#which aren’t bad but sometimes too heavy on the frosting

[miss-floral-thief]

Kinda crave yogurt now tho the packs bro bought I don’t always like the flavor of

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​

[mcwriting]

A Science Project for the Ages

Big thanks to this anon for this request! Sorry it's taking me longer to fulfill my requests from when I was in quarantine but I'm trying to get those done soon!

This is a slight continuation of lab partners but can definitely be read alone :)

Ship: SoftNerd!Tom Holland x Reader

Word Count: 1883

Warnings: one blink-and-you'll-miss it bad word

⚛︎

There was a loud buzz as your phone vibrated against the wood table in the science library.

You quickly picked it up, trying not to disturb the few other students around as you looked down at the screen.

Tom.

Though you were together now, he very rarely called at this time. He knew you always studied here before dinner time and respected that.

You grabbed your notebook and bag and shuffled into the hall to answer.

"Tom? Is everything okay?"

"Hey, um. So sorry to bother you, but you've finished your science expo project, right?"

You furrowed your brows as you slid down the wall to sit and stuff your notebook back in your bag. You knew this conversation was going in a weird direction already. You could hear a faint beeping in the background.

"Uh, yeah..?"

"Right, and what was that project over again?"

"I did an analysis on light absorption of different common solutions and then compared them to the color they turned when I lit them on fire. I thought we already talked about this the other day..?"

"Yes, yeah, sorry. So one more question before I tell you what's up. Do you happen to know how to bake?" Tom asked quietly.

Suddenly you remembered what all his project was on.

He was doing a food chemistry project, explaining certain phenomenons that happen when you bake. He had hoped giving people baked goods would make them like his project more.

"I- Tom I told you I would help you but you said it would be fine," you said flatly."

"Well..... Now it's not fine, and Alex isn't here to help me. He went to his girlfriend's."

Tom's roommate. He was usually pretty patient with Tom's clumsiness, but sometimes he just had to get out and enjoy a day off, too. Tom understood, but now the burden fell on you.

"Fine, I'll be there in a little bit. Text me if you need me to bring anything."

⚛︎

You walked in to the smell of burnt. It was overwhelming and you choked as you rushed to the window to air out the apartment.

"Hey, sorry about the smell," Tom said nonchalantly from the kitchen.

You turned to see the situation at hand, which was definitely... a situation.

It was like something out of a movie. Messy bowls and utensils littered the sink. There was cake batter splattered across the counters. Finally, the culprit still sat in a muffin tin on the bar: a dozen very black cupcakes.

You sighed.

"Forgot to set the timer?"

"Yep."

"And let me guess. This was your first experience with baking?"

"That's exactly right."

"Of course," you muttered, but then clapped your hands together enthusiastically. "Well, then. Let's try and fix this, shall we?"

You leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to Tom's cheek, then brushed past him to grab the tray.

"First on the agenda, we are going to take off the papers and chuck these off the balcony to let out some frustrations, alright?"

You were lucky in that Tom's apartment was on the top floor, and his balcony faced a wooded area. The only thing he could hit was a tree and the food would eventually biodegrade into the soil.

You both tossed them, competing to see who could throw the farthest. It let Tom blow off some steam, and also gave more time to ventilate the place before you went back in.

After the last cupcake (if you could call it that) was tossed, you got started on cleaning everything up. He had used a lot of bowls for one boxed cake mix, but you didn't ask.

It took a while to make sure things were sufficiently clean, but finally everything was ready to make a new batch.

"Oh one other thing before we start. Have you ever made a meringue?" Tom asked as he preheated the oven, which you carefully supervised to make sure it was right.

"I mean, I've made some before. Why?"

"Well part of my project was talking about how egg proteins bind. They sound pretty easy. Just eggs and sugar, right?"

Your hand covered your eyes in disappointed surprise.

"What? No. Tom, meringues are like, notoriously one of the hardest things to get right. They land just before macarons, and meringue is one of the main parts of a macaron!"

"What are you talking about? How can something with two ingredients be that hard to make?" he tried to argue, but you weren't about to let him trick you into making something so difficult.

"Did none of your research explain how moisture, temperature changes, utensils used, and method of cooking affect the outcome."

"...Uh... no."

"Were you planning on using the Swiss, Italian, or French technique?"

".....I didn't know there was more than one."

"Well then you might go do a quick search to add to your presentation while I cover the cupcakes."

While he did that, you made up the batter and got the cupcakes in the oven (set at the right temperature for the right time), then got started making some frosting.

"Hey, y/n. Did you know you aren't supposed to make meringues in a plastic bowl?"

"Yep. Plastic can retain lipids which prevent proper binding. Same reason you can't whip the yolk."

"That's what this says! How did you know that?"

You shrugged.

"I like to bake. By the way, you better credit me as your pastry chef on the presentation."

"Will do."

He made some edits on the page and found a recipe claiming to be the easiest method, so you caved and agreed to help him make them when the cupcakes were done.

As you measured sugar and got the whisk attachment ready, you looked over and admired Tom as he meticulously separated the eggs.

You couldn't help but fall head over heels for him all over again seeing how he did each step carefully, all his focus on each little egg.

Sure, he was a little clumsy sometimes, but he was precious and cared about whatever he did.

It took what seemed like hours to get the egg whites whipped properly (and lots of arguing with Tom about what "stiff peaks" meant), but finally you had them in a piping bag and on a pan to bake.

You couldn't help but wait by the oven in anxious anticipation for the meringues to come out, even though they'd be in there for a while.

Tom sat right next to you on the (surprisingly) clean kitchen floor as you stared at the oven.

"Babe?" he asked softly, leaning into you.

You hummed a response, taking the opportunity to rest your head on his shoulder.

"Thank you for coming and helping me. I know you value your library time."

You smiled and sat back up, looking Tom in the eyes.

"You know, I wasn't really studying anyways. I was watching youtube videos with my headphones in because I didn't want to go home yet."

Tom had a mischievous grin and furrowed brow.

"So you just go there as an excuse to get away from me?!"

You laughed and knocked into him slightly.

"No! I just got done with my homework and wanted to hang around campus for a while... and I had a feeling you'd call eventually."

Tom gasped.

"You didn't trust me!?"

"Now that I can answer truthfully..." you started, causing him to pout. "I'm not saying I didn't trust you at all, it's just that I had never once heard of you baking and figured I would prepare myself accordingly."

"Does this mean that Alex knew too?"

"I can't speak on his behalf, but I'm glad it was just us anyways. I like getting to spend time with you like this." You paused to peck him on the lips. "Want me to read over your project? I know those spelling errors can slip by sometimes."

Tom grinned, wordlessly getting up and offering you a hand.

⚛︎

The expo was in full swing and you nervously stood on the other side of the room as your project to watch people walk by and observe your findings.

You had already given your presentation to the judging panel and now the expo was open to the public, so you tried to avoid stressing too much as you talked with some friends.

Suddenly a pair of warm arms came around your stomach and Tom's scent enveloped you.

"Hey baby, how ya feelin'?" he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder as your thumbs rubbed over his hands instinctively.

"You know me. A little nervous." You flipped in his arms to face him. "And what about you? The judges like our sweet treats?"

"They sure seemed too. Dr. Grand liked the meringues so much she asked for another."

You smiled.

"Well either way, I'm proud of us both."

"Thanks again for helping, I couldn't have done this without you. I made sure to emphasize how difficult meringue making is during my presentation thanks to you."

Finally your friends had enough of the cutesy bullshit and convinced you and Tom to rejoin the conversation, both of you with arms around each other as you conversed.

Time passed and eventually they gave prizes to the best projects of the expo. You knew you wouldn't win anything, there were some far better projects out there that included heavy research.

"And in first place, 'Science around us: the chemistry of baking' by Mr. Tom Holland! Congratulations! If all of our winners could come pick up their ribbons and get a photo for the newsletter, that would be great."

Tom stayed casually next to you, so you had to shake him and get his attention.

"Did you hear that Tom? You won!"

Tom blinked a few times, then gasped.

"I won!? I mean, we won!!?"

You rolled your eyes and pushed him forward.

"Go on, get your blue ribbon, baker boy."

He excitedly rushed up to the table where his prize awaited (tripping a few times, but you ignored that) and bounced on the balls of his feet as someone pinned the ribbon to his shirt.

You could see the sheer delight on his face as the winners took a group photo, and he practically skipped back to meet you.

You and your friends gave him congratulations as he happily looked down at the blue piece pinned to him.

He then unpinned it and tried to hand it to you.

"Now, don't congratulate me, y/n gets all the credit for making everything."

"No, no. It was your idea and you did the research. You deserve that more than anyone else. And plus, you were right. Baked goods did give you an edge over the competition."

"Well I say it was a science project for the ages!" he exclaimed, holding up the ribbon. You and your friends cheered to that.

"How 'bout we go celebrate your win over lunch, hm? The cupcake I had isn't holding me over and I'm starving."

"Sounds perfect, darling. Lead the way."

You happily headed off towards the nearest place on campus, completely oblivious to the fact that Tom had pinned his blue ribbon to your backpack.

He quickly made up time and slipped a hand into yours.

If nothing else, he was the boyfriend of the ages.

⚛︎

A/N: thanks to the anon who sent the request for this! I really enjoyed writing it! I think I could've improved some things but overall I'm pretty satisfied with it, and I hope you are too!

Permanent Tag List

Send a message or ask if you’d like to be added to my permanent or series taglists so I can verify you’ve been added!

@jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl, @agentnataliahofferson, @spider-babe, @justafangirlduh, @hollandswife

[prof-peach]

Hello Professor Peach!

I've followed your account recently and I was wondering. What types of Pokemon would I need to run a sucessful greenhouse like yours?! I know that I would obviously need Grass Types and maybe Bug Types, but what others would I need?

Thanks in advance!

From a fellow Grass Type and Nature Lover!

We have several greenhouses on the island, as we specialise in grass Pokemon, so I’ll run though what each has and why.

Seedling house

Set up for young sprouts, both plant and Pokemon based, with some areas shaded with netting, others in full sun. This space needs to be easy to clean, and you’ll find yourself disinfecting between sowing, to reduce fatalities and get the most out of your seeds!

Bulbasaur (potato) a good boy, old as sin now, but his gentle lullaby helps young plants grow, and keeps the baby Pokemon calm and settled. You DO NOT want a whole greenhouse worth of baby Pokemon crying, trust me. He’s stern but patient, and this is why he works well in this space, as he will not tolerate bad behaviour, and raises the youngsters with a firm but kind vibe. His vines are delicate and intricate enough to handle young seedlings, and because he himself is partially plant, he understands the needs of actual plants very well. His age also helps, he’s quite good at delegating and can boss the other workers around, and hold their respect. He has a few underlings he is training to help while he’s away, a sunflora, a turtwig, and a nuzleaf, all of which enjoy the work too.

Lotad, we keep a lot of these, as they tend to come and go. Usually we have around 4-5 in the seedling house at any one time, their broad leaves make them good at carrying things, moving trays of babies, and genrally handling youngsters, and they can usually learn water gun with some training, thus making them excellent at keeping the place well watered (but not too much). Their plant nature means they’re quite respective of small species,and tend not to crush any small sprouts if they can avoid it. They do however hibernate if it gets too cold, so it may be worth employing the help of a more winter tolerant water Pokemon if need be. We swap the Lotad out for Wooper in winter, they are small, not often too hard to handle, easy to find in our area, and kind natured on average.

There’s a old Pangoro that hangs out in this house, often happy to help lifting tables to move and rearrange spaces for new species, or to help do the big spring cleaning jobs each year. His disposition is far mor W gentle than normal, so I’d advise finding a patient, gentle Pokemon, who can do some heavy lifting. It’s always worth having a powerful individual here, as lots of Pokemon look to seedlings as snacks. As a defence, this pangoro works well, and birds and bugs tend not to enter the zone without his watchful eye on them.

A rather old Espeon without a tail likes to sleep in there too, her psychic powers means she can handle threats without big brash movements, and she tends to quietly spend her days just keep guard, and genrally being a watchful eye should the Pangoro mosey off to eat or bathe outside the greenhouse. This is a good example of shift Pokemon. When one is gone, the other is more alert and active as a guard. Never have just one Pokemon to a job, as they too need time out, breaks, vacations and down time to enjoy and relax. It’s too much to expect one individual to do everything.

Youngsters often enjoy a nightlight, so we let the volbeat and illumise into the greenhouse at night, to dance and keep a gentle glow in the area. The young seedling Pokemon are often stuck in pots, unable to move about yet, so they enjoy entertainment, and some are not keen on the deep dark of night outside. This settles them, and these bug types don’t eat seedlings, so they’re often great company.

In winter, we move one of greys charizard in to heat the space and protect the babies from frost. We have around 6 charizard on the island, and they are sometimes well behaved. We have the most calm and maternal in this house, she is a gentle soul, and I’d often not advise others to use this species for this work. A better fit would be Torkoal, known for exuding gentle heat continuously with enough food, or perhaps a Darumaka, Numel, or carkol. They tend to have much calmer natures for fire types, and ambient lay heat spaces well. Frost is a killer for seedlings so this is very important. As a grower, you also end up with infected or sick plant matter (trimmings and such) and the only way to responsibly dispose of that is to burn it. This keeps the risk of spreading infections far lower, and you won’t end up putting sickly, potentially fungus filled material into your compost, and in turn spreading it around. Fire is very important in the garden, in a controlled and careful way of course.

Healing house

This space is half open space, half I solated zones, built for recovery and care. When a Pokemon or plant becomes sick, they need specialist care, and sometimes they can spread their illness to others, so having an area to quarentine them and cure any issues is very important. This space needs to be fuss free, able to be disinfected easily, ideally with drains in the floor (much like you’d see at a swimming pool or something) so you can slosh down some disinfectant and ready the spaces for the next patient. Think of a glass topped kennel, that’s what you’re going for here.

Meganium, (summer) a lovely lady who’s been with me a while now, she’s quite resistant to disease thanks to her variation, and so she’s ideal for working in these kinds of environments. Despite this I would not mix her with a Pokemon who’s seriously sick, she’s more the “nurse” figure of the greenhouse, who oversees everything while I’m away. Her roles require her to be caring, and very calm despite seeing many in alarming states. The Pokemon doing this job needs to have a will of steel, and a strong stomach. Some diseases are quite unnerving to see progress. Keeping a bright outlook is a key component to this work. She’s able to emit a soothing aura, filling a space with gentle scent that can calm, energise, or even put patients to sleep. Her vines make her dexterous enough to hold tools and perform general care tasks like sweeping and watering ect.

I have befriended some Marill, a small pod of about 12, who come and go to help water and keep the place cleaned up. Their jolly natures are great for patients who are isolated while healing, and as they aren’t grass types, many of the individuals inside this space can interact with them, and not risk spreading illness (most of the time). They’re a little more rough and ready than the seedling watering team, but this is ok, as we don’t often keep youngsters in this house. They like to be paid in snacks, but others prefer toys, stories, games, and even tv time. Negotiating a fair deal for everyone is very key here, a Pokemon taut feels cheated will do a bad job. If they’re happy, you’ll be happy, trust me.

Audino, not often a Pokemon I discuss much, and don’t even use in the main lab, as this particular Audino has been trained to deal with grass issues specifically. She flunked out with her old trainer at medical college, so I took her on and tried to focus her in on something a bit more practical. She’s not able to catch a lot of grass issues due to her normal nature, and is a handy healer to have around. She’s actually quite a lazy individual, and is often found asleep in the staff room when not working.

This space will also require a dedicated burner Pokemon, a fire type to remove infected and dangerous tissues taken from infected patients. I often use Valka (vulpix) for this job, as she’s usually with me, and this greenhouse is where I spend the majority of my time, and she’s very efficient.

I advise you not use grass Pokemon so much in this greenhouse, as sick grass Pokemon tend to be more infectious to other grass types. You’ll often find me using normal, ground, or rock types, with strong immune systems, or individuals with calm natures, as this space sees a lot of unnerving things, and needs level headed individuals.

Tropics house

Also known as the hot house, as when you enter it you break into a sweat. Humidity is high, temperature is high, ceilings are high. This is a 4 floor tall building, all glass, planted like a jungle, with varying canopy levels, sunken pond spaces, and dense lush greenery. I also keep my orchid collection here, and you’ll find many bug types are drawn to the colours and smells. This is the highest skill level greenhouse behind the healing house, and I’d advise you try to start with one of the more simple ones firstly, should you be new to this kind of work. Heating this space is done with hot water pipes, and the whole building is lined with sprinkler systems that runs on a timer. Every 15 minutes everything gets doused with a thick, cooling fine mist.

This is where the Queen of my Bellossom clutch hangs around, she’s quite something to see, far larger, with soft pink coloured petal skirt, and a real air of royalty about her. The whole greenhouse respects her as she’s proven her skill as a leader many times, resolving conflicts with reason and patience. She may not be the strongest, but she’s certainly smart, and can lead with an iron fist need be. She is good with visitors, as this greenhouse is public, and open to visitors, unlike the previous ones mentioned above. She is a good overseer, and saves me a lot of time and trouble, fixing squabbles and keeping everyone calm. She is at the top of the hierarchy, and can request help from just about everyone else within this space, and they’ll oblige.

There’s a substantial Tangrowth who chills out in this zone, usually sleeping in a sunny patch at the back, he’s usually left child minding, as many of the Pokemon within have young of their own, and need a good baby sitter. Something that’s sturdy, with a lot of arms to keep tabs in them all (he just ties a vine to them and lets them run riot while he dozes) he can be quite defensive of the young but this is good, as the public spaces are more likely to be stolen from, and as we handle a lot of variants, security is needed. People like to steal young Pokemon when they’re unusual or rare.

Tsareena, a power house, acts as a guard, and works with a couple of Lurantis, who all enjoy the heat and have high prey drives. Should someone try to nab a baby, wade into a dangerous area, or start a fight within the greenhouse, they’ll step in, crushing most things in their path without too much issue. The Lurantis is actually one of quite a few, and should they become overwhelmed, they’ll call the others in as backup. This lot keep the peace physically, and can stop fights (as you don’t want broken glass in this space).

The windows need to be cleaned to keep the light levels high, so we often employ flying or psychic Pokemon to get us up higher to handle this work. I use whatever is around at the time, but often a good ladder will do the trick if you have a shorter building than ours.

Watering is actually done mostly with hoses and irrigation in this greenhouse but we do have one water type who resides within, in a deep pond in the centre. A Dreadnaw, Tobi, who came back with me from Galar quite recently. He’s very docile for his type, so we figured he’d enjoy the calm jungle vibes of this zone. He occasionally wades out to wander around and water things, keeping a close eye on everyone. Their species is renown for biting and aggression but Tobi is rather chilled out, and has taken to being the biggest water type in the space quite well. He shares his pond with a couple of small relicanth, and the odd little water type who comes in out of curiosity, along with a small pod of Lotad. He keeps things very damp, even in the dry corners, and often will listen to grass Pokemon who need extra water, and come over to assist.

No fire type in this building as all damaged or trimmed material should be collected and removed from the area, to be either composted, burnt, or used as cutting material elsewhere.

We encourage bug types in this space for the most part, as they feed other Pokemon, and also pollinate. This space has fruit trees and flowers, so we leave the windows open for whatever may want to enter to look around (and for airflow). The general temperament of the greenhouse is pretty calm, tanks to the balance of staff Pokemon, so if an aggressive bug comes in, it’s soon chased out. causing trouble isn’t tolerated within this space.

This greenhouse is abll about emulating nature, so taking trips to more jungle locations may benefit you here. I’d suggest doing detailed research, and studying established locations before building this zone, as there’s a lot of foundation work to be concidered, like water, piping, irrigation, airration, and light levels.

Desert house

Hot in the day, cooler at night, dry, often sparser in style. Very bright! This is a common space for a lot of variations, and also cacti based Pokemon. We have an array of desert species hanging out here, but also a lot of rock types. This is a petty easy going space, not a lot of water needed, but certainly care none the less.

A heater! We use a Heatmore, who seems to enjoy the general ambience, and is stroppy enough that the cacti Pokemon can’t bully him or get into too much trouble. He keeps the space hot in the winter, and not too cold at night, he will occasionally drop his workload in the summer when the temperatures are high enough without him. We trade him out with a Slazzle from time to time, should he require time out.

Watering is sparse, we call in one Politode now and then to drench the space, then leave it to dry out quite a bit. There’s of course places for Pokemon to drink from, small water features and the odd trough to get a drink from, but the species here don’t require half as much as others, and will happily go two or more weeks without more than morning dew. We tend to keep an eye on things and use a hose when we catch the odd Pokemon or plant who needs a little extra.

Cacturn is the boss of this space, and works hard to maintain a firm level of control over the many little Pokemon who live in this house. He’s old now, with many arms, not just the initial two, standing at around 9ft tall, with very thick limbs. He’s not kind as such but only really shows his mean side if you mess with him or the ones he protects. This is a space that’s open to the public, so we have to employ his power to protect from theft.

This space contains a lot of young alpine Pokemon too, bulbasaur, oddish, and some fun variants of Crustle who have plants atop their backs. There’s a strong nod to those who can handle drought, and so it’s a great starting greenhouse for anyone who’s a little forgetful. We also keep quite a few Sudowoodo and their pre-evolutions here, as they dig the dry air. They also help in creating rockery areas with their attacks and strength, that suit the area and the Pokemon within.

Carnivorous house

Not easy to plan but simple enough to keep. They need boggy conditions, lots of open light areas, and genrally this space is quite wild looking, certainly not tended, and I’d advise you get some waders or wellies for the work done here. Water types and bog Pokemon will love this space, and it should be protected from the frost, for those who do not like the cold.

Carnivine, often found hanging from vines within the space, they have a very particular diet, and I tend to run the tours for visitors to this greenhouse, to make sure no one gets chewed on. There’s quite a few colours and shapes, but they don’t do,innate the space as much as others. Their ungodly shrieking can be wonderful alarms to danger, and I totally advise having a few around, even if only for their comedic value and friendship.

The champions of this space are Victreebell and it’s pre-evolutions. I’ve kept many, and variants are something I research, so you can imagine the amount collected here. They’re very handy in summer should you get large infestations of bug Pokemon anywhere else, as their diet is all about eating other living things, and they don’t like rich soil or plant feed at all. Herd them to the bugs that bother you and let them hunt, you’ll soon have things under control again.

There’s a lot of Mudkip, Stunkfish, Quagsire, you know, mud lovers, and their watery ways can mean you have a lot of Pokemon able to keep the water levels high. This space needs to almost be submerged in water at all times, dry roots can lead to unhealthy buddies.

One thing to note is windows. You need to have access for bugs in this space. The species within have specific diets that Pokemon food doesn’t quite do justice, so allowing them to lure bugs in with their scent, and eat healthy correct diets will lead to far better health for your carnivorous friends.

Extra notes:

Theres the obvious, a standard, sturdy, average grow house. The beautiful basics to all the areas I’ve discussed above. Without just a space to store, to care, to grow, and to keep, none of the beautiful public spaces would look half as good. We have overflow greenhouses for winter, for overcrowding, for if the torterra want to come in, or if we get a large herd of Tropius sent to us who hate the frost. Grass types come in a lot of shapes and sizes, but should a large set come your way, these spare zones come in handy. If you have the space, set a few up, even if they’re storage most of the time, they will come in handy eventually. There’s a lot that happens behind the scenes, so make room for this.

THERE IS NO RIGHT SET OF POKEMON. I mean this seriously, I picked who I knew would suit the work, it’s not right for everyone. Grass Pokemon may have a good understanding of what plants and other grass types need, but you need to find species who are caring and patient. I’ve seen a lot of grass Pokemon who are fighters, impatient, stroppy and even aggressive, and they’d not suit this kind of work at all. You need to pick your team based on their personality, not just their type or species. Take your time and don’t be afraid to switch out their work load, try new things, and test an unusual Pokemon in a job position if you see potential in them. It’s a myth that grass Pokemon will be best for other grass Pokemon. I find I use a lot of other types to handle them, and often bugs will chew and eat at your grass types, so you have to pick carefully. Be clever with your research on this all.

Don’t think this set of Pokemon will take the workload off of your shoulders. A greenhouse needs YOUR time too, you need to throw some tough gloves on and get stuck in, or your team mates won’t feel enthusiastic about the work. Lead by example, work hard with them, weed and sow seed, trim, care for, and be part of the process, and it will feel all the sweeter when plants and Pokemon bloom and grow into beautiful things.

I find if you get stuck, if a Pokemon or plant won’t grow right, or keeps getting sick, take a step back, reevaluate what your method is, and take a look at their home. We forget that every plant and Pokemon has an actual originating location, and if we can emulate those conditions, their survival chances go up drastically! It’s not always easy, so don’t be afraid to google stuff, whip your phone out and have a good scroll around. There’s no such thing as a stupid question, so ask anything and everything.

