#I hate the knife in the gut every time I see those soft fucking gazes at each other!!

[honeybeejohn]

the fact that we’re still out here talking (suffering) about bbc sherlock and Them in the year 2024 SEVEN YEARS after the last and final episode like.. they won. we’re down bad and they won those bastards they fucking.. won! those fucks!!

[kirschteinsj]

Pinky Promises

Nanami x fem! reader

Warnings: nothing too much! maybe language but overall just a bunch of fluff and lovey dovey stuff 

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: Domestic Nanami and reader, just thinking about how much they love each other. sappy and cute stuff.

A/N: Hi! ^_^ Second time posting, I’ve had this one shot saved for a bit now! finally posting it lolz. I've noticed a lot of people have written domestic Nanami pics or drawn art, very glad society as a whole has this perception of him. it truly heals the soul I think. anyway, I hope u like this and sorry if there’s any grammar errors I wasnt able to catch U_U im thinking of doing a hc post next.... unsure hm, we’ll see ^_^!!

“I’m hooooome.” He says loudly as he steps through the apartment door, setting his briefcase down and taking off his beige coat. Putting down the grand kitchen knife she was using to chop up spinach, she rushed to the door with a smile and engulfed the tall blonde into a tight hug, saying hello. She took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scent of his cologne, the smell of something sour and musty soon taking over. Her face scrunched up and she let out a giggle.

“Oh god, Nanami, you stink, what did you go against today?”

“Nothing too bad. Just a grade 3,” He sighed “A smelly grade 3.” He sounded disappointed, probably because he knew he stunk too. Though the smell was horrendous, she still remained in his arms and he still held on just as tight.

“Are you tired? I was thinking of making dinner with you tonight but if you’re too tired I can-”

“No no. I’m fine. Just let me wash up and I’ll help out.”

“You sure?” She asked looking up towards him, questioning once more to reassure. He looked down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m sure, dear.”

While he showers upstairs, she gets back to readying the ingredients so they could begin cooking their masterpiece as soon as possible. Tonight she had chosen chicken alfredo with a tossed salad; One could say it was her favourite, but saying that would imply that she would eat it when cooked and served by whomever. But to her, she would only eat it when it was him who had made it for her.

Y/n adored him. He adored her. To her, he was her light. She could simply not imagine life without him, not after he had come in and changed her in such a way. She never in a million years would have thought to be so in love with someone. To have known someone who cared enough to hear all about her day or listen to all her tangents, whether they made sense or not. Who listened to her talk forever about anything just so he could see the faint glow of passion in her eyes. Someone who remembered the small details in regards to the things she loved and the things she despised; Like how she hated the feeling of peanut butter on her fingers and how she absolutely admired the scent of fresh pages in a new book. Sometimes, she felt undeserving of him.

He admired her like no other. Never did he believe he���d be capable of opening up to anyone in such a way, at least not until she walked into his life. He could write a million lists, all full of everything he loved about her. The way she smiled cheekily at him after a witty remark, how she'd give every hug as if it was the last, the way she was oh so patient with him. It took him time to become vulnerable in the slightest, he just didn’t know how to do so without burdening her. She knew his job was hard, he’d told her. But rather than running away like he expected, she stayed with him right by his side. She refused to leave him over that. If anything, it made her want to stay more since she felt the need to be there for him. It felt like a punch to the gut but a good one. “So, is this love?” He had asked himself then. Nanami had someone who brought out the much more joyful side to him. At the end of the day, he knew he’d walk through the front door only to see her, arms wide open and with a big smile offering a cozy hug. She was his home. Sometimes, he felt undeserving of her.

Putting the final piece of broccoli into the container, she tidies any clutter and went back to their shared bedroom. Sinking into the bed and falling on it with a plush thump, she lets out a deep sigh mixed with some sort of a groan. She herself was exhausted from work too to say the least. She didn’t deal with curses or anything like that, but she did teach a class of 9 year olds which one could consider just as frustrating. Yawning, she checks her phone to read the time: 6:15 PM. Nanami hadn’t been in the shower for too long, a small nap wouldn’t hurt. Quickly, she settled for a little 30 minute nap. That way, she could get up soon enough to help him out in the kitchen and not abandon him to do everything on his own. She turns her phone off and slowly, her eyes shut.

…

Y/n slowly opens her eyes and notices a grey throw blanket placed on her, something that she doesn’t recall going to bed with earlier. “Must’ve been Nanami.” Grabbing her phone, she turns the screen on, wincing at the incredible blue light piercing into her skull. “Fuck.” she mumbles. Once her eyes adjust, she glances back at the screen for the time: 7:30.

“FUCK,” she says, voice croaking “I overslept.” With the speed of light, she leaves bed and runs down the hall to the bathroom to freshen up. She soon makes her way over to the kitchen silently, slightly ashamed and guilty. Y/n mumbles a whine with a frown, “He’s probably done making things now. I could have helped.”

The kitchen is filled with the delicate scents of sauces, cheese and herbs. She watches him from the door frame, admiring her boyfriend. He stood in front of the stove mixing at the sauce for the alfredo, which scent alone made her mouth water. Nanami seems to be in his own world, as he stands humming to himself softly, stirring the pot of sauce and adding in the broccoli and spinach, not seeming to notice y/n. With a final stir, he carefully sets the lid and turns to rinse his hands. Her gaze sits upon his figure, how his grey oversized shirt slightly clings to his shoulders and loosens as it goes down his body. Looking down, she noticed the bright red christmas pyjamas he had on, the ones with adorable little reindeers all over them. Grinning, she remembers how she had bought those for him. She purchased a matching set for the two of them and insisted on wearing them all day on Christmas last year. Nanami had responded to the idea with a stern “No” which left y/n in shambles. She didn’t expect him to agree, but hey, a girl can dream. However, on Christmas day, lo and behold, she had woken up to find Nanami sitting on the couch, watching the news with his reindeer PJs on. Immediately, she had attacked him with hugs and kisses and all Nanami did was sit there and accept them, secretly loving it the whole time.

A deep voice throws her out of her thoughts. “You know, it’s rude to stare, right?”

Y/n chuckles quietly and makes her way over, wrapping her arms around him from behind, snuggling into his back.

“I like to stare at you, you’re cute,” she breathes in his scent once again, “ah, you smell so much better now. Like the nami I know.”

“I am not cute. I am a grown man.”

“C’mon, you can’t possibly be saying that right now. Not while you’re wearing these pants.” She coos, gently patting his butt. He goes silent, refusing to rebuttal knowing that he’s lost. He leans against the counter, his front facing her. Though he didn’t say anything, y/n sees this as an open invite to his arms. The rope of his arms finds her waist this time, her arms in an embrace around his neck.

“Whatever, tell me, how was your day, hm?” He posed, changing the subject.

“Same old, yenno. The kids and I had a discussion today about drugs and safety. It was cute, hearing them rat out their neighbours for smoking cigs and talk about how yucky they thought alcohol is. It was… sweet. How was work for you, hon?”

“Shit.” He retorts, closing his eyes, “Work is shit.”

“Oh come ON, I’m sure it’s not always that bad, right? Say, how’s your friend doing, you know, the one who kinda looks like one of my makeup brushes! Isn’t he good company?”

“Yeah, if good company means having to deal with a nuisance to society on a daily basis then by all means, yes, Gojo is wonderful company.” He joked, loosening his grip on her and making his way over to the stove to check on his sauce. She follows, opening the first drawer and pulling out a silver spoon, “You’re so mean sometimes. I think he’s a great guy to be around! I met him once, such a flirt.”

He teases calmly, “If you love him so much, why don’t you get with him?”

Taking her spoon, she lowers it into the pot and brings it back up to her face, blowing on it carefully before she puts it to her lips to taste. “Hmm, I would. But I don’t think he’s as big as you. I’ll have to pass.” She smirked, putting the spoon into her mouth as he watched and sighed in disappointment.

He glares,“God, you’re something else.”

“I’m just kidding, babe.” Bringing her spoon down for another taste. He swats at her hand and she retreats it with a whine. “Don’t do that. You’ve tried it already, and will again when we get to eat.” He scolded tenderly, “Plus, you shouldn’t be given these privileges anyway. It’s not like you helped out or anything.” He smiled, teasing her.

“Nanamiiii, I’m sorry,” she whines, half laughing, “I promise, I was going to help! I just got a little bit sleepy and sort of lost track of time…” He turned over to her and lifted her face with a finger under her chin. Laughing, he delicately caresses her cheek, tapping it admirably with a curled finger. The blonde chuckles and looks her in the eyes, “I’m just joking with you, love. I know you’ve been tired lately, I can tell. Why haven’t you been resting?”

Her smile falls and she sighs. Y/n wrapped her arms around his waist and brought him into her, hiding her face into his chest. It was true, she was exhausted but she didn’t deem it to be anything so serious. Work was just heavy this past week from having to grade her students’ work in time for report cards. All she wanted was the best for her kids and was finding ways to get the kids out of their comfort zones enough to do well in class. That reminded her, Nanami also mentioned having a student of his own.

She takes her face out of his chest and glances upwards. “It’s just this week of work, I promise I’ll be back to normal soon. I’ve just been busy with lesson plans and activities, yenno. Anyway, speaking of students, how’s the one you’ve been assigned to?” She posed in a soft tone. Half smiling, he turned around to add the strained pasta to the sauce, scattering it into the pot.

“He’s special. Quite lively. And cheerful. He reminds me of you sometimes,” his voice strains as he stretches to grab the bowl of cooked chicken to finally add into the pot, finishing the meal, “He’s got potential.” Y/n beamed with happiness. Nanami really seemed to like this kid and if he thought you had potential, then it sure as hell meant you had it.

She lets out a squeal, “EEEEEEK!!! That sounds amazing! I’m so happy for you!” Nanami suppressed a laugh and rolled his eyes, “It’s not that-”

“This calls for a drink, don’t you think?” She babbled with excitement, “We should have some wine! Right?”

Grabbing her wrist as she skipped her way over to the bottle, he reminded her, “You have school tomorrow. You always end up having more than needed and struggle to wake up in the morning.” Y/n frowned at his words, to which he noticed and tried to fix, “Tomorrow’s Friday, you can drink plenty tomorrow, hm? I’ll drink with you.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re right. But you have to promise.”

“I promise you ca-”

“No! You have to pinky-promise.” She demanded, pouting as he stuck out her pinky finger.

His heart skips a beat. Was she always this cute? Her angelic eyes stare into his tired ones. Bottom lip poking out, awaiting Nanami’s pinky to interlock with her own. He knew she took pinky-promises very seriously despite her grown age. It was among one of the many petty details that he cherished. Something about this pinky-promise was enough for her to ensure trust onto someone, it made him laugh. Her naivety is what made her so kind hearted, what allowed her to see the best in people. He felt that this naivety is why they’re together to begin with. He didn’t ever think she’d give him a chance. He reminisced of their first few encounters. The way she did her hair back then, the way she dressed, her shy smile and how she’d look at the floor whenever she’d blush. Maybe it was her timid nature that made him fall head over heels for her. Or maybe it was her generosity. Perhaps her beauty. He was unable to simply confine the reasoning for his infatuation with just a few traits. She grew overtime, more comfortable and less shy, she was more confident around him but he knew he could still make her blush so badly that she’d have to hide her face from him. He enjoyed their banter, her company. He felt it was luck. Or maybe it was fate. Who knows. He didn’t want to think so much about it. He wanted to live in the moment, adore her in this present time. In that instance, he felt the strong urge to kiss her. And so he did.

The kiss was short and sweet, yet full of an unfathomable amount of love. It took her aback, she didn’t quite see it coming. She too stood in the present moment, then and there, cherishing the man she loved.

His lips leave hers and he extends the smallest finger on his hand, declaring, “I pinky-promise.” And a ginormous grin washes over her face. In a whisper, she squeals and scoops her arms around his torso, resting her head onto his chest. They stay like this for a while, not too long really, but to them it felt like an eternity being in each other’s affectionate embrace. He goes to speak and she feels the vibrating boom of his voice make his way up from his chest.

“I love you.”

She sighs, “I love you too.”

Turning her head, y/n smoothly gets on her tip toes and clasps her arms around his neck, giving it a tender kiss and attempting to make a trail leading up to his sharp jaw. Catching onto her tactics he laughs, putting his big hand against her face and pushing her back.

“Seriously?” He chuckles, “You couldn’t wait till after dinner? Come on, take out the plates.”

“Wait for what? I was just kissing you! You’re so dramatic, Nami.” She lies, playing innocent. She knew damn well what she was trying to do. She wasn’t going to admit to it though. Taking out the plates and utensils, she readied the table.

…

After dinner and meaningless conversation, the two lovers tidied and headed towards their room. “Do yo wana wah a mohee tomowwow nie?” Y/n proposed from the bathroom as she brushed her teeth. He perks his head up, confused, “Do I want to what?” She spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth, repeating her question.

“I said, do you wanna watch a movie tomorrow night? Like at home? There’s this documentary I saw on Netflix, it looks really good! It’s crime related.”

“That sounds fine with me. Though, that’s only possible if you don’t end up drinking too much. I always have to get you to sleep early when you drink.” He states nonchalantly, nose poked into a thick book. She rolls her eyes and smiles, “I promise I won’t drink all that much.” Shifting his book to the opposing hand, Nanami silently takes his pinky finger and holds it out to y/n. She snickers and reciprocates.

“You’ve now pinky-promised. Don’t break it, y/n.”

“I never do.”

The nightstand lamp illuminates the room with a soft yellow glow. Shadows of objects on the nightstand hang on the walls. Laying in bed on her phone, y/n turns over to Nanami, who was still reading his book. “Nami, come lay next to me, I wanna cuddle. Please?” Her voice faint. He looks down at her and puts his book away immediately. He could use a cuddle too. Bringing himself down, he lays on his back, y/n closing the gap between the two. Their legs intertwine, her arm and head resting on his chest while one of his hands rested on her bum, the other dotingly playing with her hair. Neither of them spoke a word for a while. Until y/n broke the silence.

“So, were there no other pairs of pants you had left to wear or-”

“Please, be quiet.”

[jungxk]

crush

filed under. i totally forgot i wrote this. also i like the name eunmi sue me 

notes. thank you to @lonelyending for reading thru this crusty story and making me feel good enough about it again to post it. also @suga-kookiemonster bc im pretty sure i sent u this like a year ago and u told me to post it it but....i forgot abt it shdgjsgd. writing/life in general has been hard recently so pls accept this kookfic to hold yous over until i update just one

genre. fluff, light comedy, light angst, smut

warnings. smut (oral sex: f receiving, penetrative unprotected sex) 

length. 5.1k

the first thing jungkook thinks when he sees you is wow.

he hasn't been up for very long, and you don't even know he's looking at you through the window. yoongi-hyung has wrapped you up in his arms as you sob and sob, muted behind the protective hospital glass. even with messy hair and wet eyes he's starstruck. it's why he recoils slightly when jimin and namjoon explain to him that you're his wife.

"my," he can't even say the word. "my..."

"your wife," namjoon repeats. "you know what a wife is, right? marriage?"

"yes," jungkook huffs, digging his nails into his scalp. "i lost my memory, hyung, not my fucking brain cells." 

he suddenly registers the gold band glistening on his left hand, simple and heavy. he has to take a second to collect himself. "but...but i'm twenty-three. right? i am twenty-three, yeah?"

"yeah. you are," jimin says softly.

"then how the fuck am i already married? not that i'm complaining i just," he suddenly turns pink at the thought of you in a wedding dress, clinging onto his arm, breakfast dates, late night ramen runs at the convenience store, painting the living room in a house you probably share, naked in bed on top of him. jungkook clears his throat. "it just seems a little out of character for me. i can't commit to a pair of shoes for a week let alone-"

"i think it's best if you just spoke with ____," jimin finishes before jungkook can work himself into a frenzy, a comforting hand laying on his shoulder. "you two need to talk anyway and it's best if all these answers came from her."

jungkook gulps at the thought of speaking to you, seeing you face to face. suddenly he's a cripplingly shy fourteen year old again.

"okay." he croaks. "okay."

x

x

x

you were even more beautiful up close.

your tear stained cheeks are glowing and blotchy when you perch on the chair beside his bed, big eyes fluttering up at him nervously. you're soft and plush and shorter than he thought and jungkook has to fist his hands in the sheets and play a counting game with the heart rate monitor in order to maintain eye contact. he feels himself start to sweat when you smile sadly at him. "sorry, i just...i don't know how to be around you normally without making you uncomfortable," you say quietly, wringing your hands together to avoid touching him.

"uncomfortable?" he queries, gaze latching onto the ring on your hand. seeing it on you gives him a nice feeling.

you nod into your lap. "yeah, um..." you look at your scuffed shoes, searching for the word. "we're usually very...touchy."

he can feel himself turning red again. "t-touchy?"

you meet his eyes and a pretty smile breaks over your face at how bashful he looks, making jungkook's cheeks tinge even pinker than they already are. you nod cutely so your earrings tinkle, eyes shining, and suddenly he understands without any context why he fell in love with you, why he married you so young. you let a comfortable silence settle over the room before taking a deep breath, bracing yourself. "how much do you remember, jungkook?"

he tries not to cave under the weight of his guilt. "not a lot about...you, that is," he finishes with a wince, your sad eyes immediately making him wilt with shame. "i remember everything up until a couple of years ago. we had a show at the japanese dome, debuted in america, and then...nothing. and now..."

"and now," you echo softly. your eyes look distant, staring at the floor.

"i'm sorry," jungkook whispers, chin touching his chest. "hyung told me...they all told me how much i loved you and...and i'm sorry i don't remember any of it. i'm so sorry."

you shake your head gently. "don't be sorry, jungkook-ah," the pet name makes his ears perk up. its a familiar, calming sound. "none of this is your fault. you didn't ask to get hit by that car." your expression turns remorseful, tugging at his heart. "if anything, this is because of me. the only reason you were out was because i asked you to go and get eggs and formula even though i should've remembered to pick some up on the way home and-"

"no, no! please don't blame yourself," jungkook tries, wishing he was close enough or even brave enough to take your hand. you look up at him and he catches a glimpse of the endless pool of love you harbour for him, like a punch to the chest. "i don't ever want you thinking this was your fault. so ple-" he pauses. "wait, formula?"

the door bursts open before he can finish, pitter patter steps rounding his bed until it reaches the other side, where you sit. a little girl with big dark eyes and curls of dark hair stares at him in wonder and elation, her cheeks dimpling just like yours before she screeches, "appa!"

jungkook's mouth goes dry. appa?

you're quick to intervene, putting yourself in the toddlers path to scoop her up in your arms. her grabby little hands struggle over your shoulder, fingers wriggling in attempt to get as close to jungkook as possible. he only stares with wide eyes and an open mouth, heart hammering in his chest when he sees the uncanny resemblances: his round nose. your brown skin but just a twinge fairer. his hooded eyes. and his stomach lurches.

"shhh, eunmi," you coo as you carry her away even with her squirming. "remember what i said before? appa is sick. appa is sick, baby-"

"we have a child?" jungkook wheezes, eyes starting to glaze over. there's a bout of silence when you look back at him guiltily, the baby's fumbling grinding to a halt when she registers the tension in the air. jungkook's breath is barely a whisper. "is that my daughter?"

your face crumples with a fresh bout of tears and eunmi looks on worriedly. she pushes her little lips into your cheek in a baby's kiss, like she's seen her father do so many times to get your attention. the word "amma," is muffled into your skin until you get yourself together and press a short kiss to her head.

yoongi rushes in, face twisted in apology. "i swear to god i turned around for one minute and-"

"it's okay, yoongi," you say quietly, stroking the baby's head. "eunmi, stay with uncle just a bit longer, okay? amma will be back in a minute..."

"appa," she whines over your shoulder, reaching for jungkook who sits helplessly in his bed. he watches with tears wetting his eyelashes, heart twisting in agony at the sight of his child he doesn't remember stretching her arms out for him. she begins to cry when he doesn't react or coo her. like he used to.

"take her, yoongi," you say shakily, passing the baby to him. the sound of eunmi's crying makes your heart shatter all over again, yoongi's quiet hushing doing nothing to qualm her sobbing as the heavy door closes behind them.

the silence that falls between the two of you is nothing short of excruciating. jungkook's head spins, completely overwhelmed: is that why you both got married so young? because of a child? was this why jimin and namjoon wouldn't say a damn thing about his life until he spoke to you first?

and then all the other questions that followed: was he a good father? when was his daughter's birthday? did she like kimchi and banana milk too? did he sing to her? read to her often?

would she ever forgive him for not being able to remember her?

"her name is eunmi," you say, looking down at the floor when jungkook starts to cry.

x

x

x

jungkook doesn't understand how his baby could be so pretty. she's golden brown like those sandy beaches on postcards, with chubby cheeks and twinkling dark eyes that resemble yours to a t, and that's when he realises of course she's beautiful. she's yours. you balance eunmi on your hip while you make coffee - decaf, since you're still weaning - and despite the amnesia jungkook feels like he's been here before, in this warm, happy place that is the kitchen.

"she got your nose though," you remind him, dumping the baby in his lap upon her fussing. she always seemed to wind down under his touch, and although nervous about the sudden responsibility of fatherhood, jungkook is compelled to give it. eunmi doesn't understand anything's changed so he doesn't see why he should act like it. "she's whiny before her milk too. like you."

"hey!" he retorts, but can't exactly defend himself. he twirls his fingers around her curly pigtails until she catches on and tries to stand on his thighs, reaching for his hair to yank. jungkook lets her. he's barely known his daughter a week and he's already so smitten he'd let her gut him open with a butter knife.

"she missed you, you know. when you were in hospital all this time," you say, making him look up to watch you stare into your drink. the fear still lingers in your eyes, faint and persistent. he can see it every time you look at him and it makes his body yearn to touch you like he once did, like he once would have before his brain unlearned everything his heart didn't. you laugh while watching eunmi pull his hair again, making him hiss. "even yoongi tried but no one coddles her as much as you."

"really?" he asks, face lighting up. he's so happy to hear that. jungkook hates the way the question bubbles up in the back of his throat, like it'd make a difference or it'd change how he felt. but he has to ask it. "is that why...is that why we got married so early, then?" he says, trying to sound as offhand as possible. "because of eunmi?"

you chew your lip. "yeah. i mean, you said it wasn't a big deal. because you were going to marry me eventually so it didn't make a difference, but...it doesn't really matter i guess, because that's not what everyone else thinks," you pause, tracing the rim of your mug again. "that's certainly not what your fans think."

jungkook doesn't even want to think about it. the backlash, the gossip, the name calling and dehumanisation. for the first time in his life jungkook couldn't give less of a shit about his reputation. "i'm sorry," he says, feeling like the word has lost meaning by now with how much he's said it. "i'm so sorry. not for this, for us or for eunmi. i don't regret any of that i just," he shifts the baby in his lap, still getting used to her weight. "i can only imagine what you went through."

you look a bit bewildered. "...you said that last time too." you smile again reassuringly. "please don't feel solely responsible, kook-ah. you didn't exactly get me pregnant on your own."

he flushes tomato red and you giggle at him until eunmi joins in too.

x

x

x

jungkook can't keep his eyes off you while you play with the baby, comb out her hair, sing her lullabies while you bathe her together. he'd always wanted a whirlwind romance as a teen and it looks like he finally got it, because he can feel himself fall head first in love with you (all over again). it didn’t make sense for someone to be so collected and easygoing after having motherhood forced onto you so abruptly. you tell him often that he's a picture-perfect dad, but jungkook still doubts he compares.

"does she need a change?" he asks, struggling to keep all of eunmi's wriggling limbs in his grip.

"nope, just hungry," you say, reaching out when he passes the baby to you. you're about to stand up and go to the guest room to feed her, but jungkook is already arranging the pillows next to him for you, grabbing a baby cloth on the side too.

"do you need another pillow?" he muses aloud, but he's already grabbing the ones on his side of the bed before you can answer, forming a wedge for you to sit nicely beside him. he looks up at you when you fail to move. "are you okay?"

"yeah i, um," you chew your lip nervously. "you don't...mind me feeding here?"

you immediately regret the question once it leaves your mouth. jungkook's crestfallen expression hits you right in the stomach, round eyes glittering up at you. he hasn't looked this upset since he woke up nearly a month ago. "why would i ever mind?”

"oh jungkook," you sniff, sitting beside him. he pulls you into the nest of pillows beside him, arm winding protectively around your shoulders. your eyes brim with sympathy tears, tired and angry and upset with treating him like a stranger.

"if i make you feel uncomfortable, i can go," he offers quietly. "if it makes you feel weird i understand..."

"no, not at all," you rush to stop him, suddenly realising how close you are. you could kiss his pink little lips if you just tilted your head up. "i just didn't want to make you feel weird. all this new stuff is happening to you, you're suddenly a husband and a father with no recollection of signing up or it and i just...i don't know how much you want to invest the second time around," you scramble to finish your sentence when he pins you with a concerned expression. “as in, i understand if you don’t want to make the same choice twice. it’s a big decision.”

he shakes his head dismissively. there wasn't a thing in the world that could make him turn his back on his family but it looked like you still needed convincing. he peers at you curiously when you position the baby. "so i can stay?"

you smile at him eagerly. "of course," you undo the nursing strap of your bra before the baby finally latches. "i actually prefer it when you're here. it makes me feel safe."

jungkook watches quietly while you hum for the baby, playing with her little hand while she drinks. the adoration seeps out of him in waves, how serene you look while you rock her, how angelic eunmi looks while she blinks her big doll eyes up at you both. she won't stay this little forever. he feels so overwhelmed by it, gathering you further in his arms with the urge to hold his family in his hands like a diamond. you don't question the little sniffles jungkook buries into your hair, resting your head on his shoulder wordlessly. you missed being held by him, missed his cotton scent and gentle breath.

"i love her so much," he whispers into the shell of your ear, entranced by the baby's little gurgles and gulps. he reaches out to run his knuckle over the velvet of her cheek, round and stuffed with milk. "i feel like i'll die, i love her so much."

"me too," you smile. "it was scary and hard for a long time but...i'm so glad we had her. i wouldn't trade her for anything."

you feel jungkook's lips trace your temple, heart stuttering upon the sudden contact. you hear what he doesn’t say: i wouldn't trade either of you.

x

x

x

"why are you so sweaty?" jimin scowls, noting the dark patches under jungkook's t-shirt when he tries to take the baby from his arms. "it's not even humid today."

jungkook doesn't do anything but gulp and cuddle a sleeping eunmi closer to his chest. she's become somewhat of a security blanket for him; even if she wasn't awake to play, he was always itching to hold her and nuzzle into her head when he's tense or embarrassed. like now.

"leave him alone, you know he sweats when he's shy," yoongi grins.

"stop it," jungkook mumbles.

"shy? what for?"

"because he's got a crush on his wife," namjoon snickers, knowing jungkook would whack him one if his arms weren't around his kid. "why are you looking at me like that? it's true!"

"but you can't just say it! she'll hear!" he hisses.

"you're married," jimin deadpans but it only makes the younger boy curl in on his baby more. "god, this reminds of when you two met. remember how he used to hide behind manager hyung every time ____ came in? and then i had to listen to them fuck in the next room for a year only to end up back here all over again-"

"jungkook," you call. "where did these come from?" you walk into the sitting room with a bouquet of yellow roses nestled in your arms. "did a fan send them? i didn't see a note they were just on the worktop-"

"th-those are for you," he mumbles. "i got those for you."

you look so pretty when you stare it makes him sweat harder and the three older boys all but burst a vein in their head trying not to laugh when leaving the room. there's an awkward silence where you clutch the flowers and he clutches the baby. "thank you," you say finally. "they're beautiful, i love the colour yellow..."

his big doe eyes round up to look at you even though the lower half of his face is smushed into pigtails. "you're welcome."

"can i kiss you?" you blurt out, too fast to stop it. your cheeks are still stinging and you're pretty sure you have baby powder in your hair but jungkook looks at you with awe as he nods so vigorously his earrings shake.

so you do, leaning over the arm of the sofa to press your mouth over his long enough for both your breaths to catch. you pull away, moving to sit next to him so his free arm can wind around your shoulders when you kiss him again. "please," he mumbles when you part. "please don't ask to kiss me. just do it," he leans for another long, warm kiss that leaves you light headed. "stop tip-toeing around me, okay? we're married. i know i scare easy, but not that easy."

you feel giddy, finally feeling the weight being lifted piece by piece. "okay," you peck his mole endearingly before scooting up for another kiss. "i missed this."

"me too," he hums into your mouth. "it feels like the first time but also...not the first time, you know? not just because i don't remember but like," he doesn't know how to say it, wetting his lips thoughtfully. your chapstick is cherry flavoured, his favourite. "like we've been doing this for longer than both of us even realise. longer than this life."

"i know," you nod. "i know."

x

x

x

after a while, you forgot about jungkook's amnesia altogether. even though the chances of him making a full recovery were slim, it all felt so normal and back to routine, all the kissing and the cuddling and the playing with eunmi. there was almost no room for trepidation anymore. until now.

you moan into jungkook's mouth when he pulls you onto his thighs, big hands palming your ass when you grind into him. he's only mildly concerned that he'll cum in his pants at this rate but he doesn't fret too much: that was secondary to undressing you and touching you and pleasing you and making you scream as loud as he could make you without waking the baby. he has nearly three years of re-learning your body to catch up on and he's eager to start.

he's quickly reminded during this process that you are a master. you know exactly where to kiss him, exactly how much pressure to kneed into his cock with your hips, exactly how much tongue he wants in his mouth until he's whining and damp for you. of course you know his body like the back of your hand - your child wasn't conceived from thin air. it makes him all the more desperate to learn, almost antsy to get his mouth and hands on you until you're writhing and breathless beneath him.

you gasp when you feel his hand slip between your legs, rubbing his fingers over your shorts. you automatically rock your covered wetness into his touch, the long whimper you muffle into his neck sending jungkook soaring through the clouds with pride. you're so lost in the feeling, having missed it so much, you're barely able to squeak a stop! when he hooks his fingers inside the waistband of your panties.

his eyes shoot open. "what's wrong?"

