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lostintransist · 7 months ago

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Secrets Are For Grown Ups

I am demanding my smooches now.

@beloveds-embrace @cherrycosmos392 @mxtallymarks @love-kha1

CW: Asshole Simon and Johnny using you for sex instead of each other. Calling out someone else's name during sex. Pregnancy mentioned. Death of a spouse mentioned.

Simon slipped. Well. Simon slipped first. Johnny slipped up too. They ruined you, tugging you between them instead of reaching out for the other. You couldn’t fathom them caring. Even now.

If they cared about you they wouldn’t have touched you. You had been twenty-four and still so young. God, you were thirty now and still felt like you didn’t have a handle on life. Johnny had been twenty-nine and Simon thirty-three. Old enough to know better. At least to know better than you.

A series of coincidences led you to a one-year work visa and as an American transfer under the 141 task force. You handled paperwork mostly, and whatever didn’t involve paperwork meant dealing with your counterparts back in DC. You keep slightly funny hours to stay working on Washington time but that wasn’t unusual for anyone else who shared your building. The lights stayed at a low dim all day and night because three pm and three am felt a lot alike when rolling in off a job.

You were a nodding professional with Captain Price, Lieutenant Sanderson, and Sergeant Garrick. Sergeant MacTavish flirted with you. You accepted it with a wary eye and a cool confirmation of what he meant each time. Lieutenant Riley watched. He never spoke to you unless he needed something until the night in the bar. Six months had elapsed on your visa when Gaz, as he had asked you to call him, invited you to the bar with everyone. Seeing no reason to not say yes you had gone.

Off base and with a little buzz in your veins you let Johnny flirt. He insisted on his first name as he sidled up close to you halfway through your first drink. You’d always been wary of Johnny’s flirting. He’s attractive with all the muscles he maintains for work, the air of danger that lingers around him like cologne, and that barely visible scar near his lip. Problem is he knows it. Or at least he knows people react to him with pretty privilege. He makes you laugh. You don’t know why it surprises you, of course, he had to have a good sense of humor to deal with his job.

Lieutenant Riley was watching again. The prickling of your senses that tells you a predator is watching is what gave it away. Staying at the bar smiling at Johnny seemed safer until you had to pee. Passing your cup to the bartender with a quick ‘I’m done with this’ you excuse yourself from the bar and wend your way around the nearly touching tables to find the bathroom.

The narrow wood-paneled hallway had a single bulb shining down on you from a sconce high on the wall. Taking the time to dry your hands completely you pause when you see that the hallway has gone dark. Diffusing light from the main room reaches only so far into the darkness. Scanning you see nothing out of the ordinary and let the crack of light from the bathroom disappear as the door settles closed.

Running the tips of your fingers over the wall, the bumps telling the tales of so many decades of drunken bathroom trips, you touch something that is made of steel and flesh. Jumping back with a squeak you search with your gaze for anything.

“Why does Johnny like you?”

Riley. You let out the breath you had been holding. It’s Lieutenant Riley, not someone who would hurt you.

“You know sir I have no idea. Do you know?” You aimed your voice up.

“I might have an idea.” He surprises you with a touch to your neck. Trailing up to your jaw before dry lips brush against yours.

Stepping back you gave a startled exclamation.

“Ah…uh..Excuse me, Lieutenant, I think I need to go home.”

Skirting around him you flee like a hare that caught the sense of a hawk in the sky. When you retrieve your purse from the chair next to Johnny you find a beautiful woman draped across it talking him up.

“Sorry, I just need my bag,” you said drawing both of their attention to you.

“Ah, bonnie,” Johnny started sadly, “Heading out so soon?”

“Yeah um,” you scratch the back of your head, low near your hairline. “I need to head home.”

Standing he ignored the woman flirting with him entirely.

“Let me walk you home?” He steps too close to you but the body in a chair directly behind your ass keeps you from moving for more space.

Glancing to the storm brewing in the woman’s face you try and redirect him.

“I mean you looked like you were having such a good conversation I’m gonna go wait for a cab. Thank you for the offer though. I will see you at the office tomorrow.” With that you scooted past, unsure how you felt about the full body contact required.

Okay, well your lady bits knew exactly how they felt about it but you as a person? You were unsure. It felt like you had been dropped into a game that you didn’t know the rules of. It continued on like that, them pushing you and breaking your boundaries down one touch at a time until Simon pounded into you from behind in a supply closet. You crept closer to that temporary oblivion when Simon slipped.

A guttural moan washed over your back, Simon’s fingers tightening down on your hips.

“Johnny, oh Johnny!” He came then with Johnny’s name on his lips.

Any chance of an orgasm on your end dried up like a puddle on concrete in direct sun. Simon didn’t notice, pulling out and cleaning up the mess he had made of you before pulling you up and then your underwear. He gave your ass a light tap and planted a kiss at your temple before leaving you to the scent of cleaning supplies.

You worked the day in the eye of a storm. Mentally reaching out to touch your emotions you found only a torrent of fast-moving thoughts and feelings. You made it to your flat before the pressure of the eye wall faulted, crushing you under its weight. The next week you had a hard time eating, focusing, and doing anything outside of work really. Work had you hyper-vigilant always on watch for the spooky silent lieutenant that might try to pull you into a dark room. You didn’t think you could survive another encounter with Johnny’s name on his lips.

Oddly enough Johnny noticed the distress you seemed to be under and took to feeding you. He dropped off a snack at your desk every day and chatted with/at you until you ate it all before disappearing into the bowels of the building again. Three weeks after the Simon incident as you had taken to calling it in your head Johnny had pulled the same shit.

Flat on your back, knees nearly touching your ears he rammed into you. Pleasure crested for you as he could no longer hold on.

“Simon,” the breathy whisper betrayed him. He must have thought you to far gone in your orgasm to hear him.

They had to be fucking kidding you.

Would it hurt less if they were kidding you?

How the hell were you supposed to deal with this happening to you twice?

Johnny pulled out and flopped face down on his bed beside you.

Sitting up slowly you lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m gonna use the hall bathroom to go pee. I’ll probably be a minute.”

He grunts his acknowledgment and you set your exit strategy into action. Johnny knew you preferred to put your clothes back on for cuddles if you left the bed for any reason. Grabbing up all of your items you stepped from his bedroom hugging your clothes so tight the zipper of your jeans bit into the side of your breast. Peeing and washing your hands you dressed.

Stepping from the bathroom you called down the hall to Johnny.

“Do you have any cheese or nuts?”

“In the cabinet or the fridge,” came his return call.

Good. He wouldn’t think some odd sounds coming from this direction odd then. Tying your shoes on you open and shut a couple of cupboards and the fridge before rattling the dishes in the dishwasher grabbing your purse and leaving his flat.

Johnny didn’t come after you if he noticed your absence. Arriving home you noted the time. It was four pm on a Friday, Captain Price would still be at the office doing paperwork.

You called him as you started packing.

“Price.”

“Hi, Captain. I am just calling to let you know there has been a family emergency back home and I will be hopping on a plane tonight. I don’t know when this will be resolved. Can you send me any paperwork that I will need to complete so my work visa will close out as it should?”

“I’m sorry to hear about the family emergency, you let me know if you need anything. Your contract will run its course, including the agreed-upon pay, and conclude the day before your visa expires. The only thing you will need to worry about is talking to an accountant out here to figure out your share of taxes to be paid.”

Captain Price had always been like that with you, straightforward and honest. Unlike his men.

“That sounds reasonable and doable. If you have a recommendation of a firm I can reach out to that would be immensely helpful,” you stare at your shoe options, deciding which ones to leave behind since your bag was getting too full with the haphazard way you filled it.

“I don’t have one off the top of my head but I will ask around. Will this number still work?”

“No, this is a UK number that will probably stop working somewhere over the Atlantic. Can you send the info to my work email? I will be able to access that until my visa expires right?”

“That is correct. I will send it there. Safe travels and thank you for all of your hard work with us.”

