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Ashes

Fracture - Chapter 1

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Pairing: ot8 x Reader Word Count: 5.6k Chapter Warnings: PTSD, Survivor's Guilt, Mentions of character death, Verbal Harassment, Isolation, Panic, Dissociation, Emotional Supression, Self-Doubt, Unreliable Narrator (trauma informed). Synopsis: You navigate the newly-found discomfort that comes with being an outsider, haunted by trauma and loss. Tensions start rise as fresh wounds are poked at.

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The next morning…

The bed underneath your hands is far too stiff. Devoid of blankets, with only a flimsy cover, it feels just as apathetic as the facility. You miss the feeling of a proper bed, or a proper room. One unbothered by the constant checks from medical staff and the incessant scribbling of the scribes that pop in and out without warning.

The overpowering smell of medicinal herbs and tinctures sting your nose, as you stare at the bag the healer left on the table in your room. There’s several packets in it, consisting of different blends they think might help your insomnia. You hate the taste. You hate how they cloud your mind. How they make memories of the fallen slip away through your fingers like sand.

A quick glance around the room reveals nothing new, it’s the same dull room you’ve been staying in for the past two weeks. At least it has some decor, unlike the isolation room you were originally placed in when you were found. A flower vase sits on the table side bed, holding a handful of little blue flowers with yellow centers. They’d be gorgeous, if they weren’t already half wilted. A petal detaches, driftung pitifully to the table.

A knock at the door. Your eyes snap up and away from the bag to it, only to see the doorknob already turning. You tense up, hands twitching as you instinctively reach for your dagger—only to remember it’s not on your person. You twist and reach for the small vase instead, only to freeze when you recognize the voice that greets you.

“Planning on using that against your Wing Leader of all people?”

You finally glance over to see your Wing Leader, Hongjoong. His expression is relatively neutral as he glances you over, though his eyes seem to pierce your soul. It’s like he’s logging every little reaction you make in his mind for future reference.

“Get up, grab your bag. I trust the healer already went over your discharges with you.” He says, hand still on the doorknob. It’s not a question.

He doesn’t wait for you to get up, already turning on his heel to leave the room. You quickly get up, reaching for the bag full of herbal mixes and slinging it across your back as you follow him out into the hallway. The mage lights in the room slowly dim, and you find yourself falling in step behind him as he heads towards— wherever it is you’re going.

“You’re being reassigned to Squad 3. The paperwork was finished yesterday but medical wanted you to stay one more night before discharge. The items that the recovery team were able to find have been sent to your new room already, though I’d double check to see if anything’s missing. Your room will be on the second floor with the other cadets in your new squad. You haven’t been cleared for much past basic training exercises, and Dàn is still grounded until she’s cleared—“

He cuts himself off when you let out a scoff. Dàn has to be cleared for flight maneuvers? Since when did they get to decide what you do or don’t do with your own dragon?

“Is there something wrong, cadet?”

“No sir.” Comes your quick reply, rolling off your tongue before you can make things worse.

Hongjoong stops and stares at you for a moment, before continuing down the hall and out the door towards the bridge that connects the healers quadrant to the rider quadrant across the canyon. His entire demeanor is distant. This is the wingleader in his element. Cold. Efficient.

There’s only a second of silence before he comments.

“The tension in your shoulders would suggest otherwise.” He comments, as you step into the hallway. Add on observant.

The hallway has small windows that line the walls, letting you look out and down to the valley below. The thud of Hongjoong’s footfalls ahead of you keep you moving forward, though your eyes are trained to the distance below. It’s sunny outside, and the valley below is relatively green and lush. Normally, you’d be able to appreciate the beauty, the serenity the valley and its view can bring. However, today is not the day.

Instead, a swirling of a chaotic mess of apprehension, anger, loneliness, and grief eat away at your stomach. You miss your squad mates, but you can’t get the visions of that day out of your head. A stray flower growing off the cliff side—yellow and vibrant— seems to taunt you.

“Can you think any louder, little one? I almost didn’t hear you.” Comes a snarky, slightly irritated comment from Dàn.

“You decide to comment on that after being basically MIA for the past three days?” You counter.

“I had matters to attend to.” Comes her cryptic reply.

The cool, pearlescent bond between you and Dàn had felt stifled the past few days. Where the bond typically felt like clear, silvery-blue water, it instead was a dried up creek. A trickle instead of a steady stream.

“Right.” You think at her bitterly, hoping to portray even a fraction of your hurt and anger.

“It was not a slight against you.” She growls in your head, her own irritation reverbing in your skull. “I am simply covering my bases. You were safe.”

You cut the connection off, not wanting to hear her lecture for today. She could likely crash through your barriers if she pleased, though it seems today she’s more lenient than normal. You can feel her hovering at the edges of your mind, before her presence ultimately fades to the normal hum.

“— and he’ll be the room to your left. I expect to see you on the mat later today. I’ll ensure you have a sparring opponent, since you were likely left off the roster today dud to your stay in the infirmary.” Hongjoong’s voice grabs your attention again. He looks at you expectantly, awaiting a reply. You must’ve missed something—not that you’re willing to admit.

You nod, trying to be as believable as you can be, as he leads you to the dorm rooms for second years and up.

“This one’s yours. If there’s any issues, bring it up with your squad leader. Also,“ he reaches into his pocket, handing you a patch. “Swap out your signet patch for now.”

You turn the patch over to look at it, noticing it’s the same compass design he wears on his own jacket. You furrow your brows, glancing at him silently in question.