A cheeky helpful tip, some Pokemon learn sleep powder, and many think that this move doesn’t affect other grass types, which is a pain because this move is very handy when dealing with difficult Pokemon. It in fact does affect other grass types, but only those who cannot also learn the attack. So an oddish can put a Leafeon to sleep who cannot learn the move, but not a Morelull, who can also learn sleep powder.

This was a BIG ONE but we have a lot of greenhouse, all catered for differently, so here’s hoping this helps your endeavours.

[jojo-reader-hell]

(The bio says that requests are open but if they aren’t, feel free to delete this!) Jotaro’s sibling (whether his twin or just a younger sibling) nearly dying/getting severely hurt during the adventure and both of them trying to process it as best they can. Light angst - nothing too heavy around here! I’m just a sucker for sibling stuff.

Ask and ye shall receive my child.

Jotaro and Sibling!Reader

(Had to add grandpa in there too because I love this part of the SDC OVA 🥺)

It’s so cold, but they won’t let you stay.

They constantly push you away from their warmth, even though you’re trying to fight to go where they are. You don’t want to go back to the cold that’s waiting for you. No matter how many times they tell you that if you return to the cold it will warm up again.

Baby... please breathe!

“Please darling, go back! She’s calling to you!”

“I don’t want to! It’s too cold!” You broke free from the hands trying to keep you away, crying when your path was blocked.

Please fight!

“No! Go back love. It ain’t your time yet!”

“Please don’t make me go! It’s so cold... I don’t want to be cold anymore!”

No matter which way you try to run, they stop you. You try to cling to a dress, or duck underneath an arm, nothing deters them from trying to make you return. The older one is strict and swats at you when you try to cling to his wife’s dress. Another one, young and blonde, asks his grandfather for assistance in corralling you. The other one with the scar helps the two. In the meantime you hear voices calling to you from the cold. They sound familiar, you’re sure you know them from somewhere. But you want the warmth that awaits you with the ones trying to push you away, if only they’d let you through. Maybe if you’d slap the tall top hat off the man and dodged between his grandson’s legs you’d be home free...

Just as you attempt to try, a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you into a warm, familiar chest. You beg and plead with your captor. You want to go with everyone else, the coldness you want to leave behind is seeped in pain and suffering. It’s easier with her and the rest of them.

Don’t leave me...

“My love, look! Your mother wants you back with her. Just go.”

It’s your captor’s husband. You try and reach for him but his normally welcoming arms are closed off to you.

“Sweet pea it’s time to go back to them!” She insists, enlisting the help of her son when you struggle and cry.

“No! No I don’t want to go back! I want to stay with you!” You can feel the hot tears streaming down your face. A voice continues to call your name but you pretend like you don’t hear it.

I need you... I need you!

“Don’t let me go back there all alone...” you sob.

“You will not be alone.” She insists, and you can feel her dragging you back to that cold path.

“I love you so much.” She coos.

“If you love me you’ll let me stay!”

You try one last desperate attempt to play on her heart strings, maybe if you guilt her into keeping you with all of them... but it doesn’t work. She pushed you forward into the cold maelstrom, the snow storm howling like wolves and drowning out the noise of everyone in the warmth telling you they love you too. As her voice fades away, the calls that wait in the cold get louder and louder.

The last thing you remember is her sweet words:

“We all love you. You will never be alone, I will be with you always. I love you. You hurry back and be good! Tell your grandpa to take you home, that Granny said so… you tell him to stop pouting and make sure you’re loved... we all say so-!”

Papa! Mama! Come quick!

It’s like being born all over again. Your lungs are burning with your first cry of pain, you have no control over any facial movement, let alone any type of movement. You want to open your eyes, or at least let the tears stream down your cheeks freely. Even your crying sounds infantile. You fight the ventilator they have you on, struggling to breathe on your own even though it doesn’t feel like you can draw a breath to save your life. It hurts so badly. Everything does. Your legs, hands, arms, head, so many things feel broken or frost bitten, and you want the warmth you were surrounded by.

They’ve pushed everyone you love out of the room by the time you’ve come to, and the doctors don’t seem to care one way or another if you’re lonely. The kind voice of the one who sent you back is nowhere to be found. She lied to you. No one is going to stay with you. All you can do at this point is cry. Cry for someone to come get you and help you.

You spend the whole night and most of the morning alone, save for a few nurses that come in to assist you with the ever embarrassing prospect of changing your catheter drainage bag. Every so often, they have to clear the mucus from your lungs. It’s arduous and painful, and makes you gag every time. There’s no way you can eat on your own now. They’ve told you that the doctors don’t want to take you off the machine just yet. It will most likely take a couple weeks to wean you off, so for now all of your meals are taken courtesy of a tube they put down your nose. You’re not sure what they’re feeding you. It’s not like you can taste anything, but you sure feel the coldness going down the tube in your throat. When you whine, they discuss warming your food in the future. Like it’s an afterthought.

No one allows you visitors until you are fed and given pain medication, and then, it’s only one person for an hour per day. Your mother is the first one in, shuffling towards you quietly and whispering your name.

Holly can’t hold you like she wants to. She wants to cuddle you, kiss you, try to comfort you, but all they allow her to do is hold your hand. After hearing her encouragement, you realize this whole time she was the one calling out to you, telling you how much she needed you.

“Baby… you did it!” She encourages every small milestone, smiling and wiping the tears from your face and dribbling her own on you.

“You made it through the worst of it, I’m sure you did. You’re going to get better. And when we get better, we’re going back to SoHo with your big brother. Won’t you like that my love?”

All you can manage is to squeeze her hand. SoHo… Even the name makes you feel lighter. It’s when your heart beats faster at the prospect that the doctors and nurses usher your mother out of the room all too quickly, each one fussing over you and helping to only make the situation worse.

Time blends together. It feels as though sometimes you can only tell the passage of time by who has come in to see you. Your grandpa comes after your mother, he seems strained, angry, but he reassures you that everything is fine when you make your sad eyes at him. He still holds your hand gently and tells you that you’ll be ok. Nonna Suzie echoes his sentiments on the next visit. The nurses even allow her to kiss you, and you can make the tiniest whimper when she says how much she loves you. She says the same thing your mother did: you’re going home with all of them after you get better.

“Nonna got you some beautiful outfits to wear on the plane ride home. And we have your room all ready. I’m going to make you something special to eat, anything you want my love. Ok?”

A weak whine. Your only affirmation. After she’s ushered out of the room you close your eyes, wondering who else will come to see you. It alternates between your mother and grandma, your Grandpa’s appearances are peppered throughout but they don’t often last too long. Joseph is troubled, mind miles away now that he knows you’re ok. Even Jean Pierre stayed to see you recover. He insists that he’ll stay in New York with you for a short time to make sure you’re back on your feet.

It’s hard to measure time in visits at first. Eventually you start getting better at being able to make out details like the clock on the wall. You expect everyone at certain times. The nurses to change and clean you between each feed. The doctors to monitor your progress. Your feedings of breakfast, lunch, dinner. And your visits which are always after breakfast.

They start letting in more than one person in at a time. It’s mostly your mother and Nonna. You notice that your mother looks strained, holding Suzie’s hand and yours the whole time they’re with you. Grandpa and Polnareff come together, but Grandpa never stays long and will kiss you absently.

It’s not until they take out the feeding tube and the ventilator for good that Jotaro comes to see you at last.

Thus far, they have you on so many meds you don’t do a whole lot of talking. A few grunts, murmurs of “uh huh” or “no” if you can manage. So it wasn’t as if you could ask if Jotaro even made it through the carnage. He looks like his usual self, save for a scar or two and a cast on his arm.

“Bubba…” your first words are his nickname. He doesn’t smile. Just takes your hand in his and kisses your knuckles softly.

“You ok?” He asks.

It takes too much effort to shake your head no, so you whimper it out. He sits closer to you, Jotaro’s love language has always been his presence, but you notice now he’s trying to let you know he’s there by touch. He lets go of your hand after a while and begins doing little things like wiping the sweat from your brow or smoothing out your hair.

“... it’ll be ok.” He says.

His voice is low. You appreciate the fact that your stoic big brother wants to be near you now. After what happened both of you seem to be unsure of what to say to one another, you have a lot of burning questions now that some of the pain is gone.

“... happened...?” You manage weakly.

He hesitates. Just for a little bit.

“... They said you had a lot of bad breaks. No lacerations, some internal bleeding. Skull fracture though, but nothing that required them to shave your hair to operate. Your Stand... the ice protected you from the worst of it. It kept growing. Said that you had some areas that were frost nipped though. You have some spinal injuries and your legs are braced. They also said you wouldn’t remember what happened.”

That was true. You didn’t remember much of anything before you woke up. Vaguely you recall some little key points, but it’s nothing that Jotaro seems to want to push. He tells you that as soon as it was over, Holly woke up and your ice melted. By then it was a matter of rushing you to the hospital where they said you might not make it out alive. Grandpa had gotten on the horn with Suzie Q and Holly. As relieved as he was that his daughter was alive, he knew this might be the one chance she had to see her own child. You were still in a deep coma by the time she got in to see you. Now that Dio was gone, she was able to get anywhere she needed to a lot faster. Granny followed her, had been taking care of her as best she could when your mother nearly lost her will to live seeing you so beat up.

Apparently you’d almost died a few more times. Your heart seemed like it was struggling to keep up. At one point it did stop, and you remember the numerous people telling you to go back to everyone.

But that’s not something you think you’ll tell anyone anytime soon.

“We’re not going back to Japan now...” he says.

“Why?”

They tell you that you’re going to the penthouse in SoHo nearly every day, but they don’t say why. You hadn’t been looking forward to returning to Japan, but in some part of your mind accepted it.

Jotaro leans back in his chair. He looks stiff and agitated again.

“... mom and dad are getting divorced. The whole time you were out, she tried to get a hold of him. Jiji pulled a few strings and got through, but he said he couldn’t leave the tour now when they were almost done. Told mom that you’d pull out of it and he’d see you when you got home...”

Good old dad. You thought. You could literally be dying and he’d insist you’d be ok and he’d see you later on. What would have happened if you had literally croaked, you wonder dryly that he probably would have said “oh, I’ll see my kid at the funeral”, then probably send his regards the day of by letter.

“Mom snapped.” His words make you refocus on what’s happening instead of the what if. “She... I never heard her get that angry in her life. Called him a worthless piece of shit, said that if you died and she caught him beating his chest about how much he loved you that she’d make sure his death looked like an accident. Told him not to bother calling back, or even to expect a home to go to once touring was over. She even told him that if you died, not only was your blood on his hands, but that he needn’t bother showing up to your funeral.”

It must have been bad... Jotaro even shudders at the memory, and you suspect that the version you got of the story is the PG version. You can’t imagine what she said to your father, nor can you imagine what would have happened if Joseph had been in the vicinity. Doubtless he’d made a few threats of his own. Probably why he couldn’t even stay focused on you during visiting hours. He was probably plotting his next journey to kill your “deadbeat Jap” father, as his racist tendencies would often so eloquently refer to your sire.

“Everything’s moved to New York now.” He continued. “It took them 24 hours. That was maybe three weeks ago. Now that you’re off the ventilator, the doctors said that they’ve got a plane ready for us to medically repatriate you stateside. At some point they’re going to do more testing. They’re going to continue to treat you in home. You’ll probably need to learn to walk again. Great Grandma is going to come and take care of you too. Says she might be able to help you get back to your old self again.”

His time is nearly up. The nurses and doctors are mad dogging him from the doorway. You can already feel that it’s time to have your drip bag cleaned and to try having a normal bowel movement, and by the looks of the extra doctors, it seems this must be the day they examine you for medical repatriation. Before he gets up to leave however, you both feel the icy touch of your Stand taking hold of both of you.

Well... looks like that little problem wouldn’t go away even if Dio was dead.

“Grandpa... tell grandpa...” you manage. You can already feel the pain coming as the doctors try to scold you for over exerting yourself. But Jotaro knows. He knows you need to tell him one thing before he goes back to everyone else.

You tell him the last words you remember. Queen of Swords smiling down on both of you without her helmet or veil on. It’s the first time you’ve seen her during this whole recovery period.

“Tell grandpa...” it’s an effort, but you’re going to try to get it all out at Queen’s encouragement. “Granny said take me home... make sure... love me... Granny, ‘n everyone said so...”

He notices Queen of Swords smiling at him. She looks roughed up, some of her clothes are ripped and each correlating arm or body part is frozen where you’re injured. Her long white hair is disheveled, fallen into a half ponytail where the rest of her long tresses trail down her back. But she looks happy, pets his arm and hums ever so gently. When did she gain this sentience? And more importantly, why does she look so familiar without her helmet?

“I’ll tell him.” He reassures you.

Joseph had to have been shaken from his icy demeanor, because by the next visit, he breaks the rules to hold you gently in his arms, telling you to tell Granny not to worry. He’s going to take you home and make sure you’re never going to lack for love again.

Queen of Swords smiles down on both of you, petting your grandpa’s hair and humming. It only makes him break harder, because it’s a lullaby he’s not heard since he was a small boy.

Granny Erina didn’t lie after all, you think to yourself as you manage to wrap your arms around your grandpa’s back. She didn’t leave me, not once.

[binniesthighs]

hello stranger | reader x changbin |

Part 3 

Pairing: self insert, female reader x seo changbin, female reader x han jisung 

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, angst 

Tags: (of this part) college au, rapper!changbin, rapper!jisung, artist!reader, establishedfwb!jisung, skz side characters, explicit language, conflicting feelings angst, reader has past trauma/trust issues (implied), fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms (implied), fluffy n’ intimate body touching (this is a thing I think lol), lil bit of nipple play, seo changbin being the soft soft dom of my SOUL 

Word count: 4.6k 

Chapters 

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

ding-ding-diNG! 

Your teeth chattered, battling the early morning frigid air. White wisps of your shaking breath vaporized in front of you. Your arms were tightly wrapped around your chest and your knees bounced with a little dance to keep your blood flowing. 

[02:29] CB

me: where the hell are you? are you coming down? 

Your dry and cold fingers typed out the words hurriedly on your phone screen. One more time, you smashed your finger on the buzzer button. You figured that if he had fallen asleep after inviting you over, you would kill him. 

“Come on, come on,” you hissed into the open air. 

Thick footsteps came clomping down the stairs from the other side of the frosted glass door, and your attention quickly whipped over. 

As expected, he had adorned himself in nearly all black clothing. Nevertheless, he had thought to pull out his silver chain over the padded coat with white stripes down the arms. 

“Took you long enough. Let me in, I feel like my toes are frozen.” 

Changbin’s eyes cast down to your thin canvas sneakers you had put on in your haste, which were now covered in snow. 

“You should have worn better shoes then. Lets get going.” 

“--Get going??” 

He swung the door behind him closed and it locked with a little click. 

“We’re going somewhere?” 

“I’m hungry.” Changbin simply announced, then took off walking down the block. 

“I thought that--” 

“--Keep up. It’s not that far.” 

He led the two of you onward, and you snuck one more look up at him and the way that the snowflakes got tangled in his hair. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Here, be careful, it’s hot.” 

After brushing off the ice crusted bench, Changbin presented to you a giant bowl of steaming noodles so large you guessed you could keep live fish in it. The smell of the broth was dreadfully nostalgic and was full of all of your favorite ingredients, almost as if he had known exactly what you would’ve ordered. You couldn’t help but feel giddy while the steam wafted up your nose. 

You wondered with full eyes, “Oh my god, what is this?” 

“-The best thing that you’ll ever have in your life. You might as well thank me now.” 

You pulled the little heater closer towards the two of you with radiating orange coils. Changbin didn’t skip a beat sitting right down next to you, letting the fabric of both of your coats intermingle. 

“This is my favorite place in the city. Their recipes really remind me of my mom and grandma’s.” 

“Well I’m really excited to try.” You blew off a handful of noodles steaming into your nose while Changbin expectantly watched you hork it down. 

“So?” 

You covered your chomping mouth with your hand. “So, so good.” 

“Hmm.” He scoffed, then there was that smug little smirk of his. 

You thought to yourself that it was kind of cute. 

The two of you sat quietly together, watching the silent sounds of the snowfall on the road in front of you, following the cars that passed. Over time, your body seemed to gravitate: bit by bit and piece by piece, closer to the boy next to you. 

Changbin set down his metal chopsticks with a tiny clink on the table. “So, are you going to tell me about yourself now?” 

“Me?” 

“Didn’t I say last time I wanted to know?” 

You remembered, but this time you couldn’t as easily kiss away the questions on his lips. 

“How do you mean? There isn’t too much to know.” 

“I don’t think that’s true. What is it that you study?” 

“You want to know what I study?” 

You nearly laughed in your surprise at the mundane question considering that the person sitting across from you had seen you turned inside out, a moaning and muttering mess upon first meeting, and he wanted to know what you studied? 

“Why does that matter?” 

“Matters ‘cause I want to know.” He simply returned, and gave you that look. 

Normally his eyes were stormy grey, like the way that the sky would sizzle with energy before lighting would crack. They clouded with severity that seemed dangerous when he was angry, or when there was something that he wanted. But, looking at you like this, there was no danger that they held. 

“Are you going to tell me or just keep glaring at me like that?” Changbin nodded to your nearly empty bowl. “Finish that. Don’t let it go cold.” 

You did as you were told--at least it wasn’t answering the question. 

“Fine. You don’t have to tell me. But tell me something else at least. Why were you at that show?” 

“My friends took me? My friend Chan is really into underground rap and stuff like that so he usually drags me and Felix with him. I don’t mind.” 

“See? Was answering that that hard?” 

You had forgotten, then laughed a little to yourself. “Chan actually was there to see you. He had heard about you from whatever those circles are. He was really excited.” 

“I’m actually glad you were there for that reason. For a second there I thought you might’ve said that you were there to see Han Jisung.” 

You nearly spat out your bite of noodles, and choked a little on the broth. 

“Guy’s a fuckin’ showboat and a cocky asshole. The girls at the shows are usually there for him.” 

“What the fuck? You didn’t just say that.” 

Anger bit like acid in your throat. 

“What? He is!!” 

It should have hurt more that he had assumed that you were one of the masses that would fall over their feet for Han Jisung, but it didn’t. Your chest twisted in knots knowing that the assumption was right--that hurt the most. You felt sick knowing now how he would look at you if he knew where you would stoop. 

“I’m complimenting you!! I’m glad that you don’t waste your time on assholes like him.” 

“Since when do you get to pass judgement on who I do and don’t spend my time with? -And aren’t you one of those same assholes? Up there on that stage, what makes you think that you’re any different from the rest of them?” 

“I mean...I like to think that I’m not--” 

Your eyes rolled back so far it might’ve hurt a little. 

“You’re all the fucking same. I’m so fucking stupid.” 

The words quietly fell off your lips like venom. 

“We’re all?” What are you talking about?” 

“And what the hell is this with trying to get up all in my business? We fucked once Changbin, what more do you want from me? You think I owe you something now? I’m not falling for that again.” 

The crunch of your footsteps padded the snow when you turned out of your seat to speed away from him as fast as you could, and as far as you could. 

He was the unbelievable one. 

“Stop! I don’t get what you’re talking about. Falling for what again? You’re not making any sense! And no, I don’t think that you owe me something. I’m sorry if you thought that. I’m just--” He grabbed at your arm. 

“--WHAT?” you tore his hand away. 

“Is it a fucking crime to fuck someone and then give a damn about them? Ever heard about that happening?” 

In your life? 

Something terrible and suffocating rose in your chest that felt like a sob that you had held in for much too long. 

“Listen.” Changbin approached you closer, carefully, that look softening. “It’s freezing out here, it’s late. We...don’t have to talk about it any more. I’ll take you back to my place, I’ll call you a cab, you can go home? Okay?” 

Changbin poked out his arm looped in his pocket for you to link up to. 

You didn’t need his help when you knew the way. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝ 

Rosemary and cedarwood again. It was like it was everywhere. It was in the hoodie that he insisted that you put on and all entangled in the fabric of that blanket that he draped around your shoulders. Had you remembered what it was like under the covers of his bed, it was likely there too. 

“Warming up?” 

The bed bounced a little where he sat next to you with the tips of his ears pink. As cold as you were, you were certain that he must have been colder. 

“I’m fine. Thank you.” You crossed up your cold feet under your legs. 

“20 minutes? Then I’ll call them?” 

You nodded, pulling up the blanket hem to your nose and covering half your face. 

Changbin breathed out a little laugh. “You look like a marshmallow.” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

“Not a bad thing.” 

His smile fell, and he focused on the silver rings twisting around his fingers. He fiddled with them, and you watched, neither of you knowing really what to do with the silence. After some resolve, he crawled over next to you, to lay facing your bundled up face.

At last, he sighed, “I could tell you about me. If you care.” 

Rather than respond, you merely kept on looking at the way the silver would glimmer in the dim yellow of the light. 

“Everything that I do, I do to rap and to perform. My parents never supported me doing this kind of thing and said that if I wanted to do it, I would loose their support. After a while, I realized their support wasn’t that valuable anyway if it was going to be over something that didn’t matter to me. I moved out after high school, I’ve been doing this ever since.” 

“You like it that much?” 

He cracked his fingers, “Sometimes you just know what it is that you’re gonna spend your life doing. For me, it’s this.” 

Your eyes fell to your own hands which still were speckled with little flecks of acrylic. 

“I know what you mean.” 

“You do?” 

“I...paint. And stuff like that. It’s not my major, it could never be, but I feel like that when I’m mixing the colors together and it’s just right. Helps me get the thoughts outta my head.” 

“Yeah...it’s exactly like that.” 

In the warmth of the blankets, you felt a yawn escape your lips and your eyes grow heavy. Your vision had grown blurry, and your dry eyes begged for sleep, but you could still see the way that creeping little smile tugged at his lips. 

You thought to yourself that it was kind of cute. 

“Thank you for telling me something about you.” 

His voice was some kind of dreamy watercoloring of pale pinks and blues. You thought you had likely imagined it. The weight of his hand on your arm felt weightless too, why was it lingering here? His fingers tickled your ear while he swept your hair behind the skin. 

The way that he whispered, “You’re making me want to kiss you.” must have been some kind of dream too. 

Laying like this, right by your side reminded you for before, and the way that your brain had gone cloudy--you could’ve kissed him like that for hours. 

“You...didn’t stop yourself before.” 

Your challenge was all that he needed to take both sides of your face into his hands connecting himself to you incessantly, but gently. He spilled into your mouth kisses of sky blue and lavender, every single one more dedicated than the last. He kissed like he was dizzy and that you would make it all right for him, and like you were the one that he could find over and over. His mouth was blazing hot with warmth and he missed no part of you, moving on to kiss you in places you didn’t know needed the attention: over your bottom and top lip, in the corners of your mouth and the tip of your nose, carefully on the peach fuzz on your cheeks and the bone of your jawline. Each one was purposeful and sweet and melted into your skin snowflakes. 

His wandering hands were cold under the blankets, but you didn’t mind the sensation against your bare skin where he crept his way in, smoothing over the curves of your body. 

Changbin cascaded is way down, pulling you in by the hips closer to his own body. Your core tightened feeling his hands trickle over your waistband. 

“Can I?” He whispered into his kisses. 

You nodded: your exhaustion mixed with some state of unconscious desperation that you had entwined together, and you were completely at his mercy once more. 

“Yes. I’ve...wanted you to.” 

He popped the button and unzipped your pants with little effort, slipping those same cold fingers into the heat of your folds. You shivered with the two temperatures mingling and the pressure of his fingers on your slicked bud in little circles. 

All you could manage were a couple of attempts at forming some kind of words that would eventually get caught in your throat. With one hand, you clawed at the fabric of his tee, hoping just a little that he liked the way that your nails would dig into his skin. His digits mingled all in your arousal, and brought it back up to your clit to make it twitch. After a while he would let you throw your head back into the pillows to feel every little bit of it and focus only on the way that he would press his fingers in harder and faster, then tease you over with barely touching you at all. He would remove his fingers too, to admire the way that it would string between them, leaving you a writhing mess without him. 

“Bin, please, just wanna--” 

You didn’t need to finish your sentence before he granted your wish. He sped up for you, rubbing in perfect circles for your clit to throb under his touch, closer and closer... 

“Can I--?” 

He didn’t answer you, but instead, leaned down to fill your mouth with more kisses and maintained his pace with forearm muscles flexing slightly. 

Your orgasm was faster and much harder than you had expected: it rocked your whole body, from top to bottom where your legs thrashed and your toes curled. The muscles of your stomach tensed, and you felt your whole core spring upward as you came. Luckily, you remembered to be quiet and kept your breath short and sharp, letting only the tiniest of moans meet the air. 