“Of course, and thank you for being a good captain and a good man to work with.” You ended the call before he could think to question the sentence.

A call to the cab company came next. With the car ordered you left a voicemail for your landlord telling him the same information, family emergency feel free to rent the flat out now. It was a furnished option so nothing here that held an emotional attachment would fit in your suitcase.

The only thing you left behind was a framed photo of you standing with all the guys at a party face down on the table. Anything else you weren’t taking got bagged and sent to the bins.

You cried at the airport, and on the plane, and waiting for your sibling to come and save you from the airport. Telling someone that you had been coming would have been smart, but the only goal was to escape. When they arrived Ash gave you the biggest hug which started your crying all over again. You stayed with them and their partner as you tried to piece your life back together.

Taking the month you still received pay from England you walked the trails of the mountains you called home. They brought you so much peace, like hiding in the skirts of a trusted mother. When you reestablished care with your midwives you found out that your arm implant birth control needed changing, it was overdue. Standard procedure for a well-woman check included peeing in a cup.

“Are you aware that you are pregnant?”

The thin nurse midwife with wrinkles, a long dusty brown braid, and beaded necklaces ringing her neck looked at you from the computer. You must have gone white as a sheet because she reacted by having you lay on the floor, elevating your feet, and calling for assistance. Your uterus had been achy. That’s why you scheduled the appointment.

Pregnant? You weren’t nauseous or overly emotional, only a little tired and achy. This was nothing like being pregnant on TV.

Fuck. That meant Johnny or Simon had to be the father.

Did you even want to keep this pregnancy?

Another nurse with a kind face joined you and your nurse in the room, dragging in a portable ultrasound machine.

“Hi dear, this is a bit of standard procedure. There are a few reasons that a pregnancy test can pop positive. We want to rule out some of the harder-to-care-for options. Do you think we can help you stand and get on the bed?”

At your nod the nice nurses helped you to your feet and held on as you climbed onto the bed, laying back. They had you move your shirt and your pants and undies until the top of your pubes were visible. A grainy image appeared on the screen as the nurse glided the probe to and fro in the slimy gel.

“Alright, this here,” she pointed to a roundish object, “is your left ovary. That looks good. This will help me find your uterus.”

She slid down pressing slightly harder into you.

“Here is your uterus and there looks like one, two little embryos.” She pointed with her finger at each little dot.

“Twins?” you whisper, shocked and aghast.

“That’s what it looks like but things this early can change.” She slid the wand further, “Since we are here I am going to check out your right ovary as well and then we will get you cleaned up and discuss your options.”

The options included waiting, keeping, or a self-managed abortion which included a few prescriptions. They gave you a page of information for each option and sent you on your way with a follow-up appointment scheduled for a few weeks.

In shock, you called your best friend first. Larsen had become your best friend in the second grade and you two had stuck it out through thick and thin.

You told him everything. The entire story. No one else knew everything that had happened. Now Larsen did.

He offered to marry you.

You knew he was good for it. Larsen had never fallen in love, found the idea repulsive. The love you and he held for each other was deep and special, but not romantic. Marriage to Larsen would provide safety and stability, and the ability to change your name before Johnny or Simon could think to look for you. Even if you lost the pregnancy Larsen would be the best roommate and friend you could think of sharing this journey with.

“Yes, but let’s talk this over at dinner.”

The wedding had been a week later in front of a judge, with Ash as your witness and his mother as his.

Larsen never pressured you to make a decision about your pregnancy, simply talked through each option with you again and again until you decided you wanted to keep this gift. Simon and Johnny might have treated you as if they were evil but at least you stole something good from them in the process.

You had two boys growing inside you. To the growing delight of the specialty pregnancy team, you were a rare case of two separate fertilization babies. Distinct sacks and placentas meant two independent babies. Baby A was three weeks further in growth and development than baby B. This idea was confirmed when both boys arrived and looked nothing alike even covered in vernix.

Larsen had chuckled and chided the nurses in the halls for the odd looks you and the boys got. You had five amazing years with Larsen before he died of an aneurysm at work. He left you with a boatload of life insurance and two four-year-old boys who had just lost the only father they had ever known.

The boys knew Larsen didn’t help create them but they were so small it didn’t matter. He was their dad. The first thing you did after picking yourself up off the hospital chair was call and set up therapy for yourself and the boys. You would all need it.

Another two years passed, the boys started kindergarten and you started a cake decorating business from the house Larsen had bought you. You had paid it off with a portion of his death benefits. Everything was looking up. Despite the boys sometimes looking exactly like their genetic fathers, they were the most amazing thing in your life. Life was looking up until the house the bus stopped at went up for sale. Your neighbors mentioned an attractive-looking gay couple bought it and wouldn’t you know they had the best accents? One rang of rainy England and the other of Scotland. They were retired military and were excited for the change of pace this life would bring.

Nope, had to be a coincidence. Couldn’t be them. Why would they move to the States? Why your state of all places? No. Couldn’t be Simon and Johnny, you were still safe from their reach.

Except you weren’t.

They followed the boys home one day from the bus, shocked at seeing a child who looked so much like themselves. When you opened the door, royal icing dried to your cheek, you blanched and slammed the door shut slamming the deadbolt home.

The men that haunted your therapy sessions and the aches of your heart had found you. You and their boys.

Part 2

Masterlist | Secrets Masterlist

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap cod #kyle gaz garrick #gary roach sanderson #captain john price #ghoap x reader #ghoap x you

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hcneymooners · 6 months ago

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⋆ arcane but it's a private university au ( for the girls: pt. i )

ice princess!f!reader x multi. f!characters. men & minors dni.

synopsis: private university!arcane headcanons but it’s really specific bc it’s based on my time at catholic private school except this au is just a private hold the catholic.

cw: this part contains scenarios for caitlyn, vi, & mel. the second part will contain sevika & ambessa bc i went a little crazy. suggestive content. notes: this was really fun to write. after part two, my attention will shift to answering the requests you sweet angels have sent me. i love you.

part two.

the road curved sharply as the gates came into view, their wrought-iron edges glinting in the low sweep of your headlights. beyond them, the school rose like smoke, its silhouette dark against the velvet sky, lit faintly by the soft gold of its windows. the building exhaled exclusivity, from the ivy climbing its stone façade to the manicured hedges lining the long gravel drive. you rolled down the window slightly for a bit of air. the breeze was scented faintly with pine and the cold, metallic promise of winter. you straightened your posture without thinking, your shoulders drawn back against the cool weight of your coat.

inside, the warmth hit you immediately, clinging to your skin like a lover's kiss. the chandeliers sparkled, their light soft and diffused, casting fractured shadows against the paneled walls. voices floated in the distance—low, murmured, intimate. you walked slowly, your boots clicking against the marble floors, eyes drawn to the oil portraits lining the halls. the faces in them were familiar in their arrogance: sharp jaws, heavy brows, lips set in expressions that commanded you to keep your mouth budded shut, like a flower.

your room was at the far end of the east wing, the door heavy and hinting at the beginnings of rot. the key turned smoothly, the lock clicking open with an almost luxurious softness. the space inside was all dark wood and rich fabrics, a fire already lit in the grate. you dropped your bag near the foot of the bed, its velvet coverlet cool under your fingertips. for a moment, you stood still, letting the atmosphere settle around you. outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and in the distance, you could hear faint laughter—a reminder that this place was alive, spilling with bloodlines as silver as the spoon in your own mouth. you wondered what they’d see in you, these strangers you were destined to meet. you wondered what you’d allow them to.

caitlyn kiramman: the academic rival.

୨୧ caitlyn was under the impression she’d be occupying a single suite. she strolled through the double doors, chin high, expecting the echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty room. instead, she found you curled on the floor, the soft creature of your body lightly clothed, flipping through a thick novel with its spine already cracked.

୨୧ you, too, had assumed the room was yours alone. after all, there was only one massive queen bed planted in the center, framed by ornate lamps that cast a soft glow over the wood-paneled walls. the two of you locked eyes, the silence loud with polite hostility. and then, as if on cue, both your smiles snapped into place—brilliant, practiced, and so painfully fake they practically gleamed. your families would be proud.

