through lack of trying. She had been itching to check them out for ages, but the trip always got postponed. A big source of industry, before a series of accidents forced them to close, many people swore the cave systems around the mines were haunted. The caves had been a scheduled last stop before home on their road trip. Before they had replanned everything anyway.

“Your purple friend. He ever go up there?”

“No? What does that have to do with a mutual acquaintance of Arthur’s?”

“Do you believe in the occult? Like ghosts, demons and whatever,” The mystery stranger continues, indifferent to her confusion.

“Ah, sorry?” All the theories she’d been forming, from Arthur being a member of a biker gang to on drugs of some sort, are derailed.

“I’m tracking a demon.” A pause to inhale smoke. “A body snatcher or some sort. Tricky to pin down. They have this nasty habit of wiping out their host’s family and friends. If your purple friend has any strong connection to Arthur… I’d keep an eye out.”

“That’s crazy…Why would I believe that?” Even as she speaks, Vivi’s thoughts are shifting to her Gran. All her life, Gran had told her wild stories, spurring her on her fascination with the supernatural and mysteries. Until right this second, she has never had any real proof of any of it.

“Believe it. Don’t believe it. Couldn’t give less of a shit about what ya do. But, possessed or not, this guy Arthur, he’s in collusion with it.” The stranger growls the final word like a curse, “So you go ask that purple friend of yours if he’s noticed strange behaviour. Like Arthur’s not himself. Keeping secrets. Lying. Actin odd. If he thinks of anything or knows where Arthur is, then give this number a call.”

A small card is shoved out towards her. It has a single phone number running across its centre. One last scowl, an irritated grumble, and the man turns, limping away. Vivi quickly moves forward a step, reaching out to catch his arm. The wet fabric causes her to pause.

“You’re bleeding,” She states. The injury must be severe if it is soaking through leather. “There’s a hospital right there you know.”

The man pauses, shrugging her off, “Don’t got no time for hospitals.”

He gives her another hard glare, grunting, “A body snatcher jumps through physical touch. If the eyes are green…try not to look at em. Run, give me a call, it’s your choice. Now get off. Got places to be.” An aggressive step and the man is stalking away, pulling his jacket close.

“Wait. What do you mean run?”

Crap. That can’t be IT. She needs more. What did any of that even mean? Body snatcher? Demons? She’d read a dozen or so books on creatures similar. But those were all myths, legends and a few biblical tales. Nothing real…

She glances down at the card and finds it weirdly familiar. Frick, frick, frick. She recognises the number. Hurriedly, Vivi pulls open the truck door, yanking Arthur’s shoulder bag from the where they’d pilled their belongings. The cab is a safer location for storage then the truck bed. In a rush, she rips free the stack of paper containing the referral. Amongst the pile is a plain white business card. Half crumbled from where it has been shoved into Arthur’s back pocket at some point, it has a single number across the middle. Vivi compares the two cards. The numbers match. Was this proof? Vivi quickly reverses back down to the pavement, scanning the carpark, but the man has disappeared among the many shoppers.

Her mind cycles through a whole new avenue of possibilities. Her dad had never approved of her interest in the supernatural. Increasingly unsupportive and displeased whenever she mentioned her hobby, the paranormal-themed road trip had been an ongoing source of tension, made worse with her mom on one of her extended business trips. Vivi had been looking forward to escaping for a bit. Then the plans for the ‘supernatural’ theme had changed. She hadn’t told her dad. It would have been like admitting defeat somehow. What if there was an actual reason behind his extreme dislike?

“I’ll be back soon,” She assures Mystery, picking him up and plonking him in the truck cab. She turns to chase after the stranger, moving in the direction she thinks he might have gone. Mystery barks twice, and she ignores him. Mid-step, she pulls out her phone to dial Lewis and give him an update. In the process, she notices a stack of missed calls. All from Lewis. That didn’t bode well. Worried, she dials.

“Where are you!?” Lewis answers and he is panicked.

Vivi freezes, one leg extended. There is a long string of barely legible words as Lewis mixes English and Spanish in his rush to speak. Vivi immediately about faces, pivoting to hasten in the opposite direction, back past the truck, towards the hospital. Lewis sounds upset. Really upset. She needs to get to him.