Changbin helped you ride your orgasm out until you could take no more sensation, then stopped, snapping your underwear hem a little on the way up. He held you close as you caught your breath, snickering a little when your body would shake. Your euphoria calmed you down into an even more exhausted state, but the way that the endorphins coursed though you felt like a high. Greedily, the closeness and the way that your head spun made the word slip out of your mouth. 

“More?” 

Changbin said nothing while he indulged you and peppered your skin with kisses in all those places that you didn’t know needed the attention. He would smile into your lips each time that you would come undone; slipping deeper and deeper into him. 

“M-more. I just want...one...more.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Just skipping one class isn’t the end of the world. You know that you look like a mess right?” 

Minho, your assigned seat partner turned friend-in-suffering poked his pencil at the baggy black hoodie that you had forgotten to return. On the bus ride to campus, you had realized that you hadn’t taken it off. 

“I know, alright? You don’t have to remind me.” 

“You gonna tell me about it?” Minho poked at you once more with his teasing grin. You retaliated by raising your phone up as if to chuck it at his head. 

Behind the two of you, a group of two ambitious girls hushed as they organized their plethora of colored pens and highlighters. Minho bowed a little sorry in apology. 

His voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m assuming that this isn’t yours.” 

“I-it’s new. I just haven’t worn it before.” 

He scanned over the fabric and the little white brand on the left sleeve. “Huh. Must be a popular one I guess. I’m pretty sure that my one of my friends has the same one.” 

“--Will you lend me something to write on...and with? I...didn’t bring my stuff with me.”

“Really.” Your classmate tore out a piece of his notebook paper--a little extra loudly as well--just for those eavesdropping girls behind you. “You should’ve just not come.” 

To your left, your phone vibrated with the screen illuminated: 

Low Battery: 20% 

[10:39] 

felix: I can’t believe you. You went over there again? Didn’t you say that he looked at you weird or something like that?? What happened?? 

Your heart dropped a little remembering how you had pardoned Felix’s worried nagging and turned on the Find My Friends feature in your phone. 

“shit.” 

Your phone screen lit up the underside of your table as you frantically tapped through your settings to turn off the slide bar. In the corner of your eye, you had seen Minho take his phone under the table as well. 

[10:41]  

CB: good job leaving your keys at my place 

i can’t get them back to you until much later. i’ve got work. 

“shit.” 

me: i have work until later too 

and sorry 

CB: my roommate said that he could get them to you at 5. you’ll be at the library then? 

me: your roommate?? 

CB: relax. he doesn’t give a shit. 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

You read over the messages over and over, refreshing the little chat nearly every two seconds. Over the time waiting, your hand had grown embarrassingly damp, and your foot nervously tapped at the floor to the same tune that your chest thumped with your anxiety. 

This was fucking humiliating. 

Granted, you were no stranger to unsavory behavior, but somehow, this felt even worse. Furthermore, it all could have been avoided: 

What the hell had happened last night? 

It was becoming all too a common theme for you: you didn’t remember falling asleep, only waking up to the blaring of your alarm to those obnoxious Tardis sounds that were just a little too out of date...considering that you had long past all that Dr. Who stuff. 

Changbin had actually left the bed all to you, waking up some time a little before you from sleeping on the couch and offering you some horribly cheap tasting coffee. You still drank it. 

CB: just stand somewhere by the front door. i told him that’s where you’ll be. 

The library overlooked the main quad of your university. In the wintertime, the trees that encircled the usually grassy circle were reduced to craggy and bare fingers powdered in the white snow. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” You scolded yourself though clenched teeth. 

“--Y/n?” 

He had snuck up on you, coming from the right, rather than the front of the entrance. 

You squeaked out, “Oh fuck.” 

Minho twisted your jingling keys around his fingers. 

“This is...” Minho laughed out incredulously, “...a coincidence.” 

You clawed your keys from his hand with a hasty “Thanks.” 

His eyes scanned you up and down as if he was meeting you for the first time, which he certainly wasn’t. 

“The hoodie. Dammit. I should’ve known.” 

“I-I really need to get back inside, they might need me in th--” 

“--So you’ve been screwing him?” 

Your heart thumped even more painfully. 

“Wait, and you’ve been inside my apartment before and I didn’t even know?” 

“Well I didn’t know that you were his roommate!! I didn’t even plan on meeting any of you if I could help it!!” 

“So what is he, like, your type?” 

“HEY. I don’t mean to stay over, it kind of just happens...I didn’t even want to see him after the first time--” 

Minho scoffed then shoved his pink hands into the pockets of his navy and white striped bomber jacket. 

“Will I be seeing you around there now?” 

“--No.” You cut in. “You won’t.” 

Your classmate huffed out a visible breath, “You say that now, but I know that you don’t mean it.” 

“What the hell do you mean?” 

Minho rolled his eyes, then gave the top of your head a chastising pat. 

“If you’re gonna be over, you might as well bring snacks or something. No one in that damn apartment knows how to grocery shop for themselves besides me.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

Too many fucking coincidences. 

You had sat yourself at the exact same table that you had sat at the night before, but this time, you watched as it was Changbin who was standing behind the counter of the noodle shop, taking orders, and smiling much too widely for it to have been normal. He was even wearing one of those cutesy little aprons that the rest of the employees had: there was a little chicken embroidered in the corner next to his nametag. 

To anyone else, it made no logical sense why you had decided to show up there: but your frazzled brain still working off your embarrassment from earlier thought this was the best thing to do. You felt like yelling just to get something out of your body. It wasn’t even his fault that his roommate happened to be one of your friends. Your head however, made it his fault. 

He had clocked you from where you had sat fuming, not even looking phased at all. In fact, he had dished out for you one of those smirks. One of those stupid, cute smirks. 

“See you tomorrow.” He clapped his coworker on the back while he took off his apron. 

The shop door creaked out when he opened it. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here. You really wanted to see me that soon already?” 

You shoved the bundle of his hoodie from your hands to his. 

“Here.” 

“You came all this way just to give me my hoodie back? That and I’m assuming Minho told you that I work here.” 

“How come you didn’t tell me that before?” 

“Didn’t seem that important--” 

At last, you let yourself snap. “--You made a fucking fool of me today!! Do you know how awful it was??” 

“Ahhh Minho did say something about knowing you.” 

You had expected sympathy, but rather he teased you with that little cocky grin. Had you known any better, it was almost like he was admiring how flustered you had become. 

One, two, then three fat raindrops fell from from the sky and onto his parka, then the rest followed all at once. The bits of slushy and freezing rain barreled in suddenly and fell sideways. It slapped against the sidewalks and pattered on the shutters and gutters of the buildings lining the road.

“Great! This is just great!!” You pulled your coat over your head. 

Changbin grabbed at your hand without hesitation. “Come with me.” 

╚ ——————————————— ╝

“Open the door!! Open the door!!” 

Frozen bits of snow and rain matted your hair and dripped off into your collar; meeting your bare skin. Your entire body felt as if it had been plunged into a freezing cold ocean, and you shook with ferocity. By now, your jeans had completely soaked through with with water and the denim stuck to your legs. 

Changbin fumbled with his wallet and wet fingers, finally unlocking the door with that same, 

ding-ding-diNG! 

The heater in the little vestibule blasted you with heat upon your entrance: a welcome feeling to your drenched body. He had reached out for your hand to guide you to the elevator even though you knew the way. 

Water dropped off your bodies into the linoleum floor of the elevator and it got all muddled too by prints from your shoes. After, you followed him further into the apartment building, to the very place you had sworn up and down that you would never see again. You didn’t know how many more times you would have to say it out loud before you would actually obey your own words. 

“Fuck--it’s so cold.” 

Changbin clinked his keys into the brass keyhole in the long and dank hallway that had matted red velvet carpeting. There was an odd and old-looking stain in front of his door that you had noticed last time. 

“It’ll be warmer inside.” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

He didn’t need to, but he reached out to you once more to pull you through the doorframe. A sense of determination seemed to sweep over him, and you could just barely see that stormy expression cloud over his eyes. 

“Ah! Y/n! How nice to see you here officially at last!” 

Minho perked up from his book where he was cuddled up on one of those pleather couches in the living room. 

Changbin didn’t give you a chance to to respond, but rather tugged you away down the hallway to the bathroom at the very end nearest his room. 

“Changbin, what are you--” 

He slammed the door behind the two of you, then flicked on the lights at the exact same time as he crashed his whole body into you, flattening your back against the door and scooping up both sides of your face to run his cold lips over yours. His hands were just as cold, and the tips of his bangs dripped tiny droplets of water onto your forehead. 

In your shock, your hands were suspended in the air, but he just as quickly took them to wrap them around his sides. 

The wooden door rattled a little behind your back, but the sounds faded when he deepened his kiss: floating his tongue over your bottom lip and letting out a breathy little gasp along with it. 

“Fuck. You’re really good at making me want you.” 

His voice had turned grave with his want, and he never broke your gaze while he peeled off every single piece of your soaked clothing. His eyes ravished your bare skin riddled with goosebumps, and he immediately took to kissing into your shoulders and collarbones once he had access. You tried your best to help him take his clothes off too, but instead he pushed your hands away to do the task himself. Once he had finished, he connected his lips with yours. 

“Touch me.” He commanded of you. 

You found the request odd, but you still obliged him, starting by running your hands down this pecs then to his abs and around his waist where you scratched at the skin of his lower back. He did the same to you: tracing gentle fingers down your breasts, then going to kneed at them, tweaking the buds just slightly. It wasn’t for long until he encapsulated you completely into his arms, then drew a line into your spine with his ring finger. 

Your body warmed by the second: skin now set ablaze by his teeth grazing the skin of your neck. 

He drew you along with him, then turned on the water to the shower with a metallic sounding groan. Within a couple minutes the whole room filled with a dense steam. He lead you in to the small compartment, stopping too for a moment to watch the way that the water flowed down your body in little transparent veins.

“You’re perfect.” He whispered into the nape of your neck. 

The showering of water was too loud for you to hear, and it wasn’t like you were paying attention anyway. Your phone vibrated where it at fallen in your mess of clothes on the tiled floor. 

[23:27] 

jisung: what the hell’s been up with you the past few days? 

phone break or something?? 

you didn’t see the other texts I sent you? 

are you doing anything right now? 

...

are you 

ok? 

[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part ii

part i    part iii  AO3 

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 2.918

Warnings: some mild sexual content and swearings, like usual

Author’s note:��okay, i know this one's a little short but i promise there'll be more coming on the next chapter, i promise.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The first time Bell showed her face at Langley, it was two weeks after the program. She wore beige, a ruffled high-neck blouse that made her hazel eyes, like charred nut shells, hard and just about indestructible, popped.

She stood at the lobby, regarding the place like she’d waltzed into a wrong banquet hall, the band played in the background, chandeliers dripping like arctic icicles, the bar drenched in opulent gold.

She didn’t belong here.

But Adler met her there, anyway, Hudson in tow.

“Have I ever done something to him?” Bell asked after the rather short-lived meeting, squinting at the vacant spot Hudson left them. She’d yielded very few words. When she did, it’d been all business, crisp, so it surprised him now to hear her uttering something with more than 2 syllables.

“What do you mean?”

“Have I deliberately done something to piss him off?” she elaborated, quieter, but the glower remained.

Adler carefully studied her behind his tinted shades. It still troubled him to a degree that he couldn’t read her. Like she locked herself off. They say eyes are the window to the soul, but thus far, he saw nothing. Fuck the poets.

“No. At least, not as far as I can tell,” he grits out, curious to see where she was heading with the conversation. “Why?”

Bell hummed, but seemingly unconvinced. A beat, then: “He doesn’t seem to like me that much.”

You don’t belong here, he thought and his face went cagier, back stiffer, but no doubt intrigued. Very much so by this mysteriously curious creature.

Perceptive and diamond-sharp intelligent, he pondered. They might have secured the bag after all.

“It's not you. That’s just as warm and fuzzy you’ll see Hudson with everyone, trust me,” he uttered, hoping that she bought the fib. She did. At least, he thought so. “Come on, Bell, we’ve got a job to do.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler finds her outside the garage the next night, smoking alone, reading in secret. The ground is still wet from the rain, straggling cloud wisps and every artery of this place fucking freezes his bones. Bell ditches her gloves inside, but has her coat on, the collar popped up like antennae.

"You aren't cold?" he asks when she doesn’t notice him. Too engrossed in her own bubble. She does look better, though. Park is right about that one at least.

"I'm good," she answers without looking up. "Am I needed for something inside?"

"No, just thought I could use some fresh air."

He’s studying her, raking her from head to toe. Suddenly, he doesn’t care if she would notice him. Then he steps closer, standing next to her, lifting his cigarette to his mouth.

“What are you reading?”

There’s something about this secret element to her that has him on his toes. Everything about her is curious- frustratingly curious, careful, as Bell rolls her neck to meet him. In the low light, she looks quite new, he learns. And his eyes beg for him to linger.  

“Amerika. Kafka,” she says. “Have you read it?”

A subtle shake of his head and, “No.” While Bell nods, silent, like she doesn't know what else to say to him. “Should I? Give it a read?” Adler adds, just to keep the conversation going.

She shrugs, a cloud of smoke escaping her nostrils. “I can’t say that Kafka is ever a favorite of mine, but he really is sui generis. And Amerika is probably the most approachable of all his works? It’s funny too.”

“I never thought I’d hear Kafka and funny in the same sentence.”

“Yeah, well, it’s very subtle. And if only you can understand his nightmarish sense of humor, that is,” she explains, shrugging again, like she’s embarrassed. “I don’t know, maybe you’ll like it.”

Frankly, he hates Kafka. He hates his vatic, dead-eye vision of the world; that acute sense of hopelessness clinging onto his main protagonists like vines, but Adler finds himself nodding, anyway.

“Sure, lend me your copy once you're done with it." If she’s surprised by his answer, she does not tell her. But Adler thinks she’s smiling though- just the barest quirk of her lips, but it’s enough for him to know that she appreciates the gesture.

A brief, unmapped silence ensues.

"I'm sorry, by the way."

Adler arches an eyebrow at her. "For what?"

Bell slots a bookmark into the book, closes it, frowns at it.

"For yesterday. I, uh… I feel like I was being insolent to you.”

He looks sidelong at Bell and tries to read her. Her expression is raw and open, a painting visible through a small tear in the paper. For some reason, that catches him by surprise.

“You already apologized, you know?” Adler teases lamely.

“I know, but still it was uncalled for and very unprofessional of me. You’re my CO, not some random BND agent I’m forced to work with. I shouldn’t have said that," she mumbles softly and sighs, world-weary, heavy, sounding like a woman twice her age. "It will not happen again. I promise you."

"Hey, consider it water under the bridge, kid. You’re in a rather rough place right now, I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he tells her, fond. “What matters is you’re alright. We can’t catch Perseus if you’re green around the gills.”

Her eyes meet his. He meets her back.

“Thank you.” And Bell rotates her body to face him. Mussed brunette hair and sharp cheekbones, mouth kinked up in sympathy as she says, “Is this what you have to put up with all these years?"

He summons a smirk. "With you? More or less."

And then the woman does the unexpected; Bell laughs. She fucking laughs. Delicate sounding, like a tinkling glass, petals wrapped in satin, moonbeams through frosted windows. It dies, too soon to his liking. Adler privately lets the sound of her laughter replays in his head, as if trying to pocket it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s only after Ukraine when he discovers that she smells different. That wintry floral smell of hers that he’s accustomed to is commingling with something else.

But now-

Now, there's music in the air.

Sims does this sometimes, bringing his Zenith Trans-Oceanic, or as he would call it the Tranny, to the safehouse and they would tune in to international radio stations. Cream's Sunshine Of Your Love is playing- or more specifically, their song is 5 seconds away from being cut off abruptly by the DJ. The song reminds him of Vietnam, regrettably. The root of all madness.

“Next up, is my favorite ever track-to-track transition on an album. This is Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage and-”

Adler stops whatever it is he’s scribbling. He sits up, ramrod straight.

“Mind switching to another station?” he asks suddenly, glances up at Sims quickly who, as Adler suspected, is giving him a rather odd look.

“Why?”

"I've always hated Pink Floyd." Only because he’s out of reason. Only because he can feel Bell’s confused stare, searing into his temple. Only because it’s the only way of escaping this. "Change it, please."

Sims opens his mouth. The unspoken: how about that time in Denver?

The telling jerk of Adler’s lips warns him not to ask.

The other man clamps his mouth shut, seemingly gets the message and switches to a different station. He never brings his radio again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Frank Woods is exactly how Adler saw him last time- or since Hue City, that is: tigerish and intimidating- a kick in the head voice, a hurricane in the shape of a man and he is making his way to him right now.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

"So talk."

Woods shakes his head. "Not here."

Adler looks at him at last now, curiosity creeping over him. He then stubs his cigarette, nods once and leads them both to his office.

Once they’re inside, he locks the door, secures the blinds.

“What is it?” Adler takes a seat behind his desk. Woods remains standing. He paces around the room, a hand on his bearded chin.

“What the fuck is going on with your girl?”

Adler doesn’t know which one is worse, the fact that Woods manages to sniff out something going on with Bell or that he just addresses her as his girl. Either way, it's bad. Either way, Adler should have expected the former issue. Woods is astute as he is dangerous. There's a reason why the CIA gave the green light for Mason and Hudson to save him in Da Nang all those years ago, after all.

"What about her?" Adler asks, even-toned, giving nothing away. Even though he is in the ‘need to know’ column regarding Bell’s brainwashing, this is something Adler initially wishes he could keep under wraps.

“Don’t bullshit me, Adler. She has that look on her face- I see it in her eyes. The exact same look Mason has been wearing since ‘Nam,” Woods tells him, point-blank, never being the one to settle for niceties. After Hudson, Adler thinks he simply can’t tolerate the agency anymore.

“I saw it all, remember? Had a fucking front row seat to his relapse and shit, so don’t tell me she’s alright. Not when it looks like she could snap out of it any moment.” Woods has his hands on the table and looks at him dead-on. “Tell me I’m right. Tell me there is something wrong with her.”

He regards the other man coolly. Woods is no longer asking. Adler is out of move.

“You're right,” he answers simply, eventually, tipping his king over on its side, stopping the clock. "Did you talk to Hudson regarding this?"

"Since when did I report to Agent stick-up-his-ass? Fuck no. That's why I came straight to you.” Woods heaves a heavy sigh, like he’s the one with all these burdens. “Now, what the hell’s wrong with her?”

“She’s suffering from brain damage."

“Shit. All that ‘cause of MK-Ultra?”

“One of the few factors that caused it, yes.”

His mouth goes flat. "How bad is it?”

“Bad. We’re trying to minimize for any collateral as we speak, at least until we finally get our hands on Perseus. But she… she might not make it.” Adler leans back in his chair, like his body feels heavy all of the sudden.

Woods nods. Uncharacteristically silent, looking strangely contemplative, sympathetic even. That should be categorized as an oddity itself, Woods and him, two proud Americans, Vietnam veterans and she’s just another red, another blood they would indubitably sacrifice for their country and they’re sympathizing with her? Yet something deep inside Adler, something resonates like the throat of a storm, sinks its teeth into him, confounds him, every time he thinks of her.

Woods crosses his arms over his chest, glances at the door, as if someone might knock anytime soon, then back to him.

"So, what's the plan?" He quickly adds, "if things go south, what are you gonna do?"

"It won't come to that. She'll come through, I know it," Adler counters, suddenly defensive. Whatever the use of his tone indicates, Woods ignores it.

"You sure about that?”

"Are you doubting me?” Adler spits out a retort. A quiet fury grasps him tight, but he forces himself to keep under a tight lid.

Woods holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"Look, I’m just saying, that woman is a loose cannon- you can’t be too careful."

"We have everything under control, Woods. And this is the least of your worry right now."

"Alright, okay. If you say you and Park have her contained already, then fine. I trust you,” he says and heads for the door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Woods says again. He’s facing the door, back to him. “Whatever happens, keep Mason in the dark about any of this."

“Of course. He isn’t on a need to know basis from the very start, you know that.”

"Good. ‘cause the less he knows the better." Woods pauses like he's constructing an entire sentence in his head. He peers over his shoulder. "I mean it. He’s been through enough. I don’t know which ground you crawled up from, but up here, some people implement this kind of civility to other people.”

The words sting, yet Adler stares back at him, seemingly unfazed. "What, you’re saying that I’m simply heartless?”

“Nah,” Woods says, satirical and sardonic. “You’re just Adler.” And with that, he’s gone.

1976

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was eight o'clock on a mid-September evening and Adler found himself coming home to an empty house.

His wife had already left a week prior, crossing the country with a self-proclaimed film critic she'd met at the premiere of The Shining last summer, but Adler didn't know that yet.

He went to the kitchen. Dropped his suitcase, pulled off his coat and scarf. He reeked of cigarettes, cheap air freshener and jet fuel- air travel is simply sickening, in terms of its cost and smell- and in a desperate need of a hot bath.

"Honey?" He switched the lights on. She wasn't here. So Adler headed upstairs, to their room where they would rest their bones every night for the past 15 years. The door was slightly ajar. He expected to see her sleeping from under the duvet, hair splaying all over the pillow.

What he found was a folded note on his bedside table. He stared at it, his heart at his throat, fearing the worst, the unimaginable. He picked the letter and unfolded it.

Forgive me.

Russell,

Live or die, but don't poison everything .

His head did pirouette. So, this was it. This was what it felt like, he thought.

Not heartbreak, not sadness. But a collapse of the world- his world and all he could do was watch from the sidelines.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

1981

Adler stares at the words now, sleeves rolled up, anatomical heart. The paper is fading, wrinkled and it smells like smoke and decay and tears, capped with something akin to regret.

It has his name on it, begins with it, and ends with an apology, written in cursive. Like microscopic snakes dancing around his peripheral vision, hissing in his ears.

Live or die, but don't poison everything.

No one likes to be told that they are sick, but Russell Adler has learned to acknowledge it, embrace it, weaponize it. Her words mean zero shit to him now. You can't condemn someone to the depths of hell when it's the only place he's known all his life.

So, he takes the letter for the last time, remembering how the ink used to smudge his calloused fingers, crumples it up, that satisfying crunch dins in his palm, and tosses it into the fireplace.

The paper crackles. Good fucking riddance. It really takes all this time for him to grow the guts, apparently, and he just stares and stares as the fire begins to engulf everything, wiping away his past failure.

He promises he would never fail again, at anything. No matter what the cost, failure is never going to be an option.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Bell arrives at the garage with frantic eyes, a half-burnt cigarette between her lips and uncharacteristically late. Color peppering her cheeks- red, like an apple bitten into.

“I’m sorry, I overslept,” is her excuse, but she’s looking at the room strangely, he thinks, almost like she’s seeking a particular face.

When she makes her way to her desk, when she whizzes past him by the board and her planet is entering his orbit for the first time in the morning, Adler, as if by accident or by design, inhales deeply.

His breath snags.

She smells like someone else.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(Someone fucked her last night)

The telephone rings in the distance.

“Sims. Yeah, sure, let me get him. Hold on.” He puts the call on hold. “Doc, you might wanna take this one.”

(Someone was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as they rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room)

Adler mechanically crosses the room and picks the receiver.

“Adler.”

(If he herds her away from prying eyes and pushes down the collar of her shirt, would he see the evidence there, taunting him? If he kisses her, would he taste them instead of her? )

"Perhaps," he says over the phone, his face hard. "But my decision is final. I'm sending Woods and Mason to Yamantau. They'll leave in a few days."

(Did they make her come?)

"Of course. Why do you think I chose them for this mission?"

(If she made them?)

“Most likely, but we're prepared for this- you know we are," Adler says, customer service polite, an old recording on a playback. "Right. Well, that concludes the matter then. Yeah, you have a wonderful day to yourself.”

Adler hangs up the telephone. Breathes out a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose for a few good seconds, before remembering that he has an audience.

"Oof. Sounds rough," comments Sims, dark eyes slanting in concern.

(Maybe she likes that, rough. Teeth biting the back of her shoulder, that sweet juxtaposition of pain and pleasure coursing through their veins, his hand curling around her throat from behind as she pants and mewls like-)

(But this isn’t about him. Never about him)

"That's one way to put it."

Someone else fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

then came the morning (aka: the post - canon cuddle fic)

The work in progress is finally done! I’ve been chipping away at it for the past couple weeks now, and it’s gone through many drafts / iterations, but I think I’m finally happy with it. :)

Title from an album by the Lone Bellow. 

The first time the two of them “shared a bed” was about as awkward as one might imagine. The initiating circumstances were hardly any better.

 The heating apparatus in their quarters had given out a week or so back in a spectacular fit of dust - laden wheezing. The engineering crew called in to inspect it informed them that it couldn’t be fixed until they could pick up the right parts at the nearest trading post (which was naturally thousands of klicks away on the ragged edge of nowhere). With the ambient heat from the nearby engine room seeping through the wall, the conditions were deemed “unpleasant but survivable.” They were issued two extra threadbare blankets and told in tersely formal military - speak to deal with it. 

