#which of course with little bits in a broth you naturally do

[weaselle]

I worked in the rain while i was sick today. That's why i prefer to work for small businesses, and often have been the only employee of some proprietor run business. Because I will be dedicated and try my absolute hardest regardless of who i'm working for, and I need that to matter.

At a big business you're just a small part of the machine, and they'll use you until you break and absorb the loss of you until they can get a replacement. And that works for some people because they can be as selfish (complimentary) as this world can often demand we be just to stay healthy. I've done it. It's a valid choice, and sometimes a necessary one.

I do tend to fair better at places like where i work now. Run by a single mom trying really hard to make this work for all of us. Out of the last three years i've worked for her the first two years were spent as her only employee. Now i'm senior over two more employees. And that means things like: my input has helped form policy, and: whether or not i do my job well has a big impact on how well the business does.

The flip side to that is, if i call in sick, the business looses a big chunk of income and has to cancel clients last minute, and this business isn't big enough to take hits like that lightly. I gotta clock on. And even though boss would totally let me call off sick (and even has five days of sick pay saved up per employee, because she's trying really hard to be a legit business and a good boss) if i'm still willing to offer it, she needs the help.

But the truth is, i was always going to come in when i said i would and do the work i said i'd do unless i'm 100% unable anyway.

So i usually do best in a situation where that level of effort 100% matters

also, never you fear, i work 99% outside and alone i'm not getting other people sick (and i took two covid tests to be sure i felt comfortable risking that [and i wore a mask the 1% of the time i was at all near any other people])

ANYway. i worked sick in the rain today to keep the ship afloat. sniff hack. i'm a good thing.

My boss ran some errands and went to a Thai restaurant and told them i was sick and they made me a soup that isn't on their menu <3

[liketolaugh-writes]

Sick Day Once A Year

I might be too much in love with the Death Echoes trope. So, have a whole bunch of Bruce taking care of Danny. It's basically a sickfic with extra hurt/comfort.

It takes place in the same verse as More Like Home but probably won't happen until after the plot of that fic is done. At this point, Danny has been living with Bruce for a little under a year.

-----

At noon, Alfred called Bruce to ask him to come home early. Bruce turned around and walked out of the board meeting without even looking at anyone, but did throw a distracted 'family emergency!' over his shoulder. He might have carefully cultivated his airheaded Brucie persona, but even then people knew that he took his kids seriously.

He ignored the board member that grumbled 'enough fucking family to have an emergency every day if he wants.'

"What is it, Alfred?" Bruce asked, once he was clear of the board room and in the elevator. Calm. Calm. No running. Brucie doesn't run.

"Master Danny declined to specify the nature of his sick day this morning," Alfred said, in a dry tone that didn't do a bit to hide the worry underneath it. "Apparently the anniversary of one's death is rather... physically harrowing for a ghost. He's admitted that he'd like to have you here."

But of course he hadn't asked for it, because that would require bringing up what he was. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Ten minutes at most."

"I'll let him know. Come prepared to spend several hours in his room, if not the rest of the day. He indicated that he may be well enough to eat by eight or nine o'clock, but even then..."

Meaning he expected to be debilitated until then. "Understood. Should I bring anything?"

"He's not aware of anything that will help, but some topical analgesic might be of use. I will see if I can find anything else to try."

"He's in pain?" Bruce's brow furrowed. Alfred hesitated before answering, which made Bruce's heart sink.

"He is... physically reliving his death, he says, and will be for most of the day. He is in quite a bit of pain."

"These kids will be the death of me," Bruce muttered. Danny hadn't even hinted at anything like this when he asked for the day off. Bruce made a mental note to keep him off patrol the next night as well. The elevator stopped, and he took off at as quick a walk as he dared. "I'll be there in ten."

"Yes, Master Bruce." Alfred hung up, hopefully to return to Danny.

On the way, he collected a few items that seemed promising: IcyHot cream in the strongest available formula, both heat and cold packs, a variety of compression bandages, and some muscle relaxers from the Batcave infirmary.

Bruce knocked on Danny's door. Cool air drifting out of it indicated either Danny or Alfred had turned the thermostat down lower than usual. Fortunately, Bruce had grabbed a jacket just in case.

"'M in," Danny mumbled, barely loud enough for Bruce to make out.

He pushed the door open and was unsurprised to see Alfred seated beside a miserable-looking Danny. He was surprised to see Danny in ghost form, as it wasn't a form he typically spent recreational time in, particularly when he was unwell. Perhaps it made the ordeal easier. Danny was curled up in his bed, on top of the covers, with his jumpsuit removed and a set of soft pajamas in its place. Alfred was running one hand through Danny's soft white hair, slow and comforting, while his other held one of Danny's.

"Hey, chum," Bruce called out quietly, drawing Danny's attention to him. "Heard you're hurting today." Danny hummed unhappily instead of denying it, which was concerning. "Think you'll be able to eat anything for lunch? Applesauce, bone broth, yogurt? Maybe with ectoplasm?" Danny didn't seem to have any intention of leaving ghost form.

Danny started to shake his head, but stopped to consider when Bruce brought up the last point. "Applesauce and ectoplasm," he mumbled. "Maybe. Nothing after like, two, though."

Alfred gave Bruce a warm smile and gently extracted himself from Danny. "I will see to it," he promised. "Do you need anything else, Master Danny? Master Bruce?"

Danny shook his head mutely, and Bruce said, "I'll text you an update once we've tried these." He hefted the bag he was holding. "If you could bring me lunch when you can, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course," Alfred promised. "I hope you feel better, Master Danny."

"Thanks, Alfie."

Alfred left, shutting the door gently behind him, and Bruce took his place, setting the bag at his feet for now. Danny didn't stir from his leaden sprawl, not even to lift his head.

"You didn't have to leave work, y'know," Danny mumbled, half into the pillow. "I'll be okay."

He didn't apologize, Bruce noted. That was progress. "I know I didn't have to. But someone should be here with you."

"I don't-" Danny choked, his hands squeezing into fists as his whole body shuddered and jerked as if tased. Danny panted through the spasm, his whole body rigid, and when it was over he slumped down and let out a weak moan of pain, making no attempt to continue arguing. It took Bruce a moment to remember to breathe, reminding himself forcefully that this was no attack.

"I brought you some stuff," Bruce said, softer. Danny grunted in discontent. Bruce leaned down and opened the bag anyway. "IcyHot lidocaine cream and muscle relaxers." Danny shook his head without looking. Bruce wasn't surprised. He hadn't realized Danny was in ghost form. "Both heat and cold packs." Danny hummed in mild interest but didn't open his eyes. "And compression bandages."

Danny blinked his eyes open to consider them. His usually neon eyes looked dull. "Worth a try," he muttered after a moment.

Good. Something was better than nothing. "Do you need help sitting up?"

Danny's mouth quirked in a dry smile. "Not yet."

He pushed himself up with a grunt, and shrugged off his pajama shirt with intangibility rather than lift his arms. Bruce had to suppress an immediate and visceral reaction to the glowing lines that coiled up his left arm, which he had only gotten glimpses of before; a telltale Lichtenberg permanently etched onto Danny's ghost form. In contrast to the rest of him, which had dimmed to about the light of a glowstick, the Lichtenburg mark was painfully bright.

"Where do you want these?" Bruce asked, lifting one of the rolls of elastic bandaging. Danny cocked his head and considered it. Then he gestured silently, indicating his left arm from his wrist to his shoulder, and twisted to give Bruce access. With the ease of long practice, Bruce started to wrap it. "Anything I should expect?"

Danny watched him unroll the bandages for a minute, around and around, getting halfway up Danny's forearm before he answered. "The pain comes in waves. They'll keep getting longer, more severe, and closer together until around four, and then they'll die down completely about two hours after that." He paused, watching Bruce loosen the bandages around his elbow before moving on. "It won't ever get as bad as actually dying, but it's still pretty bad. And I'll be really emotional for a lot of it, especially when it hits peak."

"When are you not." The words were out before Bruce could think twice about them. Fortunately, Danny laughed, tired but genuine.

"You've got me there. How many rolls of bandages do you have?"

"I brought three. Alfred can obtain more if necessary." Pretty bad, Danny said. Bruce had no desire to experience pain that Danny described as 'pretty bad.' His tolerance was high even for their family.

Danny shook his head. "That should be okay. Can you do my back too?"

"Yes, but I'll need to be closer." Danny scooted to make room, and Bruce shifted to sit next to him, then tapped a spot low on Danny's spine. "Starting here?" Danny nodded. "Alright. Is there anything else I should know?"

Thankfully, Danny seemed to genuinely think about it, but eventually he shook his head. "I've only had two of these," he reminded Bruce. "There's more stuff I don't know, probably."

Ah yes, a frustrating constant. The elusive nature of comprehensive information about ghosts. Even Constantine had large gaps in his knowledge, which Bruce would grudgingly admit was rare for the man. This? This was definitely not in the introductory handbook. Was Bruce now obligated to share information in return? Hn.

Danny squinted at him. "What did Constantine do now?" he asked.

"Constantine."

"You have a very distinct 'thinking about Constantine' face."

"Hn."

Danny smiled briefly, then yelped, curling up like a bug and accidentally dislodging Bruce's grip on the bandaging. Instinctively, Bruce tucked Danny against his side, and Danny shook and twitched against him, a desperate whine tearing itself free as Danny rode out the wave of pain. Bruce all but held his breath until Danny finally slumped again, breathing heavily. His chill crept through the jacket Bruce had slipped on before coming in.

"Ready to keep going?" Bruce prodded, once Danny's breath evened out. Danny laid there for another few seconds, then nodded and pushed himself upright with a wince. Bruce picked up the dropped end of the bandage, tightened what had come loose, and kept going. "You're sore?"

"Ha." Danny lifted his arms slightly, enough to make room for Bruce to work. Bruce shifted and encouraged Danny to rest his arms on Bruce's shoulders, and Danny did, leaning against him. "Yeah, I wake up pretty achy already, even though I don't start getting spasms until ten. Just to make sure I have a really miserable day."

Uncharacteristically bitter, Bruce noted, but unsurprising under the circumstances. He didn't comment. "Remarkably, we don't currently possess any upper back bandages. I'll ask Alfred to retrieve one if you're happy with the results. We do have shoulder and wrist bandages." Bruce finished wrapping Danny's torso but didn't pull away.

Danny turned his head to squint at the bandages peeking out of the bag. "Why'd you bring so many?"

"I know how you died," Bruce reminded Danny evenly. Electrocution implied muscle pain, and Bruce had suspected his left arm would take the brunt of it. Danny shuddered, a natural one this time, and pressed himself against Bruce for comfort. Bruce dropped an arm around his back, holding him. A minute or two passed, and then Danny pulled away with a sigh.

"Okay."

Right, yes. More compression bandages. These went by much faster, simply needing to be strapped on, and soon Danny's hand and shoulder had joined his left arm and mid-back in compression. He seemed satisfied with that and laid back down on the bed, somewhat more relaxed than when Bruce had first come back in. Bruce hesitated, then shifted closer again and set his hand on Danny's upper back, carefully trying to smooth out the painful knots that had developed there. Danny 'mm'ed softly but didn't otherwise react.

Alfred knocked on the door, and Bruce called him inside when Danny made no move to. Alfred pushed open the door and brought in two plates, one for Danny and one for Bruce. Bruce accepted his with a nod.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said quietly. "Danny, are you up to eating?"

Danny didn't answer at first, but then shifted around to glower half-heartedly at the bowl Alfred had brought. Then he buried his face in Bruce's arm, grumbling, and Bruce's mouth twitched in amusement. It disappeared when another tremor wracked Danny's body, and the young teen bleated in pain, his grip tightening painfully.

Bruce forced himself to breathe evenly this time, and massaged Danny's hand with his own, pressing through the thick bandage. Danny slumped, panting, and with care, Bruce shifted his hand to massage all the way up Danny's arm, coaxing the tension out of the muscles there until he reached Danny's shoulder, skipped past the compression bandage, and pressed his fingers into Danny's back. Danny didn't say anything, but he pressed into Bruce gratefully and stayed relaxed. Somehow, still, Bruce was startled when Alfred joined him, cupping Danny's temple in one hand.

"Master Danny?" Alfred coaxed, more firmly than Bruce had. "Can you stomach some applesauce?" Danny whined, a softer-toned protest than the low keens of pain he'd let slip. "I know, but you will feel worse if you don't eat anything. I don't think you want that."

Danny grumbled something that sounded like 'no' and acquiesced, allowing himself to be propped up just enough to poke the glowing applesauce with a spoon. He brightened a little at the reminder that Alfred had added ectoplasm, and started to eat. Bruce followed his example and worked quickly through his sandwich.

"I see you're making good use of our extensive collection of medical garments," Alfred said to Bruce, making Bruce snort quietly. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"If he's satisfied with the improvement from these, we'll need one for his upper back as well," Bruce said. "I'll let you know."

"Perhaps after this, the collection will be complete."

Danny got through about half the applesauce before he pushed it away, and Bruce set it on a clear spot on his nightstand before Alfred could pick it up. He glanced up at the butler. "I'll see if I can coax more of this into him later."

Alfred gave him a small smile. "Very well. I'll check in later to see how the two of you are doing."

Bruce nodded, and Alfred left to attend to the manor. Bruce turned his attention back to Danny and considered him. He had a few more questions - why Danny was staying in ghost form, if there were any physical effects from this - but nothing that couldn't wait until Danny was less ill. He picked up his tablet instead. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Danny tilted his head up to look at him, then nodded. It was barely twelve thirty and he already looked exhausted, pale even for his ghost form and cradling his left arm protectively. Bruce hoped he'd be able to sleep at some point, but that seemed unlikely until the pain had passed, which apparently would not be for hours.

Bruce picked up his tablet and quickly downloaded a book. Danny had mentioned wanting to read 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' a few times, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. "The story so far: in the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."

Danny snickered softly.

As always, reading to his kids made time pass a little faster. It also gave him easy access to the digital clock, and with the note function innate to the Kindle app, he could keep track of the time and Danny's progressing condition, most importantly the interval between spasms and the relative severity of the pain.

After half an hour, he noted that the current interval period was about twelve minutes and asked Danny, "Are the compression bandages helping as much as desired?"

Danny nodded. He'd pulled a thin blanket over himself after a while, mainly for comfort, and his hold on his left arm was still loose enough that Bruce believed it was more psychological than physical for the moment. "Hurts less when I can't jerk around so much. One for my upper back would be good. The shoulder one isn't quite cutting it." He made a face.

Bruce shot off a text to let Alfred know. "Anything else you want?"

Danny wrinkled his nose. "Heat pack?" he asked, softer and more tentative, as if there was anything Bruce would say no to right now.

And that was simple enough. Bruce activated one of the handheld heating packs and handed it to Danny, who shuffled around a little before putting it on his neck, by the junction of his shoulder. Bruce picked his tablet back up and continued reading.

Alfred returned about twenty minutes later with the requested bandage, and Danny didn't protest when Bruce went to help him sit up. He wasn't weakened, Bruce judged after a minute, but there was a minute tremble in his muscles that indicated the pain was ramping up even outside of the periodic spasms.

Bruce helped him get the new compression bandage on, and then paused to smooth out some of the building tension there. Danny leaned in gratefully - he was much more physically affectionate than most of Bruce's children, he'd come to realize, except perhaps Cass and Dick. Bruce kept an eye on the clock, and made sure to get Danny down before the next spasm hit. Danny groaned, the sound drawn-out and wavering unhappily, and clung to Bruce through it before falling into a shivering, panting slump.

Alfred ran his fingers through Danny's hair, nodded to Bruce, and left quietly, as harried as ever when one of the kids was suffering.

"You happy like this, chum, or do you want to lay back how you were?" Bruce asked Danny quietly. Danny grunted, then squirmed further into Bruce's lap. It was a little eerie, Danny being so light and cold in this form that Bruce could have mistaken him for a lap full of snow, but it made Bruce smile for a moment. "Alright."

He settled down and picked up his tablet to resume reading, noting the time and event before he continued.

A part of Bruce, a not-so-small part, was furious that Danny had meant to handle this alone, without anything to even try to ease the pain; it reminded him of when nine-year-old Tim had caught a bad strain of flu, and how confused he had been when Alfred insisted on him staying at Wayne Manor to be cared for. This might not have been particularly dangerous, it was true, but Danny was miserable now and only promised to get more so through the day.

He wondered briefly how Danny had spent the previous two such events. Certainly not with his parents, there being no human explanation for this. Could he even be home for it, in the comfort of his own room, or did he have to go elsewhere? Had he been alone for either of them? It unfortunately seemed likely, especially if he hadn't known about it in advance the first time.

Even with the bandages stabilizing half his upper body, Danny's groans and whines slowly progressed into low keens of pain, and he started to clutch at himself through each one, gasping for breath like it was the only thing that would bring him comfort. Bruce shifted so one of his hands rested on Danny's shoulder, where a gap between the shoulder and upper back bandages seemed to be creating a sharp spot of pain that Danny kept trying to get at. He massaged it carefully without looking away from the tablet, and Danny relaxed a little, panting.

At two thirty, Danny started to cry, exhausted tears shining on his cheeks and faint, breathy sobs following each spasm. At three, Bruce noted that the interval had decreased to six minutes, then set the tablet aside and transferred his attention to comforting Danny.

"How are you feeling, chum?" he asked quietly.

"Hurts, God, it hurts," Danny choked out, trembling like a leaf and his better hand clamping down on his shoulder again. "'S so cold, Bruce. It's in my bones. Shouldn' be in me."

Cold. Ectoplasm? Bruce wasn't sure. Danny had never described his accident at length. "Heat pack?"

Danny nodded jerkily, so Bruce leaned forward, careful not to jostle him, and grabbed a few. He lifted the blanket enough to place one on Danny's upper back and one on his lower, then noted the time and the request. If this was indeed a yearly event, a thought that made his blood boil, they'd need to be better prepared for it next year.

A stray thought crossed Bruce's mind. Did this happen to Jason as well? Jason had never referenced anything of the sort, but he also knew that Jason never went out on the anniversary of his death. Bruce would know; he'd specifically looked out for him the first few years, before the habit became apparent, and still kept half an eye out since.

Danny cried out, no longer making any effort to muffle the noise, and seized and jerked through another long episode. Bruce counted silently. Up to thirty-three seconds. When it was over, he sobbed and curled closer to Bruce.

"Why'd they have to build that stupid portal?" Danny choked out. Bruce ruthlessly clamped down on another wave of rage at the eldest Fentons. "God. A-ah. This sucks. I wanna go to bed. I want it to be over." His voice cracked.

Sleeping pills, or a sedative? They wouldn't work on Danny's ghost form either, but depending on why he wasn't reverting to human, they could try to get him to sleep through as much of the day as possible. Something to discuss later on. "It's 3:16." Danny whined in protest. "I've got you. What hurts the most?" He checked on the heat pack by Danny's neck, making sure it was still in place.

"My chest hurts," Danny sobbed quietly, his face wet with tears. "My heart is stopping."

Unfortunately, Bruce couldn't help with that. He set his hand on Danny's chest anyway, and Danny reached up and clutched at it, apparently finding comfort in the futile gesture all the same. Even his hand trembled.

"'M scared, B," Danny confessed after another minute, almost too quiet to hear. Bruce's chest tightened, and he breathed through another wave of frustration and hatred before he could soften his voice enough to reply.

"You're going to be fine, Danny. You'll be in pain for a few more hours, but that's all it is."

"'M already dead," Danny murmured. From inflection, Bruce deduced that it was meant to be self-soothing.

Bruce's throat ached. "...Yes."

At four o'clock, the interval dropped to two minutes, counting from the end of one spasm to the start of the next. It barely gave Danny time to breathe, and he tossed and turned until Bruce moved both of them so Danny could sit up and hold onto him, crying into his shoulder. Danny held on with bruising force - and no more, as careful as Clark even now - and jerked, hands tightening and loosening in Bruce's jacket with the ebb and flow of relived pain.

You did this to him, Bruce thought at the elder Fentons, more than once.

At exactly 4:36 - Bruce was keeping as close an eye on the clock as he could manage - Danny screamed. Bruce immediately recognized the sound from an echo audible in his Ghostly Wail. Bruce's jacket tore under Danny's hands, and a horrible, quaking tremor seized Danny in an unmistakably fatal grip. Bruce counted the seconds and held Danny too tightly for him to accidentally shake himself loose.

Forty-six seconds. That was how long the worst spasm held him. Bruce assumed that was also how long it had taken Danny to die.

In contrast to the other times, when it finally released him, Danny pressed in closer instead of loosening his grip, and sobbed hysterically.

"No, no," Danny choked out, and "Please, I don't wanna-" and "Dad, Dad."

What did you say after something like that?

"I've got you," Bruce settled on. "You're safe. You're with me."

Danny calmed down slowly, sobs dying down into heaving breaths and then into a deep but labored rhythm that closely matched Bruce's but seemed to take much more effort. The next spasm that hit was much lighter, lasting only eighteen seconds, but it still sent Danny into renewed shudders and tears, holding on tightly.

When Danny seemed calm enough, Bruce shifted him enough so that Bruce could hold him in one arm, then pulled his tablet back over and logged the time of death, length of the accompanying fit, and what had followed. Interval immediately increased back to more than ten minutes (Bruce had unfortunately missed the precise time) and period decreased to eighteen seconds.

Danny set his head on Bruce's shoulder.

After that, things got much easier. At 5:15, Danny removed himself from Bruce's lap to lay down. He removed all of the heat packs and passed them to Bruce, but kept the compression bandages on. He didn't reach for the blanket but hummed gratefully when Bruce pulled it over him anyway, and Bruce sat on the floor beside him and debated returning to reading aloud.

"Whoa. You two look wiped."

Bruce looked up. Duke had opened the door to talk to them, probably too worried by what he'd seen through the door to remember to knock first, and his expression was pinched with worry. "Duke. Anything on patrol?"

"Uh, some movement I'll tattle to Jason about, but nothing big." He studied them with concern. "How's Danny doing? I didn't realize he was this sick."

Hm. Had Alfred declined to explain what had happened? Bruce glanced at Danny as the teenager hummed unhappily, but Danny didn't say anything else, so Bruce provided, "He's had a long day. I expect he'll go to sleep soon. We'll debrief tomorrow."

"Debrief?" Duke frowned at him, understanding immediately that there was more than what he'd been told, but then he glanced at Danny and just nodded. "Alright. Feel better soon, Danny. Get some rest, okay? I'll let Alfred know how you're doing."

Danny's hum this time was more positive.

At 5:30, Danny fell asleep. At 5:45, Dick came in to check on them and left once he'd come to look at Danny's sleeping (calm) face, and at 6:15, Cass came in with a plate of food for Bruce and a few granola bars for Danny. For when he wakes up, she signed.

A little while after 6:30, Bruce fell asleep without meaning to.

[milkweedman]

Tried a bit of dyeing. The buckthorn berries out front are a lot harder to get than last year, but luckily they're a pretty potent dyestuff, and a handful or two is enough to dye an armful or so of wool.

Last year i got a beautiful golden green.

This year... at first, kind of blueish purple ? I ended up doing a quick test to see how it feels about being alkali or acidic. The acidic one basically just turned white again, which is kind of hihilarious. The alkali one though turned a bit green. In my test I didn't add any extra dye broth, just fresh water and lemon juice/baking soda.

Ive gotten better results adding a bunch of dye liquid into the alkali pot though, so I tried it here. We'll see the results. This id definitely a more blue green than yellow green like my last one.

Ive read that you get bluer dye the earlier the berries are harvested, which checks out here. Last year it was late summer and I picked dried berries from the ground. This year, they have just started ripening in earnest and are not dried.

Anyway, did not weigh anything of course but it was maybe 2 double handfuls of fresh early berries and an armful of wool mordanted in alum. First I cooked the berries on low, then mashed them, cooked a little longer on low (maybe 3 hours total), added the mordanted wool, cooked for another 3 or so hours. Then added to alkali bath with lots of extra dye broth.

With the exhaust, which is just as strong looking, I added another armful of wool, this time unmordanted, with a glug or so of copper mordant. Partway thru pouring I realized, ah, the copper mordant is suspended in vinegar so this will be acidic so I will probably get no color.

Curious if that will be true. If it takes on no color before I go to bed I will probably add a lot of baking soda and see what that does. But I'm hoping copper mordant = even stronger green.

I also read that if you can remove the buckthorn skins you can get blue.... now that would be a treat. It sounds labor intensive but I want to try it later if I can. Ive never gotten blue with foraged materials before.

Wool I'm using is clun forest x shetland.

Few other things: I've noticed recently that berries seem to produce much better results if you can cook them on low for only a short while. 3 hours counts as short in the world of natural dyeing; I've had dyepots on for 48 hours pretty regularly. Onion skins for example do best if you can get every last scrap of color from the skins, which can take several days. Berries, though...not so much. I think this could explain my pokeberry issues. I hope i can try with them again.

[mumms-the-word]

Forearms

Pairing: Gale x Tav (Dani) Summary: Set immediately after this fic about Dani settling into a new life with her companions on the road, Dani offers to mend Gale's robe. Which involves him having to take it off, naturally. (no smut, just Dani being ridiculous about Gale's forearms) A/N: This is 100% the moment where Dani is like "oh no he's hot." She thinks everyone is hot, but this is the moment where Gale starts to rise above everyone for her. It's silly, it's stupid, and I wrote it like months ago, but y'all asked for it lmao also yes this does adhere to the Gale Wrap Shirt Theory (I just borrowed Astarion's shirt because I don't have mods)

Dani stretched out her back and got to her feet, leaving behind her now-sorted camp supplies to make her way over to Gale and his cooking fire. She peered down into the pot before looking at Gale. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

“Stew,” Gale said, smiling apologetically. “I hesitate to give it any more of a descriptor than that. Oh, and a few leftover loaves of bread, too. Might as well use them up before they go bad. I think one of them was starting to mold…”

He said this last line to himself, turning to rifle through the box that contained most of their food. He pulled out a small, torn half-loaf of bread and examined it, turning it this way and that before tearing it and peering inside. Dani reached over and plucked the smaller half from his fingers, claiming it for herself. She tore off a bit and popped it into her mouth.

“Seems decent to me,” she said.

Gale looked briefly alarmed before shaking his head, amused. “You’d probably eat it even if it had mold on it.”

“Not true. I’d scrape the mold off first and eat around it. Wouldn’t be the first time.” She raised her eyebrows at him as she pulled off another bite of bread to eat, silently challenging him to judge her.