"j-jungkook," you shuffle in his grip, feeling so embarrassed under his scrutiny you don't know where to look. "it's not that i want you to stop but. listen, just," you cling to his shoulders, shivering when his hands drag reassuringly up to your waist. "just remember that...i've had a kid, okay? i'm not gonna look like before."

he blinks. "i don't remember what you looked like before."

"no, i mean like," you lick your lips, tasting him there. "it's still something to keep in mind. i'm not gonna be as smooth and perky in places like all those idol girls you perform next to, so just-" he watches you fumble nervously in his lap, the growing disbelief making him blink. "don't expect too much okay? things might not look the way you imagine them to and i don't want you to feel-"

"stop," he cuts off, tugging you so you're seated over his erection again. the look jungkook pins you with is so intense you can feel your pulse thrum in your ears, the harsh rise and fall of his chest making him appear that much more passionate. "this body," he slips his hands up your top, palming your skin. "made my child. i take offence to it being spoken about with anything less than admiration, even by you."

"kook-ah," you say nervously, but still let him remove your pj top over your head before you laying you under him on the bed. you don't know why your eyes suddenly prick with tears when he traces over your stretch marks and discoloured skin with his smooth lips. "this kept my daughter warm," he kisses under your navel, sliding up to your heavy breasts. he kisses each darkened nipple, swollen from the baby's mouth. "these feed her." he rises further still, before planting his mouth on your forehead in a short peck. "and this raises her. so how can i be anything but proud to touch you?"

"jungkook, stop," you sniff, tears wetting your lashes. your eyes fall shut when he wipes them away with his thumb, lips ghosting over your cheeks and nose.

"what did i say about tip-toeing around me?" he whispers, forcing you to look him in the eye. only then do you see the tears there, all the ardour and respect he holds for you pooling in those brown depths. "i'm your husband. let me be your husband."

you kiss him before you can start crying again, letting him part your mouth and taste you long and hard before finally undressing himself and slipping your shorts off. this is all a first for him, and it's been so long since you've done this it's almost like a first for you too, frantic and messy and desperate to feel jungkook lodged inside you where he belongs. you know he must share the sentiment when he splits your thighs over the narrow of his hips, hooking them there while he gets a good look of his erection rubbing through your slick.

no wonder i knocked her up, jungkook muses faintly. i don't think i can ever stop doing this.

"jungkook, please," you run a hand through his hair, grinding against his cock in encouragement but he still won't take the plunge. instead, your voice reminds him of his initial objective, causing him to saunter down between your legs faster than you can process. he's licking into you before you can have a second thought about it, mouth falling open with a loud moan when he traces around your clit in firm circles.

he has your knees over his shoulders and his arms wound around your hips so you have nowhere to go, nothing to do but buck into his attentive mouth, jungkook's groans vibrating against you until you can barely keep yourself together - he's always enjoyed this as much as you have. which is why he takes his time, explores every crevice and subsequent response, relishing in the gush of wetness when he does something right. he even goes as far as holding his tongue stagnant against your folds so you have no choice but to rub yourself into him for friction, so entranced he is by your invigorating reactions. only when you're squirming and whimpering with deliriousness does he finally give in and resume a steady pace over your swollen clit, two fingers sliding in home so you have something to come around. and you do.

messy and wet and shrieking into the pillow by your head so that you're muffled enough to not wake the baby down the hall, your orgasm drawing out longer than normal as you do your best to ride it out. jungkook carries you through it, gulping down as much of your arousal as he can manage until your hips finally drop back into the bed in post-climax exhaustion. on the contrary, the only reason he stops lapping at you is because you tug him away by the hair, bringing him up to you and between your legs again before he can do anything about it.

he splutters with a moan at the sudden contact of your wetness against his cock again, eyes fluttering shut and allowing you to bring him in, arms and legs winding securely around him so that you're flush against each other, hips rocking in tandem. jungkook is so caught up in the feeling - not the sex but the safety of being held, being connected like this - that you're the one to reach down and position his tip against your hot center, before finally running your hands down your husband's back to cup his ass and shove him into you.

jungkook gasps, breath shaking at how tight you are. you're so hot, so snug around him his eyes shut upon instinct, letting your hands guide his hips and showing him how to move in that perfect rolling motion that you're only familiar with after years of practice. and jungkook, of course, is a fast learner. it doesn't take long for him to take the reigns and fuck you just how you like it, adding in a sharp snap of his hips every now and again just to listen to you squeak in surprise. the wet sounds of your joined arousal coupled with you moaning under him is near cathartic, sending him hurtling to his finish line.

but before he can get there you shift him over, thick thighs helping you roll and pin him under you on the bed. jungkook grapples at your waist when you resume a slower but harder rock of your hips that has his length grinding against your clenching walls, his head thrown back at the intensity of it. you ride him through it, peppering the moles on his pretty neck with kisses and sucks, mouth finding his stiff little nipple to give it a swirl too. it's exactly what he needs to finish off, fingers digging into your flesh as he bucks wildly, filling you full of his seed while he calls your name. you slow to a stop when his hands finally fall limp on your thighs, his chest heaving under you and covered in sweat. you giggle. he always got so sweaty.

"you did so well, kookie," you whisper, kissing his damp neck and collar bones. his arms are suddenly around you again for comfort. "you were so good for me...always so good to me..."

"you," he croaks finally, eyes half lidded and a little delirious. "you didn't finish?"

you giggle at his genuine concern, pecking his wet lips. "i got mine, remember?"

"how many times?" jungkook is suddenly alert, tugging your wrist to get your attention before you can climb off him. his other hand is still around your middle so moving was out of the question until he allowed it. he was still inside you. "how many times do i usually make you come?"

you blink in embarrassment. you never really thought about it, let alone counted. "um...i don't know..." he waits for an answer, awfully serious about it. "a-at least two or three, i guess."

you yelp when he flips you back over, fingers immediately prying your cum soaked folds apart to nestle inside. "then don't act like we're done."

[unbridgeabledistances]

prompt: domestic gallavich/being intimate in a nonsexualway bc there’s like 3 weeks til the next episode 😐

your wish is my command, anon!<3 i decided to tie this into next ep bc i simply cannot HANDLE mickey’s outfit/big gay metamorphosis & i needed to create the scene that inspired it so i wrote this

a one-shot bridging 11x06 and 11x07 in which ian and mickey talk about “gay friends,” ripped jeans, and do a bit of processing along the way

tw for brief mention of homophobia/abuse (bc terry lol)

--

“How come we don’t have any, like, gay friends?”

Ian looked up from where he was laying on the ground, breathing heavily after a series of push-ups, a nightly routine that he was trying to keep intact even though he and Mickey were practically driving the entire circumference of Chicago every day to make weed deliveries from dawn til dusk, leaving them both exhausted. It had been a week since all the shit with Terry, and a month or so since he and Mickey had started the security gig; while months ago their evenings would be spent sitting side by side on the bed in a brittle silence while Ian read or scratched in his notebook and Mickey played games on his phone blasting at full volume in the pajamas he’d been wearing all day, these days the evenings in their bedroom were softer and warmer— like they were settling into the space together, like they were both on the same team instead of constantly clashing and butting heads while trapped in a too-small space. These days, after having dinner in the clamor of the crowded kitchen, he and Mickey would head upstairs and change out of their uniforms, and Ian would work out while Mickey mostly just lounged on the bed, sometimes making commentary and watching him bob up and down with a pensive smirk or scrolling through his phone.

But tonight, Mickey was quiet— his eyes flickered to the curves and edges of Ian’s torso every now and then as Ian broke a sweat, but otherwise he wasn’t playfully poking and prodding like usual.

Mickey had been a lot quieter in general this week, after all the stuff with Terry— Ian knew seeing the source of all of Mickey’s trauma in a wheelchair immobile from the neck down, the most vulnerable Terry could have been, felt worse than someone repeatedly twisting a knife in Mickey’s abdomen. But beyond the initial shock and the almost-murder and lugging him up the stairs, having Terry in a wheelchair twenty feet away did something deeper to Mickey. This whole situation shifted something solid that had been lodged in the pit of Mickey’s stomach for years— Ian could see it, and he fucking hated it. He hated Mickey’s glassy contemplative eyes as he looked out the car window while they drove to a new dropoff location, lost in his head when he thought Ian wasn’t looking. He hated the tightly wound tension between Mickey’s shoulder blades as he slept, curled into himself and twisted in the comforter, facing away from Ian on the other side of the bed. He hated the tight smiles Mickey gave him as he made some offhand joke about Terry when they could hear him cursing and shrieking through the open front windows, smiles that were trying to prove something outwardly but showed the barbed pain stinging at Mickey’s insides. Ian poured out what he could in soft touches, in skims of fingertips at the breakfast table and in an arm over Mickey’s waist while they slept; but he could only give as much as Mickey would take, and for most of the week Mickey had shut everyone out with iron walls.

Ian couldn’t imagine what was stirring in Mickey’s mind; he’d seen some of Mickey’s trauma firsthand, sure, and some of the stories about Terry came slipping through the cracks when Mickey’s guard was down— mostly on those late nights when they both couldn’t sleep and Mickey whispered into the crook of Ian’s neck as they were curled into each other, cradled in the dark silence of their bedroom. But Ian knew there was deeper shit that he hadn’t heard about, and he could see the constant fear of Mickey’s adolescence hanging heavy around his neck all these years later. But Mickey didn’t need anyone to push his walls down— Ian knew he’d open up when he was ready.

Which is why this random question, the most direct statement Mickey had really made to him all week, caught Ian off guard. He sat up, folding his arms over his legs and staring up at where Mickey was slouching on the bed, propped up by a pillow he’d shoved between his back and the wall. “Gay friends?” he asked, more than a little confused.

Mickey cleared his throat. “Yeah, gay friends, y’know. Like all your youth center queers that came to the wedding or whatever.” He suddenly looked down and picked at a fraying thread on his shirt sleeve, not meeting Ian’s eyes.

Ian raised an eyebrow in curiosity. This was random, sure, but Mickey wouldn’t have brought it up if something wasn’t weighing on him, bubbling up after all the events of this week.

“I don’t know— I guess since the pandemic and stuff, I haven’t really kept in touch with Geneva or any of those guys who came to our wedding. We only really talked after I got out of prison because of all the Gay Jesus publicity bullshit, but after you got out I wasn’t really thinking about that as much.”

Mickey blew out a breath, so quietly Ian barely noticed it. Ian stood, wiping his sweaty forehead and plopping down on the bed next to Mickey, folding his legs so their knees were almost touching— but still giving him space, still letting him breathe.

“Why’re you asking?”

“Don’t know, really. Just thinkin’.” Mickey picked at his shirt sleeve again, then flickered his gaze up to meet Ian’s eyes, two clear pools of glassy blue. “Thinkin’ about what life could’ve been like. If I wasn’t scared shitless of who I was for so long.”

Ian felt something twist in his gut, the same queasy pang of pain that always resurfaced whenever he saw Mickey like this, whenever he was reminded of all the unspeakable agony that Terry had put him through.

“It’s fucked up that you didn’t get to be who you were for so long, Mick,” he breathed, knowing that statement didn’t cover the amount of things that were fucked up about this situation.

Mickey ran his teeth over his bottom lip, like he was concentrating. “Yeah.”

Ian let them sit there for a second. It seemed like Mickey wanted to say more, but something in him was frozen solid. After a moment, Ian tried to break the tension.

“Hey, for the record, I’ve had lots of gay friends and you aren’t missing much. There’s lots of PC bullshit that’s important but took me fucking forever to learn— and even then, I never really felt like I totally belonged.” He gently nudged Mickey’s ribcage. “I guess that’s why I forgot about everyone, between work and getting to be with you all the time— I’d rather eat pizza in the mall food court with you than go to some boujee fucking café with the youth center people any day.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth ticked upwards slightly. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.” His fingers went slack around the threads on his shirtsleeve he’d been picking at. “You don’t… miss it though? Bein’ around people who’re like us?”

Ian paused for a moment, imagining the youth center crew in the same room as Mickey— it would be fucking comical, like people speaking two different languages, like astronauts trying to communicate with aliens on Mars through gestures and confused looks. But that was just because Mickey didn’t know how to speak that language— he’d been kept shrouded in an abusive household with daily death threats for years, and then stowed away in prison where he didn’t have the chance to go to fucking brunches and clubs and education events like Ian could. Ian got the chance to learn all that shit— it wasn’t Mickey’s fault that he never did, and if it was anyone’s, it was all Terry’s.

Ian’s eyes flickered to Mickey’s face— he looked vulnerable and split open, like he was drifting away in all the possibilities of what could have been. When he answered, Ian spoke softly, carefully.

“I mean… I guess I do. There were nice parts of going out with people, or even those after-parties back when I used to work at the club. There’s something nice about being with your people, where you can make jokes about stuff or talk about deep shit and everyone’s on the same page. It’s hard to find that around here.” Ian tentatively crawled his hand over the blanket, letting it rest on Mickey’s knee. “S’there anything else going on?”

Mickey raised his thumb to his mouth, biting at a hangnail contemplatively. “Dunno, man. Just thinking. How it might be nice, to have friends like us. I used to be scared of hangin’ with other queers, but I think that was just some deep bullshit with Terry.” He looked up to meet Ian’s eyes. “It’d be nice to stop… hating that part of myself, or whatever.”

Ian smiled, reaching to intertwine his fingers with Mickey’s and tracing a pattern with the thumb that was free from their grasp on Mickey’s inner thigh, a soft touch of validation that Ian hoped would soak into Mickey’s skin.

“I think so too.” Ian watched the corner of Mickey’s mouth curve upwards. “I can definitely hit up some of the people I used to hang with, and see if they wanna get coffee or something? With the two of us? Only if you want.”

Mickey nodded— then chuckled a breathy laugh, like he was relieved. “Fuck it. Yeah.”

Ian couldn’t help it; Mickey looked so fucking sweet and so relieved that he had to press a kiss to the top of his head. Mickey squirmed underneath him, bristling like a cat that didn’t want to be pet like he did with most of Ian’s soft touches— but Ian just grinned and doubled down, pressing another slower peck onto Mickey’s temple. Mickey blew out a slow breath.

“Don’t know what I’d fuckin’ wear to a brunch with a bunch of Northside do-gooder gays,” he said after a moment, his voice wavering so slightly that no one except Ian would have noticed.

Ian rolled his eyes fondly, giving Mickey’s hand a quick pulse of a squeeze. “Mickey, are you kidding? Wear whatever the fuck you want. You don’t need to change yourself, that’s kind of the whole point.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Guess it is.” Mickey was quiet for a moment, but still chewing on his bottom lip, like he was building the courage to say something more. Ian could tell— he let the comfortable silence hang between them, knowing that Mickey would break it when he was ready.

“D’you think it’d be stupid if I, like, tried to… jazz up my look a bit?” He darted his eyes nervously to Ian’s face, down to their clasped hands, and then back to the covers again. “Like, uh— I don’t know. Maybe wore some shit that didn’t have holes in it. With patterns, or whatever.”

Ian felt his face split into a grin. Patterns, or whatever— god, he loved his dumbass husband so fucking much. He pressed another kiss to Mickey’s cheek— this time Mickey didn’t flinch away, his only resistance a forced roll of his eyes.

“Mick, I don’t think that’s stupid at all. I think you should dress however makes you feel good.”

“’Kay.” Mickey pursed his lips, like he was still hesitant. Ian rubbed his thumb over the back of Mickey’s hand, their fingers still clasped and hanging limply in Mickey’s lap. The silence was hanging again, and Ian could still feel the tight waves of anxiety bouncing off of Mickey. He took in a breath.

“I could… help you, y’know. If you wanted to dress a certain way. At the very least I could gas you up and tell you how hot you look.” Ian paused, smirking and running his eyes over Mickey’s torso. “But I could also help you pick shit out, or whatever. We could order some stuff online.”

Mickey looked up at him, his eyes oddly relieved and open in a way they hadn’t been in days. “Yeah?”

Ian softly smiled. “Yeah. Only if you want to. You’re you, and you don’t have to pretend to be anyone else. I love the way you look— hell, it drives me crazy, Mick. But— if you feel like you aren’t dressing the way that makes you feel the best, or like you’re putting on an act for other people and you don’t want to anymore— then we can figure this out.”

This time it was Mickey that initiated affection, lifting their clasped hands and pressing a quick ghost of a kiss to Ian’s wrist. Ian smiled in acknowledgement, then playfully raised his eyebrows. “You wanna look online now? I’m done working out and more than happy to help you gay up your look.”

Mickey unclasped their hands, playfully shoving Ian squarely in the chest. “Fuck you.” Then, in an uncharacteristic move from the way Mickey had been flinching away from his touches all week, Mickey leaned in closer to Ian’s chest, nestling his back on Ian’s sternum and reaching for his phone that was discarded on the blanket beside him. “Alright, hot stuff. Where’re we fucking shopping?”

Ian grinned and snapped the waistband of Mickey’s sweatpants playfully, shuffling underneath him and getting comfortable.

“’Kay, let me think. I used to order a bunch of shirts and stuff from Primark when I was going out with the youth center people. They have good denim, too.”

Mickey’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth again while he listened. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the phone’s keyboard— then, in an automatic movement, he quickly shoved his phone into Ian’s hand, cheerfully wriggling back into Ian’s chest. Ian smirked and unlocked the phone, happy to take the reins— online shopping for fashion was clearly lightyears out of Mickey’s comfort zone.

Ian navigated over to the Primark homepage, plastered with torsos of toned models wearing striped button ups and ripped jeans. His thumb pressed down onto the “denim” tab, and he started to slowly scroll through the rows of options, holding the phone so Mickey could see.

“I don’t know what you really want, but they’ve got pretty cheap pants and shit that’re good quality…” Ian let his voice trail off, speaking softly to where Mickey was lying on his chest in a voice that he knew was tickling the shell of Mickey’s ear. Mickey almost seemed… nervous, or at the very least paralyzed by the wealth of options. He raised his thumb to his mouth, anxiously biting the hangnail again.

“I guess those ripped ones don’t look too bad.”

Ian clicked on the picture Mickey was referring to. They were black jeans, a dark wash and skinny cut, with patches ripped on both knees. Ian felt something well in his chest, probably an overreaction to a pair of jeans— but these jeans were perfect for Mickey. They weren’t too much, weren’t overly fashionable, but they still felt more clean-cut than the baggy pants Mickey usually threw on. These jeans were badass, and totally aligned with Mickey’s don’t-fuck-with-me vibe, but they were deliberate. Stylish. Like they were saying here the fuck I am.

“Yeah?” Ian knew Mickey could tell he was smiling from his voice.

Mickey smirked, craning his neck and turning to look up at Ian. “Yeah. Think I can pull ‘em off?”

Ian pressed his lips together. “Fuck yeah. You’re gonna look so good.”

Mickey just gave a satisfied smile, and nestled back against Ian’s chest again. “Let’s get ‘em, then.”

[the-slasher-files]

Hello, can i request 16 and 46 for the prompt thing with a S/o with low self steem with Bo? Please and sorry for my english 🥺🖤

OOOH ANGST!!!! I love it thank you! and honestly your English is perfect :) It’s like these 2 sentences were made for a reader x bo scenario!

So I went a little wild with this that’s why it’s a bit longer (1k plus words) but I really love how it turned out.. also Bo maybe says ‘I love you’ for the first time when he’s sober :o hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

THE KITCHEN FLOOR 

WORD PROMPT:   “I want you to be happy... even if it’s not with me” AND “Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so...”

Today was just one of those days. 

You felt your mind weigh heavy on everything you did. It badgered you every second of the day, pounding your self-esteem lower and lower with every glance in the mirror and every tug of your baggy clothes. You couldn’t escape the constant hounding and you felt almost uncomfortable sitting in your own skin; as if bugs were crawling on top of you, and as if a fire was set beneath your feet and every moment you struggled to hold yourself away from the burn. 

Bo was at his dingy garage all day and Vincent was in the basement making more creations for the town, and honestly, you never knew where Lester was at any given moment but he defiantly wasn’t in the house. This left you all alone in the reticent home, just your thoughts and heartbeat. Sure you could go down to the basement to have company with Vincent, but he never liked to be disturbed while working, and you could go to the gas station but something was blocking you in the house; your demons wanted you away from the sunlight and easing voices of the people you loved, they wanted you all to themselves today. You let them win today for you didn’t have the energy to fight it. 

As the sun faded behind the native Louisiana wood that surrounded Ambrose the voices became deafening, and Bo’s absence was louder than the voices at times. Skull crushing and heart aching. You didn’t care if it was his yelling or large footsteps creaking on the hardwood, you just needed to hear something else besides the twisted thoughts that were burning, and chugging along like a freight train threatening to run itself off track and kill the engineers. 

Bo will never love you... Bo has never thought you were beautiful... Bo hates you... hates your body... hates your love... Bo just wants some skinny perfect woman... one from his trophy wall... one better than you... one to satisfy his every need better than you ever could...    

Tears stung in your eyes painfully, as you tried to make yourself busy with dinner. Every cut of a vegetable and every stir on the bowl was becoming a burden, you felt the lump in your throat build and tears spilled out in a stream much to your dismay. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain became all too much for your psyche to handle, and in an outburst you pushed everything off the counter, carelessly letting dinner go to waste and everything around you crash and clang against the linoleum.  

Silent sobs sealed your airway and you sank to the floor slowly with your back scraping against the fridge, raking your shaky hands through your hair, tears falling wherever they pleased. Breathing seemed fleeting at this point, you felt as if you were drowning in the ocean, all alone, with sharks circling you, taunting your demise. The sobs began to become more painful and broken wails hung in the humid Louisiana air, the force and strain made it feel like you were vomiting but betrayed the fact that your throat was closing against the laments.  

Suddenly there were heavy footfalls coming towards you, it was clear as day who they were from; the give away was that the gate was a little unbalanced from the apparent stiffness Bo had always carried in his right leg. The steps stopped for a moment as he was taking in your balled up shaking frame under the flickering fluorescents of the old house. Food, utensils, bowls and plates were all scattered around you like war zone debris, and you were the broken soldier in the middle waiting for the end. You knew he was standing there but you didn’t care; he was never one for comforting you, why would he care tonight? 

“Baby... Baby girl wha- shit” Bo stuttered but quickly came to encase you in his muscular arms, groaning as he sat in front of you, his legs caged you, feeling every sob, every painful sharp inhale. “Shhh, shhh, baby it’s ok” he cooed, trying to be soothing though it went against his gruff nature. 

His warm body caging you and the unmistakable smell of gas, cigarettes, and some sort of sweet undertone to his cologne that you just couldn’t place, made your body ease enough to catch a deep breath filling your strained lungs. Opening your swollen eyes with a sting, you were somehow surprised to meet his worried stormy blues, eying you like a hawk; his intensity made you force your eyes closed, jerking your head downwards and off to the side, not wanting him to see you so broken. Stifling your cries by biting your lip hard enough to draw the coppery taste along the soft flesh, letting whine escape.

His rough fingertips gingerly caressed your wet chin, commanding you to look up at him; though Bo’s fingers were gentle, his blanketing dominance coated every movement he made effortlessly. Once again your eyes met; pain and concern clashing.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” He spoke softly letting his cigarette stained breath ghost over you. The question brought a new set of tears that started to swell up, teasing to fall through wet lashes. Bo didn’t force you to speak and he just let you catch your breath and collect your thoughts, studying every part of your face as if it was new to him. Checking for any apparent injuries that might be causing the sobs; at least that he could fix that, but no, these wounds were behind the skin, in the deep tissues of your heart and brain, strangling them.

“Bo... I just-” You weakly strained against the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry” pulling away from him you saw something dangerous flutter behind his eyes; Bo was full of his own troubles and insecurities too, and your choice of words fueled something under the surface of him, some deepness he wasn’t ready to face yet. His touch became a little tighter, slowly and agonizing like a python, squeezing the truth out of you. Your apology was out of your embarrassment for him having to see you like this, but he thought it was for cheating on him or harming someone he loved; ultimately resulting in your slow painful death. 

Before allowing his anger rise you quietly cried “Bo, baby, I’m just having a bad day... the voices in my head just wouldn’t shut up... I-I just broke” He relaxed his grip slightly and pulled you against his chest with a huff, relaxing around you. Bo was no stranger to the way you felt, he had ended up on the exact spot on the kitchen floor many times before, he was probably drunk when it happened, however, but he understood. In a strange way, you mirrored him like broken glass glued together. 

Clutching his coveralls like holding onto a lifeline you stained them with tears, as he moved his hand to cradle your skull closer to him if it were possible, carding his hand through your hair, and his other hand snaked around your waist. His warmth was welcomed but dangerous and painful, loving a broken soul like his hurt all too much; behind every kiss and pleasure, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was better off with someone else, and think about the day he doesn’t come home. Bo’s love was addicting and one day you knew it would be ripped away and you would be left scratching and clawing for any remnants that could be salvaged.   

“I- I want you to be happy... even if it’s not with me,” weeping and shaking you let your insecurities come to the light allowing Bo to see the sick but not unfamiliar thoughts. “I’m fucking broken... I’m nothing you should have, just damaged goods... You can find someone much more beautiful and stronger... I’m not what you want” 

Spilling your guts like a wounded animal begging to live Bo’s hands moved to your shoulders, now pushing you away to look at him with authority oozing off, it made you stop; thinking he was going to lose his temper, and you just waited for the yelling or for him to drag you to the bedroom. The yelling never came. The forceful grip of his large hands never appeared. Just his eyes hardened on you, the blue becoming dark and foreboding, like the black sea that has swallowed a thousand ships.

“Please don’t say that about yourself. Please don’t believe that. You’re so much more than that. You’re so...” He begged then allowed his fortified walls to come down for a brief moment worried you would shatter him completely, “You’re my everything baby... Why don’t you see that?” his voice broke at the vulnerability. The knights were down, off their posts and able to rest after 20 some years of being serviced, taught and berated. This was like a searing knife to his core, slipping between the bones and waiting for it to be yanked out and have him bleed out on the linoleum, alone. “I- I love you.” 

Those words, the three words he spoke echoed loud and clear in your brain. The only time he had ever said it was after 5 beers and sloppy sex. Bo was sober tonight and he was painfully aware of it. He said it without flinching or moving his gaze from yours. This is the moment you waited for, after almost 2 full years of rage, blood, tears, love, fights, and pain; it was out there crystal clear. Of course, you had hoped it would be on a scenic hill looking out at the night sky, with your fingers interlaced and shallow breaths matching each other in perfect harmony; not on the cold floor with glass and destruction around you, brokenly clutching one another. However, you were going to take what you could get.    

Tears began to flow again but for a whole different reason, as you cupped his strong square jaw, running your thumb on the long jagged scar he carried with grace. “Bo Sinclair, I love you too.” He crashed his lips against yours, his hands were everywhere on you, he craved you, he needed you as much as he did the oxygen to breathe.

[bibliocratic]

I come bearing a sort-of fic idea! (Only if you feel inspired to use it, of course 😊) Back in ep 101, Martin figures out that/where the Stranger has taken Jon, and goes all BAMF to save him, using either Web powers or his developing Backup Archivist powers to do it. (Dealer's choice) Some of that sweet sweet emotional h/c...

Dearest anon, this fic has been so long in the writing, and it’s only distantly related to what you asked for. Hope you like it regardless. :)

Set in an S3 AU, implied JonMartin. Tim-centric.

Content warnings for strongly implied graphic violence, canonical S3 captivity and imprisonment, hospitals and hospitalisation.  Rated T for language and implied violence

Jon’s skittering, sprawl-legged slam against the archive door startles Tim from the shadowed walkways of his reveries.

The tilted legs of his chair thump back in a slap to the floor. Almost physically wrenched into the now, there’s a snapback to Tim’s spine, a vice-clench knot tightening in his jaw. His mood cranking up from frosty to furious.

“The fuck?” he barks at the intrusion. His snarling primed with teeth, his temper clawed to rend. He’s up and standing, whereas Jon’s practically handing off the door handle, the impact of his arrival almost knocking his legs out like ten pins from under him. An ugly, airless heaving of his chest. His eyes bloodshot, wild. In the weeks since Tim saw him, his hair has grown out unwashed and limp. His skin shimmering wrong in the light in a way that’s oddly greasy.

He’s a shattering mannequin of a man tending to ruin but Tim’s long pared down his own capacity for compassion. He loads up his questions in their chambers, and he knows where to place emphasis, where to press at the bruising, the soft-tissue targets; where the hell have you been, oh wait, don’t fucking bother, why would you even tell us anything anyway huh, because you don’t even trust us. So why the bloody hell should we care where you go galivanting off to for weeks without a word, fine by us, just fucking peachy.

“Martin,” Jon rasps out finally. His words floundering beached in his mouth, and Tim has never seen this particular mania, this bruise-sick shade of pathetic desperation. “T-tim, please, help, please, god, i-i-it’s Martin.”

Jon’s spasming, quivering hands are staining brown with blood.

-

“He wouldn’t have just left! Not – not like – like this!”

“You mean without saying anything. Not sharing with the class. I dunno, Martin, sounds exactly like something he’d have done. Classic Jon.”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong!”

“Ha – everything’s wrong. Narrow it down.”

“You know what I mean! Something’s… He should be here, is all I’m saying, and Elias, well he’s useless but he – he knows something, I’m sure of it. We have to do something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know! Find him!”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Huh, what about that? Maybe he’s finally managed to fuck off and leave here, legged it and left the rest of us to rot.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“We should – ”

“No. No, listen, Martin. This isn’t a team sport. Jon made his choice to go this alone. If he’s gone off somewhere, then that’s on him. There’s no ‘we’.”

“There used to be.”

-

Martin didn’t come in for work, and Tim assumed he’d left. Just like Jon.

He’d stewed in that betrayal, pacing lupine and furious, bricking up the walls of himself with his self-righteous anger. Because he’d been right, hadn’t he, he’d been vindicated in his bitterness, because of course Martin had left scurrying after Jon, of course there was never any loyalty to Tim despite his pretensions to their friendship. Of course, Martin hadn’t fucking stayed, and Tim was glad he was gone, free of his nagging and needling and whining.

