#they’re too many words in a verse

[chronicsyd]

I was watching a video of someone breaking down the lyrics of Wish and why fundamentally they don’t work; but the whole thing angers me because it Could have worked if they just went with their original idea to Begin with. I’ve mentioned before that they should have gone with Star Boy but the songs in Wish REALLY emphasize WHY that sentiment rings true. Because “At All Costs” was SUPPOSED to be a duet between Asha and Star Boy because the whole thing sounds like a lovers lullaby and him wanting to love Asha “as a human does” per say. But now it’s just Asha and Magnifico singing to a bunch of crystal balls which loses most of the emphasis that song was trying to portray in the First place (not to mention how Stupid it is that the wishes are just crystal balls like this is where the 2d animation would have stood out).

Now, “I’m a Star!” Just needs to be entirely scrapped and reworked cause they could have used the song to show how Star Boy thinks and feels about things upon his initial introduction cause I’d presume that Star Boy would probably be someone very upbeat and excitable, but incredibly naïve about how the world works at the same time.

And “This is the Thanks I Get?!” COULD have really worked if they went with this plan as well cause Magnifico is supposed to be feeling unappreciated and disrespected and if Asha were his daughter and going against him cause of her feelings for Star Boy and how Magnifico was handling the wishes then That makes sense. But in the film we got, the town already seems to respect him and he doesn’t really have a reason for the way he acts which is why his switch to villain seems so abrupt.

Also the lyrics, rhythm and cadence would need a Drastic change but that would probably be Disney needing to just fire Julia Michaels and going with someone who’s Profession is making lyrics for Musical Theater instead of pop songs cause all these lyrics are just “ohh wishes!” “Ohhh stars!” And whatnot instead of building up Anything narratively. (Cause even though Lin Manuel Miranda has kinda become a meme at this point he still Knows how lyrics should build a story. Except for the Scuttlebutt but that’s just a one off thing that was truly Terrible). But hey, this is just me ranting on something that I should be letting go at this point but whatever 🤷‍♀️

(Also it bothers me that Disney was like “oh we can’t have Asha have a romantic interest in 2023 how can we show she’s a strong lead in 2023 if there’s a love interest!” Even though there’s Plenty of ways to do that with the two building off each other in a natural way and the fact that Asha doesn’t really have a character arc Anyways and her being Magnifico’s daughter would have made this work as well cause she’d have to choose between her feelings for Star Boy and going against her parents wishes just UHG I’m so pressed can someone make a Wish fixed fanfic so I can read that instead please?! Thank you.)

[apollos-boyfriend]

i watch vegetta a lot and how it makes it that much more exciting and engaging for him to have someone to bounce off of since he streams much earlier usually than everyone else. even in stuff as simple as mining like today he made a "competition" with leo to see who could get more resources its interactive and fun in a different way then if he were alone all the time. also like you were saying, the npc's give the characters motivation and progress their stories without always needing other players but also creates really interesting plot points when they do all interact.

yeah yeah yeah!!!! all of this! i think having actors just adds so much depth to a world in general. because if you had a mob, right, they’d probably interact with the players (depending on their coding), but not really each other. but the eggs? they have rich interpersonal lives. they have best friends and enemies and rivals. they go so much deeper than just the player characters, and that adds so much life to the game!! you don’t just lament one of their deaths because you see how it affects the players, but also because you see how it affects the other eggs. that adds so much depth!! the world feels so alive and real with the additions of actors and i genuinely hope more servers are able and willing to follow suit, because fuck they hit hard

[ma1dita]

trouble always finds me

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 1.7k 

summary: (pre-established relationship) The one where he could tell you were trouble from the day he met you. Luke’s perspective on trouble & how they first met! think trouble’s origin story (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

warnings: none, fluff? Mr. D being a clueless dad lol also guys they’re 14 here

a/n: welcome back to the trouble!verse hehe i was inspired by Mr. D being a bit of a jerk to Percy so that the kid doesn’t off himself. Similar concept but with Luke after he first gets to camp— another version for why trouble!reader calls him angelface coming soon

(posted 1/19/24, erm unedited and not beta’d so forgive me in advance)

—

You were always trouble, Luke knew that from the day he met you. 

Walking into Camp Half-Blood, worn out and weary after days of trying to not become harpy food, his arm was slung protectively over Annabeth’s shoulder as they were led onto the campgrounds. So many pity-filled eyes were focused on them after hearing what happened to Thalia, but the camp seemed promising, filled with other demigods who can resonate with what they’ve experienced. Luke thought it was too good to be true, but anything’s better in comparison to the streets they came from. You, however, looked at them in interest from afar, a playful expression on a pretty face watching their every move like him and Annie were shiny new toys to play with.

He was so sure something was off with you. 

Had to be, from the deranged glimmer in your eye that would appear when something bad would happen at Camp. He’d seen it in action a couple of times before you set your sights on him— setting off fireworks during capture the flag, replacing salt with sugar in the kitchens, cutting Mr. D’s hair in his sleep; all of this causing campers and staff alike to run amok and figure out who to penalize. Each time he’d find you enjoying how it all played out, excitement brimming on the cusp of revealing yourself as the culprit as he watched you bite your tongue. But as a mischievous kid himself, he wondered why you hid it. You preferred to orchestrate the show, to make a spectacle for your personal entertainment, and with a smile too soft to be considered guilty, you were a convincing actress. 

The other campers in 11 told him you’d been unclaimed for half a year now, keeping to yourself and making a safe haven within the busy cabin. You were a klutz to say the least, bringing chaos to Camp Half-Blood with a cool disposition, and you hardly seemed interested the one time Luke tried to say hi as he took the bunk next to yours. 

So why the hell wouldn’t you lay off of him?

At first it was small, shoulder bumps and raised eyebrows whenever he piped up in a conversation. That, he could deal with. Luke’s a tough guy, having gone through more than a typical 14-year old would. 

But then it just got annoying.

Glitter in his shampoo, his laundry load dyed purple, and shoelaces knotted together to make him stumble— things meant to be more of an inconvenience rather than an actual problem. Luke wasn’t sure what to make of it, or what to tell you. No one wants to be the new kid creating trouble, but you didn’t seem to have a problem with that.

Maybe you were a Hermes kid like him, but of that, Luke wasn’t so easily convinced—months of living in 11 would mean you’d learn all of the tricks of the trade, so it couldn’t automatically mean that you were related (a part of him also hoped you weren’t be half-siblings, or else the fact he couldn’t stop thinking of you would be slightly awkward). Perhaps a child of Apollo? When you weren’t being difficult, he’s seen you sprinkled in sunlight, usually humming a tune under your breath. Yesterday it was a song from the Sound of Music, and though he only remembers bits of a memory from a movie night with his mom years ago, he put his combat gear on slower just to hear you finish the song. 

Whatever you were, it was bound to be troublesome.

—

At this point in life, Luke hasn’t had many comforts while on the run. To him there’s no such thing as action without reason, without meaning.  Five years of running and not looking back makes this son of Hermes realize that he hasn’t had a chance to take a breath until he got here. It’s hard to let down your guard when you’re always supposed to be keeping watch.

He wriggles under his covers trying to relax himself before bed, purple socks sticking out of the scrappy hand-me-down blanket, and he hears a small giggle from the bed next to his. Luke shifts his weight onto his side, eyes darting to your direction in the quiet of the dark cabin.

“Nice socks.”

He blinks. Were you talking to him? His toes wiggle playfully, prompting more of your melodious laughter as he chews at his lip before he responds.

“Guess I’m getting used to them.”

“You’re getting used to a lot of things around here. That’s good,” you whisper, and thinks he can see you concocting something sinister in that brain of yours—he’s on the edge of the mattress hanging onto your every word as he realizes this is the most you’ve spoken to him.

“You did this. Why?” he says, more of a statement than a question. Why would you go out of your way for someone like him?

“Are you mad about it? Luke, right?” you mutter, a calm expression on your face shrouded in moonlight, and for a second he wonders if you actually don’t know his name until he notices the upwards quirk of your lip. 

Luke catches himself then, and the realization hits him like a blow to the chest— he’s not angry at all. If anything, he hasn’t had the time to feel anything negative with the antics you’ve been pulling. You’ve proven to be quite the distraction to his circumstances, and he can’t remember the last time he’s thought about Thalia or his mom since he got here. The melancholy falls on his countenance like a better-fitting blanket than the one he has on, and your words pull him from his thoughts before they can suffocate him again.

“Sorry about your sister. I lost someone right before I got here too. My mom.” 

This, he can tell, is not acting. Your eyes flicker to a polaroid strapped in the space underneath the top bunk above your head, two blurry figures huddled together in a memory.

“I’m sorry.” He’s not sure what to say. In the silence that follows, he swallows audibly. Everyone’s been worried about Annabeth, including himself that he hadn’t even thought of his own emotions being on display for everyone to see. Luke never thought you of all people would notice.

You shrug, “S’not your fault. I know when people are acting though. If you know I’m the one who’s been starting shit, why haven’t you told anyone?”

Luke almost laughs at that, a rough exhale leaving his lungs as he watches your hands clutch your quilt.

“It’s pretty entertaining, I guess. You’re annoying, but I don’t mind it. Kept my mind off of things.”

He watches you smile in the shadows now, and it shines—all lips, teeth, and sheer mirth that makes his chest feel a little lighter. A real smile from you, one that doesn’t hide your true intentions.

“I’m glad. Mine too.” 

The next thing you do confuses him further, but from what he’s gathered you’re always full of surprises. You chuck your quilt across the space between your bunks, and the end of it smacks him in the face as he grunts.

“Here. Keep it,” you chuckle a bit loudly, the both of you hearing a Shhhhh… from somewhere in the dark cabin.

“What… Why? Are we friends now?” Luke mumbles jokingly, inhaling the soft scent of berries and fresh linen. His purple laundry load smelled like this too.

“No.”

“Then why are you giving me your stuff?” he says, but still curls up underneath the handmade quilt stitched from memories of a past life, of motherly love and gentle hands. He doesn’t have anything like this, so he settles into this feeling of comfort instead, even if it wasn’t his memory to hold. You go quiet at the sight of him, eyes fluttering and chin tucked into the pink and purple fabric, and he looks as soft as a normal 14 year old boy should.

“It’s getting boring in here. Gonna have to change it up soon, I think,” you mumble, turning away and shutting your eyes before he can say anything else.

—

The next day, you get caught putting a month’s supply of bubble bath into the lake, but Luke’s convinced you did it on purpose. All of camp is standing on the shore, watching you wave at them from a river tube as Chiron and Mr. D yell at you in exasperation—finally revealing yourself as the troublemaker they’ve been searching for.

“Get on the beach this instant, young lady! You have no idea how much trouble you’ve put us through!” Mr. D’s voice echoes across the lake, his immortal form almost filtering through his frustration before you laugh in his face, unthreatened by the Olympian.

“Good thing I get it from you. Hello, dad!”

Jaws drop as everyone turns to look at Mr. D, the realization hitting his face as he points at you, his brain moving a mile a minute. Though you resemble your mother, your actions are all him. You revel in the grand reaction, looking up to see a purple thyrsus surrounded by grape leaves float over your head.

“Nice outfit, kid. I don’t think purple is your color. She do that to you too?” Mr. D notes Luke’s wine colored cargos and socks clashing against the harsh orange of his shirt as he pushes past him, scratching his head at the idea of another kid. Poor guy said two was the limit in a lifetime and he gets a grinning teenage girl who dares him to do something about it. He hasn’t raised a lot of girls….

“I don’t know. I guess trouble always seems to find me,” Luke laughs lightly, watching kids of all ages jump into the bubbly lake water happily. The glowing ember of his eyes are relaxed for the first time in a while— an inviting flame catching your own as you stare at him from across the sudsy water. Trouble, he thinks, a smile settling onto his face—how fitting.

He’s spent a lot of time running. But perhaps this time, he’s finding reasons to want to stay.

—

"After all, we are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal." - Sylvia Plath

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[humansofnewyork]

(3/54) “It’s been forty-three years since I’ve seen my home. All I have left is a jar of soil. It’s good soil. Nahavand is a city of gardens. A guidebook once called it ‘a piece of heaven, fallen to earth.’ The peaks are so high that they’re capped with snow. A spring gushes from the mountain, and flows into a river. It spreads through the valley like veins. We lived in the deepest part of the valley, the most fertile part. Our father owned thousands of acres of farmland. When we were children he gave us each a small plot of land to plant a garden. None of the other children had the discipline. They’d rather play games. But I planted my seeds in careful rows. I hauled water from a nearby well. I pulled every weed the moment it appeared. As the poets say: ‘If you cannot tend a garden, you cannot tend a country.’ My garden was the best; it was plain for all to see. The discipline came from my mother. She was very devout. She prayed five times a day. Never spoke a bad word, never told a lie. My father was a Muslim too, but he drank liquor and played cards. He’d wash his mouth with water before he prayed. The Koran was in his library. But so were the books of The Persian Mystics: the poets who spent one thousand years softening Islam, painting it with colors, making it Iranian. Back then it was a big deal to own even a single book, but my father had a deal with a local bookseller. Whenever a new book arrived in our province, it came straight to our house. I’ll never forget the morning I heard the knock on the door. It was the bookseller, and in his hands was a brand-new copy of Shahnameh. The Book of Kings. It’s one of the longest poems ever written: 50,000 verses. The entire story of our people. And it’s all the work of a single man: Abolqasem Ferdowsi. Shahnameh is a book of battles. It’s a book of kings and queens and dragons and demons. It’s a book of champions called to save Iran from the armies of darkness. Many of the stories I knew by heart. Everyone in Iran knew a few. But I’d never seen them all in one place before, and in a beautiful, leather-bound edition. The book never made it to my father’s library. I brought it straight to my room.” 

چهل‌وسه سال از هنگامی که از میهنم دور افتاده‌ام می‌گذرد. آنچه برای من باقی‌ مانده، شیشه‌ای‌ست پر از خاک. خاک خوبی‌ست. خاک نهاوند، خاک ایران. نهاوند شهر باغ‌هاست. زمانی کتاب ایران‌گردی را خواندم که آن را "تکه‌ای از بهشت بر زمین افتاده" نامیده بود. بر قله‌های بلندش برف همیشگی پیداست. چشمه‌ای که از دل کوه می‌جوشد، رودی می‌شود. چون رگ‌های تن در سراسر دره ‌پخش می‌شود. ما در ژرف‌ترین بخش دره زندگی می‌کردیم. حاصل‌خیزترین بخش آن. پدرم از زمین‌داران بود. او در کودکی من، به هر یک از فرزندانش پاره زمینی در باغ خانه داد تا باغچه‌ای درست کنیم. بچه‌های دیگر چندان علاقه‌ای به این کار نداشتند. آنها بازی را بیشتر دوست داشتند. ولی من دانه‌هایم را به هنگام با دقت می‌کاشتم. آب را از حوض یا چاه نزدیک می‌آوردم. گیاهان هرزه را بی‌درنگ وجین می‌کردم. همانگونه که می‌گویند: «اگر نتوانید از باغچه‌تان نگهداری کنید، از میهن‌تان نیز نمی‌توانید.» باغچه‌ی من بهترین بود؛ زیبایی‌اش بر همگان آشکار. این نظم را از مادرم آموخته بودم. مادرم بسیار پرهیزکار بود. روزی چند بار نماز می‌خواند، هرگز واژه‌ی بدی بر زبان نمی‌راند، هیچگاه دروغ نمی‌گفت. پدرم نیز مسلمان بود، ولی در جوانی گاهی نوشابه‌ی الکلی هم می‌نوشید و ورق‌بازی هم می‌کرد. پیش از نماز دهانش را آب می‌کشید. در کتابخانه‌اش قرآن و کتاب‌هایی از عارفان ایرانی داشت. شاعرانی که در درازای هزار سال اسلام را نرم و ملایم کرده بودند، به آن رنگ و بو بخشیده بودند، ایرانی کرده بودند. در آن زمان که داشتن کتاب کار آسان و عادی نبود، پدرم با کتاب‌فروش محلی قراردادی داشت. او هر بار کتاب جدیدی به دستش می‌رسید، باید یکراست نسخه‌ای به خانه‌ی ما بفرستد. هیچ‌گاه آن بامدادی را که صدای کوبیدن در را شنیدم، فراموش نخواهم کرد. کتاب‌فروش آمده بود و در دستانش کتاب شاهنامه‌ی جدیدی بود. نامه‌ی شاهان. یکی از بلندترین شعرهایی که تا کنون سروده شده است، بیش از پنجاه‌ هزار بیت شعر. همه‌ی داستان‌های مردمان‌مان. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه. و همه‌شان سروده‌ی یک شاعر: ابوالقاسم فردوسی. شاهنامه کتاب نبردهاست. کتاب شاهان و شهبانوان، اژدهایان و اهریمن‌هاست. کتاب پهلوانانی‌ست که ایران را در برابر نیروهای اهریمنی پاس می‌دارند. بیشتر داستان‌ها را از بر بودم. هر ایرانی داستانی از شاهنامه می‌‌دانست. ولی من هیچگاه همه‌ی داستان‌های شاهنامه را یکجا در جلدی چرمی و زیبا ندیده بودم. آن کتاب هرگز به کتابخانه‌ی پدرم راه نیافت. آن را یکراست به اتاقم بردم

[avocado-writing]

hiii your bg3 writing is so *chefs kiss*

I was hoping you'd be able to write the companions' reactions to a bard!tav, giving them a private serenade one night. like they lead them to a clearing away from camp one night and there's a picnic set up and tav sings a song they wrote specifically for their love?

if all the companions is too many, could you please specifically do Halsin, Astarion, Minthara and Wyll?

oh, cute! going to give you a lute, as I think that’s easiest!

Astarion

he makes a comment about how he feels the picnic was a bit unnecessary as he can’t eat it, but you mention you’re his snack later ;)

you sit him down, pour him a glass of wine, and pull out your lute

you ask, suddenly uncharacteristically shy, if you can play him something.

he cocks his head to the side and nods.

your fingers dance across strings, and when you start to sing, he realises it’s a song about him.

you once offered to be his mirror, and tonight you repeat that. your song is about how lovely he is, in every way. how he’s handsome but kinder than he wants to admit. brave. fierce.

its the most sincere celebration of his character he’s ever heard, and by the end of it, he’s left shocked.

“oh…” “did you like it?” chewing your lip, nervous.

“it’s… you’re…” he really doesn’t have the words to convey how you’ve made him feel. so he gently takes your chin in his hand and kisses you.

the kiss gets deeper. the lute is abandoned. so, really, is the picnic. the music the two of you make then is of a different kind.

later, when he has time to come up with a suitable review, he will tell you how much it meant to him. you are his favourite musician, and he has a new favourite song.

Halsin

oh, he’s been around for a long time, but this is the first time someone’s done something like this for him.

he’s just sat in bowled-over silence as you play for him, and it is amazing. an epic ode to his life and kindness, how strong and handsome you think he is.

he comes closer as you sing, sitting right next to you. studying every inch of your face as you perform.

when you’re done, he tells you that it was the loveliest thing he’s ever heard.

“I’ve heard pods of whales singing as they meet up with their lost family… until now, it was the sweetest sound to have graced my ears.”

he gets you to repeat the song and turns into different animals to enjoy it, be it via vibrations or different ways of hearing. either way he wants to be surrounded by your music, and you.

Minthara

absolutely no idea how to respond.

she was brought up in a cutthroat world. this softness is new to her.

she remains quiet for a while as she tries to work out if you’re trying to get anything from her. is this a trick?

”oh, I’m sorry,” you say after a while when she’s just been staring. “did you not like it?”

”no. no, it was… play it again.”

you do, and she really listens to the lyrics. they’re about her beauty. how glad you are to have met her. her strength in battle and soul.

she’s exceptionally moved.

“this is… a priceless gift that you’ve given me. I have no way to repay you.” “I don’t need repayment. it was freely given.”

she kisses you, for she has no way else to thank you. you have moved her more than she thought possible.

Wyll

you play and he listens. his eyes and smile go wide.

absolutely enraptured. claps when you’re done, and cheers your performance. you laugh and bow for him.

he tells you how much you mean to him, what a sweet gift this is. how your love is his most treasured possession.

he reaches into his pocket… and takes out some paper.

“I… I know this is incredible timing but actually… I wrote you something, myself.”

and he starts to read out a poem.

oh, it is lovely. full of flowery verse, and sweet appreciations of you. all the little things which make him love you. you pick up your lute and play along eventually, and he gets into the rhythm too.

the two of you laugh at the fact that you both had the same idea! you’re so alike, so in sync.

he holds you tenderly, kisses you softly.

you end up writing many songs about your Blade. he is your perfect muse.

bonus:

Karlach bursts into tears when she hears it, and scoops you up into a big hug at the end. she’s so emotional. she can’t stop saying she loves you, she loves your song, all of it. lots of wet kisses for you.

Gale is rendered speechless for the first time he can remember. he just stares at you in adoration. he’s never had anyone love him enough to write a song about him before, and he full force of his affection for you hits him in that moment. he is smitten.

[shadowtriovibes]

the train ain't even left the station

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Rating: G

Word Count: 2K

Summary: request: "If you're up for it I'd love to see a small lil fic of Sebastian sending his child off to Hogwarts for the very first time! Like maybe Sebastian is telling them about his adventures with Ominis and MC to make the child less nervous or just letting them know how exciting things will be for them :)"

in the same 'verse as "it's a sign of the times" [AO3]

Sebastian sets her down and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Not too good, alright? It’s worth breaking a few rules every now and then to make a friend, or do what’s right.” “Like how you met Uncle Ominis and he showed you the Undercroft?” she says eagerly. A few feet away, you look up sharply from where you’re hugging Simon goodbye. “Did she just say ‘Undercroft?’” “No,” Sebastian and Anne-Marie say in unison.

September 1, 1910

Suspended overhead in the bustling terminal of King’s Cross Station is a massive clock. Every morning, hundreds of thousands of Londoners – both Muggles and wizards alike, though more often the former – pass underneath the clock as they hurry to catch their trains. Many will casually glance up to ensure they’re still on time as they make their way to work, school, or even the lucky few off on holiday.

As it happens, the first day of September brings countless students to the station on their way to boarding schools all over the U.K., meaning the station stays especially crowded well into the late morning. Worried mums and impatient dads all turn their eyes toward that clock, hoping their sprogs won’t be left on the platform on their very first day of school.

Just as the minute hand slides into place at the very bottom of the clock, a handsome young family emerges from a tiny waiting room positioned at the far end of the terminal.

Hundreds of Muggle men in their funny, black suits and odd little bowler hats have already walked right past the waiting room without sparing it a second glance. In fact, had any of them paused to do so, they would have read a small sign affixed to the door that simply read, “Out of Order.”

But inside that waiting room is a grand fireplace. Not just any fireplace, mind you – one that roared brilliantly twenty-four hours a day, never needs stoking, and, perhaps most importantly, spews out bright green flames.

Sebastian Sallow first exits the waiting room with a precarious cart loaded up with trunks, birdcages, and even some broomsticks of all things. If the Muggles passing by thought anything of the man’s rather odd collection of travel items, no one said a word.

He glances up at the clock and grins.

“Ten thirty,” he says confidently over his shoulder. “See? I told you we wouldn’t be late.”

Beside him is his young wife. Their smallest child, a boy just a few months shy of his fifth birthday, is dozing in her arms. Behind them are their oldest children, a pair of twins, chatting excitedly as they follow their parents toward the barricade between platforms nine and ten.

“Doesn’t it seem a bit redundant to Floo all the way down to London just to put the children on a train back to Scotland?” Sebastian mumbles as your family weaves its way through the flowing crowds.

“Perhaps, but all the children love riding the train,” you remind him fondly. “It’s a Hogwarts tradition, especially for the little ones.”

Having never had the chance to take the Hogwarts Express yourself, you find yourself mildly envious of your eldest children, both of whom will soon be taking their very first journey on the school’s scarlet red steamer train.

“Besides,” you add teasingly. “If I recall, you and Anne met Ominis on your first train ride to Hogwarts, correct?”

“Fine, I suppose you’ve got me there,” Sebastian relents with a soft smile. “I rather think this whole journey will have been worth it if the twins happen to make lifelong friends who save their lives several times over.”

