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capybaramurdock · 2 months ago

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Red Ring Series ♡Chapter Five♡

“The Proposal” (Shared POV – 22 Days Until the Wedding)

“I wish you hated me. It’d make this easier.” “I don’t,” he says. “I can’t.”

Summary:

Angst with a side of elegance: in which the proposal finally happens—but it’s not a dream, it’s a transaction. and even though matt swears he’s doing it to protect her, his distance might be the sharpest thing she feels all night. they’re both dressed like it’s a celebration, but it feels more like a funeral.

⚠️Warnings

~ Arranged Marriage Themes

~ Emotional Manipulation (by a parent)

~ Public Proposal/Public Pressure

~ Canon-Typical Angst

~ Mutual Emotional Suppression

~ Bittersweet Yearning™

~ One-sided Emotional Distance

~ Tiny Fractures in Soft People

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Want to read on ao3? Available there too! https://archiveofourown.org/works/64668514

The next morning, both of them receive separate phone calls from one of her father’s assistants—Matt at the firm, her at the shelter. The message is brisk and identical: They are to be dressed and ready by 6:30 p.m. sharp. Formal wear is required. There is no room for questions.

The assistant offers no further explanation, only that her father has arranged an elegant dinner reservation and that the official engagement proposal will happen there. Tonight.

Matt just mutters a tight “Got it” and hangs up. His jaw clenches before he even sets the phone down; he has to resist slamming it down on his desk.

She can only say “Okay.” as an answer before she hangs up and stares at her phone for a moment longer than she should, the words echoing back through the line long after the call ends. Tonight. Of course, it’s tonight.

The pair tries to focus on their work all day, but it's definitely a struggle. They can't stop thinking about what they've gotten caught up in.

It was obvious to everyone around them that something was off with the two, but no one wanted to pry very much so they left it as is.

Matt didn't tell Foggy everything, but he did tell him that he needed his help and recruited him to get ready, telling him it was for another meeting with the big, important client from the other day.

On the other hand, her father sent her a dress, and another of her father's assistants helped her get ready.

—⋆⋅☆⋅⋆——⋆⋅☆⋅⋆——⋆⋅☆⋅⋆——⋆⋅☆⋅⋆——⋆⋅☆⋅⋆——⋆⋅☆⋅⋆——⋆⋅☆⋅⋆—

Matt is facing the mirror in his bedroom. He doesn't need it, but he needs something to concentrate on while he continues to adjust himself as he gets ready.

His tie sits in his hands, half-knotted, nearly crumpled. He’s already redone it three times. He tells himself it’s just because he’s being particular. Not because his fingers keep hesitating. Not because it feels like he’s getting dressed for something he doesn’t want to attend.

He can't help but occasionally wonder about all of this under different circumstances.

He hears Foggy bustling around behind him, throwing questions and commentary like darts as he looks through Matt's closet and the specific suit Matt had picked out.

“You never wear this one. Is this new? God, it’s actually tailored? What is this—Matt Murdock: Manhattan’s Most Eligible Bachelor?”

Matt huffs a dry laugh. “Don’t get used to it, there's no telling how long I would be one in this day and age.”

“It’s a nice change. Still depressing as hell though. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

Matt doesn’t respond. Because maybe he is.

He reaches for his cufflinks—silver, polished. A gift from a client once. He doesn’t remember who. They feel too heavy tonight.

He doesn’t know if he should resent this dinner or himself more.

“She won’t see it coming,” he thinks, jaw clenched. “And I’m the one who’s going to have to watch the light leave her face.”

✿━━━━━━━━━━━━✿━━━━━━━━━━━━✿✿━━━━━━━━━━━━✿━━━━━━━━━━━━✿

She stares at herself in the mirror; lipstick paused halfway to her mouth. Her dress hangs perfectly. Her hair’s done the way she likes it best. She looks like she’s heading to a celebration. Maybe something happy and wholesome.

But inside? It doesn’t feel like that.

She doesn’t know what she expected. A call from her father saying he changed his mind? A flat tire for the car he sent? Something—anything—that would keep this from becoming real? Or to postpone it all at least.

But the car is already waiting. The reservation already booked.

Surely even the ring purchased, of course she wouldn’t even get to pick that out at least.

She finishes her lipstick slowly and blots it, staring at the napkin like maybe it’ll tell her if this is the right decision.

She thinks of the shelter. Of Elena. Cookies in the oven. Of movie nights and burnt popcorn and the feeling of safety.

“You’re not doing this for him. You’re doing this for them.” She repeats to herself like a mantra.

She smooths her dress. Forces her shoulders back.

“One night. One dinner. One yes.” She thinks.

That’s all it takes to save them. And if Matt agrees too…then this becomes her life. His too, she remembers.

She blinks away the burn behind her eyes, it keeps coming and going. Swallows it down like the champagne they’ll likely have as a toast.

Smile, even when it aches. That’s what her father always taught her.

She never expected it to come back and bite her in the ass. But she supposes she will smile, through all the pain.

She’ll smile for the cameras. For the girls. For the walls of the shelter that hold stories and safety like sacred things. All the secrets she keeps for her girls there.

Even if her heart cracks a little wider every time she does. She would do it all for her girls.

♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆♡⋆⁺₊⋆

The restaurant is all soft light and quiet opulence. A dim setting.

It buzzes with the low hum of conversation, polished silverware, and the kind of clinking glasses that mean deals are being made and secrets are being kept.

It makes sense for her father to prefer it.

Matt arrives first.

He’s seated at the reserved table near the window, though the view means nothing to him. The maître d’ is overly polite. The air smells faintly of truffle oil, fancy cleaner, and expensive wine. Every sound is too crisp, overly polished.

He knows this place. Her father’s used it before. Public enough to keep things civil. Private enough to keep things strategic.

He adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket again. It’s the fifth time. He wonders if he truly knows what he’s gotten himself into.

His adjusting is interrupted when the door opens again, and her voice greets the hostess—quiet, poised, sweet—his whole world stills. It scares him how much he missed the soft lilt of her voice.

He doesn’t have to see her to know she looks beautiful. He can hear it in the way the room subtly shifts around her, the small sounds people make when they see her, and in the way her heels hesitantly click softly across the marble, like she’s not sure she belongs here.

And honestly? She doesn’t. Not in this world. Not in this kind of cold elegance. Both of them know it.

She deserves softness. Not headlines.

He rises slowly as she’s led to the table. Her father isn’t here yet. It’s just them—for now.

And that might be worse. He's not sure.

She notices him as soon as she enters—dark suit, clean lines, calm posture. The kind of composed that only comes from gritting your teeth through something you can’t escape.

Something probably just like an arranged marriage.

When the host leads her to the table, Matt stands. His expression is neutral, but there’s something gentle about the way he reaches out to pull her chair out for her. Like he’s trying.

The effort is surprising after their last interaction when he realized who her father was.

“Hi,” she says softly, her voice a little too fragile for the setting, she always sounds so soft spoken. “You look…” She trails off, because she doesn’t know what the end of that sentence is supposed to be. Handsome? Unreachable?

“…You look nice,” she finishes.

“So do you,” he replies. Quiet. Almost careful. “You always do.”

She smiles, a little bit surprised at the compliment and the warmth in his voice. It makes her feel steadier than she should. She sits, smoothing her dress as he takes his seat.

They’re quiet for a moment.

The candlelight flickers between them.

“This is… more than I thought it would be,” she says finally, glancing around the restaurant. “It feels like a scene from someone else’s life, though I guess it is kind of a page from my father’s life, so I should have expected that it would be a lot.”

Matt’s jaw flexes, but his voice stays low. “That’s kind of what it is, isn’t it?”

She exhales softly and slowly, trying not to let her nerves show with the shaking in her hands as she folds them in her lap.

“I didn’t think it would feel this real yet,” she admits.

His head tilts at that. “Does it feel…bad?”

“No,” she says quickly. “…well…I mean…yes. But not because of you. It’s just—” Her throat tightens, the burning feeling returning for a moment. “It’s all happening so fast…I guess I imagined my father would have given it a little time so we could pretend to be a couple in public.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently, despite the anger and frustration he feels:

“I don’t want to make it worse for you.”

“You haven’t.” Her eyes find his across the table. “I know we hardly know each other and really we just met…but if anything, you’re the only part of this that doesn’t feel like I’m drowning.”

There’s a beat.

And then he nods once slow. “Same.”

Her lips part slightly in an “o” at that. She wasn’t expecting it.

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to do this,” she says quietly.

He hesitates for a beat, “Why is she so different from her father?” he wonders.

“We’ll figure it out,” he replies. “Together.”

And even though the whole night is orchestrated, even though her father is no doubt watching from somewhere close, likely observing how they act together…for just that very brief moment…it doesn’t feel so much like a performance.

It just feels like a promise, maybe almost a secret between them.

She looks at him for another moment before she says softly, “I didn’t expect you to beat me here.”

"I didn’t think I had much of a choice,” he replies with a quiet edge to his voice, it seems to get like that whenever the topic strays more to her father, “Didn’t want to make a scene.”

Her throat burns again for a moment before she replies, “…Oh yes, of course…”

They’re sitting across from each other. Polite, formal, more like strangers playing a part again. Not like a couple ready to tie the knot.

There’s a silence that tries to be comfortable but fails miserably. Too many thoughts in the air. Too many questions neither of them is ready to ask.

She smooths her napkin across her lap, her formal training always in the back of her mind. “Have you been waiting long?”

Matt shakes his head. “Not really. The assistant said six-thirty sharp. I figured punctuality was expected.”

“…Right, of course.” She offers a faint, nearly weak smile. “God forbid we break script.” The words slip out before she can stop them.

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh, but almost. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin the perfect picture he’s painting so elaborately.”

She glances away, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands, she wants to fidget with something but that’s not very formal of her.

She tries again, much softer this time. Honest.

“I didn’t know it would be like this. The restaurant. The cameras. The publicity.”

He tilts his head, voice lower. “Did you think he’d make it easy for either of us?”

She swallows but doesn’t answer for a moment.

Instead, she says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he replies. And then, after a beat he adds, “But I will.”

She looks at him then. Really looks.

And she sees it, all of it…the tension in his jaw, weariness in his shoulders, and something else buried deeper. Something aching, almost painful, beneath the surface.

He doesn’t look like a man giving in. He looks like a man carrying something heavy.

Her heart flips and stumbles a little in her chest.

“I don’t want you to regret this,” she says quietly, even more quietly than her usual quiet voice.

“I won’t,” he replies, almost too quickly, because under other circumstances and a different time, he knows this could have been a much happier moment between them.

And that’s when the host returns, announcing her father’s arrival, sending them both into a quiet state again.

They both straighten at once—like puppets pulled taut by invisible strings.

She doesn’t miss the way Matt’s hands curl tightly under the table.

And she doesn’t ask why because she already knows and even further, she understands.

Their moment of quiet is broken by the sound of footsteps approaching—measured, practiced, loud enough to carry.

She doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s him; she’s always recognized his sounds.

Matt’s posture straightens slightly. Not rigid. Just prepared.

Her father stops beside the table, smiling like this is all perfectly natural.

“There you are,” he says smoothly. “I trust you’re both enjoying yourselves?”

Matt nods once, all emotion tucked behind his glasses. “It’s a lovely place.”

Her smile is polite. A little too polite. “Thanks again for the dinner, Father. It’s…the scenery is beautiful.”

“Of course,” he replies, as if this is the kind of thing he does all the time. Like this isn’t a finely tuned PR stunt disguised as a family meal. “Thought it would be the perfect place to begin celebrating something special.”

He places a hand briefly on her shoulder, leans down just enough to murmur in her ear with faux intimacy. “Smile, sweetheart. Photographers might be watching.”

Her jaw tenses, but she does what he asks, forcing her lips to pull upward, eyes nowhere near as convincing.

Matt’s hands remain folded in front of him. He hasn’t moved since the moment her father arrived, and he likely won’t until he leaves.

“I’ll let you two get settled,” her father says, as if they weren’t in a much better state before he arrived, as he’s already pulling away he adds. “Oh...and Murdock?”

Matt tilts his head slightly toward him.

“Make it memorable. I wanna hear about it for weeks.”

And with that, her father drifts to a nearby table—far enough to give the illusion of distance, close enough to maintain control.

The air goes heavy again.

She doesn’t look at Matt right away.

Because she knows what’s coming.

And she knows he’s the one who has to do it.

For a second, she considers ruining it all by being the one to propose instead of Matt. “Would that be memorable enough?” She wonders for a moment.

She doesn’t have much time to think about it, though.

Matt rises slowly from his seat, exhaling through his nose like he’s preparing for battle. His jaw is tight, and his movements are tense, like every joint in his body resists this. Not because of her—never because of her—but because of everything that led to this moment.

He hears her shift, hears her breath hitch.

Despite how rigid he feels, his hands are steady and gentle as he reaches for hers.

He doesn’t drop to one knee immediately. For a second, he just stands there in front of her, silent for a moment, thumb brushing the back of her hand in the gentlest way—like he’s trying to anchor them both before they tip over the edge.

“I wish this were different,” he says, low enough that only she can hear “I know this isn’t how you pictured this...and it’s not how I wanted to do this either.”

“I wish this were the part where I took you somewhere quiet, told you how much and how fast you’ve changed everything, and asked you to choose me.”

She doesn’t speak. Can’t. Her hands tremble slightly in his.

“But it’s not that. Not really. You didn’t get to choose this,” he continues. “And I’m sorry for that.”

Then, almost like it costs him something, he drops to one knee.

There’s a hush over the entire restaurant. He opens the ring box slowly, never looking down at it—his gaze stays on her.

His throat bobs.

“I don’t know what we’ll become. I just know I’ll stand beside you through every storm if you let me.”

“This isn’t necessarily a performance to me,” he says, his voice lower now. “Even if it started that way.”

“I obviously don’t have a special speech prepared. I don’t have the right words for this. But I need you to know...I won’t let anything happen to the shelter. Or to you. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Her eyes sting.

“I’ll never ask you to be anything you’re not, especially when you're already being forced into this with me,” he continues, quieter still. “And I’ll never stop protecting what you love, even if it’s not me.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to let his emotions show.

“But if you let me, I’ll stand beside you, entirely...in this...through this...all of it.” A pause, his voice a little louder this time. “So I ask...will you marry me?”

She blinks hard, a few tears slipping free; she couldn't keep them in if she tried.

Those aren't even for the cameras, they're entirely for him.

And she whispers, “Yes,” not an agreement, a surrender.

···◃◃✦◦✧◦✦◃◃······◃◃✦◦✧◦✦◃◃······◃◃✦◦✧◦✦◃◃······◃◃✦◦✧◦◃◃◃···

It was a soft minute for them, and then, the moment’s already fractured.

She doesn’t even get to breathe it in before it’s swallowed up by the sharp sting of flashbulbs and applause that isn’t for them—it’s for the image.

For the narrative.

For the version of their lives that isn’t true.

God. They haven't even gotten to order their food yet.

She looks at Matt with a small smile, it still doesn't fully reach her eyes, she doesn't like the attention, especially when it ruined their sweet moment.

From across the room, her father raises his glass in a silent toast.

Matt doesn’t raise his back and she doesn’t look his way.

They don’t need to.

Because this moment wasn’t for him.

It was for them.

Even if it breaks them first.

➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶➴➶

The car ride is quiet at first.

The kind of silence that doesn’t sit gently—it stretches and pulls, drawn thin over the weight of everything that’s just happened.

She’s staring out the window, fingers resting lightly on the edge of her seat, and Matt can feel the slight vibrations of the tremble in them before she even moves.

He doesn’t let his unfocused gaze wander to her, he keeps his head turned in the opposite direction.

He’s too busy thinking so heavily...thinking about the heaviness of the tiny, velvet box in his hand...about how her smile didn’t fully reach her eyes...about the way her father watched them like they were chess pieces instead of people...and about how she still doesn’t know.

Her father’s name is soaked in blood and deceit.

And she wears his last name like it’s something soft. Something safe.

But Matt knows better.

And that’s the part that gets him.

That she’s not like him.

That somehow, despite everything, she came out of that house with gentleness still intact.

He finally speaks. Voice low, quieter than it’s been all night. “You handled that better than I expected, mainly due to how honest you seem as a person.”

She lets out a shaky breath—half a laugh, half a sob. “...Oh, thank you...I kept practicing my smile in the mirror to make sure my performance was perfect and believable.”

He doesn’t smile back. His hands flex on his knees, a habit he seems to be forming from this new stress.

His next words escape him before he can stop them. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

She glances over, startled by the sudden edge in his voice.

He exhales through his nose, shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to pretend. Or lie for him. Or stand in front of a crowd and make this look easy.”

Her eyes sting again. "You think I wanted this to look easy?” she says quietly. “I just didn’t want the girls to see me fall apart if they happen to see the pictures.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Matt says quickly, then hesitates. “I just… I don’t get it. How you’re like this. When you were raised by someone like him.”

She stiffens slightly. Looks out the window again. Her voice is smaller now. “I used to ask myself that all the time, but he also wasn't always the way he is now.”

And just like that—he feels it. The way her walls shake. Not crumble. Not yet. But quake just a little under the weight of it.

She continues, though her voice wavers, quiet as always.

“I constantly wondered if someday I’d turn into him, or display some similar signs...If being soft meant I’d break, or if pretending meant forgetting what real kindness was...But I somehow, miraculously, never did...And I’m sometimes still terrified I will...he changed so suddenly after a certain point...that's what scares me most...”

Matt finally turns to her—head angled, lips slightly parted like he’s trying to say something, anything.

But she beats him to it.

“I don’t want to do this, Matt,” she says, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to marry someone for press or pity or politics. I wanted to marry for love eventually, but now I just want my girls to be safe. I just want the shelter to stay open.”

Her shoulders tremble.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.”

He reaches for her hand gently, carefully. She doesn’t pull away.

“You’re doing the only thing you can,” he says quietly. “And so am I.”

She sniffles once. Nods.

But then adds, just above a whisper:

“I wish you hated me. It’d make this easier.”

Matt’s throat tightens. His hand curls slightly around hers.

“I don’t,” he says. “I can’t.”

They continue in silence for a few moments.

But it’s not empty.

It’s full of ache. Of tension. Of something growing quietly between them.

Something they’re both afraid to name.

And then the quiet is short-lived.

Matt’s hand pulls back abruptly, like he’s just remembered why he shouldn’t touch her. His jaw is tense, and the softness from moments ago is fading fast.

She feels the loss of warmth immediately, and the piercing coldness seeps in even faster.

“…I…Matt…wha—?”

“…I’m sorry…but this shouldn’t have happened,” he says sharply, voice clipped and tight.

She blinks hard. “I… know. But—”

“No,” he interrupts, tone cold, distant now. “You don’t. You don’t even know half of it.”

His words slice right through her. She pulls back, almost like she’s retreating, voice barely above a whisper. “Then tell me. I deserve to know at least that much.”

He shakes his head once, sharply. “It doesn’t matter. It’s already done. I agreed, you agreed, we’re here. That’s it.”

She stares at him, absolutely stunned. Hurt flickers across her face. “So that’s it? That small night at the shelter—tonight—none of it matters?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and when he finally does, his voice is quiet again, but laced with bitterness. “It matters too much. That’s the problem.”

She lets out a shaky breath. Her voice is so small, probably the smallest he’s heard at this point. “…okay then…so…what do we do now?”

He finally faces her fully, jaw clenched tight, fighting something inside. “We pretend, like we originally planned. Because that’s all we have left.”

When the car stops, Matt barely waits for the driver to announce it. He gets out first, holding the door open for her without another word, always the gentleman. His posture stiff, tense—every inch the stranger again.

She steps out slowly, heart heavy, eyes stinging and throat burning again as she turns to walk inside without him. She’s not sure why she expected anything else though.

But then she pauses. Just for a second.

Did she really think they were going to have a happily ever after, despite how they ended up in this situation?

“His words were just too sweet and convincing at dinner, I guess,” she thinks bitterly. “Was any of it actually true to him?”

She doesn’t look at him when she speaks at first, but her voice is clear. Steady, even through the obvious ache.

“Since we’re just pretending…”

She slips the ring off her finger, delicate and deliberate. Crosses the small space back to the open door and holds it out—not tossing it, not dramatic, just… final.

“…you can hold onto this. Until the next scene.”

Her gaze flickers to him for only a breath. Just long enough for him to hopefully feel that it’s not spite in her eyes.

It’s heartbreak.

She sets the ring gently into his hand, closes his fingers around it...like she’s trying not to tremble.

And then she turns again, heels clicking softly as she walks away, up the steps, toward the door, into the place where her choices no longer feel like her own.

He stays in the car, the velvet box still in one hand, his other tightly clenched around the ring like it burns.

Because it does.

Because it should.

Because this is the cost of keeping her at arm’s length—and he’s the one who asked for it.

He doesn’t move, nor does he breathe, not until the door shuts behind her.

And even then, all he can do is sit back in the seat like the weight of it all has finally caught up to him. The ring digs into his palm like punishment.

“That was the right thing,” he tells himself. “Of course you had to do it.”

But the ache doesn’t loosen. If anything, it coils tighter.

Because even if it was the right thing, it still felt like losing something that hadn’t even been his yet.

“She looked at me like I meant something.” “And I handed her distance instead.”

He lets his head roughly fall back against the seat, jaw aching and tight, eyes burning.

God, what the hell is he doing?

dividers by: @strangergraphics

Sorry to post a bit late!! My birthday was Saturday, and I didn't feel the best when I came home from my birthday plans on Sunday, but I'm feeling better now and hope y'all still enjoy this one!! 🥺

19 notes · View notes

jooniperbonsai · 1 year ago

Text

Thanks for the Sub (ksj) | Chapter Three

Pairing: Camboy!Seokjin x Gamer!Reader (afab)

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 14.9k

Release date: March 24, 2024

Genre: Smut, fluff, angst, camboy au, gamer au, comedy, crack, slow burn (?), coworkers/boss/friends to lovers, an exploration of adults in their late 20s/early 30s

Summary: Now that Seokjin has agreed to come over and help you practice for your streams, you find there's a lot more you want to do with him than actually prepare for this stream.