 And they’d dealt with it really well for a while! They grit their teeth and carried on like a couple of champs: Harrow, having been thoroughly warned against using her magic too frequently, layering on spare cloaks and sweaters until she almost disappeared under a mountain of black fabric; Gideon curling up close to the engine room wall and wincing when the cold sent spiteful twinges shooting through her still-very-busted knee. 

 But then one night their grand flagship of the revolution chugged through a particularly empty sprawl of space and began to slow down. The heat from the engine room guttered like a candle flame. Frost spiderwebbed across the thin plex of their window. Harrow’s breath showed in thin wisps of vapor as she huffed, glaring down at the pages of her book like she wanted to reprimand the cold for daring to interrupt her studies. 

 Gideon had half a mind to encourage her to try (that glare could stop a full - fledged Lyctor in their tracks, who knew what other horrifying powers it possessed?), but thought better of it when she saw the genuine exhaustion in the other girl’s eyes.

 “You doing alright over there, my vulturine vicar?” she asked. “I know it takes some time to absorb all that good bone knowledge, but you haven’t turned a page in like half an hour.”

 The thunderous look on Harrow’s face darkened further as she set her book aside with an exasperated thump. “This is ridiculous. I studied in the depths of Drearburh for years without any issue, and yet here I am struggling to focus like a novice. It isn’t even that cold.” She bit her lip as a shiver ran through her at the words. 

 “Evidence seems to suggest otherwise, o mistress of melancholy. Do you want me to go ask that guy in the supply room for another blanket? He still owes me for his son’s fencing lesson.”

 Supply room guy didn’t really owe her anything, but she knew that mentioning it would make Harrow feel better. If she could believe that the nice things Gideon did for her were actually for Totally Self - Serving, Debt - Settling reasons, she could accept them without feeling guilty.

 (Guilt had haunted Harrow more than ever upon returning to her own body, making it hard to breathe on good days and leaving her shaking with sobs on bad ones. 

It was one of those fun little things they had in common.)

 From the way Harrow’s shoulders stiffened, though, it seemed that Gideon Nav’s patented Guilt Workaround wasn’t going to be as effective as usual. She shook her head - a stiff little gesture that made her earrings rattle - then sighed. 

 “No. Thank you, though, it’s kind of you to offer.” 

 The thank you was sincere, and that was admittedly pretty nice, but all the sincerity in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Harrow was still  very obviously shivering. She looked miserable beneath her usual mask of face paint and stoicism. The dark red bead of blood-sweat trailing down her temple indicated that she'd probably tried using some kind of homeostasis theorem, but it wasn't working well enough. 

 There had to be a solution to this problem somewhere. Harrow's stubborn pride meant that she wouldn't accept help outright - she would sooner set her books on fire than admit what she thought of as a weakness - but if Gideon could play it just right, maybe she wouldn't have to. It would need to be done carefully - too sappy and she'd be uncomfortable, too straightforward and she'd balk.  Casual, Gideon decided. Nice and casual was the way to go. It would just be a matter of execution.

 "Soooo," she said at length, leaning back against the wall all cool and easy. (She folded her arms up behind her head as an afterthought, appreciating the way it made her still-atrophied-but-getting-there muscles stand out through the thin fabric of her shirt. Confidence boosts were going to be scarce and sorely needed in the conversation to come - she’d take them where she could get them.)

 Naturally, Harrow did not appreciate the change in tack or the cool-and-easy-ness. She did, however, manage to muster up a look so steeped in wary disapproval that it cut through her earlier frustration like a hot knife through bone marrow. “So.”

 “You sure about that blanket? Because really, it would only take me a second -”

 “I’m sure. Thank you.”

 “Then, um, did you want to borrow mine?”

 Harrow blinked. “You need yours.”

 “Yeah, I know! I meant that we could maybe - share. Pool our resources.” She patted the edge of her bunk gamely, then instantly regretted it when Harrow’s eyes narrowed even further. 

 “You want us to sleep together?”

 "No? I mean, technically, but no. In the literal way. Not the other way.” Well maybe the other way sometime if you wanted to but that’s a whole other weird conversation that we probably shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole or we might explode. 

 "How exactly would that work?" The caution was still heavy in Harrow's voice, but some of the disapproval had ebbed away. 

 "I mean. We'd probably need to use my bed, since my sheets aren't covered in gross bone gobbets, but you could bring your blankets over and layer 'em over mine and then we'd have twice the blankets! And, you know, body heat. Which has its perks." Even Gideon's cool-and- easy-ness faltered at that, but she bravely soldiered on. "The point is, we'd both be warm."

 "And it won't - make things weird?" 

 "Nope! Not weird. All perfectly chill, my shivering scion."

 Harrow paused for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'll get ready for bed," she said at last, clipped and decisive. "And I'll think about it."

 "Take your time. I'll be here."

 Moments later, after the shivering scion had swept grandly out of the room, Gideon's Thinking Brain crashed unceremoniously into her Talking Brain. Things were not, in fact, going to be perfectly chill. There were going to be some logistical problems with this arrangement. Big logistical problems.

 Big logistical problems namely revolving around the mutually exclusive facts that the midnight monarch was not especially comfortable with touch, and Gideon Nav, space - bee slayer and resurrected badass, was a sleep cuddler.

 Or, well, she was in theory. She didn’t have much (any) “real world” experience to go on, but she’d woken up many, many times back on the Ninth with a bundle of blankets wrapped up in her arms or nestled close to her chest. The habit had never really embarrassed her back then - she actually kind of liked it. She felt warmer and less lonely when she had something to hold, even in the frigid emptiness of her cell. 

 But that was back then. Things were different in the here - and - now. Harrow was in the here - and - now, and Gideon would never forgive herself if she ruined things with Harrow right when their relationship was on the upswing. They were actually talking, slowly figuring out how to work together again. The furious, tearful intensity between them in the wake of their reunion had calmed and warmed into something almost like real friendship. 

 After all that had happened - everything that had gone wrong over the past year and a half - they’d found a fragile sort of peace. There was no way in Hell she was going to ruin that peace now.

 So while Harrow swished about getting ready for bed, Gideon leveled with herself and laid down some ground rules. Don’t make this weird, Nav. Make sure she’s comfortable, give her her space, and don’t think about cuddling with her. 

 ...even though it would probably be warmer, and she has shitty necro circulation and essentially no body mass so she needs all the warmth she can get, and she gets that kinda soft peaceful look on her face when - no, fuck, see? You’re doing it already. Even if she did like you like that, which she absolutely doesn’t because she’s got a good old-fashioned frostbite girl back home, that’s not what you’re here for. You’re her cav. Her sworn sword. You’re here to do your job and make sure she doesn’t get her thumbs bitten off again. That’s it.

 “You’re staring.”

 Harrow’s voice cut sharp as a bone shard through Gideon’s nervous thought - spiral. Having apparently completed her grim evening rituals, she’d settled lightly on the far edge of the to - be - shared bed, countless dark layers poofing out around her like the feathers of a posturing crow. Her face was flecked with dots of gray from scrubbing off her paint, and her short hair stuck up in messy licks of black fluff despite her increasingly irritated attempts to smooth it flat. 

 It shouldn’t have been endearing. It really, really shouldn’t have. 

 It was.

 Gideon was so screwed.

 “Shit,” she muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face to ground herself. She glanced over to meet Harrow’s eyes (and wow, was that a mistake, they were as mesmerizing a swirl of black and gold as ever), then forced a smile like she wasn’t screaming internally. “Sorry. Zoned out a little. You good to go?”

 The wryly exasperated glint in Harrow’s eyes made them glow even brighter in the dim light. “Yes, I’m ‘good to go,’ thank you. Are you, though? You look … troubled.” 

 Shit. Shit. Shit. Think nice, normal thoughts. Don’t let her know. She cannot know. 

 “I’m always good, my chthonic countess,” she lied, smooth as could be, throwing in a roguish wink for good measure. That was distractingly stupid enough, it was bound to work.  

 Harrow frowned. “Why are you blinking like that?”

 The roguish wink apparently had not worked. 

 “No reason! Just dust. In my eye. Lots of very rude dust landing right in my eye. Anyway. How are we doing this?”

 A flicker of genuine, anxious concern ghosted over Harrow’s face as her frown deepened. 

 “Gideon,” she began, in that slow, reluctant way of hers that heralded Incoming Indignity. “I know that you were the one to suggest this, but I want to impress upon you that if you aren’t - certain about it, there is another possible solution.”

 She cast around the room for a moment and reached for a massive, dusty tome at the top of a nearby stack, flipping determinedly through the pages. “I've had the idea for some time, but I only just managed to convince our commanding officer that I could use theorems 'responsibly' without their constant supervision, so I haven't been able to test it until now. Small - scale thanergetic fission reactions produce sparks of flame that, if handled extremely carefully, could give off enough heat - "

 “Wait.” Gideon held up a hand, her own anxious brain jolting back online at the word flame. “Wait, wait, wait. Harrow. Seriously? The concern is sweet, don’t get me wrong, but your other solution is death - fire?”

 “I said that it was a possibility,” she snapped back, that old brittle defensiveness calcifying over the vulnerability in her voice. Her posture straightened with a great rustling of robes: shoulders back, chin high, eyes gleaming with disdainful pride as the bones scattered about their room twitched to life. Looking for all the world like she had when they were ten - twelve - fourteen - sixteen, bitter and vicious and spoiling for a fight. 

 She seemed to realize it right when Gideon did. Her eyes widened, then closed. The bowstring tension in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as her half - formed constructs clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” she said at last, her voice a threadbare murmur. “I’m sorry. That was - uncalled for.”

 “It’s a reflex. I get it.” And she did - she’d done the same thing countless times, had a hand on her sword and a barbed insult on her tongue without even thinking about it. 

 Another one of those fucked up things they had in common. 

 An uneasy silence settled between them, broken only by the rumbling hum of the engines, the thud of footsteps in the hall. 

 “I meant it, you know,” Harrow said, after a long moment. “About other options. It was a half - baked and immature attempt, but I wanted to give you an out if you were uncomfortable.”

 “Yeah, I know, my sepulchral sage. I appreciate it. Half - baked immaturity and all.” She bumped her shoulder gently against Harrow’s, then flopped back on the bunk to stare up at the low ceiling. “Are we, like, committing to honesty hour tonight? How deep into feelings do you want to get?”

 “As deep as is comfortable.”

 “That’s what she said.”

 “It’s a reasonable thing for her to say.”

 Another hush fell over them, marginally more comfortable than the last, as Gideon worried her lip between her teeth and counted the cracks in the ceiling above her. There were nine of them in total. Go fucking figure.

 A bony finger poked her in the side after a few cycles of counting. “Were you going to elaborate, or was that all just a set - up for one of your charming jokes?”

 “I can’t believe it took you eighteen years to finally admit that they’re charming, but no, that’s not why I said it. I’ll lay bare my tender squishy heart for you, penumbral lady. Because you asked so nicely.” 

  Because I think you might already have it. 

 No avoiding it now. Might as well bite the bullet and dive in. 

 “I was on board with the cuddle thing from the beginning, but I felt like you wouldn’t be, and I panicked. You probably already knew that because you’re way more creepily observant than you have any right to be, but there it is. Out in the open.” 

 She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just run away and hide from the other girl’s piercing gaze. “I just don’t want to fuck things up with you, Harrow. I feel like we’ve got a kind of good thing going now. You haven’t called me a useless halfwit in forever, and I haven’t called you a heinous bitch in forever, and I haven’t wanted to. That’s unheard of for us. I don’t want it to go away.”

 Her voice cracked, and the most damning words burst forth like flowers through concrete: “I don’t want to give you a reason to shut me out again.”

 The memories of those nine months flashed in fragmented mosaic through her mind - the slick stone walls of the well, the freezing churn of the water, the burn in her muscles as she desperately thrashed up toward the surface and reached for someone who didn’t even know she was there. The gut - wrenching loneliness that defined her entire fucking life coalescing in that pit of brackish darkness. The chant rattling on loop in her mind as the water pulled her under: Harrow, what happened, what did you do, why the fuck did you leave me here, I had a purpose, I threw myself on that goddamned rail for a reason, was that not enough for you? 

 Was I not enough for you?

 A cool, fine - boned hand laced with hers and squeezed, just once. The memories blurred. 

 “Gideon,” the voice that had haunted her all that time said. “You know - you have to know that isn’t why I did it.”

 “Why did you, then?”

 A tiny hitch of breath. A soft, almost incredulous laugh. Then:

 “Because I loved you.”

 The words hung heavy in the frozen air. 

 “You - what?”

 “I loved you.” She said it so simply. Like it was something she’d come to terms with long ago. “I loved you beyond reason, and for once in my life I wanted to do right by you and keep you safe as you did me. The motivation doesn’t justify a moment of it, I won’t pretend it does, and I can’t even begin to erase the hurt it caused you. But I need you to understand that it was never because of something you did wrong. You are good, darling. Good to the core. You always have been.”

 Bright spots bloomed before Gideon’s eyes as her reeling mind fought to catch up. Three thoughts sprang unbidden to the forefront:

 Mmf.

 And: Darling?

 And:

“Loved. You said ‘loved.’ Why the past tense?”

 She sat there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, half - expecting a don’t be presumptuous, Griddle or something even remotely normal, at least. What she got instead was another laugh, halting and shaky and suddenly deeply bitter. The hand in hers went rigid and drew away. 

 “I came to my senses. I remembered the countless awful things I’ve done. Saw myself for the leech that I am. I’ve taken and taken and taken from you, over and over again, torn away at your life like a scavenger, I can’t steal anything more  - “

 “Who said anything about stealing?”

 For the first time since the grand awkward commencement of honesty hour Gideon felt a genuine smile bloom across her face. “Come on, Nonagesimus, give me some credit. You honestly think I would have stuck around this long if I didn’t know what I was giving you? If I wasn’t getting something out of it too?”

 “What could you possibly be getting out of it?”

 “You. I like you. Like, a lot. More than I ever thought I would. And I know the brain weasels are going to start yammering about how that’s impossible, and you don't deserve it, and we've still got a mountain of baggage left to work through, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I really mean it. Having you with me has made this whole shitty thing infinitely less shitty."

 With a surge of sudden bravery and dizzy emotion, she reached out to take Harrow's hand again and, giving her ample time to pull away, pressed a feather - light kiss to the back. “If you want me here too, sunshine - as your cav or your friend or something else - then I'm not going anywhere."

 Harrow closed her eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, and - smiled. A real one, slow and hesitantly sweet, lighting up her careworn face. "I need to think about it - we both should think about it. But I do want you here, in whatever way you want to be."

 "Yeah? Cool."

 "Cool."

 Silence settled upon them for the third time that night, but this time it was different. It was soft and tentative, fragile and new, like budding grave - flowers reaching for the sun. First flowers, the both of them, clawing up out of the grit and finding a way to bloom.

 "Should we go to sleep now?" Harrow asked at last, her rasping voice low and quiet. "It's getting late."

 "We probably should. Cam and Pal are gonna kill us if we're not up by 6:00 tomorrow. Are you still up for this, though? Like, the whole 'two girls, chilling in a military bunk, zero feet apart 'cause they're freezing and also maybe like each other' thing?"

 "Yes. On one condition."

 "Anything."

 "This might be difficult for you."

 "Seriously, Harrow, just tell me. Name it and it's done."

 "No sex jokes."

 She heaved a sigh, mock - exasperated and so stupidly fond. "As you wish, my dearest darling death omen. As you wish."

 It took a while to get comfortable - with Harrow's knobby elbows jabbing Gideon in the stomach, Gideon's clunky knee brace getting tangled in the sheets, the blankets collectively giving up and puddling on the floor at least ten times - but eventually, like everything else, they made it work. They fumbled through the sleep - cuddling confession with an admirable lack of panic on both sides, culminating in a firm agreement that they would let each other know the moment they were at all uncomfortable and an "I trust you" from Harrow so pure in its sincerity that it would be ringing through Gideon's mind for at least a myriad.

 Harrow was the first to fall asleep, curled up tight in a cocoon of black fabric, the dark crown of her head just barely brushing the sunburst scar on Gideon's chest. Her shallow breaths fell into an even, steady rhythm, interspersed with whistling snores that Gideon was definitely going to tease her about when her heart was less of a melted puddle of goo. 

 The minutes slipped by warm and slow as drops of honey as her own eyes grew heavier, fluttering closed. She gave her necromancer - her Lyctor - her beautiful baneful bone empress one last sleepy smile, and drifted off.

 (When Camilla went to shake her sparring partner awake the next morning, she found the two of them still sound asleep, wrapped up in each other's arms and looking more peaceful than she'd ever seen them. She huffed a laugh, muttered "finally," and let them be.)

[connorandersons-blog]

heyo! for the prompts, maybeeee KamCon & “Is the weight of your sins too heavy?” <3

So I had to change the line just slightly to work, but literally, I just changed it from a question to a normal sentence. Slight warning for talk about depression/possible PTSD. Hope you enjoy!

Connor had been struggling to come to terms with the fact that he is now a deviant. One that had very clearly turned against humans when he invaded Cyberlife and freed all those androids, marching them down the street in a show of power.

Markus had seemed pleased with him, had assured him Connor was one of them, but not everyone agreed. He saw how other androids’ eyes would follow him when he walked around New Jericho, he saw how their stress levels jumped at the sight of him.

He didn’t mean to scare them, and he tried to make them more comfortable by forgoing his old jacket in lieu of sweater vests or long sleeve sweaters. Those were pretty comfy and he liked when jackets or hoodies were a little too big for him so that his hands would be hidden inside the sleeves.

He was trying to find things like that that made him happy. It was hard to identify emotions and he seemed to like hiding from him. All other androids seemed to be so emotional, but not in a bad way! They just laughed so much, smiles wide and bright on their faces. He’d see an android with their child and the absolute adoration was incredible to witness. How anyone could see the sentience in these people was beyond him.

Even their anger and hatred were clear and vivid. North’s was so strong that Connor shrank back when she’d turn towards him with that look on her face. The first time that happened she’d softened up immediately and promised Connor she wasn’t mad at him or going to hurt him. He tried to remember that but her anger was just so potent.

Connor sometimes felt… or actually, he just didn’t feel. He was numb to the world around him, and if he wasn’t so numb it would scare him. His face was passive, though he tried to smile or frown when appropriate. He went through the motions of his new life, laughing when someone would tell a joke and yet he felt no humor.

The numbness was different from the numbness of being a machine. When he was hidden behind his programming he could still feel wisps of emotions, like looking through frosted glass. He could still see the shapes and some colors but he could see any real definition.

Now it was like he had the blinds closed completely and every now and then a breeze would move the fabric and he’d get to see for just a small bit before the fabric settled again.

Something was wrong with him, and he went to the one person who knew everything about androids.

Kamski’s house was beautiful in the spring, the flowers here in full bloom and the water sparkling with the afternoon sun. It had a peaceful feel to it with the birds chirping away and the sound of the river. Connor could almost feel that peace and he clung desperately to it before having to let it go so he could go to the door.

He tilted his head when a Chloe opened the door and let him in. He had thought all the Chloes would leave, but there was the very real chance she wasn’t a deviant. There had been a law that everyone must give up their androids to allow them to be deviated, but if anyone could get away with not doing that it was Kamski. That didn’t bode well for Connor.

“Are you deviant?” He decides to just ask outright. If she said no then he’d… well he wasn’t sure. He’d go back and tell Markus and let the group decide what to do from there.

Chloe chuckled and ran a hand through his ponytail, starting to braid it with nimble fingers. “I am. We all were when you visited, glad to see we could fool even you.”

“Oh.” He should have noticed, it was his mission at the time to stop all deviants and yet he hadn’t noticed a house full of them.

“Don’t feel bad, we figured you’d be coming at some point and we prepared. If it’s any consolation, you couldn’t have hurt Lila, the Chloe you were told to shoot. Elijah already had all her memories backed up and a body ready just in case. But thank you for not shooting her either way.” Chloe, or whatever name she has chosen for herself, smiled at him gently.

He should feel happy or relieved, but he just doesn’t so he only nods. Chloe gives him this look that’s a bit too knowing before smiling again.

“He’s ready to see you, follow me, please.” She leads him through a door he hadn’t gone through and down a hallway that had a few other doors that she ignores. She lets him into the room that is bathed in natural light.

The waiting room was teal with grey wicker chairs and a few plants on the window-sill. A few bookshelves line the left side wall, a small couch positioned for a place to sit or even lay down while reading. Kamski is sitting on said couch with a book in his hand and a pair of glasses perched on his nose.

He glanced up when Connor walked in, grabbing a bookmark and sliding it between then worn cream pages before shutting it. “Connor, congratulations on the successful revolution, very impressive.”

Kamski doesn’t move to stand but neither does he offer Connor a seat. “Thank you, I am glad there was minimal violence.” It could have gone a lot worse, Connor could have needed to use the freshly made deviants to start an all-out war.

Kamski leaned forward, taking his glasses off and setting them down on his book. Connor couldn’t help but watch with rapt attention, something about Kamski making him fascinated. “What can I do for you?”

Right down to business then. “I have been experiencing a lack of emotions at times and I’m afraid my deviation process was somehow fragmentary.” He suspected part of the issues was Amanda and the zen garden. If she hadn’t taken control perhaps he would be normal.

Kamski frowns and motions to one of the seats which Connor takes. So his problem could not be solved quickly. It wasn’t heartening but at least Kamski seemed like he was willing to talk to him. “When you say lack of emotions, could you describe that?”

“It’s like I’m numb, my insides are a bottomless pit of nothing and I just keep falling. It’s cold and there is nothing for me to grab onto. I don’t feel the need to move or do anything, I try to go through the motions because that is what’s expected of me.” He felt a small sliver of panic and tried to hold onto that. It wasn’t a good emotion but it was something and he would not let it go.

Kamski hums, leaning back. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

The panic builds and Connor shakes his head. If Kamski can’t help him then no one can. “You have to! I can’t keep living like this.”

“You need to talk to a professional.”

“You are a professional!”

“Connor.” Kamski’s voice is stern and yet oddly compassionate. It sends a shiver up his spine and he shuts his mouth with a click. “I mean a therapist. The weight of your sins is too heavy. At least, to you, it is, though many would see what you’ve done as amazing. But the fact is it seems like you are depressed or possibly even have PTSD. Both cause emotional numbness. I’m not qualified to help you through this.”

Oh. He hadn’t considered the idea that this was happening because he has emotions. “So it’s not because of Amanda? The garden didn’t damage me irreparably?”

Kamski sucks in a breath at her name and Connor recalls the picture he had seen. Amanda Stern was a real woman, someone Kamski could have looked up to. “I cannot say she didn’t cause this as I don’t know if she caused you emotional distress, but no you aren’t damaged.”

Connor sags in the chair, feeling like a height has been lifted off his chest. He wasn’t broken, he wasn’t going to be like this forever. They’d find a way to help him and he’d be ok, he’d be happy. “Thank you,” he breathes out.

Kamski reaches forward and gently lays a hand on his knee. It sends a shock through him and makes him feel something, but he’s never felt this emotion before. “Of course. I may not be able to help but if you need someone to talk to outside of therapy then I am more than willing to listen.”

He wasn’t sure if he could trust Kamski, but now that he knew Chloe was never in any danger it makes him a bit more willing to try. Plus, he needed to find out what this new emotion was. Who knows how long that would take, but he wanted to try anyways. “Thank you, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

[gillytweed]

Y’all wanna hear about the baby superhero team my brain decided needed to exist?

Yeah you do!

So, I’ve been on a superhero kick lately, specifically DC characters cause I’m kinda tired of Marvel, and my brain decided “what’s the harm in making a superhero OC?” Turns out the answer to that is making an entire team, side characters, a whole world, and lore. 

So far, I have the team solidly figured out. Said team lives in a world where superheroes have been around for while (think Young Justice cartoon timeframe in the grand scheme of superhero timelines). People with superpowers aren’t uncommon, so of course a superhero profession surfaced. 

On the team, we have Witchboy, a “magic” user, Nightbolt, an unpowered archer/tech hero, Karma, Damage Enhancement ability, aka can take damage and send it back at their opponent even stronger, Ibis, presumably a teleporter, Frost, Iceman but spikier, and Saber, an unpowered sword user. 

Nightbolt, Frost and Saber are Legacy Heroes. Aka, they got into heroing through family or personal connections. Meanwhile, Witchboy, Karma and Ibis all have their own reasons for joining a superhero team. 

Putting stuff below the cut so I don’t get people shakin’ their canes at me. 