“Your signet has been escalated to tier three. Classified.” He explains smoothly.

As you open your mouth to ask why, he holds a hand up and shakes his head.

“I also believe that keeping you off of training is poor judgment from the medical staff, seeing as you’ve already been off training for the past two weeks, so you are going to sparring today. I have a meeting to get to with the other leadership, though, but I trust you’ll find the training room just fine considering you’re a second year. Just make sure you swap out the patches. I expect to see you after lunch, on the mats.” He says, before whipping around and heading towards the exit. The thuds of his boots against the floors fades away slowly as he strides away, leaving you with more questions than answers.

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Your new room is bare. Functional, but lifeless.

It has the basic furniture, a desk, chair, bed, armoire, and bedside table. A small mage light sits on the bedside table. The walls are bare, save for the standard issue clock seen in every cadet’s room.

The bed is simple, but notably the blankets have changed. The color is different, navy instead of black. A small, inconsequential change, but it unsettles you nonetheless. They may have just run out of the black blankets when they were assigning you a new room, but you already miss your old blankets. On the bed are several standard issue sets of folded leisure wear.

You turn your attention to the armoire, opening its creaky wooden doors to peer inside. Several sets of your flight leathers sit inside, though you note that the squad patch on all your uniforms has been replaced with a different number. You feel dizziness take hold as you stare at the flame with a “III” embroidered inside, instead of the “I” you’ve known the past two years.

The floor spins. It’s somehow too loud, too quiet, too fast and slow at the same time as your breathing picks up.

Laughter. Smiles. Celebration. Tears. Pain. Anguish.

Memories of your fallen squad mates threaten to overwhelm you in the moment, and your spiral is only relieved when you realize you’re digging your nails into your palms.

“Little one.” Comes Dàn’s concerned voice in your head. Her constant presence seems to flood you momentarily, as her vigilance pokes at the edges of your mental walls.

You let out a shaky breath, glancing down at your hands. In. Out. In. Out. You take a moment to try and calm your breathing, before glancing down at the patch still in your hands. You still need to put it on your uniforms.

Except, you can’t get them out your head. You try your best to block it out, shoving it deep down, but it somehow comes back stronger. Your chest feels heavy as a creeping sensation of dread and fear climbs up, threatening to choke you, rob you of your voice.

“Little One.” Comes Dàn’s voice again, much sterner than earlier. “your breath stutters. Focus.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the shimmery silvery-blue thread that connects you and Dàn. It’s hard, and you find yourself fighting off the memories and echoes of your old squad’s final moments.

“You’re reacting to shadows, not steel. You are spiraling. Anchor yourself.”

“We were fine, Dàn. I—we were laughing. I looked straight at them. They looked at me like—like I wasn’t—“ You respond, but Dàn cuts you off again.

“They were compromised. That is not your fault.”

“But—“

“No. They were taken by something vile. You cannot mourn what they were in the end— cannot let it haunt you. Not when it wasn’t truly them.”

You feel a lump rise in your throat, as you clench your jaw in an attempt to ground yourself. You feel pitiful, losing out over ghosts of all things. A rider reduced to a coward in seconds, simply because of a patch.

“Lean on me. Endure. Remembering the dead keeps them here. Let them rest, little one. Do not let the darkness drag you down to join them. You can worry about the useless patch later.”

You exhale, shakily backing up to sit on the edge of the bed, sinking into the soft mattress. Your hands grip the signet patch in your hands harshly, but your breathing evens slightly. After a few moments, the worst of the feeling ebbs, leaving you tired but slightly more composed. Dàn goes back to being silent, though her presence is still felt.

“You should get some rest. Lunch hour is soon, and afterwards you’re expected on the mat for sparring. Don’t let your emotions cloud your abilities.”

You nod, putting the patch down on the pile of folded clothes on the edge of the bed, before moving it all onto the bedside table. You pull back the blanket, sliding in under it and yanking it up close to your chest. You lay your head down for a quick nap, unsure if sleep will bring peace—or ghosts of familiar faces.

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The waking world calls you back far sooner than you’d like.

For a fleeting moment, it’s blissful. Then reality comes crashing back down. The sheets are navy, not black. There’s no little carving on the headboard. Not yours.

You take the opportunity to shove your heart into a little box before it can overtake you. You are not weak, you remind yourself.

Blankets fall off the bed as it dips under your weight when you shift to sit up. You could care less, as you get up and stretch the ache in your neck and back. Must’ve slept awkwardly.

You reach for the armoire. Your hand pauses to hover over the handle, frozen in hesitation. Then, gripping it with more force than necessary, you open the door to snatch the first set of leathers within reach.

Your eyes catch the silver stars — second year. An open eye, encircled by a starburst. Your old signet patch, tier two. Vague enough to hide what you actually see. Above those two— A winged emblem with a two emblazoned on it, your name and rank nestled right under it. Cdt. L/N Y/N, Second Wing. Finally, a flame for your sections Except it’s wrong. You stare at it, as if glaring might burn away the “III” and bring back what’s supposed to be there. It doesn’t.

Throwing the leathers on your bed, you reach for the new signet patch sitting on the bedside table. The patch is a simple compass, though its meaning implies—to most cadets at least—that you’re likely far more dangerous than you seem. A frown graces your face as you start to pick at your old patch, ripping the stitching off to remove it. Your movements are a bit agitated, though from what you can’t tell. Once the final piece of string is pulled and discarded, you press the patch against the leather, trying not to think about its implications. Changed. Watched. Dangerous.