୨୧ you managed to get housing on the line after some deliberation over who would cave first. 'apologies, girls,’ the voice crackled through the old-fashioned landline. ‘there’s been an overlap in scheduling renovations. west wing residents have been moved to shared suites in the east. it’s only for a few weeks—after winter break, your single rooms will be ready, and you’ll receive a refund for the semester.’

୨୧ you clicked the phone back into its cradle and turned to caitlyn, flashing another dazzling smile. ‘well,’ you said sweetly, gesturing to her suitcase, ‘shall we get you unpacked?’

୨୧ during this time, you took her in—shamelessly, ravenously. she was tall and impossibly willowy, her movements languid like she’d been raised to glide instead of walk. her hair, a cascade so black it caught blue in the firelight (‘[name] it is blue.’), was swept into a ponytail so bouncy it could’ve been sculpted. she wore a thick knit sweater, tailored trousers, and a delicate diamond pendant—a ‘C’—that caught against her collarbone. her perfume hit you in waves: sweet, salty, like the black licorice you’d once eaten to excess in scandinavia. beneath it was something warmer—vanilla and caramelized citrus. you clenched your jaw to keep from leaning closer.

୨୧ at first, the sharing was civil. one of you curled up on the bed each week while the other resigned herself to the chaise in the corner. but one night, you woke to caitlyn’s face above yours, pale and soft in the moonlight. her almond-shaped eyes glittered as she pressed a deceptively strong hand against your stomach to wake you. her perfume cloyed your throat as she murmured, ‘come on,’ her voice rich and clipped with her posh english accent. she slipped back into bed, her braid glinting in the dim light, and you lay there, swallowing hard before following her.

୨୧ the real challenge wasn’t the shared space. it was caitlyn herself—her maddening proximity. the way her soft thighs brushed yours when she shifted in bed. the way her body, willowy as it was, still seemed to migrate toward you in the night, tangling with yours like it was instinctual. you woke up more than once during those weeks feeling hot, bothered, and frankly mortified, especially during the cruel timing of ovulation.

୨୧ to make matters worse, she was your equal in class. the professor announced your tied scores, and you caught her turning toward you, her bright blue eyes sparkling with something like satisfaction. she smiled, clearly expecting camaraderie, but this was your achievement. your moment. you forced a tight smile in return, already plotting your next move.

୨୧ and yet, caitlyn seemed determined to treat you as an equal. worse, a friend. she was everywhere—every party, every recital, every lecture. she linked your arm and whispered terrible jokes that you begrudgingly laughed at. she told you scandalous rumors about your professor and her husband, her lips brushing your cheek as the crowd jostled you.

୨୧ the glitter from her gloss smeared your skin, warm and wet, and when she tried to wipe it away, you told her it was fine. she blushed, and you hated how much you liked it.

୨୧ she was infuriating. borrowing your curling iron to tease out her perfect curls, dragging you to track practice where she outpaced you with ease, leaving snacks on your desk during finals with notes written in her careful script. she was just so—so perfect, framed in silk and lace and lit by courtyard sunlight, her laugh clear as crystal and echoing in your chest.

୨୧ wait.

୨୧ winter crept into the suite on silent feet, frosting the windowpanes and painting the air with a chill that settled into your bones. the two of you existed in an uneasy truce, navigating the space like chess players plotting moves several steps ahead.

୨୧ you thought you had her figured out, until one morning you stumbled into the kitchen to find her brewing tea, hair tousled and cheeks flushed with sleep. she offered you a mug without looking up, the steam curling between you, and you took it—hesitating only for a second.

୨୧ for all her elegance, caitlyn was infuriatingly human in ways that caught you off guard. she hummed off-key while studying, left tiny notes for herself tucked into the corners of her textbooks, and cursed like a sailor under her breath when she stubbed her toe on the chaise.

୨୧ it wasn’t fair how quickly she worked her way under your skin, the sharp edge of rivalry blunted by moments like these. still, you refused to let her win, clinging to the fire that flared in your chest every time she smirked at you after a particularly cutting comment in class.

୨୧ the tension came to a head one evening in the middle of finals. you were curled on the chaise, poring over notes, when caitlyn waltzed in, hair damp from a shower and wearing nothing but an oversized sweater that skimmed her thighs.

୨୧ she plopped onto the bed and stretched, a picture of unbothered grace. ‘don’t you think you’re overdoing it?’ she asked, her tone almost teasing. your pen froze mid-sentence. ‘excuse me?’ you shot back, eyes narrowing.

୨୧ ‘i’m just saying,’ she continued, utterly unruffled. ‘you’re going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this.’ the concern in her voice was infuriating, and you snapped. ‘not all of us can coast by on professors' favor and good looks,’ you said, your words cutting sharper than you intended. her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she schooled it into something cool and distant.

୨୧ the silence that followed was unbearable. caitlyn moved to the chaise later that night, leaving the bed cold and empty. you told yourself you didn’t care, but the knot in your chest tightened with every passing hour. finally, just before dawn, you slipped out of bed and crossed the room, standing over her sleeping form. her face was peaceful in the pale light, and you felt a pang of regret so sharp it left you breathless.

୨୧ ‘caitlyn,’ you whispered, your voice trembling. her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. ‘i’m sorry,’ you murmured, your throat tight. she sat up slowly, her gaze searching yours. ‘i didn’t mean it.’ ‘i know,’ she said softly, her words a balm to the ache in your chest.

୨୧ before you could overthink it, you leaned in, your lips brushing hers with a tentative softness. she responded immediately, her hands threading into your hair as she deepened the kiss. the world melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled in one another, practically climbing into each other’s skin, the air thick with the heady scent of her perfume and the taste of mint lingering on her lips.

୨୧ the next morning, you called housing together. caitlyn leaned against the counter, her arm brushing yours as you spoke into the phone.

୨୧ ‘yes,’ you said, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. ‘we’d like to stay in the east wing for the rest of the school year.’ you hung up, and caitlyn turned to you, her smile soft and knowing. ‘looks like we’re stuck with each other,’ she said, her tone light but her eyes dark.

୨୧ you squeezed your legs together and let a finger sweep at the dip of her collarbones. ‘it wouldn’t be the worst thing,’ you told her. she smiled.

violet: the lacrosse prodigy.

୨୧ the first time you saw vi, she was slouched in a mahogany chair at your parents' alumni dinner, looking like rebellion incarnate. her suit was expensive but deliberately disheveled—probably borrowed, you'd learn later—with the top button undone and a black tie hanging loose around her neck like an afterthought. you noticed her instantly: the sharp cut of her jaw, the shock of pink hair (freshly dyed, still bleeding slightly at her collar), and the way she balanced her chair on two legs like gravity was merely a suggestion.

୨୧ she noticed you too. maybe it was the way you held yourself, spine straight as a ruler, chin lifted in that practiced way that screamed old money. or maybe it was the way your silver-blue gown caught the light, clinging to you like morning frost on glass. either way, when your eyes met across the room, her smirk said she'd already made you her newest fixation. you looked away first, but you could feel her gaze following you for the rest of the evening, hot as a bruise.

୨୧ by the time classes started, her reputation preceded her like a shadow. vi, the scholarship student who played lacrosse like she was outrunning her past. girls whispered about her in bathroom stalls and behind textbooks: how she'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, how she'd fought her way into this school with nothing but raw talent and a stubbornness that bordered on spite. how she moved like she had lightning under her skin, all barely contained energy and sharp edges.

୨୧ you'd dismissed her first attempt at flirtation—a low whistle and a comment about how your uniform skirt looked specially tailored. she'd winked, and you'd raised an eyebrow so cold it could have frosted glass before walking away. but vi didn't take rejection personally; if anything, your indifference seemed to delight her.

୨୧ each time you passed in the halls, she'd find new ways to try to crack your composure: a deliberate brush of shoulders, a murmured 'morning, princess' that lingered in the air like perfume.

