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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You’re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he’s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and—pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting—familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x you #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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rongfuchairs · 2 years ago

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a-little-revolution · 1 year ago

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oh shit i’m aware! :0 happy October!

what sort of society wide structural accommodations would you like to see in place to help/make more accessible for little people?

Aaaaah this ask is so old now I'm so sorry!! (Things can get lost among all the hate messages lol) But gosh so many things!!

• The first is step stools EVERYWHERE!!! Public access to step stools would solve most of the problems little people face with access. I'm talking bathrooms, service desks, cash registers, libraries, clothing stores - the list goes on! They could fold away for easy access, or blend in as universal design.

There's even these amazing fold up ones I've seen that get automatically tucked away to prevent tripping hazards:

The second is for grab bars such as these (see bellow) for easier toilet access to be more widespread. It's important that toilets remain the height parallel with the average wheelchair, but grab bars can make it much easier for shorter people to hoist.

Public bathroom/change room stalls that go close to/all the way to the floor! As a little person, the average stall door ends at my waist (sometimes higher) so I am not guaranteed privacy. I much prefer stalls with minimal viewing access. And as a trans person, stalls that are more private create added safety.

I would love for extended grabbing handles to be standard practice in vehicles!

These would make getting in and out of cars much easier for a little person, not to mention elderly folks, children, and other disabled people. Extra foldable steps in cars is also something I've seen and loved.

Adjustable foot hammocks on public desks and tables would be sooo goood! A big source of leg pain for me is that my legs are dangling in every chair I sit in, which cuts off circulation and semi-dislocates my loose joints. Some sort of ledge or hammock would solve this issue.

I'm sure there are many more but this is what comes to mind for now!

-Elliot (they/them)

#dwarfism #asks #disability #dwarfism awareness #accessibility #universal design

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alexaloraetheris · 8 months ago

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On the subject of being your own zookeeper, I've been trying it out and it WORKS. One of the obvious ways is to ask 'Have I watered/fed/medicated the beast?' and take care of those needs, and it's great, but another thing I haven't seen mentioned is the Stressors.

So, being a bio grad student, means I also know actual zoologists and zookeepers. And talking with one blew my third eye open. One of the questions the zookeeper always, ALWAYS needs to keep an eye on is 'What is stressing the beast out, and how can I remove it?'

In human terms, it's basically 'This thing is causing me a minor amount of stress, but stress is cumulative, so how many small stressors can I remove so the Big Stress doesn't drain so much of my energy?'

Say you're stressing about an exam/interview/visitors. There's ways to prepare for that, but before you get to that point you also need to look out for small stressors that add to the overall feeling of stress, and the goal is to reduce them FIRST.

Example: You have a big test and it's the day you need to take it. You are already baseline anxious about taking it, and the goal here is to stress as little as possible on the way to school.

You can't eat breakfast because you're late/nauseous? Keep small energy bars in your purse, snack on the way. Gives you a bit of sugar for your brain, doesn't take up time and always on hand. Haven't had time for coffee? Caffeine pills/espresso chocolates. It's cold/raining? Ditch your sneakers and wear rain boots and a warm coat, worry about fashion later. I even carry around a foldable cushion so I can sit while I wait for the bus without freeting my butt off. Haven't had time to brush your teeth? Gum, mints, breath fresheners. Nervous? Fidget toys. Worried about losing an umbrella? Get one of those plastic sleeves so you can put it in your purse even if it's wet. Too damn hot? Mini fan, or even a folding paper fan. Noise level grating on your nerves? Silicone earplugs, or noise-cancelling earbuds/headphones. (I have a big purse I carry all this stuff in so I don't forget, a blessing with ADHD)

Things like that. Small things to mitigate the microstressors so you arrive to your destinations with as little misery as possible.

Apply that to the rest of your life. You have to eat vegetables for your health but you hate them so damn much? Find a way to prepare them in a way that doesn't make you gag. I just throw a bag of frozen pre-chopped veggies in the pan and then throw in spices I like. If I can taste the vegetables in my veggie stir-fry, I haven't seasoned them enough.

Make little medicine bag, the size of your palm. I carry nasal degongestant spray, ibuprofen, eye drops, mini bug spray, a pad and a tampon, a few alcohol wipes and hand cream. Those tiny tester tubes of hand cream? A godsend. Adjust to your needs.

I hate washing dishes. Back hurts and my skin literally peels off my hands from the dryness. Get a bar stool and sit, wear WELL FITTED dish gloves. I got those that go all the way up my elbows in S size and now my kitchen doesn't look like a disaster.

Vacuuming is a pain? Handheld vacuum cleaner you can push around for 15 minutes every day. Expensive? Get a broom and a good dustpan. I emphasize GOOD because it does make a difference. Back hurts if you bend over? Get the dustpan with a long handle.

It's amazing how much difference it makes. Neutralize Murphy's law. A bunch of small stuff going wrong will absolutely tank your energy you need for the big stuff.

TL;DR Identify the things that cause you daily stress, find easy ways to neutralize them. Save your energy for the big stuff. There is nothing noble in suffering. Take care of your zoo animal.

And if you need it, ask for help. Zookeepers often work in pairs.

#stress #you're your own zookeeper #take care of yourself like you would your pets

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mstigeress37-blog · 2 years ago

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König x Stubborn! Reader

ＳＵＭ．You and König end up giving each other the silent treatment. Right when he thinks you'll give in, you shock him, causing him to come crawling back to you.

A reminder that long-term silent treatments over petty arguments are not girlboss and slay!!

'Girlfriend' and German 'mouse' used, implied short reader <3 (but also who isn't short in comparison to this giant)

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

You and König had been in a petty argument the day before (something about keys going missing), it got to that point that, last night, he slept on the couch.

Little did you know, it was all a part of his elaborate scheme: he'd always been the one to come back to you, so for once, he'd like to see you do the same. So when he took away your nightly cuddles, he knew you were deprived of him.

He walked into the kitchen and caught sight of your morning mug. Smirking, he strolled over to it with a pep in his step and tucked it away into the tall cabinet; far enough in that it won't fall, but far enough out that you can easily spot it. He made sure to put any other mug out of reach, too.

He carried on with his routine of making himself a coffee before his oh-so-beautiful girlfriend walked in. He leaned his back onto the kitchen counter and lifted the mug to his lips, concealing his smile that showed how excited he was to see you break your winning streak of silent treatments and ask him for help.

You internally groaned at the sight of the distance between you and your mug. You glanced over at König before rolling your eyes; from his cheeks raising ever so slightly behind the mug, you can tell he's laughing to himself.

When you look back at König, he's making eye contact with you, eyes staring with anticipation.

But you just smile innocently before walking over to him, holding eye contact. König stands up properly as his ego inflates, straightening his back and setting his mug down, his smile turning into his infamous smirk. All before you bring your hand over to the gap between the counter he was leaning on top of and the fridge, bringing out a foldable stool.

Little did he know, however, was that you had bought a foldable stool a few days before since you wanted to bring up the topic of missing keys and knew you were both a bit too stubborn for anyone to confess to anything (even though you knew you haven't done anything).

Absolutely flabbergasted, all König can do is stare and watch as you grab your mug with a gleeful smile. He waits for you to set it down and, before you can get off the stool, König comes over and sweeps you up in one smooth motion, your stomach on his shoulder and your arms flailing around behind him to let you go.

He makes his way over to the sofa in the living room and practically manhandles you so you're stradling his lap. He wraps his arms gently but tightly around your waist and pulls you in close so you can't do anything but let him hug you. You can hear him muffle out a 'when did you get that stupid stool...' into your collarbone. You just laugh before wrapping your arms around his neck.

"You gonna tell me what you did with my keys yet?" You ask, attempting to pull away but he doesn't budge. He stays quiet for a bit before pulling away himself, still keeping you in his grasp, just not as tightly so that he can see your face and gauge how he should proceed.

"I may have hid them so you could stay a bit longer." He grumbles. You feign an offended look. "You're never late, mein maus, you could spare a few more minutes with me..."

You chuckle again before you take your hand and squish his cheeks together, forcing him to pout. "You're so silly. Just ask me next time." You say before pulling him into a cuddle. You force your bodyweight to the side so you've both gone from sitting to lying down and cuddling, laughing and kissing each other's faces off with small pecks.

There was a moment of silence where you just stared into each other's eyes before he got up all of a sudden, squishing you into the sofa as he got on top of you to get off and onto the floor on the other side of you.

"I'm gonna break that damn fuckin' stool." He said, grunting like an old man when he got up.

"WAIT, BABE, WAIT-"

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

Requests are open!! I don’t do smut :))

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hydrangeapartridge · 7 months ago

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Rook stumbles upon Emmrich shaving

‌Rook unceremonisouly opened the flaps to the necromancer's tent.

"Emmrich we're leaving so-"

She stopped mid sentence, surprised to find her most recently recruited companion standing before a foldable table full of cosmetic products, holding a mirror with one hand and his cheeks lathered with shaving cream.

Emmrich turned to her, holding up his shaving brush.

"Ah Rook, apologies. It seems I am getting a bit tardy"

Rook froze. Oddly she felt like she just interrupted an intimate moment. Emmrich was dressed in his usual flanel pants and a cream undershirt. His crisp fancy white shirt and his green vest were neatly folded on a wooden stool. She never saw him in such a state of undress and given how many layers he usually wore, she almost felt as if she was intruding on him completely naked.