Tim was acquitted in all his furies, every one of his poisonous doubts. The rose-thorns of his betrayals tore deeper, and he let the wounds fester.

-

Elias arrives in the aftermath.

Jon collapsed not too long ago. Shock and dehydration and whatever the hell happened to him threaded through him like blood poisoning. He’d babbled to the ambulance crews, his tongue a senseless oracle of clowns and skin and blood. They’d given him a shock blanket, the foil treating the light around them erratically, but he kept shaking it off and trying to stand, dressed in grubby boxers, an overlong coat, the fabric worn to grey at the pockets and stretched to billowing at the chest, clearly belonging to Martin.

It was hard for Tim to hate him like that, even as he’d barked at Jon to stay down. Jon’s face a theatre mask of ghoulish blood, begging the paramedics to help Martin, manic and spiralling.

The old bastard had had a heart after all.

There’s a bank of chairs outside the part of the ward where they’re keeping Jon. He’s pin-cushioned with IV’s, a set of machines monitoring his vitals. He wakes fitfully, and every waking is a pitiful confusion before he sinks back under.

Martin’s still in surgery.

Elias, deigning to leave his ivory tower, his face formed in an impeccable replica of concern. He wants to speak to Jon. To have, as he put it, ‘a private word’. He talks a precisely ordered stream of bullshit in his infuriatingly reasonable tone, about all this being such a terrible tragedy, such a blow to their little family, if only they’d known. Poor Martin, of course, what a horrible ordeal, we’ll naturally help him with recovery, cover any time off, no expense considered.

Tim watches his mouth move, and knows in his gut that Elias could have stopped all this.

That he chose not to.

Elias doesn’t get within a hundred feet of Jon. Tim makes sure of it.

-

Jon does not speak for days. Delirious and distraught. Martin’s condition worsens, then stabilises, then lingers at critical. There are several more operations, and Tim does not know what they are doing, only that they are reforming a heap of blood and bone back into a person.

Tim wants to know what happened. Where Jon went, where Martin found him, who he needs to hate.

Tim learns to temper his frustration, the desire for knowing that curls at the bottom of his stomach. It is not a natural wanting, and it’s a spiteful, gleeful action, to deny that rot within him.

-

“Tim?”

“Stay still, boss,” Tim says. “You’ll pull everything out.”

Jon doesn’t say anything more for a long while. Tim shifts uneasy on the chair provided, thinking, hoping that Jon might have sunk back into sleep, when:

“Martin? Is he…?”

Jon turns his head to look at him. His eyes wide, beseeching, wet with fear. Wanting Tim to make this all ok.

Jon’s eyes in this light are a lot like Danny’s. Tim sucks back a hard breath, and doesn’t meet his gaze, and he knows that only distresses Jon further, who will take the avoidance as a death knell, as a punishment he is expecting to have earned.

“He’s alive, boss,” Tim says eventually. The words hard won. “He’s… he’ll be alright.”

That could be a lie. He doesn’t know much these days.

-

“Th-there was a room,” Jon stammers one day. He’s sat up, pillows stuffed behind his back. Tim’s bought him an apple juice carton like you buy for children, and he hasn’t touched it, even to push the plastic straw through the top.

His fingers at his lap twist, twist, twist.

“It must have been a … a factory floor, or something. One of those old textile mills or something, up near Manchester. It used to have those big machines for spinning cotton, there were big, discoloured spaces on the boards where they would have sat. There were columns, load-bearing, every fifty feet or so, and t-the chair that they – they had me tied to was anchored against one of those s-so it didn’t – so I couldn’t move it, or knock it over. I-I don’t know how long I was… I.” Jon stops, out of breath. “I don’t even know the date.”

Tim tells him. Jon blinks, and murmurs ‘oh’ like it’s not what he was expecting. His hands are shaking. Tim should reach out, shouldn’t he, it should not be this difficult to provide comfort.

His hands have forgotten how easily reassurance used to come to him.

“Th-they didn’t, they didn’t hurt me. Not, well, not exactly, I-I-I mean, it wasn’t – they wanted me unharmed.” Jon’s voice has crept small and crouched, words tuck under his tongue. “They were waiting. For the right time. They were going to t-take my, um, my skin. For their – for the ritual.”

“Christ.” Tim hisses out, because that is fucked, this whole thing is fucked. How the hell is this the way their lives have turned.

Only Jon’s fingers, his restless hands make noise for the next minute.

“I don’t know how Martin found me,” Jon says.

Tim has a creeping suspicion. It’s the same thing that helps Tim spits out exactly the right seeds to allow hurt to take root. What told Martin that there was something wrong. He could call it intuition, but that’s not how their world works.

Gifts, of a sort. For their faithful service at the temple of their all-seeing god.

“He tried to get me out. Snuck in somehow, cut the ropes with this – huh, this battered old kitchen knife. But I couldn’t… they’d had me tied to the chair for so long that standing up was… I couldn’t walk, and it’s my fault, he was half-carrying me but – I slowed him down, a-and then Nikola came back. And I couldn’t do, I couldn’t do anything, there’s never anything I can do, and they pulled me away and I. I tried, Tim, I-I tried, and I wasn’t… please, Tim, you’ve got to believe I tried to stop them.”

Jon’s fingers are moving to fist in his hair, yanking, tugging, his spine moving to fold himself over.

“Stop,” Tim says sharply. Trying to loosen Jon’s clenched hold.

“I tried, I tried – everything, I offered them anything they wanted, and they just kept – I-I-I tried, Tim.”

“I know,” Tim replies. Quieter. Softer. Separating Jon’s hands from his hair, pressing them back down to his lap, his burnt one held over the other pocked with worm scars. Tim doesn’t move his own away from the fragile tower they’ve made. “I – I know, Jon.”

“Martin – there was more of them. It was easy for them, to hurt him until he stopped struggling. They didn’t tie him up, they knew they didn’t need to. A-and Nikola, she was… she s-s-smiled as they pushed him over onto his back. She – she kept smiling. And she said they didn’t need the two of us. That they could have a bit of fun, a bit of – ” Jon’s voice chokes horrified. “A bit of practise. And wouldn’t I like that. To watch. To give the Eye something to look at.”

Jon crumples into tears then. In on himself like a disintegrating star. Tim feels cold and distant for a moment as he watches this shipwreck as though through the porthole of another boat. Listening to Jon’s hitching sobbing from elsewhere.

The rage is burning off him to reveal something plain and hideous in its humanity, and Tim hates it.

Jon falls apart, and Tim stays.

-

“You know your Archivist killed them all? He’s got a bit of a temper on him after all. Must be all that repression.”

The newest form of the Distortion still smiles like a headache. Her fingers curve corkscrewing. Tim, who is trying to get a Snickers from the vending machine two wards along from Jon, whips his head around to glower at the unwelcome visitor.

“What do you want?”

The Distortion, who has previously called themselves Michael, and is now still Michael but not entirely, whose face has refracted into a different form – there’s been a sort of change in management, if you like, except, well, that’s not really it at all, but do feel free to call me Helen.

“I was hoping for a teeny bit of gratitude. I was the gallant rescue, after that assistant of yours blundered in and made such a pig’s ear of it.”

Tim snarls. The Distortion’s expression wavers displeased.

“Ooh, touchy, alright. Calm down, firecracker. I bought them both back breathing for you. Your Archivist would be still strapped to a chair in Stockport if it wasn’t for me, to say nothing of that woebegone assistant. Blood all over my carpets.”

Tim ignores her. The glint in her eyes suggests she’s disappointed not to have riled him up.

“What now then?”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the Circus for a while! Dear Jonathan’s seen to that quite splendidly. Knew he had it in him. Although, I suspect, even he didn’t know he could. The Circus was always good at pushing too far.”

“And you. What about you?”

The Distortion’s smile reflects a hundred alternatives.

“Oh, I’m just waiting to see what happens next.”

-

Tim’s thoughts have been straying to Danny a lot. Naturally, all things considered, his trauma’s head reared high and made horrifically manifest.

Jon is not like Danny was, too stiff and self-conscious in his own bones. But Danny’s skin had been lit up with that same live-wire intensity that last night, smeared in shadows and exhaustion and tears that shone foreign on his cheeks. Tim had not recognised the crying, silent, shaking stranger in his room, just as he barely recognises Jon.

Watching him finally fall apart holds no victory for any of them.

Martin is not like Danny was. Taller, for one, wound-up over tight in his own clockwork of fears. He’d be about Danny’s age though. Maybe.

Danny went back to the Covent Garden Theatre, alone, and the being that had then gone by the name of Joseph Grimaldi had torn off his skin as easily as wrapping paper.

Martin went alone. He didn’t ask Tim for help, because he knew Tim would have said no, and there’s an ashy shame coating his tongue, knowing it would have been true.

It’s powerlessness that’s snarled him up in barbed wire, toothless and immobile. Tim’s felt powerless for a long time. That is not going to stop.

But his anger hasn’t protected him. Hasn’t protected Jon. Certainly hasn’t protected Martin.

Jon is not in bed when Tim goes back during visiting hours. The nurse directs him to another ward, indicating in few words that this jaunt was neither encouraged nor advised, but the patient was not one to be dissuaded.

Sounds like Jon.

The man himself has dressed erratically in the spares Tim bought. A t-shirt that is divorced from his own style, the colouring drawing him over-sallow, the jeans too short and trailing above his ankle. He’s squashed himself into a chair, his back folded like a shepherd’s crook, his scatter-shot energy spent into exhaustion. His hand in Martin’s wrapped one.

Martin’s awake. The ministrations of the Circus left his face mostly alone, clear enough for tubing to be threaded into his nostrils and down his throat but the bandaging is extensive. Tim would have thought he’d be away with the fairies on morphine by now, and rightly so, but his jaw sets imperious when he sees Tim. He doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

“You doing alright there, Marto?” Tim asks. There is another chair nearby that’s been left by a visitor long gone, and he drags it over. Tim chooses to keep his voice low, chooses to squash the anger that sparks up in him at the violence done to Martin’s body.

“What does it look like?” Martin replies. Not snapping, no wisp of anger there, but there’s a pained whipcord strain to his response, a forced pace to his breathing.

“I thought they’d have you on the good stuff,” Tim says after a moment.

Martin gestures with imprecise movements at a remote off to his right, a grey blocky shape with buttons, hooked up to some sort of patient-controlled analgesia machine.

“You not taken any?”

Martin, as best as he can, shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to, alright?”

Tim doesn’t push. The silence between the two of them is protracted, uncomfortable, but Tim can stand to learn some patience.

Martin’s eyes are watery, clearly trying to push through the pain. Jon sleeps on.

“He won’t tell me,” Martin says. “But it’s bad. I know it’s bad. Right?”

“Yes.”

Martin deserves his honesty. Tim doesn’t know how long Martin suffered on that factory floor until Jon ripped the Circus’ sawdust out with his fury. Long enough for the bandages to coat his arms and legs and back like lacquer, changed multiple times a day to make sure the skin grafts take, and the stitching holds.

Tim should have been there. Like he should have been there for Danny.

“God, Martin,” he says, and he’s surprised to find his throat has clenched tight. “It’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? I went and got myself…” Martin trails off, swallows with difficulty. “I did this, it was all, all me. Fat lot of good it did.”

“You don’t know that…” Tim starts, but Martin looks at him and he seethes without raising his voice.

“What good’s come out of this then? Go on, Tim, tell me. I’m a – I’m a mess, and what the fuck do I have to show for it. What the fuck have any of us gained from this? I just fucked up, and it – I thought I was going to die. And worse, I thought they mightn’t let me, that they might take what they left as scraps a-a-and – ” Martin’s jaw clacks shut as he pushes down his distress.

“You saved Jon.”

“I didn’t though. The bloody – the bloody door monster showed up and did that simply fine without my help!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what you changed. God, Martin, this whole, this entire thing is all so, it’s fucked, right, it’s…” Tim’s voice wobbles, cracks. “But you tried to do something. You tried to help. And I’m – I’m so sorry you did it alone.”

Martin doesn’t leap to forgiveness. But he nods and Tim puts his hand on the wrappings up his arm and he doesn’t move away.

“What now?” he asks after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

Martin closes his eyes.

“I’m tired,” he confesses. “I’m just so tired of all… all this.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tim says. Finding that he means it. It’s not a promise, but it’s as good as he’s able to offer these days. “You should take some of that morphine. It’ll… it’ll help.”

“It makes me feel out of it. Like, sluggish. And everything’s far away.”

“That means it’s working, Marto,” Tim says, trying for light-hearted, but Martin’s shaking his head, and the shivering is back in his hands. A wide and trembling glaze to his expression.

“If they come back…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’ll stay,” Tim says. Pats Martin’s arm in a way he hopes conveys reassurance.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Martin nods. Tim helps him grasp the grey remote, push down the button. It’s not long before Martin’s drifted off.

Tim sits there for a long while, thinking about the future.

[tyonfs]

8+9 with Taeyong please 🥺💗

8 ▸ “keep acting like a brat and i’ll take you right here, right now, in front of all these people.”

9 ▸ “save your breath. you can scream at me all you want when i’m between your legs.��

warnings: profanity, smut, oral sex

a/n: thank you for requesting from dialogue prompts anon !! i'm so sorry for taking so long to get to this! idk why anything but soft taeyong is so hard for me to write but i hope you enjoy enemies to lovers!taeyong <3 also imsosorryyutailoveyou

10:54 p.m. ▸ The night was ruined when you locked eyes with Lee Taeyong.

“No fucking way.”

You knew your luck had been running too good for too long. Something had to go wrong eventually, but you didn’t expect to become this unfortunate. And for Johnny Suh, your best friend, to be the one introducing you to the ghost of your past was as good as him jabbing a knife into your back.

You only accompanied Johnny to the college party because you wanted to let loose for a night. However, you didn’t expect him to invite Taeyong of all people. You should’ve known better since Johnny had kindled an unexpected friendship with your enemy, and you were sure this was all because of Jaehyun.

Screw Jeong Jaehyun for being such a social butterfly.

Taeyong’s face went pale when he saw you. “Oh my god,” he mumbled, eyes trained on you as he battled a torrent of emotions. 

“I take it you guys know each other,” Johnny said, a touch awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’ll leave you two to work out whatever’s going on then.”

Johnny fled from the scene before you could curse at him. He was three shots in and desperate to get away from the tension before the both of you killed his buzz. Now you were left with a seething Taeyong and no one to cower behind. 

The only reason you two hated each other’s guts was because of some silly high school feud between the two of you. Taeyong and you were best friends once, but his feelings ran deeper than that. Yours did too at one point, but the longer you two stayed friends, the more you realized that it was all you’d ever be. Taeyong gave you the cold shoulder when you got into a relationship with his best friend, Yuta Nakamoto, but then when you broke up with Yuta, he utterly despised you. 

You had to admit that you made mistakes, though. There were countless times where you insulted Taeyong in a drunken state while you were dating Yuta, calling him a coward and a fool when you found out he liked you. You also didn’t think he quite appreciated the time when you broke up with Yuta and told him to fuck off when he tried to offer consolation. 

You were a bitch, but he was a bitch back, and the two of you never got along since then. 

“You don’t even go here, Taeyong.” You scowled. “I don’t wanna hear it tonight.”

You hated to admit that he looked good. Taeyong was a heartthrob even in high school, but there was something about him now that made something curl deep within you. He had grown into his features and his newfound confidence radiated from him in waves. College changed him in subtle, yet attractive ways. 

“I was invited,” Taeyong replied curtly, looking you up and down. His gaze made you feel hot and it pissed you off. “So you’re with Johnny now, are you?”

“We’re friends,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he mumbled.

“Please,” you started with a haughty scoff, “like you wouldn’t drop your pants in a second if I got on my knees.”

Red crept up Taeyong’s neck as he choked on his saliva for a moment. “God, you’re as insufferable as ever.”

You rolled your eyes and your gaze went unfocused when you saw a certain individual standing by the kitchen. Taeyong seemed to take notice of the distant look in your eyes and frowned. He snapped his fingers in front of your face, studying your expression, but you didn’t budge. He glanced over his shoulder and you could see the metaphysical wheels spinning in his head.

Yuta Nakamoto.

You didn’t expect your old flame to also be at the party, and you wanted him gone. You were ready to give Jaehyun an earful for his questionable guests, but the thought of going anywhere near your ex-boyfriend had you frozen in place. It wasn’t like you broke up with him for no reason, after all. You were absolutely sick of his controlling behavior and needed to end things before he had turned you into a puppet. 

Your breath caught in your throat when Yuta started to turn his head.

“Yuta and I haven’t talked in a long time, so you can chill,” Taeyong was explaining.

“Taeyong, shut up and kiss me,” you breathed out.

Taeyong was a mix between shocked, confused, and flustered when he asked, “What?”

“Kiss me,” you replied hurriedly, hands moving to cup his face. “Please.”

Taeyong didn't waste a second to press his lips to yours. Your lips fit perfectly with his, and you soon realized your body did too when he pulled you closer by the waist. Whether it was for the better or worse, Taeyong was a great kisser. Unfortunately, it made you want more, but you were positive Taeyong also did by the way he was holding you.

He pulled you even closer after you pulled away. “Upstairs?” he mumbled against your lips.

“And if I don’t go?” you teased him, a smirk playing at your lips. The truth was, however, that you wanted him, and you wanted him bad.

Taeyong growled at your words. “Keep acting like a brat and I’ll take you right here, right now, in front of all these people.”

You were trying to process this new side of Taeyong you had never seen, and you wondered where it had been all your life.

You nodded, letting him take your hand and drag you upstairs into one of the empty rooms. He didn’t make an effort to tear his lips from yours, though. Taeyong chased the kiss even when you pull away and try to walk properly, but you ended up just going with it and let him lead the way. 

Taeyong reluctantly pulled away to open the door to a room, fumbling with the doorknob a few times. As soon as you were inside, he pinned you to the door. You gasped, reaching your hand down to lock the door before Taeyong attached his lips to the tender skin of your neck.

“God, I hate you so much,” you whimpered out as he bit down at the junction of your neck and shoulder. His hips rolled up against yours and you whined softly.

“Save your breath. You can scream at me all you want when I’m between your legs.”

Before you could say anything in retaliation, Taeyong was already tugging down your panties by the waistband, sliding them down your thighs. He pocketed them, to which you raised an eyebrow at, and lowered down to his knees. Your breath hitched while he held your thighs, diving to eat you out like a man starved.

You grabbed onto the doorknob for leverage, eyes wide at the immense wave of pleasure that followed. When you were friends with Taeyong, the two of you never talked about your sex lives much, but that was mainly because you were sure Taeyong would just be jealous if you told him anything. He was amazingly good at what he was doing, however, and you wondered how much practice he got. 

His tongue dug deeper inside of you and relished the wonderful contractions of your walls. You were a moaning mess, backed up against the door with Taeyong bringing you closer to your edge. Your eyes were brimming with tears as he circled your clit with his thumb, letting you fall into your first orgasm with no warning. 

You had to catch your breath as Taeyong watched you carefully, clearly enjoying the fucked-out expression on your face. You were almost scared he was going to walk out of the room and go back to completely ignoring you, but he rose to his feet and held your hips gently.

“My place,” he said, to which you hummed at in reluctant agreement. 

“Shouldn’t we talk about... us? About Yuta? About everything?” you suggested. “I mean, I think we both have some explaining to do.”

“We have the car ride back home for that,” he explained.

“You really think we’re going to fix all of our problems in one car ride to your apartment?”

“Sure we can. We’ll have plenty of time to talk when we make all those pit stops along the way.”

“Why are we making pit stops?” you asked, and then your eyes clouded over with realization. “Oh my god. Taeyong, you’re an animal.”

You didn’t have room to judge him, though, because you enjoyed every single one of those pit stops and all of the et ceteras that followed when you reached his place. 

[contemplativepancakes]

killing me softly with his song

3k post-mountain mutual pining fix it. read on ao3 here!

Geralt isn’t supposed to feel things. At least, that’s what Vesemir had purported after he had finished going through the mutations. Had sat him down and had a whole conversation about it, in fact, but at the moment, Geralt is feeling rather lied to. He’s felt things before, of course he has, he knows that being a Witcher doesn’t truly mean his emotions are gone. Muted, would be a more accurate word. 

But now… 

It all feels so overwhelming. He can’t seem to escape the swirling unsettledness deep in his gut, the despair that threatens to crash over his head every time he sees something that reminds him of Jaskier, twisting the knife even more in his gut. Back on the mountain, Geralt had regretted his words almost as soon as they had left his mouth, but they had tumbled out of him, and he was powerless to stop it. 

Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days it’s always you shovelling it? If life was to give me one blessing, it’d be to take you off my hands!

Jaskier had tried to protest, but Geralt didn’t want to hear it in the heat of the moment, he was more interested in lashing out at anyone who would dare to contest his low opinion of himself. Sure, he might kill monsters, but does that really outweigh everything else? 

He’s shit, through and through. He knows that. He’s glad Jaskier finally realized it, too. 

The only thing that Jaskier being present all those times when Geralt found himself in trouble meant was that he was always there for Geralt. And really, if Geralt thinks back, he always was. 

Geralt’s not sure what he ever did to inspire that kind of loyalty, but he knows he didn’t deserve it. The words he had spat proved that. 

Geralt shakes his head as he thinks about all the ways Jaskier has helped him over the years. Even if Jaskier was practically in the middle of sticking his cock some place it really shouldn’t be, if Geralt needed him, he was there. 

Jaskier washed monster guts out of Geralt’s hair too many times to count, and if it weren’t for Jaskier turning his reputation around, Geralt probably wouldn’t have been able to step foot in an inn any time in the past decade without being cast out. 

And despite all those things, Geralt had still yelled at him, still made one of the only unwavering constants in his life walk away and not look back. What had Jaskier ever gotten in return, anyway? Geralt knows he’s not exactly the best company. 

Geralt curses, and Roach noses at his shoulder from where she’s tethered to the tree he’s leaning against. 

Geralt strokes his fingers over the soft velvet of her nose and huffs when she snorts in his ear. 

“Yes, all right,” he grumbles under his breath, standing up and rustling through her saddlebags to find a sugar cube. 

Jaskier had always given Roach too many sugar cubes for her own good. 

Fuck.

Geralt looks at the saddlebags, fighting with himself and failing when he fishes out the blanket Jaskier always rolled up to use as a pillow. It smells of Jaskier’s scent that Geralt had liked the best, not the sour and unhappy scent he was pouring off when Geralt shouted at him to go.

Geralt unfurls it and holds it to his nose, avoiding looking at Roach. He’s sure she’s judging him.

Geralt is judging himself a little, too. What was he thinking?

He supposes Witchers are meant to walk the Path alone, so it was for the best. Inevitable. Better to get it out of the way now than later, that’s for sure. Jaskier will get married and have children and won’t want to travel with Geralt anymore, so Geralt is glad he won’t have to suffer through that. He’s not sure he could take it to have to watch a courtship of Jaskier’s that actually lasted, that didn’t end with Jaskier coming back to him.

No, Geralt has feelings, all right, and he’s never hated them more than he does right now.

Roach snorts, pawing at the ground, and Geralt reaches up to pat her shoulder. She’s getting irritated, so Geralt should pack it in for the night, but he itches to keep moving, to keep putting more distance between him and what happened. Roach huffs again, nickering a bit. “Fine,” Geralt grumbles. “We’ll stop in the next town. Happy?”

Probably not, because Roach never seems entirely happy with him these days. Well, Roach can join the club. Geralt makes a mental note to buy more sugar cubes. At least one of them should be happy.

By the time they make it to civilization, it’s much later than Geralt had anticipated. He hands Roach off to a stable girl, wagging a finger at Roach and telling her to be good. Then he talks to the innkeeper and secures a room before walking over to the bar. He desperately needs an ale. His mind has been going nonstop ever since Jaskier left, and while it probably won’t do a whole lot for him, it might slow his thoughts down enough to fall asleep. Maybe he should go to the brothel and look for a distraction. If he could find a fight, even better.  

The barmaid plunks a mug in front of him, but Geralt hardly notices after a familiar chord emanates from the corner. Geralt whips his head around to look, but it’s just someone else playing one of Jaskier’s songs. Geralt clenches his teeth. He hates this one. Jaskier had made him out to be entirely too heroic. Geralt’s never been a hero. He’s just in it for the coin.

He’d had this conversation with Jaskier until he was blue in the face, a rare amount of words for him, in his desire to get his point across, but Jaskier had refused to believe him. Just fixed Geralt with a look and said, “Hmm.”

That was Geralt’s line, dammit.

Geralt’s eyes catch on a man sitting at the bar, wearing shoes with hardly a speck of dirt on them. They look like they’d pinch his toes quite a bit, and Geralt can’t help but shake his head at the lack of practicality of it all. His gaze travels up the man, noting his opulent doublet, and Geralt quickly looks away, taking his drink to a corner table.

He thumps the mug down, and several of the other patrons shoot him concerned looks. Geralt clenches his teeth. He has only his own social skills to rely on, now. It’s not a situation he prefers, to say the least. Jaskier was always the best at making people see Geralt as better than he truly was, something they didn’t have to be frightened of, or feel the need to drive out of town.

Geralt heaves a deep sigh. He wishes Jaskier was here.

-

Jaskier has never been one to turn down an opportunity for good song writing material, but for the first time, he doesn’t want it. He’s always been told heartache makes for the best song fodder, but somewhere along the way, things have gotten muddled, and he’d be perfectly happy if his heart was never broken again.

It still seems like a nightmare that he’s going to wake up from any second; Geralt is going to look at him from where he’s dousing the fire and tell him, “Wake up, lazy bones,” and Jaskier will protest and lunge for his notes as a new song idea that doesn’t reek of melancholy overcomes him.

Jaskier has pinched himself too many times to keep holding out for that hope, though.

In line with what his teachers at Oxenfurt told him, these days, Jaskier has plenty of song ideas. The problem is none of them seem particularly noteworthy. He doesn’t want to make anyone else listen to him reminisce about better days—about the gentle curve of Geralt’s rare smile, the fondness he held for Roach, the way he looked when moonbeams caught on his hair and made him seem even more ethereal than normal.

Even when Geralt was at his most frightening-looking, covered in viscera and ichor from his latest monster kill, Jaskier never lost that sense of wonder. Geralt could probably kill Jaskier with his pinky, but he let Jaskier tag along with him anyway, for years.

Geralt might pretend to be jaded and cynical, but Jaskier knows the truth. Jaskier saw the way Geralt couldn’t resist helping others, the way he always gave a subtle wave to the children he passed in the streets who didn’t shrink away from him, and let them pet Roach until their parents noticed and ushered them away. Geralt’s mouth would settle into a hard line and his shoulders would square, but he never commented on it, so neither did Jaskier.

Jaskier strums a chord on his lute thoughtfully, but it doesn’t sound right. Nothing has sounded right for days, and Jaskier is teetering over the precipice of despair.

He needs a distraction.

He makes his way to an inn, figuring whatever he’s met with, be it adoration or angriness at someone he’s scorned, it’ll be able to settle the unease that’s lived beneath his skin since that terrible night.

He had stumbled down the mountainside, veering off trail and crashing through the scratchy underbrush in his haste to get away from Geralt. Away, before Geralt had the satisfaction to see the emotion pulling at his face, the tears pooling in his eyes. Geralt’s cruel words could only have been aimed to deliberately hurt, even after all the time they had spent together. Well, hell, because of it.

Geralt thought he brought nothing but bad luck, and looking at the shambles his life is in, he’s inclined to agree. No wonder Geralt hadn’t wanted to take him up on his offer of getting away for a while. He doesn’t know why he suggested it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The coast? What would someone like Geralt want to go there for, anyway? It certainly wouldn’t be for the pleasure of Jaskier’s company.

Too much, too soon. Jaskier snorts at himself. It wasn’t too soon. Geralt just never wanted to hear it.

No lasting relationships, no steady job, no place to lay his head and call his own? Jaskier could be doing better, that’s for sure.

Jaskier lets out a heavy sigh as he stops with his hand on the door to the inn, distracted by a nickering from the stables. He looks over and sees a mare that looks just like Roach. Jaskier pats his pockets for his sugar cubes until he remembers flinging them all into a lake on his way down the mountain. It wasn’t his finest hour.

He walks over to the bay horse and pets her, running his fingers over her wiry fur. She snorts just like Roach would have, and Jaskier can’t help but be overcome by a wave of dejectedness. He really misses Roach; she always let him tell her about all his problems. Namely, Geralt.

Jaskier sighs. He supposes he should cut his losses and try to move on, snip Geralt neatly from his life, but they’re too bound together for any kind of removal to go smoothly.

Jaskier pets the white nose the horse has, just like Roach, and snorts at the coincidence. There’s no way Geralt made it this far south already, so it can’t actually be Roach. Jaskier has been travelling as fast as he can, because if he stops, he’ll have to think, and he certainly doesn’t want that to happen. The horse nips at his sleeve, drawing Jaskier back to the present.

This is practically the longest he’s spent away from Geralt besides during the winters, and Jaskier’s not a fan, to put it lightly. He combs his fingers through the horse’s coarse mane and adjusts the strap of his lute before he walks inside the inn.

-

Geralt sighs, drumming his fingers on the scratched tabletop before noting the stares he’s receiving and pulling his hand back on his lap. He doesn’t need to draw any unwanted attention to himself. He drains his third mug of ale for the night and is getting ready to head to his room when the inn door creaks open.

Geralt jerks his head in the direction of the noise on instinct, and his stomach drops when he recognizes the familiar face. His pulse immediately speeds, pounding in his ears until that’s all he can hear.

Geralt ducks his head, but not before he sees Jaskier returning his shocked stare. Geralt tips his mug back again, even though it’s empty, just to try and look busy. It’s been a month, so he’s sure Jaskier has already moved on, and Geralt speaking to him would just open up wounds for both of them. On a day when he felt particularly ready to lie to himself, he would say he’s mostly over his best friend getting torn from his life.

It reminds Geralt of when healers would try to stitch up his skin when just a little too much flesh was missing. Tight and pinched, and it stung something awful anytime he jostled it. That’s about how neatly having Jaskier walk away has healed, as well. Geralt is still waiting for the wound to stop itching.

