#like I said above tags/rating are subject to change

[hoffstrap-yuri]

Cat For Tat

ao3 // masterlist

Summary: Peter was not sure how he would prove to his roommate that a cat could understand the innate human instinct to be a bother to, him, Peter Strahm.

Tags/Content: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Crack, Animal Transformation

Rating: T for Teen (For now subject to change)

Status: Chapter 1 of ??. Chapter 2 can be found here. Chapter 3 can be found here (EXPLICIT CONTENT BEGINS HERE).

Author's Note: So here's my fic that was inspired by @dixxiemaegraphics lovely art of Hoffkitty (x) (x) (x).  He's just such an adorable little shit I knew he would get on Strahm's nerves and I needed to write for it. I also don't know when I'm going to update with chapter two right off the bat because I have a bigger project going on in the background, but I can't say anything about that juuuust yet! So while you wait for that, enjoy this little fic!

“Damn it…” Strahm stepped off the metro and onto the platform barely covered by an awning. He remembered he left his umbrella back at the office. He would have to make the walk back to his car in the downpour of a lifetime. “Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this” He made it to his car, then slammed his head into the steering wheel as he realized that Lindsey’s car was in the lot spot that day, and he’d have to park on the street. He didn’t bother praying to a deity for a close parking spot, he knew they wouldn’t answer him anyway. He found a spot only a block away, it would have to be good enough for tonight. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his messages.

“Ordered Indian, see you later!” Something quick from Lindsey sent nearly 30 minutes ago. Their food would be arriving any second. He tucked it back in on the inside of his jacket and held onto the door handle. He hesitated for a second before finally stepping out into a deep puddle and soaking his dress shoes. He cursed under his breath before stepping out of the hole and made the walk down the side street. Just as he was about to step up to the apartment building he heard a quiet animal noise. His foot led up the first step, when the noise got louder. It sounded desperate. He stepped back down and peered his head around the corner from where the sound came and saw… the fattest stray cat he’d ever seen.

“What is this ugly thing.” He muttered under his breath, scoffing at the gray cat. The thing looked up at him with big wet eyes and meowed at him for his attention. “… Lindsey would like you.” So despite thinking that this stupid thing was one of god’s ugliest creations he reached his hands out and scooped the cat into them. He held the cat against his chest like a baby, surprised by the heft that the gray feline packed. With the cat in one arm, he opened the door to the apartment building and climbed up the stairs. He grabbed the keys in his pocket and opened the door, announcing to his friend that he was home. “Linds?”

“Yeah?” She stepped out into the hallway before rushing over to the little gray furball in his hands. “Oh my god, oh look at this little baby. Little gordito…” She brought her finger up to his chin and gave him scratches. The cat purred and flipped himself around in Strahm’s arm to get closer to the affectionate woman. She pulled the cat from Strahm’s arm and let his legs flop around for a moment. “Oh my god you’re so loooooong.”

“I take it you like him?” Strahm had to laugh. His best friend, his work partner, the woman who scared men twice Strahm’s size into confessions…. Obsessed with an obese cat.

“I love him.”

“Good.” He smiled

“Here, can you hold him for a second? I think I have some leftover Purina from that foster I had a couple months ago.” She handed the puff of fluff back to her partner and rummaged under the sink for the can. “Found it” She announced. He looked at the cat and frowned. The stupid thing almost seemed smug? Could a cat be smug? He carefully let the cat fall onto the ground, the animal skittering across the wooden floors towards the kitchen. Lindsey, while in a crouch, ran her fingertips over the cat’s forehead and gave him some scratches. “Hope you don’t mind the bowl…” She took the bowl and moved it away from the sink, placing it before the cat as she waited for his approval. The cat happily shoved his whole head into the bowl and licked up every last bit of the wet food before him. One more head pat and Lindsey went to get him a water bowl. The cat stretched out in front of the bowl before running and getting water from his other bowl. He lapped at the surface of the water with an insane intensity. Lindsey titled her head as she watched him and asked herself, “How long were you out there? You’re acting like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“It probably wouldn’t kill him to miss a couple treats.” Strahm muttered under his breath. Lindsey turned around, perking her ears up like she had missed something that he had said. He sealed his lips back up and shrugged, pretending as though he had been quiet the whole time. He went to get the door when their delivery arrived and Lindsey threw a couple toys in the cats face to see what he liked. He seemed to most enjoy the crinkly pom pom balls, but would never go far to catch them, making Lindsey get up and grab them if they got too far from him with his sad pathetic meows. “Food’s here, Linds.”

“Okay.” She got up from the floor and walked over to their couch. The cat followed from a distance, meowing for attention from his affectionate owner. She ignored his pleas for toys as she grabbed two pieces of naan from the foil and pulling her lamb vindaloo away from his chicken tikka masala. “What are we watching?”

“I’ve got either The Notebook or Brokeback Mountain.”

“Huh, let’s do Brokeback.” She shrugged, tucking some rice into the side of her cheek as she talked.

“Okay.” He popped the DVD into the machine and skipped through as many of the trailers as he could before getting cockblocked by the ‘FBI Anti-Piracy Warning’. Sometimes Strahm hated his own agency more than life itself. They got to the menu and after turning on subtitles for Strahm’s hearing and Lindsey’s attention, they got into the movie. Not usually one to complain about well done movies, Strahm was bored during the opening. The wide shots of the greenery did nothing for his east coast big family in one house sensibilities. Lindsey seemed enamored with it though, so as much as he wanted to say something about ‘We get it there’s trees’, he kept his mouth shut. She hit his shoulder after about twenty minutes and made a grabbing motion with her hand. He handed her the papadam and let her eat those.

“You’re never this quiet during movies.” She laughed

“I’m enjoying it, for once.” He mouthed back at her, stealing one of the crackers before she could finish the whole stack. Their cat that had sadly settled at Lindsey’s feet began making noises during the climax of the movie as Jack’s wife coldly talked to her husband’s lover. Strahm didn’t think much of it and Lindsey had her eyes glued to the screen. As Ennis cried, holding Jack’s shirt flat against his chest, their cat’s noises came to an abrupt stop. Strahm looked down at his shoe as the cat pawed at the rubber edges of the shoes before projectile vomiting over said shoes. Strahm scrambled to get up, covering his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting on the cat in turn. He tried to keep his feet from curling up to his chest and getting the vomit onto the couch as Lindsey made a dash for the kitchen to grab a wet rag.

“Stupid fucking cat!” He yelled. The cat looked at him smug once more. How could that stupid creature feel smug?

“Here, get your shoes off.” Lindsey came back, holding onto a wet towel as he stripped himself of the shoes as fast as his fingers could get him out. He grabbed the towel to clean his hand off first and took his socks off, trying to avoid any goop on the ground that might have slide off the shoes and onto the floor.

“For fucks sake, Linds.” Strahm got up from his seat and walked to the bathroom. The cat followed him from a distance, lurking like a shadow in Strahm’s footsteps. He cleaned his hands off proper and looked as the cat pushed on the door to close it on Strahm. Not fast enough, Strahm was able to keep the door open, damn near ready to punt the little thing. He wrapped his hands under the fat belly of this menace and carried it, face forward, back to Lindsey. She took a new rag and cleaned up the puke from around the corners of the cat’s mouth. “He’s going in the morning.”

“You can’t let him go back out.” Lindsey frowned slightly, “He might get mauled or ran over.”

“Then take him to the humane society.” Strahm sighed

“What if I train him?”

“You can’t train a cat to just not throw up.” He scoffed. He rubbed his face with his fingertips and let out a deep sigh.

“I can get him a new bowl tomorrow, one that will hopefully slow down his eating.”

“Fine. Just a couple more days.”

“Yay.” She cheered mostly to herself, picking up the cat and cradling him like a baby. His tail swung over Lindsey’s forearm, purring happily as he received pets from her. “I also need to buy him some diet food. I’ll take him to the vet.”

“Good. Maybe you can see if he’s chipped and give him back to his owners.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Okay, good night.” She said, not letting go of her pet. He lumbered off to bed, only to hear that fat bitch fall to the floor and come scuttling after him. “Oh no. You’re not sleeping in my bed, satan spawn.” The thing meowed at him, like he hadn’t just vomited all over Strahm. Its noise was so pathetic, Strahm had no choice but to scoop him up and bring him into his room. He plopped the cat onto the mattress as he pulled his pajama pants and beat up t-shirt out from his dresser and changed into those. His eyes kept darting behind his person as he listened to make sure the cat didn’t make those same noises, or planning sneak attack two on Strahm’s bed. When he was changed, he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before going back to bed. The cat stared at the FBI agent as he rolled over the sheets again and again, leaving his stomach exposed to the human. “Tubby little fuck.” Strahm reached a hand to pet the stomach before the cat moved away, running out of the room and crying for Lindsey’s attention again. “Stupid thing.” He said to himself before crawling under his comforter and falling asleep. He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up the next morning, only that the little puffball has taken up residence over Strahm’s face. The cat placed itself strategically over his nose and mouth, blocking his airways. Strahm peeled the animal from his face and got out of his bed. “How the hell did you get in here, you fat fuck?” He opened the door and looked at the vicious scratching he had managed to do.

“Morning.” Lindsey greeted him, looking similarly tired. “He was clawing and crying for an hour last night, begging to be let into your room.”

“Fat bitch tried to suffocate me.” He dangled the cat in her face. She scooped the cat into her arms

“Mark.”

“What?”

“His name is Mark. Don’t know why, he just looks like a Mark.” She shrugged, bouncing the cat around as she explained the name. The cat purred in response to Lindsey’s pampering, giving Strahm a look as he did.

“Anyway, Mark tried to suffocate me in my sleep.” Strahm stared back at the thing bitterly. He was onto the cat’s ruse. The evil thing. Lindsey jerked the cat away from her friend, sensing the weird vibe between them.

“I’ll see if the vet has anything to say about his behavior today.” She took the cat with her and gently tossed her pet into the carrier. Strahm heard his screams of protest from down the hall and laughed to himself. Stupid thing. When the beast was contained, he decided he could go about his morning routine with ease. He started the coffee pot in the kitchen before stepping into the shower. He let the water run over his face for a moment and reached for his shampoo. Mark had only been in the house for a few hours, but he was already a menace to put it mildly. Strahm enjoyed having this moment to himself without worry that the cat would worm its way into the bathtub and start peeing on his feet. He got out and went back to the kitchen to grab his coffee, throwing the liquid into a nondescript mug that only a middle aged man could own. He heard the low grumbles of the thing in the carrier as he took a sip, only to lean in and antagonize the cat some more.

“Can’t get out of there, can you you stupid thing?” He hovered a finger over a slot in the top of the box. The cat threw its whole body against the door, but it didn’t budge. Once more and he made a dent. “How fucking fat are you?”

“Stop teasing him.” Lindsey leaned against the frame lead into the kitchen, “You wouldn’t like it if Rogers came into your office and called you a fat sack of shit.”

“Rogers doesn’t have the balls to call me that.” Strahm scoffed, “To my face anyway.”

“Yeah, well in any event, see you later.” She picked up the carrier and headed out of the apartment. Strahm finished his breakfast and walked out to his car to get to work. He’d be working late tonight, he could afford the drive in to the office. Hell he would even treat himself to another cup of coffee on the ride in. It’s the least he deserved for putting up with the hell cat the previous night. His workday was uneventful otherwise. Lindsey texted him a couple of times but he didn’t check his phone until he was out for the night.

“Doctor said he was fine, and gave me some food to help him lose weight!”

“I have a surprise!”

“Did you get rid of the stupid thing?” Strahm managed to type before hitting the backspace and just deciding that he would find out the surprise when he got home. The congestion from the nine to five office workers had let up and the ride to his apartment was smooth. He found a spot round the corner from the building and walked into his apartment. Inside he saw the fluff ball being tortured by Lindsey as she attempted to tease his fur up into a little bow on his head. The poor thing almost looked grateful as her attention was shifted onto something that wasn’t him for a second. He used the opportunity to make a sluggish run towards Peter’s bedroom and hide. “Son of a bitch.”

“Isn’t he adorable?” Lindsey looked up at him with big eyes.

“I say this because I love you Linds, that was the ugliest thing you could’ve put that stupid cat in.” Strahm told her point blank.

“You’re no fun.” She huffed and went looking for her cat

“How did the vet go, other than saying he was healthy?” Strahm went into the kitchen and rummaged through their fridge for leftovers.

“It was the weirdest thing, the doctor said we could get him neutered today and as they were trying to take him out of the room he attacked the techs. He wouldn’t even let me touch him until the doctor called the whole thing off.”

“Told you that thing was evil.”

“He’s not evil, Pete.” She rolled her eyes at him

“He radiates pure evil. I feel like I’m being watched by a creature too stupid to know whether or not it should dip its feet into the water bowl.”

“I think you’ve just had too much coffee today.”

“I’ll show you Lindsey.” He grumbled a little bit, not sure how he would prove to his roommate that a cat could understand the innate human instinct to be a bother to Peter Strahm.

[zerocoded]

summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: here i am uploading this big ass story when i should be totally studying for my finals next week. well, i can't help but be obsessed with these vampire ahh cuties. stream desire unleashed everybody! it is a good ass album. i changed and this is the second prologue of the story. don't ask me why, but i think this one suits better as a prologue and not a chapter.

warnings and tags: sfw content but suggestive • niki is our bestie and i hope we're ok with that • dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing • landlord!sunghoon x reader • vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader • gore, mentions of violence and blood • description of violence• HEAVY ANGST • poor attempt at comedy • fluff if you squint • bad writing • reader's dad has cancer • complicated mom and daughter relationship • family drama.

word count: 10.9k (pls someone sedate me)

previous chapters: series masterlist.

you should’ve known this was exactly how your mother would reach out for the first time in seven months — not a call, not a text, not even a passive-aggressive emoji reaction to your instagram story — but a forwarded email from a lawyer with the subject line "regarding the inheritance of han ok-ja's estate."

no context. no greeting. just a pdf attachment and the words: "at least your grandmother left you something useful. don’t waste it."

that was it.

your mother, ever the poet.

and by good thing, of course, she meant a multi-million won apartment unit in seoul’s most absurdly exclusive building — a place you’d only ever seen from a bus window once during a high school trip, the kind of place you thought only politicians and pop idols lived in.

you hadn’t even known your grandmother owned an apartment in the city. hell, you hadn’t known she was still alive until she wasn’t anymore.

but that was the han family legacy, wasn’t it? generational silence, weaponized inheritance, and the occasional real estate windfall.

you grew up in boseong — land of green tea fields, gossiping neighbors, and a high school with a graduation rate that would make your seoul classmates flinch. your entire life had unfolded in two rooms above a butcher shop, where the ceiling leaked every spring and the walls knew too much about your parents’ divorce.

turns out college plans were ruined when you were only 12 and discovered your father had cancer — stage 3 colon cancer, to be exact.

you remember the way your mom said it like she was announcing a sale at the grocery store. no softness, no warning. just facts over kimchi stew. your dad, on the other hand, had tried to smile through it, like he was the one who should be comforting you.

you kind of always thought you would forever be taking care of him in boseong. after your parents’ divorce — at thirteen —, you knew no one else would be on your father’s side to fight cancer, so you only imagined that would be your legacy forever. no big dreams, no neon skylines, no designer buildings with their own saunas and private libraries. just him, you, and the rice cooker that only half-worked in the winter.

he was your best friend. he let you paint his nails when you were five and cried with you when your hamster died. he showed you how to ride a bike, how to swear in three different dialects, and how to make the best damn doenjang jjigae in the province. you would’ve done anything for him. and you did. you sacrificed your future before it even had a chance to form. quietly, without question. like it was just part of being alive — giving up everything for someone you loved.

and for years, he let you. even when the chemo worked, even when he got stronger, even when the worst passed and the only thing left was exhaustion and silence and the scent of hand sanitizer still soaked into the kitchen tiles — he let you stay.

but then you graduated high school, and he started asking. don’t you want to go? aren’t you curious about life beyond the fields? you’re too smart to stay here forever.

and by “smart” he meant that you had great communication skills and were part of the very small chess community of boseong — it consisted only of you and two old ladies.

you pretended not to hear him sometimes. because the truth was, you didn’t want to leave. not him. not your routine. not the only person who made life feel even slightly manageable.

it wasn’t until your mother’s email — short, cold, weaponized — that everything shifted. she hadn’t even mentioned the death, just the logistics. how your grandma died three months ago. how your mother and her brothers were waiting for legally open her will, how some of them took advantage, how they fought. and still, she had left something for you. her only granddaughter. 

and when you told your dad, expecting him to scoff or curse or at least roll his eyes, he’d only smiled. that soft, sad smile that meant he’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

“go,” he said. “your life isn’t here. it never was.”

at first, you fought. seoul was never your main goal, you never dreamed of getting out of boseong and going to college. you were content with your two part time jobs at the local bar and at the grocery store. you always had good grades in school, good relationship with your neighbors and a great money reserve. 

so you told him that you would never leave him and that you were content with your ok life in boseong. 

but one night you got weak and searched about college applications just right after your shift. you could say the curiosity got the best out of you, and there you were perching in your bed with your laptop in hands in your dirty waitress uniform and greasy hair. at first, you really didn’t found anything interesting, until you decided to search up the address of the building your mother sent you.

you were surprised, to say the least. and for someone who shared the same bathroom with your own father for 10 years and cleaned tables as a way of living, your temptation to got to seoul changed a bit after that.

on the same night, your father told you to go. to let him go. let boseong go and live a life. 

your life.

you talked to him all night, telling him about how you felt about studying topics you never heard of and living in a too spacious environment when all you have ever wanted was to take care of his sickness. he cursed at you so many times that night about your stupidity that you felt obligated to go and get a life beyond the fields.

so you packed. and cried. and pretended you weren’t terrified of being alone for the first time in your life. you moved into a stranger’s home — one who just happened to share your blood — in a building that felt like a five-star hotel married a haunted mansion.

seonghyeon jaega.

a building that at first made you feel too small, too out of place — all clean marble floors and echoing hallways and neighbors who looked like they’d stepped out of a luxury catalog. the hundreds of pictures of the place on the internet couldn’t get close to how the building was terrifyingly aesthetic inside and out.

and when you said terrifying, you meant it. 

the lobby alone had three chandeliers, a grand piano that no one touched and a concierge desk staffed by a man who looked like he hadn’t blinked since 2003. the elevator played classical music, but not in a comforting way — in a this-is-the-last-song-you-hear-before-disappearing kind of way. there was a koi pond in the library for no reason at all, a fully operational greenhouse on the rooftop that smelled like lavender and secrets. the gym was nicer than most hospitals. the sauna had eucalyptus-infused steam and, somehow, free chilled grapes. and you swore one of the mirrors in the hallway moved half an inch every time you looked away. luxurious, yes. but also deeply cursed. like a rich aunt who only gives you money if you promise not to ask what’s in the basement.

you were so scared your first night here that you called your dad before even unpacking, crouched on the pristine floor of the guest bathroom because it was the only place that didn’t echo like a murder documentary reenactment. he didn’t know how to work his phone most of the time — had once accidentally live-streamed himself peeling an orange for nine minutes — but somehow, that night, he figured it out. he stayed on the line with you until you fell asleep, whispering his arsenal of stupid dad jokes like it was a bedtime ritual.

“what’s a vampire’s favorite fruit?” he asked, barely holding in his own laughter. “a blood orange, obviously.”

you groaned. he continued. “why did the skeleton break up with the ghost? … because he could see right through her.”

“dad,” you warned.

“okay, okay, serious one. what’s dracula’s least favorite dentist?”

 “dad—”

 “you. because you’d stake him for his plaque.”

somewhere between his third and twelfth pun, you stopped noticing how unfamiliar the apartment smelled or how quiet the building had become after sunset. it was just his voice in your ear, warm and ridiculous, reminding you who you were when everything else felt too big, too expensive, too not-you.

he kept talking even after you stopped answering, just in case you were pretending to sleep but still needed to hear him. he told you a story about the time he got kicked out of a supermarket for trying to haggle over cabbages, then promised to teach you how to cook galbijjim in an electric pressure cooker “once you stop being a fancy city girl.”

he called you that — fancy city girl — like it was both an insult and a title you’d earned.

and eventually, in that bathroom that smelled like foreign air freshener and existential dread, you fell asleep to the sound of his voice calling you brave in between bad puns about ghosts with dental insurance.

you hated every second of your sleep that night until you started decorating the next morning. with unpacked bags, you left your clothes in a sad little pile of indecision and focused on the real priority: comfort. not survival comfort — emotional comfort. aesthetic comfort. petty, personal, i-will-make-this-haunted-barbie-dream-my-home kind of comfort.

you didn’t have much, but what you did have mattered. mismatched frames, old polaroids, that ugly rug your dad swore was a “family heirloom” (you were 90% sure it was from a garage sale in 2007), your chipped mug with the cartoon bear that looked perpetually anxious — each item slowly carved a space for you inside all the clean, terrifying luxury.

and then there was the kitchen. the pink-tiled kitchen.

you’d thought it was a visual hallucination at first. a fever dream from sleeping on marble and grief. but no — it was real. baby pink tiles from floor to ceiling, gold handles on every drawer, and a retro mint-green fridge that looked like it belonged in a movie about a rich housewife who poisons her husband with artisanal arsenic.

the oven was smarter than you. the faucet lit up in LED colors when you turned it. there was a built-in coffee machine you accidentally worshipped for three full minutes before realizing it also made espresso martinis.

you’d never had your own kitchen before. not really. in boseong, the stove had to be turned on with a butter knife and a prayer, and your dad’s idea of spice organization was “vaguely the same shelf.”

but here, in this edible-looking kitchen that screamed chaotic heiress with secrets, you felt something shift. you didn’t belong here — not even close — but you could pretend. you could make it yours.

starting with the bear mug. front and center. because if the ghosts were going to haunt you, they were going to have to look at his anxious little face first.

you didn’t know much about your grandmother — except that she hated your dad, apparently tolerated your mom, and once sent you a birthday card with your name spelled wrong and five thousand won tucked inside like a truce. growing up, she was more ghost story than family member. the kind of woman who existed only in bitter phone calls and family reunions no one ever enjoyed.

so the fact that this pink kitchen — this frosted, weaponized femininity — had belonged to her was confusing at best and mildly horrifying at worst. did she choose this aesthetic? were the gold swan-shaped drawer pulls intentional? did she wake up one day and think, “yes, i want my home to look like a macaron opened a credit line”?  and if so — who the hell was han ok-ja, really?

you were still staring at the gold-rimmed stovetop on your second night here, trying to decide if it made you feel rich or nauseous, when you heard it.

voices.

the first sound of life outside your apartment since moving in — and not the unsettling creak of old pipes or elevator music that sounded suspiciously like a dirge. actual human voices.

you froze, mug in hand, heart thudding like you were the one trespassing.

you crept toward the door and peeked through the peephole like a responsible citizen-slash-nosey neighbor. and there they were: two of them.

two men.

not delivery drivers. not maintenance workers. not the faceless ghosts you’d imagined floated through these halls at night. these guys looked like they’d walked off a K-drama set about billionaire assassins. tall, sharply dressed, effortlessly serious. one had that slicked-back hair that screamed “i own three nightclubs and a moral dilemma,” and the other looked like he could command a room without saying a word. they spoke low and fast — something about “containment” and “asking jake later” — before disappearing around the corner like this was all completely normal.

you didn’t breathe until the hallway was empty again. and even then, only because your bear mug was fogging up the peephole.

you didn’t know who they were. hell, you didn’t know anyone here. the one person who’d helped you move in was the doorman with serial killer energy and an unsettlingly strong grip — and even he disappeared the second your last box was through the door, like helping you was part of some cursed blood oath he had to fulfill.

your college classmates weren’t much better. your entire winter prep course so far had consisted of awkward breakout rooms, muted mics, and staring at floating letters in google classroom. no faces. just ominous little circles with initials like “K” and “Y,” as if you were being haunted by the world’s most boring ghost cult.

so yeah. no friends. no neighbors. no idea if anyone in this building was even real. and you were introduced to the concept of “other residents” in the most dramatic way possible — via hallway mafia cosplay and mysterious murmurs about something that definitely did not sound legal.

you did what any mentally stable person would do: took a shower. hot water. calm nerves. fake a sense of control.

four minutes in — conditioner still in your hair, face mid-existential crisis — the doorbell rang.

you stood there frozen, water dripping down your back, just staring at the tiled wall like maybe you’d imagined it. maybe the building was playing tricks. wouldn’t be the weirdest thing.

but it rang again. twice this time. like whoever it was had the audacity to be persistent.

so you grabbed a towel, cursed under your breath, and padded across the marble floor like the world's angriest wet ghost.

and when you opened the door —

sunghoon.

you didn’t know his name at the time. you only knew he looked like someone who didn’t need names. the kind of face that belonged on perfume billboards and moody vampire dramas. sharp jaw, colder eyes, all cheekbones and contempt. holding your mail like it had personally offended him.