“Do we have to?” your son Simon pipes up, sounding wary. “Because I packed a book I wanted to read.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow at you and gives you a look that reads, He is your son through and through.

“Trying to prove you’re a Ravenclaw already, are you?” Sebastian teases him. “Just like your mum, you are.”

“I’m going to be a Slytherin like you, Daddy!” your daughter Anne-Marie chimes in proudly. “Even Auntie Anne said so!”

You and Sebastian exchange a fond, albeit exasperated look. Ever since Anne (and eventually Sebastian) had accepted the life-limiting curse placed upon her by Rookwood, she’d instead focused on honing types of magic that don’t drain her of her energy or cause her any more pain. She’d found comfort in Divination and has grown into a very powerful Seer, though she often uses her gift to rile up your children with premonitions of being spoiled rotten on their birthday or soundly beating the other village children in their broomstick races.

However, predicting that your mischievous little girl will end up in Slytherin is a fairly safe bet, you imagine.

“I won’t be the least bit surprised if that’s true,” Sebastian says warmly. “But just know your mother and I will love you all the same no matter which house you end up in.”

“Even Hufflepuff?” Simon asks nervously. “Ernest from the village says Hufflepuffs are boring.”

“Don’t forget your Auntie Poppy is a Hufflepuff,” you tease him. “She’s anything but boring!”

That seems to cheer Simon up a bit, but your sweet, slightly shy boy falls back beside you as you get closer to the platform barricade.

“Alright, my love?” you ask him softly.

He reaches for your free hand and squirms up tightly against your side. “It’s really big…”

You size up the high brick archway before you. To the naked eye, it appears as solid as rock, and despite Sebastian’s reassurances that it’s perfectly safe to run straight at it, you imagine you’d be intimidated as well if you were only eleven years old.

“Don’t worry, darling,” you reassure him. “Your father and I will come with you to the platform, you won’t have to go through alone.”

He nods wordlessly and you squeeze his hand. Ever her father’s girl, Anne-Marie takes Sebastian’s arm and the two of them push the wobbly luggage cart straight at the archway, and in the blink of an eye, they’ve vanished.

“See?” you murmur to Simon. “Not so scary, is it?”

With your youngest still propped against your hip, you and Simon walk toward the barricade at a slower pace. You glance around to make sure no Muggles are watching as you slip through the magical brick facade, and then in the blink of an eye you’re on a pack platform surrounded by wizarding families and children in bright, colorful robes.

“Over here!” Sebastian calls out, and you see that he’s pulled the cart right up to the train.

“Help each other with your trunks, just like that,” Sebastian says as Simon and Anne-Marie first carry the trunk marked with an “S.S.” aboard the carriage and then return for the other marked with an “A.M.S.”

Then they carry in their owls – both young tawny birds raised from hatchlings, a gift from their Aunt Poppy. Finally, they return for their brooms, which Sebastian knows for a fact they ought not to have as first years, but he hopes he can talk Headmaster Weasley into looking the other way once they arrive with the intent of trying out for their house Quidditch teams.

(Raising your children in a wizarding village had been quite an eye-opening experience for you. Your twins have been on broomsticks since they could walk, and over the years their godfather Ominis has insisted on making sure they always have the latest model – one for each, so they won’t squabble over sharing.)

You pull Anne-Marie in for a tight hug once the children finish unloading their cart.

“You’ve got everything you need?” you ask her, pretending your voice hasn’t gone thick with tears. “I’ve packed you both some sweets for the ride, remember to share with your new friends, and write to us as soon as you get back to your dormitories please–”

“Yes, Mum,” she says, somewhat impatiently. “We promise we will.”

Anne-Marie kisses her littlest brother goodbye on his chubby cheek, fondly brushing back some of those messy brown curls your husband had given him.

“Why don’t you let your father give you a hug goodbye, sweetheart?” you gently prompt her.

You expect you’re the only one who’s noticed that Sebastian’s eyes have gotten a bit wet as he’d watched his children load up their belongings on the train. Even though he’d likely try to deny it if you prodded him, he sincerely looks like he could use a hug.

As soon as Anne-Marie approaches him with her arms out, Sebastian scoops her up against his chest like he’d often done when she was much smaller – only now her legs nearly touch the floor, and soon he’ll only be able to sway her like this with her feet firmly planted on the ground.

“Have a great term, sweetheart,” he tells her softly. “I can’t wait to hear all about it – even the parts that’ll exasperate your mother.”

“I promise I’ll be good,” she says ruefully.

Sebastian sets her down and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Not too good, alright? It’s worth breaking a few rules every now and then to make a friend, or do what’s right.”

“Like how you met Uncle Ominis and he showed you the Undercroft?” she says eagerly.

A few feet away, you look up sharply from where you’re hugging Simon goodbye. “Did she just say ‘Undercroft?’”

“No,” Sebastian and Anne-Marie say in unison.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously and decide to leave it be for now, but as soon as you turn away, Sebastian leans down and whispers, “Write to Uncle Ominis and ask him where to find it. It’s a Sallow’s rite of passage.”

“I will,” she says excitedly. “And I’ll bring Simon.”

“Good girl,” he says proudly.

Anne-Marie manages to free Simon from your weepy grasp so that Sebastian can also pull him in for one last hug, reassuring his son he’ll be proud of him no matter which house he eventually calls home. Then the two link arms as they make their way toward the train, climbing up the stairs behind a gaggle of redheaded children (whose surname you could likely guess on the first try).

They settle into a compartment halfway down the carriage. Anne-Marie eagerly presses her face against the glass and makes a silly face at Sebastian, which he delightedly returns. Simon waves goodbye as well and holds up the book he’d packed, showing it off as if to say, “See Mum? We’ll be just fine.”

With your groggy son in your arms and Sebastian’s arm around your shoulders, you watch as the train slowly starts to rumble down the tracks and into the brilliant September sunshine. It’s carrying your children ever closer to your home, and yet further away from you than they’ve ever been.

You hide a few tears against the lapel of Sebastian’s robes; he kindly wipes away the rest with a handkerchief and kisses the redness on your cheeks and nose until you’re smiling once more.

“They’re going to have an incredible year,” he whispers to you. “It’s Hogwarts.”

You simply nod, not trusting yourself to answer without a stray sob slipping out.

Dozens of parents begin to Apparate away from the tracks as soon as the train rounds the corner, but with your youngest, you’ll need to make your way back to the station’s Floo flames to get home safely. This time pushing an empty cart, the three of you slip back through the brick barricade.

“It sure will feel quiet when we get home,” Sebastian says a little sadly.

“We’ve still got the littlest one,” you say softly, cradling your sleeping boy’s cheek as he clings to you through his nap. “He’ll keep us on our toes enough as he gets older.”

“I suppose,” Sebastian sighs, still sounding morose even as he reaches over and gently strokes the back of his fingers down your singleton’s back.

Then he perks up and raises an eyebrow at you. “Or perhaps we could try for a fourth?”

You shoot him a withering glare. “Not on your life, Sebastian Sallow. We’ve just sent the twins off to school, I think that means we should actually get to enjoy some peace and quiet for once.”

(Though when your twins come home for the winter holidays with countless tales of their adventures with new friends and their pockets stuffed full of Zonko’s products, Sebastian gets to be the one to tell them they’ll have a new baby sister the following summer.)

[paimonial-rage]

cocky bastard vibes - zhongli

ship: zhongli x reader

synopsis: in which reader shares their free thoughts on the liyue statue of seven

notes: standalone snippet part of the bookkeeping!verse

It was a beautiful day in Liyue. The grass was a luscious green and the birds were singing a beautiful song. After a nice stay at the Emerald Maple Inn, you and Mr. Zhongli decided to have a cup of tea next to the Statue of the Seven before heading on your way to Qingce Village. You were to accompany him to pick up supplies for the next funeral rite, and with the way the morning was going, you knew nothing would ruin this peaceful day.

"So how much do you want to bet that Rex Lapis was hot and knew it?”

You ignored the choked sound that came from your side as you gazed up at the picturesque statue. Though your companion would probably consider your question quite out of the blue, you couldn’t say it was the first time you wondered such a thing. Whenever you passed by one of them in Liyue, the thought always plagued your mind for a few hours after. Judging by Mr. Zhongli’s reaction, though, it seemed he did not share your sentiments.

"Ehem… That… certainly is an interesting thought. I can’t say whether or not previous records touched on such a topic."

You hummed, gazing up at the statue. Really? That couldn’t be true. Why wouldn’t anyone talk about a statue looking like that?

“Well there are many reasons why I’d say I’m right. First off, his outfit. He has a hooded cloak on while also being shirtless. There’s absolutely no logical reason to dress like that unless they’re from the deserts of Sumeru, wouldn’t you say? It obviously was a conscious fashion decision. If you pair that with the seductive way he’s sitting, I’d be inclined to assume he’s quite clearly feeling his look.”

Silence came from your side. Hm, Mr. Zhongli still wasn’t convinced? Then you would go on.

“You do see it, right? His posture is relaxed, yet confident. Not to mention the way he’s looking at that cube in his hand with practically bedroom eyes. His knees are apart too. My friend from Sumeru told me that when a man sits like that, he’s displaying his dominance.”

Still silence.

"You can't sit in a seductive pose like that without on some level being aware you look good doing it. I mean look at him! He's shirtless and everything! I've heard even macho fishermen say that they pray to the statue for a good night before coming home to see their wives. You can’t blame them, right?"

A hesitant cough.

"I-I'm sure it was a younger time when those statues were sculpted."

You groaned.

"Maybe, but you’re not even looking! If you did, you’d agree with me that Rex Lapis is clearly exuding such massive 'cocky bastard' vibes!" You countered.

For some reason, the more you spoke, the more flustered he became.

"C'mon, Mr. Zhongli! Why are you so embarrassed? It's not like I'm slandering his good name! I mean, if Rex Lapis didn't want us talking about him like this, maybe he shouldn't have made a statue with abs clean enough to eat off of!"

Okay, maybe at this point, you were piling it on a bit thick. Could anyone blame you? His face was in his hand as if he had a headache, and were his ears tinged the slightest hint of red? It was an interesting sight. Never had you seen him look so completely flustered. Sure you were rather blunt, but you didn't think your words were that provocative. Mr. Zhongli really was practically a 65 year old man.

"I thought you respected the Geo Archon…" He muttered weakly.

You gasped in offense.

"I do! I’d even consider my words the utmost of pious behavior. In Mondstadt, the sisters of the church consider themselves married to Barbatos, the Anemo Archon. So finding the Geo Archon to be a sex god is pretty much the same thing, right?”

“No, it is not.”

[foldingfittedsheets]

At this point in our relationship my betrothed is well versed in my compulsive need to help animals. It wasn’t part of their upbringing but it was a huge part of mine. So now whether it’s lost dogs or injured birds they know that for me it’s not a matter of convenience, it’s just the only possible option.

My most notable rescue took place during one of the least opportune times. We were watching a friends boxer puppy, Bella. The dog was dumber than a box of rocks and I took deep offense that at six months old she still didn’t know her own name. My betrothed and I were working with her on that as well as leash manners, so we walked her frequently.

On our way home from a walk I looked across the street and saw a cat. My betrothed didn’t need to ask, it was simply a given that faced with a cat I’d go say hello, so they waited with Bella as I crossed the road.

As I approached the cat several things caught my attention. The first was that he wasn’t wearing a collar. The second was that his coat was greasy and disheveled- this was not a cat that was thriving if he didn’t have energy to groom. The third thing was that he was way too skinny, with bones jutting out from his shabby coat.

The fourth thing I noticed was that this cat was a purebred Bengal.

Now, I understand that it’s suspect to identify cats as bengals. Many people see tabbies and call them bengals. But as a teenager I became obsessed with these cats and went on a hyper obsessive deep dive. I spent hours reading about them, looking at pictures, and dreaming about Bengal cats.

The cat in front of me had unmistakable rosettes, the narrow frame, piercing eyes, and from a very rough estimation probably cost thousands of dollars. There was no world in which he should be wandering my neighborhood with no collar and his ribs jutting out.

Which all led me to one conclusion. He was lost.

The second I realized that it was over. It wasn’t a matter of thinking the situation through it was a simple conclusion: he was lost so I would help him by any means necessary.

This sweet cat showed he was friendly and trotted right over to greet me. I pet him and tentatively went for a lift. He did not care for that. Suddenly we were tussling, and it was instantly clear to me that he was going to stay lost if I couldn’t restrain him, so we pitted all our wiles against each other and at one point I had him agonizingly by just a toe but I refused to let go and finally I had him in my arms, one hand scruffing him and the other supporting his weight.

That’s when I noticed a couple things. There was blood dripping down my elbow. Across the street Bella was going crazy barking and pulling toward me and the cat. And my betrothed was giving me an agonized look.

Without a word they started power walking Bella back to our house. I followed at a slower pace, keeping my grip on this poor lost cat.

It was a warm summer afternoon and several neighbors were out chatting. They saw the circus parade of my betrothed dragging a yelping puppy and me following holding a screaming cat.

Oh yeah. So I forgot to mention. Bengals are not normal cats. They’re bred back with a wild cat and their vocalizations are on a completely different level. The cat in my arms wasn’t meowing or yowling. Instead he was making one long continuous eldritch wailing, oscillating in rage and distress.

My neighbors saw this, me, stonefaced carrying a cat who was casting evil spells with his voice, blood dripping down my arm, while a puppy frantically fought my betrothed to reach us, and they laughed.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more offended that no one offered any assistance, but it was fine. I knew I could count on my betrothed. I slowed my steps slightly again when I saw my betrothed round our corner. I knew they would kennel the puppy and bring a cat crate for me.

Sure enough, I rounded the corner and they had our door open, crate at the ready. I popped the Bengal into the carrier and we shut him into the bathroom.

Then I looked at my shaking, bloody hand. He’s scraped his back claws up me and it wasn’t deep but I was bleeding heavily. Then I looked at my betrothed and started to cry.

They held me while I had a panic attack and helped me thoroughly peroxide my cuts.

“That was so brave, weren’t you scared to grab him?” they asked me.

Truly, no. I think to be brave or scared you need to actually conceptualize what you’re doing and I hadn’t. I saw a cat that needed help, and then there wasn’t options, I just acted.

They asked what my plan was and I didn’t have one. Where would we put him, in a home with three other cats and a puppy? I don’t know. I just grabbed him.

We ended up calling a friend who’s special interest is dog rescue. She brought her chip reader and a huge dog crate we could keep him in overnight with a disposable little box, food, and water.

He’d been summoning demons behind the bathroom door the whole time, making sounds previously confined to various netherworlds but she bravely uncaged him to read if he had a chip. No, to my surprise. It also turned out he was a love machine despite the ghastly sounds.

We loved on him and gave him small portions of food every fifteen minutes so he didn’t eat himself sick.

The next day we brought him to the local pet rescue, after I called ahead to warn them I was bringing in a Bengal. The lady had a very blasé attitude about this claim, clearly used to people claiming every lost tabby was a rare cat breed.

When she pulled him out of the crate she exclaimed, “Oh my god, it is a Bengal!”

“That’s what I promised. One whole ass Bengal.”

We said our goodbyes to the sweet man, and the posted him on the website as a found pet. He was picked up by his family two days later. I’ll never know how he escaped but I’m certain his family was so grateful to have him returned.

[stellamancer]

considerate (reader x satoru gojo)

notes: blah blah blah comfort fic. lmaoo. um, i love steamed buns. i bought some frozen pizza buns from my local japanese grocery store during the writing process. they are indeed good. if you have never had them i hope you get to try one day.

contains: f!reader (inferred to be wearing lingerie), tsundere-ish reader, eating food, gojo. part of the infinite loop fic verse

wc: 2k || read on ao3 (account required)

All you want to do is sleep.

It’s been a rough week— three difficult missions back to back with no time to rest in between. By the time you’d finished the last one, you were practically dead on your feet. It’s times like these that you’re glad for the room you have on the campus of Jujutsu High; you think you’ll collapse before you can make it back to your actual apartment.

In fact, you almost do anyway– you’re barely through the door of your room when the exhaustion tries to take you by force. It takes every fiber of your being to at least shed your curse-stained clothes before you become one with the bed.

Your sleep is blissfully empty.

And it ends far too soon.

A loud series of knocks forces you from your slumber. You groan and pull the pillow over your head as if it’ll make the sound stop, but it doesn’t. After a few minutes of constant, incessant banging, you finally give up and crawl out of bed.

There’s only one person you know who would relentlessly pound someone’s door and when you throw your door open you find him— Satoru Gojo on the other side. He’s dressed casually, comfortably in sweats and a hoodie, for a day off, sporting tinted glasses instead of that blindfold he likes so much.

“What?” you demand.

Gojo peers at you over the top of his glasses, lips twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

The smile finally makes its way onto his face and you can’t help but feel annoyed. Gojo points at you with a long, slender finger and says. “Matching set, huh?”

It’s then that you realize that you are only wearing your underwear.

Embarrassment surges through your body. You had forgotten that you hadn’t bothered changing into any sort of sleepwear— you’d only taken off your dirty clothes. Mortified, you slam the door in Gojo’s face.

If thoughts could kill, one of you would be dead on the floor right now; you haven’t quite decided who yet.

You shuffle around your room and throw on the first set of comfortable clothes you can find. Just as you’re fitting your head through the sweatshirt you hear him knock again.

“I’m still out here!” he hollers.

“Get lost!” you snap.

“But I brought food!” he whines. “I brought steamed buns!”

His words make you pause. When was the last time you ate? Yesterday morning? You don’t feel particularly hungry, but that could be because you just woke up.

“They’re getting cold!”

You weigh your options. Accepting food from Gojo is far from the worst thing in the world. It also saves you the effort of going to find something; it’s your day off, and the less you have to move the better.

With a heavy sigh, you finish dressing before opening the door again. The second Gojo comes into view, he beams at you and holds up a plastic bag from FamilyMart. You reach for it, but he raises it up, keeping it out of your grasp.

“Now, now,” he tuts as if he is reprimanding an overeager child. “I was thinking we could share. There’s way too many for one person, don’t you think?”

You don’t know how many steamed buns are in there, but you’ve seen Gojo eat: you know he could polish off that whole bag. Honestly, you probably could too. “Wanna bet?”

Gojo grins. “Sure. If you can’t finish them all then you have to spend the entire day with me.”

Not the way you’d want to spend your day off. “And if I can?”

“Then you get to have all the steamed buns I bought!” he says cheerfully. “Awesome prize, right?”

You scowl. “No, that's a shit prize and you know it.”

“Okay then, what kind of prize would you prefer?” There’s something ominous about the way Gojo’s looking at you right now; he’s smiling but you feel almost as if you’re looking at some sort of feral predator. Letting you choose your own prize sounds like some sort of trap and you wouldn't put it past him to twist whatever you choose to suit his own agenda.

“...can I think about it while I eat?” you ask.

“Sure.” Gojo shoots you a knowing smile, fully aware of the fact that you're just trying to buy time to figure out how to get out of whatever he's scheming. He hands you the bag of steamed buns and pushes past you into your room, settling himself against the wall opposite your bed.

You peer into the shopping bag and even though he said he’d brought steamed buns there’s other stuff in the bag. Some other miscellaneous snacks, candy and a few bottles of water and Gojo’s favorite brand of cola. A little excessive, but then again, everything about Gojo is excessive. You fish out the paper bag holding your food and hand the rest to Gojo before plopping back onto your bed. Knowing who bought them, you expect to find only red bean buns and custard buns in the paper bag; after all, his sweet tooth knows no bounds. But, to your surprise, there’s actually a bit of variety. You recognize the smooth tops of what are either red bean buns or custard buns, but also the crimped tops of what are likely pork buns as well as…

“Pizza buns…?” you mutter quietly, fishing one from the bag. Similar to the pork buns, they have a crimped top, but instead of a pale off white of a regular pork bun, the bread is a pale orange color.

Gojo chuckles and you look up at him. There's a cocky grin plastered to his face. “They are your favorite, aren't they?”

You gawk at him, heartbeat stuttering a little in your chest. He’s right; they are your favorite, but you’ve only ever mentioned it a handful of times.

It’s… surprising that he even remembered.

Gojo always manages to catch you off-guard when he remembers the little things like this. It really shouldn’t surprise you; he’s the same way with his students, and yet…

Your heart skips yet another set of beats.

“Did you finally fall in love with me?” he asks, sounding infinitely amused.

His question reminds you that, surprisingly thoughtful or not, Satoru Gojo still remains to be the most annoying man in existence. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, if you say so…” His tone makes it clear that he doesn't believe you and you know better than to try and convince him otherwise; Gojo can be as delusional as he wants. “Better eat up before they get all sad and cold!”

“Yeah, yeah…” You grumble. “Thanks again.”

You shove the pizza bun in your mouth. It's the perfect temperature: hot but not enough to scald your tongue. You finish it in a few bites and grab another. From the looks of it, there's probably a little over a dozen steamed buns in the bag. You think that's doable as you polish off your second bun (a juicy pork bun).

As you start to eat the third (a cheese curry bun), you notice Gojo staring at you over the top of his glasses. His eyes, unnaturally bright and blue as always bore into you; and something about his gaze is almost expectant, waiting— for what you don’t really know. It’s kind of weird, honestly, you would have expected him to play with his phone or whatever, not just… watch you eat. Without averting your gaze, you slowly take a bite into the steamed bun.

Gojo continues to watch you.

Creepy.

You keep staring back at him as you finish the third bun and you don’t break eye contact as you reach in for another one. Gojo continues to watch you, his expression focused. You’re starting to get a little unnerved now. It doesn’t even seem like he’s blinking. You shift a little to the left and his eyes follow the movement.

Halfway through the fourth bun (a custard bun), you decide to finally say something. “Do you have to stare?”

Gojo snickers, mischievous. That never means anything good. “Yeah? I mean, I have to make sure you eat them all, don’t I?”

“...do you think I’m going to shove them in my shirt and hide them or something?”

For a split second, his expression falters, the briefest look of shock crossing his features before he snorts. “You’re welcome to try, but it’s an automatic loss if you do!”

You roll your eyes and shake your head. No way that you’re going to waste perfectly good steamed buns. That just means you’ll have to ignore Gojo’s incessant starting.

Which turns out to be easier said than done.

After your fifth bun, you’re starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Almost like you’re an animal in a zoo. Not only that, but you’ve noticed that Gojo’s been slowly moving closer. He started over against the wall, but now he’s practically at your feet, staring up at you. HIs pupils are blown wide and it’s almost like he’s staring into your soul.

You stop eating.

You wait for Gojo to say something, some smartass remark or tease you about being full or something.

He says nothing.

Gojo only continues to stare at you, silent as his eyes look impossibly bigger. It doesn’t just look like he’s begging for one of the steamed buns, but for something else. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as you try to figure out what it could possibly be. With each second, the thumping grows louder and louder and Gojo seems to be moving closer and closer despite being still firmly planted to the ground.

Is it you that’s inching toward him now?

The realization startles you. Why would you even—? Panicked, you reach into the bag and pull out a bun at random and shove it in Gojo’s face. He makes a surprised sound but it’s muffled by the bun.

“Just take one already!” you exclaim, pressing it to his mouth as hard as you can without smashing it to pieces. It occurs to you that he might gloat about you feeding him by hand but you’ll deal with that later. You need to get him to stop looking at you like that now.

He laughs, triumphant as he removes the bun from your grasp and takes a big, big bite out of it. “Looks like I win. As usual.”

You merely grumble, watching as he polishes off the steamed bun in no time flat. He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers and you hand him another. It’s fine. Just because you can finish all these steamed buns doesn’t mean that you should.

As for having to spend the entire day with Gojo… You try to look on the bright side and tell yourself that there are worse fates out there. After all, you could be working.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Gojo asks mid-bite.

“I don’t really wanna do much of anything,” you grouse. You suppose it’s nice of Gojo to ask, when you know the reality is that you’ll be at the mercy of his whims for the rest of the day. Mentally, you brace yourself to be dragged around Tokyo, shopping or whatever it is he likes to do on his time off.

Gojo chuckles softly and the sound of it makes your stomach drop. You don’t like it. Something about it is dangerous. “Okay, let’s just stay here then, play a video game or something.”