“Lewis. Too fast. Take a breath and tell me what’s wrong?”

There is a low intake from across the line.

“Where are you?” Lewis is understandable now, but his tone still cracks a bit on the question.

“I’m on my way back…Are you okay?” She hits the main road and doesn’t bother checking for traffic, a horn blares, but she doesn’t stop.

“Arthur’s not here,” Lewis confirms her fears, and then proceeds to increase them a hundred-fold, “I found the right room. Lance was admitted early this morning for multiple stab wounds. I went straight in once I knew where it was.” Another inhale. “Lance is…was…I don’t know …he wasn’t breathing. I hit the emergency call button because not breathing is definitely a bad thing.”

The hospital entrance looms over her, “What do you mean, not breathing?”

“A lot of doctors came rushing in. I got kicked out, so I’m not sure what’s going on, but it looked serious. How far away are you?”

“I’m approaching the entrance now.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

The phone goes dead. Vivi spares it a worried glance, running the rest of the way, hurrying past the security guard and through the sliding glass doors. Lewis is weaving around to get to her. His height makes him easy to spot, bobbing along through the streams of people entering and exiting the hospital.

He rushes right up and into her, wrapping her in a hug, and lifting her off the ground. Oxygen momentarily vacates her lungs. The worry fire, still burning in her stomach, is almost suffocating now. Doubt and fear wiggles past her defences, settling in her chest.

“I thought you’d left,” Lewis mutters, just audible with his face smooshed into the shoulder of her blue cardigan. Vivi almost flinches. She refocuses.

“I would never do that,” She avows. Geez, she’s dumb. Of course, Lewis would be sensitive about missing calls, considering the current circumstances. “Never.”

Lewis just hums in acknowledgement.

“Sorry.” He mutters and inhales again, pulling back and freeing a hand to scratch the back of his head. Lewis and Arthur. Two peas in a pod when it came to apologising for stuff that wasn’t their fault.

“Hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry as well. I should have called.” Should have but didn’t, too wrapped up in solving the Arthur mystery. Now she just has a bunch more questions.

“What happened with Uncle Lance?” She asks again. They relocate to sit on the blue plastic seats which line the hospital’s foyer. No longer blocking the main entrance, she listens to Lewis quietly run through the harrowing experience of finding Lance, practically dead in his bed. He’s visibly shaken, and Vivi waits patiently while he works through the facts. Her mind wanders to that odd moment almost two weeks ago, when she’d accidentally scared Arthur on his way back from the toilet. For a split second, she hadn’t recognised the expression on his face. It had been weirdly uncanny. At the time, she had chalked it up to nausea and headaches.

‘A habit of wiping out their host’s family and friends.’

If Lance had been admitted in the morning, then it would have been impossible for Arthur to make the attack. ‘Not breathing’ could have a bunch of rational explanations. She would need to talk to a nurse or doctor before deciding on anything. Besides, Arthur’s eyes were golden brown, not green.

‘Possessed or not, this guy, Arthur, he’s in collusion with it. Strange behaviour.’

Conjecture and coincidence. What hard proof does Vivi have? Arthur acting out of sorts? He had been through rough patches of antisocial behaviour before. A phone number on a card? That just signalled that the mysterious stranger had met Arthur previously. More importantly, how did that tie into Arthur’s sudden Lewis aversion?

“What do you think we should we do?” Lewis breaks her speculation. He has his hands clasped above his knees, and it is leaning forward to stare at the hallway leading towards the wards. Nervous silence prevails while they both work to possess new developments. She fidgets on the seat, glancing about the hospital for an answer. Near the reception desk, a frazzled nurse is talking and gesturing in Lewis’s direction.

“Wait for news on Lance.” That’s all they could do. Maybe, hopefully, Arthur would make an appearance.

Part 29: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #Vivi Yukino #Lewis pepper #Mystery the dog #angst #oc character #but will lance survive?#vivi gets a bunch of puzzle pieces and has no idea what to do with them

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sourwolfstories · 6 years ago

Note

Hey! Can you rec some sterek university AUs pls? Thanks you!