୨୧ what she didn't expect was for you to show up at her first game of the season. you perched yourself in the middle of the bleachers, legs crossed at the ankle, oversized sunglasses hiding your expression. the autumn air was sharp with approaching winter, and you wrapped your cashmere scarf tighter as you watched her warm up. she nearly missed a pass when she spotted you, her double-take so obvious it made your lips twitch despite yourself.

୨୧ she played like she had something to prove that day—all controlled violence and graceful aggression. you found yourself leaning forward despite your best intentions, watching the way she moved across the field like she owned it, her stick an extension of her arm. when her team won, she shot you a grin that was all adrenaline and victory, her chest heaving and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

୨୧ you didn't smile back, but something in your chest tightened when she lifted her jersey to wipe her face, revealing a strip of toned stomach marked with old scars.

୨୧ it became a game between you—her constant pushing, your calculated resistance. she'd find you in the library, sprawled across a chair like she was posing for a painting, her lacrosse stick balanced across her knees. 'studying hard, princess?' she'd drawl, her voice rough like she'd swallowed gravel, and you'd glance up from your books, unimpressed.

୨୧ 'some of us don't get by on natural talent alone,' you'd reply, your tone sharp enough to draw blood. but she never bled; she just grinned wider, like your cruelty was exactly what she'd been hoping for.

୨୧ the weather turned bitter, and you started noticing things about her you wished you didn't. how she wore the same three sweaters in rotation, all slightly too thin for the season. how she'd blow on her hands between plays, her fingers red with cold because she refused to wear gloves. how she worked twice as hard as anyone else on the field, like she was afraid someone would realize she didn't belong here and take it all away.

୨୧ one evening, you found yourself alone with her in the common room, the fire burning low in the grate. you were curled into the corner of the sofa, a cup of tea warming your hands, when she walked in. she hesitated for a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that you could smell the sharp blackberry of her shower gel mixing with the leather of her jacket.

୨୧ 'you're quiet tonight,' she said, her voice softer than you'd ever heard it. you didn't look at her, but something in your chest unraveled slightly. 'just tired,' you replied, and when she shifted closer, you didn't move away.

୨୧ after that, the boundaries between you began to blur. she started walking you back to your dorm after late study sessions, her stride easy and long beside your measured steps. 'i don't need a bodyguard,' you'd say, but your voice lacked its usual ice. she'd just shrug, hands stuffed in her pockets. 'maybe i just like the company.'

୨୧ one rainy sunday, she convinced you to join her on the empty field. 'come on, princess, live a little,' she said, pressing her spare stick into your reluctant hands. your perfectly manicured nails looked absurd wrapped around the grip, and you gave her your best withering stare. but then she stepped behind you, her hands covering yours to adjust your grip, and suddenly you couldn't remember why you'd been protesting. her breath was warm against your ear as she guided you through the motion, her body solid and sure against your back.

୨୧ you missed every shot, but the way she laughed—not at you, but with you—made your cheeks flush with something other than cold.

୨୧ you told yourself it meant nothing. that she was just another scholarship kid trying to prove herself, that her attention was just another form of rebellion against everything you represented. but then came the night after her team's crushing semifinal loss. you found her in the empty locker room, still in her muddy uniform, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else. without a word, you sat beside her on the bench, your expensive skirt soaking up puddles of field water.

୨୧ 'you played well,' you said quietly. she laughed, but it was hollow. 'not well enough.' you reached for her hand then, your fingers interlacing with hers, and neither of you mentioned how long you stayed there, sharing silence and something deeper.

୨୧ it happened during one of your late-night walks. the air was sharp with approaching snow, and the campus was quiet except for the crunch of gravel under your boots. she stopped suddenly, turning to face you with an expression you'd never seen before—all vulnerability and barely contained want. 'you know,' she said, her voice rough, 'you're not nearly as cold as you pretend to be.' before you could argue, she kissed you—hard and desperate at first, then softening when you gasped against her mouth. she tasted like cinnamon gum and possibility, and her hands were gentle when they cupped your face, like she was afraid you might collapse.

୨୧ the next morning, vi was back to her usual self, lounging against the dining hall wall with her teammates. but when you walked in, her entire face lit up, and the smile she gave you was different from her usual smirk—softer, private, just for you. you rolled your eyes but couldn't quite fight your answering smile, and when she fell into step beside you later, her pinky finger hooking casually around yours, you let her stay.

୨୧ you'd been raised to be ice—beautiful, untouchable, cold enough to burn. but vi had always run hot, all passion and impulse and raw honesty.

୨୧ and somehow, against all logic, against everything you'd been taught, you found yourself thawing.

mel medarda: the best friend.

୨୧ mel was your constant, like morning light through gauzy curtains or the first cherry blossoms of spring. she had been there so long you'd forgotten what it felt like not to have her around—her laugh echoing in your dorm late at night, her perfume lingering on your sweaters, her tinted lip balm marking coffee cups she'd left scattered across your desk like petals marking her presence in your life.

୨୧ you couldn't pinpoint when it started. maybe it was during those endless summer nights when you were sixteen, lying on her family's sprawling lawn watching satellites paint silver trails across the dark blue sky. or maybe it was in the quiet moments between lectures, when she'd fix your collar with careful fingers, her touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

୨୧ all you knew was that mel had carved out a space in your life that nobody else could fill, and you weren't sure you wanted them to try.

୨୧ she moved through the world like she was made of starlight and ambition, all sharp edges and soft smiles. in business seminars, she was their star student, her neatly slicked baby hairs drawing the sunlight as she spoke about case studies and economic theory with the kind of confidence that made professors lean forward in their seats.

୨୧ but in your room, she was just mel—shoes kicked off, braids falling loose from their carefully styled updo, gesturing wildly as she talked about her latest thesis project while you pretended to study.

୨୧ you both had your rituals. every thursday night, she'd appear at your door with takeout from that little place downtown that knew your order by heart, and you'd share secrets like candy between your teeth.

୨୧ you'd curl up on your bed, papers spread around you like a hurricane of responsibility, and she'd listen to you complain about your upcoming presentations until your words turned soft and honest. sometimes, she'd fall asleep there, her head on your shoulder, her breathing steady against your neck, and you'd stay perfectly still, afraid to disturb whatever this was between you.

୨୧ it was the little things that undid you. the way she'd absently play with your fingers during long lectures, tracing the lines of your palm like she was reading your future. how she knew exactly how you took your coffee (one sugar, splash of cream and two extra pumps of vanilla, but only before noon). the way she'd look at you sometimes when she thought you weren't paying attention like you were a poem she was trying to memorize.

୨୧ you cataloged these moments carefully, storing them away like heirlooms.

୨୧ you told yourself it was nothing. that best friends always felt this way—heart racing when they walked into a room, breath catching when they smiled, skin burning where they touched.

୨୧ you convinced yourself that the ache in your chest when she dated other people was just protective instinct, that the relief you felt when those relationships inevitably ended was purely sympathetic.

୨୧ but there were moments when the pretense felt impossible. like the night she dragged you out dancing at that underground jazz club favored by grad students, her body pressed against yours in the crowded space, her breath warm on your neck as she whispered something you couldn't quite hear over the music.

୨୧ or the morning you found her asleep in your bed after a particularly brutal finals week, wearing one of your old silk robes. you stood in the doorway for too long, memorizing the way the early light licked her dark skin gold, how her braids spilled across your powder blue pillowcase like spilled ink.

୨୧ she wasn't subtle about her affection. mel had always been tactile with you—casual touches, long hugs, the way she'd rest her head in your lap during study breaks. but lately, there was something different about it. something charged.

୨୧ she'd trace patterns on your skin while you talked, her fingers leaving trails of electricity in their wake. when you'd dress for formal dinners, she'd zip up your dresses with agonizing slowness, her braids brushing against your back as she leaned close, her knuckles tracing your spine like a gentle claim.

୨୧ it was after one of the university's prestigious donor galas that everything shifted. you were both slightly giddy on champagne bubbles and shared glances, stumbling back to your dorm with your heels in your hands.