“your delivery,” he’d said.

two words. no emotion. no explanation. just a stack of envelopes addressed to han ok-ja and a stare that nearly short-circuited your brain.

you stammered. tried to say thank you. dropped your conditioner on the floor like a dramatic prop.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. just placed the mail in your hands and turned around, disappearing down the hallway like a final boss retreating after a tutorial level.

you shut the door and immediately collapsed against it, half-naked, half-mortified, fully confused.

you told yourself it was just a fluke encounter. he probably didn’t even live on your floor. maybe he was visiting. maybe you hallucinated the whole thing and the envelopes were cursed.

but then you started hearing more voices in the next day. always calm, always composed — unnervingly so, like they were narrating a documentary or conducting a negotiation instead of, you know, talking like regular people. they were different voices, too. distinct. male. low. not loud enough to catch the words, just the rhythm. steady. practiced. like they knew someone might be listening.

they came from the only other apartment on your floor — the one directly across from yours, the only other unit tucked into this absurdly private corridor. at first, you thought it was just the acoustics messing with you, echoing from the floors above or below. but no. the timing was too perfect. the pauses too measured.

so you pieced it together: those voices, the ones that made your skin prickle and your heartbeat speed up for no logical reason, belonged to your neighbors.

whoever they were. whoever he was.

so, naturally, you started stalking him.

you called it “gathering intel,” but really it was just you loitering in the hallway and pretending to take out the trash three times a day. you even got fake-lost once, wandering to the rooftop and pretending to marvel at the view — only to find him elbow-deep in a planter box in the greenhouse.

you tried to play it cool. like you just happened to stumble upon this botanical mysteryland by accident. he didn’t buy it. you knew because he didn’t say a word. just looked at you, one eyebrow raised, dirt on his hands, like really?

and yes, really — you made yourself a fool. not even the endearing kind. the talks-to-flowers-to-fill-the-silence-while-your-hot-neighbor-ignores-you kind.

you replayed every second of that encounter at least seventy-two times on your walk back to the apartment.

you, standing like a lost sims character in his private garden. 

you, talking about hydrangeas like they personally offended you. 

you, saying “are you deaf?” to a man who could probably hear a moth sneeze through a concrete wall.

he’d told you his name. sunghoon. 

no last name. no polite small talk. just sunghoon — like it should’ve been obvious, like he assumed his name carried weight in ways you were too human to understand. and maybe it did. maybe that was why it stuck with you so easily.

after that, you told yourself you’d avoid him. let the awkwardness fade, let time cover the whole thing in dust like everything else in this building.

but curiosity’s a bitch.

and so were you, apparently, because you started noticing things.

all the other residents vanished during the day — ghost cars coming and going at strange hours, silent hallways, apartments that never flickered with light. seonghyeon was supposed to be the pinnacle of luxury, and yet sometimes it felt like a very expensive haunted house. a place for the rich and restless to disappear.

but his apartment — the penthouse — that one was never truly still.

the door was always closed, always locked, always giving you shall not pass energy. but something about it pulsed with life.

sometimes, if you stood still in the stairwell long enough (not that you did that on purpose), you could hear it — laughter. deep voices. music, faint and classical one day, low and thumping the next. the clink of glass against glass. sometimes even footsteps pacing, like someone arguing with the walls.

and they weren’t ghost sounds. they weren’t echoes. they were unmistakably human.

which confused the hell out of you.

sunghoon didn’t seem like the hosting type. he didn’t seem like the talking type, honestly. and yet… those voices.

you tried to rationalize it. maybe he had roommates. maybe he had a large, weirdly formal family. maybe he was running a strangely attractive cult and no one had noticed because they were all too hot to question anything.

you figured those two men from your second day here — the ones who looked like they belonged in a noir film or an underworld fashion spread — lived there too. the timing made too much sense. the way they moved, too — like the building was theirs.

and that made everything worse.

because, really — why were hot men living together in a penthouse?

not just hot. alarmingly hot. HD-ready, slow-motion-walk-through-the-smoke hot.

either they were in a boyband you’d never heard of, or something weird was going on. and the more you thought about it, the less it felt like a fantasy and the more it felt like the start of an expensive psychological thriller.

you’d moved here thinking the biggest threat was going to be loneliness. 

now you weren’t so sure.

between the mysterious roommates, the suspiciously symmetrical garden, and the fact that your neighbor might be the living embodiment of a victorian fever dream — things had shifted. subtly. quietly. but still.

which brings you to the present.

two weeks in. january air pressing sharp against your windows. your heating system suspiciously temperamental. your prep course schedule eating your sanity one unread syllabus at a time.

it was friday — the day after the greenhouse incident. or, as you now lovingly referred to it in your mind: the day you decided to mortify yourself in front of a hot cryptid.

you were doing your absolute best to pretend like it never happened. which was hard, considering the mental reruns your brain insisted on playing every time you so much as walked past a plant.

also, the silence. the kind of silence that felt too big, even for a place this large.

you missed your dad.

you missed the way he knocked on your door every morning even when you weren’t home. you missed how the house always smelled like burnt rice or old coffee.

here, everything smelled like luxury cleaning products and echoes.

you still didn’t know how to use the guest room bathtub.

you still hadn’t figured out which switch turned on the weird chandelier in the hallway.

you were still trying to remember what it felt like to not be new all the time.

which meant: staying indoors, drinking your weight in instant coffee, and trying to finish your college assignment like a normal, functioning member of society.

outside, seoul was a frozen postcard — january at its peak, all gray skies and the kind of wind that made your building moan like it was haunted (which, honestly, wasn’t out of the question). inside, you were wrapped in a giant hoodie, sitting cross-legged on your overpriced sofa, staring at a half-finished document titled “attachment styles and their long-term impact on adult relationships.”

it was due in four days. you’d written seven words. two of them were your name.

“jesus,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face as your laptop fan whined like it too wanted to give up.

your textbook lay open beside you, unread. you kept glancing at the clock, at your phone, at the kitchen — literally anywhere that wasn’t your word doc.

you’d already cleaned the counters. twice. rearranged the spice rack. googled “can someone have both avoidant and anxious attachment or am i just doomed.”

now you were debating whether “take a nap” qualified as productive.

and yet, no matter how hard you tried to focus, your brain kept looping back to one very specific visual: sunghoon. crouched in the dirt. sleeves rolled. that voice. those hands.

you groaned, flopping backwards like gravity owed you a favor.

this was a nightmare. or a romcom. except instead of falling in love you were just… spiraling. academically. emotionally. thermally, because your heater was already acting up again.

it was the end of your second week in seoul.

your father had called that morning, asking how you were adapting to the city’s temperature.

you hadn’t had the heart to say that you missed his jokes the most, that you felt embarrassingly late starting a winter prep course at twenty-three, and that you hadn’t made a single friend over winter break because you were too busy staying inside.

not studying. not exploring. just… existing.

you told him everything was fine. you laughed at his dumb pun about kimchi being your emotional support food. you pretended the loneliness didn’t cling to you like an oversized coat you couldn’t quite shake off.

you were about to post a photo of your aggressively pink mug sitting next to your aggressively pink kettle when the doorbell rang.

you paused.

not because doorbells were inherently threatening — but because in seonghyeon jaega, they kind of were. no one visited. not without warning. not without coded texts or concierge calls. your mail came through a steel chute. your food deliveries were dropped two floors down. you didn’t even think your bell worked.

so when it rang — sharp and alive — you froze mid-caption, thumb hovering over the word “aesthetic.”

you stood, barefoot and confused, tiptoeing toward the door like a raccoon at risk. peeked through the peephole. blinked.

hoodie. messy hair. that grin.

niki.

leaning against your doorframe like this was a tuesday rerun in a life he was half-bored of. black sweatshirt slouched at the collar, sleeves pushed up like he’d been working on something — or pretending to. his hair was slightly damp. maybe from rain. maybe from chaos. you wouldn’t put it past him to casually rinse his face and show up with a weather update like he controlled the forecast.

“hey,” he said, voice low, almost sheepish. “sorry for the drop-in. weird question—do you have a printer?”

you blinked. “a what?”

“a printer.” he gestured vaguely toward your apartment like this was a very normal thing to ask. “ours died. jake forgot to refill the toner and now it sounds like it’s dying. i have to print something for heeseung before he comes home and murders me with passive aggression.”

he smiled like this was cute. like you were both in on some inside joke. you weren’t.

“you don’t have a backup?”

“we have centuries of accumulated wisdom,” he said, solemn, “and apparently none of it includes printer maintenance.”

you raised an eyebrow. leaned a little against the doorframe.

niki didn’t falter. just tilted his head slightly. “look, if you say no, i’ll totally respect that and probably cry myself to sleep. but if you say yes, i’ll owe you a lifelong debt. possibly cookies. maybe foot massages. depends on the mood.”

you were already tired. the heater in your bedroom still made weird clicking sounds. your period was trying to kill you. and now your possibly-weird, definitely-too-handsome neighbor was flirting his way into your apartment with printer lies.

you should’ve said no.

you didn’t.

“i swear to god,” you muttered, stepping aside.

niki grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “this is why i like you.”

“you don’t even know me.”

“sure i do,” he said, walking in like he’d been invited. “banana bread last week? tragic gym attempt? neon pink slippers with sad cat faces? i know your whole arc.”

“oh my god.”

“you’re adorable. and weird. but mostly adorable.”

you nearly threw your mug at him. instead, you pointed to the corner of the room, where your sad little printer sat beside a stack of tangled cords and empty ramen cups.

“be my guest. if it explodes, i’m blaming you.”

“i accept all legal responsibility,” he said solemnly, already crouching like he’d lived here for months. “also. you owe me. i fixed your heater.”

“you unplugged it and plugged it back in.”

“and it worked.”

you opened your mouth. closed it again.

because he was right.

and maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t the worst neighbor you’d ever had.

somehow, niki was the only neighbor who actually talked to you. he sometimes sounded oddly flirty, in that way that made you question if he was joking or just naturally like that, but still — he was the only constant you’d had all week.

like that first night in the elevator.

you’d gone out to take the trash in your sad-girl uniform (read: mismatched socks, your dad’s hoodie, and the kind of messy bun that was less “carefree” and more “actively falling apart”).

the elevator doors opened and there he was. leaning against the mirrored wall like the ride was a runway.

he looked at you, at your tragic ensemble, and without missing a beat said, “rough night or bold fashion statement?”

you almost dropped the trash bag.

then there was the gym.

which, in your defense, you thought would be empty at noon on a tuesday.

you walked in ready to attempt some kind of fake cardio — only to find niki mid-rep, shirtless, earbuds in, glistening with the kind of sweat that looked like it came with a lighting crew.

you stood frozen like you'd just walked in on a pagan ritual.

he noticed you instantly — of course he did — and pulled out one earbud with a grin.

“didn’t take you for a gym rat,” he said, not even out of breath. “what’s your workout plan? anxiety and instant noodles?”

you left seven minutes later, sweating from embarrassment.

another time, you tried to sneak out for a night walk — hoodie on, playlist blasting, full stealth mode — only for the lobby door to swing open and reveal niki… balancing a tray of banana milk, three convenience store bento boxes, and what appeared to be a single lemon.

he blinked at you.

you blinked back.

“don’t judge me,” he said, as if you were the one caught mid-snack run with a lemon like it owed him money.

you weren’t sure if he was teasing you or had the personality of a teen movie star.

but either way, he was a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve — half charming, half cryptic, entirely unpredictable.

and now he was standing at your door, asking for a printer, like that made perfect sense.

niki’s company wasn’t uninvited, just oddly strategic sometimes, like he’s been waiting for tou to open your apartment door for him to leave his. 

not that you two were friends, exactly. but he made you feel comfortable — or at the very least, not like you were one bad decision away from becoming a true crime podcast episode. he seemed decent. normal-ish. like someone who held doors open and actually texted back.

so maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to give him a chance. you guys already had a decent amount of stupid hangouts. maybe he could be your friend in this giant, freezing city. maybe you wouldn’t have to do this whole alone-in-seoul thing completely alone.

“so,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “what are you printing that’s so life or death?”

niki didn’t even glance up. just crouched in front of your printer like it was an ancient artifact and he was the chosen one. “building schematics.”

“schematics,” you repeated slowly, squinting like that would help. “for, like… a building?”

“yeah. stuff heeseung asked for.”

you blinked. tilted your head slightly. “okay, wait. which one is heeseung again?”

niki’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost dramatic. “wow. wow.” he looked personally offended, like you’d insulted the honor of his bloodline. “you’ve lived here for two weeks and you still don’t know our names?”

you shrugged one shoulder. your socked foot nudged the cabinet behind you. “should i?”

he leaned back on his heels, hand over his heart like he’d been struck by lightning. “unbelievable. and here i thought we had something special.”

you rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched. “you literally showed up at my door because your printer broke.”

“and you let me in,” he countered, pointing a finger at you like that settled the case. “which means something.”

“uh-huh.”

niki turned back to the printer, humming as he clicked through the settings. too casual. too smooth. like this was his third printer mission of the week and your apartment was just part of the route. “anyway. heeseung. red hair, tall, stares like he’s reading your thoughts. very expensive skincare routine. kind of terrifying if you don’t know he listens to city pop while painting model trains.”

you blinked again. processed. “he dyed his hair red?”

“see?” niki shot you a scandalized look. “this is how i know you only remember my name. scandalous.”

you opened your mouth to argue. closed it again. because… fair. kind of. he wasn’t wrong, exactly. your brain had definitely slotted everyone else under vague descriptors like “hot one,” “scary one,” and “probably legally dead but still pays rent.”

niki, unfortunately, was “the one who made you laugh when you were trying not to.”

“it’s okay,” he said, grinning wider now. “i get it. i’m memorable.”

“you sound like we’re actually friends,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “which we’re not, by the way. i barely know you. and i barely see your friends — they’re like never here. or they vanish when i’m around. which makes you suspicious, you know that? because the only one i always see is you.”

niki didn’t flinch. didn’t even pretend to be offended. just kept fiddling with the printer tray like you hadn’t just accused him of being a walking cult recruiter.

“of course i’m the only one you see,” he said easily. “i’m the most charming. obviously.”

you opened your mouth — probably to insult him, definitely to point out he was insufferable — but before you could fire back, the printer let out a high-pitched whirr and came to life.

niki looked way too pleased, like he’d personally reanimated a corpse. “and voilà,” he announced proudly, as the first page slid out. “proof that i am both useful and handsome.”

you stared. “wow. incredible. now take your stuff and go.”

but of course he didn’t.

niki — who apparently had zero sense of personal space or social cues — didn’t grab his papers and bolt. instead, he wandered away from the printer like a man surveying a summer home, casually inspecting your space like it was a showroom.

you didn’t stop him.

you told yourself it was because you were too tired. but maybe, just maybe, you didn’t hate the company.

your arms uncrossed as he ambled toward your couch, his hoodie sleeves bunching near the elbows, hands still holding that fake-offended air like it was part of his wardrobe. you leaned a little harder into the counter, feeling the cool granite bite into your hip, grounding yourself.

this was not how you planned to spend your evening. you had ramen in the microwave. a half-finished essay waiting on your laptop. an outfit that could only be described as “please don’t perceive me.”

but here he was.

niki.

too much charm. too much hair. too many secrets you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.

and for some reason, he felt... safe.

chaotic, yes. deeply questionable. likely to ruin your sleep schedule.

but safe.

you sighed. he grinned.

this, apparently, was your night now.

“nice place,” he said, eyes scanning your living room like a bored art critic. he wandered toward the corner where your only plant sat — half-wilted, probably dying, but still somehow upright. he crouched beside it, poked a finger at the soil, and raised an eyebrow.

“what’s this one’s name? depression?”

you didn’t even look up from your cup of tea. “that’s literally a peace lily.”

he tilted his head, deadpan. “ironic.”

before you could respond, he flopped onto your couch like it owed him money. limbs everywhere. hoodie pulled up to his wrists. sneakers still on. your throw blanket bunched under his thigh like an afterthought.

“is this real leather or vegan sadness?” he asked, patting the cushion beneath him.

“niki—”

“oh,” he perked up, already reaching. “are these cookies?”

you lunged forward from the kitchen. “those are mine! you can’t just— you’re not even invited!”

“i was invited by the owner,” he said smoothly, already chewing, crumbs on his hoodie. “and also, by the universal law of ‘i fixed your heater.’”

you stared at him in disbelief. “that is not— that’s not how anything works!”

he made himself even more comfortable — which, given the way he stretched out across your furniture like a cat in a sunbeam, should’ve been physically impossible. one arm thrown over the back of the couch. the other still clutching the cookie like it was a trophy.

“this is nice,” he said, entirely too relaxed. “i feel very welcomed.”

you folded your arms. stared. sighed. “you’re a menace.”

he glanced at you, eyes glinting. “a charming one.”

“i should start charging rent.”

niki grinned like you’d just paid him a compliment. “sure. just add it to the list of things you pretend you don’t want from me.”

your brain stalled for half a second.

then you grabbed the nearest throw pillow and hurled it at his face.

he caught it midair — barely — then smirked. leaned forward like the entire apartment was his stage. “just doing my neighborly due diligence.”

you made a show of rolling your eyes, but your cheeks felt warm. it wasn’t fair — he said everything with that same tone. playful. borderline cocky. but never cruel.

“do you talk like this with all the other residents?” you asked, mostly to keep him from reading too much into the way your voice dipped a little softer.

“only the pretty ones who lend me banana bread and let me into their apartment without asking questions.”

you blinked. stood very still.

he didn’t flinch.

you opened your mouth. closed it again. reached for your tea like it could help.

“you’re lucky my pepper spray’s buried in my tote bag,” you muttered.

“you’re lucky i’m charming enough to take that risk.”

you shook your head, fighting a smile that was halfway there already.

a few more pages printed in the background. niki didn’t seem to notice — or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. the air between you softened slightly. not tense. not flirty, exactly. but... familiar.

like maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d ended up on a stranger’s couch.

and maybe you didn’t mind as much as you should.

“met any of the other neighbors yet?” he asked, casually sprawled across your very recently cleaned sofa like it was his birthright. shoes still on. hoodie riding up slightly at the waist. 

you sighed. apparently, this was your night now — your other cute neighbor (not the one you kind of maybe occasionally imagined kissing in a greenhouse, but still cute in that devil-may-care way) had decided to turn your living room into his own private lounge.

you dropped into the only other chair — the one beside the shelf where a TV should’ve been, if you could afford anything other than groceries and tuition. ramen was your closest friend these days. the only reason you hadn’t withered away was sheer spite.

you glanced at niki, who looked deeply unbothered by your existential student crisis, and answered, “not unless you count the old woman on the third floor who yells at the mailman in jeolla dialect. i think she has a shrine to her cat in the stairwell.”

he laughed, warm and easy. “ah, mrs. cho. the patron saint of passive aggression.”

you grinned despite yourself. “and then there’s the guy with the black porsche. not korean. definitely not even asian. i swear to god i’ve seen him in a movie before.”

niki lifted a brow. “short? built like a villain? always wears sunglasses indoors?”

“yes!”

“that’s theo.”

you blinked. “you know him?”

“he owes me two shirts and a very expensive wine opener,” niki said, as if that explained everything.

you stared at him. “so you hang out with western celebrities but still have to print schematics on your neighbor’s barely-functioning printer?”

he gave a long-suffering sigh. “i’m humble like that.”

you gave him a skeptical look. “right. and what’s the deal, then? why is this building full of ghosts and runway models? from what my grandmother told me, i thought this was going to be filled with retired professors and rich ajummas named eun-sook with bichons in pearls.”

niki’s grin widened — that foxlike, too-sharp one that always made you feel like he was six steps ahead in a conversation you didn’t know you were having.

“maybe you’re just circulating in different areas,” he said breezily. “you haven’t met mr. park yet. lives on the tenth floor. made his fortune directing very adult films in the seventies. talks to his plants. wears velvet robes. honestly? king behavior.”

you blinked. “…he’s real?”

“realer than my GPA,” niki said solemnly.

you stared at him. “what are you, then? the building’s unofficial tour guide?”

“resident heartthrob,” he replied without hesitation. “printer technician. heater fixer. emotional support neighbor.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you’re impossible to age. your face screams ‘freshman orientation,’ but you talk like someone who’s been divorced twice and got revenge both times.”

niki leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “i’m twenty-two.”

the way he said it — soft, unbothered, with the slightest glint of mischief — made your brain short-circuit. it was too clean. too polished. like he’d practiced it.

you stared a second too long. “…sure you are.”

he raised an eyebrow. “what, you don’t believe me?”