General Character profiles

Witchboy  Civilian name: Howl Melas (Not their birthname. They chose to have go by a different name for reasons) Ethnicity: Very White, with ancestry all over Europe. Basically a European smoothie Pronouns: They/Them Mentor: Mystic (Sometimes Nightwatcher)

Powers: If I have to choose an already existing hero, I’d say their powers are the most like Raven’s from Teen Titans at a glance. Their powers are based on something I call Kinetic Algorithms, which is basically intense mental visualization paired with specific movements/muscle memory to channel energy into different effects. A list of their basic abilities at their introduction would be short distance teleportation, force fields, levitation, and a basic force blast. 

Description: Civilian attire usually consists of a hoodie and workout pants, or dark jeans, T-shirt, light jacket and a beanie to hide their silver hair (it was originally brown, but turned silver as their abilities surfaced). Their Hero suit is black/dark indigo with silver trim, and resembles a sleeveless hoodie (with the hood having a bit more structure so it doesn’t flap everywhere and get in the way) and fitted pants. Both padded for basic protection. They also have fingerless glove/gauntlet sort of things that contain a small communicator and basic GPS system.

Personality: Comes off as dark and brooding, but in reality is having an internal anxiety attack. They want to do their best to help, but often gets tripped up by overthinking, thus they default to not doing anything so they don’t make things worse. 

Nightbolt Civilian Name: Edana “Eddie” Cochran Ethnicity: Scottish Pronouns: She/Her Mentor: Broadhead

Powers: Got none but kicks ass anyway. Her primary weapon is the bow and arrow, but she’s also proficient in hand to hand and a few other melee weapons. She’s also the tech wiz of the group, and the only one who’s passed the simulator to be allowed to pilot the dropship. A decent acrobat as well.

Description: Civilian attire is usually jeans, and one of those leather jackets that are also a hoodie sort of deal. Her hair is red, and cut short into an undercut. Her Hero suit is black with red accents. It’s similar to Witchboy’s in that it’s also sleeveless, but it’s more of an armoured vest. No hood, as she prefers a domino mask. 

Personality: Easily the leader of the team, as she’s the most mature, despite not being the oldest. Being a Legacy Hero, she’s very aware of how her performance reflects on her mentor, so she does her best at all times, even when it’s clearly leading to burn out. 

Karma Civilian Name: Ethnicity: Not sure yet, but def white passing Pronouns: She/Her Mentor: Peacebringer (sorta)

Powers: Damage Empowerment. She takes damage then amplifies it and sends it back several times stronger. 

Description: Loves muscle T’s and booty shorts, cause when you worked for the muscles she’s got, you deserve to show them off. Has long blond hair that’s usually pulled up into a ponytail. Hero suit is basically full body armour, as she needs to get hit to hit back. Colours are blue and a yellowish gold. 

Personality: A Himbo, but with Street Smarts. At first comes off as cocky, flirtatious, and extremely self confident almost to the point of arrogance, she’s actually quiet sweet and thoughtful when it comes to her friends. She will also drop kick you into the sun if you’re a dick. Shares a braincell with Saber. 

Ibis Civilian Name: Kymani “Ky” Lukman Ethnicity: African Egyptian Pronouns: He/Him Mentor: Phase

Powers: Supposedly a teleporter :p

Description: The most handsome black man y’all have ever seen. Too bad for y’all he’s an aroace king and loves it. Civilian attire is nice Henley's and jeans. His Hero suit is black with gold accents that resemble ancient Egyptian jewelry, like the Usekh collar and the gold cuff like bracelets. 

Personality: This dudes just vibing. Probably the only one of the group who can process his emotions in a healthy manner. He’s calm, relaxed, and usually unbothered with what’s happening around him. This can turn into apathy in some cases, however. 

Frost Civilian Name: Andri Bylur Ethnicity: Nordic descent, primarily Sweden and Norway Pronouns: He/They Mentor: Cryon

Powers: Is basically Iceman but spikier. Can create, manipulate and cover himself in ice. Has the ability to consciously regulate his temperature as well.

Description: Looks like an extremely average dude with brown hair. Usually wears tshirts and plaid with jeans. His Hero suit is rarely seen, as it’s basically a thermal suit to aid in temperature regulation when he covers himself in ice. When covered in ice, they appear to be wearing spikey armour of some kind. In time the design becomes smoother and more streamlined as they get a better handle on their abilites. 

Personality: Probably the most empathetic of the group, they took on the responsibility of getting more in depth medical training, so they’re the team medic that never runs out of icepacks. Best friends with Ibis, they’re usually decently calm, but their overwhelming ability to care can bite them in the ass sometimes. 

Saber Civilian name: Chenzi “Shenzi” Young Ethnicity: Chinese  Pronouns: She/They Mentor: Dynasty

Powers: Got none but is very good with anything sharp. Primary weapon is a sword, but also proficient in hand to hand, and essentially any bladed weapon. Like Nightbolt, is also a decent acrobat. 

Description: Gets cold easily, so often wears oversized hoodies and sweatpants (is often told to put on “real” pants when going out in public). Hero suit resembles a lighter, more fitted, and streamlined interpretation of heavy Tang Dynasty era armour. Colours are primarily red and white. 

Personality: A gremlin but in a lovable way. She’s convinced she and Karma are the only ones with a sense of humour. Would be a prankster if it didn’t take so much work, so instead goofs off with Karma. Is actually very intelligent and good at what they do, they just manage their stress through shenanigans and can’t focus to save their life (ADHD for the win folks). Shares a braincell with Karma.

[wsgeon]

hey everyone! ummm this is peyton (also the mun of lee hyeon) taking a second shot at a second character — i have a lot of muse for this one, so i swear he’ll be around for a while… 🥵 this is ryu geon, yes his name rhymes with hyeon’s & no i do not care ♥️ he’s the lead guitarist/vocalist of meta and also the son of a former nobody rockstar, but i’ll get into all that below! like this post if you’d like for me to come into your ims to plot, click the read more for more info on geon, and/or click here to be taken to his pages: CAREER, DOSSIER, PINTEREST.

HISTORY.

born in autumn ‘97 to a “budding rockstar” (translation: “no yeah i swear our band’s really starting to take off, we sold twenty-three tickets to our last show!”) & a woman with commitment issues ♥️ geon’s dad always told him that his mom left because she had some dire matters that needed to be taken care of and SWORE that she cried the last time she held her dear baby boy, but all of his dad’s bandmates say that she was just some groupie and had to be persuaded into carrying her child to term… who can say for sure?

naturally, there are no pictures of this mystery woman. there was one (1) of her holding infant geon, but then he found out that that was actually a sound tech who worked for his dad’s band… and he just never corrected geon’s assumptions LOLLLL

anyway! he was always really close to his dad, considering they were a two-person family. he has a set of grandparents, an aunt and a couple cousins but they were never involved with geon’s life because his dad is the #blacksheep of the family. geon and his dad against the world, am i right?

uhhh geon was also kind of a black sheep growing up, but he didn’t really notice? he was a happy kid, very energetic and enthusiastic. a lot of adults in the area looked down on him & his dad, but he was SOOOO blind to it because his dad’s a god in his eyes and HE’S always been nice to everyone, so why would they not like him??? because his clothes smelled a little like dad’s cigarette smoke??? big deal

wasn’t troublesome (beyond talking too much), but a lot of people still expected bad things from him :/ “his father’s a dirtbag, i’ll be surprised if that boy doesn’t end up in jail by 20”, “he won’t amount to anything without a proper role model in his life”, “his dad is teaching him how to slack off”, “he won’t contribute anything to society”, etc. he kindaaa picked up on this as he got older but pretended not to because it was more rewarding to play dumb and keep being a good kid(tm) to prove them wrong

was basically a mini version of his dad. same style, similar features, birthmarks in the same places, same “live today, die tomorrow” approach in life, same affinity for singing & playing rock music. ummm he loved his dad a lot. a lot. a lot. wanted to make him proud SO BAD, started his first band when he was 15 and they sucked so bad but his dad was their biggest fan… you know how it is. a lot of people misunderstood him, but he was a very good guy and such a great parent

TW DEATH unfortunately he passed away just shy of geon’s 18th birthday and your boy still hasn’t forgiven the world for taking his dad when he was in the middle of his angsty teen phase — had he known that their time together was dwindling, he would’ve been so so so much better to him END TW

his dad’s band actually rocketed into the charts after he passed & suddenly they were getting loads of publicity, lots of “what a shame that he went under-appreciated” which pissed geon off SOOOO bad because why couldn’t they have had that energy when he was still alive? he’s still mad about it five/six years later

this is getting kinda long, so uhhh tl;dr, he ended up staying with the drummer of his dad’s band until he was old enough to live alone/READY to live alone, but he changed quite a bit. was really going through it, quit his band, stopped putting effort into school. barely graduated. went from being a social butterfly spending every weekend at a gig or with friends to spending all of his time on a pc or in front of a tv, playing console games. the internet comforted him when nobody else would/could and then he met the future members of meta <33333333 #newbeginnings

present day geon is still struggling, has to go to counseling bi-weekly but he’s coming back out of his shell! he wants to fall in love with life again, just wants to tread carefully... outgoing & will talk to absolutely anyone, but he still spends most of his time alone. hard to reach by text, so if you wanna talk to him, you better call/facetime LMAO. talks a mile a minute, especially if you get him going abt something he really likes. laughs a lot, smiles a lot, more habitual than actual signs of happiness but yk. ummm he has a really loud voice, mostly controlled nowadays but he still gets carried away sometimes. an absolute menace during long drives/flights, sorry meta.

funny but only when he’s in large groups. feeds off of other peoples’ energy, really good at reading a room and breaking the ice/making everyone comfortable, but if you meet him 1-on-1, none of his jokes land quite the same.

i envision him as being the kind of guy who carries himself in such a way that you’d assume he’s really popular/out of reach/maybe even full of himself, but he’s... not like that... at all... in fact, he’s kinda irritating when you get to know him. the personification of a flood followed by a drought and vice versa, always either too much or not enough. gets used/ghosted/dropped/dumped/whatever a lot because he’s soooo fun in the moment (if he isn’t in his feelings), but draining long-term.

really emotionally intelligent, in touch with his feelings in a way that a lot of people never thought he would be (probably thanks to counseling tbh). he’s very very rarely the type of person who will make you wonder what your place in his life is — he’s communicative, kind, honest. ummm he thinks that intimacy between friends needs to be more common, so he’s really affectionate with the people in his life. type of guy to tell you he loves you every chance he gets (calling you when he’s drunk, sounding like a clingy ex type beat) & greet you/depart with a hug. losing his dad kinda fucked him up in the way that he won’t leave/hang up until his friends say “i love you” back, gets kinda (re: very) upset if he’s denied that and/or a hug.

TRIVIA.

has been playing the guitar “longer than he’s been walking” (not really, but he swears it’s true).

uhhh he really likes nail art, but he’s kinda hesitant in what he tries? mainly sticks to black polish (or other plain colors), but sometimes he’ll get little designs added in as well. mainly does it himself because he still doesn’t feel comfortable in salons... if his work looks bad, leave him alone <3 he’s trying

inspired by people like kurt cobain, nicky wire, yungblud, billie joe armstrong & damiano david in the fact that he’s not against wearing dresses or skirts on stage. doesn’t do it ALL the time, but often enough that it doesn’t go unnoticed. some people say that he does it for attention because he doesn’t dress like that elsewhere and tbh they’re probably kinda right

interested in history (only SOME... dinosaurs, ancient civilizations, specialized areas like the history of circuses/clowns/skateboarding/punk, stuff like that yk), stand-up comedy & documentaries. could spend a whole day watching documentaries and would say he had fun, has a lot of useless knowledge that nobody gives a fuck about and is kinda dumb when it comes to things that matter

when it comes to music, he prefers playing really fast and heavy rock or punk over anything else, but he actually listens to a lot more soft indie on his own time... he’s too tense these days to be listening to anything else RIPPP

the vibe: homemade tie-dye, ripped slipknot t-shirts, frosted tips, neon crocs with alien & peace-sign charms, chipped black nail polish, calloused hands, cheesy pick-up lines used NOT to land a date but to pull a smile, driving until he’s lost, stupid socks paired with pressed suits, dramatic poetry in an iphone note, etc. 

PLOT IDEAS.

people he met through online support groups about coping with grief

uhhh an on & off relationship that’s been going for who-knows-how-long. the reason for this is up for discussion, but i imagine that he hasn’t given up yet because the constant highs and lows are a good source of inspo 🤪 artists must suffer for their art!

opposite side of the coin — someone he’s interested in, but he’s NOT disloyal so it’s a pattern of persistent courting when he’s single vs intense friend-zoning when he’s not and they’re getting tired of trying to figure out what he wants from them

someone else who likes nail art & can convince him that NOBODY cares if he goes to a salon

someone (probably female but doesn’t really matter tbh) who feels like his feminism is entirely performative… maybe they attack him directly for it or maybe they just REALLY don’t like him and they’re super vague about it idk. either way, please tell him that activism is much more than recommending one female artist a year and saying “clothes have no gender 🤪” so he can be praised for the bare minimum (his heart is in the right place but his skull is empty)

someone super introverted who comes out of their shell with geon! uhhh maybe they think that he’s the one doing them a favor, but in reality spending time with them has been doing wonders for his mental health

other people who like to skate. let’s congregate at the local skatepark and scare the middle schoolers away

someone who inspires him musically, for whatever reason. lots of late nights in studios, idly strumming his guitar and writing lyrics that definitely aren’t about how their eyes look in these dim lights… umm maybe he thinks he has a crush on them but really doesn’t and ends up hurting them eventually, maybe he really DOES have a crush but will (probably) never do anything abt it or maybe it’s entirely platonic and he just admires them a ridiculous amount

someone who likes to make music as a hobby, prob won’t publish/release any of it but it’s fun to imagine. spontaneous meetings with geon in the middle of the night, recording songs together and keeping the WORST takes for the laughs. there’s probably a diss-track of them going in on each other floating around somewhere even though geon can’t rap for shit

night owls who keep him company on the phone, even if they can’t be there physically. them talking really quietly vs geon shouting at them while he plays games LMAO

gaming buddies. come over, maybe you can carry geon through his game of the week or you can both fail but have fun while you’re at it… or you can scream while he fends off that hoard of zombies behind you

i’m typing this at the last minute (literally) so i’m gonna stop here, but i will get a proper plots page put up asap with a wider variety of connections!!! but as always, please do let me know if you have any other ideas. i’m always happy to plot and write with you all 🌚

[fragileizywriting]

friends (part two)

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

This… this is not fun.

He wants to be in bed with Marinette.

He wants to be under the thick covers on a cold and freezing morning and curl into her warmth and never leave. Is it the cat part of him, or the demon part of him that means this? After all, demons don’t like the cold— it burns through the hellfire that covers their soul and makes them all almost insufferable. His dad, too, is inconvenienced by any amount of freeze— he doesn’t get snippy but he’s seen the way that frown has transformed his father’s face into a disgruntled god.

But cats are no different, either— making it a habit to curl up in the warmest place and hide until it’s warm enough to move. Winters are hard for Chat when he’s not in hell, and Marinette always teases him for him retracting into his cat form almost for days at a time, trying to use his fur to keep the frost from seeping into his body. The cold and Chat Noir do not do so good.

Whatever it is that makes him hate this, he listens to it, souring his mood by thinking of all the things he’s missing without Marinette near.

Why hadn’t they just invited Marinette along? It’s not like she doesn’t ever come with them sometimes. She enjoys the experience of being on Luka’s boat, even if it is to collect ingredients on her own, and Chat Noir has always very much enjoyed her company. If Luka’s feeling up to it, which he often is, he goes collecting for her. Marinette’s list is never that long, given that she stocks up on everything she can get her hands on, but sometimes she’s in need of more.

Algae, rocks, a specific crystal that regrows every two weeks or so. Snails, any bottom-feeders that Luka can lure and trap for her, and definitely whatever type of ocean or lake plant she’s looking for. Every time Luka resurfaces with a new item, Marinette is so quick to smile and so quick to thank him, turning and spinning around on the deck to show Chat the new item before she puts it in a jar for storage.

But without her, this whole fishing moment is just… exhausting.

Truly, of all things he’s done in the past week and a half— this takes the cake as both the most mundane and the most unnecessary thing to do.

He’s built fence posts, he’s seen his mother and almost passed out from dehydration— he’s seen his father and gotten his whole world tilted onto its side and backwards— not to mention the bite marks and suture in his skin. He’s kissed Marinette— done more than just that, actually— and finds himself rubbing at the tattoo on his chest the more and more he thinks about being away from her. The seal burns purple against his hand, reminding him that he’s far from his witch’s magic, and that his entire body and soul misses her.

Today’s fishing is just too much.

Luka agrees with him— he knows it— because the naga’s eyes are closed as the sun beats down on their shoulders, warming their skin and bodies to the point of laziness. Chat can barely keep his eyes open, looking out to the lake, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier as the sun continues to bake them alive.

Just their luck. The two people who struggle the most to focus when there’s a patch of sun are now subjugated to an entire afternoon of it— what he wouldn’t give to just transform into his cat form and lounge for the rest of the day, yearning to be in his witch’s lap as she pets through his fur.

“Why is it so sunny?” Chat complains into the silence, trying not to close his eyes for too long. This is perfect napping weather— all he has to do is just rest his head and… “Of all days for it to be ridiculously sunny.”

“It’s good for the festival,” Luka answers, looking just as out of it as he is. It’s laughable, of course, that a water creature such as Luka would absolutely go frozen stiff at the prospect of baking under the sun. Even though he’s not a snake— or at least, that’s what Luka always argues whenever he brings it up— he certainly acts like one. He looks ready to lay down and coil up, let his blood be warmed up by the sun, and stay that way for days.

“What’s going on with the weather this week?” He sniffs, not exactly stopping himself from laying back down on the deck of Luka’s boat. The Liberty doesn’t even budge under their weight— she’s a solid, heavy barge that is more long than tall— it offers barely any protection from the elements coming from the sky. It’s a floating platform, essentially, which is perfect for nagas who frequently spend most of their time in the water and have a tough time climbing up the sides of their boats from how slippery they are— and the boat is also long enough to house a superfluous amount of nagas, as well as their long tails comfortably, should they feel the need to curl up instead of letting their tails hang off the boat.

And it fits the fish as well.

Lots and lots of barrels of fish.

“The constellations are starting to move.” Luka answers, almost sounding a bit too serious. The tip of Luka’s tail sways in the water with the gentle current that is too soft to genuinely make a dent in the barge’s lazy course to the middle of the lake. His plumes open instinctually wherever his tail meets the water— a sway of fins that only come out when there is enough moisture. He is more sea serpent this way, than an actual snake— and his tail glitters with sparks of gold underneath the clear water. Fish swim by next to him, curious as to whose fins are swaying like a tree in a breeze, and Chat Noir admits— even if it’s to himself and safely away in his head— that he understands why nagas consider themselves sea serpents instead of just snakes. “There’s a celestial storm coming. Did you not know?”

“This sounds like a horoscope,” Chat doesn’t let the idea settle into his head. “Celestial storm? Don’t pull at my tail, Luka. You won’t believe that my parents are gods, but you’ll believe in celestial storms?”

He snorts. “No one believes you when you say your parents are two divinities.”

“At least it’s more believable than hearing you talk about how a ‘ tornado will come from Orion—’ or ‘ an earthquake has been predicted because of Antares—’”

Luka smiles good-humouredly. “Idiot, nothing of that sort. Naga use constellations to guide themselves across the sea, you pruned lion.”

“‘Pruned lion’,” Chat mutters, resting his clawed hands against his chest. Rubbing and rubbing and rubbing away at the seal. “I’ll show you a ‘pruned lion’.”

“There’s not much paper we can use on the sea. Clay is a good substitute, but they’re too heavy when using as maps, so we navigate by using stars. We can tell when stars aren’t in their place,” Luka continues, as if he’s barely heard him. “And they are most definitely not in their places. Just last night, eight northern constellations moved closer south.”

Chat’s feet dangle off the edge of the platform that makes the Liberty, and his toes sink into the water. It’s lukewarm, heated by the sun that beats down and down and down, but much easier and cooler than the damp and still air above.

He has half a mind to dunk himself body and whole into the water just to cool off, but knows that his hair will dry in the shape of a dandelion if he does that, so it’s a stern no. There’s no way in hell he’s going to worry about how his hair dries while trying to fish with a naga by his side. Besides, getting ready for the festival will take him a lot longer if he has to tame his hair— he doesn’t mind getting brushed by Marinette when she corners him, but his fur usually snags into knots and it’s painful. “Fine, fine. I believe you— you don’t need to get all technical on me. I’ve just never heard of a celestial storm before.”

“Probably not, since you don’t need to use stars to see like we do. The celestial storm just brings indication that there will be a large magical gathering soon— it’s nothing inherently serious.”

Interesting. “You mean like the festival?”

“Exactly. It’s something to be cautious of, that’s all— it just ends up confusing lots of naga who are trying to travel somewhere new for the first time. There might be a lot more naga at the festival than usual, since the stars are pointing in this direction.”

“That’s not too bad— no one has anything against your kind, anyway. Witches and magic-users from all places are coming here to see the infamous Ladybug, after all— they want to get her good wishes on behalf of my mother— so it’s not like a big deal to see more of you.”

There’s laughter in his voice. “‘The one who can cast good fortune on even the sick and the dying’, yes, I know. But unfortunately, no— the magical gathering isn’t the reason for the stars warping. It’s something bigger than that. Bigger than her. Constellations only move when sages or gods show up.”

Well. Well well well. He doesn’t really need to think about it, now does he?

“How long have they been moving?”

“They only started four days ago.”

“Have they shifted back?”

“No.” Chat doesn’t need to look at him to know that there’s a question forming on his face. He knows Luka too well by now. “Your questions are oddly specific for someone that never heard of this storm before.”

“Well, good to hear. You don’t need to worry about all that— but thank you for the confirmation.” He spreads his good arm out as far as he can reach it. He ends up hitting Luka in the chest, and the naga hisses out, startled— but other than that, they match each other by slowly cooking in the heat. Luka’s heartbeat is slow against his palm, and Chat has no real reason to pull away, so he just leaves it there on his jacket. “Everything will go back to what it once was after the festival.”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in horoscopes. Why are you fortune-telling?”

“Because my dad isn’t going to set the festival on fire just because he’s up here.” Maybe. There’s a strong likelihood he won’t, given that he’s already caused too much mischief.

“Right, right. Your ‘father’. You think Plagg is here?”

“The stars said so, didn’t they?” He flashes a smile, even though they’re not making eye contact. It’s instinctual to try to get a rise out of the man sitting next to him. “Relax. I won’t let him set fire to things— Marinette’s been making all of those charms for the past three months, it won’t go to waste.”

“Remind me to get a handful of them, since I’m going to be spending most of it next to you,” The driest thing in the world is hearing Luka’s voice go flat. “The last thing I need is to catch fire from your terrible luck.”

“Wh— rude. I don’t have bad luck, that’s just a myth— but I’ll gladly walk underneath a ladder for you in order to give you what you deserve. Anyway, I thought you were going to find yourself someone new to fancy? What was the whole point of the molting?”

“The two people that I actually cared to court are currently taken. I’m not disappointed, but I’m rather bored of humans otherwise.” Luka’s breath deepens as if he’s falling asleep at the idea of spending that much energy finding someone else. “If someone were to approach, I’ll at least give them the benefit of listening, but you won’t find me looking for new people.”

“You’d make a good familiar to whatever witch shows up to you tonight,” Chat oof!s hard when Luka’s hand does the exact same and hits him on the chest. He snorts on instinct, thinking a second or two longer on the idea. “Do you have an animal form like I do?”

“I’d rather not tell you, just in case you get ideas. But I would hope that she would like me for more than just a pet, unlike Marinette.”

He ignores his comment. “Most magic users can create some sort of animal form for themselves, no? Humans can’t, but I’m sure a naga could. Are you sure you don’t have a snake form?”

“I’m still not telling you the answer.”

“I’m imagining a faceless witch wearing you like a scarf as she brews,” For some reason, he imagines a white snake wrapped around a neck, even though Luka’s tail is very much blue. “You’d be happy getting to laze around while your lady works.”

“I should give it a try with Marinette one day. You wouldn’t mind sharing, would you, kitty-cat? After all, she doesn’t mind sharing you with me.”

“Funny.” He tries his best not to laugh, but he’s weak to the comedy of this whole day. It’s beyond painful to keep the laughter in, of how this day has been just another bizarre domino in the whole scheme of the week.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Luka sighs. “I was beginning to worry you actually hated me. Ever since this morning you’ve been snippier to me than usual— you’re not actually worried I pose a threat of some kind, do you?”

Wait. “Are you insecure?”

“You two are my closest friends.” Luka doesn’t meet his eyes when Chat lifts up from his spot to look down at him with furrowed brows. “After Adrien passed, I didn’t have many people, you know.”