You can’t help but stare at him. Then you think of the snacks and drinks he brought along and the fact that he’s dressed more for lounging than going out. You wouldn’t put it past Gojo to intend to occupy your entire day, but could it be that he planned to just hang out in your room the entire time? Playing video games or watching movies because he figured you wouldn’t have the energy to go anywhere.

No.

There’s no way that the most selfish and annoying man you know is that considerate.

Gojo tilts his head to the side and offers you a gentle smile, eyes glimmering behind his glasses. You swallow thickly, nervously, ignoring the odd feeling in your chest. There’s just no way.

No way at all.

after many hours of playing video games with gojo you muster the energy to tell him you want to go out to eat. he pays. it's not a date (it's so totally a date).

[just-jordie-things]

[part eleven] to build a home - gojo satoru

word count: 7.4k warnings: !!manga spoilers!! swearing, jjk-verse style fighting series summary: when (y/n) (y/l/n) catches wind that the notorious sorcerer killer, toji fushiguro, has children, she makes it her personal mission to find them. the catch being she couldn't tell a soul about them- the risk of the zen'in clan learning about them was too great. keeping the secret isn't the hard part, it's lying to her friends, shoko ieiri, geto suguru, and of course gojo satoru, that she struggles with. especially when satoru has suddenly become so keen on keeping an eye on her lately.

series masterlist

[part eleven] : “Brazil” ___

(y/n) woke up to six texts the next morning, which was a lot, but not as many as she was expecting after a huge fight with one of her supposed best friends.  A part of her wanted to shut her phone off and keep it that way for the day, knowing that today was going to be stressful enough without the technology keeping anyone updated every second of every day.  The thought was brief, knowing she couldn’t actually ignore the world.  But she could daydream about it.

Three texts from Shoko, two from Tsumiki, and one from Suguru.

Deciding to open the messages from Tsumiki first, she opened the photo attachment.  This proved to be the right first choice, seeing the bunny shaped pancakes that Tsumiki made for herself and Megumi that morning.  She saved the photo to her phone right away.

[tsumiki]: megumi said they’re almost better than yours!

(y/n) smiled at the message, and typed back a quick reply.

[(y/n)]: looks cuter than mine :)

(y/n) got out of bed and finally got to work on her morning routine, partially to distract her from the other messages, and partially to give herself some time to figure out how to respond to them.

It was the right thing, pushing Satoru away, even though she had to be cruel to do so.  To his heart, and hers.  If she didn’t, he would only make it harder for her to keep her secret, and if he got involved… (y/n) could barely stand to think about it.  The Zen’ins were a force to be reckoned with, Shoko’s words came to mind often.  And Satoru had already had a run-in with them, even if it was just Toji.

‘Just Toji’ had done a lot of damage, she recalled the night in the kitchen those few months ago, the scar on Satoru’s throat would be burned in her memory for life.  Even if it was gone now, it almost killed him.  He almost killed him.

So despite her broken heart, and despite the way her entire body ached when she thought about what she’d said to him yesterday, (y/n) had to keep Satoru out of this.

If she played her cards right, she could protect everyone.  Tsumiki, Megumi, and Satoru.  She could keep them all safe and under her protection, she just needed a little more time to figure out just the right steps to take to do so.  If they could all be patient for a little while longer…

Once she was cleaned up and dressed in her neat uniform, (y/n) finally opened the messages from Shoko.

[shoko<3]: are you okay? satoru said you guys had a fight [shoko<3]: he didn’t tell us any details, but he seemed pretty upset. [shoko<3]: it’s not like you guys to fight like that. i just want to make sure you’re ok

(y/n) huffed.  She didn’t want to push Shoko away like she had to with Satoru, and she didn’t think she’d have to.  Her and Suguru had always given her more space than the Six Eyes user, but given the circumstances, she supposed it made sense for Shoko to reach out like this.  Satoru was her friend too.

Although it was odd that he hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to tell them the nasty details of what she’d said to him.

[(y/n)]: just a fight. no big deal.

She winces as she sends the message, knowing it wasn’t going to ease Shoko’s worry in the slightest.  It was barely scraps of what really happened.

[(y/n)]: i’m sorry i worried you, but i’m ok.  see you in class, i got a new assignment to tell you about :)

It was redirection at it’s finest, and surely Shoko would see right through it, but (y/n) hoped it was enough for now to downplay the situation and keep Shoko from having any interest in it.

All this time, and she’d still barely learned how to tell a convincing lie.

With that, she opened the last message.

[suguru]: let’s meet before class.

She paused longer on his single, context-less text than she had with Shoko’s.  Surely he wanted to give her an earful on how she’d treated his best friend, and surely it was going to be just as cruel, if not worse.  But when Suguru wanted information about something, he wasn’t as easy to distract as Shoko was.  He wasn’t going to accept a cigarette as a peace offering and pretend it never happened.  He was bound to be upset.

If Yaga wouldn’t have her ass for it, she’d skip classes altogether and avoid all three of them.  She could use the extra training time before she left tomorrow, or maybe she could check in again with the Fushiguro kids.  Anything would be better than facing any one of them.

She decides Suguru is the lesser of three evils.

[(y/n)]: alright.  coffee in the kitchen? ten min?

Her fingers tremble against the side of her leg as she walks through the halls, hoping not to run into anyone as she beelines for the small kitchen off the common room.  Today’s an odd day that she’s grateful there aren’t many jujutsu sorcerers in the world, and much less at this school.

She’s there five minutes after she’d texted Suguru, and to her surprise, he’s already there too.

“You and I have always been the punctual ones,” He muses when she enters.  He turns away from her to pour a cup of coffee.  “I’ve always appreciated that about you”

“I appreciate that about you, too” (y/n) replies, and even though it’s the truth, she sounds disingenuous.  Even her honest moments started to sound like shitty lies these days.

She hadn’t braced herself for what was to come, but even if she’d tried, no amount of time would have been enough.  This was the part where Suguru tells her everything she already knew- that she was a terrible person, and a terrible friend.  Her fingers tap against her leg without any rhythm.  Just fast.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Suguru says, casting a glance over his shoulder at her as he finishes off the warm drink with cream and sugar.  “You can sit if you want, might be a few minutes”

��I don’t mind standing.  I’m a bit on edge, I’m sure you understand” She tells him honestly.  Suguru nods.

“I do.  I have to admit, I’ve been feeling the same way lately.  Just… off,”

It’s quiet between them for a minute, until he turns to face her, handing her the cup of coffee he’d finished.

“Two creams, two sugars” He tells her with a smile.

(y/n) can’t help a small smile back as she takes it, thanking him quietly.  It was thoughtful of him to remember exactly how she took her coffee, but as nice as the gesture was, the bitter feeling of regret echoes in her chest.

“We can get straight to the point, Suguru,” She sighs, dropping her gaze to the steaming cup in her hands.  “I’m sure you’re… upset”

He doesn’t say anything right away, and the few seconds of thoughtful silence gives her a chance to double down on her metaphorical emotional walls, so hopefully when he lays into her, she won’t cry.

“Do you think it’s a good thing that we protect non-curse users no matter what?”

Her head snaps up, completely taken aback by the question.  Not due to it’s nature, she simply wasn’t expecting a deep look into morals first thing this morning.  Not after what she’d done.

But maybe somehow the two things were connected.  (y/n) proceeded with caution.

“I suppose, yes,” She answers.  “They can’t protect themselves the way we can protect them, right?”

“Right…” Suguru seems to agree, but his eyes glaze over and he seems to go elsewhere, like maybe he didn’t believe completely in her words.  “Even though not all humans are good?”

(y/n) raises a brow as she takes a tentative sip of her coffee.

“We’re humans” She says, like it’s a reminder, like it’s something one could forget about oneself.  That they’re human.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Suguru chuckles, shaking his head.  “But… you know what I mean”

She didn’t.

“You think non-curse users are that much different from us?” (y/n) asks, trying to understand where he was going with this.

“You don’t?” He asks, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly.

Sure, non-curse users lived different lives than those in the Jujutsu Society.  But (y/n) always thought of it as the purest form of ignorant bliss- as they didn’t even know the horrors they were shielded from.  It was actually one of the many reasons she wanted to take the vow to protect them.

She didn't answer his question, but she didn’t have to.  Suguru picked up on just exactly what she was thinking.

“Don’t you think it’s odd?” He asks a different question instead.

(y/n’s) face twists into a confused expression.  How was this leading into her fight with Satoru? This… was about her fight with Satoru, right?

“Think what’s odd?”

“That they’re the cause of the very thing we’re going to dedicate our lives to killing,”

Suddenly, (y/n’s) body feels stiff.  Her hands are clamped tightly around the handle and round edge of her mug, and her feet feel glued in place.  Her eyes feel glued, too, watching his every move and expression, trying to figure out what was going on, or what the hell he was talking about.

Killing, the word rings in her head like it’s explicit, and he just said it so casually.  Briefly, she recalls Megumi using it to describe exorcizing a curse, before she corrected him of the proper terminology.

However Suguru wasn’t an eight year old child who was new to this world.  He was well aware of the proper vocabulary.  He’d chosen to refer to it as killing with purpose.

“And they have no idea…” Suguru continues, but he trails off again.  (y/n) wonders what’s going on his mind that he’s so lost in.

“Suguru,” (y/n) speaks softly, and she tries to keep that tone as she continues.  “I don’t think I’m following you” A short laugh escapes her, but it’s quiet, and nervous.

“Ah, I’m not making sense,” He chuckles, raising a hand to the back of his neck.  “I guess what I really mean to ask is… do you think it’s always worth it?”

Well, that question did nothing to clear up the confusion.

(y/n’s) silence was enough of a tell to Suguru that she didn’t understand where he was coming from, and she wasn’t going to.  This deflates him, but she’d never know it, as his little smile and curious eyes didn’t falter for a second.

“Well,” (y/n) sighs, trying to think of the right thing to say.  

She wasn’t sure where he was coming from, but he seemed… lost.  Like he’d been questioning himself and his path as a jujutsu sorcerer a little too harshly.  She could understand that, at least.

“I know sometimes making the world a better place is… slow work… but for me, it’s my passion,” She shrugs her shoulders lightly.  “And when I start to doubt myself, I just remember who I’m doing it for”

Suguru nods, but something tells (y/n) that it wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

“I see,” He says, and lets out a soft sigh.  “And do you keep that mindset when we’ve just protected a trafficking ring from curses?”

(y/n) blinks, and fights a shiver from swimming down her spine.  Where was this coming from? Why was he being like this?

“Suguru…”

“You remember that day we were sent to retrieve Riko Amanai?” He asks her.

“Yes…” She answers, the cruel memories of that failed mission flooding her mind as soon as she heard the girl’s name.

This conversation made her uneasy enough, but now her stomach was churning and her knuckles were turning white around her mug of forgotten coffee.  She wanted an out, but every word Suguru spoke seemed to keep her frozen in place.

“All of our efforts that day, to protect her, and to make sure no one else got hurt-”

“Why are you bringing this up, Suguru?” (y/n) cut him off.  She didn’t need him to relive everything that happened that day- she did that on her own almost every day.  “You’re really going to rewrite your moral code over one bad mission?”

For the first time during this talk, his face sours.  (y/n) knows she should apologize for snapping at him, but she doesn’t.  Instead, she gives him a piece of her mind.  

“You work me up into thinking you’re upset about what happened with Satoru, and then waste my time by telling me you want to- what, rethink the entirety of your life’s choices?” She scoffs at him, and sets her mostly-full mug of coffee down on the counter, a little more forcefully than she needed to.

Suguru’s face is blank now, and he’s harder to read, but she’s done with this guessing game where she keeps losing.

“If you want out Sugu, I won’t stop you,” She tells him, staring him dead in the eyes without the fear or hesitation like she had before.  He notices this.  “I certainly didn’t stop Nanami.  Your life is your own to control, so stop acting like you were forced into doing something you didn’t want to,”

His eyes narrow at her choice of words, but she ignores it.

“That said, if you left now, it would only prove to be a waste of your talents.  You’re one of the strongest men in the whole world, no force on earth could take you on.  So if you leave, you’re only proving that the world was wrong”

That peaked his interest, and now he was back at his word games.

“That so?” He hums, amused by the thought.

“You’d be proving the world was wrong about you.  And that despite your abilities, you’re not strong enough to handle them,” (y/n’s) voice softens, remembering this was her friend, and despite everything, he was her friend.  “I care about you Suguru, so… if you’re done with this…”

Something in her expression changes, and Sguru can see that her irritation had worn off, melted into something softer.  She looks defeated, almost, but forces a small smile anyways.

She’d changed.  Just like him.  Sometime between the Star Plasma Vessel incident and right now, something had morphed her, aged her, made her look tired.  He could see it in her eyes, and the waver in her half-baked smile.  It was all there before him, begging him to ask her what she’d been up to these last few months.  He understood Satoru’s curiosity now, when he saw her up close.  (y/n) was a different person now.  And this certainly wasn’t because of some romantic affair.

“I won’t stop you” She sighs, finishing her thought.

Curious now, Suguru tilts his head at her.

“I told you once I wasn’t going to interrogate you about what you’ve been up to in town…” He starts, and instantly (y/n’s) stomach is churning again.  “But now I see that whatever it is, it’s changed you, hasn’t it?”

The way he smirks has her blood boiling.  The protective nature that Megumi and Tsumiki had brought out of her had her fingers curling against her palms in tight fists, which didn’t go unnoticed by Suguru.  He eyes her defensive stance with intrigue, before meeting her eyes again.

“There’s not a force on earth that could drill it out of you, is there?” He asks, and her lack of response is answer enough.  He clicks his tongue.  “Interesting”

“You’re right Suguru,” (y/n) admits in a mutter.  The soft, worried tone she’d held for him earlier long gone, now that a part of her felt as though her kids were threatened.  “I have changed”

Her eyes are piercing now, only furthering Suguru’s amusement.  

Whatever this stupid secret is, it must be a good one, he thinks to himself, suddenly wishing that Satoru had the guts to force the damn information out of her.  Surely he was the only one of them who could, but of course his feelings had gotten in the way and the weak part of his heart only resulted in him getting exiled from the girl’s life.  Suguru didn’t care about exile, and if he was honest, he didn’t care about this secret either.  His interest lied in the hold it had on her.

Looking at her now, with her hands balled into fists, her posture rigid, and her eyes piercing into his with a venom he’d never seen before, much less directed at him, he knew it must be worth something to her.  Something big.

“As have I,” He finally tells her, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

(y/n) looks him up and down, noticing even his aura felt different.

Bad different.

“This secret of yours…” He trails off, narrowing his eyes slightly.  “Is it worth your life?”

Her defensive stance falters, for a brief second, but Suguru doesn’t give her the chance to actually respond to his question.  He didn’t need her response.  She’d made it perfectly clear the lengths she’d go to keep her covert life just that- and while he was a little curious just how much further she could be pushed before she snaps, he leaves.

Suguru doesn’t say a word as he brushes past her, he doesn’t even look at her.  Just walks away with a smug smile, and an aura around him that was strangely… eerie.

(y/n) stayed planted in her spot in the kitchen for a few minutes longer, her mind swarming with paranoia.

Was this all because he was upset about what happened with Satoru?  

Were the mind games meant to throw her off, and throw herself down a rabbit hole?

Or had he actually figured her out? Was he aware of Megumi and Tsumiki? But that couldn’t make sense… he would have had to follow her, and she would have noticed his presence if he had, right?

No, none of that could be it, he was barely making any sense, he must have been prodding at something else completely.

With a sigh, (y/n) shoved her hand through her hair, as if it would provide any relief to her overworked and throbbing brain.  The mental torture Suguru had managed to put her through in the last ten minutes was worse than any curse she’d ever taken on- even that one Special Grade with the tentacle arms who nearly ripped her leg clean off.

He’d never spoken to her like that before.  He’d never acted like that before.  It was completely out of character and it had her completely overthinking about everything that had happened in the last few months.

But she didn’t have time to overthink.  She had to get to class and act like everything was normal, tell Shoko about the assignment she was leaving for- which was tomorrow- and keep up the act that no one needed to be suspicious of her because there was nothing to be suspicious about.

When she finally left the kitchen and hastened her pace to get to class on time, (y/n’s) heart was pounding in her ears so hard, she was sure she was going to get a headache.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep all of this up.

But if it could only be a little longer… ___

Suguru hadn’t gone to class.  Yaga had briefly mentioned something about a last minute assignment that the elders had sent him on, and (y/n) wondered if that had to do with his sudden urgency to talk with her.  She wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone, but with her weekend being taken over by her own assignment in Brazil, they likely wouldn’t have crossed paths otherwise.

Propping her head in her hand as she paid half of her attention to Yaga’s lesson, (y/n) wished he’d just gone on the mission and skipped their conversation altogether.

She’d stopped her notetaking a few minutes ago, her mind wandering off to a million other things that seemed more worth her time.

For starters, how quickly she needed to get through her assignment tomorrow so that she could rush back to Tokyo.  Even with the cursed tool that she’d given Megumi, she didn’t want to be out of the country for longer than she needed to.  A lot could happen over one weekend.  One weekend is all it took for her to get into this mess to begin with.

She scribbles something in her notebook when Yaga’s eyes land on her, feigning interest in his lesson.  What was he talking about? Special grades? A history lesson on early jujustu society?

Peeking over to Shoko on her right, she noticed that she’d managed to take her notes diligently, as usual.  Surely she’d let (y/n) borrow them to brush up on later.

On her left, Satoru did not seem to have the same work ethic as Shoko, but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.  She knew that he did his work when he needed to, and he knew the material like the back of his hand, but (y/n) wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him take notes.  He tended to just steal hers whenever he pleased.  

Although he probably wouldn’t be asking for them anytime soon.

He didn’t look any different than usual, his expression bored even hidden behind his sunglasses.  She wasn’t sure how she expected him to look, wasn’t sure if he’d show up to class disheveled, tired, maybe even send her a mean look.  But he looked normal.  And besides not speaking or looking at her, he was acting normal too.

Somehow that felt worse.

(y/n) had her things collected and was out of her seat as soon as class was done for the day.  She was out the door even before Yaga.  Rushing out wasn’t exactly necessary, seeing as she and Shoko were going to meet up for lunch, but the quicker she could be out of a space shared with Satoru, the better.

Besides, a few extra minutes to collect her thoughts was much needed.  Although she didn’t have much time, as Shoko was jogging up to the table just a minute after (y/n) had sat down.

“Alright, you better start explaining yourself,” The short haired brunette said through quiet pants.  “Because Satoru won’t say shit- and you just booked it out of there! What the hell?”

(y/n) hoped that her expression remained neutral, even though she was internally cringing.

“It’s complicated, can we just not talk about it?” She sighed.

“No!” Shoko nearly screeched as she plopped onto the bench across from her.  “No we can’t just not talk about it! That’s crazy!”

(y/n) frowned, but Shoko didn’t seem to mind the uncomfortable tension settling between them, because she continued her rant.

“We don’t just fight and not talk to each other, (y/n).  We’re best friends.  All of us”

“No, you’re my best friend and you come with a matching set that follows you around” (y/n) mumbled.  And now they follow me around too, she thinks bitterly.

“That’s not fair or true,” Shoko rolls her eyes.  “You love them both, too,” She says like it’s a reminder.  “And I know Satoru gets under your skin… but… that’s just what he does, and I know this can’t be about that because you’ve let him get under your skin for three years now.  So fess up already.  What.  Happened?”

(y/n) stared at her, pleading with her eyes that she could just drop it.  She didn’t have a good enough explanation, and she didn’t want to lie to Shoko anymore than she already has.

She really should have thought this through when she cut things off with Satoru.

“Is it… romantic tension?” Shoko asked slowly.

“What!? No!” (y/n’s) voice betrayed her as it raised and cracked, making her sound completely unbelievable.

“Oh really?” Shoko raised a brow.  “Because you know that I know that he’s been sleeping with you since Haibara passed”

There’s a pang in her chest upon hearing his name.  A harsh reminder that no matter how much time would pass, his name, his memory, would forever be surrounded by a haunting cloud of pain.  That was grief, she supposed.  Nonetheless, (y/n) mustered up the will to roll her eyes at Shoko’s insinuation.

“Sleeping sleeping,” She mutters.  “That’s it.  Nothing funny”

“Yeah right,” Shoko scoffed.  “You’ve had funny business between you since day one.  If you didn’t go through some weird non-couple couple fight, why the hell was Satoru in a pissy mood saying you were done with him?”

Now she was toggling the line between mildly annoyed and genuinely pissed off.  The ongoing assumption that Shoko had once made as a joke was no romance between her and Satoru.  And now, there was nothing left between them at all.  It was becoming too much.  Her mistakes were getting on top of her like an overdose, filling her to the brim with melancholy, and anger.

“Because we’re not friends anymore, I guess!” (y/n) exclaimed, throwing her hands up.  “I’m sorry it’s not that juicy, okay? He was just getting too irritating and nosey, and I needed some freaking space, is that so awful?”

“No, but it’s a fucking lie,” Shoko shook her head.  Her words weren’t as malicious as they sounded, but she knew she needed to start calling out bullshit when she smelled it.  And (y/n’s) bullshit was starting to pile up so high that Shoko could barely make out what was real anymore.

(y/n) huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I don’t want to fight before I go away on an assignment,” She sighed, dropping her defensive stance and leaning over the table towards her friend.  “Please, can we not fight about this?”

Shoko frowned, mirroring (y/n’s) position, and reaching for her hands.  She squeezed them gently, and she doesn’t let them go.

“I’m worried about you, (y/n/n),” She admits, quietly, like she was afraid to be vulnerable with her.  “You have to admit you’ve been acting strange, you’ve been missing from campus, like, all the time, you barely answer your phone or even give us any answers when you’re back.  I’m not trying to be nosey, really, but…” She trails off for a minute, chewing on her bottom lip.  “This isn’t like you.  And Satoru… I’ve never seen him hurt like that.  You guys treat each other better than that”

(y/n’s) throat began to sting with the familiar burn of tears, and she prays she thinks of something fast before she has to shut Shoko out the same way she did to Satoru.

“Shoko,” She mumbles, sniffling.  “I can’t explain it, okay?”

Shoko’s shoulders slump, defeated.  But she keeps a hold of (y/n’s) hands.

“I’m sorry.  I really am.  I know it’s not fair but… but you have to trust me, please”

“Are you in trouble?” Shoko asks in a whisper, even though there was no one around them to eavesdrop.  “Does this have to do with the Zen’ins?” She adds in an even quieter voice.

The way (y/n) stiffens and her eyes widen tell Shoko she’d guessed correctly.  Her own eyes blew wide with shock, the fear that had been nagging at the back of her mind finally proving to be true.

“(y/n)-”

“It’s nothing, Shoko, seriously, I’m begging you to leave it and not worry about it-”

“Not worry about it?” She hissed back at her.  “How could I not worry about it? So what is it then, you’re seeing someone? Is that it?”

(y/n) doesn’t say anything, her brain is processing all of this too slowly to figure out what the smartest lie was to go with.  If she agreed that she was dating a Zen’in, surely Shoko would go back to Satoru and Suguru with that information- and their reactions would be less than pleasant but…

What was her other option? Tell her that she was actually harboring a member of the Zen’in Clan and his sister? The children of the famed Sorcerer Killer? The very man that almost killed Satoru? Was she supposed to confess that it was practically the opposite of what she’d been thinking?

That her backup plan if all of this went south was executing the head of the clan and anyone else who tried to harm the Fushiguro children?

(y/n) pulled her hands out of Shoko’s, rubbing them down her face and taking a deep breath.  Think.  There must be a better option.  You’ve made it this far, so think!

“Shoko… you have to promise not to tell-”

“Oh my fucking spirits,” Shoko mimicked (y/n’s) position, covering her face in her hands and shaking her head.  Don’t tell me that it’s fucking true”

(y/n) doesn’t say anything, she didn’t know what to say, but it seemed she was out of time to come up with a better lie than a secret affair with a Zen’in.  

Which left a pretty nasty taste in her mouth.

Shoko gasped, one of her hands falling over her open mouth, completely floored by this information.

Sure, when (y/n) first started sneaking off, she thought maybe she was hooking up with someone, flirting with a cute guy at a cafe or a bookstore, and she would have been totally fine with a secret like that.  It would have been cute, and fun.

“I want to throw up” Shoko grumbles.