“i believe someone is twenty-two,” you muttered. “i’m just not convinced it’s you.”

he laughed. easy. like it didn’t matter either way.

you, on the other hand, were very aware that you’d been running on caffeine, anxiety, and precisely one cookie all day. your stomach made a small, pitiful noise — like it was mourning your last real meal.

niki’s print job was finally done. but instead of collecting his papers and leaving like a normal person, he floated back to the couch like he lived here. he flopped down again, one leg tucked under the other, as if this was his regular friday night routine — lounging in your furniture while you silently debated crying over your student loans.

“do your roommates also pretend to live here,” you asked, “or is that just your thing?”

niki hummed lazily, shifting again as the cushions dipped beneath his weight. “depends. jungwon’s usually busy running the world, sunoo only leaves for beauty products, jay’s emotionally allergic to sunlight, and heeseung…” a pause. “well, heeseung’s redecorating his room again. new hair, new furniture. guy’s going through his third identity arc this year.”

you blinked. twice. “he really dyed it red?”

“like full villain arc. he stood in front of the mirror for two hours yesterday practicing his ‘you dare betray me’ face.”

you laughed — surprised by the sound of it, warm and real in your own apartment, like it had been waiting in your chest for a week and finally broke free.

“i should’ve picked him to develop a weird crush on.”

the silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it hit like a dropped pin in an empty room. niki looked at you. really looked. a slow turn of the head. a raised brow. a grin, wide and merciless.

you realized, too late.

your heart dropped with the weight of your own stupidity.

did you just… admit that? out loud?

a crush.

on his roommate.

his roommate, who you’d spoken to exactly once. who had not smiled at you. who looked like he’d been sculpted by victorian grief and dressed by vogue. his roommate who — unfortunately — probably heard everything you’d just said. through niki. or the walls. or sheer karmic spite.

your blood turned to static.

and niki, of course, said nothing for a second. he just smiled like the universe had finally handed him the plot twist he’d been waiting for.

“you are very unique, you know that, right?” he said at last — and for once, his voice didn’t carry a joke. not fully. it was soft. curious. and it made your skin heat in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

you tried to recover. you really did. you raised your eyebrow like you weren’t seconds away from combusting. “so you were the girl sunghoon-hyung was muttering about all morning. i thought i was going crazy.”

pause.

what?

you blinked. again.

“what?”

niki just stared back at you, like you’d missed something obvious. like he hadn’t just set your brain on fire.

“sunghoon,” he repeated. “pale skin, cute moles, nice fashion sense. he was relentless this morning. a lot, actually. and he doesn’t do that. ever. not unless something’s bothering him.”

your mouth opened. then closed. your heart had gone rogue — hammering now, like it couldn’t decide if it was excited or preparing for a cardiac arrest.

“and you… came here to print. not to spy. right?”

niki gave you a look so flat, so unimpressed, that it was almost comforting. “i came here to confirm a theory,” he said, waving one of the printed pages like it was proof. “the printing was just an excuse. i don’t actually care about heeseung’s floor plans. the guy’s redecorating again — it’s like watching a pinterest board have a breakdown.”

you stared at him like he’d grown another head. “so you think… sunghoon’s spiraling? and you came here to see if i was the reason?”

he tilted his head. thoughtful. “he didn’t go out with the rest of us today. jay’s out. jungwon too. even jake finally left the building. which means whatever got him all twisted up happened here.”

you tried to process. tried to piece together the chain of cause and effect that somehow led to you being the root of sunghoon’s existential turmoil. it didn’t track. it didn’t make sense.

“so i asked myself: what changed yesterday?” niki went on, pacing now, gesturing around your apartment like this was a true crime scene. “and then i remembered our neighbor. who decided to play dumb in his private greenhouse.”

you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “i didn’t decide anything. i got lost.”

niki arched an eyebrow, eyes gleaming. “sure.”

“i thought he was going to throw a rake at me.”

“nope. just internalized it and started spiraling like a man in a period drama.” he leaned in then, elbows on knees, expression alight with amusement. “which, honestly, is kind of flattering. he usually skips the spiraling and goes straight to brooding.”

you dropped your head into your hands, completely mortified. “i’m going to die. i’m going to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. tell no one.”

“too late,” he said. “i’m emotionally invested now. this is my entertainment.”

you groaned again, hands still pressed over your face. “and—how do you even know? don’t tell me he’s the type to talk shit about women around his guy friends. please.”

niki scoffed. “sunghoon-hyung? no. he doesn’t talk bad about women. he doesn’t talk about women. or people. or, like, at all most days. that’s why when he started pacing the kitchen and cleaning the already cleaned counter like he was trying to hex himself, i paid attention.”

you peeked through your fingers. he looked serious. calm. like he was just stating facts.

“it wasn’t mean,” he added, voice quieter now. “just... restless. confused. like you short-circuited something in him and he couldn’t figure out why.”

your head thunked back against the chair. “so i’m haunting him.”

“you’re interesting,” he corrected.

you sat up, arms crossed. “okay. fine. i admit it. he got my attention on the first day. but i didn’t know anything about him, so i went up there to check. just... to see.”

niki’s grin returned. smug. knowing. “and?”

“and i made a fool out of myself,” you muttered. “i insulted his hydrangeas. i accused him of spray-painting flowers. i basically loitered in his personal sanctuary like some floral cryptid. it was a disaster.”

“a disaster he’s still thinking about, apparently.”

you stared at him. “get out of my apartment.”

“rude. but fair.”

you waved your hand like a white flag. “he’s probably trying to figure out how to get me evicted. he looked very not thrilled to see someone new, now that i think about it.”

niki just raised his brows.

“actually,” you added, like your mouth had given up on logic, “he’s so fine it’s probably safer for me to just move back to boseong. honestly. for my health. for public safety. i might actually die if i see him again.”

niki blinked. once. then: “you’re unwell.”

“you started it.”

“and i regret nothing,” he said, beaming. “please spiral more. i’ll bring popcorn next time.”

you groaned into the chair arm. “the guy i found cute is exposing my terrible flirting techniques with his roommates.”

niki casually flipped one of the printer pages. “nah. sunghoon-hyung would probably just water your ghost like a houseplant.”

no words. no strength.

“okay, maybe i am crazy,” you mumbled. “i’m having a mental crisis over a neighbor i barely know and who doesn’t even know my name.”

niki looked at you. calm again. “oh, he does. i told him.”

you stopped breathing. “you what?”

he shrugged, gathering the last of the printed pages. “you were spiraling. he was spiraling. i connected the dots. you’re welcome.”

“you’re insane.”

“you say that like it’s news.”

and then, just when you thought he might actually leave, he turned at the door.

“don’t overthink it too hard,” he said. “it’s not like you’re the only human who’s ever made him spiral.”

your stomach dropped. “wait — the only what?”

he paused.

smiled.

too slow.

“neighbor,” he said, deadpan. “human neighbor. obviously.”

and then he was gone.

the apartment door clicked shut behind him.

you just stood there, staring. trying to decide whether this was real or some elaborate fever dream induced by printer ink fumes and too many empty carb meals.

and maybe that was what made you do it.

maybe that’s why, ten minutes later, you were zipping up your coat. lacing your sneakers. moving on autopilot. maybe that’s why your hand hovered near the elevator button, breath caught somewhere behind your teeth.

because something wasn’t right. and hadn’t been for a while. and maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to find out what.

you pressed the button.

the elevator doors opened.

you stepped inside, heart in your throat, mind buzzing with too many thoughts and not enough certainty.

you were going back.

to the greenhouse.

to the one place in this strange building that made even less sense than the boy with the smirk and the printer.

and maybe, somehow, that was the whole point.

——

you didn’t really have a plan. just your coat half-zipped, your phone shoved into your pocket, and a fuzzy memory of the stairwell leading to the rooftop.

by the time you reached the greenhouse, the wind had started howling louder, curling around the marble like it had claws. the door creaked as you pushed it open, hesitant — not quite sure what you were hoping to find. not even sure you wanted to be seen.

but no one was there. not yet.

instead, there was… stillness. eerie, clean stillness. the kind that didn’t feel empty, just waiting.

the lights were dimmed to that soft, golden low — like the whole place was stuck between late evening and a dream. the air was warmer here than in the rest of the building, humid and filled with the scent of damp earth, jasmine, and something vaguely sweet you couldn’t place. like something had just bloomed, or was about to.

you stepped forward carefully, eyes flicking from one corner to another. there were plants you couldn’t name — some domestic, some probably illegal, some tall enough to have a personality. there were shelves of tools that looked antique, a misting system that hissed like a sleeping cat every few minutes, and in the far back — the camellias.

you didn’t know much about flowers, but those had been the ones the cute neighbor was tending the last time you embarrassed yourself in here. they looked too perfect to be real now. which somehow only made you more nervous.

you walked slowly, brushing your fingers over a leaf here, a petal there. something about the place made your heartbeat slow down — not relax, but drag, like time was thicker here.

you reached the camellias. stared at them. quiet. then:

“if you start talking, i swear to god i’ll scream.”

no response. which was good. you weren’t ready for enchanted flora just yet.

you leaned against the nearest wooden post and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“i’m not crazy,” you told the flowers. “i mean, maybe a little. but he’s just a guy. a really… visually jarring guy. with plants. and beautiful hands. and maybe cult energy. but still. a guy.”

actually, now that you thought about it, your father would be losing it if he saw you right now — probably wheezing from laughter, maybe texting you articles about urban hallucinations, and definitely threatening to drag you back to boseong before you joined a handsome, plant-worshipping cult.

you never been in love before, hell, you only felt attraction through tv shows and social media platforms. boseong didn’t have actual boys your age to fantasize about. so you felt stupid for being so new to all this experience. hell, you only found him hot, it’s not like you have already fell for him.

or so that was what you were willing to admit right now.

and of course — because your life was a joke — that was exactly when the door creaked open behind you.

you turned. slowly.

sunghoon stood in the entrance, hoodie pulled over his head, face unreadable under the warm light.

he was dressed so casually compared to the last time you saw him — exactly here, probably twenty-four hours ago to the minute — when he looked like he’d stepped out of a noir film in that trench coat that probably cost more than your tuition and shoes you were too scared to breathe near.

now it was just a hoodie. black, like niki’s. sleeves pushed to the forearms. sneakers.

he looked… human. more human than yesterday.

still, hot as fuck.

but you controlled your thoughts. barely.

“sorry that i’m trespassing again,” was your first move — because, naturally, you led with self-incrimination.

great. amazing. full confession. this man was definitely going to start locking the place now. maybe even file a restraining order.

honestly, you wouldn’t blame him.

he didn’t answer right away. you could feel his gaze, though — heavy, unreadable, like he was trying to decide if you were a threat or just stupid.

your embarrassment arrived a second too late. you turned your back to him, pretending you weren’t mortified and that the night view just happened to be that interesting.

and to be fair, it kind of was. this part of the greenhouse stretched farther than you realized — glass walls curved outward, revealing the full sprawl of the city below. lights blinked like dying stars. rooftops dusted with frost. your own reflection faint in the glass, barely outlined by the soft yellow glow inside.

you exhaled.

“i hadn’t seen this part yesterday,” you said quietly to no one exactly. “was too busy making a fool of myself in the front.”

you didn’t turn around. just kept your eyes on the skyline. “it’s pretty,” you added. “i mean—i guess you know that. you live here. obviously.”

you heard movement behind you. quiet steps on stone. then his voice — calm, low.

“most people don’t notice this part. too bright during the day.”

you blinked. “well. i only trespass at night, apparently.”

there was a pause. not awkward — just… full.

“you can keep coming here, if you like,” he said finally, gaze fixed on the orchid. “it’s nice during winter.”

you blinked. “is this special treatment because i became friends with one of your roommates?”

he glanced at you. “are you talking about riki?”

“riki? i swear it was niki.”

he laughed. and you absolutely weren’t prepared.

it wasn’t loud — just a quiet, breathy sound, like something slipped out before he could stop it — but it lit across his face in this rare, startling way. his lips parted slightly. you caught the sharp glint of his canines.

and for one irrational second, you felt your blood run cold.

those were long ass canines, my lord.

“yes, niki,” he said, finally looking away. “he goes by that too, apparently. he’s… troublesome. don’t fall for his traps.”

you smiled before you could help it. “thanks for the concern, but i think it’s too late. he literally invaded my apartment earlier today.”

sunghoon raised a brow. 

“printer emergency,” you added, like that somehow justified it.

his mouth twitched. “sounds like him.”

you nodded, trying not to feel weirdly proud that this sunghoon guy didn’t seem annoyed. that he was still standing there. that he hadn’t told you to leave.

did niki say anything to him? god, if he did…

until then, sunghoon had kept a good distance between you both — a few careful feet, a plant or two, like the space between you was intentional. personal. you let it slide, thinking maybe he still thought you were unstable. (which, fair.)

still, you figured you shouldn’t push your luck. shouldn’t linger long enough to ruin the first actually peaceful moment you’d shared with him.

so, with slow steps, you began walking further into the greenhouse, fingers brushing gently over the edge of a planter, letting the silence settle.

the warmth of the space, the smell of wet soil and night-blooming flowers — it all pressed around you like a soft blanket. 

you let yourself breathe.

“do you all live here? for how long?” you couldn’t help but ask, voice low, like the plants might tattle.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. you glanced back at him — he hadn’t moved from his spot, still half-shadowed by a curtain of ivy, the soft yellow light outlining the curve of his jaw.

“a while,” he said finally. vague. noncommittal. ancient-sounding.

you waited for more. didn’t get it.

“like... years?”

he tilted his head. “give or take.”

you squinted. “that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

you exhaled, half amused, half suspicious. so mysterious. so nonchalant. so suspiciously good at evading direct human timelines.

“you’re worse than niki at evading questions, god. are you all like this?”

sunghoon almost smiled — almost. just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he was debating whether you were worth the truth or just another nosy neighbor with too much curiosity and too little survival instinct.

“maybe it’s a roommate requirement,” he said.

you narrowed your eyes. “what, like a quiz? ‘how mysterious are you on a scale from 1 to dramatic rooftop monologue’?”

this time, he actually smiled. just a little. but it was there.

“you’d fail,” he said simply.

you gasped. “rude.”

“you talk too much.”

you grinned. “and you brood too much. balance.”

“actually, you’re the one who should be asking questions,” you shot back, turning to face him fully. “i got here first.”

sunghoon blinked, like he was momentarily stunned by your logic.

“trespassing doesn’t count as arrival,” he said flatly.

“semantics.” you waved a hand. “i was emotionally distressed. that grants me squatters’ rights.”

he let out a quiet breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet, here you are,” you said, gesturing between you. “still talking to me. maybe you’re the crazy one.”

he didn’t deny it. just glanced away, like maybe you were onto something.

“do you always go out with your pink phone case?”

you froze. blinked. stared. how did he—

“wait, you noticed that?”

sunghoon didn’t even blink. “hard to miss.”

your mouth opened, then closed. “it’s for the aesthetics. i like pink.”

he hummed, like he was storing the information away for later. or judging you. or both.

you crossed your arms. “don’t make that face.”

“i didn’t make a face.”

“you did. it was very i-expected-black-but-of-course-it’s-pink.”

he looked at you, gaze steady. “i expected lavender, actually.”

“do i give off lavender vibes?” you asked, genuinely confused.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away — just tilted his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that unreadable way of his, like he was assessing your soul for color palette accuracy.

“sometimes,” he said. “but mostly… chaotic rose gold.”

you squinted. “that’s not a real vibe.”

“it is now.”

“you just made that up.”

“it’s a pretty color,” sunghoon said.

you blinked at him. “are you calling me pretty?”

“no.”

“that’s rude.”

“you should be at your apartment.”

you narrowed your eyes. “are you saying i’m ugly, then?”

he didn’t flinch. “beauty is about preferences. you can think a flower is pretty, but someone else might think it’s not the best.”

you stared. “are you a walking inspirational monologue coach? is that your side hustle? why are you always showing up late at night like some poetic batman?”

sunghoon looked off toward the glass ceiling like he was considering whether to dignify that with an answer.

“plants prefer quiet,” he said finally. “and so do i.”

you crossed your arms. “you’re so weird.”

and cute, you wanted to add, but decided against giving him that satisfaction. instead, you walked further into the greenhouse, letting the soft hum of warmth and the faint scent of soil wrap around you like a blanket.

you couldn’t believe you were actually talking to the cute neighbor. like really having a conversation, not just a one sided talk. you think you could count this as a good win for today.

the camellias were everywhere — climbing the trellises, tucked into carefully sculpted beds, blooming in quiet defiance of winter. pale pink, deep red, soft ivory. some petals curled like folded silk, others stretched wide like they had something to prove. you could tell someone tended to them with care. the kind of care that didn’t just water plants but listened to them.

tiny ceramic pots lined the shelves, holding herbs you didn’t recognize, some with tags written in what you swore wasn’t korean. there was a cluster of hanging plants near the center — spider plants, trailing vines, a few that looked carnivorous — and nestled between them, a tea set. just… sitting there. like someone had once hosted a garden party and forgot to clean up.

you weren’t sure how long you wandered, fingertips grazing leaves and petals, occasionally pausing to mutter something dumb like you guys get more affection than i do. it felt sacred in a way. not holy, but intentional. lived-in. like it had memories.

eventually, you saw him again.

sunghoon.

he was standing by the far end of the greenhouse now — in the same spot you had been earlier, overlooking the city through the large arched window. the skyline shimmered under the frostbitten night, a painting of silver and cold light. he was still. too still. hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, shoulders drawn back, head tilted just slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

you didn’t think. just moved. quietly, carefully, like your slippers might betray you.

he didn’t turn. he didn’t seem to notice you at all — until you got too close.

you were maybe two steps behind him when it happened.

his body stiffened. violently.

his shoulders tensed first, like he’d been punched in the spine, then his head turned just enough for you to see it: the way his eyes had gone wide, pupils blown open like ink on paper.

then the wince.

his nose twitched, and in the span of a single breath, he stumbled back.

three steps. four. too fast. like he’d touched fire.

his face wasn’t angry. it wasn’t surprised, either. it was… pained.

like something disgusted him. or worse — tempted him.

you stood frozen between the camellias and the windows, confused and small.

he was staring at you like you were the ghost.

you stepped back too, instinctively — as if your retreat might undo whatever invisible boundary you’d just crossed.

“are you okay?” you asked, voice soft, the question half-caught in your throat.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. he was still staring. still breathing like he’d run here instead of just been standing still.

his jaw flexed once, then again. you could see it — the way he was trying to keep his composure, to collect himself into something human, but failing spectacularly.

his tongue darted out to wet his lips, slow, distracted, and for a second you could’ve sworn you saw it — the glint of a canine too long, too sharp.

his eyes, dark and wide, flashed. not red. not exactly. but something burned behind them, low and glowing.

he took another step back.

then another.

“you should go,” he said finally. voice low. hoarse. like the words scraped on the way out.

you blinked. “did i… do something wrong?”

he shut his eyes for a beat too long. shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“no,” he said, forcing a breath through clenched teeth. “it’s not you.”

and then, quieter — barely audible, like a confession he didn’t mean for you to catch: 

“it’s me.”

you hesitated, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

“do you want me to call niki? or a medic? are you sure you’re alright?”

his eyes snapped shut again. his voice was rough when it came out — like it hurt.

“please. you can leave already.”

you took a cautious step forward anyway. “should i go find one of your roommates?”

that’s when he flinched — visibly, violently.

“fuck—just stay right there. don’t move.”

it wasn’t anger. it was something else. desperation. restraint.

you froze.

his pupils were blown wide now, his chest rising and falling too fast. his hands trembled where they hung by his sides, like he was holding himself back from something.

“please,” he said again. this time quieter. almost a whisper. almost a plea.

you didn’t say anything. just nodded, slowly, and backed toward the door — one careful step at a time.

and the moment you were out, you heard it.

not footsteps.

not words.

just the slam of a side door somewhere deeper in the greenhouse.

like he needed distance. fast.

like he needed saving from something only he understood.

you didn’t look back.

but you didn’t stop thinking about it, either.

not even once.

author's note: i swear the more vampiric side of this story WILL GET HERE, just wait a bit more. i know this is fast paced, i know this is rushed and chaotic, but bear with my little time to plot everything and proofread it. i hope we see each other in the next chapter. send me a request • my masterpost

[justwhisperingfantasies]

 @fanficocean Coffee Shop: The barista is cupid and makes people fall in love because they’re bored. @alphabetquest Prompt: Coffee Shop @fandom-free-bingo Square: Accidental hand touching

Inspired By @zepskies - Coffee Order Headcanons

Pairing: Ben aka Soldier Box -x- Reader

Warnings: Language, Fluff (ish), Ben being Ben.

Ratings: Mature

Summary: What the heck happened at that coffee shop?

Word Count: 1,380

@copperboom82 Thank you for being my beta. Also for all your love and support 🤍

My Master List

My Tag List

“You know, you didn’t have to come,” you snapped, interrupting Ben’s insufferable bitching.

His head turned to you as you pushed the gearshift into park, giving you that smartass smirk. “And miss you in your element?” He took a long drag off his cigarette. “I think not sweetheart.” The smirk returned after he blew the smoke in your direction.

You let out a hearty sigh. “Let’s just get this over with,” you said, reaching for the door handle. “And don’t think I’m gonna wait around for you to finish that damn thing.”

“Oh, I know your ass ain’t that nice.” He winked, walking fast to catch up to you as he flicked the bad habit out of his fingers.

You pointed your finger at him, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Pot,” you began, then pointed back at yourself, “kettle.”

He smirked, opening the door for you. “After you,” he mocked as he gestured you inside, making you scoff a laugh. “Hello Ladies.” You glanced over your shoulder as you heard his voice in time to see him wink at the two older women walking through.

“Such a gentleman,” you heard one of them whisper, and you pursed you lips together holding back a laugh.

“See, I can be nice,” Ben teased, returning to your side.

You chuckled when you noticed him checking one of the women out. “Yea, when you wanna get your dick wet.”

“Still counts,” he said as you stepped into the back of the line, which wasn’t far from the door. “I can’t believe people actually like this shit this much.”

Your brows furrowed as you turned your whole body towards him. “Says the guy that said he wanted coffee…”

“Yes coffee, not this vanilla bean latte and fruit pink drink bullshit,” he gestured to the menu hanging above the counter. You exhaled through you lips, making them vibrate as his ranting started again. “And what the fuck is oat milk?”

“It’s a milk alternative, Ben.”

“Back in my day, there was no such thing, and we sure as hell didn't put it in our fucking coffee.

“Are you done?”

“I’m just sayin’,” he followed you as the line moved. “What the hell do you need a milk alternative for anyway?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“Because, some people are lactose intolerant…”

He scoffed a loud laugh. “But it’s fucking milk.”

You gave the elderly woman a smile with warm cheeks as she turned around, her eyebrows knitted at Ben.

“Ben, you're out in public. Could you at least pretend to be civilized?”