Jaskier, for his part, just blinks when he sees Geralt. It’s like he’s seeing a ghost. Geralt looks like he’s been running from something, too, and for a second, Jaskier allows himself to hope. It’s quickly dashed when Geralt looks away from him like he’s been burned. Jaskier turns to settle into the corner, only to see there’s already a bard at this inn. Well. That’s peachy. The other bard stares wide eyed, his gaze flitting back and forth from Jaskier to Geralt, before a look of understanding dawns across his face and he hastily gets up.

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. He wasn’t aware their reputation had spread quite this far. Nevertheless, he takes the man’s spot, adjusting the strings of his lute just a bit, stalling.

Geralt is still at his table.

Jaskier clears his throat and strums his lute.

The fairer sex, they often call it…

He stares at the side of Geralt’s face, but Geralt doesn’t look back at him. Jaskier notices the way his shoulders tense up, though, and he’s not sure what to make of it.

I'm weak my love, and I am wanting

If this is the path I must trudge

I welcome my sentence

Give to you my penance

Garrotter, jury and judge

At that, Geralt turns his head to look straight at Jaskier, and Jaskier tries to resist the shiver that creeps down his spine. When Jaskier finishes the song, he finds Geralt still staring at him. He slings his lute over his shoulder and draws upon his reserves of bravery. He finds they’re about empty, but he walks over to Geralt anyway.

Jaskier approaches him, and Geralt’s eyes widen. Geralt was under the impression they were going to just ignore each other, like any other sensible people who don’t like talking about their feelings.

Jaskier has always been a wordsmith, though, so maybe Geralt shouldn’t be surprised. And by the sound of his song, it seems like Jaskier already knows what he wants to say, even if Geralt shouldn’t let himself hope that it means what he wants.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says weakly.

Geralt bites his lip, and takes a chance. “Care to join me?”

Jaskier’s eyes get round, and a peculiar look crosses his face. He sits.

Geralt smells the unease coming off of Jaskier in droves, and Geralt takes a moment to grimace at the realization that it’s because of him. Even the first day they met, when Jaskier knew nothing about him, Jaskier hadn’t been so unsettled. Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of his personality. It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s not the easiest person to be around. He’s sure many people would say he’s the person to be around, and it seems like Jaskier is inclined to agree.

But.

Geralt wants to try and make this right.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats, enunciating like Jaskier just didn’t hear him.

They stare at each other for a beat. “Interesting song,” Geralt says, casting Jaskier a sideways glance. “Did you find a new fancy?”

Jaskier smiles sadly. “I think you know.”

Picking up on conversational nuances has never been Geralt’s strong suit, but Jaskier’s song wasn’t exactly subtle, was it?

Geralt stands and Jaskier follows suit. Geralt tilts his head towards the stairs, and he can hear Jaskier’s hard swallows as he trails behind Geralt, to his room. Jaskier pulls the door shut behind him and looks at Geralt expectantly.

“Jask…” Geralt starts, and Jaskier tries very hard not to let himself be won over just by the soft tone Geralt’s taken. The one he reserves for the people he loves. Jaskier is sure Roach is the only one who gets to hear it often. “I missed you.”

Jaskier shuts his eyes briefly. It’d be easy to push Geralt away, tell him this is too little, too late, and it would certainly be less complicated than picking up the tattered ends of their relationship, but. Jaskier is weak, and he is wanting.

“I missed you, too.”

[poormeowmeowcollector]

We would name our children Jackie and Wilson

Relationship: Loki/Female Reader (Hozier did the gender first, don't @ me)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Mourning, mental health, alcohol.

Summary: Your relationship reminds you of a nice soft song. But things are not always so sweet.

Notes: this is part of a somewhat Collab with @lucywrites02, her part is done and can be found here, read it to soften the pain. I would say that I'm terribly sorry for the pain ahead, but I'm not. Meaning of the song can be found here, I used it for reference

Read On AO3

So tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes

Loki fights for a deep breath.

It's just your face, you idiot. What are you afraid of? This mean voice from the back of his head asks.

They manage to draw a shaky inhale and puff it out, finally opening his eyes and staring at the reflection.

But those hateful crimson eyes staring back is too much, even though they look at them behind tears.

"Maybe another day…" he sighs and wears the illusion again. But the bloodshot eyes stay, this time not because of the Jötunn form.

No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight

For how long will you hide from the monster you are? This same voice asks in the dead of the night.

Once again, it's not mistaken.

"I can't walk amongst mortals like this. This illusion helps me avoid some of the staring," they respond. It's a beautiful lie, Loki almost believes it.

Still, it will break down. Like everything does.

This argument stays and torments him for the rest of the night.

Soul deep in this swill with the most familiar of swine / For reasons wretched and divine

Stark had suggested another night out on a bar. Loki usually declines, but comes to this one.

Soon enough, everyone is drunk and happy. Alcohol from Midgard is like a beverage for Æsir, and Loki can barely get tipsy. But Loki still decides to drink.

This period had some very successful missions, and the avengers are celebrating it by drinking. Little do they know that Loki drinks for a whole more different reasons…

She blows out of nowhere, a roman candle of the wild

It's late. Loki's surely past the tipsy phase, but still has control. So, they just sit on a bar and watch the others have fun.

"Would you mind some company?" you yell from a part of the crowd. Loki tries not to flinch, loud sounds do no good at him.

Then they see you, all smiling and beaming like a firework, drink in hand as you walk closer and point at a stool beside him.

They have to admit, you look ravishing.

"You're free to sit, if you want to," he smiles back and nods at the seat. You grin and slide there, placing your drink in the bar and having your attention to them.

"Are you not afraid someone might drug the drink?" Loki winders, eyes on the cocktail.

"Sitting beside an Avenger is safe enough, don't you think? And it's rubbish anyways, I probably won't finish it,"

Midgard has different communication patterns, and Loki's inability to catch up in time has made their silver tongue rusty and useless. But you make a conversation with him out of nowhere, like it's the most easy thing.

Laughing her way through my feeble disguise/ And Lord, she found me just in time

A few days later after the night out, the sparks of happiness you casted on Loki's heart have died out. But Thor insists that being out of the four walls of their chambers will do good to him, and Loki gives in. They wear an illusion to hide the mess that he is in and join Thor on their afternoon walk around for some food, mostly.

During the hours long conversation, you didn't mention that you work for Stark, in the Tower. They smile and call your name the sparks igniting inside his heart once again. It gets stronger when you give them this glowing smile and walk closer.

"Brother, will you mind if I get stolen for a moment?" he turns to Thor.

"Have fun, brother," he smiles before greeting you and leaving.

"You know, there's a nice coffee shop with a big tea collection, what do you think?" you beam, knowing it's an offer Loki cannot resist.

It's not far away, and truly a sweet little place, crammed between the offices. You order your drinks and settle on a table nearby. You give Loki the chair with the view on the passers by, sitting so you can only see them and the wall behind him.

"You didn't say you work for Stark," they hum, taking a testing sip of the dandelion tea that caught his attention.

"That's cause I work for the Avengers, technically, not Stark. Mission support agent, Romanov brought me here," you shrug one shoulder. Loki can't hide a smile, they always had a soft spot for humble warriors, for they're so rare on Asgard.

"Odd, I don't remember you in any field," he mutters.

"I haven't gone on a mission with you. I find it insulting for a God to be supported by someone who learned how to tie their shoelaces at age 12," you laugh. Loki doesn't share the enthusiasm for the 'joke'.

"You'll be the best support, if you ask me," they smile, and change the subject. And then, you throw this damned question.

"So, how are you doing?" you trail off.

"Just fine," he scoffs. You see through it like they're the worst liar ever.

"I know we're somewhere public, but you are allowed to be honest," your eyes scan him.

He takes a deep breath and makes an illusion of you and them just talking. Then, he lifts his own.

Your face stays almost unreadable as the green glow reveals the mess of them. Expect for the eyes that speak of sympathy.

Underneath the table, you cup his right hand, your thumb petting it. "If you want to, we can go somewhere more private. Your call,"

"Only you can see this. Don't worry, I'm not making a fool out of you," they laugh without humour, voice almost breaking. You now squeeze the hand.

"You'll have to actively try to make a fool out of me, your highness. It's your boundaries I'm worried about," the playful tone leaves you as you speak.

You've barely done anything, but Loki is already determined to kill for you.

Cause with my mid-youth crisis all said and done / I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young

"Forget it, I'm not doing it. It's stupid!" he tries hard not to yell at you.

"But it's going to be fun! Come on, you can cast an illusion if you're embarrassed. Didn't you have fun as a teen?" You grin, pleading for them to come.

Little do you know that the last question feels like a knife in the guts.

"No," he whispers.

"Okay then. I'll be there with Sam, you can pop up if you change your mind," you sigh. It takes some minutes for them to realise what you just said.

"Allow me to rephrase it. No, I didn't have fun as a teen, I had to prepare myself for the throne I wouldn't take. And… this park will do nothing but remind me what I've lost. I'm sorry but I can't come nor change my mind," he fights against tears as he talks, your eyes on them. You walk closer and cup one cheek, letting them rest their head.

"Society says that you must have certain experiences at certain time frames. It's wrong, especially for someone who will live for as long as you. There's always time to replace things you've lost, the question if if you'll do it or not,"

Loki gazes at you and takes a deep breath, in, holding it, and out. Almost like he's smoking the air.

"Fine. But don't force me to stay if it's too much," they smile weakly, but it's genuine.

"Have I ever forced you?" you grin and place your forehead against his. "And anything critical to your physical health doesn't count,"

They laugh before nodding a no, a small kiss being blown in your nose.

Lord, it'd be great to find a place we could escape sometime / Me and my Isis growing black irises in the sunshine

Out of all the things Loki expected his fallen heart to do, daydreaming was last on the list.

They're a realist, always have been.

But the image of him and you in a nice stone castle in the middle of the woods is too perfect to resist. How you two would wake up and sleep together, have no one and nothing to make you feel anything but bliss. The two Monarchs in your little kingdom of two residents

Norns, they haven't even talked to you about these feelings. And he's already scheming his retirement with you.

How are you doing this to them?

Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside / We'd sit back and watch the world go by

"That's it, Laufeyson," he's glaring at the mirror, one finger pointing at the glass, "no more lies. Fuck those illusions and games and just say the damned words!"

They sigh and run their fingers through the hair, testing if the smell of smoke is still in there, after five sessions with the shower. He has noticed that you don't like the smell, when you keep some distance on his bad days. And stinking on a moment like this is the least they want.

"Alright… into the battlefield…" he conjures his weapon, a bouquet of black irises, your favourite flowers. They finally teleport themselves on the field, outside your door.

Goal of the mission: be vulnerable.

He rings the bell, fixing his already perfect posture before you open the door. This smile they know and love so much is on your lips.

"You didn't have to! Come in," you exhale, beaming as you make space for him to walk in.

They call your name, the tone making your smile drop. "I have to tell you something I've been hiding from you for a while…" he sighs.

You nod, the agent face on. A green shimmer makes the flowers rest in a vase on the coffee table, Loki's hands now free to pick on each other.

"I appreciate your friendship, more than you can ever imagine. You're the only person who has reached out to me like this for eons. But, my heart has started to yearn for more. I've fallen for you, hard. And I can't keep the illusion anymore," they recite, eyes scanning your unreadable face. You stay dead serious, making Loki's nerves eat him up.

"Took you long enough," you grin and bring them down to a kiss.

It's nice and warm and slow, one devouring the other while also offering the best you can. Then, a salty taste makes you break the contact and cup Loki's face.

"Love, why are you crying?" you whisper, wiping away the thin paths the tears have crossed. He hasn't even noticed he's been crying.

"You can't imagine how happy you make me… I love you," they whisper.

You barely have time to say anything before he pulls you into the tightest hug possible, tears streaming down to your shirt and those three words coming out of their lips again and again like a prayer.

Loki has no idea how many lifetimes he washed off within just one hug, but a weight they never noticed they carried was gone when you break the embrace and stare deep into his now puffy eyes.

"I love you too,"

She's gonna save me, call me baby / Run her hands through my hair

"I'm telling you, you have to be more careful in the missions. Yes, you are a God, but don't be so reckless," you groan as you rinse them with water and try to remove the blood and dirt from their hair.

Just the right amount of strikes, and he now can't lift his hands enough to wash his own hair. If you weren't so good at it, they would refuse to stoop so low.

"It was supposed to be abandoned. How would I know that it wasn't? I'm a God, not a prophet," he sighs, holding his sides. Even talking is making their scattered ribs pierce him… "And I did call you to save my arse, that's the exact opposite of recklessness,"

"If you say so. But what will I do if one day my baby comes home with something more than a wretched ribcage?" you laugh.

They try to answer but both the pain and the pleasure from your fingers on his hair, massaging his scalp with shampoo, are making his tongue a knot and his throat release one moan of pleasure after another.

She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily / Better yet, she wouldn't care

You walk through broken mirrors and scattered furniture, reached out to Loki, who's hiding their head between their knees.

You don't say anything, you just play with his hair. It's cold, much colder than usually. But you don't care.

"Leave, please. You'll get hurt," their voice is growly from the smoking but weak.

"Forget it. I'm not leaving you alone in this state," you declare matter–of–factly. A sound comes out of his throat, something between a chuckle and a cough.

They snap their head up, blue and scarred cheeks wet with tears and flaming red eyes with blue veins all over them drilling holes in you. "Do you dare say this in my true face? Declare that you care about a monster?" He spits, lips shaking as they try to hold back another crying fit.

You face stone, you grib his cheeks to stop them from breaking eye contact. "I am not leaving you alone like this, because I care about you and I love you. And, I don't give a fuck what others have made you think of yourself, you're anything but a monster," you keep your voice steady, trying to physically pin those words in his mind.

They sigh and lean against your hands, eyes closed and breaths slow as tears start rolling down his cheeks again. They turn to kiss your palm, now the rest of his body relaxing and hands bringing you close to a hug. "Thank you," they breathe out against you, the weakest of smiles forming slowly.

We'll steal a Lexus, be detectives / Ride 'round picking up clues

"Feet off or I'll chop them off and put them in the truck," you snap, eyes on the road as you try to find a place to park.

"Relax, it's not ours," Loki brushes off the threat. You sigh and park the car among some trees on the edge of the road, hoping no one will see it. He tries to mask it, like always, but you can see how the pain is making their features harsh.

"You can drop some spells, we're well hidden," you point out, watching as the pale skin starts melting and dark azure replaces it. Your skin crawls, you don't know if it's the cold or the awe. Loki breathes out, head resting back on the seat. "I didn't know the illusion is so painful," you think out loud.

"When running so low on rest, everything is painful. Now, where are those files…" they mutter and turn around, searching for the yellow case in the back seat. "Here. Do you have any idea?" he asks, giving you the file.

"I'll probably find something to milk. Now get that rest before you pass out on the field," you glare at them with that Look. He grins and nods before laying against the window, a thin layer of frost already forming.

Then, they start laughing.

"What's so funny?" you ask, not looking up from the report you're reading.

"Before I even talked to you, I had the honeymoon trip already planned in my brain, with too many versions to count. This wasn't even on the list," he straightens up and smiles. You laugh too.

"Well, it's not exactly as bad as you make it sound,"

"Norns, are your standards so low or are you so disappointed in me?" They raise one eyebrow.

"Neither, love. Now get rest before I have to knock you out," you smile through threatening him.

"Kinky, might try it later," they wink and lay back down, his breathing deepening some minutes afterwards.

We'll name our children Jackie and Wilson / Raise 'em on rhythm and blues

You're laying against them, smiling like an idiot as he runs a hand on your stomach and feeling this new anomaly.

"Are you sure?" you ask, watching a small wrinkle from between their brows.

"Yes. Two of them. Perhaps boys but I can't tell yet," he whispers, hand still resting there even though the spell is over.

"Twins… we will become parents," you smile, breathing out and laying against their shoulders.

Loki calls your name. You turn around and he rests his forehead against your own. "I love you so much, you know that? All three of you," they grin. You chuckle and close your eyes, accepting the kiss that's definitely coming.

"You know, we'll have to name them something," you point out after they break the kiss.

"Narfi and Vali," he's… quite fast on picking up the name.

"No way,"

"Why?"

You freeze. "It's silly…" you mutter.

They cup your face, glowing green eyes on yours. "It's bothering you,"

"It's the myth… how Narfi and Vali suffered in the myth because of your… because of Loki's mistakes… I don't want this to happen to the little guys," you sigh.

"Then, do you have to suggest another name while I'm trying to think of a second choice?" he smiles.

"It's even more silly," you giggle.

"At least it won't be your mythological dead kids,"

You take a deep breath. "Jackie and Wilson, from the song," you are ready to hear them laughing at you for the suggestion. But he just smiles.

"Jackie and Wilson…"

Cut clean from the dream that night, let my mind reset / Looking up from a cigarette, she's already left

Loki has no idea how long they've been staring blankly at the ashtray, the suit in front of him mocking him.

It's maybe the first time they're so hesitant about wearing all black.

It was supposed to be a small mission, nothing dangerous. You were supposed to be back, safe, within an hour.

You were supposed to raise your sons and retire in that castle in the middle of the forest.

Why was he so foolish to believe that he deserves a happy ending?

"You have to collect yourself. You have to say the farewell, a fucking thank you for all you've got from it, you coward!" they spit at the mirror opposite to them, hand tensing and breaking the cigarette in half.

A deep breath, in and out, a tight squeeze on the wedding ring hanging from his neck, and they stand up to put the damn suit on.

I start digging up the yard for what's left of me in our little vignette / For whatever poor soul is coming next

The funeral is over, the farewell has been said. But there's a small dinner coming afterwards.

Out of all the public appearances, this is by far the worse. Malevolence is something Loki has learned how to deal with a long time ago. But these eyes of pity are unbearable.

The strangers, probably reporters or Stark's acquaintances, coming to express their "condolences" are at least few enough to allow Loki to slip away to the bathroom.

He sits on the cold floor, this numbness drowning him. They hoped you had made it go away, but you just suppressed it. He wants to cry, to scream, to beg to whatever cruel Deity did this to bring you back. But their mind cannot give the order.

He takes your phone out, opening the music app and wearing your earphones. They press play on the last song you listened to, only to hear some familiar chords echo from the small device.

You were muttering this song all the time since you found out about the pregnancy, it's no wonder it's the last tune you listened to. But the upbringing melody of the song and the dark emptiness in Loki's heart are painfully opposite.

He sits there and listens to the whole song in silence, trying to milk some happiness out of it.

But they only manage to whisper along the last two lines, or an alteration of them. Just before he starts weeping at the tile floor until Thor finds him.

"We would name our children Jackie and Wilson, Raise 'em on rhythm and blues,"

[jeonggukingdom]

splinters of love • day X [myg]

pairing  ⟶ min yoongi x fem!Reader

summary  ⟶ a collection of drabbles (one for each day of April) based on prompts by an online prompts’ generator site. Specifically  ⟶  • day X ↳ in which you’re both single parents and your kids have turned into best friends in the past few weeks but your child is misbehaving again and Yoongi decides to make a comment on your parenting skills that may or may not break you down to tears. For which, he decides to make it up to you.

genre  ⟶ angst, fluff, parents!AU

rating  ⟶ G

word count ⟶ 1.901 words

warnings  ⟶ a little bit of angst because Yoongi doesn’t know how to phrase stuff, also Yoongi being an absolute heart-melting softie. Mentions of death and cheating.

series masterlist  ⟶ here  (links on mobile may not work, if you’re looking for all the works in this series, you can click on the “!splintersoflove” tag and you’ll find them all there!)

Suzy’s laugh is crystal clear as she runs after her friend Mina, her little arms outstretched to grab her, capture her and win the game and possibly claim the little toy in the other little girl’s grasp.

A small smile graces your lips as you watch her like this, all happy and carefree under the spring sun, her long raven hair swept away by the gentle breeze.

She looks so much like her father it hurts to look at her most of the times.

The thought of him turns your thoughts bitter, makes bile rise from your stomach up to your throat, almost making you gag onto thin air.

You are barely aware of the mellow voice talking to you, definitely not registering what he is saying but you know he is there, you can sort of feel the warmth of his body even though he is not even remotely close enough to do so.

You haven’t been with a man in four years, ever since he left you. You are touch-starved and the man standing right next to you has a charming smile, a softness to his features that makes your insides twitch every single time.

But you never let your gaze linger for too long. You can’t do relationships anymore, that is what you decided, and especially not with someone that has just as much, if not more, baggage as you do.

Min Yoongi has a soft smile on his lips and you hate how that brings heat to your cheeks as you meet his eyes and he tilts his head a little to the side.

Your kids have become friends pretty quickly and spending time together at the park as become something like a routine for the four of you and you are happy she has finally made a friend and that, well, she happens to be the daughter of a single father that at least can understand the struggles of being a single parent.

Sometimes you see the pain in his eyes, the worry reflected in those dark irises that in some occasions look so much like your own it startles you.

His pain, though, must be thousand times worse than yours. He lost his wife, the love of his life, in a tragic accident and he has been mourning her ever since.

You, on the other hand, have lost your love one to a younger and prettier girl.

You shift your gaze to your tangled fingers as thoughts of him start filling your head in a way that cuts your breath out of your lungs.

You are so engrossed in your own bitterness that you don’t see it happen, you only hear the aftermaths.

Suzy has not only reached Mina, she has pushed her down and stole her toy and sadly, it is not the first time this has happened.

You rush to them, try to pacify Mina while apologizing to Yoongi, your eyes stern on your own daughter.

She cries too in the aftermath of the mess that she created, hitting all your nerves in the right places.

It takes a few minutes to calm both of the kids down but when they are smiling again, it seems like nothing has happened and you watch your daughter grasp Mina’s hand and force her into a little jog that has them both giggle.

A soft sigh leaves your lips as you stand up, Yoongi still standing right next to you with a frown on his features.

“Sometimes I wonder if Suzy is just seeking some attention when she does stuff like this.”

It’s a simple comment yet it sends you reeling because it strikes a nerve, it cuts through an already open wound like a sharp knife and then it twitches and twitches inside of it until you are out of breath and on the verge of tears.

The thing is, when you were younger you used to say you didn’t want kids. Why? Because you didn’t think you’d be a good mother.

And now… now you know you aren’t a good mother, that you aren’t giving your daughter enough, that you are not enough.

Doesn’t matter how much you try, how much you read about being a parent it just doesn’t seem to work, it doesn’t seem to be enough.

You tried to be a stern parent, you tried to be a lenient one and nothing works and maybe Yoongi is right, you do not give your kid enough attention but how are you supposed to when you have a full time job and nobody to help you with her?

The tears break through your control before you can stop them and you hear Yoongi take in a sharp breath and then his feet move, slide across the gravel so that he can stand in front of you, peer inside your eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, did I cross a line? Of course I crossed a line I… I’m sorry I didn’t meant to,” he rambles, his voice soft as he looks at you in utter panic.

“It’s ok, it’s not your fault, it’s me.” The words tremble on the tip of your tongue, they come out as a strangled whisper and he grimaces at the pained expression you offer him, shaking your head as you try to gain some composure back.

Pathetic.

“I know I’m not a good mother,” you don’t know why you say it but you do and saying it out loud breaks your heart in thousand of pieces and before you can register what is happening, Yoongi’s hands are tenderly grasping your face so that you have no choice but look inside his eyes.

“No.” He says, firm, “That is not what I meant at all. You are a good mother, _______. But sometimes we are not enough because they only have us and they need both a father and a mother.”

He sighs as you nod your head in agreement because of course, you know this. But you can force your ex-boyfriend to be a father. You can’t if he doesn’t want to because even if you legally could, you don’t want to make Suzy feel like she’s a chore, like she’s unwanted. She deserves better than the hurt that would come from that.

“When Seohyun died I had no idea what to do with Mina, not a single clue. And I seek help. That’s what I wanted to suggest, _____.”

His true intentions sink in then and you ponder over them and you quickly realize that you need it. Hell, you need all the help in the bloody universe and so you nod your head, take the number he gives you almost in a trance and at the same time, you take up his offer of making it up to you over a cup of coffee.

It all happens in an instant and next thing you know, two weeks have passed, you’ve had your first session with the therapist and now you are standing in this Cafe waiting for him to show up.

You don’t know what to expect, you don’t know what this sort of date actually means and nervousness ties your guts into deep and convoluted knots.

But when he shows up and offers you one of his gummy smile, those insides seem to melt and you find yourself smiling for him, relaxing to the point you simply cannot stop talking.

You talk about Suzy, Mina, your therapy session, all the things you’ve learned already thanks to him, you talk about how hard it is to be alone in all of this, you talk about work and so many other things and time absolutely flies. So fast you don’t realize it’s getting dark until your phone chimes with an unread text and you glance towards it and notice how late it is.

“Would it be too out of line for me to walk you home?” Yoongi asks and you should definitely say yes and retreat before your heart starts beating all funny in your chest but you realize a little too late that it is already doing it.

So you say yes, against your better judgment, and he offers you one of those heart-melting smiles that has your lips turning upwards in return.

You walk in silence and it is comfortable, you walk side by side and his shoulder sometimes brushes against yours and even that, is comfortable. Familiar, in a way.

You feel like a teenager all over again and it is both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying because you are afraid of falling in love, of letting go and lose control because what if you get hurt again? What if you let a man inside your life and then he leaves you and Suzy behind as well? What happens then? How do you pick up the pieces of your heart and mend it back together alongside with the one of your daughter?

Your mind is reeling but when you come to a halt in front of your house, your resolve melts away the instant you turn to look at him and you find his soft eyes already fixed on you.

You should tell him goodbye, thank him for everything he has done for you so far and turn around, forget whatever this was but you don’t.

You don’t step back when he leans forward, you don’t stop him when he silently asks you with his eyes if he is going too far or not, you don’t push him off when his hand comes to caress your cheek and you don’t turn your head to the side when his lips come in contact with yours.

It happens so slowly and yet so fast at the same time and then your mind is spinning, spinning so fast you might actually be sick right here, right now.

But you don’t, oh no. You grasp his shirt, you pull him into you with a need that could only come after years of deprivation and he clings onto you just as badly, just as desperately until you are breathless, panting in each other faces with shock reflected in your eyes.

“Wow,” he whispers and you whisper it back, a shy smile on your lips as your eyes drift to the ground.

“I haven’t kissed anyone after Seohyun…” his voice trails off and your heart skips a beat.

“Me neither,” is your meek response and it makes him smile, nod his head a couple of times.

“I’m scared, Yoongi.” You admit after a few seconds and you expect him to laugh at you or maybe try to convince you that you shouldn’t but instead, he nods again and then sighs as if understanding where you’re coming from completely.

“I know,” he bites his bottom lip, his eyes closing for a second, “I feel it too. That and guilt for wanting to move on from her, to build another family without her. Frankly, I am terrified,” he laughs at his words, shakes his head and you instantly know he is talking about his daughter. Of course, your fears are mirrored inside his heart and mind too, how could they not?

“What do we do, then?” You ask in a soft whisper that sounds too hopeful to your own ears but that grants you a soft smile from his part.

“We take it one day at a time.”

And so you do.

Copyright © 2020 by jeonggukingdom. All rights reserved. Do not repost, do not steal, do not translate without consent.

[rachelalghul]

Damirae request

@ravenfan1242 sorry for the late post! Kinda had a writer’s block for this one,, hope you like this . Also this is only part 1. I just thought that writing everything in one post would be too long here 

[part 1]

-

Damian had always been the one to harass her verbally, like how could his brother take someone so dangerous into the Tower? He knew Dick’s got that thing where he always wanted to help someone vulnerable; call it a leadership act or whatever. Damian hated it. While Dick saw her as a vulnerable person in need of help, he saw her as a ticking bomb. She was a demon for god’s sake. A demon whose father wanted to wipe out planets for his own pleasure. A demon who could not even control her own powers without Dick’s help. Whenever she went haywire, Dick had to inject a sleeping liquid into her to calm down, and then he will carry her back to the Tower in the middle of a battle. Damian always felt that disgusted feeling in him whenever he saw how Dick cared for her, like she was something delicate that might break any second. Well, that wasn’t wrong. She really was a ticking bomb.

He hated how Dick never got mad at her for losing control in the middle of a battle. And he mostly did not like when Dick pat her head, dismissing her with a comforting smile and she would smile back, like she didn’t just put everyone’s life at risk. God, why couldn’t Dick see how terrible his decision was to take in Raven?

Damian watched his brother in front of him, reading his report on his patrol at the dining table. He heaved a sigh and Dick looked up from the paper, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Damian rolled his eyes and continued to prop his chin in his palm as he checked his phone for any important emails.

Dick put down Damian’s report and nodded, “Okay, I see everything is under control under your watch,”

Damian snorted, “Of course, I’m not a ticking bomb unlike someone else,”

By the time he said it, Raven had just entered the kitchen, and it was too late for him to do anything to take it back. Not like he cared if he hurt her feelings. Raven pretended not to hear what he said and proceeded to go to the fridge.

“Damian,” Dick called him with a warning tone with a glare.

He sat up straight and sighed, “What? Am I wrong? You always had to carry her out of the battlefield whenever she couldn’t control her powers. You do know that she’s putting everyone’s life at risk with her condition as a ticking bomb,”

“Dami—”

“I’m sorry,” Dick got cut off suddenly and both of them turned to her. She was holding an apple in her hands with her gaze down at the floor, “I’m sorry that I put everyone’s life at risk. But I just wanted to help—”

“You can help by not going onto the battlefield. Just stay at the Tower for fuck’s sake,”

“Damian stop,” Dick stood up from his stool. He ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. “Okay, for tonight’s patrol Raven is going to join you,”

Damian’s jaw dropped while Raven’s eyes widened at what Dick just said. Damian pointed at her with his index finger, “You want me to go with her? A fucking ticking bomb? On patrol?”

“Don’t call her that, Damian,” Dick glared at him.