୨୧ mel was wearing dusty rose, the color melting into her skin, and there was something about the way the hallway lights caught in her hair that made your chest ache. she was telling a story about some legacy student who'd tried to copy her economics paper, her voice low and amused, but all you could focus on was the way her lips formed the words.

୨୧ 'you're not listening to me,' she said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the empty corridor. you weren't. you were thinking about how many years you'd spent memorizing her face, how you knew exactly which smile meant she was truly happy and which one she wore like armor in the halls.

୨୧ 'i'm always listening to you,' you replied, but your voice came out softer than intended. she stepped closer, and you could smell her perfume—something expensive and warm, amber and animalistic.

୨୧ 'then what did i just say?' she challenged, but her eyes were soft, knowing. you couldn't answer because you were too busy watching the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, visible above the delicate lace of her dress.

୨୧ 'mel,' you whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. like every secret you'd ever kept. like years of wanting something you thought you couldn't have.

୨୧ she kissed you first, or maybe you kissed her—later, neither of you could remember who moved first. all you knew was that one moment you were standing there, years of unspoken feelings hanging between you like morning mist, and the next her lips were on yours, soft and sure and tasting faintly of sugar cookie lip gloss.

୨୧ she kissed you like she'd been thinking about it for years, like she was trying to make up for lost time, and you melted into her with a sigh that felt like coming home.

୨୧ when you pulled away, her lip gloss was smudged, and you knew yours was too. she looked at you with something like wonder, her hands still cupping your face like you might disappear if she let go. 'how long?' she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

୨୧ 'always,' you answered, and it was true. it had always been mel, even when you were too afraid to admit it. she smiled then, brilliant and real, and kissed you again, softer this time, like she was making a promise.

୨୧ the next morning, you woke up tangled together in your sheets, her arm draped over your waist, her breath warm against your shoulder. the early light set her skin to flame, and when she blinked awake, the smile she gave you was everything you'd ever wanted but been too afraid to ask for.

୨୧ nothing really changed, except everything did. she still brought takeout on thursdays, still fixed your collar with careful fingers, still fell asleep in your bed. but now you could kiss her whenever you wanted, could wrap your arms around her waist from behind while she made coffee, could tell her all the things you'd kept locked away for so long.

୨୧ your love for her was reminiscent of wine spilled on silk, deep and permanent and impossible to ignore. and finally, wonderfully, you didn't have to try to scrub it out.

693 notes · View notes

inseobts · 1 month ago

Text

Terminal pt.2

law × reader

part 1

you fall ill with a rare, incurable disease and law refuses to accept it.

a/n: since many asked for it, here we are eheh sorry in advance

words count: 3.3k

tags: terminal illness, soft, angst, worried and protective law

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea is calm.

Too calm. The kind that presses against your chest, thick and heavy, like the quiet after something breaks. The Polar Tang glides through the water in near silence, the steady hum of the engine the only thing that proves the world is still moving forward.

Law stands by the observation window, arms crossed, coat hanging loose from his shoulders. Salt crusts the hem. He doesn’t bother brushing it off. His gaze drifts somewhere beyond the horizon, past the steel, past the sea, to a place only he knows.

Behind him, the ship breathes softly. Footsteps echo down the hallway in quiet rhythm. No one speaks unless they have to. Shachi and Penguin pass by with low murmurs, Bepo following a few steps behind, carrying a tray in his paws. He hesitates outside the medbay, like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it.

They all do.

No one talks about what happened a few weeks ago.

Not in front of him.

Law’s fingers twitch at his side, a phantom memory of holding something he can’t replace. A cup passed hand to hand. Your laugh in the early mornings. The way you always leaned in too close when reading over his shoulder.

The infirmary door stays closed.

Law doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

He turns away from the window and walks the length of the hallway with slow, measured steps. Everything about him is precise, controlled. As always. But his shoulders sit lower than usual, and his steps drag just slightly, like he’s carrying something no one else can see.

In the silence, it’s easy to assume the worst. And no one corrects the assumption.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Law steps into the infirmary without a word, the tray Bepo left earlier balanced in one hand. A bowl of soup and a cup of tea.

The room smells like antiseptic and citrus peels. The light’s soft, diffused by the overhead panels. There’s a soft rustle of sheets, the quiet flick of a page turning.

You’re sitting up in the bed, legs tucked under the blanket, a book in your hands.

You glance up at him “You’re late.”

Law exhales slowly through his nose. Not a laugh but close. He sets the tray down on the rolling table and drags it over to you.

“You complain more now that you’ve survived” he mutters.

You smirk, folding the corner of the page before closing the book “Yeah, well. Dying didn’t work out for me.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just looks at you. Not clinically. Not assessing. Just looking. Your color’s better. You’re holding the book steady again. The dark circles beneath your eyes have faded.

“You should rest.”

“Look at yourself, you're the one who needs some rest.”

He pulls up the stool beside your bed anyway, the edge of his coat brushing your blanket. His hand rests on the rail, inches from yours. Neither of you moves to close the gap.

“So… aren’t you going to check up my blood pressure etc. today?” You say rolling up your sleeve “oh my Doctor please save me”

He sighs and put his hand over your pulse “Everything seems fine.”

You smile at his seriousness. You can see he’s tired. His eyes dark.

And so you move to make space on the bed, patting at the free space next to you “Cuddle time?”

Law’s gaze flickers down to the space beside you, where you pat the blankets, clearly teasing, but there’s a subtle softness behind the playful gesture. His tired eyes meet yours for a long moment. He doesn’t move, his hand still hovering near the rail.

A silence stretches between you two. Not uncomfortable, just the kind where words don’t seem necessary anymore.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he lowers himself down onto the edge of the bed, sitting carefully as if afraid to disturb the fragile bubble of peace you’ve created. The worn fabric of his coat brushes against your side. For a moment, neither of you says anything.

You make a small, quiet sound in your throat, something between relief and frustration, before nudging your head toward the pillows “Come on. I’m not gonna bite.”

He gives you a long, unreadable look before shifting, adjusting his position until he’s lying beside you, his back stiff, but his proximity enough that the warmth from his body makes the room feel a little more bearable.

You’re still not sure if you’re comforting him or if he’s comforting you. Maybe it’s both. You feel it in the way he shifts just enough to make space, but doesn’t pull away.

His hand rests lightly on your side, the fingers brushing against your ribs. You can feel the tension in his touch, like he’s afraid to hold you too close. He’s been afraid of a lot of things lately.

But you’re not going anywhere. Not this time.

You turn your head slightly to look at him. His jaw is tight, eyes closed, but his brow still furrows, like he’s thinking about a hundred things at once. His chest rises and falls in that slow, almost exhausted rhythm. You wish you could read his mind, but you can never seem to get through that wall he’s built around himself.

“I’m not dead, you know?” you murmur, your voice almost too quiet, just a breath between you.

“I know” Law answers, his voice soft but thick with something deeper, something that lingers in the space between his words.

You smile faintly, feeling the pulse of warmth that fills the space where he lies next to you. There’s no pressure, no hurry. Just this… moment of stillness. It’s enough for now.

For a while, neither of you speak. The steady rhythm of his breathing feels like all that matters. Like the rest of the world has faded away for a while, leaving just the two of you here.

Eventually, you shift your body just slightly, turning toward him, sliding closer until your forehead rests gently against his shoulder. His body tenses, but only for a moment before it relaxes into you.

His hand moves from your side, sliding over to your back, his fingers gently tracing the outline of your spine, like he’s checking, testing if you’re really here. You let out a breath, the tension from before starting to dissipate as you allow yourself to sink into him fully.

“You’re not alone” you whisper.

Law’s hand stills for a moment, his breath catching slightly. His voice is barely a murmur, but you catch it all the same “I know.”

And for once, he sounds like he means it.

You close your eyes, letting the quiet fill the space around you. In this small room, in the stillness of the night, there’s no need for words anymore. Just the feeling of his presence, his warmth, the steady beat of his heart beside yours, and the knowledge that even though the world keeps moving forward, you’re still here.