“Okay, that’s a little-”

“If you say it’s overdramatic, I don’t want to hear it.  I mean- I mean… seriously? Who is it anyways? Wait- no, don’t tell me, I don’t even want to know because then Satoru is gonna ask and he’s… oh my god, that’s what happened isn’t it?”

She hadn’t even blinked yet.  The pit in (y/n’s) stomach continued to grow, and Shoko’s shock only worsened.

In a small movement, (y/n) nodded her head.

Shoko’s silent for a minute, before she shuffles into her pocket for her cigarettes and a lighter.  She remained silent and staring off at nothing as she sparked up and took an exaggeratedly long drag.  (y/n) eyed the cigarette longingly, and Shoko passed it over after flicking the ash.

“He was pissed, huh?” She asks.

(y/n) nods again.

“Yeah… yeah he was pissed,” She says, avoiding the parts that were actually lies.  After taking her puff, she continues.  “And I… I didn’t handle it well.  I think I… I know I really hurt him, Shoko”

“You did,” Shoko sighs, recalling the way a hollow eyed Satoru had joined her for lunch yesterday.  “I just… why didn’t you tell us sooner? Maybe we.. maybe we could have talked more..?” She’s making weak suggestions, knowing there was nothing to be done of it now.

(y/n) shrugs limply, taking another drag before passing the cigarette back.

“You hate me?” She asks quietly.

Shoko gives a wobbly smile, shaking her head.

“I could never hate you, (y/n/n)” She sighs heavily.

(y/n) mirrors her weak smile.

“Thanks, Shoko,”

The short haired girl nodded back at her.

“I’m really sorry” She adds as an afterthought, but it’s genuine.

She knows she’ll continue to feel sorry for a long time.  Maybe even forever.  The guilt on her shoulders had become so heavy she slouched in her seat.  It spread through her whole body, making her sick to her stomach, her knees weak, and she’d even noticed her hands trembling.

Shoko didn’t deserve this.  She thought she was getting closure, she thought she was finally understanding what (y/n) had been up to.  Even if she was unsettled by the so-called confession, it was something.  And it was still just a lie.

“I know” Shoko replies softly, stumping out the dead cigarette.

When she gets up and leaves, (y/n) watches her pull out and light up another one on her walk back to her dorm.

(y/n) hung her head in her hands in her lonesome, fighting the urge to break down into tears.  She wished that she could tell them all to hold on for just a little while longer.

Just a little longer, she scoffs to herself, her throat burning.  How much longer was just a little longer going to be?

And on top of it all- now she had another lie to maintain.  It was pitiful, but at least Shoko was so disgusted in her that she didn’t ask anymore questions. ___

(y/n) really should have cleared her mind better before going to Brazil.  Taking on major assignments while in a negative headspace wasn’t safe, and it was one of the first things you’re taught when you enroll in Jujutsu High.

(y/n’s) headspace had become a toxic wasteland.

All of her time before she actually arrived in Manaus was spent in her head, diving deeper and deeper into the pits of despair.  She knew she wasn’t doing herself any favors, but once it had started, she couldn’t distract herself from it.

Normally she would turn to her friends to distract her from a bad bout of anxiety.  A smoke break and a walk with Shoko, a movie night with Suguru, a trip to the candy shop with Satoru, any of those things right now could have easily relaxed her nerves and brought her out of her tormented mind.  This realization only worsened her mood.

She overthought every terrible lie she’d told her friends while on the ride to the airport.  While waiting at the gate, she worried about Megumi and Tsumiki being alone while she is not reachable by phone when on the plane.  And the flight was the worst of all.  Even with connecting flights it took up her entire day.  That gave her twenty-four hours to assume the worst was happening.  No in-flight movie, no music, no book could distract her mind and give her even a minute of peace.

But when was the last time she felt any peace, anyways.

When she finally did land in Brazil and got settled in the hotel she’d been set up at- which was probably the nicest hotel she’d ever been sent to on an overseas mission, compliments of Yaga taking pity on her, surely- she couldn’t settle in.

She’d been told to get rest after her day of travel, brush up on the notes of the Grade Two she’d be on the hunt for, but to leave that hunt until the next day.  Yaga had told her clearly the morning she left that her rest was a requirement, and not to jump into the assignment on little to no sleep after an extremely long day.

Of course, as soon as she’d dropped her bag onto the queen sized bed, she realized there was no way she could get a wink of sleep with her sour mood.  She’d certainly lie awake in bed all night, letting it worsen until her entire body ached.

Her eyes landed on the harness that held her swords.  They sat in their sheaths, perfectly cleaned and sharpened from the day before, waiting to slay something.  She’d barely touched them since the Star Plasma Vessel incident, and with all the despair inside her, she knew that a quick rage on a Grade Two would be cathartic.

Cracking a smile, she grabbed the harness and snapped it on before taking off out of the hotel room, eager for the hunt and the release of pent up distress.

Maybe I’ll have to thank Yaga after all, she thought to herself as she took to the streets of Manaus.  Maybe this assignment would be exactly what I need. ___

By the time (y/n) returns to her hotel, she’d decided against thanking her teacher.  It wouldn’t be a priority when she gets home.

She’d exorcized the Grade Two Curse, and while it hadn’t been an impossible task, it had been greatly difficult, and with her standing as a Grade One Sorcerer, it was humiliating to realize how far she’d fallen behind in her training.  But after putting up a good fight, it finally showed it’s weakness and (y/n) dove for it instantly, slicing it’s head clean off with large swings of both of her blades.

She’s still straining to catch her breath even now as she washes the blood from her arms, before stripping off her ruined uniform.  She’d have to change before she headed out again.

Now that the assignment was over, she couldn’t stand to delay her return to Tokyo even one minute longer.  She was set on washing up, packing what little things she had, and heading straight back to the airport.

Her booked flight wasn’t for two more days, as Yaga had given her extra time to travel and explore.  But she was already far ahead of schedule, and she found no excitement in spending time in another country when there were people back home waiting for her.

If I’m able to get on a flight tonight, I’ll make it home by this time tomorrow, she thought to herself, scrolling through the options on her phone, ignoring the hefty prices under each one.  A last minute flight wasn’t ideal, but she’d trade in the ticket she had and save what she could.

Now that her distraction of an assignment was done, her sickeningly anxious thoughts were starting to slip into her mind again.

She made great haste in getting herself to the airport, contacting the manager on duty for her assignment to let them know she was wrapped up, and would be on the first flight to Tokyo. ___

By the time (y/n) gets back to Tokyo, it had been three days.

But while she hadn’t slept longer than a few minutes here and there on the excruciatingly long flights, when she landed back home it was a straight shot for her to go to the Fushiguro house.  She couldn’t possibly make a pitstop to the school to drop her things off- or even take a shower.

It was late into the evening, around the time she would normally put the kids to bed, but she had a feeling they’d be awake, seeing as it wasn’t a day she’d normally visit them.  And to her delight, as she approached the house, she could see the flickering of a tv through the living room window.

When she knocks on the door, she sees two heads spin around over the back of the sofa through the window, at first cautious, but then excited as both kids leapt off their seats to greet her.

Tsumiki throws her arms around (y/n) as soon as the door opens, and the older girl drops to her knees to hug her properly.  Maybe she squeezes a little tighter than she normally would.

Megumi bashfully hangs behind his sister, but the wide smile on his face tells (y/n) he was just as happy about her return as she was.  She ruffles up his hair just because she can, and tells them both how happy she is to be back.

“Was it awesome?” Tsumiki asks.

“Did you exorcize the curse?” Megumi talks over her.

“Head up to bed and I’ll tell you all about it” (y/n) orders, and neither of them seem bothered as they turn off the tv and scramble up the stairs to get ready for bed.

(y/n) lets herself take a moment to sigh and revel in the utter relief to see them both okay.  She’d been convincing herself they must have been fine, since Megumi never used his emergency Cursed Tool, and none of the texts she received from Tsumiki were out of the ordinary.  But nothing would satisfy her nerves until she could see them in person, and assess for herself that they hadn’t been in any harm.

When she ascends the stairs, they’re already waiting for her, with their teeth brushed and their pajamas on.  She grins ear to ear.

“If only you were this good for me all the time,” She teases.  “Maybe I should take assignments more often, huh?”

“We’re always good” Megumi rolls his eyes.

He’s still smiling.

“I suppose that’s true,” (y/n) muses.  “And guess what good kids get?”

“Candy?” Tsumiki asks hopefully.

(y/n) laughs as she reaches into her pocket, pulling out the two small items she’d managed to snag from a shop at the airport.

“Better!” She exclaims, handing a gift to each one of them.  “Gifts!”

Tsumiki squeals as she eyes the pretty bow she’d received.  A large, puffy pink accessory, complete with lace edges and shiny pearls at it’s center.

And when Megumi is handed his gift, a small keychain of a fluffy black dog with starry, anime-like eyes, his mouth makes an ‘o’ and his eyes light up with recognition.

“Just like my Divine Dog” He says as his mouth stretches back into a smile.

“That was the idea,” (y/n) chuckles.  “Sorry they’re small, I didn’t have a lot of shopping time”

“I love it!” Tsumiki grins, holding her accessory to her chest with adoration.

“Thank you” Megumi’s voice is softer as he clutches his own gift carefully.

“You’re very welcome,” (y/n) replies.  “Now you guys head off to bed, because I want to get home to go to bed.  I’ll tell you all about my trip when I come by tomorrow afternoon” She lets out a tired sigh, and the Fushiguro kids follow the instruction.

She bids Tsumiki goodnight first, shutting her door after the girl crawled into her sheets.  When she turns to Megumi’s room, he’s still wide awake, sitting upright on the side of his bed.  He’s still holding his keychain in his lap, admiring it with bright eyes.

“You ready for bed?” (y/n) asks him, leaning against his door frame.

He looks up at her, blinking, before stating the obvious.

“You look tired”

(y/n) chuckles, almost bitterly.  Tired was an understatement.

“A flight from here to Brazil takes an entire day, you know” She tells him, walking into his room.

Megumi crawls into bed and under the covers, giving her the seat on the edge of his bed.  She plops into it with a huff, the simple action of sitting providing a ridiculous amount of relief to her overworked body.

“A whole day?” Megumi repeats in awe.

“Sure does,” (y/n) sighs.  “And on top of that, swords are pretty heavy, and I’m out there alone trying to exorcize this huge curse!”

His eyes light up with excitement, wanting to hear more about her mission.  But (y/n) tucks him in as she always does before she leaves him for the night, and he knows she’s not going to tell him more tonight.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything you want to know about it tomorrow” She says with a smile, knowing he was on the edge of his seat.

“Fine,” Megumi huffs, and then quietly adds, “Can we get pizza?”

(y/n) laughs, but nods her head in agreement.

“Pizza sounds perfect,” She says, earning a smile from the boy.  She hesitates before leaving just yet, wanting to relish a little more in seeing him perfectly unharmed.

He had no idea how much she worried about him when she was away.  The feeling must be reaching what a mother feels for her own children, an overwhelming need to protect them, no matter what it costs.

Suguru’s menacing words rang in her mind.

This secret of yours, is it worth your life?

After telling Megumi goodnight and wishing him sweet dreams, she’d finally come up with an answer for him.

Yes.

And if I had the chance to do it again, I would.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, (y/n) did a quick lap of the house, making sure there were no chores in desperate need of her attention before she left for the night.  Even though her bones begged her to rest, she wanted to make sure everything was in order after a few days of being absent.  To her pleasure, the house seemed perfectly clean and tidy.

She’d have to treat Tsumiki to more than just a bow, she mused to herself, heading for the pile of mail on the kitchen table.  All she’d do tonight was sort through the junk and the bills, which she’d worry about paying tomorrow.

After tossing the unnecessary mail in the trash and sliding the water bill into the drawer for important papers, that left only one envelope.  It was blank on the front, which puzzled her, wondering how it had gotten mixed into the rest of the lot.  Or how it had even been mailed in the first place  Turning it over curiously, her heart dropped at the only marking on the whole envelope.

A wax seal she recognized instantly.

Her blood ran cold, and her fingers went rigid in their hold on the letter.

The unmistakable seal of the Zen’in Clan.

___

a/n: long chapter of sadness hahahahaha i don’t remember how to sleep.

taglist: @whats-humanity-lol @malinq-ashida @mor-pheus@bekahtaylorgriggs@pookiea@megumimind@thealchemical@pearlstiare@niallerhere@96jnie @purpleguk @peqch-pie@yukinemaroop@makis-girl @sadtoru​ @kamikokii​ @nerdiel-has-no-braincells​ @googlesheetshoe​ @vzleria @hilzup @cole-silas @iam-mia9 @stxrrielle @ezrahour

xoxo ~ jordie 

[zepskies]

Show Me - Part 1

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader || Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy (background)

Summary: Dean meets your infamous ex-boyfriend at a fallen hunter’s funeral. You just forgot to mention that he’s a hunter as well. Maybe because he still has the power to get under your skin…in the worst of ways.

AN: Another story for the Espresso-verse! This is set after “Devour Me,” and plays on plot threads in “Midnight Espresso” and the flashbacks in “In Bad Weather.”

Word Count: 3,100

Tags/Warnings: Angst, body shaming, body insecurity, protective Dean.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 1: “Objects Are Closer Than They Appear”

Hunter funerals aren’t supposed to be lively affairs.

Alicia Jackson is special, however. She’s known so well throughout the hunter community that news of her death creates a kind of reunion at her mother’s house after the funeral, not unlike Asa Fox’s wake last year.

Even you had known Alicia, though not particularly well. You met her through Eileen. They’d called for your help on a ciguapa case a few months ago, and ever since, Alicia had insisted on buying you a beer anytime she was in town.

So today, Sam and Dean are really supporting you and Eileen by coming along.

Alicia’s mother, Martha, is a lovely Haitian woman in her late sixties. Her house is modest, but welcoming. She’s a gracious host to have so many rough and tumble hunters in her home.

The wake is mainly gathered in the backyard, where plastic tables and chair have been set up. Most of the hunters have collected into groups of the ones they know, sharing stories, laughing, eating, and drinking.

You’re in the kitchen with Martha, as you’ve offered to help her put out some more beers on the table outside. The smaller woman falters for a moment when she glances at a framed picture of her daughter on the wall. Alicia was beautiful, with coal-dark skin and soulful brown eyes she’d inherited from her mother.

You end up holding Martha’s hands in comfort when she nearly crumbles again. Your heart breaks for her. Even if you hadn’t been that close with Alicia, you’d hope that someone would take care of your own mother in a situation like this.

“She just has so many friends,” Martha says, with a tearful chuckle. “I never realized…”

“We try to look after each other,” you reply, smiling. “Everyone here knew your daughter, if not personally, then by reputation. And guaranteed, all of them have at least one good story to share.”

Martha nods. Somehow, she’s able to smile through her tears as she pats your hand. 

After spending a few more minutes with her, you predictably find Dean by a long table of hors d’oeuvres and desserts.

“Babe, you gotta try these mini quiche. They’re delicious,” he says, after popping another pastry into his mouth. You can see that he’s eaten nearly a whole tray while he’s been waiting for you.

“You realize we’re at a wake, not the Golden Corral,” you lightly tease. He shrugs.

“Still gotta eat, right?” he says.

His capacity for food knows no bounds, but you love him for it.

You glance over at Sam and Eileen chatting with a small group of hunters under the shade of a tree. They’re sitting close together at a picnic table. Your lips form a subtle smile, and you lean in close to Dean.

“Look at your brother, being a supportive non-boyfriend,” you say. They’ve been loosely “dating” for weeks, though you aren’t sure they’ve put an official label on what they are together.

Dean’s expression turns both fond and amused. “Think they’ve sealed the deal yet?”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know…” Dean waggles his brows suggestively. You do know what he means, and you playfully smack his chest. Mostly to stop him before he starts making lewd hand motions.

“Come on, that’s none of our business,” you reply. Inside though, you’re wondering the same thing.

Dean spies the look on your face and smirks.

“See. You’re curious too,” he says. He gestures at your face with the same hand that holds a bacon-wrapped cocktail weenie. You have to raise a hand to fend him off when he tries to veer it into your mouth.

“Don’t point at me with your sausage,” you quip.

“Funny. I’ve never heard that particular complaint outta your mouth before,” he smirks.

He eventually gives up on feeding you and eats it himself. His warm gaze is still on you though. You start to blush.

“Again, we’re literally at a funeral reception,” you say, despite your growing smile.

His gait becomes more flirtatious as he leans in to whisper in your ear.

“Like I said. We still gotta eat, don’t we?”

You splutter laughing, though you attempt to contain it behind your hand. Dean’s chuckle resonates through you when he pulls you in by your waist. His thumb brushes your hip. He’s not so much into PDA, and certainly not as “touchy” as you, but this much will do for now. You lean into him in turn.

He finishes off his umpteenth hours d’oeuvre and sets his nearly empty beer on the table. After letting loose a barely stifled belch, he mentions something about finding a bathroom.

“Dogs are already barkin’, huh?” you tease.

“Yep,” he freely admits, patting his stomach. “Give me five minutes…or ten.”

He squeezes your arm in parting before he takes off down the hall at a purposeful pace. It leaves you to contemplate the mini quiche.

Damn, they do look good. You bend over the table slightly to peruse your options, when a familiar voice drawls behind you.

“Still got a fat ass,” he teases.

You freeze. Slowly, you straighten up, and you turn to blink in surprise at the man who stands there, holding a beer and wearing a playful smile.

Yours is polite at best as you try to get through your shock.

“Carter,” you blurt out. What the hell are you doing here?

He greets you with an incline of his head. The way he says your name is both familiar, and a little unsettling.

You cross your arms and lean back on your heels. “You knew Alicia?”

“We tangled a few times,” Carter replies with a nod. His smile laces with a bit of innuendo, but his eyes have just enough heaviness to convince you that he really did have some kind of relationship with Alicia.

Oh, Ali. You could’ve done better, you think. You wish you’d known that tidbit of information when she was alive. You would’ve warned her.

“I’m sorry for your loss then,” you say. Carter nods again. A silence falls awkwardly between you two.

“Is that all we’re gonna say to each other?” he asks. “It’s been…what, a couple years?”

“Almost four,” you supply. You and Carter had ended just a few months before you met Sam and Dean, a little over three years ago now. You and Dean hadn’t started dating until last year.

“All right,” Carter says, rubbing at his chin. His gaze roams over you with a slight smile. They take you in from your high-heeled boots and jean-clad curvy thighs, to your green blouse, laced loosely in the front. You’d decided to dress a little nicer for the occasion.

“You know, you look the same,” Carter says. His head tilts. “But different somehow.”

You raise a brow. “Different?”

“Yeah, like…” He draws closer and leans on the table beside you. He sips at his beer. “Confident. Like you’re not hiding yourself anymore.”

He mimics the hunch of a turtle in its shell.

“You used to be like a little mouse sometimes,” he adds with a light chuckle.

You know he means to be teasing, but you’re not laughing. If you’re not hiding anymore, it means you’re not trying to bury yourself under shapeless clothes, along with much of your inner self.

“Don’t you think that’s a little tight?” he’d asked you once, before you two went out together. It wasn’t the first time. (And it wouldn’t be the last.)

“I’m just saying,” he would often say. “You might feel more comfortable in something a bit looser. Cover these up a little.”

You remember how he’d squeezed the softness around your sides or your stomach. You also remember a well of anxiety in your chest that had made you feel almost grotesque when you’d studied yourself in the mirror afterwards.

Objects are closer than they appear…

You remember agreeing with him. Changing clothes. Drowning yourself in crewneck shirts and breezy buttoned-downs. Always wearing pants and baggy shirts to bed. Thinking all of this was to make you comfortable, and not the man who didn’t really love you.

So now, you give him a passive look as you take Dean’s forgotten beer and finish the last sip. Carter wears a hunter’s red plaid over jeans and his old leather boots. His blonde hair is shaggy around his ears, his face a little rough with stubble, his eyes still a deep blue.

He looks exactly the same. He probably is the same.

He’s right about one thing though. You’re not the same.

“We’re not in the profession of hiding,” you finally reply. “Guess I just got tired of it.”

Carter seems to sense your shift, and maybe, what you’re really saying. His smile falls into contemplation. He crosses his arms.

“Did I spot you with one of the Winchesters earlier?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah, that was Dean.”

Before you can add the boyfriend part, Carter whistles lowly and shakes his head.

“I’d steer clear of them if I were you,” he says.

You quirk a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Those two are walking hurricanes of bad luck, blood, and mayhem,” Carter says.

“You don’t even know Sam and Dean,” you counter. Your voice is sharp and your brows knit together in thinly veiled irritation. “So I suggest you shut your mouth and steer clear of me.”

You set the beer bottle a bit hard on the table and mean to brush past him. You spot Sam and Eileen again, still sitting in their same table under the tree. You aim to head over there to wait for Dean, but a hand wraps around your arm.

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that,” Carter frowns.

“I’m not your sweetheart,” you tell him. You’re discreet in the way you try to twist your arm out of his grip. You glance around to make sure no one’s watching you two. The last thing you want to do is make a scene here, but Carter is being a stubborn ass.

Even though you manage to wrench out of his hold, he grasps your hand next to stop you from pulling away. He looks down at your hand, brushes his thumb over your skin. His gaze looks heavy, almost melancholy.

You know that funerals tend to bring out the sentimental shoulda, coulda, woulda in hunters, but you think he might be looking back on your time together with rosier glasses than he ought to be.

“Look, I'm sorry. Can’t I at least get you a drink? We can catch up,” he says.

“Consider me caught up,” you toss back. Frustration begins to set you on edge. “I don’t know why you’re pushing this. I mean, God, we weren’t even good together.”

At that, his grip tightens on your hand. Confusion and denial cross his face.

“That’s not true,” he protests.

Unbidden, you’re forced to remember the weeks you and Carter spent in Miami, where you’d met him. You remember how he’d convinced you to leave with him after his hunt was done, and to leave your family behind. A decision you regretted to this day…

You lean in closer just to whisper hotly. “You know it is. We didn’t have a relationship. We had a transaction, in which you liked what I could do for you. But you never loved me. You never even really knew me.”

At that, his hold finally loosens in his shock. You take the opportunity to slip your hand out of his. Another familiar hand rests along your lower back, and a firm wall radiates warmth behind you.

“Hey, party people,” Dean says. He gives Carter a “pleasant” smile, and you a more genuine look. You okay? it says.

You let out a subtly relieved breath and nod. “Hey, was just gonna go check on you.”

“I’m good,” Dean says. He looks over at Carter, whose expression has cooled considerably. Still, Dean inclines his head. “Hey, man.”

“Yeah,” Carter says. His tone is bland, until his gaze slides back to you.

“Don’t tell me you’re shacking up with this one now,” he says, leveling a finger at Dean. Then he gestures across the lawn, over at Sam. “Or is it the former anti-Christ over there?”

Both you and Dean bristle. Your temper has a thin fuse right now, and while you still don’t want to make a scene, you might have to make an exception.

“Why don’t you remember where the hell you are and have some decency,” you hiss. “Do us all a favor and fuck off.”

Once again, you try to walk past him. This time when Carter grabs you, it’s because he smarts at you getting the last word. A sharp breath escapes you, and Dean intervenes with a firm, warning grip on the other man’s wrist.

“Hey, you wanna act right, before you make yourself a problem?” Dean says. His face is relaxed, but behind his eyes are a very real threat. “I got no issue laying you out right here, in front of all your buddies.”

Carter has a moment of indecision. He notices a few pairs of eyes drawing their way, and so he lets go of you, even as he sneers at Dean.

“Shove the Prince Charming bit, asshole. She ain’t a damn princess,” Carter snaps. “She don’t act like one, and she definitely don’t look like one.”

You roll your eyes at his spite, but Dean can’t quite let that one slide off his back. 

His grip tightens on Carter’s wrist as he pulls him in. He pats Carter hard on the back and smiles as if they’re old friends. But really, it just gives him the vantage point to speak lowly near the man’s ear.

“All right, douchebag. Keep talking shit. I’ll bet that’s how you’ve gotten this far in life,” Dean says. “But touch her again, and I’ll break every damn bone in your hand. And maybe, I won’t stop there.”