Gale made a face but didn’t respond, turning back to his stew and flicking his wrist. The spectral mage hand that was stirring the pot lifted the ladle for him to inspect. He picked up a small spoon from his utensil set (of course he had a utensil set wrapped in leather, a hodgepodge set he’d collected over the last couple of days, but that he kept packed away like it was some sort of adventurer’s kit) and used the spoon to taste the broth in the ladle.

“Hmm…nearly there, I think,” he said. He let the mage hand go back to stirring while he wiped his spoon on a bit of cloth he had tucked into his belt. “Gods, what I wouldn’t give for my spice shelf. Or just some extra salt.”

“Just add it to the list of things we’ll buy as soon as we see any,” Dani said, still eating her bit of bread piece by little torn piece. “I know I have a running list of my own.”

“Far be it from me to add to your growing shopping list of potentially expensive and ever practical items,” Gale said dryly, “but if you do happen to find a small case of salt, or any spice really, I think we’d all be a little better for it. It shouldn’t detract too much from your funds. I know you’re careful with your money.”

She arched an eyebrow. As the team’s craftiest barterer, she was in possession of most of the money, and her companions had already watched her haggle and cajole until a price was a bit closer to where she’d prefer it to be. Sometimes it took a minute.

She thought about pointing out that she was “careful” with her gold for a variety of reasons, including stocking up an emergency fund for magical items should his arcane hunger trigger and she find herself without something to give him. But she stayed silent, watching him pull a few herbs from their food box and set them on a flat rock he’d taken to using as a cutting board. He sat with the rock in his lap, cutting the herbs up with a dagger that he kept on hand for food preparation. As he turned to hold the rock over the cookpot and brush the chopped herbs into the stew, she noticed a bit of white peeking through his purple robe sleeve, right at the shoulder seam. A tear in the fabric.

“Take off your robe,” she said.

He jolted, nearly dropping the rock and dagger directly into the stew. “I beg your pardon?” Maybe it was the firelight and the darkening shadows of dusk, but Dani could have sworn his face was suddenly pinker than before.

“Your robe,” Dani said, tossing the last bit of bread into her mouth and holding out her hand. “Take it off. You’ve got a tear.”

“Wha—a tear?” Gale looked all down his arms and the front of his robe before twisting his neck to spot the rip in his shoulder. “Argh, damn. This was one of my better robes, too…”

Dani snickered and gestured for him to get on with it. “Come on, hand it over. I’ll fix it for you.”

“What—now?” 

“Why not? You’re busy. Everyone else is busy—well, except Astarion. And I can mend it for you.”

Gale looked a little surprised. “I didn’t know you could mend.”

She shrugged. “My mother is a seamstress and I used to help her out every now and again. Plus, when you’re on the road, you have to keep up with a few skills. You’re just lucky we have a bit of needle and thread on hand. So.” She gestured again with her hand.

Gale squirmed as if uncomfortable. “I’m sure it can wait. The stew is nearly ready and we’re all about to dress down for the night. I can give it to you then.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, Gale. If it was armor Lae’zel would be hounding you until you gave it up for her to fix. If it was your spellbook you’d want to mend it as soon as possible. Just take it off and let me do it.”

“Fine, fine.” He held up his hands, his face still a little flushed, but he acquiesced. He undid the belt around his middle and tugged off his leather bracers before finally untying the robe and shrugging it off. He still looked a little sheepish, but he willingly handed the robe over to her. 

The moment the robe was off, something shifted in Dani’s mind. She realized only then that she’d only ever seen him either fully dressed in his robes or in his velvety lounge clothes, but never in just his white wrap shirt and high-waisted pants. She paused a moment, her eyes roving over his form. In just his shirt, pants, and boots, he cut a trim figure, looking a bit like one of the handsome men drawn on the covers of tawdry romance novels she used to read back in Baldur’s Gate. Especially when he set one hand on his hip and frowned faintly at her, his earring glinting in the firelight.

“I hope it won’t take too long,” he said.

She blinked. Oh right, the robe. “It’s a simple tear, super easy to fix,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She turned and hurried away, her own face feeling a little warm. Was she honestly thinking…no. Well—maybe. Gale was handsome. No point in ignoring otherwise. But Gale in just a shirt and trousers? Or, perhaps, Gale in just his trousers…or, going further, Gale in nothing but—

Gods, Dani! She mentally shook herself and sat back down at her bedroll, digging her sewing kit from her bag. Now was not the time. She said she’d mend his robe and she would, so she had better get started.

But mending was mindless work for her, leaving her alone to her thoughts, so of course her mind drifted back to the subject of Gale as she dragged needle and thread through the purple fabric of his robe. Why was she only now struck by how handsome he looked? Sure, she’d flirted with him before, but she flirted harmlessly with everyone in camp. It wasn’t her fault she was surrounded by attractive companions. But Gale…

She glanced surreptitiously at him as he worked by the cooking fire, his focus on the food. He’d rolled up his sleeves to his elbows to keep his cuffs away from the food, which was honestly worse for Dani. Rolled up sleeves and forearms? She could just swoon. She watched as he packed away unused food items and utensils, muscles in his forearms flexing, the dark hair on his arms made darker by the dusk and firelight. He stood back and rested both hands on his hips as he watched the stew, his white shirt stretching a little more tightly across his chest.

She bit her lip and focused back on the robe. Just get it done, girl, and then give it back so you can go back to thinking he’s just a fun, quirky wizard nerd and not the hottest guy in camp.

Oh gods, if only.

...was he the hottest guy in camp? 

She glanced around quickly at Astarion, still lounging with his book. His lips made a pretty pout as he read and his hair was damn near perfect, but he didn’t make Dani’s heart flutter in quite the same way the sight of Gale in his wrap shirt and rolled up sleeves did. She searched for Wyll, walking around in his ragged black tank and black trousers, his biceps glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as he carried the last of the firewood over to Gale. Even with his devil horns, he was an attractive man. Dani was tempted to think he was even hotter than Gale—until Wyll set the fire down near Gale and Dani was forced to compare the two of them again.

…damn. What was it about Gale?

Gale glanced her way, raising his eyebrows at her questioningly when he caught her staring. She felt her heart go ba-dump like some cliche heroine in a romance novel and she quickly lowered her gaze back to her work.

Damn it. It was his eyes wasn’t it? His big, stupid, wet brown eyes, made darker and richer in the evening light. That and those stupid forearms she’d never seen before.

She almost wished she could go back to fifteen minutes ago, when she thought Gale was “handsome enough” but not exactly tempting. Not with Astarion smirking at her from across the campfire and Wyll flirting with all of them, not to mention all the flirting she’d done with Karlach and Shadowheart and Lae’zel too. She forced her attention back on the final stitches, determined to get this robe fixed as soon as possible.

She finished the last stitch and knotted the thread, giving the fabric a little tug on either side of the mended seam to test the strength of her work. Not bad, she had to admit. It almost looked as good as new.

She looked back at Gale and then down at the robe. She should give it back. Right now. Immediately. But…then again…if she kept it longer, he’d have to walk around without it longer. Which meant more eye candy for her, in theory. She pursed her lips, glancing back at Gale again.

No! She had to give it back. Now or never, Dani!

She got to her feet and walked back over to the fire, his purple robe tossed over her arm. He looked up from the cookpot again as she stopped near him.

“All finished?” he asked. “You do quick work.”

“Thanks,” she said, holding out the robe to him. Be casual, Dani girl, don’t be odd. “I’m famished. How much longer until dinnertime?” Success!

“Any moment now, I suspect.” 

He took the robe and examined the seams, running his thumb over the stitches. She was caught up watching his hands, admiring the perfect shape of his nails and how long and slender his fingers were. A pianist’s hands, she thought idly. An artist's hands. The kind of hands she'd want drawing patterns on her skin, fingers curling into her softer parts, sliding up her thighs to—snap out of it!

She sucked a short breath through her nose, trying to distract herself. Her gaze traveled up to his wrists, and then his bared forearms. There was a faint hint of ash lingering in his arm hairs from standing so close to the fire. Without thinking, she reached out and brushed it away. He looked up, surprised and she snatched her hand back, hiding it behind her back like she’d done something wrong.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just some—some ash. You should probably put that robe back on. As soon as possible, probably.”

Oh gods, she could just die.

Gale stared at her a moment before glancing at his arms again and then the robe. She saw something shift in his expression as his eyes came back up to meet hers, but she dared not interpret it. That, she thought, would be a dangerous mind game and her imagination was already working overtime.

“Well,” she said, and hated how weirdly breathless the word came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat. “I’ll go fetch the others, then, shall I?”

Without waiting for him to respond, she turned on her heel and hurried away, intending to go after whoever was the furthest away from the cook fire. Surely she’d cool off in the time it took to gather everyone. Fantasies were for bedtime, not right before dinner when the object of her fancy was right there.

But when she finally returned after all that, he was still standing in his wrap shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He hadn’t even put the robe back on. He laid it off to the side.  She glanced at the robe and then up to Gale, who was ladling stew into bowls and passing them around. He caught her eyes and gave her a faint, intentional smirk meant just for her before turning his attention back to the stew.

That’s when Dani knew, with a rush of realization that struck her a bit like lightning and left her sitting, silent and dazed and a little offended and a little impressed.

She’d been as obvious as day, and now he was teasing her about it. And that smirk? He was being a bit of an arrogant bastard…but gods, he was suddenly all the sexier for it.

She was doomed.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

For a birthday request, could I maybe request one where Ed's got a severe headache, maybe a migraine. The kind where any noise feels like he's been stabbed in the eyes. And Stede, of course, takes looking after his beloved very seriously and when he's got Ed settled as much as he can, Stede goes outside, and starts 'politely' yelling at nature and the wild life to keep the noise down, they're disturbing and hurting his Edward.

Sweet! I love how this one turned out!

Ed told Stede that he was fine that morning. Just a little headache, he said.

It quickly became apparent that he was not fine. By lunchtime, he was quiet, wincing, keeping his eyes closed tight, and Stede ordered him back to bed.

“I’m alright,” Ed mumbled, his face scrunched up with pain as Stede got him settled under the covers. He said that patterns hurt his eyes when he had headaches like this, and even the stripes on their blankets were overwhelming for him. “Just a migraine. It’ll go away on it’s own.”

“Poor Ed,” Stede soothed, gently running a hand through his hair, and Ed hummed at the attention. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Stede did his best. His mother had had migraines, and he remembered what had worked for her.

He set himself to the task of making their room as comfortable for Ed as possible. Put out the lights and closed the curtains as tight as he could. Got him tucked up safe and comfy under the blankets. A nice glass of cool water, plus some hard candies they’d bought at the market to suck on, so he had something to distract himself from the pain.

But, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t make the whole world be considerate of Ed’s pain.

Even the sound of the waves crashing on the beach, usually an ever-present comfort, was grating to Ed. The sounds of animals tromping through the brush outside their window made him grit his teeth. The fucking loud-ass songbirds that decided it was appropriate to perch on their windowsill made him whimper.

It wasn’t long until Stede was holding his poor Ed in his lap, doing his best to soothe him with the gentlest touches as Ed cried for him to please make the pain stop. He wet a cool cloth to rest over Ed’s eyes, blocking out light and helping to keep him as comfortable as possible, but his heart hurt that he wasn’t able to do more to take away Ed’s pain.

Eventually, Ed cried himself out, and Stede gently extricated himself from under his poor boyfriend. Moving as quietly as he could, he tucked Ed back in, then headed outside.

The first order of business was chasing away the fucking songbirds.

Stede pointed his finger into nature at large, stomped his foot, and tried to keep his whisper-shouting at an appropriate volume. “Uh, excuse me,” he said, “do you all fucking mind?”

One of the songbirds had the fucking nerve to twitter at him from a nearby branch.

“You’re a sadist,” Stede accused, pointing accusingly at the bird. “Would you all mind keeping it down? My boyfriend has a migraine, and he’s in there crying because you’re being so noisy!”

Something rustled through the bushes.

“I’m talking to you,” Stede snipped. “Look, it’s not fucking hard, just go somewhere else if you want to be loud! You’re hurting my poor Ed!”

Speaking of his poor Ed, Stede didn’t want to leave him alone for too long.

“This was your final warning,” Stede added over his shoulder as he quietly stomped back inside.

He checked in on Ed - still asleep, thank goodness - and decided to prepare something for him to eat when he woke up. He fixed up some thin chicken broth and set it up to keep warm over a tealight, and readied some crackers. Something easy to eat but tasty, and he added some marmalade that Ed could spread on the crackers if he felt up to something a bit sweeter (which, hopefully, he would).

When Stede eased back into the bedroom with the tray, Ed stirred a bit.

“Hey, love,” Stede whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand and getting back into bed with him. “How are you feeling?”

“Mm.” Ed still had a pained line between his eyebrows, but he snuggled into Stede’s side immediately, clinging to him tightly. "I'm alive. I guess."

“Good.” Stede got an arm around Ed’s shoulders to hold him close. “I’m very glad to hear it. I threatened those stupid birds to shut up.”

Ed snorted softly. “You love the songbirds.”

“Not when they’re hurting you.” Stede rubbed a soothing hand along Ed’s back. “Are you feeling any better at all?”

“Mm, yeah,” Ed whispered, pressing his cheek against Stede’s chest. “Better, now.”

[luxiotravers]

[ he/him, cis man] greetings to all of our listeners! we start today’s potterwatch with a long-awaited update on luxio travers who was finally spotted alive just last night, wandering the streets of london. for those of you who haven’t tuned in before, they are a twenty six year old pureblood wizard who is oddly reminiscent of hidden corridors, never staying in one place for too long, a crown too big for your head and the smell of blown out candles which makes sense considering they're resilient, disciplined, loyal, defensive, judgmental, and suspicious nature. you might know of them as the biological child of nicholas and eliza travers, and we’re sure that their family will be relieved to hear they’re safe and sound — or at least as much as you can be, in times like this. to all our listeners, if you catch a glimpse of someone who looks a bit like that muggle cody christian, that’s them. before approaching, please be aware that they’re rumored to be affiliated with the death eaters, so best proceed with caution. these are dangerous times we’re living in. well, thanks for tuning in, folks. we’ll play ourselves out with northern attitude by noah kahan.

playlist. || pinterest.

FULL NAME: Luxio Travers NICKNAME(S): Lux AGE: 26 DATE OF BIRTH: November 15. GENDER: cis man SPOKEN LANGUAGE(S): English OCCUPATION: Reaper for the Death Eaters SEXUALITY: Bisexual

APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Cody Christian HEIGHT: 5′ 9″ WEIGHT: 160 DOMINANT HAND: Left SCARS: Scarred fists, scars on back from fights, a small scar on his right upper lip. TATTOOS: Death Eater mark, black solid armband around right arm, moon phases along back PIERCING(S): N/A

MAGIC

HOUSE: Slytherin WAND: Ash, Snallygaster heartstring core, Rigid, 11 2/3 BOGGART: Drowning PATRONUS: Greyhound

  FACTS.

Luxio is the second born to the Travers family having an older brother who has always been the perfect image of what is expected of them. While Luxio has never been someone who’s been allowed to be himself. Ever since he was a child, he was expected to keep appearances. The truth was that Luxio was not the definition of perfection. He was messy as a child, a little wild with a big heart but somewhere along the line with the abuse and cold behavior that light started to dim but it never died. Sometimes it resurfaces with an unexpected joke or a caring hand but those moments are rare. There are still moments he forgets and protests or questions slip him being older they figured he'd learn by now.

He was introduced into the dark arts rather young and he knew that at the end of the day he didn’t have a choice because affection and praise were not given freely without obedience. Eventually Luxio learned to become the image that his family portrayed after it was beaten into him so many times. Despite knowing how wrong the path they were taking was, he didn’t have a voice to put a stop to it. Deep down, he's never cared about blood status or power though he's very skilled with his magic, he's never pushed himself past his limits to see exactly how powerful he could be. He didn't want to give his father that satisfaction. Despite that, he usually went along with what he was told to do, perfecting his abilities and his magic which resulted in unwanted participation in events that still haunt him to this day working as a reaper. Knowing that there is blood on his hands created a guilt that haunts him with nightmares that usually keep him from sleeping.

In Hogwarts, he was of course sorted into Slytherin and for a long time this was the safest place he knew despite it being the opposite for so many. He struggled with his studies as he's always been a very hands on type of person, not one that is book oriented. If he doesn't have repetition, things don't usually stick very well.

As he got older, his mindset remained the same but he's learned to keep it to himself most times. He is a much more open-minded person than most of his family and much less judgmental though his older brother always reminds him that it would probably be his downfall as he tended to show weakness in the rare moments and sometimes he showed kindness where there was room for none. Luxio had made friends among some of the death eaters and he wouldn't abandon them however sometimes he did think what freedom would be like. Despite his family's abuse, it would take a lot for him to think about betraying and leaving them behind.

[clatterbane]

Tonight's delight: Some "Mexican" rice with lentils! Accompanied by a bowl of the ever-popular bagged salad with quick ranch-type dressing concocted from a leftover takeout container of kebab yogurt-garlic sauce. Also, a frozen meat patty on the side, because I felt like I could use the extra protein and energy both today. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

We were out of green onions, so I once again sprinkled some crispy fried onion on top instead. Not nearly as colorful, but still a tasty addition. 😋

This looked like pretty good basic recipe proportions, though of course I had to complicate things just a bit. 😊 Figured it would be enough better if I did go ahead and fry a chopped onion and a few cloves of chopped garlic in a couple tablespoons of oil at the beginning.

I also used a vegetable bouillon cube for extra flavor, and threw together my own seasoning blend lower on salt to make up for it. You might not want to use the salty broth if you do go with the premade taco seasoning option, though. It would also no doubt be good to use a can of Rotel tomatoes, but that's unfortunately easier said than done outside the US.

One bigger adjustment I would DEFINITELY recommend, though: more liquid than called for through the link! Based on past experience, I made a judgment call and went with 3 cups/700ml of water instead of the 1.75 called for (so, a ratio of 1.5x the amount of combined brown rice and lentils by volume) cooked for 25 minutes under pressure then left to sit for 15 minutes natural release time.

Which turned out just about perfect!

To cook it on the stove, I would try at least a 2:1 ratio. So, 4-4.5 cups or a liter (give or take) of water, for the 2 cups/roughly 500ml of brown rice and lentils combined. Simmer covered for an hour, then let sit off the heat for another 15 minutes or so. It might need a little more hot water added toward the end, so maybe take a peek after 45 minutes or so.

This basic sort of easy combo also works really well taken in a curried direction, or mujadara. Just a tomato-and-herb theme would be great too, but I am usually more about the spices whenever lentils come out!

[bokettochild]

Request: Fairy Hyrule, Minish Four and Bunny Legend cuddlefic? Mostly because I love the idea of hugging a bunny ten times your size. THINK OF THE (literal) FLUFF AND SOFTNESS

So... I got a bit caught up in the WHY of them all being Small, and... this happened.

It all got deleted halfway through and I had to rewrite it from memory, but it turned out okay (although I don't like the flow as much this time through), bt it's... a bit long. This baby was ten pages, and it took forever to get to the cuddling bit- sorry about that.

Anyways, Anon, here is your (long overdue) Tiny fic (it ain't tiny).

The others are laughing and it’s making him mad. Usually, he’s just smack them over the head (a much good as it would do, curse his weak arms) but usually he can reach that high.

Right now, he can’t.

Because right now, he’s a freaking rabbit

He’s a little pink rabbit sitting in the middle of a circle of heroes who are all laughing at him, and more than anything he wants to hop his freaking furry tail over to Warrior’s horrid choice of footwear and bite the shit out of the captain’s ankles; he deserves it (the rancher does to).

“How did this happen?” Hyrule wheezes out, and even though he wants to be, Legend finds that he can’t be mad at the healer, not when the kid’s face is flushed with laughter, his smile bright and carefree, golden gaze watery under the force of his bell-like laughter as it pricks at Legend’s sensitive ears.

“I don’t know!” Twilight wheezes from where he’s leaning against Time, hearty chuckles exploring from him unabashedly as he looks down at Legend. “We were scouting around the camp and when I turned around,” He gestures weakly to the veteran, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Rabbit!”

Legend scowls. He doesn’t even know what happened. One minute he was walking and the next he was tumbling head over paws on the pathway. He’d refused to let Twilight carry him back to camp (if only to try and maintain whatever dignity he had left) and had waited hopefully for Twilight to retrieve the Master Sword for him, only for Warriors to stumble upon him with the darkest expression he’s ever seen on the captain’s face.

Warriors’ expression at seeing a rabbit might very well haunt Legend’s dreams for ages to come, and had prompted a squeak of fear from him that had sent Sky darting up from his seat. “Legend!” The Chosen Hero had shouted, concern in his sky-blue eyes as he had skidded to his knees at Legend’s side, cautious hands scooping him up and inspecting him for injuries in the brief moment where he was too shocked to protest. Of course, he wouldn’t stand it for long, and after pawing at Sky’s fingers with angry huffs and squeaks that he was going to hope the others would forget about, he had been released back onto the ground.

Which landed them where they were now, surrounded by cackling heroes as they stared down at the fluffy pink ball of fur that was their salty veteran.

“Wow vet, I’d’ve never guessed, a rabbit?” Warriors wheezes, eyes full of mirth. “No wonder we don’t get along!”

He rolls his eyes and growls as best as he can as a rabbit (not like he can growl anyway, but he tries none-the-less). “Just hand over the Master Sword so we can get this shit over with.” He squeaks, ignoring how his growls sound more like honks and chitters than anything threatening.

Sky looks at him oddly, as do several of the others, none of them (save Twi and Sky) apparently expecting him to be able to speak in this form, but the Chosen Hero obliges regardless, reaching back for the Master Sword and carefully settling it within Legend’s reach.

The cool cross-guard is comfortable under his paws, even if it is too big, and he sighs in relief as the power of the blade flows over him. In a moment, his form will disappear into the light and reappear, whole and Hylian, and fully capable of kicking some rancher ass.

Just a moment....

A second more...

He blinks his eyes open, violet flitting across the blade in mounting concern as he takes in the fluffy pink paws that are where his hands should be. Why isn’t it working? Why is he still a helpless rabbit?

“That’s weird.” Twilight and Sky both murmur, exchanging a worried glance as the Skyloftian retrieves the blade. He lunges after it though, not giving Sky a chance to inspect the blade and instead startling him with the weight of a rabbit in his lap as pink paws reach up to grasp the sword hilt again.

“Fi, explain.”

The sword spirit’s voice rings clear and cool in his head as Sky lowers the blade further, better into his reach. He hardly processes the motion, so focused on the words, which is perhaps why he doesn't question the stabilizing hand that lowers onto his back.

“Young Master,” Fi chimes softly in his mind. “The forces which have transformed you are not dark in nature. There is a 76% chance that they are in fact, of nature themselves. As such, my blade is unable to undo the curse. You will likely have to wait until this curse runs its course.”

“How long.” He grates out, nose shivering in irritation as his ears flick back, brushing gently against the Skyloftian's fingers and making Sky gasp softly.

“Processing....There is a 49% percent chance that this curse will fade and return you to your Hylian form in approximately three days' time, and there is a 27% percent chance that it will take a week for said change to occur. Additionally, there is a 15% percent chance that the curse will not fade, and a 9% chance that this curse will make you explode.”

A strangled screech escapes him and he doesn’t even realize his paws have released the sacred blade until they are grasping at his ears, tugging with all of the pent-up emotion inside of his body as he processes the words. Never mind the exploding bit, he might not turn back? There’s only a fifty-fifty chance that he’ll turn back in the next few days?

Sky’s long fingers drag through his fur gently, rubbing soothing circles over his back. “What did she say?”

“Three days!” He tugs his ears again. “Three days of being utterly useless and helpless, and it’s not even certain that I’ll turn back! I could be stuck like this forever! I could explode!”

“Exploding doesn’t seem likely-” Twilight attempts to calm him, but it only makes him tug his ears harder.

“Fi said it might happen!” He shouts back, high pitched and squeaky, and hating every second of it. He buries his face in the fabric beneath him, his rabbit heart pounding with panic and cold dread washing over him as the words continue to spew from his mouth. “And if Fi said it could happen than it might! And we were about to go into battle too! What’ll happen if someone gets hurt? I can’t help anyone and there's absolutely nothing that stupid bunny could do and-”

Someone’s scratching his ears.

Long fingers rubbing just right between them and Legend is helpless to tell them to stop because he’s too busy melting into a puddle in Sky’s lap at the sensation. All thoughts flee as he lets Sky’s hands drive away all worries. Should he be worried that he’s rendered speechless and vulnerable by something so simple? Probably, but Sky seems to know just how to place his hands and Legend can only hum in appreciation at the feeling, a squeaky purr escaping him as he leans into the sensation as Sky hums something soft and soothing under his breath. The vibrations carry down his fingers and tingle down Legend’s spine, calming him further.

“Cute.” Twilight's voice breaks him from his thoughts, and he’s pulling back from Sky’s hands and glaring up at the rancher with all the fury he can fit in his now tiny body.

“He’s not wrong, Kit.” Time chuckles soft and low, and Legend whips his head around to stare at the man.

“Oh no, you are not giving me a nickname!”

“Yeah Time,” Sky’s voice is low and mirthful as he speaks, hand once more settling on Legend’s back as he lifts an arm to block the vet from launching himself at their leader. “He’s my descendant, if anyone should be giving him a nickname it’s me.”

“How about Nibbles?” The sailor grins, leering into Legend’s space with enough mischief in his gaze to kill a Lynel. “I mean, the vet is always chewing us out.”

He forgets for a moment that his growls sound more like chirps in this form, baring his teeth at the sailor as he attempts to frighten him off. It doesn’t work, rabbits aren’t made to scare off bigger animals “So help me sailor I-”

Large hands scoop him off the ground and suddenly he’s being cradled in Sky’s arms. Like a baby. The indignity! “Calm down, Bun, he’s just kidding.” Sky’s crystal eyes glimmer with genuine concern as he looks down at Legend. “And we’ll find a way to change you back, I promise. The goddesses wouldn’t have let you change like this if it was for the worse. You’ll see,” Sky bops his nose with a smile entirely too pure. “It’ll be fine.”

Legend would like to argue that point, the goddesses have never shown any particular interest in what’s best for him before, and most of them seem to find humor in ruining his life time and again (except the Golden Trio, they’re alright he guesses, especially Din), but Sky looks so certain and Legend’s honestly too tired to start a big fight about Hylia again. (Heaven knows the last time he made Sky mad he nearly shat himself at how terrifyingly defensive Sky could get about those he loved). It doesn’t matter anyway, he supposes, as Sky’s already standing and making is way back to their main camp, gait just smooth enough not to jostle his reluctant passenger as Legend slumps in place.

He might as well let this happen, at least until he can figure out how to fix it.