"I usually manage to be done before you wake. It seems I miscalculated today. I'll be quick, I promise" Emmrich told her before getting back to his previous occupation.

It never occurred to her that he shaved every day. Which was really silly of her obviously; he didn’t magically end up looking dashing and fresh when running around in the wilderness. Despite how he seemed to make everything look simple, it took work, even for him. His camp habits clashed with those of companions like Harding and Taash but Lucanis and Neve liked a bit more comfort in camp.

Rivain’s sun was up early and blazing hot, which explained why Rook didn’t sleep in today. But oh was she grateful it allowed her to see Emmrich grooming.

Despite her urge to stay focused on Emmrich, Rook’s attention was suddenly drawn to a moving form to her side. She soon spotted Manfred running towards Emmrich with a razor, like a disaster waiting to happen.

"Manfred shaves you?" She asked alarmingly.

"Of course not. Manfred is my assistant not my manservant" Emmrich replied, more amused than offended. He wipped his hands clean on a towel and took the razor from Manfred with a small "thank you" and an approving nod of his head.

"Right. I guess I wouldn't let him near my throat with those sharp blades either..." Rook commented, but her humour didn't seem to perturb Emmrich.

"Oh but you'd be surprised with how dexterous he is ! And everyday he makes progress. He's capable of serving tea without spilling a drop now!" Emmrich praised, visibly proud of his spirit protégé.

The necromancer turned to the mirror, which Manfred now held, and started angling the blade towards his cheek the second he stopped talking. Rook watched mesmerized as he shaved a first stripe and elegantly rinced the blade before he continued. Talking about being dexterous… The precisison of his movements, the way his long and elegant fingers, yet to be adorned with his numerous rings, handled the dangerous object near his adam apple, made something stirr inside her. Something warm and improper.

She watched the lean muscles of his arms flex, seeing them free of a shirt for the first time. Her eyes traveled down irresistibly, and below the upper part of his undershirt, she could spot the birth of a small patch of dark chest hair.

"Did you need something else Rook?" Emmrich's voice startled her. His tone was lower than she ever heard it and it made her stomach flip. She looked up to find his brown gaze on her, and it felt oddly intense in the dim light of the tent.

"No. We'll leave when you're done" She hastily declared, internally cursing herself for stuttering.

Emmrich smiled kindly, but there was a mysterious glint in his usually soft eyes. "I won't be long, I promise. I've got practice"

The way he said those last words shouldn't make her feel how she felt.

Once out of the tent, Rook flopped beside the dying campfire with an annoyed groan, burrying her face in her hands in embarassement. Shit. She knew him for a few days and already she was crushing on Professor Volkarin so hard it made her act stupid.

She told herself she would get a grip, but later that day, when she walked alongside him, enamored with the way he talked about studying the flora of Rivain, she caught wafts of the scent of his after shave, a citrussy but rich smell that she instantly wanted to breathe more of. She lost track of what he was saying as she though about caressing the smooth skin of his perfectly shaven cheeks, and inhale his cologne just under his ear where it would mix with a scent that was only his and that she longed to discover. She wondered how his well kept mustache would feel scratching her skin an-

He asked her a question then, and she had no clue what he just said so she only smiled like an idiot. He forgave her with a small chuckle, blaming it on the scorching sun, and repeated his inquiry like the kind gentleman he was.

Her heart fluttered in her chest. Damn she had it bad.

(More EmmRook on my blog or here on AO3)

#emmrich volkarin #emmrook #emmrich x rook #veilguard fanfiction #dragon age veilguard #veilguard fic #manfred the skeleton #I have it bad too #I have ideas for post game EmmRook but also for moments during the game! the inspiration is real

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veetri-bitcrush · 1 year ago

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Fascinated by the fact that this foldable stool is fully modeled and can barely ever be seen.

Pliskin's ass is heavy enough to anchor it to the floor without any need to fasten it somehow.

#metal gear solid #mgs #metal gear #playstation #retro #mgs2 #mgs2 sons of liberty #iroquois pliskin #mgs2 otacon #solid snake

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juniperdugong · 1 year ago

Text

Perfection Pt.2; Alive

Brought back to life via lightning bolt, you and Mingyu discuss what happens now that you're back. He makes it clear that his intentions are to make you fall in love but is that such an easy task?

Pairing: mortician!mingyu x corpse!fem!reader

Genre: Mortician!au, Horror!au || Fluff, Crack, Romance, Angst

Warnings: Reader wears feminine clothing || Mentions of death and corpses (Nothing in-depth and nothing intended to disturb) || Mentions of suicide || Necro-romance, aka romantic attraction to a corpse. || Nudity || {Please let me know if there are other warnings you would like me to add}

WC: 4.7k

Songs that inspired this fic

Teaser | Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4 |

A harsh slap to the face. Or rather, the cold smack of a linoleum floor. Your welcome greeting back into the world of the living. Your hands go to grasp anything they can hold onto on instinct but you find your muscles still tight and rigid. Processing such overstimulation is a task that not many would survive and even you at this moment are still reeling from the effects of, what was essentially, a lightning bolt shot into you. Too possessed by confusion to notice as strong but gentle hands grasp your shoulders guiding you to sit on the table you once laid.

"I've got you…" a firm and quiet voice attempts to assure.

Mingyu meets you with a stack of clothing, putting it down next to you. "Sorry, I was going to dress you before you woke up but I didn't want them to burn…nor did I think it would work at all." he says the second part in a hushed tone leaving you unsure if you should have heard it all.

You attempt to speak but your mouth feels sewn shut; Within a second of noticing your discomfort, he's at your side with an urgency that rivals EMS. Bringing his hands to your jaw, his expression grows serious as he gently relieves the pressure with a couple sways. His concentration makes your heart jump. He's so close and you can tell he takes this seriously; He takes you seriously. "Better?" he looks at you with concern.

"B-better." your mouth feels dry like it's filled with sand and gravel.

His face lights up as you speak. He stutters as he attempts to talk but resolves to holding your face in the palm of both his hands, holding you like a precious jewel. "It's worked…" It looks like he might just tear up but before anything threatens to spill he is picking up the stack of clothes once again and placing them in your lap. "You should get dressed, I didn't mean to have you indecent for this long."

He leads you to a corner of the room and grabs a foldable partition to cover you, even though he's already examined your body before. You can practically feel his excitement as multiple content sighs come from him from beyond the screen, the patter of his feet telling you that he's cleaning up all the things he had set in place before.

Once you're finished dressing yourself in…very fanciful(?) dress (what was meant to be put on you for your funeral viewing) you move the partition to find Mingyu standing underneath the skylight gazing at the night like a god. "Thank you," he whispers to it before you grab his attention.

"Ready?" he starts. "For?" "Right, I haven't told you anything yet. Forgive me." He leads you to sit on the rolling stool. "I have woken you because…" he sees the way you look up at him with doe-like eyes and anticipation, it makes him falter for a second before continuing. "…because I want to find love and well I was compelled by something unknown to me to believe that I might find that in you. I'm sorry for doing this without your permission, I didn't exactly have the means to ask." he doesn't meet your eyes when he says this. "But, if you don't want this, I won't force you. I've given you a second chance, I don't intend for you to be in my debt for it, however."

The way he speaks is so proper and refined compared to how you remember boys in life. His eyes barely meet yours as he waits for a response. Fearing the worst he begins to speak,

"You-" "I agree." your words strike him like arrows and poison his face with confusion. You continue, "I am not in your debt, I didn't ask for this umm-" he can sense you're searching for something. "Mingyu." he sees your discomfort in speaking and brings a bottle of water to hold before you. Waiting for you to finish. "-Mingyu. But since you've given me this chance." your memory flickers to the feelings of wanting someone, of loving someone, that you had before your death. "Why wouldn't I at least give it a try?" He looks up at you in astonishment but bites his tongue waiting for you to give more details. You take a sip of the water he's brought and it soothes your throat enough. "I think love is also something that I wanted in life but was never able to find. I don't remember feeling loved I mean. And I don't know if this will work out the way you imagine, I expect many complications because I can't hold out hope for the life of me. But that does not mean I can't try to fall in love…with you." for the first time he lets you hold his gaze. "Okay." Several seconds pass in silence as you both absorb everything. "What now?" "I had a plan…if you would like to go along with it." "Tell me-" "Of course!"

He goes on to tell you about what he had imagined. About taking you to either a shop to get more appropriate clothes, more comfortable ones; Or to his house to relax after something so-chaotic. In either case, he would defer to your wants and needs. He made sure that you knew that he was at your beck and call if you wanted him to be.

Without much deliberation you agree to go back to his home; It being far too late to consider if this is inappropriate, you were past that point the moment your lifeless eyes met his loving gaze.

Now you're in the front seat of his car, a silent drive, not even filled with music. You remember what it is to feel nervous now. The sweaty palms, the glances, the fidgeting, all of it comes back to you in this moment and you think What if this is wrong. Not once since you've been reanimated have you reflected on your choices or his but this silence gives you time to deliberate, albeit briefly.