“Fine, if you went haywire, I’m not going to help you,” Damian turned to her, “Figure it out yourself, I’m not going to help you like Dick does,”

And with that he left the kitchen with fast stomping steps. His anger was vibrating off him and he needed to release it on something. He needed to punch something. What he needed was a good punch. Hence the battle room was the place he went for.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Raven was cutting her apple with Dick tapping his foot on the floor anxiously watching her. He did not want Raven to go patrol with Damian yet. He wasn’t sure if Raven was ready yet to go into a potential battlefield without him around. But he couldn’t take his words back.

“Dick,” Raven called, turning around from cutting her apple into slices near the sink and sat in front of him at the island. “I’m going to be okay,”

“Huh?” He looked at her with a raised brow before realizing few seconds later that she could feel his anxiousness. She was an empath. He rubbed his neck awkwardly with a tight smile, “Sorry,”

“It’s okay, I don’t… I don’t have to use my powers on patrol, right? There is no fighting needed on patrol?” She tilted her head to the side while taking an apple slice into her mouth, her hoping violet eyes met his piercing blue eyes filled with worry.

“Mm, from Damian’s latest report, there isn’t anything going on for now,” he took one apple slice from her plate, which earned him a glare from her. He smiled eating it, “But we can’t be sure of everything. If you can, please avoid using your powers if something came in your way. Use your combat skills that I’ve been teaching you,”

She nodded her head slowly, gaze down, “Okay,”

Dick bit his lower lip before proceeding to pat her on her head softly, “You’ll be fine, Rae, I won’t let anything happen to you,”

-

Damian went ahead on patrol without waiting for her. He took his motorcycle and drove out on his own. Raven had to fly there on her own, which wasn’t so much a hustle, but it did kind of hurt her when he didn’t wait, though that was just how Damian was.

When she arrived, Damian was sitting on the edge of the building, looking down at the streets using his binoculars. He felt her presence but he couldn’t care less to apologize to her. 

Raven floated toward him, “Robin, why didn’t you wait for me?” 

“You were late and I’m not going to let the patrol start late just for you, am I?” He replied, his eyes were still in the binoculars looking around.

A soft sigh escaped her as she sat down next to him, looking down at the dark gloomy streets. She could see shady guys in hoodies were waiting in the corner, ready to mug innocent civilians. “Are we waiting for them to attack people?”

“What?” He looked at her and she pointed toward a dark corner that didn’t have any lights around. How could he not see three guys were hiding there? He had been looking around for fifteen minutes until Raven arrived and she noticed him the second she sat next to him?

“We’ll wait until someone approach the street,” he said, putting down his binoculars.He couldn’t see what face Raven was making under her hood and his jaw tightened. Was she making fun of him for not noticing three shady guys were hiding in the corner? Was she mocking him silently with a snicker? Was she questioning his ability as a Robin—

“Look, there’s one person walking into the alley,” Raven’s voice knocked him out of his thoughts and his gaze followed her finger.He saw one teenager walking into the alley with no idea what was about to happen to him.

 He stood up on the edge of the building, “You go take care of the civilian. I’ll deal with the guys,”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay against three guys?”Her question made his jaw ticked, and he clenched his fist, “I can handle three guys just fine,”

Damian rolled his eyes under his mask annoyingly before jumping off the building and landed smoothly on the big dumpster. He smirked while glancing at her for a second and went straight to the three guys.

Raven had a tight grimace on her face before she flew down toward the civilian and told him to use a safer street. After making sure the civilian was okay, she turned around to see Damian kicking one guy in the guts and punched another in the face. He barely dodged a blow from the third guy before he used his knee to knock the man’s jaw; he was thrown to the walls.

I should help

She thought for a mere second and floated toward him only to be stopped by his frustrated scream.

“You stay right there!” Damian threw the man to the floor by the collar of his hoodie. He glared straight into her eyes with menace, “Don’t try to help me.”

Raven bit her lower lip and slowly backed away. She stood next to the dumpster watching Damian fighting three guys alone, he seemed so…enthusiastic. Like he was enjoying every second hearing the pained grunts coming from the three men. Those three men were not a match for Damian alone. They had to have at least six or seven people to actually get him.

Her violet gaze followed Damian’s figure around, swinging his leg swiftly to the back of the knee, easily taking down a man. A sliver of light was reflected to her by the moonlight above them. Her eyes strained to look for the source and she gasped when she saw the hidden knife behind a man wearing a grey beanie over his bald head.

Her foot stepped into a puddle and Damian glanced to her briefly with a sharp gaze, “Don’t. Move.”

The moment his attention was drawn to her the man with the knife swing his right arm toward his guts. Damian panicked as he didn’t have much time to dodge. He moved to the side but the man had another knife in his left hand and went straight to his stomach.

Raven quickly stepped in and threw a bolt of her dark magic toward the man and blast him away. Blood dripped from Damian’s stomach and she saw it was only a graze from the knife. Her timing was barely quick enough to avoid more fatal injury.

“Are you okay?” Raven asked him with worry slashed shock in her voice. Her eyes scanned around for more injury and sighed in relief when she checked he only had one injury. Though, losing blood a lot wasn’t good.

“Move,” Damian pushed her to the side harshly and landed a punch against the last man who was going to stab her with a knife.

Her eyes widened when Damian was stabbed instead. He successfully knocked down the man, but he still got injured in the end. More blood gushing out of his guts and he fell to his knee with a rough grunt. His hand holding tight against his bloody guts.

“Damian!” Raven quickly knelt down beside him and touched his hand.

He flinched from her and hissed, “Don’t touch me,”

She swallowed her hurt emotion in and said, “Let’s heal you first,”

Slowly, she took a deep breath while closing her eyes and let it out with the same motion. Her attention was focused on his bloody hand. Under his glaring gaze, she tried to not be shaken by it and her hand moved to his hand. She tried her luck again and gently touched him to move his hand away from the bloody skin. Surprisingly he didn’t slap her hand away; she had to look up to his face to check him. He was breathing hard and probably almost losing his consciousness.

Ah, that’s why

Raven took a deep breath again and palmed the bloody injury, feeling the wet warm liquid against her skin. She focused on her hand and her power was coming out like a light bulb flickering before it died.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Damian asked, breathlessly, his green eyes focused on. He couldn’t really move his limbs now, also, being touched by her didn’t actually feel bad. Ugh

Her violet gaze focused again on her hand with her lips pursed in determination. She wasn’t going to let Damian lose his blood to death, no matter how many times he had hurt her verbally.

Damian was about to push her away when he felt the sudden feeling of his pain fading away. His eyes widened slightly watching her small hand surrounded by black aura on his stomach. His eyes turned to her to see she was pursing her lips tightly in pain. Sweats running down the side of her face, her eyes shutting tight every few seconds.

Is she taking my pain?

Raven pulled her hand away and looked up into his green eyes, “Do you feel any pain?”

Nothing. He felt nothing down his stomach. As if he was never stabbed in the first place. “No,”

She sighed with a soft smile. The smile that she had always showed to Dick. “Good,” and few seconds after that she passed out on the ground next to him.

“Raven!”

-

part 2 is coming in maybe a few days

[crocodilenialledfics]

story page // masterlist // wattpad

join the taglist

Six: You could bring the devil to his knees

word count: 5299

warnings: contains swearing, mentions of violence, sexual content, and drug use 

“Always with this midtown shit,” Luca mocked. “What, Brooklyn isn’t good enough for you?”

“Actually it’s not,” Rosalind agreed, eyes flicking to Niall’s. “Brooklyn is boring and I’ve got to get my thrills some how since I’m not allowed to do my fucking job.”

Niall gave her a subtle smirk, the one that gave Rosalind flashbacks to when he’d find himself between her legs, looking up at her with his devilish grin. Rosalind could kill him, looking at her that way with so many people around.

“And who’s this dickhead you’re getting your thrills from?” Luca demanded, hands on his hips. “Since it’s some big secret.”

“Just an asshole from Brooklyn,” Rosalind told him, the nonchalance in her voice made Niall chuckle, turning toward the door.

Rosalind’s recovery was slow and painful, but worst of all, it was boring. She’d spent weeks in bed, hardly able to even sit up. As her wound healed, another one grew. Niall was twisting the knife in her gut with each passing moment they spent together. 

The softness he offered her in touches and kisses. It was enough to open Rosalind up from the inside out. She’d craved it, touches like that, her whole life. She was never a child, not even when she was one. She’s never gotten the softness. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Niall had been coming around the shop more and more. It aggravated her, the way him and Luca got along. The laughs and jokes they shared, Rosalind wanted to burst both of their bubbles.

She wouldn’t, though. Her anger management was a challenge and she’d admit that to no one. The self control was hard, she learned. Rosalind’s favorite thing was instant gratification and anything that didn’t give her that sent her into a fit that ruined a lot of good things. 

Every day was a challenge for Rosalind but she was grateful to be back at work, mind occupied on other things. Luca held Rosalind back, making sure she didn’t dive in head first like she usually did. 

“I can go with you to Roger’s,” Rosalind murmured, arms crossing over her chest as she looked at all the eyes on her. The ones she didn’t want to see were Niall’s. 

Their deal with Rogers included both Rosalind and Niall. A loan taken out on both of their accounts. Rogers was notorious for pulling stunts which is why Luca was going in her place. It didn’t make her any less mad.

“It’s better that you just stay here,” Luca explained, tugging his jacket on. “Don’t want anything to happen to you, Roz.” 

“So I’m just supposed to sit around here all day doing absolutely nothing?” Rosalind demanded, eyes flicking between Niall and Luca, almost daring them to speak.

“The last time you went, things got physical,” Niall responded, and unsureness to his voice. Rosalind wished he wouldn’t of said that because was there a logical reason he would know that? 

“Yeah you had those bruises for weeks, Roz,” Luca added. “Just sit this one out, please?” 

Rosalind would be lying if she said collecting the money owed to her wasn’t her favorite part. The rush she got from every situation was what she lived for, what got her here in the first place. 

“You’re no good to us if you’re dead,” Luca told her, looking up at her from across the room. “Then I’ll be in charge? Or even worse, Gio? Nah, Roz. No one does this better than you.”

“Fine,” Rosalind conceded, sitting down at the desk. “Don’t fuck this up,” she warned. “Get the money and leave. He’s a sick fuck, likes to talk and shit. Don’t buy into it or else next thing you know, you’ve put down 10 large on some bogus stock that’ll go under before you walk out the door.”

Niall watched Rosalind, the offhanded way she mentioned it all. He thought he should be scared, the way she calculated everyone and everything. No less, it was a person she’d spent less than a couple hours with, tops. 

“Did you hear me?” Rosalind asked, pulling Niall from his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” Niall nodded. 

“Okay,” Rosalind muttered. “If I’m not here when you get back it means I’m in midtown. Staying up there a few days, I think.”

“Always with this midtown shit,” Luca mocked. “What, Brooklyn isn’t good enough for you?” 

“Actually it’s not,” Rosalind agreed, eyes flicking to Niall’s. “Brooklyn is boring and I’ve got to get my thrills some how since I’m not allowed to do my fucking job.”

Niall gave her a subtle smirk, the one that gave Rosalind flashbacks to when he’d find himself between her legs, looking up at her with his devilish grin. Rosalind could kill him, looking at her that way with so many people around. 

“And who’s this dickhead you’re getting your thrills from?” Luca demanded, hands on his hips. “Since it’s some big secret.”

“Just an asshole from Brooklyn,” Rosalind told him, the nonchalance in her voice made Niall chuckle, turning toward the door. 

“Well why don’t you bring him ‘round,” Luca offered. “Wanna shake his hand for puttin up with you and your volatile mood swings.” 

“He’s awfully busy,” Rosalind assured them, sitting down at the desk. “Now get the fuck out of here before Rogers gets pissed. Remember what I said.”

Rosalind watched the two of them walk out, knowing full well they were trouble put together. She knew Luca would come back later talking about what a guy Niall was and Rosalind would hate it. She wouldn’t say anything, though. 

There was no logical reason to hate Niall so vehemently. He was a good guy, a strong head on his shoulders, and he was honest and loyal. Thus, the perfect man, a man she could be proud of. All of that, though, Rosalind wasn’t quite ready to talk about nor admit aloud. 

She settled for keeping her lips sealed, finishing the little bit of desk work she had before traipsing off to midtown like she’d said. Her gut told her Niall would be around soon, mouth moving a million miles a minute. Rosalind was waiting for him, too, hoping he’d come. 

Rosalind found herself stuck in the hallway outside of her door, talking to Tony. She felt trapped in the small talk, wanting to escape it all. She went out to walk around the city a bit, grab a magazine or two and tony caught her on her floor. It’s like he always knew. 

“I hear you’ve got a man,” Tony told her, a ring to his voice that annoyed her. 

“That’s quite personal,” Rosalind told him, shifting on her feet. “And I don’t want to be disturbed. It’s been a long couple of months for me I need to-“

“Oh fuck!” Tony exclaimed. “Yeah, you got shot outside Al’s. I heard about that. Everything okay with that?” 

“Fine,” Rosalind nodded. “Everything is fine.” 

“Well alright,” Tony nodded. “Call if you need anything.” 

Rosalind slipped away from him, into her room, feeling relieved. She grabbed the bottle of wine, her magazines and went into the bathroom where she started the bath. 

Rosalind was never big on baths. She lacked the time and patience. Since her recovery, it was one of the best parts of her night. It helped with the anger, sitting and thinking alone. She did believe it would.  

Through her therapy, Rosalind realized her anger came from within, at the lack of time she had for herself. At first, she thought it was a crock, but after re-examining her life, there was truth to it all. 

Rosalind was well into her soak when she heard the door snick closed. “Roz,” Niall called out. “It’s me.” 

Rosalind didn’t respond, head turning to the door. Niall appeared in the doorway, though. Knuckles bloody, a gash on his cheek and Rosalind swore she’d kill Roger’s the next time she saw him. 

“Fuck,” Rosalind mumbled. 

“Well I laughed at an inappropriate time,” he declared, leaning against the doorway. “And I almost cant blame him for it. Hurts like a bitch, though.” 

“Laughing isn’t a reason to fuck up someone’s face,” Rosalind muttered, sitting up, water sloshing around her. 

“It is when you’re psychotic,” Niall chuckled, sitting down beside the tub. “I’m just glad you didn’t go.” 

Rosalind wished she would’ve been there to get her hands on him. He was one of the names on her list of people that had it out for her. She wouldn’t put it past him, the way he always played dirty. 

“Anyways,” Niall mumbled, head leaning back against the wall. “That fucker downstairs, Tony. Almost got into a fistfight with him. Trying to tell me you weren’t expecting anyone. I said our rule is I tell ya her name and number and come up but the prick pushed me so I punched him. I told him if he ever put his hands on me again, I’d make a hero outta him.” 

“Fuck,” Rosalind laughed, shaking her head. “It’s like you always have to cause a scene.” 

“It’s ridiculous that everyone wants to test me,” he muttered. “And keep me from you? Yeah fuckin right. The traffic was shit on the bridge and then they try to tell me I can’t come up. No fuckin way.” 

Rosalind chuckled at that, shifting back, knees bent. She let out a breath, eyes fluttering a bit. Niall watched her, eyes gazing over the sharpness of her neck, just picturing the skin beneath the water. There was no one he’s ever wanted more. At any given moment, it was safe to say that he wanted her. Bad. 

“But you know that tony guy?” Niall asked, further pressing the subject. 

“Yeah we dated in high school,” Rosalind murmured, sliding her feet until her toes poked out of the water. “Nothing major. Every time I come he tries a bit too hard.” 

“There’s a million decent hotels around here if he’s a problem, why do you still come here?” Niall asked, waiting for her to say the words he wanted to hear. A confession of some type.  

“Some of the guys come here,” Rosalind shrugged. “It’s good for business. And close to the casino. Lots of famous faces walk through here.”

“I know but why do you come?” Niall asked, the emphasis on her making her eyes flick to his. 

After a long moment, Rosalind finally answered him. “Tony and I loved each other. Or so he thought. After high school I was lined up to work odd jobs for my father’s friends and tony was going off to community college. The thought of it made me sick. I hated it. The college thing. Tony’s dad was best friends with my dad and it didn’t make sense how he didn’t want to be just like his father. We fought, I punched him, we broke up.” 

Niall hummed, not giving her a sound response to what she shared. It wasn’t as bad as he feared. He thought maybe Tony and her were close the way Niall and her were close or a million other things that ended with Rosalind in bed with someone that wasn’t him. 

“What?” Rosalind asked, at the way he was staring so hard at her. It made her uncomfortable for a number of reasons. 

“Nothing,” Niall shook his head, a set of words that would surely get him a black eye on the tip of his tongue. “You guys fuck still?” 

“No,” Rosalind responded, annoyed but not angry. That’s how he knew it was the truth. Her anger came when she tried to lie or mask her feelings in a way that was impossible. 

“You fuck anyone?” Niall asked, eyes focused on her face. “Else,” he added. 

Rosalind met his eyes, eyebrows furrowing. “So if I answer that and ask you the same you’ll tell me the truth?” 

“Yeah,” Niall responded. “I would.”

“Okay well before I answer, you should know that about a month ago, Lanzo saw you hanging around with some guys from Ralph’s in the back room at that club on west. Some blonde girl all over you,” Rosalind told him. 

“That was...” Niall trailed off, a loss of words. 

“That was whatever,” Rosalind finished for him. “And I don’t care who you fuck around with but to come around here asking what I do in the time that I’m not with you isn’t any of your fucking business. If you asked to start a new fight with me, don’t. I’m tired.”

“I just wanted to know,” Niall explained, voice quiet. “That was like a one time thing, though. We just did like hands stuff, you know.” 

“I don’t care what you did,” Rosalind laughed, standing up. She unplugged the drain, and grabbed her towel off the rack. Niall’s eyes followed her. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.”

“Well I don’t fuck anyone else,” Niall told her. “Haven’t in a while.” 

Rosalind didn’t answer him, stepping out of the tub. She dried herself off, tugging her robe on. Niall followed her into the room, watched her push the balcony doors open to let the cool air in. She leaned down, pulling a baggy out of her suitcase, a couple blunts. 

Niall followed her out onto the balcony, dying for her answer. Rosalind sat down, picking up her lighter to light the blunt. Niall watched her, blunt between her lips, lighter in hand. What he’d give to have her like this forever. 

Only when she took a hit of the blunt did she finally answer him, passing it his way. “I don’t know what answer you want from me, but even if it is the one you want to hear, it isn’t because of what you think.”

“Okay,” Niall responded, almost dumbly. 

“I don’t fuck anyone else. I haven’t since we started doin this,” Rosalind told him, relaxing against the chair. “Fucking more than one person is confusing and messy and quite frankly, it’s disgusting. Just thinking about where your fingers have been is enough to make me want to throw up. So don’t tell me what you’ve been doing. I don’t want to know.”

“I told you I don’t fuck anyone else,” Niall argued. 

“Okay,” Rosalind retorted, rolling her eyes. “If that’s the story you’re sticking to.” 

Niall didn’t respond, passing her the blunt. Rosalind took a slow inhale, eyes fluttering. She let out a breath, passing it back to him, “gonna fuck me after this?”

“Dunno have to see if my other girlfriend- the blonde one is busy later or not. If she’s busy then yeah.” 

“That’s a sound way to get yourself a broken jaw,” Rosalind told him, shaking her head. “I might be in anger management but I still have a right hook that’ll make your head spin ‘round your neck like the cartoons.” 

Niall let out a chuckle, taking a hit. He handed it back to her, declaring, “that’s enough for me.”

Rosalind hummed, eyelids already a bit heavy. “Fuck, okay,” she murmured. “You ever thought about fucking out here?” 

Niall’s eyebrows raised, looking around the city skyline around them. Anyone could see them sitting there. If things weren’t so secret, he’d think about it. Niall let out a chuckle, standing up, “okay come on Roz.” 

Rosalind followed him back inside where he took his clothes off until he was underwear clad, pushing her onto the bed. Her robe fell open and Niall smirked down at her, finger slipping inside of her. 

“I don’t wanna be on the bottom tonight,” Rosalind told him, spreading her legs for him. She let her finger drift down, pressing at her clit. Niall watched her, not having it in him to tell her to stop. Seeing Rosalind touch herself turned him on in ways he didn’t think possible. 

“Keep touching yourself,” Niall told her, finding himself ducked down between her legs, watching her body move. 

“Really,” she mumbled at how boring that was. She wanted his mouth, or fingers on her. 

“Yeah it’s hot,” Niall told her, spreading her folds with his fingers. 

“Was hoping you’d put your mouth on me,” Rosalind told him, fingers disappearing as she sat up. 

“Don’t feel like it,” Niall told her, shrugging as he sat up. “You can ride my thigh, though.” 

“Don’t wanna ride your thigh, wanna ride your dick,” Rosalind told him, shrugging her robe all the way off her body. 

“Guess we’re at odds, then,” he shrugged, eyes trailing over her body. 

“So this is a negotiation,” Rosalind chuckled, nodding. “What is it that you want?” 

“I want you to make yourself cum,” he told her nudging her leg with his knee. “By yourself. Just want to watch you.” 

“That’s quite boring,” Rosalind answered. “It’s not even like I have any toys to make it fun. Just me and my fingers? Boring.”

“So?” 

“So save that for a rainy day,” Rosalind offered. “Back at my place.”

“Fine,” Niall gave in. “New negotiation. I wanna do anal.”

“Do you have any lube?” Rosalind asked, eyebrows raising, knowing full well that he didn’t. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, collapsing on the bed beside her. 

“Jesus,” Rosalind laughed, falling back on the bed. 

“Okay let me try to tie you up again,” Niall offered, appearing over her face, eyebrows furrowed. “No cheating this time.” 

“Then don’t tease me,” Rosalind retorted. “I hate to be teased.” 

“Just let me edge you a couple of times,” Niall offered, already working the belt out of the robe she was wearing. 

“No way,” Rosalind mumbled, shifting on the bed to sit up on her elbows. “No edging.” 

“Just one time,” Niall offered. “Come on, baby,” he honeyed, head tilting to the side. “Wanna see you begging for it. Close to the edge, crying out because you want it so badly. Sensitive skin all over, just begging for me to touch you.”

“No,” Rosalind breathed out, but her cheeks flushed thinking about it. 

“Ya sure?” He asked, eyebrow raising as he looked down at her. “Looks like maybe you want it too, Roz.”

“I might be convinced,” Rosalind offered. “After you kiss me a while.”

Niall let out a chuckle, nodding. “Come ‘ere.” 

Rosalind found herself straddling him to where her wet center rubbed against his underwear clad cock. She’d barely done anything and Niall was already breathless. 

“You’re the one that needs edged,” Rosalind told him, thumb brushing over his bottom lip as she rolled her hips against his. His eyes fluttered and he chuckled. 

“Maybe in the morning,” Niall offered, fingers wrapping around her hips, to grind her against him. 

Rosalind caught his lips in a desperate kiss, moaning against him. Niall licked into her mouth, the sounds sending him into a spiral. Rosalind began to think about a morning with him, what that meant. It was a passing thought, letting it leave her mind as fast as it entered. 

Niall kissed Rosalind until they were both breathless, panting against each other. It was hot and wet and with anyone else, she probably would have thought it was repulsive. With Niall, she was so desperate for more. A harder, messier, dirtier kiss with desperate hips brushing against each other. 

It felt like hours before Niall pulled away for good grabbing her wrists between them to tie them up. This time, the knots were tight leaving her no room to wiggle or move. Rosalind gave him a pout, looking up at him. 

Niall didn’t give in, nodding toward the bed. “Lay down, then.”

Rosalind let out a heavy sigh, licking her lips. She looked down at the bed, nodding slowly, “alright. Fine. But I’d like for it to be known that I won’t enjoy any second of this.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy a lot of seconds of this,” Niall told her, watching her lay down. He spread her legs wide putting her in full view. 

Niall started slow, kissing at her thighs open mouth kisses that had Rosalind sighing out. Without warning, one finger inside of her. Rosalind clenched around him, pulling him in and he almost called the whole thing off, ready to take her from behind. 

“Roz, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her clit. “You’re so tight. Know you’re trying to tease me.” 

“I’d never,” Rosalind murmured to the ceiling, eyes shut. It was in her nature to tease, though. 

Niall didn’t tease Rosalind this time, beginning the assault on her most sensitive spots. He licked at her clit, reveling in the way her body moved. 

Rosalind’s legs spread wide, gasping out his name. It was music to his ears. One finger inside of her, and Rosalind groaned, the trench of it. It felt like forever since she’s had him. Two fingers in, and Rosalind writhed against the bed. 

Niall’s tongue on her clit, the constant pressure and the slow stretch of his fingers inside of her had her a mess on the sheets. She moaned, back arching off the bed. Niall’s hand on her stomach kept her grounded, hips pressing against the bed. 

Niall’s mind raced with thoughts about being the only person to have her in this way. He was the only one with his lips wrapped around her clit, fingers curling inside of her to make her gasp. It was just his. 

Niall ground his own hips against the bed, seeking some relief. He was painfully hard, humming against her dewy skin. Rosalind let out a particularly loud moan, thighs beginning to shake and that’s when he pulled away, sitting up to watch her. 

Rosalind let out a breath, looking down at him. She was unimpressed, he could tell. Rosalind dropped her legs to the bed, eyes slipping shut. “I hate you, for this,” she mumbled.  

“I’m sure,” Niall agreed, crawling up her body to kiss at her neck until he met her lips. He kissed her bruised lips, careful not to touch a single part of her body. 

Rosalind was desperate for it, though, hands sliding down to palm at his hard cock. Niall chuckled against her lips, pulling away. “What’re you playing at?” 

“Think I wanna suck you off,” Rosalind told him, eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t that weird.” 

“For you, yeah,” he chuckled, sitting back. “Ya want to, though?” 

“I think so,” Rosalind murmured, letting out a sigh. 

Niall hummed, licking his lips. “Alright, lover. On your knees.” 

Rosalind let out another heavy sigh, sitting up. She got onto the floor, situating herself on her knees, hands falling to her lap. Niall palmed himself, just looking at her. Her red cheeks, puffy lips. She’s never looked so good. 

Niall scoffed forward, shoving his underwear down over his knees. Rosalind looked up at him, shaking her head. “This is gonna be hard, you know. Might need some help.” 

“I’ll help,” Niall told her, pushing the hair from her eyes. “Long as you’re a good girl.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes at him, letting out a laugh. “Don’t push it.” 

Niall laughed, shrugging his shoulders. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Niall reached around, gathering her black hair into his hand. Rosalind sat up, eyelashes fluttering at him. Niall let out a groan, wrapping his hand around himself, “swear you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Roz.”

“Why is it that you’re only nice and sweet when I’m about to suck you off?” Rosalind asked, shaking her head. “Seems suspicious to me.”

“I decline to comment,” Niall told her, tightening his grip in her hair. “Open up, would ya.” 

Rosalind pursed her lips for a moment, holding back her eye roll. She licked her lips, straightening up, eyes on Niall’s. She let out a breath, opening her mouth. Niall gave her his smirk, resting the tip of his cock on her lips. 

The whole thing had Rosalind aching between her legs. Niall guiding her along, one hand in her hair, the other on his cock. Rosalind had to close her eyes, a moan falling from her mouth as she took him in deeper. Just the weight of him on her tongue. 

“Good girl,” Niall grunted out, eyes glued to her face. “Fuck, Roz. That’s it.” 

Rosalind hollowed her cheeks out, eyes pinched shut as they began to water. She took him down though, until he hit the back of her throat. Niall cursed under his breath, hips stuttering. 

Niall could count on one hand the amount of times Rosalind had sucked him off and each time left his mind in a haze. This was no exception. Rosalind bobbed her head until Niall pulled her off, groaning as he did. 

Rosalind wiped the back of her mouth with her bound wrist, eyebrows furrowed. “Why’d you stop?” 

“Didn’t wanna cum,” he told her, watching her with an intent that should have made her nervous. “Can’t decide what I want to do.” 

Rosalind let out an unimpressed sigh, sitting back on her haunches. “This is why you’re never in charge.” 

“Well fuck me, Roz. You’ve said no to everything I wanna do,” Niall grunted, shoulders falling as he looked down at her. 

“How’s about you untie me,” Rosalind smiled, head tilting to the side. “And let me ride you.” 

“Roz we get it. You have thighs of steel. You can ride dick long after I cum. No need to show off all the damn time,” Niall mocked, pulling her up to her feet by the wrists. 

Niall pulled her in for a kiss, hands gripping her hips. Rosalind kissed him back feverishly, desperate for something. Anything. The kiss didn’t last very long. Niall pulled away, licking his lips. “Okay, Roz. Hands and knees.”

“Niall,” she all but whined. 

“You said I was in charge,” he argued, eyebrows raising. 

“But...” she trailed off, shoulders falling. “I hate it like that.”

“Why?” He laughed. 

“I can’t see you,” she explained, a softness fo her voice that made Niall ache. 

“That why you like to ride me?” He asked, already beginning to change his mind.  

“I like it when you watch me,” she told him, just dying to kiss him, the way he was looking at her. 

With a flutter of her eyelashes, Rosalind has changed his mind. Niall’s back hit the headboard just as Rosalind straddled him, her wet center brushing over his hard cock. Niall groaned at that, gripping her hips. 

“You gonna untie me?” Rosalind asked. 

“In your dreams,” Niall murmured, pulling her in for a kiss. Rosalind rolled her hips against his and he groaned. 

“Come on Niall,” she whispered, nosing along his jaw. “Get the condom.”

“Lover,” he said, “I’m not going to cum in you, if that’s what you think. We’re just getting started.”

Rosalind watched him, not believing it. He lifted her hips just enough to slip inside of her. The air left her lungs just as Niall groaned, eyes slipping shut. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed out. “You feel so good.”

Rosalind let out a moan, as Niall lifted her hips again, getting them into a rhythm. Niall kissed at Rosalind’s neck, teeth scraping against her throat. She felt seconds away from cumming. It was all so overwhelming. The intimacy. The teeth on her neck. Rosalind cried out and Niall pulled her off of him. 

“Niall,” she begged, chest heaving. “Please. I feel like I’m dying.” 