Chapter Warnings: Anxiety and panic attacks HEAVILY referenced in this chapter, familial verbal and emotional abuse that might be triggering to some (slamming of doors, manipulative behaviors), references to puberty, implied chubby/fat reader, references to disordered eating (not main characters), references to oral (f), mention of sub drop, Seokjin is STRONG and the king of consent, lots of little domestic moments idk let's hope I didn't forget anything

a/n: Ahh finally, I'm so sorry it took so long to get to you. I have been very busy in my little corner of reality so I haven't had a chance to really dive back in for a while. I hope you enjoy more of the backstory to the characters in this one, I found pulling away from the spicy bits a little necessary so I could learn more about my characters as they grow.

I'll be in South Korea these next few weeks for my birthday, so I might be mostly offline but I'll enjoy looking at your comments, tags, questions, etc, while I'm away! Thanks for your patience. Enjoy! -h

This, she thinks, is goodbye. Her body sprawled in the silk sheets of August’s chamber, head thrust back onto the plush pillows. Never again in her life did she think she would see the dark beams of his ceiling again, yet now, her legs bent and open for him, his lips eagerly suckling her inner thigh, she couldn’t imagine life any other way.

How many times had she counted each knot in the wood above her, her eyes tracing the swirl and swell of the grain while August swirled the swell of her sex? Perfectly matched in this way, as if he were reading her like a map he’d crafted himself. He knew her. Knew all of her, how the heady moan leaving her throat now was a sign she was becoming impatient with his thorough ministrations.

She dared to risk a glance down, only to see him watching her intently, devilishly choosing that moment to latch himself onto her, a wicked smirk flashing across his face as she elicited a hearty gasp.

“August,” she breathed, instinctively tangling her fingers through his newly-raven hair, dyed dark now to comply with his family’s request. While his once-bleached locks were the definite sign of his rebellion, a sign that he would fight against the ruling state and their convoluted and asinine laws that prevented royalty from marrying a commoner, she admitted his natural hair suited him more. He looked less harsh this way, his delicate skin creamy and soft as she skimmed her fingertips across his cheek.

“No,” he breathed into her sex, sending a delightful shiver down her spine.

Something about the glint in his eye as he feasted upon her spelled out more than simple lust. No, she forbade herself to think that this was more than a parting gift, a transaction before she would be cast aside for his betrothed.

“Please,” she begged, though she knew she was asking for many things in that request. Please end the hunger between her legs, please end his engagement. Please take her to bed tonight and tomorrow and every night after. Please love me.

“Say my name,” he growled, sitting up to wipe his mouth with the back of his robe sleeve.

“August,” she called but he only chuckled darkly, the cool blue of the fabric cascading around him.

She felt so exposed. Here she was, completely naked, and yet he hadn’t even begun to undress. It felt cold, final, and sickening. Her eyes roved his body, looking for more skin, anything to keep her close to him at this moment, but he was so carefully tucked away.

“August,” she said again and he shook his head.

“That’s not my name,” he argued.

Her eyebrows knit together, and she reached forward, needing now more than ever to touch him. She was drowning fast in the night, the blue robes sweeping over both their bodies as he leaned closer, finally letting her grip his forearm as she groped around. He was drifting from her in one way or another, his body a boat on the water that was capsizing her under his waves.

“I–I can’t. I can’t see you. I–.” A rush of white hot panic surged into her throat, constricting her words. As she began drowning, August moved quickly, disrobing himself and pulling her into his embrace. She gasped for air as she wrenched out a heavy sob, her nipples stroking the soft hairs on his chest, yet she ignored the sensation instead for the thing she needed more: his heartbeat.

There, in his chest, was the melodic thrum that sought to calm her erratic one, calling her home to him in the cold night air.

“Breathe, Petal,” he commanded, and she felt a rush of air fall from her lungs as she remembered once more to do the most simple of human tendencies. His arms laced around her back, where the soft tracing of his fingers along her spine brought her back into herself.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, a prick of tears falling despite her best efforts to appear unaffected.

He hummed in response.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, and she felt her joints loosen as she molded herself further into his embrace.

“I want to,” she replied, voice unsteady. “Sugar, please just hold me.”

He melted into her, a pool of warmth overtaking him as he absorbed her nickname. He kissed her forehead, her temples, everywhere his mouth could spread some of the sweetness.

After long, she hummed a satisfied sound through her lips, and her hips began rocking against him. He laid her back down, his eyes searching hers before the corner of his mouth ticked into a smirk.

“You with me?” he asked, his smirk becoming a full grin as she bucked further toward him, desperate and wanting. He was back, the ever-changing prince who within a blink of an eye could transform the room into his sensual paradise.

August’s hand skimmed up her calf and back between her thighs, resting up against her heat.

“August,” she panted, and he chuckled darkly, the scar over his eye almost glowing in the moonlight.

“I told you that’s not my name,” he warned, sliding his fingers into her wet folds.

“Seokjin,” you said, his name caught in your throat as he continued moving.

“Good girl,” he coaxed, two of his fingers covering the edges of your clit as he began rolling it under his touch.

“Fuck.”

The wooden beams were gone. Now it was the familiar white plaster that you often looked at, trying to remember what constellations were above during what season, though you could never see the stars anyway in this part of the city.

Seokjin pulled himself up off the chamber bed, though the chamber was hazy, almost pixelated as you realized around you it was not the chamber of August and his beloved, but your small bedroom.

“Focus,” he commanded, and your eyes flashed over to Seokjin, who was naked and sweaty, his chest flush like it was when you’d seen him before. His fingers roamed over your calf and he lifted you leg at an angle, exposing your pussy to the cool air.

Seokjin licked his lips and began swirling his fingers around your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

“You gonna be good for me?” he asked and you moaned an affirmative as you felt the first of his fingers tip into you.

“Nuh uh, use your words, Y/N.”

You opened your mouth to beg but found no words could come out. He cocked his head, confused. Seokjin reached over to touch your face. You felt nothing.

“What–”

The plop of the book hitting the floor jars you awake. At some point in reading, you must’ve dozed off, your world and the book world merging into a hot, overwhelming dream that has your heart racing.

He’s in your mind again, Seokjin. And it really is all your fault. Because you’ve spent the rest of your weekend and the first half of this week texting him with a plan to put this After Dark stream into place, an idea that you hadn’t really thought through before proposing to him.

You know you want this, to feel at ease in your body and confident to hold your own on streams. Especially since the option to quit is becoming less and less of an option. This week, your university confirmed your withdrawal, meaning that for the next few months you’ll be focusing on streaming and working more shifts at the restaurant to try and replenish your income for the summer term.

And that also means you’ll be seeing Seokjin a lot more often. Your stomach does a tiny flip just thinking about it.

Now with him being around you everywhere, all the time, your subconscious has been drifting to dreams of him, and every waking thought is somehow finding a way to wiggle him in. At the market this morning, you were walking through the produce section where you noticed a large pile of mangoes on sale. Does Seokjin like mangoes? you’d wondered. That shirt on the mannequin would look good on Seokjin. That dog looks like the one in the old picture in Seokjin’s office. What would Seokjin think about this recurring ad?

It’s becoming relentless. So much so that you also find yourself asking him random questions to take the edge off.

Me 1:47PM: Thoughts about fruit on pizza.

Seokjin 1:50PM: Are you asking because we are having pizza later?

Me 1:51PM: No I was just wondering

Me 1:51PM: Unless you want that later? I can get us some

Me 1:51PM: I’ll pay

Seokjin 1:51PM: No you will not! I’ll pay

Seokjin 1:53PM: Also depends on the kind of fruit

Seokjin 1:53PM: Never had blueberries on pizza.

Seokjin 1:54PM: But I would maybe try it. Pineapple is fine though.

Seokjin 1:55PM: I’ll pick up the pizza on the way over. Be there at 6.

Seokjin agreed to stop by today to do some roleplay exercises for you to practice before your stream later tonight. He thought it was important that you run through the full scale of situations you might be presented with so you could say no firmly but without risking losing your viewership, two things equally at odds with each other for you most of the time.

You look for your phone in the mess of your couch cushions, assuming that at some point in your impromptu nap, it slunk down between the crack. Sure enough, you find it nestled between two cushions, the comfort of its weight in your hand dismissing some of the panic when you see it’s only 4:30. He hasn’t texted, which means he hasn’t canceled.

You remember from his stream last week that he maintains a tempered persona, never giving too much or too little away to his viewers. He’d exuded such self control. Is he always like that?

You know he mostly keeps it together at work, but that amount of restraint shocks you. You’re always wondering what it is that will make him snap. Sure, you’ve seen him annoyed, or occasionally yelling at your coworkers, but never rageful. Never out of control. That just isn’t Seokjin.

Determined to keep your hands busy while you wait for him to arrive, you busy yourself tidying, though your apartment is scarily clear because you’ve been frantically cleaning all day. You walk into the kitchen, a small, narrow room that has never been very welcoming as a cooking space. Your old, banged up fridge has dents from where the door has opened too quickly and rocketed into the oven handle, leaving a jagged, metal scar on the surface.

When you’d first moved in, you didn’t understand how something could be so damaged, but within the first week, it became apparent how heavy and quickly the door swung into it, probably because the floors, and thus everything else, doesn’t sit exactly level in the space, meaning that everything that you bake comes out at an angle, and everything else always falls to one side of the pan, making things uneven. Every time you use your rolling pin, you have to place it on an oven mitt or else you risk it rolling into the large gap between the countertop and the wall.

Your apartment is one that you’ve done your best to uplift. While your kitchen is somewhat of a hellhole, with a buzzing fluorescent light that sounds almost like it’s mocking you when you dare to cook anything in it, the rest of your space has some sense of charm to it.

There’s a large window facing the back parking lot of the building, which some may find less exciting because it isn’t exuding some Instagram-worthy backdrop of urban living, but you benefit from the fact that there’s a large, undeveloped lot in your view, with some plum trees that will bloom in the next few weeks, and the soft chartreuse green that ushers in the early spring grasses is slowly starting to brighten in hue.

Some summer nights, you crack your window and hear the loud chattering of cicadas and birds as they rustle through the trees, and it helps to distract from the usual traffic noises that ricochet off the other buildings around you.

You have some small herbs growing on the windowsill, as well as some salvaged green onion ends you’d tossed into an empty yogurt pot with soil and let take off. A sad excuse for a dining table is propped against it with two mismatched chairs.

An oversized, well-loved, brown couch you got for a steal from one of those local posting groups takes up a large chunk of your living room, which will probably have to be sawed in half to get out of your space if you ever move. It weighs a ton and you can’t even shuffle it into a better angle toward your television, which has resulted in one side of the couch being further worn-down and frumpy from the creases of you sitting in the same spot day after day. The other side usually houses a variety of character plushies and a large pink knit blanket you swaddle yourself in regularly. Today, everything is given a place, and the blanket is folded and resting on the back of the couch.

The rest of your apartment is a collection of stuff: some mismatched bookshelves shoved into one corner with all your smutty reads and figurines, postcards and repurposed mailers you’ve collaged into some type of wall art, and Barry, your Big Mouth Bass that knows one song and one song only: “Take Me to the River”.

Due to your lack of space in your cozy apartment, your desk and gaming set-up are in your room. During streams, you tote out a collapsible green screen to give yourself at least some privacy, but behind the screen is your bed you’ve cluttered with some throw pillows, a dresser whose drawers are so warped they don’t fully close, the nightstand which hides your collection of sex toys, and that’s about it. As the months have progressed, your schoolwork has moved from being the main event on the desk to now being crammed into the shallow drawers beneath. Beyond that, your PC and streaming supplies take up the rest of the space in your room.

After fussing with everything for a whole ten minutes, you retreat from your bedroom, heading into the hellscape kitchen to stare at the groceries you’ve just bought.

A jar of kimchi, some beets, and a comically large bag of carrots you impulse bought greet you. You sigh. Yes, this is what you’ll have to do to make time pass. Pulling the items from the fridge, you shuffle around to gather your cutting board from its slot next to the microwave, and find your good knife set in the drawer.

One of the conditions you were given upon being hired at the restaurant was to purchase your own set of knives. “It teaches you how to respect the tools before you. Having pride in your knives ensures you’ll serve food with pride,” Mr. Kim had told you.

When you shared that knowledge with Seokjin he snorted. “It ensures you’ll not damage our own knives that he’s too cheap to replace is what he means.”

Regardless, you now own a decent quality set of cutting knives, perfect for what you need them for. You scrub and lightly peel the carrots to trim away the dirt and uneven shapes adorning the outside.

Then, you begin your setup, placing your cutting board with a kitchen towel near the end to catch any rollaway carrots you’re bound to encounter during your task. You snag a large bowl, a rubber jar grip to keep the cutting board in place, and your Chef’s knife from your knife set. You chop up the kimchi and beets, doing a tiny bit of prep by cutting those for later in the week. Then, you begin with the carrots.

You pull from the washed pile and grip your knife, and remember what Seokjin taught you: cut the rounded edge off the carrot so it sits flat on the board. You slice again, then again, stacking the pieces before cutting in the next direction until a pile of neat matchsticks lay before you.

No chaos erupting in the kitchen, no pieces flinging to the floor or a semi-concussion. Just you, the yellow glow of the humming light, and your carrots. You begin the next one. Then again. It’s almost addicting, like the affirmation that you are capable of this, of anything, has started to warm something inside of you.

When was the last time you felt this confident and assured? Felt like you were growing in the right direction? In school, you were used to doing fairly well and understanding the material, but this is different somehow. This is you seeing the results as they pile higher into the bowl. You reach for another and another, washing the rest of the carrots and scrubbing them before continuing. Your hands are now properly stained, the beet juice, gochugaru, and carrot juice making your hands look like you are bleeding, but you don’t care. The ache from your grip, the loud thumping at the door, they don’t mean anything in this moment when it’s you feeling the give of the vegetable as it splits into finer pieces.

“Y/N?!! HELLO ARE YOU OKAY?”

A familiar voice bellows from the hall, another sharp thunk hitting the metal door. Seokjin.

Your eyes rip to the clock on the oven. It’s already five minutes past six. You’ve been cutting carrots for about an hour.

Hastily, you rinse your hands, ignoring the sting as the cold water spurts from the faucet. You grab the kitchen towel off the oven handle, and rush to the door.

You barely have it unlocked before Seokjin barges in, two large pizza boxes and a six pack of beer in his hands as he steps over the threshold. He smells faintly of mint and eucalyptus.

Seokjin whips in your direction, scanning his eyes over your face and down your body.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” His eyes are wide, his pupils blown out as he fervently looks you up and down, gasping as he takes in your hands. “What happened?”

“What? No, no I’m fine!” You hold one hand up in his direction, taking the kitchen towel and rubbing it into your palm for good measure. “They’re stained. Um, I was cutting vegetables.”

His eyes flit to the direction of the kitchen, where the light is still on and buzzing, and you can just make out the chopping board on the counter. Now assured you’re not injured, Seokjin recovers, stepping out of his shoes and padding into the kitchen.

“Whoa, you really were going to town in here with the carrots weren’t you? I thought I could smell it on you.”

Your cheeks flood with heat. “Well, you said I had to practice.”

Seokjin chuckles, shaking his head in amusement before holding up the six pack. “Uh, I brought beer. I don’t know if you like it or not but I feel like it goes really well with pizza.”

You smile. “I’m not sure if getting me wasted is the solution to setting boundaries with my stream. Doesn’t alcohol lower your inhibitions?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you planning on finishing off this entire six pack by yourself and getting trashed? Much less beer that is…” He squints at the packaging. “...four percent alcohol?”

You laugh. “No, I suppose not. Thank you.” You take the case from his hands and pluck two bottles from the cardboard before putting the rest in the fridge. Holding the cold bottle in your hands, you grimace.

“What’s wrong? Do you not like this brand?” Seokjin asks.

You shake your head. “No, it’s not that. Um, I don’t really drink often so I don’t actually own a bottle opener.”

Seokjin frowns and looks around your kitchen, grazing his hand along the chipped laminate counters. Then he takes the bottle in his hand and whacks it down on the counter edge on an angle. The cap pops off, a subtle wisp of fog puffing from the top. He smirks, proud. He gestures for you to hand him your bottle.

With ease, he pops off the second cap and deposits it back into your hands.

Your jaw hangs slack. “Wh-how did you do that?” you ask.

He chuckles. “There’s a science to it, angles. I’m just glad I didn’t take a chunk of the counter with me. I’ve done that before.”

“And you risked my counter top just now?”

He snorts. “Come on, did anything happen? A little bit of trust would be nice, Y/N.” He glances at the giant bowl of cut carrots. “Well, you’ve certainly improved. What are you going to make with all those?”

You pull your lips into a thin line. You hadn’t thought about it. Your silence seems to tip Seokjin off to that as well, because after a sip of beer, he sets his bottle on the back end of the counter, rolling up his sleeves and scooting over to the sink to wash his hands.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Cooking,” he replies simply. “Do you have flour? Green onions?”

You nod. “Okay, get those. I’ll also need some soybean paste if you have it, vegetable oil, salt, and sugar.”

You furrow your brows. You know this recipe from the restaurant. “You’re making jeon? But, we already have pizza.”

“We can have the pizza as an appetizer. Jeon will be the main course.”

You laugh. “How much do you think I eat?”

“Not much. But you see, I am very hungry.” Heat shoots to your core. You glance over at Seokjin, who is looking at you amused as he squeezes the carrots between his hands to wring out the excess juice.

You didn’t really notice before, but Seokjin looks effortlessly cool, a loose pink linen button down framing his broad shoulders. He’s left the top two buttons undone, exposing the white t-shirt he wears underneath. Lighter wash jeans cover his strong thighs. If a stranger ever passed him on the street, they might think he’s too cool for them, too serious or vain.

But, there are notes of him everywhere in this outfit that suggests the break in the persona. One of the buttons in the middle of his shirt has popped open, a few hairs on the back of his head are cowlicked out of place, and on his feet are a pair of neon green Chikorita Pokemon socks. You find it impossible to hide your amusement.

“Ah, got it. Nice socks by the way,” you joke, trying to distract from the singing heat and close proximity. You can’t help but think about the last time you and Seokjin were in such confined spaces and how that ended up. “Didn’t know you were going to use your feet later to guide an airplane into landing.”

“Well, I figured it was a necessary backup in case your hands weren’t bright enough.” He nods toward you. You laugh.

“Touché.”

You open your upper cabinet. The paper bag of flour sits on the middle shelf, which you usually climb onto the counter to reach, but with Seokjin in the kitchen, there’s even less space than usual. You stretch, lifting onto your tiptoes. Your fingertips brush the bag, but it’s not enough to move it. As you try to angle yourself better, you see two large hands come above yours, Seokjin easily grabbing the flour off the shelf to set down onto the counter.

You feel his body heat behind you, his shirt brushing the small of your back from where your own rode up during your stretch, and a swell of goosebumps rise on your arms from the gentle tickle.

“There,” Seokjin says softly into your ear, almost breathless. “Don’t want to have any more kitchen related incidents, do we?” Too soon, he moves away, his warmth, the subtle note of his cologne fading into the smell of the green onions he’s set next to your not-so-glorious prep space.

Suddenly, he scoffs. You turn toward him. “What?”

“Really, Y/N? Have you learned nothing?” The heat in your core immediately dissipates, welcoming a familiar sour stroke of shame as you try to put together what you’ve missed. How did you fuck this up? What haven’t you learned? When you focus on what he’s pointing at, you realize he isn’t angry. He’s teasing you.

Your knife is unsheathed on the cutting board, abandoned in your haste to let him in. “When are you ever going to learn basic kitchen safety?” he laughs. The prick of embarrassment dissolves, Seokjin’s laugh soothing the ache.

You smile and shrug. “In my defense, I didn’t have the time to put it away or in the sink because you were disturbing the peace by practically breaking my door down.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Well excuse me for wanting to ensure your safety. Now where’s that soybean paste?”

Seokjin had been sitting on, or practically in your couch for the last twenty minutes as you ran through various scenarios and questions you were likely to experience while streaming. Your old couch was comfy, but as you’d practiced longer, he felt he was shrinking, the cushions settling further and further down. That, he thought, was probably going to hurt to climb out when the time came.

Despite the size and outdated condition your apartment was in, he was fascinated with how you’d chosen to decorate it, as if everything had its own place. You had an impressive collection of colorful books on a bookshelf, framed in with little knick-knacks and figurines of your favorite characters or collectibles. One large sunny window was decorated with stickers that acted as prisms, sending rainbow beams across your floor at a certain point in the day. A photo of a very young you and two people he assumed were your parents leaning against a guard rail over a canyon was framed and hung next to a giant plastic fish.

No, you didn’t have much. It was clear you’d thrifted or trash picked most of the furniture in your apartment, with the exception of your computer setup. You’d taken him into your bedroom to show him what system you used, how you’d built your system based on the specifications of your mod, who Seokjin now knew, was also your best friend Wonwoo.

But Seokjin couldn’t help but revel in how well cared for and cozy this small place was, so different from the cold floors of his own apartment. It reminded him of the tiny place he used to live in with his parents. It was familiar, safe.

When he’d come in, he did worry something was wrong. You weren’t one to not answer, attentive in the restaurant to everyone, often whipping your head in someone’s direction the second you heard the first sound of your name slip through someone’s lips. When you didn’t answer, he’d wondered if you’d been injured or worse. As much as he tried not to judge your building, he was a little concerned about the safety precautions put in place. He’d walked straight in, no lock on the front door, no door man. Everyone’s names were blatantly listed on their mailboxes. If anyone wanted to find you, it wouldn’t be hard to do so.

But you were fine, and the acrid worry that had bloomed in him during those five minutes of you not answering had dissolved once he saw your bright smile, and the even brighter colored stains on your hands.

They were still blotchy, though a few runs under the sink with dish soap was helping them fade. As you feathered a hand through your hair, he found himself grinning. The fact that you had acquired a bulk bag of carrots and used them for practice was so endearing to him. He never doubted your dedication to work, but the fact that you were using the techniques he taught you in your kitchen had brightened something in Seokjin he hadn’t even known felt dark.

And he also couldn’t ignore the sense of pride he had as you practically moaned into the jeon you two had made together, the crispy texture and roll of hot oil over your tongue invoking something in you Seokjin couldn’t help but be drawn to. You loved to eat. It was one of the first things he noticed about you, and as creepy as it sounded, also what stoked those first wisps of attraction.

You loved food the way he did, without care, or at least without care the way most people who he was raised around cared. No, you didn’t eat a lot, but when you did, you were all in, bare hands sticky after eating peaches, their juice dribbling down your chin and forearms, joyful hums when you bit into your favorite crunchy snacks from the convenience store.