He tilts his head, so he can see the glimmer of intimidation hidden well behind the other man’s eyes. Then Dean lets him go. He turns and lays a hand at the small of your back. The two of you fall into step together while walking across the lawn in the backyard.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

Dean frowns and notices the way your gaze has lowered. His hand moves around your waist and squeezes to get your attention. Without him realizing, it just reminds you of the way Carter used to point out the thicker curves on your body.

Cover these up a little.

“Hey, you okay—”

“I’m fine, Dean,” you say, easing out of his hold.

It leaves him feeling unbalanced, and a bit put out. Dean remains quiet as he follows you over to his brother’s table.

“Are you all right?” Sam asks you, discreetly, but with concern. The wake is coming to an end, and by now Dean has filled him in on your run in with your ex, Carter Hall.

You give Sam a nod and a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah, I'm good,” you reply.

Dean is quiet. He stands beside you with his hands in his pockets. Eileen has invited you and Dean to join her and Sam at a nearby bar to keep the evening going with a few other hunters, but this has already been one hell of a day. You’re ready to make the long drive home and call it a night.

Eileen’s also agreed to take Sam home (eventually). You notice how they share smiles, how Eileen ducks her head with the beginnings of a blush. You’re happy for them, even as you and Dean part ways with a more stifled silence on the way back to the car.

It’s late, and it’s cold. You walk beside him with your arms crossed, just to brace yourself against the windchill eating through your jacket. You glance over at your boyfriend and feel a measure of remorse for the way you brushed him off earlier. You have a feeling that’s part of the reason why he’s quiet, giving you your space.

You decide to close the distance. You sidle up closer and curl your arm around his. Your hand slips into his as well, threading your fingers together with Dean’s.

He looks over at you with a slight raise of his brows. His lips quirk at a smile, and his hand tightens on yours. You’re able to give him a more sincere smile in return.   

“Can I tell you something?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

You look up at him and bite your lower lip. “I’m starving. I never did get to try those quiche.”

It only takes a moment for you to devolve into a quiet giggle. It’s infectious, and Dean laughs with you.

“Okay, we’ll stop somewhere,” he nods. Though his eyes widen in realization. “Damn, that means you haven’t eaten since, what, this morning? Before the funeral?”

You mentally count back the hours, and you have to agree with a sheepish nod. Dean shakes his head in disapproval.

“Come on, sweetheart. You should’ve said something.”

You shrug, even though you know he’s right. Your free hand curls around his bicep, and you lay your head against his arm. He looks down at the top of your head and heaves a sigh, despite his lingering smile.

Though the peace you’ve brokered is soon interrupted.

Dean had to park down the road of Martha Jackson’s house. Two cars down is Carter, who’s about to climb into his old Honda Civic.

Damn. He’s still driving the same piece of shit too, you note. His head raises, and as if he knows he’s being watched, his attention turns toward you and Dean. You don’t allow yourself to react, other than staring across the way, directly at Carter. You wait until he looks away first, opening his door and getting into his car.

You expel a breath and brush your thumb over the back of Dean’s hand.

“Let’s go,” you say.

Dean nods. He guides you toward the passenger side of the Impala, but his gaze lands beyond his car, to the Honda still parked and warming up. He finds Carter’s gaze through the front window for a moment.

It’s Carter who once again breaks first; he revs the ignition and peels onto the street, and down the road past them without looking back.

Dean's lips curve. Bitch.

Shaking his head, he rolls his shoulders and rounds the car towards the driver’s side.

He’s more than ready to go home.

AN: *sighs* Okay, originally this story was going to be a one-shot, but it just got too damn long. Let me know what you think of Dean finally meeting her ex-douchebag, Carter.

Part 2 (coming next week) will include all the angsty hurt/comfort and smut to come...

Next Time:

“I’ll just speak for myself then,” he says. His hand trails lower... “If you need me to remind you how beautiful you are, how goddamn sexy…then I got no problem showing you.”

His hand moves down the soft slopes of your body and comes to rest at the curve of your waist. Hearing your faltering breath, Dean pulls back so he can see your face.  

“Let me take care of you for a change,” he says. His lips pull at a grin, and it makes you smile in turn.

You take his face in your hands and bring him down to you for a kiss, languid and a bit devouring. It makes heat lick up Dean’s spine.

“Okay,” you whisper, close to his lips. “Show me.”

Keep Reading: PART 2

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[peachesofteal]

In one of my many cooked up Simon-verses, he lives to take care of you. He cherishes all the sweet, lovely parts of you that need care, the fragility of your entire existence allowing him the freedom of doting on you endlessly. Your willingness to let him take over, let him take care of you satisfies his intense need for control, it satiates something that burns within his heart, and soothes a deep, buried fear of being abandoned.

brief 18+ content and mentions of depression, eating issues beneath the cut:

Your back hurts from sitting at the desk all day at work? He’ll work his thumbs into the knots of your spine until your bones turn to mush. Too exhausted to cook yourself dinner after a meeting runs over and you get home late? He’s already got it handled. Headache behind your eyes from staring at a computer screen for hours? He’s got Tylenol and water ready when your key clicks into the lock. Your brain won’t turn off, overloaded and overwhelmed by whatever’s going on in your life? He pulls orgasms from your body until you’re babbling incoherently, the tears tracking down your face and your voice raw from crying his name, your worries and troubles long forgotten. Your shoulders tight with stress, frown lines etched into your face like they’ve been sitting there all day? He bends you over the kitchen counter as soon as you walk through the door, stripping your work pants to your ankles and spreading your legs for himself, his body eager to deplete yours of the stress that you’re carrying so heavily.

You’re strong, so bloody strong it amazes him, strong enough to stand without him any time you want, so it honors the hell out of him when you allow him to care for you, when you allow him to shoulder your burdens.

So… he doesn’t mind, that you’re not like everyone else. It doesn’t bother him that sometimes you forget to eat your lunch, or drink your water. Of course he worries when food has no appeal to you, but he takes it slowly, bite by bite, holding your hand until you’ve finished half a plate, pulling you into his arms afterwards for gentle encouragement. It doesn’t grate on him when you can’t get out of bed on your day off, body exhausted, mind spiraling into the darkest depths of hell. He wants you to feel better, feel good, absolutely, but to take care of you in these moments doesn’t scare him, or fill him with irritation. It’s selfish of him and he knows it, to look at you like a gift, but he can’t help the primal feeling that overcomes him when you ask him to draw you a bath. He knows, your brain isn’t wired like other people’s, just like his isn’t, and he tells you often, he doesn’t mind that you require a little extra care. After all, doesn’t he require that too? He’s not exactly the easiest either. You’ve given him everything, an opportunity to be needed by you, to care for you, to love every piece that may or may not be perfect, to press his lips to the scars that mirror his own.

You’re soft, and kind, and gentle, all the things he’s not, and all he wants to do is make sure you can stay that way. He has to make sure nothing can darken your sweet smile, nothing can ever hurt you, or twist you into something unrecognizable, something more like him than you.

He buries the fear of abandonment, it’s darkness that sits in the pitch of his heart, the fear that thumps in chambers of the muscle, the terror that burns in his blood. You need him, you need him, you need him, he says over and over, assuring himself that you wouldn’t leave, that you’re here with him. He pushes it all down, pushes it away while he curls his body around yours, pressing his face into your neck and whispering soothingly to you until you’re asleep in his arms.

This is 1000% the Simon (and reader) in Dead Disco. Having both you and Johnny to care for, watch over, be with, completes him in every sense of the word. He clings to Johnny so desperately when they’re away on Ops, just as hard as he clings to the two of when you’re all home together, safe. Having Johnny under his command, being able to care for him so completely, on and off the field is something he’s only ever dreamed about, the reality of it feeling more like a fairytale than reality. His Johnny, his Sergeant, his partner. His Johnny, on the comms, his Johnny working in lock step alongside Simon, his Johnny safe and secure every day after an engagement.

His Johnny, his Darling. Safe in his arms, cared for by him. Loved by him. Needing him.

[effortandmore]

the sleeping hours | knj x f!reader

summary: namjoon thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you. 

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: fluff, smut, angst

au: okay. so this is canon-compliant but also maybe a little bit of a time-travel/multiverse au

warnings/tags: here we go... time travel (kind of), discussions of war, descriptions of famine, talks of anarchy/revolution, descriptions of ww2 germany and nazis, minor character death (not a tannie), implied gun violence, the japanese occupation of korea, sex worker!namjoon, soldier!namjoon, architect!namjoon, idol!namjoon, spy!reader, namjoon has a big dick (ofc), mentions of blood... smut, including: biting, unprotected sex, sex work (this is not the unprotected sex), oral sex (f!receiving), a little bit of cumplay... idk i think that's all but honestly it's not as weird as it sounds i promise

word count: ~12k

a/n: i have wanted to write a songfic for "here i dreamt i was an architect" by the decemberists for... years now. and with my three month vacation from work, i've finally done it! listening to the song will help this make more sense, but essentially there are three verses, and they start like this: "here i dreamt i was a soldier," "here i dreamt i was an architect," & "and in spain i was a spaniard." so, i thought it would be fun to turn that into a story about namjoon and reader across all these different universes. my research for this fic was completely unhinged, and i'm sure i still got some things wrong. if you need translations for any of the dutch, german, or spanish in this, lmk but i think it's pretty readable given context. i hope you like it, but even if you don't, i'm glad i wrote it. thank you so so so much to @ugh-yoongi who assured me this was not too unhinged for the locals—ily and i appreciate you

read on ao3

Namjoon always tells people he doesn’t have dreams, but it’s a lie… Sort of.

If these are dreams, he doesn’t know how billions of people aren’t talking about them like they’re magical experiences, can’t fathom why so many people still don’t believe in multiverse theory.

Lying about it seems infinitely easier than trying to explain it to people. His “dreams,” if that’s what they are, seem so real. He can smell the scents, he can feel the rain and the blood and the orgasm that courses through him when he inevitably, in every single one, finds a version of you. When he wakes up, he can feel the phantom pain, feels like his skin’s just barely dried out from a shower, feels loose and lazy with the pleasure he’d felt while he was asleep. 

So, he says he doesn’t dream, because he’s halfway convinced they’re actually happening, and he has absolutely no clue how to explain that to anyone. He thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, infinite versions of him. At first, he thought maybe it was a past-lives sort of thing, but he’s lived parallel paths on different parts of the planet during the same time frames. Or, he’s dreamt that he has, anyway… maybe they’re dreams. Maybe not. What he’s sure of, though, is that you must be out there in the universe he lives in—you must exist outside of this near fugue state where he always finds you. If you’re on the streets of Germany during the war, if you’re in Andalucia dancing the flamenco and catching his eye on every twirl… If you’re fleeing with him to Jeju as more and more Japanese soldiers encircle your small farm town… If you’re all of those places, he knows you must be here, too. 

There must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you. 

Every dream is different, but the love he feels for you? It’s always the same, and it goes like this: 

Birkenau, Germany — April, 1942

He comes to, and he’s lying in a cot. It’s dark. It would be pitch black, except there’s a crack of light on the floor that’s muted and warm-looking even though the air around him still carries a bit of leftover winter chill. Somehow, he knows there’s a coal shortage this spring because of the war. There’s an everything shortage, really. No coal, no clothes, no food… He can’t think of a time he’d eaten anything but potatoes in days… Namjoon can’t think of anything, really. It’s strange, his memories feel dull, rounded around the edges and blurred out, everything just slightly out of reach. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, maybe it’s hypothermia (he’s a little dramatic), maybe it’s hunger; he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know, because there’s not much to be done about whatever it is. Knowing the future doesn’t always mean you can change it, he thinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

The clothes he is wearing are stiff—they make it hard for him to bend his elbow to reach his own face. There’s a worn crease in his right sleeve from saluting, dirt that will never scrub out on his lapels… his badges and patches do a poor job of covering the wear and tear. Although his brain isn’t fully awake, the thoughts still cloudy, two are clear: he is ready for this war to be over and he is terrified that he is a little in love with the woman lying next to him. 

If someone asked him how he got here, to Birkenau, Germany in the middle of the spring in 1942, he couldn’t tell them (a consequence of for some reason not remembering anything concrete prior to this week at the moment—just feelings and sensations and language and you). He feels as if he doesn’t belong at all and at the same time, as if he’s always existed right here. 

He teases you awake slowly. Whispers sweet nothings to you in a language he finds himself surprisingly fluent in—it’s not his native one. He doesn’t know if it’s yours, either, but he knows you like hearing his voice. Remembers how you ask him to tell you stories of his home, how you hum softly along with the folk songs he sings to you when he thinks you’re almost asleep in his arms. He knows he likes the noises you make as you start to come to, knows you need a soft re-entry into wakefulness or else you’re a little off for the rest of the day. 

You’d both fallen asleep after what some people would call lunch, although the persistent pit in Namjoon’s stomach would argue that. It’s hard to have energy when you can’t really eat, so the two of you do your best to conserve it. 

Tonight, though, tonight he wants to be special. The carnival is in Birkenau this week, maybe longer, but he won’t know. He’ll leave soon, onto the next base, the next battle. It’s a miracle he’s able to go tonight, being a foreign soldier here is dangerous and the demands on him are high. He wears his uniform while he sleeps to stay warm, but doesn’t dare wear it in this town outside of this private and safe space that you’ve carved out for him. It’s been going on for a while, this sneaking away to be with you. There’s another soldier, Seokjin, on his base, who always covers for him. Namjoon doesn’t know how, it’s one of the fuzzy things he can’t figure out. Regardless, he’s here with you now and he knows he’s always grateful to his fellow soldier. And here, he’s someone different. He’s not Namjoon the soldier, he’s Namjoon who loves you, who will give up almost anything to be with you. 

Except the one thing you ask him to. 

He may be grateful to escape for a while, but he is duty-bound—loyal to his country, to the cause. He is, above everything, a soldier, and that cannot change. The Remington on the cheap bedside table is his best friend, and a reminder that this between you is dangerous, that it has a time limit. 

And you? You have to leave, too. He knows it, you know it. It’s not safe for you here, probably just as dangerous as it is for him. 

You don’t wear a uniform, you don’t carry a gun (often), but you move under the cover of the night and you deal in secrets you’re not supposed to know. The work you do is just as important as his—sometimes he thinks it’s probably even moreso. He admires you, adores you, thinks you’re brave and beautiful and brilliant. Maybe he thinks some of those things because of how dangerous you are, because of the risks you’re willing to take. Being with him, hiding him here with you is a big one. 

Beside him, you stir. Your voice is a melody, always lilting, tumbling from one word to the next. “Love you, Namjoon. What time is it, baby?” Later, he won’t know why he never thinks it’s strange that you weave words across several languages. Maybe that’s just how all spies are; and that’s what you are, at the core of it, isn’t it?

“Is it time?” you ask into the darkness. 

“Yes. I need to change and then we can go.” 

“Do you think we’ll find something to eat there?” 

Namjoon smiles even though you can’t see him in the dark. “We will. Sausages and sauerkraut, I’m sure.” He waits for you to make the gagging sound he knows you’re about to. 

You do. “I hate German food,” you complain. “Can’t wait to get out of here once and for all.” 

“They’ll have schnitzel,” he says, trying to make you laugh.

“Germans and their pork,” you say dismissively, “swine for swine.” 

“They’re not all bad.” He means it, but it sounds a little weak when he says it. It’s hard to see the forest for the trees, sometimes. Doesn’t help that the both of you see the worst of people… that the both of you sometimes are the worst of people. 

“Hmm…” you hum, he knows you agree with him. “I know, I'm sorry. I’m just tired. And don’t want to leave you.” 

“I know.” 

“You could come with me. Run away with me, Namjoonie.” 

When you say it, he almost believes it could work. Knows it wouldn’t, knows you’d both end up dead or worse, knows he could never go home, never see his mother again. Knows it would break his heart to bear witness to the secrets you have to keep, to the lives you take. 

He never responds, just lumbers off of the cot and strips his uniform off, trades it for the street clothes you keep here for him. They’re ill-fitting, cheap and scratchy. He loves them because they smell like you, smell like the soap you carry with you from France—lavender from Provence—the one luxury you allow yourself. 

The two of you walk hand in hand through back alleys and quaint cobblestoned neighborhoods, making your way to the carnival. He hears the barkers getting louder the closer you get, promising fun and winnings and love and only happy fortunes told. In reality, there are no happy fortunes here, and you both know that. But Namjoon’s happy to give into the fantasy of it all, just for tonight. Just to see you smile. He’d do anything to see you smile. Except…

“Win me a prize,” you coo sweetly. It’s futile, since you never take anything with you, and later tonight (or very early in the morning), you will leave Birkenau for good—a mission needs completing, and dead or alive, you won’t be back here again. 

“Whatever you want, jagiya.” 

You bounce on your heels in excitement and drag him to a booth, one offering cheap stuffed birds. There are swans, peacocks, parrots, ducks… He doesn’t know what you’re drawn by, but he’ll knock over as many milk jugs as he has to get you what you want. 

“My strong soldier,” you whisper in his ear after he knocks the top three over. It makes him grin, makes him show you his dimples. He loves you so much, loves how you tease and bait him with your words—then with your body in the privacy of your hideaway. Loves your confidence and your unwavering belief. Loves your conviction. “You can do it, Namjoon.” 

He does. 

The final three jugs topple off the ledge. With you by his side, he thinks he can do anything. He knows he can. 

“Wähle eins,” the barker shouts at him, Dutch accent thick in his German.

“De pauw,” you answer immediately in his native tongue, pointing to the top shelf.

The man pulls one of the blue birds down and hands it to you with a smile. You can charm anyone, Namjoon thinks. A skill you’ve honed doing the work you do, he supposes. “Voor de dame,” the huckster says with a bow and a flourish of his hand. 

You giggle as you take it. Namjoon’s enamored with you. 

As the two of you wander (you clutching the peacock tightly under your arm), he watches as you make friends with a fortune teller and charm free pieces of chicken schnitzel from a mustached French man. Your greatest feat is sneaking the two of you onto the ferris wheel. Namjoon’s in awe of how you move—though sleight of hand is usually what he catches you at, you’re not as skilled a pickpocket as you are a liar—how you can weave in and out of a crowd unnoticed, how you can blend in with any surrounding, any language, any group… It’s a skill he wishes he possessed, too. He’s too large, a little lumbering, a little awkward in his long limbs made to feel longer as he loses muscle to months of being malnourished. But somehow, you make him nimble, you make him invisible to everyone but you. He wants to chase that feeling forever, wants to bottle it up and uncork it again when you’re gone, when he’s so desperate with the want of you that he’s got no other solace. 

Bellies unusually full, legs tired, and peacock secured, he leads you back to your basement apartment. He pulls you along to follow a different path to return than the one you took there—a trick he’s learned from you. Don’t give people the opportunity to see your face twice. 

It’s still dark, and you have no electricity, no oil for your lamps, so Namjoon makes love to you by memory. 

He feels so foggy, but this he knows how to do, like he’s done it a million times and will do it a million more until you and he become different versions of the same thing. Maybe you already are. 

Slowly, using time you don’t have, he undresses you. He’s careful with the buttons of your blouse after he slides your cardigan off of your shoulders. Takes time to press his nose into the skin of your neck once it’s exposed, to try and remember the way that you smell, that lavender soap and the iron of the hard bathwater and the danger that rolls off of you in waves. 

When he lets his arms drop from your body, you walk backward toward the cot, unlacing your skirt as you go. Namjoon can’t see you well, but he hears the sounds of the cotton strings being pulled through the gussets, the soft swoosh of it hitting the floor when you shimmy out of it. 

“Come here, Namjoonie,” you whisper. He would, even if you didn’t ask. Wouldn’t be able to help himself. Always pulled to you like a magnet. 

“Yes, jagiya,” he breathes, now trembling fingers removing his own clothes as he moves. When he finally can feel your skin under his hand, he’s fully undressed, thinks you are, too. Lets his fingertips explore your limbs just to confirm. 

You straddle him on the cot, press your thumbs into the meat of his thighs and tell him he’s brave, powerful, that you’re so lucky he’s chosen you. But he knows it wasn’t a choice. Can’t explain it, but he’s always existed for you, would always find you. Couldn’t choose anyone else if he wanted to. 

He doesn’t. 

The way you kiss him feels like forever, but he knows better. Chases something deeper and messier as his heart rate rises. Knows you don’t have time to draw it out, knows he won’t be able to be as gentle with you as you deserve. No one’s ever gentle with you, is what you always tell him. People who know you know how dangerous you are and they treat you accordingly. Except Namjoon. Namjoon who reveres you and knows you and he are cut from the same cloth—the one where you need to fight for what’s right at any cost. It doesn’t make you dangerous to people who don’t deserve the battle scars you dole out, he thinks. It makes you a hero. To him, you are a lionheart. 

Your palms press into his chest above his own heart and you sink onto his length. Every time you’ve been together seems to bleed together for him, but he knows you know exactly how to move to bring him bliss, knows you feel like the god who seems to have abandoned you made the two of you for one another. 

It’s a risk, but he reaches up to pull the thick curtain back just a few millimeters. Wants the sliver of light to illuminate the tendons in your neck with your head thrown back as you ride him. Wants to see the peaks of your nipples, the smooth skin over your ribcage, the mole you have right on the plateau of your collarbone. Wants to let his eyes roll back in his skull, that’s how good you feel, but can’t let himself pull his attention from your body. 

“Come here,” he says quietly, wraps his spindly arms around you and pulls you down so your chest is flush with his. “Be with me,” he almost begs, “look at me, love.” 

Your hands cup his face, and his guide your hips on top of his. 

“I want to feel like this forever,” he thinks he hears you say, and Namjoon can see a tear dripping down your cheek before you lean in to press your lips to his. He licks at your mouth, gets you to open for him, plays melodies along your tongue with his. 

He thinks they’re love songs. 

He hopes you know. 

You’re all tight heat around him, and your nipples brush his chest in time with his tongue brushing yours. Your lavender scent is a balm, your tears drip onto his cheeks from above, and your breaths come shallow and labored as he fucks into you. 

“I think I’ll love you forever,” he says. 

“Mijn schat...” You whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone and smiling the sad kind of smile. Quietly, you tell him that you want to feel him, beg him to move.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t stop. Thrusts into you, lets the sound of his skin against yours get louder and filthier. He knows he should stop. Can’t make himself. “Are you sure?” he asks, but it’s probably too late. 

You’re nodding anyway, letting out a sweet little moan when his fingers find your clit and he comes, deep inside of you. Feels like a claim he shouldn’t be making. Gets one back from you just moments later when you squeeze around his softening cock, shuddering with your release above him. 

Against his chest, you breathe, and he waits for the moment when your inhales align with his. It’s going to be the last time you share the same air, he thinks. 

Your work tonight will be messy. He doesn’t ask what that means, thinks he already knows. Eyes the Remington in his periphery and you give him a tight-lipped confirmation. Yes, you have things you have to do. Yes, they’re worth sacrificing your life if you have to. 

Namjoon spends a lot of time wondering about the balance between sacrifice and selfishness. 

Never seems to decide where he sits on the spectrum. 

Lithe like you are, he should barely feel it when you climb off of him, but it’s a crushing weight. Feels like his heart might be melting, like his lungs can’t expand anymore.

Once you’re dressed—in clothes he’s never seen before, those usually given to people of a different gender, maybe a different time—he watches you toss your skirt into the hearth first, then the clothes you’ve been lending him for your trysts. He watches you find the smallest vial of kerosene and some tinder you’d been collecting and add those, too. It’s as if he can see you in your full vibrancy now: focused on the mission, focused on destroying the you that has existed in this space, the him that has loved you. 

The fire burns more brightly than he could have imagined after all the time you’ve spent together in the dark. It allows him to see the hope in your eyes when you lean down to kiss him one last time. Allows him to see the tears you no longer let fall when you hand him the peacock, press it close to him so he can hold it like a child.

“Why the peacock?” he asks when you turn to leave. It’s the only question he can think of that he suspects you’ll give him an answer to. 

“Immortality, Joonie. You know, the Greeks thought the flesh of the peacock would never decay? Perfect and enduring even in death.” 

“Are you the peacock or am I?” 

“I guess we’ll find out,” you say as you heave open the door.

He shudders with the cold gust and wishes he knew what to say. Wishes he could choose you over his gun. Wishes you would choose him over yours. 