You know how weird this all is, you've made peace with that. But the matter of love…that is your concern. To promise someone to try and fall in love with them? You barely know him. Although he is as handsome as it gets and obviously infatuated with you, you can't say that love can grow out of something as small as physical attraction. You've always thought of love as something much greater, maybe that is your failing but it is your opinion nonetheless. And now this conundrum has you-

Before you can finish your thoughts the door is opening and Mingyu is outstretching his hand to help you out. He leads you up to his home. A nice 2 story house, quite rare for a single man you think but you don't know how much money comes from the mortuary business. He fumbles with the keys before finally opening the door. Instantly, you are met with the same warm and inviting feeling you found when you first "met" Mingyu.

You would half expect that someone as clean and careful in the preparation room as Mingyu might live oppositely in his personal life but you are pleasantly surprised as the home you are in is as spic and span as can be. Cozy and clean. You're almost in wonderment at it but seeing how Mingyu comes in with ease and knowing makes you relax into the space as well. There is comfort in knowing that this home is his because he, himself, is comfortable to you. You don't know why that is but there is a sense of familiarity with Mingyu, maybe it's the same sort of feeling he felt when he looked at you for the first time.

He brings you in and sits you down in the living room. The lights cast an orange glow over everything that brings a great deal of warmth, something your body lacks. He doesn't so much as speak and it leaves you to think. Being left alone with your thoughts is nothing new but you have so much more to think about now with this situation.

Mingyu busies himself in the kitchen that overlooks where you sit. Your back is turned to him so you don't notice how he stares at you, your every movement making him restless; It's as though he's waiting for you to approach him, to call for him. But you don't, too wracked by everything to move so much as an inch from where he left you.

He returns with some ramen for the both of you. Setting it on the coffee table and motioning for you to join him on the floor. You have a hard time sitting down and once again he's practically jumping up to help you. Even still his gaze is beyond you, looking far past and never truly meeting yours.

"I should've told you that you can turn the TV on, I'm sorry…"

"Please don't."

"Don't? What?"

"You keep apologizing. You apologized for bringing me back, you apologized for not having me dressed. You don't need to apologize for even smaller things than that, Mingyu." You take hold of his hand as you say the last sentence and turn your attention to the ramen. "Thank you for this."

"Of course. I'm sor-" You give him a look and a smirk before he continues. Giggles are exchanged and you both turn attention to the TV for a time before stealing glances back and forth at each other, much more focused on being next to each other than what the game show host is rambling on about.

Dinner finishes and Mingyu takes both your dishes back to the kitchen. He returns quickly and shows you to the bathroom, "You can wash up. I've left some towels and clothes for you to change into on the sink. I hope they fit. But please…take your time. Enjoy your bath.". His eyes plead with you like he isn't simply wishing for you to have a good bath but instead, he is asking you to do so. He leaves you to your business.

You relish the feeling of a warm bath drawn. It brings you to life a second time or it is what truly makes you come to life. Your skin reacts to the warmth and color crawls back onto you. The pinkish tones cover you and you notice how the gray disappears in place of it.

You're once again alone with your thoughts and it allows you to think about everything, every moment that you can remember since awakening. The morgue, the journey in the car to the mortuary, meeting Mingyu, and then formally meeting him. It oddly makes you feel a bit empty. You don't know how to feel. It's all so surreal and you have to wonder if this is simply the afterlife, a mirage painted by god to make you believe. But he keeps bringing you back to the present.

Mingyu. Sure his looks might make you think he is an angel of some kind but his heart is human, maybe the most human amongst everyone you knew in life. His gestures and words and well…his life just feels like he is someone. He is tangible and real. He grounds you. In the same way you might've wanted to in life. You feel as though he will call you back home if you were away too long. And it's strange but it's fantastic and it makes you feel something, he makes you feel here. You do not wander in his presence and that empty feeling fades when he is near.

And just when you are finding comfort in Mingyu and contextualizing it you finish your bath and put on the clothes he's prepared for you. Some shorts and a tank top. Plain in their colors but it does strike you as odd. Why did he have women's clothes if he was single? You hate to doubt him so early on, a mere hours after meeting. But it does make you wonder, the thought draws you out of your body, and doubt surfaces along with anxiety. You hate yourself for it honestly. Because you barely know him and yet you feel so deeply about some made-up mistrust. You can't stand it and before you take a second longer to think about it, Mingyu does as he has since you woke up. He brings you back down to earth.

A loud knock at the door, "Sorry-shit, I mean I'm sorry for-Never mind." His voice instantly brings a smile to your face and any meandering thoughts you have float away, you giggle at his stuttering. "I hope you enjoyed your bath- I mean if you're still in there I don't mind but I just wanted to let you know that I'll be waiting in the living room…if you want to talk a bit before bed." He endears you so completely and as he perks up to speak again you are opening the door.

You're met with a hushed "Ah" as you see him. The smile on your face is contagious, catching on him and allowing you to see his shining fangs that make him resemble a puppy. His hair is wet and you suppose in the time that you've been bathing he's had the time to take a shower and change. He's wearing loose pajama pants and a white t-shirt that, because of the light, shows off his muscular figure. You are captivated and he follows your eyes chuckling, "Umm the living room?" you nod and he takes your hand in his as if it is the most natural thing in the world, leading you back to the couch downstairs.

You both relax into a comfortable silence. A sigh comes from you which he follows and you both are snickering at the gestures. How beyond ridiculous this day has been and yet also so perfect. There is so much to say and so little words to convey the feelings and thoughts you have. But who could blame you? It isn't like this situation is any more simple than a normal relationship or friendship. All the more complicated by the condition of your body and soul. After all, a corpse - it is infeasible, by regular means, for something like this to happen.

"So-" "So." in succession you both speak earning mild laughter from each other. "You wanted to talk about…" you begin with the obvious. "Right, I just wanted to talk. Gives us some time to get to know one another. But, even now I can't seem to find the words..." "I can't either. I mean- I just don't know what to say or talk about." "That's okay. We can start with something simple." "Like?" "Like…a game of 21 questions?" you have to scoff at the idea simply because it's so…normal. In all this mess of things that have been peculiar and weird, Mingyu is asking for something normal. "Okay, you first then. Since it's you're idea." It takes him a while and you let it happen, feeling no need to fill the space with idle conversation. "You're favorite color?" It takes you by surprise just how simple his question is and even still you are unable to answer with certainty, "Hmm I don't know. What's yours?" "Mine? I asked you the question…" he smirks. "I know but I don't think I have one-" "C'mon, you don't remember having one or you don't think you ever did?" "I don't know. Maybe I never did…" you ponder for a moment, you really don't remember much about your life other than the feelings. He's a bit baffled by the revelation but he doesn't want to bombard you too early so he concedes to your answer. "I guess, we'll just have to find you a favorite color then! Right, your turn."

Now you take a moment to think. "What about me-" you gesture up and down on your body, "caught your eye first?" There is a smile on his lips, "Honestly…it was your lips. Most people I see in my prep room come in with cracked and dried lips but you came in and I don't know, it was different. Your lips looked like you could wake up at any moment and-" he stops himself from saying too much, his mind in battle with something as strange as an attraction to your body, "You looked alive and yet you weren't, it captivated me." he says to you earnestly. You didn't know how to respond to such honesty. So you just let it be, allowing the muffled noise of crickets and the rustling of leaves to fill the awkwardness. "My turn again. Hmm, since we're jumping into the fray, what do you think of me?" You look at him confused, "What do you mean?" "I mean, I've brought you back to life, you're in my home, and we've talked about things that I've never talked to anyone about. So, what do you think of me? Of this?" he motions towards everything in the room so you can assume he means the situation. "I can't really say. I mean I accepted your proposal but it's not like I had many other options, y'know?" "Right." "I can say that this is new for me though. Attempting something like this, I don't think I ever did it in life." "You never fell in love?" "I don't think so…I don't remember those feelings." Gloom overcomes Mingyu as he hears this. "But! I think that just means that I have all the more to gain from this experience, right?" you try to assure him. "Right…" he's still mulling over what you said but gathers himself, "Your turn" "Okay- well, let's get back to a lighter note, what's your favorite song right now?"

You guys go back and forth for a while exchanging different likes and dislikes. The room is now more cozy with the familiarity growing even more between you. It's down to the last 4 questions now, Mingyu hums with anticipation as you search your mind for something to ask.

"Ah! I got it! This is something I've been thinking about but I didn't know if I should ask you about it. If we're taking things seriously then I don't want things to start off with any regrets or things unsaid so I'll ask anyway." "Okay, shoot." "Where exactly did you get these clothes?" your hands wave over the pajamas he gave you. "Oh, those are my younger sisters. She left them here during her last visit." you visibly relax at the answer and he notices. Being a bit bold he reaches out to place his hand on yours, "Hey, I know we just met but I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, certainly not give you the clothes of some other person." You take him for his word and grasp his hand in yours, allowing your fingers to intertwine. The ease of the action doesn't seem to affect either of you, it's like your hands were made to be together. "Your turn, Mingyu." "Hm hm hm…I was gonna ask you this anyway but since I can't come up with a good question I'll ask it now; Where do you want to sleep?" your puzzled expression spurs more of an explanation out of him, "I don't know where you're most comfortable so it's really up to you. The couch is comfortable but it's lonely down here. I have a guest room I can set up for you, when my sister visits that's where she sleeps. Or I can give you my bed for the night, don't worry about me I can sleep almost anywhere so it's no big deal, more comfortable than the guest bed though in my opinion." You digest all your choices, "The guest room works. Any bed is better than a body bag-" you joke earning a smile from Mingyu and a squeeze of your hand in recognition. "Done, I'll get that ready for you once we finish the game." "The next question I have is a bit of a serious one…" your tone makes him sit up straight.