It’s official.

Legend hates being a bunny.

They’ve settled down for dinner and as if to mock him and all that he loves, Wild has been struck with the inspiration to make his absolutely heavenly radish stew. The one that Legend would literally sell some of his rings for because it is that good.

And he can’t eat it.

He tried, and that attempt resulted in both himself and Sky covered in broth, the thick liquid clinging to his fur now as he sits on the ground with some raw fruits and vegetables instead. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever be able to eat it again without being forced to remember nearly drowning in the stuff.

He feels like a baby and he hates it.

He’s soaked himself and his ancestor and food and Warriors still isn’t done tittering about it.

He really hates being a bunny.

The others have nearly stepped on him numerous times, simply because they aren’t used to having to watch underfoot, so every time someone walks over to Wild to get seconds (why did the Champion sit next to him and Sky in the first place?) he has to back-peddle onto his haunches to avoid being crushed under heavy boots and even heavier feet.

Add to that that Wild and Wind both subconsciously reach out to pet his bedraggled fur every few minutes and he’s absolutely fed up with this shit!

At least the Champion was willing to lend him something to dry his fur off with, and even if he hates it, the spare brush Warriors has on hand does a decent job of detangling his fluffy hide. If he melts a little in Twilight’s lap as the rancher goes over him with the brush than no one says anything (although both Sky and Time have infuriating matching smiles on their faces).

But then it’s bedtime and Time is sorting through his things to try and make sure that no one person will have to carry all his stuff, and he’s reminded once again how utterly useless he is in this form. It only makes things worse that he knows that the others will be burdened with his bags, and considering his top speed at the moment can only be held for short sprints, he’s pretty sure the Old Man is going to have someone carry him too.

The very idea makes him puff out his fur in irritation.

At the very least though, he doesn’t have to worry much about how he’s going to handle the cold nights, Sky’s already taken his beloved sailcloth and bundled it into a little nest, and the minute Twilight is done with his fur the Chosen Hero is scooping him up and laying him in it (absently, he wonders if Sky might have a stronger paternal instinct than Time and if his own small form is triggering that). The fabric is warm though, and it’s nice. If Sky curls up around him in the middle of the night though, well, he supposes there’s not really much he can do about that.

Sky does curl around him and he’s trapped.

The Skyloftian may look soft and cuddly, but he’s got an iron grip when he’s asleep, and it’s only by the pure squishability of his current form that he’s able to escape (Sky will be disappointed when he wakes up, he knows, but even so, Legend doesn’t intend on staying a rabbit, not for a whole week, especially when there’s monsters out there.

Perhaps the thought of said monsters should dissuade him, but it doesn’t. He knows now what triggered this change, and he’s determined to hunt it down and trick it into changing him back, he just needs to escape his babysitters for a hot tic in order to do so.

It’s a lucky thing that Four and Warriors are both so drowsy that the feather light step of a rabbit doesn’t catch their attention as the two sit on watch, and Legend’s able to creep over to his bag (positioned with Twilight’s things) and dig through it until he finds what he needs.

You can’t go making deals with the fae unless you have something of value, or those tricksters will rob you blind and steal your first born. Not that Legend ever intends on having kids, but on the off chance that he ever did he’d rather they didn’t have a shitty life because he made an error in dealing with a forest sprite.

Come to think of it, how powerful are the forest people of this time?

Warriors looks seconds away from walking up to Sky’s sleeping form and throwing Legend as far as he can into the distance, and it’s making Four nervous.

Rationally, they know that Warriors wouldn’t consciously do such a thing, but they also know how much Warriors hates rabbits in general, and that the captain’s initial instinct at seeing them is to toss them away from himself as far as possible (never mind how rare a real rabbit is, Warriors’ time is apparently full of them and Warriors hates them). They’ve heard the story, how the captain was made to hunt rabbits down across his world and return them to their homes, the fact that he did so by throwing them is a bit concerning considering the delicate bone structure of the animals, but it’s not Wars’ fault that he doesn’t know that.

All the same, Four would feel a bit more secure if they knew that Wars wouldn’t be doing such a thing.  (Rationally, they know he won’t, but rationality is only so much of the equation).

“I’m gonna check on the vet.” They murmur softly to their companion. Somethings not right and they hope it’s just Warriors’ previous retellings of his own rabbit-escapades eating at them and not something else. “Sky’s got a grip like a vice when he sleeps and I don’t want him getting crushed.”

Never mind that being small sucks when it’s this cold out. Four desperately hopes that it won’t rain tonight (although the air tastes right for it).

“Rabbits are tough little things,” The captain chuckles. “I’m sure he’s okay.”

Vio wrenches control from the others, gaze flat as he stares out at Wars. “You do know most rabbits can’t survive being thrown, right? They’re not like cats, if they land wrong their done for.”

The captain pales slightly but doesn’t say anything, and they take that as their cue to stand and make their way over to where Sky and the vet had bedded down for the night. Sure enough, Sky is curled up around the sailcloth nest he made for Legend like a child curled around their favorite stuffed animal (or Red with any of the rest of them), but at the very least it doesn’t look as if Legend would have been smashed, just caged. They wince, the vet doesn’t sleep well on a good night, but waking up to being trapped? That is...not good. There’s a reason they never force him to join everyone else when Red takes over and calls for a cuddle pile; everyone knows that the most Legend will stand is letting Hyrule hold his hand while he sleeps, and even then, the vet will still pull away when he finally does fall asleep.

Sky shifts (he’s a heavy sleeper, but all the same he moves a lot), arms wrapping tighter around the bundle in his arms. Tight enough that the sailcloth gives way. Sky’s face screws up in his sleep, wrapping even tighter around the bundle as if seeking out some form of resistance.

Four panics. Bunnies are delicate creatures and Sky is strong, did he just crush Legend?

Only, looking closer, Vio points out that there isn’t even a hint of pink amidst the fabric, and when Four dares reach out to test the bundle himself, they find that there is nothing within its folds.

“Four?” Warriors’ voice is tinged with concern as Four stand back up from his crouch, brows pinched together as he scans over the camp. “Is something wrong?”

“Legend’s missing.”

The captain’s brows shoot up, but thankfully he doesn’t bother with questioning them, instead hoisting himself to his feet and making his way around the camp, an ever-growing frown marring his features as he looks around. “Did he choose to sleep with Hyrule instead?” It’s a soft murmur, likely only spoken aloud because Wars is too tired to stop it before it reaches his mouth, but Four’s eyes flick over to where the Traveler sleeps regardless.

“I don’t think so.”

“Look,” Warriors groans softly, not loud enough to wake the others, stopping at Twilight’s bedroll and motioning to the bags stacked near the rancher's pillow. “His bag is open.”

“You don’t think he climbed inside of it, do you? We’d never find him!”

The captain gives him a look, blinking once before shaking his head. “No! But he was clearly trying to get at something.” Royal blue eyes turn to stare out at the forest. “What are the chances he went back out there, alone?”

Four hesitates, fingers drumming on his thigh as the colors swarm in his mind. “I don’t know, but I should probably check.”

“We need to watch camp.” The older hero frowns.

“You watch camp, I’ll go out there.”

“You can’t go alone, Four, it’s not safe.” Wars reminds him, concern glinting in his gaze as he turns back to the smithy.

“Fine.” Blue’s the only reason they roll their eyes, they swear. “I’ll take Hyrule. If the vet’s fallen down a hole or something then we can take care of it immediately.”

A smile breaks out across Warriors’ face, even if it is slightly strained. “Funny how that’s even a risk now.”

“Don’t I know it.” Besides, at least Hyrule seems to have a second sense for these sorts of things. Like Sky and Twilight, he has a knack for tracking down the others, especially if he needs to find Time for whatever reason. Four’s seen it themselves, it’s uncanny, but incredibly useful, so they’ve never really questioned it (Vio has, Vio has questioned it enough to give them a head-ache).

It’s the work of a minute to shake the traveler awake, as he’s one of the lightest sleepers of them all, and it takes even less time for them to be off, the simple words “Legend’s gone” being enough to send the traveler springing up and following closely after Four, one hand on his sword as the two of them make their way back into the depths of the forest.

Legend should know better than to try and make a deal with the fae.

Hyrule can recognize the look of a fairy about to claim her prize in an instant, and it appears Legend is about as clueless as a bunny can be about the loophole that he must have left open in whatever twisted deal the two have concocted. Anger burns in his blood as a whisper-hisses through his teeth, a few words all it takes before he’s zipping between the two of them, wings beating furiously as all six of his eyes stare into those of the other with nothing short of pure fury.

“Mine!” He hisses, darting forwards in a fake charge at the other, wings whirring angrily as his eyes stare at them “Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!” His voice contorts and buzzes, his aura flickering brighter and sharper as he zooms down to hover over Legend’s ears. “MINE.”

“What is your claim?”  The other chimes smugly. “What promise or service marks him as yours? Where is the Mark that makes a mortal the charge of a fae, hmm? Show it to me and I will release him to your care.” Glistening teeth glimmer as multiple eyes glisten with malice, jealousy over a potential catch making the fairy’s gaze spark dangerously. “Else ways, leave us be, our deal is near set and you have no business to interrupt it.”

“His true form,” He hisses. “There is my Mark on his hand. The Triangle, my symbol.” He hisses through bared teeth, every eye slitted and glimmering with fury. He can’t lie, not even if he tried, but he’s fae and they’re more skilled than anyone at finding tricks to get around things. The triforce is his symbol, something he’s recognizable by in his world, but it’s not only on his hand, the others bear the same mark and even if it isn’t Fae in origin, it's from the Scared Realm and none can deny that it sets them apart. Anyways, the Fae know mortals by their markings, this should be enough of a claim to make her renounce her dealings with Legend.

No fae dares mess with the Charge of another.

“What is your proof? Can you show me?” She taunts.

“My power isn’t that strong.” He hisses. “You do it and then you’ll see!”

“And give him what he asks without receiving my due? Oh no little Half-Blood.” She glares at him. “Give me Good Reason or leave alone.”

“He is goddess born.” He hisses out finally, grasping at straws. Mother only taught him so much of Fae law, but surely there’s something against touching those blessed by the heavens, right? “Hylia’s child descended. To touch him or any other of Mine is to plead wrath from the Scared Realm.” A sly smile slides over pointed teeth. “Would you wish that on Yours?”

She pales. “Mark your own in all forms, Halfling. This would not happen if you did.” It’s all she cares to say though, zipping away without another word.

“Do I want to know what I just avoided?” Legend’s voice croaks up at him, faint and pitchy all the same as he looks up to the fairy above him.

“I don’t know. But never, and I mean NEVER, make deals with fae again. Not even me! You can’t break promises or be too careful, you never know what they’ll do.” Two of his eyes glance over his shoulder to ensure that the other Fae is gone for good.

“I was trying to be careful.” Legend huffs, his breath sending Hyrule higher over his head for a moment before the fairy regains his balance. “They’re clever little-” He cuts off, violet eyes narrowing and bunny nose shivering as he looks up at Hyrule again. “You’re a fairy.”

His aura dims slightly, wings drooping ever so slightly as he looks down at his mentor. “Yes.”

Legend stares, violet piercing and sharp. Hyrule has never noticed the hint of gold that bands his irises, nor the flecks of blue that glisten under the effects of a fairy’s glow, and it only makes the Veteran’s stare all the more intense.

“Huh.” The bunny huffs softly. “That’s pretty neat, ‘Rulie.” There's no anger, no accusation in his tone, and when Hyrule brings his gaze up to meet that of his mentor again, all he sees is fondness and intrigue. “Is this new? An item? Were you- no,” Legend’s ears prick forwards, his interest obvious as he leans forward. (Hyrule wonders if the vet realizes that he's smelling him.) “You speak like They do. This isn’t new.”

It’s not a question.

“I’m, uh, half fairy.”

Legend nods slowly. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone?” At the dimming of Hyrule’s glow the vet pulls away, eyes flashing with panic for a moment. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing, ‘Rule, just-” He cocks his head long ears flopping to one side sloppily. “It’s not something I’d think you’d want to hide. Seems pretty useful to me.”

And by useful, Hyrule knows Legend means cool.

“I told Four.” He nods to the Hylian standing over them. The smithy’s eyes flicker various colors, his lips pulling aside into a slight smile as he crouches to be closer to their height.

“Now I’m taller than both of you.” Four chuckles softly, crimson tinged gaze sweeping over the two of them.

“Don’t get smart.” Legend huffs. “This is a curse, not my true form, you’d be tiny too if you were cursed into an animal form. Probably smaller than me!”

There’s a knowing look in the smithy’s gaze, but he holds his silence, smile still present as he carefully looks over the both of them. “Well, if neither of you were harmed in that little exchange, we should get back to camp. Wars will be in a huff if we don’t back with you soon.”

Legend huffs his own huff, but doesn’t object, gathering up the glimmering item he had brought as a toll (Hyrule thinks it might be a precious stone of some sort) and slowly hopping after the Smithy as he turns back towards camp.

They’d have made it to camp rather quickly too, if the sky hadn’t chosen that moment to weep out it’s sorrow with the world and the evils within. Great sheets of rain, the likes of which they usually only expect from the Champion’s Hyrule, flood down over them, and Hyrule thanks all things Holy that Legend is there to break his fall as the water soaks his wings and sends him careening towards the earth. Four yelps in surprise, hands fumbling for his hood as he tried to fend off some of the wet (it does little good, they’ll be soaked in seconds in this downpour.

“In here!” Legend squeaks, the rabbit hero already darting into the nearest hollow he can see that isn’t clearly inhabited. It’s a tight squeeze, and Hyrule nearly knocks his head on the bark of the opening, but Legend gets the both of them under, and despite the mushrooms that seem to fill the space with a soft light, it’s a comfortable fit for the two of them. The ground beneath is laid with moss, purposefully it would seem, and Hyrule lets himself side down into it with an appreciative hum.

“What about Four?” He murmurs softly, looking out of the crevice through which they entered. It’s still pouring buckets, and unlike them, the smithy has no dry place to hide (heavens knows the camp will be soaked. He feels terrible for the others).

“What about me?”

Violet and gold turn upwards as twin gasps escape the two. Four, in all of his minish glory, waves back at them from where he’s perched on top of one of the mushrooms. “Minish portal.” He smiles cheerily (but Hyrule can Taste the nervousness rolling off of him).

“Wait, both of you get small?” Legend’s ears stand up straight, brushing the roof of their shelter. “Smaller?” He corrects himself.

Four rolls his eyes. “It was get soaked or get small. I don’t fancy catching a cold, so I chose small.” He wrinkles his nose (it will never stop being cute), hopping down from the mushroom and free falling into the dampened fur of his rabbit-companion. “Now shut up and let me warm up, you’re bigger than I am and since you left me out there to soak I think I can get away with using you to warm up.”

Hyrule’s laughter rings soft and sweet through the hollow, Legend’s vaguely offended expression only adding fuel to the fire as he flits closer. “The vet doesn’t really mind cuddles, do you Ledge? Besides,” He lets his wings fall still, embracing the warmth of Legend’s soft fur as he lands in it lightly. “We just saved his ass.”

Legend turns his head to stare at the two of them, but even in rabbit form his lips twitch with amusement as he shoves him nose into Four’s personal space, making the minish-hero tumble down into the moss with a faint yelp. “You’re soaking.”

The smith grins back, plunging right back into the warm pink fur. “That wasn’t a refusal.”

“One time.” Legend huffs, ears flicking briefly. “One time only, smithy. Enjoy it while you can.”

“Trust me,” Four sighs, plonking down against the vet and leaning into the plush fur around him. “I will.”

It takes mere seconds before Four has drifted off, and Hyrule is reminded that the smith was keeping watch for most of the night before they had gone out looking for Legend. Guilt, sickly-sweet, yet bitter, taints his tongue as Legend stares down at the tiny form curled against him. Hyrule sighs. “I guess he was more tired than I thought.”

Legend only huffs, ears flicking back and nose shivering as he noses the smithy’s sleeping from. Four’s dropped off like a stone, completely dead to the world as Legend curls around him (not dissimilar to how Sky had curled around him earlier that night), easing the gentle shivers of the smith, who noses deeper into Legend’s pelt. Tiny paws coming up to catch hold of pink fur as Four curls up, feather-like tail brushing against the top of his tiny nose, moved only by tiny snores that make Legend’s ears twitch and Hyrule giggle softly.

“The rains still pouring down.” Legend hums, gruff as he can be in his current state, but Hyrule knows it’s all an act. “You might as well get some sleep too, ‘Rulie.”.

And while any other time Hyrule may have argued, Legend lifts his head to offer the space next to Four, and if Legend is offering cuddles, especially with his silky soft fur as a barrier against the cold, Hyrule knows he can’t resist it.

Four’s paw catches hold of him the instant he settles next to the smithy, and before he knows it the two of them are both bundled up in each other while Legend curls himself around them, breath soft and soothing as his heart pit-patters away inside of him.

That’s how they wake the next morning.

Wolfie’s nose shoved against the crack in the bark is what pulls them back from the land of dreams, and the soft snuffling bark followed by Time’s voice is what gets them up on their feet. It’s an awkward thing, emerging into the light again to find five heroes and a wolf staring down at them in a mixture of confusion and concern, but nobody seems to be able to bring themselves to scold when Four sneezes.

“We got caught in the storm.” Legend huffs when he sees the soft expression on Time’s face.

Wolfie huffs, and, much to the surprise of the currently shrunken heroes, they can hear the laugh in it. “Of course you did.”

Hyrule’s mouth drops open, all six eyes bugging out in shock as he turns to Four. The fairy’s whisper is high and shocked, but too sharp a noise for Hylian ears, although Legend, Wolfie and Four can all hear him quite clearly. “Wolfie is Twilight!”

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 

A man. 

Device. 

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 

Can’t. 

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold. 

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 

Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

[vanillann]

double sided recipe card (pietro maximoff x reader)

a/n: hi, pietro is literally the love of my life so OF COURSE i’d do this!! also request are always open so don’t be scared to send an ask whenever!!

word count: 2.3k

“Has anyone seen Pietro?”

I swung around the kitchen of the compound, walking in to find Clint and Nat in a conversation about who knew what. They both smiled when they saw me but Clint's face dropped slightly when he realized my words.

“Why do you need Roadrunner?” Clint crossed his arm, leaning back on the kitchen island slightly.

“I have his physical and if he wants to go to the mission tomorrow,” I tried off, smiling at Clint when he rolled his eyes.

“I think he’s in Wanda’s room,” Nat pointed over her shoulder, patting my shoulder when I passed her.

I did the lightest jog to the evaluator, finding Wanda’s floor number and smashing the button. The folder played between my fingers, my eyes begging to look but I knew I’d get in trouble if I was caught on camera.

The smallest ding drew me from my stares, informing me I had made it to the correct floor. I skipped out lightly, smiling when I noticed Wanda's door slightly ajar, the slightest bit of laughter spilling out into the hallway. I didn’t think much of him in Wanda’s room, he tended to sit around everyones room beside his own.

I stepped closer to the door, my knuckles ready to knock but I stopped when I noticed a female voice laugh. I looked closer, noticing Pietro sat in front of the T.V. his back turned to me but his knees were pressed to his chest as he stared at the T.V.

“Pietro,” a little bit of a younger Wanda's face smiled from the screen, her giggles sounded the same as they do now as she looked up.

“I’m shocked you didn’t see it coming,” Pietro's voice sounded around the room, the entire video was starting to catch up. Wanda mentioned she had a few older home videos in her room, she didn’t watch them but she never had to heart to watch them.

“I’ll kill you.”

Pietro suddenly slammed his hand on the remote, doing his best to make the video stop but the laughter never stopped. He held in the air, ready to throw it at the T.V. before my feet took off. I don’t know how I made it to his side so fast, my hand wrapping around the remote as I placed my other hand on his back.

“Hey,” my voice was soft as I got his hand to fall, he looked shocked for a second and I realized he probably was upset. I was watching but that didn’t matter as he curled closer to me. His hands pulled at the overshirt hoodie that clung to my frame, his face pulling closer.

He didn’t cry, just took angry breaths and held himself closer to me. By the time dinner rolled around he had drifted off, his hands lose on my shirt as I played with the edge of the folder.

“Piet-” Wanda knocked lightly on the door, a little smile on her face before she spotted us on the floor.

“Hey Wanda,” I spoke softly, trying to get his hand off so I could speak away from my ear, making sure I didn’t wake him. Wanda waited a second, most likely reading my mind for a second before she gave a sad smile.

“The home video?”

I just nodded, following her from her own room to the kitchen, where I could smell the food flooding the building.

“He does alot of bottling up, with the anniversary of mother birth-” Wanda trailed off, upset as she spoke about her poor mother.

“When’s her birthday?”

“Tomorrow,” Wanda shrugged, both of us stepping foot in the elevator.

“During the mission? I’m so sorry, I can lie to Tony and tell him you aren’t clear-”

“Don’t worry about it (Y/N), it’ll be good not to think about it.” Wanda smiled lightly, looping her arm in mine as she leaned on me slightly.

“Thank you, for being there for him.

“Of course, you know I care about you both.” The door slid open, the smell even stronger as we heard Steve’s laugh fill the compound.

“Care isn’t the word I’d use,” her accent was thicker as she rolled her eyes at me, the hint of a smirk on her lips as we walked closer to the kitchen. I pinched her side, laughing when she jumped slightly.

Once we made it to the kitchen the smell well smashed into my system, walking over to look down at the soup that was lightly boiling.

“It’s a Saliva meal,” Wanda handed me a bowl, holding one in her own hand while she waited for me to hurry up.

“Should I wake Pietro? He wouldn’t want to miss this-“

“I’ll make it again, for now he should rest.” Wanda held my arm, smiling at my concern for her brother as I gently picked up the ladle and became pouring my own soup in the bowl. I watched the light brown broth pour into the bowl and suddenly I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Wanda, would you leave the recipe card out for this?”

I stumbled into the kitchen, the reusable bag full of different ingredients practically falling from the bag.

“Aren’t you glad you aren’t an Avenger,” I heard Pepper’s soft voice from behind me, her giggles coming from the doorway. I only shrugged, looking down gloomy as the ingredients that sat over the island.

“What are you making?” I felt her presence beside me now, looking over the food beside me. I didn’t say a word, holding up the recipe card Wanda had thankfully left out.

“This is what we had last night,” Pepper noticed, looking at the side of my face with the smallest smirk ever across it.

“I’m making it for Pietro for when they get back, he didn’t get any last night.”

Pepper bumped my shoulder, my eyes rolling in the back of my head before I reached for a tomato. I let it roll around in my hand a few times, looking down at the card Pepper had placed back down.

“You don’t know what you're doing?”

“Nope,” I popped the “p”, walking around the island to grab one of the pots and filling it up with water. I placed it on the stove, staring at it for a little bit as if waiting for something to happen.

“Would you like help?”

I probably should say yes, I was trying to make this soup when I should barely make a bowl of cereal. Maybe soup was one of the easier foods to make but I would spend half the time as a few words still in Russian on the card.

“I’ve got it don’t worry,” I brushed her off, simply because I was hoping if I could pull this off alone he would be proud of me. I was hoping he’d make a smartass comment with that little smirk and mention that I did a great job.

“Okay, let me know if you need help. I’m always happy to do so for you and Wanda, just not Tony.” I laughed slightly at her sarcasm, waving over my shoulder as I heard her light footsteps leave the kitchen.

I finally reached out and turned the burner on, smiling when I heard the small click signaling it was in fact on and ready to begin boiling the water. I turned back to the island, picking at the index card. I assumed it was a family recipe but the handwriting and the older terms were used within the recipe.

As I finally placed the tomato on the cutting board, a large knife in hand I thought things were falling into place.

I was in fact, wrong.

I panicked when I heard the elevator open, hearing a light noise of voices enter the floor. I couldn’t be everyone as they weren't as loud and also with how late it was. Clint wasn’t going to hang around with everyone at 2:12 in the morning.

“Just go in the kitchen,” I heard a light female voice speak, my panic rising as I realized Pietro was in fact home and probably seconds away from walking in the kitchen.

I hid my bandage hand behind my back, trying to block the few things I managed to chop before I attacked my own hand with it by accident.

“Why?” His accent was thick with sleep, which made a little smile dance across my lips. I understood why Nat was teaching them to lose the accent for safety reasons but I loved the way they spoke with it.

“Just do,” I saw the door slightly move, knowing someone was going to walk in soon and part of me panicked. I was more worried about Pepper finding me like this, she would have my head if she saw this and I didn’t let her help.

“Fine fine,” I watched him finally walk into the kitchen, lucky alone, as he looked around it for a second. When his eyes spotted me against the counter he smiled but it quickly fell when he spotted the mess behind me.

“(Y/N)?”

“Pietro?” I spoke with nerves. my body on high alert.

“What’s this?” He looked down at the island, his eyes spotting the recipe card I had forgotten to put away. His finger picked it up, a sad smile on his lips before he even read the words on the card.

“My mothers,” his voice sounded far away, as if for a second he was back home before the bomb, before they lost everything but each other.

“Wanda let me use it,” I pointed with my unharmed hand, trying my best to make him comfortable with the conversation.

“She told you?”

“Just a few details,’ I brushed off, my eyes suddenly looking everywhere but him as I wanted to leave the kitchen and run into my own room. I had already ruined the meal, let's not ruin a whole friendship.

“You told me you couldn’t cook?”

I laughed at the memory, I completely forgot about the time I told him about Bruce’s birthday. Thor and I thought making a cake was a great idea but it ended up with a weird green blob. I was much younger then sure, but it definitely showed my abilities with making any sort of food.

“You remember that story?”

“I remember all your stories, as you do mine.” I finally stopped looking at the floor, looking up at him as he titled his head at me. His arms were crossed on the island but his under eye bags stood out against the harsh light of the kitchen. The natural light was long gone and it was only the moon that bought light from the outside.

“You should probably get to bed,” I wasn’t thinking straight as I walked forward and lightly pushed open the door for him. I high when my fresh cut hand hit the wooden door slightly too hard.

Even as tired as he was, Pietro was at my side in milliseconds, looking over my hand with the awkward bandage across it.

“What did you do?” I ignored the little pet name, trying to pull my hand from his grip.

“I’m really bad at cutting potatoes,” I shrugged, the awkward smile making its way across my lips. He said nothing, looking up at me with a disapproving look.

“You must be more careful,” he looked at it a little longer but eventually let my hand fall to my side as he smiled slightly at me.

The silence felt like it lasted forever, like it would never end, but it eventually did when he spoke.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t exactly make it,” I pointed to the brown sad water with nothing else in it. I didn’t make it far before things started going bad. Pietro frowned at me, speeding around the kitchen quickly before he stood in front of me.