Oh boy… okay so this is one of my favorite tropes and I have a crap ton of these. I couldn’t fit all of my faves on here (well i could have but it would have taken forever and the list would have been HUGE) but here are several for you to enjoy!! :)

No Homo by orphan_account

Stiles’ sophomore year starts something like this:3 FourLokos+ 1 peer-pressuring cat- 1 best bro to end all best bros= 1 Craigslist ad headline that reads “str8 dude - m4m - strictly platonic”.Derek is the fool who replies.

It Started With A Whisper by allyasavedtheday, warmth

“I’m Stiles, by the way. In case you did, you know, need something, cause Librarian is kind of an old lady term and… yeah. So, Stiles. S-T-I-L-E-S, like that one dude in that band from the UK.”

Or the one where Derek and Stiles are both in college, Stiles is the school’s librarian, and Derek is just trying to study.

The Company I Keep by secondstar

Stiles has a favorite table at the library. Then some asshole comes along and steals it from him.

Maybe by MellytheHun

Tumblr Prompt:

my fave overheard on campus moment of all time was the two guys who sat behind me in pop culture theory

as class was starting one of them was like “so… do you want a blowjob after this” in a rly bored voice, and then the second guy was like [pause][dejected sigh] “yes”

Not Mine to Love by Sabeley

It should have been awkward then, as the haze of lust left them, but Derek really didn’t mind the fact that Stiles was collapsed on his chest, breathing heavily. He didn’t care that he was naked in his roommate’s bed, coming down from the best orgasm he had ever had. He didn’t even care that he had just lost his virginity to someone who wasn’t Jennifer.

“That can’t happen again,” he said simply.

It happened twice more that night and it never really stopped.

The Hunt by HenryMercury

Stiles wakes up with a hangover and the phone number of the most attractive (and the frowniest) guy he’s ever encountered.

…Who also happens to be the front-man for the band Scott’s just joined.

Pushed to the Limit by kittylovessterek (kitty_fic)

Watching Stiles get ready to go out is torture. The universe is obviously testing him. There’s only so much temptation one werewolf can take.

I Keep On Fallin’ by xKookiesandCreamx

Ow fuck!“

Stiles sprung up out of his slumber, dazedly looking around for the cause of his roommate’s pained sounding exclamation.

