This is my writing masterlist. All fics posted here are crossposted on AO3 and occasionally TikTok or Wattpad. Please do not copy my works or republish them on other sites. Do not feed my work into any AI service, please and thank you.
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Fic Requests Open - One Shots only
Series: A Tale of Stars and Steel
(Din Djarin x f!reader) [18+]
Fleeing the Empire and grappling with the loss of her homeworld, the daughter of two decorated military officers struggles to rebuild herself on the desert planet of Arvala-7 until a lone Mandalorian arrives, and two worlds collide among the stars.
ATOSAS Masterlist
Series: Fox in the Briar, Doe in the Den
(Severus Snape x fem!reader) [18+]
You’re the new Herbology professor at Hogwarts, taking over for Pomona Sprout and stepping into the role of Head of Hufflepuff House. After making a memorable impression on your first day, you've unfortunately caught the attention of a certain potions professor. Will you be able to set aside your differences and work together, or will the tension mounting between you become too much to bear?
Fox and Doe Masterlist
Series: Where the Desert Meets the Sea
(Min Yoongi x choreographer fem!reader) [18+]
"Wherever there's hope, there's despair. We have to despair for all those trials." - Sea by BTS.
A well-respected choreographer on the verge of burnout, you take a position at BigHit Entertainment and find yourself starting over. As your career begins to flourish, your personal life starts to unravel—and a quiet producer may understand you better than anyone else.
Where the Desert Meets the Sea Masterlist
One Shot: Six Months and a Day
(Eijiro Kirishima x Katsuki Bakugo) [18+]
It's been six months since Eijiro and Katsuki broke things off. No matter what they tried, nothing was working. Miscommunications and arguments were more common than chill nights in, and soon they found themselves resenting the person they loved most in the world. So, they ended things. It was hard, but life moves on. But a lot can change after a drunken night together.
One Shot: Long Day
(Tenya Iida x Katsuki Bakugou) [18+]
Katsuki comes home from a long, hard day at work to his loving boyfriend, Tenya. When he can't follow simple instructions, Tenya has no other choice but to teach him a lesson, one that Katsuki for sure won't forget.
One Shot: A Debt to the Crown
(Erwin Smith x Levi Ackerman) [18+]
What happens when the captain of the royal guard makes a bet with the king and loses?
Royal AU - King Erwin Smith x Royal Guard Levi Ackerman
One Shot: Bamboo Lillies
(Shota Aizawa x Hizashi Yamada) [18+]
After a decades-long friendship, Shota Aizawa realizes he is in love with his best friend Hizashi Yamada and develops a rare form of Hanahaki Disease.
Chapter Summary: The days on Tatooine are long and blistering, and after hours in the heat, there’s nothing better than a little booze, a little Sabacc, and a chance to forget about everything else, at least until someone decides to turn a harmless game into something far more complicated.
Chapter Warnings: toxic relationship dynamics, arguments, gambling, and mild intoxication
WC: 8899
A/N: So... this chapter really got away from me. Here is a link to a document that has my rules for Sabacc. If you would prefer to read them after the chapter, there is another link in the author's notes.
Tatooine is hot.
Arvala-7 is hot too, with its long stretches of dry heat and temperatures well into the fifties, but somehow you were still unprepared for the sheer suffocating intensity of this desert planet. Not even the thin linen of your blouse and pants allows enough airflow to cool your burning skin. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky— likely because any moisture lingering from the night evaporated the moment the second sun crested the horizon— which means there’s absolutely no reprieve from the relentless assault of the twin suns.
The Child sits contentedly in his pram beneath the shade of the hangar roof. A large, motorized fan points directly at him, stirring the wisps of hair atop his head while sweat gathers at the tips of his large ears. You envy him greatly. Those ears probably help regulate his temperature because, unlike you, he seems barely bothered by the heat at all, absentmindedly gnawing on a wrench you handed him to keep him occupied while the mechanic worked you half to death.
The mechanic in question— Peli Motto, proud director of Hangars Three through Five in Mos Eisley Spaceport, as she introduced herself— is a real character. She’s terribly witty, chronically nosy, and prone to snide commentary at every available opportunity, but despite all that, you can’t help finding her endearing. The second it became clear Mando intended to leave you and the Child behind, she immediately put you to work. Oh sure, she grumbled and cussed every moment she got, going on and on about the extra fees she was going to tack on for having to train you, but you could tell she enjoyed the company of another human over her android helpers. She even— somewhat reluctantly— agreed to install the fresher you’d fought so hard for, especially after you slipped her a pouch of credits more than sufficient to cover the cost. You only hoped Mando hadn’t noticed. Paying for the addition was the least you could do after the fuss you’d made over it.
Despite the oppressive heat, Peli kept you busy with a to-do list she suspiciously assembled in the exact amount of time it took Mando to secure his belongings to a dusty speeder and say goodbye via a curt nod of his helmet. Most of the tasks were simple enough: tightening bolts, replacing filters, recalibrating old components. The sort of maintenance work Kuiil used to have you do back on Arvala-7. You suspected many of them were originally intended to keep you occupied and out of her way. What she hadn't expected was for you to be worth your weight in water. By the second day, you’d managed to complete nearly everything on the list, leaving only the two jobs you were absolutely unqualified to handle for Peli herself.
Now, midway through the third day, she hits a snag with the fresher installation and proceeds to curse loud enough for half the spaceport to hear. Eventually, she throws a towel across the hold in defeat and storms down the Crest’s gangway.
“How’s it lookin’ with that chassis repair?” she asks, irritation still thick in her voice.
“Uh…” You glance back beneath the speeder where you’re crouched. “I think I finally found the crack, but I’ve never worked with nano-putty before, so I’m not really sure how to use it.”
Peli stares at you in open disbelief. “Never worked with nano-putty before? What kinda backwater skughole did you crawl outta?”
Before you can answer, she snatches the container from your hands and slides beneath the raised speeder herself.
“Arvala-7,” you reply evenly, fairly certain she’s never heard of it.
“Oh.” She actually sounds a little taken aback. “Well… guess that explains it.”
“Yeah. The outpost never exactly had the newest technology.” You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your arm. “When we finally got a proper welder, I was so happy. Using a jury-rigged one gets old real quick.”
A grunt of agreement echoes from beneath the vehicle. Several minutes pass as Peli barks orders, and you hand her tools while she seals the fracture in the chassis.
“What’s Arvala-7 like?” she asks eventually, sliding herself back out.
“Hot. Dry. Though honestly, I think this place is worse.” You let out a breathy laugh. “Most people there are moisture farmers — more out of necessity than profit. There’s no proper spaceport or anything. The outpost’s maybe a tenth the size of your market here.” You smile faintly despite yourself. “Kuiil was resourceful, though. We always managed.”
“And who’s this Kuiil?” Peli asks casually. “You’ve mentioned him a few times since you got here. Pretty fondly, too.”
She must notice the immediate shift in your expression because she ducks back under the speeder almost instantly, muttering something about a missed bolt you know perfectly well doesn’t exist. Still, you appreciate the gesture.
You realize, somewhat suddenly, that you haven’t actually talked about Kuiil’s death yet. Mando told you what happened, and you’ve cried more than once since then, but grief feels strangely difficult to voice aloud. And Mando… well. Mando isn’t exactly someone who invites emotional conversation. But here, standing in the heat beside a half-disassembled speeder while Peli pretends not to pry, the words feel easier to reach for.
“He…” Your throat tightens immediately. You press a hand against your chest and force yourself to continue. “He was like a father to me. Took me in after my parents died. Taught me… basically everything I know.” Your voice falters. “He died almost two weeks ago protecting the kid.” The words leave you quieter now. “I miss him a lot.”
“Oh, sweetpea…” Peli’s voice softens immediately. “M’sorry. That’s always rough.” When she slides back out, she gives your shoulder a firm smack— apparently her equivalent of a hug— before tossing her tools into a metal case. "How'd you end up with that ball of sunshine and his kid anyway?"
You huff out a laugh despite yourself. “Kuiil asked him to look after me. I don’t think he intended for that to involve dragging me around the Outer Rim while searching for the little guy’s people, but…” You glance toward the Child, now fully asleep in his pram. “I’m not exactly complaining. The kid’s the best.”
Peli follows your gaze, her expression softening. “It’s the little things, ain’t it? Times get hard enough, even tiny joys start matterin’ more than anything.”
You look at the sleeping Child and feel your chest ache painfully. In just a few short days, you’ve grown hopelessly attached to him. “Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s almost like he knows when I’m upset. Every time I’m having a bad day, he comes and sits with me.” You hesitate briefly before adding, “I haven’t exactly been very nice to his dad, though.”
“Ahh, that oversized tin can can handle it,” Peli says dismissively. “Honestly, it’ll probably do him good to have somebody put him in his place for once. Stars above, that man can be pushy.”
You laugh properly at that, grateful for the shift back to lighter conversation. Together, you move on to the final repair on her list: a leaking fuel reservoir in Hangar Four. By the time the twin suns begin dipping toward the horizon, the two of you are still working side-by-side, chatting idly through sweat, grease, and the endless dry heat of Tatooine.
"When do you think Mando's gonna be back?" you ask, dusting your hands off on your equally dusty trousers.
Peli looks at you over her safety glasses and shrugs. "Who knows. Could be today, could be a week from now. But you can be damn sure that I'm tackin' on a few extra credits for every day."
Mando left Mos Eisley three days ago in search of Mos Pelgo, a place that, from everything you’d gathered, sounded less like an actual settlement and more like the ghost of one. The kind of town spoken about in half-shrugs and skeptical snorts, like some sun-bleached relic swallowed by Tatooine’s endless desert. Even Peli had seemed doubtful there’d be anyone there to speak to, let alone a Mandalorian. But doubt had never been enough to deter him before, and apparently it wasn’t about to be enough now. In your opinion, the entire situation was rather damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t. Either he found a Mandalorian willing to take the Child and continue the search for his people, or he found one who refused and left your beskar-clad companion no better off than before. And then, of course, there was the very real possibility that the Mandalorian in Mos Pelgo was exactly what it sounded like: a rumor that sent him trudging across endless desert for nothing at all. Regardless, there was little use wasting energy on outcomes you couldn’t control. So, while he chased whispers through the Dune Sea, you kept yourself occupied the only way you knew how: by staying busy enough not to dwell on what-ifs.
The setting suns cast long amber beams through the hangar as Peli squints down at the grease-smudged to-do list in her hands. For once, there isn’t a single unchecked box left. She lets out a low whistle, then grins at you. “Well, I’ll be damned. We finished everythin’,” she says, sounding genuinely impressed. Then, her eyes gleam with mischief. “I’d say that’s cause for a little celebration.” She plants her hands on her hips and jerks her chin toward town. “Whaddya say, lil’ miss helper?”
"What do you have in mind?"
Back in Hangar 3, you see the Child terrorizing the mechanic droids with the wrench you gave him earlier. You rush to him and try to gently pry the tool out of his three-fingered hand despite his protests.
Peli chuckles from behind you and sets her tool belt down on a table off to the side. "A trip to the cantina and a couple rounds of Sabacc." Something about the lilt in her voice and the twinkle in her eye says that this might not be the smartest idea, but you agree anyway.
The three of you walk the familiar streets to what Peli calls 'the greasiest watering hole in town' and it is every bit the dive you expected. Although the suns have set and darkness has fallen, the interior of the cantina is still dark, lit only by a sparse number of torches and odd light fixtures, and, despite the early evening hour, you can smell the booze radiating off every body in the joint. It is packed to the brim with an assortment of species you were familiar with but hadn't seen the likes of since you were a teen. Everybody speaks a different language, yet they all share a singular focus: to get drunk. Honestly, what else is there to do on a planet as drab as this?
Tatooine, as with most planets in this part of the Outer Rim, is owned, manipulated, and exploited by the Hutts. Nasty beings with a knack for screwing people over, they've never been your favorite species to interact with, but you're nowhere near dumb enough to piss them off. You stick close to Peli and tug the Child tighter to your chest from where he is strapped on with the fabric tie. You meet the glares and leers you get from the patrons with your own and try to look as intimidating as a human woman can look. They leave you alone, but you don't delude yourself into thinking that's due to your attempt at intimidation. Peli finds an empty table and slides into the booth. You take your seat across from her, remove the Child from the chest wrap, and sit him next to you.
"Behave, please, little one. Don't go wandering off, okay?" You plead. He only stares up at you with his large eyes, but he settles into the booth, and you hope that he is in compliance with your request.
A scantily-clad waitress saunters over to your table and asks for your orders in a voice far too sultry for the company you keep, but it definitely does wonders for the shoddier type. Peli orders the first round, urging you to try an ale-and-appetizer combo on sale that night. The ale is tart on your tongue and leaves an earthy taste in your throat, but all in all, it's pleasant. So is the appetizer, a mix of local fruits encased in a grain dough of some kind. For the kid, she orders an odd, creamy, blue drink and grilled meat, both of which are instant hits.
Sabacc, as you expected, is a gambling game, and as Peli calls over two friends to your table, you measure your luck to decide whether to play.
“So, ever play Sabacc before, sweetpea?” Peli asks, digging a deck of cards out of her pocket.
“No, but I’d like to learn.”
“Alright,” one of Peli’s friends says, “but be warned, we don’t go easy on beginners.”
You smile smugly and shoot him a playful wink. “I’d hope not.”
So why would someone inexperienced with a betting card game play against seasoned gamblers? Well, gambling is an art — the art of bluffing and manipulating, making your opponent second-guess their reality based on your actions. Maintaining diplomatic relations between hostile nations isn’t all that dissimilar. Steering conversations in directions that favor your interests while making the other party believe they arrived there on their own is the name of the game. For eighteen years, you learned how to read people, guide outcomes, and keep your expression pleasant while doing it. Now, seated in the dim cantina, sipping on your ale, you intend to apply that education somewhere infinitely more entertaining.
Before anyone lets you touch a card, however, Peli insists on a demonstration. “Watch first,” she says, shuffling with surprising dexterity. “Then I take your money.”
Lisel, S’marack, and Peli play three practice hands while you observe from the sidelines, elbows propped on the table and chin resting lightly against your knuckles. At first glance, Sabacc seems simple. Lisel explains each phase, occasionally pausing to clarify a rule when Peli’s version becomes suspiciously self-serving.
“Funny,” Lisel mutters dryly after correcting her the third time. “That’s not how I remember it.”
Peli waves her off. “Details.”
You don’t focus on the cards; instead, you focus on them. Lisel plays with the assurance of someone who values consistency over spectacle. She explains as she goes, but there’s a precision beneath her patience that suggests she’s not nearly as forgiving as her tone implies. S’marack is quieter; he doesn't speak much, but you can tell he's just as dangerous a player. His feline face reveals little, but his tail is another matter entirely. It stiffens when his hand improves, slowly curls when he’s uncertain, and occasionally, there is a near-imperceptible twitch when someone else makes a move he doesn’t like.
Then there’s Peli. Peli, you realize almost immediately, is either a terrible gambler or an exceptional one. She grins when she’s bluffing. She grins when she has a strong hand. She grins when she’s actively losing and trying to make everyone else panic. Which means her smile tells you almost nothing, until you realize that isn’t where her tells are. No, Peli’s real giveaway is in the speed of her decisions. Fast when she wants control. Too fast when she’s bluffing. Slower when she actually has to think.
Meanwhile, the Child contributes absolutely nothing of strategic value and yet somehow remains central to the entire event. Perched in your lap or toddling dangerously close to the table edge, he watches every round with enormous dark eyes, ears twitching at every credit dropped into the pot. He tries to grab a green card twice, steals one bronze credit successfully, and at one point, slaps both hands onto the discard pile with such confidence that S’marack visibly startles.
“Hey!” Peli scoops him back before he can eat a card. “Behave, you whomp rat.” The Child coos innocently, as though accused unjustly. You hide your smile behind your hand.
By the second practice hand, the rules begin to make sense. Get close to zero. Know when to hold. Know when to take risks. Know when someone else is trying to manipulate you. By the third, the game itself matters less than the players. And you — you simply watch. You watch them interact with each other, how the banter stalls when they lock in, all three of them determined to win. Diplomacy had never really been about words, after all, it was about people. When Peli finally snaps the deck together and points at you with an expression full of challenge, you may not have played a single hand, but you already know exactly who you’re sitting across from.
“Alright, sweetpea,” she says, sliding the cards back to Lesil. “Now, let’s see what ya learned.”
Lisel deals a new hand. You glance down, and your pulse immediately quickens: a Sylop and a negative five. A strong start. Instead of reacting, though, you force a faint frown and the slightest downturn of your mouth. Let them underestimate you. Let them call it beginner’s luck later. The agreed buy-in is 1 bronze credit per player to keep the stakes low, bringing the starting pot to 200 credits. At your elbow, the Child peers up from where he’s been perched on the booth, tiny three-fingered hands gripping the edge as though this might somehow help him understand the game. His enormous ears twitch at the clink of credits hitting the table, dark eyes moving between each player with adorable intensity. Lisel places the deck in the center and flips the first discard face up. Positive five. A useful card.
Peli goes first. She studies her hand, then the table, and stands, choosing not to alter her cards. Your turn is next. You glance between your cards and the discard pile. Positive five could be valuable, but swapping it for your negative five would ruin your immediate pair potential. With a Sylop already in hand, flexibility matters more than forcing an early move. You stand. S'marack goes next, choosing to draw from the gain pile and discard another positive five. Lisel, last in turn order, junks, tossing her cards face up into the discard pile and forfeiting the hand. Now the betting starts. Peli immediately tosses in two bronze credits, doubling the buy-in. You glance at the corner of her mouth as it lifts. Either she's bluffing hard, or she likes what she's holding. You call, matching her bet. S'marack checks, declining to raise but staying in the game.
Round two begins with Peli standing again. That instantly catches your attention. The Child reaches one curious hand toward Peli’s cards. Without even looking away from the table, Peli gently nudges his hand back down. “Ah-ah, no cheatin', big ears.”
Twice now, she didn't play, and she confidently raised the bet. She must already be close to zero. On our move, keep your expression neutral and stand again, keeping your hand. S'marack draws one card from the deck. His tail twitches sharply before settling. Noted.
Again, Peli raises, adding another three bronze credits to the pot. You consider your options. Your hand still isn't zero, but one good draw could make it powerful. For now, you stay in and call. S'marack calls as well. In the final round, Peli stands again, and now you know she must have zero or a ranked hand. There is a Sylop in your hands, so the possibility of the second being in play is small, but not impossible. She is stone still, but that same satisfied smirk stays. You have a decision to make now: protect your hand or risk the draw. The odds are not in your favor. The Child, now firmly seated in your lap, blinks slowly at you, then at your cards.
"Whaddya think, buddy? Should I draw?" You ask him, not expecting to be met with any wisdom.
He babbles some nonsense back at you, but points to the gain pile. You weigh the consequences of his decision. You've sunk in 300 credits already, the pot is above a thousand credits now, but all things considered, that's not a monumental loss should your luck run dry. You pull from the draw pile. Your stomach drops. Positive five. Maybe this really is beginner's luck, you say to yourself. Instead of silently rejoicing, however, you slump in your seat and shake your head. Peli's smirk widens. She bought it. S'marack stands, confidence evident in the way he wraps his tail around the table leg, but you catch the tip thrashing.
The final round of betting begins when Peli raises hard. Six bronze credits. It's a bold fucking move, maybe way too bold, and you are suddenly understanding a lot more about this woman than you had before the game. You force yourself to hesitate, then match. S'marack calls too. That's it. Game over.
"Alright, buckos," Peli says, looking far too pleased with herself. "Let's see how bad ya lost."
Peli reveals her hand first: +10 and -10. Net zero. Now you know why she was so confident the entire time. It's not ranked, but it's still a very strong hand in the event of ties. S'marack lays down his hand: +8, -2, -6. Another unranked net zero. Then you reveal yours: Sylop, -5, +5.
Lisel's eyes widen. "Yee Haa? You got a Yee Haa on your first hand?"
"Yes, ma'am," you reply. "I do believe that means I win."
Peli's smug smile vanishes instantly, and S'marack's tail thumps against the chair.
"I—oh, you sneaky little bugger," Peli groans, slamming her palm against the table.
"Beginner's luck," S'marack mutters.
Lisel pushes the pot toward you, shaking her head in amusement.
"Yeah," you say with an innocent shrug, gathering your winnings. "Probably," You glance around the table, unable to hide your grin this time. "How about another hand?"
By the time you and Peli finally stumble out of the cantina and into the pleasantly cooler Tatooine night, the stars overhead have emerged as bright pinpricks in the sea of endless dark. The streets of Mos Eisley are quieter now, and your boots drag ever so slightly in the sand as the pleasant buzz of too many drinks settles warmly beneath your skin. Beside you, Peli is mid-rant.
“I'm tellin’ ya,” she slurs, jabbing an accusatory finger in your general direction while the other hand clutches the Child against her hip, “it is deeply offensive— deeply offensive— that some little smartass strolls into my cantina, learns Sabacc in under an hour, and then proceeds to rob me blind.”
You laugh. It's not the graceful laugh you learned to do around your parents' friends, or the flirty giggle you used with Cara the other night; it's an entirely undignified belly laugh that echoes around you. “Rob you blind?”
“Yes!” Peli stops walking altogether, scandalized. “You took like... a whole mess of credits.”
“That is an incredibly specific number," you say, teasingly.
“I'm too worked up to be doin’ math right now.” Peli begins walking again, her shorter legs working overtime to reach the hangar as quickly as possible. The Child, equally tipsy by proximity alone, lets out a sleepy little coo from where his head rests against her.
“Pretty sure you still won three hands," you remind her, poking at her side.
“Shoulda been more.” Peli squints at you with exaggerated suspicion. “You hustled me.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did.” The door of the hangar comes into view, and despite her playful anger, Peli lets you in first, following closely behind. “…It was kind of impressive, though.”
That earns her a triumphant smile. “Thank you.”
By the end of the night, the final count had become a running joke between your table and half the cantina. Lisel and S'marack with two wins, Peli with three, and you with four. Beginner’s luck, your ass. Your first hand alone — that glorious Yee-Haa — had earned you 1,500 credits from a total pot of 2,150. And while not every round reached that dramatic high, the pots stayed respectable, ranging between roughly 1,500 and 3,500 credits a hand as confidence, alcohol, and wounded pride steadily inflated everyone’s bets. Conservatively estimating your remaining three wins puts your total winnings for the night at approximately 8,800 credits. Even accounting for your own buy-ins, calls, and losses in the hands you didn’t win, you likely still walked away with well over 7,000 credits profit. For one night of cards, that’s not bad. Not bad at all.
Peli groans the moment you do the math out loud. “Seven thousand?!”
“Closer to eight, actually,” you say, correcting her.
“Oh, that’s downright disgusting.” She sets the Child into his pram. “I fed ya,” she mutters. “I taught ya. I welcomed ya into my home. And how'd ya repay me?”
“With exceptional skill?” you tease.
“With hyperlane robbery,” Peli shoots back.
You laugh hard enough that you nearly trip in the sand, and Peli catches your elbow before immediately pretending she only did it to keep you from falling on her.
“Unbelievable,” she grumbles, though she’s clearly fighting a smile now. “Absolutely unbelievable. I’m never teachin' pretty people card games again.”
“Sure you won’t.”
“No, I mean it this time,” she insists.
“You were all confident three hands ago," you say.
“That was before you financially ruined me.” The Child peeks up at you then, sleepy and smiley, one tiny hand reaching vaguely in your direction. “See?” Peli says, offended on principle alone. “Even he likes ya more, and I’m the one that carried em.”
You gently take his little hand, and his fingers curl instinctively around yours. The gesture is so soft, so trusting, that for a second even Peli quiets.
“…Alright,” she says at last, dramatically sighing into the desert night. “Fine. You can keep your blood money.”
“Generous.”
“But tomorrow?” She points at you again, swaying slightly. “You’re gonna regret that little show back there.”
“You sure you wanna risk another hand?” you ask.
“Damn right, sweetpea.” Peli drawls.
And beneath Tatooine’s starlit sky — tipsy, richer than you’d been hours earlier, and somehow already tangled in the strange little orbit of a mechanic, a bounty hunter’s mysterious child, and a life you never could’ve predicted — you realize, perhaps for the first time in a very long while, you're having fun.
"Peli..." Your voice comes out strained. You're covered in sweat, and a twinge in your lower back keeps worsening by the minute. "Peli, this is heavy."
"Hold on, hold on. I just... gotta tighten... this bolt..." She is hunched over and half under a large hull panel in the hold of the Crest. "There! Okay, you can put it down now."
You lower the durasteel panel back into place and rest your hands on your hips, breathing heavily. The two of you had been at it for hours, and finally, the fresher is installed.
Peli stands up and stretches her back out. "I'm gettin' to be too old for this."
From what you gathered after being here for a couple of days, Peli's reputation precedes her. When you stand back and look at the hold you can tell why. The fresher is barely distinguishable from the rest of the space. Its recessed design uses an empty space next to the ship's water reservoir, slotting in perfectly and taking up barely a foot of space in the hold. The fresher itself is more spacious than you originally anticipated; Mando would have no trouble fitting in with some room to spare.
She presses a button on the wall, and water immediately begins to flow from the showerhead. The water is slightly chilly, but it's better than nothing. She shuts off the water and watches it drain, checking for any needed adjustments. In the fresher bunk, there is also a sink and a small mirror. She even revamped the bulkhead, adding a sliding door for privacy.
“Damn, you thought of everything, huh?” you say, opening and closing the new bulkhead door with genuine reverence.
“No lady should have to relieve herself with the door open,” Peli says firmly, like this is both practical wisdom and a deeply held moral code.
You nod emphatically, still catching your breath as you stretch your aching back. “You know, I think that might be the smartest thing I've heard in years.”
“Please,” Peli scoffs, waving you off as she gathers her tools. “I say smart things all the time. People just ignore me ‘cause I’m small.”
At your feet, the Child tilts his head up at both of you from where he’s been sitting in a crate lined with old mechanic rags, ears twitching curiously as though trying to determine why two grown women are so emotional about plumbing.
You laugh, bending to scoop him up under his little arms. “Well, your dad is going to be thrilled.”
“Thrilled,” Peli repeats, snorting. “Yeah. That’s definitely the word I’d use for that shiny bucket head.”
You can’t help the grin that spreads. By the time you finally get to use the fresher yourself, the relief is nearly spiritual. Hot water would’ve been preferable, but after days of dust, sweat, and Tatooine grime, even the Crest’s slightly cold rinse feels luxurious. You take your time, scrubbing sand from your skin and trying not to think too hard about the fact that this may genuinely be one of the best showers you’ve had in years. When you emerge cleaner, looser, and significantly more human, Peli disappears into her own quarters to freshen up. By the time she finishes, the twin suns have started their slow descent, and what began as a productive day very quickly devolves into a terrible idea.
“We should celebrate,” Peli says.
You adjust the Child on your hip, already suspicious. “We celebrated yesterday."
"Doesn't mean we can't celebrate again."
“Peli," you say with a warning tone.
“Just a couple drinks.”
You narrow your eyes.
She grins. “Couple drinks and a couple hands.”
The cantina is somehow even louder tonight than the previous evening; packed shoulder-to-shoulder with drifters, traders, bounty guild hopefuls, mechanics, and beings whose professions are probably better left unasked. Music rattles the walls, someone’s losing an argument in Huttese near the bar, and the entire place smells like engine grease, ale, and bad decisions. So naturally, Peli is having a wonderful time the second you walk in.
What you don’t notice right away is that word travels fast in places like this. A few heads turn as you enter, then a few more. By the time you and Peli reach the corner booth she’s commandeered, a loose semicircle of patrons has drifted closer under the guise of ordering drinks, lingering near pillars, or suddenly developing strong opinions about table placement. None of them is subtle about it.
“Sit on the end,” Peli says, claiming the corner seat with all the confidence of a woman who has never once doubted she belongs exactly where she is. “Kid goes between us. Less chance of him wanderin’ off or gettin’ adopted by strangers.”
The Child, bundled safely beside you on the booth seat with a cup of water and a bowl of fruit, seems perfectly content to watch another hand of Sabacc. Every now and then, he gnaws thoughtfully on a piece of fruit while staring at the cards like he understands exactly what’s happening.
The circle closes as the first hand begins. Private bets are made amongst the onlookers, wagering on who will win, or more accurately, how many times you will win. You are, apparently, tonight’s entertainment.
Your opponents are strangers who were bold enough to risk the credits in their pockets to play a hand against you: a broad-shouldered human trader, a twitchy merchant with an atrocious poker face, and a Devaronian cargo hauler who takes one look at you and smiles like he’s already planning something reckless.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks as credits are anted into the pot. His voice is smooth, teasing. “Sabacc can be dangerous for pretty girls.”
Peli snorts so hard into her drink that she has to turn it into a cough to conceal it.
You lean back in the booth and offer him a sweet, almost flirtatious smile. “Good thing I’m far more dangerous than I look.”
The Devaronian’s grin widens. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Oh, I like him,” Peli mutters under her breath. “He’s got poor judgment.”
Around you, the crowd looks on, watching every move with intense fascination.
“That's the girl you were talking about?” someone whispers.
“Yeah, she cleaned out a few pockets last night,” another says, almost reverently.
“Shh—let her play.”
“Your confidence is cute,” the Devaronian continues as Peli’s deck is shuffled. “If I win, maybe you'll let me buy your next round?” He gestures toward your already half-empty pint.
“If you win,” you echo.
“Mm.” He taps his cards against the table. “And if you win?”
You smile slowly. “Then maybe you buy the next round anyway.”
Peli outright cackles. “Oh, sweetpea, he doesn't stand a chance.”
A few of the gathered patrons laugh under their breath at that, like they, too, are remembering how last night ended. The Devaronian—Gakei, apparently—takes the challenge beautifully. And unfortunately for him… he loses beautifully too. Over the next few hands, he flirts relentlessly. He compliments your smile, your bluffing, your hair, and eventually gets bold enough, despite his losing streak, to suggest a one-on-one hand.
The gathered crowd warns him, but it all falls on deaf ears as he pushes harder. You agree to the one-on-one hand, and after you bait him cleanly into overbetting, he presses a dramatic hand to his chest and groans, “I think I’m falling in love.”