"What happens to me?" "What?" "I mean, I'm dead according to official records and you were supposed to prepare my body for a viewing. What happens to me now that I'm back? What happens to my viewing? To the people who might go to that?" "I don't- I don't know." now he's as concerned as you are, making it evident that he didn't think this far ahead. "You were scheduled for a quick viewing, nothing fancy. And we have until next week to figure stuff out-" Mingyu begins racking his brain until an idea hits him. "I- We can say that you asked to be cremated. You left it in your…note." Both of you sour at the mention of your suicide note. "Right but doesn't the coroner have that? Haven't they read it by now?" "Yes, I mean it's a big part of determining your cause of death. But if we can go in there-" "Mingyu. You are not suggesting…" "I am. If we can get into the morgue and find your belongings, all we'd have to do is swap out a sheet of paper." The fact that this is on the table at all is blowing your mind. It's so incredibly risky. Maybe even more risky than just saying he lost your body. But if it works it certainly would clean up your issue quite well. No one would question the wants of a dead person, would they? Mingyu waits expectantly for your approval and after a minute you give it to him. "Okay." "Okay?" "Okay, we can try this but…" you look at him, both of your hands now holding his as he stares back at you with his big brown eyes whose effect is akin to a siren song. "-but we have to plan this out carefully. The morgue is the one place where people might recognize me easily since, y'know, they've seen my dead body." you try to drill seriousness into your words. "Yeah yeah of course! We can plan it out as carefully as you want, y/n."

The day has been long and although the conversation is lively enough to keep you both going Mingyu recognizes that rest should come sooner rather than later. "-But I think we should reserve that for tomorrow. I need to start getting your room together." He begins to get up before you're grabbing at his wrist. This man has been waiting for you to call for him; To reach for him, you've got him sitting back down in an instant as all his attention focuses on you.

"You have the last question, Mingyu." "Oh- Oh I- Umm." your touch lingers on him like some sort of spell meant to leave him in delirium. "It's okay, we don't have to finish the game-" "Ahh no no no, we can finish it, it's just one question…should be super simple to come up with one question." he contemplates for a while before speaking up again, whatever's come to mind making him blush wildly. "You can say no to this!" Great start Kim Mingyu, "I know we just met and this is a very sudden request; And I want you to know that you can refuse it if you don't feel comfortable. But since we've talked about the nature of what this is-" he motions towards the both of you, "-Do you think it would be too soon to ask for a kiss?"

Your mind goes blank. A kiss? Now? Unsure of what to say or how to react you just look at him with a stunned expression. Mingyu takes your apprehension as a "Not right now", not wanting to push you any further than you're comfortable with. He moves to cup your cheek, "It's okay, it's too soon, I know. I'll go get your room ready.", with that he's up and walking up the stairs.

You're still in shock from the question. Out of everything he could've asked and everything that he has asked this is the question that stumps you. Your mind is working overtime to process it. A kiss. Is that what you wanted? He was right, it is too soon. But eventually, would you get to a point where you're ready for that step? The thought runs rampant in your mind and you find yourself imagining what a kiss with Mingyu might be like, while also slightly scrutinizing yourself for missing the chance of finding out.

Lost in your imagination you come back to reality as Mingyu is coming back downstairs. "It's ready." You follow him to the guest room; It's just a few feet away from his room and as he ushers you inside he lets you know that if you need anything at all he's a few steps away.

The room is as clean as the rest of the house and you find yourself wandering around it in search of more pieces of Mingyu's life. A vanity holds some skincare products that are lightly used, Mingyu's sisters you think. Tucked between the mirror and the wood frame that holds it are a few childhood photos of the 2 of them. You can't help but smile as you picture them playing. The dresser holds other clothes, some of them you can discern are his sisters but others seem to be men's clothing. The closet doesn't reveal much other than spare towels and blankets.

You retire to the bed after your snooping and it doesn't take long for dreams to seep into your mind.

The dreams you have come to you more like visions. Recollections of the day spinning off into "what ifs-". What if you hadn't accepted Mingyu's proposal? Where would you be now, what would you be doing? If he hadn't woken you up at all? Would your soul be trapped in your body forever reaching for an afterlife and never finding one? And what if you had kissed him tonight? Would you still be here, sleeping alone in this empty room? Or would the night have somehow veered in a direction where he and you would be sleeping side by side? The night leaves you to meditate on the endless stream of questions and before long the sun rises.

Peaks of sunlight linger in the empty room but it isn't what wakes you. It's the loud footsteps that go up and down the stairs, the cacophony of different/unfamiliar voices, and the final straw, your door opens and a dolphin-like scream rings your ears.

Before you can open your eyes and see who it is they are running out of view but leaving the door swinging wide open. A man with glasses peaks his head in like a curious cat, immediately apologizing at the sight of you, "So sorry.". Promptly he closes the door leaving you reeling from the abrupt intrusion and unable to pinch together enough sense to realize the predicament you're in.

The door bursts open once again, and this time Mingyu rushes in. "I'm so sorry, they came in so suddenly. I told them not to come up-" "Who?" "My friends, it's okay, I yelled at them to go back downstairs. Are you alright?" he's hurriedly assessing your condition as if you were the one who screamed. "I'm fine…just shaken?" "Okay. Well, wash up, don't worry they won't bother you again and I'll tell them to leave." "You don't have to-" "I do though, they are so annoying" he huffs which elicits a laugh from you. He pats your shoulder before moving his hand towards your face, running his thumb over your jawline, admiring you for a few seconds. "I'll meet you in the living room?" "Yeah, I'll be trying to get those weirdo's out of here." he gets up and closes the door behind him as he leaves. You can hear a muffled yell that echoes through the halls as Mingyu scolds his friends.

Another day has come and you are absolutely alive.

A/N: This one was a doozy for me to write and by far the longest part in a fic I have ever made (even b4 this account lol) but I hope you like it! Please comment, like, and reblog if you do! Seriously, it encourages me so much to hear what you guys think. My biggest hope in posting this part is that it'll make me feel more confident in my writing since I've been in a slump ;-; Anyways my loves have a good weekend!! The taglist for this series is open and my requests are open as well!!

TAGLIST (open):@jjin-kun @mydolle-dd

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makeitmingi · 1 year ago

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The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 17]

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comedy

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Chef!Reader, RestaurantOwner!Yunho, MaitreD!Hongjoong, Waiter!Yeosang, Waiter!San, Waiter!Mingi, SousChef!Seonghwa, SousChef!Wooyoung, PrepChef!Jongho

Summary: Yunho's dream was to open and run his own restaurant. But he doesn't know anything when it comes to cooking. Until you came along and accepted the job, bringing with you a small crew. How will the black cat tame the energetic golden retriever?

Word count: 3.1K

The kitchen crew left a little later than usual, having to prepare for a little more extravagant dinner last minute. Yunho knew that he would have to properly thank them for what they did. Hongjoong, Yeosang, Mingi and San stayed a little later than normal too, to help clean up the place just a tad more.

"Why am I nervous?" Yunho asked himself. He couldn't seem to calm his anxious heart down so he drove back to the restaurant, hoping to distract himself with a task there.

What he didn't expect was to see the kitchen lights on and hear someone bustling around.

"(Y/n)?" Yunho blinked in surprise, pausing at the doorway. You were in your own world again, music blasting in your ears as you worked on your dish in front of you with a focussed frown on your face.

"(Y/n)." He called out a little louder this time, not wanting to surprise you like last time.

"(Y/n)." He repeated, randomly sliding a spoon your way. You looked up as the spoon came into your view.

"Oh, Yunho. What are you doing here?" You straightened up, removing one AirPod, just as confused about his presence as he was with yours. He offered a small smile in reply and a tiny wave.

"Couldn't seem to sit still. What about you? Shouldn't you be resting before dinner service?" Yunho asked. You merely shrugged in reply, returning back to what you were doing. Yunho watched on curiously, seeing you marinate meat.

"Grab a stool and sit. Unless you're planning to stand the entire way?" You spoke. Yunho went out to grab a spare foldable chair, making sure he wasn't in your way.

"Are you nervous?" Yunho suddenly asked. He watched your hands pause for a split second before continuing.

"No. Are you?" You questioned back.

"I think so." He replied honestly, letting out a small sigh. Silence hung in the air of the kitchen for a while, only the sound of you massaging the marinade into the meat was heard.

"Why?" You continued the conversation, removing your gloves and round the counter to grab the pressure cooker.

"I don't know... I... I encouraged my parents to come. They've been nothing but supportive in regard to this... But..." Yunho trailed off.

"You still haven't felt like you've succeeded and made them proud? Despite them telling you otherwise. Especially since you opened this with your late grandmother's money?" You finished. Yunho's eyes widened slightly, you were spot on. That was exactly how he felt without being able to word it.

"That's right..." He rubbed the back of his head. You had now moved to the stove, closing the pressure cooker lid and turning on the flame, setting the right pressure for the meat.

"I know it's dumb."

"No, it's not. It's completely normal to feel that way." You said, coming back to where he was.