“Until next time, Joonbug,” you say against the wind. 

You pull the door hard behind you, and when it punches shut, Namjoon is startled out of his dream. 

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“You gotta stop falling asleep in here, hyung.” Jeongguk’s voice is almost drowned out by Seokjin’s laugh. 

“I covered for you at the last meeting, told them you were chasing down an idea… don’t interrupt a genius… creative flow… you know.” 

Namjoon rubs his eyes and sits up. Of course he’s not in Germany during World War two. Of course he’s in his studio in Gangnam, and apparently he’s slept through a meeting. 

He hates these dreams because he feels so thrown off when he wakes up. The pain of losing you always sticks with him for a while afterwards, makes his whole world tilt about one degree. Not enough to change anyone but him, but more than enough to notice.

He loves the dreams because he gets to be with you—tries not to let that thought be concerning. 

“What’s that smell?” he asks, still half asleep. 

“What smell?”

“Mmm… you know, the lavender smell.” 

“Hyung, are you having a stroke?”

“I think people who have strokes smell toast,” Jin says. 

“Nevermind,” Namjoon sighs as he gets off the couch. “Thanks for covering for me, hyung.” 

“You owe me now.”

“Sure, yeah. Of course.” Agreeing is always easier than arguing with Jin. 

Namjoon’s awake enough now to notice the looks that Jeongguk and Seokjin are passing between each other. He knows they know something’s going on with him, sees how they adjust the ways they move around him after these dreams, when he’s out of sorts and halfway out of commission for a half a day or so. It’s not just them, either. Jimin has tried to talk to him about it, but didn’t get very far. Hoseok knows Namjoon’s had a few bad dreams, but that’s the extent of it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them, it’s more that he doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding like he’s completely batshit. Doesn’t know how to tell them that he knows you’re real, that he believes in you the same way he believes in the existence of his sister or his best friend, Heeyoung. It’s part of the problem, really. Because every time he has one of these dreams, he finds himself actually looking for you. In real life. In Seoul. In every city they have a show in. Thought he saw you once in Switzerland, but was too afraid to get close enough to know for sure… Still isn’t sure if he regrets that or not.

It really messes with him when he’s in a city that he’s dreamed you in. Once, in Sevilla, he was too fucked up about it to even leave the hotel room. Tried to explain to one of the managers that something bad had happened last time he was there, but it got complicated when Namjoon couldn’t explain when exactly that was. 

“What’s on your mind, Namjoonie?” Seokjin’s tone is gentler now, cautious. 

“Spain.” 

Another look of concern between Jeongguk and their hyung. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jeongguk asks softly. “Sometimes it helps to talk about things—you taught me that.” 

He can’t help but smile at that. Caught in his own words. And he’s so tired of this, so tired of feeling like no one will understand… he’s tempted. To be honest, he could probably talk about it with Taehyung. Maybe that’s what he should do, he thinks. Tae would listen, wouldn’t judge him. But maybe Jeongguk and Seokjin wouldn’t either. Namjoon has assuredly done more questionable things than possibly believe in a ghost. Or whatever you are. 

He sits back down on the couch. “I’ve been having these weird dreams,” he says. 

“About Spain?” Jeongguk and Seokjin find seats to settle into, too. 

“About a girl, mostly.” 

“Want to tell us about her? Is she Spanish? Is she someone you know?”

“I’m not sure,” Namjoon admits. “She’s whoever I want her to be, I think.” 

Seokjin’s eyebrows almost lift off his face. “Okay, Namjoonie. Why don’t you tell us about these dreams?” 

Namjoon nods. “Well, the one I just woke up from, we were in Germany.”

“All of us?” Jeongguk asks. 

“No, I don’t think so. Just her and me. I think hyung maybe, too, but I never saw him in the dream.” He gestures to Seokjin. 

“But you have these dreams often?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And one of them was in Spain?”

Namjoon’s not sure what they’ll think of him once he tells them, but maybe he doesn’t have to give everything away, he decides. Maybe he can just tell him about one of the dreams and see what they think. 

“Yeah, I can tell you about it if you want.” 

Jeongguk nods eagerly and Jin does, too. He supposes he can’t back out now. 

“Alright… well, here’s what I remember…” 

Andalucia, Spain — Summer, 1913

The heat is relentless. 

Namjoon sweats so much under normal conditions—this is borderline torture. If it were up to him, he’d be back in Sevilla with you, content in the small pension you both scrape together rent for every week. It’s shaded by the orange trees surrounding it, feels safe and private and cool, and most importantly, it’s yours. 

Ronda is less forgiving. Maybe because he doesn’t know it as well, isn’t sure who might be someone to know and who might just be pretending. He’s done this for long enough that he thinks he has a pretty good sense for it, but he’s still sucked into having his time wasted on occasion. Wouldn’t mind it so much except it’s time spent away from you. 

Blas Infante has been yelling on the steps for a while. His throat should be raw, but the adrenaline of agitating the people of Andalucia keeps him fresh, voice ringing clearly through the square. Namjoon has been watching the wealthiest in the crowd drift away, paying attention to where they’re going, making sure he’s got a line on which bars and cafes will be the best to move on to. The time is about right, he thinks. They’ll be a few drinks in and soon the wider crowd will disperse. Wants to make sure he can find a seat at the bar next to someone rich, attractive if possible. If they’re a little desperate that’s even better. 

They probably all will be given the way the political winds are shifting in Andalucia.

As he turns from the crowd, he hears Padre de la Patria Andaluza shout, “the moment has come for the privileged to die!” The remaining crowd roars like the lions on their flags, angry and proud. He agrees with them—as long as he gets his money first. 

When he slides onto the barstool, he makes sure to order his own drink first. Chilled palo cortado says he’s from around here but maybe a little down on his luck, otherwise, he’d be drinking Fundador. 

It’s strange, he knows he grew up poor, but he can’t remember any of the details. It’s as if his whole life before knowing you is completely out of focus. He feels the resentment, though, the frustration of knowing there’s more for the taking if you have the right family, the right education, the right skin color. 

But he’s older now and while it’s there, it’s in the background. Because he knows how to get his share, knows now that it’s also for the taking if you have a nice smile, a silver tongue, and a willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed—including changing your definition of success. Including sacrificing the things you believe in the most. 

Good thing the only thing Namjoon believes in anymore is you, and you’re willing to stick by his side no matter what. 

She’s not anywhere near as attractive to him as you are. She’s round in all the places he likes—soft hips, soft stomach, thick ass, but there’s something with her face. Too drawn, a little gaunt in a way that doesn’t suit her. It’s age maybe, she’s got to be thirty years older than him. 

Age is another one of those tricky things that feels a little elusive to him. 

He thinks he’s around nineteen and she’s probably fifty. Doesn’t care, really, as long as she’s got pesetas. 

She does. A lot of them. 

He fucks her slow in a room above the bar and calls her “Princesa” because she asks him to. Because she’ll pay him more if he does, because he knows how women like her work. It’s been quiet between them since he took her upstairs. They don’t talk about her husband, her children… They don’t talk about you. 

She shifts a little below him and it almost hurts. He’s not used to sex so dry like this—makes it hard to imagine it’s you beneath him. Digs his thumbs into the flesh at her hips and tries to picture you instead, but her noises aren’t as sweet as yours, her skin isn’t as supple. 

At least, he thinks as he thrusts over and over to her guttural cries, he’s doing this for you. For the future the two of you have dreamed of since you were basically kids and he would throw stones at your window after dark to sneak a piece of your attention. He’s fairly certain you almost have enough saved up to escape, to get away from your father and brother who have never once approved of Namjoon. In their eyes, it’s bad enough he’s a foreigner, but then he has the audacity to be poor in addition. 

He wants to give you a good life. There’s still a part of him that thinks someday he can give you an honest one, as well. There’s a part of him that hopes he’s not only his mistakes like your father thinks, that he’s capable of so much more than the world has allowed him to give so far. He thinks you see it, too. He’s pretty sure that’s why you stay. 

As the work drags on, he realizes he’s made a critical mistake—he didn’t ask her how much she’d had to drink, didn’t think to slip the bartender a note to water it down a bit. Feels like she’s never going to come, and he can’t leave a job undone. God, he just wants to get home to you. Wants to take a lavender-laced bath with you and cleanse himself of this sin and the thousand others he’s committed before it. Wants to start on new ones with you. 

The thought of you: in your orange grove, smelling of sun-dried linen and laughing while he chases you… it gives him the will to keep going. 

Ironic that his love for you is the reason his cock is buried in someone else. 

Eventually, she comes, and he lies and says he does, too. Makes quick work of ridding himself of the condom with his back to her. This isn’t the first time he’s lied. Would he sound like too much of a romantic if he said he’s only ever had an orgasm with you? 

For tonight, his patron seems satisfied, romanticism or not. She asks to see him again the following week and he tells her all about how he’d love to, but he just doesn’t have the money, see? So, if she wants to see him, it wouldn’t be possible unless…

She’s more generous than he’s expected. What she gives him to come back to Ronda will pay for a month of your pension. He shoves it in his pockets and tells her he’s going to get them another bottle of sherry from the bar. 

When he slinks out into the finally cool night air, all he feels is relief. He’s going to make it in time to hop the late train back to Sevilla, back to you.

He looks up and down the cobblestone street, taking a second to remember which direction he came from. Notices a man watching him, seems like it should matter, but all that matters is getting back to you. 

Namjoon counts his earnings under the moonlight as the train rumbles through the countryside. It’s enough. He’ll need to count what’s at your home to be absolutely sure, but he thinks it’s enough to get you out of there. You dream of Valencia—of a different kind of orange grove, of thick and salty sea air, of vacations in Madrid or Barcelona, strolling the markets and church grounds. 

He looks out the window at the moon and thinks of how bright your face will be when he tells you the good news. He looks at the stars and hopes they will guide you both faithfully to a better life. 

The train pulls into the station at Sevilla several hours later. Namjoon feels like the time just slipped away, doesn’t quite know how he passed it. Maybe the wine was stronger than he’d first thought… 

It’s quiet in Sevilla at this time of night, but he doesn’t pay too much attention to the bustle in front of him, the same man from outside the bar in Ronda rushing up the road ahead of him. Must be in a hurry to get somewhere—Namjoon can relate, he’s in a hurry to get home to you. His bag is weighed down from the coin he’s bringing home, but oddly enough, he feels lighter than ever knowing he may never have to give himself to someone that isn’t you again. 

It’s freedom.

After years of conning and scraping and scratching to climb out of the poverty he’s known, he finally has hope for something better. Because of you, because you gave him something to believe in and to fight for. 

Tomorrow, he’ll take you to the gardens at the Alcazar, and amongst the flowers and the peacocks you love, he’ll give you the news—tell you it’s finally time. Maybe you can even take the train to the sea that night. 

He loves you so much, owes you everything because he gets all that he needs from your company and your faith in him. 

As he draws nearer to you, dirt road narrowing as he approaches the pension, he hears raised voices. Yours and someone else’s. Maybe more. It’s all he needs to take off running, can’t fathom why you’d need to be fighting with anyone in the orchard after midnight. 

“Namjoon!” you exclaim when you see him sprinting up the road. 

He can hear the fear in your voice, and it only makes him come to you faster. “What is it? What’s going on?” he calls. And then he sees them: your father and your brother, gesturing wildly and yelling. 

“Mija, you know what he’s doing in Ronda? How disgusting he is? How he’s making a fool out of you, making fools out of our family?”

You’re calmer than they deserve, standing your ground with your arms crossed over your chest, full skirts whipping around you in the breeze. You look brave, intimidating, and more beautiful than ever. 

Namjoon starts to understand, realizes he should have known something wasn’t right, that the man in two places would be a problem. Hadn’t let himself believe your father would have had him followed, but why wouldn’t he? 

“You know nothing,” you snap at your father. “Mind your own business, old man. I’m not your family anymore. He’s my family now.” 

Namjoon joins you in front of the pension, stands by your side, wraps an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple. “I think you should leave,” he says to the men facing you. 

Your father spits in his direction, your brother makes rude gestures with both hands. They call him a whore, call him disgusting, claim he’s giving you diseases and ruining you for the god they say you need to meet one day. 

(They still believe, Namjoon never has, and you think you already know god—that he lives in the way the birds call a bright greeting to the morning sun and the flowers bend to offer the bees what they both need to live.)

“Leave,” you say firmly. “We’re leaving for Valencia soon—you’ll never have to see us again. I’ll change my name, no one will know the disgrace you think we’ve brought to the family. Just let us be.” 

And if Namjoon thought the crowd in Ronda was loud, he hadn’t yet had the screams of your father to compare it to. His face is a violent red, his whole body shakes with his anger, and Namjoon feels scared for the first time in a long time. The arm he has around your waist tightens as your brother pulls a revolver from the back of his trousers. 

You are ever courageous—Namjoon can hear your racing heart, but you betray nothing, staring down your brother with iron conviction and pressing in tightly to the man at your side.

“No one will take you from us!” your father yells.

The barrel is pointed straight at the two of you. Namjoon can see your brother’s finger shaking and it’s as if he knows what’s about to happen. He can’t let it, would sacrifice anything for you, already has given up his body and his soul to you in some ways. He’s prepared to do it again. Would never make a choice that wasn’t to protect you. Loves you like you’re oxygen, like he needs you to survive. 

He’s nothing without you, but you can be something without him. So, he moves.

And as Namjoon twists to pull you behind him, a single shot rings out through the Andalucian night, louder than a firecracker. 

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“And then what?” Jeongguk asks, leaning so far in he looks like he’ll topple at any second. 

“I don’t know,” Namjoon shrugs, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “That’s when I woke up. I had the window open and I think there was a car accident or one backfiring or something. Startled me awake.” 

“That’s so romantic,” Jeongguk sighs. “Don’t you think, hyung?”

Seokjin nods along. “How often do you dream about her?”

“Every few weeks… for a couple of years now.”

“Shit.”

Namjoon explains how he can’t stop thinking about you for days after the dreams, how you always look different in them but he knows it’s you every time. There’s something in the way you speak to him, in the way you know his mind, in the way you move across each time and space so self-assured and brave and admirable. And then the words just keep coming. He tells them about how he always dreams of you existing at night—never in the morning. Never had a dream where the two of you have made it through the night and woken up together in love with no tragedy befalling you. He almost cries when he tells them how badly he wants to find you, how he knows you must be real, a person he’s just yet to meet… Says he’s not sure he believes in something like soulmates, but that sometimes his chest actually aches with the need to know you, to be with you. Tells them that you’re never perfect in any of his dreams, but you’re perfect for him: a partner in crime, a lover, an intellectual rival, a battleground ally, just always by his side making him sharper and better and happier. Tells them that all he wants is the chance to wake up next to you just once, sunlight and joy and no crisis clapping him awake. Tells them how lonely he is in the mornings. 

When he finally trails off, out of ways to explain that each time he dreams of you, the desire to find you seems that much more urgent, Seokjin and Jeongguk are speechless. Jin looks like the fish he loves, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Jeongguk is a little teary-eyed and his hand is rubbing careful circles between Namjoon’s shoulder blades. 

“You have to find her, hyung,” Jeongguk says softly. 

“I know.”

“We’ll help you find her, I promise.” 

Namjoon thinks the commitment from Jeongguk is sweet, but doesn’t know how they could possibly help. You look different in every dream, a different voice, name, language… It’s an impossible task made even more challenging by the fact that you probably don’t actually exist. Just a figment of his imagination his brain has made to give him some stress relief, some friendship. He says as much, and he can tell Seokjin agrees with him, but Jeongguk is insistent. At the very least, it’s a little comforting that he’s told them what he feels like is probably his weirdest, deepest secret, and they didn’t laugh at him, didn’t march him upstairs to the company therapist. 

After that day, Namjoon feels a little bit better about everything. Better enough that he doesn’t dream about you for a few weeks, starts to forget to look for you in the face of every person he passes. The best part is that he’s really able to focus on their upcoming tour, and by the time he boards the plane to another continent with the rest of the members, he wonders if he’ll ever dream about you again. 

It’s been long enough that he misses you a little bit, as ridiculous as it sounds. He doesn’t mention that part to Jeongguk or Seokjin.

They touch down in a new city, and Namjoon rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the flight—no dreams. It’s early, but they don’t get the day to themselves. They’ll eat a snack in the cars on the way to the venue, run a short rehearsal for blocking and then Namjoon will do some foreign-language interviews from the hotel. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls his mask up, trying to mentally prepare himself a little bit for the remainder of the day. And then he smells it, as he steps into the airport, a gentle lavender scent that’s so familiar he thinks he might be imagining it. 

Namjoon stops in his tracks right outside the gate and starts looking. It’s practically instinctual at this point, head on a swivel trying to spot you. It’s so ridiculous and he knows it. But there’s just something… it’s like he knows you’re here. 

Unfortunately, it’s a terrible place to be having a crisis, and he’s literally knocked out of his search when another passenger on their phone runs right into the back of him. 

“Fuck, sorry,” you say, only glancing up from your phone for a second.

Namjoon doesn’t look at you, just flushes with embarrassment as if anyone could possibly know what he’s thinking. Keeps his head down, says, “no problem,” and tells himself that the weird pit in his stomach is nothing and the smell he’s so drawn to is in his head. The you of his dreams isn’t possibly in this airport in a city on the other side of the world. 

He tries to shake it off all afternoon, all evening, but doesn’t think he’s too successful. Thinks he probably fucked up a couple of the interviews, hopes one of his managers would have stopped him if he was too off the mark, though. It’s probably fine. 

That night, for the first time in weeks, he dreams of you. 

Gyeongsangnam-do, South Korea — Summer, 1931

In these most uncertain of times, Namjoon is sure of two things: you are the most beautiful woman he’s ever known, and he is so much in love with you that he feels shaky with it. 

It’s quiet in your father’s farmhouse save for your soft moans. With a rare stroke of luck, your mother and father have left to negotiate with the angry man who owns their land now, and Namjoon has taken advantage of sneaking away from Pukyong’s campus to be with you. He’d come to review plans for a new barn with your father, but finding him gone was a blessing. 

You and Namjoon haven’t been able to find much time alone since he left for Busan. He comes back when he can, which isn’t often, and you sneak out to the edge of the fields to meet him under the moonlight. He’s gotten used to fucking you quietly and in a hurry, helping you brush grass and twigs out of inappropriate places when you’re done. This though, this is a luxury, to be with you in your own bed, in the daylight. To be as loud as you both want—Namjoon could write a dissertation on how nice you sound when he fucks you. 

You’re slick and tight, and you’re the only home Namjoon’s ever really known. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and watches as you arch your back underneath him, whine a little, tell him not to leave marks where your parents might see. 

Because you’re young and reckless and you’ve both only ever loved each other, he knows he’s got to pull out soon, but it’s hard to remember in the heat of the moment. 

You call him “Namjoonah,” you tell him how good he feels inside you, breathy and sweet, running your fingers through his hair to brush it off of his forehead. It’s gentle, the way you touch him, like he’s something worth taking care of. You say all the nicest things to him when he fucks you—you tell him he’s strong and handsome and so big, you always emphasize, widening your eyes and palming his cock through his trousers. It’s probably giving him a little bit of an ego, he thinks, but he likes it anyway. Being the focus of your attention is so flattering. He always wants your eyes on him, your hands on him, your thoughts about him. You make him greedy and selfless at the same time—he wants everything you’re willing to give him and he wants to give you even more in return. Wishes this fucking war were over so he wouldn’t have to be on edge all the time. Knows he’s lucky not to have been conscripted to the Imperial Army yet, but that it’s probably a matter of time. 

It’s a blessing, being smart, which people have told Namjoon that he is since he can remember. At least they’ve spared him so far because he’s of more use to them at Pukyong, learning how to be the best architect he can be, than he would be as a soldier. Someday, his own father says, he will build castles for a Korean leader, walls to keep the Japanese soldiers out. Those conversations are had in secret, in whispers and gestures. It’s dangerous to be someone like his father, to think there’s a chance for Korean independence, to fight for it in secret… But it’s dangerous to be fucking you into your mattress when your parents could come home any moment, too, and that doesn’t stop Namjoon. 

Like father, like son, as they say. 

He’s sure it’s not a secret that he’s your boyfriend. Your parents know him, invite him for meals, they like him. They think he’s a sweet, smart, college boy who’s going to give their daughter a better life than they can someday, and they’re not wrong. 

Though, he’s also sure they’d like him a lot less if they knew he was a sweet, smart, college boy who loves your body, loves the way your soft thighs feel around his head when he licks at your core, loves the way he can throw your calves over his shoulders and hold you in place as he thrusts home. Loves the small violet bruises he bites into your skin, hidden away under your long skirts and long linen sleeves. Loves how you let him pull out and cover those bruises with his cum, and then especially loves when you run a finger through it and lick it off—when you tell him he tastes good and you thank him for sharing with you. 

They’d think he’s ruined you, and he’d cop to it even though it is absolutely the other way around. 

You come with a sweet, loud moan. Your throat sounds a little raw when you say his name again, which only turns him on more. With a few strokes, he follows you, leaving his release across your stomach and breasts and thinking that if all art looked like you do in this moment, he’d change his major.

Lazily, he lies next to you and pulls you close. You should clean up, you should get dressed, Namjoon should be sitting at the kitchen table studying his drawings with his shoulders back and glasses smart across his nose when your father gets home. You don’t want him to leave though, asking him to stay just a little longer, turning your head to kiss him softly. 

When he wakes up, it’s dark, and he panics. You’re pliant in his arms, still sleeping, and your parents should be home—what if they’ve seen you? What if they know that Namjoon is taking something sweet from you at every opportunity, paying you back with pieces of his heart? 

Maybe it’s time he faces this like an adult, he decides. He’s going to marry you someday anyway, it’s a foregone conclusion. They may not like that you’ve been breaking so many of their rules in secret, but someday you will be his wife, and he will care for all of your family as his own, and hopefully that buys him a little leniency with your father. He kisses your temple and gets out of bed as quietly as he can, pulls his clothes back on, and pads out of your room to meet his fate. 

He spots them immediately, and as soon as he has the thought that he’s going to be sick, he heaves all over your kitchen floor. It’s going to wake you up, but he needs to spare you from the scene. Somehow, he gets their bodies covered before you get up. It’s the best he can do but it’s not enough—the scream you let out is haunting, half shock and half anguish. When you crumple to your knees, he holds you, lets you sob and scream into his chest and rocks you steadily. He doesn’t know what else to do. 

After that day, he files for a leave from school and essentially moves in with you. You use your anger to fuel you, fighting for independence in secret alongside the bravest Koreans Namjoon knows. Your landlord comes around and neither you nor Namjoon even try to hide your rage and disgust. You spit at his feet and he warns you to be polite unless you want to end up like your parents. Namjoon tries to convince you that the old man isn’t even worth your anger, that you’re better off serving your parents’ memory alive than alongside them in a grave. 

As the war picks up, so does conscription. Namjoon thinks he’ll be called any day, but the idea of fighting in the Imperial Army makes him ill. So instead, he makes a plan.

It’s only a matter of months before you’re on the ferry to join him on Jeju. He’s been there, building and fortifying. Perhaps it’s cowardly to cut and run, but he doesn’t care. It’s the only way he can be with you, the only way he can keep you safe. With the farm equipment sold off and a bit of his family’s money, he’s made you a home there, and it’s finally ready for you. 

There’s a tearful reunion on the dock, and it’s followed by a trip to the courthouse to get married. It all happens in a daze, the memories hazy and dim, but the way he felt as he kissed you and made you his wife burns in him bright, bright, bright. 

He makes love to you on the floor of the new cottage that night, slow and sweet. Tries to make you understand how much he’s missed you, how much he loves you. Thinks he succeeds when you tell him you love him as you come, thinks he’s never seen or heard something more beautiful in his whole life. 

Finally, he leads you up the narrow staircase to the room he’s built for you. It’s got a big bed, but not too big, because you always want to be close to him when you sleep. Its wooden floors are made warmer with a rug his mother made for you, a wedding gift. The balcony is small, but he designed it himself, based on a wish you’d told him about, that you’ve always dreamed of a place to read in the mornings. It’s shaded from the eastern sun with a balustrade you can kick your feet up onto. There are crude drawings of your favorite animals carved into the balusters, alternating lions and peacocks. Protection and immortality, built into the home he’s made for the two of you. When you see it, you look like maybe you finally understand the way he cares for you, the way he will do anything he can for as long as he lives to keep you happy and safe. 