“Ya know who’s lactose intolerant?” he disputed and your fingertips rubbed circles on your temples. You were pretty sure his answer would not be socially acceptable. “Fucking pussies,” he exclaimed, proving you right. “Pussies are lactose intolerant.”

“Benjamin, you can’t say shit like that,” you hissed when one of the men in front of you cleared his throat.

Ben’s eyes narrowed at you. He hated you calling him Benjamin almost as much as you hated him calling you sweetheart. “Free country sweetheart,” he countered with a smirk

“Yes, but we have been over this - you have to respectful to others.”

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Can I ask you something?”

“Would it matter if I said no?” you quipped moving up again.

He lowered his voice. “How the fuck do you get milk out of an almond?”

“So, let me guess… plain ol’ boring black coffee for you?” you snickered trying to change the subject.

“If ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” He smiled at you. "What are you getting?"

"Ha, you think I'm gonna give you ammo to make fun of me now?" You shook you head. "Nuh uh."

He leaned toward you with a grin. "Pussy," he whispered in you ear, making you snort. You cleared your throat as you moved up in line again. "Come on tell me." You sighed. "I promise I wouldn't make fun of you. Cross my heart," he added in a mocking tone.

"Pretty easy to swear on your life when you can't die."

"You have a point." He looked as the menu, biting the inside of his cheek as he pondered. "Lemme guess, that caramel ribbon thing?"

"Frappe."

"Yeah, whatever the fuck that is."

You chuckled. "Wrong."

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin as he read the menu again, and you bit back a smile. "What's a dragon drink? that sounds pretty badass."

"It's the mango dragon fruit refresher with coconut milk," you laughed as you looked over at him giving you a blank stare.

"It's actually pretty tasty, you should try it," the man behind you spoke up.

Ben's brows furrowed as he turned around, "Yeah, and you should try gargling my-"

"Benjamin!"

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Thank you for your suggestion." The man nodded as Ben turned back around.

"Good boy," you teased.

Ben let out a belly laugh, making everyone's head turn. The barista working the register caught your attention. Her eyes lingered on him and then shifted to you as she gave you a dampened smile.

"Are you gonna tell me or not?" he asked, stepping forward.

"Fine," you huffed. "I'm getting a salted caramel cream cold brew."

Ben raised his eyebrows as his lips puckered out. "Aw, what you don't like nut milk?" he chuckled as your cheeks turned red from his deliberate phrasing.

You shook your head "I'm not touching that."

"Huh, that's the first time I've heard that." He chuckled again as your cheeks got warmer. "So, what is cold brew?"

"It's coffee that is brewed at room temperature, bolder taste, less acidity, more caffeine. They serve it over ice, you can always get nitro cold brew." You giggled as Ben sighed, lifting his head with his eyes shut.

"Hi, how are you guys today?" the barista greeted as you stepped up to the counter.

"Good, how are you?"

"I'm great," The barista replied in a giddy manner. "So what can I get for this super cute couple?"

A howl of laughter pushed past your lips. "No, no, no, no," you stammered, cheeks blazing. "No, no, we are not a couple."

"Oh, I'm sorry. What can I get for you?" she murmured, you read the text message of everyone's order to her and then gave your own. "And for you sir?"

"Let me try one of those cold brew things," Ben told her, making your jaw drop. "No flavor or cream. Just black."

"Well look at you, trying new things, I'm so proud," you said nudging Ben's arm.

"Shut up," he teased, nudging you back.

Waiting at the pickup counter you heard him sigh, then felt his knee tap the back of yours. "Stop, you child."

"But, I'm bored."

Your attention snapped to the barista as you heard your name. Butterflies stirred in your stomach as Ben's fingers brushed against yours when you both reached for the carrier.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were going to…" you fumbled over your words.

He cleared his throat, "I got it." He gave you a smile, making the butterflies stronger.

"You know, this cold brew shit isn't half bad," he admitted as you punched in the code and held the safe house door open for him.

You giggled, "Ah, well I'm glad you like it."

"Hughie!" Ben yelled handing him his coffee, your eyes followed as he start handing out the other beverages.

"Alright, love." You head turned to Butcher as he stepped beside you. "What the fuck happened at that coffee shop?"

You gave him a scoff. "What do you mean?"

"Yesterday, I had to side between yuns to keep from killin' each other." He took a drag off his cigarette. "And now, he's over there smilin' while you're over here giving him the fuck me eyes of teenager in love."

"Butcher, I think you've finally gone mad." You looked back over to Ben. He raised his cold brew to his lips, scrunching his face at you. You chuckled. "I don't know, I guess he's not as bad as I thought."

Tag List:

@mochminnie @idk6505 @jackles010378 @nightxcreature @kamisobsessed @perpetualabsurdity @wonderland2022 @quietgirll75 @nancymcl @hobby27 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @deansimpalababy @mandee7 @roseblue373 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @lmg14 @aand13b @spnaquakindgdom @kr804573 @jtink27

[runninriot]

Dirty Wishes On My Mind

written for @steddiesongfics and @steddiesmuttyseptember

inspired by the song FU In My Head by Cloudy June | SSS prompt: clothes on | rated: E | wc: 4.172 | tags: sexual content, indecent behaviour in public (but they don't get caught), dirty talk, dry humping, coming in pants, confessions, realisations, Eddie has a Crush on Steve, Steve has a Revelation, friends to lovers | complete fic on ao3

    “I’m telling you, Stevie! That guy had no shame whatsoever. Didn’t even hesitate to pull blank in front of me to show off that ridiculous tattoo right above his dick. It was horrendous! I even offered to cover it up for free but he declined, said the ladies dig it.”

Eddie snorts and shakes his head. The things you have to put up with sometimes in his field of work never ceases to amaze him.

   “But hey, can’t say I didn’t like the overall view. A feast for my imagination. I’ll definitely use it the next time I’m ‘feeling lonely’.”

He uses his fingers to sign quotation marks and wiggles his eyebrows, delighted at the blush creeping up Steve’s cheeks when he realises what Eddie means by that.

Steve’s always been a little shy when it comes to talking about these things but they’ve been friends long enough for him to have gotten used to Eddie’s big, unfiltered mouth.

Eddie loves to rile him up, just a little, never so much that it makes him truly uneasy but enough to get a little kick out of it himself.

Steve’s cute when he blushes.

He’s damn fucking pretty, always, is the thing.

So what if Eddie stares a little too obvious? It’s not his fault Steve is so-

Nevermind.

He averts his gaze, takes a sip from his drink to cool off, giving Steve the chance to change the subject to something else.

  "Sometimes I fuck you in my head."

Eddie splutters his mouthful of beer half over himself, half over the table, can't believe he heard Steve right.

No. That must be a mistake because he can't possibly have said that.

Right?

   "I don't know why, it's just- sometimes when I touch myself, I think of you, you know?"

Eddie does, in fact, not know. Because what?

   "Steve, dude, look at me. Did you take something? Without me?"

He must've. There's no way he'd talk that much bullshit if he was sober. They've only been here for ten minutes, fifteen max, both still on their first beer and there is no way in hell Steve is already that drunk.

So this must be something else.

Because it is absolutely impossible that his straight best friend would ever fantasize about anything other than boobies and soft lips and long lashes and, hell, maybe even a tight juicy ass – a woman’s ass – to get him going. Steve Harrington does not think about guys when he touches himself. And most certainly not about Eddie.

He’s messing with him, that must be it. A little revenge for Eddie being insufferable.

   “Hah, yeah you got me there, Harrington. For a second, I really thought you’d lost your mind,” Eddie laughs half-heartedly in a weak attempt to cover up the slight tremble in his voice.

    For a second you got me thinking my pining ass died and went to heaven, is the thought he keeps to himself.

Another second goes by and Eddie is still waiting for Steve to laugh, to maybe swat his arm and tell him ‘Ha! Got’cha! You should see your stupid face.’ but that doesn’t happen. Instead, the air thickens and the tension between them makes Eddie nervous.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Steve opens his mouth.

But somehow, that only makes it worse.

   “Is- is that bad?”

Steve turns away, eyes now locked on his own hand where it’s wrapped tightly around his bottle. Something in his friend’s demeanour shifts; it’s like he’s slowly sinking into himself, like he’s trying to hide.

   “Stevie, hey.” Eddie brings his thumb and finger to Steve’s chin, using gentle force to make him look back up again.

He seems so small all of a sudden, sad somehow, but he huffs out an awkward laugh and rolls his eyes.

   “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I don’t even know why I said that.”

Heat spreads in every part of Eddie’s face, up to his ears and down to his chest and his heart skips a beat because-

Steve didn’t take it back. He didn’t confirm Eddie’s assumption of it being a joke, no. He apologised because he thinks he did something wrong.

   “It’s not bad, Steve. I’m just- a little confused.”

Eddie’s hand moves on its own account, wanders higher up, fingertips lightly dancing across his jaw line and over his cheek until they reach Steve’s hair line just above his ear  where he can’t help but dive deeper into his soft strands.

He doesn’t miss the moment Steve’s eyes flutter shut for a too long second, and how his lips slightly part when he lets out a sigh.

   “Why would you think of me when you’re- I thought you’re-“

    Straight, Eddie struggles to say, fears it would come out wrong, maybe sound like an insult which it is not.

Of course, not. Everyone’s free to love and like whatever and whoever they want. It’s just- it bothers Eddie more than he likes to admit because Steve being straight means that he’ll never have a chance.

That his stupid heart will forever be suffering because his best friend will never be more than that. Not his lover, not his partner, only his friend. And that’s okay, that’s fine, perfect even. It’s more than Eddie could hope for.

But that’s exactly what makes it so hard to wrap his head around Steve’s unexpected confession. That’s why it takes Eddie’s breath away when Steve leans into his touch, pupils blown wide in the cosy light of the bar.

   “I-“ Steve stops himself, digs his teeth into his bottom lip as if to prevent any more words from slipping out.

Eddie feels like he’s in trance, doesn’t even know what he’s doing until it’s too late, until his hand has already wandered back down, thumb touching soft flesh when he pulls it free from Steve’s bite, lingering there, tracing the seam – he can’t stop, can’t not push between parted lips where Steve welcomes him with just a hint of tongue, warm and wet.

And Eddie has to swallow a startled moan.

---

continue reading here

[chubsonthemoon]

Fandom Trumps Hate 2025 - Moonham Press Fanbinding

Hi, everyone! I'm participating in the Crafts Bazaar for @fandomtrumpshate 2025. I'm offering one hardcover and one paperback fanbind of a fic of your choice, with author permission. More details under the cut and/or on my Craft Stall on Dreamwidth, here!

What I'm offering:

One (1) custom-made, fully typeset, hardcover fanbinding of a fic of your choice. (MUST be your own work or have author permission; please see below for more details).

One (1) custom made, fully typeset, paperback fanbinding of a fic of your choice. (MUST be your own work or have author permission; please see below for more details).

Details - General

You MUST have either written the fic yourself, or have provided a screenshot of the author giving explicit permission to bind their fic for this event. A blanket permission statement would work fine! The only exception to this rule is if a fic has been posted anonymously (NOT orphaned).

Due to the nature of how I typeset, the fic must be posted to AO3.

I'm very open to suggestions or design ideas! That said, I reserve the right to make any final decisions re: design and construction based on the materials I have on hand.

I can include art pieces; however, you must have permission from the artist to include their work.

I will not be binding anthologies or series; if you would like a shorter fic bound, please feel free to check out the paperback auction!

Fic can be any rating, but if it is rated Explicit, you must sign the age statement in the bidding form signifying you are over 18.

Bidders may participate in both auctions if they wish.

Details - Hardcover

Please choose a fic with a word count in the 25k to 150k word range (some leeway of a few thousand or so words here is fine).

My hardcover binds are usually letter folio sized (~5.5" x ~8.5"), but if your fic is closer to the 25k word mark, I also offer the letter quarto size (~4.375" x ~5.5") (dimensions given are estimates; actual dimensions may differ slightly).

Minimum bid: $45 USD

Details - Paperback

Please choose a fic that in the 5k to 20k word range (some leeway of a thousand or so words here is fine).

Dimensions for the paperback are more flexible! I have a few examples above and on my blog of both letter-sized folios, which are more like traditional zines (~5.375" x ~8.25") (see "On Elba" in the photo grid), as well as letter-sized quartos (~5.375" x ~4.125") (see "there are violets in your eyes" for a size comparison between the letter quarto and folio). I can also do a legal-sized quarto (~4.125" x ~6.75") (see "King of Infinite Space") (dimensions given are estimates; actual dimensions may differ slightly).

Minimum bid: $10 USD

Details - Shipping and Timeline

I will pay for tracked shipping within the United States. If you are outside the US, I am happy to craft for you, but please note you will be responsible for the shipping costs, which can be significant as books are heavy. Please look into how much it costs to ship a book sized object from the US to you before bidding.

I'm aiming to have all books completed and shipped out by the beginner of September; however, this deadline is tentative and subject to change (either earlier or later) depending on the complexity of the project. Regardless, all books will be shipped no later than the FTH deadline of December 31st.

Examples of my work

You can also find more examples of my work via my tumblr fanbinding tag, here!

How to bid

The auction will run from Tuesday, Feb 25th 8 am EST to Monday, March 10th.

Please fill out the forms linked below:

Hardcover auction form: [Closed!]

Paperback auction form: [Closed!]

You can check the status of your bid at the links below:

Hardcover auction status: [Closed!]

Paperback auction status: [Closed!]

I will contact the winners within 24 hours of the auction closing.

Upon winning the auction, you must donate the amount specified on your bid directly to any one of the following charities:

Crips for eSims for Gaza

Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights

Freedom to Read Foundation

Any of the LGBTQ orgs listed here or below:

Equality Texas

Transgender Education Network of Texas

Fund Texas Choice

Proof of your donation is due Wednesday, March 12th.

After I have received proof of your donation, I will be in contact to talk details about your book!

Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions! <3

[haveyouheardthisband]

『 FAQ 』

USEFUL LINKS: Submissions spreadsheet (gigantic list of every band submission we've received. Song submissions are on the second tab. If this does not load on your device, you can view a plaintext archive here.) Data spreadsheet (List of every band that we've posted or are still in the queue, in order, plus occasionally-updated data for finished polls.) Song submissions form (Suggest a noteworthy song for a band that's already been submitted but not yet posted. First-come first-serve. These are linked in a readmore under the band's poll.)

⏭ Y'all made a mistake! / How do I get in touch? Please scroll to read the whole FAQ first. If your question has not already been answered, then send an ask. We don't respond to most asks publicly, but we do read them all. We do not often check replies or mentions. Do NOT send band suggestions via the askbox, it is for correspondence only. (If the question/comment concerns a specific post, you can also ping me @estradasphere in a reply, but asks are preferred)

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why was this poll tagged with [x]? Genres are usually from the artist's RateYourMusic page, if they have one. Country tags are also from RYM - we tag both formed/birth location and disbanded/death location. As for decades, we do not usually tag all decades a band was active for, just a few that contain their most popular output. If we get any of these wrong, please send an ask!

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why was this album art used? If the artist has an RYM page, the album art we use is of their most-rated album on there. If they don't, we use Spotify or Bandcamp or other sources. We tend to avoid album art that depicts potentially triggering subjects.

───♫───────────── ⏭ This artist is morally reprehensible! We do not endorse or support any artists posted here. We're asking if you've heard them, not if you like them - and doing a background check on every submission is infeasible. You are free to warn others via reply, reblog, etc. That being said, we may reject submissions at our own discretion.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Can you add a "yes, unfortunately" option? No, and we don't think this is the best perspective to have. Every band is someone's favorite! We are not intent on changing the three options we have now.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Can you post more/less of [x] genre? We run entirely off of submissions, and go through those mostly in chronological order. We do not control which bands get submitted. That being said, we do try to space out polls in the queue if there's a lot of submissions of the same genre/vibe in a row.

───♫───────────── ⏭ When will band submissions reopen? If/when we get through the bulk of the current submissions. Our backlog is so massive that this may not happen until 2026 (at the latest) though. Sorry!

───♫───────────── ⏭ When will my submission be posted? You can check our progress by looking at the submissions spreadsheet. Finished submissions are the ones highlighted turquoise. Keep in mind that we post once per hour, and you can probably estimate the date from there.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why didn't my submissions post in the order I submitted them? We rearrange the queue if there's a lot of bands of the same genre/vibe submitted in a row. Or for no reason.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why didn't my submission get posted at all? A few reasons this could happen:

Your band is still in the queue, just not in order (see the question above this one)

Your band has been submitted before (search the blog or the data sheet for them)

Your band is so obscure we couldn't find album art or genre info for them

You submitted a ton of bands in a row that are either all similar to each other or in alphabetical order (we don't want one person monopolizing the blog for a long period of time)

If you think we've made a mistake, you can send an off-anon ask or DM a mod, and we'll post a poll for them ASAP if valid. Accidents happen.

───♫───────────── ⏭ How do I suggest songs for multiple-artist submissions? See here and here.

───♫───────────── ⏭ What's the policy on vulgar/offensive band names or album art? Generally OK, but it'll be decided at our own discretion. In the case of album art, we try to find one of the artist's other works at around the same popularity, and if we can't, we'll trigger tag it.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why don't you tag polls with the band names? Tagging it would put the post in the lap of every fan who follows or searches for the tag. For popular bands, we feel this would skew the results too much.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Can you trigger tag [x]? We currently tag common triggers like gore, nudity, body horror, and suicide (typically as "#___ tw" or "#cw ___"); if we missed a post with one of those, please let us know! As for implementing new trigger tags, sorry, we have enough on our plate at the moment and probably wouldn't remember it. We recommend using Xkit Rewritten's post block feature and/or Tumblr's built-in tag/content filtering.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Have y'all considered increasing the post speed to more than 1 per hour? We don't really want to, sorry! Making 24 posts per day to keep pace is enough work for us already, haha.

───♫───────────── ⏭ How many posts are in the queue? It's maintained at around 150-250.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Do y'all want/need another mod? Not right now. If we ever do, we'll make a post for it.

───♫───────────── ⏭ How is the profile picture album picked? It's just an album that one of the mods likes, that's all. It changes approximately every 2 weeks.

───♫───────────── ⏭ Why is Spotify used for song links and playlists? It simply loads faster on my computer than YouTube. We have no intention of changing this, sorry.

[inviisiiblelee]

One-Sided Date Night

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Word Count: 3,034 Rating: Teen and Up Audience Relationship: Alastor/Vox Additional Tags: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Soft Vox (Hazbin Hotel), Vox is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Vox falls apart easily, Vox is just an idiot, He has no idea how to be actually direct, Fluff, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Unrequited Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, I'll probably write a second part from Alastors POV later, radiostatic, staticradio, porting from AO3, link included above if prefered.

Notes: As always, heavily based around discussed concepts between friends who write Alastor. This is a submission for the tumblr RadioStatic Week of 2024, Day 3: One Sided/Date Night. I love them a normal amount.

Summary: “You’re a great friend,” Vox said sincerely, placing a hand over the one on his frame, leaning into the touch. “Thank you, Alastor.” “You’re welcome, Vox.”

This would be fine. It was supposed to be fine. Why did it feel like heartbreak?

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

The music in the lounge was gentle and soft, lulling the space between Vox and Alastor into something smooth and easy. There was a sense of tenseness across their personal frequency, but it was slowly melting away into something familiar and pleasant the longer they sat at their table, chatting happily over their appetizers. This wasn’t really that new, Vox knew, they went out for lunches and dinners plenty often, and they’d definitely been to this spot a few times. He had taken an extra step to order things he knew Alastor liked from the menu, and it hadn’t been an issue at all. Alastor had smiled at him, chuckled a little when he floundered to say that he would stop if it was weird, but he said he didn’t mind, he wasn’t wrong. 

It was nice, all of it was, but Vox was here for a little bit more of a reason than just to have dinner. It was the height of their relationship, he felt. They’d been living together for decades already, but they were so much closer than ever, spent nearly every moment they could together. There was hardly a person in Hell that wasn’t aware that if you messed with one, you would face the other with no hesitation. Vox … was also head over heels for Alastor, and had been for some time. He had been so hesitant to express it to him, but he thought that close to fifteen years of keeping quiet was long enough to have decided that it was definitely real and not at all something that would fade with time. So he figured, he could take Alastor out, sort of like normal, take some initiative in the whole thing, try to woo him a little – something he knew he was theoretically good at, but had never tried on Alastor – and hopefully broach the subject of changing the status of their relationship. 

“- alright?” Alastor’s voice cut through his thoughts, which he was carefully monitoring so as not to project them across the frequency between them, unspoken words that he did not want coming across uncontrolled.

“Oh, what? Sorry,” Vox replied quickly, finding himself somewhat embarrassed, a hint of hue change on his screen, he knew. Across the table, Alastor’s ears dropped just slightly - it was almost imperceptible, but Vox was well attuned to these small movements by now. It wasn’t as though he needed more than the thirty years he’d had to figure them out. His expression was easier typically to read, an eyebrow raised in questioning concern. 

“I asked if you were doing alright. You look a little lost, friend,” Alastor said, though patient at needing to repeat himself. It had become more common recently, Vox knew, for him to get a little caught up in his own thoughts or just to blatantly stare at Alastor and get a little … lost, as Alastor put it. It was a kind way to describe it, considering it was often just Vox staring at him longingly, with a dumb, lovestruck look on his face. He admittedly wasn’t sure if it was Alastor just being sweet about it, or if he actually didn’t notice beyond the fact that when it happened, Vox was often tuned out of the conversation. 

“I’m okay! Sorry, just thinking, that’s all.”

“Oh? You aren’t sharing much today,” Alastor quipped with a little smile and a laugh. Even now, they weren’t actually speaking aloud, despite being in public. Rather, it was especially since they were in public. Nearly all of their communication involved them speaking silently, through their shared radio frequency that was uninterrupted and unmonitored by any unwanted ears. Vox had recently learned how to put a death grip on specific thoughts, to prevent them spilling over while conversing. It was easier that way. And certainly safer for their friendship. 

“I know,” Vox said, evading the question just a tad. “Just a lot of nonsense, that's all, I promise.” Alastor seemed amused by the idea, leaning his chin against his interlaced fingers. 

“Well, that hasn’t stopped you before.”

“Well- hey!”

The deer demon laughed again, the sound softer and gentler when they were together like this, quiet in the fray of the frequency. It always had a different sort of quality when he laughed aloud, more abrasive and usually for a different reason. But between the two of them, it was like hearing the ocean rolling up against the shore, soothing and sweet. Homely. He just wished he could play it on repeat sometimes, bury himself in the sound.