“You’re not dying,” he murmured against her neck. He slid his finger between her legs, thumbing over her clit. “What is it you were working? Delayed gratification.”

“Not like this,” she whispered, eyes slipping shut, as a moan escaped her lips. “I’m hating every second of this.”

“Your moans sound an awful lot like enjoying,” he teased, sliding his hand over her hips. “I’m thinking of all the ways to get you back for all the times you‘ve kicked me out of your place.”

Rosalind breathed out a laugh, shaking her head, “not fair. I’ll never get to cum.”

Niall smiled above her, letting out his own laugh. Without a warning, Niall lifted her hips again, sliding inside of her. Rosalind moaned, stretching around him as she bottomed out. 

Niall caught her lips in a kiss. It was wet and messy and it had Rosalind groaning against his lips. She wanted more more more. Her hands on him, to feel him everywhere. She whined against his lips, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry. 

“Niall,” she begged, pulling away. “Please,” she whispered, a tenderness to her voice that he’d never heard before. “Please, I need to cum so badly. Please.”

Niall’s nose brushed against hers as he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. She whimpered against his lips, eyes stinging. Niall pulled away, telling her, “lay down on your back.”

“Niall,” she whined, teetering on the edge of anger. 

“Easy, tiger,” he murmured, tapping her on the bum. “I need to get a condom.”

Rosalind let out an unsatisfied groan, disentangling herself from him. She laid down while Niall got off the bed, searching his pants pocket for a condom. 

Rosalind let her hands slip between her legs. She rubbed herself against her palm, letting out a sigh of relief. Niall pushed her hand away, straddling her, knees on either side of her thighs. “Roz, stop it,” he said, opening the condom. 

“You’re an asshole,” she said, unable to help herself. 

“I know,” Niall chuckled, shaking his head. “And you’re a brat.”

“Can you let me cum now?” She asked, feeling herself calm down, the closer they were.  

“Maybe,” he nodded. 

“Can you untie me too?” She asked sweetly, eyelashes fluttering.  

“Afraid not,” he shook his head. 

“I wanna touch you,” Rosalind begged, holding up her wrists as if to prove it. “Wanna pull your hair and wrap my hands around your throat. I wanna grab your ass and-and leave scratches on your shoulders.”

Rosalind could tell Niall was teetering on the edge. He was going to give in. Rosalind wrapped her hands around his hard cock and he let out a breath, eyes fluttering. “Please,” she whispered, breathy and soft. 

“I hate you,” he mumbled, grabbing her wrists. He pushed her hands away. “Arms over your head.”

Rosalind groaned, lifting her arms nonetheless. Niall slid the condom over his aching cock, spreading her legs just enough to slide inside of her. Rosalind moaned, back arching slightly as she wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer. 

“Baby,” he murmured, nosing along her jaw. “Feel so good.”

All Rosalind could do was moan, pleasure coursing through her. She was desperate for relief after all the teasing he’d done. It was clear Niall was just as desperate, the way he he fucked into her good and hard. 

Rosalind was once again reminded that there would be no one after him that could compare. Her orgasm crashed over her in a sharp gasp and curling toes. Niall was right along with her, teeth barred against her shoulder. 

Niall collapsed beside her, tossing the condom into the waste basket. Rosalind let out a disgruntled sigh, rolling onto her side. “Niall,” she grunted. “Can you untie me?”

“Shit,” Niall laughed, sitting up on his elbows. “Sorry. Forgot.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, extending her bound wrists toward him. Niall untied her, setting her sore wrists free. She couldn’t find it in herself to be angry about the marks left in her skin just yet. 

The urge overwhelmed her, so Rosalind kissed him, hands tangling in his hair to tug just enough to Niall’s breath to hitch in the back of his throat. It took everything in her not to press herself against him and rut just a little bit. 

That must have been character growth on Rosalind’s end, that she didn’t want to get him back. Niall, unwitting, was amused about her eager kiss. He let his hand slide down the curve of her back to settle at the bottom of her spine. The other, he pushed Rosalind’s sticky hair from her forehead. “Thanks,” he said. 

“Wasn’t easy letting you do that,” she told him, eyelashes fluttering at the softness of his touch. 

“I know,” he chuckled. “Did you enjoy it, though?”

“The ending, yeah,” Rosalind laughed, letting herself lay down beside him, just for a second. “In between stuff... not so sure.” 

“I enjoyed all of it,” Niall declared, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Favorite part was when you said please.”

“don’t go telling anyone that I said please,” Rosalind warned, sitting up. She tugged her robe on, standing up. “I’ll have no street cred.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Niall murmured, watching her walk off to the bathroom. This Rosalind was just for him to see.

//

taglist: @swasanfrancisco​ @halluciniall​ @coconutdawn​ @exoticniall​ @missy14us​

[stonebreakerseries]

Aftermath (Adiran and Riin)

So this started as a sappy meme prompt about two people touching forward and the stubborn one whispering ‘I missed you’, then turned into a 2200 word monster. Because apparently I have no chill. Who knew.

This is quite spoilery, so if anyone cares about that, read at your own risk!

                                    -------------------

Everything had happened too quickly. Too quickly for Adiran to pause and think. Too quickly for his mind to catch up with what he was seeing, yet alone what he was doing. Now, as waves beat against the ship’s hull, the lights of Vetrose grew smaller and smaller until they were no more than pinpricks on the horizon. Hundreds of tiny, earth-bound stars. All his life, Adiran had never seen those lights slip into the distance like that. It had always been the other way around; always been the lights of Talvera’s capital rising to meet him as he returned from a day on the road, lanterns bleeding life into streets and windows.  

Would he ever see those lights again?

Movement to his right caught his attention. Riin was sweating, his skin ashen, his body wracked with tremors. He was trying to heal. Or at least, that’s what Adiran assumed was happening. He didn’t know enough about the Kyriin, yet alone the black-eyed krea morei, to say for certain. All he knew was that Riin had burned through what little strength he had left during their escape from the palace. Divider, just thinking about how close they had come to being caught sent a chill down Adiran’s spine. If he hadn’t called in his favour with Crosus - if the Northerner hadn’t come through for them and carried Riin from the upper city to the docks - they might not have made it at all. 

A familiar sensation, like a hand closing around his throat, sent his heart into a stammer. With a shaky gasp, Adiran reached up, knotting his fingers in his sweat-damp hair. Stop it. You idiot. You’re out. No one caught you. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine.

For now.

Deep down, Adiran knew that the King and Queen would hunt for them. Try to spin their escape as some kind of kidnapping; anything not to lose face in the spiteful eye of the court. But there was more to it than that. A missing prince warranted a bitter, desperate search - one that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. The fact that they were actually after Riin didn’t matter. All Talvera would see were two panicked parents. Not monsters chasing what he had stolen from them. 

No. 

The thought - that single word - arrived so hard and so bitter that Adiran could taste it on his tongue. No. He hadn’t stolen a damn thing. They had no contract. No claim. No right to Riin, as man or soldier or prisoner. No one did. 

I should have seen him off. I should have insisted. Made sure he...

Guilt, like a restless snake, twisted inside Adiran, hollowing out a pit in his stomach. Divider, he’d let a full season pass in a self-absorbed haze, barely looking up from his own loneliness. If he’d just been paying attention, he might have realised something wasn’t right. He might have been able to...

A soft groan, lower than the protests of the ship’s aging wood, pulled Adiran from his thoughts. He looked up, heart stammering to a near-halt as he leaned over the makeshift bed. Hope, like baited breath, knotted at the back of his throat. 

“Riin?”

The Kyriin’s brow was tense; a furrowed echo of a deeper pain. Agony was etched in every line of his face; every clenched muscle. In any other moment, Adiran might have taken him for having a bad dream. A true, burning nightmare. 

Maybe he was. Certainly no one would blame him. 

“Hey…” Adiran hated the way he sounded. Hated the way his voice felt so hollow. Uncertain. Afraid. Weak. But instead of flinching from it like a hand from a flame, he forced himself to move closer. To reach out and rest his hand over Riin’s. “Can you hear me?”

Adiran knew it was a long-shot. Even before, back in the palace undercroft, Riin’s lucidity had been a short-lived, flickering thing, erratic as a candle on a windowsill. Divider, Adiran would never forget the way Riin had looked at him, when he’d forced his way through the cell door. His eyes, framed by dark circles and bled half-way black, had seared into him like hot iron. Thick blood, dark as pitch, was dried in layers on his skin; had soaked into his ruined clothes. It was impossible to tell how long it had been there. 

Adiran wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, when he hit the bottom of those uneven stairs. All he knew for certain was that, after that heart-stopping moment of recognition, Riin had hated him. 

And he’d had every reason to.

Sitting there, his hand a feeble warmth against Riin’s icy skin, a new fear slowly crawled its way up from the bottom of Adiran’s chest. In the frantic mess of unlocking chains and checking wounds, Riin had clearly set aside any mistrust for a chance at freedom, no matter how slim. Even if came at the hands of someone he despised. The entire time, he’d barely spoken to Adiran. But the first words he’d said had been a knife to the gut. 

So, it was all true. He’d gave a bitter laugh. Or was it broken? I wondered how long it would take for them to send you here.

He should have said something. Thinking back, he needed to have said something. But he hadn’t. In the moment, he’d been too focused on escape. Too terrified that Lirea would betray him, and the palace guard would come flooding in like rats to a carcass. There hadn’t been time for reassurances, or the truth, or---

“You’re... hurt...”

Adiran jolted, nearly losing his balance between the narrow crate and the uncertain sway of the ship. Riin’s voice was raw, ragged from screaming his pain and fury to unfeeling stone. The words were barely able to cross the narrow distance between them. He was awake, watching him feverishly, one eye a clear amber, the other drenched in shadow. A dark stain, like spilled ink, spread from the inner corner to the furthest edge of his iris.

There he was, with one foot in the grave, worrying about everyone but himself.

“What? Are you s---” To Adiran’s surprise, his voice hitched. Once the shock had passed, he cleared his throat sharply. “Are you serious? Fuck how I am. I’m nothing. I’m fine. I’m…” Slowly, he realised that Riin’s eyes had drifted down to where their hands were resting, one atop the other. Without intending to, Adiran’s fingers had somehow managed to avoid the ruined skin ringing Riin’s wrist. In a rush, he realised he’d never actually seen Riin bruise before, yet alone bleed. It was childish - sheer foolishness - but he hadn’t actually thought it was possible. Even after eight years of sparring together - eight years of swords and sand - he had been convinced Riin was untouchable. Invincible.

But in the wrong hands - hands willing to scrape and grind - even the strongest stone would eventually break.

Riin’s breathing was shallow. Worryingly so. Still, he forced himself to speak, the words limping from his lips. “N-No... you’re not f---.”

---“Stop.” Adiran barely recognised his own voice, pleading and pathetic. All of a sudden, he was a child again, curled in the corner of his room, his first bruise blossoming on his upper arm. “Damn it, Riin - don’t. Don’t make this about me. Not now. You… you’re…”

He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t say them. What could he possibly say? You’re hurt? You’re shaking? You’re terrifying me?

“You’re crying.”

Adiran froze. His awareness, weaponised over the past hours like an out-turned blade, faltered at Riin’s words. Then, slowly, it angled inward. In that hanging silence, his sense of self slipped back beneath his skin, and Adiran finally realised that yes. He was.

“I’m not... it’s nothing.” Roughly, he pressed the heel of his free hand to both eyes, swiping away the offending tears. There was too much to say. Too many emotions pushing against this skull, ravaging his chest, crowding his throat. “I’m just… I...” Like betrayal, a sob broke past his defenses, weak from exhaustion. Weak from relief. “I’m sorry. Riin, I’m so f-fucking sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t even think...”

The shame was too much. Adiran cracked. Curved forward. Buried his face in his hand and just cried. It was all too much, but at the same time nowhere near enough, as though he was deep inside his body and outside and around it all at once. He knew he had to stop. That this wasn’t the time. His guilt wouldn’t help anyone, yet alone Riin. It was just another burden; a capstone atop the torture he had already endured. Divider, Adiran didn’t even know what he had been through. The extent of the pain he was in. How deep those wounds truly ran. But he knew what he should have said, back when he had first laid eyes on his friend in that dark cell. When he’d first seen the blood, smelled the sour sweat, tasted the rot on the back of his tongue. An apology was not enough. He knew that. No words could ever undo what had been done. But Divider, that didn’t make it any less of the truth. 

If Riin let him, he’d spend the rest of his life proving it. It was the least he could do for the only man he’d ever called friend.

Suddenly, Adiran felt a pressure on top of his hand. Heavy, but without force. Without roughness. Part of him knew that, if Riin had the strength, he would have squeezed. Maybe in reassurance. Maybe in forgiveness. Maybe just in tribute to the bond they had shared; one that had surely been severed, now. But, when Adiran finally looked up, only one thing had truly changed. Riin’s gaze was resting on him. Quiet. Pained. Feverish. Relieved.

But the hate, seared so clearly and so terribly into Adiran’s memory, was gone.

“I knew,” Riin breathed. “I knew y---AH!” Suddenly, he cried out, arching, gritting his teeth as his upper body spasmed. Maybe it was a fit. Maybe it was pieces of bone snapping back into place beneath his skin. Regardless, all Adiran could do was look on, horrified, and hold his hand through it, wishing feverishly that he knew how to make it stop. It passed in seconds that felt like minutes. It left Riin gasping, shaking, tangled in his thin blanket, skin soaked with sweat. Just as Adiran was about to scramble to his feet and call for help, Riin’s weak voice reached out from the bed, like a hand snagging the corner of his shirt.

“I-I knew you couldn’t have… they said... so many things. But I didn’t...”

Adiran just nodded, not quite understanding. almost afraid to. Just thinking about what Riin might have been told - things to make him break - turned Adiran’s stomach. Cheeks damp, throat tight, Adiran just shifted closer instead, his thumb stroking the back of Riin’s hand in a feeble attempt to smooth away the pain. “Whatever those bastards told you, they were lying,” he said, because he desperately needed him to hear it. To know it the way Adiran knew every line of Riin’s face. Every scar on his hands. “I swear on my life, Riin, if I’d known…”

Slowly, Adiran trailed off. Partly because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. If he’d known… then what? How would he have stopped it? Would he have challenged the King and Queen - his own family? Would he have kicked and screamed and threatened his way into his own set of shackles?

He didn’t know what would have happened. Maybe they would have both found themselves in chains, Inquisitors cutting bored slices from their skin. Just the thought of it was enough to turn Adiran’s stomach. If he’d been there - if he’d been forced to watch... Divider, he would have told them anything. Anything to make them stop.

Would Riin have broken his oath and done the same?

Luckily, there was no immediate pressure for Adiran to finish his hanging sentence. At some point in the silence, Riin’s breathing had slowed its pace into something halfway resembling sleep. His hand lay limp in Adiran’s, but somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to untangle their fingers. Not just yet.

Instead, Adiran hesitated, then leaned forward until their faces were just inches apart. Slowly, tiredly, he closed his eyes, exhaled, and gently rested his forehead against Riin’s. Their lashes brushed, their breath mingled, and just for a moment, he let himself feel it. Really feel it. Just for long enough to remind him that the man he cared for more than anyone else was really, truly there. Beaten and bruised. Alive and wonderful.

“I missed you,” Adiran breathed. The confession fell from his lips more easily than his own name. And, for the first time, he didn’t care if anyone heard him say it.

They would get through this. 

Somehow, they would get through this,

[calumcest]

there’s no time for running away now

so me exposing myself: yes i write fics that i never post. here is one of them that i’m pretty sure i wrote while completely out of my fucking mind at like 2am and have not re-read or edited so? absolutely cannot guarantee the quality of this fic in any way shape or form please do not hold me accountable for any of its content. unless you like it in which case please do hold me accountable because i require at least 3 doses of validation a day to survive. also this fic was literally me coming up with the final line and then writing 2.4k just to have a reason to have it

It’s three a.m., and Ashton’s awake. 

On the surface, that might not appear to be a problem. And ordinarily, it wouldn’t be - ordinarily, Ashton would either roll over groggily, will sleep to come with every fibre of his being and maybe a quick prayer or two, or read something mind-numbingly boring like his urgent work emails to send him back to sleep. This, however, isn’t the most ordinary situation. 

Ashton is awake because of Luke. 

And, okay, that’s a bit of an unfair characterisation. It’s actually Ashton’s racing thoughts keeping him up, but since Luke’s the focus of said thoughts swirling in a huge cluster through Ashton’s mind, overlapping and interlocking so Ashton can’t pick them apart from the love love love that’s threading through them all, he’s going to blame it on Luke. And it’s not exactly Ashton’s fault he’s in love with Luke, is it? He’d challenge anyone to spend years crammed in tight spaces with Luke Hemmings and not fall in love with him. 

(Michael and Calum don’t count, obviously. Ashton’s never seen two people so blinkered by love in his life, and he’s equal parts envious of their deep, easy love and grateful that they’re not his competition. He’s not sure he could take on Calum’s thoughtfulness if it came down to it.) 

The real problem is that Ashton’s alone. They’re in a hotel, some shitty place in northern England that Ashton can’t even remember the name of, but they’d all been so ecstatic to find out that they had a room each (each!) that they hadn’t been able to bring themselves to care. They’d all hopped straight in the shower, washing off three days’ worth of sweat and grime, and then one by one dropped out of the group chat (Ashton had heard Calum’s door clicking open and shut, muted footsteps and muffled voices), until Ashton thought he was the only one left awake. 

When Ashton’s squashed in a tour bus with God knows how many other six-foot-something men in their twenties, there’s nothing he wishes for more than a moment to himself. He sneaks the moments in when he can - a few minutes backstage, a few moments on the bus in the morning before anyone else has woken up, before Luke comes padding in with bleary eyes and a sleepy smile that makes Ashton’s stomach flip - but it’s never more than ten minutes, never enough time to feel the solitude. Now, though, he’s got nothing to do besides let the seclusion envelop him, listen to the silence and his tinnitus and let the ringing infiltrate his thoughts. 

It’s been so long since Ashton’s been on his own, really been on his own - usually on hotel nights, he’s so exhausted and grateful for a proper bed he falls asleep fully-dressed and wakes up disoriented - that he’s kind of forgotten what it’s like. He’s forgotten the way that his thoughts start to squirm around in his mind, all clamouring for his attention, one following the other in such rapid succession that Ashton barely has the time to process them before the next one is already gripping him by the throat and forcing him to look at it. He’s forgotten how fucking overwhelming it is, how it makes his breath catch in his throat, his stomach churn, thinking himself in spirals that he can’t think himself out of. 

The fact that Luke’s next door isn’t exactly helping matters. The hotel walls seem to be a product of a scientific experiment into creating materials that are one atom thick, so Ashton can hear every move Luke makes. He heard it when Luke padded into the bathroom for a shower, when Luke ambled over to the desk, heard the entirety of the news that Luke had on for about twenty minutes (apparently the Queen’s giving a speech tomorrow, and the EU are looking to pass a law about interest rates). He heard it when Luke got changed, heard his fucking jeans drop to the floor, heard him tossing and turning trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. He can hear every creak of Luke’s bed, can almost make out Luke’s deep breathing if he really strains his ears, and it’s making it impossible not to think about him. Not that Ashton’s particularly good at ever not thinking about Luke. Luke Hemmings is definitely the majority shareholder of Ashton’s mind. 

Now, though, at three in the morning, in a shitty hotel room in God knows where, a country that isn’t home and never will be, on his own with nobody there to ground him, it feels frightening, more overwhelming than Ashton could ever put into words. He’s so in love with Luke, so fucking in love with Luke, and it puts everything on a knife’s edge. His sanity, his friendship with Luke, his career - everything’s on the line because Ashton can’t say no to those baby blues.

At half-past, when Luke rolls over in bed and makes a little noise of contentment, duvet rustling as he moves, Ashton breaks. 

“Wha’?” Michael says groggily when he picks up, sounding too sleepy to be annoyed. 

“Are you awake?” Ashton says, as quietly as possible, gnawing at his lip. 

“No,” Michael says, and then the line cuts out. Ashton hates him. 

“Are you up?” Ashton asks, when Michael picks up again, on the first ring. 

“Am now, dickhead,” Michael grunts. “‘s up?” 

“Luke.” There’s a pause, then a rustling sound and quiet footsteps, and then the sound of a door locking. 

“Ash, it’s three thirty in the fucking morning,” Michael says, and his voice echoes strangely, bouncing off the walls of what Ashton can only suppose is his en-suite, but it’s soft, understanding. He knows why Ashton’s still up, why he’s getting a call from across the hall at three-thirty in the morning. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, hoping Michael understands yeah, that’s why I’m this fucked up. Everything feels worse at night, when Ashton doesn’t have the bright light of day to convince himself that it’s not that bad, he’s not going to fuck everything up that badly. Michael sighs, and it’s tinny and a little staticky, and Ashton’s suddenly struck with the thought that Michael’s voice is being beamed up to a satellite thousands of miles away before being sent back to Ashton, even though he’s about five strides away. It makes him feel a little sick, that level of removal between the two of them. Michael’s a few metres and yet thousands of miles away. 

“Ash,” he says gently, which is never a good sign from Michael. “You’ve got to stop torturing yourself like this.” Ashton bites at his thumbnail. 

“‘m not torturing myself,” he mumbles. 

“Oh?” Michael says, a note of scepticism in his voice. “You’re not lying in bed at three-thirty in the fucking morning thinking about how in love you are with Luke, convincing yourself you’re going to fuck everything up because of it?” Ashton hesitates. 

“Fuck you,” he says eventually, and Michael doesn’t even retort, just sighs again, heavy and sad. 

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he says. 

“You’re not seeing me,” Ashton says, a little childishly. 

“You know what I mean.” Ashton does, and he hates it. It adds a sheen of guilt to all the other confusing emotions bubbling through him, that Michael’s got to deal with this, got to walk the tightrope of being between his two best friends. 

“Sorry,” Ashton says, a little too meekly. 

“Don’t,” Michael says sternly. “You’ve got to do something about it, Ash. You can’t spend the rest of your life stuck in perpetual limbo.” Ashton tears at a hangnail, relishing the way it stings when he rips it. 

“Do what?” Ashton says. “‘s not like I can tell him. Could fuck everything up.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Could fuck your life up.” 

“You think that matters more to me than your happiness?” Michael says, sounding genuinely incredulous, and Ashton loves him, absolutely fucking loves him, and absolutely doesn’t deserve him. 

“I love you,” he tells Michael, who snorts, the sound echoing strangely in the bathroom. 

“You’d better,” he says, but it’s fond. “C’mon, Ash, you’ve got to talk to him at some point. What the fuck else are you going to do? Sit around and wait for Luke to get married and have two-point-five kids?” Ashton blinks up at the ceiling, stomach churning at the thought of Luke with a faceless spouse and a white picket fence. 

“Maybe,” he says, counting the stains on the white paint to give him something else to think about. “Doesn’t sound like the worst plan in the world.” 

“No, Ash, it does,” Michael’s tinny voice tells him. “Christ. You’re such a fucking emotional masochist.” Ashton sighs, and casts his gaze down to the hem of his shirt, picking at a loose thread.

“What the fuck would I even say?” he says. It’s not like he’s never envisioned it; a grand declaration of love - always returned by Luke, of course - but in his fantasies, it’s a certainty that Luke’s going to feel the same way, so there’s none of that gut-wrenching, stomach-rolling uncertainty, no bile rising in his throat, no clammy hands and dry mouth. 

“The truth?” Michael suggests. Ashton rolls his eyes. 

“Mike, I can’t just waltz up to Luke and tell him I’m in love with him,” he says.

“Worked for me,” Michael says, and Ashton can almost hear him shrugging. 

“That’s different,” Ashton says, because it is. Michael’s not a massive fucking overthinker. 

“Is it?” Michael says, a little shrewdly. “I didn’t know if Calum felt the same way. But what else was I gonna do, wait around the rest of my life wasting my time on him? I needed closure either way. Would’ve spent the rest of my life making myself miserable living off hope otherwise.” Ashton knows he’s right, knows from the way his stomach sinks and his heart speeds up, but hates it, wants to rationalise why he doesn’t need to tell Luke, why he shouldn’t. “You’re overthinking it,” Michael says into the silence, like he knows exactly what’s going through Ashton’s mind right now, and Ashton scowls. 

“Right, fuck me for overthinking something that could end my career,” he hisses, gripping the phone tighter than necessary because his hands are a little cold and clammy now at the thought of having to actually stand in front of Luke and say the words I’m in love with you. 

“You’re such a fucking drama queen,” Michael says, tutting. 

“Are you insane?” Ashton demands, incensed, and this is good, this is safe. He can redirect all the discomfort and anxiety into righteous anger; he can handle that. That’s well-worn territory with him and Michael. 

“I’m not doing this, Ash,” Michael says sensibly, because he knows Ashton far too well for Ashton’s liking. “You can’t keep running from your feelings the minute they get too heavy for you to bear. ‘S never gonna get any better if you’re not letting yourself process it. It doesn’t go away on its own.” 

“I know,” Ashton says hopelessly, because he does, and it’s what he’s been trying to run from. He knows he can’t live in this limbo forever, but he can’t bring himself to take a step in either direction. “Fuck, Michael. I don’t know if I can do it.” 

“You can,” Michael says, gentle, encouraging. 

“It’d fuck everything up,” Ashton says. 

“It won’t,” Michael says. “You’re both mature adults.” He pauses, and Ashton knows they’re thinking the same thing, and then he adds: “Okay, well. You’re a mature adult. I’ll drag Luke into maturity kicking and screaming.” Ashton can’t help but huff out a laugh at that, chest warming as he hears the meaning behind what Michael’s saying - I’ll fight your corner. I’ve got your back. 

“What if he doesn’t feel the same?” Ashton says, biting his lip. 

“Then at least you know,” Michael says. “And you can start moving on.” Ashton swallows, ignoring the pain of the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t want to,” he says, and it comes out a little strangled. 

“I know,” Michael says. Ashton waits for something else, for him to justify it, but there’s just staticky silence from Michael’s end of the line. 

“That’s it?” 

“What, you want a deep, motivational speech as to why you should tell him?” Michael says. “I’m not going to give you that, Ash. Do it or don’t, it’s up to you. But you’ll never be able to rest, never have your mind to yourself, until you do it.” Ashton exhales shakily. 

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks, because God, it’s fucking terrifying, thinking that he might have to face Luke and say the words I’m in love with you in order to get his own sanity back. “You’re right.” 

“I know,” Michael says, and Ashton huffs out a laugh to cover the flutters of panic in his chest. “Can I go back to sleep now?” Ashton blinks, and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says again, voice a little steadier this time. “Sorry.” 

“‘S okay,” Michael says through a yawn, and Ashton has to stifle a yawn of his own. Christ, he’s actually fucking drained. Overthinking should qualify as a sport. “Love you. Not as much as I love Calum, though.” 

“Arsehole,” Ashton says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Love you too. But not as much as I love Luke.” 

“I’d fucking hope not,” Michael says. “Don’t want you to be fantasising about fucking me.” Ashton wrinkles his nose. 

“I don’t want to fantasise about that either,” he says. 

“So don’t.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Good,” Michael says, stifling a yawn. “Don’t fantasise about Calum, either.” 

“Why the fuck would I fantasise about Calum?” Ashton wants to know. 

“Hey,” Michael says, sounding a little affronted. “What the fuck are you trying to say?” 

“I’m saying neither you nor Calum are exactly at the top of my fantasy list when Luke’s right there,” Ashton says. 

“That’s fucking rude,” Michael tells him. 

“What the fuck? You just told me-” 

"Yeah, but on principle you should want to fantasise about us,” Michael interrupts. “You just aren’t allowed.” Ashton rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not fantasising about anyone except Luke,” he says. 

“I don’t want to know that.” Jesus Christ. Michael’s fucking impossible. 

“Go to fucking sleep,” Ashton says, because arguing with Michael is a waste of time on the best of days, let alone at four in the fucking morning. 

“I’ve been trying,” Michael says, and there’s rustling sounds as he gets to his feet. “Night, Ashton. Love you.”

“Night,” Ashton says, but Michael’s already hung up. 

He plugs his phone in and rolls back over in bed, the emotional exhaustion starting to kick in, and he closes his eyes, ready to fall asleep, when from Luke’s room he hears a very, very clear-

“Night, Ash.” 

Fuck. 

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[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. ix

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt ix: heartlines

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.3k (yes I am a clown)

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5). Strong canon deviance.

Notes: I have nothing to say for myself, except: thank you thank you thank you! Everyone's comments really just got me through the real brunt of this chapter and it's a long one, oh boy. I cannot reiterate enough how much the hopeless romantic in me desperately wants them to just live happily ever after, and also how MUCH it really means to me to see your guys' feedback, but alas alack, here we are; I, with my long-winded author's notes saying the same thing every time, but I am just as grateful each time it happens.

As always, I have the best, sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful and wonderful proof-reader but most importantly friend who helped me block out this chapter because I was really, really struggling with it. @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife, she is Elliot's number one stan and also an incredible writer so please go check out her stuff!!

On a brief tangent, I have some beautiful artwork made the artist @raviollies​ on tumblr, which you can find here! I definitely did cry a little tiny bit over it.

It’s your fucking fault.

Elliot’s words, venomous little baby snakes spitting their venom, crawled around the bone arena of his skull. John could not stop replaying them in his head, even though he desperately wanted to; the idea that the rookie deputy might now well and truly hate him—really hate him, more than she maybe ever had before—was an unsettling one. He liked to think that it was because he was worried what Joseph would think if they no longer had her cooperation, her good behavior, but—

But there was something else that dug at him. There was something else squirming in the cavity of his chest, sinking its nails right into him, but he couldn’t pick it out, couldn’t pull it apart.

(Or maybe he didn’t want to; maybe the idea of identifying what this strange and unknowable beast inside of him was kept him from trying too hard, a good enough reason to throw up his hands and say, sorry, I just can’t.)

He pushed the door to the church open, stepping back inside to the cool, dim quiet. Jacob had pulled a map out and spread it over the table, the radio set aside; Joseph sat in a front-row pew, one leg crossed over his knee and his expression mild.