You let yourself out there, and light up the night with your happiness. Namjoon watches you from the bed. He’s been on the balcony, and it’s small. He’s not technically the architect he always thought he would be since he’s left school for good, but he tried his best with this design, and then tried even more when he built it for you. 

Maybe he should have seen it coming, maybe he shouldn’t have been so confident. The funny thing about light and sound is that he sees it happen just barely before he hears it. Sees you stumble a little to your right, sees the balcony wobble and thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Then he hears the deafening crack and it’s perfectly timed with his stomach sinking and you disappearing from his view, the balustrade going with you. 

New York City — Present Day

Namjoon wakes up in a cold sweat, the alarm blaring next to him. He hates this feeling—the one immediately after the dreams. At least he has most of the day off. The company always gives them time for the jetlag, supposed to be for sleeping, but he’ll use it to shake himself out of this fog that settles in after the dreams. Maybe the Met this time; he saw the Whitney last time he was here and he sort of wants to get out of Chelsea, anyway—thinks the walk might help him clear his head. 

He sees you when he’s standing in front of a moon jar, wondering to himself what right these people have to even store this piece and then charge people to see it. Wonders if he could get it back to Korea somehow where it belongs, mutters something under his breath about colonialism and notices you smile at that out of the corner of his eye. 

It’s exactly like he’d always thought it would be to see you: immediately he knows. There’s no question. You look different again, not quite like you have in any of his dreams, but you smell the same and you’re wearing a blue and green dress, tight around your figure and flouncy at the hem that reminds him so specifically of a peacock he wants to cry. You smell like fancy French lavender soap and you have a smile that could bring world peace. 

The sight of you makes him freeze. What would he even say? There’s nothing he could tell you that wouldn’t make him sound insane, nothing that he’s willing to admit to a stranger, even if that stranger is you. His heart races and he feels himself start to sweat nervously. He’s been looking for you for years, and when he finally finds you, it sends him into a panic. How perfect for him. 

He can’t stand in front of the same moon jar forever, though, so he swallows his nerves and stands up a little straighter and begins to turn to you, even if just to introduce himself like a normal person. 

Namjoon’s heart sinks when he realizes you’re already gone. 

He’s talking to Jeongguk while he sits on the steps of the Met, phone pressed to his ear. 

“I know it’s her,” he says, sending Jeongguk into a frenzy of questions. 

Namjoon is contemplating the possibility that he’s fucked up his only chance to meet you, when you appear, out of the blue, to take a seat a few feet away from him, he rushes out a “Gotta go, Kookie, bye,” and hangs up as Jeongguk is still talking. 

“Hi,” you say. 

“Hi.” 

“This is probably so weird, but…” You straighten out your skirt and don’t make eye contact. You look equal parts beautiful and nervous. “Do I know you from somewhere?” 

Namjoon gets this question a lot. Usually, it’s fans trying to ‘play it cool’ when they run into him in Seoul, trying to give the impression that they don’t immediately know who he is. And yeah, he thinks he’s more humble than some people less famous than him, hates to assume, but it’s always pretty transparent. But, for as much as he gets this question, as often as he brushes it off with an, “I don’t think so,” and a rushed exit from wherever he’s been recognized, he has no idea how to answer it when it comes to you. So, he just gapes at you. It’s mortifying. 

“Sorry,” you continue. “It’s just that… Well, this is probably gonna sound crazy, but I think I’ve had dreams about you.” 

“Holy shit,” Namjoon says, living up to his reputation as a certified genius and a clever songwriter. 

This response flusters you even more, it’s clear you’re embarrassed. The way your eyes flit around and look for an exit from the situation tells him everything he needs to know. 

“Sorry again,” you groan more than speak. “Nevermind.” 

You start to stand, and Namjoon barely gets his shit together in time to grab your wrist and finally speak. “It’s not weird. I have them, too. The dreams.” 

“No fucking way,” you whisper, your eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Namjoon nods in agreement. “How’d you know it was me?” He asks. 

“Just knew it,” you shrug, wrist still kept tight in his grasp. “I’m not sure. It’s like… you feel the same. You smell like you, too.” 

“Come on,” he says, dropping your wrist finally and standing. “Want to get coffee or something?” 

To his relief, you do. 

It’s awkward at first. Where do you start with someone you feel like you’ve known forever but you’ve never actually met? Namjoon has a million questions he wants to ask you but none of them seem to fully form in his head. It’s bad enough he has to think through how to not be seen with you—his lifestyle adds a whole layer of complication you’d never faced together in his dreams. Eventually, you knock on his hotel room door about ten minutes after he gets in. It had been a little stressful, waiting for you. He made you promise three times you’d actually show up and then on the fourth one, he made you pinky promise. When you took his little finger solemnly, instead of laughing at him, he was finally (mostly) convinced you’d be there. 

And now, here you are, sitting at the little table in his room, clearly trying to be polite and not look at the mess of stuff he’s accumulated in just one night. After all this time wishing he could find you, he’s got no idea what to say to you. 

“So… why the Met?” 

You smile a little sheepish and shake your head. “You’ll think it’s stupid.” 

“I doubt that,” he says, trying to be as reassuring as he can for such a weird situation. 

“I thought it’s where the lion statues were… you know… on the steps. I thought if I went there, maybe you’d be there. I was sure it was you at the airport but by the time I realized it, you were gone. So, I guess it was the only place I could think to look for you where you might look for me, too. But they’re at the library.”

“The lions?”

His confusion seems to make you a little shy; you duck your head and shake it, like you’re telling yourself off before you even explain. “You always say I’m like a lion in the dreams. No matter where we are or what’s happened to us. You say I’m strong and brave and beautiful—”

“A lionheart,” Namjoon whispers. 

“Yeah,” you brighten at that. “Is it like that in your dreams, too?” 

Namjoon tells you it is. And then he tells you about all the dreams he can remember. Not in detail, and not the worst of the bad endings, but enough that the two of you can compare notes. Enough that you realize you’ve been having basically the same dreams, although not at the same time. Both of you have had some the other hasn’t had yet. He loves it when you tell him about one that ended happily, the two of you betrothed in the Joseon era and figuring out how to fall in love. You think it’s supposed to mean something that the two of you are always facing something that’s keeping you apart—you wonder out loud what might keep you apart in reality, too. 

“I hope nothing will,” he says without thinking. 

“You don’t even know me!” You’re laughing, but he’s clearly taken you by surprise. 

“Don’t I, though?” And the mood changes. You swallow thickly and he tries his best not to break eye contact with you even though he thinks you’re so gorgeous he might not make it through the day without passing out. “Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, but he’s already moving to your side of the table and you’re already scooting your chair back to make space for him. 

You don’t kiss like you do in the dreams. In the dreams, you kiss him like he’s the beginning and end, like you’ll take anything he gives you. There’s something nice about that, makes him feel wanted and strong. In reality, you kiss him like you know it’s the other way around. You’re confident, teasing—you smile against his lips when you do a thing with your tongue that makes him let out a moan. 

In the dreams, he can’t remember ever kissing anyone but you. But now he’s got your lips on his and you’re definitely not the first person he’s kissed by a long shot, but you’re absolutely the best. It’s almost like having something to compare it to makes it even better. 

Maybe there should be some hesitation, but neither of you seem to have any. Not when he pulls you up from the chair so he can kiss you without bending all the way over, not when he walks you back toward the hotel room bed, leaving a trail of tender kisses up your neck and across your jaw in a surprising show of coordination. 

It’s inexplicable, he thinks, how he feels like he’s done this a million times with you before but in the best way. He can kiss you without any of the awkward, nervous, first time worries he normally has. He can trust you without knowing quite why, and that part is probably the weirdest thing about all of this because he can’t trust anyone outside of the members and his family usually. 

“Is it weird I feel like we’ve done this before?” you ask as you run your hands from his shoulders down his arms. 

Namjoon just shakes his head and winds his fingers with yours, leaning in to kiss you again. “No, it’s the same for me,” he says. 

Because of the familiarity, maybe, it’s not urgent when you undress each other. He takes time to appreciate this version of you, the one he’s actually holding in his arms, the one who pinches his side gently and then laughs. “Just making sure you’re real,” you say when he yelps in protest. 

There’s a moment when you’re both naked, standing in front of the bed, when the air feels thick between you. You’re holding his jaw in your palm and he’s got his hands around your back and neither of you speak for a long beat. For him, it just feels incredible to be here with you. He doesn’t care that he has no idea what you do for a living, where you live… Doesn’t know anything about you except that he thinks he has loved you for a long time. Thinks maybe he was put on this planet specifically to love you. Wonders how the two of you could have messed this up so badly in every other universe, but is actually really glad you did, because maybe that’s why you’re finally here with him now. 

“I… I think I love you,” he says timidly. “Makes me feel crazy.” 

You have a tear falling down your cheek, but you’re smiling—Namjoon is pretty sure you’re not supposed to be crying before sex like this, but you seem happy. “S’not crazy, I think I love you, too. I’m so happy I finally found you.” 

“I looked for you in every city,” he confesses before he presses his lips back to yours, then kisses the tears off your cheeks. 

You go soft under him, body pressed into his, and he guides you onto the bed. The two of you laugh into each other’s mouths, mutter how you can’t believe it’s happening, let your breath grow heavier as you take time to learn each other. Namjoon loves it when your lips move against his pulse point, when you get a little rough with him, leaving small bites and bruises in places the stylists won’t give him shit for. You like when he talks to you, tells you how you make him feel, how much he wants to be with you—he whispers right into your ear, the sweetest confessions sandwiched by pure filth that makes your breath hitch and a shiver travel down your spine. 

Namjoon’s dreamed you a hundred ways, in a hundred places, but here, spread naked underneath him in this hotel bed and laughing with him while he fucks you slowly is better than any dream he’s ever had. 

“Can’t believe you’re real, baby,” he breathes as you run your fingertips down his sides. He looks down to see where his cock is moving inside of you, and he thinks this must actually be a dream. You’re perfect, he thinks as he moves fingers to your clit and presses there gently. When you pull him down to kiss you, it feels familiar again. You brush his hair off of his forehead like you’ve done in every one of his dreams, and now he feels like he could cry—he’s just so overwhelmed by you, so in awe just like he knew he would be. Just as he always has been. 

You whisper his name when he makes you come. You tighten around him and dig your nails into his shoulders and Namjoon thinks this is the closest to heaven he might ever get. When you finally work through your orgasm, you encourage him to change positions, to lay on his back and let you ride him. 

The way you know exactly what he likes is magical, that deep grinding of your hips in his lap. You don’t have to ask to know what makes him tick, bringing his hand to your lips as you move, sucking two of his fingers into your mouth and whining around them.

He’s always preferred this to something faster. This way, he gets to watch you, feels like you’re taking your pleasure from him, feels like you’re both getting precisely what you want from each other. He could lift his hips and fuck into you, could hold your waist and get you to bounce on his cock like you’re making a sex tape. But this is better. This is you and him, moving like you’re meant to be connected. 

You absolutely are, he’s sure of it.

It’s a movie script ending when you come again just as he does for the first time—he wishes he could feel all of you when he spills into the condom, wishes he’d found you years ago and built a more tangible history with you. Hopes more than anything that you want to try to do that with him now. 

The two of you clean up with a little bit of shyness; you hide your face as he cleans you carefully with a warm washcloth, and he tries not to let you see him get rid of the condom. It’s not as easy as the dreams where those things sort themselves out, but Namjoon wouldn’t trade these awkward moments for anything. 

There’s not really a need to ask you to stay, he knows somehow that you will, but he asks anyway, preens when you agree and ask to borrow a shirt. 

He can’t really risk room service with you here, but he gets a manager to bring you food (hand stuck shyly through a crack in the door as to not interrupt), and while you eat, he peppers you with questions about your life. Feels like he knows the important things that are the same as in his dreams (he loves you, you’re loyal), but wants to learn all the mundane stuff, too. 

Much later, before the sun rises but after some people would already call it morning, you fall asleep in his arms and he lets himself drift off thinking of lavender and peacocks and falling in love.  

Namjoon’s alarm goes off, and the sun must be high in the sky because the light in the room is a bit muted. It’s the first time in a long time he’s woken up content, hesitates for a second before he remembers why, remembers everything that happened the day before, remembers that you were real and here and in his bed and his arms. He lets himself just exist there for a minute, eyes closed, thinking about what might come next, how he’ll explain you to his family… 

Then it sort of dawns on him that you should be right there, that he fell asleep wrapped around you and now he isn’t. He panics for a split second when he realizes you’re not pressed against him, doesn’t think he could handle it if this was a dream, too. Tries to be rational, but for some reason can’t quite bring himself just to tip his head over and open his eyes. 

Instead, he takes a deep breath, smells hotel laundry detergent and sex and the faintest hint of lavender. He says a silent prayer and then sticks his hand out to the other side of the bed to feel for yours. Thinks he might scream when he doesn’t feel you there immediately.

Namjoon snakes his hand across the sheet and hopes he never has to dream to see you again.

[gay-dorito-dust]

requesting for a friend, fluffy sfw Liu Kang head canons with gn s/o reader, or reader has a crush on Liu Kang!

Being loved by Liu Kang can only be described as warm, soft and secure.

He’s so attentive when it comes to you.

Every single thing you’ve ever entrusted to him is stored and memorised within his head for safe keeping. Liu Kang remembered all the fact about you for the soul reason that he firmly believed that you were so worth knowing, right down to your very being even. You brought a sense of intrigue out of him that urged him into getting to know you so intimately that he might as well be half of your literal soul.

Liu Kang even knows of the smaller, almost missable details about you that no one else knows, something of which never fails to make you smile and always ask;

‘You remembered?’

Only for Liu Kang to forever and always reply with;

‘Of course I remember, for everything about you is worth remembering, even the ones that you deem embarrassing or silly for they’re just as important if one is to understand you.’

Liu Kang is the kind of man who’d hold your hands as though they’re made out of porcelain, easily susceptible to fractures and breakages under immense pressure, his thumb would stroke the back of your hand comfortingly, reassuringly, as though to remind you that he was there with and for you no matter what; all the while keeping you warm and protected from the harsh cold.

He gives the most unquestionably comforting cuddles out of anyone and for you, his arms were open no matter what.

So whenever he saw that you were in any sort of distress, sadness or just having a less then pleasant time, he would let you get yourself get comfortable within his arms and rest your head upon his chest, before then holding you against him as his warmth softly blanketed you; Easing your body into a relaxed state and allow for all your daily stresses to slip away while Liu Kang occasionally kisses the top of your head as he waited patiently for you speak upon your struggles.

He encourages you to appreciate the smaller, slower things in life as they’re the moments that many people come to regret not appreciating more later on in life. So you’ll have moments where you’re either doing things such as going on walks together, stoping to rest beneath a tree and be fully immersed in each other. Or maybe attempt at cooking together with him offering his assistance by standing behind you with those gentle glowing eyes of his observing your movements.

Either way no matter what it is that you do, you’ll always have something to look back on fondly and with a sense of accomplishment of having something so pure, so beautiful and to have it be a reminder of your love for you to treasure well into old age.

Tell him about your hyper fixations or just things you’re extremely well versed in please! Liu Kang wants to hear all of it and be able to watch as the love and the passion bleed out through your words, your facial expressions and your body language.

And if you were to apologise or go silent afterwards because you felt as though you were annoying or boring him to death. He would immediately reassure you that wasn’t the case and would never be the case before asking you questions about your special interest/favourite subject; and therefore continue to show his need towards wanting to know every detail about you. So much so to the point he could remember your favourite piece of information that you’ve found on your deep dive about your interest.

If you have problems articulating your thoughts and feelings into words, Liu Kang would be there to help give you the space you needed to express yourself and all without a spec of judgment on his behalf. He understands more so than others that it takes a lot to talk about one’s feelings without being dismissed by others as either too sensitive, too emotional or otherwise.

Values your comfortability over everything else.

You don’t like loud and or crowed social spaces because they make you get genuinely upset, or even uncomfortable to the point where in then makes everything your currently experiencing even worse, as though it was becoming all much for you to handle? (Cuz same)

Liu Kang would have no qualms taking you someplace else that would be more convenient for you or just go straight back home and get you whatever you needed to regain a sense of self somewhat. He’s just so accommodating to you and never makes you feel like a burden or anything less than his lover.

He loves you with his entire heart and soul and nothing you could do would ever change that reality for him. You’re his everything and he’s entrusting you with the safety of his heart, much like you have entrusted yours to him, so please don’t break it.

Liu Kang practically melts into your touch whenever your hands were pressed into his skin, against his face, where he would then lift his hands to cover your own before then closing his eyes to soak in your presence with a soft, gentle smile gracing his perfect face. He might even even rest his forehead against your own just so he feels that little bit closer to you during a tender moment. He doesn’t want to forget how you felt against him, so he takes great pride in remembering how your body fit against him. as though you were the one thing he was missing this entire time.

Liu Kang’s kisses are soft, tender and passionate. His lips were pillowy and sweet when weaving between your own in a slow and timely manner, like he had unlimited time to engrave a story into your lips, a sweet and beautiful story regarding your relationship and the emotions he felt throughout. His hand placements would either be at the small of your back and keeping you pressed against him, chest to chest, or one hand is at your lower back whilst the other is resting on your upper back/ back of your neck.

Bonus short hdc;

Never dares to raise his voice towards you.

In fact he doesn’t tolerate that sort of behaviour towards significant others.

He has patience in abundance.

Effective communicator.

His love languages are words of affirmation and acts of service.

[corroded-hellfire]

Big Brown Eyes - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You’re a single mom and when you drop your son off at Dustin’s while you go to work, you meet his new friend Eddie. 

Note: So, this really just came about because I wanted cute interactions between both Eddie and Steve with a little boy. I might write more in this verse if people like this?

Warnings: single mom, reader x ex steve, stancy is together, mechanic!eddie, i think that’s it?

Words: 5.6k

[Part 2 | Big Brown Eyes masterlist]

“Hello, you’ve reached the Hendersons. Sorry we missed your call-.”

“Shit,” you mutter. You sigh and rub a hand over your face. You purse your lips in thought and tilt your head from side to side before picking up the phone again. Thankfully, this time there’s a response.

“Hello?”

“Max, hey! Do you know where the goonies are hanging out today? I’m trying to find Dustin,” you say.

“They’re all at his house. None of them would shut up about the campaign at school yesterday. Why? Everything okay?” Max asks.

“Yeah, fine. I just have to head to work and need someone to watch Ev. I know you have the evening shift at the diner tonight or I would’ve asked you.”

“Where’s Steve?” Max asks.

“Out of town for the day with the Wheelers. Holly had a dance recital somewhere near Indianapolis,” you tell her.

“Mike didn’t go,” she says with a snort. “He’s at Dustin’s with the rest of them.”

“What a loving brother,” you deadpan.

“One of the guys can watch Ev. I know for a fact Lucas has no plans tonight so don’t let him try to make any excuses.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say. “Alright, I’ll try the house again. Thanks, Max.”

“No problem.”

With a sigh, you hang up and pick up the receiver again, your finger jamming into the familiar numbers for Dustin’s house.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

“Hey! Hello?” An out of breath Dustin gasps on the other line.

“You all good there?” you ask.

“Oh, hey. Yeah. I’m fine. Was that you who called before? Sorry, it was the final roll of the dice,” he explains, as if that makes it evident why he wouldn’t answer the phone. You can hear the others shouting in the background. You can’t tell if it’s in happiness that they won the campaign, or anger because they failed.

“Uh huh,” you say. “Listen, one of the girls at work called in sick and I said I’d come help out. Could you or one of the boys watch Everett for me, pretty please? It’ll just be for a few hours.”

“Sure, bring him on by. We all know I’m his favorite.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes fondly. There’s no way to deny it, Everett always lights up when he sees his Uncle Dusty Buns.

“Okay, we’ll be there in ten. Thanks, Dustin,” you say.

“Don’t thank me until you get him back in one piece. Bye.”

You chuckle to yourself as you hang up the phone. A squeak sounds behind you and you smirk to yourself at the familiar sound of Everett’s little sneakers hitting the linoleum tile of the kitchen floor. Slowly spinning around on your heel, you catch a pair of big brown eyes staring at you from around the corner. Out of the many things Everett had inherited from Steve, his eyes were what people noticed first. They were nearly identical to his father’s. His hair was also growing similarly, but Everett was still too young to tell if it would be quite as high as Steve’s.

“Is someone spying on me?” you ask.

“Nooooo,” you hear as his tiny head hides back around the corner. His giggling would be enough to give him away even if it weren’t for the scuffling of his feet against the floor.

“I think someone is. I think I was being watched,” you say. You creep around the corner and snatch him up in your arms. The muscles in your arms and back protest at how big and heavy he’s getting.

“By who?” Everett asks innocently. Those damn doe eyes look up at you under thick lashes. It was truly uncanny.

“You, mister!” You dig your fingers into his side, knowing his left is the most ticklish. He squeals and struggles in your grip, trying to break free.

“Mommy, no!” he calls between bouts of laughter.

“Everett, yes!” you answer before peppering kisses all over his face.

He pulls away from your kisses and the two of you look at each other, similar smiles reflecting each other. At least that’s something he got from you. He reaches up to move some hair that’s fallen into your face. It’s more of a smack than a gentle motion, but you know the intention was sweet.

“You’re silly,” he says fondly.

“Oh yeah? Well guess where silly mommy is taking you, Mr. Troublemaker?” you say.

“Toys?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. As if this kid wasn’t spoiled enough by his parents, aunts, uncles, and everyone else who knows him. His obsession with the toy store has stuck with him ever since Karen Wheeler took him there for his third birthday a few months back. You were thankful she watched him as often as she did, and that she spoiled him like her own grandchild, but this obsession was wearing on both your nerves and bank account.

“No,” you say. “Don’t you think you have enough toys? Never mind, don’t answer that, you. Nope, I’m taking you to Uncle Dusty Bun’s.”

Everett’s eyes lit up and he began to bounce in your arms. “Dusty! Dusty!”

More often than not, he called Dustin “Uncle Dusty Bun” in full, but he often reverted to “Dusty” when he was excited or angry. Dustin was never referred to by his actual name by you or Steve when Everett was born, both of you thinking it would be hilarious to give him the nickname instead. Dustin was less than thrilled at first, but the nickname didn’t seem so bad once you asked him to be Everett’s God father as well.

“Yep, come on.” You set Everett down so he can get his little backpack from his room. Whenever Everett went to somebody’s house he packed his favorite toy dinosaur, one of his coloring books, and a handful of crayons with him in his bag.

He runs off, most likely giving the family that lived in the apartment underneath yours a ceiling rattling boom, and you step into the bathroom. Working at the library meant that you didn’t have a uniform you needed to wear. As long as your clothes looked somewhat professional, your hair was neat, and your makeup wasn’t wild, you were good to go. You fix the hair that Everett had swatted and neaten up the rest of it.

Everett jumps into the doorway of the bathroom, blue backpack on and ready to go. “Let’s gooooo!”

“Can’t wait to get away from your mom, huh?” you tease him. You ruffle his dark hair as you pass him, grabbing your purse and keys from the kitchen counter. His loud footsteps echo behind you as you walk to the front door.

“Daddy home?” Everett asks as you’re locking the door behind you.

“Hmm?” you look to Everett who is gazing across the parking lot at the adjoining apartment building where Steve lives. “Oh, no, Daddy isn’t home right now. But he’ll be back by dinner time.”

“Will he make me take a bath?” Everett wrinkles his nose up in distaste as he slips his hand into yours.

“If he doesn’t, I will,” you tell him. You lead him down the stairs to the first floor, Everett jumping with two feet down each step. He hums a song to himself as you walk to the car. Though he hates sitting in it, Everett has become adept at securing his own car seat, which has saved you countless minutes over the past few weeks. “All buckled in?”

He nods to you in your rear-view mirror, and you pull out of the parking lot. It’s not a long ride to Dustin’s but Everett insists on the radio anyway. You weren’t sure when he developed such a love of music, but you’re pretty sure he recognizes more songs on the radio than you do. Love Shack comes on and Everett begins to wiggle in his seat, dancing along to the beat. You were glad the meaning of the song went over his head, and he just enjoys the silly sounds the song makes.