Casting a glance over at Yunho and seeing his sad face tugged at your heart a little. You put your knife down on the board.

"Yunho, let me be real with you. At that point, you're the only one that can change the way you feel. No amount of comforting or assurance will remove that nervousness." You told him.

"Do you think you've done anything worthy of shame in opening this restaurant?" You asked.

"No, I don't. I feel like I've poured my heart and soul into opening this place into the dream that I had with my grandmother." Yunho said. All the effort from himself and his friends to put this place together, there wasn't an ounce of regret in it.

"Then? Do you feel like you've wasted your grandmother's money in this?" Yunho shook his head. If anything, he wished his grandmother could see what he's done with the place.

"But there's still things I could have done better. If only I had known from the start..." He sighed.

"Of course. There are always things to improve on. But you're learning, this is a learning process. I told you that when you opened."

Yunho remembers fondly, you helping him when he hid in the walk in, nervous and worried of what could go wrong on opening day. You gave him courage.

"There's still a lot of things you will learn and improve on in the future. It won't always be smooth sailing." You said.

"But you just have to keep going and take them head on. That's what you're good at, right?" You let out a small chuckle. Yunho's head shot up as a grin formed on his face. You were right, once again, he had to keep going. He couldn't let the negative thoughts cloud his head and affect his performance.

"Did someone tell you that? To keep going." Yunho asked curiously.

"My mother. She used to tell me that while we worked in the kitchen. Every cut, burn, fail, she told me to just keep going." You replied, picking up your knife.

"She sounds like an amazing person." Yunho said kindly. You didn't reply to that, merely letting out a hum.

"I guess I'm also nervous with the other parents coming too, I feel responsible for the 'careers' of their sons. They could be doing other things out there but they may feel 'stuck' here with me."

"I know how you feel." You said.

"You do?"

"Every kitchen I've been in, I've had Seonghwa, Wooyoung and Jongho with me. You've seen how talented they are. They could easily have secured a position at top restaurants. And yet, they give up so many offers to be with me." You explained.

"Because you're a good leader, (y/n). In many ways, you've given them so many opportunities I'm sure are not present in those professional kitchens out there." Yunho said.

"That may be true. But they could be earning more, have a stable job position, gain accolades." You shrugged.

"How do you overcome that feeling?"

"You don't... Until today, I always tell them that they can leave if they want to, I won't be mad. But they're stubborn, they always call me ridiculous." You had a soft smile on your face as you spoke.

"However, because of that, I know I can count on them and rely on them. I couldn't ask for a better team." You said.

"I feel the same about my friends. I'm so glad I have them with me, doing this with me."

"Then take each moment you have with them. Focus on what you have now, the confidence and faith you have in them. There'll always be 'what if's and doubts. It's a part of life. Every day, I ask Seonghwa why he's still with me. And after so many years, he still hits me on the back of my head for asking." You chuckled.

"I'm sure you're the same with Mingi." You said. Yunho nodded.

"He's been with me all the way, through everything that's happened in my life. The good and the bad." Yunho reminisced the memories of him and Mingi in middle school.

"So what are you making? I saw the list with everyone else's names on their dish." Yunho asked.

"Galbi tortelloni in seolleongtang broth with egg garnish and flavoured oils." You replied, walking into the pantry.

"Wow." Was all Yunho could say in reply. You hummed, cutting open the bag of gochugaru and pouring out what you needed onto the weighing scale.

"What's all that gochugaru for?"

"One of the oils is Korean chili oil. Take gochugaru, fry it in beef tallow then drain it." You said, going to the stove.

"Bring that over, please?" You requested. Yunho jumped to his feet immediately, bringing over the metal bowl with the gochugaru inside. You added some minced ginger into the mix and heated up the beef tallow, letting it melt and get hot.

"What other kind of flavoured oil are you making?" Yunho asked as you stirred the gochugaru in the melted beef fat to heat up.

"Spring onion oil. Just makes it fancy instead of sprinkling spring onions on top to garnish." You shrugged. Yunho nodded, watching you with interest.

"Now we turn off the heat and let that steep for 15 minutes then we drain it." You said.

"What are you going to work on now?" Yunho trailed behind you, following you back to the bench.

"We're going to make pasta." You retrieved a large metal bowl to hold all the ingredients that you were going to procure. It warmed Yunho's heart at how you naturally just said 'we' instead of 'me' or 'I'.

It seems like you didn't even notice it, just including him in without him having to offer his help as if it was second nature. He would never want to point it out and make you feel self conscious. And risk you stopping that habit, he liked that it was a sign you trusted him enough to rely on him comfortably.

"Eggs, oil, salt, tipo 00 flour." You placed the bowl of ingredients down on the bench.

"What po?" He tilted his head.

"Tipo 00 flour. It means that it is milled a lot finer than regular flour. It's made from softer types of wheat, giving it more protein and less gluten." You explained.

"Cool." He watched you accurately measure out the ingredients so the proportions will be right.

"Learning for to make fresh pasta or noodles in general has been one of the biggest game changers for me in culinary." You told him.

"Is all pasta made like this?" Yunho bent down next to you.

"Not really. Some use semolina or semola flour, which is hard durum wheat. It gives a tough texture, I use it if I want the pasta to keep it's shape like macaroni. But since I want to shape this pasta, I do it this way to get a softer dough that easier to work with."

"Wait, you're going to put galbi in the pasta?" Yunho's eyes widened. You nodded your head.

"That's why I have galbi jjim cooking in the pressure cooker. I'm going put chunks of meat inside. I also have seolleongtang cooking for as long as I have to make a rich broth." You pointed.

"Does cooking it in the pressure cooker make it taste better?" He knew his mother and grandmother used to use one too.

"Not exactly. I just don't have time to let it slow cook to soften. So using a pressure cooker speeds it up."

"I can't wait to taste the dish, (y/n)." Yunho grinned excitedly. You couldn't help but throw your head back in laughter. He was acting like the customer, not the owner.

"This is for the diners tonight." You shook your head.

"Well, I've got to eat too. Plus, you can't cook galbi jjim and not let me have some when you know it is my favourite. That's just being cruel." He pouted. Once again, you didn't know what came over you as you reached out to pat Yunho's head. It didn't help that his seated position made his height more reachable.

"I'm sorry! That really just keeps happening." You retracted your hand as realisation hit you. Yunho smiled softly, boldly reaching out to grab your wrist. He placed it on top of his head.

"I told you before. Don't apologise. I'm fine with it." He laughed. Yunho felt your hand just sit there for a bit.

But then, you moved. Your fingers gently carded through his hair as you stroked his head.

"Luckily I haven't started touching the flour yet." You commented.

"I'll be fine with that too." He said kindly. It was weird to describe, you've never really initiated physical contact with those outside your circle. But feeling Yunho lean into your touch made you soften.

"You're too kind, Yunho." You chuckled, pulling away and going to wash your hands so you could handle food again.

"I liked it so it wasn't me sacrificing anything." Yunho confessed shyly, his ears red.

You went back to work with Yunho accompanying you. You filtered out the chili oil and made the pasta dough, setting it aside to rest. Yunho had helped you with the hand kneading of the dough, even if it did take him a while to get the technique right.

"Here, try it. It's not done but we're getting there." You handed him a small bowl of the seolleongtang after having skimmed the impurities away from the top.

"Smells good." He leaned in to take a whiff. Yunho brought the bowl to his lips and took a sip.

"It's amazing. It's so good." He said, tasting the rich broth on his tongue. Yet, it wasn't too heavy or greasy.

"Hang on, taste it like this." You drizzled some chili oil and the green onion oil over the top. You looked at Yunho expectantly as he took another sip of the broth, now with the add ons.

"Now, tell me what you taste." You encouraged.

"The chili oil coats your tongue first, adding heat to cut the richness of the broth. Then you taste the green onion oil, it gives a fresh after taste."

"That's the intention." You smiled, happy with his answer. Yunho slowly drank the rest of the broth, wanting to savour the taste. His eyes still followed you as you moved around the kitchen to prepare. You made the egg garnish that will go on top of the dish, setting it aside for later.

"Take a break, (y/n). You've been on your feet for so long, take a seat." Yunho said, bringing his now empty bowl to sink to wash.

"Once I'm done with this." You replied. You rolled up the sheets of egg yolk and sliced it with your knife, doing the same with the sheets of egg white, to form noodle like strands.

"Yunho?" You turned around and saw that he wasn't there anymore. Leaving the kitchen, you found him outside.

"I made you a hot chocolate." Yunho blinked with the cup in his hand, about to bring it in to you.

"Not coffee?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Seonghwa hyung told us not to feed you too much caffeine..." He revealed with a wince. You rolled your eyes, mentally cursing Seonghwa for coming between you and your coffee.

"Thanks." You mumbled to show your unhappiness but gratefulness nonetheless. Yunho laughed at how grumpy you were when he told you what Seonghwa did. It was like you were trying not to throw a tantrum in front of him.

You sat at one of the side tables together, enjoying a short break and your drinks. Yunho sat opposite you, drinking his iced chocolate in solidarity with you.

"You can have coffee, you know?" You raised an eyebrow.

"It's okay. I don't mind this and I wouldn't want to tempt you to drink coffee." Yunho smiled. Gosh, he was too nice for his own good.

Your phone rang and you held the device, seeing Wooyoung calling you. Looking up at Yunho, he blinked back in confusion. You answered the call, sliding the phone to him.