He got his answer when he flicked his desktop lamp on and looked to see Derek sprawled in a graceless heap on the floor by Stiles’s bed.

~~~

Or a little college au ficlet in which a middle of the night accident actually turns out to be a not so bad thing after all.

Hot Nerd Alert by alisvolatpropiis

Derek can’t believe he’s actually doing this: taking a selfie snap of the guy he’s been crushing on for weeks to prove to Danny that one, yes, he really does exist, and two, he really is that hot and thus he is totally justified in being too scared to make a move.

Or you know, even talk to the guy outside of the class they share.

In his defense, this isn’t just any guy. This THE guy. Hot Nerd. The utterly adorable but still somehow insanely sexy freshman in his twentieth century American Lit class who he’s been lusting over since the first day of the semester. If there were ever a time for him to be that person who tries to be subtle while taking snaps of other people, this is it.

Love Comes in Spurts by talktowater

Stiles has always had sort of a hero worship thing going on with Scott’s step-brother Derek so moving into a house with him freshman year was basically fulfilling a childhood fantasy. Discovering how Derek was putting himself through college, well that was a whole other fantasy that Stiles didn’t even know he had.

Your First by Simone (fvckyourfandoms)

It’s Stiles freshman year of college and he decides to rush a fraternity. He becomes Vice President Derek Hale’s favorite pledge and they end up much closer than expected.

A story in which Derek can’t keep his hands off of Stiles’ sweet, irresistible, virgin ass and fails at not feeling him up.

A Comprehensive Study in Getting a Boyfriend via Persuasive Essay-Writing by Luddleston

Stiles is a junior Journalism major who takes Rhetorical Strategies because it covers his English requirement. He’s also trying to be subtle about the way he keeps checking out his professor.

Derek is a grad student teaching his first class ever. He also has the most annoying student on the face of the planet, and is done reading essays about the history of male circumcision.

Flirty e-mails are exchanged, Stiles spends way too much time in Derek’s office, and they fall in love over a mutual hatred for APA formatting.

take two and hit to right by gottalovev

Stiles enjoys ogling the very handsome shortstop of the varsity team while in class. One day, when he cannot have the seat he prefers to watch the baseball diamond, he starts a conversation on his desk (including cartoon characters and eventually sharing secrets).

Unfortunately, Stiles’ first meeting with the hot shortstop - crowd darling Derek Hale - doesn’t go well. When Hale turns out to be Stiles’ desk pen pal, will they be able to move past first impressions?

If You Wanna Be My Roomie (Lover) by xKookiesandCreamx

Realistically, Stiles knew that the local University’s popularity and commonality meant that many members of his graduating high school class would be starting the Fall 2016 semester alongside him, but he never expected his longtime crush to be one of them. Even more so, he never expected said crush to be assigned as his roommate…oh boy.

Just to See You Again by MellytheHun

A sterek college!AU where writing student Stiles specializes in love letters, runs a blog about it and can be commissioned to write love letters on behalf of lovers who are at a loss for words.

He makes some cash, he’s good at what he does (especially when he gets to be a little more explicit in his letters), it pays for his textbooks and that’s all he’s really looking for and life is fine. That is, until someone anonymously commissions him to write a love letter to mathematics student, Derek Hale.

It’s Happening by isthatbloodonhisshirt

Derek stopped listening to him, brain going a mile a minute.

Derek, it’s fucking happening!Derek, please!

He would recognize that fucking voice anywhere.

Two years. Two fucking years had passed, and now this little shit was standing in front of him, speaking his name, and grinning like an idiot.

“It’s you,” Derek said, earning him a confused look from Stiles. “The phone call. Two years ago. It was you.”

Beauty and the Ex by aggybird

Stiles doesn’t want to screw up his chances with Josh, so he does something he may regret: he goes to Derek Hale, Josh’s intimidating ex-boyfriend, for dating advice.

Things don’t go according to plan. But with a little magic (and werewolves) they might go all right.

We’re caught in stone, you know we might not make it by LunaCanisLupus_22

He does this thing then, while Stiles is watching, rolls his left shoulder a little as if he’s adjusting the books in his arms and suddenly Stiles recognises him from the gesture.

“Oh my god,” he cries, dumping his books, bag and coffee into one big mess on the ground and rushing over to them at once.

Or the one where Derek and Stiles are childhood buddies who lost touch and reconnect by chance at college. Only they end up doing a lot more than just reconnecting.

There is a Brotherhood by minusoneday

So far, college has taught Stiles three things:

1) Eight am classes are cruel and unusual and should be avoided at all costs, even if it means having to enroll in something truly hideous instead, like Econ 101.

2) Dorm security is just as tight as Stiles’ orientation leader had promised it would be, and the dude guarding Scott’s dorm in particular does not respond well to bribes.