He remembered growing up the ways in which women, even his mother, were almost afraid of food, afraid of how they would spend hours in the kitchen making heaps of it, pounds of fresh kimchi, grilled fish, decadent soups with tofu and mushrooms and packets of ramyeon, and yet when it was time to eat, they were too busy too or suddenly not hungry, or they would eat a few bites and excuse themselves from the table to clean up.

It was sad, really. Because Seokjin ate and ate fully, and maybe because he wasn’t a woman he didn’t need to worry about his body that way, or maybe because he always had some insane metabolism that didn’t impose weight like it did with others, but it never hit him the same. He loved food.

And clearly so did you, delighted in the meal he gave you, even eliciting a groan as you washed down a bite with your beer. It was like you were grateful for every bite of food that ever entered your mouth.

“You were right. This does taste better together,” you said. He was practically beaming.

He glanced down at the pile of jeon. They weren’t bad, but they were a little uneven. While cooking, he’d noticed that something was a bit off about your kitchen. Your oven and everything else were a bit titled, and it pooled the jeon batter toward one end, making them thicker on one side and harder to cook properly. Your fridge door also was dented, having the similar issue of the weight pushing things to one side. He made a mental note to shove some cardboard under the floor pegs later to help level the appliances.

Your counter situation, though, he couldn’t help. You would just have to keep with your barricade at the end to avoid rolling. But you seemed to be savvy in how you solved the various erroneous features of your apartment, making the best of what you had.

In fact, as Seokjin sat in the crook of your massive couch, he noticed why this side was so sunken; it was the only spot you could actually see the TV from this angle. He wondered if he could shuffle it a little bit more in a better view while you were streaming later, or if you would even notice.

You hovered next to the couch, your bottom lip worried between your teeth. You were nervous about something.

“What is it?” He asked. The time for your stream was growing nearer, and he’d promised he would stay for at least the first half, setting up his laptop in your living room.

“What am I doing?” you groaned and flopped down on the floor, a frustrated wail muffling into the carpet.

“Testing yourself and growing. Listen, Y/N, you know you don’t have to do this, but we’ve been over it daily at this point. You want more money and this is what you’ve decided is the most viable option. After-Dark type streams do make a lot more money, you want to exercise more freedom with yourself, do I need to go on?”

You shook your head. Seokjin chuckled.

“Okay, so–yah, sit up!” You bolted off the carpet and folded your legs underneath you.

“So, you know I’m going to be out here if you need anything. If you need me, I’m just on the other side of that door. Also, we’ve been practicing, right?”

“I know, I just…I’m not like you. I’m not confident, I’m not really easygoing or likable like you are. I can’t dom–command a room or everyone’s attention with my charisma how you can. I’m worried that if I don’t give people what they ask for, they’re just going to leave.”

Seokjin scoffed. He knew that on the outside, in the context of work that you were used to seeing him in, he appeared in charge and control at all times. It was part of the job, to be well tempered and fair and even, maintain a sense of friendliness but firmness, it was common sense. But much of his advice today wasn’t coming from that version of him you knew. A lot of this was insight and experience he’d gained as Jin, who he needed to be to ensure he was meeting his tip goals, or needing to remind everyone he was the one in charge, not them.

Even at work last week, when Seokjin needed to call the distributor because there was some issue with a shipment of produce, it was Jin he was channeling to make the call. If it were Seokjin, he would have been a sweaty, nervous mess. Jin was business, Jin was the one who laid down the law. Seokjin himself?

He was the youngest Kim son, the one who, when his parents’ friends and family members thought he wasn’t listening, gossiped about. Why wasn’t he married? Didn’t he have that fiancée for a while? Oh she had a baby with another man? His boss? Well surely that has been long enough now, right? He had another girlfriend, or found some other salaryman career. At 30, it would be kind of sad if his life wasn’t going anywhere.

And that’s where Seokjin was, after all. Single, a sex worker, or temporary restaurant manager. This morning he’d received a text in the family group chat from his brother with a photo of his nephew kissing his sister-in-law’s bump. He loved his nephew, he loved his brother and was happy for their little family. But he also felt hollow as he opened that picture, like some part of him knew he was never going to truly get to have that for himself.

“Hey,” he said, and your eyes flitted from the floor back to him. “First of all, if they leave they leave, right? Those aren’t the people you want to be on your streams because their energy sucks and they’ll just keep asking more of you. Second,” he cleared his throat, “you are likable. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place, having viewers and subscribers. There has to be a part of you that is genuine there, otherwise everyone will know you’re lying and move away from you. Don’t they say something about how all the best lies are rooted in truth?”

“But I’m not trying to lie to them,” you said meekly.

Seokjin internally kicked himself for saying that. Perhaps suggesting that you lie to everyone wasn’t the best move.

“I know, I mean, that you don’t offer all of yourself, but offer the parts of you that you know are there that are stable. And for the rest of it, fake it until you make it. Until you can feel confident as a streamer, able to set boundaries. Pretend you’re someone else. The person you want to be.” he amended.

Jin was some of the best parts of Seokjin. Maybe even better. Self-assured, knowledgeable about sex and sexuality in ways he hadn’t been when he was with Soon Yi, he could say no to things he’d never been able to say no to his boss about, and things he couldn’t say no to now because the restaurant wasn’t technically his. There were things he could do, ways he could slip some power in there or make decisions, but nothing was really his. Not the way streaming was. That was all for him. And while yes, his friends knew he did it and supported him in their own way (thankfully most of them did not tune in but on occasion Jungkook and Taehyung would hop on when completely wasted to goad him to “release the beast”), it was still a success that couldn’t be shared publicly, even though he didn’t really want to share it anyway, and didn’t really feel successful.

“Is that what you did? Faked it until you made it? Until you were the person you wanted to be?”

His blood ran cold. Were you reading his thoughts? Did you know?

“W-what?”

Oh god, what if you knew? Seokjin would rush out into the night and dig his own grave. Because if anyone else knew what he did, if his parents found out or his brother or you, he was sure he would become the worst parts of himself. A failure again. Once more someone to be quietly gossiped about in rooms when he was in full range of hearing what they had to say. He couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating than you seeing him, your own boss, with a bright pink dildo shoved up his ass as he pandered to thousands of people with whimpers and cries. Especially when he just spent the better half of an hour telling you that you didn’t need to pander to anyone.

Would you think less of him for it? Would you ask him why he was doing gay streaming of all things? His face flushed, probably turning incredibly red with embarrassment.

“With the restaurant,” you said.

He swallowed the thick lump that had formed in his throat and coughed.

“Y-yes,” he stammered. “What you see there. It’s not really me all the time. I’m not always all that confident. But I want to be.”

You nodded quietly and stretched your arms over your head. “That makes sense,” you said as you began to pace. “Okay.”

You still had another two hours before your stream was set to start, and Seokjin could tell you were still on edge. He took a deep breath when you turned away, letting the rush of air into his lungs help cool his face.

“Seokjin?” you asked.

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay until it’s over? I know it’ll be late, and it’s a big ask, but maybe we can eat leftover pizza and debrief?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

He couldn’t imagine a better way to spend his night, and probably early morning if he was honest. Your streams could go well into the wee hours of the morning, and while tomorrow while opening he’d probably be kicking himself for this, right now he didn’t care about anything except the warm tug he felt in his chest as he imagined the two of you sitting on the floor with cold pizza and laughter at 3a.m.

“Thank you. Also, do you think we could have another beer or something? I need to take the edge off. I know I’m overthinking it but I need something to distract me before this stream or I might not show up.”

You didn’t wait for his permission, probably because you weren’t asking for it. You slid into the kitchen and back out with two more cold beers.

“Will you show me how to open these again? I want to try.”

Seokjin struggled a bit against the dip of your couch, but eventually found himself level and close to you, so close in fact that the soft scent of your shampoo was once again permeating his nostrils.

You were intoxicating to him, honestly, and he found himself unable to help himself as he squeezed behind you in your tiny kitchen, inhaling partially into your hair as he walked you through the process.

You fiddled with the bottle for a second, holding yourself at an awkward angle.

“Like this?”

If you did it at this angle, you would be sure to cause the beer to explode, the cap wouldn’t get enough traction to pop off easily.

“Not unless you want to participate in a wet t-shirt contest,” he joked before he even realized how sexually charged that comment was.

You inhaled a little sharply.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you’re a little stiff here.” Then, very carefully, he rested his hands onto your hips, gently maneuvering you so you were able to prop your arm up and out of his way so you wouldn’t elbow him in the ribs when you slammed the bottle down.

He kind of hated himself when he had to let go of your waist. His fingers were tingling simply from brushing them along the seam of your shirt, from feeling the warm curve of your hip under his fingers. Why did his hands feel so at home on your body?

Your sharp movement pushed him out of his reverie as you launched the bottle down onto the counter top, the soft plink and your sparkling eyes confirming you were successful.

That’s my girl, he thought. Only you weren’t his girl. You couldn’t be further from his. And as soon as he thought it, he also felt the soft ache in his chest knowing that you would probably never be his. Because you couldn’t. Because you were without a doubt too good for him, and Seokjin knew all that stood between you and the right guy was time. An opportunity. You walk into the right place some day and then boom, there he will be.

He fucking hated that guy already.

You popped the second cap from the bottle and turned around, shoving your body directly into him as you beamed with pride. “See! I did it!” You looked so adorable, your eyelashes long and fluttering as you gazed up at him.

A smile cracked through his gloom. You were like a little sunbeam to him.

“You did,” he acknowledged, and he took the bottle you offered, taking a swig. He waited for you to make the next move, to dislodge your body from the cramped corner of the kitchen, for the magnetic pull of your body to signal it was too close, too intimate so one of you would break away.

But neither of you did. In fact you sighed and moved closer to him, forcing the small of Seokjin’s back to rest up against the handle bar of the oven. It wasn’t comfortable at all, but he didn’t dare move.

“Can I ask you something?” You asked quietly after a while, staring down at the bottle.

“Sure,” he responded.

You nibbled your bottom lip then sighed again, unsure. He felt your warm exhale hit his forearms. Did you really not realize how close you were to him? The smell of you, even that tiny hit of beer breath, was starting to drive him insane.

You shifted yourself even closer.

“Um, it’s going to sound embarrassing to ask this but I just have to.”

Your voice was low now, a tiny whisper coming out of you. Fuck, you were perfect.

“Go ahead,” he whispered back, smirking. “I won’t judge you.”

“Okay, um. Are you…are you bi?”

“Am I by what?”

You fidgeted uncomfortably and pulled back slightly. You raised your eyebrows.

“No, not by as in near, I mean bi as in like, you know, bisexual?” You shifted your gaze away, and then Seokjin felt the question sink in.

He was such a fucking idiot.

God, this is one of the most awkward interactions you’ve ever had in your life and you feel yourself getting hotter and more embarrassed by the second.

Standing in your tiny cramped kitchen, you decided now for no good reason was the best time to ask Seokjin if he’s bisexual. Or really if he’s gay. Because you need to know. Need answers. Or a confirmation that will help kill this crush for good because as of tonight? It’s much, much worse.

Something about watching him cook earlier, specifically in your kitchen, did something to you. The way he touched your hips to show you how to do that beer opening trick, how he looked slumped into your couch, the way he hovered over your bookshelves and belongings with curiosity, and laughed hysterically over Barry once he pressed the button.

He fits here. In your apartment. It isn’t just some stupid fantasy version of him you could imagine. He is real and beautiful and fits into this corner of your life like a perfect puzzle piece.

And if he’s gay, if there’s no chance that he can give you even the fantasy of this, then it all needs to stop. But it’s also so unfair for you to ask this of him. What if he’s not out? What if you’re forcing him to come out and no one knows and all because your insatiable horniness led you to a gay streaming site where you found him now his livelihood and privacy are technically in jeopardy?

Fuck. You can’t do that to him. And suddenly you’re aware of what you just did, how uncool this was for you to just out and ask. Heat claws into your throat as you sit in this shock of silence, clamping down on your airway and leaving your voice in a reedy wheeze as you try to take back your inquiry.

“I–I’m sorry, you don’t need to answer! I’m out of line. Really, I shouldn’t have even asked. Jesus, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you splutter, heart beating erratically, a line of perspiration beginning to form at the back of your neck at an insane speed. How humiliating.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s okay. Relax. Breathe,” Seokjin says. You force a ragged inhale but find yourself coughing, gasping to try to find air in this room that is too small and a million degrees warmer.

You are standing in the hallway outside of the bathroom, rasping for air into your lungs. Your mother has just come home from work, shouting about how you haven’t remembered to take the chicken out of the freezer or done any of the chores she’d asked you to while she was gone.

The day has gotten away from you, a hot summer that is so oppressive no one even wants to go outside. You would get all she asked of you done and more before she returned home. The chicken would be thawed, you’d vacuum and mop the floors, would even wipe down the bathroom sink from all the hair she and your father left in it during his morning shave.

And then you would go to your friend’s house tonight, for the sleepover you’ve been dreaming of, eat lots of candy that her father would bring home from work that yours never let you have. You could tell her about the boy whose parents own the convenience store at the end of the street, and how all summer you’ve been finding an excuse to run up to the shop with your allowance to get a pack of gum or snacks or a can of iced tea you would have to chug outside before you even walked home anyway.

You start junior high this fall. Your period started this spring. Everything around you is changing. Your legs are stocky and getting fuller. Hair is starting to grow everywhere. Your breasts are no longer flat on your chest and while you know all of this is happening, you know why and what is going to happen, that doesn’t change how awful all this feels. Your baby fat isn’t baby fat anymore, and the oils of your skin, your hair, your smell? It all is changing so fast and you hate it. You want to hide. And at least having this boy down the street to talk to, Wonwoo, who makes you feel less like you want to crawl outside of yourself.

Him, and all the books you’ve been reading. Ones where they’re older, girls who you’ll be like soon. Who go to school, and date and have families with problems just like your family has problems. Who run into the woods and fall in love with other families. Who find belonging. There’s comfort there, and that’s why despite all your promises to make the house clean for your mom this morning, you forgot. Because you’d fallen into the world of your book.

And now, your mother has told you that you can’t go to your sleepover anymore. Can’t get away from the house and the heat and your body and the ongoing argument you know your parents are having about finances that they shout about when you’re in the shower and they think you can’t hear them. You can’t eat fun secret snacks or talk about boys or pretend for a second that this isn’t your life. Because it is.

Your throat closes up, the dim lights of the hallway outside the bathroom feel like they’re flickering.

“I told you. I reminded you multiple times! Now we don’t have dinner. Unless you’d like to think of something?” She strips off her stockings, balling them up in her fist. “Unless you want to go out there and buy some expensive meal for us tonight?”

Shame. This is it in its purest form. How wrong you are for not helping. For spending the whole day in your fantasy world with your new friends, ones who aren’t real. All your mother asked for was such simple things, and yet you are unable to just do what she asks.

“When your father gets home, you can tell him why there’s no dinner ready.”

Hot tears sting your eyes and you gasp for air. Your father? If he’s having a hard day today, if his boss or his co-workers didn’t recognize him for that presentation he spent all those late nights at the dinner table preparing, you know how this will end. Your father is a fair man, but even he has his limits.

And sometimes that means that the things you love, the things that you covet, they go missing. Precious dolls that you’ve had over the years have disappeared when you were being careless with them, leaving them around in the hallway for him to step on. Once, you left your birthday gift from your aunt, a purple Skip-It, on the sidewalk during a Spring rain shower and when you went to bring it in, it had vanished.

You’d found it in the garbage bin, the ankle loop and cord snapped into pieces.

When your father gets home, he’ll go for your book. He knows just which one it is. You had started it last night and he asked you about it.

You push off the wall of the hallway, swallowing the bile down your throat. You have to hide it, to take it somewhere.

You want to leave. Your eyes dart around the room. Anywhere but here, you can’t let him see how much more embarrassing it is now that he knows you’re anxious. A lump in your throat continues to constrain the air. You can feel your pulse in it, pulling acid up from the depths of your stomach.

You rip another breath from your chest and try to propel yourself across the room, across the universe, but your feet won’t budge. Your muscles are locked in this bump of panic, leaden and unyielding.

Somewhere in the fuzziness, Seokjin has moved but already returned, and you feel a set of cool hands on your cheeks as he comes into focus, gently stroking behind your ears and saying something to you.

“–ow that it’s hard but I need you to breathe, Y/N. Breathe with me. Can you do that?”

His face is concerned, and it twists your stomach even further. He shouldn’t be doing this. You should remember how to fucking breathe on your own. But then again, isn’t that why he’s here anyway? Because you can’t do shit on your own? Can’t hold boundaries, can’t stay in school or keep it together. Can’t live somewhere nicer where you don’t smell the stomach-turning stench of the sink’s old plumbing next to you, metallic and stale. And definitely can’t even remember how to mind your business or breathe like a person.

You rush down the hall, into the living room, snapping the book off the couch. You shove it behind a cushion.

Your father walks in the door, and from the look on his face, you can tell the presentation didn’t go well.

“What’s all this?” he snaps, and gestures to the left-out vacuum and the bucket of water you’d gathered earlier. All the bubbles from the soap have long popped, leaving a heavy, sickening floral scent in the room from the solution.

“I, oh–”

“Your daughter spent all day reading instead of doing her chores. So unless you have a McDonald’s hamburger in your briefcase, we have nothing for dinner.” Your mother interjects, huffing as she heads into your parents bedroom and slams the door behind her.

Your father’s eyes narrow, and this is how it begins. He and your mother slamming, stomping, hitting, and crashing in every interaction they have with an inanimate object around you.

He chucks his suitcase onto the table of the small dining area, then whips open the fridge door a few feet away.

“Y/N, come here.”

You tiptoe in behind him, needing desperately to do the opposite of him, to show that you aren’t mad that they’re mad. That you understand exactly what you did wrong.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? They’re going to show you anyway. He moves aside and you peer into the fridge.

“What do you see in there?” he asks, restrained.

“Um, some celery, lettuce, dressing, milk…”

He growls, indicating that this isn’t the right answer. You’re wrong again. “Food, Y/N. This is food. That your mother and I work hard to put on the table so you can sit around and read your books. Food that needs to be eaten. Do you understand?”

You say nothing. You know the question is rhetorical.

“So, when we ask so little of you to simply take the food out of the freezer or fridge and thaw it, how can it be so hard? Hm? Here let me show you.”

He reaches in, and begins pulling and pulling the veggies, marinades, dressings, milk, eggs, cheeses and meats, and crowding the counter top. You’re frozen, unable to walk away, to ask him to stop.

When he’s done, he looks at you.

“See? Not so hard, huh? And if you were helpful to us, none of this would have happened. Honestly, your selfishness sometimes,” he says. “Now, go get me that book of yours. I think you know you haven’t earned it right now.”

You should go peel it out from under the couch cushions. Should hand it to him, then put all the groceries back away, because you know he’s not going to do it with you here. You should apologize. Accept punishment.

But instead, you’re nauseous and shaking and sobbing.

He waits expectedly. And then he shoves past you to your room, beginning to hunt through your clothes on the floor, under your bed.

“Where is it Y/N?”

You don’t follow him. Instead, you run. You grab the book from behind the cushion, shove your shoes onto your feet and run into the heat of the ending day with it in your hands, the heat from the sidewalk still boiling up underneath you.

Your parents don’t run out the door or into the street behind you. They stay in your home, possibly putting it back together. But you don’t care. You run, until you see the light of the convenience store and your lungs feel like they’re going to collapse.

Inside the cool air, Wonwoo is helping his father place drinks from their crates into the refrigerator. His eyes are wide as you plow in.

You have so much you want to tell him, so much worry in your chest. Your cheeks are hot and your body is sweaty. Nothing is coming out. Just the hum of the fridges, and Wonwoo’s father rushing to get his mother.

“Are you okay?” Wonwoo asks, and you can’t do anything to answer, just stare at his soft face as you well up with tears. You shove the book toward him wordlessly.

“Y/N, what’s going on?” he asks again, and you inhale steeply but choke on the air. A bubble of saliva clods your tongue.

“Please, take this. Hide it,” you urge. He holds his hands out and takes the book.

“Um, okay. Tuck Everlasting, I’ve never read this one.” He looks back up at you and winces.

“Hey, hey, breathe Y/N. You need to breathe.”

Seokjin is standing in front of you, coaxing breaths from you, wasting his time after cooking you dinner like it’s something you deserve. Like you’re not just doing all of this anyway because you can’t control yourself to not have feelings for him. Tears singe your eyes and you gasp another shallow breath.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’m not mad. I promise I’m not mad.” Seokjin breaks through your thoughts, his voice gentle, and almost like he hears you in this silent exchange, some constant that is numbing this spiral. You feel yourself inhale a little more fully as you understand he’s not upset or annoyed. “Good, you’re doing good. Let’s breathe another breath, okay?”

You can’t look away. Even if you wanted to, Seokjin’s touch is keeping you focused completely on him, his soft and kind eyes, his plush lips that he’s holding in a slight frown that won’t shake. One that you can tell is worry.

“Another breath, sweetheart. Good, good girl. That’s really good, Y/N. Okay, keep doing that for a second okay?” One hand releases from your cheek, and you find yourself pressing harder into the other, needing him to touch you and keep guiding you back, needing that security of him.

He doesn’t move it away, in fact he pushes himself closer, holds the weight of you in his palm tenderly, and then you see in your periphery what he moved to get: a glass of water.

“I want you to take three small sips of this for me, okay? Slowly.” He holds the rim of the cup up to your lips, tilting it slightly. You open your mouth slightly, letting a trickle of cold water flood into the hot cavern of your mouth, extinguishing so much of the tight, fiery panic that moves through the rest of your body.

You do as he says, sipping and swallowing slowly until he pulls the glass away and sets it down behind you.

“You with me?” he whispers, and you breathe.

“Yes,” you say.

“Can I touch your arm?”

You’re not sure why he’s asking, so you knit your brow and gaze up at him, confused.

“What?”

“Can I touch your arm? I want to move us out of the kitchen and into your bedroom if that’s okay?” His voice is still quiet, and you realize that the hum of the light is so loud it’s almost drowning him out, almost drowning you again.

Your eyes flash wide and you nod. You see him relax a little, and slowly Seokjin untangles the web of your bodies away from the kitchen, into the cool air of your living room. Why is it so cold?

Seokjin guides you through it, and through the doorway to your bedroom. Before you even realize it, he’s unbuttoning his pink shirt and draping it over you.

“Is this okay? You’re shaking.”

You go to tell him yes, of course it’s okay, and then notice your teeth are gritted tight from trying not to chatter.