A chorus of quiet reactions moves through the gathered patrons like wind through metal shutters.
“That’s it.”
“She’s doing it again.”
“Second night in a row…”
Even you have to admit… it’s fun. Harmless, easy, distracting fun. Which is probably why you don’t immediately notice the shift in atmosphere when a new figure walks through the cantina door. But Gakei does. His eyes flick past you, and his entire expression shifts into something between fascination and immediate concern.
“Oh,” he says, sitting up straighter.
The merchant follows his stare. “…Oh. That’s not ideal.”
Peli, unfortunately, starts laughing before you’ve even turned around.
And when you do, there he is.
Mando. Fresh off four days of absence, dust still clinging to his armor, cape trailing behind him, helmet reflecting the low amber light. He stands in the entrance like the physical embodiment of trouble, and because he is a Mandalorian, attention bends around him whether anyone means it to or not. Mando scans the cantina once—slowly and methodically—and when that black T-visor locks onto you, your stomach does something deeply inconvenient.
“Oh,” Gakei says again, this time sounding significantly more entertained. “You did not mention that.”
You don’t answer because Mando is already moving. And stars help you, somehow, the slow approach is worse than anything else he could've done. Each measured step toward your booth feels deliberate, controlled, like he’s not angry enough to cause a scene, but is absolutely angry enough to make one if necessary. Bodies shift to clear a corridor that isn’t asked for but is absolutely enforced by understanding. Tables are suddenly less crowded. Standing patrons find reasons to lean away from the centerline of his approach. Every booth he passes is now occupied by people pretending to drink while actively tracking him. Conversations resume in fragments, broken and thin, because nobody actually stopped paying attention. When he eventually stops at your table, the room is quiet enough that you can clearly hear the shuffle of feet as more people move out of his way, but they don't go far. Sure, nobody here is brave enough to stand between a Mandalorian and whatever he wants, but everyone here is absolutely brave enough to watch what happens next.
Peli immediately chooses survival. “Not my fault.”
Traitor.
You look up at him, suddenly very aware of the ale in your system and the fact that half the cantina is still pretending not to stare. “Mando.”
His visor lowers first to the Child— safe, seated, sticky with fruit juice— then to the ale in your hand. Then the cards. The credits. The strangers. Then back to you.
“You brought him in here.”
It isn’t a question.
You blink once. “I mean… yes?”
“He’s safe,” Peli says defensively, gesturing to his snacks like she’s presenting evidence at trial. “Safer than half these idiots, honestly.”
Mando ignores her entirely. “You’re drinking.”
“A little, yeah.”
“And gambling," he growls.
Peli, somehow still committed to sabotage, leans over. “She’s winning, too.”
“Peli, that's not helping,” you hiss.
“Right. Sorry.”
You sigh then, hoping to quickly diffuse the situation, and set your mug down with exaggerated innocence. “In my defense—”
“You do not have a defense.”
A couple of patrons actually ooh at that. The immediate laugh that escapes you probably doesn’t help either. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the embarrassment. Whatever it is, your irritation sparks fast. Mando steps closer. There’s nothing overtly aggressive about it, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath the calm. Protectiveness, irritation, and possessiveness are subtle enough that they go almost unnoticed. Almost.
Gakei glances between you and Mando with open delight. “…Who’s this?” he asks, then grins wickedly. “Your boyfriend?”
“No,” you say instantly.
“Yes,” Mando says at the exact same time.
The table erupts. Peli busts out laughing. The trader slaps the table. Even someone three booths over turns their head so hard they nearly fall off their stool.
Your head snaps toward Mando so fast it nearly hurts. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, this,” the merchant says gleefully, pointing between you both, “is way better than Sabacc.”
“You've been gone for four,” you point out, shoving off the table and onto your feet. “Peli and I have been working non-stop since you left. We just wanted to relax a bit."
“And you brought him with you," Mando says again, gesturing toward the Child with his helmet.
“He’s fine.”
“You’re drunk.”
You shake your head. “I am not drunk. I’ve barely had two drinks.” The defensiveness is clear in your voice; it's not like you're trying to hide it, though.
“Five,” Peli supplies.
“Peli!”
She raises both hands. “I am committed to honesty.”
Mando does that incredibly infuriating thing then, the head tilt, hand near his belt, slight cock of his hip thing that should look ridiculous but somehow triples his intimidation factor. “We’re leaving.”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than intended, but suddenly you’re too irritated to care. “No. I’m having fun. You were gone for four days, Mando. Was I supposed to sit in your ship indefinitely?”
“I left you somewhere you'd be safe. Why couldn't you just stay there?”
“Safe?” You gesture broadly to Mos Eisley. “That is an insane thing to say out loud.”
A nearby patron mutters, “She’s got a point.” Mando’s helmet turns slightly. The patron immediately finds somewhere else to be.
Gakei, apparently born without survival instincts, leans back in his chair and grins up at him. “Relax, shiny. She’s doing alright.”
Bad move.
“Shiny?” Peli whispers. “Oh, he’s dead.”
“I mean,” Gakei continues, because apparently today is his final day living, “if you’re not around, someone’s gotta keep her company.” His gaze flicks to you, smug and deliberately antagonistic. “Would’ve won her that next hand, too.”
“Actually,” you say through clenched teeth, “I was winning perfectly fine on my own.”
“See?” Gakei spreads his hands. “She doesn’t need you.”
Mando moves before anyone fully registers it. The crowd reacts a half-second late, chairs scraping, drinks pausing midair, attention snapping forward. One second, he’s standing there. The next, one gloved hand slams flat onto the table hard enough to rattle cards, credits, and drinks. He leans in. The room goes dead silent.
“You should stop talking.” The modulated calm in his voice is somehow more threatening than shouting.
Around you, the patrons are no longer pretending not to stare. They’re fully invested in the show the two of you are putting on, and the second you realize that, you shake yourself out of your frustration.
You inhale sharply, straighten, and smooth every visible crack in your expression. “We are not doing this here.” You snatch up your winnings and shove them into your satchel, reaching for the Child, but Gakei speaks again, his once antagonistic smile shifting into a mockery of disappointment.
“I guess I can call this a rain check on that date.”
You freeze. There was no date. There had never been a date. And judging by his tone, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Mando goes very still.
“Oh, you kriffing menace,” Peli breathes, sounding both horrified and delighted.
Before Mando can do whatever deeply brash, deeply masculine, deeply unnecessary thing his body language is screaming about, you move first.
“Nope.” You scoop the Child off the booth seat, tuck him securely against your hip, grab Mando sharply by the vambrace, and haul. He moves a half-step, but only because he allows it; you and everyone else in this bar know you're not strong enough to move him against his will. “We are absolutely not getting banned from this cantina," you say, tugging again.
Mando’s helmet tilts slightly toward you. There's a pause long enough to feel like he’s about to say something, but instead, he exhales through the modulator, then he moves with you.
Behind you, someone in the crowd murmurs, almost disappointed: “…That’s it?”
Peli laughs under her breath. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s worse.”
Mando doesn’t look back at the table. Doesn’t address Gakei. Doesn’t escalate anything further. But as he’s guided away, his voice comes low and even, measured enough that only you can really hear it: “We’re not done talking about this.”
You don’t even hesitate. “No,” you cut in sharply, tightening your grip on his vambrace as you keep walking. “You don’t get to say anything else. I will talk, and you will listen.”
Behind you, Peli is laughing so hard she can barely breathe. The trader and merchant are pounding on the table. Gakei, the idiot that he is, actually looks proud of himself. And the entire cantina watches as you physically drag a heavily armed Mandalorian out the door before his ego can escalate this into bloodshed.
It is, frankly, unnecessary, but you do not stop dragging him until you are back at the hangar. The second you’re inside, you round on him, still holding the Child, who blinks between you both with enormous eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” you hiss. He starts to respond, but you cut him off immediately with a raised hand. “No. Absolutely not. You had no right to cause a scene. What even possessed you to do that?”
The Child squirms, and you soften just enough to set him down. He toddles off toward Peli’s office, where even the mechanic droids seem to have wisely evacuated the blast zone.
“I get it,” you continue, turning back. “You were worried about him. Fine. But he was safe. Peli and I were watching him the whole time.”
“You were drinking.”
You let out a quick, humorless laugh. “Yes. We’ve already established that. And I was still perfectly capable of watching him. He was fine.”
“You don’t know what kind of people were in there.”
“No, Mando, I do. Regular people just trying to relax after a long day.” You start pacing, because standing still feels like it might actually kill you.
“Why were you gambling?”
“Oh, come off it,” you snap. “It was harmless fun.”
“Harmless fun?” His voice sharpens. “You call the way he was looking at you 'harmless fun'?”
You stop. "He? Mando, who are you taking ab—" It dawns on you rather suddenly. He's not concerned about the Child's safety. Not even your safety. It's about the Devaronian.
“Oh.” Your voice drops, dripping with disbelief. “So that’s what this is about.” You stop directly in front of him. “So what if he was flirting with me? I used it to my advantage, and it won me a couple credits. It’s called playing the game, Mando.” Your jaw tightens. “Got a problem?”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer nearly steals the breath from your lungs, but you’re too furious to unpack that.
“Well, frankly, I don’t give a shit what you think," you snap. "I deserve to have a little fun. I deserve to feel wanted. And I sure as hell do not need your approval.”
"I wasn't—"
"No, Mando," you interrupt, "that's exactly what this is. You don't have to spell it out for me to understand." You stare up into his visor unblinking, refusing to be the one to back down now. "I am damn near thirty years old; I can take care of myself. And you're sure as hell old enough to know better than to start some bullshit ass posturing competition just because someone flirted with me."
"He wasn't just flirting."
"Oh, for stars' sake—"
"He was pushing."
"And I was handling it. You saw what, all of five seconds of my entire night? Are you suddenly able to read minds? You know exactly what he was thinking?"
"I have an idea."
"No, you don't. You're making a bigger deal of this than you need to."
"He was testing your boundaries."
You let out a bitter laugh. "You mean your boundaries."
His silence lasts a half second too long. And there it is. The truth underneath it all.
Your eyes narrow. "Unbelievable."
"That's not what I said."
"No, you just implied it with all the subtlety of a fucking thermal detonator." You step closer, anger painting every word. "I had it handled, Mando. I was safe. The kid was safe. And maybe if you had taken a second to actually watch before you jumped to conclusions, you would've seen that." He tenses visibly, but you continue pushing. "You were gone for four days, and if it wasn't for Peli giving me shit to do, I would've gone crazy. So yeah, I got a bit tipsy, and I gambled, and I let some sleaze flirt with me, big whoop. I have been stuck on that sorry excuse for a ship for way too fucking long, and I wanted to let loose and have fun. What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you like some lovesick housewife?"
"That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?" you demand. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds a hell of a lot like you only care about me when someone else is paying attention."
"That's not true." It's almost whispered, hoarse and strangled like it cost him to say it.
"Oh, it isn't? This is exactly the way you acted the other night on Nevarro." You are positively seething, no longer caring about what you're saying. "You just couldn't stand that Cara was paying attention to me, treating me like a person who fucking matters, someone she wants to get to know, someone she likes to be around."
"That's not true." He says it firmer this time.
"Then why do you care so much?" you shout.
For one suspended, volatile second, he says nothing. You look away for a heartbeat before forcing your gaze back to him. The silence is harder to contend with than anything he could've said. You're furious now, not just at him, but at yourself for even expecting an answer.
"Right," you scoff, the sound sharp and wounded in ways you absolutely do not want to examine. "Exactly." The space between you— barely a foot— feels like it spans half the galaxy. "I don't know if it has occurred to you, Din, but you're not my father, and you certainly aren't my boyfriend. I can and will flirt with whoever I please, and there's nothing you can do about it."
You stand there for a moment, chest heaving with the force of your breaths. Mando's arms twitch like he means to reach for you, but you immediately step back.
“Don’t.”
The word comes out venomous enough to stop him cold. From the other room, the Child starts to fuss. And just like that, your rage fractures. You move instantly, retrieving him and gathering his tiny trembling body against your chest. His eyes are watery. Your heart breaks on contact.
“Oh, buddy…” Your voice softens. “I’m sorry. Me and your dad were just having a silly argument.” You rub his chest gently. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” Still whispering comforts, you carry him up the gangway.
And Mando… he stays exactly where he is; rooted to the spot like your words robbed him of the ability to move.
Din doesn’t know where it all went wrong. Doesn’t know when mild irritation turned into genuine anger. When concern shifted into jealousy. When jealousy became something far more revealing than he’s comfortable examining.
When he left for Mos Pelgo, things had actually seemed… better. Not dramatically so and certainly nowhere near perfect, but better. You’d talked before he left. A real conversation about why you were there, what he was hoping to find. You'd contributed your thoughts and promised to look after the Child. And when he left, you’d smiled at him. A small thing, probably meaningless, but he’d noticed it anyway. Lately, he’s been noticing everything.
He should know better. He promised himself after Nevarro that he'd be better. Instead, he let himself get caught up in emotions and let himself slip into a role he has no right to claim. Tonight was just another painful reminder of what he already knew. He’s not blind. You’re beautiful, competent, cunning, and entirely too good at weaponizing all of it when it suits you. People are going to notice that. It isn’t your fault if they act on it.
This strange, recurring flare of possessiveness is the manifestation of those realities. He tried to control you, to manipulate the outcome so it would end with you by his side. He succeeded, but at what cost? If Din is completely honest with himself, which he rarely is, he doesn’t know how to deal with it. Everything Din is, everything he lives and breathes, falls apart when he’s around you. His discipline shatters, his composure crumbles, and all that’s left is something dangerously close to need.
“You’re certainly not my boyfriend.”
The words replay unpleasantly. But it isn’t just the words, it’s the way you said them, and the way, in the middle of it all, you said his name. Din. That's not how it should've happened. He, perhaps foolishly, imagined it'd be whispered, cherished as a vow meant only for him, not like the acid-tipped blade it ended up being. His name is separate from his Creed. The armour and the moniker tie him to his people, but his name is simply his. A part of himself only a handful of people know, and fewer still who are alive to use it. The fact that you didn’t even seem aware you’d said it twists something painfully in his chest.
You were so angry. Angrier than he's seen you. The type of anger that strips everything else away until something private slips through. And yet again, it's because he misdirected his own anger away from himself and towards others, towards you.
He knows he has no claim. No right. No reason beyond poorly managed instinct and emotions, he still doesn’t fully understand. But hearing you reject the idea of him— hearing you push away what he so desperately wants to earn— hurts. The worst part is that he earned every word of it.
From the ship, he can hear your muffled voice soothing the Child, soft despite everything. Din stays where he is, helmet on, hands flexing once at his sides. He doesn’t have this figured out. Not even close. But if he doesn’t start being brutally honest with himself about that, he’s going to keep making the same mistake.
When Peli returns, she approaches slowly, like he is an animal cornered, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “I, uh… I think I heard more of that than I was supposed to.”
He exhales. Of course she did.
“A word of advice for ya,” she says, softer now. “A girl only gets that upset when she cares. I don’t know what’s goin’ on between you two, but you better fix it soon. She loves that kid,” she moves around to face him fully, “and she’s gonna stick around longer than she should for his sake. She’s got big aspirations, and she’s already been through enough. Don’t add to it.” Then she leaves, disappearing further into the hangar.
Din stays there a moment longer, but eventually he moves. Up the gangway. Into the hold. He needs to talk to you about Mos Pelgo, about the next destination, about what it means for the Child, but he knows none of that is happening tonight. Instead, he disarms himself with methodical precision. Removes his armor piece by piece like he’s trying to rebuild control through routine alone. When he finally lies down in his bunk, helmet beside him, one thought remains uncomfortably clear: he needs to apologize.
A/N:
Glossary:
Devaronian: a sentient species from the planet Devaron. They exhibit strong sexual dimorphism, with males typically bald and horned.
Hyperlane: Established routes through the galaxy that connect major worlds. Major hyperlanes include the Hydian Way and the Corellian Run.
Nano-putty: A reactive repair compound used to temporarily seal hull fractures, coolant leaks, and damaged conduits. Once activated by heat or electrical current, microscopic bonding lattices harden the putty into a pressure-resistant seal suitable for emergency starship repairs. (This is not canon, I made it up.)
Thermal detonator: also known as thermal charges or thermal devices, is a palm-sized, spherical device that is used as an extremely deadly explosive weapon.
Comments:
Reminder that I modeled the in-universe temperature measurements after Celsius. For all my Americans, 50 C is over 120 F, so really fucking hot
There are many animals in real life that have large ears that are used to regulate temperature, like fennec foxes and elephants. We don't know anything about where Grogu's species is from or even what the species is. The theory of evolution says they have large ears for a reason, and this is the reason I've decided on. If you're interested in the mechanics, I suggest you look it up; it's actually pretty interesting.
On Arvala-7, I imagine they had to "jerry-rig" a lot of things because coming across the real thing would be rare and expensive. It is canon that Kuiil is very handy, so his making a welder instead of buying one seems realistic.
The ale I envisioned them drinking is made from a mix of the few local plants that grow on Tatooine (none of them canon, but they only talk about that weird melon thing the Tusken Raiders drink from). I'm imagining a cactus-like plant that gives it the tart flavor I described, then a wheat-like grain used to make breads or dough, which gives it an earthy aftertaste. I am not a beer drinker (tastes like piss water to me), so if that is an odd way to describe the flavor, then sorry, not sorry ig.
So, to make a long story short, Sabacc is a terribly underexplained game canon to the SWU, but it's a mix of poker (Texas Hold'em) and Blackjack. There are like four different versions of the game you can play, so I took the rules from those and bastardized the betting conventions of poker to make my own version. I also simulated the game you see in the chapter in real life so what happens there is what happened when I played it. If you are confused (which you probably are), here are the rules I used to model the game in this chapter. Rules for Sabacc
Since there is no official conversion rate for New Republic Credits (NRC) to USD (Yes, I'm American). I made my own. 1 NRC is worth $0.25 USD (25 cents). So 7,000–8,800 credits = $1,750–$2,200 USD
Looking at the Razor Crest schematics, there really is no way to put an entire fresher in there, but I refuse to have anyone be stinky, so I made room. Logically, there is a mess of pipes and shit connecting the water reservoir to the bulkhead, and it is probably also cycled to cool the engines, so I figured, why not use it for the shower too? Water is also most likely recycled, so they don't have to worry about refilling the reservoir too often.
Look at that, Din's on his shit again. If I'm being super honest with you guys, this chapter really got away from me. The final version you just read is entirely different from what I originally planned, so the spice will be pushed back quite a bit. Don't fret, for I will not leave you guys high and dry. Din is, after all, a simp so he will definitely have some more desires to curb, and Reader might not be too far behind *wink wink*. But no, seriously, the way he acted in this chapter is ABSOLUTELY NOT OKAY, and if this at all mirrors a relationship you have in real life, you need to end it asap.
In the show, there are only a handful of people who know Din's name who aren't Mandalorians. That, combined with the fact that in his tribe, people use monikers or titles (and fandom conventions), helped me make the decision that Reader using Din's name would be a significant moment and a moment of recognition for him that he needs to get his shit together.
Next Chapter coming soon | ATOSAS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Chapter Summary:
"Even though I pushed you away and hated meeting you,
you were always by my side even when I didn’t ask
So don’t ever let go of my hand
Because I’m not letting go of you ever again
because, my beginning and my end, you are the one who’s going to witness it all"
- "First Love", BTS
Chapter Warnings: some slight teasing and embarrassment, but nothing too bad :)
WC: 3293
A/N: omg i actually updated when i said i would? unheard of. anyawy please enjoy this chapter. i really like how it turned out :p
Waking up the next morning, you’re met with an empty bed. When you finally make your way to the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed in athletic clothes, the lunch and note you’ve come to expect since your boyfriend moved in aren’t there. You pause, then sigh, moving on to make something for yourself. Outside, a steady drizzle taps against the windows, the sky as dreary as you feel. Regardless, you have to brave both the weather and the day ahead; the promise of a full schedule pushing you out of your apartment and toward work.
You walk slowly through the streets of Seoul; you can’t help but watch the bustling neighborhood you’ve lived in for years. The cafes and restaurants are gearing up for the midday rush, the corner stores and the local ajummas playing Go-Stop, or the salarymen grabbing an on-the-go lunch. Everyone lives entirely unique, separate lives coming together to enjoy the simple things. You used to feel like part of it. Now, you're not so sure.
By the time you arrive at the BigHit building, you’ve made up your mind. You’re going to have a good day. And any good day starts with coffee. The on-site café is a blessing. You order your usual and a croissant, settling into a corner table. You’ve got an hour before you’re expected anywhere. Perfect. You pull out your choreography notebook, slip in your earbuds, and queue up the song that’s been stuck in your head for weeks—something you first heard while on tour with Seventeen. The moves come quickly. No counts, or concrete structure, just feelings and impressions, emotions you want to convey through your body. You scribble them down in fragmented sentences, arrows, half-formed shapes. It’s messy, but it makes sense to you. You’re so immersed you don’t notice someone approach until a hand waves in front of your face.
“Oh shi—ah— Yoongi-ssi. I didn’t see you there!”
A sheepish smile crosses Yoongi’s face as he gestures vaguely. “I was calling your name.”
“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh, pulling out one earbud. “I was kind of in my own world.”
He glances at the seat across from you.
You straighten immediately. “Oh, please, sit.”
He does, setting his coffee down. “I thought Namjoon told you to speak casually with us.”
You grimace. “He did. It’s just… a lot to get used to.”
“You didn’t speak casually with Seventeen?” he asks, taking a sip.
“No, I did, I just—” You trail off, suddenly aware of the people around you.
He notices the shift in you, the sudden anxiety and apprehension. “Don’t worry about that,” he says. “I said you can speak casually, so speak casually. If anyone says anything, ignore it.”
There’s something oddly grounding about the way he says it. He's not dismissive, or cocky, just certain that everything will work out exactly as he said.
You blink, then nod. “Okay.”
You notice he is still in a heavy coat and beanie, probably having gone out for lunch in the cold rain. He looks very cozy, and you smile a bit to yourself at the thought.
Yoongi's gaze drifts to your notebook. “Did I interrupt something?” he asks. “You looked pretty focused.”
You glance down at the pages, then back up. “Not really. I was just working on something.”
“For us?” he asks lightly.
You huff a small laugh. “No. Not for this afternoon.”
“Mm.” He leans back slightly, but his eyes stay on the notebook. “What kind of piece is it?”
It’s a simple question, but something about it catches you off guard. “…Something for myself,” you say slowly. “I just started."
“What’s the song?”
You pull out one earbud and slide it across the table. He takes it without hesitation, leaning in slightly as you rewind a section and press play. For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. You watch the way his face changes as the song plays. his eyebrows furrow slightly, and he bites on the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart around too, likely envisioning the music in a way only a producer does.
“What genre are you going for?”
It’s the perfect question and sets you off immediately.
“Oh, um, kind of a mix,” you start, already reaching for your notebook again. “Contemporary and hip hop, with a little bit of tutting layered in.” You glance up briefly, then keep going. “Contemporary was the first style I ever trained in, so it’s what I naturally fall back on when I’m choreographing for myself. But I joined a hip hop crew when I was fifteen, so I stopped practicing it as much.”
You tap your pen lightly against the page. “This song—” you nod toward the phone, “—it's in this weird space where it’s soft, but the beat is still really grounded. So, I don’t want to go fully fluid or fully sharp.” You flip the notebook toward him, pointing to a messy cluster of notes. “I was thinking the verses stay more controlled—like restrained—and then the chorus opens up more like how the production does. It's fuller, fills more space in the mix than it does in the verses. I want to mirror that in my movement.” You pause, then add, almost to yourself. “And the tutting would be something extra. Like accents instead of full phrases.” Only then do you realize how much you’ve said. You glance up at him, sheepishly.
"Yeah," Yoongi says quietly.
"Yeah?"
He nods slightly, eyes dropping to your notes before flicking back up to you. "That all makes sense to me. You're following the music rather than the lyrics. I always like those dances best, but don't let Hobi know."
He chuckles, and you can't help but join in. You don't get a chance to talk about your choreographing process much, and it seems, despite the word vomit you just dumped on him, he's following you.
“Exactly!” you say, leaning forward. “And if you go back to—wait, I’ll just show you.” You rewind to the middle of the verse. “The whole verse is in minor, but the chorus begins with this really beautiful major chord. And the lyrics back that up, so even if I only focus on the instrumental, I’m still matching what the lyrics convey.”
Your hands start moving as you speak, sketching shapes in the air. “It’s tonicizing F♯ minor that entire time, but then at the start of the chorus he hits those octave E’s, and that’s the first major chord in the whole song.” You shake your head, a small laugh slipping out. “It sounds simple, but it’s actually super complex…” You pause. “…and I’m explaining music theory to a producer. You probably caught all that on the first listen.”
He quietly watches you. His eyes, those sharp, feline eyes, fixed on you in a way that makes it impossible to look away. Then, slowly, something softer settles over his expression.
"You know a lot about music." It's a simple declaration, but the way he says it, with surprise and admiration all rolled into one statement, you can't help but flush under the weight of it.
“Well… this is what I love. Music and dance. It’s—” you hesitate, searching for the right words. “It’s gotten me through the worst parts of my life. Moving here, not speaking the language, starting over…" Your fingers tighten around your pen. "It's everything to me."
"I know that feeling," he says. "There's nothing better in the world."
"Exactly," you breathe.
There is a lull between you. It's not heavy or awkward. You are just silently reflecting, enjoying the connection you've made together.
"You should show me when it's done."
The way he says it is so casual, like it's the natural course to take, but you look up at him, surprised. His eyes are so full of earnest curiosity, absolutely no expectation there, just the hope that you'll share the final product with him.
You nod once. "Of course."
You end up talking for longer than you expect. About everything and nothing. His feelings on the comeback, your impression of Korea. Home life, or the lack thereof, and homesickness for places you know aren't the same as how you left them. You're so engaged you don't even realize the time until an alarm blares from your phone.
“Oh shit—” you fumble for your phone. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
"The music show meeting?" he asks.
"Yeah, they want my input on set dressing and wardrobe for your comeback stages. Can't imagine why, but I'm happy to help."
“They asked you for a reason,” he cuts in, tone even. “We used to be part of those, but not anymore. If they brought you in, it’s because they think you have something to add.”
"Maybe so," you concede. You sling your bag over your shoulder, already half out of your seat. "Well, I'll see you later."
“Yeah.” He lifts a hand in a small wave. “Bye, Y/N.”
You smile, a faint warmth blooming in your chest. "Bye, Yoongi."
Thankfully, the comeback stage meeting is short. The marketing team already had a concept in mind, and it matched perfectly with what you envisioned: easy, laidback, effortlessly cool. You leave the meeting on a high, and you bring that into the dance practice. You walk in to see all seven members already stretching, taking up the entirety of the middle of the floor.
"Hello!" you say cheerily.
"Hi Y/N," they echo back.
"You guys ready to learn some choreo?"
Hoseok—or Hobi, as he insisted you call him yesterday—is the first to spring up. He all but jogs over and throws an arm around your shoulders. "Always! Which one are we doing today?"
You gently slip out of his grip, dropping your bag by the door. “I thought we’d start with Airplane Pt. 2. It’s the easier one, in my opinion.”
Jimin walks up beside you, mock offense written all over his face. “Don’t think we can handle one of your choreographies?”
"We'll see," you shoot back with a wink. "Let me get warmed up, and I can show it to you."
You join the rest of them on the floor and start stretching while explaining the concept.
“The song’s really cool, so I wanted to match that. The Latin influence gives it a really fun groove," you say. "The verses are pretty sparse—I left space for solo moments—so we’ll focus on the choruses today.”
"Did you notice the reference to my song in it?" Hobi asks.
“I did,” you nod. “How would you feel about choreographing your own part there? I wrote something, but I’d love for you to play with it.”
His face lights up immediately, and he does a little celebratory dance that makes you laugh.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
You push yourself to your feet, grab your phone, and connect it to the speakers. With a quick gesture, you motion for them to clear the space. The music starts on your cue, and you walk them through the verses.
“Jungkook, you open alone, seated,” you explain, walking through the staging. “I talked the props team into getting prop mics for the song. Jimin comes in here—takes it from you. Tae follows. Then we’ve got the Namjin moment before the verse… and then the chorus.”
You burst into action, letting the vibe take over completely. It's nowhere close to the hardest dance you've made; plenty of Seventeen's choreographies take that title, but the attitude is ultra specific, and you've spent countless hours perfecting it for this moment: the first look. You realize in the middle that they haven't seen you dance before, but you don't miss a single step, choosing to look where the wall meets the ceiling to avoid making eye contact.
Though you're out of breath by j-hopes verse, you explain the staging for some small group parts, and then the final chorus comes. The dance is different this time. You put more emphasis on large dynamic shifts through to the end of the song, and when the final note sounds, you are still working overtime to settle your beating heart.
No one's said anything in a minute. They all just look at you.
"So?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious. What if they don't like it? What if they are second-guessing hiring me? Why aren't they saying anything? Is it that bad?
"Wow"
You're not sure who says it because they all erupt into praise, speaking so fast you can't follow.
“That groove in the second chorus—genius,” Taehyung says.
“The part for my verse,” Hobi cuts in, “perfect. Don’t change it. I love it.”
“I thought you said this was the easy one,” Yoongi mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
You exhale, tension leaving your shoulders. “Alright,” you say, clapping once. “Before we start learning, a few rules. One: If I’m going too fast, tell me. Two: if I’m going too slow, same thing. I’ve been in too many practices that drag because no one speaks up.”
A few of them chuckle.
“Three: if something feels physically impossible, say it. I don’t know your limits yet, and you’re not miracle workers.”
“Don’t underestimate us,” Jin chimes in. “We might surprise you.”
You grin. “That’s what I’m hoping for, oppa.”
He laughs.
“Last few,” you continue. “Tell me how you’re feeling—sick, injured, frustrated, whatever. I want to know so I can adjust.” You pause, suddenly going serious. “And if you hate the choreography… keep it to yourself.” They freeze. Then your expression breaks into a grin. “I’m kidding. I’ll always adjust if something isn’t working.”
Relief spreads across their faces, and you laugh softly to yourself.
“Okay, last one. Most important.” You glance at each of them. “Have fun. If you’re having fun, the audience will too.”