Once you deem it passable, you throw the old patch onto your table, and start to shrug on the uniform. You give yourself a cursory glance, ensuring it’s on properly, before reaching into the bag of things the recovery team had found. After a moment of rustling, your hand finally meets steel—your daggers. You pull them free, the cool weight grounding you. Familiar. Steady. You slide them into their sheaths.

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Finally feeling somewhat ready, you reach for the door and head out the room to the food hall. The walk there, the hallways are relatively devoid of people aside from the occasional cadet passing by. It gives you a moment to mentally prepare.

Reaching the door, your hand rests against the smooth wood as you steady yourself. Here goes nothing.

Opening the door, you’re met with the sounds of a busy hall. Cadets chattering, sharing meals, memories. The sound of something clatters to the floor, followed by a high pitched laugh. It’s overwhelming—but not nearly as much as the crisscrossing filaments you see between everyone. They shimmer with every color under the sun, creating an intricate spiderweb over the entire room.

Blinking your eyes rapidly, you will the colorful threads to dim. The faintest of outlines of them linger on the edges of your vision, but it’s much less overwhelming now.

You turn your attention to the side of the room, picking up one of the trays as you round the corner. The food line up seems lackluster today, you end up grabbing one of the dry turkey sandwiches. A cup of water finds itself onto your tray, along with a mush medley of vegetables.

Your feet steer you to the table you used to share with your squadmates on instinct. The lack of people sitting there wrenches something in you painfully. This is wrong. There’s no laughter or life here. The table is too clean and untouched. There’s no messy crumbs, or spilled water. No papers flung haphazardly to the side by your squad leader.

And yet? You still sit. Almost in denial, like you expect one of them to pop up and say it was all a joke. A hand on your shoulder, a tray dropping loudly next to you. Anything. Where are they? Why aren’t they here yet?

A lump forms in your throat as you stare down at your food. You’re suddenly not hungry, if you ever were. The sandwich, normally unappetizing, looks downright sickening. Your eyes sting, and you can’t stop your vision from blurring as unshed tears gather. Biting your tongue, you reach to at least take a sip of the water. The cup is paper and flimsy, while the contents are borderline metallic. The taste has you setting the cup down again, unwilling to take another sip. Hands grip it tightly, and you feel it crush in your hand, water overflowing. It drips down your hands and fingers, onto the table, but all you can think of is the memory it evokes. Blood. Warm, and horribly sticky. Bile rises in your throat, but you push it back down. Just an hour. You didn’t need to eat anyways.

That’s what you tell yourself, but every minute feels like an eternity. You feel like you’re stuck in a bubble, wanting to scream. Even if you did—no one would hear. Or care.

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Lunch was more performative than anything. You managed a bite of your sandwich, but it makes you feel queasy. The table drank more of your water than you did, the liquid having seeped into the wood and floor underneath. Most of your tray ended up in the trash.

Gathering your things, which really isn’t much, you get up to head to the training room. As you exit the lunch hall, a handful of cadets stand hovering just outside. Mostly first years in squad 2, their faces and names evade you. A glance at them reveals that they’re staring straight back at you. One of them leans in to another, whispering something in their ear, causing a gasp to escape as the first year glances back at you. Ignorong them, you hurry past them without a second glance.

Entering the training room, you notice most of the second years in squad two and three are already there. Your eyes dart over the groups, letting the threads flood back into your vision for a moment. The vividness of your new squad’s threads hit you hard. Vibrant reds and yellows, blues and greens. It’s almost intimidating, how closely knit they are. Their threads weave together in a complex net, overlapping and shifting constantly. Squad two’s on the other side of the room look dull in comparison.

You stand awkwardly by the entrance, unsure if you should approach—until a a head looks up and away from the group at you. Warm brown eyes meet yours, and a smile breaks out across his face. Yunho. Your new Squad Leader.

“Over here!” He calls, beckoning you over. “We’re about to start.”

You square your shoulders and walk over before the anxiety can say otherwise. The rest of the group parts to let your through, though most of them already look less than pleased by your arrival.

One of them eyes you up and down—as if searching for something. A taller cadet, next to him smiles at you, but the smile is more taunting than welcoming.

Yunho pats a hand on your shoulder, and attempts to pull you closer to look at the list in his hands. You stiffen, sidestepping away to create space again. The man seems utterly unbothered by the cold shoulder, and just angles the paper for you to see.

“Today you’ll be paired up with Jongho—“ he starts, but a scoff cuts him off.

“No. I want to go against her. Me and Jongho can switch.”

Yunho looks up from the paper, smile faltering for a second. You can practically see his mind rapidly sorting through thoughts as he shakes his head at the cadet.

“No. I was asked to pair her against Jongho, Woo.”

The cadet—who’s name clicks as Wooyoung—crosses his arms.

“By who? Because last I checked, you’re the one that makes the spar matchups. Professor could give less of a shit about second years pairing.”

Yunho shakes his head again.

“No. That’s final. If we have time after matches, maybe, but-“

“Good,” Wooyoung interjects, his eyes finding yours, “Jongho, you better kick her ass.”

The cadet he looks at as he says that—Jongho— shrugs. He looks utterly unbothered. Either he doesn’t care what Wooyoung thinks, or had that much faith in his abilities.

Yunho turns to you again, and claps his hands together.

“So— Y/N, correct? This is Squad Three. I’m the Squad Leader, so if you have any questions or concerns feel free to bring them up to me!” He starts, beaming.