A bowl was held in his hand, the brown water now had a few of the vegetables floating around in it, it looked much better but still not what Wanda made last night.

“I don’t know what you mean, I have it right here.” He held a spoonful up, taking a wide bite. I could tell it wasn’t what he thought but he didn’t look like he was going to be sick.

“It’s not your mothers recipe,” I looked up at him, trying my best not a smile at his little pout every time I said something.

“No, it’s your own.” He placed the bowl down, flipping the index card around and grabbing a pen that stayed in the kitchen for any reason. I panicked when I saw him start writing on it, my hand shooting out to stop him but he just quickly moved to the otherside of the island.

“That was your mother Pietro!”

“Now it’s your and my mothers! Two of my favorites on one card, don’t tell Wanda that,” he pointed at me with the last part, his smirk painted across his face making me feel little butterflies in my stomach.

I watched him write my name across the top with the ingredients he saw I had used. Once he was down he slid it across the table, smiling when I laughed at the title.

“(Y/N)’s Happy Mistake.”

“Yes, it’s my personal favorite,” he smiled, my own growing wider as the seconds went on with his looking at me like that.

“Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, for everything,” he walked slowly, for the first time, around the island. He leaned beside me, his arm touching my own. I let my head rest there, smiling when I felt him leave a gentle kiss on my crown.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything Pietro,” I felt myself lean closer to him. I knew we would have to talk about this feeling in the morning, but we were both too tired to care for now.

“There aren’t any potatoes in my mothers’ soup.”

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[supermantv]

daxton + first date after getting back together

Their first date after getting back together is technically at the Winter Dance, and while it had been overall pleasant, there were still the minor bumps (the major glaring one being that Paxton had nearly ran his girlfriend over with his car) that prevented the date from retaining a sense of utter bliss that Paxton was still seeking. He adores her, loves being around her, thinks she is the most exciting person that he has ever met, but there is no denying that Devi is an absolute hurricane. He loves that too, and he’s starting to understand that moments of complete peace will be hard-earned, but entirely worth it. He’s also hoping that these moments of peace become more and more common, with a smoother path paved to achieve them each time. 

They’re in his garage when he decides to broach the subject, a random slasher film playing on the screen that neither of the two are really invested in. Devi lays between his legs, her own feet dangling over the edge of the couch as she rests her head on the hard planes of his stomach. She traces unrefined patterns into the exposed skin above the waistband of his jeans where his shirt has ridden up, and Paxton knows that if she keeps this up, there’s a very high possibility he will actually be driven insane, so to prevent this, he shifts into a sitting position, forcing Devi to move with him.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and it’s hard not to get distracted when his eyes follow the movement of her hands, shifting to smooth out her skirt, because it’s yellow and pink, and cute, and short, and it very much suits her. 

“Um.” Paxton clears his throat and flicks his eyes away and Devi must see something in his actions to tip her off to the situation because she actually laughs. Loud and unapologetic and Paxton feels the tip of his ears beginning to burn but he’s smiling. “Shut up,” he grumbles without a trace of any real aggravation, lobbing a pillow at her head. She catches it easily and hugs it to her chest. 

“Okay, okay,” Devi says and she quiets down but her eyes are twinkling. “What’s up?” 

“I was just gonna ask what you wanted to do for our first date on Saturday.”

“First date?” Devi asks bemusedly. 

“Yeah, y’know, first date since getting back together,” Paxton clarifies, but Devi still looks confused. 

“Wasn’t that at the dance?”

“Yeah, about that,” he starts, drawing back his shoulders and filling his voice with enough mock authority that Devi guffaws under her breath. “I’d like to put in a formal request right now for a do over.”

“Why?” Devi asks, taking this chance to throw the pillow back at him. It bounces harmlessly off his face where it slides into his lap, and he cries out from the shock of the hit rather than the pain. Devi ignores him. “I had a good time. Did you not have a good time?”

“I had a great time,” Paxton reassures her and his heart just about melts when she beams at him. “But I very nearly ran you over with my car at the beginning of the night.”

“After that!”

“After that you threatened to kill the DJ.”

“He deserved it,” Devi grumbles and the same murderous scowl she’d worn that night resurfaces. “But those were minor issues anyway.”

“I’m not sure vehicular manslaughter or attempted homicide are minor issues,” he jokes and his girlfriend rolls her eyes before he becomes serious again. “Really though. I just want to go on one perfect first date with you. No Trent or Marcus, and no narrowly avoided death.”

Devi wrinkles her nose. “Perfect is a tall order.”

“Third time’s the charm,” he says, but Devi’s doubtful expression doesn’t waver, so he relents. “Okay then, not a perfect first date. A first date where everything goes according to plan.”

“That’s more realistic,” Devi says, but she sounds and looks unconvinced by his words. “But still.”

“Don't worry,” Paxton says, leaning forward to rub his thumb tenderly across her cheek. She relaxes into his touch and he grins. “I'll prove you wrong.”

“I sure hope so,” Devi sighs, and no more is said on the subject for the night because then she's grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and yanking him into her. 

But of course, Devi was right to be skeptical, because as Paxton is starting to learn, it is impossible for things to go according to plan when they're involved. 

He’d called that very same night to make reservations at a semi-fancy Italian restaurant across town, and was promptly told they didn't do reservations, which as Paxton figured was even better, because if a restaurant didn't do reservations, that had to mean there was always available seating, right? He asks his mom to teach him how to iron on Thursday, and by the time Saturday night rolls around, he feels relaxed and ready, so assured that nothing could possibly go wrong. He lays the bouquet of flowers he'd bought for Devi gingerly in the passenger seat and whistles to himself as he starts the car. 

Except his car won't start. Why won't his car start?

And from then on, things only spiral out of control further. Paxton texts Devi asking if she can just walk to his house and he'll order an Uber to take them to the restaurant from there. Except when he checks his bank account, he cringes at the lack of money, failing to realize earlier how long it'd been since his last paycheck from his summer job. He wouldn't have even been able to pay the bill for their food, much less order a $15 Uber now. And really, he's not above begging his parents or sister for money, but his parents aren't home, gone on a weekend camping trip in the wilderness where they most likely don't get cell service. And Becca is working on a new assignment for school, her door locked with very clear instructions for Paxton not to interrupt her. He doesn't want to risk becoming a murder victim before his third first date with his girlfriend. 

So, when Devi arrives at his house and the front door swings open to reveal her visibly frazzled boyfriend explaining to her that he's going to be cooking for her tonight instead of going out, she smiles sweetly and nods her head in understanding. Paxton wonders briefly if she had seen it in his face, how close he is to snapping, because he’d been expecting maybe a little push back, a slight protest. He knows his girlfriend isn't renowned for her accommodating nature, but he thinks she's trying to be in this moment, for his sake, and he's grateful and questioning how he could have gotten so lucky. It makes him want to cradle her in his arms and kiss her senseless, but he can't because he needs to figure out what he's going to feed her. 

Paxton leads Devi to the living room and leaves her with a peck on her forehead and the TV remote before rushing back to the kitchen. And this is where the next problem presents itself, because Paxton doesn't know how to cook. 

At best, he can scramble an egg and microwave a hot pocket. Both of which he thinks Devi would not appreciate. So, Paxton grabs two packages of ramen from the cabinet and drops the noodles into a pot of boiling water. He thinks he can spruce it up with an onion, trying to recall all the tips and tricks he'd seen on the Food Network, but as he's cutting it his eyes begin to sting and he can't see all that well because he's blinking back tears and he's starting to feel like a contestant on Chopped when he slices his finger with the knife. He winces at the initial pain, but the cut is shallow, and it would be fine but now his blood is all over the cutting board and the onion and there goes that idea. 

Paxton is praying that it can't get any worst from here, because if one more thing goes wrong he's not sure he'll be able to keep it together. 

He turns off the stove and removes the pot from the heat, pouring the noodles carefully into two separate bowls. It's certainly not Michelin star worthy, but Paxton promised Devi dinner and it's better than nothing. 

But it's as if he’d been a war criminal or a serial killer in his last life, and the universe is determined to punish him, because Devi is sitting at the dining room table waiting for him, and all Paxton has to do is take three moderately sized steps to make it to the make it to her. But his foot gets caught on the corner of a rug and he staggers forward, the noodles and bowls flying out of his hands and straight onto Devi. The broth stains and drenches her dress and the noodles coat her from her hair down to her shoes, but she's still sitting, as if she hadn't processed what had just happened. 

“Shit,” Paxton swears, crouching next to her and flicking noodles off her thighs. “Are you okay? Any burns?” 

“I'm fine,” she says, glancing down at him, and her eyes are a little wide and her chin wobbles slightly, and he feels his heart drop into his chest because she's about to cry-.

The sound of her laugh startles him and his head snaps up, thinking she might've cracked before he had.

“What?” he asks, concerned. 

“I tried to tell you,” she says, but she doesn't look upset. Noodles cling to her cheeks but her smile stretches the entire length of her face. She doesn't even sound like she's gloating, even though she had been right, and as a result of his unwillingness to listen she was now wearing their dinner. 

Paxton’s fingers curl around the hem of her dress, causing broth to seep down his fist. “I wanted to make this perfect for you.”

“And it was,” Devi insists, hands coming up to cup his face. 

“Devi,” he grimaces. “You don't have to lie.”

“I'm not!” she objects. “It was perfectly us. And I like that.”

Paxton lifts a brow. “You like being covered in soggy ramen noodles.”

“You're deliberately missing the point,” Devi rolls her eyes and pinches his cheek. “I like being with you, even if the day is a complete disaster, I'll be happy because I was spending time with you. And, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a bit of a disaster magnet.” 

“I think it's cute,” Paxton murmurs demurely. 

“See,” Devi says. “You know what I'm talking about, and you agree.” 

“The noodles don't help though.”

Devi makes a face. “No they do not.” 

And while Devi is taking a shower in his bathroom and Paxton is laying in bed, thrumming his fingers against his stomach, he thinks about what she had said about this date being perfectly them. He smiles to himself.

[sxfik]

han seo headcanons (part 4)

writing this is cathartic tbh. of course, i always write on the days i have an exam to prep for (aka my lit exam tmrw thats technically today)!! we make good life decisions here at clown nation <3

< prev

read on ao3

tw: mentions of abuse

the first time they competed, vincenzo was away on his buisness trip to italy. he had some loose ends to tie up after his little contract and getting paulo off the helm of the mafia.

which meant that jipuragi was particularly empty without the italian-korean's presence. no one to give han seo a pat on his back. no one to look over cha-young's shoulder.

they all felt it hard, as if the firm had a huge hole where vincenzo is supposed to be

han seo felt himself looking at his desk every single time he passed by it. the first day was more jarring than the rest, he had gotten used to vincenzo's presence in his life.

it was a particularly late friday night at jipuragi. han seo lugged into the firm a gigantic stack of contracts and internal documents about babel so the laywers and him can go through each one. cha-young had to carry both her and vincenzo's load for that week with vincenzo in italy.

they were stressed and tired and had a million paper cuts from sorting through each pile of documents. all three of them were working quietly, the silence comfortable, save for the sounds of russling paper and pens scratching across notepads

"alright, i'm off for the night. i have a airplane competition tomorrow morning and i need jason to fly far for me so i can finally win that 500 dollar prize. goodnight byeonosanim, mr. jang" the paralegal said as he put on his satchel and took out his cycle. he waved his goodbyes as the he left, leaving han seo and cha-young in the office by themselves.

they had only known each other for two weeks, really. han seo always met his hyung vincenzo over drinks or over at his house. he only ever saw the pretty lawyer from a distance, usually when taking note of how his hyung vincenzo dotes over her just so he can tease him about her

and use her to distract his hyung

it always works

cha-young didn't know much about the young ceo, despite meeting him a couple times from her time at wusang. part of her never wanted to trust him, even though he had proven himself and his loyalty to vincenzo, because in the world she lived in, everyone could betray the other at any time

but his presence in the office was comforting to her. he had come in, dressed like an 80s disco star and all asking if he could join the team, and somehow, he stuck with her.

something in her wanted to trust him. he seemed unassuming and loyal to the core, especially to vincenzo. the way he always walked into the firm grinning, visiting the plaza residents. he had an energy about him that reminded him of a younger sibling she's always wanted

but she was burned once with prosecutor jung and she's learned her lesson so it was time for the ultimate test

"are you hungry?" she asked, shuffling through her papers one last time before standing up, and putting the stacks back into their file system

han seo was startled for a second, his head buried deep with in the papers, the words almost swimming together with the amount of times he had to look through these contracts

for a second, he thought she was speaking to vincenzo, not himself before he remembered that vincenzo wasn't here this week

"Oh yes, byeonosanim. Would you like to order something or..?" he'd replied as he stood up from his seat, giving his legs a strech. he had forgotten just how tired he was until she asked him, his body feeling the effects of running the company and being at jipuragi

"Yeah, we can. I have the perfect restaurant to get some food from! they're always open late too so it's really convenient" she quipped back, her back facing him as she started putting all the contracts back into place and started pulling out new ones to look over

he followed suit, clearing up the table he was working on and moving to the paralegal’s desk.

even though his work was often hard for him to understand, the legal and formal language needing multiple reads, he felt refreshed each time he came to the plaza

he'd established a daily routine here, going to check on the hee-soo at the snack bar, visiting the pawnshop

he's quite good with his hands. he'd always known he had a knack for taking things apart and fixing them, which especially helped at the pawnshop when college students and older families would come by with broken tablets and gadgets.

even though he was rich, barely anything was spent on him when his dad was alive. every single new outfit or toy always went to han-seok, where as he was stuck with the ragged hand me downs, and old toys.

so when he had gotten his first phone, and broken the keypad, (because han seok threw it across the room when he got angry that he had the same model as his illegitimate brother) he understood it was up to him to figure it out.

he was always good at taking things apart, from all his toy cars to majority of the gadgets and clocks he had in his house.

(there was a day, when he was younger, that he took apart han seok's toy car. the next school day he walked around with gloves, trying to forget about how his cuts hurt as he curled his fingers around a pencil)

taking things apart and then putting them back together the same way was somehow natural to him. but of course, none of that mattered since he couldn't score well enough on his exams to get past the courses he needed to into engineering. plus, he could imagine the sneer on his father's face if he told him what path he was considering...

for most of his life, he'd felt useless compared to his brother. he was never the quick-witted boy at school, failing his english courses and having to go to cram schools and tutoring sessions just to pass by.

he hated going to school everyday, having the teachers shame him for not being as smart as his brother, not being as charismatic or as smooth talking

the exam days were always the worst. looking at the exam sheet, his palms sweaty and his throat tight as he looked at the questions

the doubt was overwhelming. the pressure made him sweat and freeze up even though he knew the problems.

the kids at his schools always seemed to prefer han seok, for some weird reason, when to him he's always been the menace in his life.

han seok was the one to head the company. the one he can't measure up to in front of his father. the one to push the family forward. every bit of praise, every second of attention, it all went to han seok.

han seo was the mistake. the one who always fucked it up. the one who seemed to mess up his brother's plans.

his brother seemed to take it upon himself to remind him that he wasn't meant to be alive. and their father, believing it to be good for han seo, would force him to be tutored by han seok every day.

his brother had a field day with it, finding the most creative ways to abuse and torture him

of course, he's not allowed to say a word about it.

at first, working at jipuragi was anxiety inducing, sweat drenching his shirt each time he brought a document he thought useful to vincenzo, his throat closing up imagining the consequences of fucking up

he knew deep down, that vincenzo wasn't like his brother, he will not hurt him, he will not kill him

but the anxiety and panic are second nature to him

his eyes were glued to his shoes after he handed it over to vincenzo.

vincenzo paused, looking over the document with scrutiny. and his body was automatically bracing for a slap, a punch. at the very least a snide remark or a sneer.

instead he looked up at han seo, nodding, and told him "this is very useful. thank you."

thank you.

thank you. he blinked.

the words echoed in his head as he replayed them back over and over. thank you. in all his years working, no one had said thank you. no words of appreciation were ever dealt for doing his job. for doing something right.

unable to think of a reply, he walked back to his desk and sat down, the shock overwhelming him before he got his mind working again

although it took him double the time to go through the contracts than it did vincenzo or cha-young, he was never berated. there was never a comment about how slow he was, how he wasn't cut out for this, only appriciative glances and words when he did well

and when he didn't, they corrected him, gently. never maliciously, never taunting, always gentle.

and for the first time, he could breathe

the time passed by quickly as they both continued working in silence, han seo finishing up half a stack before the doorbell rang.

"i'll get it! ceo jang, can you set the table up?" cha-young looked toward as she went to grab the food from the delivery man

"yes, byeonosanim" he replied as he went to grab some disposable plates and wooden chopsticks from the cabinet

he set everything out just in time for the lawyer to set the food down. he squinted at the bowls she pulled out, the bright red liquid a stark contrast to the white containers.

"uh, byeonosanim, what is that?"

"hm? oh it's fire noodles. you don't mind spice do you, han seo?" she quirked her eyebrow at him, her voice sickly sweet

and he grinned at her and that was enough of an answer: it was showdown time.

so there he was, sitting across from cha-young, the container of red chili oil central to both of them. both of their suit coats were off, lest they start literally heating up.

oh, and if either of them reach for their water: they're out.

for about 10 seconds, they stared at each other, trying to psych each other out, before his phone timer counted down.

....3, 2, 1 and they were off!

both of them grabbed their chopsticks and spoons and ate two large bites and drank the broth before angling for one spoon full of chili oil into their noodles.

and on they went in this cycle, eating a bite and drinking broth, and pouring chili oil in after each cycle.

3 pours in, and they were still doing good, neither of them showing any signs of redness

6 pours in and his tongue was swollen, her eyes watery, their broth bright red

7 pours in and .... was it just him or was the room getting hotter?

8 and you could see the sweat dripping the lawyer's forehead, the sniffles of the lawyer getting louder and louder. meanwhile he was panting, trying to increase the circulation into his mouth

9 and their arms meet across the table, inches from the chili oil. their eyes lock, their faces bright red and the pain of his tongue unbearable

his eyes are squinted (from his eyes burning or from concentration, we'll never know) and the lawyer is making faces, trying to get him to give in

"it'll" *huff* "be easier" *huff* "if you give in now" *huff*

he laughed back, in response. "and let you win? no way. I'M getting that paper crown"

their eyes both glance at the flimsy, blue paper crown set upon it's carrier, a stack of contracts

she scoffed back (and almost choked) "absolutely not"

they stare each other down as they pour more in and go for another round

they swallow and in that second, cha-young made a fatal mistake

she breathed in the fumes. and coughed. and grabbed the water before she could think about it.

"AHAHA I WIN!!" he yelled out, the chair flying back as he jumped up, the layer of sweat easing up when he grabbed the bottle of water and chugged the whole thing down

the lawyer on the other hand, was slumped in the seat, taking the opportunity to also chug the water.

for around 10 seconds all they did was pant, getting their bodies back into a normal pace before cha-young spoke up

"fine i guess you win, have a great night!" she jabbered out quickly but he knew what she was trying to do

"nuh uh, nope, you're not getting out of this. we agreed! loser has to crown the winner." he grinned at her, his eyes completely closed as his happiness shone through

sighing, the lawyer grabbed the crown from it's holy pedastal and stomped over.

"tun ta da da !!! all hail king han seo, destroyer of spice, the unyielding one" she sang out, her voice deeper as traces of laughter tinted her voice

she placed the crown upon his name and bowed, "may he reign forever" and looked up and shot him a wink "at least, until i win next time"

he struck a superman pose, and puffed his chest out, before both of them crumbled into laughter, cha-young dramatic one ringing above his cackling

"we should do this again please, noona!" he wheezed out, his stomach hurting from laughter.

but it was only his ringing out, as hers cut out sharply.

"noona?"

he paused as his head whipped around to the lawyer, her head tilted as she looked at him

did i say that? i swear i called her byeonosanim... and he replayed the moment.

fuck.

"ah, i'm so sorry hong cha young byeonosanim, i overstepped, i apologize," he bowed in apology to her.

"do you call vincenzo byeonosanim hyung?"

"huh?" he looked up at her in confusion, "uh, yeah i do call him hyung. why?"

"you can call me noona then." she quipped back and for a second, he stared at her. wait what?

she clapped his back, and he choked on his spit, the clap knocking the air out of him "relax. you passed the test han-seo. i've always wanted a younger brother, you know? you can call me noona. as long as you remember your manners, that is," shooting him a wink

he glanced at her, before breaking out into the biggest grin, his gums peaking out.

"okay... cha-young noona!" he giggled, as they took their seats.

she grinned back, settling in.

"ah, you know noona, he said the same thing as you"

"huh?" she squinted back

"vin hyung! he said the same 'you better mind your manners'" han seo laughed as he mocked the korean-italian mafia's voice

"you know, that impression is spot on!" she laughed as he continued the voice, adding in the classic hand gestures, until both of them broke into laughter.

for some reason, both of them were instantly comfortable with one another.

for han seo, laughing with cha-young, trading insults and teasing felt warm, it felt like he'd found a best friend (a best friend who once upon a time he almost maimed by sending thugs after her, but she swore to him that all is forgiven) they had similar humor, similar tastes, similar personalities

for cha-young, he felt like a partner in crime. not like the way vincenzo her partner in life in crime, but in the way that they were both pranksters, both with similar personalities and bright humor

it felt like finding a sibling, a person to commit crimes with, a person to clown together with

"you know, noona, is vin hyung..." he paused mid-sentence, contemplating if he could ask this.

"go on, han seo" cha-young encouraged him, one hand bringing the bottle of water to her mouth

"is he your boyfriend?" he rushed out the words and—

he was sprayed in the face.

cha-young was sputtering as the water dripped off his face, and his eyes shut as he wiped off the excess

"yah, why would you even ask that?" she scoffed out refusing to meet his eyes, but he could see the red tint creeping up on her neck and her cheeks

he shot her a look.

"yeah, yeah okay. he and i are... partners"

"oh." he quipped back, a sinister smile slowly spreading across his face

"no, no, no" she shook her at him, "i do not have a crush on him"

he raised an eyebrow back "who said anything about a crush hm, noona?"

she froze and he knew he'd have next weeks entertainment sorted

"you know maybe i'll take back that younger brother thing if this is how it's like" she taunted, but he didn't feel any hurt. instead her teasing just made his heart soar, her teasing somehow a comfort

"oh, we're just getting started!" he quipped back, as they cleaned up for the night, continuing their conversation as they restored the firm back to order.

"i've noticed you going to the pawnshop a lot recently" she noted, as she grabbed a stack of contracts to put back into the filing cabinet

"ahh, yeah i've been helping them out. they're having a baby you know and it must be hard on both of them to run the shop" he responded as he stacked another set of contracts together, clearing Mr. Nam's desk

"you should do it."

"what?"

"study electronics. or at least continue working for the pawnshop."

he stared at her.

how did she know? for someone so bright and busy he didn't expect her to be so observant to him.

"oh please, like it's hard to notice. i've seen the way you always seem to be happier as you pass by the pawnshop. when i popped in during lunch, i saw you, hunched over the tablet. it's the happiest i've seen you look."

"oh." he grew quiet "it's a little too late, don't you think noona? for me to even consider that? i'd be a little foolish to follow that"

she sighed and turned to him, grabbing the stack from his arms. "let me tell you a story han seo. i'm 34 years old and a lawyer and don't get me wrong, i love doing this. but when i was little my dream was always to sing. but for years, i pushed it back, thinking i could never do it."

she stuffed the papers to the back corner, somehow managing to stuff it in and turned back to him.

"so, noona? did you do it?"

"patience. a couple weeks after my final exam for law school, i said why the hell not. and now i've been taking lessons one and off for years!"

"you should give a demo!! sing for us"

"oh, please i couldn't possibly do it" she tucked her hair back, looking bashful.

"ple-" he barely got the words out.

"oh of course, if you insist!" she grabbed the empty water bottle and climbed on her stool, the makeshift stage for the night

"noona! noona!!" han seo cheered her on as she stood up. she cleared her throat, moving her head to the side and warming up

and she opened her mouth.

and sang.

if you could call that singing.

what came out was more of a series of tone-deaf screeches, making him wince but mask his face with a smile, trying to solider through the pain.

he clapped as SOON as she finished the last note, his ears grateful for the break. she took a flourished bow as she jumped off the stool

"how was it?"

"noona, that was amazing!" he lied, trying his best to stop the ringing in his ears.

she smacked him with her water bottle "yah! you liar! i'm god awful" she made one of her classic faces.

"you know??? and you made me endure that???" he touched his ears. he expected to see blood but luckily the damage wasn't too bad

"YAH!" she smacked him again. "you brat, the point isn't that i'm good or not."

"then what is?" his eyebrows furrowed as he looked in confusion.

if you're not good at it then what really is the point? why should i keep trying?

"the point is that i'm happy. it doesn't matter how good you are at something for you to consider it an interest, as long as it makes you happy."

he paused. no one had ever said that before. to do what makes him happy. not what made his father or his brother happy. everyone's advice all his life was to stick to what you're good at and that there isn't a point in trying if you aren't good from the beginning.

"look i'm terrible at singing. but i know that if i had never pursued it, i would have grown old and regretted it. so what if i am bad! at least i got to do it while i'm alive! give electronics a shot, han seo."

han seo bit his lip slightly. and he nodded.

he was going to give it a shot.

"good! now lets get this cleaned up and go home!" she sashayed off to her desk, grabbing the last of her stuff before they left the firm.

the next week, when vincenzo was back from italy, he had expected to find the firm just like he left it. what he didn't expect was his girlfriend wife partner and brother han seo, one sprawled on the couch and the other on the floor, piles of blankets and what looked like a mic and SEVERAL bottles of sujo scattered across the table.

they were both in matching pajama sets, and snoring very loudly. he shuffled over to his desk where a note that looked like it was written in crayon was left

and it said

"dear vin hyung: noona and i were having a sleepover last night. i made sure she was extra safe and did not do anything overly amitious (like call you in the middle of the night to ask you if you had to leave) if you are seeing the mess that we probably made, please excuse it. i will clean it up as soon as i can. grazie!

p.s. you should ask noona out sometime, i have it in good word that she might be interested ;)

to be continued...

a/n: let this be a fic reminding you that if you are passionate about something, pursue it! our world conditions us to believe that you have to be good at something in order to be able to do it but that's absolute bs. please give your younger and future selves a chance by taking up something you've always wanted to do <3

[uniquevocashark]

A Good Servant

Part 1 of ?

Summary: You would do anything to keep her happy: be it keeping her pet healthy, running her house or making her wine. Everything but for what you both want.