Everett knows the way to Dustin’s and gets more excited the closer you get to his house. He begins to look out the window, straining his neck as if that will help him see his favorite uncle sooner. As you pull up to the Henderson house, you notice a number of cars parked out front. So, the guys were still here.

“Looks like you’re seeing more than just Uncle Dusty Bun,” you tell him as you swing your car into the driveway. You would only be here five minutes; it doesn’t matter if you’re blocking anyone in.

“Who?” Everett asks.

“Let’s go see,” you say, pulling the key out of the ignition.

While your son has no issues getting into his car seat, he hasn’t gotten the hang of unbuckling it yet. He’s grateful when you free him from the confines, hopping out of the car with his little backpack, and running up to the front door. Even on his tiptoes he can’t quite reach the doorbell, so he settles on banging on the door with his little fists instead.

“Easy, Ev,” you say as you come up next to him. You go to press the doorbell but the front door swings open before you get the chance.

“Hey, I thought I heard the little monster out here!” Dustin grins and bends down, letting Everett run into his arms. “How you doing, kiddo?”

“Good!” Everett says as he wraps his arms around Dustin’s neck. “Got my dino.”

“Well, of course you do!” Dustin says. He lets go of the boy, who rushes past him into the living room. The loud hum of boys talking reaches you at the door and you nod your head inside.

“Whole crew here?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Dustin replies. “Oh, wait! Come here, you haven’t met everyone who’s here.”

Dustin closes the door behind you as you step inside. Your brow furrows in confusion as you slip your hands into your back pockets. The house smells like microwaved pizza and like one of the boys is wearing cheap cologne. It’s dark in the house, which makes you roll your eyes, because the boys always insist the room must be dark when playing DND.

“What do you mean? Not just Lucas, Mike, and Will?” you ask.

“We made a new friend,” Dustin says.

“A nerdy friend, I’m guessing,” you mumble under your breath as you follow Dustin into the living room. You can hear Everett babbling to someone, which doesn’t surprise you in the least. Besides you and Steve, his favorite people in the world are in this room.

“My sister!” Will cries as he throws his arm over your shoulders. You chuckle to yourself, forgetting when the joke that you were Will’s older sister even started. He’d always been like a little brother to you, so it came naturally enough. You turn your head to look at him and frown when you have to tilt your head up.

“Why are you still growing? You’re already taller than me,” you say.

“Have been for a few years now,” he says with a wink, and you playfully push him off you.

You expect to find Everett either clinging to Mike’s legs or being held in Lucas’s arms, but the two are arguing with each other on the opposite side of the room with no toddler in sight. Everett is never quiet, however, so you just have to turn yourself in the direction of his voice.

“M’not afraid of spiders!” he’s saying. “Spider-man is my favorite!”

Everett is leaning against a fluffy maroon couch cushion, his backpack at his feet, and his eyes focused on the boy sitting next to him. But he is not a boy. He’s a man, your age or maybe a year older. He’s grinning down at your son, the smile knocking the breath from you. You don’t think you’ve ever once swooned in your life, but that’s the best word you think of to describe the feeling. Dark curls fell just past his shoulders and his dark eyes – why did dark eyes haunt you everywhere? – crinkled in the corners as he listened to Everett.

“Yeah? I like spiders, too,” the man says. He adjusts his hand on his lap and the glinting of one of his rings catches Everett’s attention.

“S’pretty,” Everett says. He takes the man’s hand in his own little ones and inspects the different rings he’s wearing. You’re shocked. Everett is usually shy with new people. He’ll barely say hello to a stranger, let alone hold someone’s hand.

“Thank you,” he tells your son. He’s smiling so adoringly at Everett that it quickens your heartbeat even further.

“Eddie,” Dustin calls from behind you. The man picks his head up and looks at Dustin, before turning his gaze on you. He smiles again and you feel pinned in place.

“You must be this wonderful little boy’s mother,” he says. Everett lets go of his hand and walks over to you, hugging one of your legs. Eddie stands up from the couch and steps right in front of you, offering you his hand. “I’m Eddie.”

“Eddie,” Everett repeats down by your legs, causing Eddie to chuckle.

“Y/N,” you tell Eddie. You slip your hand in his and notice the roughness of callouses and the coolness of the rings as he shakes it.

“Eddie works down at the garage,” Dustin says, coming up alongside you. “He noticed the DND bumper sticker on my car when I brought it in the other day. Needless to say, we became fast friends. This was his first campaign with us.”

“You have far more patience than I do,” you tell Eddie. “When I try to play with them, they just yell at me.”

“Well, he actually knows what he’s doing,” Mike quips with a smirk as he walks by you.

“When’s that English paper due, Michael? You know, the one on Pride and Prejudice, which you haven’t even read? Didn’t you want me to help you with that?”

“I take it back!” Mike calls from the kitchen. “I love you!”

You smile to yourself and look back to Eddie, who’s smiling at you the same way he smiled at Everett. It should feel patronizing, to be smiled at the same way that a baby was, but it’s flattering. It’s an adoring smile which floods heat to your cheeks.

“I was going to ask how you put up with these guys, but I see you can handle them no problem,” Eddie says.

“Well, when you work at the library and they come there to study and beg you for help, you tend to have the upper hand,” you say with a shrug.

Eddie chuckles. He pats Dustin on the arm. “I’m heading out. Next Saturday, right?”

“Yeah! Look forward to you being the DM. Mike’s been doing it forever,” Dustin says.

“Heard that!” Mike calls.

Eddie crouches down to be on eyelevel with Everett. “It was nice to meet you, little dude. Can I get a high five?” Everett grins and slaps his hand against Eddie’s. It hardly could have hurt but Eddie shakes his hand out as if stung. “Wow! You’re a strong boy. You must eat all your vegetables.”

Everett looks up at you and grins, proud.

“That he does,” you say, petting along his hair. You crouch down as Eddie stands back up. “You’re going to be good for Uncle Dusty Bun, right?” Out of your peripheral vision you can see the smirk Eddie gives Dustin at the nickname.

“Mhmm,” Everett nods.

“Okay, good. I love you,” you press a kiss to his cheek and pull him into your arms.

He squeezes you back tightly and mumbles a “love you too” against your neck. You stand up and Everett takes Dustin’s hand, already dragging him back to the couch.

“Walk you out?” Eddie asks. He motions for you to head out first, so you do. You open the front door, and he steps out behind you. “He’s a cute kid.”

“Thanks,” you say. The two of you walk to the driveway together and Eddie leans against the van that your car is parked behind.

“But it makes sense, though,” Eddie says. “With a beautiful mom and all.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out from your chest and you look at the ground shyly. You feel the heat go all the way up to the tips of your ears. You’re about to respond by saying he looks more like his dad than he does you, but that might sound like you’re trying to interject Everett’s dad into the conversation as if the two of you are still together.

“Well, thanks,” you say again. You were never particularly good at flirting or being flirted with. Steve often used this to his advantage by flustering you on purpose and the look on Eddie’s face says he might be the kind of guy to do the same thing. “I guess I’m blocking you in. I should get going.”

“Do you often come by here on Saturdays?” Eddie asks as you start to turn away from him. You turn back and give him a smile.

“I’m not here for their DND days. Like I said, I get yelled at. But sometimes Dustin will watch him on Saturdays when I’ve got to head to work. Like today.”

“Libraries are open on the weekends?” Eddie asks.

“Saturday until three, Sunday closed,” you tell him with a shrug. “So, I only have to be there for a little while today.”

“You know, you don’t look like a librarian,” Eddie tells you with a smirk. He crosses his arms over his chest, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Well, I’m not a librarian. I just work there. But out of curiosity, what do librarians look like?” You know you need to leave for work, but you walk over and lean next to Eddie against the van.

He shrugs, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. “You know. Usually old. Hair pulled up in a tight bun on the top of their head. Glasses hanging from a chain around their neck. Old lady sweaters and a permanent scowl on their face.”

You laugh and rest your head back against the van. “You just described my boss pretty well, so you may have a point.” With a sigh, you push yourself off the van. You didn’t want to head to work before, but now you really wish you didn’t have to go. “Um,” you say. You didn’t intend to say anything, but your mouth opened anyway. A lightbulb goes off in your head and you look at Eddie. “Dustin said you work at the garage, right?”

“Sure do.” Eddie nods in confirmation. “The one on Blossom Trail off Highway Eight. Or is it eighteen? I’m new to Hawkins.”

“Oh yeah? Where from?” you ask.

“Over near Evansville. My uncle lives out here, so I thought I’d see what Hawkins is all about,” he says.

“And are you sorely disappointed so far?” you ask with a laugh, gesturing to the quiet, empty street around you.

“Definitely not.” He grins at you again and the butterflies feel as if they may actually bust out of you this time. Eddie watches you get flustered again and you lick over your lips, remembering your initial question for him.

“So, what days do you work this week? I need to bring my car in for an oil change. The light keeps flashing and one of these days the car’s just gonna stop on me altogether.”

“For an oil change?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at you, then shakes his head. “Sweetheart, don’t bring your car in for that. I can do that for free. Save your money.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you say. Handouts were one thing you consistently tried to avoid since you’d found out you were pregnant. You hated feeling like people felt sorry for you when they didn’t need to. Was being a young mom hard? Yeah, but worth it.

“No, come on,” Eddie says. “They’ll charge you fees and taxes and for the labor when I’ve got the oil sitting right in my shed at home. Really, it’s just sitting there. It’ll go bad if it isn’t used.”

You had no idea if that was actually true or not, but Eddie was gambling that you didn’t have the knowledge to call his bluff one way or the other. Eddie’s pleading eyes are what push you over the edge. It seems impossible that here was another man with beautiful brown eyes who knew how to use them against you.

“Okay,” you finally cave. “Sure. I can bring it by your place.”

“Don’t be silly, I can swing by after work one day. You’re a mom, I’m not going to make you come to me and take time away from your kid.”

The thoughtfulness makes you smile. You motion for Eddie to follow you over to your car. He watches as you bend over into the car – his eyes taking their time – to grab your purse. After rifling through it, you pull out a pen.

“I don’t think I have any paper,” you say. Eddie grins and offers you his hand. You chuckle and take his hand in one of yours. There’s the slightest bit of grease stains under his short nails and his fingers are long, his palm large. You scribble your number onto his palm and stick the pen back in your purse. “I usually get home from work about six-thirty on weekdays and Ev goes to bed around eight.”

“I get home around seven, so that’s perfect timing. I’ll call you soon,” Eddie says.

“Yeah?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Monday if you want,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Hell, I’d call you tonight.”

The bashful grin on your face only makes Eddie want to flirt with and tease you more. It’s addictive in a way he didn’t know possible.

“I’m not sure what my plans are for tomorrow, so Monday works.”

“Monday it is,” Eddie confirms. “Have fun at work.”

“Bye.” You give him a small wave before getting in your car.

Steve had called you at work to say he was picking up Everett from Dustin’s and they’d be home for dinner. So, when you got home you had a precious hour that could have been spent relaxing, but one look around the apartment and you knew it needed to be used for cleaning. Action figures littered the living room carpet, colored pencils scattered about the coffee table, blocks with numbers and letters on them led down the hallway practically waiting for someone to step on them. It had been a while since you had last vacuumed so you figured you might as well get it over with.

It's in the middle of vacuuming Everett’s room that the front door opened and three people entered. Steve puts his finger to his lips to encourage Everett to be quiet as they creep down the hallway towards you. Nancy reaches out and smacks Steve on the back, telling him not to scare you. He shrugs and pretends that he can’t hear her over the vacuum as he follows Everett towards his room.

Normally, it was hard to sneak up on you. Steve had made it his mission to try and scare you way back before you even started dating. He, evidently, passed this trait along to his son as well. Even the vacuum wasn’t enough to keep you from hearing someone coming up behind you. But your mind was wandering as you pushed and pulled the appliance over the blue carpet. Was Eddie just a flirt in general? Or did he like you? Would he actually call on Monday? Was it a big deal if he didn’t? It was just an oil change, after all.

“Rawr!” Little hands grip your thigh, making you jump and let out a squeal. You cut the power to the vacuum and hear Everett giggling madly to himself and he holds your leg even tighter. “Scared you!” There’s laughter coming from the doorway as well and you turn to find Steve leaning against the doorframe, his arms casually across his chest, as if he had nothing to do with this sneak attack.

“What the f-,” you stutter, “fudge, Steve?”

“How did he get away with that when I never could?” Steve asks, referring to the successful scaring.

“Where’s your babysitter?” you snap back at him.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy says, popping in the doorway behind Steve. “I tried to stop him but I think Everett is more mature.”

You smile at Nancy as you scoop Everett up into your arms. “I don’t blame you one bit, Nancy. You’re the only one around here who doesn’t drive me crazy.”

“Hey!” Steve and Everett say at the same time.

“You,” you say, looking at Everett. “It’s dinner time. What would you like?”

“Daddy wants pizza,” he says.

All eyes turn to Steve as he shrugs innocently. “I have no idea how he knows that.”

“You’re paying.”

“Deal,” Steve agrees. You set Everett down to follow his father into the kitchen to call for pizza.

Nancy walks into the room and wraps her arm around your shoulders. “You know he’s never going to let it go that he finally scared you?”

“I know.” You sigh and rest your head against hers.

Nancy was always a friend in high school, but never a close one. After Steve and Nancy broke up and Nancy moved on with Jonathan, Steve eventually found you. Becoming friends to more was easy with Steve, but it came with a catch. It was easy to go on fun dates and spend hours talking with Steve. It was easy to drive the younger teens around Hawkins with him, becoming the “mom” to his “dad” in the group – little did you know that those official titles were soon to come. It was easy to trust Steve because you already had as a friend. It was easy to fall into bed with him because you had always found him attractive and kind. What was hard, though, for both of you, was to fall in love. Being together for almost a year, most people assumed you two were madly in love. You definitely loved each other, but both of you knew deep inside it wasn’t the kind of love you should feel for someone you’re in a relationship with.

It was hard, deciding that the two of you should go back to being friends. You were in agreement that it wasn’t fair to one another to stay in a relationship that wasn’t going anywhere. Two weeks after the breakup, in which you two still remained the best of friends, you discovered you were pregnant. Telling Steve was one of the most terrifying moments of your life, though you knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t let you do this alone. What you didn’t expect was how helpful Steve’s mom would be. Not only was she supportive of you and Steve deciding to raise the baby as friends, but she used her connections as the most well-known real estate agent in Hawkins to get you and Steve apartments in the same complex.

Nancy had been away at college while you were pregnant, hearing about the news from her brother who was stunned at there being someone who would be referring to him as “Uncle Mike.” When Nancy came home for summer break, she was elated to meet baby Everett. You were still pretty sure Nancy seeing how gentle and sweet Steve was with the newborn is what led them to getting back together – even battling long distance.

Steve was a little worried this might put tension between the two of you girls, but it was the opposite. Nancy became your closest friend, talking to you on the phone almost as much as she talked to Steve. She loved and cared about Everett but never tried to insert herself as a mother figure in his life. Everett loved playing with Nancy, especially when he saw how well she shot a water gun at his dad. Nancy was now home for the summer, having one more year to go at Emerson. Everett had been a little shy around her when she first came home, having not seen her since Spring Break, but he quickly warmed up and showed her every new toy he had gotten since she’d last seen him.

Everett was thrilled that Nancy was staying just in the next building with his dad. It meant they could go outside and play with his water guns anytime he wanted to. It was sweet to see Steve and Nancy with Everett, but it always left a melancholy taste in your mouth. It just reminded you that Nancy was the only person Steve had ever been in love with, and you had never been in love ever.

“You good?” Nancy asks you, rubbing her hand up and down your arm.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you say. She pulls back and gives you a quizzical look. “What?”

“What is that smile on your face?” she asks. You didn’t even realize you had been smiling and immediately wipe it off your face.

“What, I can’t smile?” But you could feel your cheeks turning pink.

“Not like that,” Nancy says. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you say, though it sounds unconvincing to both of you. Nancy watches as you unplug the vacuum and wind up the cord. You walk past her to put the vacuum back in the hall closet and she follows behind.

“Something happen at work?” she asks with a smirk. Nancy was never nosey, but she could tell something was going on and she knew she could get you to spill.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” You turn to her and shrug, not quite meeting her eyes.

She smiles at you and reaches out to poke you in the ribs. “Oh, come on. You know you want to tell me.”

Glancing down the hallway to make sure the guys were still in the kitchen, you lean in towards Nancy and speak quietly. “Has Mike mentioned a new friend at their DND games?”

Nancy pulls back with a frown, that being far from what she thought would come out of your mouth. “Um, no. But to be fair, Mike doesn’t tell me a whole lot about his life. Why?”

You avoid her eyes as you lean back against the wall, head barely avoiding the framed pictures that hung there. “Well,” you start. “The guys have a new friend who plays DND with them.”

“Like a kid?” Nancy asks.

“Nope.” You shake your head, keeping your eyes on the kitchen doorway down the hall. “Like a guy. About our age.”

“Oh,” Nancy hums in understanding. “And you met him when you dropped by Dustin’s, didn’t you?”

“I did,” you confirm, still not looking at her. Nancy scoffs and grabs your arm, dragging you into your bedroom. She closes the door and rests her back against it.

“Spill,” she says.

You sit down on your bed and can’t help the smile that creeps on your face. “His name is Eddie. He’s going to come by this week and change the oil in my car.”

“Oh, is he now?” Nancy’s eyebrows raise and your face blooms red at the smirk on her face.

“Actual oil in my actual car!” You huff a laugh and rub your hands over your face. “He’s a mechanic. Dustin met him at the garage.”

“Is he cute?” Nancy moves from her spot against the door and sits down next to you on the bed. You bunch the yellow floral blanket in your fingers as you bite back an even bigger grin.

“Very,” you confirm. It feels nice to have a friend to talk about these things with. Yeah, there were girls in high school with you that you talked about boys with, but you were in a very different spot in your life than they were now. And Nancy was here and knew your life well. She’d become the best friend you’d ever had.

“When’s he coming by?”

“I gave him my number and he said he’d call Monday,” you say. You were about to tell her more about the conversation you’d had with Eddie but pounding started raining down on your bedroom door.

“Moooooooommy!”

“What’s up, buttercup?” you call through the door.

“Lemme in!”

“Excuse me?” you ask.

A tiny huff. “Can I come in pleeeease?”

You stand and open the door to find a little boy with a big smile staring up at you.

“Yes, sir?”

“Pizza’s coming!”

“Good. Know what you can do while we wait for it?” you ask.

“What?” he asks.

“Tell your daddy he needs to give you a bath.”

“Huh?” Steve asks, coming up behind Everett. He’s holding an apple with a bite missing and you remember why your son is constantly asking for snacks before dinner. “What do I have to do?” he asks through a mouthful of apple.

“Bath,” Everett says with a sigh.

“What?” Steve says as he looks down at Everett. “Why’d you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

“Boring,” Everett says.

“Nothing’s boring with me, you know that,” Steve tells him. He leans down and throws Everett over his shoulder. The little boy giggles and kicks his legs as Steve carries him to the bathroom.

“Please keep my bathroom dry!” you shout down the hall.

“No promises!” Steve answers.

[mymarifae]

i want to talk about an.

i want to talk about an in “kick it up a notch!” specifically, and correct a slight misconception i’m starting to see pop up about her character development and how it relates to the rest of VBS but mostly akito.

an is alone in her fear of being left behind and all her other feelings of inadequacy and jealousy in regards to kohane’s astounding growth as a singer. akito is not going through the same thing she is. for one, that’s not his partner. he’s not the one who plucked kohane out of a crowd and he’s not the one who designated himself as her mentor and expected to always be the teacher and never the student.

that was all an.

that’s why this is hitting her so hard. she assumed that she was the natural talent of the vivids - and i’ll get to why that is in a second; bear with me. and no, akito does not feel this way about toya. at least not anymore.

akito’s able to pick up on what’s going on with an so, so easily because he’s extremely observant and emotionally intelligent for his age. and because yeah, he’s been through his fair share of struggling with abandonment issues and feelings of inadequacy.

key words: been through.

akito isn’t... over his problems by any means, but he’s already felt what an feels now. all the way back in middle school, when he and toya were just BAD DOGS. hell, he felt it during that soccer game that made him quit the sport altogether. and just... in general, with the way the shinonome household is, he’s well-versed in feeling untalented, and like he’s not special, and like he will never accomplish anything in his insignificant life.

he’s gone through this shit before. he’s confronted those nasty, traitorous feelings of jealousy and the fear and the despair, and he worked through them with toya. and they came out on the other side stronger and closer than ever.

i’ll get into why in just a second again, just keep bearing with me, but i need to stress that an has never been seriously challenged before. that’s why this is happening the way it is. that’s why she has no idea what these feelings are or how to deal with them. it will probably be easiest for her to lean on akito as she works through this because he understands best the very specific circumstances of her emotional turmoil:

“i picked some guy off the street and made them my partner and it turns out they’re better at singing than me.”

but akito is old friends with negativity and he knows how to channel it into positive energy, into something that will push him forward and push him to prove everyone wrong. and you know what? he’s finally getting somewhere.

“find a way out” was literally about him starting to realize that he’s not... just endlessly chasing after the rest of vbs anymore. he’s managed to close that distance he’s felt for the past... 325734254889 events.

performing against the musician that bullied him all those years ago let him see his improvement objectively. he’s better than he was in middle school, and he’s better than the guy who humiliated him and that guy improved too! that’s just how much akito has grown. he’s surpassed a lot of his limits, barriers that he once thought were impossible for him to overcome. he’s flying high above many, many people’s heads now. that is what akito started to realize that night. (and i say “started” since he kind of freaks out afterwards - because he’s not used to thinking of himself like that. he’s not used to being proud of himself. which breaks my heart but that’s getting off topic.)

the point is. akito is very, very close to overcoming this idea that he will always be the worst at everything he loves. or he’s hell of a lot closer to it than an is. and even if he’s not, he knows how to cope with those feelings and fight against them.

an doesn’t.

why? because like i said, she’s never been challenged. everything has almost always just been handed to her. i don’t mean that like she’s spoiled or something; i just mean... everyone has always looked at her and seen Shiraishi Ken’s daughter first and foremost.

“you want to learn to sing? hah! of course you do! you’re ken's daughter!”

“look at you go! of course you’re a natural at this! you’re ken's daughter!”

“you want to surpass RAD WEEKEND? well, if anyone’s got the abilities to do it, of course it’ll be ken’s daughter!”

this is the dialogue an has grown up hearing. just an endless mantra of: “you’re naturally talented / you’ll be fine / go and do your own thing / you don’t need any extra help / you don’t need any push or shove.”

“you’re ken’s daughter!”

think of it this way: what almost always happens to “gifted kids” in school? they start off miles ahead of their peers. they are separated from those peers. they are not given the same resources their peers are given because they don’t need them. inevitably, those children once praised for being so so so much smarter, so much more talented and special, fall behind as their peers begin to catch up. they weren’t given the tools they needed to continue growing, so they stagnate.

that’s close to what’s happening here with an. the rest of vbs has begun to grow beyond what she was able to achieve innately, and that scares her so fucking much. especially when it comes to kohane because there’s no way around it: an expected to always be better than her. not in a nasty, self-centered way, of course; that’s not the kind of person she is. this was just her subconscious expectation because that was how she was taught to think about herself. but now reality’s catching up to her, and she lacks the tools she needs to keep moving forward with everyone else.

she doesn’t need breathing exercises or extra warm-ups or anything like that. what she lacks is an emotional tool set. she doesn’t know how to cope with feeling inadequate and worthless and good lord it took her like an entire event to learn what jealousy is.

an is alone in her feelings right now. she can lean on her teammates - she can lean on akito especially. but she’s the only one that can free herself from these chains rusted over with fear. no one’s going to save her. no one can save her. as painful as it is, this is the push she needs. if she never learns to process and deal with these feelings, she’ll never be able to keep up with the people she loves.

but don’t take these somber words the wrong way. this is project sekai, after all! this is a game about love and friendship and growing up, and accepting your flaws and shortcomings and pushing yourself to be the best you can be - to always strive for a bright future.

an will be okay. vbs will be okay. it’ll sting for a bit, sure, but they’ll make it through.