Before their conversation could go too much further, their entrees were placed before them, and Vox could see Alastor’s eyes light up a bit as he was quick to dig in. Vox allowed the topic and talk to die down while they both ate, though Vox’s enthusiasm was less than his friend’s. Nothing at all to do with the meal and much more the nervousness running through his system. Electrical little surges that made his fingers twitch. It was a real problem that some of his emotions ended up manifesting so physically these days. Once more his eyes settled on Alastor and he found himself lost in watching him, seeing him enjoy his meal and appear just … generally happy in the moment. Vox felt like he’d spent years memorizing every facial expression Alastor could make, tracing the lines of his face and committing every little quip and compliment to memory. What else could he do in times like these? Alastor was … still hard to read, though. They were both clearly happy with the current state of things, no issues to be found for the last fifteen years, certainly. But he had no way to tell if Alastor would ever want more than that from him. Maybe he wouldn’t, but if he brought it up, would it destroy things? Would they be able to go back to normal after that? And would he be able to stay okay with things as they were?

“You’re doing it again, Vox.” He jumped slightly, sitting up straighter in his chair. “What’s on your mind? It’s not very like you to keep so quiet.” Maybe Vox should have found some offense, but he knew that he was a rambler at heart, and he did imagine it was coming to be a surprise that he was clamming up so much. He was usually also just as easy to convince to open up, and his resistance was probably giving something more away than he wanted. 

“I’ve just been thinking about … us?” It was almost a question, a hesitating, curious question of how that sort of response would even be taken. But very little changed in Alastor’s expression, although he was sitting back in his chair and watching him, clearly ready to listen. 

“In what way?”

“Sort of in general, I guess. We’re pretty close these days, and spend a lot of time together,” Vox said. “It’s been really nice, you know. So I guess I’ve just been reflecting on it a little.”

“Yet that seems to be something you don’t want to share.”

It wasn’t an accusation, but it felt like one anyway. He didn’t know what to say, at first. Maybe if he changed the subject, he would figure it out later. But no, it was a pointless thing to do, to dance around this all so much. He would do it a little regardless, it was just how he talked, something Alastor teased him somewhat for, never able to really get to the point without thirty minutes of preface. 

It was what he knew.

“I just think it might be annoying, if you listen and all you hear is me thinking of you,” Vox responded finally with a laugh. He felt embarrassed and unsure, and he rubbed at his screen briefly as though he could scrub away the feelings. It didn’t have to be this hard, he knew that, but what was he going to do if he said no, and if he took offense?

“Nothing you go on about has annoyed me before, why would it be different now?” Alastor replied, punctuating the thought by taking a last bite of his meal. He offered a smile, too, and while it could have eased Vox’s mind, he found himself that much more anxious. 

“I don’t know.”

It was the best he had to offer, though it wasn’t much. He really didn’t know why he felt so strongly about it all, or why he worried so much. Realistically, Alastor was right. There were many things he went on about that were much less serious and often quite silly, but through it all, Alastor always sat and listened thoughtfully. Even if he might have teased, he never held it against him. Couldn’t he trust it just like that? He knew the answer was yes, but it wasn’t about trust. It was about any possibility of losing the demon sitting before him. 

“You like what we are, don’t you?” Vox heard himself say directly, and he immediately wished he could snatch the words back, pretend they hadn’t come from him. That definitely wasn’t how it worked, but what he would have done for it …

“Of course. I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed your company, Vox.” Alastor’s reply was so quick, smooth, and lacked any sort of reproach. It had the potentially unintentional effect of melting his heart and easing him a little, putting a little goofy smile on his screen that he couldn’t hide. 

“Alastor, you know I would do anything for you, right?” It was a little bit of a silly admitting question, more serving the purpose of pointing it out in case he didn’t know it, for some reason. Not that it hadn’t become blatantly obvious over the last few decades, he was sure. 

“Well, I’m sure there are some limits, but yes,” Alastor replied, though Vox shook his head slightly. He wouldn’t argue, but he knew well indeed that there were no limits. Not exactly the … healthiest thing, but he meant it. “Is this you trying to ask a favor, Vox? You know you can just say it and it’ll be done.” 

“Oh, no, nothing like that.”

“Well, if it were, I would be happy to help you with whatever is going on in that cubed head of yours.” Vox smiled in response, chuckling at the little comment, but still trying to gather his own thoughts. Alastor gave him time now, it seemed, and finally, he was able to say something more … relevant to what he wanted.

“What do you think about dating?” Vox finally said, making a little leap. Even just a generic idea about it could be helpful, it wasn’t exactly a topic they ever spoke on.

“Oh, I don’t.”

“Oh.”

Well. That wasn’t particularly helpful, was it? Not altogether surprising, though, which made the nervousness return to Vox’s mind as he cast his eyes away from his friend quickly, as though searching the room for the right words.

“Has there ever been some sort of consideration?” he said after a moment.

“Hm … I suppose I don't really need to anymore. What about you…?” Alastor seemed more confused about his line of questioning than anything else, and Vox found himself panicking a little bit.

“Well, yes, I have a tendency to, myself. Not that much though! Haha. It’s just one of those things that pops into my head, you know, without a reason.” Idiot. Word salad at its absolute finest, certainly. At best, it seemed to make Alastor laugh a little, though he didn’t offer much else, the line going a little quiet once more, the music and other patrons keeping pure silence from forming, thankfully. They finished their main course and everything was whisked away, Vox telling the waiter they’d like some time before getting the bill, which they graciously acknowledged. Vox took a sip of the wine he’d sent ahead, a pinot noir that he’d found Alastor liked a few years ago. Alastor was not much of a wine drinker, but this one he knew he liked.  They spent a few minutes in the quiet of the lounge, enjoying themselves individually, but Vox knowing his mind was elsewhere still, just as restless as ever. He was trying to figure out how to phrase his next words, but he had lost his grip on his thoughts and one slipped through unbidden.

“Do you think you’d like to be closer to me?” 

The moment the words passed through the frequency, he clammed up, tense and worried, though Alastor didn’t seem bothered by the question. In fact, he appeared to consider the question for a long moment, before finally answering with a question of his own.

“Is there some way we could be? I don’t think it’s even possible at this point.”

Air escaped Vox for a long time. He knew he was staring, he knew he was sort of … losing himself in his thoughts, in a whirlwind of wordless emotion that he knew was ringing true through the frequency. Fear and worry and hope and everything that could be in between. It was overwhelming, and he could tell it was even a little much for Alastor, whose ears seemed to drop back a little. If he said anything, Vox couldn’t hear it. His internal mechanisms were starting to make noise, noises he hadn’t heard before, and he realized it was a bad thing when the color blinked out of his vision. 

“Uh oh.”

It spiraled out of control much faster than Vox could keep up with. Electrical currents shot through his body, from his head to his toes, and the glass in his hand was shattered between his convulsing fingers. His vision was blinking in and out, and he felt like he was watching each moment frame by frame, rather than live. Alastor was standing suddenly, and then the scene blinked, and it was clear he had fallen from his chair. In the next frame, Alastor had moved to hover over him, and he could tell he was asking him something, trying to talk both aloud and between them silently, but the static and buzzing was so loud that he couldn’t hear. And then his vision went completely dark, and all he could hear was the faint buzzing of himself.

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

Vox didn’t know how long had passed, but when his vision returned, and his audio just as slowly, he was back at home. The little place they lived together in, half built into the bottom half of the radio tower that Alastor worked out of. It was a pretty normal little hovel, a simple living room, a single bathroom, nice kitchen, two bedrooms, and … well. Half a marsh for the Radio Demon, of course. But for now, Vox was resting on the couch, it seemed. He still couldn’t see in color, couldn’t hear everything, but he was awake and aware again. He cast his gaze around the room, and as he did, Alastor came through the doorway towards the kitchen. Vox was almost tempted to try to pretend he wasn’t back yet, but the light of his display would always give him away, so there was little point to it. Alastor was bringing in a small tray, setting it down, and leaning in close to his face, peering closely at his display and screen, before offering him a small, strained smile.

“There you are. You took your time coming back around,” Alastor said simply, leaning back a little now, and Vox offered him a small smile of his own. His head was blissfully quiet now, except for Alastor’s voice, and he tried to respond. It took him several minutes before he was really able to gather enough thoughts to do so, but Alastor sat there with him patiently, helping him to sit up when he tried. 

“I’m not very sure what happened. And I still can’t really see properly,” he admitted. “I think something … broke?”

“It sure seemed like it. Started smoking a little, and you were … unresponsive for the walk here. You’ve been out for a few hours now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know, I just … I don’t really know what’s wrong with me.” A little laugh escaped him. “I’ve never … I didn’t think I could break internally?”

“What exactly happened?”

Vox hesitated to answer, but decided in the end, it couldn’t hurt.

“I got a little … emotionally overwhelmed, I guess. I was thinking way too many things all at once, feeling a lot all at once. Just … fried some things.” A twinge of electricity shot through him, making him shudder. Alastor seemed concerned by this, reaching out to steady Vox again. Once he was fine, Alastor’s hand moved from his shoulder to the side of face, the frame of his display, and there was a moment of flashing and stuttering on his screen. It was a terrible feeling, and Vox tried to pull away from Alastor, but he seemed intent on holding him there. Alastor turned Vox’s head, and he felt his fingers prying open the back to release the smoke building there. 

“You’re overheating… is there something to fix that?” Alastor asked.

“Oh, uh. I think so, I just need … I’ll have to order a part or two, I think. I usually only do that for upgrading, but it’s probably a good plan.”

“Right. Whatever you need, you just say it.”

“Just … yeah, just the parts. Thanks.”

“Of course, what else are friends for?”

Right. Friends. That was all they were, and all that Alastor wanted from him, could imagine wanting from him, right? That could be fine. It had to be fine. He loved him so much, but it was okay. Alastor cared about him, he knew that, that was fine. This was fine.

He could love him with his whole soul, and he would be fine to have him as his friend.

“You’re a great friend,” Vox said sincerely, placing a hand over the one on his frame, leaning into the touch. “Thank you, Alastor.”

“You’re welcome, Vox.”

This would be fine. It was supposed to be fine. Why did it feel like heartbreak?

[meowmeowriley]

Hello! As a fanfic author, what is your opinion on/preferences regarding fics inspired by your own works?

Do those preferences change if the derivative work contains explicit or taboo subject matter (blood play, non-con, somno, etc)?

I may or may not have had a small idea for a smutty one-shot involving watership but I wanted to check before attempting to do anything with it 😅

Hello friend!

Personally I love the idea that my silly little fic could inspire someone to create something themselves. Weather it's art, a drabble, a little headcanon, or a whole fic, I love to know that something I made helped someone else feel inspired to make something too! ❤

You asked this anonymously, so I'll respect that if you'd rather keep it to yourself, BUT if you're willing, there's an option on Ao3 when you upload a fic to check a box that says: This work is a remix, a translation, a podfic, or was inspired by another work and if you drop the URL to my fic in the little drop down, then our fics will be linked! (This goes for anyone who wants to as well, the more the merrier!) Yours will appear on mine, mine will show up on yours, and the readers win because they get more content! Again, you absolutely don't have to, I just love the idea of giving people an easier way to find more projects that are similar to my own.

Now as far as the subject of your fic is concerned, blood play, somno, and non-con, as long as your fic is appropriately tagged, rated, and has the correct archive warning, then I see no issue. All I ask is that you be responsible and respectful. Personally I won't touch non-con, I can't handle reading it, but the archive is a safe space to write and post what you want, and tagging will help make sure that only the appropriate audience is exposed to your works. (That being said, I do have to approve the fics being linked like that, and will have a friend review it to make sure I'm not making a mistake. It's highly unlikely that I'll reject the link, just know that it is possible.)

I'd also like to point out that right now the tag list on Watership is not complete, and will be updated as we go. Now, I don't want to spoil anything prematurely, but there will be smut, it will get weird, and it will be tagged both in the tag list, and also at the beginning of any chapter that contains sensitive material, because I want to make sure everyone reading is well informed and has the best experience possible.

So. Yeah. Smut good. Creating things based on my work good. Sharing is caring. But above all else please remember to tag appropriately because fanfic is an escape and I'd like to make it as pleasant an experience for my readers as possible. ❤

[wrenthewriterishere]

Ello!

Anon-☆ again :>

I loved the first one sooo

Could you do 43 and 64? Same sorta premise as the last request, but kinda like a part two! Soft-dom!Wilbur and Insecure NB!Reader, Extra fluffy please :D

You can do whatever with it, the last one was amazing, and we all love the fluffy smut :]

Omg yes, hello. your feeding me and everyone else of course I can do that that for you!! Foamed at the mouth writing this lmao

Pairing: Wilbur Soot x NB!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Tags/Warnings: Soft dom!Wilbur, insecure NB!Reader, lots of praise, crying during sex (comfort), fluff in and around smut, mirror mentions of past trauma, handholding during climax, sweet affirmations, “I love you” not said but felt

SMUT BELOW THE CUT. I am not responsible for anyone under 18 reading my 18+ content

It had been a few months since you’d first woken up tangled in Wilbur’s sheets — a dazed, post-sex warmth in your chest and his voice still echoing in your head: “You matter. Every part of you matters.”

Now, you’d spent dozens of mornings together. Shared toothbrushes. Grocery lists. Long nights spent watching him write lyrics until his voice got hoarse.

But it had also been weeks — maybe longer — since the last time you'd been this close.

Not because he hadn’t wanted you. Not because you didn’t ache for him. But because you were scared.

Scared it would ruin something. Scared the glow might fade after. That his kindness might have a limit — and that sex might take you there.

Wilbur never pushed.

He’d just smile when you changed the subject, press a soft kiss to your temple, and hold you anyway. No questions. Just patience.

But this morning, with the soft scent of coffee still in the sheets and his lazy fingers brushing patterns along your waist, you’d reached for him.

And he looked at you like it was the sunrise itself asking to be kissed.

Now, your back was warm against the mattress. Wilbur hovered above you, shirt long abandoned, curls slightly mussed from where you’d dragged your fingers through them moments earlier.

He studied you, reverent — like he still couldn’t believe you wanted him like this again.

“You sure?” he asked softly, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth.

You nodded. “I want you.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m just… nervous.”

Wilbur’s expression melted. “I know, love.” He kissed your knuckles. “It’s been a while. We can take it slow. Or stop whenever.”

You breathed in, steadying. “I don’t want to stop.”

And then he kissed you like you were made of something delicate, hands gentle as he helped you out of your shirt, then your sweats — lingering over every inch of newly revealed skin like he’d missed it. Because he had.

You flushed under the attention, eyes flicking away.

He caught your chin, tilting you back toward him. “None of that,” he murmured. “I’ve missed you too much to let you hide now.”

You swallowed. “I’m not exactly… hot right now.”

Wilbur blinked. Then laughed — not cruel, but surprised.

“Are you kidding?” His lips ghosted over your neck. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You always are. But this—” he looked down at your body, sprawled open and vulnerable for him, “—this is something else.”

He bent down, pressing a kiss to your chest, your stomach, the dip of your hip.

“You’re letting me see you,” he whispered. “That’s hotter than anything.”

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to watch your face as he dragged his hand down between your legs — slow, measured, waiting for your body to respond. When your hips twitched, he smiled.

“That’s it, sweetheart.”

His fingers circled your clit, feather-light, before dipping lower. You were already wet for him, body eager despite the nerves. He didn’t rush. One finger inside, curling just right — then two. His mouth never far from your skin, trailing affection between every soft moan you gave him.

“You’re so good for me,” he breathed. “So warm. So perfect.”

“Wilbur,” you whispered, breath catching. “It’s a lot.”

He kissed your shoulder. “We can stop. Tell me.”

You shook your head. “No. I just… it’s so good, I don’t know what to do with it.”

He grinned softly. “You don’t have to do anything, darling. Just feel it.”

By the time he rolled on a condom and settled between your legs, you were shaking — from need, from vulnerability, from the way he was looking at you like you mattered.

When he pushed in, your body opened for him like it had been waiting for this. Like it had been built to feel him this way.

He stilled, deep inside you, hands braced on either side of your face.

“You okay?”

You nodded, tears springing to your eyes unexpectedly. “Y-yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

His expression softened into something heartbreakingly tender.

“Slowly, baby,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He moved with exquisite care — every thrust deep, unhurried, meant to be felt. His hand found yours and laced their fingers tight.

You cried.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

From how safe it felt. How good it was to be wanted like this — not just used, not just tolerated. Seen.

Wilbur kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips between each slow grind of his hips.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do.”

That undid you.

Your climax hit with a sob, your hand clenching in his, body arching under the weight of everything you’d been too afraid to believe.

Wilbur followed not long after, groaning into your shoulder, your name on his lips like a promise.

When it was over, he stayed.

Cleaned you up gently, discarded the condom, and crawled back into bed with a sleepy smile. You curled into his side without hesitation.

Neither of you said much for a while. Just soft breathing, warm skin, quiet affection.

And then, softly — so quietly you barely heard yourself say it:

“I think I love you.”

Wilbur froze. Then smiled, wide and disbelieving, like the sun itself had whispered to him.

“I’ve loved you,” he murmured back. “Since the day you cried in my arms and let me hold you anyway.”

You buried your face in his chest and let yourself believe it.

[cheavymedicdaily]

Home, Where We (Don't) Belong

Rating: G. Wordcount: 448. Summary: CHeavy and Medic talk about home. Tags: Mild angst, childhood memories, implied/referenced abuse, implied/referenced death, childhood trauma, trauma, war trauma, beaches.

The giant turned his head to look at the doctor. "Hey Frankenstein," He said, a nervousness in his voice. The doctor looked up from his book. He tilted his head.

"What is it, liebling?" Medic flashed him a cheerful grin and laid back on the beach towel. He placed his hands behind his head, gaze shooting up to the sky above. His stomach twisted a bit.

"When this is all over," The Classic Heavy began, gaze flicking between Medic and the open ocean. He bit his bottom lip, chewing on it. His hands began to pick at a healing scab. "Are ya gonna head back to Germany?"

Medic's heart sank at the idea. He hadn't been home in so long. Was it even the same way he remembered it? The doctor rolled onto his side, a frown spreading across his lips. He looked up at the brute.

"I don't know." The words sunk past his lips, his stomach twisting. A heavy silence filled the air between the two men. The nearby crashing of the waves along with seagulls chimed in their ears. Medic's heart pounded in his head.

"Shit, did I strike a nerve?" The Classic Heavy scooted closer to the doctor. Medic shot up into a sitting position. He raised his arms in front of himself, obscuring his face. His gaze shot to the golden sand.

The Classic Heavy raised his hands. "Whoa! Sorry, doc." He moved back, dropping his hands to his sides. His gaze dropped to the ground.

"I'd get it if you'd wanna go back home. I mean, I sometimes miss mine." The Classic Heavy turned to look back at the sea. White foam stretched along the muddy shores, leaving bubbles in its wake. A smile stretched across his face.

Medic's gaze followed the Classic's. He lowered his arms and relaxed his posture. "What was your home like, Heavy?" He asked, the words a shaky babble. The knots in his stomach loosened at the change of subject.

A laugh rumbled out of the Classic Heavy's chest. He whipped his head to look at him. "Used to have mud battles. Ma had to hose me down to get all the gunk out. Still remember the putrid smell of it."

Medic's heart sank a little. His nose briefly flashed with the memory of ash clouding his lungs. And soot on his clothes and skin. He shook his head, snapping himself out of the memory. This was different, he reminded himself.

"That sounds great." Medic cracked a smile. He scooted closer and leaned his head on the older man's arm. His eyelids fluttered shut as he exhaled. He sank in the words spilling from his partner's voice.

[fallen-in-dreams]

CHAPTER NINE on AO3.

Chapters on Tumblr: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Pairing: Gaara/Sakura.

Summary: Her descent into madness came after her friends were all dead and before she was sold off like livestock. To him. He knew a thing or two about madness. And there was peace to be found in the violence of that madness. Even if only for a time. Canon divergence AU.

Rated: Mature.

Chapter word count: 9,004.

Status: Ongoing.

Reminder: the tags/warnings are important.

Warnings: dark themes. Arranged marriage (not what you think). Eventual smut (level and degree of that warning being necessary is subjective). Death. Suicide talk. Self-harm. PTSD – expect some well-known symptoms and some not well-known ones. Please don’t read if you’re triggered by psychological &/or emotional-related trauma and effects.

Enjoy. ^_^

Tumblr version:

… Chapter Nine: Little Bits and Pieces of Lies. ...

.:.

When I heard that sound When the walls came down I was thinking about you About you

-- Skin, by Rag’n’Bone Man

.:.

The shift change was a few minutes late.

The guard sighed into the paper wrapping in his mouth, puffing out a few smoke clouds, trying and failing to form it into something recognisable. Last week, Yaeko had tried to show him how to make rings, but he wasn’t very good at it. Impatient, he looked back along the ridge of the tallest tower on Suna’s borders. The walls of his village were large and imposing above him. On ground level, he could still trail his eyes along the entrance where Yaeko was supposed to pop out of five minutes ago.

Bloody woman.

This was just a bad night overall. He had no idea how this particular kunoichi had ever made it as a genin, let alone her current rank of chunin. She was always late. She didn’t own a clock and slept like a log. He’d gone to wake her numerous times only to be kicked in the head, or somewhere more precious, as she startled into consciousness.

I shouldn’t have to deal with this anymore.

As a newly appointed Jounin, guard duty was supposed to be off his roster. But things had not been going according to plan for several years now. He ran a hand down the front of his flak jacket. There was just no getting used to how much more comfortable this uniform made him feel. The rank came with perks, including not having to do guard duty, but the village had been short-handed recently, with the increase in missions and training of more genin squads than usual. So, he’d volunteered. At least for a few shifts before his new team had been organised. There was nothing to do until then, anyway. Rumour had it, open war was upon them, and his specialty was in high demand, even in this Cold War.

He was a sensor.

This was why he felt it; a sudden spike of chakra that was barely there if you weren’t paying attention. He waved a hand sign to two nearby patrol guards, and they paused, also waiting to see what was going on. If it was another attack, they would be ready. The fires that had spread through their home had come from inside, but anything was possible.

All three guards tensed at the soft flash of light. A figure that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

The newly appointed jounin sighed in relief as their visitor stepped into view. Just beyond the gate there was a blind spot of darkness at night-time that even moonlight couldn’t fill. If you never did guard duty, you’d never know it was there.

“Sorry about that,” she said, looking anything but.

The guard stood to attention. “Lady Temari, everyone’s been worried.” He frowned, eyeing the way she was holding herself; her iron fan weapon was doing most of the holding. “And, if you don’t mind me saying, it looks like we have reason to be.”

Temari grunted at him. “I don’t need a medic,” she said, when he opened his mouth to speak again. “I just need to get home. I have to report straight to…” She winced.

He’d met her in person a few times and if there was one thing he’d learned about the oldest of the sand siblings it was that she hated being treated like she was useless. Nobody helped her. She helped herself. That was the rumour too. By the looks of her, she’d used up all her chakra just to get back and it was clearly embarrassing her. She shifted her stance, attempting to look more imposing. Her face was flushed and there were bruises and gashes on her person he was sure were hurting more than she let on.