"Yah! Where are you?!"

"Umm... Hi, Wooyoung." Yunho replied hesitantly while you looked out the window innocently, not wanting to be a part of this.

"... Yunho? Is that you? Why are you answering (y/n)'s phone? Where is she?"

"Hi. Yes, it is me. (y/n) handed the phone to me after answering so I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say... We're both currently at the restaurant actually." Yunho spoke, a little worried with how Wooyoung was yelling but you seemed unaffected by it. Almost like you were used to this.

"Wait, wait. You're both at the restaurant? Did you even leave at all? I know (y/n) did because we dropped her home."

"Oh, I did. Don't worry. I just came in early and bumped into (y/n), who was already here. Do you... want to talk to her?" Yunho asked. You shook your head, mouthing 'no'.

"It's fine, she's probably hiding so she doesn't get in trouble. We're here to pick her up but I came upstairs to find her apartment empty."

"I see." Yunho looked at you with wide eyes and panic. You were stifling your laugh with your fist.

"Yah, (y/l/n) (y/n), I know you're listening now. Don't think you can use Yunho as a shield. You're gonna get it from us, especially Seonghwa hyung. Thanks, Yunho. We'll be there in a bit."

"Alright. See you." Yunho said and Wooyoung hung up. You let out a sigh. The boys wouldn't have let you come in early to prepare if they knew, worrying about you and wanting you to get enough rest. So you snuck here.

"Okay, Yunho. So you gotta protect me when the 3 come in here." You put your hands together.

"I'm sorry, (y/n). But all 3 of them scare me in some way." Yunho said.

"That's betrayal right there. Aren't golden retrievers supposed to be loyal and protective?" You asked jokingly, making Yunho shoot you a flat look.

"Why didn't you tell them you were coming here early to prep? They must have been worried." Yunho asked.

"Well, if I told them, they wouldn't let me come. Some times, I just want to cook. It's my own form of relaxation and doing it alone grounds me, brings me peace." You said.

"But they see it as me overworking." You scoffed. Any distraction away from your parents would suffice for you.

"They're just being good friends that are concerned about you." Yunho said. He knew how they felt because he would be concerned about you too. His words reminded you of Seonghwa's words this morning, him telling you how genuinely worried Yunho was about you when you called in 'sick'.

"Thank you for being a good friend and worrying about me, Yunho. But I'm okay, don't worry." You smiled softly, grateful that he openly cared for you even if you were new friends.

"I'm glad to hear that." He returned the affectionate smile. You looked out the window, leaning on your hand.

"If I had known you wanted to cook alone to get some peace, I would have come outside a lot earlier. I hope I didn't bother you." He said.

"You know what, I did get peace. I think I liked having you there with me in the kitchen." You confessed. If Yunho was shocked by your words, he didn't show it.

"Really? I wasn't too distracting?"

"Not at all. I thought I wanted to be alone. But you being there made me realise how much I didn't want to be alone. And when you left the kitchen first, I just hated the idea of being left on my own."

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sickficideas · 8 months ago

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gotta hear me out || sick Akutagawa w/ caretaker Atsushi - chapter 2 of 3

ao3! 5.1k/10.6k - please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2024, day 30: past prompt (2022, day 27: sleepless night)

Atsushi tries to keep himself busy. There’s not many signs at all that Akutagawa has done anything in his home outside of his room - there’s a few dishes and a pot in the sink that Atsushi decides to clean and put away, dishes far fancier than necessary, he thinks - a rice cooker and a teapot on the counter too. He thinks his next objective is going to be to get Akutagawa to eat something. Rice is probably an easy start.

The storm seems to have let up a bit. It’s still raining, sky still filled to the brim with dark clouds, but he hasn’t heard thunder for a while. He knows that it won’t continue like this, but it’s a nice break for now. He really hates having to listen to thunder.

He finally finds a thermometer, too. He snuck into Akutagawa’s bathroom through a second door, finding one buried under other medical supplies, without charged batteries, of course. At least the batteries were easier to find, and now he has a working thermometer.

He checks his own temperature, laying the thermometer under his tongue for a few seconds, to make sure it’s working properly. He’s been told by Yosano that his temperature is higher than the average human’s, closer to that of a tiger’s, and the thermometer reflects that. A hundred and one point one. That would be a decent fever on a normal person. He washes the thermometer and sets it on the counter beside the rice cooker.

Atsushi turns the TV in the living room after peering around for a remote. Thankfully, it was already on a very low volume. He doesn’t need it loud at all, he really just wants to keep track of the news. They’re actively reporting on the storm, confirming his hypothesis that it will indeed continue on through the night.

He bites his lip.

He wanders back into the kitchen, deciding he’ll work on the daunting task of trying to figure out how the rice cooker works. It’s more difficult than it looks. It’s way, way fancier than one he’s ever seen, and he thinks he might have to give up and opt for cooking rice in a pot, but luck is on his side, and he finds a manual.

He turns back to the island in the kitchen, opening the foldable manual to find the section that explains which buttons do what, and he catches something dark in his peripheral. Atsushi backs up, nearly hits his back against the other counter, arms defensively over his chest as he gasps.

Akutagawa just raises his eyebrows in vague confusion. He’s sitting at the kitchen island on one of the bar stools, one arm crossed and his head propped on the other.

“You scared me,” Atsushi says with the heavy sigh, lowering his arms and closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying to lower his heart rate. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Not long,” Akutagawa says simply. Atsushi has no idea how he didn’t hear him leave his room. He doesn’t even really look half-asleep, his eyes just squint, bothered by the overhead light. Atsushi wanders over to the light switch to turn it off.

“Do you ever have these on?” Atsushi asks him, realizing a pattern from earlier.

“No,” Akutagawa says. “I hate having the lights on. Such a waste. I can see perfectly fine without them.”

“Maybe you’re still a vampire after all,” Atsushi jokes, finding the connection a little amusing.

“Ugh, shut up,” Akutagawa grumbles, bringing his head down into his hand and pressing them against his temples. Atsushi realizes he still definitely has a headache, no wonder the lights are bothering him so much. He’s slept a few hours, at the very least, Atsushi was hoping that would help. He definitely needs something in his system.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” Atsushi asks him, folding up the manual after figuring out enough to be able to do simple things with the rice cooker.

“Not sure,” Akutagawa murmurs, lowering his hands back onto the counter, “a couple of days ago.”

Atsushi’s eyes widen. “Days?!”

“I don't eat often. That's not abnormal,” Akuatagwa huffs, like that’s an easily acceptable answer.

“Well, yeah. That's clear,” Atsushi mumbles. Akutagawa is ridiculously thin, which he’s sure has something to do with his illness, but he’s seen him regularly refuse to eat. “You should eat every day. No wonder you're passing out all the time.”

Akutagawa seems taken aback by that accusation. “I do not pass out all the time.”

“I can't count the number of times I've seen you pass out on two hands, so, that's too many,” Atsushi chides. It’s not always for a long time, but Akutagawa clearly never has enough energy to fight regularly. He’s seen him pass out, just for a few seconds, many times after using his ability for extended periods of time. “Also, you literally passed out when I got here.”

“I’m sick, in case you forgot,” Akutagawa grumbles.

“I thought you’re always sick,” Atsushi says, mocking how difficult he was being earlier. Akuatagwa just rolls his eyes, props his chin up on his palm and stares out the window, childishly pretending Atsushi isn’t there.

Atsushi opens a few cabinet drawers and doors looking for rice, surprised Akutagawa doesn’t try to wring his neck for going through his things, but he finally finds the rice. He takes the container out onto the counter.

“How’s rice sound?”

“Nauseating,” he answers, still staring out the window.

“Okay, well you have to eat something, Akutagawa,” Atsushi tells him with a half-pout. He wishes there was some way to help his nausea without him taking medicine, because he’s sure any of that would make him feel terrible on a completely empty stomach.

“Do as you wish,” Akutagawa huffs, repeating his earlier sentiment. Maybe he's realized that Atsushi won't back down.

Atsushi takes that, and decides to continue.

Akutagawa doesn't say a word to him for at least the twenty minutes while the rice is cooking. He stays on the chair for a while, listless and staring out the window, deep in thought. Atsushi wonders what he's thinking about, or what's ever on his mind in general, but he thinks that's something he'll never find out.

He disappears behind Atsushi's back once he's turned around and scooping the rice into a bowl. He sees he's gone and sat down on the couch, his eyes now on the TV screen instead of the window. They're still covering the weather. Atsushi suspects they'll probably be doing that through the night too.

Atsushi wanders into the living room with two bowls of rice and just sits with him and watches the news for a little while. It's kind of nice - calm, quiet. Akutagawa doesn't turn it up and neither does Atsushi, so at times the raindrops against the windows are louder than the weather reporting, but Atsushi doesn't mind it. He wishes Akutagawa had some sort of rice seasoning or chazuke packets laying around, but based on what he found in his kitchen, he gets the feeling that the latter never cooks at all. He thinks eating rice plain in solidarity with Akutagawa is fine in the end.

Akutagawa eats more of the rice than Atsushi expected him to, considering he hasn't eaten or taken medicine in days due to his nausea. Maybe he had been mistaking hunger pains from not eating for nausea. Atsushi decides he'll see how it goes, and if that's really the case, maybe he can take some medicine.