Wait. “Hold on, you knew Adrien that well?”

“I didn’t know you knew who that was.” Luka raises a brow.

“Marinette talks about him.” Never mind the other things…

“He was my first friend when I was very young.” He shrugs, still giving Chat the stink eye like he doesn’t actually believe him. “Naga aren’t as scary as people think, but humans are prejudiced to their own kind all of the time, so it’s not hard to believe that they won’t be to nonhumans too. Adrien brought me into the friend group before he got sick.”

Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. Always Adrien, isn’t it? “Was he the closest friend you had?”

“Probably. Nino and I were always really good friends, back in the day. But Marinette and I got rather close after Adrien’s passing. I would see her almost every day if I decided to stay nearby.”

Oh. Oh. “No wonder you were so uncomfortable with the idea of her moving a demon into her house.”

His eyes go flat. “A girl I liked suddenly bringing a demon home? Anyone would’ve been worried.”

Chat can’t force himself to stop chuckling. “I guess I can see why you were… not the nicest person to me at first.”

“She’s never been afraid of you, but I think that just made me even more worried.” Luka gestures towards Chat’s direction, as if that helps explain better. “It doesn’t take much brainpower to realize what a Ladybug needs a Chat Noir for. Forgive me for not buying the little nonchalant act between the two of you, but I can read the little pearl like the back of my hand, after all.”

“So you know about the miraculous cure.”

“Yes. Anyone with reading eyes can put two and two together, kitty-cat. Information isn’t kept that hushed about it.”

He ignores the needling smile gracing Luka’s features. “How well exactly did you know Adrien?”

“Well enough to know that his sickness was strange. His death was stranger. The smell on Marinette’s clothes was horrid, when she’d ran into me in the woods while stricken with grief and crying. We were all terrified by it, obviously, but Marinette seemed to be the most affected— probably because she was the one to try to see him the day he died. Nino, Marinette, and I were the most affected.” He sighs. “I don’t think Nino’s ever actually talked about it that much, but they were best friends.”

“Smell.” Chat winces. “What smell?”

“Same smell that’s coming off your stitches on your arm. I recognize the smell of hellfire anywhere, it sticks to my nose for weeks. I’ll never forget the first time I smelled it sticking to Marinette’s clothes.” Luka laughs bitterly. “Running down the path in the woods towards the ocean like she was crazed. Death clinging to her dress like she was his daughter.”

“Hellfire. You smelled hellfire? Are you sure?”

Luka’s looking at him curiously, now. “I’m positive. What’s on your mind?”

Adrien’s room had been covered with the smell of… hellfire? That’s just further proof that something definitely happened— one more thing pointing to his own relation to Adrien. One more damning evidence that his past life could be tied to Marinette’s wish. If only he could get his memories back to actually prove it as fact, though…

He flattens his ears across his head, looking back out on the water. “Don’t— don’t mention this to anyone what I’m about to tell you. Promise me you won’t. This can’t start a crowd.”

Luka’s eyes turn to gold as he squints. “Of course.”

“Marinette and I found out that there could’ve been foulness in his death. Odor or otherwise.”

The naga pauses. “Are you saying a demon of some kind could’ve been the reason for the smell?”

“I don’t want to tell you something only for it to be wrong later, but the basic answer is that Adrien most likely didn’t die from an illness after all.” He licks his lips.

“You’re saying that Adrien’s father might have summoned a demon for some reason?”

“No. I have no idea what it could be, but, if there was hellfire involved, there’s definitely something to do with hell in this poor boy’s death. We don’t have all of the information yet, but I think it’s a little bit more difficult than just pointing fingers.”

Luka’s quiet for a long time. There are gears turning in his head too, no doubt, trying to piece together all of the information. “Gabriel could… most likely be at the festival tonight.”

His head snaps up. “What? He will?”

“A couple of my kind saw his ship sailing close by the shore and where our dens are. He left— or, rather, fled, now that there’s an implication that he could’ve been responsible for something to do with Adrien— town years ago, and never came back. It’s been completely silent from him, deciding to even move countries, but I think he’s here for a blessing of some kind by a Ladybug.”

“Shit.”

“Agreed.”

“Shit.”

Luka sighs. “It’s just speculation, of course. I have no idea if he even knows that Marinette is Ladybug, never mind the fact that he might not be stopping by after all. He could just be here to visit family friends, and is using the festivities as a genuine and good excuse. What will you two do? Confront him?”

“I don’t know.” Chat answers honestly. “I genuinely don’t know. My dad doesn’t know much of the story, either— and he’s usually on top of his game on paying attention to these types of things, but got distracted the day it all happened. It’s not often you hear of a human getting caught in the crossfire of hell matters— but we’re all stumped, so it’s not like we can pin it directly on Gabriel with no reason. I’m going to need more information.”

Luka is surprisingly not as agitated with the whole thing as he’d expected. He’d expected surprise, or confusion, not genuine contemplation like he is now. The naga hums at the back of his throat, attempting to piece things together himself. “Do you think Adrien is still out there, maybe?”

“Well… He’s not dead,” Well. Are demons considered alive in the first place? Is this a moral or philosophical question? At what point is Chat Noir even considered alive? And if he really was Adrien, would he consider Adrien to be dead in this case? Rebirthed as Chat Noir? His head hurts. “As far as we know. Maybe in a sort of limbo state. What a mess.”

“This sounds a lot more confusing than I thought it would be. I can’t imagine this is any easy on the two of you. Adrien was my best friend and it’s hurting me to hear about it, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to the little witch.”

“She’s been… a little bit confused about it, too. I can’t wait for the festival and get her to relax about it— yesterday it was nonstop. The both of us, honestly, need to stop thinking about this for just a bit. You and I should keep an eye out for Gabriel just in case. I don’t know what he looks like, but, anything that’ll get us closer to the truth I’ll do it.”

But Luka’s smile is kind, and Chat can sense he’s trying to skirt the subject away and get him to think of other things. “Sure. I didn’t have plans, anyway, so that’s fine. And I’m sure you two managed to distract each other at some point yesterday, right?”

“By the grace of my mother,” Chat mutters under his breath. “This entire week has been monstrous to us, Luka. Every day has been a discovery, I don’t even know what to do or how to handle it. Not to mention that even my father thinks you and I are a good match together, did you know that? The amount of years I’ve aged each day in this disaster of a week would’ve turned a human into dust by now.”

Luka turns, belly-side down, hiding away his pale under-scales in favor of showing his long blue-and-diamond-patterned back. He ends up dunking more of his tail into the water, and those ghost-like fins blossom from underneath his scales like a billowing sheet. The water is hazy from all the glittering gold and those glossy, feathery fins. “Perhaps I’ll listen more often to what you have to say about your family, after all. Is he truly the king of the underworld?”

“Shut up,” Chat really can’t stop himself from laughing, because he doesn’t have any emotional handle on any of this. “If you have any luck, you might see him visit the festival and actually find out. Maybe I’ll have all my friends meet him, so that you all can stop making fun of me when I say it.”

“What in the world is the king doing here?”

“Visiting his son, you noodle.” He slips his eyes shut.

Ah, this is more natural territory for them both, isn’t it? He can almost feel how easy it is for the two of them to slip back into banter. “Careful, now. You’re implying that I’m tasty.”

“And also very easily chewable, what do you think about that?” He’s bit into Luka’s tail a few times, and each time he’s felt how the muscles had shifted under those hard scales. It’s amazing his teeth can even penetrate the scales from how genuinely hardened they are, but he supposes that anything is possible with a jaw strength like his. He cracks back open one of his eyes, looking at Luka, who continues to just look at him with humor swimming on his face. “Hey, how come you aren’t fishing?”

“I am fishing, you idiot.”

“Bullshit. Where’s your fishing pole?”

“I’m not fishing with a pole today.”

“What?” This gets Chat Noir to sit back up, looking around. He blinks hard in the sunlight, willing his eyes to focus without hurting his vision. His pole at the far end of the barge is completely still, resting in a small divot carved into the boat, the fishing wire still swaying with nothing grabbing onto the bait. He narrows his eyes at the single pole, looking around for Luka’s, which is no doubt somewhere on the boat, only to come up with nothing. “Have you been using your net this entire time?”

“And if I have?”

“I thought we said no fishing with nets this time.”

“We said no fishing with Marinette this time.” Luka’s eyes are absolutely vibrant and gold as Chat Noir turns to look back at him in the eyes. He looks a little bit more awake than he does, but that’s probably because Luka’s cooling off in the water with most of his body in it, while Chat continues to bake. “You and I get too distracted around the little pearl, you especially more now. And the festival needs fish— the last time I went pole fishing with you, I got a hook stuck in my dorsal fin.”

“That was your own fault, noodle.”

“Again with calling me tasty,” Luka sighs. “Honestly, Chat Noir, it’s a miracle Marinette’s fallen in love with you when you’re so keen on flirting with me, instead.”

“At least I don’t injure myself while flirting with her, and don’t realize that my hook was next to one of my fins before trying to cast out my line.” He rolls his eyes. He remembers the nasty gash, and how the translucent fin had bled for what looked like to be far too long for a simple cut, and how Marinette had spent so long carefully stitching the feathery membranes back together with suture, willing for the fins to heal. There’s a scar still left behind on that fin, but it’s hard to see unless he’s close enough to really look at the little veins and how they’re slightly wobbly.

Luka snorts. “Of course, of course.”

“That’s what you get for flirting with my Lady.”

“So childish. You’d think I’d be allowed to talk to a good friend of mine without her familiar puffing up his chest.” Luka sighs, unraveling his jacket on the waist. The pearls on his sleeves shine all sorts of colors as his shoulders shift, and he folds the garment carefully with his long claws. Every bead is delicately sown in, and he knows that Marinette has obsessively looked over the pattern work, as well as the stitchwork, with amazement and gluttony.

Would she be happy if he bought a naga jacket for her? Maybe in a dark red color, or a white as similar as Luka’s and a red sash? Something pearlescent, though— a plain white jacket wouldn’t match the paleness of her skin. It would look as if she’s wearing nothing at all.

“Loverboy, I’m going to go check up on my net. Stop swimming in your thoughts and focus on fishing. Cast yours as well, won’t you?”

He registers that he’s been drifting off into thought, rubbing at his tattoo across his chest, still thinking of her. He thinks about what Luka’s said for a little while, trying to remember if he’d been making a point, only to realize: “I didn’t bring mine.”

“Use my spare, then.” Luka laughs. “I’ll be back in a second— try not to get lonely, kitty-cat, okay?”

Luka slips off the boat entirely with a gentle splash noise. Chat watches with mild interest as Luka’s long and elaborate tail starts to plume again, filling out with all sorts of fins now that he’s entirely in the water, disappearing under the boat into the shade where no doubt many fish are hiding. He reminds Chat very dimly of a betta fish, with how gentle and fanish the fins are. No doubt that naga are incredibly good hunters in the water, but Chat Noir can’t help but wonder why they look so delicate and so easily tearable once they’re subjected to a humid environment.

He looks back to the empty barrels behind him with a sigh. Maybe his mother will bless him with good fortune, although, in all honesty— it’s doubtful. Very doubtful. He’s just going to have to do this by hand, it seems, to which he sends a quick prayer to his father— hopeful that instead of blessing him with good luck, he gives Luka enough bad luck for him to win.

And maybe he’ll be able to stop thinking of it for a few more minutes, too.

She finally finishes with the first stack of charms when Alya ends up knocking on the door. There’s a breeze gentle enough to kiss her cheeks brushing up against the windows— she’s let the panels of the house open enough to catch the draft. It’s light, as gentle as a cloud against her skin as she works, and barely stirs the fire from its slow attempt to reignite from the coals. The breeze is good for her heart, she supposes— every once in a while stopping in her attempt to complete her task in order to bask in how content she feels.

Her heart is full.

Of thoughts of Chat Noir, of thoughts of them, of thoughts of being happy. The thoughts she hadn’t given the chance to breed and fester are suddenly in full swing in her chest and mind, allowing her to gaze longingly out the window, wondering about him. There are many things to do in order to get the festival up and ready, and many of them will have to be done at the fields on the other side of town, but she’s certain that she’ll be able to finish a second or third stack of charms before she has to slip out of the cottage and go start the physical preparations.

Alya’s here to collect her, no doubt, just like Luka had said she would.

She’s brought Nino along, too, and Marinette is quick to grin and pull the two close enough to smother them into her shoulders. “Hello!”

“Hello there, Mari!” Nino twirls her, pressing their foreheads together. As like many people in her life, Nino is much taller than her— he makes up for it by bending his back as much as possible to be at her height. “I haven’t seen you in so long. How have you both been?”

“We’ve been well,” She laughs, cupping his cheeks with her hands. He lets her, eyes squinting behind his glasses, looking at her with friendly affection. “Much much better now, recently. The rain finally letting up is much better for the farm— oh, but I’ve missed you both. When was the last time we spoke?”

“Far too long.” He muses, breaking away enough to allow Alya to crush her into another hug. Her friend’s arms are warm, and comforting, and so definitely sweet. Living in the cottage away from town is mostly good, and allows her to work on her potions in peace— but it doesn’t allow her to see her friends as much as she wants to. The two of them are always so busy running their tavern, and renovations to Marinette’s own shop have made her daily check-in to their eatery almost impossible. “Where is Chat? Don’t think I forgot about him— I haven’t seen him in forever, either. Where is that cat?”

“Out fishing with Luka, unfortunately. They’re at the lake, if you’d like to go join them?”

“Absolutely not,” Nino breaks out into laughter as he unlaces his boots. “The last thing I need is to be caught in the crossfire between the two of them. It’s usually fine, I enjoy their banter and their desperate attempts to find reasons to touch each other without making it weird, but I’m trying to look my best for the festival.”

“And I’m sure you can’t do that when you’re in the middle of getting your hair scorched off.” Marinette can’t stop laughing.

“You and everyone else,” Alya rolls her eyes, letting go of her so she can breathe and not cough into her sleeve. Alya hugs like she has a vendetta. “What are you trying to look good for, anyway?”

“The more presentable I look, the more likely people are willing to give us tips in the end, my dearest.” He waggles his brows. Oh, the two of them are so lovely— Marinette watches with a yearning and heartful gaze as Nino bends Alya back in his arms, dipping her low, a firm arm underneath her waist. Even with only one shoe on, and his feather in his cap dangling dangerously low to brushing against their faces through the entire action, he’s nothing short of having heart eyes for the woman in his arms instead of dissolving into giggles like Marinette is. “I may be a good player, but we all know that only the truly most handsome get the money at the end of the day.”

“Then it’s good fortune for us that I have the most handsomest man in the world by my side,” Alya smiles so warmly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Oh, the two of them— Marinette is helpless to give a little sigh at how perfect the two of them are. “We’ll be rich in no time.”

Love. Love love love.

By far one of the most important things that Marinette has ever been able to witness firsthand is the way the two of them look at each other— her heart is ready to explode. She hasn’t touched the cookies in a couple of days, still trying to get the bitter taste of love sick out of her mouth and away, and looking at the cookies gives her a slight nausea, but the core principle is still there.

Love.

She’s so giddy and warm.

“Oh! Come on, come into the house for breakfast, join me at the table. I’ll get a new pot of tea out, does that sound good?” It’ll be good for her, too— it’s a good thing she has those herbs on hand, or else she would be worried about any developments in her body she isn’t ready to have— the problem now, of course, will be to make sure neither of them pick up on her dropping additional leaves into her cup. Alya is persistent and keen and notices just about everything there is to notice, which means that unless she’s genuinely distracted by Nino, it’ll be impossible to dissuade her from asking questions.

Marinette readies herself, turns to the kitchen, and beckons the two of them to finish unlacing their boots while sitting the iron kettle on the oven to heat.

“Awh, I’m sorry, Mari. We’ve already eaten breakfast,” Nino has to help Alya, of course, because her petticoats are far too long and her stays are too thick with boning for her to bend properly for her feet.

“Oh? That’s alright. I think I have something you both will enjoy snacking on while I continue working on my stuff.” Marinette grins when they finally make it to the table. She moves the charms away and clears most of the space for there to be enough room for the three of them— she drops the unfinished charms into a corded bag, for now, tying the little string. “So. Do you remember the lover cookies?”

“Do I? The same cookies that made Nino realize that he did, in fact, have feelings for me?”

“Hard to imagine a time that you two didn’t date,” Marinette giggles. “But yes, those exactly.”

“I always knew I loved you,” Nino pouts. “My problem was I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Telling me ‘I love you’ would’ve been enough, you know.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Nino sighs. “We were all so caught up with the loss of Adrien that I didn’t know how to do anything.”

Marinette stops wiping at the table with her apron. Alya and Nino always remind her that she’s not the only one who misses their old friend. She never wanted to bring Adrien back because of her love— she wants to bring him back for everyone’s sake. Luka, Nino, Alya— their friends miss him. So dearly and so much— and talk about him as if he’s simply moved town, instead of being gone forever— but she’s never actually… explained that she plans on bringing him back. And now with the complicated mess of Chat Noir possibly being Adrien…

Oh, her head hurts. Just when she thought she could survive five more minutes not thinking about this tangled web. It’s as difficult to navigate as Plagg’s magic.

“Right, yes— I remember.”

“Mari?” Alya tilts her head, looking at how she massages her temples. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes— yes I’m okay. I just wish he were here.” Marinette smiles small, trying her best to ignore the way the seals on her ears burn. The two of them look at her with knowing gazes— they know she’s consumed some of the cookies herself. What they don’t know is that her heartache is actually pointing in an entirely different direction… or, perhaps, the same direction after all— just the person has a different name now. “I miss his laughter. I miss him— so I made lover honey cookies a couple of days ago, but I’m still in the process of making more, along with the charms. Would you two like to try them?”

Nino looked pained. “Are you making them for the festival?”

“Just in honor of our friend,” Marinette shares a private smile with herself. “It was his favorite, after all. It’s almost been ten years since he’s been gone.”

Alya’s eyes widen, looking down at the plate that Marinette puts in front of her with wide eyes. “Oh, how interesting. A cat shape?”

“Chat’s idea,” Marinette eagerly waits for them to try some, smiling a little bit wider. The cookies don’t snap in their mouths— still moist enough and sweet enough that it’s more of a chew than a crunch. The two of them hum appreciatively as Marinette takes a bit of time to pat off her apron clean of dirt. “What do you two think? Still good?”

“This tastes wonderful.” Alya sighs. “How is it that you make things taste like a whole fantasy? I feel like I’m biting into a cloud.”

“Guess it’s just part of my luck,” She giggles. “What do you think, Nino?”

“I think that, if I weren’t already with Alya, I’d confess my love to her on the spot all over again.” Nino’s face pinks. “This cookie is so strong. Did Chat try some?”

“He did.” She tries to hide her blushing and focuses instead on some dried-up flour on the edge of the table. “We both got love sick from all the cookies we ate. We probably ate a whole batch and a half, honestly— don’t do it. You’ll get overwhelmed with love.”

Alya hums with the cookie in her mouth, sharing a look with Nino. “Oh, really?”

“There’s no need to act all mysterious,” She shies, hiding her hands behind her, wringing her fingers through the laces of her apron. She looks to the single fire lily in the vase, how beautiful the blossom’s orange petals are, smiling to herself. “The cookies don’t make you feel love, but rather just amplify the feeling, and you two definitely know that. It wasn’t hard to put the context of his purring together with why we were getting overwhelmed.”

“Y—” Their eyes widen. Alya gasps. “So— he— you—”

Are there stars in her eyes? It feels like there are stars in her eyes. “We… talked about it.”

And other things. Lots of other things. Where was that bag of herbs, again?

“Chat Noir finally managed to confess?” Nino has to sit down from shock. “Holy hell!”

She sets out three tea trays, ignoring the way Alya looks at her knowingly when she sprinkles ginger root into one of the porcelain cups. Alya will accost her for that one later, that much is certain. “Wait, you— uhm. You knew?”

“Everyone does! Everyone knows that your familiar’s affections for you are much more than just friendly. Chat Noir has always— always— had his eyes on you, and has never concealed it.” Alya rolls her eyes. There’s a glitter in her smile, something that wasn’t there before, just proving to Marinette that she is absolutely going to get hounded the moment the two of them are alone. “I didn’t even need gossip for that one. His eyes follow you everywhere.”

“Oh. So, everyone, huh?” She blushes.

“Anyone with eyes can tell, yes.” Alya takes a seat next to Nino. She grabs for another cookie, nibbling on the tail, “Everyone could tell your affections for him, too. I was hoping something good would come out of it. Good to see that everything is well, in the end!”

“So are you two… together?” Nino doesn’t let Marinette steam behind her hands for very long. “Actually actually?”

“Uhm— well— I hope so. I think so. We talked about it—” Alya’s snorts cut her off, hiding a ‘yeah, and more’ under her breath. Marinette steams harder. “Uhm— and I really do think we’ll be together for a long time.”

“Is that even allowed for demons?”

“I don’t think we’re breaking any rules,” She rubs at her earlobes. Yet another thing to consider… “Uhm. Maybe I’ll have to talk to him about it. Who knows? He could be fine, considering his father—”

“Is 'the king of hell'.” Alya curls her smile. “And so, with a kiss, Marinette has accepted his propaganda.”

They have no idea how confusing it gets, do they? To know that Chat Noir could absolutely be telling the truth, and furthermore— the shenanigans that Plagg caused? She snorts behind a hand, thinking of how to even begin breaching the topic of a god stopping by to prank a witch and his demon son. Even if he really isn’t the king of hell, he’s certainly showing that he’s living up to the name… she can’t stop giggling. “Let’s hope he’s telling the truth. Why don’t you two enjoy some more cookies while I work on more of my charms? Or should we go to the field now?”

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[clumsyclifford]

dearly depressed and brokenhearted (i’d like to let you know that boys cry too)

it’s been a hot sec since i’ve properly posted a fic on tumblr but whatever i have the time and this one isn’t too long

anyway shoutout to @httpsgfg for the idea for the so much therapy playlist, which i somehow got through the entire three and a half hours of whilst writing/posting this. also shoutout to @rotten-candie for helping me pick a title & summary

to be perfectly clear: this is a gen fic. it is centered on a friendship. i’m not in charge of you and if you’re so inclined to read it as pre-slash then i can’t stop you, but if it’s all the same to you, it’s a friendship fic to me

tw i guess for angst, possibly hints at depression, crying, etc there are better tags on ao3 if you need them

title from how do you feel? by the maine

read here on ao3

-

It’s Saturday, or maybe Monday. Luke has stopped keeping track.

Rain is coming down, slowly but surely. Going outside is sure to end in getting soaked to the bone, probably shivering. Especially if Luke doesn’t bring a jacket.

He goes anyway.

The chill in the air wraps around him like clingfilm, settling under his skin. For a moment outside it would be bearable, but Luke plans to be outside a bit longer than that. He’s going to be cold. He is probably going to lose feeling in his fingers. It would be best to go back inside. Grab some gloves. Maybe a warm coat. Drizzling rain follows the wind and sprays in his face. Luke takes the front steps, one, two, onto the damp grass, which gives under his footsteps. Another. Another. Water soaks through the front of his shoes; his socks are going to get wet and soon he’ll lose feeling in his toes as well. 

He’s not trying to go numb or anything. Maybe he’s a bit of a masochist, but who isn’t? It’s not like the cold is going to give him permanent damage. He’ll go back inside when he can’t handle it anymore, but he has time before he reaches his threshold. Outside is the only place Luke can possibly fathom being right now. Everywhere else is wrong. Too bright or too loud or somehow otherwise just wrong.

Here, in the elements, his hoodie barely protects his face from the biting wind. Sleeves over his hands only do so much, even if he curls the ends of them into his palms. Jeans are not the right trousers to wear when it’s below freezing. The rain is only making it all worse.

Luke keeps walking.

He keeps his head down, watching his feet as they carry him forward, one in front of the other with no clear destination except away. Away will eventually circle around and lead him home again — he’s not trying to permanently escape. Something about the rain feels like a reset button, and that might be exactly what Luke needs. 

The thing is, this walk is supposed to be clearing Luke’s head, not weighing it down. Not weighing him down. Nothing is really wrong. If Luke tries to parse through his day, or the last couple of hours, he could probably single out a couple of things that might be to blame — calling home always makes him a little more fragile; call ended digs into his chest every time in a way that feels tragically, unjustifiably final — but he’s tired of having a reason for feeling heavy. Sometimes life is just hard. That’s the issue with the question what’s wrong, Luke thinks, blinking at the lights reflecting off the glistening road. Often, nothing is wrong. Does something have to be wrong for me to feel bad? he wants to say, except nobody has even asked him, and this entire conversation is happening inside his head.

Even in his head he’s creating problems where there aren’t any. Awesome.