No need to drag this out, I guess.

He nodded to her, and she visibly relaxed. “Understood.” He motioned to the patrol guards who were still standing in the same wary stance from before Temari had revealed herself. “I can’t leave my post but–”

“No,” she said, “you.”

Was this because he was a jounin? The other guards were chunin. A number of reasons came to mind, but he didn’t know what the big deal was.

“Come on,” she interrupted his thoughts. Temari started towards him, using her fan like a cane.

He nodded again and ordered one of the patrol guards to take his place until he returned. The blonde grimaced as he slid his arm around her. She stumbled and swore under her breath. They took a moment before he suggested using his own brand of the Body Flicker Technique. She seemed amenable.

“What do I call you, Mr Jounin Guard?” She asked as he manoeuvred them better so he could form the signs properly.

“My name is Arata, my lady.”

.:.

It was only an hour. It felt longer. Gaara carried Sakura’s sleeping form into her room after her breakdown, tucking her into the bedsheets, unable to leave her. For an hour. He just sat on the side of the bed, watching her, and resisting the urge to brush the errant strands of pink hair from her face.

She looks so peaceful right now. And he should leave.

But Gaara couldn’t move. Under normal circumstances, he’d feel like a pervert or creeper for hovering while she slept. But he wasn’t paying attention to her body. Not like that. Not right now. Besides, she was tucked up under the blankets. She was hidden. He just couldn’t bring himself to stand up. To move away from her. It felt like he’d be leaving her behind, or something. It was a ludicrous feeling, he knew, but one he felt, nonetheless.

It was an old story, for himself, how much he’d been worrying over her. Objectively, she was supposed to be his fiancé, so his concern was warranted. But there was a line he’d told himself not to cross. He’d never had cause to worry about that until now.

Gaara sighed as Sakura stirred suddenly. She pouted in her sleep, and he found himself smiling. Whatever she was dreaming about, it wasn’t horrid at least. Without thinking, he reached over and brushed those strands of hair away from her eyes and she sighed, settling down.

Don’t think about that.

Gaara looked around the room. It was a spare room, of course. There were too many rooms in this place. Growing up, he’d wondered if all the rooms were for invisible entities, just like the one that lived inside his head. He’d been too scared to check. After his father started trying to kill him, everything changed. His fear went away. When he returned to the family, he checked them one night only to be disappointed. They were just empty bedrooms.

There was a lesson in there, somewhere, about not fearing the unknown.

His eyes skimmed over what Sakura had done with the room, which wasn’t much since she owned so little. The back of the door worried him. What were all those numbers for? He narrowed his eyes. They were a tally. He didn’t understand it.

Finally, Gaara decided to leave. His presence wasn’t doing anything, negative or positive.

Sakura groaned at the same time he felt a flare of chakra that didn’t belong to her, himself, or Kankuro. It was too weak to identify, and he immediately thought of that Root shadow and, what is he up to now? But it wasn’t him.

Gaara took one quick glance at Sakura to make sure she wasn’t disturbed, and quickly left her room.

Kankuro came bumbling out of his room at the same time, with a stunned look on his face. Spotting Gaara, that expression twisted into a coy one. The redhead had just come out of Sakura’s room, after all. Gaara shook his head to silence his question. There were more important things right now. Kankuro nodded silently, and then barrelled down the stairs ahead of his brother.

The weak chakra flare was closer and stronger now.

“Temari.”

He followed his brother down the stairs and into the study at the forefront of the mansion. Surrounded by comfort and a conference table that his sister had once dubbed a war table, Temari stood in the centre of the room. She was alone. But there had been someone with her a moment ago. Gaara and Kankuro both let out a sigh of relief at the sight of their sister. Kankuro made a move like he was going to rush over to her and then stopped. The tears in her clothes, caked blood, and bruises were all obvious. She wasn’t standing under her own power either, her iron fan signature weapon doubling as a leaning post. Her right hand trembled ever so slightly, out of synch with the trembling of her left leg. Gaara swallowed heavily, trying not to imagine all manner of things she’d been through.

She’s alive, he told himself. And that’s all that matters.

Clearing his throat, Kankuro brushed off his hesitation and moved forward. “Temari, I–”

“Settle down,” she interrupted. “Don’t make a fuss.” She moved toward the largest chair in the room, controlling her trembling as best she could, before stumbling. Both of her brothers stepped forward now, moving to help but Temari held up a hand to stop them. She inhaled sharply through her nose and then sank into the thick, leather lined chair with a deep sigh of relief. “Just give me a moment.”

“Do you need a–”

“No.”

Gaara gave Kankuro a pointed look. But his brother just brushed him off.

“Where is the rest of your squad?”

“They’ll be here in the morning,” she said, not looking at them. “They’re worse off than I am. They’ll need the night to rest before making the journey back.” She closed her eyes for a few blissful, quiet moments before forcing herself to sit up. “I thought I should get this information to you as fast as possible.”

Gaara took the scroll from her outstretched hand, meeting her all the way so she wouldn’t strain herself. He gripped it tightly but didn’t move to open it. She raised her eyebrows at him and glared until he sighed and unrolled it. Kankuro moved next to him to read over his shoulder. After a moment, Kankuro made a distinctly unimpressed noise and moved away, while Gaara reread it carefully. Slowly. Again. And again.

“That’s some intel, sis,” Kankuro said, taking one of the other plush chairs and crossing his arms over his chest.

Temari nodded. “They’re on the move again and the daimyo is moving to intercept. Our spotters have lost their whereabouts.”

Gaara let that sink in. The night that Danzo took over Konoha, the Fire Daimyo called an emergency meeting with all the other daimyo. It was a strategic move to prevent the others from acting on the insurgence. The usurper took over with no consequences on the political and inter-village level. The old man had to know that not all the kage were happy about this betrayal. Gaara was not the only one. Even the Raikage had, allegedly, fought with his daimyo over it. But there was nothing to be done beyond complaining, behind the scenes. To publicly condemn Danzo’s actions, given they were sanctioned by a daimyo, would be too risky. It might even be seen as an act of war.

(It was moments like these in which Gaara missed Naruto most of all. He wouldn’t have taken this lying down.)

So, the Leaf Resistance received no help from anyone. Not officially. They fled their village, those that managed to, and roamed the five nations. Officially, they were deserters and were to be either killed or captured on sight. But the past few years had been very quiet on that front. Because they had received help. Gaara had given it to them. When he could.

That’s a complicated can of worms.

“Should we tell Sakura?” Kankuro asked Gaara.

“Sakura?” Temari sat up straight in the chair, wincing at the movement. “Sakura Haruno is here?”

Kankuro snorted. “Do you know any other Sakura’s?”

It was Gaara’s turn to wince. “She is here.”

His sister looked anxious all of a sudden. “Why?”

Kankuro snorted again, this time a little louder. “Because we have a traitor in the council.”

Temari’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Keep your voice down,” Gaara said. Sakura could wake up. They could gather the attention of the Root shadow outside. He felt the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind his eyes.

“Why is she here?”

“Danzo sent her,” Kankuro said. She scoffed but he continued. “He and our esteemed council decided it was high time Gaara is married.”

Temari raised her eyebrows at Gaara, and the redhead scowled at the light twitching of humour at the corner of her mouth. She stamped it down, though. “If we can’t trust the council–”

“We can trust Ebizō,” Gaara interrupted. “I have a deal with him,” he added, when his siblings looked sceptical. “And you forget all he’s done for the village.”

“We don’t forget, Gaara,” she said, pressing a hand to her side again and wincing. “We simply overlook it.”

“What deal?” Kankuro asked.

Gaara glanced up at the ceiling. “If he retires now, that will leave the council in chaos. I persuaded him to remain, to groom Councillor Ryūsa for the position.”

“And what does he get in return?”

Gaara didn’t want to say. It wasn’t horrible. It just wasn’t the most ethical bribe he’d ever made. Lord Ebizō had initially gone into retirement because of Lady Chiyo. He’d stopped caring about the cycle of ninja problems because of his sister. And now she was dead. Ebizō had always been the more rational of the two. If things didn’t improve, his retirement would become impossible. Or permanent, if he was ever attacked, out in that oasis all alone.

“Come on, Gaara!” Kankuro said. “You can tell us.”

“I know that. It’s just…”

“You keep him in the loop,” Temari guessed. “Even when you feel the need to hide things from other council members.”

“It is a mutual exchange of information,” Gaara said. He waved a hand between himself and his siblings. “Us, Baki and Ebizō are the only ones I trust.”

“You trust us enough to not tell us about Ebizō until now?”

Temari frowned. “Shut it, Kankuro.” She turned to Gaara. “What about Sakura? How does she fit into all these machinations?”

“She doesn’t.”

“How could she not?” She pointed to the scroll still in Gaara’s hands. “She deserves to know–”

“No.” Gaara returned her icy stare.

“Why?”

Gaara eased off on his stare but didn’t back down. His ability to protect the village lessened with every person who knew about that. He did not believe for one moment that Sakura Haruno would shout it at the top of her lungs, let alone pass the knowledge along quietly to the last people who should know. It wasn’t the point. But he’d promised Naruto to keep her safe. To keep anyone from the Leaf that ever came into his care safe. He did not know when or why it would happen, but the blond had been adamant. And Gaara would not deny the wishes of a dead man.

He closed his eyes, lightly rubbing a slight pain on his chest. Gaara moved to the third chair, feeling exhausted.

But was his silence truly keeping Sakura safe? What would she do if he told her? Would she try to escape and get herself killed trying to track those people down? She was so broken. It was clear to anyone who spent even a short amount of time around her. Could he believe she wouldn’t do something reckless, heedless of her own safety? And how was she even going to find them anyway? Nobody had, for two years. Gaara’s communications with them had been mostly one-sided. He had no idea, right this moment, how to contact them until they broke that silence themselves.

(But of course, he had been trying to, with no luck so far.)

He had no answers for any of that. But Gaara wasn’t an idiot. He knew she would find out eventually. His plans were in a delicate balance right now and pulling one thread from it could bring the whole thing down.

“We need to find out who the council traitor is first,” he said, his voice stronger than he felt. “That is our main priority.”

Temari looked like she wanted to argue more but thought better of it. She sighed and settled further into the chair, almost like she was trying to merge with it. Silence. The siblings all sat, twiddling their proverbial thumbs. Kankuro wanted to talk more about the state his sister was in. Gaara wanted this discussion to get to the point so he could order her to go see a medic. Temari just wanted a hot bath.

She sighed wistfully. “I didn’t know she was still in Konoha.”

Kankuro nodded, biting the inside of his mouth. “Nobody did, apparently. Fire’s best kept secret. Probably some sick game Danzo is playing.”

“How is she?” She asked.

Gaara understood that Temari was more empathetic to people than her reputation let on, but he was surprised by the concern in her voice. He wondered if it was because of what had happened to the Leaf as a whole. Or maybe she was being protective in remembrance for another Leaf shinobi she continued to pine for, long after his death. Gaara remained quiet, contemplating that while his siblings continued talking.

“How long has she been here?”

“I dunno. Maybe three weeks.”

“What has she been doing, missions, hospital–”

“The council wants her in the wedding plans.”

Temari scoffed. “Old farts.”

“I know right? That’s what I said!”

Their discussion moved from what Sakura was doing to what they planned to do with her. This façade of an engagement. How Gaara had been delaying the preparations. And landed on the pinkette’s thievery.

“Plus,” Kankuro pointed a finger at the air, “I’m pretty sure she’s been stealing ink bottles from Gaara’s study. She asked me for some once but that doesn’t account for how much more I’ve had to buy.”

Temari didn’t look convinced. “Why would she want ink?”

“She claims it’s for journal writing. Or maybe it was for writing letters. I don’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gaara interjected as Temari moved to reply. He wasn’t worried about whatever it was Sakura was using the ink for. He had a feeling it was personal, anyway. And if he could help by turning a blind eye, he would. His siblings looked mollified and fell silent. But eventually, Kankuro had to speak. It was a compulsion.

“She’s looking better though.” He waggled his eyebrows at Gaara.

Temari glared at him. “If I could get up without pulling something right now, I’d smack you.” She sighed as her brothers’ expressions grew grim. “About this thing with Danzo…”

That was another can of worms. Temari knew the alliance they had was just for show. But she was behind on why they were going along with it.

Kankuro lost his smile. “His shadows are up to something.”

Temari looked confused for a moment, then it dawned on her. “There’s a Foundation member in the village?”

“I forgot that’s their official name,” he replied, pulling a face. “But yeah, a Root member followed Sakura on this mission of hers. We’re keeping him out of sensitive areas of the village,” he added, when Temari looked scandalised. “And Gaara has a couple of Anbu trailing him at all times. The fucker gets around, let me tell you.”

Temari nodded, then sighed. “It seems I missed a lot.”

“Does that mean you’re staying now?”

“Kankuro,” she said snappily.

“Temari,” he mocked her.

“I have to–”

“No, you don’t,” he snapped. “There are other ninja in this village who can–”

Temari groaned, her voice rising as she interrupted him. “So, you’re fine with others getting hurt and maybe dying in my place while I sit here, holed up and doing nothing of value?”

“Yes! Yes, I am!”

She gripped the arms of her chair painfully, seething and glaring at him as he glared right back. Then she winced and clutched at her side. Temari took a deep breath, her face tinged red with anger. “Well, that’s just–”

“Keep your voices down,” Gaara said, echoing his earlier sentiment. He agreed with Kankuro, but as the Kazekage he couldn’t voice the fact that he’d rather send multiple squadrons out than risk his own sister. Even in front of family. Temari sat back in her chair, staring at the ceiling and Kankuro stood, now pacing behind his armchair. This wasn’t the reunion Gaara had been hoping for. But tension was a given among siblings, no matter their relationship. He waited a few minutes for tempers to settle and opened his mouth to speak again, but Temari beat him to it.

Her eyes had drifted in the direction of the internal staircase. She looked determined. “I want to see her.”

“She is asleep,” Gaara said, ignoring the way Kankuro smirked and waggled his eyebrows, clearly remembering where his brother had been when Temari had returned. “I do not wish to disturb her.”

And she was so exhausted, Gaara doubted she’d be lucid enough for an impromptu visit, even if Temari did wake her up. He had no idea how tiring the events of every day was for her. Especially one as jam packed with work at the hospital as the current day had been. Not to mention how she’d tired herself out with that meltdown. She needed to rest.

Temari nodded slowly. “Okay. In the morning, then.”

“You should get healed up,” Kankuro told her. “You’re no good to anyone in this state,” he added, when she growled at him.

“Kankuro is right,” Gaara said, and she sighed. “You could barely walk into the room and are clearly in pain.”

She glared at them both.

“Temari–”

“Fine. If…” She looked away, her cheeks turning red, “someone could help me to the medical core… thanks.”

Kankuro strode over to her immediately and Gaara stood and ducked to lift her slowly so she could stand. She winced again and he almost called his sand to help but decided to manually move her. They hobbled toward the front door.

Kankuro tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got this. You need to rest. You look worse than you did yesterday.”

That was true. His own sleep had been even more strained as of late, as well. Gaara nodded reluctantly and moved out of the way as his brother shifted to guide their sister better. She would not be carried like she was a child, so he kept her upright and grunted under her weight. Perhaps it was her way also, of punishing him for those earlier remarks. Temari spared Gaara a soft look and he smiled at his sister.

“It is not weak to accept help when you need it,” her admonished as Kankuro took her away. He knew she’d heard him. He could only hope she understood.

.:.

The sound of heavy rain startled her out of her cosy dreams. Light streamed into the room and she blinked heavily, a warm smile on her face. There was no rain. It existed only in her mind. But that was okay. She’d slept well, all things considered. Surprisingly enough. Maybe it had something to do with how she’d exhausted herself the previous night. Sakura had cried herself to sleep a number of times over the years but never did it leave her feeling so refreshed, come morning.

Or maybe it was Gaara.

Even if it wasn’t, it made her feel warm. Safe. Content. She snuggled into the bed sheets and poked a tongue at herself, giggling softly into her pillow as she stretched out as far as she could. There was no logical reason for it but she felt ridiculously happy.

Ridiculous.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to question it. Sakura closed her eyes and rolled over, away from the sunlight. But the warmth of it on her back was comforting. All she cared about was that post-dream feeling she’d missed having for a very long time. This was what mornings were supposed to feel like. No headaches. No post-nightmare illusions. She wondered idly if the Prazosin she’d stolen from the hospital had anything to do with this but it was probably too early for the effects to kick in.

Not that it mattered, really. She sighed once more before holding her breath, eyes wide.

There’s a new chakra signature in the building.

She sat up quickly and froze, heart racing.

Who is that?

The familiarity of it struck her but she couldn’t place it. They flared and it spiked a few times as though in warning but it came with no war cry or burst of aggressive pulses. No hand signs were being woven.

Just saying, hello or I’m home. What the hell?

But they’d made it through the sealing barrier and whomever they were, Kankuro was with them so she knew it wasn’t an intruder. Sakura laid back down, following Gaara’s chakra as she sensed him leave his room and join Kankuro and the new (but not really new) person down stairs. She smiled. Her housemates had a really predictable sleep schedule.

She knew that Kankuro fell asleep pretty fast, when he was alone. In that case she simply had to wait for about ten minutes of silence, to be sure there were no conscious occupants of the room. Sakura smiled at that, though she was always careful to silence her room as best as possible. It made her wonder if Gaara (or Temari) had ever called him out on how loud he could be.

Gaara was another matter. He clearly still had a residual level of insomnia so if she wanted to sneak down to the first floor (for example), she had to make it look like she was going for a midnight snack. If he found her, she needed an excuse. She liked the snacks they stocked, so it fit.

Or icecream, she thought, remembering the previous encounter she’d had with Gaara. It still burned her with embarrasment. The council wanted to take the kunai back but she felt a weird sense of ownership over it that her anxiety let get out of control. She hated that her weakness was so obvious and that she’d overreacted to the thought of the kunai being taken away. She could still remember the uncontrollable bubble of emotion that raged right over her as she lost control of herself and her common sense.

She sighed.

I need to get up.

Sakura couldn’t lie in bed forever, and she was curious about this new chakra signature. After she quickly showered though, the anxiety had kicked back in so she decided to find out who they were later. Her hand had hovered over the door nob but she wasn’t ready to go out there and face any of them. The owner of the chakra had come upstairs and she realised with startling clarity that she knew who it was.

She still had memories of the tough, no-nonsense kunoichi that had clearly won the heart of her friend. Shikamaru. The thought of him made her eyes moist but she kept the tears from forming. Years ago, there’d been something special between Shikamaru and Temari, mixed in with their mutual griping. And while it hurt her heart to think of them never seeing each other again, she was glad the other kunoichi had survived.

Sakura pressed the palms of her hands against the door, instinctively pushing down her chakra past where she had already done so and listened to the sounds of Temari moving through the house, entering her own room. Followed by a few light crashes like she was tipping something over.

She’s okay?

Sakura wanted to go check but this was enough for now. She pulled away from the door, getting a face full of the messy scribbles of daily kanji she’d been adding to the back of it. She glared at them. No. She could add to it later. The clock on her wall told her it was almost breakfast time. Unlike dinner, breakfast seemed mostly an individual affair in this house.

But six o’clock was too early for her.

Sakura didn’t feel tired anymore though, so she decided to do something else. There was only one other thing that had been on her mind lately. But while she’d already perfected her ink bird creation and sent one scouting around the village, there was little Sakura could do without alerting either the Root shadow or other ninja to any escape attempt. It still felt important to her to use the creatures and find a path out, no matter what happened. But she also needed another provision, if she was ever going to accomplish this. Sakura needed poison. The land of wind had many avenues with which to explore this combat option, but very few that Sakura had any access to. After rattling through a long list of possibilities in her head, on how to do this, only one option stood out as even remotely feesible. She was going to have to find a venomous animal. A local one. A native. Something very dangerous. It was an exciting prospect.

The difference between poison and venom was simple: the former was used to refer to toxins that were injested (eaten, etc), and the later was applied to organisms that bite or sting to inject toxins. The way the foreign substance was introduced into the body was the key. She needed venom.

Sakura knew some poison jutsu learned from Shizune, but did not own any tools that could help. Everything she ever had on her person was highly regulated, even the travelling bag. Objects like her charcoal and a few trinkets she’d collected that had no combat value had only been allowed because they were inocuous and the Foundation members who poked and prodded it weren’t personally aware of any intimate connections they might have.

She had Sai’s charcoal, which he’d left behind in his apartment and was overlooked when Root ransacked the place. A ragged toad figurine that Naruto had startled her with once as a practical joke and she’d found in rubble near his destroyed apartment. A twig from Yamato’s Wood Release from that time he’d used his technique to help her save her dying plant; it had still been in her parent’s house, waiting for her. A fingerless glove of Kakashi’s, minus the metal plate; she’d found it not far from the last known location of his body. And a scrap of material she’d torn from Sasuke’s mostly burnt Konoha headband that was going to be thrown out after a Root member was caught keeping it as a trophy. These items had each been carefully collected over time, starting with the charcoal during her first time free of the Root headquarters.

Sakura ran her fingers over the travel bag without opening it. The urge to do so was strong though. But no, they were best left covered and out of sight. She had trinkets and nothing useful for what she planned to get out of her stay in Suna. She hadn’t gone out of her way to procur weapons or poisons that Danzo hadn’t assigned to her or she hadn’t stolen, in years.

The preparation this kunai was going to need was more complicated than simply dipping it in venom, so her resources were limited. Trying to get everything she needed would draw too much attention.

I can handle this.

She’d had larger stumbling blocks. She just needed to focus on the things she could do more easily, right now. But that venom was non-negotiable.

Sakura had already practised giving instructions to the ink birds she sent on reconnaisance, so she imagined telling one to bring her a poisonous snake wouldn’t be difficult. She just needed the right tools for this job. Ink based tools, to be precise.

Sakura knelt down on the floor of her bedroom, tucking her feet under her bum and opened the stopper for the ink well, laying out the scroll as usual. She didn’t need to reference the book to get the image and proportions right this time. Practice made perfect but only if you were capable of it. She would just have to deal with what came out of this. But the repetitive motions had afforded her more leeway. She could even experiment with the shape more than before. She ran through the familiar movements, bringing the bird to life first and she smiled as it cawed at her.

“Sshh!” She held a finger to her lips and it obediently dipped its head in a show of what this weird version of anthropomorphism would call compliance. It had been loud, but there was no noise from outside her room. No feet rushed to find the source of the noise.

Sakura sighed in relief. “Keep quiet, okay?”

The bird dipped its head once more and flapped its wings.