You turn fully toward the mirror. “Let’s start with the first chorus. I teach formations and choreo together, so get into a pyramid. Jimin center. Second row—Jungkook right, Hobi left. Then Jin, Namjoon, Tae, and Yoongi, right to left.”
They take direction beautifully. You thought they applied corrections like pros, but they already learn impressively quickly. Just a few repetitions of the first part, and they are doing it independently.
“Alright—on the transition to Jungkook in center, we widen into a diamond.” You gesture them through the pathways. “Jungkook, you travel back, then immediately forward on the next move. Got it?”
He replies with a quick “Got it.”
You break the movement down piece by piece. "When you hit this one," you jump into a squatted position and swing your arms so one is outstretched in a point, and the other is in a tabletop across your body. "I want Jin, Jimin, Yoongi, and Hobi to face away from center. Tae and Namjoon, face inwards. Then you all move into a line filling into the windows on five, six, seven, eight, one. You'll stay here for the rest of the chorus."
They run through the second half over and over until they've got it. Then you cue the music, and they do the entire chorus. They stumble here and there, the formations and moves not clicking immediately, but you don't expect that. Actually, you are happy, really happy.
"You've got work to do, but it looks good so far, guys. How about a break?"
They all nod enthusiastically and break off for water. You sink down in the middle of the floor, watching as they gather around you again, one by one. For a while, no one says anything. It's just the sound of breathing and the occasional cap twisting open.
Jimin is the first to break the silence. “So, Y/N,” he starts, a mischievous glint already in his eyes. You brace yourself. “What’s your favorite Bangtan song?”
Well that's... not what you expected.
"Umm... that's a hard question," you admit. "I hadn't really listened to your music until I got the job. Just the hits."
"You're not ARMY?" Taehyung asks.
“No?” You hesitate, unsure if that’s the wrong answer. “I don’t listen to much K-pop, actually. I don’t think I could narrow it down to one song if I tried, though. You have a lot of good ones.”
“Okay,” Jimin says immediately. “Top five, then.”
You huff a small laugh. “Okay, well… my favorites to dance to are Danger and Run, easily. Those definitely make the list.” You pause, resting your chin on your hand as you think. “And then probably… Tomorrow and Dead Leaves. I’ve had those on repeat since I first heard them.”
Jimin and Taehyung both snort, quickly trying to cover it with coughs. Around the circle, the others aren’t much better: smiles, suppressed laughter, exchanged looks.
You frown. “What? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Jimin says, waving you off.
They keep laughing.
“Something is obviously funny. Did I say something wrong? Do you guys hate those songs?”
Namjoon, the saint he is, steps in. “No, it’s just…” His gaze flicks across the circle, landing briefly on Yoongi, who is very pointedly looking anywhere but you. “…those are all songs Yoongi Hyung wrote.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Heat floods your face as you drop your head into your hands. “Well, now I really don’t want to say my favorite song.”
“Ah, come on,” Hobi whines.
“Yeah, noona,” Jungkook nudges your arm. “Now you have to.”
The honorific goes completely unnoticed as you groan, pressing your hands tighter against your face. “No. I’m embarrassed.”
They keep pushing. It's all lighthearted teasing, you know they don't mean to embarrass you, but they also aren't ones to why away from the chance to tease.
“I think we should get back to practice,” Yoongi says, already starting to stand.
“Ah, Hyung,” Jimin follows, leaning into him with a grin. “Are you embarrassed? Y/N likes all your songs.”
You sigh, dropping your hands. “No, it’s fine. Just promise you’ll drop it after I say it. No teasing.”
It takes a moment, but eventually, even Jimin relents.
“My favorite song is First Love.” You’re already standing before anyone can react. You move quickly to your phone, scrubbing to the right timestamp, but the room feels different now. And despite yourself, you keep talking.
“It just… reminds me of my journey.” You hesitate, swallowing down the emotion rising in your throat. “If I hadn’t gotten this offer—to work with you guys—I probably would’ve moved back to the States.” You glance up briefly. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved working with Seventeen, but…” You shake your head. “I wasn’t happy anymore. I was just going through the motions, you know?”
A quiet, humorless laugh slips out. “When I got the call, everything changed. I didn’t even know if it was what I wanted until after I signed the contract.” You look away again.
Dancing—something that had defined you for more than half your life—had started to feel like an obligation. Like something you had to keep doing, not something you loved. But then you heard that song, and you realized you weren't alone in your feelings. Someone else, no matter how distant they felt at the time, knew how you were feeling, had felt it themselves, and came out the other side better for it.
“I don’t listen to it much,” you admit softly. “I can’t without crying. But… yeah. That’s my favorite BTS song.”
The room is quiet. You don't look up as you move back to the front of the room. But if you had, you would've seen Yoongi watching you with a muted kind of understanding in his eyes.
"Second chorus," you say, a little too quickly.
The music fills the room before anyone can say anything else.
A/N: This is the last chapter that I have drafted, so I have no idea when I will update next, but I still try to keep Thursdays dedicated to WDMS. If you want to be notified for when I do update please join my taglist (link in my pinned post). Also follow me on ao3 and tiktok for crossposted and extra content :p
Next Chapter coming soon(ish) | WDMS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Chapter Summary: Severus attempts to ignore the fact that you are quickly becoming Hogwarts’ favorite professor, and you tap into your penchant for mischief.
Chapter Warnings: none :)
WC: 2726
A/N: At this point, I'm gonna stop apologizing for taking so long to update. Just expect it at this point, lmao. I simply cannot force myself to write because if I do, then it's utter shit.
♪ Now playing: Mistaken for Strangers by The National ♪
It has only been one day, and Severus already knows this year will be long. He's successfully avoided you for the entirety of the first day of class, but that doesn't mean he's free from your influence. All day, he heard the students singing your praises, and he had no choice but to grin and bear it. And though his students might disagree, he thinks he did a good job. Shutting his mouth when the Hufflepuff second years came in raving about the cookies you'd made for them. Managing to stifle his scoff when a Ravenclaw called that rat you call a pet cute. Only taking a mere five points from Gryffindor when he caught them whispering about the stunt you pulled at the commencement ceremony, and just barely restraining himself from biting a Slytherin's head off when he heard them say they liked you, though from the look on their face, they might say otherwise.
It's safe to say that, although he hasn't seen you, you've made his day inexplicably worse. It'd be awe-inspiring if he weren't so pissed. So, after the last of the students filter out of his room, and the ever-present chill of the dungeons settles around him, Severus lets out a shuddering sigh. His temples throb, his eyes are far too dry, and he is more than content to spend the rest of the night down here, but a loud rumbling sound echoes around the room, emanating from his stomach.
"Just my luck," Severus grumbles, pushing away from his desk and stalking into the hallway.
Unfortunately, he knows he's expected at tonight’s dinner; all faculty are for the first month of classes—something about making the students feel welcome and making themselves more approachable, as if he wanted to appear as such—but he wants nothing more than to end his day without seeing you, and he knows that dream won't come true. It, in fact, shatters almost instantly.
The secondary entrance to the dungeons is for faculty only. It's closer to the Great Hall and, save for the occasional ghost, is almost always empty. So, when Snape crosses the hidden threshold and runs right into your back, he is less than pleased. And to your credit, even though you jump about six feet in the air, your wand is poised and at the ready within a second, pointed directly at his nose.
"If you are planning on attacking me, this is the place to do it. Doubt they'd find me before the night is through."
Surprise flashes across your face, and you scramble to tuck your wand back into its sheath. "You scared me," you rasp, catching the breath he unintentionally stole from you.
"Evidently."
A moment passes. The dim light from the torches in the stairwell cast harsh shadows across your face, yet your eyes seem to bore into him. He can't tell what you're thinking. If he wished, he could peer in and gain some insight into what this moment is, but he thinks twice. He'd already tried to use Legilimency on you, only to hit a wall. Not the blankness characteristic of Occlumency, but a kind of haze that made it hard to determine which thoughts were your own and which were his. And it's not like he can outright ask why that is. He can't risk you learning of his abilities.
When you clear your throat, Severus realizes that he's been staring far too intently at you. Then, he realizes he is standing far too close to you. Without speaking, he brushes past you and continues up the stairs. Soon, your soft steps follow behind him, and when he reaches the top, he speeds ahead.
The Great Hall is already full, and much to Severus' dismay, there are only two seats left at the faculty table. Maybe he can convince Trelawney to switch places with him, but he doesn't want to be stuck between her and Rubeus. He sighs. On the other side is Charity Burbage, and he doesn't think he can stomach the kind of idle chatter she tends to pull him into. He sighs again and walks up the aisle to take a seat. You sit down a moment later and immediately fall into casual conversation with Charity.
He tries not to eavesdrop, he really does, but you talk so loudly. You rant about some muggle music group he'd never heard of, and Charity eats it up— asking follow-up questions and inserting what he deems to be unrelated anecdotes of her time in the muggle world. When that rat crawls out of a pocket in your sweater and settles on the table in front of you, he murmurs a prayer for strength and finishes his food as quickly as he can.
The next morning, Severus resolves to check things off his to-do list. In Northern Scotland, summer is fleeting, so the beginning of September signals his last chance to gather potion ingredients before the fall flora takes over. A thick layer of fog covers the ground, but the path to the Forbidden Forest is clear. He ambles along, keeping a keen eye out for the plants he needs.
He rather enjoys this part of his job, wandering the grounds in search of ingredients. He knows he can buy all this at Diagon Alley or any other market, but the opportunity to find free, fresh greens is too practical to pass up.
A patch of knotgrass draws his attention, nestled between gnarled roots where the soil holds its moisture. He crouches, brushing aside a layer of moss to inspect the leaves. It's not perfect; the edges are beginning to dull, but it's still usable. He harvests only what he needs, leaving the rest undisturbed. Wasteful habits were for amateurs. Wild thyme creeps stubbornly along the ground a few paces ahead, its scent faint but distinct in the cool morning air. Severus pauses, crushes a sprig lightly between his fingers. The aroma releases at once, clean and grounding. It's of acceptable quality. He takes a small bundle and stores it carefully.
The further he walks, the denser the growth becomes. Moss carpets the earth in thick, springy layers, drinking in the damp. Ferns unfurl in soft spirals; their edges are still beaded with remnants of morning dew. The forest, even near its edge, carries a kind of subdued vitality, muted by the fog, but no less present. He notes a stand of fluxweed beginning to turn, its leaves curling faintly at the tips. It's too late in the season for it; something must have changed to allow it to hold on for this long. Maybe the soil quality, maybe an ambling magical creature has unknowingly bestowed its charms onto the plant. Either way, he frowns, committing the detail to memory as he collects what remains viable. The shift in seasons would come quickly now.
The soft, peaty soil clings stubbornly to his boots, each step accompanied by a faint pull as the ground resists letting go. By the end of his trek, the hem of his robes will be thoroughly coated. He ignores it. A breeze stirs, and it carries with it the scent of damp earth and distant pine. The fog shifts in response, thinning in some places, thickening in others, revealing brief glimpses deeper into the tree line before swallowing them again.
Severus' pace loses some of its urgency as he moves further from the castle. He observes the world around him. The air here is different. The way the light filters weakly through the canopy, fractured by leaves and mist. The subtle variations in green, in texture, in growth. Then, just as quickly, the moment passes. His posture straightens, attention narrowing as he steps closer to the clearing ahead. Where before the air had been alive, subtly breathing with life from the forest, here, it's still. The trees and undergrowth seem to bend subtly away from the clearing’s center, as though even nature itself has yielded the space. Sunlight pours through a break in the canopy with unnatural precision, illuminating one solitary patch of earth.
Immediately, Severus is on guard. Any number of magical creatures—both benevolent and malevolent—could provoke such a visceral reaction from the land around them. His mind leaps first to an Erkling—cunning, cruel, and wickedly mischievous. Small enough to remain hidden, clever enough to weaponize sound, and dangerous precisely because underestimating one could prove disastrous. Their shrill cackling had led many deeper into peril before. Or worse, a Wampus cat, perhaps returning to its den before daylight fully bathes the forest floor. Possessing both physical strength and magical prowess enough to make even experienced witches and wizards think twice. If one had chosen this clearing, Severus would already be trespassing.
He is well versed in all counter spells and charms he might need to protect himself, but without knowing, without seeing the creature, he'd be starting off with a disadvantage. His wand slips soundlessly into his hand, but he does not advance immediately. Instead, he listens. The clearing is not silent. Leaves rustle faintly overhead where the breeze still dares to touch the upper branches, but nearer the ground, nothing. No rustle of underbrush, no birdsong, no insects buzzing in the heather.
His dark eyes sweep methodically over the space before him, searching for displaced foliage, claw marks, disturbed soil, any sign of movement or territorial claim. The peaty earth near the clearing’s edge appears untouched, but upon closer look, the usual scatter of woodland debris is interrupted by a narrow path of flattened moss. Slowly, Severus steps forward, each movement deliberate, his wand arm poised and controlled. The damp ground muffles his approach, though every instinct prickles with the uncomfortable sensation of being watched.
A sharp yip cuts through the clearing. Not the shrill, malicious cackle of an Erkling or the guttural warning growl of a Wampus cat. The sound is lighter, almost playful. Before Severus can fully adjust, a streak of russet bursts from the underbrush. He pivots sharply, wand raised. The creature darts across the sunlit clearing with impossible speed, quick enough to cause a flicker of panic but messy, almost deliberately so, like the creature wants him to know it's there. Red-rust fur flashes between green and gold, a white-tipped tail vanishing behind a cluster of ferns before reappearing to his left. The grip on his wand tightens, and he settles into a defensive stance.
♪ Now playing: Holocene by Bon Iver ♪
Oh, this was too easy.
From beneath the shelter of the ferns, you pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder, amber eyes bright with mischief. He is tense. Not outwardly so. To the untrained eye, Severus Snape looks exactly as he always does—awkwardly rigid, like a man who refuses to allow himself more space than absolutely necessary. But you can see it in the precise angle of his wand arm, the taut line of his shoulders, the way his eyes cut through the clearing, suspicious of every movement, while remaining wholly unaware that it is you orchestrating all of this.
Honestly? It's a little infuriating. You had gone through considerable effort to make yourself obvious. Your paws barely disturb the moss as you dart left again, this time allowing your tail to flick just a fraction, lingering in his line of sight before vanishing behind the roots of an old pine. Dry leaves crunch beneath you, entirely by design. Surely, he's caught on by now. Subtlety had never been the intention. It simply wasn’t nearly as fun.
You hear him shift behind you, robes skirting softly against the brush. He makes his way toward you.
Good. For all his cutting remarks and perpetual scowling, there is something undeniably amusing about watching Hogwarts’ dour Potions Master stalk through the forest after a fox. Especially when he has no idea that said fox spent its time verbally sparing with him scarcely twenty-four hours ago.
A thrill—sharp and bright—skitters through you. You circle wider this time, keeping low, letting the morning fog weave through your fur as you move. The forest feels different in this form. Richer. Wilder. Every scent is sharper: damp peat, crushed thyme beneath Severus' boot, the faint metallic trace of potion ingredients clinging to his robes. And him. Lavender and smoke.
You skid to a stop behind a moss-covered stone, ears twitching. He's good. Annoyingly so. He hasn't lowered his wand, nor has he stumbled blindly into the clearing like some overeager first year. Every step he makes into the sunlit clearing is calculated and cautious. He's waiting for the creature—for you—to make the first move.
It takes some of the fun out of things, but only some. With a quiet chitter that is far too gleeful for a proper woodland creature, you spring forward again, close enough this time for him to catch a full glimpse. Your russet coat catches in the sunlight, ablaze beneath the fractured beams, before you bound past him in an arc that is more to taunt than escape.
Catch me, your movement seems to say. Or at least try.
You can practically feel his irritation simmering in the air around you, and if foxes could grin, you absolutely would. Instead, you do something arguably worse. You stop. Not far ahead, he stands in the center of the clearing now. Golden streams of light fall over him. At the crown of his head, his hair glows like a halo. The light casts shadows across his face, but unlike the dungeon torches, these do not deepen him into something severe and spectral. Strong nose and brows, deep-set eyes, and a prominent cupid's bow. A combination of features that, by all reasonable standards, should not work nearly so well together. And yet, here, beneath the rising sun, Severus Snape looks almost ethereal. Like an angel of death caught unaware of just how devastating he truly is.
Your ears relax, and your tail falls. You study him, and he studies you. For one suspended, utterly inconvenient moment, you forget this started as a game. The forest seems to hush around you, holding its breath in tandem with your own. He does not move. Wand still raised, shoulders squared, dark eyes fixed solely on you. Yet something has changed. Not softened, never that. Severus Snape may very well perish before he softens. But the sharpness in him has shifted, honed less by immediate suspicion and more by calculation. Curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition.
Merlin. That is significantly more dangerous. Your ears twitch once, then flatten. This is not how it was supposed to go. You had intended to tease him. Distract him. Perhaps lure him just far enough off his intended path to satisfy the petty, still-smoldering part of yourself that was determined not to forgive his particular brand of condescension. You had not intended to stop dead in a patch of sunlight and momentarily consider the inherent injustice of a man looking like that. Traitorous brain.
Another breeze stirs through the clearing, lifting the dark strands at his temples. His robes remain severe as ever, black against the gold-lit earth, but drawn unwillingly into morning, he is different. Beautiful, in the most inconvenient way possible.
Your tail flicks with uncertainty. No. Absolutely not. Boötes would mock you mercilessly.
His wand lowers slowly, not fully, but enough to betray him. His head tilts the slightest fraction, dark gaze narrowing, scrutinizing the scene before him. As though he, too, has realized that this encounter has veered unexpectedly off course.
"Well," he drawls at last, voice smooth as silk, "you are either remarkably bold... or remarkably foolish."
The sound of his voice snaps you cleanly back into place.
Right. Snape = insufferable.
Your ears perk, indignation flaring hot and immediate enough to burn away every inconvenient thought that came before it. You decide, quite suddenly, you're feeling particularly bold. With a sharp, offended chirr, you stamp one paw against the peat—not unlike an outraged little noblewoman from a period drama—and flick your tail with all the scandalized grandeur your current form can muster.
Then, because you are not above dramatics, you turn your back to him entirely, only to glance over your shoulder a heartbeat later before bounding off into the forest.
A/N: thanks for reading! as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated.
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Chapter Summary: Hangovers suck, even in a galaxy far, far away, but a certain tin can may have changed his tune.
Chapter Warnings: some arguing and din being thick-headed. pretty typical imo
WC: 2447
A/N: It seems to be a running theme that I let this fic sit in drafts for months before actually editing and updating. I'd love to say that won't happen again but we all know I'd be lying. Anyway, the end notes aren't going to be as in-depth as they usually are but I promise that I'll add my notes at some point soon. Pls enjoy this chapter :)
Waking up the next morning is harder than you anticipated. The weight the alcohol leaves in your limbs takes a while to wane and by the time you truly feel yourself again, you are trudging up the Crest's gangway, a full bag of supplies slung over your shoulder, and the evidence of the previous night's drinking painted across your face in dark bags and deep lines.
Mando—or Din as you learned the night before—doesn't comment on it but you know he notices. He stares at you from beneath his visor your entire ascent onto the ship; hip cocked, and arms crossed tightly at his chest. You make for your makeshift cot only to find it dismantled. The blankets and jackets are folded neatly and stacked on top of your travel chest. Before you get a chance to speak, Mando walks over to the starboard wall and presses a button you'd noticed but never imagined pressing. Around knee level, a seam in the hull plating gives way and though the interior is darkened, you can see what the hatch held clearly: a cot.
"I—" Mando starts, interrupting himself with a half cough. "It was filled with things before. I didn't think to clear it out for you."
You nod but don't thank him. While the sentiment is nice, you can't help but feel annoyed at his words. Didn't think, yeah, clearly not.
The receptacle that holds the cot is big enough for you to spread out and turn on your sides and stomach, other than that, it is terribly cramped. But it beats another night on the floor, especially after spending many hours passed out on a gloriously soft mattress at Cara's house.
Cara. She's such a charmer. You know it and she knows it, yet you couldn't, still can't, help blushing at the memories. Even as the silent warrior sits vigil in the pilot’s seat, couriering you across the galaxy again, this time to Tatooine. The journey is shorter by ten hours. He said he knew someone there who could put in a fresher. Though you weren't too keen on spending another four days in space, you knew better than to complain.
It isn't hard to get lost in your thoughts wraps in the expanse of space. There isn't much to look at, Mandalorian included, and all sounds are simultaneously enhanced and dulled on the ship. You sit in the passenger seat for hours, just thinking. You know you need to find a place to settle down. You aren't interested in inconveniencing the hunter any longer despite his lack of indication you are doing so. Maybe you can go back to Chandrila, find people you know, integrate back into society, but the thought sours as it forms. You no longer have a place there. You wouldn't know how to jump back into the superficial nature of the groups you used to walk among. Know you couldn't handle the questions and the suspicions if you reappear after nine years.
There's always Sorgan. Easy, predictable, reliable Sorgan. You know you'd be instantly accepted by the tribe you lived with for over a year. But could you accept them? Could you stomach a lifetime as monotonous as that on a krill farm? It wouldn't be much different from a moisture farm. Sure, the mild weather and the calming drizzles that grace the landscape throughout the year are preferable to the torrential downpours of Saltstorm, but it is just as isolated as Arvala-7. The trading post is a two-day trek from your old village, and the villagers don't dream of the stars or of distant worlds, just of bountiful harvests and the occasional festival.
You have the galaxy at your fingertips and a hunter who would be willing to take you wherever you wanted to go if you ask, so why would you ever return to an existence you'd already experienced?
"Mando?"
His moniker falls from your lips before you even fully form your question. He answers with a grunt and turns his head to look at you.
"How many planets have you been to?"
He fully turns now, and you are suddenly filled with embarrassment.
"Sorry, that was a stupid question. You've probably been to a lot. Just for-"
"Over 200."
You stare into his visor and nod. "Wow, and which were your favorites?"
He tilts his head as if thinking and sinks in the chair. You begin to heat up under his gaze, embarrassment mixing with something more instinctual, more primal. Even without having seen it, you know what he's capable of. Seeing his attention train on you triggers fight or flight, but as usual, you freeze. The moment stretches on and just as you think he is going to continue to stare, his modulated voice pierces the silence yet again.
"I've been to Endor. It's nice there. And Bespin. I get a lot of bounty work there. Mon Cala, too. Hutt Space is less nice, but I try not to stay long." An odd crackling huff comes from him, and it takes you a second to realize he made a joke... or well... attempted to. "Sorgan's nice. Reminds me of Endor."
You perk up. "You've been to Sorgan?"
"Yeah. Me and the kid were passing through." His voice takes on a solemn tone, like there is more to the story that he isn't willing to share.
You don't pry, instead you offer up your own story. "I lived there for a while, before Arvala. I liked it there." You can't help the way your face falls. Life there had been so easy.
“You want to go back?” Mando asks.
You shake your head. “No. I couldn’t. It’s a great place, but there’s nothing there. I’m tired of being so isolated.”
He nods once, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Wherever you want to go,” he says, voice low, steady, “I’ll take you.”
You blink at that. “Are you sure? Aren’t you supposed to be looking for the Child’s people?” You’d only caught pieces of his conversation with Karga, but it had been enough.
“I am. Got a lead. A Mandalorian in a nearby system.” His hand moves across the console, adjusting something without looking. “We have to stop first on RTK-111. Someone there has information. Then Tatooine.” He pauses and pulls his hands into his lap. “I want you to stay on the ship when we land.”
You frown. “What? Why?”
“It’s not safe.”
“I can handle myself," you shoot back.
“I know.” The answer comes immediately. Too fast.
Your frown deepens. “Then what’s the problem?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t look at you. “I don’t need distractions.”
You straighten. “Excuse me?”
He’s already turning back to the controls, fingers moving, attention shifting away like the conversation is finished.
“A distraction?” you repeat, firmer now. “That’s what I am to you?” He says nothing. Your jaw tightens. “Right. Got it.” You sit back, crossing your arms, the anger rising fast. “Don’t worry, I'll stay right here,” you add, voice cool now, edged. “Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
He doesn’t respond. Conversation over.
⋆˙⟡
Din doesn't know why he said it. Why was he so painfully honest about the reason he didn't want you to join him on RTK111? Because he couldn't bear seeing you strapped in weapons again. Because he doesn't know what he would do if he saw you use them. He wouldn't be able to hold himself back. His restraint is already pulled taut, straining at the edges and threatening to break. He can't risk it. But there is something else.
It should be simple. It was, at first. You were just another passenger. Another wayward traveler to added to his unconventional crew out of obligation. Kuiil's last request. But he notices you now. Where you are. What you're doing. When the weight of your situation forces you into silence and when the awkwardness of your relationship forces you to speak.
Throughout that conversation, he couldn't bring himself to say he wanted you to stay with him while he looks for the Child's people. Not out of obligation to Kuiil's dying wish, pure unadulterated selfishness. He wants to be able to look at you, talk to you, be near you whenever he can. The possessiveness reared its ugly head suddenly, but it hasn't waned since. He wants you here. Wants you to stay. Wants you.
But he could never say that. Surely you don't feel the same. Why would you? Not after how he's treated you. Not after how he assumes you were treated by Cara last night. The imagines he conjured up as he lay in bed set his feelings in stone. He doesn't want you to go back to Cara, doesn't want to give up what feel like is his. But he has no claim to you. You're not his, and he is not yours. He shuts it down. Pushes it aside like everything else.
Finish the job. Keep your head clear. Don’t let it get worse.
He repeats the words in his head like a mantra. Like, if he says them enough, it will work out exactly so. All the while, he keeps a keen ear out for you. The huffing breaths that accompanied your frustration slow, then eventually, even out, and he knows you're asleep. And he can relax because he knows you're safe. Wrapped in the cocoon of hyperspace, with your hunter next to you.
Din was right to ask you to stay on the ship. The information exchange didn't go as smoothly as he'd hoped. Mandalorians are rare, rare enough that people are willing to do anything to get a hand on the beskar armour. Thankfully, the kid is safe and, as always, Din came out on top.
When he gets back on the sip, you haven't moved an inch. You were still asleep when he landed but it seems you've woken up since. You make a snide comment about not wanting to distract him while he climbed up the ladder in case he misses a step. It seems sleep didn't dull the ache of his comment.
He silently charts course for Tatooine then returns to the hold, where the Kid is sitting in his pram. He whines when Din goes to pick him up and pulls away.
"What?"
Din reaches again but the child wiggles out of his way.
"What is it?"
The Child looks toward the ladder.
Oh. Alright.
"She doesn't want to see me right now."
The Child cries out.
"Okay, fine."
When he reaches for the kid this time, he lets Din pick him up. He scales the ladder carefully and announces his presence in the cockpit by knocking against the metal hull. You don't turn around.
"The kid wanted to come see you. I'll just leave him here."
He approaches slowly, like you are some cornered animal poised to attack at any sudden movement. The Child reaches for you and your hardened stare softens into fondness, and Din's heart clenches. But just as he goes to turn away, your voice breaks through the silence.
"You can stay here. If you'd like."
He stills mid step, but he knows better than to question you. He redirects and sits in the pilot's chair, facing you. He watches how you interact with the child. Softly patting his head with your other arm secured around his tiny body. You speak to him in hushed tones, asking how he slept, if he enjoyed being on Nevarro. Even though he cannot speak, he babbles and coos in response. The two of you having a conversation in two different languages.
"Tell me again how you learned Mando'a." Din says.
You don't look up at him, but he catches the steading inhale you take.
"Mostly through translated Senate transcripts and trade logs. I also found some songs and poems as well. The Hall of Justice has archives that we used in our studies. That's where I found them."
"Why?"
It's a loaded question despite its brevity. You'd already explained your fascination for his people, his culture, but he's met plenty of people who shared a similar curiosity for Mandalorians, but none that ever went to such lengths to learn.
"There's not much information about Mandalorians, but what information there is is about your conquests. The warrior race that conquered large swaths of the galaxy through military might and cunning. But you can learn infinitely more about a culture through its language," you adjust the child in your arms so he is facing Din now. His large eyes blink slowly, sleep ready to take him.
"Lots of the texts we read for school portrayed war and weaponry as a means to an end. The religious aspect secondary to military development, a reason to justify the brutality. But looking at the oldest literature it's clear that they developed simultaneously."
The way your face morphs through emotions is captivating. Din hangs onto every word, seeing and hearing the passion.
"It's clear they viewed war as sacred. Growing old enough to fight a coming-of-age ritual, even in the more progressive sects. There's not much about your group. All the Mandalorians in the holos show their faces, but your armor is your religion. It's not too dissimilar from how Jedi used to live. The all or nothing mentality."
"Is that—it's not weird to you?" Din asks.
"Why would it be? Who am I to judge the way you choose to embrace your culture?"
And in that moment, Din realizes he is screwed. He is no stranger to affairs of the body; lust and desire aren't foreign, and he's been known to indulge. But every one of his partners, male or female, human or otherwise, have questioned him. Their own lust and desire clouding their minds and demanding things of him he couldn't, wouldn't give them. Now he knows you wouldn't do that. And he lets the dangerous hope take root.
"Are you religious?" he asks instead.
"No. Chandrilla doesn't have any lasting traditions apart from political ones and I was too busy in school to participate in any of the festivals on Alderaan."
"Are you opposed to it?"
He can see the gears turning in your head, earnestly pondering his question.
"I don't think so. I don't know if I'd ever believe in a higher power, but I can see the appeal of having a belief system that brings comfort."
The conversation ends there. The Child sleeps soundly in your arms and you stare out the viewport. Din doesn't turn away, but he does cross his arms across his chest and let's his head rest against his chest and falls asleep.
A/N: again, i will add my notes when i can. theres actually a lot of research and thought that goes into some of the lore related decisions i make and i want to involve you all in that so i will get those notes added soon(ish).
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Chapter Summary:
"Let me know
Though I know that everything is already over
So that my feeling doesn’t linger on"
- "Let Me Know", BTS
Chapter Warnings: toxic/manipulative relationship dynamics, elements of coercion
if those are triggering topics for you please read with caution
WC: 3194
A/N: as promised chapter 4 :) only a few days late
Studio B is empty when you arrive. For a moment, you just stand in the doorway. The mirrors stretch wall to wall, reflecting the harsh overhead lights and the polished floor beneath your feet. Speakers hang from each corner, and the walls are so white you suspect someone comes in to clean them before BTS arrives each day. As far as practice rooms go, it’s rather plain looking, but you suspect that it’s designed to let the artistry speak for itself.