3) Mrs. McCall clearly had no clue what she was talking about when she’d insisted that Scott and Stiles needed to branch out and room with strangers, so it’s all her fault that Scott ended up with a total dick of a roommate and Stiles got stuck all the way across campus with some guy who has a girlfriend two towns over and is thus never around.

‘Linski’s Late Night Antidote To Lame by WhoNatural

Where Stiles has his own college radio show, and the mysterious, faceless Derek is his number one fan.

Also there’s this really hot guy he keeps meeting in the library who totally hates his guts.

Inside This Place Is Warm by wolfcloaks

Coming down; One love, two mouths

Stiles Stilinski:

-Senior at Berkley-Double majoring in Human Biology and Biomedical Engineering-Student Librarian-Closet Artist-Basket case extrodanaire-Hopelessly crushing on Derek Hale (read as: pining)

Derek Hale:

-Grad Student at Berkley-Philosophy Major-Dog enthusiast-Does not cry during The Notebook, fuck you,Laura-Is definitely not pining over the librarian with the cute moles-Would very much like to tell the librarian’s curly haired boyfriend to fuck off

Where Derek and Stiles are complete dweebs in love and jump to horribly inaccurate conclusions

When your meet-cute turns into a bit of an (light) angst fest but it’s all ok in the end

———————

If you want to find more college/university goodness you can check out my tag for it here

#answered #anonymous #sterek #sterek fic rec #sterek fanfic #sterek fanfiction #college university au

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kdlovehg · 5 years ago

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Chapter 2 - Twelve times the season - a festive everlark fic.

Oh look, I’ve finished another chapter. Enjoy. XO

Click for links to chapter 1 and summary - tumblr

Fanfiction

AO3

*****************************************

Chapter 2

First thing the next morning, Peeta received his first envelope from the letter carrier. After finishing his draft the night before, Peeta had made sure to write the post in his best handwriting and had then faxed it over to the head office, eager for them to have it published in time for the next morning. Now Peeta wasn't a fool, he'd made sure to add a footnote so that the publishers were aware of the situation and thus wouldn't put a copy of his column in any of the papers in his apartment building, except for his. Unfair? Perhaps. But it was better than risking Katniss nicking someone's paper and seeing it. This simply avoided the problem altogether.

He tore open the envelope and pulled out a single scoresheet. Now as this was a sponsorship, the company had made sure that there would be a way to track the number of papers being read from page one until the final word in the column. One common way was to check for any fingerprints on discarded papers, that way they'd know if the reader had flicked through the pages or not. They would also send out workers to see if people had chosen not to grab their paper at all as this was all important information in finding out how many people were reading it.

Two, was written in bold in the centre of the paper. Fifty views. No recommendations as of yet.

It wasn't the best start, because no recommendations meant that nobody in the town or wider part of Panem was talking about it but it was fine. He'd only just started. He turned over the page to see a few comments printed on the back, all of which must have been submitted back to the head office.

Mockygirl: Good luck! Can't wait to see where this goes.

Atrinketonthetree: Fabulous idea! Spread that cheer all through the year.

Unfortunately the last comment wasn't as promising as the first ones.

SwiftG: Just leave it. A Grinch ain't gonna change for you so don't bother.

Despite what the third reader had suggested, Peeta had already planned his first move to woo the little Grinch into the festive spirit. He washed, dressed and left just early enough to grab both Katniss' and his newspapers.

Once he'd collected them, he rode the elevator back up to their floor, checking the time as he went. She hadn't left yet so his plan should be perfect. He knocked on her door and listened for her voice, yet he was only greeted by a loud bark.

After waiting for a few moments he knocked again only to receive a muffled "What?".

"Its your neighbour" Peeta said, doing his best to sound perky. "Mellark. Peeta Mellark".

Silence.

Realising that he wasn't going away Katniss replied "Am I supposed to care?".

Peeta ignored her comment. "I brought gifts". That would work. It always did with the children, besides who didn't love free stuff.

"Don't need em".

"Should I leave it against your door?".

A pause.

"Leave what?".

Gotcha.

"Its a surprise. Don't you like surprises? I sure do. Puts you in a great mood for the day".

The door flew open and she stood in front of him, her skirt failing to conceal a layer of shaving cream that was painted across her leg. Katniss held the razor in her hand tightly as if it were a weapon she might strike him with. Her other arm was holding onto doorframe, creating a blockage for Mutty so that he couldn't escape. Regardless the dog peered over as if he too were curious about the surprise.

The familiar scowl settled back on her face. "I hate surprises".

"Here's your paper", he said, thrusting it towards her.

She grabbed it and tossed it over her shoulder, someone managing to make it land on her table. The accuracy was honestly quite impressive.