As he introduces the squad, you can’t help but feel a bit removed. He refers to each member so warmly, the threads between them practically hum with unspoken devotion. When it comes to you, however, there’s nothing. No bond. No thread. The way he refers to the squad as separate from you rubs you the wrong way. Like his personality is directly at odds with how he truly feels. The Squad. No welcome. No acknowledgement that he’s your squad leader now.

“Anyways, this is Jongho, he’ll be your sparring partner for today.”

You glance at the cadet Yunho gestures to again. His expression is neutral, but he regards you with mild curiosity. His eyes dart down to your patches, where his eyes linger. Likely the flame patch marking your new squad number. That is, until you realize he’s staring at the signet patch. The compass. Unknown. Dangerous. His face for the briefest of moments looks wary, before it’s back to unreadable.

“If you need me, I’ll be sparring with San. Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung glances back to his squad leader.

“You’ll be sparring with Mingi. No funnny business like last time. Understood?” Yunho asks.

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, but mumbles out the faintest “yes sir”.

“Good. Yeosang, you’ll be on standby babysitting. We’ll rotate out whoever finishes their spars first.”

The quiet one in the back—who’s been staring at you this entire time— nods. You assume that’s Yeosang, based on his and Yunho’s reaction. As your gaze shifts back to Yunho, you do a double take. A single stripe falls just below Yeosang’s name plate.

Executive officer.

You didn’t realize this squad had one.

When your eyes wander back up to his face, he has the faintest smirk on his face, but it quickly dissipates.

“Right. We all know the rules. Pick a mat, and get started.“

The squad disperses, picking mats and laughing while you’re left standing awkwardly next to Jongho. He waits for everyone else to pick mats, before zeroing in on a open one. He nods his head towards it silently, indicating where to go.

Getting into position comes easily. You’ve drilled these hundreds of times before. The room sounds die down as you all wait for the start call. Trying to gauge the man before you, you’re only met with the same unreadable expression.

“Start!” Yeosang calls out.

The sound of the other scuffles starting echoes through the room. Squeaks of shoes against the floor, sounds of cadets dodging and weaving. Yet, Jongho doesn’t move immediately. He meets your eyes for a moment, dark brown, unreadable. Then it sharpens into something more. Focus. There’s no arrogance. No taunts, no feints. Just calm, unshakeable readiness. Healthy caution.

It rattles you more than if he had underestimated you.

You take the first move, finally breaking the eye contact. Where you’re good, he’s great. His moves are clean. Efficient. He’s infuriatingly composed, and moves as if he can almost see your thought process. He parries every move, counters every strike. There’s no hesitation, just calculation and unwavering determination.

It only takes one wrong move—one wrong misstep. Your legs are swept out from underneath you, and you’re face-first on the mat below. His hand is square in the middle of your back, the rest of him pinning your lower half down.

You tap the mat, indicating you yield, cheeks burning with humiliation. First day with the squad, and you’re barely holding your own.

”Good form.” He offers hesitantly, before he’s leaning back.

You nod, your voice stuck in your throat. You’ve never been beat that fast. You don’t think you’ve seen any other cadet tap out at that speed for that matter. You don’t offer a thanks, your pride too wounded already. Sitting up, and taking a breath, you rub where you got kicked on the leg.

“Guess surviving doesn’t always mean you know how to fight.” A voice rings out across the room, drawing everyone’s attention.

Wooyoung.

He’s standing off to the side of his mat, arms crossed. His hair is messy, the tie holding it back seemingly having snapped during his own spar with Mingi. He tilts his head, as a smile spread across his face, but there’s something darker to it. Something sharp. Suspicious.

“Cat got your tongue? Or are you always this quiet? Is that why you lost your squad? Because you don’t know how to make proper call outs on the field?” He goads, smile widening.

He makes his way over to your mat before Yeosang can stop him. He gets into fighting stance, eyeing you. There’s a dangerous sparkle in his eye.

“Or maybe you were too much of a coward to step in and save them?” He adds on. His smile is twisted as he sees you get into your own stance across from him.

Your pulse quickens, but not in fear. It’s anger. You’ll be damned if you let some pompous asshole of a cadet say you didn’t try. You’ll cry about it later. Right now? You need to get your frustration out.

The match starts before Yeosang can step in and stop you two. It’s less a spar and more an outlet for both of you.

Wooyoung moves like he’s intentionally trying to trip you up. Feints designed to frustrate more than gain an edge. Punches that are a bit too hard for a friendly spar. He’s grappling you, trying to throw you off balance. Every hit he lands that makes you flinch just makes him smile more, like he’s proving a point.

“You move pretty well for a someone who ran from the scene.” He quips during a close exchange.

Anger and sadness flood your being, and you find yourself pulling punches less and less. Your hits are more by emotion than proper technique.

“Careful Y/N, losing your cool?” He smirks, ducking under one of your swings to make a lunge at your lower half.

You manage to side step for a moment, reel yourself in, and defend. He knocks you off balance momentarily, but you plant your foot when it lands. Managing to kick him off and away, you re-center yourself. With a few well timed hits, you back him up towards the edge of the mat.

A grapple, a twist to his arm. He’s slightly off balance and on the defensive—he’s not smiling now.

Then, you feel it.

Heat.

You glance down to see his hand is glowing red. In the moment you falter, he beaks free, grabbing for you with the hand.