You step inside and let the door shut behind you. Your bag drops onto one of the benches lining the wall, and you shrug off your coat and roll your sleeves. You'd abandoned the blouse and slacks for a long-sleeve tee and sweats with high-top Converse after lunch and are feeling much more comfortable in this attire. It's 1:15, so you have time before practice is scheduled to start. You find a suitable place along the wall and begin stretching.
Many would call your warmup routine excessive. You would call it smart. You’ve seen too many dancers get injured from skipping it. You start with your arms, gently working the muscles until they loosen. Then, you move to your core, careful not to push too far as you reach and tilt. The slow rush of endorphins settles your nerves. By the time you move on to your legs, any lingering anxiety has melted. You fold forward, nose brushing your knees. The burn is glorious. You widen your stance to deepen the stretch. Right then, the door swings open. All seven members of BTS walk in, chatting. You try not to startle as it’s clear they haven’t seen you. You shift onto the ground and flatten your chest to the floor.
“Good afternoon!” you greet, eyeing a few of them in the mirror.
j-hope jumps around with his hand to his heart. “Ah! You scared me!”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you cover your mouth. “I’m sorry—I thought you saw me.”
Jimin and V immediately start teasing him, nudging him back and forth while the others settle onto the floor to stretch. You stay where you are. You aren't quite sure what your place is here yet. Yes, you are their instructor, but you are new as well. This is their home, their turf, and you've yet to prove yourself. So, when they begin to look at you expectantly, you scramble to start a conversation.
"How was your day?"
Lame...so utterly lame. But no one bats an eye; in fact, they talk over each other to answer your question.
"So boring," Jimin whines.
"Too many meetings," V agrees.
"I wish I had time for lunch," Jin adds.
"What? You didn't eat lunch, Jin-ssi?"
"Unfortunately, not. Also, just Jin. Or 'oppa'," he winks.
Heat rises to your face before you can stop it, and you hide it behind your hands.
"Hyung! Don't tease her like that!" RM comes to your defense. "Please don't feel like you have to call any of us that. Just our names are fine."
“It’s okay,” you say, lowering your hands. “I’ve lived in Korea for three years now. That’s one thing I haven’t gotten used to. The only person I call ‘oppa’ is my boyfriend.”
You shift back into your stretch, missing the way the room stills. It’s subtle. A few of them go quiet. Someone shifts. And near the wall, the only one who hasn’t said much since walking in goes still—just for a second—before resuming his stretch as if nothing happened. Someone clears their throat.
Namjoon’s voice comes a moment later, just a touch too quick. “Right—well, like I said, just our names are fine. Speak casually to us, we'll be seeing a lot of each other.”
"Then you can all use mine," you shoot him a smile, then stand.
Just before the clock hits 1:30, the door opens.
Kang Hyunsik steps in, announcing himself with a sharp clap.
“Alright, ladies. Let’s begin, shall we?” His gaze lands on you. “Y/N, up front. I move fast, so keep up.” You step forward. “We’ll start with Fake Love.”
You watch the members take their places. From what Hyunsik told you, the title track is fast-paced and technical. You settle front and center, giving yourself the best view. The music starts. You take everything in. The opening is slow and controlled, almost delicate. Flowing movements form careful shapes that frame the vocalist. The first chorus is explosive. You bite back a gasp at the sudden burst of movement. You’re not unfamiliar with Hyunsik’s style. He builds choreography around everything—the lyrics, the vocal line, the instrumentals. It’s the kind of immersive storytelling that, although you'd never admit it, you’ve borrowed for your own work. The second chorus hits. This time, you don’t try to suppress your reaction. The precision is undeniable. Every movement is intentional. Each transition is clean, but not perfect.
The music stops abruptly at Namjoon's verse. They halt in place. Then, Hyunsik turns to you. "Comments?"
And again, all eyes are on you. You expected this. Still, the weight of it presses in for half a second before you push it aside. You run through your mental checklist, deciding where to begin.
"The static pictures are the biggest part of this dance." You glance between them, making sure you have their attention. "You need to hit them, then be absolutely still, otherwise you pull focus. The opening sequence is good, but Namjoon," you look at him, "make sure you fully settle into your position before transitioning. You’re moving too quickly out of it.” He nods, and you move on to the next comment.
"Going into the refrain—Hoseok, you travel farther than anyone else in two counts.” You gesture lightly. "You have long legs, use them to get there in time." Your gaze shifts. “Jungkook. Yoongi. Give him space. It’s a tight formation, but you’re crowding the pathway.”
You don’t wait for confirmation. You stand, turning toward the mirror. “When you hit this in Jin’s part—” you demonstrate, folding forward and marking the movement with the beat, “your levels need to match.” You straighten slightly. “Namjoon. Jimin. You’re rising too early.”
You've hit your stride now, and all hesitation is gone. No member escapes your critical eye. Each mistake you correct, sparing no detail.
"Really milk the slow, flowy movements and the quick direction changes between them. The dynamics are what make this dance so take advantage of those moments." You pause. "Other than that, I'm impressed."
The room falls silent for a moment, and you look to Hyunsik. He’s watching you. His expression is unreadable at first, then slowly shifts into approval.
“I like her,” Jung Hoseok says suddenly, breaking the tension with a grin.
A few of the others laugh, murmuring their agreement.
Hyunsik huffs a quiet laugh. “Y/N, I’m impressed. You hit everything I would’ve said.” He tilts his head slightly. “You sure this is your first time seeing it?”
You brush off his compliment. "Watching seven people dance is easier than thirteen. I've learned to see with multiple pairs of eyes."
"Evidently so," he mutters. "Well, let's pick up from RM's part then."
The rest of the rehearsal goes off without a hitch. Corrections are made, spacing is adjusted, and timing is tightened. By the time they finish Fake Love, it's cleaner—nearly performance-ready. Transitioning to Mic Drop, they are just as, if not more, impressive. Their enjoyment shows in changing expressions and confident movements. When they hit the final pose, you clap without thinking, and a few of them laugh, slightly out of breath.
“Good,” you say simply. And you mean it.
The practice winds down after that. The boys take greedy sips from their water bottles, and conversation slowly returns. You step back toward your bag, rolling your shoulders once, feeling the lingering adrenaline settle.
Your phone buzzes, and you glance down. The name on the screen makes your chest tighten slightly. Choi Seungcheol. For a second, you hesitate. Then you answer.
“Hey—”
“Cheol.” His voice is familiar and grounding, and you are surprised by how happy you are to hear from him.
“How’d your first day go?”
You glance up without thinking. Across the room, a few of the members are still gathering their things. One of them pauses, and you make eye contact before he looks away again. You turn, putting your back to the room.
“Not done yet. I've been pretty busy all day." You say. "It's been good, though."
“Yeah?” he replies. “You like it there?”
You hesitate. Just for a second. “…Yeah. I do.”
He pauses, and you can hear some sort of commotion behind him. The sound of yelling comes through the phone's speaker, and you can clearly hear Seungcheol scold someone.
“Good,” he says finally.
You nod to yourself, even though he can’t see it, and turn to face the room again. It's almost empty now, just a few members left. “Yeah.”
"So...how good are they?" Cheol's voice carries a hint of a laugh, as if he already knows the answer.
"Really good, like, insanely good." You smile faintly. "They listen well, too," you continue. "I didn't even have to scold anyone."
Cheol laughs out loud now, and you join him, a breathy laugh falling from your lips.
“That’s good,” he says.
You hum in agreement, then pace along the room’s edge. “How’s practice?” you ask. “Are you getting ready for the next tour?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Same as always. Long hours.”
You can picture it. The studio. The mirrors. The way he’d be standing slightly off-center, watching everyone else before stepping in.
“Are you overworking yourself?” you ask without thinking.
A small scoff. “Says you.”
You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Silence settles between you, not uncomfortable, just… full.
“You sound different.”
You pause mid-step.
“What?”
“Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “Just, I don’t know. Lighter, maybe.”
Your grip on your phone tightens slightly. “Is that a good thing?”
"That remains to be seen."
You scoff. "Cheol-ah. Don't start with that," you say lightly. "You know I'm your number one fan."
“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs.
There's a pause. Long and filled with tension. Behind you, laughter breaks out—loud, unrestrained. You don’t turn, but you can feel the shift in the room as they begin to head out.
“Guess we won’t be seeing you much,” he says.
The words are casual, but they land heavier than they should because you know what he's really saying.
You stop walking. “Cheol, that's not fair.” It slips out before you can stop it. There’s a beat of silence on the other end.
“No, I get it," he says quietly. “You’re busy.”
“That’s not—” you start, then falter. “It's just—I just started. Give me some time to settle in.”
“I know,” he repeats. And he does. That’s what makes it worse.
You swallow. “I’ll still be around,” you say, softer now. “Just… not like before.”
Another pause.
“I know,” he says again. But this one doesn’t sound the same.
“Hey.” His voice shifts into something lighter, but only just. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
You nod, then realize he can’t see it. “I will.”
“And don’t skip meals,” he adds. “You get cranky.”
A small laugh escapes you despite everything. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I eat,” he protests weakly.
“Liar.”
“Alright, fine,” he admits. “Sometimes.”
You shake your head, smiling faintly.
“Text me when you get home,” he says.
“I will.”
Another pause. Neither of you hangs up. Not yet. Then—
“Bye, Cheol.”
“…Bye, Y/N.”
The line clicks dead. You lower the phone slowly. For a moment, you just stand there. Then you tuck it away, grab your bag, and head out, shoulders squared, and expression composed. The walk to the breakroom is long, and you pass the members on the way. The weight of a long day at a new job pulls at you in odd ways. You haven't had to start over in a while, and the conversation with Seungcheol only adds to that weight. But you push all that aside when you walk into the room and see a few backup dancers eating dinner, because you don’t have time to unpack that. Not now. Not when you have another rehearsal in a few hours. Not when you have to preserve your headspace and appear professional, because, after all, that's what you are.
He shouldn't have been listening. He knows that. But it wasn't like you made it easy not to. Yoongi lingers near the back of the pack, slower than the others as he gathers his things. You'd walked away, lowered your voice, turned your back. to the room like that alone would keep the phone call private. It didn't. Cheol. The name sticks out of the texture. The cadence and tone were too familiar for him not to notice.
They all file out of the studio together, and the energy is looser because the day's schedules are over. No one brings it up immediately, but he can feel the shared awareness. The topic of conversation stays on dinner plans, and Yoongi half-listens, half-participates, but his thoughts keep drifting, and he refuses to go beyond that, beyond the silent questioning. Until Jimin obnoxiously clears his throat.
“So,” he starts, eyes already gleaming with curiosity, “who’s Cheol?”
A few of them laugh.
“Drop it,” Yoongi mutters.
“What?” Jimin shrugs. “She said it like five times.”
“Were you counting?” Taehyung teases.
“Just curious." Jimin defends.
“It’s obviously her boyfriend,” Jin says. “She literally said she has one.”
“Yeah, but Cheol?” Jimin presses, thoughtful now.
“Oh.” They look toward Namjoon. He exhales lightly. “…Seungcheol.”
“From Seventeen?” Jungkook asks.
“That’s the only one I know,” Namjoon replies.
Jimin’s grin spreads slowly. “No way.”
“That would make sense,” Jin adds. “She said she’s worked with them since debut.”
“And the way she said it,” Taehyung says. “So familiar.”
“‘Cheol-ah,’” Jimin repeats, clearly entertained.
“Don’t,” Hoseok giggles, shoving him.
Yoongi stays quiet, hands slipping into his pockets—something to ground himself against the sudden, unwelcome edge of irritation.
“If it is him,” Namjoon continues, “they’re definitely not public about it.”
“Yeah,” Jin agrees. “No one in our position would be.”
“Especially not him,” Taehyung adds. “Leader, too? That’d be messy.”
Jimin hums. “Secret relationship, then.”
“Has to be,” Jungkook says.
It makes sense. Too much sense. Same company. Same number of years in the industry. The kind of long history that's bound to breed familiarity. The way you said his name like it was more than a title to you.
Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Whatever,” he mutters.
Yoongi shrugs, expression flat. “S'not my business.” And he hopes that's the end of it.
Jimin tilts his head, studying him. “Didn’t you say she was pretty earlier, hyung?”
Hoseok chokes on air. “He did?”
“I said she looks put together,” Yoongi replies too quickly.
Jimin’s grin widens. “That’s not what I heard.”
Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Then you heard wrong.”
“Mm,” Jimin hums, unconvinced.
They step outside, and the cold air cuts through the lingering heat in his body. Thankfully, the conversation drifts back to easier topics—food, schedules, complaints. But Yoongi replays the scene again. The way you turned away, lowered your voice like you were trying to keep it from them. His jaw tightens slightly. It makes sense. If you are dating an idol, it's only natural that you'd want to keep it quiet. That’s all, he tells himself, nothing more.
"Holy fuck!"
Those two words sum up your feelings as you walk into your apartment after your first day. You toe off your shoes, letting them fall where they may, and dump your bag and coat on the entryway floor. The purple bunny slippers waiting for you are a welcome relief, soft against your aching feet. The smell of food pulls you toward the kitchen, where your boyfriend stands over the stove in a baby blue apron.
"Hi Oppa! What smells so good?" You walk up behind him and snake your arms around his waist. You bury your nose in his back and breathe in his familiar smell, clean linen, and expensive cologne.
"Kimchi jjigae and seafood pancakes," he says. "I know you probably already ate, so you can take it for lunch tomorrow if you want."
You hum your answer into his back, nuzzling the fabric of his t-shirt.
"Baby, I don't understand mumbles."
"Mmhungry."
Minjoon chuckles, stepping away from the stove and forcing you to shuffle with him, still clinging. He grabs a bowl and a plate from the cupboard and sets them on the counter. The stove clicks off as he serves your food. You stay wrapped around him like a koala as he leads you to the table, setting everything down before gently prying you off.
“Sit. Eat. I’ll draw you a bath.”
The food is, as always, amazing. Comforting and filling in every way you need it to be. By the time Minjoon returns, you’re leaning back in your chair, hand resting over your stomach, full and content. He moves around the kitchen, cleaning up, while you slip into the bathroom and undress. The sudsy water and the perfect temperature to soothe your muscles and your worries. You don’t know how long you stay there. Eventually, Minjoon comes back with a towel and a change of clothes. He helps you dry off, hands gentle, before guiding you into your pajamas.
Your bed greets you like an old friend. You settle under the covers, ready to let sleep take you. Minjoon joins you a moment later, settling close. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you into him.
“How was your day?” he asks, lips brushing along your shoulder, your neck.
"It was really good, actually. I—" you cut yourself off, worried that the words you utter next will set off some sort of cosmic chain reaction or butterfly effect, but you press on. "I think I'm gonna really like it there."
Minjoon hums. "That's good."
His kisses deepen, get slower, more deliberate. Every few presses of his lips turn into bites and licks. His hand shifts from your waist to your hip, fingers pressing into the soft skin there. "You tired?"
You know what he's asking. "Very," you whisper.
His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing lightly. His hand drifts, fingertips tracing higher along your thigh. "Really?"
“Oppa,” you say softly, catching his wrist before it can go any further. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He doesn’t stop right away. "Let me help you relax," he presses, voice quieter now. His fingers pause, but his mouth doesn’t—another firmer bite against your skin.
“Minjoon,” you say, more clearly this time. “Not tonight.”
He stills. You feel the inhale, then the slow exhale against your shoulder.
“Okay.”
The word is flat. He pulls away, rolling onto his side, back to you, shifting toward the edge of the bed. He stays there all night. And the space between you—barely a few inches—feels like miles.
A/N: as this fic goes on there will be more depictions of toxic relationship dynamics. please keep yourself safe.
Next Chapter coming 4/30 | WDMS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Chapter Summary:
"Even from where I stand, I make it move, make it mine, make it right
It becomes someone’s favorite song again
That’s the second half of my life, the reason of my life, and the joy of my life
With that as a driving force, I carry on"
- "MORE", j-hope
Chapter Warnings: none :)
WC: 1518
A/N: heh...heh... this chapter was supposed to be up over a week ago. things got really busy in my life so i couldn't find the time to edit and title this chapter. but! enjoy a double update as my penance
The next morning, your boyfriend Minjoon sends you off with a kiss and well wishes. He's off to his own job at a law firm but he still takes the time to pack your lunch while you get ready, complete with your favorite fruit and a note to read later. You bid your cats good-bye and then prepare to brave the weather. A blanket of snow fell over-night, but you decide to walk regardless. Your nerves are running rampant, and the icy air helps to calm them.
The BigHit building looms in the distance, and you fight against the urge to turn back, say fuck it all, and return to what's comfortable, what's familiar. But you surge forward. In the onboarding email, Minji from HR let you know that despite the first half of the day being reserved to filling out the last of the paperwork, it was okay to dress for your rehearsal later. Still, you opted for slacks and a blouse, hoping you'll get a chance to change before you're expected to meet the members.
The lobby is as cold of a reception as it was the first time but now the receptionist looks at you with a hint of recognition. You walk up to her and bow your head. "I was told I could pick up my access card here. For Y/N L/N."
She nods then pulls out an envelope from a drawer, handing it to you with two hands. "Here you go Miss Y/N."
You thank her, then pull out the card, using it to access the elevator and select the correct floor. You walk through the halls and back to the conference room from your first meeting. You're expecting Minji and Jihoon and Hyunsik said he might be there but that's all. So, when you open the door to find all seven members of BTS conversing amongst themselves, you freeze in place. Quickly, you realize they are all staring at you and you recover as best you can with a polite bow and an introduction. You take a seat at the head of the table again and clear your throat awkwardly.
"I uh, I thought I was going to meet you all later today. I apologize for being surprised."
Despite being in the industry for almost five years now, you aren't immune to how large the group looms. Their presence, even in casual clothes, is big enough to command attention, and you find yourself gawking. It isn't until one of them speaks that you realize your error.
"We had an opening in our schedule this morning, so we thought we'd welcome you." The leader, RM, speaks. His dimples peak out when he flashes what you think is an apologetic smile.
You mentally shake yourself and will the practiced professionalism back in place. "I'm glad. It's lovely to meet you all."
Jihoon offers you a reassuring smile from across the table. “This won’t take long. We just have a few final documents to complete and then we’ll go over scheduling.”
You smile, grateful for something structured to focus on. You take the pen Jihoon offers and glance down at the first page, scanning quickly before signing your name. The room is quieter now, but not silent. You can feel their attention shift from evaluative to curious.
“So,” one of them starts, leaning forward slightly, “you’ve been working with Seventeen for a while, right?”
You glance up briefly, making eye contact with j-hope, as you sign. “Yes, since before they debuted.”
A few eyebrows lift around the table. “That’s a long time,” RM says, tone thoughtful.
“It is,” you reply simply, flipping to the next page.
It's a second before anyone else speaks, but again it's j-hope who breaks the silence.
“Who’s the hardest to teach?”
You pause mid-signature, then look up properly this time. "From them?" you ask.
He nods.
You hum lightly, thinking. "Honestly, it depends. Hardest to teach technically, or hardest to control?"
That earns a small laugh.
"Both," Jin says.
You sign the page, then set the pen down for a moment. "Technically? None of them. They are all very strong performers. Control on the other hand," your lips twitch slightly, "that's a different conversation, I'm afraid. DK and Seungkwan can get pretty rowdy if I don't rein them in. They tend to rile up the other members."
That gets a louder reaction, soft chuckles and exchanged looks.
"Sounds familiar," V mutters.
You pick the pen back up, continuing. "What about you?" you ask, tone light but pointed. "Who here is the hardest to teach?"
"Ah—" someone starts.
"Don't answer that," another cuts in quickly.
You glance up just in time to catch a few of them looking at each other, mildly betrayed.
RM exhales through a quiet laugh. "We're not answering that."
"Smart," you reply, not missing a beat. You turn another page, scanning quickly before signing.
"Do you prefer strict rehearsals? Or more relaxed ones?"
You tilt your head. "I prefer efficient ones. If that means strict, then I'm strict."
"You sound like Hobi Hyung," Jimin sighs.
"Then we'll get along just fine," you smile at j-hope, and he returns with his 1000-watt smile.
You finish another signature but someone else speaks.
"Do we get breaks?"
You know they are half-joking, so you decide to play along. "Yes... if you earn them."
It's met with more laughs and from there, conversation flows more easily. They tell you about their excitement to have you on board and how rehearsals for the title track 'Fake Love' have been going. A few minutes later you sign on the last line, then turn toward Jihoon.
"That should be everything."
Jihoon nods, collecting the papers. "Thank you. That concludes the onboarding documentation."
You exhale, quietly, rolling your shoulders back.
"Now," he continues, "let's go over rehearsal scheduling." He looks between you and the members. "The standard rehearsal block is 1:30 - 4:00 p.m. daily. However, the sessions led by Miss Y/N will need to be finalized so both dances can be learned well before promotion starts." Jihoon gestures toward you. "I'll leave that to you."
Just like that, the attention shifts back to you.
"You already have practice daily?", you ask.
RM answers. "Yes, when we are preparing for a comeback. It's not always all of us, either. Sometimes individual schedules pull us away, but we all try to be there at each rehearsal."
"Okay, well there's no sense in picking a different time of day if that's what you all are used to, so 1:30 - 4:00 works fine." You think for a moment, assessing how long it'll take to learn and clean the dances. "I'll need at least two dedicated sessions a week."
"Two?" Jungkook asks. It's the first time he's spoken, and you are struck by how his voice sounds in person.
No wonder he's such a good singer, you think. He's got a great speaking voice.
"You all are professionals so I don't think it will take longer than two or three rehearsals to teach both dances, but I'm very meticulous about cleaning so that will take longer."
"We expect nothing less," RM says. "Which days?"
You lean back, considering. "Which days are your lightest?"
They exchange looks.
"Tuesday is usually manageable," V offers.
"And Thursday," Jimin adds. "We record Run episodes on Friday's so it would be nice to have downtime on that day."
"Tuesday and Thursday, then."
Jihoon voices his agreement, jotting the times into the shared calendar.
“And I assume I’m expected at Director Kang’s rehearsals as well?” you ask.
“That’s correct,” Jihoon replies. “He’ll brief you on your responsibilities day-to-day. My apologies he couldn’t be here, his wife has a doctor’s appointment this morning.”
“I understand.”
Jihoon glances at his watch. “Well, that should be everything. It’s… almost nine. I believe you all have somewhere to be in thirty minutes.”
The members nod, chairs shifting as they stand. You rise as well, out of habit more than anything. RM catches your eye on his way out, offering another smile—this one softer, reassuring in a way that settles something in your chest. You bow as each of them exits, polite and automatic. One by one. Until you realize one of them hasn’t spoken at all. He passes by last. A baseball cap pulled low, a mask obscuring most of his face. He dips his head respectfully, but in the brief second your eyes meet you catch it. They have an utterly feline look to them, sharp and unyielding, and you suspect he stayed quiet for a reason. Not out of timidness or reluctance, you presume. His eyes linger just long enough to feel intentional, like he’s sizing you up in a way the others hadn’t, and you suspect he's been doing that the entire time. And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him.
“How about a tour?” Jihoon’s voice breaks through from behind you.
You turn, blinking once as you pull yourself back into the present. “Yes,” you say, smoothing your expression. “That would be helpful.”
He gestures toward the door. “This way.”
A/N: The next chapter will be updated immediately after this
Next Chapter | WDMS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Summary: This has been a particularly difficult rut for Shota Aizawa. His hormones have been all over the place. Rapid mood swings cause him to switch between the sweet doting boyfriend you know so well and the stoic, tough shelled man you met years ago. He can hardly stand being away from you for a second, and he's been plagued by raging, long-lasting, hard-ons. Finally, you agree to give him what he wants the most, your body.
Tags: Cat Hybrid Shota Aizawa, ABO Dynamics, Dom/sub, dominant reader, submissive Aizawa, pathetic aizawa, like so pathetic, you might just lose some respect for him, pet names, sex toys, rope bondage, cunnilingus, coming in pants, coming untouched, p in v sex, breeding
WC: 1799
AN: Yet another submission for the esteemed c4ptnlee fanfic contest. This time the word limit was 1800 and I just barely made the cut off. This was so fun to write and is surprisingly my first aizawa x reader fic ever so... enjoy :p
Tired eyes look up at you from the floor. Large, impossibly needy eyes. The dark irises are nearly swallowed by the pitch-black pupils, yet they reflect the light in a way that makes them glimmer. At the crown of his head, situated perfectly on either side, velvety black ears pin back flat, not angry or fearful, but pleading and desperate.
“Please,” Shota whispers. “Please, Miss. I need—“
Fervent purrs interrupt him, the low rumble traveling through the air and into your chest. He dares to shuffle closer, but you halt him with the ball of your foot and push him back. His hands stay obediently on his thighs, but razor-sharp claws extend and retract as he clenches them repeatedly.
“Patience, kitten. You know what comes to boys who wait.”
You watch as he struggles to hold himself back from nuzzling the foot still pressed into his chest. Behind him, a sleek tail swishes impatiently, the only part of his body he can’t fully control. You want to reach out for it, to caress it in your hands, see and hear and feel him react to your touch. But he has to earn those touches, earn his pleasure by bringing you your own. You stand from the bed, cutting the distance between you in half. Shota strains against the impulse to leap up and claim you, a mix between a pleading whine and feral growl ripping through his throat.
With the kind of calm that only comes from practice, you strip. Shirt first, then shorts, the garments falling to your feet. Your bra follows, and you let it join the fabric on the floor. Finally, and ever so slowly, you ease off the lacy underwear that covers your sex. Carelessly, you toss it right on his head, and it lands between his ears and falls over his face.
The sound of his sniffing fills the room, his feline senses going into overdrive. “Miss,” Shota whines, “Please let me touch you.”
You cock your head to the side in amusement. “And what are the rules, kitten?”
“No hands, no teeth, no coming.”
“Good boy”
He perks at the praise, and he begins to purr again. You climb onto the bed and get comfortable. And although you are ready—core dripping from just the sheer pathetic sight of him—you make him wait. You make him wait until he is squirming and barely breathing in anticipation before you give the command.
“Come here.”
He bounds up and kneels before you again, knees and hands pressed into the mattress, tail swishing behind him. The sight sends a jolt through you, and you smirk at him.
"Arms behind your back, my love. You know what to do?"
"Yes, Miss." Shota obeys immediately, clasping his hands behind his back and bending down, using his long tail to balance in the awkward position.
The second his lips meet your pussy; your composure starts to crack. It feels heavenly. His lips so soft, kisses so tender, it's all you can do to prevent yourself from moaning. He'll need to work harder for that. Kisses turn into licks. He continues his ministrations, parting your folds carefully and focusing on the delicate bundle of nerves hidden there.
"You're doing so well, kitten. Such a good boy for me."
His tail twitches, and he begins to purr again, the vibrations going straight from his mouth into your body. You arch your back and finally let out a sighing moan. You can barely hear the words he's saying from between your legs, not until he readjusts so he is lying flat on his stomach.
"Thank you. Thank you, Miss. Thank you," he whimpers.
You can see the hair at the base of his tail bristle, and then his entire tail puffs up. You know that sign, you can spot what it means from a mile away.
"No coming, Shota. You know the rules."
He nods without breaking contact with your cunt and shuffles back onto his knees, as if the change will prevent the inevitable. Another smirk paints your face as a wicked idea crosses your mind. You move one hand and rest it right between his ears, close enough that the sensitive extremities can feel your presence but not enough to touch. Slowly, agonizingly, you stroke his hair, inching ever closer to what will undoubtedly be his undoing.
His pace halts, and you smack him lightly on his head.
"I didn't tell you to stop."
Reluctantly, Shota resumes, and so do you. Caressing, rubbing, petting his head, then his ears. A ragged moan escapes his mouth, and his balance falters. You continue in unison; every move of his mouth matches with your hand. Your climax builds quickly, and before long, you are moaning into the cool air and pressing your pussy into his face. His own moan rivals yours, and from the way his tail shoots stick straight, you know he failed in his task.
"I thought I said no coming," you scold, mirth painting your tone.
When he lifts his head from your dripping cunt, he looks more pathetic than you've seen him. "I-I'm sorry, Miss. I tried re-really hard not to come. But when you stroke—"
"Is that an excuse?" Your gaze hardens, any trace of amusement gone in an instant.
"NO! No, it's not. I should've been better. I can do better," Shota scrambles to right his wrong, but the damage is done. Two punishments it is, then.
"Get the plug and ropes."
His breath hitches again, and he opens his mouth to protest, but one withering glance from you shuts him up. You watch him walk around the room and narrow in on the dark spot on the front of his lacy panties. Cute, you think to yourself.
When Shota returns, you ease off the bed, motioning for him to take your place. He assumes the position you'd just been in, flat on his back, legs spread just so, bulge straining to be released from its fabric prison. You reach over and grab the hem of his panties and pull them down his legs. His cock springs out to slap against his toned stomach. They're a mess, and you chuckle.
"Poor kitten. I hadn't realized it'd be that hard to hold back."
Yes, you did, and he knows it. You reach inside the ruined panties and gather his seed, spreading it over the cool metal of the butt plug. "Knees to chest."
Shota pulls his knees up until his puckered hole is exposed to you. It doesn't take much for you to ease the plug inside him; he's more than ready. Once it is settled fully inside, the blue jewel glinting in the dim light, you allow him to lower his legs, then fasten them to the bedpost using the ropes. His wrists follow next, and now he's splayed out before you wonderfully. The final action, the button to your prescribed punishment, is to activate the vibration on the plug, sending Shota into a fit of whines and moans.
"Now, since you disobeyed me earlier, you can't touch me while I fuck you. And no coming until I say so. Understood?"
"Yes, Miss. Will—ahh—will I still get to breed you?"
"I don't know, will you?"
A moan rips through him. He strains against his bindings. "Please, please let me breed you. I need it. Need to fill you up."
He is so busy begging, eyes screwed shut and ears plastered to his head, he doesn't notice you position yourself above him.
"We'll see."