"You're welcome", he added, both of them knowing that she didn't appreciate the help. Before she could start mumbling under her breath he turned around and left with a "Have a good morning!".

"Whatever".

"You say that a lot don't you Everdeen?", he commented with a grin. For someone who he assumed was smart, she wasn't very creative with her responses.

"Do you mind? I'd like to finish what I started". Peeta tries not to think about her getting out of the shower when he knocked. Imagine if he made her open the door in a towel. Just for a paper she could've gotten herself. Goodness. It'd be hard to talk his way out of that.

"Go for it", he added, refusing to turn around. Granted it was a little rude but if she could do it then so could he. His nice deed had been done so he didn't owe her anything.

At least she hadn't slammed the door on him.

There was progress at least.

He returned to his room and waited for the familiar sound of her opening and closing her door as she left for work. Then seconds later he left to accompany her at the elevator.

Couldn't break tradition.

"What a coincidence", he lied as they entered and she pressed the button for the bottom floor. Katniss glared at him, clearly not believing a word he said.

He glanced over, seeing the familiar paper tucked under her arm. Perfect. Unintentionally, his gaze dropped back to her legs to see a small piece of paper peeking out from beneath her skirt.

She must have cut herself. Odd. Katniss didn't seem like the type to be distracted easily, but mistakes happen, he supposed.

"I hope that wasn't my fault" Peeta said, gesturing towards the injury.

Katniss huffed and tugged her skirt lower slightly so that he could no longer see it. "Course not".

It totally was.

She'd never admit it though.

"The little cuts are the worst kind".

She shrugged, avoiding conversation, but he heard the quiet "So are happy neighbours".

Well she thought he was the worst kind of neighbour? Perfect. The feeling was mutual.

"Forgive me, I was just trying to be helpful. Next time I'll knock and leave it at your door for when you leave".

"Don't".

"Don't what? Its too big to slide under your door".

"Don't be helpful" she insisted. Katniss didn't need anybody's help. The only thing she needed was for this elevator to hurry up. His voice was getting on her nerves.

"Its really not any trouble".

"I said don't".

"Alright", Peeta said, backing off. "If that's what you want".

"That's what I want" she said, finishing the conversation. Gosh he was annoying.

As soon as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, Katniss flew out of there, eager to get away from her neighbour. Peeta found it amusing to say the least. He'd never made someone run from him before.

"Enjoy your day", he called out after her, if only to wind her up more.

Finnick was right. Being nice wasn't half bad. It was the most entertainment he'd got in weeks.

As a treat, Peeta decided he'd go to a local store, 'The Hob', as it was the closest place to get produce. Inside it they also had a small counter of freshly baked goods, mainly breakfast items, and hot drinks which likely earned them all of their customers. As luck would have it, he noticed that Everdeen was four people ahead of him. Odd since he'd never seen her in the store before.

Despite knowing that he shouldn't, Peeta shouted out to her, his voice quickly getting the attention of the other patrons. "Katniss I didn't know you came here! You should of told me, I could've came earlier to grab you something".

Katniss tensed up, swallowing back a curse at the familiar voice. Of course she couldn't escape him. She knew she should've went straight to work. She just can't catch a break.

Sae, Peeta's favourite barista and the owner of the store, gave him a toothless grin. "Morning Peeta".

"And a good morning to you, lovely", he said with his typical charm. He gestured towards Katniss. "She's my neighbour. I'd like to buy her a hot chocolate".

Everdeen spins around, hand on hip and leans to the side so that she can see around the other people in line. "No. I can buy my own hot chocolate - and cheese buns", she added. "I'm very capable". She didn't want his money. She didn't want his help. Gosh she hoped he'd miss his train so that his day could be as annoying as hers .

"Consider it an apology", Peeta explained as Sae bagged the fresh, gooey buns. She handed it to Katniss along with her drink and waited for the outcome. Peeta knew the older woman must be confused, why would anyone refuse an act of kindness?

"No", Katniss stated and slapped the money down on the counter, capturing Sae's attention.

"Well if you insist", Peeta said as the queue moved towards the counter, every other barista completing their order quickly and with a smile. "I really am sorry. I'll be quieter next time. You won't hear a single Christmas noise from me" he lied. Rather than acknowledge his insincere apology, Katniss grabbed her goods and left the store, not even saying a goodbye to the woman who'd served her.

Peeta considered if Sae knew anything about the woman. Surely she's visited before, just at a different time perhaps? When it was his turn to order he asked, "That girl" and leaned slightly across the counter. He rubbed his face, playing up the curiosity as if the thought just happened to cross his mind. "She come here often?".