“Cheap.” You spit out, dodging to the side. His momentum sends him sailing forward to the other end of the map.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning again. “Or maybe I don’t buy the whole survivor act.“

He’s not even trying to conceal his signet use anymore, when he lunges at you again. Heat kicks up your side as a hand connects to your armor. A char mark is left, and the smell of burnt leather hits your nostrils.

The world shifts.

Mirror images of yourself and Wooyoung appear everywhere. The floor tilts yet stays still. The walls and mat warp constantly. It’s sickening—like floating and falling all at once.

Wooyoung stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden change.

Yeosang stands amid the mess, completely unbothered by the constant warping and shifting.

“That’s enough.” growls a voice, low and firm.

A moment later, the world turns back to normal. For a beat, no one moves.

“You know well what you did wrong, Wooyoung. Me and you are talking after this.” Yeosang says firmly, his eyes icily staring down the cadet.

Wooyoung scoffs and turns away. He mutters something under his breath, before stalking back to the mat where he originally was with Mingi.

You don’t move or say anything—just glance down silently at your armor. A very clear hand-shaped scorch mark is apparent, a charred divot where his hand connected to you for a moment. It’s still warm.

Yeosang watches you a second longer than necessary, before turning away.

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The rest of the training is much less intense, though you do still catch Wooyoung occasionally glare at you across the room.

Following the match against him, you notice you’re slower. Sloppier even. Every mistake you make, you fixate on.

If you were faster, could you have stopped your squad from destroying itself? If you were stronger, could you have fought off the first one to be infected?

“Their deaths were not caused by you.” A voice in your head cuts in.

You ignore Dàn, feeling too lost in your head to listen to reason. Your next strike to Yunho—that’s right. You’re in your last soar of the day—misses again.

Yunho furrows his eyebrows, confused at how you miss that easy of an opening.

Your next move is a little too slow, and he parries it effortlessly.

He stops moving all together, sighing.

“I think that’s enough for today. You’re still recovering.” He says, backing off.

You lower your hands in confusion.

“You’re not completely off medical restrictions yet. You’ve had enough. I’m calling it.” He repeats.

You blink for a moment, mind blank, before straightening yourself up. Nodding stiffly, you look around the room. Everyone’s stopped to stare at you, like you’re some kind of show.

Weakness gets you singled out—and you’ve just been dismissed.

Yunho hums, before pointing at a bench near the exit.

“You can stay over there until the block is over. Maybe observing will help.” He says.

There’s no outright malice in his words, but they still sting. Observe. As in—watch and learn because you’re doing horribly. Watch and learn how to actually fight. Watch and learn how to actually protect yourself, so you can protect us.

You can’t tell if those thoughts are your own being projected—or if they’re plausibly what’s going on in his head. Either way, you defeatedly sit yourself down.

The bench is worn smooth, and creaks under your weight. You watch half-heartedly as the others spar. Without you in the mix, everyone gets an even turn. Six squad mates. Three duos. You’re the outlier.

They all work so well together. Each member seems to understand the other in a way you could never hope to comprehend. And then there’s you. A piece in a machine that never belonged. You’ve already gotten one of them in trouble with his executive officer—maybe you are the problem. Who’s to say you didn’t do something to piss Wooyoung off?

Creak.

Someone else sits next to you.

The scent hits you first. Green tea, sandalwood, and soemthing clean. Almost floral. A quiet kind of calm. You don’t glance over.

Not until the voice speaks up, at least

“Is there a reason you’re not sparring with the others, cadet?”

The voice is smooth. Warm, measured. One that doesn’t need to be raised to be heard.

Seonghwa.

You tense up. Not out of fear, or wariness—but because it’s him. His presence right now isn’t loud, or brash, or energetic. It’s off putting because it’s the opposite. Calm. Composed. It’s the presence of someone who’s reading you better than you could ever read him.

“I was dismissed. Squad Leader cited medical reasons.” You reply.

He glances at the mats, humming softly.

You chance a glance at him finally. He’s alert, but relaxed. The mentality of someone always ready to step in, but not high-strung.

“I saw. However—you’re not injured. So, I’m asking again. Why aren’t you sparring with the others, cadet?”

“I think… that I shouldn’t be over there. I make things worse.” You say softly.

“Worse? You think your presence makes things worse?”

You don’t respond—but you don’t need to. Your silence is far more telling than any words could be.

Seongwha sits still, watching as San throws Wooyoung to the floor with a loud whoop.

“The squad has been through everything together. Been together since parapet—“ he starts

Dread hits you in your stomach. You know. You had that too.

“What you see between them—“ he gestures broadly to the area they’re all in, “wasn’t built overnight. Failure, mistakes, loss—it’s what bound them together. You won’t match that overnight, or anytime soon.”

There’s no softness to his voice, but there’s no malice either. Just unwavering conviction.

“I’m not here to coddle you,” he continues, “but I also won’t stand by and watch you be useless to the squad because you’re feeling blue. You’re a rider, not infantry. If you’re unfit to spar? Say so. If you are, act like it."

His words are unapologetic. Direct. They sting, but they’re necessary.

You meet his eyes finally. For a brief second, you see it: Caution. Not unkindness—but a leaders wariness, tempered by experience. He doesn’t explicitly trust you, especially not with the squad he originates from—but he’s willing to give you the chance. The briefest look of relief crosses his face, though you think you may be searching for something that isn't actually there.

“I’ll be back on the mats tomorrow. Ready.” You say.

He nods his head, accepting it, before standing.

“Good. Tomorrow? Act like someone who deserves a place here.”