You take another breath. “Yes,” you squeak.

He pulls down the duvet and gestures for you to sit. “I’m going to put this blanket on you so I can help you warm up.” You feel the soft, heavy weight and start to feel a little better. But without Seokjin holding you, tethering you back into your body, you feel like you might float away any second. You shoot him a panicked look and he seems to understand, drawing the blanket back so he is also swaddled in it, the two of you knee to knee as he pinches the blanket closed with his fist.

“You can touch me if you’d like,” he says, and this, you realize, is what you need.

You immediately shift forward, putting your face into his white t-shirt, inhaling that minty, fresh cologne he wears. You can feel his chest rising and falling slowly, evenly, and you match your breathing to his, hoping soon your heartbeat slows to the same rate. Your hands twist into his shirt but it’s not enough. You find one of his hands and take it, lacing your fingers together and resting them in your lap.

The heaviness is nice, stabilizing, but you know you still need something more.

“Seokjin?” Your voice sounds foreign to you.

“Yeah?”

“Will you hold me for a minute?”

His hand untangles from yours and he moves to place it around your back, but with you two cross legged and facing each other, it’s an awkward embrace.

“I’m sorry, this is such a weird position. If you’re okay with it, you can sit in my lap? If you want? And then I can just hold you for a second?”

You nod and sit up, unfolding your legs and wiggling yourself up so you are on his lap. You wrap your legs around his back, then your arms. And then you feel his arms around you, his fingers lazily tracing the length of your spine.

You feel yourself sinking deeper back into the safety of your body.

You both sit like this for a long time. So long that you feel yourself starting to grow hazy and sleepy. Seokjin is warm and soft and so soothing. You feel like you’re untangling from a sharp web that has been trapping you for a long time. And when your alarm for your stream goes off, you turn off your phone.

“You okay?” Seokjin asks and you huff out a sigh.

“Yeah, I’m sorry for all the dramatics.” You slide yourself out of his grip and flop back onto your bed, propping yourself up on your elbow.

“What do you mean? You weren’t being dramatic, Y/N, you had a panic attack.”

“Yeah, over asking you a highly personal question I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry for that too.”

“I’m not-it’s-look. Panic attacks aren’t ever just one thing. It’s always a compounding of stress and anxiety and other thoughts and feelings. You just came across the one thought or feeling that forced everything to collapse. And I can guess based on how much you’re apologizing, it was probably you doing that shit inside and beating yourself up that knocked all the rest of this stuff down. I told you, I’m not mad. Or insulted that you asked.”

He goes on. “Which, by the way, I’m not bi or gay. I’m very straight. But that’s not the point. The point is, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You asked me a question. I have a right to choose to answer it or not. So there’s your answer. And also, you are never dramatic to me. Panic attacks are fucking scary; you felt like you were dying, right?”

You nod. “Drowning, yeah.”

He gives you a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, those things are no joke. But you came out on the other side of it.”

“Not without your help though. You seem like you know a lot about these when they happen. Do you get them too?”

He flushes. “Uh, no, I don’t personally. My friend Yoongi has them sometimes. He taught me a lot about how to help him with them. The cold water trick really is from him. And then also when Soon Yi and I were together, she would have them, but those were a bit different.” He looks down at his hands.

Soon Yi. So that’s her. The person Seokjin has often stopped himself talking about. The one who his parents would occasionally refer to as “that woman” during shifts when he wasn’t around. No one ever said her name, almost like she was some kind of curse and you always were curious why. You assumed she must be the devil incarnate the way his mother would sling a bunch of insults after she was mentioned, but the way Seokjin now says her name so casually, so personally, you aren’t entirely sure if he sees her that way.

Parents usually carry a greater grudge than their child who was hurt. Your own father has told you on various occasions that the guy you dated for one summer in undergrad, who coincidentally is his barber’s nephew, will never be allowed in his house ever again. Forget the fact that there’s no reason he would be invited over in the first place. Whenever you’re catching up with your parents on the phone, if he has recently visited his barber, he’s sure to bring it up. “Scum is never allowed in my house! He will just drag his filth in with him!”

Thinking of your father and mother right now forces you to wince. Maybe it’s the freshness of these memories, of you realizing now that what happened to you that day as a child wasn’t you being dramatic, as they had insisted even after you’d gotten home. Everything had been put back into place when you’d returned after the sunset, even the bucket and vacuums put away. Your parents never apologized or talked about it again.

And your friend, she didn’t talk to you after that either, claiming you were flaky and rude for blowing her off.

Your father doesn’t even refer to your ex by name, similar to Seokjin’s mother. “That Woman”. “Scum”. If there was ever a name tied to these people, it’s clearly gone in the haze of whatever angry frenzy your parents carry. “Scum” also didn’t even do anything wrong. You broke things off with him, but because you came home crying after the breakup, now that is his legacy.

But Seokjin’s mother, how she behaves, you’re not sure that it’s for the same reasons. You’ve seen firsthand how much she adores her children, and “adoration” is a word you aren’t so sure applies to your family.

Soon Yi, too, it’s clear she was not just a blip on the screen in Seokjin’s life. The hushed, angry chatter between his parents, the way his mother would often get so worked up she would start punching her shoulder and clicking her tongue, saying she needed to go sit down. That’s not a Scum-level relationship. You wonder how close she was to Seokjin. Closer than you two are becoming, clearly.

“Soon Yi,” you repeat to yourself, still lost in the haze of putting things together.

“Um, my ex.” Seokjin says, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you realize he heard you. “We were engaged. For a while.”

“Oh.”

You want to ask how long he means by a while? Did they break up right before you joined the restaurant? Or was this from many years ago? It’s odd in a way to think of how Seokjin has lived a completely different life from the time before you knew him. He loved someone, enough to marry them, to start a life together, to know she had panic attacks and how to help her.

Did he place her in his lap the same way he did with you? Did he sit with her in the dull winter light of their bedroom and talk like this?

He had to have. Why wouldn’t he? Your stomach dips. Were you under some impression that this thing you’re experiencing–the closeness of his body, the soft thrum of his heart, that tiny whistle in his throat that breaks through the room as he speaks–would be special?

The dim light of the lamp on your bedside table makes the deep browns of his eyes look even darker, and he watches you as you stretch your legs out in front of you, your foot shifting a bit to rest up against his thigh. His eyes flicker toward it and then back to you.

“How, when did you guys break up? I didn’t know you were engaged,” you ask gently. He sighs, and then slumps a bit, the careful, rigid posture he was holding for so long finally loosening a bit with his exhale. He bends his knees and pulls his legs up, glancing to the other side of your bed.

You pat the spot next to you, turning over so he knows it’s no imposition.

And it’s not, not in the slightest. If you weren’t so fried and exhausted after that panic attack, your brain might try to imbue some innuendo into this moment, but for now, this is all you can do, and you want that ache in your stomach to go away. You want to feel like this is special.

Seokjin flops down into the pile of oddball plushies and pillows next to you and you snort, smiling as he carefully tucks the plushie he smashed in his landing into his arms.

“I’m sure my parents have talked about her enough times for you to know everything,” he scoffs.

“Not really. I didn’t know her name. I just thought she was some girlfriend you had that she hated because she was keeping you away from her. You know, the same way your mother also says that the really old lady down the road who sells flowers keeps your dad away from her.”

He smirks at this, and his fingers rove over the marble eyes of the plushie.

“My mother would blame the sun if it kept her family away from her. She’s been messaging the group chat nonstop for updates from my hyung’s wife about the pregnancy. And she’s supposed to be somewhere in Iceland right now on a cruise. Honestly I wish she would just enjoy herself.”

“Well, she cares. About you especially. Which is maybe why she didn’t air all of your business to me when I was mopping the floors and she counted down the drawers. She just would say that I would be better than “That Woman” but I think she might think anyone would be better than her.”

“She said that to you? Ugh, eomma.”

She did, one late night, when Seokjin left early for “something urgent”. His mother alleged that he was dating a secret new girlfriend that he kept under wraps.

“Honestly, he acts as if I’m going to eat her alive or something. Tsk. That son of mine, both he and his brother are going to send me to an early grave. Behind my back like this when I’m getting older by the minute. Ever since he and that woman broke up, he shut down. I tried to set him up with someone and he kept saying no! That he would find someone. But if she was any better than the others, wouldn’t he have brought her around by now,” she’d said.

She slammed some coins back into the register. You jumped at the sound.

She sighed. “You know what he needs? Someone like you. Someone with vision! That woman never had any of that. So much more focused on status. You’re not like that Y/N. I can tell. And that’s exactly why I hired you. You can’t teach someone that as an adult. They either have it or don’t, and you. You’ve got exactly it.”

You didn’t really know what “it” was, but you didn’t argue, and soon she moved on to complain about something else.

Now, knowing Seokjin’s secret, you think you know where he went that night, and it definitely wasn’t to go hide in his lover’s house. Chances were, he was streaming. And that also would explain why he shut down on her so quickly. You can’t imagine Mrs. Kim’s reaction if she found out Seokjin was a gay cam streamer. Despite being straight.

It dawns on you. You’d been so distracted with that panic attack that you forgot already that Seokjin is in fact interested in women. Solely. Enough to have been engaged to one.

“But, back to your story,” you prod, trying to distract yourself from the fact that now none of this feels like just friends sharing. Seokjin hisses in some air as if he agrees.

“Right. Well, Soon Yi and I were together really in college and on. We started dating really young. Just two kids. And then we just kind of stuck together? She and I were together for a long time before I got the nerve to propose. And then…” He trails off, his face now a deeper blush. Is he embarrassed?

You lick your lips, ready to tell him he doesn’t have to share, but he waves his hand to quiet you.

“She cheated on me. With my boss. We were in the midst of planning the wedding and everything. I was supposed to get this big promotion at the end of some large conferences. But, I don’t know. We had grown apart. Suddenly we didn’t see eye-to-eye on anything.”

Your jaw drops, caught on that larger detail. “She cheated on you with your boss? After all that time? God, Seokjin, I'm so sorry. That’s awful.”

He smiles and nods. “That’s not even the worst part,” he says. His smile grows bigger, like this is some huge joke. “She cheated on me multiple times with him while I was away. And I caught them. Uh, you know. On my dining room table when I came back early to surprise her. I did not get the promotion by the way. But, she actually has a baby, or I guess a toddler, with him now. I heard she’s pregnant again, they’re married. It’s all some surreal life. And now I’m here.”

“Um, you’re right, it was worse than that.” You’re really not sure what to say. Seokjin’s becoming harder to read by the second, turning this conversation into some big joke when it’s not really funny to you on your end. Maybe he’s processed it enough by now, but based on how tightly he’s now squeezing your alpaca plushie, you would wager that he doesn’t really find it funny either.

“Is this,” you take a breath. “Is this why the other night you said you were a failure? Because of what happened with Soon Yi?”

“Partly. I mean, it’s not like I did too great of a job keeping her satisfied. She clearly found other ways to do that.” He laughs darkly.

“That’s not how that works you know,” you say. His eyebrows lift.

“What do you mean?”

“What you just said. Keeping her satisfied. Isn’t it the job of being a human to keep ourselves satisfied? Find things with meaning and joy? It’s not your fault that she chose to do that. To cheat on you, to not be honest when she started feeling differently. She could have told you at any point. Did she?”

He sighs. “Not really, no. Soon Yi wasn’t great at communicating with me about things like that. For so long, we just knew what the other person needed. Because we’d been together since we were so young, we had come up with some other kind of language. And my friends, too, they were in on it. She was not always going to tell someone how she felt but she would show them. For Jungkook’s 21st birthday she threw him an “American Stereotype” themed birthday which he was always obsessing over from the videos. Bought a bunch of red solo cups, they played that Miley Cyrus song and bought a bunch of discounted Fourth of July partyware. She was one of us.”

Even now, despite everything, Seokjin is speaking so kindly about someone who hurt him. And honestly, it throws you. You are so used to the men you’ve been around talking so poorly of their exes that you didn’t know someone could experience such a negative thing and not immediately resort to extreme name calling.

That’s just how good Seokjin is. Enough to not be mad at you for asking questions, for panicking. Enough to speak kindly about others even if it might be eating at him.

“That doesn’t mean it was your fault though,” you stifle a yawn. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Maybe we should shelve this conversation for another time,” he says.

“No, no, I want to hear. I want to know all of it.”

“You were supposed to start your scheduled stream an hour ago.”

“Change of plans. I’m not streaming tonight.”

“Do your subs know that?”

“Don’t call them that. They’re subscribers not subs. Sub is something you do.”

Jesus. Please don’t let him cling to that. Please don’t let that give away that I know.

“Pfft. Okay, do your subscribers know you’re not streaming anymore?”

You roll your eyes, knowing he’s created this distance on purpose and now the moment has passed.

Fine, you’ll get more from him about this eventually. You need to understand how Soon Yi impacted him. You don’t really know why, but you can’t help but feel like knowing more might make you feel less uneasy about all of this. About you and Seokjin and what this could all maybe mean someday.

“I can post about it,” you say softly and he nods.

“That might be a good idea. You’ve had a big day. A big panic attack, you probably need some sleep.”

Your stomach sinks at the idea that he might leave after this, and you’re still not sure you want to be alone. You chew your lip.“What I really need is some pizza,” you say.

Seokjin smirks. “Good thing for you, I know exactly where we can find some.”

“Thank you again for the pizza,” you said, nibbling on the edge of one crust. “I didn’t think I could be that hungry after eating so much earlier.”

Seokjin took another swig of beer, shrugging. “Well, you’ve had a big day, and you burned energy and probably calories earlier.”

Your panic attack may have seemed to you like it was coming out of nowhere, but to Seokjin, it wasn’t. He had noticed your embarrassment the second after you asked him that question, saw you spiral inside yourself as you tried to huff air. He wasn’t sure what really triggered it, but he also knew he didn’t want to leave you after that.

He wasn’t unfamiliar to them. Yes, Yoongi had his share, and it took a little while to learn what ways he could be soothed. Soon Yi’s were different, though. A lot more similar to yours.

When they had started experimenting sexually, there would be times in which she would fall so quickly into panic, like she couldn’t give up control. And from that point on, sometimes she would spiral deeper, into some pit of shame where whatever they were doing, even if it wasn’t super kinky, led to these shaking, sub-drop-like breakdowns. They were more rare, but they did happen, especially earlier in their relationship.

At the time, Seokjin didn’t understand what was going on, and neither did Soon Yi. Just that she sometimes would flip on him during foreplay when he would get a little more confident and dominant, or if he started falling into a scene that she had asked them to do, using the script the way she asked, it would happen anyway. Almost like she was fighting between what she wanted and who she expected herself to be.

And that’s in a way how you seemed to be too. Maybe you weren’t like this sexually, and he would unpack that idea later. But in this intimate space of your home, it was like Seokjin was experiencing some type of whiplash as you went from being so uncomfortable about asking about his sexuality to you lying next to him in your bed talking about his ex.

He wasn’t mad, not in the slightest. He understood that especially after a panic attack, people were desperate for closeness and intimacy, and whatever reaction he had to your panic, you felt soothed and safe with him. He was being let into your world little by little, even if you were fighting yourself to let it happen.

He wanted that. He wanted this: you two eating cold pizza on the floor of your living room, you chewing happily and Seokjin warm and full of life watching you do it.

You even let him make adjustments to your space, laughing and applauding him after he ripped some of the clean cardboard from one of the pizza boxes and made shims to prop up and balance your oven and fridge. He found if he scooted the couch slightly to the left and your entertainment system got turned a few inches, you could completely see the TV from anywhere on the couch. You dove to the other side almost immediately, whooping when you realized you wouldn’t have to strain yourself to see anymore.

You were comfortable. He made you comfortable.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” you said, your hand caressing over the soft roll of your stomach to demonstrate how full you were. Then, a deep burp echoed into the room. Your eyes widened. “Oh, wow, sorry. Excuse me,” you said suppressing a chuckle.

But Seokjin was already laughing, his body shaking at the sound. “So polite for someone who made that noise.”

The tenseness in your shoulders fell and you gave in, laughing next to him. “Listen! It was good, and the carbonation of the beer is making me have to burp!”

“Sure, sure. That’s what it is. You know I’ve seen those memes about how women don’t fart or burp or poop and I’m onto you! You have one strike. If you fart or shit I’m going to prove that meme false.”

You scoff, tears leaking out the side of your eyes. “Well good thing for you, I will not deny those allegations. I don’t just poop, I shit.”

Seokjin choked on his next sip of beer, spluttering some of it out of his nose. “Oh shit.” Tears flowed from his eyes from the sting, and he grasped for some napkins near the pizza.

You weren’t much better off, coughing heavily into your shirt as you tried to recover. This, this was everything he could ever want. Afterward, you both cleaned up the kitchen and pizza together, finishing off the six-pack of beer until your yawns were impossible to ignore.

“It’s really late, Y/N. You should go to sleep,” he said. He hated himself for suggesting it, almost wishing that you would extend the invitation to stay. Even then, though, he would have to decline.

“Or we could, I don’t know, play a game or something?” As you said this, you stifled another yawn.

He chuckled. You were stalling, he could tell. And he wasn’t strong enough to say no. “Hm, okay how about this. We can hang out in your room and I’ll tell you more about me. But you have to get ready for bed first, otherwise it’s no deal.”

Your eyelids were heavy, but you beamed anyway. “Yeah, okay.”

You went into your room, grabbing some clothes before shutting yourself into the bathroom to get ready. Seokjin paced your living room, scanning the book shelves, a variety of titles he’d never seen before in the stacks. But there was one, a smaller and thinner book that had more wear and tear than the rest. He slid it out carefully and held it in his hands. Tuck Everlasting, a book he’d read in elementary school about a teenager who met a family that drank from a tree’s magical spring and lived forever.

Based on your copy, he could tell it was well-loved and read many times. How old were you when you read it, he wondered. Did you want to run away into the woods like he did afterward, trying to find a magical spring of your own?

The bathroom door opened, and he carefully slotted the book back onto the shelf before turning to you. You were wearing an oversized T-shirt and some very, very short pajama shorts. Your legs looked so soft to touch. His hand twitched.

“Okay,” you said, “I’m ready.”

Seokjin wasn’t. But he followed you into the darkness of your room anyway, laid himself down next to you on the bed as you tucked yourself under the blankets. Your eyes shimmered as you looked at him, now way more awake than you had appeared just ten minutes ago.

Were you hustling him?

“You need to crawl under the blankets too. Otherwise they’ll constrict me and I will absolutely not fall asleep like you have clearly planned,” you tease.

You were hustling him. He liked it.

He chuckled and obeyed, folding back the comforter and sheets to get in. But in doing so, he revealed you with your shorts already bunched up on your thighs, exposing your lacy panties at your hip. Your shirt was riding up, and he could see a tiny bit of your stomach peeking out.

God fucking help him. He managed a deep breath, begging himself not to get hard, or for his body to at least wait until you wouldn’t see him getting hard and he was under the covers. This wasn’t the time. Not after all the emotionality of the day. But his dick didn’t know that.

Your covers smelled like you, soft and even a little sweet and you really had to be fucking with him because you shoved yourself even closer to him under the covers, so that there were just a few inches between you two. He felt your body heat radiating from you.

“There,” you sighed, and he smelled a hint of your mint toothpaste. His mouth watered. “Now, where were we?”

No, but where were you really? He didn’t remember, didn’t know where to start. And then it clicked.

“Mmm, you were going to go to sleep I think,” he said.

You frowned, your nose wrinkling. “No, that’s not true. Or it was. I’m not tired now.”

“Give it a minute, I’m sure soon your eyelids won’t be able to stay open.”

“Sure, but yours are heavy now too. So you must be tired. Now it’s a competition.” You were right. His eyelids were heavy, and he was tired. But he knew his body, especially as keyed up as he was getting, wasn’t about to let him fall asleep any time soon.

“I think I’ll win that one,” he laughed lightly.

“Doubt it,” you challenged, and you shifted your legs, now a little less comfy and more antsy. You slowly released a breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this right now?” He asked, and you didn’t hesitate to nod.

“I want to know more about you. It’s nice to put the puzzle pieces of you together in my head.” Your voice was growing husky.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” you replied. A beat passed. Neither of you moved to say anything, just looked at each other.

Shouldn’t this be awkward? Shouldn’t all of this feel wrong? Somewhere in his mind, the logical response was yes, this is weird and he should leave. But then he would be leaving you after a hard day, when you clearly were trying to avoid him leaving by going so far as to keep yourself awake to stare at him. To try to get to know him. And that’s what rooted him now. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. Maybe you were only being needy. But he also felt needy right now. And for the moment, logic could fuck off.

So he pushed it away, letting the parts of him he liked most bubble to the surface, the parts that led without overthinking and just acted on what he wanted.

He moved slightly closer to you, and you blanched, a little taken aback, but you recovered quickly. “

I’m cold,” you said. He knew it was a lie. He could feel the heat of you.

“Here,” he replied, and he pulled the blanket open slightly so you could wiggle forward, resting yourself against his chest.

He angled himself carefully, trying so hard to avoid the rest of your bodies touching, but it was impossible, so he pulled you closer, letting every part of you rest against him.

“Tell me,” you muttered.

“What should I tell you?” he whispered back.

“I don’t know. Anything.” You were fading quickly, and he was relieved. Sad that he would have to go soon, but relieved that you were finally resting.

“Okay,” he said, even softer. “I think if I ever drank from a magical spring, I would do a better job hiding it than the Tuck family did.”

You hummed in response, and then he felt your head nod into his chest as you fell fully asleep.

#bts smut #seokjin smut #seokjin #seokjin x reader #bts fanfic #kim seokjin #thanks for the sub

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aghost-writer · 4 months ago

Text

Sugar

Chapter 11

This is a Yandere BNHA Pro Heroes x Reader Fic!

MDNI!!

Y/N walked alongside Endeavor as they exited the VIP box, her demeanor calm and poised despite the firestorm of thoughts racing in her mind. Enji had been upfront, as expected, but his dominant, transactional approach grated on her nerves. Still, it was worth enduring—if it meant gaining insight into Dabi.

As they reached the hallway, Endeavor stopped, glancing down at her. “I’ll have someone send you home.”

She offered a charming smile, her hand lightly brushing his arm. “That won’t be necessary, Enji. I can take care of myself.”

His brows furrowed briefly, but he nodded. “Fine. Don’t forget what I said. Next week.”

“Of course,” she replied smoothly. “I’ll be waiting for your message.”