It’s quiet after they leave.

Too quiet, almost.

You lie there, tucked into the bed that’s become both sanctuary and prison, staring at the ceiling with the book still unopened in your lap. The infirmary hums gently with the soft whir of monitors you no longer need, the faint buzz of overhead lights, and the memory of Law’s last touch as he’d adjusted your blanket before heading out.

Just a scouting mission. A new island, routine checks. Nothing risky.

But he still hesitated at the door, eyes lingering on you longer than necessary. Not saying goodbye, just that silent, heavy kind of be careful he never actually voices.

Now he’s gone. The crew’s gone too. And only Bepo remains.

He sits on a stool near the corner of the room, reading a book upside-down without realizing it. His ears twitch every few seconds, his eyes flicking toward you as if you might spontaneously combust if he looks away too long.

You shift under the blanket, then sit up slowly.

Bepo straightens immediately “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You should stay in bed.”

“I’ve been in bed.”

You push the blanket off your legs and plant your feet on the floor. You’re still in your soft pajamas, sweatpants and a loose shirt, not exactly mission attire, but it’ll do. Your legs ache just a little as you stand, muscles stiff but not weak.

Bepo stands too “You really shouldn’t—”

“Bepo,” you interrupt gently, meeting his eyes “I’m okay.”

He hesitates “Captain said—”

“I know what he said. And I know what I feel. I can walk. I want to walk. I need to.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. Bepo’s ears droop a little, but he nods.

“Okay. But I’m staying right next to you.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Your steps are slow at first, cautious. The hallway feels longer than you remember, the air cool against your skin. But every step forward steadies you. The Polar Tang is quiet, the hum of the engine a steady companion beneath your feet.

You pass the mess hall. The lounge. A few doors you haven’t seen in days.

The first person you run into is Ikkaku.

She rounds the corner holding a stack of towels, clearly not expecting anyone, and nearly drops them when she sees you.

“Holy—! You’re—!”

You lift a hand in a small wave “Hey.”

Her eyes widen further “You’re standing?!”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling, breath just slightly short from the walk “Figured I’d stretch my legs.”

She recovers quickly, enough to set the towels down on a nearby bench and grin “They’re gonna lose their minds.”

You just nod, trying not to let the burn in your chest turn into a cough.

Bepo hovers close, watching you like a worried parent.

By the time the crew returns, the Polar Tang’s upper deck is bathed in golden light from the late afternoon sun. You wait by the rail, arms resting on the metal, Bepo beside you. The salty breeze stings your nose, but it feels good... alive.

The first to spot you is Penguin. He freezes halfway up the ramp, eyes wide.

“What the—?” he blurts “Is that—?!”

Law steps up behind him, expression unreadable as always, until he sees you.

And then, for just a moment, his face changes.

He doesn’t run. Doesn’t call out. But something in him flickers. His steps quicken.

You straighten your spine, meeting his eyes with a steady look of your own.

“Hey, Captain” you say, voice clear.

His coat flutters behind him as he stops in front of you. No one breathes.

He looks at you. Really looks.

“You’re standing.”

You nod “Told you dying didn’t work out for me.”

Law exhales, slowly, and then, finally, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms.

Dinner on the Polar Tang hasn’t felt like this in a while.

The long table is full again, crowded with trays of food, clinking dishes, and overlapping conversations. Shachi’s cracking jokes no one asked for. Ikkaku and Clione are arguing about who’s on cleaning duty. Even Bepo’s talking more, ears perked and tail gently swishing behind him. Someone’s music plays low in the background, barely audible over the sounds of laughter and the scrape of chairs.

You sit at the end of the table, tucked between Bepo and Law, legs stretched out, sipping from your cup like you’ve never been anywhere else.

No one says it out loud, but the difference is obvious.

They all glance at you more often than usual. Smiling easier. Talking louder. Like your presence re-lit something they didn’t know they were missing. Like they were holding their breath and only now remembered how to let it go.

Law notices it, of course. He always does.

He sits quiet, as usual, elbows on the table, one hand wrapped around a mug. He doesn’t say much, but he watches. Watches the way the crew leans toward you when you talk. The way the energy in the room has shifted into something brighter. Lighter.

He doesn’t say anything.

But he doesn’t need to. He’s just… glad.

You, on the other hand, don’t waste a second.

“Hey, Captain,” you call, leaning over just enough to bump your shoulder against his “You’re not gonna tell everyone how you cuddled me the other night?”

The table goes silent.

Law doesn’t move.

You flash a grin, teeth and mischief “No? Should I? You were very warm and soft. Surprisingly clingy for someone who says they hate physical contact.”

“Y/N.”

Your name is a warning. Sharp and low.

You take another sip “Oh, come on. It’s not like you were purring or anything.”

Penguin chokes on his drink. Shachi actually drops his chopsticks.

Bepo blinks “Captain can purr?”

“No” Law growls, turning his head just enough to glare at you. His ears are faintly red.

You shrug “Could’ve fooled me.”

Ikkaku covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Clione just whispers something under his breath and shakes his head, clearly enjoying the show.

Law sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose like he regrets every life decision that led to this exact moment.

You lean closer and lower your voice, not enough to be subtle, just enough to be dangerous “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the neck kisses a secret.”

The clang of Law’s chair scraping back is immediate. He stands without a word and walks to the other side of the room like a man trying to escape his own body.

You grin like a cat who’s won the game.

“Do you think he’s blushing?” Penguin whispers.

“Oh, absolutely” you say, taking another bite of your food.

Behind you, Law exhales sharply and mutters something under his breath. But he doesn’t leave. And that’s how you know he’s not really mad.

“You kissed their neck?” Shachi asks, eyes wide in mock horror “Captain, you dog.”

“I didn’t” Law snaps, sitting back down with a thud and stabbing his food like it insulted his entire bloodline.

“Oh, so it was more of a nuzzle situation?” Penguin grins.

Law doesn’t answer. Which is its own kind of answer.

You hide your smile behind your cup. Barely.

“Damn,” Ikkaku says, nudging her elbow into Clione’s ribs “I was convinced our captain was emotionally constipated, but look at him go.”

“Should we be taking bets on who’ll propose first?” Clione asks.

“Please don’t” Law says flatly.

“Too late” Bepo murmurs, scribbling something into a tiny notepad he definitely didn’t just pull out for the first time.

You snort so hard it turns into a cough. Law is already halfway up before anyone else even moves.

“Alright. That’s enough,” he says, tone shifting with just enough authority that the laughter starts to die down. His hand lands gently on your shoulder “You need to lie down.”

“I’m fine...” you lie, coughing once more, which makes your chest ache “It’s just a little—”

“You’re done for the night.” His voice is soft, but final.

No one argues.

Not even you.

He helps you up without a word, steady hand at your back as he guides you out of the room. The moment the door slides shut behind you both, the laughter fades into muffled noise and the hallway settles into stillness.

Your steps are slower now. It’s not that you’re weak, it’s just been a long day, and your body’s still catching up with the living.

Law doesn’t rush you. Just walks beside you in silence, the distance between you closed by the quiet comfort of presence alone.

When you reach your room, you pause in the doorway and glance up at him.

“You’re staying, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just follows you in.

The room is dim, the overhead lights replaced by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. You slip under the blanket while Law sets the folded hoodie you’d been wearing onto a nearby chair. He moves with practiced precision, checking the monitor out of habit, even though you’re no longer hooked up to it.

He doesn’t sit in the chair. He sits beside you.

You turn on your side to face him, cheek pressed against the pillow “So. Neck kisses, huh?”

He exhales slowly through his nose “You’re impossible.”

You grin “And yet, you stayed.”

His gaze softens. The faintest ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of his lips “Of course I stayed.”

You reach out, brushing your fingers lightly against his wrist. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts closer.

For a moment, you just look at each other.

No teasing. No jokes. Just the quiet that comes when two people who’ve been through hell finally find a bit of peace.