He walks off to speak to your squad leader without another word. Like he had only stopped to tie his shoe, or fit in a quick stretch.

You’re alone again—but you don’t feel as invisible. Even if the burdens still weigh on your shoulders.

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Taglist: @euphoricem

#ateez fanfic #ateez series #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez x reader series #ateez fic #hongjoong x reader #seonghwa x reader #yunho x reader #yeosang x reader #san x reader #mingi x reader #wooyoung x reader #jongho x reader #fracture luckydraww #luckydraww #fic: fracture #fracture #fourth wing au

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luckydraww · 2 months ago

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House Rules (Req Guidelines)

Status: Closed ══════♤══════♧══════♡══════♢══════

Welcome to the table, darling. Before you play your hand, read the rules. No cheating, no whining, and no funny business.

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1. No NSFW at this time. We deal clean hands here—for now. Mature themes (violence, psychological content, dark topics) may be allowed case-by-case, but explicit smut is off the table.

2. Don’t double-down on spam. Repeat asks, spam messages, or demands will be folded and tossed. Persistent offenders get the boot—blocked without warning.

3. Patience is the name of the game. Your dealer juggles a full-time job and school. Requests are answered at my pace. Rush me, and you’re playing the wrong table.

4. Requests may be posted out of order. I play by inspiration, not by the stack. If the muse bites, I follow it.

5. Tip your dealer: be specific. Include any relevant tropes or vibes you’re craving—slice of life, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc. The clearer your hand, the better I can deal.

6. I reserve the right to fold. Not every request will be accepted or answered. Some hands just aren’t worth playing.

7. I write for who I know. ATZ, SKZ, SVT, TXT and ONEUS are safe bets. Others might be considered if I’m comfortable, but no guarantees.

8. No minors at the table. Absolutely no requests for or about minors. This is a hard rule—non-negotiable.

9. No series requests. At this time, I’m only taking drabbles, one-shots, imagines, scenarios. No multi-part series.

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Know the rules now? Make your move. Drop your request with care—or try your luck elsewhere.

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Questions? Feel free to place your bet.

#req rules #request rules #luckydraww req rules #luckydraww #luckydraww request rules #requests closed

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luckydraww · 2 months ago

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The Eighth Night

Fracture - Prologue

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Pairing: ot8 x Reader Word Count: 1.6k Chapter Warnings: Panic Attack, Grief Synopsis: You awake in the middle of the night again. Memories threaten to take over, and you find yourself venturing out of the infirmary room you've been stuck in for some fresh air.

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You jolt awake for the eighth night in a row.

Screams of your Squadmates. Smoke that burns the lungs, and a blistering, suffocating pain in the chest. Wind, Fire, and Freefall.

You sit up quickly, taking rapid breaths in the darkness of your room. Breathe.

Your hands grapple at the sheets in an attempt to ground the emotions quickly spiraling out of control, the blankets providing little respite.

Memories continue to flash through your minds eye as you attempt to suppress them. Thick black fog. Red eyes. The feeling of your squad mate being ripped from your hands-

“You’re awake again.” Dànshael’s voice echoes in your head, interrupting the spiral. Of course your ever-annoyingly-present blue Daggertail is up at this hour, too.

“Go back to sleep.” You counter. You’re not in the mood for another one of Dàn’s lectures.

“Your pain tore through the bond sharper than any blade, and the silence after was deafening. Of course I’m up.” Dàn quips. “If my sleep is to be haunted by your grief, I will haunt your waking hours.”

A quick huff, and you’re kicking your legs over the side of the bed. Grabbing only your winter flight jacket and a dagger out of habit, you slip on your boots and head to the door.

“Why don’t you just block it out then? I don’t need a babysitter, Dàn.” You snap back, irritation bubbling out of the anxiety in the pit of your stomach.

Your room door swings open with a swift push, slamming into the wall far louder than intended. No matter, you think, as you’re already halfway down the hall when the sound of your door clicking closed behind you reaches your ears. You don’t care where you’re going, or if you’re caught. You just need to get out. It’s not like there’s anyone in the infirmary hall to hear you, anyways.

Reaching the stairs, you head up to the old battlement walkway, not caring it’s off-limits for renovations currently. The walk up the stairs is slightly tricky — rocks have been dislodged and steps are crumbling — but you manage fine. Magelights don’t reach this far in the battlement’s dilapidated state, so you rely on memory and reflexes to make it up the last stretch. Gray dust coats your hands when you finally get to the top. The weather outside whistles fiercely, and the cold nips at your face, but you could care less.

Finding a suitable spot against the stone where the wind doesn’t immediately whip hair into your face, you sink down. Your back rests against the cold stone, and you curl into yourself, knees hugged to your chest as you stare at the floor in front of you, trying to block out the memory of that night.

“You act like you wish to disappear.” Dàn’s voice hisses slightly at you, displeased at her rider’s sullen attitude.

“Maybe I do. Just for a moment.” You reply outloud, voice wavering slightly.

Dàn doesn’t respond immediately, as you take in the quiet night. Clouds block the moon out, and it’s cold enough it might snow before sunrise. The air is bitter and cold, while the wind continues to howl around you. The tower seems to creak, as if the weight of all its seen is catching up to it for a moment. Maybe, it too remembers things that haunt this school, holding space for ghosts between the cracks of wood, stone, and cement.

“Are you a coward then, Little One?” Comes her dragon’s reply after a moment. Part challenge, laced with a hint of concern.

“Maybe I am.”

“No. I do not choose cowards, and I am never wrong.”