It's the last thing you say before spearing yourself on his hard cock. The stretch is painful, but it's quickly chased away by the pleasant feel of him hitting the deepest parts of you. Beneath you, Shota is a moaning mess, half-formed pleas falling from his flushed lips. You can almost feel the vibrations from the plug from where it's nestled inside him, and his thighs tremble from the stimulation. You waste no time, grinding and rocking your hips in the way that gets you to the finish line. You are solely focused on your own pleasure. He won't make the same mistake twice.
"Mmm fuck, Miss. You feel so good around me. Tight... 'n warm... so soft."
The look on his face, the look of utter euphoria, fills you with adoration. Giving himself to you so fully, trusting that you'll take care of him, treat him the way he deserves.
"Look at you, kitten. So beautiful underneath me. Who’s my pretty kitty, hm?"
"Me! I'm your pretty kitty," Shota whispers between moans.
You slow the roll of your hips. "I can't hear you."
"It's me!" He says louder. "I'm your pretty kitty, Miss. Always will be."
"Good boy. So vocal for me. You know how I love it when you whine." You grind your hips down into him and that addictive sound leaves his lips, dancing on the air and into your ears.
Your climax approaches quickly, and so does his. His tail wiggles out from beneath him and snakes its way around your waist. You brace one hand against his broad chest and bring the other to his tail, stroking it in time with your hips.
"I'm close, kitten. You want me to come on your cock?" He nods feverishly; lips pulled between sharp canines. His eyes have been shut tightly this whole time, and you ache to see the large pupils staring back at you as you come. "Look at me, baby."
Dark eyes shoot open and land on yours. It only takes a few more forceful grinds, and you come apart around him. Your walls clench, then spasm, and your second climax rockets through you. You toss your head back and cry out into the room. You ride through the height of the orgasm and to the other side. An even sweeter treat awaits you now.
"Does my kitten want to come?" You ask, your voice is sickly sweet, teasing.
"Yes, please! Please let me come!" Shota cries.
"You want to breed me?"
"Yes!"
"Okay, my love. Breed me."
It's instantaneous. All his muscles contract, and he spills deep inside you, spurred on by your still rolling hips. A feral yowl rips through his throat. Claws tear at his bindings, but still, he does not touch you.
It takes Shota a while to come down from his orgasm. His muscles twitch and shake. Soft whimpers, purrs, and moans leave his mouth. You stay on top of him, feeling his length soften inside of you, but unwilling to move until he is okay. You gently stroke his face, hair, and ears. A soft smile pulls at your lips, and when he is finally able to open his eyes again, he returns it.
"Feeling better?" You ask.
"Much better."
A/N: Please follow me on tiktok and check me out on ao3
Check out my other fics here!! | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Chapter Summary:
"(So long) A hope with no promise, goodbye now
(So long) Even if it's a bit slow, I will walk on my own feet
because this is my way for sure
because I will reach there someday, even if I take a detour
I will never lose my dream"
- "Lost," BTS
Chapter Warnings: none :)
WC: 1862
A/N: omg i actually updated when i said i would... unheard of. anyway hope you enjoy :)
The next three weeks fly by. With 8-hour rehearsals and back-to-back concert weekends, the reality of leaving Pledis hasn't sunk in. Not until you're back in Seoul the day before starting at BigHit. You spend all day in the practice room, finalizing choreographies, taking breaks only for food and the bathroom. You are exhausted. Music blares through your headphones; your shoes scuff the floor—all a soundtrack to endless hours in the stuffy practice room.
One more run-through, you tell yourself, knowing it's a lie. The dances have to be perfect. There is no other option. The bar is high, and you are unwilling to underperform. You look at the clock and realize that it's 10 pm.
"Fuck," you breathe. "Fuck!" The exclamation falls from your lips, dripping in frustration.
"I would offer to give you feedback, but I bet that violates an NDA."
Seungcheol walks up from behind you. You look at him through the mirror. Sweat slicks your hair across your forehead, and exhaustion shows on your face. He, in contrast, looks like an angel. Even in a muscle tank, sweats, and a bare face, it’s clear he is an idol.
"Hey, Cheol." You barely have the energy to show how happy you are to see him.
"You've been in here all day," he says. He grabs your water and hands it to you.
You take greedy sips. The coolness lowers your body temperature, but it’s still a moment before you catch your breath and can address him properly.
"I know. I just need these dances to be perfect."
Seungcheol gives you a look you know all too well. "Y/N-ah, knowing you, it's already perfect. Why don't you call it a night?"
"Yeah," you say, hanging your head. "You're right."
"I always am."
You scoff and shake your head, but do as he says. You gather your things, and you both walk out of the practice room, locking the door behind you.
"Why don't you come by the dorm tonight. I'm sure the other guys would be happy to see you before you go."
"Cheol, I already said bye to everyone."
"I know, but come anyway. We'll have one last game night." He looks at you with a pleading look that immediately does you in.
"Ugh... you know I can't say no to that face."
"That's exactly why I did it," he laughs.
You shove him and turn in the direction of the locker rooms. "I'll be by in an hour." You wave at him over your shoulder and walk away.
It takes you over an hour to get ready. After Seungcheol leaves, you sneak back into the practice room for two more run-throughs of the songs. Then you shower and change. The boys' dorms are a quick 15-minute walk away. The cold night air dries your hair completely by the time you arrive. You swipe your access card and smile at the doorman. The elevator takes you up to the first floor. When you knock at the door at the end of the hall, it swings open in a second. An arm shoots out, grabs you, and pulls you in roughly. All the lights are off, and it is eerily quiet. Too quiet for thirteen boys to be in there.
"What the— why is it dark in here?"
The disembodied arm pushes you forward, not even giving you a chance to switch your Timberland boots for slippers. You know the layout of the apartment well enough to know you are now in the living room, even in the dark.
"Someone tell me what's going on," you say into the pitch black.
The lights flick on suddenly, momentarily blinding you before a chorus of shouts threatens to render you deaf.
"SURPRISE!"
The normally bland living room is decorated with streamers and balloons. All the members are gathered around the coffee table. A large cake with dusty pink and baby blue frosting sits in the middle. The number 17 stands in candles on top.
"You guys," your voice falters, tears fill your eyes, and you blink rapidly to try to keep them from falling. "You didn't have to do all this."
Mingyu, who had apparently been the one to pull you in, pushes you forward again. "Of course we did. You've done so much for us since debut. It's the least we can do."
You give him a smile of appreciation and step up to the cake.
"Make a wish!" Soonyoung shouts.
"Yes, blow out the candles before they melt on the cake," Seungkwan adds.
You nod, then shut your eyes tightly, letting all your desires come to the front of your mind.
I wish that my first day goes well.
I wish for an easy transition into my role.
I wish to get along well with the BTS members and backup dancers.
I wish for time to visit my friends.
Your final wish is selfish. You know it is, but you can't help but add it on.
I wish for success.
The candles extinguish with your breath, and more cheers erupt. The cake is cut, slices are handed out, and the party begins. The sound of Mario Kart comes from the TV. You split off, making sure to talk to everyone before the end of the night. The members share their feelings on your departure. You've spent nearly every day of the last four years with them. Though happy you have this opportunity, they are sad to see you go. It takes all your discipline not to cry when they hug you.
Time passes quickly with their company, and soon it's time for you to go home. Before you can do that, Seungcheol pulls you aside, leading you down the hall to his room.
"Cheol-ah, I need to go."
"I know, I just wanted to get a minute with you away from everyone else."
He sits on his bed. You sit next to him, taking in the way he looks at you. You two became fast friends from the moment you started working together pre-debut. He's only a year younger, but always felt comfortable sharing his burdens with you. Debuting so young and leading 12 others in the rough world of K-pop brought difficulties, and you were always a shoulder for him to lean on. You doubt this change is harder for anyone else.
"Seungcheol-ah," you say it softly, forcing him to look away. You rarely ever use his full name. He knows what's coming next and knows better than to interrupt you. "You're gonna do great without me. The new choreographer is very talented. You're in good hands." You take his hands in your own, stopping him from picking at his cuticles. "Lean on the other members. Don't bottle anything up; otherwise, you will grow resentful."
"You make it sound like I'll never see you again."
"Cheol, you know that's not true. I just know how you get. Even if I'm too busy to come see you, I'll only be a phone call away."
"I know," he whispers.
His face twists, some unnamed emotion forcing the shift, but you watch as he forces it to blankness.
"What's wrong? Tell me what you're thinking."
You sit in silence while he collects his thoughts. He signals he is ready to speak with a sharp inhale.
"I just... I'll miss you."
You chuckle and shake your head, then remove one hand from his grip to ruffle his hair. "I'll miss you too, Cheol."
He straightens and pulls away from you. "No, Y/N. You don't get it. I—" he pushes his hair back in frustration.
"Seungcheol?"
"Please don't call me that," he snaps.
"I—You're right, I'm sorry," you try to pull his hands back into your own. He relents, but only just.
"Please don't forget about us, now that you've made it big." He's joking, but something about his tone suggests there is a kernel of truth to his words, a hidden worry he can't name without the filter of humor.
"You know I won't."
"You promise?" He looks at you again, and you are taken aback by the sincerity in his eyes.
"Cross my heart."
Finally, he smiles. Large arms wrap around you, and you hug him back just as intensely, knowing he is seeking comfort in the embrace. You stay like that for a while, listening to the shouts of the other members as they play games in the living room. You'll probably miss that more than you realize now.
"I'm happy for you, but part of me is mad," Seungcheol speaks into your neck. His breath tickles, but you force yourself to stay still.
"I understand that."
"Were—" now his voice is laced with unease. "Were we not enough?"
You pull back, surprised at the question. "What? No! How could you think that?"
He stands now, putting as much physical space between you as the small room allows. "It's just that I had imagined you would be with us for longer. For forever."
"Cheol-ah, that's not reasonable. Believe me when I say I loved every second working with you all. You boys are the reason I even have an opportunity like this. But I was never going to stay forever."
You've been accused of being unfeeling before. You say things as they are, without sugarcoating. People admire your professional attitude but don't care for that trait in your personality.
"There must be some reason you're leaving! Did I do something to cause this? Do—are you not happy with us? With me?"
It hits you now. You know where this is coming from. He's scared. Afraid of losing you to the limelight that comes with working with BTS, and he's lashing out. If you were in his position, you would probably feel the same.
"I am happy. The four years I've been with you have been filled with nothing but happy memories. This has nothing to do with you, Cheol-ah. No matter what happens, I'll always be your friend."
He visibly deflates, all the fight in him rushed out in a second. "But I don't—" he stops speaking and runs his fingers through his hair again.
"Come here," you say. It's a command, not a request. He sits next to you again, but he avoids eye contact. "It'll all work out. I'll call you whenever I can. And don't be afraid to call me too. I'll always make time for you. Please remember that."
He nods because he knows it's true.
One glance at your phone tells you you should've left a while ago, so you give him one more crushing hug before you stand and leave the room. You yell out goodbye to the members again, who line up to give you a final farewell hug, but you don't miss Seungcheol's absence.
When Jeonghan hugs you, you whisper in his ear. "Check on Cheol. He's not taking this well."
He gives you a nod of understanding and moves away for the next person. Finally, you're able to escape the endless goodbye, and as you walk back toward the Pledis building, you send another wish up to the cloudy night sky.
Help him get through this.
A/N: please like and reblog it really helps :)
Next Chapter | WDMS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Professor Abullah is known for his unshakeable professionalism, and he will go to great lengths to test his ability to keep his composure.
Warning: Public masturbation, public orgasm, butt plug, chastity device
WC: 2,139
A/N: This was a fic request I received a while ago. It was actually so hard to write this, and I've been fucking around with it for weeks, but I finally have a version I'm somewhat proud of.
Wednesdays are Professor Abullah's favorite day of the week. He knows it's a controversial opinion, it's bound to be, but he can't help it. Because on Wednesdays he meets with the research committee, and meeting with the research committee means getting to talk to the most activists and robot representatives. This Wednesday, however, is special. Not only because all 7 of the world's most powerful robots are attending the meeting and a press conference later in the day, but because he has a secret.
He is known around the world for not only his innovative approach to robotics but also his demeanor; the epitome of professionalism, loved and envied by all. Naturally, there is a certain amount of pressure that comes with such a reputation, and today he is putting himself to the test.
Soft pants and faint buzzing fill the air. Sunlight streams in from the large windows behind him, the cool tan on the landscape contrasting sharply with the blue of the sky. Abullah grips the arms of his chair tightly, knuckles white with the force. His cock aches beneath his pants, begs to be touched, the pulsing vibrations of the plug sending shocks through his stomach. Screwed shut, his eyes roll back in his head, but he stays quiet. He has to. There's no other choice.
He's due at the meeting in twenty minutes, but the trek across campus takes a mere five. He could wait, let himself finish, but the cage encasing his cock complicated things. He knows he won't come in time, and that excites him.
Abullah loosens his claw-like grip on his chair and stands on shaky legs, taking a few slow breaths to calm himself down. One tap on his phone lessens the stimulation, the quick pulses slowing into a constant buzz. He adjusts his suit, checks his appearance in the window, and walks out of his office.
His usual pleasant expression settles over his face when he emerges into the hallway. He politely waves at passing staff members and makes small talk whenever someone approaches him.
"How's your day going, Professor Abullah?" they ask.
"Excited for the conference today?"
"Can't wait to hear your speech."
Idle chatter is the soundtrack to his stroll, and before long, he is settled at a long mahogany table in the meeting room. His colleagues surround him. Opposite him sits Detective Gesicht. They greet each other with firm nods before the officer is pulled into a conversation with a researcher from the United States of Thrasia. The director of the World Robotics Association waltzes in, all awkward bravado with none of the suave to back it up.
"Welcome, everybody! I'm so glad you all could make it today. I regret to inform you that Atom will be unable to join us today. He has been called away on an urgent mission and gives his apologies. Regardless, we have a full agenda, so let's begin with the representative from Europol, Professor Hoffman." He gestures to the small man.
Though Abullah has never met him, his red hair and strong nose make him stand out immediately, even before he stands to address the room.
"Thank you, Director McDowell. The main action item on today's docket is to address the uptick in violence against service robots. Across Europe, waste management and construction units have been recovered, missing their memory chips. In every case, the removal renders them inert.”
A few heads shift at that.
“Detective Gesicht has been spearheading the investigation. Yesterday, however, we recovered a chip from one of the affected units.” He taps his console. A holographic projection flickers to life above the table. “What we found is concerning. The memory data has been altered. Entire sequences replaced with fabricated experiences, violent ones. We believe the chips are being modified and intended for reinsertion.”
He shifts, gesturing at no one in particular. “If reactivated, these robots would not simply malfunction. They would behave unpredictably, potentially dangerously. We do not yet know the perpetrator’s objective. But given the scale and coordination, this is unlikely to be random vandalism.”
Abullah presses his fingers together, lips thinning. Robots had been granted rights years ago—hard-won protections meant to prevent exactly this kind of exploitation. To ensure they would never again be reduced to tools. And yet, if someone could rewrite a robot’s memories, they could rewrite anything. Loyalty. Identity. Restraint. Today, it was service units. Tomorrow, it could be law enforcement. Military. Or worse: robots indistinguishable from humans. like the ones sitting around this table. Abullah shifts in his seat and inhales sharply. The movement forced the plug deeper, hitting that elusive spot inside him. He forces himself to refocus on the meeting, looking toward Gesicht, who is now reporting his findings at the scenes.
"Aside from the removal of their chips, none of the robots had been harmed, but I was unable to find fingerprints or traces of a human at any of the crime scenes. It is possible that a robot is being used to lure the victims in before overpowering them. I am unsure of the means now, but there are never any signs of a struggle. As if they were subdued from afar and their chips removed while conscious."
Professor Hoffman jumps back in. "We would appreciate any insight on how that might be possible, but we mainly want to develop a security protocol, some sort of secondary measure that prevents memory chips from being removed."
The table stays quiet as everyone thinks of solutions. Abullah is the first to speak.
"It is possible that the person responsible sends out a focused electromagnetic pulse. As you all know, strong electromagnetic waves render robots unable to move as they disrupt communication between the central processing unit and external limbs and mechanisms. A focused beam of perhaps 20 to 50 kilovolts per meter would make the victim unable to move for a maximum of five minutes while not leaving any physical evidence of tampering." He pauses. His hands, hidden by the table, come to cup. his crotch. The chastity cage digs into his flesh as he palms himself, preventing any and all stimulation. “However, that kind of technology is unlikely to be employed by a robot. The electromagnetic interference would affect them as well.”
A chorus of hums in agreement travels around the table, and the debate begins. Opposing or confirming theories are exchanged, the method of subdual argued, and the means of application theorized. The meeting drags on, but Abullah finds himself struggling to focus. A while ago, the continuous vibrations turned into harsh pulses, and he couldn't stop the gasp before it erupted from his lips. Thankfully, he played it off with a cough and a large sip of water.
He can feel a coil tightening in his stomach. Heat envelops him and he breaths through it, chiming in on the conversation when expected, but largely distracted. His face is impassive, though, not betraying the immense pleasure he is in.
Ultimately, the committee is unable to come up with either a theory for how these robots are being subdued or a viable method for keeping the memory chips, so the discussion is tabled for the next meeting. Several other topics are brought up and discussed with more success, and soon, it is time for the press conference.
Abullah gathers his things and follows everyone else out of the room, but a sudden presence beside him stalls his steps.
"Professor Abullah," he greets.
"Detective Gesicht."
"Are you, perhaps, feeling okay?"
Abullah quirks a brow, glancing over at him. "Of course, why wouldn't I be?"
Gesicht clears his throat, a gesture he picked up to appear more human. "I apologize for my bluntness, but your heart rate. It's rather high, and it seems your body temperature is elevated."
"Ahh," Abullah nods, "I am getting over a cold, is all. I was in Switzerland last week, and the change in weather made me a bit ill."
"I see," is all Gesicht says in response.
The rest of the walk to the reception hall, Abullah keeps to himself, acting as if he is deep in thought when he is, in reality, holding on by a thread. He wants nothing more than to peel off, go back to his office, and relieve the pressure on his cock, but he can't. He left the key at home. A purposeful move to make this exercise harder.
Just get through the press conference, he tells himself. Then you can go home and let all this frustration out. Just a few more hours.
But those few hours drag on. Countless speakers are lined up to give talks, answer questions, and present research. The minutes tick by as if time has decided to slow just to spite him. The plug's vibrations vary wildly, sending his head spinning each time, and just when he thinks he can't handle any more, it's his turn to speak.
Abullah is the keynote speaker, giving the longest talk of all, close to an hour. His meticulously prepared slides detail the research he's been doing these past three years; how to make the perfect robot, one that can not only appreciate art and culture, but participate in it earnestly, just as any human can. He picked up this topic when the famed Dr. Umataro Tenma announced his retirement and was honored to be asked to continue the research.
He walks up to the podium and opens his notes. His presentation is loaded on the big screen, and he collects his thoughts before addressing the audience.
"Good evening! I am Professor Abullah, head of research at the Persian Institute for Robotics. You all must be ready to go home, yeah?"
The crowd, full of industry professionals and lovers of all things robotics, denies his claim.
He chuckles warmly. "Alright then, I promise to try not to be too boring." Abullah clicks to the first slide, a picture of him with Dr. Tenma.
"As you all may know, before Dr. Temna announced his retirement some three years ago, he approached me with an offer to continue his research into what he called 'the perfect robot'. An endeavor to bring humans and robots closer together through the love of creation. Time and time again, robots have proven to be invaluable additions to society. Through the tasks they perform and the pride they take in their role, they have thoroughly integrated themselves into daily life on our planet. But what if, Dr. Tenma asked himself, they could participate in culture? What if music, art, emotional expression through theatre or dance—things so inherently human—could be shared with our mechanical brethren?"
His speech goes on as planned. The slides are mostly pictures or graphs depicting his work thus far, and he spares no detail in his explanations. Though rewarding, it'd been extremely taxing work. And so too, is keeping his composure. His stomach churns, his legs shake, his breaths deepen. His release is slowly but steadily approaching; a slow steamboat arriving at the port after a long journey.
He is in the middle of explaining his first breakthrough, the introduction of negative emotions to spark creativity, when the realization dawns on him. He's not going to make it. The plug nestled between his legs rubs at just the right spot, vibrates at just the right frequency.
"As you can see here," he swallows thickly, "many of my colleagues and contemporaries have cautioned against introducing such emotions into the already delicate system that is a robot's core processing unit. But I—" he bites down on his lip, silencing a groan that threatened to rip out of his throat. "Excuse me. I knew from my experiments that this was the only way forward."
Bright white searing pleasure ricochets through him in an instant, and it is all Abullah can do to dampen his reaction. He grips the edge of the podium, swaying on uncertain feet.
"Experiments with small household robots were successful, so my next step is to recruit more willing participants to further my research."
Thick ropes of cum paint the inside of his underwear, the warmth it brings tripling his pleasure. His hole clenches around the plug, and his orgasm wanes. Suddenly, the room feels too big, and he, too small, but he presses onward.
Applause meets him at the end of his presentation, and he smiles out at everyone, thanking them for their attendance. He waits, just as he is expected to, for the room to clear and for the guest to speak to take their leave, before he is free. He immediately heads for his offices, locking the door behind him and drawing the blinds, blocking out the last of the setting sun's light. Abullah sinks down in his chair and huffs out a breath, ready to do it all again the next day.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading! Please send in any requests at the link below!
Chapter Summary:
"Everyone's afraid of changes.
Staying, moving on, staying, moving on.
We keep repeating the same things again and again.
I guess that's life I'm afraid.
Old or new, new or old, that isn't really important.
What's important is that we still breathe and live in the same place.
So, let's move on." - "Moving On" BTS
Chapter warnings: none :)
WC: 2174
A/N: yet another fic written instead of updating on my wips...whoops. i haven't written RPF in a long time so hopefully this is okay. anyway enjoy
The last note of the song echoes around the arena, and once it finally dissipates, the only sounds left are the panting breaths of the boys on stage. Your eyes are calculating, scanning each and every one of them, silently daring them to move before your signal. You let the moment stretch, testing their resolve, but finally.
“Dim lights and…cue next track. Alright, boys, let’s take ten.”
The group relaxes instantly. They flop over on the ground, chests heaving as they try to catch their breath. You stand from your perch at the front of the stage.
“Seungkwan, come here when you get a second,” you call out over the chatter.
You retreat to the wings of the stage. After almost two hours under the large industrial lights, you have begun to get a headache. Still, with Seventeen’s first Japanese arena tour less than two weeks away, every detail must be perfect.
“What’s up, Boss?” Seungkwan asks when he jogs up to you.
“You’re consistently a half count late in the ripple before the second verse. You’re the last person down, so it needs to be right on time, or it distracts from Dino’s part. Just anticipate it a little more, kay?"
He nods thoughtfully, then again more emphatically. “Will do, Boss. I’ll get it fixed.”
Your back pocket starts to ring. An unknown number flashes on the screen, but you don’t want to risk missing something important. “Oh, I should take this, but I know you will. You always do.”
Seungkwan shoots you an appreciative smile before turning away. You accept the call and move further into the wings to escape the noise of the other members talking.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Miss Y/N L/N?”
“This is she. May I ask who’s speaking?”
“Yes, I am Kim Jihoon, Talent Acquisition Manager at BigHit Entertainment.”
You nod, though he can’t see it. “And the purpose of your call?”
“We would like to offer you the opportunity to choreograph two dances for an upcoming BTS comeback, as well as a position as Assistant Performance Director.”
The air leaves your lungs. You clutch your chest, trying to steady yourself. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
You hear Jihoon chuckle lightly on the other end of the line before he repeats himself. “We have been following your work for the past several years and are extremely impressed. We would be delighted to have you join us. Additionally, the company is prepared to offer a significant increase in compensation compared to your current terms with Pledis Entertainment.”
You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. “That’s… quite an offer.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end before Jihoon speaks again. “We believe it reflects your value, Miss L/N.”
Your grip tightens around your phone. “And what exactly would the position entail?”
“As Assistant Performance Director,” he says smoothly, “you would be responsible for co-developing choreography, leading and supervising dance practices, and working directly with both the artists and their dancers to refine performance quality. You would report to our current Performance Director, Kang Hyunsik, until his temporary leave, at which point you would take on a more independent role.”
Your heart stutters at that. “Independent meaning?”
“Meaning you would oversee practices and performance direction in his absence,” Jihoon clarifies. “Of course, with full support from the company.”
You exhale slowly, trying to ground yourself. “And the choreography?” you ask.
“Two pieces for the upcoming comeback,” he replies. “Both are high priority as they will be promoted along with the title track.”
Of course they will be.
“And compensation?” you press, forcing yourself to stay professional, even as your pulse races.
There’s the faint sound of papers shifting. “A monthly salary of approximately ₩6.5 million, with ₩8 million per choreography. Additional performance-based bonuses can be discussed depending on reception.”
Your breath catches again. That’s not a small increase. Not even close.
Jihoon continues, voice calm, almost reassuring. “We understand you have an established relationship with Pledis Entertainment and with Seventeen. We’re not asking for an immediate answer.” Your lips part, but no sound comes out. “We would, however,” he adds, “appreciate the opportunity to discuss this with you in person. A formal meeting, where we can go over contract details, expectations, and any concerns you may have.”
You finally find your voice. “You’re asking me to leave my current company.”
“We’re offering you a position that matches your worth,” he corrects gently.
Your gaze drifts, unfocused, as everything starts to settle in: the numbers, the title, the name attached to it all. “…When would you want me to come in?” you ask quietly.
There’s the faintest hint of satisfaction in his voice now. “At your earliest convenience. We can arrange a meeting this coming week.”
You nod again before remembering—right. Phone call.
“Alright,” you say, steadier this time. “Send me the details.”
“Of course, Miss L/N.” A brief pause. “We look forward to working with you.”
The line clicks dead. For a long moment, you just stand there, phone still pressed to your ear, heart racing. On autopilot, you walk back on stage. The members immediately notice your shift. Your face is dazed, your eyes unfocused. Vernon approaches, touches your arm, and you snap back. You see his lips move, but no sound comes out.
“What?”
“Is something wrong? You look…did something happen?”
The concern is apparent in the way his eyebrows pull together, and his voice tapers into a soft whisper. The other members gather, trying to get a glimpse at you.
"Umm..." You look around. Reality settles in as you meet each of their eyes.
“Hey, Y/N. You’re scaring us. What happened?” Seungcheol pushes through the crowd. It’s his voice that fully breaks your trance, tinged with worry and coming out higher than his normal register.
“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I think…” You look him in the eyes. “I think I just got offered a job at BigHit.”
The email comes later that day, requesting a meeting with HR first thing Monday morning. You have to rearrange your schedule, but you manage to make it work. Now you stand in front of BigHit’s doors, dressed in the only professional clothing you own and shivering in the early February air. The building is unassuming—had you not passed it on your commute, you’d never suspect a thing, aside from the crowds gathering whenever their star artists cause a stir.
The automatic door slides open with your approach, and you walk up to the front desk, handing the receptionist a printout of the email summons. She nods curtly, then dials a number on her desk phone, sandwiching the landline between her ear and shoulder as she returns to typing away on her computer. The conversation is brief, and before long, she lets you know that Jihoon will be down to walk you to the conference room. You take a deep breath to calm your nerves. The lobby is minimally decorated in shades of white and gray, and abstract artwork hangs on the walls. Even the plants look meticulously curated, evenly spaced to bring some color to the otherwise monochromatic room.
An elevator on the opposite wall chimes. A sharply dressed man steps out, checks his watch, then meets your eyes. He shoots you what you can only describe as a disarming smile and approaches.
“Miss L/N, Kim Jihoon,” he bows, then extends his hand. You mirror him and give a firm handshake. “It’s lovely to meet you. Now, if you’ll follow me.”
He leads you back to the elevators, then up to the fifth floor. You follow him down the hall into a conference room with one wall covered by floor-to-ceiling windows. A long black table stretches the length of the room, where several people are already seated. Jihoon gestures to the head of the table, where a large stack of papers waits for you. You sit tentatively, taking in everyone gathered around. They all look at you expectantly, and you try your best not to shrink under their stares.
“Let’s begin, shall we? As you know, I am Kim Jihoon, Talent Acquisition Manager here. To your left is Head of HR Choi Minji, followed by Lee Jihwan from Accounting. On your right, Lee Sunwoo from the Legal Department. Finally, Kang Hyunsik, Performance Director and your direct supervisor.”
Your eyes move across each of them, and they offer polite bows in turn. Kang Hyunsik holds your gaze for a moment longer than the others, measuring you up in an instant.
Jihoon gestures toward the stack of papers in front of you. “We’ve prepared a draft agreement outlining the position, compensation, and scope of work. Please take your time reviewing it.”
“Thank you.”
The next stretch passes with minimal discussion. You read each page carefully, marking anything that needs clarification or parts you deem important. At your request, they walk you through the agreement—Legal outlines clauses and details of an NDA, HR explains the structure and expectations, and accounting details compensation. Kang Hyunsik speaks in practical terms, describing what working alongside him will look like.
When they finish, Jihoon closes his folder. “If there are no immediate concerns, we can move to your questions.”
You look up. “I have a few.”
“First,” you begin steadily, “rehearsal facility access. Will I have priority booking for practice rooms, and permission to use them outside standard hours for choreography development and rehearsals?”
Choi Minji nods. “Yes. You will have priority access, including after-hours use, provided that you follow standard security protocols.”
“Understood. Second, the exclusivity clause.”
Sunwoo leans forward slightly. “The agreement includes exclusivity during active promotion periods with BigHit artists. External work is otherwise subject to approval.”
You don’t hesitate. “I’d like that amended. Outside of contracted working hours—including weekends or non-scheduled days—and outside of active promotion periods, I would like the freedom to accept external choreography work and meet with other artists without requiring prior approval.” You hold their attention, then add: “In the event of any scheduling conflicts, BigHit obligations will take priority.”
Sunwoo nods after a moment. “That's reasonable. We will define ‘promotion periods’ and ‘contracted working hours’ clearly in the revised clause.”
You turn the page. “Third, my start date.”
Jihoon answers, “We propose onboarding within two weeks of contract processing, with immediate pre-production involvement.”
You nod slowly. “I have prior commitments during that timeframe,” you say. Nothing is named, but the implication is clear. Seventeen. “My full availability for in-person responsibilities begins after March 7. However, I am willing to begin choreography development prior to that date,” you clarify. “Concept work, structuring, and initial draft choreography. That way, once I am fully available, I can transition directly into teaching and rehearsals without delay.”