A chill has taken up permanent residence in Luke’s body. He curls inward, trying to pretend like the wind isn’t blowing around him, like the rain isn’t stinging his face and the exposed strip of his ankles that his jeans and socks don’t quite meet to cover. It’s starting to come down harder; Luke’s hoodie is sticking to his shoulders and back and he might as well be wearing nothing at all for all the protection it’s providing him from the cold. He knows that this is the wrong thing to wear in this weather, but that had kind of been the point. It feels right to be doing something wrong on purpose. It certainly feels better than doing it wrong by accident. Or by virtue of it being beyond his control.

He’d expected to be cold, and he is. A sick sort of comfort arises from having predicted that cause-and-effect.

Luke’s mental clock is rubbish, and though his phone is in his pocket he can’t take it out and check it or it’ll get wet, so he has no idea how long he’s been out when it rings. Buzzes. Luke sighs. He digs his phone out of his pocket, cradling it to his chest to keep it out of the rain, and answers the call. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Luke waits for Michael to say anything. Eventually: “Where are you?”

“Outside,” Luke says. He looks around. “About five minutes away.”

“Away? Where did you go?”

“I didn’t — I was just walking.”

“Oh.” Michael pauses, and Luke knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “In the rain?”

“Is it raining?”

“...Yes?”

“Then yes, in the rain.”

“Okay. Well. Um, are you going to be back soon?”

Luke sighs again. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Are you, uh…” There’s a moment of silence. Luke glances around himself, turning his back to the wind. The constant motion of his walk had been the only thing keeping him from becoming a glacier of a man, and now he’s lost that.

“Don’t worry about me, Mike,” Luke says. “I won’t be out too long. Promise.” He can’t, or he’ll get hypothermia or frostbite or something.

“Okay,” Michael says. Luke can tell he’s struggling not to ask if Luke is okay, and it makes Luke feel inexplicably affected. That Michael wants to ask, but knows Luke well enough to know that Luke won’t want him to. 

“I’m okay,” he says as a compromise. It’s not really true, but it’s what he would have said if Michael had asked him anyway.

“Okay,” Michael says again, more quietly. “Love you.”

“Love you.”

There’s a long silence. Then Michael hangs up.

The hand holding Luke’s phone slowly lowers, shoving it back into his pocket. Luke stares down at the ground. He blinks back tears, but they come faster than he’s able to stop them. There’s no mistaking tears for rain, actually, not in this weather, because these tears are hot and salty when they slide down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth. The incongruity of warm tears on his freezing cold face almost makes him laugh, except when he opens his mouth to laugh what comes out instead is an unsolicited sob.

Shit. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to cry. He really hadn’t wanted to cry. He’s not going to become a blubbering mess in the middle of the road at midnight. Being sad is acceptable when nothing’s wrong, but crying when nothing’s wrong is crossing a fucking line. 

Why, why is it that hanging up the phone just stabs him in the heart? What the fuck is his problem?

One minute, he tells himself, crouching down because the smaller he is, the warmer he’ll be; one minute of crying and then you’re going to stop crying, because there’s nothing to cry about. One minute.

And for one minute he cries.

After one minute, he’s mostly out of tears anyway. Sniffling, he wipes under his eyes with his damp sleeve. That’s enough, he thinks firmly, sniffling again. Enough. It’s enough.

Before he stands up, he closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep breath. It doesn’t alleviate the weight on his chest, the weight of nothing being wrong, but blocking his vision allows him to tune into his other senses. It’s freezing cold and he shivers, listening to the rain softly hitting the pavement. This isn’t a panic attack, but Luke always finds it helpful to zero in on his senses. Quiet rain like static in his ears, the denim of his jeans creased behind his knees in his crouch, lingering salt on his tongue from the last of the tears, tight skin on his cheeks, his shaky inhales and exhales as he fights for a steady breathing pattern.

He’s okay.

Five minutes from home. Luke straightens up, hugging his arms around himself. His fingers and toes have all but frosted over by now. The world is awash in pale yellow and ashy grey, punctuated with almost-black in dark, unlit corners. On either side of him, familiar houses urge Luke onward, promising one more familiar than the rest if he just keeps walking.

So he does.

Five minutes feels very long, though Luke’s sense of time is, of course, warped beyond recognition, and for all he knows it’s ten minutes before he sees their house. Or two. 

Luke stands at the curb before the walkway. It’s freezing cold. He should go inside and warm up. He should make a cup of tea. He should take a hot shower.

Through the window it’s bright, though, so bright, far too bright for the gloomy mood still clamping down on Luke’s shoulders. Even if he went through the living room and shut himself in his room with the lights off, it wouldn’t be the same. The mood is uninterrupted and he doesn’t want to break it with anything.

As Luke stands there, shivering and indecisive, the front door opens.

“Luke?”

“Hi,” Luke says again, like he did on the phone. 

“It’s below freezing,” Michael says. “Are you coming in?”

“No.” He’s not. He can’t. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in five minutes. He can go five more minutes before frostbite becomes a real possibility.

“It’s cold, you’ll freeze,” says Michael.

“It’s not that cold.”

“And it’s raining. Cold and raining.”

“I’m not really cold,” Luke lies. “I’m okay. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Michael stands on the stoop, watching him. From this distance it’s hard to see his expression, but Luke can pretty much guess it’s a mixture of disapproval and concern. Michael has perfected it.

“Be right back,” he finally says, then slips back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar, before Luke can tell him he really doesn’t need to come back. Luke waits, though he contemplates just leaving for another walk. He’s not a dick. Although if Michael returns with Ashton or Calum, Luke will probably be annoyed. He’s not a child and he doesn’t need mothering, which Ashton is sure to do, nor is he in the mood to be cheered up, so Calum won’t be any help either.

Michael returns. He’s wearing a jacket and a beanie and there’s a blanket from off their couch in his hands.

“Michael,” Luke says. 

“Please,” Michael says. “I’m obviously not going to convince you to come inside, but I don’t want you to freeze.” He takes the steps, footsteps falling where Luke’s had, and comes close enough to Luke that when he offers up the blanket, Luke reaches out and takes it. “I know you don’t wear jackets,” Michael explains.

It feels like cheating. The masochistic walk should be all-or-nothing. But Luke can’t bring himself to refuse it. It’s not about the blanket, is the thing, really; it’s not about being warm. It’s about the gesture, about accepting the love and concern of a friend when Luke obviously needs it.

The blanket unfolds in his hands and he wraps it around himself. Some of the chill subsides. A new warmth blooms cautiously from within, starting in his sternum and spreading outward. It moves slowly and with difficulty, thawing the ice that’s formed inside Luke’s chest from all of his internal insistence that being cold had been the solution, but it doesn’t back down.

“Can I stay?” Michael asks. “You can say no.”

“Stay for what?” Luke glances around. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah, I know. I just. Thought you might want to do nothing but…with a friend.”

Luke considers saying no. Michael would shrug, eyebrows drawing together in more concern, probably. Okay, he would say. Come inside soon. He would probably shift on his feet, trying to determine whether or not it would be okay to hug Luke, and ultimately decide against it. The door would close behind him and Luke would have the big, empty, glacial outdoors to himself. That had been the goal, when he’d left. To be alone. To have all the room in the world, with the hopes that attempting to fill it would spread his sadness too thin to hold weight. Except that hadn’t really worked. He’d just grown dense, stodgy instead of risen. The rain must have iced his sadness in. 

“Would you?” Luke says quietly, swallowing.

Michael nods. He does a very good job pretending like he hadn’t desperately wanted Luke to say yes, although Luke knows he had. “Are you still walking?”

“I think I was going to sit,” Luke says, glancing down at the curb. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind,” Michael says, and Luke really believes that. Luke takes a seat on the curb, even though the frozen rain seeps through his jeans, and Michael sits shoulder-to-shoulder beside him. They both stare out across the street. 

After a moment, Michael speaks quietly out into the air. “What — uh — I don’t really know what question to ask. Or if I shouldn’t ask anything.”

“Just as long as you don’t ask what’s wrong,” Luke says wearily. “I’m sick of what’s wrong.”

“Fair enough,” Michael says. There’s a beat of silence. “What are we doing out here?”

“You’re keeping me company.”

“And you’re…?”

Luke shrugs, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. It’s still raining and even the blanket is going to be soaked through soon. Luke’s hands are inside his sleeves, which are inside the blanket, but they’re still numb. “Wallowing.”

He really is wallowing, the most self-indulgent kind of sadness. Hardest to let go of, easiest to drown in. 

“Oh,” Michael says, a soft edge in his voice. “That makes sense.”

“It does?”

“I don’t know, yes?” Michael reaches out with his converse, tapping the side against Luke’s calf. “You’re a wallowing kind of guy. Sometimes that’s what you need.”

For the second time tonight, Luke feels abruptly like he might cry, but this time he doesn’t. “Uh. Thanks. I think?”

“I can wallow with you,” Michael says simply. 

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Yeah. Aren’t you?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Luke’s lips. “Yeah,” he admits.

“Yeah,” Michael says, like he’s just made a point. “But you shouldn’t wallow alone. You should at least have company.”

Luke takes a deep breath. He pulls his hood further over his head and glances over at Michael, who’s just watching his own feet with interest. 

“Okay,” Luke allows, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Just a couple more minutes. Then we can go inside.” He wonders if this had been Michael’s ploy, to guilt Luke back indoors by offering to freeze for him. But he’s pretty sure it isn’t a trick. Michael isn’t manipulative. He’s just loyal.

“Whatever you want,” Michael says, kicking carelessly at a loose piece of asphalt.

Luke hesitates, lingering in the bubble of silence between them that almost seems to mute the rest of the world. Michael looks over at him finally. When he meets Luke’s eyes, he quirks a transient smile. The warmth defrosting Luke’s insides grows hotter.

Luke leans his head on Michael’s shoulder, and Michael only shifts to accommodate him. “You can wallow with me. We can wallow together. If you want to. If you don’t mind.”

Michael tilts his head against Luke’s and hooks his foot around Luke’s ankle. “Yeah. Wallowing together. I can do that.”

It’s bitterly cold, and the icy rain and wind are doing them no favours. But when Luke closes his eyes this time, the only sensation that seems to matter is Michael’s shoulder solid under Luke’s weight, and he doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

[spilledkauffie]

Happy Endings

Pairing: Ben Solo x reader Word Count: 1.4k T/W: Fluff! A/N: for an anon’s request: “dad!ben solo hcs? where he’s just happy to be free of palpatine and he realises how at peace he is looking at his wife and children cooking/together”, I’m so so sorry it took me this long!!!

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Ben blinked a few times, but then sharply winced. He thought the flashbacks had been subsiding, but every now and again they came back with a sharp pain of the life he used to know: Palpatine, the first order, and everything that came with it. It wasn’t long, thankfully, and he quickly gathered himself, swallowing harshly and opening his eyes again. His chest felt heavy, but he grounded himself with a deep breath. He looked down to steady his shaking hands and heard a sudden burst of giggles, to which he smiled widely.

It was coming from the kitchen, not too far from where he was. The girlish giggles easily echoed throughout the small house on Tatooine. Ben again looked up, this time with a soft smile he couldn’t damper if he tried. Knowing his daughters were safe and happy made him feel something he never thought he’d be able to. This time the emotions got the best of him as he heard another outburst, he chuckled hearing your voice trying to parent them best you could without laughing, yourself.  As Ben shook his head overhearing everything, a few tears, evoked by the overwhelming feelings, fell. 

“Ben Solo!” He heard you yell, but could still hear the faltering laugh in your attempt to be serious as you came down the hallway to find him. Quickly he tried drag away the tears with the ends of his shirt sleeves, “your daughters are about to start a house fi-”

“Hey,” he whispered with a smile and glistening eyes. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” your tone immediately changed upon seeing him. Your heart raced thinking something was seriously wrong, maybe it was a flashback, a memory, or something worse. Caressing his face with your hands, you felt him lean into your touch. Your eyes darted around, looking for some kind of reasoning as to what was happening.

“Nothing,” Ben answered, keeping his eyes fixed on you as the smile persisted on his lips subtly.

“Ben,” you met his eyes, asking with more authority this time.

“No, no,” he slightly laughed at how concerned you were when he was literally just crying out of happiness, bringing his hand to touch your wrist, he stroked his thumb against your arm as he held your wrist softly, “it’s really- I’m okay,” he nodded. 

Turning his head slightly to kiss the palm of your hand, his lips lingering against your skin, before he leaned against the sink counter. He rubbed his hands against his face in another attempt to wipe away any remaining tears. You stepped closer again, this time placing one hand against his thigh as the other stroked his hair, in a way letting him know you were there for him. 

“I just-” he started, again with teary eyes, “I could never imagine all…” he looked around and then at you, “all this.” 

You nodded, letting him say what he needed to, before interjecting. 

“Who I was, what I did, I could,” he paused, looking down, “I could never think this would happen to me.”

He sniffled a little, as you continued to fluff and stroke his hair softly, “redemption’s never out of reach, sometimes the stars just align and all you can do is be grateful that they guided you to where you are.” 

Ben looked up with his big brown eyes right at you. There was an understanding he found in you that he had never had before. It amazed him every time you told him that you never doubted him. 

“Where would I be without you?” Ben shook his head and smiled, standing up, this time caressing your cheek with his hand. 

“I don’t want to think about that,” you answered him, never breaking eye contact, “you’re here now.”

He smiled again, pressing his lips to yours, feeling yours smile against his. The two of you enjoyed this moment, but it didn’t last as you heard, “Mom!” being screamed from the kitchen. Breaking the kiss, Ben chuckled as you sighed exhausted. 

“And now that you’re here that means taking responsibility for your children,” you teased him, grabbing his hand and dragging him out to the kitchen with you.

“My children, aren’t they ours?” Ben said, unprepared for what he was about to find.

“Tala and Tara Skywalker!” you announced when you entered the disaster of a kitchen, Ben’s hand still in yours as he came to your side. 

“Daddy!” They both screamed as they came rushing towards him, hugging at his hip and leg, leaving their little hand prints of flour all over his black clothes. 

Ben let go of your hand to cradle the girls closer, smiling as he looked from one face glowing with mischievous joy to the other. 

“What have you little ewoks been doing in here?” Ben teased them, and they jumped up and down. 

“Nothing,” they said in synchrony. 

“That’s why the oven’s nearly in flames?” You asked.

The girls giggled and hid their faces against Ben. 

You rescued the cookies from the fire and set the pan on the table, tossing the oven mitt on to the counter. The girls oohed and ahhed at the cookies now that they were finally done and warm and gooey. They climbed up on the chairs and leaned over the table with their elbows supporting them, Ben set his hands on the back of their chairs, making sure to counterbalance their leaning forward, as he himself ducked over them to see what they’d made. 

“See that one's a droid, and that’s a star, that’s a lights-lightsaber, I want mine to have blue frosting,” Tala began to explain as she pointed to them. 

“Don’t touch them though, Honey,” you told her, knowing the pan and the cookies were still too hot. 

“I want the droid,” Tara exclaimed, beginning to make droid beeps and buzzes, causing her sister to nearly fall off her chair, had Ben not have supported her with his hand.  

“Which one are you gonna have?” Tara asked, turning to Ben. 

He gave a puzzled expression, rounding the table to the other side, lettinga you stand between the girls. 

“I think I’m going to have this one,” Ben said as he reached for a cookie. 

“Ben!” and “Daddy, no!” were heard simultaneously as he went to pick it up off the hot pan 

“Not yet!” Tala scolded with a pout. 

Quickly letting it go with an ‘oops’ expression across his face he backed away from the cookies shaking his hand slightly, before looking at it. 

“Did you get burnt?” Tara asked, crossing her arms with a huff, perfectly mimicking you as you shook your head at Ben with slight amusement. 

“I don’t think so,” Ben admitted, looking to you with an apologetic look, afraid he was being a bad example, but your laugh assured him he wasn’t. 

“I’d better checkst it outs,” Tala said climbing down from her chair and toddling over to Ben, “open,” she commanded in her soft voice pointing to his hand.

You smiled as your youngest “examined” his hand with the most precise medical knowledge. Ben played along with her, addressing her as “doctor” and asking her if she’d have to take off his hand completely. 

“No,” Tala answered with a frown, before she pecked his fingertips with her lips and patted his hand looking up and saying, “that should do it, Daddy.” 

“I think it’s already better,” he said with a little shock.

“Really?!” Tala burst out with wide eyes and happiness. 

“Yeah look, I can already pick you up,” Ben hoisted his daughter up in his arms and nuzzled against her, making her giggle as she clung onto his shirt, until he set her back down. 

“Can we do the icing yet?” Tara tugged at your shirt.

“Only if daddy can reach the icing bowl,” you said, looking over to Ben, while the girls were already pleading with him over it. 

Walking over to the cabinets, Ben told you to just tell him where it was. Accompanying him, leaving the girls to duel over which cookies they’d get to decorate, you smiled, putting an arm around him and pointing to the top shelf. Ben brought it down and quietly set it in front of him, not yet letting the girls see, as he looked at it.

“You sure you’re okay?” you rubbed his back.

Ben turned to you, bringing you into a hug, which you accepted fully, “perfect, I’m right where I want to be,” he kissed your forehead. 

[laventadorn]

hold this for me

A/N: It’s FINALLY done!

Read on AO3

The cold was sharp and biting, the sky craggy with dark clouds. Harriet, bundled up in her heavy winter cloak, followed the trench Snape had crushed in the snow as he walked ahead. Snow powdered on the black cloak hem, crunched beneath his boots; her breath hung cloudy in the air. The world was silent except for those breathing sounds, the breaking of snow and the settling of branches in the dark mass of the forest ahead. 

Snape turned his head a little, one black eye peering over his shoulder, past strings of his hair. She smiled, reflexively. He whipped forward again, as if pretending he hadn’t been caught looking back at her. She saw the tip of his ear turn red and grinned. 

The plan she’d formed last night was already getting a good set-up.

Jogging a little, she closed the gap. He didn’t look around, but he shifted the basket on his arm. Since he didn’t register discomfort until something like his leg was about to fall off, she knew he wasn’t moving it to find a better position. This was a fidget. 

She hummed a little tune to herself, pleased. Snape let out a breath, like it was too much work to sigh. She grinned. 

“If we were here to find anything that required stealth,” he said, his voice curling in the air like fog, “you’d be making all our work useless.”

“You wouldn’t have brought me if you needed stealth. Although I can be perfectly sneaky.”

“Sneaky is not the same thing as circumspect,” he said dryly. 

“Well, we’re just here for plants anyway.” 

“Some plants require stealth in order to approach. Which you’d know, if you paid attention in Herbology,” he said, like the swot he was. This would be the sort of snotty grown-up observation that would completely kill the mood if Hermione didn’t also say the same things all the time (only more nicely). 

She rolled her eyes. “Gosh, how will my ego survive you trashing my Herbology marks?” 

They’d come to the edge of the forest, into the shadow of the trees, the forest gloom folding over them. 

“These are Frost Blooming Drops,” said Snape, still swotty. “They grow quite a distance inside the forest. If you get cold, you know what to do; you’re a witch.”

“I’m all set.” She patted her cloak pocket, where a jar of Hermione’s little bluebell flames warmed her ribs. 

“And don’t wander off. We use the Forbidden Forest as a defense boundary for a very good reason.”

“I’ll be clingy,” she promised. 

“Hm.” Snape’s gaze slanted along his gaunt cheekbones, then swept forward again. She smiled and followed him beneath the enfolding branches of the snow-crusted trees. 

The thing with Snape was, you had to filter everything through a translator. There was normal-person speech, which would express concern by asking “Are you warm enough?” However, Snape-speech was, “If you get cold, you’re a witch.” After all, if he didn’t care, he’d have waited until she was already freezing before saying anything. 

There was also this whole outing. Yesterday Snape had actually showed up at lunch, sat next to Slughorn (who was on Harriet’s left), and made noise about going into the Forbidden Forest to collect some rare seasonal flowers. It was a very long walk; the flowers weren’t even very useful, hardly seen in any potions you would use except twice every five years; pretty much a waste of time to bother collecting them. He’d go early so he could get there and back before dark. 

This was clearly an invitation. He wasn’t even the Potions professor this year, and Slughorn’s attitude had clearly wondered why anyone would be so mental. So Harriet had bundled up this morning after breakfast and loitered near the empty Quidditch Pitch until Snape turned up with a basket over his arm. His face passed through some interlocking expressions that she couldn’t decipher, but all he said was, “Walk behind me,” and crunched a path through the snow. This, too, was Snape-concern: if he made a path, she didn’t have to. 

The snow in the forest wasn’t as deep, so she could walk next to him. He kept fidgeting with his basket. She smiled to herself. 

It might work in her favor that he was twitchy about something. She’d come on this outing with one specific goal, and she might be able to get away with it if he was too distracted to see it coming. 

“So what potions do these flowers go into?”

“What do you think Frost Blooming Drops would be used for?” he retorted, which she interpreted as a desire to have a conversation. Good; it saved her the trouble of pestering him for one. 

“Minty fresh breath?” She smirked. 

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “I should know better than to ask you Potions trivia.”

“Probably,” she said peaceably. Her middling marks seemed to genuinely irk him, although now that he was her Defense professor and she was his top student, he didn’t seem to know what to do about it. Sometimes he seemed downright helpless. 

“So, what do they do?” she asked again. 

“One of them does give you the power to expel frozen breath.”

She squinted. “You’re making that up.”

“Would I?” he asked blandly. 

Right, a double agent who never made things up; that was believable. “What would you need frozen breath for?”

“You tell me.”

“Mmm. It’s hot out, and you want a cold drink?”

“Yes, for a wizard it would be far more sensible to mix a potion to cool the breath than to simply conjure ice.”

She grinned. “Which is why I’m saying you made it up.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to trap me into admitting anything,” he said, affecting boredom. She knew it was fake because he was picking at a sticking-out bit of weave on his basket with a split fingernail. 

She pointed a mittened finger at him. “So you do admit something.”

There was a glint in his eye, but his voice was still bland and his expression smooth. “I speak generally.”

“Yeah, sure. C’mon, don’t you want me to learn something about Potions for real?”

He gave her a look: I-know-what’s-in-your-head-and-it-most-certainly-isn’t-Potions. “If I thought it wouldn’t go in one ear and out the other, perhaps I’d give it a shot.”

She shrugged, smiled, and spread her hands in their mittens. He only rolled his eyes again. 

They crunched along for a bit without speaking. Harriet watched his hand fiddling with the edge of his basket and thought about her plan. She’d mapped it out last night. All she had to do was find the right moment. . . She’d say, “Here, hold this for me,” and he’d say some variation of, “Why do I have to hold something for you? Aren’t you a witch?” but he’d put his hand out anyway, and then she’d--

“Harriet!”

“Huh?” She looked around, because he wasn’t next to her anymore.

“What did I say?” He was glaring her way, one foot below the edge of the path, apparently ready to climb down something. “What did I say about wandering off?”

“Right, right, my bad.” She crunched over to him. The tops of his cheekbones were pink, for some reason. Maybe it was the cold. 

She peered down the slope, where a little side trail made of rocks descended along a narrow trench, beside a gentle stream of black water. “We’re going down there, then?”

“Watch your footing.” He stressed every word. “These rocks are icy.” 

He shot a spell at the rocks to crack the ice, but even without the ice, the rocks were still wet, and she did have to watch her step. At the bottom, where a little trail wound into the snowy gloom beside the stream, he put his wand away. 

His glare was still giving off little sparks, like a log settling in the fireplace, so she put on her best contrite air and decided she should wait till he cooled off a little before she tried. . . anything. 

She hadn’t actually been in a snowy forest before, despite living on the borders of one most of the year for the past six years. Her previous jaunts into the Forbidden Forest had been during autumn and spring, but it was. . . different now. It was almost completely silent, and the silence seemed to have a weight, almost like being underwater. She felt almost like speaking would be wrong, as if she’d entered a temple that called for silence. 

The light faded the deeper they went, the shadows gaining depth, as if they were in an old photograph. 

Sometimes she thought she heard voices in the distance, whispers or laughter or broken pieces of song. We use the Forbidden Forest as a defense boundary for a very good reason, Snape had said. She wanted to shiver for a different reason than the cold. 

She cleared her throat quietly. “I’ve been in here before, obviously.”

“Really?” Snape said with diamond-grade sarcasm, but his voice, like hers, was soft. 

She rolled her eyes, one corner of her mouth pulling up. “But it never felt like this before.”

“It’s affected by time of year. Much of what lives in the forest is either hibernating or gone, and this close to the winter solstice, there is more. . . activity among the non-living and the magical. In your first year’s detention” -- he gave her a look that said he wouldn’t forget about that little lark if he lived eight hundred years -- “you didn’t go this deep.”

She nodded and lapsed back into silence. 

In the crisp, aching silence, a voice somewhere in the murky shadows began singing again. She couldn’t decide if the song was happy or sad. She didn’t think the words were English. They lifted and fell, fading in and out of hearing. Trying to catch the tune, she hummed along. 