You let out a scoff, rolling your eyes as you pick at the crumbling stone under you. White bits of worn stone crumble in your hands, like chalk.

“There’s always a first time for mistakes.” You respond.

Dàn’s presence in your mind floods you for a moment, irritated as she tries to reach through your bond as you attempt to ice her out in your pain. She persists regardless, not in a way that’s invasive or nosy, but rather an instance of attempting to help ground you, comfort even, though she’d never admit to doing that.

“You are haunted by memories. Laughs, smiles, smells. That does not make you a coward. You don’t flinch when you’re free falling off my back mid battle. That’s not the mark of a weakling.” Dàn challenges again.

“I’m not in the mood to talk.”

“You did not need to be. Your thoughts are already akin to screaming.”

You slam the walls down on your connection, icy blocks severing the sparkling silvery-blue tether between you and Dàn. Despite this, Dàn pushes through them easily, set on continuing.

“Closing yourself off is unwise, little one.”

You prepare to snap at your dragon again, but your petty argument is interrupted by the sudden glow of magelights shining on you, and the clearing of a throat. You turn your head to see who it is — only to feel your heart drop to your stomach. The Section leader.

Seonghwa eyes you up and down, his expression carefully neutral.

“Care to explain why you’re up on a crumbling battlement in the middle of the night, cadet?” Seonghwa asks, holding the mage light up as he frowns in disapproval.

You stiffen under his gaze, mind racing. The wind whipping around you is nothing compared to the chill you get down your spine from being caught, and you’re well aware nothing you say can get you out of this — not a lie, and certainly not the truth. Not unless you wish to chance being reprimanded for openly grieving.

“Couldn’t go back to sleep, sir. I thought some air might help.” You weakly manage.

Seonghwa stares at you for a moment, before pulling himself up the final bit and onto the battlement. His boots crunch against the ancient stone, as he lowers the mage light to get a better look at you.

“So you decided breaking protocol and hiding on top of a battlement — one that’s closed mind you — was the best idea?” He asks, voice smooth. He shifts slightly, the sword against his back clanking against whatever metallic item he has strapped to the back of his flight leathers.

You look away, refusing to look at him and instead choosing instead to stare into the dark night sky. Memories of that night replay in your mind. A thick fog, air that burns the throat. Screams, burnt cloth. He hums, shifting to hold the light higher, as he squats next to you.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Seonghwa finally comments, cutting through the momentary silence. His voice seems almost imperceptibly softer, as he joins you in gazing into the distance.

You fiddle with the edge of your coat, jaw clenched uncomfortably. He stands next to you like this for a moment, waiting to see if you’ll respond, before sighing.

“Whatever it is that bothers you…” he trails off. Knowing him, his rank, and the fact news spreads quickly — he likely already knows what bothers you — but he at least has the decorum to not mention it directly. Understanding crosses his face for a moment, before he holds his hand out to help you up.

“If it keeps you up, know you don’t have to face it alone, cadet. My door is always open.” He adds softly.

The offer catches you off guard, but it helps soothe some of the pain, if only for a moment. Riders don’t make room for softness — let alone officers. Not when grief can be seen as weakness. Not in a school where it’s kill or be killed.

A moment passes, before you’re grabbing his gloved hand with your own apprehensively. The leather of his glove is smooth, and surprisingly warm to the touch, despite the cold outside where he’s likely been patrolling all night. As you finally stand, a snowflake falls onto your joined hands, before he pulls it away.

“Now get down from here before I have to write up a report on a cadet out past curfew, let alone in a restricted area.” He says, as he gestures for you to start the climb down, before letting out the faintest snort. “Or before you catch a cold.”

He waits for you to get a decent way down, before following. There’s a heartbeat of silence, followed by the heavy thud of his boots as he reaches the ground just behind you. Dust and debris are kicked up, before he dusts his gloves off on his leathers. He glances up at you, making eye contact. A silent understanding seems to pass between you, before he nods curtly, before turning to walk away down the hall. He’s only a few strides down the hall when he pauses.

“Oh, and Y/N? Pack your things. You'll be moved out of the infirmary and to Squad Three's Dorms in the morning. Hongjoong is not nearly as patient as I am.”

That’s all he adds on before disappearing around a bend in the hall. The magelights slowly flicker off after behind him, as you’re left alone with your thoughts again.

You linger for several moments. The silence is loud, but it doesn’t feel so suffocating at this moment. One minute. Two, maybe. It's comforting, and doesn’t ask for anything in return. You take it in, before heading back to your room, the hallways still thankfully empty.

Sleep doesn’t come easily when you get back to your room, though it seems slightly easier tonight. It eventually takes over somewhere between worries about officially being cleared for field training in the morning, and melancholic memories of your old squad.

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luckydraww · 2 months ago

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Y/N Intro - Fracture

Navi | Fracture M.List | intro i | intro ii | Prologue

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"Vice-Commandant sent me to give you this."

“Is this the report on the incident?”

"Yes sir."

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CONFIDENTIAL RIDER REPORT -Y/N

Recipient: WL Kim Hongjoong, Second Wing From: V-Cmdt █████████ Subject: Cdt. L/N Y/N - Incident Debrief & Squad Transfer

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Rider: Y/N L/N Current Assignment: Wing 2, Flame Section—Squad Pending Previous Assignment: Squad 1 - Declared dissolved, all members KIA with exception. Dragon: Dànshael - Female Blue Daggertail - Aethelynor Line Signet: Heartstring - Observation based. Secondary anomaly noted but unverified. Classification escalated to Tier III pending further analysis. See Addendum.