Some content warnings for this part: there's heavily referenced sex/sexual activity, pet play (not with the reader, this is an angsty prologue fic), brief mention of adultery, casual contemplation of murder, brief mention of whipping and a joke made about catholics. If I missed anything that you think should be tagged, dm me and I'll add it.

--

You start down the hallway before you can stop to think, holding the tray aloft in one hand. It's very easy to hear the strangled sounds of Lady Dimitrescu's most recent pet, some twenty something woman from the village, which only makes your job that much harder.

As you had been here for quite some time, you knew one of the most taboo acts was to interrupt her during 'training'. As you got closer you could hear her voice clear as day, offering soothing encouragements before the snap of a crop reached your ears.

You stop just before the door, wondering briefly if she'd use it on you for interrupting. But you couldn't send the heads of the other families away, so you steal yourself, rebalanced the tray and knock thrice.

There's a shuffle and her pet screams louder than before, followed by a half slurred string of begging and moans.

You purse your lips. You knock again, thrice, harder this time. You finally hear the Lady curse, some Romanian word you can't quite grasp yet, followed by quick shushing of her pet. You hold the tray carefully and take a precautionary step back.

She slams the door open and you catch a fleeting look at her black silk underwear before you shift your gaze into the room. Her pet, whose name you don't know and dotn care to learn, sits uncomfortably on the floor beside her masters bed.

"What is it?" Lady Dimitrescu snarls down at you, and you look up at the filigree decorating the wall beside her head.

"The Heisenbergs and Moreau are here to see you, Madame. They bear a seal from Mother Miranda." You handover the letter one of them gave you and fill her glass while she reads it.

You drop a bit of her special wine into it and hand it over. She eyes you carefully, taking a lemon slice. "Help me dress." She says and walks back into her room.

The hallway beckons but you follow her in anyway. She won't kill you, not while Mother Miranda has need of you, but you know she forgets how fragile people are sometimes. Her pet is a keen example; she clearly hasn't slept much due to her servicing, she's bruised all over and the way her lips wobble stirs some momentary pity in you.

Unfortunately for her, any stronger feelings have long since been cut away and seeing her in such a state only brings up questions of how you can improve. Still, you try to put on some faux sympathy for her.

You fill the smaller glass and hand it to her pet with a small platter of apple slices. When you look over to Lady Dimitrescu her brows are raised.

"She hasn't eaten for two days, Madame." You say instead of explaining. It had been one of the cooks ideas, someone that knew her.

Clearly, Lady Dimitrescu didn't realise that, "Of course," she replies crisply, her tone too sharp, "You may eat, pet."

Without waiting, you walk over to her closet to pick a dress. They are the same style and differ in their colour scheme; three are the same shade of light cream, twelve are pure white and three more are tinged grey. You pick out a light cream one with matching undergarments when she calls you over.

You've been working for her a long time, excess of seven years, so you know how she prefers to be dressed after stringent activity. You slip her bra on and her underwear. Slowly, you put her stockings on, as to not rip the expensive fabric, and clip them to her garter belt.

Lady Dimitrescu choses which garter she wears each day rather than have you or her personal amod do so, today it is the one that tangles easily. Its notorious among the staff for how difficult it is to put on. You know your way around it, though, fastening it quickly about her hips and thighs. "Have you put any thought into what I asked earlier, Madame?"

Lady Dimitrescu scoffs, sipping her water, "I have a personal maid." She jerks her chin to her pet, who has been munching as quietly as possible on the apple slices.

"Yes," you say lightly, helping her step through into her dress, "I merely doubt she will have time to deal with any duties other than those of a pet."

She eyes you dangerously and sets her cup down. You ignore the passive aggressive ploy to retrieve the step ladder in the closet. You flick it open and climb it as you pull her dress up, admiring the muscles of her back when she flexes subtly, then guide her arms into the sleeves.

"Who do you recommend, my gracious head of staff?" She croons when you work your way up the buttons of her dress.

You overexargerate your sigh at her playful tone. You catch her smile in the mirror and go back to buttoning. It is much harder to accept some days that this cannot last forever.

"Jessica is a cheery and dedicated worker with a strong back for lashings should she ever disappoint," her pet looks at you with mild horror that you file away and you try to strain your voice a little more towards reluctance, "Mihaela may suit your temper better, she has a quiet nature, has little care for material things and does her best to avoid punishment." That and her aggressive asides about the Lady would stop if she wanted to live.

Lady Dimitrescu moves over to her vanity, and you follow, grabbing the scissors attached to your chatelain and three roses from the vase on her desk. "Who else?" She asks, flicking the cap off her lipstick.

"Louise may suit as well," You say as you clip the stalks, "but Miss Daniela has taken a fancy to her. It would not be the wisest choice. There is also Rachel but she is pregnant with the gardeners child."

"Leave it to humans to rut like base animals on my property," she taps her lips thoughtfully,  "Wasn't Rachel married?"

"She is, Madame."

"Do you remember to whom?"

You pause in your arranging of the flowers on her breast and she catches your eye with a smile that burns you, "It was to the southern most butcher. One of the Bradleys, I believe."

She clicks her tongue, breaking eye contact, and you move to brush her silky hair out before she repins it. "Tell Heisenbergs retainer to have her husband brought here. It may be time to cull that wretched family," she paused, sipping again at her water, "Also, Mihaela will do, inform her after the meeting."

"Of course, Madame." You set the brush down, and grab her powder, dusting it onto her cheeks as she fixes the curls back into her hair. She is most beautiful like this, when her face turns delicately pensive and she stills almost completely. You almost wonder what it would be like, with her, and have to take an extra second to cool your heating face.

When she turns to you, with that deliberate, unabashed affection stealing the faux indifference from her face, it makes your heart quake in a way you haven't felt before. You have to look away before you both do something stupid. Deliberately, you plant your hand on her shoulder to keep her at a distance and stare intently at her ear as you put her earrings on.

Her pet has come to sit at your feet, Lady Dimitrescu running her fingers through her hair and you vaguely wonder what it would be like. What if you were there instead and what if this and that and everything else you could want but can't have. Neither of you will cross Mother Miranda.

Her pet gives you the dishes, the glass and plate empty. You move away from them, so that you're not tempting anything again and refill the glass.

"Shall I also have inquiries made about a new gardener, madame?" You ask as you hand the glass back, then move to gather together a suitable outfit for her pet.

The softness is gone from her face and you tell yourself you're glad of it. "Yes, someone more appropriate."

"Not a Catholic then?" You ask innocently. She chuckles warmly and you go about dressing her pet with a little smile. "And would you prefer the current one be brought to your daughters or sent straight to the cellar?"

She regards you seriously in the mirror, and you stare back into her golden eyes before returning to fixing the bow on the back of her pets dress, "Bring him to me when I'm next available."

You usher her pet back to her seat, putting the cups back on the tray, "That would be after dinner for today, or at three tomorrow evening."

"After dinner will be fine." She replies, eating the rest of her lemon. She hands you the skin, her fingers brushing yours deliberately, and you take longer than needed to deposit it on the plate.

"The families are gathered in the dining hall, Madame. I had the kitchen staff prepare a light brunch."

"Tell them I'll be there momentarily."

"As you say, my Lady." You curtsy as you leave. You make a note to have Rachel serve dinner and to watch the Lady's pet while she's busy. You may even go so far as to ask the cook to make a broth; this pet seems to make her happy and you are determined that her pet remains able to do so.

It's all you can do, after all.

Hey, little note:

This is a multi chapter fic with a planned unhappy ending because Courtly Love Trope doesn't usually end well. There will also be references to Resident Evil lore from previous games. Do I care if its accurate? No, not at all. Resi purists beware this fic. And thanks for reading!

[the-angriestpineapple]

Love and War (Miruko x Fem Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Characters: Usagiyama  Rumi / Miruko

Inspiration: My SECOND piece for the Citrus Dome Discord server’s Gods AU collab. It’s a bonus! Written mostly for my partner and Peach, because they love her. Masterlist is here.

Prompt: Worship has always been a part of your daily routine. Each season you place the fruits of your labor at the altar. Every day you pray. It’s human nature, seeking answers from the Gods.

But you never expected one to answer…

Word Count: ~4.6k

You yell out a war cry as your sword falls, the metal making a harsh clang against the shield of your opponent. You’re in the middle of a war, and fighting for your life. Most of your fellow warriors have been killed and there is a scant few still remaining on the field. The enemy forces have been whittled down as well, but there’s definitely more of them than are of you. These were forces of a man who was trying to take over any country he could, and you were defending the smaller villages in the area since they couldn’t defend themselves. You had prayed to your goddess that morning, a goddess of strategy and war, and all you could do was hope that she would not allow you to fail. You hear a cry of pain to your left, a voice that you know. It’s one of your friends, a man you’ve known since childhood, and you make the mistake of looking toward the source. You see your friend fall, but then feel a searing pain in your side as well. The momentary lapse of concentration may have just cost you your life. You see the man you’d been fighting run off toward another of your comrades as you sink to the ground. Your vision goes black at the rims and you feel your sword fall from your hand before your eyes shut and you hit the ground hard. Your mouth makes one word as you lose consciousness.

Miruko.

You feel yourself coming to consciousness, your mind flashing through your death. You’re in Tartarus, you’re on the beach, waiting to take the ferry to the underworld. You’re dead. Your goddess didn’t hear you. With a heavy heart you open your eyes, thinking about how many of your friends you would be making the journey with, only to find yourself in your temple of worship. You stare up at the statue of Miruko feeling absolutely dumbfounded. How did you get here? How did you survive? “Good, you’re awake!” The unfamiliar tone draws your attention, and you look up to see an absolutely gorgeous woman walking toward you. Your eyes widen as you look her over. Dusky skin. Flowing white hair with two silken ponytails atop her head. Strong arms and thighs revealed by the cut of her tunic. Cocky smile on her face. You were staring at your goddess, at the patron of this temple. You were staring at Miruko. She grins wider at your expression and lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. “You’re confused, I can tell. That’s fair. I can explain. First, no, you aren’t dead. You were supposed to be, but I can’t let my favored devotee die just yet. You will eventually, obviously, being mortal and all. But the underworld can’t have you yet.” She shrugs, reaching for a peach on the offering table under her statue and taking a large bite out of it. She says it so casually, as if she doesn’t care what the god of the underworld thinks. That she just does what she wants. “I’m… not dead? But what of the battle? What happened to the villages? What-” You cut off, wincing in pain as you try to sit up. Your side suddenly felt as though it was on fire. Miruko quirks a brow, placing the half-eaten peach on the table and walking over to you. She tips your face up to hers with fingers that you feel could easily snap bones and gives an almost feral smile. “The villages are safe. None can hope to stand against me on the field of battle.” There’s a wild edge to her tone that chills you to the core and you nod. Like you would disagree with her, especially to her face. Especially with that wildness in her eyes.

“T-thank you.” She stares at you with that feral grin for a few moments longer before it falls into a softer smile. “It felt right to step in. And besides,” She drops your chin, rolling her shoulders. “It’s been ages since I had a good fight.”

She’s as terrifying as she is alluring, that’s for sure. You look down, wanting to avoid her piercing gaze, and realize that you’re wearing nothing but a bandage around your chest. Your eyes widen and you pull the blanket up to try and protect at least a little bit of modesty. This apparently strikes Miruko as amusing, since she starts laughing. Your face colors in embarrassment as she wipes at her eyes. “Come now, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” She gestures to her own very filled out feminine form. She isn’t wrong, but it doesn’t make you any less self conscious. She smirks a little and looks back to the fruit bowl, plucking out a few figs. It’s a good thing you offer her fruit, she seems to like it. But then she brings the figs over to you, and holds them out. Wanting you to take them. “I can’t have those,” you gasp immediately. “They’re for-” You cut off, and Miruko raises a brow and smirks. They’re for her. And she can distribute her offering as she sees fit, right? Gods, if the High Priestess could see you right now she would have a stroke. Your shaky hand rises and your fingertips brush her palm as you take the figs from her hand. “There you go. Good girl. You need to eat to get better. I’m not exactly a healer, after all.” She turns from you to retrieve her peach and you’re relieved she didn’t see the shudder that went through you at the praise. This was so strange. Most of your life you prayed to this goddess. You joined her order when you were scarcely out of childhood. You trained to be a warrior, vowed to protect those who needed you, just like she does. And just as you thought she had turned from you, here you were. In her presence. With her feeding you her offering fruit. “Why…?”

Miruko quirks a brow as she looks back at you, peach halfway to her mouth. “Why? Well, I can’t be the goddess of everything. I may have called in a favor with Hawks to make sure you weren’t gonna die on me anyway, despite my interference.” Hawks, the god of healing. Also medicine, archery, music, and poetry. The goddess leans on the table and brings the peach to her mouth, but pauses. “Ya know, Hawks is a bit of an overachiever now that I think about it.” She takes her bite and chews thoughtfully, looking up at her own statue.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Her eyes dart back to you, and you flinch. You never realized that her eyes were red. All the depictions you’ve seen of her have been in stone, and it makes her even more intimidating. “I meant, um, why save me?”

Miruko stares at you and takes another bite of her peach, not blinking as she chews. It’s a few agonizing moments of silence, but then she gives a half smile. “Because I wanted to. Haven’t you ever been taught not to question the gods?” Your eyes widen, thinking you just offended her, but she chuckles. “I’m kidding, calm down. You’re gonna need to relax if I’m gonna be here making sure you heal. Now, eat those figs and get some rest. Hawks said you’re gonna sleep a lot at first.” You look back down at the fruit in your hands and slowly lift one to your mouth. Of course the goddess was given the best of the crop, so the figs were almost unbearably sweet. You eat all three, and she gives one approving nod before pushing off the table. “Good, now sleep.” You weren’t sure if you could, with your literal patron goddess in front of you. But once you slowly laid back down and closed your eyes sleep easily claimed you.

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

When you woke again you felt much more rested, and this time when you cautiously sat up there was no stabbing pain. You feel your side and find that it doesn’t hurt at all, which surprises you. You’d been dealt a mortal blow, surely it couldn’t just be gone. But it seemed to be. Along with your bandages, apparently. You were now wearing a simple tunic instead. You glance around the room looking for a sign of Miruko, but you don’t see her. Maybe she was gone. Maybe she saved you at that was all she wanted. You slowly slide from the bed, wanting to look around but not wanting to injure yourself in case you aren’t as healed as you seem to be. You seem to be okay though, and you feel confident enough to look around. This room is the main offering room in the temple, with the huge statue of Miruko dominating the center. Gone are the fruit offerings from the table, and in their place looks to be something covered by a linen cloth. Curiosity gets the best of you. You walk over to the cloth and slowly pull it away. Under it is a small loaf of bread, olives, more figs, and a bowl of soup. Along with the food is a note.

ΦΑΕ αυτο. Eat this.

You know it’s been left for you, and it smells amazing. You don’t waste time picking up the bowl and drinking a third of it down. You can practically feel your energy going up with each swallow. The bowl goes back to the altar, and you grab the bread next. You suddenly feel ravenous, like you haven’t eaten for days. You rip hunks off the bread and swipe it through the broth of the soup. It tastes fresh baked, and the grain compliments the spices of the soup perfectly. You aren’t quite back to normal yet but you feel like you’re getting there. You’re sharp enough to hear footprints coming up behind you though. You turn, not entirely sure who you’re going to see. The High Priestess? Maybe Miruko came back? You definitely don’t expect to see a man with messy blonde hair approaching you, and your body is shifting into a defensive position without even thinking about it. He holds his hands out, eyes widening. “Whoa whoa whoa, little warrior, I come in peace. I’m just here to check on you. You’ve been sleeping for a while.” You don’t shift out of your pose, eyes narrowing. The man drops his hands and smirks. “Miruko always has the most suspicious followers. Fine.” Large red wings unfurl from his back, and he presses off the stone with his foot. He rises in the air and hovers a foot or so off the ground. Only now do you rise from your pose, eyes widening. “That’s more like it. Hawks, god of medicine, archery, music, poetry, and luckily for you and Miruko… healing.” He sweeps into a bow in midair, and you can’t help but smile a little. He’s pretty charming, though you would imagine that a god of music and poetry would be. He sinks gracefully back down to the ground and folds his wings back. “Ah, a smile! That’s better. So, songbird, I see you’ve eaten. Good. You’ve been asleep for nearly two days straight.” He shuffles closer to you and leans forward, getting very in your space. You can’t help but pull back, which makes him grin. “Your skin is a better color. Less pale. Eyes are responsive.” He holds a hand out and presses it to your forehead before you can move. “No fever, so I doubt there’s an infection. There’s just one problem left.” His face falls, seriousness taking it over. A problem? You bite your lip, wondering what was wrong, but then Hawks breaks out into a grin again. “A cutie like you is stuck in this temple with Miruko.” “You want your wings tied together, you overgrown pigeon?”

You both jump as the goddess strides into view, that feral grin back on her face. Hawks straightens and flings his arms wide as she approaches. “Miruko! There’s my favorite war goddess. I was just checking on your disciple here. Seems fit as a fiddle. Of course, I treated her, so obviously she would be.” He preens a little, pleased with himself. Miruko rolls her eyes and shoves him.

“Yeah yeah. You’re miraculous. Now if she’s no longer about to head to Shouta, please vacate my temple before I physically kick you out of it.” There’s a tone to her voice that sends a shiver down your spine, but Hawks just looks gleeful. “Of course. Just let me know if you need my services for anything else-ow! Fine, I’m going!” He’s scowling and rubbing his arm where Miruko punched him. He gets the last laugh in though, turning and snatching your hand up to kiss it before disappearing in a cloud of feathers and laughter as the war goddess swings again. “I’ll get that mouthy feather duster when I get back to Olympus,” she grumbles, then turns to you. “Are you alright?” She steps in closer, red eyes glancing over your form. You nod, unaware of the fact that you’re holding your breath at how close she is. “Good. Now that you can move well enough, finish eating. Then we’re going to spar.” She turns and walks away from you as your eyes widen. You were going to spar with the goddess of war and strategy. That didn’t sound like something you’d be able to easily win. But at the same time, the challenge was enticing. And you would get to see her in action. But first, the rest of the food.

You turn back to the altar, picking up a few olives to pop into your mouth. You don’t want to rush eating because you know that if you do that, it’ll make you feel sick. But… you’re pretty excited to be sparring your goddess. You tear off another hunk of bread to dunk into the soup, and just as you shove it into your mouth you hear Miruko behind you. “Here. Water.” She hands you a cup, and you gratefully accept it with a murmured ‘thank you’. You’re very thirsty, and the water in the cup tastes pure and clean. You greedily drink all of it down, and when you come back up Miruko is giving you a half smirk. “I’ll get you more.” She plucks the cup from your hands, her fingertips brushing yours as she takes it and turns away. You blush slightly at the subtle touches, not entirely sure why.

You choose to not dwell on that uncertainty though. If you’re going to spar Miruko and hope to hold your own against her you need to be focused on that. So you spend the remainder of your meal with your eyes closed, taking deep, controlled breaths. Eating slowly. Balancing, preparing yourself for a battle. Normally you would also be praying to Miruko, but that didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to do if you were about to fight her.

Once you’re calm enough and feel as centered as possible, you open your eyes. Miruko had replaced the cup at some point and you grab it. This time you sip, looking around you at the temple. The bed you’d been on was shoved to the far side of the room against the wall, and Miruko was standing in the empty space. Waiting for you.

It was time to try your luck against your deity.

You place the cup back on the altar and step over to her, sliding down in the defensive position you had taken when Hawks arrived. Her neutral face curls back up into that feral grin that you’re now accustomed to and she slips down as well, hands arching into claws. Arms and legs spread wide. It’s intimidating, but you refuse to show it.

“I’ve watched you for a long time, I’m looking forward to this.” Her grin widens and she’s moving, pushing off on her foot to launch herself at you. She’s too fast for you to be able to avoid her and you shift so she doesn’t hit you head on. You grab her side as she slams into you and pull, trying to make her be off balance. Miruko just gives a manic cackle and manages to land and put all her weight on one foot and tangle the other leg between yours. She crooks her leg quickly to trap you, your eyes widening at the pressure of the single leg lock she put you in.

Holy fuck, she’s powerful.

Obviously she’s powerful, but there’s something completely different about seeing the latent muscles in her form and fighting her. Gods, she must be breathtaking on the battlefield. You’re almost sad that you were unconscious when she took down your enemy. But now wasn’t the time to swoon, you were in the middle of a fight. You had to get out of the lock.

You twist yourself, able to wrench your leg out from hers. Though you have an inkling that she let you do that. The wildness in her eyes is back, pupils dilated to the point where there’s barely a red ring. Miruko lets out another laugh as you launch yourself at her. It’s like a dance, this fight. She’s allowing you to feel her out as an opponent since she knows exactly how you fight. You have a solid lock around her waist but she grabs yours in return and flips you up, the back of your thighs landing on her shoulders. She grins wider up at you from between your legs and your heart skips a beat, but then she throws you off of her. You land hard and roll but pop right back up, a little shaken.

You’re circling each other again, and now it’s her turn to charge you. You’re more ready this time though, and you shift and grab her arm. You pivot, your hip checking into her and you’re able to throw her over your shoulder. Her face fades to surprise for a second and then she’s behind you. You’re too slow to turn, and her foot strikes out in a wide arc. Miruko easily sweeps your feet out from under you and you land on your back, the breath knocked out of your lungs. Then her face fills your vision, she grabs your wrists and slams them above your head. You can feel her strong legs pinning your lower half. You’re both breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight. She increases the pressure on your wrists and your breath hitches. She pauses, her red eyes studying your face, and then she leans in and crashes her lips to yours.

Your mind shuts down for a second before you’re kissing her back. That’s what the feelings were when she brushed your skin. You were attracted to her, and obviously she was to you as well. She saved you, plucked you right out of your descent to the underworld. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to, you were entirely at Miruko’s mercy. And gods… this was exactly where you wanted to be.

The goddess finally lets up on your wrists in favor of cupping your face, which allows your hands to come down and rest on her hips. She’s solid muscle, you could tell that when she was fighting you but now that your hands were sliding over her form it was like caressing smooth, warm marble. Unyielding. Unstoppable. A small groan escapes your lips to be lost in her mouth, and she increases the pressure of her kiss.

She pulls back with no warning, a smirk on her face. “I’ve won,” she says with a smug note in her voice. “Are you ready for my reward?” If it’s anything like that kiss she just claimed, then you definitely were. She rolls her body to gracefully rise from the floor once you agree. You start to rise, getting ready to stand as well. Just as you gain your feet you find them swept out from under you again. You hit the floor hard, but then you freeze when you feel a foot on your neck.

“I didn’t say you could get up,” Miruko practically purrs. “Now, I’ll ask again. Are you ready?” “Yes,” you breathe, looking up at her with wide eyes and parted lips. You wanted anything she would let you do. With her foot still on your neck she peels her thigh slit tunic dress off of her body and drops it to the side. She’s nothing short of magnificent, and you forget to breathe for a few moments while you’re staring at her.

She smirks at you and removes her foot from your neck. Then she pivots, her muscular back toward you before gracefully stepping over you to straddle your chest. You watch as she lowers herself, and as she moves closer she reveals the beautiful pink of her sex, already glistening. Miruko settles herself hovering just over your face and braces her hands on her thighs. She looks back at you, smug smile still tugging at her lips. “Well?” You don’t need to be told twice. You wrap your hands over her solid thighs and pull her down to your face, immediately licking with a flat, wide tongue. She inhales sharply at the contact. You let your tongue drag down to circle her clit, which earns a soft gasp from Miruko. She tastes sweet, and the way she gasps when your tongue drags up and down her slit is intoxicating. But the noise she makes when you wrap your lips around her clit drives a spike of heat right to your core. “You’re so talented with that tongue. What a good girl,” Miruko get out between her pants, “I think you deserve a reward.” Your fingers dig into her thighs as you realize what she means when she slides your tunic up your thighs. You watch the muscles in her back flex as she leans forward, strong arms pushing your thighs apart. Your body is coils tightly in anticipation as she starts kissing along your thighs and up to the apex, but then kisses back down. She’s teasing you. It’s making it all the more exciting, but you need the relief. You wrap your lips around her clit again to suck in an attempt to get her to give you more. And you get what you want. She groans, her hips rolling, and circles her tongue around your clit as well. Miruko dips down, her tongue tracing your entrance, and she groans. “Mm, you taste so sweet. Even better than that peach you gave me as an offering. Maybe that’ll be what I call you,” her voice has a hint of amusement to it, but it makes you visibly squirm. She notices. “You like that? My peach?” Miruko leans back in, her tongue slowly dragging up and down your clit. You make a noise that you hope is taken as an affirmative because you can’t bring yourself to pull your mouth from her sex. Her hips are rolling down into your mouth and yours up into hers, stifled moans the only sound echoing in the room. But your voice kicks up an octave as you feel her fingers rub at your entrance and slip inside you. She chuckles at your reaction as she crooks her fingers up, easily finding the spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. It makes you work her over more vigorously and her smugness over the reaction she pulled from you melts away. Her choked moans get louder and louder, encouraging you to go at her harder. Pull her thighs harder. It’s getting more difficult to breathe, but it’s so worth it when she finally tenses as she hits her orgasm. You keep licking as she comes down from her high, but whine when her fingers slip out of you and she rises. You hadn’t had your own orgasm but you weren’t about to complain to her about it. Just as you’re about to rise to your feet Miruko surprises you by reaching down and pulling you up as if you weigh nothing. She’s yanking you into her body and crashing her mouth to yours in a heated kiss. Miruko only breaks the kiss when she quickly pulls your tunic from your body and throws it off to the side. “You’re delicious all over, it seems,” she murmurs into your kiss-swollen lips. You have no opportunity to answer, her hands seizing your waist. She lifts you off the ground and easily walks you to the smooth stone wall, lifting you high enough that your thighs can rest on her shoulders. Her arms lock your thighs in place to keep you there. Your eyes are wide at the show of strength, and you are very aware that her face is now at a perfect height for her to devour you. And she does. Her red eyes lock with yours for a moment before she is diving back in. Your head falls back at her skilled mouth, hips almost immediately rolling into her. You’re surprised as you feel one of the hands holding you up vanish from your thigh and easily slides into your wet heat again. Miruko’s fingers immediately curl up and press into the spot that makes you cry out. You can’t help it as your hands grasp for something to hold on to. Fists wrapped around her twin ponytails, allowing you to anchor youself. “Look at me,” she rasps out, and it takes all of your remaining senses to comprehend and comply. “Cum for me, Peach.” Then she flicks her tongue on your clit before sucking it into your mouth as she presses up with her fingers again. And the tight thread in you snaps, and you completely fall apart around her. Miruko keeps licking and crooking her fingers as you ride through your climax, red eyes still trained on your face as you try desperately to catch your breath. Without you really noticing your thighs are slipped from her shoulders and you’re gently lowered to the floor. She catches her lips with yours again but this time the kiss is soft, tender, and she pulls you into an embrace that has your head tucked under her chin.