He turned without another word, his imposing figure retreating down the corridor. Once he was out of sight, Y/N allowed her polished smile to drop. She inhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders, and reached for her phone.

It was time to do damage control. ｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:

Y/N paced her lavish living room, the heels of her shoes clicking against the polished floor. She had sent Toshi three messages already, carefully crafted to sound apologetic yet nonchalant.

“Toshi, I missed seeing you today. Are you still at the festival?”

No response.

She bit her lip, glancing at the time. He wasn’t usually one to leave her hanging like this. Even if he was busy, he’d typically reply with a quick reassurance.

“I hope I didn’t upset you. Let me know when you’re free. I’d love to see you soon.”

Still nothing.

The third message was more direct:

“Are you okay? I’m getting worried. Please talk to me.”

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the couch. It wasn’t like Toshi to ignore her completely. But then again… he had seen her with Enji.

She wasn’t breaking any of the app’s rules. Lovesick allowed sugar babies to have multiple arrangements, provided everything was consensual. But Toshi—sweet, thoughtful Toshi—was different. His attachment to her was more personal, more tender.

Her phone remained silent, mocking her.

Y/N poured herself a glass of wine, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse. The city lights twinkled below, but her focus was elsewhere. She replayed the moment in her mind: Toshi’s face when he saw her with Enji.

She hadn’t meant for him to see. She’d been discreet—at least, she thought she had. But the look in his eyes had been unmistakable.

Disappointment.

Guilt gnawed at her. Not because she’d done anything wrong—she was playing by the rules—but because she hadn’t anticipated how much seeing her with someone else might hurt him.

As the evening stretched on, Y/N finally gave up on receiving a reply. She curled up on the couch, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

Toshi… please don’t pull away from me, she thought.

But deep down, she knew this silence was different. For someone like Toshi, who valued trust and genuine connections, seeing her with Enji might have been more than he could handle. ｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and high-end perfumes filled the air as Nemuri strolled through the busy shopping district. The stores around her were filled with the most extravagant items—gleaming jewelry, designer handbags, and elegant shoes—all calling out to her. She was on a mission today, her eyes scanning the displays with precision as she carefully selected a variety of luxurious gifts.

Yamada, who had joined her for the outing, was trailing a few steps behind, hands stuffed in his pockets. He glanced at the piles of bags in Nemuri’s arms, feeling a little out of place. He never understood how she could drop so much money without hesitation.

“Are you sure she’ll like all of this?” Yamada asked, raising an eyebrow as he tried to keep up with her pace. “I mean, that’s a lot of stuff for one person, don’t you think?”

Nemuri, who was practically bouncing with excitement, didn’t even glance back at him. “It’s perfect for her, Zashi. Trust me. I’ve been keeping an eye on what she likes—she’ll love these.” She paused to admire a sleek diamond necklace in a jewelry store window. “A little extra sparkle never hurt anyone.”

Yamada rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve been ‘keeping an eye on her’ for weeks now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were completely obsessed with her.”

Nemuri turned her head to grin at him mischievously. “Maybe I am,” she said lightly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “But she’s worth it. She’s been so elusive, you know? I’m trying to win her over. She deserves the best.”

Yamada laughed under his breath. “You’re not the only one, you know. I’ve been doing a little shopping myself.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “A few little things here and there—nothing like your haul—but I think she’ll appreciate the effort.”

“Hmm…” Nemuri mused, her eyes flicking over to his less extravagant purchases, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “That’s cute, Zashi. But we both know I’ll win her over with these.” She lifted the stack of gifts higher in her arms, causing several gift bags to sway precariously.

Yamada snorted and shook his head. “If you say so, Nemuri. But don’t get too cocky. I know how to treat someone right too.”

“Right,” Nemuri chuckled, nudging him playfully. “If you say so.”

As they continued to shop, their conversation drifted into lighter topics. Yet, both were wrapped up in the same idea—trying to win over Y/N. They were doing their best to outdo each other in what they considered thoughtful gestures, not realizing that their target was the same person. Neither of them had a clue that they were both, in their own ways, vying for the attention of the same sugar.

After a few more stops, Nemuri’s arms were nearly full, and Yamada had to admit, she had outdone him. He gave her a half-joking glare as they walked toward the checkout.

“Alright, alright, I’ll admit defeat,” Yamada grumbled. “You’ve got this one.”

“Of course,” Nemuri said with a wink, taking her bag from the counter and adjusting her sunglasses. “But don’t worry, Zashi. You can still try again next time. Maybe I’ll let you help me pick out her next gift.”

Yamada let out a breath of frustration but smiled anyway. “We’ll see about that.”

They headed toward the exit, unaware that they were both wrapped up in the same game. As they walked out into the bustling street, Nemuri’s phone buzzed. She glanced down and saw a message from Y/N—a thank-you note for the recent gift she had sent.

“See?” Nemuri said, grinning at Yamada. “She loves it.”

Yamada’s eyes narrowed as he caught a glimpse of the message. “So, she’s really responding to you, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve been sending her some cute things. You know, thoughtful gestures,” Nemuri said, oblivious to the fact that her competition was walking right beside her.

Yamada couldn’t help but look at the message a little longer, his mind swirling with the idea of trying to compete more aggressively now. He knew Y/N was different—she was elusive, hard to read—but that made her even more enticing.

He just didn’t know yet that Nemuri was competing for the same prize. ｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:

Y/N followed Yamada through the sprawling halls of his radio station, the atmosphere charged with an energy that felt as vibrant as the music itself. The walls were lined with posters of past albums, radio milestones, and photos of the famous personalities who had graced the station’s airwaves. The sound of light chatter and the occasional hum of a DJ mixing in the background filled the air. Yamada moved with an easy confidence, giving her an impromptu tour of the place.

“This is where all the magic happens,” Yamada said, gesturing toward the control panel of one of the booths. “The heart of the station, the spot where we keep the airwaves pumping.”

Y/N’s eyes glimmered with curiosity. She had never been inside a radio station before, but there was something intriguing about the way Yamada spoke of it. “It’s pretty cool,” she said, glancing around. “I always thought there was more to it than just talking on air.”

“Oh, there’s a lot more,” he replied with a chuckle. “But it’s not just about the words. It’s about the vibe, the mood we create. Music’s powerful, Y/N. It can shape lives, change moods, inspire people. I think that’s what draws me to it so much.”

She nodded thoughtfully. There was something magnetic about the way he spoke, and she found herself drawn into the world he was painting for her. “It’s impressive. I didn’t know this side of you,” she said, her voice light but with an underlying tease. “You’re not just a pretty face behind the mic. You’ve got some depth to you, Zashi.”

Yamada flashed her a playful grin. “Pretty face?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow. “I see you’re into my style.” He tilted his head slightly, locking eyes with her in a way that made her heart skip a beat. “Let me show you more. There’s something you should see.”

He led her further into the station, where the main control booth was located, its glass walls offering a full view of the bustling area beyond. The room was quiet, with a single table in the center, surrounded by stacks of music albums, sound equipment, and the occasional coffee mug.

“This is where I do most of my work when I’m not on air,” he said, motioning to the table, which was covered in papers and other radio-related materials. “It’s my little sanctuary. And now,” he added with a sly smile, “I’m sharing it with you.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She slid onto the table, crossing her legs as she leaned back slightly. There was something electric in the air between them, something she couldn’t quite place, but she liked it. Her gaze flicked toward Yamada, who had approached her, his playful smile turning into something more intense.

“So, tell me something, Y/N,” Yamada said, his voice dropping lower as he took a step closer, the edge of his smile never fading. “What exactly is it that you want out of all this?” His eyes roamed over her body, and she could feel the heat between them building.

Y/N tilted her head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice teasing yet curious.

“Come on,” he said, his voice soft and almost seductive now. “You’re not here just for the tour, right?” He placed his hands on either side of the table, leaning in closer, the proximity almost making her breath catch. “What’s really going on here, Y/N?”

She could feel her pulse quicken, but she didn’t back down. He was pushing, probing, trying to get under her skin, and she liked the challenge. “I told you,” she said, keeping her voice light, “I’m just here for the experience.”

Yamada raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “You sure about that? You’ve got a way about you, something that tells me you’re looking for more.” His lips quirked into a knowing smile, but there was a trace of something else there, an underlying curiosity that made her uneasy.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t help the amusement that bubbled up inside her. She had dealt with men like him before, the ones who thought they could unravel her with a few questions, a few sly remarks. She wasn’t here for any of that—at least, that’s what she told herself.

But as his hands slowly slid from the table to her waist, pulling her a little closer, she couldn’t help but feel a tug of something stronger. Something magnetic. Yamada’s lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “You’ve got a little secret, don’t you, Y/N?”

Her heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t stupid—she knew exactly what he was asking. It was clear now that he was trying to get her to open up, to confess. The way he looked at her, the way he spoke—it was all part of the game.

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward the door, then back to Yamada. She had to be careful. She had worked hard to keep her life under wraps, to keep her own secrets hidden. But the way he was looking at her, so intent, so eager to know more—it made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that she didn’t quite like.

“Maybe I do have a secret,” she said, leaning in just enough so their faces were only inches apart. Her voice was low, playful, but there was a hint of something dangerous behind her words. “But I don’t think you’re ready to hear it.”

Yamada’s smirk deepened. “Try me,” he said, his fingers grazing her neck as he inched closer. “I like a challenge.”

The air between them was thick with tension, and Y/N could feel herself losing the battle of restraint. Her heart was racing, her body responding to the intensity of the moment. She leaned into him, her lips brushing against his lightly at first, then deeper as his hands slid to her hips, pulling her toward him.

As their kiss deepened, the sound of his breath and the soft rustling of his shirt were the only things filling the air. She lost track of time, of everything, as his lips moved against hers with increasing urgency, the pressure mounting as they pressed closer.

But as Yamada’s hands slid beneath her shirt, the feel of his fingers brushing against her skin sending a jolt through her, she felt something slip—something she hadn’t intended to say.

“More than one, you know,” she muttered between kisses, her voice breathless. “I’ve got more than one.”

Yamada pulled back slightly, his expression momentarily confused. “More than one?” he repeated, eyes narrowing as he processed her words.

“Daddies,” she said with a slight chuckle, not even realizing she had let it slip until the words were out of her mouth. “Mommies, too. You know… multiple ones. It’s not that complicated.”

The confession hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Yamada just stared at her, the intensity in his eyes replaced with something more calculating. “Multiple daddies?” he repeated softly, his voice almost like a whisper.

Y/N could feel the flush creeping up her neck, her nerves suddenly on edge as she realized what she had just revealed. But she refused to take it back. She had her reasons, her rules. She wasn’t ashamed of what she did. And she certainly wasn’t going to apologize for it.

Yamada’s lips curved into a smile, this time with a hint of amusement. “I see. So, I’m just one of many, huh?” he said, his voice light but laced with an edge of curiosity.

Y/N met his gaze, unflinching. “If you want to be, Zashi,” she said, her tone even, almost playful. “I don’t mind sharing.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air like a strange new tension. Then Yamada leaned in once more, kissing her softly, as though nothing had changed. As if her confession didn’t matter.

But deep down, Y/N knew that things were shifting. This game, this dangerous little dance they were playing, had just taken on a new layer. ｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:✿｡.ﾟ+:

Yamada’s lips lingered just inches from hers, his breath warm and heavy as he pulled back slightly, his hands resting lightly on her waist. His eyes searched hers, his voice low and steady. “So, what would I have to do to be your only one?” His words were spoken with a quiet intensity, a hint of something deeper lurking behind them, something that hinted at a need for commitment, for exclusivity. He was fishing for an answer, his gaze never leaving hers as if he were waiting for her to make up her mind.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t answer right away. The question hung between them, more complicated than he realized. Could she even have just one? Could she really choose just one person after everything she’d been through? The thought of exclusivity was foreign to her, a trap that she had always carefully avoided. And yet… there was something about Yamada’s persistence, his willingness to pursue her, that made her pause.

But before she could respond, her phone buzzed, pulling her out of the moment. Her heart sank as she looked down at the screen. Unknown caller.

She furrowed her brow, and without thinking, she quickly answered the call, trying to push away the tension that had been building. “Hello?” Her voice was sharp, betraying the unease that suddenly gripped her.

On the other end of the line, the voice she’d been dreading to hear came through, low and familiar. “Y/N,” the voice said, a slight rasp in it, but unmistakable. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t need to hear any more. It was him. Dabi.

Her eyes widened as the realization hit her like a wave. “Dabi…” she breathed out in disbelief, the name falling from her lips as if she had been holding it in for far too long.

There was a brief pause, followed by the familiar chuckle she had come to dread. “I figured you’d recognize my voice,” Dabi’s voice slid through the phone, smoother than ever, but there was a tension in his tone, an edge that made her blood run cold. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you, sis. And I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, and she tried to steady herself, glancing up at Yamada, who still stood before her, his expression now shifting to one of confusion as he tried to figure out what was happening.

“Dabi, I—” she started to speak, but he cut her off, his voice lowering, turning dark and commanding.

“Don’t bother. Just get to me. Now. We need to talk. Don’t make me wait, Y/N.”

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to process the sudden shift in her plans. She hadn’t expected this—she hadn’t expected him to pull her back into his world so soon. But there was no time to think. No time to process anything.

“I—” she started, but the words died in her throat as she looked back at Yamada. She couldn’t deal with this now. Dabi was waiting, and she had no choice but to go. She didn’t have the luxury of hesitation. Not with him.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Y/N said quickly, her voice soft but firm. She backed away from Yamada, her chest tightening as she avoided looking at him too long, afraid he might see the panic she was desperately trying to mask.

Yamada’s brow furrowed as he watched her step back, his expression one of confusion and concern. “Y/N, wait… What’s going on?”

But she didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. Instead, she turned quickly, almost too quickly, and rushed toward the exit. She didn’t look back, though she could feel his eyes on her, following her every step.

Her heart was pounding as she hurried down the hallway, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the phone tightly in her palm. The call with Dabi still rang in her ears, the weight of his words hanging over her like a dark cloud. She had no idea what he wanted, but she knew better than to ignore him. The past between them wasn’t something that could be brushed aside so easily.

As she exited the building, she stood for a moment, trying to steady her breath. She could still hear Dabi’s voice, a sharp reminder that she couldn’t escape him, no matter how hard she tried.

“Where are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she pressed the phone back to her ear.

A low chuckle filled her ears again, and she could practically hear the grin on Dabi’s face. “I’ll send you the address,” he said, before cutting the call abruptly.

Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t ignore this. Not now. Not with the tension still thick between her and Dabi. He had always had a way of pulling her back into his orbit, no matter how much she tried to push away.

Her phone buzzed again, the message from Dabi coming through. An address. One that made her blood run cold.

She stared at the screen, her thoughts spinning. Yamada was still inside, probably wondering where she had gone, and now she had to face the truth of her situation. She couldn’t afford to explain anything to him—not when Dabi was calling her back. Not when the past was coming for her.

With a quick exhale, she shoved the phone into her pocket, determined to follow through. She didn’t have time for apologies or explanations.

Yamada would have to understand. After all, she wasn’t anyone’s one and only. She had her priorities, and right now, Dabi was at the top of the list.

As she made her way toward the address, she knew she was heading into dangerous territory. But it was a danger she knew too well, and one she couldn’t resist.

The night was far from over, and Y/N had no idea what Dabi wanted from her—but she was about to find out.

#yandere x reader #yandere #mha #mha x reader #yandere mha #bnha x reader #bnha #yandere bnha #yandere my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia

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claudiajcregg · 1 year ago

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20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by both @mihrsuri and @unseenacademic 💜💜💜 Thank you so much! I actually wrote up most of the answers the day I was tagged, and then forgot to post them. For over 10 days, probably. Me bad.

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 23! (One of them is a 'collection' of short ficlets, and has 6 chapters. So 28 stories in 23 works so far. Probably about to be more stories in still 23 works.)

2. What's your total Ao3 word count? 156,597 words. For now.

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently? Just TWW. Who knows in the future!

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

They have about 35% of my total kudos, but the first two are ~21% alone. (The first one is the only fic that has over 100 kudos. Then again, any of them getting above 30 is a miracle.)

maybe everything's just turning out how it should be (Big Block of Cheese 2008; CJ & Josh. Posted Feb 2021) [121]

say it's here where our pieces fall in place (Vignettes, 1998-2008. Posted Jan 2022.) [66]

just your smile lit a sixty-watt bulb in my house that was darkened for days (Thanksgiving 2006. Posted Dec 2022.) [55]

nobody knows how to get back home (Missing scene from ITSOTG. Posted April 2023) (wait what. top 4?!) [50]

we could be the way forward and I know I'll pay for it (B4A Campaign Fic, spring 1998. Posted May 2021) [47]

5. Do you respond to comments?

YES. I don't take them for granted, and I like interacting with my readers. Sharing is nerve-wracking and makes me feel so exposed, so any comment makes it worth it. I like to thank peeps for their time! As of late, it's taking me weeks to get back to comments for Brain/spoons reasons (and because I try to do so in order, though not always). I sometimes feel bad I have fallen behind on leaving my own comments, so replying to what I get makes me feel bad. I love getting the rare, long, thoughtful comments, because I love seeing what people pick up on (had to restrain myself from commenting on everything), so if that one's up next… It'll delay everything. I have a harder time letting go of those.

I know replying or not is a hot topic, and I fall on the side of 'whatever the author does is fine' (I see them as being voluntary gifts to the author, kinda, but I understand why some authors can't or won't reply! Especially those who get dozens.). It does feel weird(ly demoralizing) when you see that yours is one of a couple of comments they haven't replied to, though. (Selfishly, as someone who tries to write medium-long comments, lack of anything can sting. It's irrational, it's not what I'm after, but it'd be nice to know whether that hour plus of my time was worth it. It's not transactional and I hate that c4c idea or whatever. Just. weird feelings.)

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

As we've established in previous similar memes (lol, I think I've answered these questions before), my fics don't really have angsty endings! For the most part. I think I said don't want you to go but I'll be okay then, and I can still buy that/definitely popped into my brain. I think some of my late S7 fics have an ominous feel to them, with some references/buildup to the angsty parts of IM, but I wouldn't call them angsty endings.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Um. The opposite is true! still you never took your hand from mine was my first thought, but I feel like oh, and I will be with you to feel the California sun is pretty darn happy. I could have picked almost any of them and I could make a case for them!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I luckily do not. I have gotten a couple of comments that have messed with my brain, and made me second-guess things, but they were not hate.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes, but not regularly and not that well. It's usually short, mild scenes at most, but I did challenge myself to write a more explicit one last summer, especially after I got those 'one bed' tropes in the Wheel but didn't go there in the 500-word limit. Streets say it's hot. IDK. I also wrote a smutty continuation to the exchange fic. Best if we forget parts of that one happened. I also started writing one that would be in my S5 pregnancy universe but 🤐

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I don't. But this question confirms to me I have answered this before because I know I've joked about how TV has already done that for me, lmao. See: Bones/Sleepy Hollow.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? (I had to track down this question because it wasn't anywhere.) I don't think so!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope! I'm having déjà vu here. I know I have answered this before: I could do it myself! But I have a feeling it wouldn't be as easy as one might think, but I'd be honored.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I don't think so…? If I have, it was years ago, in my forum/LJ days. I've been trying to make it happen for a while now, but who knows if it'll ever happen. WE HAVE IDEAS. We want to make it happen. (Wink wink, nudge nudge. You know who.)

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Spaceships are so cool. Atlantis was the first space shuttle I saw in person (and also the one I've seen the most) and it and its exhibit are awesome. I'm only missing Discovery out of the four space shuttles, because I didn't go to the second National Air and Space Museum location in Virginia back in 2015. And once the new exhibit center is completed, I'd love to see Endeavour again.

(In all seriousness, I don't have one. Booth and Brennan will forever and always hold a special place in my heart, but I love CJ and Danny so much, writing for them, their journey. Pls don't make me pick.)

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I am a big 'never say never' person, because I end up picking stuff up (and maybe rewriting it to fit my current style/ability) if I remember an idea… But I'm guessing many of them won't get finished. Probably some of those that are deep in my notes app or on the drive.

16. What are your writing strengths? I (try to) dig into the emotion of a scene as best as I can.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Everything else? I know it sounds like an excuse (at least to my ears), but writing in your second language is hard. I know my writing sounds limited because of it – my descriptions will never be as evocative as I wish they were, my dialogue won't be there. I am not the most imaginative person, either.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

If it makes sense, and won't take the reader out of the story, go for it! (A few words, or a line or two, might work if there's appropriate context.)

But also, as a non-native speaker, I'll always recommend using pals who might be fluent in that language and checking with them! I know that, throughout my many years in fandom, I've read quick things in Spanish within English fics that weren't entirely correct in the context they were being used (i.e. character's fluency, smaller details), and they took me out for a second. (I know, I know – pot, meet kettle. If anyone has read an unedited story of mine, they've found me making up English phrases.)

19. First fandom you wrote for? Bones. In Spanish. (I also think I wrote some ficlets in English that are probably hidden in some random LJ comm I created for my writing. They're probably 14-15 years old.)

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I honestly cannot pick! And maybe it's yet to come. But basically, if I've gone through the embarrassment of having someone edit/beta a fic and catch all the avoidable mistakes, it's because it genuinely has something I like about it and that I think others will like, too. (Perceived quality aside.)

Off the top of my head, and out of the posted fics (obvious recency bias, sorry). I have a story for all 23… Also, let's consider I've mostly not read them since they were posted so I might be off. (Would love to hear what everyone's favorite is, if you've read any and are reading this!) Obviously, that top 5 by kudos has great ones. There's a reason

don't want you to go but I'll be okay: I just remember finishing it and knowing it was something special. Felt like many things coming together. I wanted to write angstier, a break from the endgame of the IM AU I've yet to post, and I think it works. I had had that quote as inspo for a while, and I think the trip to Berlin put it back on my mind. (The first haunted by the notion draft is from around this time, too!)

your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep: the structure is likely a tad repetitive, maybe (but also, the point of 3+1s, sort of?) but I love writing in that s7 period, and there should be more fic with the press corps. I think the stuff I wrote while editing (which included an overhaul of the +1) is even better than what was there.

oh, and I will be with you to feel the California sun: recency bias, yes. I love a good early Cali story, and even if this was nowhere the story I sat down to write originally, I love how it turned out. It's silly but fun, and so sunny.

still you never took your hand from mine: I will always have all the soft spots for my memoir stories, even if two of them have yet to be posted. This one doubled its size a year and a half after “finishing” it because I realized what it was missing. It's sappy, probably unrealistic re: the publishing industry, but damn it if it's not one of those that have made me cry while editing them.

we could be the way forward and I know I'll pay for it: I had to include an oldie but goodie from my first year, and this one is so special to me. (Along with BBC 2008, which I also absolutely adore. That was the fic I always wanted to post. Hilarious it was third. But it's also my most popular fic by a huge margin.) Seeing it recommended on Tumblr? God. I love campaign stories and all their potential. I love that I took a random line from some unposted story and it evolved into this fic.

nobody knows how to get back home: I almost added the most recent one because of how fun it was to write (or, as I mentioned above, Big Block of Cheese) but I like how bittersweet this missing scene one is. I find CJ's internal struggle so interesting to explore, and this is one of her most vulnerable moments. I also wanted to see a hug so badly.