“Law?”

“Hm?”

You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion take you “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

His fingers brush gently through your hair, voice barely a whisper “Never.”

"I was really scared to leave you"

"I know, I was scared too."

And in the hush of your room, with his hand warm against your skin and the ache of your body slowly fading into the mattress, you finally let yourself rest.

He stays beside you the whole night.

Just like he always will.

The night is deep and still, the ship humming gently beneath you like a lullaby.

You stir a little in your sleep, enough to shift the blanket, enough to feel the brush of Law’s sleeve against your arm. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to.

You know he’s awake.

He’s always awake.

He sits at the edge of the bed, one leg tucked up loosely, the other foot flat on the floor. The lamplight’s long gone. Only the dim green of a monitor in the corner casts a faint glow across the room. It pools over his face in soft shadows, under his eyes, his jaw, the tattooed line of his throat.

You don’t speak. Not right away.

Neither does he.

But eventually, when the silence grows too full, he does something rare.

He talks first.

“I thought I was going to lose you.”

His voice is so quiet, you’re not sure he meant to say it aloud.

But you hear it. And you stay still.

“I tried everything,” he says, almost more to himself than to you “Recalculated every dose. Ran every blood test twice. I made Penguin check my math just to be sure I wasn’t—” He cuts off, jaw tight “There was a point where I couldn’t look at you without thinking, what if this is the last time?”

You turn your head slowly, your eyes adjusting in the dark until you can see the outline of him, shoulders tense, fists curled lightly in his lap. Still holding on. Even now.

“I’m still here” you whisper.

“I know.” He exhales like he’s trying to let that truth finally settle “But it doesn’t change the fact that I almost wasn’t enough.”

You push yourself up on one elbow, enough to reach for him. Your fingers skim over his hand, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate. His hand turns, palm meeting yours.

“You were the only reason I made it,” you say “You were enough. You are.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

You think maybe he’ll let that be the end of it. But then “I didn’t just think about losing you,” he murmurs “I thought about how I never told you what you really are to me.”

Your pulse stutters.

“You make this place... this crew, me... feel like more than just survival. Like we’re allowed to have something more than war and running. Like we’re allowed to be...” He pauses but then, quietly “...happy.”

You blink, your throat tightening “Law…”

His hand squeezes yours. Just once “You don’t have to say anything.”

You smile softly, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his shoulder, and his arm slips around you without thinking.

“But I will” you whisper.

You tilt your face up just enough to press a kiss to his jaw gentle, grounding.

“I love you, Trafalgar.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But the way his fingers curve tighter around your waist, the way he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, and that says enough.

Eventually, in the hush of the cabin, he answers you.

“I love you too.”

And it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said.

348 notes · View notes

lieslab · 3 months ago

Text

Know I'll never win the battle

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X gn reader

Summary: When your bipolar disorder turns a sunny day into a starless night, your boyfriend finds a way to cheer you up.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 2.7k

Trigger warning: Bipolar disorder, depression, manic episodes, and paranoia/delusions.

Depression resources

A/N: Brains can be so mean to us sometimes. As I wrote this request, I burst into tears (starting to notice a pattern about writing sad stuff, huh?) Mental illness can be so hard. I don't know much about bipolar disorder, but I did some research to try and understand the perspective. This might not be entirely accurate, but I tried.

You all better be so nice to yourselves. Give yourself a big hug, please. Be gentle. Be soft. Do not let the cruelty of your own brain rip you apart from the good things in this world <3

_ _ _

A year’s worth of suffering unveils in a single day. Not really, but that’s what it feels like. A human puppeteered by their brain, but never in the right way; a handcrafted tea cup without the warmth and welcoming taste of tea.

You spun to the beat of your own drum. The wrong beat. Society marched around you in circles. Their footsteps methodically raised and fell. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right. You? Always one beat behind or another beat ahead.

Living with any kind of mental illness is hard, but yours felt worse. A lot worse. A switch that you couldn’t turn off. You could feel it creep up before it pounced. It inched behind you closer and closer until it leapt upon you. The neurons misfired and genetics hung you.

You tried to stop it, but you couldn’t. That’s the thing about bipolar disorder. Where does the mental illness separate and life begins? Because in your head, you didn’t know how much longer you could blame your actions on your mental disorder. Who really controls you? Is it you or is it the festering and molding disorder that you try to push down and scrape out? You grab onto it with two hands and try to pull it out, but you can’t pull out your own brain.

You nested yourself in the comfort of your bed. Wrapped in cotton blankets, swallowed by the weight of another low, you couldn’t find the energy to do anything. Beside you, the clock kept ticking into the future, but all you could do was drown.

In these moments, it all felt so low. You couldn’t gather the strength to pick yourself up. You tried, but it always unraveled. Just as you thought you were getting better, you were taking accountability, trying to be more and do more; it always crashed back down.

Swallowed by the whale, not even the light could find you here. In your room, the room you shared with your boyfriend, the sheets saturated with peppermint. A calming and grounding scent. The essential oil diffuser released a steady stream into the air, but not even that made you feel better. Why couldn’t you be normal?

Emotional regulation. Two words that seem so normal. When an emotion overpowers you, when it sucks you into the void of nothingness, you regroup. Step back, count to ten, and focus on breathing. Calm your racing heart when you find a negative emotion. Try to power through it and just breathe.

You’ll always find the next stepping stone of life. In your worst moments, the best is always yet to come. Your brain painted another picture. One where everyone hated you. They all slipped through your fingers due to the consequences of your actions.

In the darkness, you rotted. Between silk sheets and cool pillows. In the rotation of white fan panels, you found glimpses of who you could have been in another life. The adult that didn’t feel so behind. The kid that didn’t feel lost among their peers. Someone far more successful and incredible than you were now.

The tears leaked out unknowingly. Your heart didn’t just ache, it fell apart and disintegrated between your fingers. You couldn’t even keep that part of yourself together.

You didn’t know Chan appeared until you felt the familiar warmth against your cheek. “Hi, there.” His Australian accent still made your heart melt. You didn’t deserve him. You didn’t deserve that tenderness. Not after the hell you always put everyone through.

Last week, Minho confiscated your wallet because you insisted you needed to blow a ton of money on a bouncy house. Impulsive and reckless, you always described yourself that way when you were manic. The stars came to life and lifted your soul. The fuzzy static sparked and disintegrated, a burst of adrenaline came to life like a live wire.

Going, going, going, you couldn’t stop. So you lived fast and lived large. Living in-between a brain-chased delusion and keeping up after it wasn’t easy, but when you’re in a fragile state of mania, the unbelievable seems believable. It comes to life so easily; a god without a cult-following.

How many times did Chan call his band members worrying because you were so reckless? Like the time you got into a fight with Chan and took off barefoot into the night. They spent three hours chasing your zipping figure through the wet pavement streets and in down-pouring rain. By the next morning, everyone had colds.

When you decided to repaint your bedroom without asking because the color you found filled you with such joy. It spoke to your soul and you didn’t ask. In the process, you didn’t consider putting down a sheet of plastic over the carpet. An honest mistake that cost hundreds of dollars to repurchase new carpet for the bedroom. It turns out dancing and finger painting in a manic state has consequences.

Another time, you started a food fight in Felix and Seungmin’s dorm. It started with Felix trying to distract you. Chan went out on an ambassador trip. When you felt yourself slip into a manic episode, you called Felix, hoping to ground yourself.

It was fun at first, baking brownies. It started well until you threw a handful of flour at Felix’s shoulder. It was just a stupid impulse; a moment of poor misjudgement. Felix threw a handful of sugar at you and you both snapped.

Yelling, hooting, and hollering. Waking up a sleeping Seungmin. Dry ingredients covered the floor. You inhaled a breath of flour. Felix licked grains of sugar from his lips. What neither of you were expecting was Seungmin’s outrage.