Miruko doesn’t move for a moment, and you wonder if she feels as bone-tired as you do. But then she’s once again sweeping you up in her arms as if you weigh nothing. You marvel over her strength for what feels like the hundredth time as she brings you over to the bed you’d healed in. Only this time when she places you in the bed, she crawls right in after you. You lie there, both naked and turned toward each other with the blanket pulled up just enough to cover both of your forms. She’s gently running fingertips up and down your side, and now you can fully understand why she broke rules to save you.

“Ah, now I understand why you’re a disciple of this temple!”

Both of you jump, and Miruko’s eyes narrow to slits as she looks at a grinning Hawks floating in front of her statue. “Way to go Miruko.” He winks at her, then looks at you with a wide grin. “Songbird, how is she? I bet she’s bossy-” He cuts off with a yelp as a nude Miruko flings herself from the bed to attack him. Hawks immediately vanishes, disappearing again in a cloud of feathers. Miruko stops short, then snaps her fingers and her tunic dress flows down her form like water.

“I’ll be right back,��� she says with steel in her voice, “I have a chicken to fry.” She vanishes too, and you lean back into the bed with an incredulous laugh. Who would have thought this would be the outcome of becoming a disciple of the goddess of war.

[petrichxxr]

can we talk again | l.hj

A/N: this is a veeeeery belated birthday gift for @letteredwings​, happy birthday bub! I love you a lot!

Word Count: 15,304

Genre: mutual pining, light fluff, romance, and angst 

Pairing: fem!reader x lee hyunjae (the boyz)

Warnings: lots of mutual pining and me rambling trying to get it right. also please keep in mind this is a work of fiction and the way certain members of tbz are depicted are simply that: fictional, and do not reflect my views of them.

Summary: After the sudden break-up of a three year relationship that leads you back home to your family and friends, Hyunjae vows that he’ll give you the time and space you need to heal without letting his own feelings get in the way. But what he doesn’t know is that you, too, share similar feelings—and now that you’re back in each other’s presences, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to keep emotions at bay.

Certain feelings just couldn’t be described in words, no matter how hard one tried. Or, in the very least—they could not be described to the extent that they were felt. Every word in every language could be used, with as many descriptors and synonyms as possible, to convey the emotions. The notion of what was being conveyed, ultimately, was understood. Sometimes, though, even those words never truly matched up to that exact feeling, even when described down to the finest detail, as accurately as possible. It would only ever be accurate to that specific person. No single person would ever feel the same thing—the exact same way—even if the emotion was universal.

 To Hyunjae, you were something akin to the universe. To the night sky and the way the stars were littered about the darkest places of the earth, yet shining so brightly and beautifully. Something akin to a supernova and the way light scattered, breaking, igniting in the sky. Vast, with depths that couldn’t be touched no matter how far you might reach. The way you smiled and the way you laughed filled Hyunjae with that sort of emotion—but that wasn’t something he could so easily convey. It wasn’t something that, even when he put it into words—even if he described it as exactly that—made sense. It didn’t quite feel right falling from the tip of his tongue, almost foreign; it didn’t correctly describe the way his chest clenched or the way his breath would catch within said cavity of that chest. It barely even glossed on the fact that his heart would lurch into his throat and he’d feel an ache he couldn’t soothe.

 You were always just a fingertip’s length away from him. So far, yet so close.

For the longest time, describing such emotions had come so awkwardly to Hyunjae. He’d bit his tongue and suppressed them. Because you weren’t his, it felt as though his emotions weren’t rightfully his own to describe. Despite belonging to him, he couldn’t understand why he felt so confused—why it almost felt like he were robbing someone. Hyunjae had always felt if he were to put his emotions into words, if he were to make them tangible, then it might break the facade he’d put up; a marble, impenetrable wall. If that broke, he could only imagine the way that bright and beautiful universe might also fall apart.

 “If you don’t stop sighing, I’m going to think it’s you who just went through a breakup and not her.” Chanhee’s voice cuts through Hyunjae’s thoughts like a knife, breaking the silence he’d been drowning himself in for who knows how long.

 Almost immediately, he’s dragged back to reality and out of his trance. The sounds of the restaurant around them come flooding back into his senses—too fast, too loud. Almost overwhelming, having forgotten where he was at.

 “Why are you the one sighing, anyway? Shouldn’t you be happy about this?” Younghoon pipes up, where he sits next to Hyunjae. He nods at the unlocked phone on the table, the screen contents visible to everyone. It’s like a slap in the face to Hyunjae, seeing her name, and her photo—and her recently changed relationship status. “Anyway, who even updates their Facebook relationship status anymore? That’s a thing?”

 “Are you saying he should be a rebound guy?” Kevin blurts, without thinking. He’s not even looking up from his food as he mixes dishes together. Younghoon snorts at his words and Chanhee, sitting next to him, gives him an elbow to the rib. Kevin’s only reaction is to grunt, but he continues mixing.

 “He’s sighing because he hasn’t spoken to her in three years,” Chanhee is the one who replies, before Hyunjae can even fathom how to form a coherent thought and turn it into a comprehensible sentence. “And she changed her status as an announcement that she’s moving back from America.”

 “What?” Before Hyunjae can further consider how to form thoughts into any sort of verbal communication, that single word slips past his lips, like a rubber band snapping.

 Kevin pauses his stirring to look up in surprise, and Younghoon startles next to Hyunjae.

 Chanhee quirks a brow in surprise. “You didn’t know?”

 “You literally just explained that I haven’t spoken to her in three years. How the hell would I know?” Hyunjae purses his lips. “The most we’ve done is check in on each other. Casual chat, ‘hello’s’ and ‘how are you’s’ and conversations that drop dead after just a few replies.”

 How had it ended up that way? Hyunjae wonders, allowing his eyes to trail down from those sitting at the table around him to his food. He stills his hand, which had been mindlessly stirring chopsticks through ramen broth for who knows how long, now. How could he so easily have these feelings that were much larger and greater than anything he’d known in existence, yet so easily fall out of touch with you? How could he harbor these feelings for so long, despite the distance?

 Hyunjae couldn’t really place when things started to slip through his fingers—little bits and pieces of you and him and your memories together, grains of sand filtering through and scattering away in the wind. It had happened just like that. Unknowingly and quietly, too easily. How naturally it had come about, with neither of you expecting it or resisting the change, was almost concerning. Relationships were fickle things. They came and went in waves. Some were permanent, some fleeting, and some just happened to stick around longer than others. But how could a relationship of almost ten years just slowly dissipate like it did? How had childhood friends turned into almost strangers?

 “What are you going to do, then?” Chanhee asks.

 How could that question even be asked? Hyunjae frowns down at his food. It took two to keep a relationship going. As confused as he was about all that had happened—or rather, not happened—he himself was just as guilty for not holding up his end of the relationship through the years. As soon as you’d started dating him, things had just slowly fallen away. What was he meant to do? He was at fault, too. He shouldn’t have let your dating life get in the way. Who was he to just barge back in again?

 Hyunjae simply shrugs, fiddling with his chopsticks until he’s collected a portion of ramen to eat. “Nothing. It’s not really my place to do anything.”

—

That, of course, Hyunjae realized—was easier said than done. Two weeks later, with you standing in the same room as him, it was like he could feel the presence of your energy vibrating. He hadn’t interacted with you at all, choosing to distract himself with whatever was nearest to him any time you glanced his way. There were a few fleeting moments in which your eyes had locked, and Hyunjae felt as if everything in his chest was about to combust. It was as though all the emotions he’d thought he’d successfully suppressed had been reignited; though with the way they were slowly seeping out and making themself more known to him as the night went on, he’d describe it to something akin to a small leak in a dam.

 You, too, were hyper-aware of just how near Hyunjae was. Yet he felt so far away, as well, and you weren’t sure how to fix that. There was some sort of imaginary wall between you. There had been for years now, a tension slowly building up that you weren’t sure how to break through or knock down. You’d made a few attempts but pulled back, and had felt him doing the same—maybe it was mutual. But now, here you were back in Korea, standing at a welcoming party among all your closest friends and your childhood best friend, and he felt like a stranger. It was a wretched feeling. What was worse was the feeling of uncertainty, and not being sure how to fix it.

 Maybe it was just the alcohol in your system, but you were almost certain whenever you sought Hyunjae out in the crowd, you found him staring. You were almost certain that every time he’d catch you turning his way, or the few fleeting moments you’d made eye contact, Hyunjae would quickly glance away; would quickly bury himself in the crowd among friends and familiar faces. Had the two of you merely lost touch? Or was there more to it? Had you made some sort of mistake you hadn’t been aware of? You let out a sigh… you weren’t sure how to fix something broken with cracks you couldn’t see; and you weren’t sure what to apologize for if you weren’t aware of what was wrong.

 A sudden outburst from Chanhee, standing next to you, makes you startle in surprise and straight out of your thoughts. “I swear I’m going to prematurely age with all the sighing I’ve been hearing these last two weeks! And now you’re sighing too?!” He lets out a sigh of his own, paired with the pursing of his lips. “I swear if I get wrinkles—”

 You turn to look at Chanhee in surprise. “Two weeks of sighing? Who—?”

 “Who do you think?” Chanhee retorts, nodding in the direction that you’d most recently seen Hyunjae in. “Just go talk to him already. You know how he is, he’s not going to talk to you.”

 “But there’s no way that I can either. How in the world do you just go talk to someone you haven’t talked to in three years? If our conversations go anything like they did online…”

 “You’re overthinking.” The bluntness that Chanhee delivers this statement with surprises you, and then immediately has you on the defensive.

 “If I’m overthinking, then what is he doing?”

 “Also overthinking,” Chanhee replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. It makes you scowl at him, which he reciprocates by pursing his lips again. “Look, you both have your own ways of overthinking things and you’ll just have to accept that. You sit here brooding and wondering, and he plays the avoidance game. But you’re both overthinking this entire thing. Are the two of you not childhood friends? It’s as easy and natural as that. You’ll be fine.”

 Avidly, you give your head a firm shake and look away from Chanhee. “I can’t. No way—”

 Just as you turn away, Chanhee grabs your wrist and pulls it towards him. He replaces the drink you’d had in your hand with a small shot glass. You stare at it a moment, bewildered, then glance up at him in surprise.

 “Just take a shot and go talk to him,” Chanhee gives you a smile. It’s a smile you’re familiar with, so used to seeing back in college. That fake I’m done with your shit smile that you’d never been on the receiving end of—until today.

 “The good news is,” Chanhee continues, giving your hand—now occupied with a shot glass—a little nudge. “You often turn to the consumption of alcohol when overthinking. Hyunjae doesn’t at all, so this will at least be easy for one of you. The better news is, he doesn’t turn to alcohol because he knows you do so his instincts to take care of you will immediately kick in if he sees you’re intoxicated, even a little.”

 “What kind of nonsense are you blabbering, Chanhee—”

 Of course, as much as you might describe it as nonsense, Chanhee wasn’t wrong. He’d been friends with the both of you for a long time, often stuck in the middle, and he knew exactly what he was talking about. You hated to admit it, but he had described both of your personalities—especially that negative portion, when it came to managing stress, worries, or an overactive brain that had a tendency to overthink—right on the head. Both of you had always been that way, equally hating confrontation. So you turned to drinking and brooding, until it bubbled over into a rant to get it all out. Hyunjae, meanwhile, liked to mope and avoid despite how much his thoughts might yell at him about all of the anxieties he had.

 He was definitely moping and avoiding right now, which made you further wonder what you’d done wrong, if anything. You wanted your best friend back; and though you might never word this part aloud to a single soul—you wanted your first crush back. The boy who’d claimed your heart with his honesty, tenderness, and kindness. The boy who was always there as a shoulder to lean on, the one who could always make you laugh without trying, the one who would come running to pick you up at three in the morning if you’d had too much to drink, and the one who when he smiled had the corners of his eyes crinkle with visible happiness.

 The boy who you were too scared to lose as a friend, so you’d driven a wedge between your heart and him, and never quite gave him the entirety of it. He’d always held it in such gentle hands, even as a friend. You were afraid to find out what might happen if he were to accidentally hurt it.

 But maybe the wedge is what you’d done wrong. Maybe he felt it. And when physical distance had been put between the two of you, maybe that’s how that wall had been built up. 

 “Just drink,” he urges again, giving your hand another little nudge, pushing it higher. “This is my party that I put together, the least you can do is listen to your friend’s request.”

 You frown at him. “You put this party together for me. To welcome me home.”

 “Yeah, well, I still put effort in. And my wish for repayment after all this hard work is for you to talk to Hyunjae again. You can either do that sober—limitedly, since you’ve already had drinks tonight—or you can do it after taking a fresh shot. Or I drag you across the room kicking and make you talk to him.”

 If possible, you feel your frown deepen. Muscles on your face you’d never put to use stretch further than they have before. But, without dwelling much further on the choices he’s given, you choose to down the contents of the shot glass in a quick go. You may as well get this over with while you still had a fresh dose of liquid courage. As you set the glass aside and step forward to push yourself through the crowd, you miss Chanhee’s smirk as he watches you go.

 Even with Hyunjae doing his absolute best to avoid you, you’re still able to easily find him among the crowd. Chanhee’s penthouse is small enough, and there aren’t many places that Hyunjae can go to hide, despite how well he may think he’s doing. You aren’t sure what exactly to do when you fully approach him—the idea of talking to him seemed awkward, especially after three years and some terrible instant message conversations and texts that barely kept the relationship held together. But by the time you’re just a few feet away from him, you realize you have to make an instant decision—and decide to allow your instincts to make it for you.

 Which leads to you stepping up to him, wrapping your arms around his torso in a hug. When you rest your head against his chest, you’re not entirely certain if it’s your heart you hear beating so loudly, or his.

 Hyunjae, of all things, hadn’t expected you to do that. There’d been nowhere for him to go when he saw you crossing the room. The two of you had already been making fleeing eye contact, and while he’d been wondering if you’d just pass the night and not reach out to him at all—since he wasn’t going to make any move to do so on his end—it was inevitable that you’d cross paths, at some point. Even if neither of you wanted to. A part of him hadn’t expected you to seek him out. Another part of him had been hopeful you would. However, Hyunjae hadn’t anticipated this sort of instance happening. He’d also had no time to mentally prepare. As soon as he’d seen you break apart from your comfort zone next to Chanhee’s side, crossing the room with your sights set on him—his mind had gone blank. He’s certain up until the point where you’d crashed against his chest, he’d looked like a deer in headlights.

 The amount of time it takes Hyunjae to react to your hug makes you wonder if you’d made a mistake. But just as you tense, ready to pull away in embarrassment, you feel his arms wrap around you to reciprocate the hug.

 He gives your back a small pat. “H-Hi…” It’s clear in the tone of his voice he’s not entirely sure of what to say.

 “Hi,” you mumble against the material of his sweater, also unsure of what to say. You’d made it to this point, but you weren’t certain what came next, nor did you think you were ready for it. You were afraid to lift your head and look at him. What if this wasn’t the right choice? What if you should have just let things wither out?

 You feel Hyunjae shift, and you know it’d be overstepping boundaries to keep latched on to him despite how much you want to. So, you break apart from the hug, lifting a hand to rub at the back of your neck sheepishly. Hyunjae clears his throat, glancing away from you, though you refuse to lift your gaze up from your shoes.

 “You’re home,” he finally says after a moment of silence suspended between the two of you hangs there for a little too long. You nod, glancing up finally just as he brings his gaze back to you from where it had wandered all about the room, at the same exact time. For a moment, you feel yourself freeze—and you see Hyunjae freeze, too.

 “I am,” you breathe out, surprised by how much he hasn’t changed even in three years. That’s not much time for many things to change, but it feels so odd seeing him here and in person.

 Hyunjae is tangible, and in front of you, and photos do him absolutely no justice—he’s still as handsome as he’s always been, his soft brown eyes offset by the sharper edges of all his other features, like his jawline and the shape of his nose. You’re surprised you can still pick out the little freckle that sits alone on his nose with such ease, as if you’d expected something about him to be different and unfamiliar. He’s smiling softly, tentatively—yet his lip curl is still so visible. The only thing that seems like it may be different is that he’s lost some weight in his cheeks, them being not quite as full as you remember. But every inch of his features are familiar and beautiful and his honey brown hair falling to the sides of his forehead make him seem golden. Untouchable. You feel out of place, even as his best friend, just as you had during middle and high school. He’d always been handsome and gorgeous simultaneously, and so many girls had liked him back then. He’d always turned every single one down, something you’d never quite understood. Not with how perfect he was—a clever mind with a ridiculous and dorky sense of humor, all packaged in a pretty face.

 “Welcome back,” Hyunjae mumbles, after another pause.

 “Thanks.” You glance away briefly, taking in the people around you all chatting and enjoying themselves.

 Chanhee’s wish for you to talk to Hyunjae again… did he just mean to greet each other like this? It felt strange to attempt to return to normal when there was so obviously a large elephant in the room between the two of you. There’d been a reason he’d given you the shot to down before sending you on your way. Liquid courage… you remind yourself. You hadn’t just needed it to even approach Hyunjae. You needed it for what came next, too. Setting your jaw, you turn back to him. “Hyunjae—”

 Hyunjae immediately feels the shift in the atmosphere between the two of you, immediately catches the terse resolve in your voice. And, just as instantly, he can feel his own self—his entire being—tense up in defense. Maybe it was a natural instinct from knowing you for so long that he knew what was coming next.

 “No, let’s not do this right now—” Hyunjae’s tone was almost pleading. “You should just enjoy the party, this can be done later.”

 You purse your lips. “Will it be done later, though? Or are we both going to avoid it?” There was an unsaid, like we have for the past three years, added to the end of your last question.

 Hyunjae mimics you, also pursing his lips. But before he can think of an excuse—or anything to distract you in order to push this off for just a bit longer—you’re stepping forward and grabbing his arm, pulling him along as you move through the crowd toward the rooftop balcony. Even if there were people out there, being outside was less likely to draw too much attention. Hyunjae has no choice but to stumble in surprise after you, glancing over his shoulder to attempt to find Chanhee and shoot him a withering look.

 The cold hits you like a splash of water to the face as soon as you step outside into the winter night air. To your surprise, there were actually people using the rooftop pool Chanhee’s luxurious penthouse came with, despite the chill outside. Even if the pool was heated, you didn’t think you’d ever catch yourself dead in it in the midst of January. A shiver passes down your spine, and you remind yourself that the cold is likely to wash away the effects of the alcohol if you don’t do something soon. Before you can, though, Hyunjae speaks up.

 “Let’s go sit by the firepit.” He gives a nod in the opposite direction of the pool and its occupants, turning and heading in that direction to claim the seats next to the fire just as the lone two people sitting next to it stand up and leave.

 Reluctantly, you follow. The cold might wash away your resolve—but being too warm next to a cozy fire might make you too tired to follow through with this.

 What were you even following through with? You weren’t even sure what you wanted to talk about with him. How the hell were you supposed to bring up the weird imaginary wall between the two of you. Was it simply that, even—just something of your imagination? Were you actually reading into it this entire time, and there was nothing on Hyunjae’s end to even be concerned about…? No… no, you knew there was something off, and you needed to find out what it was. You needed to be able to repair this relationship. Now that you were back home, there was no way you could continue on like this. The distance made it difficult to notice when things had gone awry between the two of you, but it also made it more difficult to approach and mend. There was no way you’d be able to survive like this, when the two of you shared too many common friends.

 Swallowing past the knot that had been forming in your throat, you follow Hyunjae and take the second open seat next to him by the fire. He’s not looking at you as you sit down, gaze fixated on the orange and yellow flames in front of him. For a moment, you too study the fire as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, before you lift your gaze to look at him—studying the way the light of the fire falls against the sharp features of his face, accentuating them yet also softening them. He looks warm. He looks like home.

 “Hyunjae… are you mad at me?” You blurt out suddenly, biting your lip as soon as the words fall from your mouth. Maybe that hadn’t been the right way to start this conversation.

 Hyunjae glances up in surprise. “Why would I be mad at you?”

 “Just… because?” You offer up, unhelpfully so.

 “I’m not mad at you,” Hyunjae sighs out.

 “Then what—?”

 Hyunjae sighs once more. It’s a half truth—that’s all he can give, a half truth. You deserve a whole truth, especially after all this time; especially after how long he’s harbored these feelings for. But how can he just explain that to you so easily? How can he just pour his heart and feelings out to you so easily? It wasn’t fair to you, who was going through the aftermath of a breakup. Hyunjae had honestly thought he’d have more time to figure out a decent way to tell you the truth. But in two weeks, he hadn’t been able to come up with anything—and here you were, being headstrong and going after that which you needed answers to. So much more determined and confident than him.

 “I couldn’t be friends with you while you were dating Sangyeon.”

 “What?” You blurt out in surprise. Had there been something going on between them that you hadn’t known about? Surely Hyunjae would have said something, as your best friend…? You weren’t too certain about Sangyeon—not anymore, at least. That was an entirely different thing that had ultimately led to your breakup, but he’d hidden so many things for so long, you couldn’t have been sure if he’d even tell you the truth.

 “I can’t exactly say it’s his fault, or mine. I was ultimately the one who made the decision to pull away—even though I had a right not to as your best friend,” Hyunjae purses his lips. “I kept telling myself if I was in his shoes, I’d feel the same. Feel that it’s too hard to have a girlfriend whose closest friend since childhood, who knows all their secrets and otherwise—is a male. But I didn’t see it that way. We didn’t see eye to eye. We didn’t get along, and there was an underlying animosity. And I wasn't willing to sacrifice your happiness.”

 That was half of the truth. The other half, you didn’t need to know right now—or maybe ever. But that was why Hyunjae had always felt as though he were robbing someone. Your now ex-boyfriend had been very easily jealous. It had made Hyunjae feel both uncomfortable and guilty being your friend, but it had made him feel worse knowing he had his own feelings for you. 

 “I wish you would have sacrificed it…” You murmur, voice coming out smaller than you’d intended. And maybe I could have ended things before they got too far… 

 It’s Hyunjae’s turn to glance up in surprise. “You were in love, though… I didn’t want to lose your friendship entirely because me and your boyfriend—ex—didn’t get along. It wouldn’t have been fair to make you choose.”

 You scoff, words falling out before you can second guess or regret them thanks to the alcohol, “Well, apparently love meant different things to each of us.” 

 Hyunjae quirks a brow, and your eyes widen in surprise at what you’d said. You look away from him, grateful that he doesn’t press for more when you offer nothing. You know he has to be curious, after all this time. He had always been such an unwaveringly loyal friend to you through the years, and hearing that he hadn’t been willing to sacrifice your happiness touched you, despite everything. But the wound is still too fresh, not quite yet scabbed over, and you can’t bring yourself to explain. He deserves to know the truth, you remind yourself—and decide that, in time, he will.

 Love meant different things to each of us. If only you had realized sooner what your definition of love was, in comparison to Sangyeon’s. You bite down on your lip, afraid to turn back to your best friend as a stinging sensation builds up at the back of your eyes. You don’t even need to blink for the tears to start spilling over silently, and you can’t help but wonder if you’re crying because you still haven’t healed, or if you’re relieved things would slowly, hopefully, return to normal with Hyunjae.

 You flinch in surprise when you suddenly feel Hyunjae’s hand fall down on your shoulder, having been unaware it was that obvious you were crying. You’d tried to stay silent, but there was nothing you could do to suppress the way your shoulders shook with the quiet tears. Hyunjae gives your shoulder a small squeeze, before lightly patting your back soothingly. Instead of turning to face him, you drop your face into your hands with your elbows resting on your lap. The small action makes the tears flow faster.

 “It’s okay,” Hyunjae murmurs softly. “You’re home now.”

 Home. A place filled with love.

—

The amount of force with which you do not want to get out of bed almost three whole mornings later, after having spent those days recuperating from secondhand embarrassment at the party, is at its peak when consciousness finally begins to creep in on you. Sadly, you’re no longer hungover—though you wish you were. You hadn’t even been hungover the next morning, which is what prompted you to stay in bed and sleep everything away further—on top of some lingering jetlag. It would, however, be easier to focus on lingering alcohol effects than memories from that night. However, only a portion of that night had even been alcohol-fueled, and it hadn’t even been fueled by enough. Which meant that as soon as you’d begun to wake up the next day, your brain had immediately decided to remind you of Hyunjae’s explanation to why the two of you had drifted apart, your recent break up, and breaking down in front of your best friend after three years of pent up emotions. Despite having been through thick and thin with Hyunjae, you were embarrassed to have cried so easily in front of him—let alone after having not seen him in so long.

 And for three days, that’s what your brain decided to repeatedly replay. Much to your own horror.

 When you finally crack swollen eyes open on the third day, you briefly flinch at the morning light that greets you a little too abruptly. Then, you lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Had you been blind the whole time? Had Hyunjae and Sangyeon really not had a good relationship? You remember clearly how quickly Sangyeon was to react whenever you mentioned any sort of plans with Hyunjae, or how you were texting him. He used to almost visibly bristle. There were times, even, when he would get pouty and sulky until you’d inevitably give in and spend time with him, instead. When you’d first started dating him, you’d been so distracted by the softer and tender moments with him—the kind thoughts and actions and how he’d remember the little things, and that damn eye smile—that you’d thought his jealousy had been a bit endearing.

 But now, looking back, it only gave you a sour taste in the back of your mouth. He’d had an underlying streak of controllingness and was very good at gaslighting. Had Hyunjae seen all those traits behind the pretty mask Sangyeon had worn? Did he know? You let out a long sigh, unable to believe that you’d been so blinded by your feelings to miss such a thing festering between the two of them. Unable to believe you would ever miss such a thing that directly affected your longest standing friend. Yet, clearly, you had—you had no reason to feel guilty after this long, but you still did.

 I wish you would have sacrificed it…

 Your mind briefly drifts back again to the night of the party. Seeing Hyunjae again for the first time, up close, and being able to admire him after so long had felt surreal. Being able to study, in person, how naturally handsome he was; his sharp features were soft and boyish around the edges. You feel your heart skip—a little jump of liveliness that it barely managed anymore, not with the leaden heaviness in your chest lately weighing you down. Maybe your thought—your words—had been selfish. You’d always wondered why Hyunjae had turned down so many confessions during middle and high school. You’d always imagined putting yourself in that same situation and wondered if he’d treat you the same. He was your best friend, and that was a sacrifice you had never been willing to make… to step over that threshold and risk it all.