#20 questions for fic writers #ask games #god this is so late #hopefully I make up for it with my rambling #tagging whoever wants to do it - everyone I know was tagged in one of the rounds with me #in between writing most of this and posting it I hit 900 kudos woo

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thesoccerfieldmapblog · 2 months ago

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thelostchronicles · 1 year ago

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Clock problem

Have you ever seen problems with your device? I am further studying why malfunctions occur, to me, communicating a problem in a place such as her does affect Tumblr in how these types of things are being ran in society, the game Manor Lords is a problem seen, the game was not seen for various reasons, going further into why that individual game should not have been allowed to go through a pre-run, my cat is very loud, so I cannot think very clear, so going to write as much as possible for the purpose of understanding. Manor Lords is a game that allowed users to play before released, bad things come out of this because no one was paying, this is likened to credit, I do not like people who have chosen everything to do with credit, nothing wrong with receiving something good; however if you do not grow from what you read or play in life, look at what that does, the recorded information from seeing Manor Lords is obvious to the majority of people, that game had more people playing, they were trying to get something for nothing, look at the fact, if Manor Lords comes out, look at how many people will not pay, not only will people not pay, but the designers of the game will not be paid, bad scenarios happen when things continue to not be paid, that is likened to MeetMe if users do not send a gift during a stream. Manor Lords was not seen, but right before the festival started earlier today, a quick reminder to those who choose credit as a form to transact orders, both debit and credit transactions have to occur, people are responsible for paying an item in credit transactions, a wake up call actually, and I am not referring about the slander of people that cannot help saying Ashley or actually in their speech, that will go further into how just paying, pays, some of them are still not understanding where their underwear actually is on their body, then goes further how a person puts their underwear taped to their leg or possibly wearing the underwear on their forehead as a bandana, not a banana because if squished or eaten, the banana no longer looks like a gun, but just a memory that gets worse upon reading and the mind starts appearing ugly outside to your friends and family, did the banana do it or do you now have to go to prison? The end has not come, better to pay the next chapter of Elder Scrolls

#elder scrolls #overnight

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unrefinedmusings · 3 years ago

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Between the Shelves - Part 2

Hi again! Thank you for the positive feedback on the first chapter 🥰 Hope you enjoy this next part!

Stephen Strange x Bookstore Owner! Reader

Part 1 Part 3

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, explicit language

— — —

Reader POV

Despite achieving an above average number of orgasms over the last three nights, you still awoke from a dream about the very reason why that many releases was even necessary.

Doctor Strange.

You were ashamed at how the fifteen minutes the man spent in your presence wouldn’t leave your mind. Determined to push away thoughts of baby blue eyes and a cocky grin, you got out of bed and started getting ready for the day. Leaving your building in a floral cream sundress with a tote bag and a travel mug full of coffee, you headed off to your store.

Unfortunately, you only made it through the subway ride and the beginning of the short walk to your livelihood before your interaction with the wizard was on your mind again.

He’s probably just a flirt. He is a cocky son of a bitch, it would make sense. Think on the bright side, it was a fun (albeit sexually frustrating) conversation. It doesn’t matter that you won’t meet again, and it definitely doesn’t matter that he called you sweetheart. This can just be a fun story to tell your girlfriends on a night out after too many drinks. Maybe they have their own thirsty Avenger stories.

As you turned the corner, the self placating thoughts came to a halt when your eyes fell to your storefront. You had never been proven wrong so quickly because there Stephen was, the morning light gracing his attractive face. He wore jeans and a black button down, with two takeout coffee cups in his hands…or so it seemed. As you approached, you realized he wasn’t holding the cups but rather suspending them in the air next to him. You bit back a smile and rolled your eyes.

Show off.

“What are you doing here?”, you questioned once you had arrived in front of him.

“Good morning to you too. You should mind your manners, sweetness,” he quipped with a raised brow.

“Sweetness?”, you challenged back while trying to ignore how much you liked that name and being scolded by him. He only shrugged and bit back a smile of his own in response.

“My friend was very pleased with his gift, so I wanted to say thank you for your help,” he said to answer your initial query, pausing when he saw the mug in your hands. “Although, maybe I should have just gotten you a gift card.”

You plucked one of the cups from the air with a free hand, and replied, “I always appreciate more caffeine in my life, but you already said thank you the other day and you didn’t have to get me anything. You were looking for a book in my store. It was a very pleasant business transaction.”

“Pleasant enough for a repeat?”

“Another gift?”

“Well, a gift to myself.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Something romantic,” he said while taking a step closer, dangerously close to invading your personal space. You stifled a giggle at his comment, leaving you unable to come up with a response. Instead, you made your way around him and to the shop’s door to open for the day.

— — —

Stephen POV

As you opened the shop and busied yourself getting settled in, Stephen observed your movements in silence. You opened the blinds on the door and windows, pulled some things out of your tote, and gathered up a stack of books behind the counter.

“Give me a few minutes to finish some things, and then we can start looking for your next read,” you said.

“No rush, I’ve got time,” Stephen replied.

While you worked, Stephen noticed a book you had pulled out of your bag along with your laptop. He could tell it was a favorite as the binding was worn and there were small red sticky tabs coming out of the pages. He turned it over to see the cover.

A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller

“May I?”, he asked as you were placing some books on the “Picks of the Month” display table. You looked up from your task to see what he referring to. The doctor observed a blush make its way up your neck to the apples of your cheeks.

“S-Sure,” you said, your voice quivering ever so slightly.

He smirked and picked up the book, eager to read the contents that made your face flush like that. He perused the pages, especially the ones you bookmarked, and decided to take his flirtation with you to the next level.

Oh I am going to enjoy this.

Finding just the right line, he recited, “I adored you.”

You breath hitched loud enough for him to hear. Stephen knew you weren’t expecting him to read aloud. He didn’t look up from the page, a satisfied smirk on his face as he went on, “You were so soft, so diabolically angelic looking.”

The Avenger would have continued, had he not heard several loud thuds come from your direction. Setting his gaze on you, he saw you looking down at a pile of books that had fallen off the table.

“Sorry!”, you blurted out while bending down to clean up the mess. However, before you could grab a single book, they were levitating off the floor and to their proper places.

“Thanks,” you remarked with a sheepish smile.

“No problem, now you can help me faster,” he said.

“I thought you said you weren’t in a rush.”

“Not in a rush to leave, but I’m in a big hurry to talk to you again,” he explained with a playful wink.

You made your way over to him and plucked the book out of his hands. Stephen teased you with a pout on his full lips and remarked, “I was still looking through that.”

“Follow me, please,” you announced, ignoring his comment. He obliged and the two of you debated options for his next read, until choosing Anna Karenina. You turned away from him to head back to the front, but he quickly grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“One more thing, do you have a copy of that collection of letters for sale?”, he questioned.

You nodded, smiling up at him.

— — —

Reader POV

Over the next few weeks, Stephen had stopped by your establishment several times.

During each visit, the two of you would discuss his previous purchases and choose something new at your recommendation.

With every conversation, you learned more about the man behind the cape cloak. He was not only intelligent, but insightful and curious. Funny, too. He had made you giggle, snort, and throw your head back in amusement more times than you’d like to admit. And despite the cocky attitude (not that you didn’t find it sexy), the sorcerer treated you with a warmth that was quickly making you fall for him.

As the two of you became more familiar with one another, the flirtation only grew bolder. The both of you were determined to rile the other up.

By the third time he had patronized your store, he overtly let his azure eyes look your body up and down before greeting you with an appreciative smile and a low “Hello, sweetness.”

You responded by wearing shorter hemlines from that day on.

On another occasion, you had baked and brought a few brownies as part of your lunch. After offering some to Stephen, he decided to thank you by wiping away a trace of chocolate from the corner of your mouth with his calloused thumb. To make matters (and the ache between your legs) worse, he proceeded to place the aforementioned digit in his mouth.

Not backing down from what was the most sexually charged challenge of your life, you decided to reach out and ever so gently run your fingers through the side of his hair. You were pleased with the reaction you elicited when he froze and his eyes went wide.

“Just brushing away a little dust,” you offered with an innocent expression that was completely incongruent with how provocative you were feeling. You added on, “Although, maybe it was just the gray hairs,” and pulled back your hand with a wink of your own for once.

Overall, things had been escalating. You had feelings for Stephen and wanted to believe he reciprocated. He was definitely hitting on you, but with an undercurrent of such kindness that made you believe he wanted more. Unfortunately, it had officially been five days since your last encounter, the longest he’d gone without stopping by since you’d met.

He’s an Avenger! There are more important things for him to do than talk to you about Steinbeck and reach for the books on the top shelf so you don’t have to go grab the step stool. Even if he doesn’t come back, it’s a crush. You’re a grown woman, not a schoolgirl. Your heart will ache for a little while and then you will move the fuck on.

You had four hours until closing and were determined on keeping that damn magician off your mind. Luckily it was an especially busy Friday afternoon so every time your thoughts drifted to a woodsy musk and a low baritone voice, another customer came in.

At 4:45, a quarter hour before closing, you found yourself alone once again. Fifteen minutes before it would be six days without him. Sighing loudly to the shop, you picked up a stack of new inventory to be shelved. Most of these were on the bottom so you were about to kneel down by the bookcase until you heard the bell chime. You were in close view of the door and snapped your head up at the sound. Your eyes met blue.

Okay, so maybe…I overreacted. Debatable though.

— — —

Stephen POV

Stephen was agitated. The past few days had been subpar at best as the Avengers mission he embarked on at the start of the week took a day longer than planned, which was followed by an emergency at the London Sanctum. He was exhausted upon arriving back in New York, but couldn’t resist the urge to see you after so many days apart. He glanced at one of the clocks in the Sanctum foyer and realized how near your closing time was.

Shit.

Transforming his robes to civilian clothing, he quickly made a portal to the front stoop of the store. Rushing through the portal and through the door, his eyes immediately found yours. They brightened at the sight of him, but widened when they saw what was just outside. Stephen turned and saw the portal was still open. He closed it, turning back to you and explaining in a hurried tone, “I have had a really busy week and I saw it was so close to closing. I just wanted to get here fast.”

He would’ve felt slightly embarrassed by his admission and lack of composure…had it not been for the beaming smile that graced your face.

“I’m just shelving these, but when I’m done we can find you a weekend read,” you offered in a cheerful tone.

“No no, you were about to close up. I just wanted to stop in, but I don’t want to prolong your day or—”

“Stephen,” you interrupted, “I want to. I like your company.”

As a doctor he knew it was impossible, but in this moment he felt like his heart was ready to beat right out of his chest. Stephen made his way over to the shelf where you had started your task, leaning with his back against it. The two of you fell back into the easy banter you usually shared. This lasted for a few minutes until you were through with the stack of books once next to you. In his peripheral vision, he saw you make a move to get up and turned in your direction. Once again, your gazes were drawn to one another.

Oh fuck.

Stephen realized he was looking down at you…because you were on your knees…directly in front of him…eye level with his crotch. He watched your eyes enlarge once more as you made the same realization. Neither of you said a word, barely even breathed.

In a move he didn’t realize he was making, the doctor brought his hand from his side to cup your face with a shaky and almost feather light touch. He let his fingers graze you hair and, feeling bold, brushed a few strands behind your ear. You leaned into his touch, your mouth starting to fall op—

A buzzing startled the two of you from your shared trance, and Stephen pulled his hand back.

— — —

Reader POV

Looking around for the origin of what was now your least favorite sound in the entire fucking universe, you saw it was your own phone vibrating a few feet next to you on the hardwood floor. You were getting a call.

Grabbing your phone and standing up, you avoided Stephen’s eyes. “Uh one second, I-I have to take this,” you mumbled, too flustered to say anything else before making your way to the backroom to answer your phone. After finishing your call, which ended up just being your landlord informing you new security cameras were going to be installed outside, you took a few deep breaths. When you felt calm enough, you walked out of the backroom and right past where Stephen was standing.

You closed the front window’s blinds. Then you walked around the counter and to the door, shuttering the blinds there as well. The sound of heavy footsteps coming closer confirmed the doctor was on the same page as you.

You turned the lock. Click.

Stephen’s hands grasped your waist and pulled you close, your back against his front. You let out a gasp at the sudden action. His hands drifted lower, squeezing your hips, while he moved his lips close to your ear.

— — —

Stephen POV

There were many things Stephen used his photographic memory for. However, he couldn’t think of a better application than to recall his favorite passage from one of your favorite works, and whisper those sweet words to you right now.

“I don’t hear your words: your voice reverberates against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice, it comes straight from you into me, I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.”

With your back still pressed tight against him, he heard and felt you let out a shuddering breath. Before he could even process it, you turned in his arms and grabbed him by the front of his shirt to meet you in a burning kiss. He was quick to respond by licking at your lips until they parted for him. Weeks of not just flirtation, but longing and need were finally being unleashed.

Stephen moved his hands up your back to bring your body taut against his own, soft curves meeting his muscular frame. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your hands quickly found purchase in his hair. You broke the kiss to catch your breath, but Stephen was undeterred. He angled your head to give him easier access to your neck, and began to kiss and nibble at the skin there. Your moans only spurred him on and when your hand came down to palm his cock through his trousers, he bit down on the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“Stephen,” you rasped, “I want you so bad.”

In another assertive display, you maneuvered your bodies until Stephen stood with his back against the counter. The sorcerer could only watch as you sank down to your knees and gently tugged on the front of his pants. You looked up at him with big wide eyes and asked, “Can I?”

Fuck yes.

“Fuck yes,” he breathed.

An impish grin crossed your face before turning your attention to his belt buckle. Once you got his zipper down, Stephen choked as you started mouthing and licking at his member through the fabric of his boxers. Finally, your fingers hooked in the waistband to bring them down and his thick, hard cock sprang up.

Stephen’s ego swelled when your eyes widened, knowing it was because of his size. The shock was a precursor to desire as he saw your pupils dilate. You began leaving kitten licks at the tip, then moved down the shaft to make long languid swipes of your tongue there.

The doctor lost his patience and fisted his hand in your hair, tugging your head back. He warned, “Sweetness, Daddy doesn’t like to be teased.”

“Sorry, daddy,” you replied without hesitation, a mischievous glint in your eye. Taking him into your mouth, you began sucking on the head of his cock. Stephen’s head fell back, his hand still in your hair with a looser grip now. You were bobbing your head up and down his length, taking more of the sorcerer in your mouth each time. He looked down to see red lipstick smeared along his cock, lipstick he knew you wore to drive him crazy.

— — —

Reader POV

Desperate to make one of the most powerful men in the world come undone for you, you put your neck into it and sped up your motions.

“You’re taking my cock so well, such a good girl,” he praised, his ragged voice betraying how lost in pleasure he was. The rough hand in your hair tightened, sending another gush of wetness to your already ruined underwear. You brought one of the hands that was braced on his thighs to rub your clit through the material, making you moan around his length.

“Fuck yes sweetness, I’m gonna cum,” he grunted through clenched teeth. Stephen held your head in place, making you take him to the hilt and choke around him before his hot cum spilled into your mouth and down your throat.

When he slipped his cock out, a few drops landed on your bottom lip. You made sure to make direct eye contact while licking it off, turning the dazed look in his eyes to one of pure lust. He pulled you up off the floor into another searing kiss, gripping the backs of your thighs tight in order to lift you onto the counter.

“Lay back,” he whispered against your lips before dropping to his knees.

His hands rested on your thighs before slowly sliding underneath your skirt. Bringing his head to follow his hands, Stephen began to suck and nip at the insides of each of your thighs. Just as you were about to complain about his teasing, he swiped a finger over your clothed slit. You cried out and used one hand to grasp at the thick head of hair between your legs.

“Such a needy girl, you’re just gushing for me aren’t you,” he mocked, his digits feeling how soaked you were through the lace.

You whimper and whine in response, “Please touch me daddy! I’m so wet for you.”

In an act of mercy, he tugged your panties down your thighs and exposed your pussy to his hungry eyes. Stephen licked a line up from your entrance to your clit, making your back arch against the counter.

He pulled back slightly to meet your gaze and said with a smirk, “And you questioned me when I called you sweetness,” before burying his face against your wet cunt.

The sorcerer started licking and circling your clit, before plunging his tongue in your core. Your thighs clamped around him and your body writhed, each motion sending ripples of pleasure through you. The hand not tugging at his gray streaks shot up to muffle your loud moans, but his firm grip was on your wrist before you knew it.

“I’ve been dreaming of what you sound like when you cum. I bet you scream when it finally hits you,” he said while pulling your arm back down. “Now get loud and prove Daddy right.”

He resumed at a faster pace, lapping at your clit in quick strokes. Your orgasm was quickly approaching when Stephen thrust two rough fingers inside your pussy. He set a harsh rhythm that had your thighs shaking and your walls tightening around his digits.

“That’s it, be a good girl and cum on my face,” he said with his face pressed into your cunt, his baritone voice sending vibrations through you.

Then the Avenger curls his fingers just right, pressing on that sweet spot inside you, and you see stars. The interiors of your livelihood become a blur before your eyes as you fall apart on his skilled tongue.

“YES DADDY! RIGHT THERE!!! I’M CUMMING,” you screeched, your legs practically choking him with how tight they were wrapped around his head. Unbothered, he carried you through your orgasm and the aftershocks, licking up the length of you in broad strokes of his tongue and placing messy kisses on your clit.

Well...that definitely proved he was right.

While you were basking in the afterglow of one of your fantasies coming true, Stephen stayed between your legs to gently place kisses on your inner thighs and lick up the slick that dripped down from your pussy. His lips moved down your legs, leaving one final caress on your knee, before standing up. His hair was a mess after you used those locks as a lifeline to cling to while falling off the edge earlier, and his goatee was glistening with your release.

Fuck, he has never looked better.

You smiled deliriously up at him and giggled when he smiled back. Lifting yourself up, you rested on your hands while he bent down to meet you halfway for a sweet kiss. You tasted yourself on his mouth and whimpered. It was too hot, and you pulled away from his lips to lick and sloppily kiss your cum off his chin. He groaned but wasn’t able to retaliate as another buzzing interrupted you two, this time muffled by his pants pocket.

You couldn’t help but laugh, and rested your head against his chest while he pulled out his phone.

“Goddamnit,” he grumbled.

“Is there a problem,” you queried, looking up at him.

“It’s a reminder about an Avengers briefing in ten minutes. I am supposed to be there. Although…I’ve made a lot of excuses in the past to ditch these. One more won’t hurt,” he reasoned and proceeded to put his lips on your neck. You knew it wouldn’t be long for things to get too charged to stop.

“Absolutely not,” you began with a laugh, placing your hands on his chest to push him away. “I am not going to be the reason you ignore official superhero business. Besides, what if they don’t believe you and come looking for you?”

He sighed, “Fine, but on one condition. We do this again. In your bed. Preferably after dinner.”

“A date?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Someone’s eager,” you teased.

“Well, we are being interrupted right now and I don’t like leaving things unfinished for long. Plus if we go out tomorrow night, you’ll have the next morning off,” he argued, unashamed of knowing your shop’s schedule by heart.

“To sleep in?”, you questioned mockingly.

“Sort of, we’ll definitely be in bed.”

“I don’t know, I have a feeling you are going to be a big fan of my dining table. Nice and sturdy.”

His eyes darkened, and he nearly pulled you in for another kiss before you said, “No! Go be responsible.”

He rolled his eyes and replied, “Fine, but one more thing.”

With a flourish of his hand, a white business card appeared on the counter beside you. It was plain, save for ten digits and his name. You looked up when you heard sizzling and saw Stephen opening a portal. He gave you a small smile as he stepped through and you waved back as it closed.

After giving yourself a few minutes to cool down, you cleaned up and packed your things to head home. You were almost out the door before noticing you were still commando. Looking around, it hit you.

That asshole took my panties!

— — —

Stephen POV

Stephen stepped through the portal into an empty bathroom in the Avengers facility. He took a look at the state of himself in the mirror. You had done a number on his hair and while he had no complaints, his colleagues would have questions. Invasive questions.

Once he was looking less disheveled, he made his way out into the hall and walked to the conference room. Most had arrived already but luckily, the meeting hadn’t started yet. Stephen wouldn’t draw any attention by being late. He slipped inside as inconspicuous as he could manage, taking a seat near the back with Wong and Dr. Banner. Mordo was leading classes at Kamar-Taj today and therefore absent.

“You actually came this time,” Wong remarked from beside him. Stephen pulled a face.

I would’ve cum a lot if it weren’t for this stupid meeting.

Before either sorcerer could get a word in, Director Fury stood and began speaking at the front of the room. Stephen did his best to pay attention, but a slight vibration from his phone broke his focus within a few minutes. Discreetly, he looked at it and bit back a smile. Despite not recognizing the number, the doctor could tell it was you from the message. He replied with one hand, the other having gone to his pocket to feel the lacy and still damp material of your underwear.

Y/N: You took my panties.

S: So? They were soaked through.

Y/N: And whose fault was that?

S: I took full responsibility by getting you out of the mess I made ;)

Y/N: And you had to take them…why?

S: What were you going to do with them?

Y/N: Take them home and wash them???

S: Sounds like a waste of water, just go without.

— — —

A/N: Yes I wrote 4k+ words to share a quote I love. Also I didn't want to write it because I got lazy with the shifting POVs, but the books fell because the reader was clumsy cuz she's falling in love - Fergie

P.S. how are we feeling about the POV switches?