"Aw yeah all the time. She orders the same thing, never talks really but what can you do".

"I figured", he said politely. What did he expect? She was an older woman, hardly one to gossip. He asked for the usual hot chocolate and paid, and then gave Sae extra money with the memo that it was to pay for his neighbours order the following morning. "Tell her its from me". Katniss would have to accept his generosity one way or another.

"Well if you're sure boy. She seemed a bit mad about you trynna do it today though".

"She's like that. Talking ain't really her thing", he said as if he was actually friends with Everdeen. Sae handed him his coco.

"I noticed. I'll make sure to serve her tomorrow, just for you Peeta", she added with another grin. There's the community spirit he missed.

"Perfect. Thankyou Sae".

He turned to leave with his drink and added, "Just a shame I won't see her reaction".

Peeta hurried out the store and rushed to the platform, just in time as the train had already arrived. He slid through the doors as they closed and sipped his hot chocolate. What would Katniss do?

///////////////////////////////////

The man was driving Katniss crazy. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? He was obviously just doing it for the attention. No-one was that happy in general let alone in the morning, yet every day its the same smile that he greets everybody with. Katniss knew he was playing a game with her and she didn't like it one bit. So she decided she'd do what she did best - ignore him. Unfortunately he'd already managed to get her to talk on two separate occasions so far but that was a mistake. She knew better now. Walking quickly, Katniss headed towards the Justice building. Being late was never an option. She had bills to pay and a cut in her salary wouldn't help. Besides she had a schedule: work in the morning and then for lunch she would go home, grab a snack, get changed and take Mutty out. Then once the dog was all tired out - which seemed to be never the older that he got - she would quickly wash and change back into her work uniform. Then she'd leave just as he'd settle down for his nap. It wasn't always that way, but Haymitch's building didn't allow dogs so she had to take him in. The more she thought about it, the worse she felt. Katniss loved her Uncle - even though he was a pain - and she was grateful for all that he did in raising her. Luckily he seemed to adjust well to the new place, and by that she meant, she had yet to receive a complaint from the complex.

Even when she was young, Katniss knew she wasn't a people person. Her father had tried many times to help her make friends but she hated everything about it. She'd much rather sit alone in the woods and study the animals. That's why her job in agriculture suited her. She could spend time away from people as often as she wanted to. People were dangerous. Animals were smart. They knew to be careful with their trust and she'd been fooled before. She didn't even want to think of Gale's betrayal. No - it was over. Her mind had moved on.

"Morning Miss Everdeen!", the receptionist said in greeting. She was unusual as the place was known to be quite cold and workers were stoic, but Katniss didn't mind as the girl was never mad at a lack of a reply. On her counter sat a small Christmas tree with ribbons wrapped around it and trinkets hung from the branches. It did nothing for Katniss' mood but she supposed some of her colleagues might like seeing the sight.

With a nod in her direction, Katniss moved on. She didn't remember the young girl's name, or perhaps she hadn't bothered to ask. It didn't matter she supposed. The less familiar she was with people the better. She closed the door behind her, glad to be back in her office. Silent. Alone. Perfect. It gave her time to ponder her odd neighbour. He was a nice guy. That wasn't unusual, but why now was he trying so hard to get her attention? And why did she care?

////////////////////

After work, Peeta headed down to 'Monsieur Cornucopia', a building full of different clubs for young children, so that he could help them with their holiday program and then he travelled to the orphanage. He'd had a good day - better than yesterday at least. The shoppers seemed more patient and they sold out of a lot of fish. He liked to think that it was some type of good karma, for trying to be nice to Everdeen. Sure she rebuffed it, but these things take time.

The kids in the orphanage enjoyed the singing and loved the chance to sing to those in their community that were often forgotten; the elderly, the homeless, even some of the new mothers. The previous week they'd sung at the local hospital, for the new parents, most of whom were underage and thus looked down on. The children didn't judge them though. Maybe that's why he liked them so much. They were just jolly, none of them needed a reason for it, unlike some people.

This week the children were heading down to The Seam. The small living-complex located on the outskirts of twelve, didn't always sound like the ideal place to take children but they wouldn't mind it. He knew how excited they were. Some even hoped to see their old relatives, after being separated from them for good reason. They wouldn't understand that though. They didn't care.