 But he was your best friend, and hearing his words that night had sparked a small inkling of hope. Your words were selfish, you knew that. Was it too much to want your best friend of so many years, who knew the worst and best parts of you, to have feelings for you? To return the feelings you’d been smothering like a kindled fire? It wasn’t fair to him to hear you say that, it wasn’t fair to him for you to think that maybe if he’d fought for you a little more, if he had risked your happiness back then… maybe you wouldn’t be here now. Maybe neither of you would have drifted apart. Maybe you’d be something more.

 At the very least, you’d have been mad at him if he’d put up a fight against Sangyeon back then. You’d had feelings, after all, that was undeniable. Sangyeon was your boyfriend at the time. Hyunjae your best friend. No one would want the two to go head-to-head. If Hyunjae had ruined it—you would’ve written it off as jealousy, been upset about things falling through, and then possibly gotten the crazy idea that Hyunjae had feelings for you. But that last one was a bit of an overstretch. You could wish it, and fantasize about it, though. And you could keep him as your best friend, without any rifts in your interactions and close to you, unseparated by a body of expansive water, a whole continent away.

 “Ugh, shut up brain!” You groan aloud—suddenly blinking yourself out of your ceiling-staring trance to slap your pillow over your face, burying yourself. There was no need to get ridiculous ideas in your head. You just wanted things to be normal again. No matter what, you needed them to be normal.

 Plus, you had work to do today. There was no way you could spend another day withering away in bed losing yourself in your thoughts, as nice as that honestly sounded—and as nice as it had been for the previous few days.

 When you get up to start gathering clothes to get ready, peeking out the window to see what the weather is like—you decide that the gloomy skies outside had you even less inclined, along with the remnants of that night, to even leave the comfort of your home. But, having returned to Korea left for a lot to be done. You needed, first and foremost, a way to pay rent. While you were glad your social life hadn’t seemed to suddenly disappear upon your return, not that it ever would with friends like Chanhee, you’d pretty much dropped everything and left three years ago. There weren’t any pieces of anything to pick up… you had to start completely from scratch.

 The easiest places to start were cafes, considering the fact that you hadn’t really had a moment to touch up your resume to your liking. So, you spend the majority of the day focused on stopping in cafes in your immediate neighborhood and just surrounding, also popping into a few restaurants in hopes of an easier serving job. Anything within walking or biking distance that you spot, you stop in to, inquiring about jobs. You don’t have the opportunity to be picky, unfortunately. The process is repetitive. You stop in, introduce yourself and ask some questions, fill out an application and attach your resume to leave with them—then move on. Somehow, you keep at this for hours. By the end of the process—or what you rightfully decide is the end—your feet ache. You’re more than happy to finally choose a cafe a bit closer to home you’d come across on your way back around as a resting point, ordering a drink for yourself as you fill out what you decide will be the last application of the day.

 “Oh?”

 At first, you don't recognize that the word someone says is aimed at you. At least, not until the words that soon follow.

 “You’re back.”

 The you’re back makes you second guess the original soft exclamation, which had initially just drowned into the sounds of your cafe surroundings. But the following addition has your pen pausing against the paper as you focus to remember your unpracticed written Korean. Your grip tightens on your pen, bracing yourself as you lift your gaze to the owner of the voice—Ji Changmin. Just beyond him stands Lee Juyeon.

 Personally you’d always felt like Changmin had been trouble, from the first moment you’d met him in college. On the other hand, his current companion Juyeon wasn’t so bad. You weren’t entirely sure how they managed to be friends, but that was never really your concern. The two of them, however, were friends with Sangyeon—because of this, they were both people you didn’t entirely want to associate with at the current moment. Yet, here they were having stumbled upon you at random. Just your luck.

 As soon as you make eye contact, Changmin’s mouth is falling open into the shape of an “O” to express his surprise. “Wow, I wasn’t actually sure if it was you, but it is. So you are back.”

 “Hey,” Juyeon mumbles next to him, under his breath, bumping Changmin’s own shoulder with his own. “Don’t cause trouble.”

 Trouble. The original sentiment of not wanting to associate with either of these two people returns, and you can’t help but wonder what exactly Changmin had in mind by approaching you as though he were surprised by your return. There was enough of a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice that you were doubtful he was unaware of current events that had transpired. Which made you wonder if it was him—the one you’d always felt was trouble—that was up to something, or if someone had put him up to it.

 You tense up just as Changmin shrugs Juyeon away, turning back to you to open his mouth to speak—but before you have a chance to find out who it is that’s actually trouble, and what Changmin wants to say, you’re abruptly interrupted—your tense muscles startle in surprise as a Hyunjae appears, practically barrelling up to the table. He bumps into Changmin’s shoulder and jostles the other, who startles in surprise as well. Whatever words he’d been about to say are forgotten.

 “Hey, where have you been?” Hyunjae, slightly out of breath, leans forward and braces a hand on the table you sit at. “Chanhee and I have been trying to call you for an hour now—”

 “What—” Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and you turn to start fumbling through your bag. As you do so, you hear Changmin speak up.

 “Excuse you, are you not even going to apologize? After we haven’t even seen each other in so long?”

 You’re barely paying attention as Hyunjae straightens up, even missing the sideways glare that he cuts Changmin.

 “Sorry, in a bit of a hurry—there’s an emergency. I need to grab her and go.”

 Just as you’re about to pull your phone out of your bag, you feel Hyunjae’s fingers wrap around your wrist. With that hand, he pulls you out of the cafe chair and to your feet, causing you to blink in surprise. You’re confused at how fast everything is happening—watching with a bit of disconnect as Hyunjae, with his free hand, grabs the bag you’d just pulled your phone from off the table. He turns after he does so, brushing past Changmin who voices a protest, and pulls you along with him. Hyunjae pays Changmin no mind, and doesn’t stop walking and doesn’t let go of you until you’re both outside the cafe standing under the awning of the entrance.

 Luckily, you suppose, you’d finished most of your coffee. Too bad you hadn’t finished the job application.

 You blink, recollecting yourself. Remembering your cell phone, you turn your hand upward and glance down as you do so, studying the screen. Empty.

 “You and Chanhee didn’t call me,” you suddenly say, looking up from your phone to find Hyunjae frowning out past the awning of the cafe. Confused, you follow his gaze—suddenly taking in the weather change that had been almost as abrupt as Hyunjae’s appearance.

 The gloomy, overcast skies had decided to finally let all their own pent up emotions out. It was raining. Winter rain. You shiver, aware of the sudden chill that was settling in with the wet weather. You hated winter rain, because it meant that it was attempting to snow. The worst part was that it turned any leftover snow on the ground already to slush and ice, making things slippery.

 “Are you okay?” Hyunjae suddenly asks, breaking the weird suspended silence between the two of you. Personally, you were still trying to process everything that had just happened in such a short amount of time, so you hadn’t really been bothered by the silence. It wasn’t noticeable until you refocused, aware of the way the sound of the rain was filling your surroundings and the space between the two of you.

 “Yeah, fine. But you and Chanhee haven’t been calling me—”

 “I know,” Hyunjae says, suddenly turning to look at you. As he does so, he holds out your bag to return. “I happened to be passing by and saw you—and them—and you looked uncomfortable. So I barged in without thinking.”

 Like a knight. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Hyunjae always seemed to show up whenever you had needed him. He’d always been there, whether it was saving you from tripping in the hall, saving you by slipping his assignment in class to you when you’d forgotten yours, saving you by showing up with an umbrella on a rainy day like this one when you’d forgotten yours, or saving you at three in the morning post-breakup stranded after a party. Hyunjae had always been there.

 Hyunjae himself didn’t know why he’d done it—suddenly barging in like that. It was true he’d simply been passing by. Since your return, and since the night of the party, he’d been trying his best to avoid you. Not completely, per se. He was glad to have you back, glad to have your friendship back—although it might start out awkward and rocky. But he personally wanted to figure out how to suppress his feelings. Every moment he spent thinking of you, every moment he spent knowing you were single again, and every chance he had to remember not making a move or making his feelings known years ago—he was filled with regret. He kept wondering why he hadn’t done so sooner, why he hadn’t just crossed the threshold and tried to step into your heart. He was scared, he knew that much, valuing your friendship the most. But now it was like the emotions were a constant alarm going off in his head that he couldn’t figure out how to get rid of, and taking the batteries out wouldn’t make them shut up.

 But going after someone just out of a breakup was off limits. It wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. Despite having caught wind of the words you’d uttered that night—I wish you would have sacrificed it—and the utter confusion they caused by sending his heart and mind into further turmoil, Hyunjae couldn’t bring himself to approach you in that manner now. Despite Chanhee’s urging to do so, he couldn’t bring himself to.

 Yet seeing you—whether you’d looked uncomfortable through the cafe window or not—had stirred up a need and want to just be near you. Growing up, he’d always found himself being protective of you. You knew how to handle your own and take care of yourself, not afraid to tell someone off as needed, but he had always found himself hovering nearby in case worse came to worst and you’d need an extra hand to step in. Even if the situation you’d been in hadn’t been the one he’d come upon, Hyunjae was sure that seeing you through that cafe window, gravity would have taken over and pulled him toward you, anyway. Ever since you were kids, he’d always been drawn toward you.

 You scoff, reaching out to take your bag. “You expect me to believe you still have that special talent for coming to save me?”

 He smiles softly. “You have a special talent for getting into all kinds of trouble, of varying degrees. It’s become a natural instinct at this point, rather than a talent.”

 “Well, thanks. They weren’t exactly people I wanted to see right now, actually.”

 “We should leave, then, before they come back out,” Hyunjae says, glancing away briefly to stare out at the rain.

 You nod, then pause. Wait—we? Why, we? He hadn’t come all this way just to find you, right? There was absolutely no way he knew you were specifically here, at this cafe. You glance back  at Hyunjae in surprise. “You don’t have to walk me home.”

 Hyunjae shrugs. “I was only going to the corner store to get some ramen. Ran out at home and was craving it with the gloomy weather. But now I don’t want to go all that way and back in the rain.”

 You nod slowly. “Oh, got it… did you want to come over for ramen, then?”

 “Here,” Hyunjae says suddenly, causing you to refocus. You blink in surprise when you notice he’s shrugged out of his bomber jacket to remove his hoodie, holding it out to you, while he’s got half an arm back in the jacket itself.

 “W-what’s this for?” You ask, forgetting your offer briefly.

 “It has a hood on it. Your jacket doesn’t. Put that on so you don’t get sick.”

 “What about you?”

 Hyunjae shrugs. “We’re eating ramen, right? It’s warm, and I have shorter hair than you do. Just put it on and pull the hood up so you don’t get too wet from the rain.”

 Still surprised, you stare at the outstretched hoodie, then up at Hyunjae—dumbfounded. Had he actually agreed to come over and eat lunch with you? Although at this point in the afternoon, it was more like an early dinner. The idea made your stomach do a flip. You’d eaten together many times before, and he’d been to your house and your parents house growing up many times before, as well. But this was the first since returning—and since your theoretical make-up. It’s just as friends, you remind yourself, you’re just friends.

 You can tell by the way Hyunjae waits and stares expectantly that he isn’t going to take an argument against his offer. If the situation had been a bit better, maybe you would have stood here and argued against him, but you decided better of it—wanting to get away from the cafe and its occupants as soon as possible. You hold your bag back out to Hyunjae, then your own peacoat after shrugging out of it, trading both items for the gray hoodie he’d offered. Almost immediately after pulling the hoodie over your head—before you even pull your head through—you’re enveloped with the warm scent of Hyunjae. It’s almost a mix of cinnamon, spices, and cream. Like a light caffe latte, freshly made. It smells so familiar, but also foreign, to you. If you had the chance, you’d like to stand there and snuggle further into it, breathe in his scent a bit more until you were more familiar with it and could memorize it—but your head abruptly freeing itself out the top brings you back to reality.

 Hyunjae hands you your peacoat back first, which you shrug back into for the extra added warmth against the winter chill mixed with the rain. Immediately after you’re settled, Hyunjae gives you your bag back while simultaneously reaching for the hood of his sweater, pulling it up and over your head.

 Miffed, you let out a disgruntled noise from the back of your throat. “Hey!”

 Hyunjae just smiles, amused at your reaction, before giving a nod in the opposite direction as he shrugs back into his bomber jacket, signaling, Let’s go. His own jacket is lightweight, and you find yourself worrying if it will even keep him warm enough. Hyunjae won’t say otherwise, but despite his bluff—he too is worried if it will keep him warm and dry enough. The way the rain is coming down makes it a fine mist, likely to soak through the thinnest materials with ease.

 The distance to home is short, but it’s enough that he himself is at risk of getting sick. Before he steps out into the rain, Hyunjae unfolds the turtleneck of the sweater beneath his jacket, pulling it up further against his chin. But he doesn’t give you much of a moment to worry, immediately stepping out into the rain. You have no choice but to scramble after him as quickly as possible. Luckily, thanks to the cold, and now wet, weather, it’s quite easy to match the brisk pace of his longer legs with the cold pushing you forward.

 The walk back to your place isn’t that long, but definitely takes longer than usual with the angle the rain is coming down at. Even with Hyunjae’s hooded jacket pulled as far down over your forehead as possible, you have to keep your head ducked down as you walk. The rain comes down at such an angle that as soon as you look up, you’re immediately hit in the face by it. It’s worse for Hyunjae, who has no way to protect himself at all. He has an arm hovering up over his eyes in a feeble attempt to shield himself.

 When you make it home, you immediately discard wet shoes in the entry of your apartment along with your bag, shredding your coat off first and running further into the apartment. Hyunjae follows suit at less of a rush, kicking his wet shoes off and shrugging out of his bomber jacket.

 “I don’t think I have anything for you to change into,” you call from your bedroom down the hall, shuffling through your closet and dresser drawers—in search of sweatpants or anything warm that might fit him. There are too many things thrown haphazardly into a place to put them, simply to just get them out of the boxes and luggage they’d previously been in. You still hadn’t finished unpacking completely.

 “It’s fine,” Hyunjae says, hovering in the entry as you rush out of your room and into the bathroom, grabbing some clean towels off the rack instead. “I don’t get sick easily, you know this.”

 Despite his words, you still frown as you hand the towels to him. “I’m going to throw your hoodie in the dryer.”

 He just nods, and you move away to do exactly that, pulling the jacket over your head as you blindly move back down the hall to the bathroom. At the very least, Hyunjae can go home in something warm. A part of you hopes, however, that he’ll instead choose to wait out the rain. You toss the gray jacket into the dryer, setting a low heat cycle, and move back out to head to the kitchen to start cooking—though you practically freeze in your tracks as soon as you step out of the bathroom.

 Again, you find yourself forgetting just how handsome Hyunjae is. You’d also conveniently forgotten that he was also standing in your entryway not just handsome but soaking wet, too. When you briefly glance his way after stepping back into the hall to head to the kitchen, you’re taken aback by the timing of which you do so. Hyunjae has just uncovered his face after wiping the towel over and up, sliding his hair back off his forehead. The exposure of his forehead as he rubs the towel at his hair reveals his chiseled features more easily to you, and the dampness of his skin glistens in a way that highlights every single one of those features from his sharp jawline and eyebrows and straight nose.

 Your stomach does a little flip as the towel falls away from his head to his shoulder, revealing his damp and now-ruffled hair. It softens the sharp features of his face, giving him a boyish look that catches your heart off guard—reminding you of the duality of his physical appearance. He can always look so sharp yet soft at the same time, so boyish but mature, so cute but handsome. Hyunjae glances up at you as he rubs the towel along the hair at the nape of his neck.

 “You good?”

 Hyunjae notices you staring, though he tries to make it out to be nothing. He has to mentally remind himself too that it is nothing. You’d just recently broken up with Sangyeon. This was not the time or place for these thoughts—he couldn’t allow himself to wonder where your eyes were lingering, and what they were curiously taking in of him. The idea made his stomach twist warmly.

 “Huh?” You blink away from your distracted thoughts, before nodding—maybe a little too fast, giving yourself away. “Yeah, fine. Was just wondering if that’s going to be enough.”

 “I’ll be fine,” he assures you, with a bit more insistence this time. As he lets one of the towels rest as his neck, he nods you toward the kitchen, grabbing the other towel you’d handed him at the same time to unfold and begin patting at his damp clothes. “Go make something warm for the both of us, though, instead of just standing there. Warm food will help.”

 “Right.” You suddenly remember you’d invited Hyunjae over for some ramen on a whim—and that he’d agreed very nonchalantly. You give yourself a small shake as you make your way to the kitchen to prepare food, reminding yourself that this was normal and you were friends. Hyunjae had been over for meals plenty of times before. He’d been over for meals to both your apartment after you’d moved out, your dorm when you’d been in college, and even your family’s house for regular dinner nights and holidays. So why did it feel different now?

 You could kick yourself for suddenly becoming that much more hyper-aware of your feelings since the night of your welcome back party. How you’d managed most of your life ignoring them was suddenly beyond you. Ever since he’d admitted to why he had pulled away from you, your feelings had begun to rear their head even more blatantly, telling you to give them and yourself a chance. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep them at bay. If you’d felt this strongly for him the entire time, which you knew you had—him being your best friend making the feelings that much stronger since the connection you had with him was that much more deeper—you wondered why your emotions hadn’t chosen to act like this in the past. You suddenly felt like a hormonal teenager, and it was years too late for that.

 The buzz from the dryer going off pulls you back to reality. You glance up toward the hall the bathroom is nestled away in, then back down at the two pots of ramen on the stovetop you’ve been absentmindedly stirring the entire time. You realize, then, that the food is basically done.

 “I’ll go grab that,” Hyunjae declares, setting the towel he’d been using to pat himself down aside.

 “We can eat after,” you state, wondering if he’ll even catch your words—he’s already disappeared down the hall. You move away from the stove to grab some potholders to place atop the counter in front of a seat each, moving both of the pots off the stove after doing so, before turning back into the kitchen to grab chopsticks, spoons, and drinks. When you turn around, Hyunjae is pulling his hoodie over his head and onto his torso, slipping into one of the two empty seats at the counter.

 He lets out a content sigh as his head pops through the hoodie. “This is the best, it’s nice and warm.”

 You set everything in your hands down on the counter, pushing a set of chopsticks and a drink towards him. As you step around the counter, you find yourself smiling fondly. “Just don’t become lethargic and fall asleep from a warm sweater and warm food. There’s still boxes all around this place to be unpacked, it wouldn’t be comfortable to nap here.”

 “Did you need any help unpacking?” Hyunjae asks, picking up his chopsticks to stir the ramen in front of him.

 “No, I’m good. Thanks, though, but it keeps me distracted.”

 “Distra—” Hyunjae doesn’t even finish the word, or question, immediately cutting himself off. “Oh. Sorry.”

 You shrug at his apology. After all, what did he have to apologize for? He wasn’t at fault for the situation at hand. There was no real way to get over everything that had happened, either. Everyone heals differently, and you found the best method so far had been to just keep yourself and your mind busy with other things for every waking moment possible. You felt detached from the breakup, anyway, considering. But the less you had to think about it, the better.

 The two of you fall into an awkward silence, both picking at and eating your food. Just the sound of chopsticks against the aluminum pots, the slurping of the broth and noodles, and the pattering of rain outside fill the apartment. It feels like an eternity before anything is said—before you work up the courage to bring up the topic in a more secluded, personal, and safer space than you had been before. You hadn’t been sure you were ready to truly dump your heart out to Hyunjae, which is why you’d only allowed yourself to cry that night. But after getting what was left of the last of the tears out of your system, you felt a lot safer revealing your thoughts and feelings.

 “Hyunjae?”

 “Hm?” He glances up mid-bite, slurping some of the noodles into his mouth and chewing.

 “What did you mean when you said you couldn’t be my friend while dating Sangyeon? Was it really just because the two of you didn’t get along… or… was there more?”

 Hyunjae finishes chewing, then swallows. He stares at you for a moment—reading you, reading the room. Reading the quaver in your voice that you’d thought you’d done your best to suppress after working up the nerve to even ask those words aloud. Yet, here you were—nervous, still.

 Instead of answering, Hyunjae asks, “Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?”

 You glance at him in surprise—having almost immediately expected an answer, rather than a question in return. Hyunjae had always been direct in the past. Sometimes, even, to the point of bluntness. You’d never been offended by it as some people had. While he was good at penting up his emotions and sometimes beating around the bush to the point that he started to feel guilty, he was also reliable when you needed him to tell it straight. And that’s what you had been expecting. But maybe it was a bit too easy to hear the hesitation in your voice.

 “Well, it’s a better time than any. I’ve been thinking about what you said since that night… I just… am curious about some things, and trying to piece together signs still.”

 You’re not paying attention, so you miss Hyunjae clench his jaw—an attempt to mentally piece together his own thoughts. He hadn’t really expected you to outright ask about his words like this. The discreet statement was meant to be that: Discreet, and enough to subside any curiosities. Explaining anything more would require him to divulge his own personal feelings and emotions on the matter and what had truly prompted him to pull away as he had.

 Sangyeon was only the match that lit the flame. It was true that he never saw eye-to-eye with your ex-boyfriend, and it was also true that he gotten a bad vibe from him whenever you two had been with each other. There was a subtle, underlying animosity that rolled off Sangyeon in waves, and glares that could hardly go unnoticed—as though he were someone protecting his territory. Hyunjae had written it off as just being a jealous boyfriend, despite the intensity at which it had grown as time had passed. He really had tried to convince himself that if he were in Sangyeon’s shoes, he’d have acted the same. But the truth of the matter was, despite all of that, Hyunjae still had his own feelings to work around and out.

 And he had been jealous himself—of what Sangyeon had. It hadn’t been healthy for him to continue surrounding himself with you, burning with his own jealousy just beneath his skin. Hyunjae had been afraid he’d ruin something—your happiness, or his friendship with you.

 Hyunjae sighs. “Look, I don’t know what happened—”

 “He cheated,” you blurt out suddenly. “He cheated, and he was gaslighting me about it the entire time. He made me feel like things were my fault.”

 The sudden resolve to just get the words out surprises you—but it was something you couldn’t hold in any longer. Like a venom rotting away at the deepest parts of your heart, it just kept gnawing away. You weren’t sure getting it out would help anything. Chanhee was the only one who currently knew the situation. But it still felt like something you had to forcefully eject, or it would just keep causing the same damage internally that it had been this entire time.

 You let out a sigh, staring at your bowl of food intently. Your grip on your chopsticks tightens, to the point that your knuckles turn white as the skin pulls taught over the bones beneath. The sensation of Hyunjae’s hand softly folding over yours causes you to flinch in surprise, pulling yourself out of the negative energy suddenly engulfing you. Glancing up, you meet Hyunjae’s gaze—caught off guard by his features being blurred in your line of sight by tears.

 “You don’t have to talk about it, it’s still fresh,” Hyunjae murmurs, but you’re instantly shaking your head at his words. You reach up to rub the tears away from your eyes.

 “No, I have to. I think I have to. If I don’t say it, I don’t think I’ll ever come to terms with it. There were so many warning signs the entire time, and I feel so dumb and blind.”

 Hyunjae gives your hand a squeeze. “You aren’t dumb, or blind. When you’re in love with someone, you place the entirety of your trust in them. You don’t expect to have to look for those types of things. If he broke your trust that’s on him, not on you for not realizing it—and if he was doing those things to you, that’s not your fault. People like that are good at what they do, and sometimes if you’re in that situation, it’s hard to realize it until you’ve removed yourself.”

 You frown, not entirely sure that you believe him. It felt strange to be on the receiving end of relationship advice. You’d always thought, seeing others in relationships that weren’t exactly healthy for them, you’d be able to pick out if yours was or not immediately. But instead, you had found yourself twisted up in the same situation as others you’d known. A situation you swore would never happen to you—one you vowed you’d never let happen to you. You felt foolish and naive for believing you could prevent it so easily, and wondered if they had too. And you also found yourself wondering how it was so easy to make that same mistake, over and over, falling for that person time and time again.

 Hyunjae gives your hand another reassuring squeeze. He isn’t sure what to say from there, but it almost looks like you’re about to cry again. Within his chest, he can feel his heart clenching uncomfortably—squeeze, painfully, at seeing you in pain. He doesn’t like seeing you like this. The tears had come so fast the night of the party, he hadn’t been sure how to react or what to say. But seeing them there again from the pain, lingering, on the verge of overflowing—he hurts seeing you hurt.

 He has so many questions suddenly spring into his mind—wondering if there had been more to the relationship that had hurt you. If there was more that had cut you so deep like a knife, or if you had simply been that attached and hopeful in the relationship that it had made you blind to the negatives. It was quite possible that was the case, but with the way Hyunjae’s heart twists in his chest—he can’t help but worry and wonder if there had been more. Had the relationship been bad, or had it just gone south without notice? Had he been bad to you? But even as your best friend, he’s not sure it’s his place to ask these types of questions.

 Hyunjae is surprised when he feels your hand twist in his grip, suddenly turning over to link your fingers with his—you give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

 He glances at you in surprise—had you sensed the turn his own thoughts had been taking?—caught off guard when he meets your gaze. Your eyes are no longer filled with tears, something that brings him relief, but now his heart is clenching in his chest in a different way. It’s a way he’s not unfamiliar with, but one he wished wouldn’t happen now, of all times. Yet the longer he holds your gaze, the further he thinks he’ll fall. He thinks that maybe he can allow himself to drown in your eyes—to simply give in and allow the feelings to flow over him, either washing over him or drowning him completely.

 He wouldn’t mind, one way or another.

 You feel yourself frozen, too—like you’re suspended in time. Of all the times you’ve looked at him, you wondered if you’ve truly ever seen him. You’d always thought he was handsome, and physically attractive, with a personality to tie it all together. But sitting here, staring at Hyunjae and slowly losing yourself in his eyes—it feels like forever and as though it’s not quite long enough. His gaze, filled with surprise and a bit of confusion, is filled with warmth and tenderness.

 It’s filled with a look that Sangyeon had never given you.

 But before you can discern what the look means, or have a chance to even think about it, Hyunjae is pulling his hand from your grasp sheepishly. He clenches that hand into a fist, immediately shoving it under the table. As he does so, he falters a moment, before glancing around—looking anywhere but at you—and settling his gaze on the ceiling.

 “Oh, I think the rain stopped,” he murmurs, as if looking for something to fill the void he’d just caused. Hyunjae pulls his gaze down from the ceiling, looking at you again—trying to keep his expression neutral. “I’m supposed to meet Chanhee later. I should go home and get changed.”