Taglist: @strangesweetheart @kentucky-criedfricken @kimxlysm @sherlocksgirl91

#stephen strange x reader #doctor strange x reader #doctor strange x you #stephen strange x you #stephen strange #dr strange #dr stephen strange #doctor strange #stephen strange fanfiction #stephen strange smut #doctor strange smut #doctor strange fanfiction

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callistochan87 · 3 years ago

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nothing major but enjoy part of a 2700 word excerpt from what I'm writing because this is the most i've written in a sitting so far

first draft obviously, edits required? yes. but hey. i have been struggling so I'm trying to find what accountability i can. please enjoy this thing that was intended to be one scene and instead spanned about half a typical chapter length. i cut it before it started getting too sad, but also because lol i hit tumblr's post limit

also description? what's that? i have avoided the curse of newbie writers so hard i have transcended description entirely

Eric presented the package with a flourish, a card and a small hinged box that could, and would double as a decorative something.

Christine looked at it. He never usually got her Valentine’s gifts beyond some nice chocolates or something practical they’d both wanted, so the display felt off. He was perfectly aware of this.

She read the card, smiled briefly, and then opened the box. Inside were two large chocolate bars, some sort of small-batch, fair-trade chocolate that had an air of high quality. These two were book themed, judging by the wrappers—one, ginger and nori with dark chocolate; the other, she didn’t see the ingredients, but the wrapper caught her eye. Alice in Wonderland-themed, perhaps a bit stereotypical, but she had always tolerated Eric and her father making reference to it.

That was Eric’s usual Valentine’s Day fare. No, It was the little box that provoked examination. It looked like jewelry, and Eric knew this was an unusual turn. She didn’t wear jewelry besides her wedding ring and the two titanium hoops in her ears, worn because they were easy to remove or put back in and simple enough not to get snagged on anything.

“What’s this?” she said. She was turning it over in her hands and not actually opening it. It didn’t help it had been a repurposed ring box.

“You could open it,” Eric suggested.

Eric sat down next to her on the couch and watched. He was well aware of the unusualness if this particular gift but…he had to do something more than usual, because this year was different from past ones. He’d seen the way she often lapsed into silence and let conversations drift around her, the way she spent too much time hunched over her mother’s old notebooks, or the split-second hesitation as she white-knuckle gripped a box of her mother’s old clothes to go to the Salvation Army.

“You don’t usually get me anything else,” she said, discomfort on her face, “I didn’t get you anything. That’s how we usually do it.”

“It’s not a transaction,” Eric said.

“Look, Christmas was bad enough,” she said, an embarrassed flush creeping up on her face, “This makes it even more lopsided—“

“I said it’s not a transaction,” he repeated, “I’m not keeping score. Please, open it.”

Christine finally fumbled with the box. Inside was a deep purple-blue crystal, unpolished. The bottom still resembled rock, but the top part caught the light, casting bright purple highlights across Christine’s hands. He had thought it a small rock, but it looked larger in her hands. He couldn’t read her expression, but she smiled a sort of half-smile.

“It's a crystal. You have tons of those already. Quartz? No, amethyst. Yeah. You have tons of amethyst already.”

“It’s iolite,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “Mined up near Ghost Lake. I got it from a guy in Grande Prairie.”

“Ghost Lake? Where’s that?”

He made a so-so motion with his hands. “If you’re looking on a map? A bit south, south-west, of Wekweètı̀.”

"You had to pay a guy from Grande Prairie for this when you could've gone up to Ghost Lake yourself?” She smiled wider. This was the a joke. He didn’t think he’d be so relieved at a joke.

"I know you don't like camping," he said with a laugh, "If you don't like it at actual, government-owned campsites, I'm not about to charter a plane to fly you out into the bush.”

She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Well, it’s very pretty, thank you. I think there’s a spot in one of your display cases, next to the tourmaline chunk you got for your birthday—”

“Please don’t call it a ‘chunk’,” he said with a laugh, “That sounds weird.”

She made as if to give the iolite back to him, but he closed her hand around it. She gave him a look—God, too much like her mother and he didn’t even think she realized it—and did that same sort of half-laugh.

“This is your gift,” he said.

“Eric, we both know this is a gift for you with my name on it,” she said, “You said that about the quartz and the amethyst, and that big geode you had to have, and they all wound up in your display case eventually. Go on and put this one in there too.”

He glanced around. She wasn’t wrong. His collection had started out on a spare shelf on one of the bookshelves, before slowly eating away at the remaining space, and then onto a second bookshelf and a decorative shelf in the bedroom. Christine didn’t collect much, but it was limited to a small selection of things at the equally small computer desk. Things like books on aliens and holographic stickers and her latest collection appeared to be her mother’s notebooks, carefully left under the desk, with just enough space for her to tuck her legs underneath. Those were new, and a worrying new acquisition.

Still, she liked purple. Most of the things she had collected, if she’d had a choice, were purple. Every time he saw something purple, he thought of her. Unfortunately, yes, past gifts had made their way into display cases “for safety”, but he was adamant this one wouldn’t.

“No, I mean it. It’s yours.”

“Eric, what am I supposed to do with it?” she said, with a bit of a laugh, “Stick it in my pocket and wind up ruining the washing machine?”

“Well, don’t do that,” he said.

“It’s too big for a necklace,” she said, turning it over in her hands, “I’d sink to the bottom of the lake if I wore that.”

“No it’s not,” he said, a spark coming to mind, “Hey, Shelby’s been making those macrame necklaces lately, I could ask her to put it on a string?”

“Go ahead and ask your sister if you want, she’ll say the exact same thing,” she said, “I…oh come on, don’t look so put out. You know I don’t carry much stuff on me. I forget my purse half the time. I don’t have a lucky rock that I keep in my pocket. I get why you got it, but we both know it’ll wind up in your rock collection sooner or later. Better to put it in there now so it’s safe.”

“I want you to have something to remind you of me, when I’m away.”

“Eric, every rock reminds me of you. It’s not tied to a specific rock. Your whole stupid rock collection is a constant reminder of you when you’re not here,” she said. The ‘stupid’ was said with affection.

“Come on, I know you. You saw a shiny new rock on one of your geologist listservs somewhere and decided you wanted it, but it’s ‘mine’ because it’s purple. Okay, fine. You can put all ‘my’ stuff in a separate case, how’s that? We can put it on the dresser or something.”

“Would you show it off if I did that?”

“Show it off to who? No one comes over.”

“Your dad comes over,” he says, “My family comes over.”

“I’m sure your parents have seen enough purple rocks for a lifetime, but sure, I’ll show it to them if they ask.”

She leaned back against the couch and he followed suit, putting an arm around her shoulder. It wasn’t quite a cuddle.

“You can’t wait for them to ask,” he said, “Because they won’t.”

“I just gotta ambush them as soon as they walk in?”

“Exactly.”

She gave a little amused smile. It wasn’t enough to fill him with joy, but it was a much better streak that he’d seen since Christmas, so

Eric took that as a win.

#celestial souls #text post #my writing #snippet #my stories

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kookie-doughs · 4 years ago

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Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader -Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 10: The Wheels On The Bus Goes Skrt Skrt Skrt

It didn't take me long to pack. I didn't have anything at all, which left me only an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush to stuff in a backpack Grover had found for me and Percy. Both having nothing to carry we decided to share a bag. The camp store loaned us one hundred dollars in mortal money and twenty golden drachmas. These coins were as big as Girl Scout cookies and had images of various Greek gods stamped on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. The ancient mortal drachmas had been silver, Chiron told us, but Olympians never used less than pure gold. Chiron said the coins might come in handy for non-mortal transactions—whatever that meant. He gave Annabeth, Percy and I each a canteen of nectar and a Ziploc bag full of ambrosia squares, to be used only in emergencies, if we were seriously hurt. It was god food, Chiron reminded us. It would cure us of almost any injury, but it was lethal to mortals. Too much of it would make a half-blood very, very feverish. An overdose would burn us up, literally. Annabeth was bringing her magic Yankees cap, which she told us had been a twelfth-birthday present from her mom. She carried a book on famous classical architecture, written in Ancient Greek, to read when she got bored, and a long bronze knife, hidden in her shirt sleeve. I was sure the knife would get us busted the first time we went through a metal detector. Grover wore his fake feet and his pants to pass as human. He wore a green rasta-style cap, because when it rained his curly hair flattened and you could just see the tips of his horns. His bright orange backpack was full of scrap metal and apples to snack on. In his pocket was a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knew two songs: Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 12 and Hilary Duff's "So Yesterday," both of which sounded pretty bad on reed pipes. We waved good-bye to the other campees, took one last look at the strawberry fields, the ocean, and the Big House, then hiked up Half-Blood Hill to the tall pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus. Chiron was waiting for us in his wheelchair. Next to him stood a surfer looking dude. According to Grover, the guy was the camp's head of security. He supposedly had eyes all over his body so he could never be surprised. Today, though, he was wearing a chauffeur's uniform, so I could only see extra peepers on his hands, face and neck. "This is Argus," Chiron told us. "He will drive you into the city, and, er, well, keep an eye on things." I heard footsteps behind us. Luke came running up the hill, carrying a pair of basketball shoes. "Hey!" he panted. "Glad I caught you." Annabeth blushed, the way she always did when Luke was around. I looked at him with a frown. "Don't look at me like that. I had to find out from the others you're going on a quest." he glared. "So much for the option you won't die at." "I would've told you if you were at the cabin when I got back. Now what's with the shoes?" "Just wanted to say good luck," Luke told Percy. "And I thought... um, maybe you could use these." He handed him the sneakers, which looked pretty normal. They even smelled kind of normal. Luke said, "Maia!" White bird's wings sprouted out of the heels, startling me so much, Percy dropped them. The shoes flapped around on the ground until the wings folded up and disappeared. "Awesome!" Grover said. Luke smiled. "Those served me well when I was on my quest. Gift from Dad. Of course, I don't use them much these days...." His expression turned sad. I didn't know what to say. It was cool enough that Luke had come to say good-bye. But here he was giving Percy a magic gift.... It made me a bit jealous. "Hey, man," Percy said. "Thanks." "Listen, Percy..." Luke looked uncomfortable. "A lot of hopes are riding on you. So just... kill some monsters for me, okay?" They shook hands. Luke patted Grover's head between his horns, then gave a good-bye hug to Annabeth, who looked like she might pass out. The three went to Chiron about stuffs while Luke and I had a staring contest. "So Percy got a present and I only get an I don't know... a hug? Here I thought I was your favorite." "What made you think you are?" He laughed and ruffled my hair. "And no you don't get a hug." "Suddenly I'm not coming back." He smiled and from his back he pulled out a sheathed knife. "I meant to say you won't get only a hug. I noticed you're not a fan of swords. So, I made this my self. I am no Hephaestus child but hey..." He handed me the knife. The sheath was plain colored with a metal chap and locket, it had chains attached to the locket where I could probably put it on something to make sure I bring it with me. Pulling the knife out of the sheath, its knife was around 15 inches. On the blade, Ancient Greek was engraved on it. I think it's my name and the other side is his. "What is this?" I grinned. "I don't know. I ran out of good ideas! I swear I looked up some of Plato and Socrates for that." "And you settled for that?" I laughed. "I am going to take that back now." "Hey, that doesn't mean I don't like it. Thanks." "It's celestial bronze... Half of it at least." "Half?" "I'm sure Chiron won't appreciate it. It will harm both us and humans." "So... It'll hurt both side?" "Yup. And I'm not sure but according to a Hephaestus kid but it's supposed to glow when its near something." "Its not glowing now." "We never said no backsies. I'd like it back now." "I'll take good care of..." I stopped to think of a name and almost immediately remembered a perfect one, "Sting." "I would ask but I already know." Luke shook his head. "Be careful with Sting. It---" "He. Sting is a he, thank you very much." "HE, is lethal. He it can kill us, others close to our kind and normal humans." "Oops I accidentally stabbed myself." With a worried look he pulled me in a hug, "And whatever happens. Put your safety above all. No need to be the hero. If you die in this quest I will get the lord of the dead revive you or kill me." "Ew how sentimental." "Be careful... okay? All of you. Promise me that." "Fine, I promise. On the knife, I'll come back not dead, with everyone." After Luke was gone, I placed the knife on my waist. I went back to Percy. "Okay, that's extremely cool," I heard him say. "What's cool?" I grinned standing behind Percy overlooking his shoulder. "My new pen." He showed me his pen and uncapped it only to show a sword. "I can't loose it no matter what! Its called Riptide." "But what if a mortal sees you pulling out a sword?" Chiron smiled. "Mist is a powerful thing, Y/N." "Mist?" "I just keep hearing that over and over can someone finally explain?" "Yes. Read The Iliad. It's full of references to the stuff. Whenever divine or monstrous elements mix with the mortal world, they generate Mist, which obscures the vision of humans. You will see things just as they are, being a half-blood, but humans will interpret things quite differently. Remarkable, really, the lengths to which humans will go to fit things into their version of reality." Percy put Riptide back in his pocket. For the first time, the quest felt real. We was actually leaving Half-Blood Hill. We was heading west with no adult supervision, no backup plan, not even a cell phone. (Chiron said cell phones were traceable by monsters; if we used one, it would be worse than sending up a flare.) I had no weapon stronger than a knife to fight off monsters and reach the Land of the Dead. "Chiron..." I said. "When you say the gods are immortal... I mean, there was a time before them, right?" "Four ages before them, actually. The Time of the Titans was the Fourth Age, sometimes called the Golden Age, which is definitely a misnomer. This, the time of Western civilization and the rule of Zeus, is the Fifth Age." "So what was it like... before the gods?" Chiron pursed his lips. "Even I am not old enough to remember that, child, but I know it was a time of darkness and savagery for mortals. Kronos, the lord of the Titans, called his reign the Golden Age because men lived innocent and free of all knowledge. But that was mere propaganda. The Titan king cared nothing for your kind except as appetizers or a source of cheap entertainment. It was only in the early reign of Lord Zeus, when Prometheus the good Titan brought fire to mankind, that your species began to progress, and even then Prometheus was branded a radical thinker. Zeus punished him severely, as you may recall. Of course, eventually the gods warmed to humans, and Western civilization was born." "But the gods can't die now, right? I mean, as long as Western civilization is alive, they're alive. So... even if I failed, nothing could happen so bad it would mess up everything, right?" Chiron gave us a melancholy smile. "No one knows how long the Age of the West will last, Percy. The gods are immortal, yes. But then, so were the Titans. They still exist, locked away in their various prisons, forced to endure endless pain and punishment, reduced in power, but still very much alive. May the Fates forbid that the gods should ever suffer such a doom, or that we should ever return to the darkness and chaos of the past. All we can do, child, is follow our destiny." "Our destiny... assuming we know what that is." "Relax," Chiron told me. "Keep a clear head. And remember, you may be about to prevent the biggest war in human history." "Relax," Percy said. "I'm very relaxed." When we got to the bottom of the hill, I looked back. Under the pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus, Chiron was now standing in full horse-man form, holding his bow high in salute. Just your typical summer-camp send-off by your typical centaur. I took Percy's hand and we gave each other a reassuring nod. I wish us luck. Talking whilst at camp drained me. I apologize if I won't be much help. You have stamina? So you aren't a bigshot all powerful god? Without you and I as one. I am nothing. I have given you my everything.

Argus drove us out of the countryside and into western Long Island. It felt weird to be on a highway again, Annabeth and Percy was sitting next to me as if we were normal carpoolers. After two weeks at Half-Blood Hill, the real world seemed like a fantasy. I found myself staring at every McDonald's, every kid in the back of his parents' car, every billboard and shopping mall. "So far so good," Percy said. "Ten miles and not a single monster." She gave him an irritated look. "It's bad luck to talk that way, seaweed brain." "Remind me again—why do you hate me so much?" "I don't hate you." "Could've fooled me." She folded her cap of invisibility. "Look... we're just not supposed to get along, okay? Our parents are rivals." "Why?" She sighed. "How many reasons do you want? One time my mom caught Poseidon with his girlfriend in Athena's temple, which is hugely disrespectful. Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her." "They must really like olives." I interjected. "Not you too! You know what? Forget it." "Now, if she'd invented pizza—that I could understand." "I said, forget it!" In the front seat, Argus smiled. He didn't say anything, but one blue eye on the back of his neck winked at me. Traffic slowed us down in Queens. By the time we got into Manhattan it was sunset and starting to rain. Argus dropped us at the Greyhound Station on the Upper East Side, Percy and I didn't let go. Taped to a mailbox was a soggy flyer with Percy's picture on it: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? He ripped it down before Annabeth and Grover could notice. "They could've at least gotten a better picture." I smirked which caused him to roll his eyes. Argus unloaded our bags, made sure we got our bus tickets, then drove away, the eye on the back of his hand opening to watch us as he pulled out of the parking lot. Grover shouldered his backpack. He gazed down the street in the direction Percy was looking. "You want to know why she married him, Percy?" I stared at Percy then at Grover. "Were you reading my mind or something?" "Just your emotions." He shrugged. "Guess I forgot to tell you satyrs can do that. You were thinking about your mom and your stepdad, right?" Percy nodded. I missed my parents of course, but I had Luke and Grover to talk to which made me less lonely. Percy became an outcast when we got to camp and had no one to talk to. I squeezed his hand and gave him a smile. "Your mom married Gabe for you," Grover told him. "You call him 'Smelly,' but you've got no idea. The guy has this aura.... Yuck. I can smell him from here. I can smell traces of him on you, and you haven't been near him for a week." "Thanks," Percy said. "Where's the nearest shower?" "You should be grateful, Percy. Your stepfather smells so repulsively human he could mask the presence of any demigod. As soon as I took a whiff inside his Camaro, I knew: Gabe has been covering your scent for years. If you hadn't lived with him every summer, you probably would've been found by monsters a long time ago. Your mom stayed with him to protect you. She was a smart lady. She must've loved you a lot to put up with that guy—if that makes you feel any better." I knew what Percy was thinking. He was thinking of the fact we'll get his mom and my parents. How we'll save them all. We got restless waiting for the bus and decided to play some Hacky Sack with one of Grover's apples. Annabeth was unbelievable. She could bounce the apple off her knee, her elbow, her shoulder, whatever. I wasn't too bad myself. The game ended when I tossed the apple toward Grover and it got too close to his mouth. In one mega goat bite, our Hacky Sack disappeared—core, stem, and all. Grover blushed. He tried to apologize, but we were too busy cracking up. Percy pulled me to a corner, after excusing ourselves for a bathroom break. "You finally going to tell me about this quest?" "The truth is," He started. "I don't care about retrieving Zeus's lightning bolt, or saving the world, or even helping my father out of trouble." I gave him a look that reassured him to continue. "The more I thought about it, I resented my father for never visiting me, never helping my mom, never even sending a lousy child-support check. He'd only claimed me because he needed a job done. All I cared about was you and my mom. The underworld god had taken her unfairly, and he is going to give her back." "Percy, we don't even know what's going on. Yeah, he might have her. But what is there's another reason? We don't exactly know anything. I don't even think my parents are with him." "Well, no matter where they are. We will get them back. The least I could do is get them back." He rested his head on my shoulder. "Don't "You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend," "What?" I froze. "Percy... I would never---" "You will fail to save what matters most in the end." "What are you talking about?" The rain kept coming down. "The rest of the prophecy. Y/N, I don't want you to betray me. Please... don't." I could hear his voice breaking. "Of course I won't. We'll get this quest done. We won't loose anyone and we'll get our parents. Don't worry." I hugged him. "I will stay with you. I won't leave and I won't betray you." "Hey Bonnie and Clyde, we need to go." Finally the bus came. As we stood in line to board, Grover started looking around, sniffing the air. "What is it?" I asked. "I don't know," he said tensely. "Maybe it's nothing." But I could tell it wasn't nothing. I took Percy's hand and started looking over my shoulder, too. I was relieved when we finally got on board and found seats together in the back of the bus. We stowed our backpacks. Annabeth kept slapping her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh. As the last passengers got on, I immediately clamped my hand onto Percy's knee. "Percy." It was Mrs. Dodds. Older, more withered, but definitely the same evil face. I scrunched down in my seat. Behind her came two more old ladies: one in a green hat, one in a purple hat. Otherwise they looked exactly like Mrs. Dodds—same gnarled hands, paisley handbags, wrinkled velvet dresses. Triplet demon grandmothers. And I was now sure, Mrs. Rudolph was one of them. They sat in the front row, right behind the driver. The two on the aisle crossed their legs over the walkway, making an X. It was casual enough, but it sent a clear message: nobody leaves. The bus pulled out of the station, and we headed through the slick streets of Manhattan. "She didn't stay dead long," Percy said, "I thought you said they could be dispelled for a lifetime." "I said if you're lucky," Annabeth said. "You're obviously not." "All three of them," Grover whimpered. "Di immortales!" "Who knows maybe they just want to play?" I said nervously. Annabeth gave me a look of irritation, "Not now," she said, obviously thinking hard. "The Furies. The three worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem. We'll just slip out the windows." "They don't open," Grover moaned. "A back exit?" she suggested. There wasn't one. Even if there had been, it wouldn't have helped. By that time, we were on Ninth Avenue, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. "Maybe a nice chat would help?" "They won't attack us with witnesses around," Percy said. "Will they?" "Mortals don't have good eyes," Annabeth reminded him. "Their brains can only process what they see through the Mist." "They'll see three old ladies killing us, won't they?" She thought about it. "Hard to say. But we can't count on mortals for help. Maybe an emergency exit in the roof... ?" We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, and the bus went dark except for the running lights down the aisle. It was eerily quiet without the sound of the rain. Mrs. Dodds got up. In a flat voice, as if she'd rehearsed it, she announced to the whole bus: "I need to use the rest-room." "So do I," said the second sister. "So do I," said the third sister. They all started coming down the aisle. "I've got it," Annabeth said. "Percy, take my hat." "What?" "You're the one they want. Turn invisible and go up the aisle. Let them pass you. Maybe you can get to the front and get away." "But you guys—" "There's an outside chance they might not notice us," Annabeth said. "You're a son of one of the Big Three. Your smell might be overpowering." "I can't just leave Y-- you guys!" "Don't worry about us," I assured him. "Go!" His hands were trembling. But I took the Yankees cap and put it on. And he simply vanished. Mrs. Dodds stopped, sniffing, and looked straight at a spot. My heart was pounding. Apparently she didn't see anything. She and her sisters kept going. "Maybe if they approach us, I could try talking? I really was Mrs. Rudolph's favorite..." I stammered. "Yeah stage is yours." Annabeth answered. The old ladies were not old ladies anymore. Their faces were still the same—I guess those couldn't get any uglier— but their bodies had shriveled into leathery brown hag bodies with bat's wings and hands and feet like gargoyle claws. Their handbags had turned into fiery whips. The Furies surrounded us, lashing their whips, hissing: "Where is it? Where?" The other people on the bus were screaming, cowering in their seats. They saw something, all right. "He's not here!" Annabeth yelled. "He's gone!" The Furies raised their whips. "Don't!" I stepped in front of them shaking. "H-Hi Mrs. Rudolph. W-What could you need?" Annabeth drew her bronze knife. Grover grabbed a tin can from his snack bag and prepared to throw it. To our surprise the bus jerked to the right. Everybody howled as we were thrown to the right, and I heard what I hoped was the sound of three Furies smashing against the windows. "Hey!" the driver yelled. "Hey—whoa!" The bus slammed against the side of the tunnel, grinding metal, throwing sparks a mile behind us. We careened out of the Lincoln Tunnel and back into the rainstorm, people and monsters tossed around the bus, cars plowed aside like bowling pins. Somehow the driver found an exit. We shot off the highway, through half a dozen traffic lights, and ended up barreling down one of those New Jersey rural roads where you can't believe there's so much nothing right across the river from New York. There were woods to our left, the Hudson River to our right, and the driver seemed to be veering toward the river. The bus wailed, spun a full circle on the wet asphalt, and crashed into the trees. The emergency lights came on. The door flew open. The bus driver was the first one out, the passengers yelling as they stampeded after him. The Furies regained their balance. They lashed their whips at Annabeth while she waved her knife and yelled in Ancient Greek, telling them to back off. Grover threw tin cans. It was as if I didn't exist which was kinda offensive. "Hey! I'm also here!" I yelled pulling out my now glowing knife and helped Grover. "Hey!" A voice from the door way echoed. "Percy you idiot! Run!" I yelled. The Furies turned, baring their yellow fangs at him. Mrs. Dodds stalked up the aisle. Every time she flicked her whip, red flames danced along the barbed leather. Her two ugly sisters hopped on top of the seats on either side of her and crawled toward him like huge nasty lizards. I don't know how but I managed to parkour my way to avoid them and get to Percy in no trouble. I raised my knife and stood in between of them. "Perseus Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said, in an accent that was definitely from somewhere farther south than Georgia. "You have offended the gods. You shall die. I suggest you step away from him Y/N L/N." "I liked you better as a math teacher," he told her. She growled. Annabeth and Grover moved up behind the Furies cautiously, looking for an opening. Percy took the ballpoint pen out of his pocket and uncapped it. Riptide elongated into a shimmering double-edged sword. The Furies hesitated. Mrs. Dodds had felt Riptide's blade before. She obviously didn't like seeing it again. "Submit now," she hissed. "And you will not suffer eternal torment." "Nice try," I told her. "Percy, look out!" Annabeth cried. Mrs. Dodds lashed her whip around my sword hand while the Furies on the either side lunged at him. I managed to keep one of them and parried with her using my knife., which turned out to be Mrs. Rudolph. "I hate to admit it but you were my favorite teacher. Why go mean now?!" I struck with the hilt of my knife against her, sending her toppling backward into a seat. I turned to see Percy had sliced the Fury on his right. As soon as the blade connected with her neck, she screamed and exploded into dust. Annabeth got Mrs. Dodds in a wrestler's hold and yanked her backward while Grover ripped the whip out of her hands. "Ow!" he yelled. "Ow! Hot! Hot!" Mrs. Rudolph came at me again, talons ready, but I dove in and got in range to swing Sting at her and she broke open like a piñata. Mrs. Dodds was trying to get Annabeth off her back. She kicked, clawed, hissed and bit, but Annabeth held on while Grover got Mrs. Dodds's legs tied up in her own whip. Finally they both shoved her backward into the aisle. Mrs. Dodds tried to get up, but she didn't have room to flap her bat wings, so she kept falling down. "Zeus will destroy you!" she promised. "Hades will have your soul!" "Braccas meas vescimini!" Percy yelled. I wasn't sure where the Latin came from. I think it meant "Eat my pants!" Thunder shook the bus. The hair rose on the back of my neck. "Get out!" Annabeth yelled at us. "Now!" I didn't need any encouragement. Taking Percy's hand, we rushed outside and found the other passengers wandering around in a daze, arguing with the driver, or running around in circles yelling, "We're going to die!" A Hawaiian-shirted tourist with a camera snapped my photograph before I could recap my sword. "Our bags!" Grover realized. "We left our—" BOOOOOM! The windows of the bus exploded as the passengers ran for cover. Lightning shredded a huge crater in the roof, but an angry wail from inside told me Mrs. Dodds was not yet dead. "Run!" Annabeth said. "She's calling for reinforcements! We have to get out of here!" We plunged into the woods as the rain poured down, the bus in flames behind us, and nothing but darkness ahead.