He's relieved at the idea that Akutagawa might be fine after all. He just needed a few simple things, just to be taken care of for a few hours.

The weather report starts to show aerial clips of Suribachi City. Atsushi's been through there several times in his time at the Agency, being it's an area of high crime that even the mafia seems to stay out of.

He'd never thought out how horribly prone to flooding the crater-shaped slums are, but it makes perfect sense. The reporter talks about how many of its inhabitants will be found in Yokohama during the storm to avoid drowning in the floods. They have nowhere else to go.

Akutagawa takes the remote, changes the channel to the next one down and hands it to Atsushi.

“Choose something else to watch,” Akutagawa tells him. Atsushi takes the remote, a little surprised by the sudden demand, but the look in his eyes is strange. It's not fear, is it?

“News not good enough for you anymore?” Atsushi says, testing to see if he's receptive to teasing, because even the tone of how voice is a little concerning.

“Are you enjoying watching homeless children drown?” he bites back. It's not quite as mean as he usually is, more defensively, and a strange comment considering nothing of the sort was shown on screen. It was simply implied.

“Since when do you care about kids? You kill people,” Atsushi reminds him. He's really just teasing him, but he's never seen Akutagawa interact with a child other than Kyoka, and he wasn't good to her. “Or, used to.”

Akutagawa looks angry for a few seconds, like he's trying to figure out what to say, but it seems Atsushi's comments have left him speechless enough to decide against it. He just sighs and turns his head back towards the screen.

Atsushi thinks the entire interaction was strange. Akutagawa getting so defensive out of nowhere isn't like him. Atsushi at least knows what to avoid in conversation most of the time so he doesn't get choked out, but this time, he has no idea what set it off. Or, if he does, he doesn't know why.

He knows a lot less about Akutagawa than he thinks he does.

Akutagawa coughs into his hand a few times before he places his bowl of rice on the coffee table, chopsticks laying over the top of it, to then cough into his elbow. Atsushi gets up quickly and decides he'll get him a glass of water. He needs to start getting hydrated anyway. The dizziness and headache could certainly be lessened if it wasn't dehydrated.

Atsushi hands him a glass of water once the coughing dies down. Akutagawa is hesitant on taking it, looking like he's considering ignoring Atsushi's presence, but he gives in and takes the glass from him, only taking a few sips of it.

“You're aware my lung illness doesn't care if I'm hydrated or not,” Akutagawa mumbles, ignoring Atsushi's eye contact as he stands in front of him.

Atsushi's heart sinks a little, hearing him say that.

“Let me look at that wound again,” Atsushi decides, not wanting to start an argument on how Akutagawa should care for himself. It's a losing battle with how unbelievably stubborn he is. He takes the glass of water and sets it behind him on the coffee table.

He leans forward over Akutagawa, who doesn't resist, pulling down the neckline of the sweatshirt to reveal the bandage. Blood has seeped through it already, but not enough to stain the sweatshirt, it looks like. He lifts a knee up onto the couch to avoid awkwardly leaning over Akutagawa, trying to inspect the wound a little more closely as he peels the bandage back.

It looks okay. Not better by any means, but cleaner at least, from Atsushi's earlier work. He thinks this should be stitched up, but it's far too old to do that now - it would only trap the infection the way it is. He thinks right now all he can do is keep it clean and covered, but once Akutagawa is feeling a little better, he needs this looked at by a professional.

He wishes he could lend Akutagawa some of his self-healing. It would make his life so much easier.

“You're too close,” Akutagawa mumbles suddenly, and Atsushi realizes how close he really is.

He's almost straddling him. One knee leaned against the couch and the other propped up on the other side of Akutagawa’s leg, almost leaning against him. This would have been much easier to do from the other side of the couch, but he was already here.

Akutagawa doesn't do anything to push him away, but his cheeks are suddenly red.

“Right - sorry,” Atsushi stammers awkwardly, standing and backing up. “I'll be - right back. I think I just need to change the bandage.”

So he does just that. He takes some supplies out from the bathroom and leaves the basket on the counter, since he'll certainly need this again later.

Atsushi just sits beside him this time, taking off the bandage as carefully as he can. Akutagawa doesn't react to much of what he's doing, aside from when he tries to clean it up. He can feel him flinch and tense up, but he doesn't make any noise - just staring forward, even though he's paying no attention to the random channel he flipped to on the TV.

Atsushi looks up every now and then, just to peer at what he can see of his eyes, and he's deep in thought about something, so much so that Atsushi is worried he'll scare him if he suddenly speaks.

He wishes he knew what Akutagawa was thinking about.

As he finishes up the bandage, he eyes Akutagawa’s unfinished rice. He ate a fair amount of it, but not as much as Atsushi would have liked him to.

“You need to eat more than that,” Atsushi tells him after he pulls the collar of Akutagawa’s sweater back up over the new bandage. He thinks he'll have to change it every few hours or so.

“Do you want me to vomit?” Akutagawa grumbles, using the armrest of the couch to force himself up, an action that seems to be rather painful. He's sore. He hopes that doesn't mean his stomach is already hurting.

“Does that mean you feel sick?” Atsushi asks him.

“I wish you would leave,” Akutagawa mumbles under his breath, not with any intention of hiding that sentiment from Atsushi. He thinks that's a yes, then, with how he's deflecting. His arms are crossed over his chest, very defensively, but Atsushi's at least glad to see he can stand on his own.

“I don't get all your back and forth. You let me bathe you and then you want me gone,” Atsushi huffs. Akutagawa has never made any sense to him. He can never tell what he's thinking or what he'll say next.

“You're only here because of Dazai, are you not?” Akutagawa says, walking towards his bedroom, “Tell him I'm alive and go home. He doesn't care how I'm doing beyond that. As long as - I can still use my ability.”

Atsushi can't see his face, but he can tell by the way his tone wavers that it hurts him to say out loud, like it's something he's only recently come to terms with.

“That's not -”

Akutagawa slams his bedroom door behind him with the help of Rashomon, as if it's helping him prove his point.

That can't be true. Dazai isn't like that. Sure, he did ask Atsushi to make sure Akutagawa wasn't dead and really didn't say anything beyond that, but it was because he hadn't heard from him in over a week, and he wanted to make sure he was okay before the storm came in. He doesn't think Dazai would be okay with Atsushi leaving as long as Akutagawa’s still breathing. He still needs help, he's not okay by himself.

Surely that doesn't have anything to do with the usefulness of Akutagawa’s ability.

As the sky gets darker, it brings on more thunder. He thinks the storm is starting to kick things into gear, and he changes the channel to confirm his suspicions. They talk about how the worst of it will come at around three in the morning, and they're still only at eight in the evening. He shivers at the thought of having to deal with the thunder all night.

He decides to force himself back into Akutagawa’s bedroom.

Akutagawa's sat up against his pillows with his comforter up over his knees, reading a book, of all things. He looks a little cold. Atsushi doesn't understand how he can read the words with how dim the light on his nightstand is, even with the pair of glasses he's suddenly wearing.

Akutagawa glares at him, and Atsushi stares back, but only because he can't stop thinking about the glasses. Does he think they look cute? Stupid? He doesn't know, but he's staring, and Akutagawa doesn't like it. The way he looks at him almost make it seem like he's taking it as a challenge, like a dog would.

“Glasses?” Atsushi just says.

Akutagawa tilts his head, confused at first. He rolls his eyes, visibly annoyed, before lifting his book back up. “I have terrible eyesight.”

“You do?” Atsushi says. That's new. He's never realized that. Does he wear contacts? Akutagawa doesn't seem like the time for that. Maybe he only needs them to see close up. Why does he even care?

“Must you always bother me? If you refuse to leave I'd rather not have to interact with you,” Akutagawa grumbles. Atsushi's realized over time that when he says stuff like this it doesn't sound genuine at all. Akutagawa thinks it does, that's what he's trying to put on, but Atsushi doesn't think he wants to be alone. But Atsushi doesn't have any idea how to call him out for it.

“Just shout if you need me, then,” Atsushi says, feigning indifference, nonchalance, he doesn't know, he just doesn't want Akutagawa to know it doesn't bother him.

“I will not,” Akutagawa says in some feeble attempt to defy him, but as if immediately struck down by karma, he suddenly groans from some intense pain, painful enough to make him drop his book and wrap an arm around his middle, painful enough to catch him off guard like that.

“Are you okay? Atsushi asks him, cautiously approaching the bed. “Is it your stomach?”

Akutagawa nods with a little noise of discomfort. He has a feeling this is a result of him eating, and he's got a lot more to be concerned about if Akutagawa throws up.

“Please just - leave me be,” Akutagawa groans quietly, his book already forgotten and off to the side as he doubles over, clearly in pain. Atsushi doesn't want to leave him. He is a little afraid of the backlash he'll face by ignoring him, but he thinks Akutagawa has other problems to worry about right now.

Atsushi wonders for a moment if maybe he has a heating pad somewhere that would help the pain a little bit, but Akutagawa derails any of Atsushi's mental plans to prevent him from getting sick when he gags.

Atsushi is fast enough to get the trash bin under his chin just as Akutagawa shifts to the edge of the bed, presumably to vomit on the floor to avoid the bed. He has his mouth covered and he's breathing fast and heavy, staring forward like he's too focused on avoiding throwing up to see Atsushi has the bin for him.