“Okay.” She cleared her throat. The bird was larger than the rest as she’d modelled it after a vulture (bad artistic skills notwithstanding), though it was still smaller than the real birds of the species. She needed it large enough to catch a viper snake but not so large that many people would be drawn to it. It occurred to her that maybe this bird wasn’t enough. Wherever it found a snake (and Sakura was mostly sure there were some in a sanctuary within Suna itself, but maybe not) it had to grab it without alerting any humans in the area. Or any jutsu that could alert humans.

So another ink animal would be needed to accompany it.

Snakes had numerous natural predators, not the least of which was other snakes. It was perfect.

The size concerns for the ink snake were the same for the ink bird. She settled on forming a few generic looking snakes to test, as she’d done many times for the bird, but didn’t need to do it as much. They were a far simpler design. The snake she settled on reminded her of the viper in the book she’d borrowed from Kankuro and she was proud of how much better she was at that.

Still no better than a five year old’s drawing, mind.

Sakura tested the snake by telling it to leave the kazekage mansion for a few minutes before returning. Her heart raced as she watched it go, her eyes drifting to the clock on her wall as she counted out the seconds. She waited, with the ink bird impatiently hopping around and pecking at her floor (what was up with that?), and waited. Eventually, the snake slithered back in through the open window and she had to muffle a woop of excitement.

“Yes,” she said with a soft hiss and held her hand out to the snake. It moved to her without hesitation and coiled around her wrist, moving gently up her arm. She���d never held a real snake before so Sakura had no idea if these smooth and dry sensations were from the texture of the ink or just her imagination. It felt so soft though, as her poor attempts at scales were not even scales. But she couldn’t stop grinning.

The ink bird hopped over to her and tapped at the ink snake which caused the faux reptile to raise up and hiss at its attacker. It was more of a gurgling sound that only sounded like hissing if you really wanted it to.

“Hey,” she snapped. “Settle down.”

The bird gave her a baleful look that only made her chuckle at it. How did the damn thing have so much personality?

Maybe it stole mine.

That thought caused a new round of giggles from her. Her creations were so sloppy compared to what Sai could’ve done but the immensity of pride she felt over them could not be quashed. She hadn’t created anything for herself in so long, it felt like a lifetime since the last moment she’d ever felt this proud of herself. Sakura couldn’t remember the last time but logically it was from before Danzo’s takeover. Perhaps in the midst of battle or an accomplishment while studying more difficult medical jutsu.

It didn’t even matter.

She felt so free in that moment. So weightless.

I feel like I can take on the world.

If she could recreate these things then her plans were going to be so much easier.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, and both bird and snake facsimiles turned to face her. “I need a venomous snake. A real one. But…” She didn’t want it dead but Sakura also had no experience dealing with live snakes. They were dangerous, even if you chopped off their head. She could use the ink animals to subdue it but there’d always be that underlying fear that it would break loose and bite her. It was not rational for them to bring it back alive.

Sorry.

She sighed. “Let’s try for a viper – they’re native to the desert. Work together. Find something within Suna if you can, but stay out of sight.” She paused. “And kill it first. Quickly. But keep it constrained at all times, and bring the carcass to me, but only if I’m alone, like in this room. Just… don’t be seen.”

No reaction. Their lifeless eyes just stared at her. It was kind of creepy, but she’d prefer these to her look-alike mirage any day. “Now,” she barked.

They moved immediately; the bird hopped up to the window and waited for the snake to slither up to it. Under their own, respective power, they disappeared. Gone through the open window. Sakura watched them vanish, now feeling morose. Her mood dimmed. She had no idea if and when they would return, but despite this, was confident none of this would be in vain.

.:.

There was no excuse to delay it any longer. The day had begun. And like it or not, she had to return to her previous obligations. For now. Fresh on the high of having finally sent her ink creatures out to capture and kill a snake for her venom, Sakura dressed (having already showered), and then tentatively made her way downstairs, knowing all three of the sand siblings were waiting for her.

They were in the kitchen.

Sakura smelled the fried breakfast from the top of the stairs and on the last step, her stomach gurggled painfully. She walked into the kitchen and stopped immediately, her body tensing as one of the figures in the room turned and threw themselves at her. Normally, she’d have ducked out of the way and counterattacked but Sakura found herself rooted to the spot as Temari embraced her. The pinkette didn’t hug her back, despite all the alarm bells ringing in her head, reminding her she probably should. It was a weird way to feel torn. But she did relax into the blonde’s hold and waited her out instead of trying to push her away.

“Come on, Temari,” Kankuro said eventually. “Let her breathe and eat something before you attempt to suffocate her, at least.”

“Sorry.”

Sakura plastered a fake smile to her face as Temari pulled away. The blonde winced immediately.

Bad fake smile.

She was ushered over to the island in the middle of the kitchen, next to Gaara, who gave her a small smile that she easily returned. It seemed they were all waiting for her to do or say something.

“Thank-you,” she whispered, when Kankuro handed her a plate ladden with fired bacon, eggs, and tomato.

“Anything you want to add?” He asked, and she chose some extra bacon and some onion. Lots of it.

Sakura smiled around her food as the siblings fell into silence, thankfully not all staring at her now.

Well this is fun.

.:.

After breakfast, a knock on the door signalled the arrival of Matsuri and Yukata, who had taken over supervisory roles of escorting Sakura to the wedding planning. Gaara had been able to get Sakura out of most of these ridiculous days, but the council had insisted she attend a few days a week, and today was one of those days. He watched her face fall when she realised, but then lighten up when Kankuro flung the door open to reveal her new escorts.

Matsuri and Yukata greeted Temari warmly, clearly having not realised she was back, then did their duty and escorted Sakura away.

Silence fell in their wake. Not that there had been a rabble of noise before then.

Kankuro whistled. “Well, that was interesting.”

Temari’s confusion was evident. She was biting her bottom lip and staring at the door like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. Gaara felt the need to tell her everything. So, he did. In short, stilted sentences, but leaving out all the intimate moments he’d had with Sakura. Just the highlights of the important things.

Temari let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, fuck me.”

Kankuro laughed and coughed at the same time. She ignored him.

“This complicates things,” she said. “How much have you told her about this fake engagement?”

“He’s been avoiding her,” Kankuro said.

“I have not.”

The brunette just laughed.

“She joins us for dinner every night,” Gaara said. “And… I may have. A little.”

Except for moments like last night. Which they didn’t need the details of.

Temari snorted. “Well, if it’s from some misguided sense of not wanting to get close to her since this marriage thing is clearly a sham, then stop it.” She held up a hand to stop his retort, if in fact he meant to reply when he stood taller and opened his mouth slightly. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that by avoiding her, you might be doing more harm than good? That it could be interpreted as her not being good enough. That you might as well be strangers?”

“Aren’t you overreacting?” Kankuro asked.

“No,” she snapped.

The emotion on her face startled her brothers. Gaara remembered Temari had been on good terms with Sakura several years ago but that hardly equated to the level of protectiveness rolling off her right now. Again, he wondered if it was misdirected concern because of that Leaf shinobi she had grown close to.

“I cannot speak to the reality for those on the front lines,” Gaara said. “She went through… something. I don’t know.” He sighed. “She is not the woman we recall.”

“But–”

“But,” Gaara began, drawing the word out. “I have no intention of allowing harm to come to her for as long as she remains our guest.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I want to,” he said, and sighed again, running a hand over his face. “She is strong but fragile. Anything I say may set her off. She seems so delicate. Like a battered flower more than the emotional teenager from my memories. Last night, she broke down over a kunai that was meant to kill her. I do not wish to add to that.”

“Look,” Temari said, “I can’t say what everyone under Danzo’s tyranny has gone through, but from my own personal, subjective and limited experience with anything to do with that regime, I think that whatever you can imagine she endured, the reality was worse.” Her brothers shared a confused look as she continued. “I’ve heard rumours; nothing that can be corroborated. The Foundation are very good at brainwashing techniques. The really barbaric kind of techniques.”

Kankuro groaned. “What does that mean?”

“Danzo is an expert in sealing jutsu,” she continued, ignoring Kankuro and addressing Gaara. “Rumour has it that he implanted every Root member with his own personal sealing jutsu. I can only imagine what kind of invasive things he’s done to others, including Sakura.”

“Where did you hear all of this?”

“Around.”

“No wonder she is the way she is,” Kankuro said. “I’d have run off by now, in her place.”

Gaara knew from his own experience that a broken mind was easier to predict than most people believed. She had nowhere else to go but back to Konoha. It was familiar. And she likely had no idea the Resistance even existed. What else was she going to do? And he knew that runaway Leaf ninja were not spared quick deaths. It still boggled his mind that she was still a part of all that though.

“Anything’s possible,” Temari said, leaning back against the island in the middle of the kitchen and crossing her arms. “The human psyche is really complicated.”

Gaara didn’t want to talk about this anymore, but these things needed to be said. “She needs therapy.”

“Therapy?” Kankuro was confused.

Another thing he had to explain.

They both gave him strange looks.

“Maybe you could be her therapist,” Temari said. She raised an eyebrow at Gaara when he baulked. “Or maybe I’ll do it.”

“She’ll have to be willing,” he said.

“How to convince Sakura-san to go to a mind medic. Hm.” Kankuro rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was clearly drawing this out for dramatic effect. “Well, I’m drawing a blank.”

Temari scoffed. “You’re always drawing a blank.”

“There’s no such thing as a mind medic,” Gaara said.

“Oh? I guess I just assumed…”

“Then what was all this talk for?”

“Civilian therapist.”

“Eh, I don’t know about that, Gaara.”

The redhead scowled. “I want to be honest with her. But… I don’t know how.”

“How she’ll take it?”

He nodded. “The civilian therapist said not to force or manipulate her into it. She has to do it willingly. And knowingly.”

“You spoke to a civilian therapist on her behalf?”

Gaara felt his face heat up. But what he was so embarrassed over, he didn’t know.

“Well, at least it’s a start.”

That was that, then. What they needed to do was convince her in a way that didn’t back her into a corner.

“How much of this do we tell her?” Kankuro asked.

“Only what’s necessary,” Gaara replied. “We don’t want to overwhelm her.”

“And we need to kill that Danzo bastard,” Temari said. She rolled her eyes when Gaara raised a non-existent eyebrow. “Don’t try to convince me you’re not planning on it. This isn’t the world that Naruto wanted. And it’s his vision you’re trying to uphold. Everything you’ve been doing behind the scenes, apparently with Lord Ebizō’s approval, has been leading to Danzo’s head on a spike, right?”

Gaara sighed, nodding.

“Then it’s like I said: we need to kill that Danzo bastard.”

“Hell yeah!” Kankuro let out a whoop.

“Let’s hope it all goes according to plan.”

“Don’t be a wet noodle, Gaara.”

“Don’t forget we still have one or more council traitors to deal with first. We can’t move against Danzo until they’re disposed of.”

Temari smiled. “You really are a wet noodle, Gaara.”

He shook his head but couldn’t suppress a smile. They fell silent for a moment. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the air.

“This feels strange,” Temari said. “Talking about Sakura like this behind her back,” she added, when her brothers looked confused. “I know we don’t mean anything by it, it’s just… after everything that’s happened. I think we’re all a little broken.”

Gaara stood up straighter, unable to prevent the pang of guilt he felt at the reminder that he still sent Temari out there in this climate. His sister was too stubborn to just sit on the bench and wait it out. She had also lost someone she loved, just as Sakura had. The Nara boy whose given name Gaara could never remember. Temari didn’t even have the closure of knowing who killed the Leaf ninja, let alone how it happened.

He was just gone.

And that is why she still goes out there.

“You should ask her on a date,” Kankuro said suddenly. He blushed as they both turned to stare at him. “Well, he should.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Temari said, impressed. “He could do it under the guise of getting to know her better because of the engagement.” She poked Gaara’s arm. “Which you will do, regardless. Date her, talk to her, and try to figure out how we can help her in the meantime.”

He sighed and nodded. Gaara wasn’t opposed to the idea, but there were so many ways this could go wrong.

“This is cool,” Kankuro smiled widely. “And if they really hit it off, maybe it won’t be fake anymore.”

Gaara just rolled his eyes.

“In the meantime,” Temari said, rubbing her hands together in a mock evil genius gesture, “go get that date organised.”

“When I return tonight,” he promised, before turning on his heel and leaving.

His siblings watched him leave.

Kankuro gave Temari a one-armed hug. “Aaww, he cares about her.”

“Get off me.” She shoved him away, ignoring his yelp when Kankuro fell over. “Brothers.”

.:.

Where the hell are they?

Sakura had just returned from her day of hellish wedding plans and one of the few things that had gotten her through the day was the hope to see her ink creations returning with a dead snake in her bedroom.

Weird kink.

“Perfect for someone so fucked up.”

Sakura glanced toward the door to her closet where the mirage stood, a maniacal grin on its ugly face a shiver running down her spine. She tried standing up to the damn thing, but it made no difference. It freaked her out. Old and new pain.

“Just admit it: your little experiment failed. You took drugs to sleep better but you’re as fucked up as ever.”

“Shut up.” Sakura started pacing her room. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just a mindless, stupid, ugly mirage.”

Not mature, but she didn’t care.

The figure floated toward her, and she stepped backward.

“You’re regressing,” it said. “Letting your fears barricade you in this room. Because you know you don’t deserve anything better.”

“You’re wrong.”

It cackled.

Shaking, Sakura moved toward the window and turned away from the ugly mirror that was the mirage. It was like turning your back on an enemy when you know they have a kunai in their hand. Her own kunai was currently tucked in the window frame. She stroked the handle as it sat in the grooves of the frame, lovingly. There were no distinguishing marks, because it had been procured for a man whose final mission was to sneak into the hidden sand village for assassination, but she liked the blandness of it.

And soon it’ll shine. Soon it’ll sing and shine and kill. With poison.

She smiled at that, forcing herself to ignore the mirage, hoping it had disappeared behind her back.

The sunset was still a little while away, so she just stood and watched the light patters of the bright rays as they slowly changed colour to signal the end of the day. A soft breeze made her shiver, but she embraced it. Even the occasional shadowy hint that her Root stalker was nearby didn’t lessen the contentment she felt as she stroked the kunai. Over and over again.

Blessed silence.

And then the sun fell from the sky.

When she finally heard Gaara return and climb the stairs to his room, Sakura pushed away from the window, leaving the kunai behind. The mirage watched as she grabbed the stick of charcoal from her travel bag and wrote the kanji for twenty-four on the back of the door before leaving the room. She wasn’t going to get anywhere just hiding out with her broken psyche. It grinned at her, like it was silently challenging her to do what she was about to do. Or telling her she was too chicken to even try.

I’ll show you.

She drew a deep breath and then threw her bedroom door open. Adrenaline drove her. She moved, forcing herself not to overthink it. If she stopped and ran through the ramifications of what she was about to do, in her mind, she would not be doing it.

Now or never.

Sakura knocked on the door. His door. No hesitation. No fear. Even as she clasped her hands together in an attempt to control the trembling. Noise from within. She gulped. And forced a smile to her face as the door swung open.

Gaara looked a little surprised to see her. She supposed if her chakra wasn’t currently suppressed instinctively, he’d have sensed her coming.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

Sakura cleared her throat. “Can we talk?”

Gaara moved to let her into his room and closed the door. “I was hoping to speak with you soon.”

“You were?” She was surprised.

Gods this is nerve wracking.

He looked a little nervous now too.

“We should spend some time together.”

What the hell was that?

Her eyes widened. He just blurted it out. The edges of his ears were tinged pink, and his face was slightly flushed. It was cute. He was cute. Incredibly so. She had to hold back a grin. Her heart was racing. In a good way.

“Like a date?”

He nodded. She didn’t think anyone’s face could get that red, that fast. It made her swell with pride. Maybe she could have a little fun with him after all. If he was up to it. If he even knew what that meant. But no matter how excited he was making her; Sakura still felt a bundle of nerves eating at her stomach.

“Okay,” she said, trying not to stutter. He let out a sharp breath and a genuine smiled lit up his face, making her face warm. She tried to return the smile as nonchalantly as possible. “Yeah. I’d l-like that.”

Did someone raise the thermostat? It just got incredibly hot in here.

.:.

[drippingheart]

howdy, worms and germs. this is an indie rp blog dedicated to Getō Suguru and Fushiguro Megumi from Jujutsu Kaisen. my portrayal is both anime and manga based. manga events will not be spoiled.

! ! ! themes present but are not limited to: violence, gore, abandonment issues, childhood trauma, depression, mass murder, child soldiers. this is not to say all my threads and headcanons will be violent or solemn. I do enjoy the light hearted side of friendship and bonding, but the trauma of being a jujutsu sorcerer is very important in my portrayals.

also important : I do not condone Suguru's actions. this is fiction. I love delving into his psychology and motivation. I try to understand it to a point, but his actions and mentality are not a reflection of mine. I am pro villains; their accurate portrayals are interesting.

𝟎𝟎 details on megumi. 𝟎𝟎 details on suguru. 𝟎𝟏 promo. 𝟎𝟐 megumi visuals. 𝟎𝟐 suguru visuals. 𝟎𝟑 plotting call. 𝟎𝟒 memes. 𝟎𝟒 meme call. 𝟎𝟓 character study. 𝟎𝟔 alternate verses. 𝟎𝟕 introspection.

Rules are below the cut.

I’ll spare you anything long winded though these are definitely subject to change and certainly up for lengthening in the future!

—   𝟎𝟏   I run a mutuals only blog. If I follow you, I want to WRITE with you. I don’t collect followers and like to keep a tidy blog of people who interact with me. Since you’re reading this, that means you care enough to do so. I won’t bite your head off; please feel free to send memes or hit me up for a thread idea. I often clean up my follow list through soft blocks.

—  𝟎𝟐   I don’t write one liners or semis. The more you write, the more I’m inclined to reply rapidly. Quality and quantity fuel my motivation! I truly enjoy world building and scene progression, so novella length threads are sought. Plotting and winging things are equally enjoyed, however for lengthy and detailed threads ( esp crossovers ), plotting is preferred. I have a plotting call linked above.

—   𝟎𝟑  This is an 18+ blog as I am nearing my thirties. I don’t foresee posting NSFW images, but I write heavily graphic scenes thus don’t feel comfortable writing with minors. Any suggestive aesthetics or sinday memes will be tagged as " after dark .".  I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and I don’t want to make any of my followers uncomfortable. More regarding potential smut is below.

—  𝟎𝟒  I don’t have any triggers and don’t tag any triggers. Threads are generally rated M, but I can go PG-13 depending on who I am writing with. I do not shy away from violent and graphic scenes fyi; I really enjoy writing them actually! I encourage you to message me if you would like to write out something extremely graphic. Violence aside, smut may make an appearance. It is not the goal of my writing. If there's chemistry in the thread and between the writers, well ... who am I to say no. In the case of potential smut, aging up characters is fine; I know some people are sensitive about this. Smut will only occur with male characters as I am gay in real life and choose to depict Suguru and Megumi as gay, albeit not openly.

—   𝟎𝟓  When it comes to ages, I think it's vital to keep character ages canon. Yeah, JJk is great with all the lore and action, but the ages of the characters and the soul crushing and life threatening lives they live is the heart of the series. What everyone goes through as a child and as a teenager is incredibly vital. The only time I think aging up is alright is in terms of smut. Having said that, I'm not opposed to writing crushes or romances during their teens. 

—  𝟎𝟔  I do moderate edits and formatting. Formatting isn’t a deal breaker with me honestly. I prefer length over pretty aesthetics. I do ask that you cut posts; I won’t be following if you don’t cut your posts or fail to tag your posts — all of your posts especially your ooc and negativity posts.

—  𝟎𝟕 Crossovers are loooooved to other animes/mangas, video games, to shows and movies. Do not be afraid to reach out with crossover ideas. I am also very much interested in AU threads especially involving Suguru since there is a lot of potential with him. So far, I have FFVII verses written up for both of the dudes. Provided interest, I will write up verses for Bleach, Castlevania, and the Witcher among other things. 

—  𝟎𝟖   As stated earlier, currently I am all caught up with the manga. For those who are only watching the anime, I will not incorporate any manga elements in our threads. I do not openly discuss spoilers for the sake of other people. If I do discuss anything that may be considered a spoiler, it will be tagged as "jjk spoilers ." Headcanons and drabbles including the events of the manga will be tagged with the aforementioned tag.

—  𝟎𝟗   Regarding Suguru, it is my preference to write him just as Suguru not as Kenjaku, however I am not opposed to it for the sake of an interesting thread. On that similar note, I am happy to write Suguru as a teenager and Megumi as a little kid for any relevant threads.

—  𝟏𝟎   I encourage you to like the content you see. If you like the images, headcanons, songs I post, you are more than welcome to like them. Do not reblog my personal edits, headcanons, and even images I find and post ( still tag with art credit ) unless I have tagged you in the post. You are also welcome to tag me in posts; that would make me very happy! When it comes to memes, please reblog from the source. PLEASE.

—  𝟏𝟏   When it comes to asks/memes, I treat them as independent little snippets. Sort of like insights with some or no background information. Sometimes I write them intentionally vague because it's what comes to me at the moment. I do not treat ask responses as starters, however you are more than welcome to continue a response of mine if you like it enough! Also, I have an ask box call linked above, and you are always welcome to like and comment it whenever you want to be sent things. Seriously. You'll never pester me. You can like request ask box things 24/7.

—  𝟏𝟐   IMPORTANT — I am a firm supporter of people being able to write whatever the fuck they want. This is all fiction; people tend to forget that. I will never judge someone nor post anything to harm/bash someone for their choices. Let people write what they want just as famous writers do. There's really no difference except famous writers get paid to do so. This is a creative journey, bruh. Images used in my banner were found on an ai image website. Don't like that? Do not interact.

[ladylilithprime]

In Health

Series: Fluffy Faerie Tales

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Sastimmy/Jamstiel (Jimmy Novak/Sam Winchester/Castiel)

Rating: Teen and Up

Tags/Warnings: Half-Fae Sam Winchester, Jimmy and Castiel Are Twins, Selkie Jack Kline, Sam Winchester Is Jack Kline's Adopted Father, Brief Allusions to Canon-Typical Violence, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Magical Twins Of Two Types, Touch Starvation, Tattoos, Faerie Culture, Trust, Discussion of Magical Gender Reassignment Through Faerie Glamour, Trans Amelia Novak, Mentions of Contractual Pregnancy

Summary: Meeting your boyfriend's magical twin who shares his body can be a tricky situation, especially when that twin is king of a hell dimension. It goes better than expected, and gives Sam the confidence to share another secret with his lovers.

For: @fluffyfebruary challenge!

Prompt: Day 28: Shy

Read on AO3

MEETING YOUR FAERIE boyfriend's magical twin under safe conditions was apparently a bit of a process when your boyfriend's twin was known to be much more aggressive and prone to violence. Per Cas's request, they waited until nobody was sick (Jimmy unfortunately caught the same flu, though Sam managed to escape it) and Jack was safely over at Donna and Amelia's place for a sleepover with Donna's foster son Matt before Sam sat the twins down on the couch and stepped back.