 You nod slowly, trying to wrap your head around the sudden turn things had taken. Dammit, I shouldn’t have done that. But in the moment, holding Hyunjae’s hand had seemed so right and needed. It seemed like he had needed it, just as much as you. While he hadn’t given you a straight answer about Sangyeon, you weren’t sure you entirely needed it—clearly, something had happened. You suspected it had to do with the jealousy that he’d outright shown to you so many times, guilting you about hanging out with Hyunjae over him so much. If it had happened to you, it had likely happened to Hyunjae, as well. And since it was a man to man emotion-fest at that point, it was likely to a stronger degree.

 Still, why had you allowed your body to react without thinking things through? You wanted to groan outwardly; inwardly, you were beating yourself up.

 “Also.” Hyunjae’s voice makes you blink in surprise—the way he’d pulled back so suddenly, you had almost been certain you’d ruined things so soon after fixing them, and that he was about to bolt out of your apartment. But instead, when you look up at him, he has a smile on his face as he looks down at you, having stood up from his seat. “Everyone heals at a different pace, but if you ever need to vent I’m always here. I don’t need to know every detail of what happened, but I want you to stop beating yourself up for not noticing the so-called signs. It wasn’t your fault, and you’re allowed to be upset about it for as long as you need—just don’t blame yourself. Okay?”

 As Hyunjae bids a goodbye, gathering his still-damp bomber jacket and slipping his shoes back on—you’re almost certain you’ll start crying. Yet, when the door closes behind him to signal his exit, you’re surprised to find you don’t.

 You’d been right about one thing, at the very least: You needed to get the venom out and the words out of the cavity of your chest to start the healing process fully. Doing so with Hyunjae had been the best choice.

 Hyunjae’s words linger, filling the apartment with a warmth you hadn’t felt in a while. It felt safe here. Your feelings felt safe with him.

—

The next day, your heart feels much lighter. It’s as though you’ve lifted an entire weight off yourself. There was a significant difference between telling your family and Chanhee, in comparison to telling Hyunjae. A part of you wondered, again, if you were selfish for revealing what had happened to Hyunjae. There was a small voice in the back of your mind torturing you with the idea that you’d only done it to keep him close and ensure you wouldn’t lose him again. At least, not so soon. Perhaps that’s why you had taken hold of his hand so suddenly yesterday, as well. You didn’t want to lose him again. You didn’t want to see him slowly back away from you as he had done before.

 Perhaps it really was selfish of you to do this to him, and to indulge in your feelings for him. But when everything always felt safe and right with Hyunjae—you couldn’t help but think that you should allow yourself, this once, to be selfish and take that risk. If it messed things up, it would hurt like hell. But something was telling you to do it, anyway. That this was right and that things would be okay. You wanted to allow yourself something good, for once. Hyunjae was that good.

 After so long of holding feelings for him in and suppressing them, you weren’t sure you could do the same any longer. Not after being splashed in the face with the reality of the relationship you’d just gotten out of. It was like a wake up call to what was right in front of you this entire time.

 “You seem like you’re in a good mood today,” Chanhee notes from beside you. You glance at him briefly, watching his fingers glide across his phone screen as he types out a text. Despite absentmindedly paying attention to the electronic in his hand, he’s quite keen.

 You exhale, letting out a deep breath. Not quite a sigh. It felt nice to be able to breathe lighter with that weight off your chest.

 “I told Hyunjae about the breakup, and what happened.”

 Chanhee glances up from his phone, eyebrows raising up past the curtain of hair falling across his forehead. “Oh? I thought you weren’t going to?”

 “I didn’t want to, originally. I didn’t want him to worry about what had happened while we weren’t in contact. But I think he would’ve figured it out anyway. Just… from the vibe I got, it seems like Sangyeon was a jealous jerk to Hyunjae, too.”

 “Oh, he definitely was.” The nonchalance with which Chanhee replies has your head snapping towards him in surprise. Chanhee simply shrugs, turning back to his phone.

 “What?!” You’d already guess as much yesterday, but hearing it confirmed was a whole different story. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

 Chanhee shrugs. “Wasn’t my place to say it. Hyunjae didn’t want you worrying, either.”

 You let out a groan. There was too much he was worried, she was worried, going around—that had been going around for three years, apparently. You couldn’t believe the way you and Hyunjae kept operating on the same wavelength, trying to keep the other worry-free and safe. You also couldn’t believe how neutral Chanhee had managed to stay in all of this the entire time.

 “Hey!”

 Before you can chastise Chanhee for keeping this bit of information from you, the sound of Kevin’s voice alerts you and Chanhee both at the same time. You simultaneously look over your shoulder while turning in the direction of the voice, and Chanehee pushes himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

 “Oh?” The single word falls from your lips quietly, disheartened, as you take in the scene before you. As planned for your lunch today, Kevin and Younghoon—two of your closest friends shared with both Chanhee and Hyunjae—walk towards you. But someone is missing.

 “Where’s Hyunjae?” Chanhee asks when Kevin and Younghoon are near enough. You stumble in surprise when Kevin immediately wraps you in a hug in greeting, practically nuzzling his face against yours.

 Younghoon shrugs. “Dunno. He wasn’t answering his phone.”

 “Or his door,” Kevin pipes up, pulling away from you.

 Not answering his phone or his door? You glance between the two of them, who both seem a bit unconcerned about it. Chanhee purses his lips, pulling his phone that he’d tucked away into his jacket back out. He taps around a bit on the screen, before lifting the device to his ear, and you assume he’s calling Hyunjae to test if what the others said is true or not.

 You’re aware of Kevin starting to chatter mindlessly in your ear, talking about things he’d done yesterday and his walk to meet you for lunch—but your mind is elsewhere, not in the present. You wonder if Hyunjae not answering his phone or his door has anything to do with what happened yesterday? Meeting for lunch today had been planned since the night of the party—something you’re sure that, at the time, Hyunjae had reluctantly agreed to in the first place. Had your actions the afternoon before mistakenly reset all the progress you had made? Was he having second thoughts?

 “He’s not answering,” Chanhee confirmed after a bit, frowning at his phone before shoving it back into his jacket again.

 Without thinking, an urge to just go takes over you. If Hyunjae was having second thoughts—you wanted to halt them right in their tracks, right then and there. You couldn’t stand the thought of everything reverting again. Of possibly seeing him drift away again.

 “Crap—I just remembered I forgot my wallet at home,” you blurt out, and without waiting for a reply, turn on your heel and dart off—back in the direction of home.

 “What the hell?!” Chanhee blurts after you. “You couldn’t remember that ten minutes ago?!”

 “We can just pay for you though?!” Kevin’s voice cries over Chanhee.

 “But my ID!” You yell over your shoulder. “We can’t drink like we planned to, just go ahead and I’ll catch up!”

 Despite your words, you actually had no intentions of catching up. While the ideal situation would be to return to lunch with all your friends, dragging Hyunjae along with you, there was no guarantee that would actually happen. If you’d overstepped boundaries yesterday, you fully expected to have to fix those boundaries. You also fully intended to do just that if it came to it.

 The cold air burns in your lungs as you run in the direction back toward your and Hyunjae’s respective apartments, but you refuse to slow down or waste any time. Even when you reach the stairs, trudging up as quickly as you can, you still refuse to break pace. By the time you reach the floor that his apartment is on, your lungs and the back of your throat feel as though they’re on fire. Despite your wishes, you have to crouch down to catch your breath, clutching the sides of your ribs and wishing that maybe you hadn’t run that fast.

 Steeling yourself, you rub your side one last time and push yourself to your feet, heading down the hall to Hyunjae’s apartment. You wonder what the heck you’re going to say, as you near his door, worried about how to make this right. There’s a turmoil inside of you. You don’t want to lose Hyunjae as a friend, yet you also want to be selfish for once. Why did this have to happen just as you’d finally gathered up the courage to make a decision?

 Lifting a hand, you knock on the door. A few minutes pass, and no answer. So you knock again, but louder. You know the time that passes is short, yet it feels like an eternity.

 “Hyunjae?” You call, cupping your hand by your mouth as you lean closer to the door, knocking again. “It’s me!”

 Still no answer. Frowning, you reach into your bag, pulling your phone out. You know Chanhee had said he hadn’t answered, but it was worth a try.

 It’s then, as you’re pulling your phone out of your bag, that you notice a plastic bag sitting by the door. Delivery food, left outside for whoever had ordered it. You’d been so focused on your inner turmoil that you hadn’t seen it at first. You glance up from the bag, then at the door, then back down. Why had Hyunjae ordered food, when he knew he was meeting everyone for lunch today?

 Crouching down, you grab the handles of the bag, peering inside. There’s a couple of to-go cartons, and right at the top sits the receipt for the entire order taped to one of the cartons. With yesterday evening’s date.

 Hyunjae had ordered the food and then never claimed it.

 Suddenly—like a waterfall of realization—the events from yesterday flood back over you. Rushing home in the rain together, his soaked clothing and wet hair and the cold winter weather, towels to dry himself and ramen to try and warm his insides, and the barely-dry hoodie to slip over his still damp clothes as he’d left your apartment. God, you felt so stupid.

 I don’t get sick easily. Hyunjae had practically boasted. Maybe so, but he was still human with a human immune system. Anyone could get sick with how fine of a soaking mist that rain had been yesterday, paired with the gloomy overcast skies and winter temperatures.

 You immediately jump to your feet, pulling the bag of to-go food with you. You were sure at this point it was probably spoiled, but there was no sense in leaving it outside. Rather than knocking again, you lift your hand to the number pad at Hyunjae’s apartment door, fingers hovering over the buttons. Had he changed the passcode? Would it still be the same after three years? You feel your jaw clench with tension.

 “Sorry, Hyunjae. Don’t report me for breaking and entering,” you mutter, typing in the passcode. The ding that immediately resounds, followed by the sound of the door gears unlocking for you, has you standing there for a moment in shock.

 Realizing the door might engage the lock again, you give yourself a shake and push into the entryway of Hyunjae’s place, tentatively peering in before you allow yourself fully inside. You set the bag of delivery food down by your shoes as you slip out of them, discarding your bag soon after. The apartment is dark inside the curtains in the living room pulled closed, and smells a bit musty. Like someone is sick, you think, recognizing the stuffiness almost immediately.

 “Hyunjae?” You call out, allowing yourself further inside. Your eyes immediately scan the kitchen to your right, peering around the corner of the counter to make sure he wasn’t just passed out somewhere, before your head rubber bands to the left, eyes scanning the living room. Just as they do, a mound of fluffy blanket on the couch shifts and you let out an eep of surprise, stumbling backward.

 You lift a hand to your chest, giving it a slight pat and reminding yourself that he doesn’t have any roommates—and that you’re the only burglar in the area at the current time—before moving forward. “Hyunjae?”

 This time, a groan answers you, and a hooded head very sluggishly peeks itself out from the blanket. It’s Hyunaje, alright, and he looks pale and clammy. You frown at the sight. Definitely sick, you confirm visually.

 Hyunjae blinks a few times, eyes heavily lidded and gaze completely unfocused.

 “Whrye d’ng here?” His words are as sloppy and sluggish as his appearance, but you’re relieved to see he has at least some coherency to recognize that it’s you.

 “I came because you didn’t show up for our lunch plans with everyone,” you reply, not even sure that he’ll understand, with how far gone he seems. You lean over him, resting the back of your hand against his forehead—it almost immediately snaps back to yourself, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He’s scalding to the touch. “Holy hell, Hyunjae, you’re burning up!”

 “Mhm,” is the only confirmation he gives.

 “You should’ve called someone as soon as you started to feel off,” you scold, the frown on your face deepening. Before setting to work, you lift the blankets off his form—relieved to see he’d managed to change, at least, into dry clothes when he’d gotten home. Instead of letting the blanket fall back over him, you pull it halfway down.

 “No—” A whine sounds from Hyunjae, and he meekly lifts himself to try and grab the blanket back. You swat his hand away, scowling.

 “You need to lessen your body temperature, not make it worse. I know you feel like you’re freezing right now but you actually aren’t. Just trust me.”

 Hyunjae blearily frowns at you, sinking back into the couch with a pout. You wait a moment, watching to see if he’ll go against your words. When he doesn’t, you give him a smile of encouragement, and a nod. With that at least settled, you shrug out of your jacket and move away from the couch to set to work, discarding your jacket on the back of a chair as you head towards the bathroom.

 His apartment hasn’t changed much, something to which you’re grateful for. It makes navigating the place for things you need that much easier. You waste no time in finding some ibuprofen and water for Hyunjae, who protests when you help him sit up straight on the couch so he can take the medication with some fluids. Getting him to eat was probably out of the question, considering he had clearly been hungry but hadn’t even moved from the couch to get his food. A part of you wondered if he’d possibly passed out. Maybe the fever had been more intense than this before.

 As you pat Hyunjae’s forehead with a damp, lukewarm washcloth, you’re relieved that it was simply just that he was sick and not avoiding you. You want to tell that selfish part of you to shut up—this wasn’t the time to be relieved over something like that, for goodness’ sake, considering the state he was in. But you just couldn’t help it. You knew you should have known better than to think he would be avoiding you, considering his parting words before he’d left your apartment yesterday. It wouldn’t have been like him to randomly shut you out like that. But after everything that had happened within the last few years, there was just an innate fear you were being left behind or shut out—or wouldn't notice something when it was going awry.

 Deciding to settle in, you make yourself comfortable on the floor next to the couch. While you’d already decided—for other reasons, originally—that you likely wouldn’t be rejoining the lunch plans as you’d darted away so quickly, you still feel guilty for ditching so suddenly. It had been a week now that you’d all agreed to meet, and you knew Chanhee hated last minute cancellations. He wasn’t going to let you live this down, even with an apology. Still, you end up texting Chanhee apologizing, and telling him what was wrong with Hyunjae, to ensure that he wouldn’t worry about you not coming back. While he’d likely not let you live it down, at least he’d be more forgiving.

 For the next few hours, when they appear, you wipe away beads of sweat from Hyunjae’s forehead. You hadn’t come here prepared, so you end up attempting to keep yourself busy while also monitoring Hyunjae’s condition. It feels strange to have free reign of his apartment, just as you had when you were younger. It had been so long that you almost felt like a stranger intruding. But the stuffiness of the place wasn’t doing his fever any good, and you couldn’t allow him to stay sick because of a sacrifice he’d made on your behalf. You cycle through some light cleaning to help with the atmosphere of the place, wiping down and disinfecting surfaces while also cleaning up stray laundry and trash floating about, and doing the dishes. All this while tending to Hyunjae and keeping watch of his temperature.

 There comes a point where you think you’ve done too much, and you return to Hyunjae’s side, settling back on the pillow on the floor you’d set down for yourself earlier. You’re relieved to see Hyunjae’s labored breathing has eased up, and his brow is no longer furrowed against the pain he’d likely been in at the peak of the fever. Reaching up, you brush away a strand of hair from his forehead, dabbing the washcloth against his skin once more. For the upteenth time, you find yourself admiring his sharp yet soft features. This time, you can’t help but take note of the way his long eyelashes rest against his skin, and how soft his eyelids look with his eyes closed and how peaceful he looks with his lips slightly parted, lower lip slightly jutting out in a pout. You’re amazed that even while sick and pallid, he still looks this handsome.

 “Hyunjae,” you murmur, patting the cloth against his forehead one more time before setting it aside. You rest your arm on the side of the couch, then your chin on top of it. You feel a drowsiness overtaking you, having not realized you’d actually done quite a bit of tasks around his apartment. “You should’ve told me you were getting sick. I want you to get better soon.”

 This doesn’t count as the courage you’d finally mustered up—and you know you’ll have to do this all over again to be satisfied with yourself—but you reach up, pushing a bit more hair off his forehead. “Please don’t be sick, Hyunjae. I like you a lot, so you have to get better. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

 As you pull your hand away from Hyunjae’s forehead, you’re surprised when your wrist is caught suddenly—immediately recognizing the long, lithe fingers that are wrapped around it as Hyunjae’s. You blink, startled, lowering your gaze from his forehead to his face. Hyunjae’s brown eyes blink at you, bleary, but not quite as unfocused as they had been before.

 “Am I dreaming?” He mumbles, much more coherent than before.

 “H-Hyunjae—?” You hadn’t expected him to be awake. Had he heard what you’d just said?

 “Is this a dream?” He repeats, staring at you, before glancing to the side at your wrist he has hold of. Hyunjae shifts his hand, sliding his palm up your wrist against your own palm, engulfing your hand with his own as he entwines his fingers with yours. You stare at your hands, surprised. Just yesterday you’d done this and he’d acted as though he’d been burned.

 A part of you wants to tell him he is. Maybe he’s still feverish enough that he won’t know any better. But the selfish voice at the back of your head tells you not to risk saying it—to not risk the moment.

 “N-no… it’s not a dream.”

 “Good,” Hyunjae mumbles. You feel him shift on the couch, giving your hand a squeeze as he does so. The movement causes you to turn your head, looking at him again—his sudden proximity catching you off guard. What catches you even more off guard is the way he leans in, softly pressing his lips against your own.

 You blink a few times, before allowing your eyelids to flutter closed. Hyunjae’s lips meld with yours—softly, tenderly; shyly. You can feel his uncertainty as he kisses you, but just beyond that there’s also a needy hunger. There needs to be more but there’s no energy for that. Yet Hyunjae pours his everything into the kiss, as softly yet surely as he can. Years of emotions and love and yearning flow out against your lips and you can feel it in the slight intensity and the way he tastes on you.

 If he weren’t sick, you’d allow yourself to suffocate against his lips—for him to steal every last breath from you. You can’t describe the giddiness that suddenly flows into your chest and stomach in words, but it feels so right. It felt nothing like the love you’d thought you’d had before.

 When Hyunjae breaks apart, a small sound of complaint that you have no control over slips from the back of your throat. You wished that kiss would continue for an eternity.

 Hyunjae chuckles. “I know,” he mumbles, giving your hand a squeeze again. “But I’m going to get you sick.”

 “It’s okay, I don’t get sick easily.”

 “I deserve that one,” Hyunjae mutters with a scoff, smiling sleepily. He pulls his hand from your grasp and rests it at the back of your head, pulling your head down with him as he lays back on the couch again. You rest your head against the cushions where you sit on the floor, and Hyunjae immediately snuggles a bit closer, breathing in your scent. You feel his thumb rub in a circle at the back of your head.

 “I like you a lot, too. And I always have, for such a long time. So please don’t let this be a dream when I’m better and wake up,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a soft peck to the crown of your head.

 You reach behind you, taking his hand from the top of your head to link your fingers again, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand.

 “It won’t be. I promise.”

[mostly-mundane-atla]

Hey, it's that bit of writing I started working on 800 followers ago! I genuinely appreciate everyone being so patient on this and also just being so respectful with talking culture in general. I'm still getting used to it. Hang tight on that glossary, I'll post it asap

Edit: here's the glossary

~-~-~

It was a challenge to live on the Tundra, but never as much as when the Ikunmiut claimed the Southern Water Tribe as their territory and demanded tribute from the locals.

The whaling captain of one village assigned his own son, Aasrivak, to bring food to the soldiers, as a show of good faith. Aasrivak's younger sister, Tulugak, insisted on going along.

"Tulugak, my own daughter," the captain pleaded, "your mother and grandmother need your help at home."

"But Papa," she insisted, "how can I stitch a straight line or shoo birds from the drying rack if I don't know if brother is safe?"

Knowing he could not deter his daughter, the captain instead turned to his son and said, "Keep her behind you."

"Kangiqsirunga," Aasrivak answered, nodding and bringing Tulugak in the back of the sled with him, between his arms so she wouldn't fall. "I will, Papa."

"Now hurry," their father said. "The only thing worse than an Ikunmiu is an angry Ikunmiu."

Aasrivak nodded and cracked his whip, signaling the musk-dogs to run, and they were off.

The air they rushed through bit at her face with stinging cold, but Tulugak did not regret her decision. Her brother was a shining example of what a young Water Tribe man ought to be. Generous and kind, serious when it was required, but good-natured and gentle with his words. When she was old enough to eat solid food, he shared his with her. When he learned to carve, he made her a doll. When she hurt her foot helping him check traps, he carried her home on his back like a mother with a baby. When loose teeth made it hurt to chew anything, he brought her broth and soft berries that she could crush between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, rather than between her jaws. She'd often teased him for his propriety and his need for his tools to be just so, but she loved him dearly and couldn't bear if something happened and she couldn't be there to protect him.

When they arrived at the iglu near the ship with the Ikunmiut banner, Aasrivak began to unload the sled.

"Utaqqinga," he told his sister.

"But--"

"I told Papa I'd keep you behind me," he said, stacking the crates of goods and lifting them up. "Stay here."

"Itsingitchunga," she said, crossing her arms defiantly, as her only argument.

Aasrivak chuckled. "If you don't fear them, little sister," he said, "then you are a fool and shouldn't have come with me to begin with."

Hating to feel so useless, Tulugak went about checking the musk-dogs' teeth for rot, their paws for wound and splinters, and their horns for cracks. She petted them and scratched behind their ears for being so good and patient, and wondered how they did it. The smell was all wrong, even for her human nose, and they must have been able to sense that Aasrivak was in danger among the invaders.

Tulugak jolted at the sound of someone crashing to the floor. The possibility that it wasn't her brother would not occur to her, and she was already close enough to touch the banner by the time she realized she left the sled. The taste of blood poured into her mouth, as she had bitten down hard on her tongue. She was sure if the Ikunmiu who did it could her her call him a "gnashing wolf conceived of two pups of the same litter" as she wanted to, his fingers would be around her throat in the time it took to blink.

It wasn't Aasrivak collapsed on the floor, he stood and shielded her with his arm the moment she entered, but it wasn't an Ikunmii soldier either. The figure there had her hand at her face, where she must have been struck. And in spite of the red smudged on her lips, the lampblack drawn about her eyes, the scant garment she was wrapped in, she had an air of ancient power and dignity. More notable and haunting than that, she seemed to be a Water Tribe girl. A young woman, close in age to Tulugak herself. Her skin was like the browned fossil ivory, her eyes black and shining as baleen beads, and her unbraided hair as thick and dark as the winter's night.

How dare anyone strike her? Tulugak thought.

Her focus was only taken off of the young lady at the sound of an unfamiliar voice cooing, "Oh, this one's almost pretty as ours."

Aasrivak pushed her further behind him.

"She's--" he started, trying to think of something, "she's to be married, sir."

"What a shame!" This voice was a different one still, and refusing to look at them, Tulugak couldn't put a face to it. "Kept in the ice and snow, carving fish and sewing skins and breeding like a dog. Wouldn't you rather come home with me, dear?"

"Enough!" snapped another. "It's bad enough we have one. You, boy," Aasrivak straightened at this address. "See to it your father doesn't forget tobacco next time."

"Kangiq--" the word stopped as if it had barbs in his throat. Aasrivak and his sister both heard what the Ikunmiut did to people who didn't speak properly. "I understand, sir." He bowed his head deeply, and pushed Tulugak out before turning to follow her, but she could still feel those baleen colored eyes on them, begging for help and protection.

Aasrivak nudged Tulugak onto the sled without a word. His gloved hands gripped the handles with almost enough force to break them and then they began to shake. Without warning, he stomped down on the brake and Tulugak hit her belly on the bar.

"You shouldn't have left the sled," he told her, trying to keep his voice from shaking as his hands were.

"I thought they struck you down," she explained. "I thought you were hurt, I--"

"If they struck me down I could have gotten up, but you-- they could have taken you away!" His hands could have bruised her arms with how tightly he held them. "Ilitchuģipich? If I was hurt I could have recovered, but if they took you away from us, Tulugak, there are things they could do to you that we could never undo."

Aasrivak so rarely cried, and seeing the tears well up in his eyes was all the proof Tulugak needed that he truly believed the worst could have happened.

"And niviaķsiaķ? What of their captive?" she asked once she found her voice again, though niviaķsiallautaķ was the word that danced in her mind. "We can't leave her there if she can face such things too."

"She's not one of ours," he answered cautiously.

"It shouldn't matter what village she's from."

"No, that's not what I mean. Those men, they told me that they found a fox pelt the night she appeared. That she wouldn't leave without it and gave a great cry when they held it over flame. They have her cooking and making their tea now, as she had brought meat with her."

"She wouldn't leave her pelt?" she asked. "You mean she's--"

"Kayuķtuķ, it would seem."

Of course she was a fox; one of those foxes that take off their skins to reveal a beautiful woman underneath. The ones that look after babies that couldn't be fed and keep house for hunters. She couldn't have been a person, she was too -- enchanting? -- otherworldly. And of course the Ikunmiut took her. They took everything that didn't belong to them

"So she is among strangers in a world that is not her own," Tulugak stated, carefully feeling the words come out of her mouth. They felt strange, even though they rang true. "Aasrivak, we can't leave her to them! She ought to have her skin and be far away."

"We need to be far away from them too."

"Is her soul not made the same as ours? Is her current form not proof of that?"

Aasrivak thought to himself for a moment before he spoke up again. "If I agree to help her with you, little sister, you must promise me you will not put yourself in harm's way again. Can you promise me that?"

Tulugak stretched her eyebrows up as high ad they would go, nodding solemnly.

He threw his arms around her and inhaled as if to breath her fully into his lungs. She returned the gesture, holding her brother so tight nothing could take him from her.

"We'll figure it out when you help me mend the traps and nets," he said.

She nodded again, knowing he wouldn't see but would still understand. They got back on the sled and made their way home.

Aasrivak told Papa that he kept his sister behind him but didn't mention the soldiers' spirit captive. As agreed upon, the brother and sister came up with a few ideas as she helped him mend his net outside. Mama and Aaka were inside, spinning the greyish brown musk-dog wool with spindles on waterbending-powered wheels, and Papa was away, helping some returning hunters butcher their catch of seal and taking what they didn't need to the widows and elders.

They had for their supper the mikigaq that had simmered with fireweed and sourdock. No rice, Mama and Aaka decided. Mama realized that with the occupation, there was no way to be sure when more would be imported, and Aaka was proud that such a woman married her son. Cartilage had been cut into tiny pieces and added near the end in its place.

As she lay on her ķaatchiaķ that night, Tulugak found herself thinking of her mother's sister. She had three husbands and enjoyed that very much. The three of them jumped to bring her water when she suggested she was thirsty, carved beautiful beads for her to wear, and every night each would kiss the calloused thumb and finger in which she held her needle. What a cruel mockery of that the fox girl's situation seemed to her. She remembered hearing that Ikunmii women weren't allowed more than one husband, and that only some of the men could take more than one wife. No wonder they couldn't share a girl between them without striking her, couldn't play the husbands as they expected her to play the wife. It's all they can do, she thought before drifting off to sleep, steal and mock.