“Did you get the opportunity to chat?” he asked, without looking at John, as though he just knew that it was him and not someone else coming in. “She seemed…” Joseph’s head tilted, just a little. “... Unseated.”

John hesitated, and then began walking down the aisle. “Yes,” he replied. “Although, I don’t know if chat is the proper word for it, considering that she all but put her teeth in my neck.”

“I thought you liked that kind of thing?” Jacob supplied without a hint of a humorous inflection in his voice, and John shot him a dirty look.

“Bleeding out to death? Not particularly.”

Joseph nodded, the gesture gentle, ignoring the bickering. “It does appear as though our deputy is not a damsel in distress, but rather a damsel under duress.” He turned to look at the youngest Seed brother when he reached the front of the church. “But it is nice to see the foundation you’ve put down, John. You’re taking my advice, and it isn’t going unnoticed.”

He felt something pleasant and warm bloom in his chest, billowing up into his head until it almost completely gassed out the venomous little vipers Elliot had planted in his mind. “I did have an idea about that,” he added, feeling more emboldened by Joseph’s praise as he walked past the table. “About endearing the deputy to us.”

“Oh? Well, I’m all ears.”

John’s gaze flickered across the space between his two brothers. Jacob had said nothing; he was bent over the map, dog tags glinting in the single beam of light that hit them from the window, one veiny hand clenched into a fist as it held the map in place.

“Maybe,” John continued, “our dear brother could try to stop antagonizing her.”

“Why?” the red-headed deadpanned, not looking up from the map. The fact that Jacob didn’t even deign to make eye-contact with him was enough to make irritation prickle in his chest, raise his proverbial hackles.

“Why?” John reiterated. “Perhaps because each time you open your mouth, you incriminate yourself as a villain—and us too, by proxy.”

“You can drop the attorney lingo,” Jacob said dryly, finally lifting his head to look at John—and John wished that he hadn’t, because the half-lidded, arrogant gaze of his eldest brother only served to stoke the fires of anger inside of him.

“It’s just my vocabulary, Jacob, and you missed the entire point, by the way, so in the interest of making sure we’re all on the same page—”

“—not an idiot, little brother, so you don’t need to—”

“I think John is right,” Joseph interrupted, effectively silencing the argument that was brewing. “He’s done exactly as I asked of him. Think of a stray dog, Jacob; you don’t beat it into submission. You feed it, nurture it, gain its trust, and then it becomes a lifelong companion.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “A loyal companion.”

“This is an age-old philosophical debate.” Jacob’s brows furrowed together; a deep-set frown sat on his face. “A classic: is it better to be feared than to be loved? I think that we’re going to disagree fundamentally on this one.”

“Well,” Joseph replied mildly, “aren’t we lucky that there’s only one of us in charge of how our deputy is treated, then?”

John’s breath flickered out of his chest in a single blink at Joseph’s words. Casual and ever-so-patient, as though Jacob’s jaw weren’t setting in preparation to argue, as though it didn’t strike John right in his gut to hear Joseph say, there’s only one of us in charge of how our deputy is treated, as though it didn’t twist the knife right between his ribs to hear Joseph refer to Elliot as their deputy, over and over again.

A stamp. A brand. Joseph claimed, like he always did, the things that he thought rightfully belonged to him.

“Someone’s lucky,” Jacob said at last, a final and reluctant acquiescence.

Joseph’s small smile did not disappear. In fact, it seemed only to root itself more firmly on his face, as though he were pleased at Jacob’s unease. Joseph’s gaze flickered back to John, settling on him and then beckoning him forward.

He did as Joseph bid, coming and sitting beside his older brother and clearing his throat. He wanted to stop thinking about the way that Joseph had said our deputy, like he had any claim on Elliot—and that shouldn’t have bothered John, but it did, wriggled its way through the spaces between his ribs and squeezed, nice and tight.

“She was upset,” Joseph said, when John had settled next to him; it was not a question, but a statement, an assertion of what Joseph knew to be true. Their eldest brother scoffed from his spot at the table, bent back over the map, tracing and re-tracing the topography lines. John shifted in his seat a little.

“I think Jacob might have ruined any chance at a merciful conversion when he mentioned that her friends would deserve it if they didn’t make it out.” John’s voice was hard when he shot the red-head a stinging look, but unsatisfyingly, Jacob did not lift his head this time. John felt the strain of his brows furrowing at the center of his head, and then Joseph’s hand was on the side of his face, fingers spreading against his hair, primed and comfortable to grip.

“Grief,” Joseph said, his voice low and soothing, “is a part of change. Like shedding a skin.”

“It’s not—she was furious with me,” John replied, grimacing. “She just kept saying she hated me, and us. Joseph, I think—it would be beneficial to let me do things my way—”

“Our deputy is killing the person she used to be, John.” Joseph’s gaze was steady, piercing, a venomous yellow. His other hand came to the right side of John’s face, cradling him. “Strangling her old self, with her own hands. People like us, we’re lucky; we’ve always known who we were meant to be.” He leaned against the wooden backing of the pew again. “You’ve guided her here. Give her a while to grieve that girl from before. Patience is a virtue.”

John’s throat felt tight. He thought the Elliot in the bar those years ago—flushing and soft, breathless when he leaned into her—and the Elliot threatening to choke a man to death in front of him if he didn’t beg for his life, and the Elliot who played baseball with a shovel and a man’s head, and the Elliot that smoked a cigarette down to nothing while she cranked Welcome To The Jungle up on a van stolen from a group of crazy Swedish cultists.

He was not convinced she had not already killed the girl she used to be.

“You have got to have faith.” Joseph’s voice broke him out of his reverie. When John looked over to his brother, Joseph was absently dragging his thumb along his lower lip, his eyes fixed on the Eden’s Gate emblem glowing above them in the afternoon light. “Remember what I said; you have to love them. I know you can do this for me.”

His throat felt tight. This would be easier, he thought, if he could have just done everything this way. Wrath, he thought, would look perfect on her. But that wasn’t right; wrath already fit her. There was no skin to be shed. It was already on.

“John.”

He dragged his gaze from the white collar of Joseph’s shirt to his brother’s gaze, meeting it.

“Tell me you can do this,” Joseph said, his voice lower now, softer. It was not his counseling voice; this was Joseph asking him, his brother, not the man who led the masses. Asking, demanding, but waiting patiently for it to be given, never taking before it was time.

He was no longer thinking about Elliot at her fiercest, but rather the way she had softened for him, on occasion. Pressed against him for warmth, lashes wet with tears, unwilling to let go of his arm.

“I can,” John replied, “for you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot didn’t know for how long she slept. When she woke, the sun was still in the sky, the air felt sticky and wet with late-summer humidity, and while she slept sweat had gathered at the nape of her neck and in the hollows and dips of her body. For a second, panic filled her—she couldn’t remember where she was, or how she got there, confusion twisting and knotting its way through her.

And then she remembered. She was in Joseph’s compound, in a bunkhouse that served as a home to Eden’s Gate members, dressed in Eden’s Gate clothes sans her boots and underclothes. Elliot wiped the sweat from her forehead and pulled her hair out of the ponytail. Standing proved dizzying, and she felt the dehydration twisting around in her stomach like a scorpion; stinging, and unkind.

“Fuck,” she said, pressing the heel of her palm to her eye. The gesture reminded her that she had done it just recently; just before she screamed at John, just before she told him that she hated him. Oh, yes. That.

Grief still squirmed around inside of her, but it had been abated, for now, and she thought that she almost—

“No.” Elliot’s voice was firm, but still wobbled on its legs, when she spoke to herself. “I don’t feel bad about what I said.”

“Good to know.” It was John’s voice from the doorway, bringing with him a hot breeze that should have felt good being that they were on an island, but it just added to the humidity. Elliot’s stomach twisted violently at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t anger that populated her mind, now, but embarrassment: that she’d let him get under her skin, that she’d let him see her without her veneer, that he’d been there and endured it and now he stood here again, undeterred, as though John Seed were someone with a moral high ground that allowed him to endure verbal attacks and return as though nothing had happened.

I hate you. Elliot willed the words to her mouth, tried to muster the venom, but she couldn’t. She fixed her eyes instead on the knot of a wooden floor panel, trying to ignore the sight of John moving in the corner of her eyes, closing the space between them. He did this, always—invaded her space, overwhelmed her, until saying things like I hate you became harder.

He smelled like sweat, and day-old cologne, and heat and dust and outside, and when he put his hand on her arm she opened her mouth to say something—anything, any of the venom that might come to her in the heat-addled and perspiring confusion—but he put a cold water bottle, slick with condensation, in her hand.

Her eyes went to find the bloodstain on his shirt when she realized that he wasn’t wearing that shirt anymore. He was in a white shirt, the same kind that Joseph wore.

“Drink,” he said. “I promise it isn’t poisoned.”

Elliot turned the cap of the bottle. It cracked, promising that the seal was freshly broken, and she brought it to her mouth and took one heavy swig before she pulled it away. Her nerve-endings immediately screamed in relief at the water in her mouth, but her stomach lurched—she knew she’d need to pace herself, or she’d be puking it up in a few minutes.

“Did you sleep?” John asked when she didn’t say anything. Elliot sucked her teeth.

“I don’t think we should play at being friends,” she said, her voice wicked with a dry, crackling, wildfire-in-the-making heat. John’s gaze was steady, though, once again unfettered by her words and remaining in her space. She was more aware of it than ever, now: as though resting, and having basic necessities like shower and drinking water also made her all the more aware of John’s presence, the heat radiating off of his body and the way he was watching her—

(like he couldn’t get enough of her)

—like he wanted to make sure that nothing she did escaped him.

“We’re not playing at being friends, deputy,” John drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels a bit as he looked at her. “Whether you like it or not, you and I are on the same side.”

“For now,” Elliot bit out.

“For now,” he acquiesced, as gracious as ever.

Her eyes narrowed. John was not the kind of person who forgave and forgot the sorts of things that she’d said to him. Elliot felt the suspicion rising up in her throat. She kept waiting for the punchline; for John to say something stupid like, and when this is over you’ll be begging for me to absolve your sins, or something equally driven by ego and his desire to have Joseph’s approval.

“So,” John began again, arms unfolding elegantly to be held out in a gesture of harmlessness, “did you sleep?”

Elliot took another swallow of her water bottle, stepping around John. Her body instantly braced itself—as though she expected him to try and stop her—but he didn’t; merely turned with her, a planet trapped in her orbit.

“Briefly.” She kept her voice short and clipped as she headed towards the door. “Are your friends back?”

“Jacob’s ready whenever you are.”

Her face scrunched up at the mention of the eldest Seed brother. She was now unsure which of them was the most unpleasant to be around; they all found their own special ways to get under her skin. John, perhaps, was the worst; Joseph and Jacob, she could handle their particular brand of crazy, but John—he was harder for her to read, because all of the time spent with him had started to cloud her brain.

“Why are you being nice to me?” she demanded, turning suddenly to find that he’d crossed the bunkhouse again, as though to follow her outside. Because she hadn’t quite gone out, yet, he now stood nearly nose to nose with her, even with her back pressed against the door of the bunkhouse.

John’s gaze swept over her. “Does it bother you?”

The plastic of the water bottle crunched in her hand. Her jaw set, painfully tight, holding back her gut reaction—to tell him that yes, it did bother her—and instead swallowed thickly. It would be just like John, to go out of his way to be nice to her because he thought it would unsettle her. But then, wasn’t John all about bending and cracking someone to his will, no gentleness required?

A headache splintered behind her eyes, throbbing painfully. She was spending too much time trying to parse John Seed out, and that was her first mistake.

“I’m just surprised you know how,” Elliot snipped, watching the way her words ticked the corner of his mouth upward in that easy, boyish smile.

“I can be nice,” John offered, “if someone isn’t spitting venom at me nonstop, calling me pathetic.”

“Fucking pathetic,” she pointed out, ignoring the way John’s eyes flickered down to her mouth and then back up to meet her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that—”

“—no need to apologize after the fact, deputy—”

“—because I know how sensitive you are,” Elliot finished, wiping the smile off of John’s face, “and since we’re on the same side, I suppose I can’t afford to have you down and out.”

John’s eyes narrowed. His hand found the doorknob, and he was very close, so close all of a sudden that for a brief moment Elliot’s brain short-circuited and all she could think about was how unjust it was that a man so deserving of her venom could make cologne smell so good.

And then he said, “No, I suppose you can’t,” and opened the door behind her, the heat of the afternoon sun sunk into her skin, sticky and hot. “I work best when my partner isn’t trying to fight me the entire time.”

She turned and stepped out of the bunkhouse, clutching the water bottle in her fist and putting as much distance between herself and John as she said, “And I work the best if you stay the fuck out of my way, John.”

No more, she thought, decisively, no more of that.

Images of Eden’s Gate members scattered in her periphery; they were eager to look, but not eager to be seen, so that when she turned her head to find them they were already disappearing behind a corner or into a building. The heat was no more bearable if she was moving, either, the sun high in the sky and threatening to burn any exposed skin.

John fell into step beside her, his hand landing on the doorknob to the church before she could open it, holding it closed while she stopped on the landing.

“Jacob likes when he gets under your skin,” he said to her, the words sounding a little different than before. “He might say whatever he can to rile you up, and make you look unreliable to Joseph.”

Elliot hesitated. She didn’t know why John was giving her this information; not only because she already knew that—because of course Jacob enjoyed pushing her—but she didn’t understand why John was trying to be helpful. It was always going to be the Seed brothers against her, wasn’t it?

She thought of the way they had been bickering, the two brothers, while she tried to gather herself after her call with Jerome. She wished she’d been paying attention so that she could know what it was they had been arguing about.

John waited expectantly. He said, “You want to get Joey out of there, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Her brows furrowed. “What kind of—”

“And I want Faith out of there, with as little risk as possible,” he plunged on, keeping the door in place, “so we can’t get outvoted in there. Joseph does take you seriously, though who can imagine why—”

“If you’re trying to convince me we’re actually partners,” Elliot deadpanned, “you’re doing a shit job of it.”

“All I’m saying,” John continued irritably, “is that if we present a unified front in there, we have a better chance of us both getting what we want.”

Elliot didn’t want to admit that he was right. The last thing she ever wanted to do was tell John Seed that he was right about something. But if she had to weigh her options, she’d rather tell John he was right than do whatever the fuck it was that Jacob and Joseph wanted her to do. One Seed brother she could handle.

So, she relented, “Fine.”

John stuck out his free hand to her, grinning. “Shake on it, partner?”

Elliot groaned and swatted his hand away. “Don’t push it, buck,” she replied, pushing the door open—and this time, John let her, trailing in after her. Jacob and Joseph were in their spots at the front of the chapel, waiting ever-so-patiently. She reminded herself of what John had confirmed; that Jacob liked to see her on the brink of a meltdown, that he was a pusher.

It did not escape her that John had not offered any insight into Joseph.

“Have a nice nap?” Jacob asked as she came up to the table with the map.

“Funny, John asked me the same thing.” Elliot kept her voice even and took a drink of her water before she started tying her hair back into a ponytail. “So, where are they? Where are Joey and Faith?”

“South of here, the faithful say,” Joseph said before Jacob could speak again. “At Sacred Skies Lake. Just past Angel’s Peak. It sounds like they don’t go by any name, and just call themselves a family.”

“And do the faithful say what they’ve been doing?” she asked tartly. She had an idea of where they had made their home; probably at the abandoned youth camp, though as far as she last remembered that had been occupied by Joseph’s own.

Well, probably not for very long. There was no way Joseph’s little rednecks could hold up to the precision that these crazies had.

“Living,” Jacob replied, his gaze hard and his jaw set. “They’re not doing anything. They’re just—there. Like they’re waiting for something.” 

Elliot’s stomach plummeted at Jacob’s words. There was no way he could have known, surely; she hadn’t told John, and she hadn’t said anything to them in the car, about the way Ase had cradled her face, and called her mor, and had said, I know that you will always come back to us.

Fuck. There’s no fucking way.

But there was. If Ase didn’t have absolute confidence that Elliot would seek them out, why would she have let them go? Why would they have been mostly unscathed? They were playing with their food—a sick, drawn-out catch-and-release.

The brothers had started speaking again. The aqua curve of Sacred Skies on the map burned into her retinas the longer she stared at it without blinking.

“Waiting for me,” Elliot mustered up after a moment, her mouth feeling very dry. “They’re waiting for me.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on her, all with the same uncanny precision. There was no time for it to bother her; her stomach was already rolling with nausea.

And then Jacob barked out, “Explain,” and she thought she might punch him in the face if he didn’t shut up. Elliot took in a deep breath, mustering all of the composure she could manage, and focused herself on the map.

“When John and I got—when we had our run-in with the family,” she began, “we were separated, and—they drugged me, with something. But their leader, Ase, she was there for a little while—”

“What?” John demanded. So much for presenting a unified front, she thought ruefully. She shot him a look, willing him to be quiet, to just let her gather her thoughts; blissfully, he did.

“She kept calling me something in Swedish,” Elliot explained, “and she kept saying all of this weird stuff, like—like that she saw my color, that she saw me, and then…”

The Seeds all stared at her, waiting expectantly. Even Jacob remained silent.

“And then she said something like… Like that she was going to let me go, but only because she knew I was always going to come back to her.”

A moment of silence stretched in front of her, endless and dizzying, where no one in the room said anything and all Elliot could think about were all the things that Ase had said.

And then, as though these words had almost no impact on him, Jacob said, “Well, at least we have proper bait.”

“Absolutely not,” John cut in immediately, angrily. “You’re not putting Elliot out there to try and lure them here—”

“—they want her, I don’t see why we wouldn’t—”

“Brothers,” Joseph interrupted, his voice effectively bringing both John and Jacob to heel. Like before, he stood directly across from Elliot; her gaze was fixed on him now, tumbling Ase’s words around in her head while the Seeds argued about whether or not she was shark bait or not. “What do you think, deputy?”

The words were gentle. Elliot knew what they were; certainly, Joseph knew how long it had been since someone had asked her opinion, rather than her having to fight tooth and nail for someone even to consider it.

“I think—we could get Ase to come out of the youth camp, which is probably where they’re holed up,” she said after a moment, willing the charm of Joseph’s attentiveness away. Her gaze slid to John for a moment. “If we used me as bait.”

“Are you serious?” John demanded. He took her arm in his hand, pulling her from the table and hissing, “When I said present a unified front—”

“If we’re partners, you have to trust me,” Elliot insisted tersely. His expression hardened. A part of her hoped that he regretted suggesting they be anything remotely close to on the same team, and a part of her was glad that he had, or he wouldn’t look like the words you’re right were sitting right on his tongue.

Finally, at last, he said, “Fine.”

Elliot turned back to Jacob and Joseph, with the brunette’s hand still on her arm, and asked, “Are you any good with a sniper rifle?” 

“The best.” Jacob’s voice was clipped, insistent. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“So if I can get Ase out to meet me,” she continued, “can you not shoot me?”

His eyes narrowed, but there was a tiny, tiny smile pulling at his lips. “Scout’s honor.”

John exhaled a sharp, short breath. “This is ridiculous—”

But before he could plunge onward, Joseph held up his hand to stop him. He turned his gaze to her, now, studying her for a few long heartbeats before he said, “Do you think they won’t kill Faith if we kill their leader?”

Elliot shrugged his hand off of her arm and walked back to the table, setting her water bottle on the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “I think like any snake,” she replied, “the body won’t function if you cut the head off.”

“At any rate,” Jacob interjected, “push comes to shove and you can get in without a firefight to get Faith out of there.”

“And Joey,” Elliot replied firmly, and stifled down the absolute fury when Jacob shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“We’ll start making the preparations immediately.” Joseph sounded pleased. It took everything in her power not to say something just spite that, to remember that even though she didn’t want to be, she supposed that she was on their side, too.

Jacob gathered up the map from the table and immediately set off after Joseph, who had stepped down from the small stage and gone to the side door. Elliot picked up her water bottle and took one more heavy drink to finish it off before she turned and looked at John.

His brows knitted together at the center of his forehead. He looked troubled. It was not an expression that she was used to seeing on John Seed’s face; it might have been endearing, if she didn’t know that he was troubled by her, and not in the fun way.

“Spit it out, then,” Elliot prompted. John heaved a loud, impatient sigh.

“This is a stupid idea,” John said abruptly, angrily. It was a change of pace from the cocky asshole he normally liked to be. “There’s no way that they know they aren’t waiting for you to show up so they can skin and gut you, and—”

She waited, patiently, for him to get the words out. Whatever they were, they stuck in his throat.

“—and what use would you be then?” he finished, his lip curling up in clear distaste. Ah, there he is, Elliot thought absently. Almost thought I’d lost you, John.

“Don’t worry,” she said lightly. When she had capped her water bottle again, she headed to the back of the church. It feels good, she thought, pushing on the door, to have a plan again. “I’ll far outlive my use to you, Seed.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The plan was simple.

Elliot was going to walk herself—unarmed, much to her personal chagrin—out to the Sacred Skies Youth Camp, once they dropped her off. Jacob would already be in a position where he could get a good look at what was going on, and when he got a clear shot at Ase, he was going to take it.

And they were banking on the woman coming out to get Elliot herself, based on what Elliot had told them. John was not convinced, but he had been overruled; it was no longer his choice, and instead of going in and being on the same team as Elliot, he had found himself on the opposite of the playing board from all three of them—his brothers and the deputy.

Not ideal.

But now, as John parked the truck at the bottom of the hill leading up to the youth camp, all he could feel was dread knotting his stomach. The plan was supposed to be simple, but John remained unconvinced that it would be executed as easily as everyone seemed to think it would.

Elliot seemed in perfect spirits; she’d eaten a handful of granola bars, finished off two other water bottles, and her coughing had become less frequent. Not once had he seen her reach for a cigarette, either. It was like the second she had an actionable plan, she no longer stressed: there was nothing for her to worry about, beyond getting the job done.

John met her gaze through the rearview mirror. “You’re sure?” he prompted, and ignored the way Joseph’s head gently cocked to the side. Elliot flashed him a smile.

“Just focus on making sure Jacob doesn’t shoot me in the head,” she replied, “okay? And I’ll focus on getting Joey and Faith out of there.”

Joseph said, lightly, “That’s all we could ever hope for, deputy,” and when he did Elliot shot John a look through the mirror, a look that said, can you fucking believe this guy? And for one, brief second it felt like they shared a joke only between the two of them.

Then she pushed the back door of the truck open and kicked her legs out, landing on the dirt road with a soft thump. The blonde closed the truck door and then came up to John’s window, which had been rolled down, and said, “You’re sure you don’t want to give me a weapon?”

It would blow the whole fucking thing if they caught her with a gun or a knife, Jacob had said; if by some strange happenstance he didn’t snipe the shit out of the crazy fucking Swedish woman, and Elliot wound up getting dragged into the belly of the beast, having a weapon on her would out her immediately. They would know that she hadn’t come willingly, but that she had come with the intent to harm.

At least in the instance that they somehow avoided Jacob, she could lie her way out of it. Maybe.

“I have absolute faith,” John said, mimicking Joseph’s veneer of confidence, “that you can make a weapon out of just about anything if you need to.” She patted the side of the truck and took one centering breath, but before she could set off up the hill John said, “Elliot—”

The blonde turned back around to look at him, life and vigor back in her face and one brow arched loftily at him.

Be careful, he thought to say, the words sticking in his throat. That’s what he should have been saying, if they were actually partners—even fake partners, even tenuous partners, partners-by-proxy because John insisted for the sake of feeling like he had some control over the situation and Elliot because there was no one better that she had the chance to pick. Not exactly setting the bar very high, were they?

“Any day now, John.” Elliot’s voice snapped his attention back to reality. She was waiting expectantly, but there wasn’t impatience in her voice; she was content, at last, to have motion. He cleared his throat.

“Don’t start going yet,” he said, instead of the things he thought would matter, like, don’t forget to breathe. “Give Joseph and I a chance to get up to where Jacob is.”

She gave him a two-finger salute, wisps of hair fluttering into her face from a late-afternoon breeze. “Yes, boss.”

John threw the truck into reverse, pulling back and then into a u-turn to head off down the road. The car was silent for a moment, blissfully, with the golden-hour light drenching the two of them in a warm glow. If he didn’t know what was going on just out of reach, he might have felt like he was transplanted into a different time and place entirely.

“You don’t need to worry about her, John,” Joseph said lightly.

“I’m not,” John replied, pulling the truck off of the road. Dry brush crunched and snapped beneath the weight of the tires. “She’s perfectly capable of handling herself with three granola bars in her system and healthy bout pneumonia.”

“You sound frustrated.”

“I just think that maybe we could have picked someone that’s not—” John inhaled. He parked the truck deep into a grove; to the right of them, a small trail would lead up to where Jacob waited with his perfect vantage point to see Ase come out and collect Elliot. “—Sick,” he finished, after a moment, “and not such a wildcard. You know she tried to kill one of the guards when I had her at the ranch? She was going to choke him to death, right then and there. For—touching her, or something.”

Joseph looked unaffected as he stepped out of the truck. “I’m unsurprised, if that’s what you’re looking for.” And he paused, looking thoughtful for a moment, before he said, "Touching her, you said?"

John ignored the question. “Well, then maybe that should speak to the level of reliability Elliot displays.”

“I think you’re underestimating the power of a positively-reinforced bond.” As Joseph spoke, John fell into step beside him, climbing up the slope. Behind them, he heard the distant sound of voices; the members of Eden’s Gate that weren’t holed up would be waiting for Jacob’s signal to swarm, if things looked grim. “Didn’t she say she hated you, and us? And yet today, here she is. In a good mood, no longer frothing at the mouth, rabid and dangerous.”

“She’s still dangerous,” John started, but Joseph stopped him by pressing his hands to his shoulders.

“You’ve done exactly as I asked,” he said, a mirror of the words he’d said before. “Remember? You haven’t beaten your stray into submission. This—” Joseph gestured with his hand in the general direction of where they had dropped Elliot off. “—is all only possible because of the work that you have put in, John. And when we bring Faith home, and return to our followers, that is what they’ll remember. Not the person the deputy used to be.”

John’s felt something hot and painful twist in his chest, prickling pain squirming up his spinal cord. He should have been pleased to hear Joseph refer to Elliot as something that belonged to them and instead was giving him some ownership—but he realized too late that it wasn’t what he had been wanting from his brother. This wasn’t what he wanted from Elliot.

He swallowed and said, thickly, “Yes, Joseph.”

“Good boy.” Joseph held him in a tight hug, the pressure of the gesture relieving some of the stress in his shoulders like muscle memory pulling it right out of him, and then he pulled back. “Now, let’s go and get our sister back, yes?”

His brother stepped up the last stretch of the slope, and he followed obediently behind. Jacob was perched carefully, eyeing the scope and muttering to himself; as John crouched beside him, and Joseph on the other side, the redhead breathed out a little swear.

“Stupid piece of shit,” he sighed. “Remind me to get these upgraded next chance we get.”

“What’s wrong?” John asked, already on edge.

“Nothing’s wrong—the gun’s perfectly functional, it’s just not as stealthy as a rifle should be,” Jacob explained. “It’s got a red dot sight on it.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his teeth clenching. “So they’ll see it the second you get it on that woman.”

“They might,” Jacob protested, “I’ll just have to be fast.”

“Where’s your rifle?”

“It’s back at the center,” his brother snapped. “I didn't have the opportunity to grab it before I went on a wild hunt for you across the Montana countryside. Anything else I can help you with today, little brother?”

“There’s no time for arguing,” Joseph interjected, sounding almost tired now. “Quiet, now.”

From their vantage point, they had a clear view of Elliot. The blonde was yelling something to garner attention, to lure people out, and there was some movement through the trees that blocked off the camp up the road. He could see her start to walk farther up, and then stop, hesitating.

“Someone’s coming,” Jacob said, peering carefully through the scope.

Tentative bodies drifted down the road, breaking the treeline: though John could not see Ase’s strange, lithe form anywhere among them, he could hear what he thought was certainly her voice, saying something to Elliot, who had her hands up carefully to show that she was weapon-free as best she could.

The movement that he thought might be the Swedish woman stopped just before the treeline. Come on, John thought, taking in a breath, come on, you fucking bitch, come out here.

It was someone else that stepped forward from the protection of the tree line. It was Ase’s man, the tall, broad-shouldered ginger, though he too looked unarmed. John tried not to think about how easily he had nearly disposed of them with only his hands, last time.

The man made it to Elliot, gesturing for her to come forward, to close the last foot of distance between them herself; she did as he bid, straying to her right, feigning innocence. John knew what she was doing: leaving room for Jacob to make a shot.

“That’s not her,” John hissed. 

“Yes, I’m not fucking blind.” Jacob’s voice was sharp but steady. “She’s leaning for me. Who is he?”

“Her—right-hand man, or something. I don’t think you should take...”

John’s voice trailed off. The man had stopped Elliot, snagging her wrist—which looked tiny in his hand—and said something to her that did not look pleasant.

“I think I should,” Jacob muttered, shifting the rifle.

“Jacob—” John began, sensing the way his eldest brother’s muscles tensed, ready.

Elliot was saying something to him. She paused, just briefly, and John saw her head tilt down; she saw it, first, and then the ginger looked down at his chest just as Jacob was lining up his shot. 

The incriminating red dot gave it away. The man’s head shot up and locked on them instantly, and before Jacob could pull the trigger, he’d twisted Elliot around and pulled her right against his chest, his hand gripping the pillar of her throat.

John’s stomach plummeted. He heard, as though in a last-ditch effort, Elliot shout his name: and he didn’t know if it was because she wanted help or if she wanted someone to take the shot anyway. He didn’t know if either of those options was more comforting than the other. 

The man had shifted her so that the red dot now lay directly over her chest, pinning her, and Jacob did not pull away from the scope. Even from this distance, John could see the wicked grin splitting across his expression.

“Do not fucking shoot,” John hissed, “Jacob—do not fucking shoot—”

For sure, now, he heard her voice. "John," she said, desperately, his name choked in her throat by the grip of the Swedish man bruising her skin.