Kang Hyunsik, who had been silently observing, leans forward for the first time, interest clear now. “You’d be working remotely before your official start?”
“Yes,” you reply simply.
Minji nods. “That can be incorporated. Your official start date would reflect your full-time, in-person responsibilities, while pre-start creative work can be contracted separately or included as early engagement.”
Jihoon nods, satisfied. “That’s a workable solution.”
The room shifts after that. The wording is debated within the group, and once everyone is satisfied, the new agreement is printed. It is passed to you, and you double-check the highlighted sections before signing where necessary.
Handshakes follow, accompanied by words of welcome. Jihoon mentions something about an early lunch at a nearby café. One by one, they file out, voices softening as the door opens and closes behind them. And then it is only you and Hyunsik left sitting at the table.
"Have you thought about the bridge you may have just burned?"
Hyunsik's voice is low, gravelly, but although you can tell he's been sizing you up this entire time, the authority in his voice is only a comfort, reminding you of dance instructors from years past.
You meet his assessing eyes. "Yes, I thought about it a lot."
He nods once. "Pledis is a good company."
"It is."
"But they didn't value you enough. I understand you didn't have full creative freedom, and for someone with your reputation, you were underpaid." Your fingers tighten in your lap. "You will do well here," he adds.
"I hope so," you look down at the table. Your copy of the agreement is bound with a binder clip. It sits askew, white papers stark against the dark wood. Your signature printed in ink on the bottom is evidence of the finality of your decision.
"You're going to miss them, huh?"
Your head snaps up. "I'm sorry?"
"Seventeen," he says simply. "You'll miss them."
And just like that, all the careful composure you've been holding onto all morning cracks. Barely enough for anyone to notice, but you know he does. "Yeah."
"You should. They are good boys." He pauses to uncross his legs. "Our boys are good too." His tone shifts, taking on a subtly softer edge. "I think you'll come to care for them."
With that, he stands, leaving you in the empty conference room.
A/N: hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this fic! i have four more chapters written and they'll be posted on thursdays but after that there's no promises on when i'll update. please like, comment, and reblog :)
Next Chapter | WDMS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Summary: "Wherever there's hope, there's despair. We have to despair for all those trials." - Sea by BTS.
A well-respected choreographer on the verge of burnout, you take a position at BigHit Entertainment and find yourself starting over. As your career begins to flourish, your personal life starts to unravel—and a quiet producer may understand you better than anyone else.
A slow burn coworkers to friends to lovers long fic
Warnings: smut, toxic relationship, explicit language, mental health, mentions of depression and suicide
Chapter Summary: Final preparations for the student arrival have you running around all day, but just because you're busy doesn't mean you're free from Snape's critical eye.
Chapter Warnings: a bit of cheekiness from MC and Snape, but other than that, none.
Word Count: 4381
A/N: sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. i fell into a deeeeeep writing slump after uploading the last chapter and haven't really written since but better late than never right? ...right? anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter
Lost in Hogwarts Castle. You could think of worse positions to be in. The hallways seem endless, and you certainly aren't going to go back the way you came, worried that you'll run into Snape again. But as you continue to walk, you resign yourself to the fact that you are hopelessly lost.
Mr. Filch, bless his heart, saves you from wandering the castle all day. When he comes around the corner calling your name, you sigh with relief. His cat, Mrs. Norris, trots beside him, and for once, you're glad Boötes is napping in your chambers, otherwise, their chase might have soured the caretaker to you indefinitely.
"The headmaster wishes to see you," Filch says, puffing and panting a bit.
He doesn't say anything more, but he does turn to walk the opposite way with an expectant tip of his head, silently signaling you to follow. You carefully track your path as he leads you through the maze: up two levels, down a long hallway, at the end of which stands a griffin statue. He murmurs the password for you, then gestures you upward, and leaves to return to whatever caretakers do.
The spiraling staircase leads you into one of many spires of the castle, twisting upward until you’re certain the crown kisses the low-hanging clouds draped over the land earlier that day. A heavy wooden door blocks your path, but as you reach to knock, it swings open with a groan. Cautiously, you peer in, then enter, spotting the headmaster at his desk, flipping through The Daily Prophet.
“You asked to see me, sir?” Your voice comes out steady, and you look around in awe at his office.
The space is cluttered, a testament to Dumbledore’s long tenure. Bookshelves line one wall, but books spill onto tables and chairs. Threadbare rugs cover the floor, and the opposite wall features an eclectic gallery of paintings; old headmasters and notable wizards, you assume.
Dumbledore lifts his head from the newspaper and smiles softly. “Yes, I did. Come, sit. Sherbet Lemon?” He gestures to the seat across from him, then to a small glass bowl filled with tiny yellow candies.
You politely shake your head ‘no’, then take a seat. Being called to the proverbial principal’s office has never scared you, but your body acknowledges his position with a quick flutter of nerves.
“How are things? Settling in?” Dumbledore asks.
“It’s been great! I love my chambers, and the greenhouses here are lovely. I'm very excited to begin teaching,” you reply, smiling.
He smiles back. “That’s wonderful news. Working with children all these years, I know moving to a new place can be a bit jarring. And what of your preparations? Students will be arriving tomorrow.”
I started planning the year as soon as I got hired, so it should go smoothly, even with the tournament interruptions. For the greenhouses, I handled the worst and left the rest for the Advanced Herbology students. Might as well let them prove themselves early and earn a couple house points in the process.
Dumbledore chuckles, his once clasped hands loosening to rest flat on his legs. “Yes, a rather ingenious way to test their aptitude, if I must say. You came very highly recommended, Miss Y/N. I look forward to watching you as the year progresses.”
A blush warms your cheeks, and happiness spills over you. “Thank you, sir. I look forward to any guidance you may have.”
“Now, on the matter of your colleagues. I trust that Minerva has made herself available to you?”
“She has, and I intend to go to her should I need any help. She is rather," you pause, searching for the right word, "intimidating though.”
“That she is. A formidable witch, wickedly smart, and a testament to her house and profession. What about Severus? Rumor has it you two had another squabble.”
Your blush shifts to sheepishness. You’d have been naive to think your encounter with the potions master wouldn’t meet the headmaster’s ears, but you’d secretly hoped he wouldn’t mention it.
“I apologize for what happened at dinner yesterday and earlier today. I assure you it will not happen again.”
“I don’t doubt that; however, that is not what I wish to know.” Dumbledore smiles kindly, but his squinting eyes suggest he will file away what you say next in his mind's archives.
You steady your breath and maintain eye contact. “I’ve heard much about his reputation—some good, some bad. He’s an experienced potion maker; he’ll be a valuable resource. I’ll make myself available if needed.”
“So, you are not intimidated by him.”
“No, sir, I am not.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I have known Severus since he was a boy. He’s always been the more aloof type, choosing to spend his time here, as student and professor, in the company of himself more often than his peers. Do not let his rough exterior blind you to the man he is at his core.”
You take a second to compose your thoughts, not entirely swayed by his sentiments but taking them into account. “I appreciate your insight; while my respect may be easily earned, it is not easily maintained. I will be professional as long as he does the same.
Another chuckle, but not out of spite or animosity, but in acknowledgment of your conviction. "Duly noted, Miss Y/N. One last thing before I let you return to familiarizing yourself with the castle: this letter arrived for you this morning. Curiously, it was sent to me despite being addressed to you." He holds out an off-white envelope. Sure enough, it bears his name and title, but inside, the letter opens with your name in a swirling mix of print and cursive immediately familiar to you.
You sigh, frustration and exasperation in your breath. You take the letter; with quick, wandless magic, it erupts into fire and disappears. If Dumbledore is surprised, he doesn’t show it; his calm façade remains steady.
“Well then, I’ll let you go. Unless you have any questions for me.”
You pause before answering; the question you've been mulling springs to mind. "Actually, there is one thing."
♪ Now playing: Built This (Slow Remix) by Samantha Ronson♪
You wake the next morning to sunlight streaming through large bedroom windows. Enchanted to appear opaque from the outside, they offer a clear view of the school grounds but block curious eyes. Outside, fog covers the world and dew streaks down the glass. This view makes you grateful, bringing you closer to the nature you love.
Boötes still slumbers next to you, his soft breaths fanning your face, and you try your best not to wake him as you pull back the covers. You pad across the cold floor and into the bathroom, turning on the shower and waiting for the water to warm up. The mess of hair that surrounds your head makes you laugh. It’s a quirk of your particular texture that you've never quite managed to tame.
The warm water feels amazing on your skin, the stickiness of sleep washing away under the steady stream. The various mixtures and balms you've concocted over the years cleanse you and fill the small bathroom with a pleasant smell: sandalwood and vanilla with hints of citrus. By the time you emerge from the bathroom with a robe wrapped around you and steam billowing out into your bedroom, Boötes is awake and chowing away at his breakfast of berries and nuts.
Your own breakfast consists of the same berries, but the nuts are replaced by an English muffin with far too much butter. You'd never been one to eat breakfast, but you have a big day ahead of you, and you will thank yourself for the extra nutrients later. You clean up after yourself, then look around the main room of your chambers. The same windows surround you, the domed roof allowing just the right amount of light in for the various plants scattered around. You tend to each one with the same level of care you will soon be teaching your students to show. This part of your morning routine always fills you with a sense of calm you can't find anywhere else.
Finally, you choose your outfit for the day, foregoing the traditional teaching robes for a dark brown blouse, copper skirt with moth prints, and your favorite boots. A flick of your wand styles your hair as usual. You glance in the mirror, and the ensemble feels incomplete until Boötes settles on your shoulder, and then you feel whole.
The day ahead begs for a to-do list, so you mentally compile necessary tasks: finish classroom preparations, harvest Pungous Onions, refine ginger root, bake cookies for Hufflepuff students. Grateful for an early start, you know all this must be done before the students arrive.
Spiral iron stairs lead you from your chambers into your classroom. Desks have been replaced by long rows of worktables, each with evenly spaced stools. Though the semester hasn't started, your desk is cluttered with parchments and books. You stack them by class, then clear the chalkboard and write Herbology 201.
The first class of the semester is with the second-year Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Old enough to know what is expected of them, but young enough to still cause trouble if not properly watched. Still, this is your favorite age to work with; the intactness of their youthful ignorance and whimsy often leads to classes filled with fun and laughter, and happy kids learn the best.
You flit around the classroom and between greenhouses, preparing the designated spaces for your first day of teaching. Each grade has a dedicated greenhouse, and after about an hour, you feel confident that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, everything will go smoothly. The next task confines you to your classroom, and you walk around opening as many of the windows as possible. The day prior, you'd done the final measurements of the Pungous Onions. Once harvested, they'll keep for a fair few weeks before they need to be processed. The ginger root is the same; once dried and powdered—a process mercifully shortened by magic—it will keep for years in an airtight container.
The onions take only a few minutes each to harvest. You take some of the soil out and deposit it in a compost bin to be reused later. It's a bountiful batch, large and round and terribly potent, not even the mask that covers your face fully spares you from the pungent aroma. The roots are thick and secrete an oil that can stain your clothes if you’re not careful, so you make sure to hold them away from you as you trim them. You inspect each onion thoroughly, looking for any imperfections that would negatively affect its usefulness, and cull those marred by them. The onions are set in a charmed crate to contain the smell, and you push them underneath your desk, intending to deliver them to their recipient later in the day. When you turn back to your desk, you are greeted by the sight of Minerva standing at the door to your classroom barely managing to conceal the look of disgust on her face.
"Just finished harvesting Pungous Onions. That's why it smells like that," you offer by way of an apology, not much you can do about it.
"And for what are you harvesting them? They aren't on the syllabus until late March." Minerva asks, casting a spell to rid the room of the smell.
You take a deep breath in and meet her eyes. "I am preparing them for the first-year potions classes. The first potion they are brewing is Cure for Boils. I remember failing miserably at my first attempt." You sweep the leaves and roots from the table and into the compost bin. The bundles of ginger root float over to you, and you begin to separate them. "I figured I'd help should any of them need to redo the potion. I had a group of healthy starts anyway."
"And that is the dried ginger root also used in the brew?"
You nod. "Yes, it is. Though..." you trail off, suddenly conscious of how your gesture might come across. "You don't suppose Professor Snape would be upset with me for offering help, would he?"
Minerva joins you at your desk and follows the same steps you do to prepare the ginger for processing. Her aged hands are steady as they grip the paring knife, using the butt of her other hand to cut through the thick roots.
"I have known Severus a long time. He was a peculiar boy and remains a peculiar man. He may not appreciate this gesture, but don't let him refuse it. He needs more people in his corner."
In the short time you've known her, you've never seen Minerva's professional mask falter. Sure, sometimes it's filtered through humor or amusement, and more often disappointment, but she’s never seemed as soft as she is now, the deep lines of her face made more prominent by the worry she now displays. Almost as quickly as the concern crosses her face, it’s replaced with a more familiar look.
"If he gives you too much trouble, just give them to me, and I'll deliver them."
"Thank you, Minerva."
"Now, are you excited for the students to arrive? Has Albus told you of the troublemakers in your fourth-year classes yet?"
You shake your head. "No, he hasn't. But I may have heard a thing or two from some of the paintings."
She chuckles, the sound melodic and carrying on the faint breeze that comes in through the open windows. "Yes, Albus told me about that. Well, three of these troublemakers are my own. Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter. Keep an eye on them. If you notice any unusual behavior, let me know right away."
Living in the wizarding world, it’s difficult to avoid the name, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The only known person to survive the Killing Curse. His story traveled far beyond Britain.
In the United States, tensions within the magical community had already been simmering for years. Blood prejudice was growing more prominent and folding itself into other long-standing divisions. Racism, homophobia, and political unrest made the wizarding world volatile enough on its own, but the ripple effects didn’t stop there. Even the No-Maj world felt the strain in ways no one ever realized. Growing up in the middle of it, you learned quickly which sort of people to steer clear of. When word finally came that Voldemort had fallen, the news crossed the ocean quickly. Not long after, the story of the boy who had survived him followed. Overnight, Harry Potter became a household name, even an ocean away. Considering that legacy, his apparent penchant for causing trouble almost makes sense.
"Will do."
The two of you carry on in silence. Once the roots are cut into 1-inch sections, you use the Drought Charm to dry them completely, then crush them into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. Prepping ingredients has always been your favorite part of potion making, even the less glamorous parts that typically turn people off of the discipline are relaxing to you.
It is a little before midday when you and Minerva finish bottling the last of the powder. The pair of you walk through the castle, and when you separate at the Great Hall, she reiterates her offer to deliver the ingredients herself if need be. You thank her graciously, then, on uncertain feet, make your way to the dungeons.
Severus lifts his head at the sound of a knock on the heavy door to his classroom. He’s not expecting anyone; they know to leave him alone, and Dumbledore wouldn’t bother knocking.
He heaves out a heavy sigh. “Come in.”
The low baritone of his voice echoes through the empty room, and the door creaks open. The first thing he sees is a large black crate filled with what looks, from this distance, to be a vegetable of some kind. When you trail in behind it, he has to set down his quill before he snaps it in two.
In the days leading up to the start of the semester, Severus has many things on his plate. His curriculum doesn’t change much from year to year—choosing to use the same assignments and tests affords him some time to refine his lectures and read up on the latest advancements in potion making—but the Triwizard Tournament disrupts his lessons, and he's spent the past few hours adjusting. So, what he doesn’t have time for are distractions, and since you arrived, that’s all you’ve been.
"Did you get lost on the way to the Hufflepuff common room, Miss L/N?" Though he doesn't look up from his papers, Severus hears your sharp inhale, and amusement flickers in his chest.
"No," you say, propping the crate up on a cocked hip.
Now that you are closer, he recognizes the contents: ingredients for the Cure for Boils potion.
"Coming to flaunt your green thumb, then?" Severus can't help the smirk that tugs at his mouth.
Another strained sigh leaves you. "I appreciate the compliment, but these are for you. Well, your first years. They're bound to be a few who need to remake the potion."
"I have no need for them." He dismisses you with a wave of a hand, picking up his quill and beginning to write again.
You stare at the top of his head, more than a little annoyed that he hasn't looked up to greet you, but you are determined not to let him refuse. "I'll just leave them here. If you don't use them now, you can add them to your stores. Where's the storeroom?" You take a few steps further into the room, making toward his desk.
"I said I didn't need them." Severus holds himself back from snapping at you, only barely managing to temper his rising contempt.
"Experience tells me otherwise," you sing-song. "Now, the storeroom?"
Now he looks up at you to see a smug grin resting on your face. Yet again, you are covered in dirt. It covers your exposed arms and the hem of your skirt, caked on and thick. Your hair is pulled back in a messy bun, but not even it has been spared from the mess.
"Are you always this insistent?" He asks.
"Only when I need to be." You reply instantly. "You might as well accept. Minerva would be glad to be the one to return if you turn me away."
Severus sighs: she is the only person, apart from Albus, whom he can't ever seem to say no to. "Fine, leave it there."
Your smile turns genuine, and you heave the crate off your hip and onto a nearby desk, wiping your hands on your skirt before turning on a heel.
"Always a pleasure, Professor Snape."
Just as quickly as you arrived, you are gone, and though your departure is greatly appreciated, Severus can't help but feel the weight of your absence. The click of the door closing is too loud in his ears, and he stares at the aged wood for too long. Eventually, he pulls himself back to his work, and a frustrated scoff leaves his mouth.
"Damnable woman."
"This is so exciting!"
You are perched on the edge of the large chair, looking out across the Great Hall. The returning students are spread out on their house's dedicated tables, chatting with their friends and shifting anxiously as they wait for the commencement ceremony to begin.
Sitting beside you, Charity Burbage looks equally excited. "It is! The children are always so spirited on the first night. Luckily, this week is short. We won't have to compete with their excitement for too long."
This year, the first of September falls on a Thursday, meaning there is only one day of classes before the weekend, and you are glad for it. Maybe you'll take advantage of the weekend to do some more exploring.
On your other side, Professor Flitwick chats idly with Hagrid, and on his right, there is an empty chair reserved for the still absent Alastor Moody.
Dumbledore steps up to the podium, and the hall falls quiet within seconds, hundreds of eyes focused on him. His presence looms quite large, and you can't help but respect him for the command he has over a room of teenagers.
"Welcome back students. I am so very glad to see all these familiar faces for another year of learning. Before we welcome the first-years, I needn’t remind you all of the role you now play at Hogwarts."
He goes on to emphasize the impact they have on the new students and how they are to act as role models and not lead them astray. When the first-year students are finally ushered in by an already weary-looking Minerva, you can feel the nervous energy radiating off them, and you eagerly watch on as they get sorted into their houses, throwing an extra big smile at your Hufflepuffs.
It takes a while for all students to get sorted; each one met with cheers and chants from their new housemates, but when they are in their seats, Dumbledore takes his place in the front again.
"I'm sure you all have heard that Hogwarts has been selected to host the Triwizard Tournament this year. The other schools, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, will arrive at the end of October and will join you in your studies until the tournament concludes. I trust you all to treat them as you would any guest in your own home. Before we begin eating, I believe there are some introductions in order."
Your stomach flutters when Dumbledore turns to you. "We have a few new members of the faculty this year. Professor Sprout has decided to take an extended leave of absence to pursue a professional opportunity offered to her, and Professor Y/N L/N will be taking up the mantle of Herbology Professor and Head of Hufflepuff in her stead. Please welcome her."
The cheers and applause almost knock you off your feet, especially the ones from Hufflepuff.
"Seeing as Alastor Moody has yet to arrive, Professor L/N has a request."
Minerva brings the Sorting Hat back around to the front of the dais, and you make your way to her. Cascadia didn't have assigned houses, so there was no question in your mind that you'd jump on the chance to get sorted here. Dumbledore assured you the hat's decision would be Hufflepuff, but you insisted on it anyway.
You settle into the stool and feel the weight of the Hat press down on your head. It awakens with a start and instantly begins talking, the sound resonating through the air around you but also inside your head.
"Not a student, I see, but a young professor. It's been a great many years since I've sorted an adult." It pauses before continuing to speak. "Very interesting. No house loyalties pulling you in a particular direction. No history with sorting. That does make things more complicated."
You sit calmly on the stool; hands folded in your lap.
"You are kind," the Hat continues. "Deeply so. Loyal to the bone and hardworking to the point of self-destruction if left unchecked." A soft hum. "Hufflepuff would fit you, no question."
You see several Hufflepuffs sit up a little straighter, but the Hat does not call it. Instead, its voice lilts with amusement.
"And yet, you are not soft in the way most expect."
Your fingers tighten.
"A planner. Adaptable yet stubborn. That American schooling of yours did not neglect the value of ambition, I see." A longer pause. "Resourceful and quite capable of commanding attention when necessary, but I sense that you prefer to sit back and observe before you make any moves."
You can feel eyes boring into you from behind, and although you can't pinpoint quite who it is, that tingle between your eyes from a few days ago returns.
"You would not be out of place in Slytherin either."
The Hat goes very quiet, mulling through its choices. The hall is silent, everyone awaiting its verdict.
"Hmm. The difficulty here," it murmurs, "is that you could thrive in either. And you don't particularly care which."
You don't. Not really. Sure, the decision will help your new students accept you as their Head of House, but the result doesn't change much for your role; that was stated by Dumbledore.
"But at your core, when all the cleverness is stripped away, you choose people. Every time." A decisive pause. "HUFFLEPUFF."
And through the erupting roar from your House, you hear only spoken to you. "Though, do not think I did not consider the other. You were a near thing."
The night carries on without pause. Dinner is served with a clap of the Headmaster’s hands, and conversation swells as everyone turns their attention to the food, almost entirely forgetting the professor who has yet to make an appearance.
You are mid-conversation with Charity and Filius when a sharp crack splits through the hall. The enchanted ceiling, which moments ago displayed a clear, star-strewn sky, churns suddenly with storm clouds. Thunder rumbles overhead, lightning flashing in jagged streaks that fracture the warm atmosphere.
A door slams somewhere behind you. You turn instinctively, and there—leaning casually against the wall as though he had always been there—is Alastor Moody. With a flick of his wand, the storm dissipates. Moody says nothing; he simply scans the room, his gaze unyielding, as though measuring each person in turn. He takes his seat between Hagrid and Snape, and the room returns to normal, but Boötes does not.
At your elbow, he goes still. The easy rhythm of his eating stalls, small paws curling against the table as his head lifts, nose twitching once, twice. A low, almost imperceptible sound rumbles from his throat, too soft for most to hear, but you feel it where he presses close. His eyes fix on Moody, unblinking, body drawn tight with a tension that hadn’t been there before. Even when you direct him back to his food, he doesn't relax fully, peering back at the auror as the night continues.
A/N: Minerva and Albus are so precious for looking out for Severus, right? In my mind, they'd be thrilled to have another young professor working there and would absolutely try to encourage them to be friends with him...they are mother and granddad, I fear. I absolutely cannot promise it won't be another month between updates, but I can promise to try my best to get back into the routine of writing :p. comments and reblogs appreciated! follow me on tiktok.
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Chapter Summary: After a tasteless comment from Mando, tensions are high between you and him. How will you both choose to move forward?
Chapter Warnings: arguments, fighting, Mando'a Language, intoxication, masturbation
WC: 7800
A/N: lmao this chapter is a long time coming...sry yall. apparently having four wip fics is a lot and means it takes a month for me to finish chapters heh...heh...yeah. anywho hope you enjoy this chapter i fear i cooked so hopefully it makes up for the wait
ps. i HATE writing chapter summaries...why did i do this to myself
Evidently, 35 hours is your limit for dealing with an uncommunicative bounty hunter, and it all came to a head about thirty minutes ago. Who knew suggesting an upgrade to this woefully barren ship would be such an offense?
After thirty-plus hours of traveling, you were desperate for a shower. You'd changed clothes twice already but still felt a layer of grime coating your body. Doing some digging in your belongings rewarded you with a small pack of sanitary wipes, but that was unlikely to last through your next trip through space.
At the time, it didn't seem like a big deal to suggest that the hunter upgrade his vessel. You figured he'd be good for the money, and if he wasn't, you'd happily cover the cost. Especially if you were to spend the foreseeable future here, that is, until you could figure out a place to go. So, you asked.
"Have you ever thought of adding a fresher in here?"
"What?" The Mandalorian tilted his head.
You repeated the question. "Have you thought about putting a fresher in? You obviously travel a lot, so it's not like it'll go unused, and I sure as hell won't complain about it."
His head righted itself, and from unseen eyes, he stared at you. His presence in the small hold doubled in size when he stood from his perch on a container. Slowly, he crossed the room to where you were standing and observing the head with a critical eye. It was an agonizingly long thirty seconds before he stopped right in front of you. The position mirrored the way you stood before each other on Arvala-7, right after he picked you up from where you'd crumpled in tears and told you the truth of Kuiil's death.
It was then that you really took time to assess the height difference between you. He was almost six feet tall, so he had to dip his chin to meet your eyes. From this viewpoint, you could see where the cowl of his cape wrapped around his neck, covering the skin just beneath it. The metal of his armour, beskar, was shiny and reflected your own face back at you when you met his gaze.
The controlled breaths filtered through his modulator were the only thing your ears could focus on, the proximity smothering any ambient sounds bouncing around the hold. Lungs heavy with the tension, you let out a big breath and watched as the hunter inhaled in time, the rise of his shoulders matching the drop of your own.
His voice, low and gravelly, sent a shock through your body. "Why would I do that?"
You blinked up at him. Why? A ball of indignation tightened in your stomach, and you scoffed. "Why? Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's not just you and your kid here anymore? You invited me aboard this metal prison; might as well make the experience slightly more enjoyable. Universe knows you probably smell like a Tauntaun under all that armour."
He puffed up at the insinuation, his chest expanding and shoulders raising. "So, you thought I'd tear apart my ship just because you want to shower?"
"It would be kriffing nice," you crossed your arms in frustration. "But it's your ship, so I can't really tell you what to do, can I?"
Now, it was his turn to scoff, the sound coming out choppy because of the modulator. "You'd be right about that. It's my ship. I can't just add a fresher. There’s no room."
"You could make room."
His arm twitched, just a fraction, but it was enough to draw your attention to it. His hand, which had once hung limply by his side, had clenched into a fist; the leather of his gloves creaked with the movement. "I don't want to 'make room'," his clenched fists rose to settle on his hips, and he shifted his weight to one side.
"If you can't afford it, I'd be happy to cover the cost," you offered.
"I can afford it. I don't want to do it," he countered again, but this time he turned to walk away, as if that was the end of the conversation.
"Why are you so difficult?" You groan, the exasperated tone an unintentional consequence of your frustration.
The Mandalorian stopped in his tracks and turned to address you. If you thought his voice was cold before, now it was below freezing. "I'm difficult because I won't allow you to make changes to my ship?"
That was when it hit you. Your indignation was dunked in a vat of embarrassment in an instant, but your pride wouldn't let you back down now, not in front of such an imposing figure. Now, your voice took on a defensive tone.
"Alright, damn. I was just giving a suggestion." You walked back to the other side of the hull, settling in your unofficial spot on the floor: a smattering of blankets and jackets forming a pallet for you to sleep on, and a large shirt folded as a pillow. You tried to make the move as nonchalant as possible, but you weren't sure you succeeded.
The Mandalorian made a sound between a scoff and a laugh, and as he ascended the ladder, you heard him mutter under his breath. "K'urmankala meg vercompaanir, alor'ika.”
Now, here you sit, in the same spot thirty minutes later, and you are fuming. All your embarrassment flew out the window as soon as you heard the elongated vowels and harsh consonants of a language you know to be unique to Mandalorians: Mando'a.
It is not, to your knowledge, a widespread language. Despite the span of the Mandalore sector, you've only ever heard the language spoken by the beskar-clad warriors. It is so sparsely spoken that it was not even a staple language in your education.
Growing up on Alderaan, there were many things a young lady could become, but one of your pedigrees was destined to be a diplomat. Daughter of two highly decorated Chandrilan military officers, you were expected to participate in the fight against the Empire. From the moment you could speak, you were learning how to represent your people, the people of both Alderaan and Chandrila. Part of that duty was to communicate with them. Thus, your knowledge of languages was born.
Your education covered the most common: Huttese, Bocce, and whatever else your mentors deemed necessary for communicating with allied nations. But towards the end of your education, you learned of the Mandalorians, of their role in the Galactic Republic, and the subsequent isolation of their people under the Empire. But the culture enraptured you. You pored through old diplomatic correspondence, trade logs, and Senate recordings, absorbing as much of the language as you could without a proper dictionary. For four years, you did the painstaking work of comparing translations to their original documents, learning the features of an ancient and nuanced language.
So, hearing those words, the dismissal inherent in the phrasing, the context in which it was spoken, has you seething. As usual, your tether is rather short, and soon you are storming up to the cockpit only to find the hatch closed. You aren't easily discouraged, however, knocking on the metal door with a heavy hand, hearing the raps echo around you. The divider opens with a swoosh, and you storm in. The child looks at you from its spot in the copilot chair, and the Mandalorian swivels in his chair to meet you.
" K'urmankala meg vercompaanir. Really? You know, Mando, you have been nothing but mean to me since I stepped foot on this fucking ship. You barely say anything to me, and when you do, you act like you'd rather do anything else. And now you throw that at me?" You take deliberate steps toward him; finger extended in a sharp jabbing motion directed right at his chest.
"Bet you thought I wouldn't understand that little comment, huh?" You pause, giving him a second to respond, but he doesn't. "As grateful as I am for you offering me a place on your ship, I don't appreciate the way you've been treating me. You're a grown ass man and need to act like it. And next time," you are now standing right in front of his seated form, towering over the hunter, roles reversed. "If you're gonna say shit, say it to my face."
In a second, you're back down the ladder and basically throwing yourself onto your makeshift bed. For the rest of the night, you busy yourself with patching up clothes and tinkering with an old holopad you found in your trunk. Your anger simmers for a while, then gives way to a familiar numbness. The same empty feeling that plagued you for months after your parents’ death. With a pile of clothes sporting mismatched patches, and nothing else to occupy yourself with but your thoughts, you lie your head on the thin pillow and will yourself to sleep. If you dream, it's in fleeting glimpses of a life you once enjoyed and of a life you could live. Somewhere warm and sunny and filled with laughter.