"Remember, I don't really know how he's going to react to you," Sam cautioned them. "The kinds of people he's most used to dealing with are demons and people trying to kill us, so just... be as completely honest as you can and keep your hands where he can see them?"

"We will," Jimmy and Cas agreed, nodding. Sam nodded back, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing visibly happened save for a kind of frozen stillness coming over Sam. Then his skin seemed to ripple and change, becoming slightly darker and then darker still in patches black as ink as a black nine-pointed star appeared in the center of his forehead and spread outwards in twisting, angular lines, intricate knotwork and runic patterns tracing their way across his face and neck and bare chest and arms and every other place Cas and Jimmy could see. The simple jeans Sam had been wearing seemed to blink out of sight to be replaced with black leather that matched the massive black and red bat-like wings that seemed to unfold from the shadows at his back, a matching black and red tail with a three-wedged spear-like tip sweeping around to hover just in front like a weapon at the ready. Chestnut brown hair darkened to sable and lengthened until it was to his waist, even as curving black horns with sharp golden points seemed to grow up from beneath his hair above his closed eyes. Then those eyes opened, showing a full sclera of glowing gold surrounding narrow slitted pupils.

"You are John Castiel Novak and James Constantine Novak," the much more resonant voice of their lover intoned. "My name is Gethserefael."

"You're just... telling us?" Jimmy couldn't help but ask, blinking. It had taken months and an alicorn attack before Jimmy and Cas had learned Sam's full true name from Dean yelling it, and a couple of painfully awkward conversations afterwards before any of them had cautiously broached the subject and Sam had told them what his name meant and given them permission to call him by it in private. "Just like that?"

"Serendderch holds both your names and trusts you with his own," Gethserefael said with a one-shouldered shrug that also moved his corresponding wing. "As well, you are both fully human and not magically inclined. What can you do to me from knowing my name?"

"Nothing that we'd also be willing to do," Cas admitted, earning a flicker of a smile from Gethserefael. Jimmy kind of suspected that his question had been rhetorical. "Do you have a preferred nickname or alias that you would like us to use?"

"Not especially," Gethserefael said after a momentary pause. Those golden, glowing eyes were harder to read than Sam's usually were, but Jimmy thought he might have been surprised by the question. "Lucifer calls me Samael, but then he also calls Serendderch that name, as if there is no difference between us. Most of the demons I must deal with call me 'my Lord' or 'Majesty' or some such title, which feels inappropriate to demand of my twin's lovers."

"Is it alright with you if we come up with a nickname or two for you ourselves?" Jimmy asked. "What's your name mean? I'm guessing something to do with stars..."

"'Dark star prince' is the most direct translation," Gethserefael said, one hand coming up to gesture at the star mark on his forehead and incidentally drawing attention to the blackened fingers and gold-tipped claws on his hands. "You may choose a shorter form of name for me if you prefer. I believe my twin's son refers to me as 'Uncle Geth', though we have yet to meet."

"We'll think on it for now," Cas said, exchanging a look with Jimmy. "May we ask questions about your chosen glamour?"

"You may," Gethserefael agreed, eyebrows going up. "I may decide not to answer them."

"We accept that," Jimmy agreed as Cas nodded. "Why the tattoos? Don't get me wrong, they look amazing, but they also look like they go everywhere ."

"They do," Gethserefael said, extending his arms and turning them for them to see, then folded his wings in and twisted a bit so they could see the lines across his sides and back. "These are the same wardmarks that Serendderch has beneath his own glamours, except that his are blue and I glamour them black to match the color and level of intimidation from my other glamoured features."

"Do you feel sensation from your glamoured extremities?" Cas asked, leaning forward very slightly and studying the curving tail that was actually twitching at the tip much like a cat's might.

"Of course," Gethserefael said, sounding a bit surprised. "It would not be very effectively intimidating to be knocking into walls or people or overturning furniture by accident because I could not track the positioning of my wings or tail. Likewise the need to avoid low doorways or light fixtures to avoid knocking into them with my horns."

"But they're illusions, right?" Jimmy blinked, tilting his head to get a different angle of line of sight on the wall behind the wings. Sure enough, there were shadows of them and the tail. "How do they have substance?"

"How is Amelia Jane Everett's womb able to allow her to conceive a child with her egg and your seed?" Gethserefael asked with a shrug. "The magic is the same. Just because a glamour is considered an illusion does not mean it isn't real."

That was producing some very interesting thoughts and Jimmy had to ruthlessly keep those thoughts from wandering down a more lustful path. The mention of Amelia's pregnancy worked as a decent distraction, because he had been wondering about how it had worked and how it differed from the spell Sam had done for him and Cas, but it hadn't felt polite to ask. It still didn't, but... "Is it going to affect the baby that Amelia's egg is part of the glamour?"

"Doubtful," Gethserefael said, a visibly thoughtful expression crossing his face. "The eggs were formed from extant sperm cells present in her testes when they became her ovaries, so the genetic material is the same and once the child is born it won't matter." He shrugged. "If you want a more comprehensive explanation of the mechanics behind glamour magic, it would be best to ask Serendderch as he is the one who studied extensively with Math after my genesis and Ceridmael's temper tantrum over my existence."

The name was vaguely familiar, but it took a moment for Jimmy to place where he had heard it and he very nearly swallowed his tongue. "Er, Dean definitely hasn't given us permission to use his true name."

"So don't," Gethserefael said with a negligent shrug. "My use of it has little to do with you. You already knew it, so I am not giving you new information, and he is not here to complain. I don't see him frequently enough to bother with his aliases, and I don't like him enough to grant him a nickname."

"Do you have a nickname for Sam?" Cas asked curiously.

"He has never indicated a desire for one."

"Well, if you feel inclined to call us Jimmy and Cas, we don't mind," Jimmy offered. "Or other nicknames if you'd rather make up your own."

"We like you enough to use nicknames with you, even if it's taking a bit to think of a good one," Cas added.

That got them the biggest change in expression yet, as Gethserefael's eyes went wide and his pupils expanded to nearly swallow up the golden glow in black, his wings quivering. He looked so surprised, so utterly bewildered at the pronouncement that Cas and Jimmy liked him, that Jimmy almost wanted to track Dean down and punch him. Hadn't Sam said Gethserefael was only about five or six hundred years old? Jimmy didn't know exactly what that translated to in faerie years, but he knew it was still almost a third of Sam's own age!

"You really mean that," he said, almost wonderingly.

"We know the futility of lying to a faerie, and we have no interest in lying to a friend," Jimmy told him with a shrug of his own. "We would very much like to be your friends."

"Curious," Gethserefael murmured, studying them both with that same thoughtful expression from before. "Iago," he said after a moment, pointing at Jimmy, then pointed to Cas. "Ioan. These are your given names as they would be spoken in Serendderch's homeland, but no one else here in this realm would think to call you by these names. They will be my names for you."

"Austra," Jimmy said, smiling a little sheepishly. "I've kinda been calling Sam my North Star in my head since he told us what his name means, and 'Austra' means 'south' in Latin while also sounding like 'astra' which means 'star'."

"Aurus," Cas suggested. "Latin for 'gold' like your eyes and the tips of your horns and claws. Also similar to Austra without being exactly the same so that it's distinctly my nickname for you and not Jimmy's. Can we hug you?"

"What?" Gethserefael actually blinked at them from surprise this time. "You... what?"

"Can we hug you? Well, may we hug you, really," Cas amended. "I know we probably can, but it's still polite to ask first, and asking if we can touch you might have come out wrong."

"If you would rather not be touched or hugged, you can say no," Jimmy added when Gethserefael continued to just stare at them. "We won't be offended."

"Why?" That bewildered expression from before that had tugged at Jimmy's chest so hard was back, and it was no less gut-wrenching for being more prepared.

"Platonic affection," Cas answered promptly. "For you as yourself and not just as a part of Sam, who is your brother but not the same person."

"Again, only if you're comfortable with it, Austra," Jimmy reiterated. "And that's because we want to respect your personal boundaries. We respect your intimidation factor, which is seriously awesome by the way, but we aren't afraid of you."

The assurance seemed to take Gethserefael even more aback than the initial request. Or maybe it was the active use of the nickname, Jimmy couldn't tell. He made himself wait, letting Gethserefael take his time to think about it, watching the way his hands flexed and his wings and tail kept twitching. Beside him, he could feel Cas making an effort to stay still and relaxed as he waited with Jimmy for their answer.

"Okay," Gethserefael said at length, extending his hands palms-up to Cas and Jimmy as he swept his tail to the side and out of the way.

He tensed visibly when they leaned forward to stand and Jimmy made sure to keep his body relaxed and his hands in plain sight as he slowly got up from the couch, Cas beside him. Together they approached Gethserefael and very gently took his hands, feeling the way they were trembling. Gethserefael was trembling.

"You can change your mind if this is too much," Jimmy said softly.

"No judgment," Cas added.

Gethserefael shook his head shortly, swallowing. This close Jimmy could see the varying shades of gold beneath the glow in his eyes around the catlike pupils. "I want to know how it feels."

Over five hundred years old and never hugged. Jimmy carefully didn't let himself think about that heartbreaking admission as he stepped closer, Cas at his side, and slid his hand carefully along Gethserefael's arm until he and Cas were fully embracing him, being mindful of the long hair and wings so as not to pull or pinch. After a few seconds, Jimmy murmured, "You can hug back if you want."

"Oh," Gethserefael mumbled, barely louder than a breath. Slowly, haltingly, his arms came up and very carefully wrapped around Jimmy and Cas, breath and tension rushing out of him in a whoosh as Jimmy smiled softly against his shoulder, catching a faint scent of sulfur and smoke clinging to his skin. "Oh!"

Jimmy noticed the moment Sam came back. He didn't precisely shrink in their arms, but the presence that had accompanied the horns, wings and tail vanished and the arms that held them became firmer and more confident. "It's okay," Sam murmured, the change in voice equally noticeable. "Everything's okay... he just got a bit too overwhelmed."

"Getting hugged more would be good for him," Jimmy murmured as he nuzzled into Sam's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scents of sage and clover and cinnamon and sandalwood.

"Exposure therapy," Cas hummed in agreement. Jimmy felt the shift and then heard the sounds of his brother and their lover kissing. "Mmmm... hi."

"Hi, Cas," Sam chuckled softly. "Jimmy? You gonna come up from there?"

"In a minute," Jimmy said into Sam's shoulder, offering the skin beneath his lips a kiss. "Wanna make sure you get your own hug, too."

"You're amazing," Sam murmured, arms flexing tighter in a squeeze. "You're both so amazing... how did I get so lucky that the Universe conspired to bring the two of you to me?"

"Mutual gift-giving," Cas suggested, making Jimmy giggle just a bit. "Hm. The blue brings out the silver-gray in your eyes."

...Blue?

Jimmy's eyes snapped open, going cross-eyed in an effort to get a look at the bare skin beneath his face without pulling away. It didn't work, and with a disgruntled sigh he lifted his head and drew back enough to look up into Sam's face. His eyes went wide. "Oh, wow!"

It was definitely Sam, with all the usual features Jimmy was used to seeing in most of the usual shades. His chestnut hair had the familiar highlights of blonde hidden in the rich brown. His eyes were the same bursting kaleidoscopic sunflowers of color that always made Jimmy's breath catch a little to meet directly, though the pupils remained slitted rather than round. However, the delicately pointed ears Jimmy enjoyed nibbling on when they were getting amorous were threaded with silver piercings he had never seen before, and his warm, pale brown skin was covered with the same tattoos Jimmy had seen on Gethserefael, only in a deep and vibrant blue rather than black.

And they did bring out the silver gray in Sam's eyes, just as Cas said.

"This is me without any of my glamours," Sam murmured, answering the question Jimmy hadn't even thought to ask. "All the tattoos are all me... and yes, they do go everywhere."

"Will you show us?" Cas asked, his voice dropping lower the way it did when he was thinking about dragging Sam to bed.

"And tell us what they mean?" Jimmy added, matching his twin's tone and relishing in the soft pink blush and shiver of desire Sam gave them in return.

"Yes."

[restless-witch]

varieties of exile - geraskier in drabbles - part 11

hey there friends I am looking for a little bit of feedback: I'm writing a part that's like... pretty explicitly gore-y and I think I need some help figuring out how it needs to be tagged

also maybe it's not so gore-y and I'm just a weenie??? I don't know, I could use a little help here but TL;DR someone's been disemboweled and their companions are touching their flesh and there's conversation of assisted suicide

Below the cut is part of the scene and also a disembowelment fact

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated E for swearing, character injury (specifically Disembowelment/evisceration), and suicide ideation / Chapter incomplete

Disembowelment fact: there's at least a few documented cases of disemboweled people living for a few hours- so there's a bit of discussion about ending things early. . Takes place the weekend of the two kidnappings, which keen readers will know is the upcoming chapter. Chronologically 1-2 months after the mountain break up. This is a really rough first draft of this part so it is subject to some changes before it gets published

.

Things seemed hazy again before they mashed together into a strange clarity. He'd been dimly aware of Aiden clambering behind him and then suddenly he could actually focus on the lovely round face above him. His head was gently nudged up and put onto Aiden's lap. Aiden laid his hands into Jaskier's hair and softly kneaded his knuckles against his scalp.

Aiden's eyes were deliberately trained on his own. Jaskier's gaze wandered and he vacantly watched Axel and another Cat gently lift him and felt them carefully cutting the rope around his wrists. He wondered how many of the clowder were there, silently watching, he thought he'd seen a dozen but the Cats took great pains to remain unseen.

"You're free now," Aiden's voice was thick, "we freed you, little bird."

Jaskier found his limbs felt heavy but clumsily managed to touch his fingers to Aiden's wrist.

Then he felt Axel reaching over and around him and something gently placed on him: Jaskier found the strength to tilt his head down and he watched as Axel diligently put Jaskier's entrails back into his abdomen. 

It was a familiar site, though he was normally the one stuffing the insides back into Geralt. The pain was distant- sharp the way an off-key singer is in another room- he remembered somewhere in university that shock can cause sensation to distort or leave the body and mind.

That all seemed far away now, watching Axel attempting to press his mottled intestines back in and pull the flesh back to cover them again. Axel was unbothered by the blood that had started to clot under his nails, remaining fastidious around entrails as only one who'd put them back a dozen times could be.

"I was right birdy," Axel said, gently tapping close to Jaskier's rib cage, "you have a strong liver. A lucky one." He tenderly reached back in to fix the curve of viscera.

"Stop it," Aiden snapped, then his voice softened, "Axel, you don't have to do that."

"We can't close him if they're poking out," Axel said, gently pulling Jaskier's shirt open more to try and get his flesh to meet again.

The other cat tipped Jaskier's face back up to look at Aiden's- on the edge of his vision he could make out the rest of the clowder stalking closer, their eyes trained on him.

Chrysoberyl, Jaskier remembered.

The Cats' eyes were the many colors of Chrysoberyl.

He was glad he remembered that now.

"He won't close up," Gaetan said, Jaskier could hear him close.

"Jaskier, I will be honest with you," Aiden's voice was thick but firm, "we can take you back to the inn but it will be long and it will be painful. You do not need to be brave, Jaskier, I promise," his eyes closed and his fingers fisted Jaskier's hair before he continued, "We will make it very quick."

Jaskier ignored Aiden.

"Thank you, Axel," Jaskier found the words rolling out before he could think them and Aiden huffed a wet laugh, "I always wanted to die pretty," they let him dip his head back down again and Jaskier felt a ring of affection for all the Cats that had silently coiled around him. Uncaring of the sticky blood, Cedric boldly rested his head on Jaskier's thigh. He could hear the Cats purring- he remembered it was a self-soothing response- and tried to imagine he could feel the rumbling. 

The pain had started to arrive.

"We won't let you die on your lonesome, birdy," Cedric murmured into his leg, Jaskier could feel him claw a tighter grip on his thigh.

[tracybirds]

hey um. what's geostationary orbit and why is it impossible for TAG's TB5 to achieve?

Hello!! I'm assuming you're coming in from the stack of memes I made lol so welcome welcome, this is my well-known pet peeve and I will happily explain because it involves my favourite subject - physics!

"Impossible to achieve" isn't quite accurate - my argument is formed purely on the observational evidence of where it is, such that when the show makes references to TB5 being in geostationary orbit it doesn't make sense because it's simply.... not.

So strap in, I'll go through this as clearly as I can but feel free to ask follow up questions :D Or just generally hang out lol TAG is a fun time despite the handwave-y physics ahaha :D

1. What is geostationary orbit?

Geostationary orbit is the specific orbit where a satellite/space station/whatever moves with the exact same period as the Earth's rotation i.e. 24 hours AND is placed so that the object is directly over the equator, it will move in that orbit at the same rate as the location it is over, so that it will always be over that position at all times. This gives it the name "geostationary", implying that the Earth doesn't move relative to the orbiting object, or if you look down you'll always see the same place.

Both conditions must be met for geostationary orbit to occur; an orbit with a greater or lower period will fall out of step with the Earth fairly quickly, and if not on the equator, you'll get a related type of orbit known as a geosynchronous orbit which will move up and down relative to the equator rather than staying put.

Furthermore, I won't take you through the calculation (1 | 2 | 3), but using Kepler's Third Law which is sufficiently accurate for this scenario, this orbit must always be ~36,000 km above the Earth, or the quoted 22,500 miles in the show. That is the main evidence in the show that implies that the writers intended for TB5 to be in geostationary orbit, like TOS was written to be.

However....

2. Why can't TB5 be in geostationary orbit?

It's not that it can't, it's that it isn't! There's two main reasons for this that I return to when grumbling about this to my friends (they are long-suffering on this point lol thank goodness they're reasonably good-humoured about it...)

Reason 1: The size of the Earth from TB5

This is the most damning evidence. Let's make some visual comparisons.

This is what the Earth looks like from the International Space Station which maintains an orbit about 400 km above the surface of the Earth (in a region known as Low Earth Orbit).

It's a little more complicated to show what Earth looks like from geostationary orbit as many satellites in this region are communication relays or broadcasting satellites (very appropriate for TB5 it must be said!!) But that being said, this is a full disk image of Earth from Japan's Himawari 5, a weather satellite in geostationary orbit.

Now take a look at the animation in TAG and decide for yourself what was being used as inspiration!

But I'm a physics nerd, so I won't take blind faith in some pictures! No, no - if there's a specific height that an orbit must maintain in order to remain in this orbit and the size of the Earth doesn't change, then it should follow that the Earth must be some kind of stable "apparent" size that we can figure out. Think about a freestanding house from 40 m away. It doesn't matter in which direction the 40m is, the house takes up the same space in our vision. The same follows here.

Once again, I'll gloss over the calculations ( 1 | 2 | 3) and simply state that from geostationary orbit, the Earth should take up no more than about 20° of our field of vision. In comparison the visual angle of the Moon is about 0.5° so it's still going to look really big!! But not as big as you'd see from the ISS :P If you make both hands into fists, place them next to each other and hold them at arms length from your body, that would be the approximately the width of the Earth from geostationary orbit.

So TB5?

....might be a wee bit closer than that 😂

Reason 2: The locations on Earth

This one's a little looser, but it illustrates my second point - in order to be geostationary, TB5 needs to..... stay over one location? Like okay sure it has rockets and engines so that it's able to move around, we've seen them plenty of times. But that doesn't change that fact that even when these are not in use, TB5 is never in one place.

Here's some examples…

The Strait of Gibraltar (Spain and Morocco) | 1x07 (Runaway)

Looks like Japan in the background to me | 1x07 (Runaway)

Ireland and Great Britain | 1x08: EOS

Cheating a tad, but he's only just launched so it's reasonable to assume that here TB5 is over SE Asia | 2x02 (Ghost Ship)

None of these are examples where John's manoeuvred TB5 into position like he does in Skyhook (1x11) and Impact (2x09) so it's reasonable to assume that TB5 is following its assigned orbit... and its not geostationary!

Moral of the story: TB5 could be in geostationary orbit, there's nothing stopping it! But uh... it's not. Thanks for listening ;D

All images stolen either from the thunderbirds wiki, or I've attached a click through link to their origin :)

[verfound]

FIC: We’re a Chance Left Untaken: 1/31 (MLB, Lukanette)

Characters/Pairings: Luka Couffaine, Marinette Dupain-Cheng; Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Rating: T / PG-13 / Teen

Summary: Luka Couffaine has been on the road with his rock legend dad since he was seventeen.  Now at twenty-two, he moves back home with the hope of getting some stability in his life.  Too bad his new flat is haunted by a ghost who has more unfinished business than an aspiring composer with writer's block and daddy issues.  (…too bad the more he helps her the less he actually wants her to cross over.)

Author’s Notes/Warnings: Angst, Established Character Death, Canon Divergence.  Tags and rating subject to change as needed.

Ok so.  Here’s…here’s what’s going on here.  😂 August is @writersmonth, and LBSC is also doing a minific month (where one of the prompt lists suggested was the WM prompts).  About a week before August, Quick found this prompt about a ghost having lame/silly unfinished business and needing to find a medium willing to help them cross over without laughing.  We started spitballing, as we do, and like four of us walked away going “DAMMIT QUICK”.

So.  What I was attempting to do here was follow that initial prompt (Marinette is a ghost with unfinished business; Luka is a Seer trying to help her cross over) by writing 500-word minifics using the Writer’s Month 2022 prompts.  I had a feeling, from my notes on some of the prompts, that “mini” was going to be…subjective.  I was about 1.6k into the first prompt when I said “yeah screw that just write”.  I’m trying to keep these short, for my own sanity and the sake of finishing PH, but…the prompts.  The fic. These Eejits.  They do what they will.   😂 

We’re a Chance Left Untaken (And We’ll Probably Always Be)

August 01: Promise

Luka Couffaine was two the first time he saw a ghost – or at least the first time he remembers.  There had to be more before, ones that he couldn’t remember or had been too young to know what they were, like the time his Granny had told him spirits – wisps – used to dance above his Ma’s cradle.

“It’s how I knew,” Granny had laughed, wiping the smudge of flour from his nose as he helped her roll out shortbread.  “Yer Ma had the wind in her soul, b’y.  She’d follow the wisps anywhere.”

Neither Granny nor Ma had ever mentioned wisps dancing above his cradle, but his Seanair had always grumbled he’d seemed a bit touched as a bairn.  Crawling after things that weren’t there.  Babbling at the wall.

Luka didn’t remember, but he’d been a baby.  He was sure they’d been there, but the first one Luka remembered?  Himself, not from a family story?

He’d been two and standing on the orange stool the nurses had pulled up for other Siblings, his pudgy face and hands pressed to the glass of the nursery window.