“There’s a good chance it would hit him and kill him,” Jacob insisted, his finger hovering over the trigger. “They’re goading us. This is the perfect opportunity to—”

“You fuck,” John seethed. “Joseph, tell him not to shoot!”

Joseph was silent, his jaw set lightly and his gaze fixed on the scene before them; Elliot, struggling to breathe, while the man began to make his way back to the treeline with her body shielding him. For the first time since Elliot had become a problem of theirs, John saw his older brother take time to consider whether or not he really needed her alive or not.

“Killing a right-hand man would be—”

“The plan was to let her get taken in,” John snapped. “Not to fucking shoot through her to get to some nobody!”

“That was before they knew we tried to trick them,” Jacob insisted. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, little brother—”

“Leave it.” Joseph’s voice was final, and sharp. It seemed his brother was bringing an end to fights like this more and more often. “They won’t kill her, or the others. They want her for something. If you shoot through her, we’ll lose our one person on the inside.”

Jacob looked, for one split second, like he might willfully disobey Joseph’s final ruling on the matter. The hard lines of the eldest Seed’s face sharpened, steeling, before he finally flipped the safety on the rifle and straightened up.

A swift, hot breeze drifted through, picking up dust along the dirt road, and right as the shade of the treeline began, the man stopped. John could see Elliot squirming against his grip, her fingers grasping at his wrist and hands, scratching as she gasped for air: but he was immovable, and his attention wasn’t on her, anyway.

It was on them—where he thought they might be. He lifted his hand, thumb up, and two fingers out in the shape of a gun, pointed it at them, and mimicked a single gunshot.

Jacob was seething, the emotion rolling off of him in waves. “The fucking gall—”

But John wasn’t listening anymore. He felt like he was going to throw up. This was exactly what he’d been worried about happening—and here it was, laid out before him, a feast spoiled rotten by reality. He couldn’t get the sound of the way she’d called for him, desperately, like he was the last safeguard she had left.

And yet again, he had failed her. Her, and Faith, and sure, while he was at it, he could stick Joey Hudson’s name on the list; and didn't that mean he'd failed Joseph, too?

John came to a stand. “I have to go in,” he said, assertively, drawing both sets of eyes from his brothers now. “They know, now, and—they think Elliot is a big threat, so if there’s a chance she’ll put up a fight they’ll drug the fuck out of her. I should go in, and Jacob can watch my back, because—”

Because I don’t trust anyone else to get this done the way it needs to be. The thought auto-completed itself in his brain, but the words didn’t come, and it didn’t look like Jacob nor Joseph expected it out of him.

“John,” Joseph said, “are you sure you want to do that?”

“Faith is our sister,” John replied, “and didn’t you say that’s who I was? Ever-giving?”

The man hesitated, just for a second; the sound of chatter below, and Elliot’s furious voice rising as she presumably was given more room to breathe, echoed in the air.

“Yes,” Joseph said at last, relenting. “We did.”

John nodded, turning and making his way down the slope. He kept thinking of the way Elliot had said his name, because it wasn’t the first time she had done that; in the van, too, his had been the first she’d said.

And he couldn’t stop thinking of Ase’s man, either, and the way he’d wielded her with ease, the way he’d grinned when he’d spotted them, the way his hand gripped Elliot’s throat like he’d choke her to death right there if he’d gotten the chance.

No, John thought furiously as the truck came into sight, that won’t do at all.

[hs-devote]

 9. T H E   T R U T H

Moodboard // Content // Masterlist

Disclaimer:

All characters and situation in this story are fictitious. Resemblance to any person living or dead is only God knows. Previous chapter : Y/N discovered the robbery. Her bouquet and his wallet were the silent witnesses the start of Harry's honesty. Those were all covered by blood, yet Harry was unharmed. What happened?  Should Harry be honest now? But, would he be ready for her reaction? Was he ready if Y/N will leave him after this? Why did this have to be happening at a time like this? 9. THE TRUTH

Harry was contemplating with himself. Should he be honest now? Right fucking now? In this situation? In the middle of their holiday? No matter what, she would know someday. He just hoped he didn't make the wrong decision if he told her now. “Promise me, no matter what will happen. You have to listen to me. Okay?” Harry asked her slowly, averted his gaze to her. Y/N nodded, “Say whatever you want to say, H.”

Harry took a deep breath, “When I was out for buying flowers and the wine, I was intercepted by two men who were loitering on the way back here. The mistake was... I took the dark and empty street, different paths from before. When I turned around and keep walking to avoid them, they were following me. And from that point, I knew I was in trouble. I had no idea who they were.” He continued, “I tried to walk faster, and I couldn't just run, they would be suspicious. My anxiety got high when one of them held my shoulder. The man asked what I've got on myself, and asked for my wallet. So I gave it, I didn't want to look for other trouble.” Y/N chose to remain silent, listening to whatever he said. She couldn't wrap the fact that her boyfriend got robbed, yet she grateful he came back safely. “Then, he asked me for my phone. I couldn't let them have it. All my work is on there. He pulled out the knife because I didn't want to give it. Fast forward, before he got the chance to stab me, I twisted his hand until his bone broke – I think. He fell in pain. Seeing his friend was in pain, the other man ran to me.” Harry squinted his eyes, preparing his mental before he continued. His mouth felt bitter to say the next sentence. “I took the knife, stab the running man in the stomach. And slit the throat of the other man. Both of them were covered by blood. Both of them was dying on the street.” He sighed, “I saw the death suck their soul off their body with my own two eyes.” “I kill them.” Y/N froze in her place, didn't expect for such a plot twist. Every sound in her ears was faded away, her whole body became numb. Harry, killed people? That's why. It caused his wallet and the bouquet were splattered by blood. “Why Harry?” she was quite surprised to hear the sound coming out of her mouth, so calm, without any emotion. She could have freaked out if she wanted. But she didn't. Her boyfriend killed people. Not regular people. He killed them because he was being threatened. Y/N couldn't look at him right now. Her body was eager to get out of there, but her mind and heart asked to stay. Harry could feel disappointment and worries from his girlfriend. Weird, he didn't sense her fear. Yet, he could understand that. One thing he was surprised by her, she didn't scream or freak out. He had been caught red-handed. Why would he cover it all up anymore? “If you don't mind me asking, how many times have you seen me when I was on the highest level of anger? And what I did after that?” He stared at her now with his eyes held so many emotions. When Y/N didn't dare to answer, Harry encouraged her, “It's okay, be honest with me.” “You threw things, barking at people, you hit them. You were... harsh.” She quietly said. “Do you remember that night when you were seeing someone got strangle in the alley?” he asked one more time. Her brain tried to dig her memory if she had experienced that thing. Sounded familiar, but she wasn't sure. A night... In alley... Strangled... Like a bulb appeared on her head, Y/N understood what he meant. She snapped her head to him. No way... “You saw someone being strangled in the alley that night. Him being strangled because he was stalking you to the groceries.” He exhaled, “You saw me that night, but you never brought it in the office. I was the one who strangled him, to death.” Y/N gasped with her palm was covering her mouth. Her eyes widened at him in disbelief. Her Harry. Her soft – delicate Harry, not only once killed people. Harry gently grabbed both of her now shaking hands, rubbing them in a soothing manner. His green eyes piercing through hers. “Now, I want to be honest with you. Please listen to me until the end. It's okay if you feel scared, or confused later.” He whispered, “Remember I told you I hate Dale Jespersen with all of my guts?” Y/N didn't answer him. Her eyes were still wide with hands still trembling in his grasp. Harry had to calm her down before she got a panic attack. He didn't care if she would squirm or try to get loose in his arms for fear of him. He had to make her calm so she could listen to him. Harry brought her body to him, securing her body in his embrace. His thumb softly caressed her shoulder, “I'll be honest about who I really am. I'm sure you'll change your view of me after this. I understand, that's your rights. And my obligation is to be open about everything to you.” He let five minutes went to waste. However, he did that so Y/N could balance herself. He smiled faintly when she detached herself and nodded her head to him. Her hands still latched with his. “Harry Styles is not a Styles when he was born. Yes, the mother is Anne. But, Igor Styles is not the biological father. Harry was born in Birmingham and grew up there until he was ten. When he was in primary school, Dale Jespersen was a bully for him, never a friend. His father was an awful inconsiderate bastard who always ask money to get drunk and abuse his wife and only son. Yes, Harry was an only child in the family.” He paused, “His father always hit, punch, jab, kick, whatever it is.. his wife and son. He was only nine years old at that time. Imagine, a nine-year-old got hit and punch almost every single fucking day. Until someday, he felt numb. Like he was sick for all those bullshit he got, he was angry, upset, sad, you name it. Those emotions built a new character.. a new person in Harry. Those emotions made Harry brave enough to fight Dale and his abusive father. Harry didn't expect those emotions grew with him, making a new figure who wanted to make everyone know that the new Harry wasn't the same as old Harry.” Harry still rubbed her hands, looked too preoccupied with the story. Y/N had been holding her breath from earlier. When he said he wants to be honest with something, she didn't expect this kind of truth. "Harry once hit his father with brick, stabbing his father's arm. The simple reason; his father kick him and hit his mother with cutting board." "You, what?" she drew a hard breath, her mouth slightly gaped. "The new Harry has some certain emotions. He did kill an innocence pigeon on the Christmas just because the pigeon was alone under the tree, with no friends or family. He thought it would be better if the pigeon died rather than being alone on this cruel earth." Another kill? The devil must be proud of him... Her inner goddess exhaled. "Father really hates Harry, and he believed there was not the slightest sense of love for him. Some day, father dragged him out of the house, took him away without his mother's knowledge. You know what? His father threw him into an orphanage. Harry didn't know the way back home, his eyes were covered with cloth along the ride. But lucky for him, the fortune was on his side. His mother found him and took him home after he stayed for two months." He let out a small chuckle, "Birmingham left a bitter wound for Harry and his mother. They moved to Manchester when he was ten. There, they met with Igor Styles – someone who was nice to them. Someone who Harry saw as an ideal father figure. He was happy when his mother married Igor four years later. Besides, he got a new little step-sister; Clementia was only seven years old at the time." That's why Harry and Clementia didn't look alike. But, their siblings bound was so close. "Nonetheless, Harry's memories and emotions didn't solely leave behind in Birmingham, they weren't forgotten. When he was a teenager, he realised that he wasn't live alone in this body. He was aware every time his anger consumes him too much, he changed to a different person. As if he saw his body doing something against his will, but his soul was just silent, couldn't do anything. Like someone took over his body. Until one night, when he looked in the mirror, he could see clear as water – the person he was staring at – it was not him. The reflection was indeed him, but it claimed as a Marcel. Not Harry. He's the dark and emotional side of Harry. A soul formed by hurt, revenge, betrayal, anger – that he had felt all this time. He was true and real. Harry lives with Marcel, sharing a body with him. If I can make it simple, Harry had a split personality, an impact of his childhood trauma.” Harry released a long breath that he had been holding back. He was so relieved after telling his dark secret. When he looked at Y/N, the girl in front of him was dumbfounded in her place. Her eyes were blank, so many questions spinning around in her head. But, then she realised, why did Harry tell his story with a third-person perspective? "Now, last question. How many times have you seen my eyes turn darker, or how fast I was talking?" he asked firmly, yet still with a gentle voice. “Several times, quite a lot.” Y/N stammered. “It was Marcel, not me; Harry. He would awake if the temper being tickled. If my eyes get darker, I speak faster, and my temper was a mess – I wasn't there. That was Marcel. He wouldn't mind hurting the person who made him annoyed.” “So, the one who killed your robber was.. Marcel?” Harry instantly nodded. Y/N hurriedly pulled her hand from Harry, made her eyes saw the hurt on his face. But after he told him everything, she didn't know what to do – she didn't how to react in front of him. Her heart was beating so fast, fear spreading around her body. Who was talking to her right now? Harry smiled, at least she didn't freak out or run away from him. It was better than he thought. "I understand if you don't want to see me after this. I understand if.. if someday you don't want to keep this relationship any more, Y/N. It's not your fault. I should've realised that freak people like me don't deserve you.” He chuckled, shaking his head. He felt sad now, thinking about what might happen. But, the question was, is he sure of what he said earlier? "Harry, no. Don't talk like that. Everyone deserves nice things. You deserve that too." Y/N muttered, her hands raised to rub his back ever so slightly. Afraid to woke up Marcel. “I need time to digest all of this if you don't mind.” "I understand, but if you wanna talk or.. or ask something. Let me know, yeah?" he gave her a sad smile. They just celebrate the new year with joy and love, why all of them turned to a mess so suddenly? Y/N nodded before she took him to her embrace. She couldn't help the way Harry looked at her; he was sad and upset. She laughed at herself. Is she sure she wouldn't change her view and behaviour to Harry after this? Whatever happened, she had this relationship with Harry. With someone who she hugs his body and heart right now. Not Marcel that she didn't even know. Her heart was crumbling when she heard small sniffles from him, her neck was slightly wet from.. was he crying? "Harry, no. Don't cry please, love." She mumbled, running her palm up and down in a soothing way. Y/N didn't think he would cry. She knew, the burden was too heavy for him. He carried too much on his shoulders. Harry just shook his head and Y/N let him cry. For the first time, she saw Harry in his vulnerable state. And she didn't like it. She didn't like seeing Harry cry his heart out. . . . . Their Italian holiday was something they couldn't forget. The sweet felt so bitter in the memory. Y/N was too shocked about Harry's confession but she really appreciated his honesty. How was she doing after that? She was quieter and seemed reluctant to do anything. But, she tried to Harry wouldn't feel it. Harry, of course, sensed that. He felt the anxiety, confusion, fear. Was he sad? Did he feel hopeless? It was a lie if he denied it. They tried to behave as normal as possible until their return to London. Nevertheless, the thick air was too real between them. Too suffocating. Too uncomfortable. These past few weeks, Y/N kept her distance from Harry. Kind of. She just didn't want to get into trouble if Marcel decided to show up. Harry couldn't deny the sorrowful filled his heart. He couldn't do anything about it, he was grateful enough Y/N still want to associate with him. They work like usual, nothing changed. It was just the affection Y/N gave to him became less and less. After all, who wanted to date a person like him? On the other side, Y/N knew she shouldn't build a space between them. He was still her Harry. He didn't change. Marcel grew up with him from day one. All she could do was help him, and build trust in him. “So, you've been honest with her?” “Yes, I have.” “How was she doing?” Harry pulled over to the edge of the pool. His back leaned against the tile, his wet hand swept his damp hair to the side. He was in Niall's house in Surrey. He should have visited him at the hospital as usual for his session. But, when Niall heard Harry's raving, he offered his session at his house. He knew Harry would need more composure now. No wonder they were doing his therapy while swimming like this. At first, Niall thought Harry was crazy because he swam in the middle of the winter in January. He had warned him about the snowfall and hypothermia. But Harry being Harry, he reasoned Niall's pool had a heater. "She was.. calm?" he didn't sure, "she didn't freak out like I anticipated. She listened to every single story I told her." Niall frowned, “Isn't that good? “But, that worries me. She now keeps her distance. She doesn't have her usual bubbly character as usual when answering my call. She's a little closed? I don't know.” Harry shook his head, “I tried to act normal, but the situation isn't normal.” “Then, how does she behave when you two are alone? On a date?” Harry now looked at Niall who was across him, who was also staring at him with his clear blue irises. He realised that his friend looked tanner the before. Being an Irish, Niall used to be very pale back then, even Harry mocked him as a member of The Cullen Family when they were in college. “They were normal until we got back home.” He paused, “It was normal but not normal? I couldn't describe it. You surely understand the circumstance. She tried to guard my feelings but she also reserved her feelings, being more cautious.” Niall squinted his eyes when he saw Harry's teeth were chattering. He rolled his eyes, his friend was being too stubborn – didn't realise his body was shivering.     "Get out of the pool, your lips have started to turn blue." He commanded, before going inside to bring a towel to Harry. When he returned with a thick towel and a mug of hot drink, Harry was already sitting on a pool chair. “Thanks.” Harry mumbled when Niall threw the towel to him and handed the hot mug. He sighed when his body became warm shortly after he sipped the drink.     “Were you honest about everything? Like.. everything?” Was he? Harry stunned a little, his gaze was blank to the open view in front of him. He could see the sun ready to set, reminding him of the time before the mess happened. “I think, I wasn't.” said him, “I haven't told her if Dale knew who I am. I mean, he knew Styles isn't my born name.” “And I think, she knows you still have stories that you keep from her.” Niall gave his assumption, “She needs time for her to understand everything, Harry. But, don't let the spaces between you and her ruined everything.” “I know.” “Does that make you sad? Upset?” “Of course. You don't need to ask.” “Then, that's what makes you human. And that's natural. You have feelings that can't be avoided.” The spaces between them not only made Harry upset, but it crushed her slowly. They couldn't keep going on like this. . . . . It was past six when Y/N was getting ready for home. She thought she was the only one left on the floor, but she was wrong. Harry's office lights still on, a sign he was still in there. Her mind and heart told her to check on him, and that was what she does. “Hey, you're not going home yet?” She asked softly after his door opened successfully without needing an access card. She saw Harry was sitting on his chair, his laptop was shut closed. “I was waiting for the sun to set.” He answered, not looking at her. “The sunset on an hour and a half ago, H.” She mumbled, pulling a seat in front of him. Her Harry looked sad, he didn't have the slightest happiness on his face. And it was made her upset. "Oh? Okay, right. I– I should go home then." He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head over his silliness. To be honest, Harry had done all of his work today, he stayed a little longer only to make sure Y/N didn't come home too late. He also missed her; so much until his heart ached. Y/N was playing with her fingers when she had the feeling to urge ask something right now. Hope this is the right time, she thought. “Do you have time, Harry? I want to ask you a few things. If you don't mind.” Her words seemed taken aback by him. But, he nodded eventually – curious about what she wanted to ask, “Go ahead.” ”How did you deal with yourself, after you found out that you're not alone any more?" her voice was very small and faint. Her words kind of confused him, but he understood immediately. “I never dealt with him. I never could deal with all the sadness, betrayal, the anger. That's how Marcel being the second shadow. I never could hold him back, neither I could prevent all of them. The misery always running after me.” He smiled sadly, “Marcel never hurt me because I never hurt him – myself. All I do hope is I can press down my emotions, but he doesn't like it.. because it triggers Marcel to wake up. He takes the control if I can't hold my temper.” “So, every time you were angry, it was Marcel in your body. If you will get angry, it will be Marcel?” Y/N exclaimed, looking at his eyes. His eyes that she missed dearly because she rarely looked at lately. The green eyes that belong to her Harry. “Marcel loves the anger, he hates the insult.” "Is he here right now? Can you feel him?" she asked cautiously, because her next questions might trigger him. “He’s sleeping right now.” He gave her reassurance smile, “If I'm happy, he will getting weak. The happier I am, the weaker he will feel. He can't just disappear like that.” She nodded, “About your father, the biological one. What happened to him after your mum and you moved to Manchester? How did you change to Styles?” "I didn't really know about him, and I don't care. The day mum took me out from the orphanage, she brought me to Manchester right away. My stepfather let me use his last name, and he was happy to do that. My mum never used Reinhard's last name on me, even on my birth certificate. All my childhood friends only knew my last name was Edward." He sighed, "Igor is our lifesaver. He loved my mother, he was very nice to me. The same with Clementia, both of the Styles undoubtedly help us out from the nightmare." His biological father's name was Reinhard... From the way his voice got thick when talking about his father to how soft he told her about his new family, Y/N knew Harry was betrayed and now being loved, such a roller coaster journey for him. She could never understand his pain and misery, but she would try to understand him. It was never really her place to judge him or throw accusation on him. She came to his life when he was on top of his life. She wasn't there when Harry experienced the storm in his life. She was glad Harry could get through it all despite the price he should pay. “You really love your stepfather and stepsister, don't you?” Harry smiled, “I do.” “You must be broken when your stepfather passed away.” “The day Clementia told me the news, that was the first time I cried for losing a father.” “Do you think Reinhard would trying to find you and your mum?” Y/N murmured, picking the right sentence so it wouldn't tickle Marcel. There was a huge silent before Harry answered her question, “I doubt that, it's been fifteen years and we live in peace.” "I once found your journal unintentionally, a leather journal with your birth year written on it. I know what I did was.. wrong, impudent. I’m sorry foe that, but I read a few first pages." She squeaked, afraid to hear her own words.  "My question is.. were you being abused almost every day? By him? Dale? Your friends?" "The pathetic thing is.. before I left for school, that bastard was always ready to drag me out of bed. When I was in school, Dale had hundreds of ways to make me miserable. After returning from school, the bastard was waiting for me to let out his frustration." "Oh, Harry." She gasped, looking at her boyfriends with a sombre look. Not a pity one. Harry wasn't a person who likes to be pitied, and she believed that Marcel was the same. She didn't believe, Harry Styles, who looked perfect from the outside – not a single damage were shown – had felt the cruelty of life before he reached this point. All his patience, his struggle, his tears – really paid him well. “That's why you have Niall, a psychiatrist, be your doctor or a therapist if I could say." "Niall is a friend from college. I was happy knowing he studied psychiatry. He was too shocked when he heard about my condition. One day I met him when he was still on lower level, and I told him my secrets. I remembered he was shaking too hard." Harry cackled, shaking his head. "I told him we're best friends, I trust him to tell my condition, I trust him to help me to go through this. And from then on, he became my personal healer. He's very professional and competent in his work." “Is he the first to know about your condition? Does your family know?” “My mum at first thought I had a psychopathic soul because she had caught me killing the pigeon, but she dismissed it after observing me a few days or weeks; Marcel never did that cruelty again. But yeah, Niall was the one who knew.”

He didn't let his mother know. He didn't let his family know. But, he trusted her. He could have dodged it and continued to cover up this truth. But, Harry trusted her enough to tell his conditions that not everyone could accept. “If I recalled my memories back, the factors that made Marcel come were Dale and Reinhard. After you start a new life in Manchester, went to college, to the States.. what happened with him? I mean, those two figures are no longer in your life, right?” “He's always here. Even the two main factors no longer exist, the anger that I couldn't stand would still wake him up.” He explained, “Because I just can't erase those feelings.” Y/N blinked her eyes. Of course Marcel would stay there with him. He couldn't forget his past, it was part of him that he couldn't let go after all. “How did Marcel react when you met Dale, again?” His shoulder slumped, while his index tapped his cupid bow. Harry seemed to think for a while before answering the question, “This will be a little long since it involves Machtig.” She nodded, “Take your time.” “My stepfather built a small company under Erskine. Since the development was quite good, he asked his best friend to manage the company. They were both successful at running Rollcall, the name at the time. Unfortunately, he was betrayed by his best friend. Rollcall was sold at a fairly high price. My stepfather was furious but he couldn't do anything since he had made his best friend as the commissioner. I don't remember who bought it, but from then on, he moved Erskine headquarters to London. When I returned home after completed my master's degree, on the first day of work replacing him, I discovered that Machtig is Rollcall. A year later, I found out that Dale worked there. I couldn't lie... I felt a huge resentment. But, that feeling peaked when we met at the same event. It was the first time I saw him again after years. Sadly, he worked with a company that Igor should have. Since then, Erskine and Machtig were like mortal enemies. Despite Dale isn't the owner, he holds an important position there." He explained, “But, of course Marcel was furious.” “Does he know that you're the Harry?” she muttered, her eyes wide in concern. If Dale knew he was the Harry, he could use them against Harry in anything business-related. He knew Harry was nothing back then. It must shock him how far Harry became. “He knows," confirmed him, "He knew after a few bidding we attend together. In the beginning, he didn't believe that I am, Harry Styles, is the Harry that he bullied. I don't know how he knew, maybe he hired detective or whatever, it's none of my business. I mean, I wasn't as attractive as now back then. I'm so much better and good looking now." Narcissistic much, huh? Her inner goddess rolled her eyes. “He could use that to bring you and Erskine down.” “He could," he agreed, "But he didn't that. I guess he's mature enough so he knows how to compete healthily. Attacking business competitors with personal matters isn't a good thing." “Does everyone know that you...” “Not many people know that I'm a stepson of Igor Styles.” He interrupted her before Y/N finished her sentence. “Dale doesn't know about Marcel, does he?” Harry shook his head. There was no way Dale knew about his condition. He would never let that happen. Enough for him to knew that Harry was his childhood victim. So many things she knew now, and he told her without hesitation. Another question she had. To be honest, Y/N wasn't comfortable asking these. But, she had to do it so she knew what to do. "I'm sorry if I make you feel burdened, H. I just.. I was just curious. If you know how many questions spinning in my mind." Harry smiled understandably, he was happy Y/N at least curious about what actually happened. He reached out to take her hands on his, “I'm glad you come to ask, not letting your assumption jump into vague conclusion.” She rubbed his hand, giving him composure. “So, how many people know about Marcel?” “Only Niall, my other friend – Mario, and now you.” He admitted quietly, “I'm not easy to be so open with people.” "Not even your family? Your mum? Your.. ex-girlfriend?" Harry shook his head, “I don't want to make my family sad, and.. telling a girlfriend is a risky thing.” “But I am your girlfriend?” Y/N asked dumbfounded. She frowned at the way Harry was laughing at her. Did she say something stupid? “Yes, because I put my whole trust in you.” He said softly, “I know which people I can trust, which the right person for me to tell them.” Even though he knew it was risky to lose Y/N from his life “Did Marcel know about people who knew him? About me?” “Absolutely. You met him on your first day, I believe.” Wrong question. Y/N didn't expect that, she felt her face turn pale quickly. Of course he did! When Harry looked at her with a strange look she failed to recognise, with the darker eyes.. it was him. "What about his victims? He killed a few people." She blurted the question without thinking it first. She saw Harry's face changed, looked like she ticked him wrongly. Y/N squinted her eyes, didn't dare to look him in the eyes. She was afraid that Marcel was in front of her right now, instead of her Harry. “Why you closed your eyes, darling? I'm Harry. Marcel let me explain them to you.” Y/N opened her eyes slowly. The first thing she saw was a pair of eyes she recognised, Harry's eyes. “This will sound a bit arrogant but I use my connection to finish his job. Mario, he is the council of NCA. That's why my name always clean, never have a criminal record. And that's why the police never call if I did something." He grimaced at his words, didn't like how it came out of his mouth. He watched her face who looked confused. She opened her mouth, but close it right away – as if hesitant to say it. "Can I ask you something?" it was Harry's turn to ask, he had to use this opportunity to make everything clear. Y/N nodded, "Yeah?" “How do you feel? After everything I told you?” Harry looked at Y/N calmly despite his heart was beating so freaking fast. He was getting impatient when Y/N took her time to be quiet for a moment. Which every second of it killed him slowly. Slowly, she rose from her seat – getting down on her knees. Harry was utter confused by her; what was she doing? "You said you put the whole trust on me, and entrust me to be the person to see you very open. So I can understand you from all angles." She smiled, placing her hands on his thighs. "I can't let you be the only one who trusts me wholly. I trust you with all of the pieces in my body and my soul. You deserve my highest trust, H." “Whatever will be, you're still my Harry. I have to accept everything on you.” Harry grabbed her arms, bringing her closer. Kissed her dearly before his Y/N could see the tears in his eyes, rolling down his cheek. He was too happy. His feelings that he couldn't describe, it was suffocating him in different way. Harry repeatedly whispered words of thanks between their kisses. This was much better than he imagined. “H, darling. Let's get home, it's almost eight.” Y/N laughed, pushing his face away. She frowned looking at the damp tears in his cheek, then wiping them softly, “Why are you crying?” “I'm just happy that's all.” He sniffled, “Let's go, darling. Let me drive you home.” . . . . “So, your birthday is in a week, where do you want to celebrate?” Harry murmured, his fingers stroking Y/N hair softly. The two of them were in her apartment, laying cosily in her couch. It was Saturday afternoon. After they work out together, Harry chose to go home to Y/N. Of course she was happy, it had been a long time Harry hadn't come to her house. "I don't know. Every time I celebrate my birthday, there were awkward incidents after that. Like when I was celebrating my twentieth birthday, my friend broke the glass table because she hit the pinata wrong since she was drunk." Y/N laughed in shame, her hands tightened the blanket covering both of them, it was raining outside, the air got colder – the more it makes her lazy to move from her position. “Really?” he snickered, adjusting her body in his lap. He knew too well she was cold. He could feel her goosebumps and her shoulders shaking once in a while. "Another birthday fail was I once blew out a large white candle because my friend forgot to bring the birthday candle, and instead she asked the waiter if they had candles.” Her laughter made Harry laughed along, imagining if he was her on that day. "Okay, I give you a deadline to tell me what you want in three days. " Harry said cheekily, pinching her cheek. "And I promise there won't be any birthday failure involve." “And if I don't know what I want?” Y/N challenged him, lifting her head so she could see him. He just shook his head, before squeezing her cheeks until her lips puckered like a fish. He kissed her puckering lips, “You have to wait and find out!” Harry swatted her hands away from his hair as her fingers tugging his little sprout. His hair was getting long and he had tied some strands that covered his forehead. Yet, it was a bad idea because Y/N loved to pull it. “She's so cute! She should appear more.” Y/N cooed, playing with a little strand from his sprout. She smiled noticing he wore her scrunchies to tie his hair. “My hair is long enough to get trim but I'm too lazy to do that.” Harry stroked his hair with his fingers, watching how long his hair had grown. “Why don't you let it grow? I'm curious if your hair is long.” “Trust me if you want a princess hair on me, you won't like it.” He laughed, “My hair is so easy to get greasy.” "Who said that I want a princess' hair? Just let it grow by your shoulder. You would look sexy I bet." She hummed, wiggling her eyebrow yet her innocent eyes seducing him. Y/N gasped when Harry buckling his hips on her, she could feel his growing bulge down there. She exhaled when he brought her mouth close to her ears, "You think so?" “I –”  she choked on her words when he decided to attack her lips. Both of them now only fixated with the sound of raindrops and their clashing lips; of how they warmed themselves to each other. One thing led another, they knew their voices would be louder than the sound of rain out there. If they wouldn't stop now. . . Please excuse some errors. Chat me here!