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UwU Haha this is what the knife looks like since I'm not sure if I describe it that well... Omg I just realized my brother changed the chapter title lmao -kookie-doughs

Just imagine it has your name on the blade.

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000

#Percy Jackson #Percy Jackson X Reader #Percy Jackson X Y/N #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan #Luke castellan x reader #Lightning thief #Y/N L/N #Y/N L/N and the halfbloods #pjo #X Reader #Book 1 #Chapter 10 #Fanfiction #fanfictions

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away-from-anthills · 4 years ago

Text

chapter five-

He recalled what Tatteredstar had said at the last Gathering as Whitetooth’s words echoed throughout his heart.

Rosefire. He had done little wrong- in his eyes, the only hope for a future was the Clans united. In his eyes, Tatteredstar and Eelwhisker were enemies that had to be vanquished. And yet his attempt at rebellion was gone as soon as it began, like a hare plucking and eating a sprout from the ground. He was killed, or at least that was what Tatteredstar’s dark tone implied, and as far as Antstar knew those who worked with him were likely either on close watch or driven out entirely. He presented a weakness and a challenge to her leadership, and so she handily dispatched him.

But could he say the same of Sparkthistle?

There was no indication she was to actually plan something. There was no indication she had the willpower to truly try to stop Antstar. But every so often, there was this inescapable look in her eye of hatred, and every time Antstar caught it he felt sick.

Would the Clan be better off without her?

Antstar had been just made a warrior when Sparkthistle and Cherrycloud had been born. Their mother was one of the most respected warriors in her Clan at the time, and she had great expectations thrust upon her two daughters. Initially, she adored Sparkkit the most, as Sparkkit had ambitions that Cherrykit did not. She made her favoritism shockingly clear, despite the warnings of Crowflower. But as time went on, when the two mollies were apprenticed, Cherrypaw emerged the more naturally gifted one while Sparkpaw struggled. Their mother’s opinions on them flipped dramatically. Now it was Cherrycloud that could do no wrong, Cherrycloud that deserved all the love in the world; Sparkthistle was a candy wrapper, read once and then discarded. Sparkthistle had been deeply embittered ever since- part of it from cynicism, and part of it because she wanted to emulate her mother to some extent.

It wouldn’t be fair to deny Sparkthistle the rest of her life, to cut her off short. But she had been this way ever since she was an apprentice, and there was no sign she would ever change. But it was as if Whitetooth’s words had bored a hole in his skull. And Sparkthistle is never going to get better, either.

“You’re thinking about what warrior name you want to give me, aren’t you,” said a cheeky voice as Antstar left his thoughts and sunk back to earth. It was Spiderpaw, looking back at him as she sprang into the grasses.

“You haven’t passed your assessment yet,” he reminded her.

“I know I will.” Spiderpaw had all the confidence of a wren challenging a bull. She smirked and trotted away to complete her assessment- then, suddenly, stopped in her tracks and looked back to see if Antstar was watching.

“I have to watch you in secret.” Antstar nodded his head upward, as if he were pushing her away. “Go on.”

She slunk into the grasses, which were turning the deep golden color that late greenleaf always brought upon itself. The sun peeked out from the pitch-black clouds above them, giving everything a surreal yellow glow. Away Spiderpaw went to get herself into the swing of hunting- and as she did, Antstar started to pace in circles, thinking about the Sparkthistle predicament.

Mentor and apprentice were on the far end of WindClan territory, away from the Clan, away from the other Clans, away from the world. Besides the slight rustle of grasses that followed Spiderpaw as she stalked a rabbit and the distant creaks and sighs of the windmills on the horizon, Antstar found the air deathly still, except for his thoughts which buzzed within him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a figure. It was Twoleg-like in shape and size, and after cowering from it instinctively, Antstar realized it was a familiar figure. Shalestar told him back when he was apprenticed that the object was called “Scare Crow”, and that the loners who lived in the barn thought of it as a friend. Scare Crow was moved around by the farmers to keep birds off the nearby crops, but yet it always remained perfectly still, as its skin was burlap and its veins were hay straw.

“Did it always sit like that?” he had asked.

“Perhaps.” Shalestar had looked off into the horizon, the warmth of being about to tell a good story curling up the corners of his lips. “Legend has it that, many moons ago, StarClan took pity upon Scare Crow, and reanimated him to come alive and live among the Clans. His humanoid, flawed figure was made feline. His burlap became handsome tawny tabby fur, his straw became flesh and blood, and his buttons became two beautiful eyes the color of harvested wheat. Scare Crow was sent to live among the Clans, and so he did- but, having once not been a cat, he never truly fit in, despite the beautiful appearance StarClan gifted him. When he was trying to woo a molly to take as his mate, they strolled together through Sunningrocks. In the reflection of the Sunningrocks’s water lay Scare Crow’s true self- ragged, ugly, weather-beaten and lopsided. He ran away, sobbing at the discovery of who he truly was, and StarClan realized then that it was more humane, more gentle, more right to strip him of his mortal coil and turn him back into his true self as the being of straw and burlap. He has remained here ever since.”

More humane. More gentle. More right. More right to stop them. More right to end them.

More right to kill them.

Sparkthistle had barely any friends. Her bitter, dour nature led her to be quite an outcast in the Clan’s community, save for Stoatslink, and even then he didn’t seem entirely approving of her. She had to be miserable. And the Clan was miserable any time they interacted with her. Furthermore, if she was turning on Antstar, she could turn on all the community. If a rival Clan asked her for intel, she could flip. She had little attachment to anyone in the Clan, so it was excruciatingly imaginable that her hatred for Antstar would outweigh her loyalty to WindClan…

His train of thought was halted by a squeak as Spiderpaw bit through the throat of a juvenile rabbit. He watched as the dark gray tabby carefully lined up her kill by a fallen log- leaving plenty of space for the next prey she was to catch.

He knew he was going to pass her. How couldn’t he? She had already proven herself. But having her hunt alone and complete the traditional assessment gave Antstar the space he needed to process the decision he already felt doomed to make.

Sparkthistle could find peace in the afterlife. She had never done anything deserving of Hell, no matter how many times Antstar had probably muttered that under his breath when dealing with her. Perhaps she could calm herself in the heavens in a way that she could never truly do in her mortal life. StarClan would be a kinder land than the rough earth and harsh sky of WindClan.

Maybe he was trying to rationalize himself here.

But then again- what could be gained from her continued flesh-and-blood existence? At best she was an annoyance. At worst… at worst she was an outright security risk.

There was the thumping of paws. Spiderpaw was in full chase, a shrew just before her. It ducked one way and another, around the bend and back again, into and through a log. Faster and faster they went, despite the shrew being so small, so unnecessary, so unimpactful in the grand scheme of the world at large and its moon. And as Antstar made his decision- as Antstar looked to the sky, looked to the unblinking amber sun, hoping that StarClan was with him and approved, hoping that StarClan knew he was doing this for WindClan’s sake- she leapt, and the shrew went out with a final cry, so unimportant and yet defiant to the last in spite of the very jaws that would always defeat it.

As they went home, Spiderpaw holding her catches and lost in the daydreams of what her warrior ceremony might be like, Antstar could only think of what he was about to do. Spiderpaw’s warrior name- something that once seemed so momentous, so important only a scant few days ago- already felt dwarfed by the matter of Sparkthistle’s fate. Antstar paused by the edge of the medicine den. The air he was about to speak with felt like it was caught in his throat. Whitethroat slunk out, always alert, almost as if they already knew he was there.

“About what you said a few days ago.”

Whitetooth nodded attentively.

“…Can we go through with it tonight? As fast as possible, I- I don’t want to think about it too hard.”

Whitetooth took a moment to respond, already visibly figuring out how they would do it. They looked towards the den, where Marblepaw was chewing up a poultice, and then into the general direction of the gorge. Ears pricked, eyes intense, looking almost more like a ferret surveying the land than a cat.

And then, they nodded. A transaction was about to begin.

“The weather is ripe for it… As you wish, Antstar. I am your dearest servant.”

That night, the sky was dark. Thick black clouds had continued to roll in, and there was the distant rumble of storms beyond the horizons. Brief, misty scatters of rain speckled the dusty earth.

Antstar watched the Clan go to sleep, one by one. While some still decided to sleep out in the open hollow, others that were worried about the chance of storm hid away in burrows scattered throughout the camp area, and slowly, the Clan came to rest. He had asked there be no guards or vigils held on this night- while the threat of impending rain acted as justification, he needed there to be no eyes, nothing that could possibly spot him when he and Whitetooth figured out what to do with the body.

“I tell you,” snarled a certain ginger tabby from afar, “I am not sick. I don’t know why you think I am.”

Whitetooth, however, wasn’t fettered. They circled her like an adder, their brown tail gently stroking her flank as if they were attempting to tame a wild horse. “I am aware you may think that. But I can already recognize symptoms of kittencough in you, and the sickness takes a few days to set in. If we treat you now, you won’t be sick later.”

Sparkthistle snarled in defiance, but after a moment of contemplation, she followed Whitetooth into the abandoned rabbit burrow that made up the medicine den. “Fine. So long as you make this quick, pal.”

As she did so, Whitetooth scurried over to Antstar, in that silent, almost eel-like way they were so skilled at. They leaned in slightly and began to whisper. “When I give you the signal-“ -they twitched their left ear- “I want you to come in. We must do this tonight, Antstar- else they may catch onto us.”

From there, Antstar carefully watched, pacing around camp to get a good look into the medicine den. Marblepaw seemed fast asleep at the entrance, her head resting upon a clump of mosses she had fetched earlier that day. In fact, just about everyone was asleep now save for the leader, his medicine cat, and their target. Sparkthistle caught the amber glow of Antstar’s eyes and stared at him as Whitetooth took something small and dark and stuffed it into a dead shrew.

“Kittencough,” they began, speaking in the voice of a lecturing mentor, “is usually much like a mild case of whitecough. The issue, however, is that it is very contagious and can be deadly for kits and elders. Usually, we treat it with whitecough medicines and drowsiness-inducing herbs, so that way the cat involved does not spread it and risk hurting the most vulnerable.”

But Sparkthistle’s yellowish-amber eyes indicated she had paid little attention to their monologue. “Why is Antstar there?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

“He and I are having a conversation once you fall asleep. Mostly about the next Moonstone meeting, StarClan, those types of affairs. That, and figuring out what we’ll do about herbs come leaf-fall.”

“In the night? With this weather?”

“The night lends impulse to new ideas, my Clanmate.”

And then- slowly, slyly, they brought the shrew towards her. The very same shrew Spiderpaw had caught in her apprentice exam. For a brief moment that felt like nine lives and a day, Whitetooth made eye contact with Antstar.

This was it. The last chance to stop now. The last chance to keep Sparkthistle alive.

Every joint in Antstar’s limbs wanted to move, to give a last-minute refusal. And yet, he stood perfectly still.

Whitetooth turned back to Sparkthistle. For a moment it felt in Antstar’s mind as though she had already died. Perhaps, in a sense, she had.

“Here. I want you to take this. Medicine can trouble an empty belly if one is not careful.”

Sparkthistle sniffed it carefully, her pink speckled nose twitching with apprehension. Finally, she gave in, slowly taking a mouthful, ripping away at the skin.

“Now, I’ve put some medicines into this shrew of yours, as to clear out the kittencough. You shall feel drowsy. But- and this is important- do not be alarmed.”

There was a crunch as she bit into the black seeds that Whitetooth had enclosed within the shrew’s flesh.

“Everything is going to be perfectly fine.”

For a moment, Sparkthistle remained perfectly unaffected, continuing to nose around the shrew to pick out its best meat. Suddenly, however, her paw began to twitch. She looked around uneasily, as if her vision was beginning to spot out. She looked at Whitetooth, but Whitetooth gave her the same soothing stare they always had.

“Is it supposed to feel-“

“Like that? Yes.”

She got up to her paws, swaying back and forth like a tree about to topple in a storm. Saliva began to bubble from her jaw.

“I’ve had drowsiness herbs before, and they’ve-“ She struggled to speak. The deathberries had already coursed through her tongue, gradually paralyzing it. Her slurred words devolved into mumbled, slobbery vocalizations. Then, suddenly, Whitetooth knocked her to the ground and pinned her there.

They twitched their right ear as they stared at Antstar. That was the signal.

Antstar rushed in, silently, holding the ginger molly down as spasms shook her. She looked up at him, and he pushed her head into the ground to keep her still as she writhed and tried best she could to fight back. Her stare back at him bore into his very heart, gripping and shaking his very being. She had figured out what was going on, now. This was no look of anger, or of annoyance, or even of betrayal. No, this was a look Antstar had only seen before a scant few times. The look of a cat freezing as a monster runs out before them. The look of a young hare as a patrol leader strikes the killing blow. It was a look of pure, unadulterated horror.

Antstar stepped back instinctively. For a second, a further worry flashed through his head- had he let her go?

But the ginger body simply sank to the earth like a rug wet from saliva and rustled with struggle, sinking inward like a balloon that had slowly deflated from a puncture.

Sparkthistle was gone.

Antstar felt worry creep in as he scouted the clearing, over and over again to make sure the glint of no eye caught him. Behind him, he could hear Whitetooth clean up the blood-tinged cluster of foamy saliva that had pooled around Sparkthistle’s head. For a moment, he checked to ensure that Marblepaw was still asleep, and he felt slight relief when he saw the apprentice still lay in her nest, seemingly deep within a dream.

“Now,” Whitetooth whispered, stepping back as if they were admiring their own handiwork of having cleaned up the den. “What we’ll do is drag this over to the gorge. You would like to hide the body, correct?”

Antstar nodded fervently.

“Right. I know exactly what we shall do.” They picked up Sparkthistle by the scruff of her neck. Her shoulders hung limply. The white medicine cat indicated the other half of her body, and Antstar picked it up by the lower spine. Carefully, the two cats dragged her out and away without making a sound, through the gorse tunnel and out of camp. Dust gathered on her paws as they were dragged across the earth. Whitetooth’s grip was confident, certain; Antstar’s was far shakier and he had to fight to keep his jaw clamped. He had never realized how small Sparkthistle was. How small any cat was, really. It felt as though he were asleep in the leader’s den, and this was all some mad dream that he was watching from the distance of the mind.

Suddenly, Whitetooth came to a stop, and Antstar had to stop himself from falling forward onto the body. They looked down into the river, which looked as black and endless as the clouded sky that loomed above them, and then across to ensure no RiverClan cat had caught sight of them.

“…Why stop here?” Antstar started to ask, but his question was answered by the precise stare that Whitetooth was sending into the depths of the waters below.

“Check to make sure there’s no blood on her or sign of injury,” they instructed. Antstar carefully looked over the body, which had gradually grown a tad stiff. There was still a line of froth around her lip, but besides this, nothing had remained of the desperate struggle from earlier.

“…Nothing of the sort.”

“Good.”

“… We’re going to throw her into the river, right?”

“I knew you had figured it out already. You’re a smart cat. Any scent of deathberry- or us- will be soaked away by the water. If she is dragged away by the current, we shall say she clearly ran off because of her distaste towards your leadership.”

“And if she is found, she…?”

“She stumbled over the edge. Lots of cats have fallen to their deaths here. It wouldn’t look a moment out of place.”

Antstar pushed the body over. It rolled lopsidedly, like a chipped pebble; and soon slipped off the edge. Turning over itself, flank over flank, it fell into the black river and was swallowed up by the hungry waves. There was a hint of orange, and then it was gone.

Antstar looked to Whitetooth. “Can we…” His throat choked upon itself. “Can we never speak of this again?”

Whitetooth nodded. A talon of lightning darted out of one of the clouds nearby, and there was a corresponding grunt of thunder.

They walked back to camp, side by side, master and servant. Antstar looked at the ground, not daring to look ahead; Whitetooth, unflinching as ever, looked right ahead, squinting slightly to keep the dapples of raindrops from hitting their eyes. They slipped into the medicine den, doing one last check to make sure any indication of a struggle had vanished.

Everything was silent, there. Clumps of moss, diligently organized by type and age, lined the den. The nests, clean as ever, were empty. Except for one, which held Marblepaw.

Antstar paid close attention to Marblepaw’s figure. She was shuddering a bit, her breath shaky. Was she having a nightmare? Or- or had she-

Antstar felt his nerves coil in terror as he realized her amber eyes were wide open.

“Whitetooth!” he whispered, a sudden sharpness to the syllables as panic clutched him. “Whitetooth, your apprentice-“

But Whitetooth was unfettered as ever. “Do not fear, Antstar.” They laid a paw on Marblepaw’s shoulder, and she recoiled slightly, gasping with fright. But she stayed in position, letting the medicine cat’s pale, cold pawpads touch her warm dark tabby pelt.

“She can keep a secret very well,” they said, a sudden darkness in their words. “And if not- I can make her keep it.”

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong, and Antstar felt a pang of sympathy for the little apprentice. It was only now he realized he had never seen her befriend anyone else in the Clan.

But it had to be done. For WindClan.

And so, Antstar walked off to the leaders’ den. Just as he got in, rain fell in great, big curtains, obscuring his view of camp. He checked for a moment if he could see any glitters of light from his Clanmates’ eyes, in case they had awoken and seen at least something, but he was reassured by the uniformly dark rainy landscape before him. Slowly, his trembling breaths began to ease into sleep once more.

He thought of Whitetooth, of Marblepaw, even Sparkthistle. How much had changed in the past few hours alone. He had gone from leader, to murderer-

No! He was no murderer, he told himself. He had simply -disposed- of her. She was leading a rotten life and all he had done was let her leave it. And if he truly had murdered her, it was for the best of WindClan, for their safety. If warriors could kill in the midst of battle, if medicine cats could end the suffering of the burdened, nothing he had done was out of line. It was the best for everybody.

But when he looked back to the sky, to be reassured by starlight, all he found was the thick rain battering the earth.

#warrior cats #Warrior Cats OCs #story

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