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Incident Summary: Cadet Y/N is the sole survivor of the destruction and following dissolution of Squad 1 (Wing 2, Flame Section), following a low-risk perimeter patrol along the Western perimeter on ██/██/████. Operation was routine and not expected to encounter resistance beyond baseline. No significant enemy movement was reported within a 15-mile radius.

Post-Incident analysis and secondary reconnaissance indicate corruption of an unidentified nature. Evidence and survivor report strongly suggests that one rider was affected first. Mental compromise or effects of an unknown influence spread rapidly through the squadron, likely or suspected to be psychological in nature, possibly facilitated through dragon bonds. Behavior degraded within moments; squad turned in on self. Chain of command rapidly collapsed, squad was decimated in approximately eight minutes.

Cadet Y/N remained unengaged in the violence, and was found two hours later by recovery team, physically intact but visibly shaken. Dànshael—here on referred to as Dàn—was notably found unconscious but unharmed next to her rider. The cause of the dragon's condition is currently unknown, as there were no external wounds or signs of magical interference detected, and there is no precedent for a dragon to enter an unconscious state without severe trauma.

Cadet reported a phenomenon referred to as "thread distortion", it is believed to be in reference to her signet's perception-based abilities. Cadet was transferred to isolated medical containment for 48 hours before being transferred to standard medical facility. Cadet is set to resume training under probationary terms after finality of transfer to Squad 3—Wing 2, Flame Section—following WL and SL approval. In the event that it is not approved, Cadet is likely to be transferred to Squad 1, Tail Section, Wing 2.

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Signet Analysis (Provisional)

Officially recorded in file as Heartstring, signet manifests as a passive perception-based ability that allows Cadet to visually "perceive" connections between people, dragons, information, and systems as glowing filaments that shift in color based on dynamics or relations.

During the incident with Squad 1 that led to it's breakdown, this ability appeared to allow the cadet to distinguish which individuals were compromised, tracking the corruption to point of origin, allowing her to predict the spread pattern. This likely enabled her to avoid engagement and isolate from further influence.

However, field observations and recorded reactions during the incident, as well as basic training exercises, suggest a secondary, active component—currently undocumented. Cadet has not exhibited conscious awareness of dual Signet functionality. It is suspected that what has been observed is an advanced use of her signet, with differential suggesting it could also be a layered or compound signet manifestation. This latent function appears to allow her to manipulate or apply pressure to weak points within a system—tactical, social, physical, or psychological. This function has previously been overlooked, relating to the cadet's ability to physically perceive how things connect and therefore break, this manifestation blends closely with her signet's primary function and sensory framework. Continued observation without disclosure to cadet is recommended at this time.

NOTE: While there is no conclusive evidentce, internal investigations have flagged the possibility that the unconscious use of a potential secondary signet function may have contributed to Squad 1's instability. Whether this was a catalyst or simply a reactive measure remains unknown.

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Behavioral and Psychological Report:

Post-recovery evaluations show acute survivor's guilt, heightened pattern-recognition, and relational aversion. Cadet demonstrates composure under stress but evades direct discussion regarding squad's final moments. Cadet's heightened awareness following trauma has led to a tendency to "read" others before engaging, indicating instinctive Signet usage.

Cadet's dragon, Dàn, exhibits heightened protectiveness, uncooperative behavior, and appears to actively discourage close proximity from unfamiliar dragons or riders following incident. Engage with caution.

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Recommendations:

Escalation of Signet Classification from Class II (Restricted) to Class III (Classified).

Maintain Tier III Classification of Incident at this time.

Restrict mission exposure to controlled or supervised scenarios until confirmation of stability.

Do not disclose dual-signet theory to Cadet at this time.

Psychological review to be administered quarterly under indirect protocols.

Approve integration into Squad 3 with standard probationary Surveillance. Recommended pairing in Squad 3 with low-conflict cadets.

Flag as potential asset - corruption detection and containment. Monitor for corruption resistance markers.

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Addendum A - Signet Irregularity Study

Resonance testing post-incident reveal fluctuating cognitive output during high-stress situations, particularly in emotionally charged or relationally unstable environments. Theoretical modeling suggests an inherited signet structure that has yet to stabilize, that may either be:

Dual-Signets manifesting in close synchorny (Currently indistinguishable as separate abilities), or

A rare, multi-functional signet with both perceptive and manipulative properties, likely passed down matrilineally.

It is noted that the Cadet's mother reportedly displayed a similar, though less intense, anomaly during her active service in the Rider Quadrant, though records were sealed following discharge and ultimately death. Lineage analysis suggests maternal inheritance is likely.

Observations confirm heightened activity or signet under emotional or interpersonal duress. Effects include targeted influence over psychological or structural vulnerabilities.

Operational implications are significant. Cadet's capabilities may prove advantageous in:

Identification, isolation, or neutralization of corrupted personal and double-agents.

Stealth and infiltrative scenarios requiring emotional or hierarchical manipulation and perception.

Targeted destabilization

Therapeutic restoration of units post-engagement

However, overuse of signet complex presents escalating risks: relational dissociation, neural fatigue, cognitive fragmentation, and involuntary use of manipulation function of signet. Without further study and control, Cadet may pose an internal security risk.

Cadet to remain under active observation. Recommended structured stress-evaluation trials, temporary restriction from command-critical missions, and close monitoring of signet manifestations.

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