“Here, use this,” Atsushi tells him, fairly certain that whatever Akutagawa is trying to do to breathe around his nausea isn't going to work, and he's right. As soon as Akutagawa is aware of the bin, he coughs and retches, and a rush of vomit splatters into the thin bag.

It's not much at all, just a few bits of rice mixed in with saliva. Atsushi is fairly certain that there's blood there too, but he's not sure if it's a result of

his cough or how poor his health has been the past several days. He bites his lip, trying to stay as still as possible as he holds the bin.

He breathes heavy, shaky over the bin, strings of saliva caught on the sides, his lips shining from it. He spits to break them off and tucks the side piece of his hair that's facing Atsushi behind his ear. Atsushi holds his breath. That was weirdly attractive.

He groans quietly, gagging one more time over the bin, catching him off guard. Atsushi reaches over to lay a hand on his back to give him some comfort, but before he can, Akutagawa shifts himself back to the center of the bed to lie down, arms wrapped around his abdomen.

Atsushi sets the bin down on the floor, assuming he doesn't need it anymore, but he doesn't look any less nauseous.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Akutagawa grumbles. Atsushi didn't realize that he was making a face. “I'm not…a stranger to this.”

Atsushi feels his stomach sink. He knows that. This isn't even the first time he's seen Akutagawa throw up, but seeing him in so much pain and discomfort without much of a way to help him still makes him feel awful. Atsushi really wants him to see a doctor.

“I think you should -”

“I'm fine,” Akutagawa mumbles, now letting Atsushi even finish his suggestion, “let me sleep. I'll be fine.”

Atsushi doesn't believe him. He's still visibly nauseous. He thinks Akutagawa just wants him to leave to save him some embarrassment, but really, Atsushi has no real power over him there, as long as he's not actively throwing up right now.

Atsushi takes the comforter and shifts it around a little before laying it halfway over Akutagawa, who pulls it up closer to his shoulders. He doesn't say anything, doesn't ask Atsushi to leave or to do anything else, he just shuts his eyes and pretends he isn't there.

Atsushi supposes that's better than pushing him away.

…

Atsushi thinks it's around one in the morning when he hears Akutagawa's bathroom door shut.

He hopes for a few seconds that maybe he's just gone to use the bathroom, but the coughing and retching that follows is enough to get him off of the couch and headed that direction.

It's dark. It's probably midnight now, Akutagawa somehow slept for longer than expected, at least as far as Atsushi is aware. He left Akutagawa’s bedroom door open just enough for him to still hear anything, but even so, his enhanced hearing helps as a backup.

Unfortunately, though, it makes him extra sensitive to the thunder roaring overhead and the needle-like raindrops flying against the windows, too.

Atsushi sneaks into Akutagawa’s bedroom, peering through the first door and allowing the dim light from the living room to spill into the bedroom. Akutagawa isn't here, of course, he can still hear him coughing in the bathroom, but his sheets are strewn across the bed as a sign of a very restless sleep. The sweatpants he wore are tangled in the sheets, too.

He opens the bathroom door now, carefully, and flips on the light switch because it's far too dark for him to see anything right off the bat. Akutagawa is on his knees in front of the toilet, his forehead pressed against it for a moment before he lifts his head to hiccup, and gag unproductively into the bowl. He's just wearing the long sleeved shirt and a pair of boxers now. He must've gotten too hot and taken his sweatpants off.

“I don't need you in here,” Akutagawa grumbles, whipping his head to the side and attempting to glare at him, but the light is too much. He hisses through his teeth, like he didn't realize it was on to begin with, turns his head back and presses a hand up against his forehead.

“Does your head hurt?” Atsushi asks, his hand on the light switch.

“Turn them off,” he mumbles. “Please.”

Atsushi shivers as thunder roars over head just as he turns off the lights, and he swears he sees the same reaction from Akutagawa, barely lit by the plug-in light near the sink.

“I didn't know you knew how to say please,” Atsushi teases, trying to keep his voice quiet, now that he's aware of his returned headache - if it ever even left in the first place.

“Leave me alone, Weretiger. I don't need you to sit here and watch me vomit,” he mumbles back, his tone weak and desperate, almost, the bite from his tone completely gone now.

Atsushi's heart sinks. He sounds miserable. He really sounds like he's in a lot of pain, and Atsushi can see it, too. He moves and sits beside him, close enough to be useful but not too much in his space, and watches him wrap an arm tight around his stomach, groaning quietly from the pain. His skin is paler than before, in a harsher contrast against the dark circles under his eyes, and there's some shine against the sweat collecting on his forehead. He’s certain his fever isn’t any better.

“You don't wanna try taking anything for your stomach?” Atsushi asks, clicking his tongue. He knows anything Akutagawa swallows will just come right back up. There's injectable medications for nausea, but he doesn't exactly have those resources in this situation. He thinks Yosano would kill him if he even attempted asking her.

“There's something I have that -” he stops, his body tensing up sharply as his stomach cramps, but his mouth stays closed through grit teeth and nothing seems to come up, “in the mirror…that can melt under my tongue.”

“The mirror?” Atsushi repeats, standing up and headed for the absurdly large sink counter where the mirror, three times the size of his own at home, stands. He didn't know such a medication existed, but Akutagawa certainly would, considering how often he's sick.

“Just press the corner of the left panel,” Akutagawa mumbles, laying his head against the porcelain with a shiver and a defeated sigh.

Atsushi does so very gingerly, not entirely sure what that will do, but the panel pops out at an angle, like a cabinet would. He takes the corner and opens it all the way, revealing six or seven shallow shelves filled to the brim with various medications. Most of which are in prescribed amber bottles.

Atsushi's stomach twists at the sight of all of them. He doesn’t think that even Yosano has this many in her in-house supply. They all have his name. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. He catches sight of various dates, ranging from a month ago to two years ago, and so many medication names he doesn't recognize. Doxycycline, Azithromycin, Prednisolone, and dozens of others, some unfinished and some empty. There's over the counter stuff in here, too - Midol, Theraflu, extra strength Tylenol, and more - some of which he's never seen before.

“Which…one?” Atsushi asks, overwhelmed by what he's looking at. He had incorrectly assumed it would be easy to find.

“Zofran,” Akutagawa murmurs quietly. Atsushi can barely hear him. “Or…Ondansteron.”

Atsushi scans over his collection and finds it labeled under the second name, carefully removing it as not to knock over the others, one hand splayed out just in case they happened to fall. He’s tempted to make a joke about it to lighten up how he feels seeing this collection, but he doubts Akutagawa wants to hear any of that, being this sick or not.

“I need to sort through those,” Akutagawa mumbles when Atsushi kneels down next to him, crossing his legs just a foot or so away as he opens the box and pulls out the silver packing. “It’s…it’s not as much as it seems.”

Weirdly enough, Akutagawa seems to be saying that to make Atsushi feel better about it. He doesn’t think that it’s true, and that makes him feel worse.

Akutagawa twists up in pain again, breathing out a pained groan as his eyes screw shut. He shifts to gag over the toilet bowl, an arm still wrapped around his abdomen, but he still can’t bring anything up. Atsushi doubt he has much left anyway with how little he’s had to eat.

Akutagawa breathes heavy over the bowl, very visibly nauseous now, having trouble focusing, it seems like. Atsushi hears more thunder, louder than before, and Akutagawa shakes at the sound of it, this time, apparently not caring much to hide that fact from him right now.

Atsushi bites his lip. He scoots a little closer and lays a hand between his shoulder blades, surprised to not see him lash out considering how much he wanted him gone.

“I’d be surprised if you had anything left to throw up,” Atsushi says with a quiet sigh.

“I don’t think I do,” Akutagawa mumbles back, “that’s - the problem.”

Atsushi tries to shift his hand a little in attempt to rub his back, give him some comfort, but he fliches at the sudden movement and Atsushi takes his hand back. It’s strange, how he won’t allow this despite the fact that Atsushi bathed him not too many hours ago. Maybe the fever was subduing him. Maybe he’s a little more with it now.

That’s good, he thinks, but it means Akutagawa is pushing him away.

Akutagawa lays down on his side in front of the toilet, slowly. almost holding his breath. He wraps both arms around his middle with a quiet groan and almost relaxes on the floor. Atsushi would rather he realx in his bed, but he’ll let him rest here for a moment before he makes him move.

Atsushi's pained to see how battered Akutagawa’s thin legs are. There's awful scars of all shapes and sizes - Atsushi can pick out several from bullets, he's able to recognize those fairly easily. There’s newer injuries, too, as new as the one on his shoulder, but none nearly as bad.

He doesn’t often think about the kinds of things Akutagawa has suffered through. He’s sure bullet wounds are just the surface, even despite how long something like that must take to heal, and the nasty scars they leave behind. It’s no wonder Akutagawa’s body can hold up long anymore, illness or not.

“Do you wanna go ahead and take it?” Atsushi asks him quietly, trying to ignore how loud his own thoughts are. “You can lay here for a little to see if it works. But I don't think you should sleep here.”

Akutagawa lets out a quiet, defeated groan, and reaches a hand out to take the pill from Atsushi. He watches him take it, but he can’t use that to ignore what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t think he could ever convince Akutagawa to leave the mafia, but he’s worried he won’t survive through it much longer in his condition.

Why does he care, anyway?

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