By nine-thirty, Peeta made it back to the lobby, he was exhausted, but still in a good mood. He headed towards the lockers to check for any mail - if it was a special delivery letter then the carrier would take it straight to the room but anything else was just stored in the designated box. As he unlocked, the locker, he grabbed his mail and began flicking through the envelopes. Bills. Gas. Water. No Christmas cards yet but there was still a chance for those that could afford to send them, to do so this year. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a familiar brunette. Everdeen. He wondered were she'd been as she was dressed in the same clothes that she would wear when taking her dog out but he was sure she must have done so already, and the little fella wasn't with her so she must have been somewhere else. The faint smell of sweat tickles his nose but he doesn't comment on it. She'd probably take it as an insult anyway. Although, he glanced her way, she did seem to be pretty athletic. That was a nice surprise. Not that he should be looking. It was her body, who cared what he thought of it. He looked away before she could catch him. Maybe she'd cuss him out, out loud this time. He didn't want that, it could ruin her mood for tomorrow and then she'd never appreciate his gift.

Katniss kept quiet. Of course she'd seen him, subtlety wasn't his forte, but she chose not to comment. She'd had enough interaction with him for one day. A week even. She just wanted to relax so she watched as he shut his locker closed. She checked her locker quickly, and seeing that it was empty, she closed it again and as had become the custom, the two of them rode the elevator together in blissful silence. Katniss made a point to stand in the corner so that she could have as much space away from him as possible. She needed time to breathe. There were too many people around at this time of year. Peeta chose not to acknowledge the distance between them and when they finally reached their floor, they separated and headed for their own apartment. For some odd reason, Peeta felt as if she was watching him - just staring at his back because he wouldn't see her. Rather than turn around he glanced over his shoulder at her to see the usual scowl on her face. Lovely.

Katniss couldn't figure out why he still hadn't spoken to her. She liked it obviously but it didn't seem right. Just hours ago he was bugging her and now he was content with silence?

Peeta forced a smile in her direction, "Have a good evening, Katniss".

"You don't look good".

His eyebrows jumped up. No way.

She spoke. Goodness had he broken her already?

"Its been a long day" he said, testing the waters. He wouldn't draw this conversation out, that was up to her.

Unfortunately for him, that answer seemed to satisfy her enough and she spun on her heel and disappeared into her apartment.

Accepting defeat, Peeta entered his own apartment and collapsed onto the chair. He wasn't making a lot of progress. But it was only day one. At least he knew there was promise there. Yet before he drifted off to sleep, he remembered that the day was over and thus it was time to start his second column entry. With a huff he hauled himself off of the chair and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. He wondered what the commenters would think of it this time.

Twelve times the season - Entry 2

December 15th

A letter and a lady

Operation Grinch to little elf is officially underway, ladies and gentlemen. Have I granted her a cheerful smile today? Oh yes. Did I give her the gift of a surprise? Why certainly! She just hasn't warmed up to the idea yet. Since seeing me this morning, I'm fairly certain she now wishes she'd succumbed to the festivity weeks ago but alas it is too late and thus my presence is here to help.

What wonderful thing did I do you ask? I woke up early - gave up a full ten minutes of sleep for this woman - and trekked downstairs to retrieve her newspaper so that the Lady wouldn't have to even spare a second to locate it. Not only that, but I offered to buy her breakfast. She refused of course, but at least I've set the tone for the next few days. And not only that twelve but I've bought her breakfast for tomorrow. How convenient is that? A lovely way to start her morning I'd say. I can't wait to here about how she reacts to that.

However something occurred once nightfall hit. A strange encounter one might say. I was merely collecting my mail in the lobby when she appeared. Odd but not unusual. Coincidences happen. From previous experience I knew how these encounters would go. If I were to strike up conversation, especially when she is at the end of her day, then I was sure to be ignored, and I didn't feel like finishing my night on a sour note. Now granted I know I'm not her favourite person, but I don't believe I'm the only one. It seems the one with the problem is her.

Now I like to believe that my newfound fascination with her is unsettling. How do I know? Well I changed tactics for a moment. I was tired and thus gave her the cold shoulder. And did she like that twelve? Oh no.

She cracked.

It was small. An ever so small dent in her façade as she asked me how I was. Were I not so exhausted I would have revelled in her words. Am I getting to her? Who knows. Its still early but I'm optimistic people.

I'll end it here for now until I can figure out a new way to... sweeten her up. In fact, I think I might have just found one.

#everlark #chapter 2 #twelve times the season #festivefic #myfics #kdlovehg #fanfiction #ao3 #christmasfic #links #thg

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