On the stove. Beneath the fridge. Smeared on countertops. The rolling flour dust coated crevices in their fancy coffee machine. It laced the insides of the toaster. You were still working on paying back your half for the coffee machine. Felix offered to pay for it. Sugar grains snuck into an opening and tarnished the entire thing. You started it and refused to let him suffer alone.

It wasn’t just your mania that drilled holes in the people around you, it was this, too. Depressed straight to the bone, you scared the shit out of Jeongin the day you threatened to fling yourself off the top of the JYP Entertainment building. Now he’s constantly worried about you.

Hyunjin invited you for coffee with him and Changbin one day. Unable to control your sadness and keep yourself together, you sobbed over your vanilla latte, right in the middle of the cafe. The attention drew from bystanders. They quickly tried to console you, but someone snapped a photo. By the time you tried to make your way out to the parking lot, a reporter from Dispatch waited for you near Changbin’s car. The article surrounding the conspiracy of your tears went viral between the venomous teeth of the fandom.

And Han? He met with you one-on-one to show you a new anime. He was so happy and excited. You ruined it with self-pity and the admission that your brain was destroying you from the inside out. You swore this bipolar thing would be the death of you. How do you live in a society where you can’t regulate yourself?

Minho showed up to find you and Han wrapped around you crying. Your own tears steadily fell down your cheeks. All he could do was call Chan and attempt to have him talk to you and try to console whatever lay shattered before you.

Nobody ever knew what to say or how to fix it. You could feel the tension building between people. Strangers looked you in the eyes on the streets. Even then, you swore that they knew something occurred within you internally. Every look casts judgement. Every glance, a scowl and sneer followed.

Ever since the diagnosis came, you always knew. You knew you’d be the one to be too much for people. Lightning ran through your veins at the wrong time. You lived your life climbing the rollercoaster and then you tipped over the edge screaming. Your heart fluttered, your stomach dropped, but god, it felt so good.

The realization in those bits of mania that life didn’t matter. It gave you an entirely new perspective. In those bits of life, you were unstoppable. The world was in your hands. You could do anything if you tried hard enough. All you had to do was believe it and anything could be yours.

On the sadder days, your brain becomes a boulder. It kept you locked into the bed and you didn’t know how to get up. Too heavy. Your limbs were laced with concrete and you lost the ability to eat. No longer a human, but rather an android.

You waited and waited. You tried to cycle through the societal standards, but you struggled. It all felt so hard. Like this whole life had been cast for you from the depths of hell. Who would make someone live through all this?

Other days, the two feelings collided and dizzied you with such a confusing feeling. You were alive, your thoughts cycled and shuffled so fast. You knew it was the mania talking, but these thoughts were different. Less confident and more depressing, a chain caught between the gears of mania and depression; the highs and lows blended together.

And the worst part? It never stopped. It was a constant cycle. A few hours. A day or two apart. Maybe a week or more. You never knew when your mental illness would possess you. Your vision clouded and you tried to tell yourself the next time would be different. You’d find a way to deal with it in grace, but it never happened .

You tried treatments, but talking to a therapist about it always felt weird. The few medications you tried, some of them made you sleep and feel much worse. Others, they didn’t touch it. It made you want to throw in the towel at the worst times. Why bother fighting if medicine couldn’t cure whatever was wrong with your head?

More importantly, why did it have to be you? What the hell did you do to deserve this? Was it fate? Did you do something so bad in your past life that this was just the universe’s way of getting karmic retribution?

“What’s in that head of yours?”

You glanced up at Chan, pulling away from your thoughts. “We don’t have to do this. We always do this and you already know. The answer is always the same.”

He sighed softly and smiled at you. “I know, but I still want to know. I won’t get tired of asking you. No matter how many times your answers are the same, I’ll always ask you.”

“Why do you stick around and do this with me?”

“Do what?”

“This!” You reached up and gestured between the two of you. “Doesn’t it get tiring and boring? Doesn’t my existence exhaust you? What part of dating someone with a bipolar disorder is entertaining? Please enlighten me because I’d love to fucking know.”

Chan’s eyes didn’t leave yours. You could lash out however you liked, but deep down, he loved you. He’d never stop telling you that. Someone had to fight to put the truth in your head.

But you didn’t know. Where did you start and where did the disorder begin? What were parts of you and your happiness? When did you know you were happy and not on the rollercoaster ride accelerating up to the drop of mania again? How long did the good times last? What if they never came back?

“Carrie Fisher played Princess Leia in Star Wars.”

“So?”

“Did you know she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder?”

You sniffled and shook your head. Beside you, Chan crawled forward to get into the bed with you. “She struggled with addiction, but found hope. She became a mental health advocate and openly talked about it. She struggled with it, just like you.”

“Why are you bringing this up?”

“To remind you that just because you’re battling something some people don’t, it doesn’t make you worth any less. So you fight your brain to stay strong and I don’t see that as a horrible and terrible thing.” He paused, frowning at the way his words sounded. “What I mean to say is that it can be challenging and difficult, but we’ll figure it out.”

“You’re using my love of Star Wars against me.”

A squeaky laugh fell from his lips. “I mean, yes, but no. I’m being serious here.” He reached over and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Swaddled in sadness and bathed in depression, you didn’t understand what lay on the outside.

“You know what I see when I look at you? I see someone fighting for peace. You get up every day and you try. Doesn’t that trying count for something? I know your brain might not think so right now, but to me, I think that’s pretty heroic.”

“It’s not heroic to ruin friendships with people around me.”

“Who said you’re ruining friendships?” His eyes narrowed. “Did you know that Hyunjin has lost confidence in his speed when it comes to you? Ever since we chased you that one night-”

You groaned and covered your face with your hands. “Don’t remind me, it was embarrassing. You had to scrub my feet because they were dirty and the memories from that night are all blurry.”

“At least, we all got to take Nyquil together during those colds. I’ve never seen Han fall unconscious that fast. One dose and he just-” Chan snapped. “Hit the ground like a light.”

“Didn’t Minho have to drag him to bed?”

“That was a little funny, too.”

“Now I just feel entirely mortified. I need to try harder and do better. Hearing that, it’s just so humiliating. It makes me feel like a failure. I really don’t mean to cause harm, I just…” You sighed and looked away. “I don’t know. It’s so hard sometimes and I’m really trying to be better.”

“I know you’re trying.” He reached up and placed his hand back against your cheek. Shifting closer, the scent of amber and rosemary caught your attention.

Your nose scrunched instantly. “Woah, new scent?”

“Something like that. How is it?”

“Meh.”

“I spent over fifty dollars on this bottle.”

“I’ve spent more money than that on a smaller bottle of smelly stuff during a manic episode.”

His face went blank and your eyes found his. He quickly bit down on his bottom lip, trying not to laugh. In the current of silence, a brief moment of mutual understanding. At least, until you burst into a fit of giggles first. He quickly followed after with his own laugh.

Seconds ticked by again, suspended by laughter and clenched stomach. Wet eyes, oversized grins, and a wave of relief. When you finished, you wiped a hand over your face, trying to regulate yourself.

“I really needed that laugh.”

“Yeah, I could tell. In all seriousness, I think you give yourself little credit and I wish you’d give yourself more. I know you’re not perfect, but you’re trying. As long as you’re fighting, in my eyes, you’re winning. Even when you have off days and bad days, you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“And you know what that means?” Dimples spread across his cheeks. Mischief glistened in his eyes and your heart dropped to your stomach. You jerked upright, trying to escape the bed, but he pounced. “It means your mine!”

You burst into a fit of giggles as you squirmed in his grasp. Laughter bounced off the walls of his bedroom and broke your train of depressing thoughts. The gentle brush of fingers against your sides, you tried to get away, but they stayed consistent.

So maybe your brain wasn’t perfect. Different brains look different for everyone. They always say if you don’t like the direction your boat is steering, turn the sail another way. You might lose bits and pieces of time, but you never lose who you fully are beneath the waves. The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again and so would you. Manic, depression, or stuck in the web of a blurry between, the support compacting you, it was bound to be endless.

You might not win every battle, but the more you refuse to sink, you’ll always win the war.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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