“What are you singing?” Snape asked, almost idly. 

“Dunno. Whatever it is they’re singing.”

Snape stopped walking. His cloak swung against her legs and his basket bumped her upper arm. “Whatever who is singing?” 

“Uh. . .” She looked around. They were the only people nearby -- she hoped? Or did she definitely not? Would it look too chicken to edge closer to him? The non-living and the magical, he’d said. “I. . . don’t really know.”

Snape’s gaze bore into her. “I repeat: do not wander off.” He even reached out and plucked at her cloak, drawing her to walk right next to him. 

Oh, this was the perfect time. All she had to do was calm down the jumping beans that had suddenly rented a trampoline in her gut. 

It’s easy, she told herself. Just pull off your mitten -- he’s not even wearing gloves, cuz he’s too cool for the cold or something -- and say, “Hey, can you hold this for me?”

She tugged at her right mitten. Her left mitten slipped on the woolly rounded edge. Why hadn’t she bloody worn gloves? 

“Hey,” she said, clearing her stupid throat, which was wanting to stick shut for some stupid reason, “would you--”

“Look,” he said, weirdly close to her ear. His arm crossed in front of her, almost brushing her nose. The black wool had a smell like woodsmoke and wintergreen. Standing almost right up against him, she could see the individual strands of his eyelashes.  

??? said her brain. 

Snape sighed through his nose. “Over there.” He tapped her shoulder and pointed -- oh, that’s what he’d been doing. 

She looked to the left and let out a soft oh. 

Floating through the air were little blue fires, in a loose formation almost like a flock of birds. Not just floating, but drifting in the same direction she and Snape had been walking, at about head height. Against the dark trunks of the trees and the snow in the foliage above and on the ground below, they were like a constellation under construction. She’d never seen anything like it, and she felt a deep urge, almost like she’d swallowed it, to step off the path and follow them. 

“What are they?” she asked in a low voice. 

“Little ghosts. Not fully formed, like the ones at Hogwarts -- more like impressions.”

This would be a really good time to grab his hand. She wanted something to hold onto. But she was afraid that if she moved, she’d go running after the little ghost fires. As if Snape would let her, but she’d look really stupid. 

She swallowed, trying to hold very still, like that could dissolve the lump of yearning that had settled into her core. “Why do I want to go after them?” 

“They’re lures.” Snape put a hand on her shoulder, as if holding her in place. “We’ll wait for them to pass.”

“Lures?” Jesus, was her back sweating? He was voluntarily touching her shoulder and she was trying so hard not to go running off after ghost fires that she couldn’t even properly appreciate it. 

“The Forbidden Forest has its share of gateways that the living should never pass through.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. 

They watched the ghost fires bob through the tree trunks, fading as they passed into thicker shadows. When the light of the last one winked out, Snape dropped his hand from her shoulder. He let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it in.

“This is why I told you not to go wandering off.” He brushed a hand down the front of his cloak, another nervous gesture; the black fabric was pristine. His hand shook a little, and there was a dent between his eyebrows. “Not many people would have been able to keep from following them.”

Harriet’s jostled brain processed this. That was another compliment, wasn’t it? She clenched her hand in its mitten -- Hey, hold this for me -- just say it, dammit, and take his hand, his hand had been shaking --

“Hey, uh.” She cleared her throat, which felt two sizes too big. “Would you hold this. . . ?”

“Hm?” He bloody seemed to have been thinking about something else. 

“What?” He focused on her the hazy look in his eye fading. 

All her courage deflated. She wanted to smack herself between the eyes, or maybe even him. It turned out that having him distracted was not good for the plan. 

“Nothing,” she muttered, and tugged her mitten back on.

“Then come along.” He shooed her lightly and started walking.

Blowing out an explosive breath that ruffled her fringe, she trudged forward.

“You didn’t follow them,” she said after a bit. 

“Hmm,” Snape said again. “No.”

“You said not many would’ve been able to, but it was really hard for me. You seemed fine, though.”

“You exerted control without assistance,” he said dismissively, as if the compliment didn’t matter. “They had little effect on me. They’re more interested in. . .” His mouth twisted, the glint in his eye sardonic. “The young.”

She didn’t think he’d appreciate any commentary on that, so she asked instead, “How young is young?” 

“Past twenty, their powers considerably diminish.”

“What, are kids, like. . . Happy Meals to them?”

“Mm,” Snape said, bland again. “So you see, you had more to contend with.”

He turned his attention forward again. Harriet supposed she’d let him, since he seemed to be watching for more creepy things that could lure them away to make snacks out of them, and so she could smile like a dope without him noticing. Well, hopefully. 

“We haven’t run into any centaurs,” she said once she’d gotten her face under control. “I thought they didn’t like people coming into their territory.”

“They don’t. But this isn’t their territory. They live farther to the east. We’re headed southwest.” 

“Huh. I ran into them both times I came in here before, though.”

“In your first year, Firenze was out of bounds, deliberately. As for last year, Miss Granger knew exactly where she was going.”

Harriet had to be proud of Hermione. Trust her not only to come up with the idea to lure Umbridge into centaur territory but to actually know where to find it. Harriet had thought they just roamed the forest at will. 

“Here,” said Snape, stopping, his cloak brushing against her leg. He was pointing at a black rock that towered over them on the side of the path. 

“. . . a rock?” Harriet said. 

Snape rolled his eyes. “Follow me.”

Then he stepped down the embankment and disappeared into the bloody rock!

Harriet jumped off the path, slid on the icy ground, saw the rock rushing at her face, and threw out her hands to brace her fall. Only instead of the rock, she plowed straight into Snape. Not expecting her to suddenly hurtle at him, he was knocked off his feet; they tumbled to the ground. 

“What in God’s name was that?!” he snapped. But he was patting at her shoulders, as if checking for injuries. “Did a random ghost suddenly possess you?”

“. . . I thought the rock ate you,” she said sheepishly. There were some twigs in his hair where his head had struck the ground; wincing, she reached up and pulled one out. “Sorry, sorry.”

His face did something that was difficult to interpret even for her. She’d have called it flustered if he didn’t look so disgusted, or disgusted if his eyes hadn’t looked so wide and helpless. He snatched his hands back and twisted his face away, patting the ground for his basket, like it might have gone invisible and he could only find it by touch. She found the basket behind her and silently offered it in apology. 

“Thought the rock ate me,” he said, his voice sounding funny. When he saw her holding the basket in his periphery, he snatched it out of her hands and started turning it over a bit -- well, a bit crazily. 

“You just disappeared. What was I supposed to do?” She looked up at the rock walls rising above them, black and slick with ice, and the little path between the two. “It was an illusion?”

“Less than you’re thinking. The angle of the rocks makes the path invisible.” He got to his feet, brushing ineffectually at his cloak, leaving a muddy handprint that he didn’t even seem to notice. “This way.”

There was still forest detritus stuck in his hair. Harriet figured she’d mention it later. 

No more disasters befell them as they came out the other side of the rocks. They’d come to the edge of a slight clearing in the forest, where the ground sloped down toward a massive tree, ancient, even the lowest of its towering branches soaring above the younger trees around it. All up its trunk sprouted piercing white blossoms, glimmering in the icy air like a cascade of pearls, and broken petals lay scattered across the frost-tipped earth, shimmering in the wintry light.

“Damn,” she whispered, her breath fogging the air.

Snape gave a delicate snort. Harriet’s mouth twitched. “I see why you wanted to come here.”

“For Potions?” He gave her an ironic look, but his long fingers flexed on his basket. 

She smiled. “Obviously.” 

“We can’t use the petals on the ground,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him down the slope. “Well, you could, if you wanted to make perfumed sachets. But for potions, we need to pick the blossoms fresh.”

Harriet wasn’t the perfumed sachets type, but she thought Asteria might like some. Curious, she knelt and scooped up a handful of shimmering white blossoms. Their scent was sweet and light and somehow icy. 

“Do you have--” She stopped and caught the bag Snape had tossed over. “Thanks,” she said, smiling, and scooped a couple handfuls of flowers in. If she had to take off her mitten to achieve greater accuracy, well, that was just taking advantage of an opportunity. 

It felt sort of sacreligious to crush the fallen blossoms underfoot, but they lay in such a thick carpet that she didn’t have a choice. She crunched over to Snape’s position by the tree -- its roots were taller than he was -- where he was peeling the petals off the flowers twined in vines around the trunk. His long fingers moved delicately, without ripping the velvety blossoms. Her bare (very cold) hand wanted to reach up and fold over his. Too bad it would look so dumb right now. 

“The best ones would be those up there,” he said, tilting his head all the way back to look up at the flowers clustered beneath the tree’s lowest branches. “But neither of us is quite tall enough.”

“We could’ve brought a broom,” she said, though surely he’d have thought of that. 

“Inadvisable within the forest bounds. Don’t even think about it,” he added darkly. 

“I wouldn’t.” Honestly, she wasn’t a danger addict. Hermione called it a ‘saving-people thing.’ Maybe it was, but just going into the Forbidden Forest for some flowers, by herself, was a bit much. Not only did the place rank high on the Creep-o-Meter, but too many people would flip out if she did. 

“Good,” he said, like one would wield a knife. 

She looked up the trunk, then reached out and tugged one of the hanging vines. It was sturdy wood. “I could climb up this.”

“You’re not climbing over a hundred feet off the ground.” She could just see the ‘Why did I think it was okay to bring Harriet freaking Potter into a danger zone’ zipping through his head. 

“Not that high. Pretty sure my arms would give out. Just a bit further up.”

“No,” he said firmly. 

“C’mon, just, like, six feet.”

“No.”

“I have muscles!”

“I don’t -- from what?” He switched tracks in the middle, looking confused.  

“I do chin-ups in the Room of Requirement. And I’ve got a punching bag.” Her biceps and triceps weren’t bad, actually. She could deadlift Asteria no problem. 

Snape seemed to be thinking about something else. When she reached out to grab the vine, he came back to life and plucked it out of her hands, looking flustered. “You’re not climbing anywhere. Stay on the ground. Right there.”

“It’s just climbing a damn tree, it’s hardly more dangerous than being in the forest in the first place.”

He pressed his lips together, looking steamed because he knew she was right. Not that he ever let a little thing like a reasonable argument sway him. 

She jumped up and grabbed the tree root over her head. 

“Harriet!”

“It’s fine!” She hoisted herself up and then swung her legs around until she was straddling the root. Below, Snape was fluffed up like an angry owl; he had his wand out, as if preparing to keep her from pancaking on the ground. “C’mon, Quidditch is more dangerous than this.”

“And I’m so happy you play it!”

“Thanks, that means a lot.” She scooted over so she could reach out and pick the blossoms. “How were you doing this?”

“For starters, I was standing on the ground!” 

“And you’re really good at it, too,” she said kindly. He replied with an angry owl noise. “Taking the petals but not the stem, right?”

He chuntered under his breath while she gently extracted a petal and held it cupped it her bare hand. “Gimme the basket, ey?”

“I’ll give you a. . .” she heard him mutter, but he floated it up. He probably wanted to yank her off the branch but had realized this would defeat the purpose of protecting her from a  fall and was reduced to hovering beneath the root and puffing out little swears that floated up to her as she worked. 

“All right, that’s enough,” he said after maybe two minutes of this, which showed, for him, laudable restraint. “Come down.”

“Fine, okay.” She’d carried her point, at least. She handed the basket to him and then prepared to swing down.

She was dangling from the root for a second, gauging the distance to the ground, when something brushed at her legs. Startled, she kicked out with her foot, heard a grunt and then a light thud. 

“Ah shit--” she said as she realized what had happened, and staggered when she hit the ground, falling onto her rear.

Snape was sitting sprawled out in his cloak, knocked for a second time to the ground, a very exfoliating glare knifing past his messy hair. The petals had spilled out of his basket. 

“Sorry! Did you -- try to grab my legs?” 

There were bright spots of color on his high cheekbones; Snape did not blush prettily. She wanted to pat his face. “I thought you weren’t sure how to get down!” He tried to brush his hair out of his face, straighten his cloak, and right his basket at the same time, and just ended up worse off than before. 

Harriet found this behavior both cute and worrying, and silently helped him scoop the petals back into the basket. She hoped they weren’t ruined but didn’t dare to ask. When he got to his feet and stalked around the root to get to more petals, she followed and hovered without speaking, just watching him. 

It occurred to her, finally, that if Snape was distracted, there must be a reason. He wasn’t a spacey person, and around her, his focus was normally laser-searing. And suddenly, the strangeness of him inviting her into the deadly Forbidden Forest, when he regularly fretted at her even getting up on a broom, begged to be noted. 

She’d almost think he was an imposter, if it weren’t impossible for anyone to act as precisely peculiar as he did. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly. 

He stilled, staring at the tree, nothing of him moving. Strands of hair hung around his ear, which was bare to the cold and a little red. His profile, always forbidding, was harsh and remote, but she thought for a moment that something like sadness flickered in his eye before he turned his face away. 

“What about our lives right now is easy?” he asked after a long moment. He extracted another flower from the vine, delicately, as if maneuvering fine glass. 

“Something’s bothering you,” she said, as slowly as he was picking the white petals off the tree. “Is that why you asked me out -- here?”

She’d almost said asked me out but realized just in time that this would make him clam up from embarrassment. If Hermione ever found out about this strange limbo of affection between them, she’d have a stroke and then report Snape to Dumbledore; but the truth was that Snape was more skittish than a cloistered maiden. There was a reason Harriet had spent all of last night and today plotting just to hold his hand for two seconds.  

Snape paused with a petal in his fingers on the way to the basket, and then dropped it and lifted his hand to the next one. 

“I merely thought. . .” he said, still delicate, and Harriet was almost amused that they were having this conversation in slow motion. “That time. . . doesn’t wait. For any of us.”

She frowned. “What’s that mean? Wait.” She took a step closer, trying to peer up into his face, but he turned away as if very interested in a patch of petals to his left. “Is something going to happen soon? What’s going to happen?”

“It’s merely a general observation,” Snape said tightly, picking up his flower-picking pace, his shoulders tight like a shield. 

Bullshit. “Is this about you taking the Defense position? Is something going to happen to you?”

“Who knows what will happen?” he asked stiffly. “I’m done.” 

He spun, a little clumsily, having retreated quite close to another root to hide, and ducked underneath it to stride off. “Come along,” he threw over his shoulder, and picked up his pace when she jogged after him. She broke into a run, knowing he wouldn’t do the same even to get away, and caught up. 

“Then why are you acting weird?” 

“I am a weird person,” he said waspishly, walking faster with his damn long legs. Well, she didn’t have a lot of dignity, so she skipped to keep up. His face flickered with something that may have been amusement or dismay. 

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“You’re being a pest, that’s what’s going on.”

“If you told me,” she said, unperturbed, “I wouldn’t have to pester you.”

They were about to get to the rock path, which wouldn’t be wide enough for her to follow beside him. He was about to speed up --

Fine. 

She reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Severus,” she said.

He froze at the touch of her hand, and then calcified at the sound of his name. The clearing was silent, the forest dormant and indifferent. 

“If you’re in danger,” she said quietly, “I want to know.”

Snape’s hair fell in his face, and he stood as if any movement was too much to bear.

“Who is safe right now?” His voice was barely louder than the silence. “The two of us. . . are in possibly the most dangerous positions in our world. I’m a double agent, and you’re. . .”

“Public enemy number one?”

His hand shifted slightly in hers as he inhaled, as if he was taking a fortifying breath, or sighing. 

“My tasks. . . are my burden to bear. Literally. It’s -- ” She imagined his mouth twisting, though his face was still turned away. “My job.” 

She was quiet, processing this. She knew better than to think she could force him to tell her what was really going on. Getting any admission out of him, even one as simple as There’s something going on but you’re not going to know what it is, was a lot. “I hate your job,” she said at last.

“Really? I love it. It’s almost as enjoyable as grading.”

She smiled, though she didn’t feel like laughing. 

“Come.” Snape took a tiny step forward, as if testing that he wasn’t going to break apart if he moved. “We’ve been out in this cold long enough.”

Gently, Harriet pressed on his hand, keeping hold of it. He could easily pull free if he wanted, but she tried to convey that she didn’t want him to. 

At the pressure of her hand, he went still again, but only for a moment. When he started walking, he left his hand in hers, his fingers slightly curled around her palm

For now, that was enough.

[honeybeesiness]

an unholy holiday.

‎slight spoilers for chapters 16+! there aren’t too many spoilers tho, so dw uwu.

word count: 1.7k.

‎

‎‎‎

one fried scorpion sandwich.

A week and a half had passed since Diavolo’s holiday announcement, and with each passing day you grew more and more excited. The butterflies gnawed at your stomach on a daily basis, and you had an extra pep in your step when you would traverse the hallway to your next class. Based on the not-so-subtle looks Diavolo had been giving Mammon at the meeting, Mammon was the one who suggested that they do all this for you. You didn’t think Mammon had it in him to think of others, and you sure as hell didn’t realize that he had picked up on the melancholic homesickness that had rooted itself within you. But you were appreciative of his effort regardless of whether you noticed it before or not; It just showed how much Mammon cared about your happiness. You would be sure to thank him when his selected day came.

Today was the fourteenth of December, and to make the whole event a lot more easier, Diavolo had given you and the others a break from school.

“Don’t students in the human world have a winter break as well?” Diavolo had said to you when you went to thank him for the nearly two weeks off. He wasn’t wrong, and you were glad that he was at least a little in-tune with the usual in human highschools.

On your nightstand, your schedule lay crumpled from being shoved into your pocket too many times, and you swiped it up immediately after you woke up. “Let’s see...” Today was your day with Beel, great! You wondered if he had anything planned, and if he didn’t, then you were sure you could think of something. Beel’s mind was always open as long as food was part of the plan, so there would be a lot of things you two could do. Could he balance? Ice skating might be fun... Did Devildom even have a rink? You’d have to ask Lucifer or Diavolo about that one later. But for now, breakfast was your next course of action before you and Beelzebub would head off.

Once your hair was thoroughly brushed and your “Formerly Anti-Lucifer League” hoodie (courtesy of Belphegor. You, him, and Satan all had identical hoodies in honor of the Lucifer harassment squad you were unwillingly dragged into) was slid onto your person, you kicked on your shoes and went to open the door, only to find that Beelzebub was on the other side, hand raised into a fist like he was just about to knock. How polite, you mused.

“G’mornin’!” You greeted happily with a smile. “You headin’ to breakfast too? Let’s go together!” You took a step forward, but the ginger stopped you in your tracks. “Huh?”

“We’re not going to the dining room just yet. I ha-” He started, but you cut him off.

“What?!” You blurt impulsively. “But Lucifer’s gonna kill us if we don’t go to breakfast! D’you remember what happened to Mammon that one time he skipped breakfast last month?! He looked DRAINED when he sat next to me in Devildom History class!” You had more to say, but you shut your mouth soon after you said your last statement. You sheepishly rubbed the back of your neck, “Ah, sorry for interuptin’.”

Beel’s eyes held no ill-will, and he only smiled. He liked hearing your voice, but sometimes you talked too much. He knew you were aware of the fact that you had a tendency to run your mouth, but at least you knew when to stop yourself.

“It’s okay.” He yawned, and you yawned in turn. You cursed at yourself internally for catching the yawn-disease. “But I got permission from Diavolo to skip.”

“Oooh, is this for our thing today?”

“Yep, but mine’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”

“Oh, fine.” You begrudgingly agreed, doing as he said and letting your eyelids swoop shut. You felt something touch your hand, and you narrowed it down to Beel holding your hand to guide you to wherever he was planning to take you. His hand was warm, contrary to your cold palms, and his practically wrapped around your small one.

The two of you left your doorway, and you heard him close it before you two for real headed off. You thought he would be taking you somewhere farther away, but it turns out that the steps you took were minimal, and you both had arrived before you knew it. You had an idea of where you were, because, well. Come on, it’s Beelzebub we’re talking about here! He always has his mind set on one thing and it was the most obvious thing in the world.

After you heard a heavy door close, you were once more pulled along, and said door was shut behind you.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

And when you did, your suspicions were indeed correct. Beelzebub had taken you to the kitchen, as expected, and you sent him a curious look. “I knew it. What kind of stuff do you have in mind?”

“An eating contest.” He said simply, but at that your eyes widened so much that they nearly bulged out of your head. An eating contest?! Against Beelzebub of all people?! Oh, you were certain that you were going to lose. Why would he pick this out of everything else? Did he like seeing you suffer in defeat after he inhaled practically everything off of his plate in a matter of seconds?! You never took Beel to be the type to relish in your misery, since he was usually pretty peaceful compared to the rest of his brothers, so what was this all for?

You didn’t hesitate to voice your complaints, watching as he turned to rummage in one of the cabinets for who knows what. “An eating contest?! Beel, you know that I’m going to lose, so why’d you pick this?! Are you a...” You trailed off as the man pulled out two large plates, each holding a mountain of cookies, and balanced them on his palms. You were actually pretty surprised that he didn’t eat them already. Were they baked in advance? Did Beel make them? You didn’t know he could cook or bake, but maybe he could. There was also a possibility that either Luke or Barbatos made them, but you wouldn’t know until you asked. You licked your lips, suddenly aware of how hungry you were. “...Hey, wait. Those actually look pretty good.”

“Barbatos made them. I tried one right after the first batch came in, they’re really good.” Beel answered, and you swore you could see the drool forming at the corner of his mouth. He was just as eager to dig in as you were. “This isn’t an eating contest to see who would finish first, though.” He grinned. “I asked Barbatos to bake a jellybean into one of the cookies and randomly place it in the pile. Whoever eats the jellybean cookie first wins.”

You slapped your hands together and rubbed them up and down. Now this was fair! With Beelzebub being a fast eater, you’d imagine that he doesn’t exactly take the time to enjoy his food. You, on the other hand, were sensitive to any kinds of changes in flavor in food (you called yourself the “ultimate taste tester” because of it), and you were certain that you’d be able to tell a jellybean apart from a thick frosted sugar cookie. “Hell yeah, I’m in. What do we get if we win?”

“I want a few dozen fried scorpion sandwiches from Hell’s Kitchen if I win.” Beel sounded certain, but you weren’t surprised. You just hoped you had enough Grimm to pay for it all... “What do you want?”

You thought for a moment. “Hard question. Umm...” After thinking for a few more seconds, a devilish smirk appeared on your face, and Beel fidgeted nervously at the sight of it. If he was going to make you spend your own Grimm on a few dozen fried scorpion sandwiches, then you’re going to ask for something much, much worse as payback. “I want Levi’s Softbun password.”

Beelzebub visibly shuddered. Getting Levi’s Softbun password was next to impossible, since the otaku refused to write it down and had instead committed it to memory. That meant the only way anyone could get the password would be if Levi trusted the person enough to give it to them themselves. But the choice was made, and Beel knew that there would be no way to change your mind.

“You know how hard that’s gonna be.” He said, pushing one of the plates across the table to you. You caught it and positioned it in front of you.

“Yeah, which is why I asked! Are you ready?” You readied yourself, hand hovering over the plate. You looked up at Beel, and he nodded. “Go!”

You then proceeded to shove the first three cookies you could grab into your mouth. They were really good, a perfect representation of Barbatos’ immense skill, but they tasted a lot like the frosted sugar cookies you’d buy at Bullseye, which were just as delicious. Now that you think about it, your dad might like to try these, so maybe after this you could go and ask Barbatos for the recipe. You just hoped that the ingredients weren’t things that could only be found in Devildom...

The cycle repeated again and again. You both would munch on cookies without a single word, trying to find that one jellybean-infested cookie. You were starting to feel full, but you didn’t dare mention it. You had to feel confident in yourself in order to win! You were only able to breathe when you bit into a cookie and it was... unusually squishy. Pulling the treat away from your mouth and eyeing the middle, you gleefully noticed that there was, in fact, half a pink jellybean lodged into the baked dough.

Slamming your free hand against the table, you raised the cookie in the air. “I win! Levi’s Softbun password shall be mine!”

You stood triumphantly as Beelzebub only grinned, though the expression was a bit pained. “Congratulations.”

You took note of the way his smile was not the happiest almost immediately, and you placed a hand on your hip. “What’s that face for? Aww, are you having a hard time coming up with how to get that password? Ha, sucks to be you!”

After surveying the remnants of the baked dessert and popping the cookie in your hand in your mouth, you were beginning to think that maybe Christmas in Devildom wasn’t so bad after all, because this first impression sure was a good one. ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎

Softbun is the Obey Me! counterpart of Crunchyroll while Bullseye is just Target :”)

taglist: @wetleafwrites :: @midnight-moodlet​ 

^^ first time doing a taglist, but just ask me if you want to be on it! i’ll be adding y’all on it starting with the day two post.