⋆˙⟡
In hyperspace, time is subjective. Sure, you can use a chronometer to mark the passing time or track your typical sleep and wake cycle, but when there is nothing to do but eat, sleep, and wait, there's not much of a point.
By your estimate, you slept for around 10 hours, which, all things considered, was pretty average for you. With how wildly the length of the days changed on Arvala-7, keeping a regular schedule was impossible, but you tried your best to wake up well-rested each morning. Your back protests when you sit up, and you know you won't be able to take another night sleeping on the Crest's floor. You silently hope that your destination will have a market.
The cargo hold is empty, but the ship's lights are dimmed, meaning that Mando and the child are probably sleeping. You move quietly, emptying your bladder and changing out of your clothes as quickly as possible, hoping to avoid any awkward encounters. To fight off the boredom, you take to reassessing the state of your wardrobe again, but find nothing else in need of mending. Then it's your toolbox, yet again, finding nothing to fix. Not even your weapons need polishing since Mando took the liberty of doing it hours earlier. The sheer unrelenting boredom makes you restless, not used to having so much free time. You are almost desperate enough to ask Mando if he needs help with anything, but not quite.
Your stomach rumbles, sending a pang of hunger through your body. Instead of heating up an entire pack, you settle for one of the nutrient bars. Bland and sporting an unsettling fudgy yet grainy texture, you muscle it down and let the packed protein-and-carbohydrate brick do its job.
You're not quite sure how the hunter does it. Surely, he spends countless hours in this ship, probably more than he does on any planet's surface, yet there is practically nothing in here; all the crates and cabinets are reserved for practical items. It's almost sad, but you assume he might not be the type to idly entertain himself.
The pneumatic hiss of the cockpit hatch sliding open announces Mando's presence. It's followed by the clink of boots on metal ladder rungs and the soft thud of feet hitting the floor. The Mandalorian is in the hold, and the tension in the air is thick. Sleep is the healer of all things, and unfortunately, the kind of rest you need after ripping into him as you did, so all that's left now is a twinge of anger and a whole lot of embarrassment.
You're never one to sit back and let yourself get disrespected, and it was a conversation that needed to happen, but you regret approaching him with such anger; the reaction undoubtedly a result of the turmoil of the last few rotations. And it seems he is on edge, too. He's looked your way several times since he descended the ladder, but keeps his body facing away from you while he opens various crates around the hold. Maybe he's assessing your body language, maybe he's worried you're one wrong step away from blowing up again. You don't know, but you know you have to say something.
Suddenly, your throat is as dry as Tatooine, and the words you meant to say shrivel up on your tongue. Damn, you think, this is harder than it should be. I'm grown; I need to be able to do this. You take greedy gulps of water from the cup that Mando gave you and try to bring the moisture back to your mouth. He is the closest he's been to you since coming down, and you'd rather address this now than wait for him to make another appearance.
You clear your throat and swallow, watching the Mandalorian continue, but now with slower movements. "I, uh," you pause and look around the hull, grasping for anything else to set your sights on, but he is the only other living being here. "I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. That was uncalled for. I should've addressed my feelings in a more mature way."
The silence hangs for a beat after you speak, but Mando stops moving. Slowly, he turns to you, and although you can't hear it, you see him take a deep breath in.
"I should not have spoken poorly of you in another language. That is not in my character." He trails off slightly at the end but doesn't speak again.
While it's not exactly an apology, you understand the sentiment and manage to smile softly, eyes locking onto his visor. You are content to leave the interaction there, turning to make busy with ripping the seams of an old shirt to make a better pillow when the hunter sits on a crate in front of you. It is an odd action. He completely abandoned his previous task to sit and stare at you, but you know what he is going to ask, so you jump ahead of it.
"You're wondering how I know Mando'a." He nods once, and you return it. With a sigh, you answer his question and then some. "I was from Alderaan, before it got...you know, and I was training to be a diplomat. When I was about sixteen, I guess, we learned about Mandalore and Mandalorians, but by that time, your people were isolated in your system. My teachers didn't think you would join the rebellion, so they didn't bother with anything other than the basics. I was interested in learning more, but the texts I could find were limited to diplomatic documents, trade ledgers, and whatnot, all in Mando'a."
You shift from crisscrossed legs to sitting with them stretched out in front of you. "I managed to scrape together translated documents and recordings of Senate meetings and used that to learn the language. Truthfully," you chuckle a bit, "it took me almost 15 minutes to translate what you'd said. I imagine I'm pretty rusty, but I got the gist."
"You were a diplomat?"
Of all the things you said, that is the one he latched onto. It confuses you, making you tilt your head and scrunch your face up. "Um, yeah, for the Rebel Alliance."
"How did—" He cuts himself off suddenly, standing up abruptly and starting to dig through the crates again.
You're unsure of where to go from here. It's obvious he was going to ask something, but stopped. You try to pay it no mind, picking up a drill from your toolbox and an all-kit tool, and begin taking it apart, needing something to do with your hands.
The two of you sit in silence for a while as you disassemble and reassemble the drill several times, while Mando reorganizes the hold. It is not until it seems like he is done that he speaks again.
"We will be landing on Nevarro in a few hours."
"Oh, okay. Why are we going there?"
"They need some help rebuilding after the Imps left, and I need more pucks. After that," he turns to you, and something in his posture reads as timid. "I know someone who might be able to put a fresher in."
You nod once, and he ascends back to the cockpit.
⋆˙⟡
Nevarro is a very interesting planet and entirely unlike any you've been to before. Approaching the planet from orbit, it looks rather unassuming. The surface is made up of large grey mountains and black lava flats, with a smattering of fire-orange rivers. It hardly seems like a hub for the Bounty Hunter's Guild, but as Mando brings the Crest through the atmosphere, you catch a glimpse of a large settlement carved into the igneous rock.
On the outskirts, space-faring ships of all kinds are parked in rows, and the town? —City? You're not quite sure what to call it— extends further down the valley between two towering mountains. The child sits in your lap, and he wiggles and squirms in your grip. His coos grow louder as Mando secures a landing spot. The touchdown is smooth, and while Mando secures the ship, you take the Child down into the hold. Despite his small size, you can barely hold him back as he tries to climb into his hoverpram.
"Whoa, little guy. Excited, huh?" You set him down in the pram, but his whining doesn't stop. "You gotta wait, buddy."
From behind you, the weapons cabinet opens, and the sound of Mando climbing down the ladder accompanies it. You dig through your belongings, gathering anything you think you might need. You'd opted for a fuller coverage outfit with a brown long-sleeve, tanned pants, and your long brown boots. A small shawl wraps around your shoulders, covering the shirt's low-cut neckline. You dig around some more and pull out a belt, securing it to your waist, then attaching a small satchel of credits. Your hand falters the next time you reach into the trunk. You pull out what seems to be a mess of fabric, but you quickly untangle it and realize what you've pulled. The harness rests heavily in your hand, the weight of the buckles and clasps familiar to you. Though it's been years since you wore them, they were once a staple of your daily garb, albeit hidden under layers of clothing. You stare at it, reminiscing about your years of training with your siblings.
"You should wear it. You'll need your weapons here."
Mando is still standing by the weapons cache, but he's facing you. You look over your shoulder and meet his visor's gaze. He's right. You've never been to Nevarro before, but it's smart to arm yourself in most Outer Rim planets. The only reason you'd gotten away with it on Arvala is because of your seclusion. You nod once and begin to strap the harness on. You step through the two leg loops, then buckle it at your waist. It sits higher than your belt, cinching in and accentuating your figure. The arm sheaths are next; they fit a bit looser than you remember, but they don't slip off. You make a mental note to tailor them when you can. Next, you dig out a few pieces of protective equipment. The forearm and knee guards fit snuggly around you, and you take one last look at yourself before you walk over to the cabinet.
Mando is fully armed, having done so while you prepared yourself. He steps aside when you walk over, calling the child's pram to him with a tap on his vambrace. It takes you a second to work up the courage to begin arming yourself. It reminds you too much of a life you no longer lived, could never live again. You pick up one of the twin Sah'ot Blades and turn it in your hand. The weight is comfortable, forged specifically for you to match your fighting style and bend to your will. The blade's twin feels the same, the handle conforms to your grip, and a smile tugs at your lips.
You take a step back and begin to refamiliarize yourself with the weapons, running through a few combinations you could perform in your sleep. The sound of the blades through the air is comforting, and your confidence builds with each cutting woosh. Your next move is a sweeping motion with your right, followed by a stab with your left, and you flick on the vibration at each imaginary point of contact. It sends a tickling sensation up your arms, but you are duly satisfied, you sheath them at your thighs and return to the cabinet.
Your throwing knives follow, six of them. They make their home on your arms, thighs, and boots. For good measure, you toss the last one in the air, watching it flip over itself four times before landing perfectly in your hand. You stuff it in the boot sheath and move on to the final weapon. Blasters have never been your preferred weapons. You love the quick pace and high stakes of close combat, but you were taught to have more than one trick up your sleeve. The blaster gleams in a way that your other weapons don't, and you laugh a bit. Mando's clearly more comfortable with those types of weapons than blades. The whole thing is cleaned and looks brand new, and you silently thank him for that.
The blaster is empty, missing the Tibanna gas cartridge needed as fuel for the reaction that produces the focused plasma beam. You know that Mando has a store of cartridges, and without looking at him, you ask for permission to take one. He doesn't answer.
"Mando?" You turn and see him standing in the same spot. Just a few feet away, as far as the small hold would allow. He is staring at you, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths, and his hands are tightened into fists at his sides. The black of his visor bores into you, and you take a startled step back before the confusion takes over. He was staring right at you, so how didn't he hear you?
You take a tentative step forward and try again. "Can I take a gas cartridge?" Another tense silence. "Hello?" You wave your hand in front of him. "Mando?" Still nothing. A thought crosses your mind. It's a risk, one that could end up poorly for you, but you're beginning to worry. You reach up toward him with your free hand. You keep your movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to startle him lest his warrior instincts take over. Your hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and the instant the touch registers, he inhales deeply and tries to take a step back. But the hull wall is there, and he slams into it, the sound of metal-on-metal echoing through the ship.
"Mando, are you okay?"
"What?"
"You spaced out there. I asked if I could take a gas cartridge, and you were just staring at me. Is everything okay? Are you sick?"
It takes him another second to respond, but you can feel his eyes on you, hidden behind the dark transparisteel of his visor. "Take as many as you need."
From then on, his movements are swift. He gathers the rest of his things, grabs your toolkit from where it is sitting, and opens the gangway all before you're done loading the blaster and turning the safety on. He descends the extended plank, and you can hear two distinct voices from outside, one you recognize, one you don't. Their greeting is loud, and the voice you recognize, Cara's, asks if you made the journey with the hunter. You refuse to feel rushed by the mention of your name or his sudden exit. You double- and then triple-check that the safety is on, then tuck the blaster into its holster on your hip. One last look around reassures you that you have everything you need, and then you join the group that has gathered outside the ship.
"There she is! The woman of the hour!" Cara calls out to you. She wears a blinding smile on her face, and though it's been only a few days since you last saw her, she looks different, lighter, like something that had been weighing on her is gone.
She breaks formation and comes to meet you, engulfing you in a tight hug. You stiffen at the sudden contact before returning it, happy that she seems comfortable enough to embrace you in such a way. The hug ends, but she keeps her hands on your shoulders, holding you at arm’s length and studying your face.
"I know Mando's probably already told you, but Kuiil was a great man. He did everything he could to protect the baby. We are eternally grateful for his sacrifice."
You give her a sad smile, and tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes. The sentiment already meant a lot, but hearing it from another person, someone who's been nothing but nice to you, makes it stick.
"Thank you, Cara," you say, pulling her into another hug. When you pull back, you've composed yourself and are able to give her a genuine smile, one which she returns.
The new man, who up until this point had been silently playing with the child, turns his attention to you. "And you must be Y/N. Greef Karga! We've heard a lot about you." He extends his hand. His grip is firm, and he shakes twice before letting go.
"You have?" You ask. You raise an eyebrow, and your eyes flick to Mando.
"No, but it's nice to meet you regardless," he chuckles.
A second of silence passes between the group, and you feel the urge to fill it, but don't know with what. Thankfully, Karga fills it with a deep breath and a clap. "Well, now that you're here, let's put you to work.
⋆˙⟡
Walking through the town, as Karga called it, you can see how the Empire's incursion has affected the people. Everyone is hard at work, scrubbing off blaster marks, patching up buildings with a slurry of volcanic rock and duracrete, carrying materials, doing anything and everything that needs to be done for the sake of their town.
You find your spot in the far corner of the town, one untouched by the violence that occurred just days earlier. A moderately sized market has been set up here, selling anything from building materials to food. You help out where you can, letting the merchants pull you every which way and ferrying goods back and forth between the work zone and the market. The child is strapped to your back. You arrived with him in your arms, but he was itching to walk around, so you let him for a while. But he quickly got underfoot, and an elderly woman gave you a large piece of fabric to use as a wrap.
"Anything else you need?" You ask the elderly woman. The setting sun shines right into your eyes, and you shield yourself from its unforgiving rays with your hand.
"No, dear. We're going to pack up for the night. Go find your friends." She says, patting your shoulder.
You nod to her and her companions. The walk back to the work zone is a fair distance, but you've done it several times already, so it goes quickly. On this side of town, people are still working, taking advantage of the last light to finish as much as they can.
The amber glow of the setting sun reflects off Mando's armour, making him a beacon among the group of people at the town entrance. He'd been more or less MIA since you arrived. Each time you came back into the area, he was nowhere to be found, probably busy, but seeing him now reminds you of that moment back on the ship. You’re not sure what came over him, why he seemed to be in another place entirely, oblivious to your questions, your presence. Yet it felt as though he was staring at you. The subtle weight of eyes on your back the entire time. Maybe he was sick, silently fighting an illness because he needed to get through the day. You have no idea. Really, you know nothing about him, not even his name.
The thought makes you stop in place just on the other side of the square. You’ve been traveling with this random man for more than a day, and you have no clue who he is. Why? Because Kuiil trusted him? Yes, that was part of it, but even despite his behavior thus far, something about him makes him inherently trustworthy. The child’s soft snores behind you make you think of how he came to be under the hunter’s care. He was once a bounty, destined to be handed over to the Empire for universe knows what reason. Mando had a duty to deliver him, but here he is, sleeping peacefully on your back. Surely if a child was safe in his care, you would be too, right?
You come back to reality when someone bumps into your shoulder from behind, jostling both you and the child and waking him from his slumber.
“Hey, watch where you're going,” you say.
The man glares at you for a second too long before walking away, but you don’t have time to question it because the child starts to fuss. You quickly unwrap him and cradle his body in your arms, bouncing on the balls of your feet as you try to calm him.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” His big eyes stare up at you, glistening with tears from being woken so abruptly. His ears are downturned, another indication of his upset. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”
One fat tear falls from each eye, but your soft smile is soon mirrored on the little one’s face. You continue bouncing, hoping that he will fall back asleep, but a loud growl comes from his stomach, and you let out a cackling laugh.
“How did a sound so big come from someone so small?” A quick scan of the crowd tells you that Mando is directly opposite you, and beside him are Karga and Cara. “Let’s go talk to the tin can. See if we can’t get some food in your belly.”
When you approach, Karga is discussing additional repairs that need to be made to the old guild hall before it can become operational. No one notices your presence, but the child announces both of you with a squeal and grabby hands.
“Someone’s hungry,” you say. You hold out the child for Mando to take.
He seems much more at home in Mando’s arms, even with the hard metal beneath him. He instantly calms but continues to squirm.
“Why don’t we all head to my place. I can have my cook droid whip up some food in no time,” Karga suggests, looking between the three of you.
Both you and Cara shrug, so the decision is left to the Mandalorian. He must sense the pressure because he sighs before agreeing. He calls the child’s pram over, then your group is off to Karga’s residence. The walk is short, but you and Cara fill it with idle chatter.
“So, what’d you do all day, gorgeous?” Cara asks, bumping your shoulder with her own.
The compliment makes you blush, but you don’t show your fluster in your answer. “I helped at the market on the other side of town. Those merchant ladies had me running around doing just about everything.”
Cara laughs, and you notice the way she touches your arm when she does. “Made that mistake myself a few days ago. They’ll run you into the ground. Don’t let them take advantage of you.”
“I just couldn’t say no. This elderly one pulled me aside, and she was so sweet, how could I refuse?”
“That’s how they get you,” Karga says from his spot at the front of the group. “She didn’t happen to be an old human woman, large specs, about yea big?” He holds out his hand, so it comes just below his ribs.
“Yes, actually,” you reply.
“Oh, that’s Olbeena. She used to be the captain of a smuggling ship. A real sweetalker knows exactly how to get what she wants.”
You nod. “Well, that explains it then. She was very persuasive.”
Karga’s house is bigger than you expected it to be, but you already guessed that being a hunter’s guild director had its perks. He leads you all up an external set of stairs and into an open concept living space. The sitting room is almost as big as the hold on the Razor Crest, and it is immaculately decorated. The furnishings are expensive, and paintings are hung on the walls. The color palette of the room reminds you of the planet’s surface, gray and black with occasional pops of bright orange. The sitting room gives way to a decent-sized kitchen on one side and an open-air patio on the other. In the kitchen, the cook droid works away, preparing and mixing ingredients faster than any person could.
You take various seats around the room, Karga beelines for a large reclining chair while you and Cara make for the couch. It is roomy enough for both of you to spread out with space to spare. Mando, however, stays standing after he sets the child on the ground to let him explore.
Conversation flows easily between you, Cara, and Karga, with occasional additions from Mando. Turns out, Cara is your type of person. She is effortlessly funny and a shameless flirt. Barely thirty minutes into the night, she has already made you blush more times than you can count. Dinner is a delight, too. Simple stew and a paired meat pie have you wishing you could wrap them up to take on the Crest, but the ship lacks a cooling unit to keep the food fresh. You feel the hunter’s absence at dinner, but he excused himself to Karga’s chambers to eat in privacy. After, Karga convinces you to stay for a round of drinks, which turns into a second, then a third. And soon, you are happily tipsy.
“Cara, no, I’ve never been to the tourist district. I was barely even allowed out into the city.”
You and Cara had been talking for the better part of an hour, while Mando and Karga talked guild. Somehow, in your mild intoxication, you and Cara had drifted closer. Your left leg is crossed over your right and brushes against hers, which are spread apart. She is reclined against the back of the couch, arms outstretched.
“But you must have gotten out a bit,” she says with a smirk.
“No, never.”
“Never even snuck out with your friends. Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
“No sneaking out, and no boyfriends or girlfriends either. “
She cocks a brow, and her smirk deepens. “That much of a goody two-shoes, huh?”
“I just didn’t have time. Spent most of my day at school, and when I wasn’t there, I was training.”
“Hmm,” she hums, conceding a bit. “So, no past relationships. Youthful flings?”
“Technically, no.”
Her right hand moves to prop her head up, and the change in position makes her bicep flex. Your eyes drift to them, admiring the muscles, before you pull your eyes back to her face. “Technically? Now that’s an interesting word to use.”
“It is, but I’d rather not get into that now,” you brush off the question inherent in her words and put the attention back on her. “What about you? What was teenage Cara getting up to?”
“Oh, nothing good that’s for sure. Joining the rebellion gave me some direction, but before that, I was a mess.”
She tells you of the escapades of her youth. Running around the capital city of Alderaan, getting into trouble and breaking hearts along the way. She seems mostly remorseful for her actions, but you can see how it’s all shaped her into the woman you know today.
“Well,” you say, leaning back into the couch and unintentionally, or very intentionally, slotting yourself into the crook of her arm. “I, for one, like this version of Cara Dune.”
“Which one? Every day, Cara or slightly tipsy Cara?”
“All of the above.” A yawn rips through you, and you cover it with your hand, shaking your head as fatigue starts to set in.
“Tired?” Cara asks. She places a hand on your shoulder and rubs small circles with her thumb.
You nod. “Yeah, a bit. I’d really rather not go back to the ship, though. I forgot to buy a bedroll at the market, and my poor back can’t take another night on the floor.
Cara’s mouth drops in shock. “On the floor? He has you sleeping on the floor?” She reaches out with one leg and nudges the chair that Mando finally agreed to sit in. “How dare you let her sleep on the floor of your ship. Where’re your manners, Din?”
Now Karga joins in, equally outraged at the news. “A woman pretty as her should be sleeping on down pillows every night. Certainly not the floor. Shame on you.”
You quickly try to diffuse the situation. The last thing you want the Mandalorian to think is that you’re ungrateful. “It’s not a big deal. It was just one night. I’ll buy a bedroll tomorrow, and I’ll be all good.”
Cara tightens her grip on your shoulder, all while giving Mando the stink-eye. “Regardless, you aren’t sleeping on that ship tonight. Come stay at my place. I got a spare room and everything.”
You look at her wide-eyed, but before you can respond, Mando speaks. “Need to get going early in the morning.”
Your head whips to look at him. This was the first you were hearing of this. You suppose it makes sense; he helped just like he said he would, and Karga already gave him six new pucks, so it only made sense you wouldn’t stay for much longer, but you had assumed he’d talk to you first before making such a decision. Evidently not, however. Anger starts to seep into you, and you narrow your eyes at him. “I need to grab a few things from the market, and they don’t open until midday tomorrow. So that throws a wrench in that plan.”
“Why didn’t you grab those things today?” He asks.
“I was busy helping. Just like you were.” You feel yourself start to get annoyed, but the alcohol in your system and the feelings of Cara’s hand on your upper arm work together to calm the growing fire. “It should take me no more than an hour to get everything I need.”
A small stare-down happens between the two of you, but eventually, Mando gives in. “Fine. Meet me at the ship at half past one. Go spend the night with Cara.”
There's a touch of venom in the way he says her name, but neither Cara nor Karga comments on it, so you assume you made it up. Cara stands up from the couch first and extends her hand to help you up. Evidently, she is stronger than she looks, or you’re drunker, because when she pulls you up, you stumble into her chest.
“Oop, careful there, Y/N. You gonna be able to make it to my place, or will I have to carry you?”
You steady yourself with her help and smile sheepishly. “I think I’ll be okay.”
“Damn, I was hoping to get to carry a pretty lady tonight.”
The cheeky comment earns her a slap on the arm, and you laugh aloud. You say your goodbyes to Karga, thanking him for his hospitality. The trip down the stairs takes longer than you care to admit, but Cara holds onto your waist the entire way with Mando close behind. You place a firm kiss on the sleeping child’s head before muttering a goodbye to Mando. You and Cara set off into the night toward her house, none the wiser to the hunter watching you walk away.
⋆˙⟡
It takes all Din's power to turn and walk back toward the ship. He wants to follow you. His muscles scream at him to. Every step you take sends a jolt through his body. Go, it screams. Go after her. Don't let her go with Cara. Bring her back with you. It's suffocating, restricting, stifling. He holds himself back, fighting for and clawing at the edges of his self-control. The first step is the hardest, but the second is easier, and the third easier still, and soon he's outside the Crest, watching the gangway descend.
The Child is still sleeping, so Mando opens his bunk and guides the pram in. The bunk door shuts, and now he is alone in the hold. He looks around the space, and his eyes land on your makeshift bed. His body heats with embarrassment. He'd let you sleep there for hours, knowing that there was an extra bunk. It is filled with random crap he didn't know where else to put, but it is otherwise functional. He could even have let you use his. He was going to sleep in the cockpit either way. To give you space, he told himself, but now, he knows that's not why.
He can barely stand to be in the same room as you for too long. You set him on edge. He's always aware of where everyone in a room is, a hunter's habit that keeps him safe. But you take over all his senses. Earlier, he knew you'd stepped into the square before he saw you. He tried not to look, but the pull was magnetic. You were standing on the other side of the square, holding the Child in your arms, bouncing him and smiling softly. And it was like no one else existed. The bustling square was empty, and it was only you, holding the Child in your arms, lit from behind by the setting sun. The visage of an angel.
The image flashes across his mind now, and it accompanies the sight of you strapping on your weapons. Ever since he saw the small weapons chest, he'd been wondering why you had them. You'd said you were a diplomat, but why would a diplomat have the training necessary to move the way you did? He was frozen on the spot. Holding himself back from doing something rash.
The hold feels suffocating. Evidence of you is everywhere. He storms up to the cockpit and shuts the blast door behind him. His helmet comes off first; it's been days since he last took it off. Normally, he's used to the feeling, but now it's suffocating. The helmet clanks on the floor and Din sinks into the pilot’s chair and yanks down his pants. His hard cock springs out, slapping against the padding covering his stomach. It aches and throbs and begs for attention. He is so desperate to relieve the pressure, he doesn't even take off his gloves, grabbing onto his dick with the rough fabric covering his hands.
The first few pumps are deliberately slow, testing the waters of his desire, seeing how deep it runs. Waves of pleasure run up from his dick and spread throughout his body. He shudders, and a heavy breath leaves his lungs. It's been so long since he's done this, too long. He continues at a slow pace, tightening at the base and letting the seam of his glove tease the ridge beneath the head. The gloves are rough, and his grip is bordering on too tight, but he imagines your hands are soft and you'd squeeze him just right, do exactly as you're told, treat him better than he deserves. Din's eyes are screwed shut, and his mouth hangs open. Again, the sight of you strapped with weapons, the setting sun highlighting the curves of your body, and his child in your arms flashes through his mind.
His hips rise to meet his hand in shallow thrusts, and his head rolls back. The head of his dick leaks precum over his glove. The added slick doubles the sensation, and Din picks up the pace. His hand pumps himself quickly, and his other hand snakes into the space between his legs, cupping his balls and kneading them gently.
"Fuck," Din pants, "pretty girl. Looks so fucking good."
His pants turn into grunts, the hand on his dick tugging and jerking fervently. His stomach fills with heat, and he sinks down further in the pilot's chair. Din's chin falls to his chest, and he watches his movements, wishing his gloved hand were yours.
"Too good for me. Don't deserve it. So pretty. Fuckin' perfect girl."
Din's mind runs wild, fantasizing about all the ways he can pleasure you. Treat you how you deserve to be treated. He wonders how your skin would feel under his calloused hands. How your mouth would feel around him. How you would taste, how tight you'd be. The noises you make. And it sends him over the edge. His muscles contract and pulsate, and Din spills over his hand with a throaty groan, thick ropes of cum spurting from his throbbing dick.
His orgasm lasts long, but the last waves of pleasure wane and make way for the shame. You don't like him, he knows it. It's in the way you look at him, speak to him. He saw the way you looked at Cara, how you reveled in her attention and touches. He knows that'll never be him, can never be him. He can't give you what she can, and you know it.
Din looks down at the mess he's made and sighs. He pulls off the rest of his armour but secures his helmet back in place, finding comfort in the feeling. The air feels cold against his body, and the ache in his feet from a long day's work ebbs as he descends into the hold. He changes into a new flight suit and opens the bunk door. The child is still sleeping soundly. Careful not to wake him, Din lifts him up and sets the kid down into the makeshift cradle fastened to the corner of the bunk. Din lies down and stares at the ceiling. He needs to do better, be better, for the Child and for you. Sleep finally takes him, but it's fitful and restless. He wakes several times in the night, plagued by dreams of a life he knows he can't have.
A/N:
Translations:
K'urmankala meg vercompaanir, alor'ika
Direct translation: (You) Believe that which you will, Little Leader.
Idiomatic translation: Whatever you say, Princess
Urmankalar is belief distinct from knowing. I took this to mean believing something without the knowledge to back it up. i.e., making assumptions
I used the command form prefix to hint that Mando believes (distinct from knowing) himself to be superior to the reader in this moment and is commanding her to keep deluding herself.
In January, I read Be-All and Endor, and I LOVED how that author used Mando'a in their fic, so I am definitely taking inspiration from them. It took me well over an hour to settle on these words and this translation. Working essentially retroactively from the English (basic) to Mando'a.
Glossary:
holopad - basically a portable dvd player or a vcr
duracrete - a synthetic stone product[3] used to make buildings
Comments:
Disclaimer/confession: i have not seen andor so if anything i ever say about Chandrila contradicts whats depicted in that show consider it canon divergence pls and ty
We don't get much information about the politics of the galaxy or the Rebel Alliance but I imagine they were training a lot of people to be diplomats to help further their cause. It is canon that there are places where neither the rebellion nor the empire had footholds, but I imagine they had people going all across the galaxy trying to rally people to their cause. In order to do that, you have to speak as many languages as possible. Reader is one of these people. Born into influence, much of her life was chosen for her; her career path was one of them.
Some canon divergence here. It is implied that Mando'a is, more or less, a dead or dying language. It is used mainly in ritualistic/religious settings, and we don't hear anyone speaking it in the show. This, however, doesn't really make any sense. Mando'a is one of the few things that still connects all the sects of Mandalorians, and if someone wants to unite the clans, they'd need to speak the common tongue. So, I have devised a solution for this. Mando'a is a closed language, meaning it is spoken only by Mandalorians, but it is used daily and taught as a first language, with Basic taught in schools. This makes sense because they were already a rather secretive race that isolated them to their home sector when the Empire rose to power. In the few scenes of Senate meetings we see, the representatives speak in their native tongues. I imagine this is to differentiate themselves as independent entities. So, why can't Mandalorians do the same?
eeekkkkk and so it begins. this was my first time writing a masturbation scene and i am not a man so hopefully its good...i honestly have no idea. anyway comments and kudos are appreciated.
Next Chapter | ATOSAS Masterlist | m4c4ronii's masterlist
Rating: Mature
Summary: After a decades-long friendship, Shota Aizawa realizes he is in love with his best friend Hizashi Yamada and develops a rare form of Hanahaki Disease.
Warnings: Hanahaki Disease, Aizawa Shota has Hanahaki Disease, Major character death, Angst, no happy ending, Hurt No Comfort, Unrequited Love, Body Horror
Word Count: 7336
A/N: this is both my first oneshot and also my first time writing in present tense. it is…weird to say the least but i thought id give it a shot. cant be a writer if i never push myself out of my comfort zone. maybe the next one will be in first person…probably not…idk
hope you enjoy but i really hurt myself with this one so...apologies in advance
Today is the day. Today is the day that I, Shota Aizawa, tell the man that I love how I feel.
· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Shota retches, spitting bile and waxy petals into the toilet. He sits up and rests his head against the cool fiberglass of the tub, breathing heavily. His abs contract again, and he lunges for the toilet, heaving up more petals, bile, and blood.
𖥸
Shota took gasping breaths between the coughs that rattled his bones. He’d had this cough for what felt like weeks. He figured it was some sort of lasting viral infection or some reaction to the falling leaves. Whatever it was, it needed to go away. He coughed again and felt the lump in his throat dislodge. Shota pulled his hand away from his mouth. A single flower petal sat in his palm. Pale pink and tinged with blood.
𖥸
“I’m sick of this shit," Shota groans. He dabs his mouth with a towel and takes greedy sips of water from the sink to get the lingering taste off his tongue.
Shota hardly recognizes himself when he looks at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks sink in on themselves, and the bags under his eyes are so pronounced he might as well be skin and bones. His already pale complexion is almost translucent, highlighting the severity of his condition. Hanahaki disease. Once thought to be fictional, but if the aftermath of that morning expulsions was anything to go by, it is very real and very inconvenient,
Shota can handle the coughing and the chest pain; even the flower petals are manageable as long as he gets rid of them quickly enough, but the vomiting he cannot stand. No one likes to vomit, but Shota hates it, always has. It interrupts his teaching and leaves him out of commission until he can steady the pounding in his heart and head. Extremely inconvenient.
Once he is calm enough, Shota finishes getting ready for work. He pours himself a large cup of coffee, grabs a fruit pouch, and sets off. The new faculty housing is off in the far corner of the UA campus, surrounded by a privacy wall. This time of year, the maples in the courtyard are losing their leaves, and the ground is covered in a layer of fiery red foliage.
The autumn air is especially cool this morning, and Shota buries his chin further into his scarf. Even though he doesn't use his capture weapon nearly as often anymore, he still wears it every day. It grounds him, gives him a sense of normalcy in this new world. The campus looks pretty much the same as before the war, though much larger. Student and faculty housing on the west side, refugee housing on the east, training grounds in the north, and rising high in the center of it all, UA Academy, now spanning kindergarten through high school, even offering collegiate-level courses for business and general studies students.
A lot had to change after the war, and UA picked up the slack wherever it could—employing anyone who could work and schooling those who wished to learn. It became a hub for efforts to rebuild society after All For One worked so hard to destroy it. It took a full year for the campus to be functional, stunting the education of countless students, but no one seemed to mind. So much had happened, and most were grateful they still had somewhere to belong, his students most of all.
Though he'll never say it, Shota will always be proud of his homeroom kids. They'd faced the inconceivable at just 15 and came out the other side better heroes than he could ever have wished to be. And although the world looks the same, even the air feels different. Alive with the understanding that they have to be better, have to try harder, so that the unthinkable doesn't happen again. Shota looks up at the looming school building, memories flooding through him. His chest aches, and this time it isn't because of the hidden illness.
Despite the early hour, the campus was bustling. Students of all ages walk the halls, some talking in groups, others with their faces in books or phones. That, at least, hasn’t changed. He walks into the teacher’s lounge and sits at his station. He pushes his chair back and stretches out his right leg, massaging the area below his knee. Cold weather always made the junction of his prosthetic ache, the dull pain radiating up from the amputation point throughout his leg. Phantom pains rarely plagued him anymore, but the feeling of cold metal on sensitive skin would likely never become tolerable.
As teachers gather around, performing their morning duties in preparation for a full day of teaching, Shota sits in silence. He doesn’t engage much anymore, having pulled back since getting sick. No one bothered him. He likes it that way. The unmistakable sound of Hizashi’s voice carries over the ambient noise. He is lounging on a couch with Snipe and Vulture—a new addition to the faculty—and talking about his plans for a weekend of drunken escapades and hookups. He is bragging about this "dime" he’d seen a few weeks prior and how they've been texting ever since. Hizashi's eyes capture Shota's attention. The green irises sparkle in the fluorescent lighting of the breakroom, brightening up the already ecstatic expression of his best friend. Hizashi does a celebratory dance.
The sight sends pain ricocheting through Shota's body, a cough threatening to surface. It's the same dance he'd seen the Voice Hero do months prior, the day that everything changed, the day he realized he was in love.
Hizashi had been complaining for a week straight that his students were not grasping the concepts he'd been teaching, and he was at his wits' end. To soothe his best friend, Shota suggested a test. Have them self-study and see how it goes. Good news came after school on a Tuesday. All of Hizashi's students passed the test. The man exploded up from his seat on the same couch and did the dorkiest dance Shota'd ever seen. He shook his head, laughter gently rumbling in his chest. "You're an idiot," he said. His chest warmed with affection, a mostly alien feeling, but with it came a cough. He hasn't been the same since. That realization. That he loves his best friend of over 15 years spelled the beginning of the end for Shota Aizawa.
Now, here he sits, trying his hardest to focus on the open inbox in front of him and not on the animated blond telling yet another story of a late-night hook-up. Shota knows deep down that he'll never be the object of Hizashi's desire. Where Shota is a romantic at heart, choosing to show his affection through meaningful actions and quiet displays of care, Hizashi shows his affection through passionate nights filled with booze, weed, and sex. His desire burns hot and quick, never lasting through to see the light of the next day. He'd been like that since they graduated high school, and Shota had come to terms with that quickly.
Soon, the first bell rings, and Shota gathers up his things. Homeroom would be starting soon, and he would rather not be late. He makes his way through the halls of the school, choosing to take the stairs up to his room rather than the elevator. Would it aggravate his cough? Yes. But Hizashi always takes the elevator, and Shota can't handle being in proximity to him right now. His cologne, his aftershave, his hair gel, his body wash, all mixed into an intoxicating citrusy vanilla smell that never failed to send Shota into a lovestruck spiral. And today of all days, he can't trust himself to behave.
By the time he makes it to his homeroom, Shota is wheezing and heaving, struggling to get a full breath. He digs around in the pocket of his hero costume, another remnant of his old profession that he can't quite bring himself to leave behind, and pulls out an inhaler. Taking several puffs, Shota covers his mouth with a hand, forcing the medication into his lungs. It takes a minute to work, and Shota cannot help but notice the concerned glances from passersby and his students, who are now filing into the classroom. Eventually, he feels better.
He knew from the second he figured out what ailed him that he wouldn't be able to hide it forever. Hanahaki Disease had only two cures, an experimental yet supposedly successful surgery and requited love. He's all but given up hope that Hizashi will return his feelings, but the surgery isn't an option. It came with an unignorable side effect. If he got the surgery, he would forget all about Hizashi. 15 years of memories gone. It isn't an option. So, Shota has been managing his symptoms as best he can, but it hasn't been enough to keep the concern at bay.
When Shota walks into the classroom, there's a bottle of water on his desk. It's ice cold and sweating, a layer of frost dusting the plastic label. Next to it is a single cough drop, and the box of tissues that had made its home on Shota's desk since he got sick is now full again. He takes greedy sips from the water bottle and pops the cough drop in his mouth. He knows who is behind this. Momo made the bottle, and Shoto chilled it. Tenya always carries a first-aid kit with just about everything you could imagine, and Kyoka suffers from seasonal allergies and keeps tissues on her person. Though he does not show his gratitude, he feels it and hopes his students can see the relief on his face, even as they pretend to pay attention elsewhere.
"Alright, let's get started," Shota says, his voice raspy and strained. "It's Thursday, which means you all have to report to your agencies tonight. This is the last week you'll be going before finals and winter break, so make sure you've gotten your hours for the trimester."
Ochaco raises her hand from her spot in the back of the classroom. Shota nods in acknowledgement.
"Will we be able to go to our agencies over break?" she asks.
"That is up to your agency. Remember that you take your licensing exam in March, and there is paperwork you all need to file that's due mid-January. As long as that gets done, I couldn't care less about what you do over break."
And he meant it. They will only be kids for a few more short months, then they will all be professional heroes, putting their lives on the line for civilians. But Shota knows better than most that these kids love what they are doing, and it will never be a job to them.
A few more students ask questions, and Shota defaults to Tenya to answer most of them. He has taken charge of homeroom since they returned to school as second years, taking a lot of stuff off Shota's plate.
The feeling starts in the pit of his stomach. A gurgling that Shota knows all too well. The cough drop still in his mouth tastes sour as his salivary glands go into overdrive, preparing for the inevitable. He knows he has just a few minutes to make it down the hallway to the bathroom. Enormous strides take him to the door, but his head swims with the effort. The room is spinning; his inner ear struggles to combat the vertigo that has overtaken him. He knows it's too late.
Thanking himself for having the foresight to add several trash cans around the room, Shota grapples for the nearest one. In this moment, he feels weak. He is weak. His students were never meant to see him like this. Pale with sunken, bloodshot eyes. He lost most of his muscle mass, both from the illness and his new physical limitations, so now his once towering figure is slumped and fragile. Embarrassment joins the nausea as Shota throws up into the trash can.
He can feel his students' eyes on him. The room is silent except for his retching. No one moves. This is the first time he can’t make it to the bathroom. The moment stretches out forever for him. He knows better than to try to write this off as food poisoning. His kids are too smart; they'll see through that lie in a second. Maybe he could blame it on the inhaler. He hadn't eaten breakfast that morning; the only thing in his stomach was water and coffee. And, well, flowers.
As soon as the nausea passes, Shota rights himself and, without a word, exits the room. In the faculty bathroom down the hall, he disposes of the evidence of his disease and rinses out his mouth in the sink. He'd do anything for a cough drop now if only to chase away the tang of bile. And while he isn't proud of it, he waits. Waits until the bell rings, signaling the end of homeroom. Waits for the tardy bell. Then waits an extra five minutes before returning to his classroom.
On his desk is a single bottle with a cork stopper and a note scribbled on a sticky note.
For the nausea - Ochaco
Ginger, undoubtedly. He'd read online weeks ago that ginger shots helped with nausea. He takes it and shudders at the taste, but the lingering rolling in his stomach stops almost instantly. Ochaco has come a long way with her quirk and is rarely plagued by the vertigo she used to experience, but she occasionally needs these ginger shots to quell the queasiness.
Shota settles into his desk chair and opens his email to continue the monotonous task of clearing his inbox, but the shame is starting to settle in. What is he doing? Neglecting his own health, and for what reason? Today, he feels worse than he has since he got sick. As much as he wants to ignore it, his body isn't moving he way he wishes it would. Every step is heavy. His movements are slow, and each breath is labored. The echoes of Recovery Girl's lecture bounce around in his head.
𖥸
Shota was standing a ways away from his students, and the sun was beating down on his head. It was uncharacteristically warm for early November, and the humidity was making it hard to breathe. But on top of the weather and his recent self-diagnosis, Shota was having a terrible day. Today was November 8th, also known as his birthday. He turned 34 years old today. 34 years of living, and he never felt worse. Everything hurt: his head, his back, his leg. You name it, and it was bothering him. And that morning, he'd thrown up for the first time in years: petals and the remnants of his dinner from the night before. Now, with the heat and exertion of demonstrating an albeit dumbed-down version of the training exercise the kids were doing, Shota felt like shit.
It happened before he even realized. One second, he was listening to the musings of the former number one hero next to him, and the next, his vision went black, and he was lying prone on the ground surrounded by his students.
He'd fainted. There was no other explanation. He wished for nothing more than to brush it off and return to observing training, but when he got up, it happened again, and that time he woke up in Recovery Girl's office.
Her face was stern, brows furrowed, and lips pursed, but there was a glint in her eyes that betrayed her concern.
"Shota Aizawa. You have Hanahaki Disease."
"Well, so much for getting straight to the point." Shota retorted, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at the short hero.
"How long have you known?" She was now pacing around the room, gathering a bunch of medical supplies, none of which Shota could name.
"About two weeks, I guess."
"And what have you done to help yourself?" Though she continued moving about the room, her tone suggested she knew he hadn't done anything about it.
Shota floundered for a minute, knowing he'd been caught. He landed on saying, "I can handle it myself."
"No, you cannot, and you know that." She stopped moving now to look directly at him, her wise eyes peering damn near into his soul. "This is a serious condition, Shota. Not one you can deal with without medical intervention." She placed the various items on the bed next to him before continuing her lecture. "I'm assuming your feelings aren't returned, and that's why this hasn't cleared up."
There was no escaping this confession. He, in fact, hadn't told Hizashi of his feelings. How could he, knowing already what the result would be? He was better off dealing with this alone, managing his symptoms and staving off the inevitable. Apparently, his silence was enough of an answer.
"You foolish, prideful man. This is not something you can deal with on your own. I suggest you buck up and confess to this person, and if your feelings aren't returned, there might still be time for you to get the surgery."
Shota knew all about the surgery. Not only did they go in and remove the plant, roots and all, but the process also removed any memories of the person you loved.
"I-I," Shota's voice broke in a rare show of vulnerability. "I can't lose him."
"I know, but we can't lose you. This school needs you." If Recovery Girl took note of the pronouns, she didn't say a word. Instead, she placed a gentle hand atop his and reached another to his face. He hadn't realized it, but he was crying. Gently, she lifted his head, so he was looking right at her—his vulnerability on full display. "It's going to be hard at first, but once you are out of the procedure, it will be like this never happened."
His body shook as he tried his hardest to keep the sobs at bay. How had his life turned into this mess? One leg, one eye, and suffering from this silly disease. He couldn't bear to lose his memories of Hizashi. Until his dying breath, he wanted to remember his dazzling smile and emerald green eyes. His gravity-defying hair and larger-than-life personality. Hizashi was Shota's reason for living, and as it would seem, eventually would be his reason for dying.
𖥸
If Shota cried again, sitting at his desk, answering emails, that is only for him and the dust bunnies in the corner of the room to know.
The rest of the day passes smoothly, but beneath the air of calm that Shota spent years perfecting, an inner turmoil rages. He can feel his body failing him. He can feel the racing of his heart and hear the rattle in his chest. He no longer has a choice.
Shota finds Hizashi in the teacher's lounge after school. Every Thursday, without fail, Hizashi sets himself up in the lounge to write the script for his radio show, Put Your Hands Up Radio, the next day. Shota has never known his best friend to be more meticulous about anything. The show is planned down to the second. Every song he will play, every joke he will tell, exactly when he will open up the floor for callers, and what his weekly Top 3 songs are. His dedication knows no bounds. It is one of many things Shota grew to love about him.
As he walks across the room, Shota's heart is pounding. The nerve he spent the whole day working up was as fragile as an eggshell, and one wrong move would send him running out of the room. It has to be now. He won't get another chance.
Hizashi has changed out of his hero costume, and his hair now cascades down his back in long blond strands. His headphones are on, and he is bopping his head to a silent soundtrack. It isn't until Shota takes a seat in front of him that he raises his head, flashing the most show-stopping smile he can muster.
"Zawa, my man! Didn't expect to see you today, don't you usually go with Kirishima to Fat Gum's agency on Thursdays?"
"Normally, yes, but Fat Gum and Suneater are on a mission this week, so Kirishima is going to Best Jeanist's with Bakugo."
"Oh, that's nice. Those two have been together for, what, about 6 months now? Who knew Bakugo was gay?"
"Wasn't all that surprising to me. Kirishima was more of a shock. I thought he had a crush on Ashido for the longest time."
Shota feels his resolve waning. He needs to do this now, or he never will.
"Well, I'm here for a reason." Shota takes in a deep breath. "There is something I need to tell you, Hizashi."
"Whoa, full first name? Am I in trouble?"
Shota weakly chuckles but shakes his head.
"I have been—" He is interrupted by a hacking cough that has him doubling over in pain. He coughs for a minute, but mercifully nothing comes up. "Sorry about that."
Worry is evident on Hizashi's face. Like his other colleagues, Hizashi has noticed Shota's steady decline and has questioned him about it several times. Each time, he wrote it off as asthma due to an upper respiratory infection. Shota doesn't know if anyone believes him.
"I—fuck I didn't really think this through, to be honest, but just let me say what I need to say."
In the split second before the words leave his mouth, Shota is taken back in time. Back to the day he first met Hizashi Yamada.
It was the spring before his second year at U.A. He found out just a week ago that he had been accepted into the hero course and would be joining Class 2-A at the start of the following semester. He was beyond ecstatic. He'd worked so hard over the last year to build up his skills to retake the entrance exam. Though his quirk was still useless against the bots, his hand-to-hand had improved significantly, and with the addition of the capture weapon he'd taught himself to use, he breezed through it.
His friend Oboro was the first to congratulate him. He'd called him after seeing his name on the class roster and invited Shota out to a Korean barbecue place to celebrate. He told him he was bringing a friend along. Normally, Shota would shy away from meeting someone new, but not even his introversion could dampen his good mood. So, here he was, standing outside the restaurant, getting ready to celebrate his crowning achievement in life.
He opened the restaurant doors and was greeted by the smell of smoke and meat, and his mouth began to water almost immediately. The sound of his name being called pulled his attention to a booth in the far back of the restaurant. He could see Oboro's smiling face and blue hair from where he stood, and the faintest wisps of blond hair sitting across from him. When he got into view of the stranger, his heart stopped.
Shota had known for about three years at this point that he was bisexual. After he found himself struggling to decide if he was more attracted to Katniss Everdeen or Peeta Mallark when he saw Hunger Games for the first time, the realization wasn't far behind. The idea of liking men never bothered him, especially not after his parents divorced when he was eight and his dad went on to marry another man years later. But his bisexuality was nothing more than a concept up until this point. He'd drool and fawn over celebrities or musicians, but never had he found himself attracted to anyone he knew, man or otherwise.
The boy sitting across from Oboro was nothing like the celebrities he liked. Somehow, he was better. He had coiffed blond hair. His green eyes were half hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, and when he caught sight of Shota, he smiled. The smile is what caught Shota off guard. It was the most genuine smile he'd ever seen.
"Hizashi Yamada, it's nice to meet you, Aizawa. Oboro's told me all about you. I'm so excited that you're joining the hero course next semester." The boy, whom Shota now knew was named Hizashi, held out his hand.
Tentatively, Shota shook it. "Shota Aizawa."
And in that moment. The second their hands touched, a dull pain bloomed in Shota's chest. That same pain has now intensified. Over 15 years later, and only now has he realized, it'd been love at first sight. It took Shota 15 years to realize his feelings, and in just a matter of weeks, due to this god-forsaken disease, he was confessing.
"I love you."
He doesn't look up at the man across from him as he says it, afraid of what look he might be met with. He continues talking.
"I think I have loved you for a long time, but I only realized it recently. You mean more to me than I can begin to put into words, so I'll leave it at that."
It certainly isn't as eloquent as confessions often are in the romance novels Shota reads, but it was out there. And boy does he wish he could take it back, because when Shota looks up, finally finding the bravery to take a peek at his best friend's face, his heart breaks.
Hizashi looks positively horrified—a stomach-churning mixture of confusion, regret, and guilt. His brows knit together, and he exhales shakily, the kind of preparation someone does when they’re about to hurt someone they care about, even though they don’t want to. And it's all Shota can do not to run out of the room that second.
From where he sits, Hizashi leans forward to place a hand on Shota's. His face has softened considerably; one could consider it warm, but there's a sadness in his eyes that dims their usual glow.
"Shota, I'm flattered, and you know I love you."
Here it comes.
"Just, not like that."
And if a broken heart can break further, Shota's just did. He tries his best not to let the disappointment show on his face, steeling his muscles into neutrality. How did he ever convince himself to do something as foolish as this? The pain in his chest worsens, tightening and squeezing at his heart.
"I understand" is all Shota can bring himself to say.
Gently, he pulls his hand out from beneath Hizashi's and folds it into his lap.
"Can I ask how long?" Hizashi's voice is tentative. Shota thinks it's the quietest he's ever been.
Shota takes a deep, shuddering breath before he answers. "The entire time I've known you. Though I only realized it a few weeks ago."
Shota's skin is starting to crawl. An uncomfortable tingling starting from his chest and spreading out to his extremities. He gets the sudden urge to run.
"Oh Shota, I—" Hizashi shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize. I should be apologizing." Shota stands abruptly from his chair. He's going to be sick. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position."
He walks out of the room and straight to the bathroom, where he proceeds to vomit into the toilet. Full petals and a concerning amount of blood are the expulsions this time. His chest feels tight, and his eyes burned, but he does not cry. He refuses to cry.
It takes Shota thirty minutes to walk home. He has to stop every few feet to cough into a handkerchief, disposing of the flowers as discreetly as he can. He vomits two more times, and by the time he makes it to his dorm, he is using the rest of his strength just to stay upright.
He stumbles through his door and barely remembers to shut it before he makes his way to his bedroom with unstable steps. Though his stomach contracts again, he only heaves with nothing resulting from it. He doesn't quite make it to his bed, sitting at his desk and attempting to catch his breath. Not even his inhaler helps.
In his mind, against his will, his life plays out in front of him. Things that were, things that are, and things that could have been. The hero he once was, putting his life on the line for his friends and students. The teacher he is, still sacrificing time and energy to ensure his kids are prepared for life after graduation. The lover he could have been, giving everything he has left for his partner and learning how to be a man, not a hero or teacher.
He decides to write down everything he is feeling. He grabs a couple of pieces of scratch paper and his favorite pen and writes. He writes until he can't anymore, when he can no longer grip his pen through the shaking of his hands, when he can no longer see the paper through the tears in his eyes.
It's then that Shota stands on shaky legs and takes the handful of steps to his bed. He doesn't even bother to pull back the covers. He tells himself it's because he doesn't need to, but he knows it's because he doesn't have the energy. Once his back hits the mattress, Shota is overcome with a sense of…relief. The pain is borderline unbearable, but the only thing he can do is close his eyes.
Behind his eyelids, though he knows it's supposed to be dark, Shota can see a pair of emerald green eyes, a button nose, and a small moustache sat atop a dazzling smile. The mouth is moving, speaking the three words Shota can now only dream of hearing. The image brings him warmth, brings him solace. The rest of the man's body comes into view, and he is wearing a tuxedo and a rose boutonniere. His hair falls over his shoulders and has a subtle curl to it.
The pain in his chest dissipates, the tingling turning to numbness, the rise and fall of his chest turning shallow before slowing to a stop. And despite it all, Shota smiles.
· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
“Have you guys seen Aizawa?” Hizashi asks as he walks into the teacher’s lounge.
It’s 8:05. Homeroom starts in ten minutes. He hasn’t seen the man once all morning. The various headshakes and murmured “no idea"s tell him Shota hasn’t shown up for work at all. Panic threatens to rise, but Hizashi forces himself to breathe. If Shota is struggling to drag himself in today, that’s understandable.
He’ll turn up, Hizashi reassures himself as he leaves the lounge and strides toward the elevator.
Though Shota lingers in his mind all morning, it isn’t until lunch that Hizashi lets the worry settle in his bones. After class, Ashido approaches him with a nervous, pinched expression.
“Present Mic… Mr. Aizawa isn’t here today. He threw up in class yesterday. Is—is he okay?”
Hizashi’s heart sinks. Everyone—staff and students alike—knew Shota had been sick for a long while, and true to form, he kept showing up regardless. But throwing up in class? That was far beyond anything Hizashi ever imagined Shota allowing anyone to see.
“He’s just under the weather,” Hizashi replies, injecting as much brightness into his voice as he can manage. “I’ll go check on him during lunch, but he’ll probably just turn me away. You know how he is.” He’s not assurance the cheer lands.
Once the last student leaves his room, Hizashi practically bolts from the school. He’s worried. Shota has never been good at handling his emotions. After Oboro died, Shota disappeared completely. Weeks of silence turned into months, and once they graduated, months slipped into years. He shut himself off, dedicating everything he had to hero work. They went nearly three years without talking. If Hizashi hadn’t been assigned that mission by his agency… he’s not sure they would have ever reconnected at all.
Reaching the faculty residence, Hizashi scrambles to punch in his code and takes the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. He counts doors until he reaches 305—Shota’s apartment. But something’s wrong.
Something green is scattered around the doorframe. Tiny bits of it peek from under the door and around the hinges. Hizashi fumbles with his key ring, fingers trembling as he searches for his emergency key. When he finds it, he shoves it into the lock, twists, and throws the door open.
He stops dead.
He had expected the bare-bones neatness of Shota’s apartment and maybe a rumpled blanket on the couch where he often fell asleep. Instead, the floor, walls, and every surface are covered in flowers.
He barely recognizes the varieties, but their colors range from deep purple to bright red to soft white. Vines threaded with small purple blossoms crawl up the walls and dangle from the ceiling. Bundles of red and white blooms cluster across the floor and the dining table. They look as though they sprouted straight out of the wood and plaster, but on closer inspection, they’re all connected by one massive, tangled network of vines.
As Hizashi moves deeper inside, the floral overgrowth thickens, becoming a physical barrier he has to push through. The wild, otherworldly sight nudges a thought into his mind: a quirk. Maybe a bouquet altered by a quirk gone out of control. The hallway to Shota’s bedroom is overtaken entirely. Hizashi steps over small bushes, brushing past drooping blossoms as he approaches the half-open door.
He pushes. The door resists hard. It takes his full strength to force it open enough to enter. And then his world stops.
Shota is lying on the bed, a bundle of red and white flowers resting on his chest—except, as Hizashi gets closer, he realizes they aren’t resting at all. The stems disappear into Shota’s shirt, threading down, vanishing into his still body as though they’re growing from him.
Hizashi is at the bedside before he even registers moving. He reaches out with shaking hands, pushing aside a few blossoms—blossoms that tug slightly, disturbingly, as if they’re anchored deep within Shota—and presses trembling fingers against his neck. No pulse.
Every bit of first aid training he’s ever had vanishes. He can only stare, mind refusing to understand. It’s impossible. Any moment now, Shota will gasp awake, eyes shooting open, ripping the flowers free like this is some terrible nightmare playing a trick on him. But nothing happens.
Hizashi doesn’t know how long he stands there, waiting for the impossible. When he finally drags his gaze away from Shota’s too-peaceful face, he follows the vines spilling off the bed; thick ones, braided together, snaking across the floor and out through the doorway. They’re the same vines that overran the apartment.
All of them lead back here. All of them lead back to him.
A flash of white catches his eye beneath the bouquet blooming from Shota’s chest. Carefully—terrified of tearing something alive—Hizashi lifts the flowers and uncovers a folded piece of paper. With shaking hands, he unfolds it and begins to read.
𖥸
To be read after my passing
Today was the day. The day that I, Shouta Aizawa, finally told the man I love how I feel. It is also my last day on this earth.
I like to believe I’ve lived a life I can be proud of. I’ve accomplished things I once only dreamed of. I’ve fought against insurmountable odds to bring about a future stronger than any before it. I’ve stood beside invaluable allies against formidable foes. And I’ve lived long enough to see the fruits of our labor begin to blossom.
But despite it all, my time has come to an end.
To My Students:
Keep training. Keep striving to be better than you were yesterday. You’ve faced the unthinkable at such a young age, and yet you’ve proven that being a hero is about far more than power. It’s about resilience, heart, and the will to keep moving forward. Keep making me proud.
To My Colleagues:
Though I won’t be here to shepherd the next generation into the world, I know you will continue to guide and support them as they chase their dreams. They’re in capable hands.
To Nemuri:
I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me most. Your sacrifice wasn’t in vain. So many strong, brilliant young women have followed in your footsteps—paving new paths and breaking down barriers I didn’t even know existed until you befriended me. I think you’d be proud to see what’s become of the world you helped shape.
To Oboro:
My friend… we meet again at last. I was never one to believe in an afterlife or any kind of grand plan. Even more so because you didn’t get the kind of “life after death” that people like to talk about. Your body was stolen. Twisted. Reconstructed into something meant to serve villains. The person we knew became the Nomu known as Kurogiri. A tool of the very darkness we once fought against. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just.
But you, Oboro, live on, not in that body, but in us. You live on in the way I teach my students. In the way I saved civilians. In the way I try, every day, to be a better friend, a better teacher, a better man. Your light never disappeared; it found new ways to burn. And if there’s any proof that we leave pieces of ourselves behind in others, it’s you.
To Hizashi — the man I love:
If you had told me all those years ago that I’d grow to love you in a way I’d never loved anyone before, I would’ve laughed in your face.
It doesn’t take a genius to see we’re polar opposites. You shine where I linger in the shadows. You speak to the world with unfiltered honesty, while I let silence carry my meaning. You embrace emotion openly; I hold mine close. Where I observe, you act. Where I hesitate, you leap.
And yet, despite those differences—or maybe because of them—you became someone I can’t imagine my life without. Opposites attract, they say. I think we proved them right. You’ve helped me in ways that took me years to understand. You are selfishly selfless, stubbornly gentle, and confidently vulnerable. You’re annoyingly attentive and frustratingly polite. And those are exactly the reasons I love you.
I didn’t realize it at first—anyone who knows me knows I’m not the sentimental type—but I think it was love at first sight. Whether it was your smile or the way you said my name, like you'd already known me for years. I fell in love but was too ignorant to realize it.
In the years since, my love has festered in the form of this hidden disease. Hanahaki. A cruel fate to anyone unlucky enough to experience it. But despite the grave reality I face, I am happy. I am happy because I got the chance to love you.
Hizashi Yamada, I love you.
I love you in the morning, when I read your late-night epiphany texts. I love you in the afternoon, when you give me the rundown of your day. I love you in the evening, when we’re at the bar or grading papers side by side. I love you at night, when I think of all those times on patrol when I’d encountered a villain I knew you’d find hilarious. I love you when I’m awake, watching the way you light up your students’ lives. And I love you when I’m asleep, dreaming of a world where the four of us are together again.
Hizashi, if you’re reading this, then I’m gone. But know this: It’s my dying wish for you to be happy. Never stop being the man that you are. The three Dumbmigos are now one, but the stupidity has only multiplied. Lead a life you can look back on and be proud of. I know I did.
Love, Shota
𖥸
Tears cloud his eyes and fall helplessly onto the crumpled paper, mixing with the dried ones left behind. Hizashi falls to his knees. The room around him is transformed into a jungle of flowers, yet all he can see is the visage of his friend. Stoic. Peaceful, almost. A gentler version of the expression he wore daily. Shouta Aizawa. The man that he loves.
A/N: please like, comment, and reblog they rly help fanfic writers get out work out there :).
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