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intheorangebedroom · 4 months

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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 2

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

Two months have passed since your first time at the motel with Frankie. What has changed, what hasn't. Who are you now?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 How are you all? Gentle reminder that our Reader is an OFC. In this chapter, we get to know her better, and there are indirect physical descriptions of her. Sincerest apologies to anyone who knows Tampa. I did a lot of research, but I'm afraid my ignorance will still show… I swear I did my best. Raul is real, though. He's a friend of a very dear friend and he lives in Paris.

@frannyzooey my love, as always, I am in your debt. Thank you for your help. I love you more than words 🧡

I hope you enjoy this one, Orange besties, it made me sweat blood, @dreamymyrrh and @pedrit0-pascalit0 had to listen to my constant whining to put me on life support. Ily 🧡

Word count: 8.6k

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Chapter 2: Closer

The traffic is dense, but you spot Ava’s red Toyota as soon as it turns into E 7th avenue.

On any given Saturday, the upbeat neighborhood is bustling with cheerful crowds of leisured weekenders and hip thirty-something. On this particular Saturday, the first after Thanksgiving, the streets are a vision from hell.

There’s a constant ballet of cars pulling in and out along the curbs. On each side of the avenue, the sidewalks are swarming with jittery shoppers, frenetically prospecting for good deals on potential Christmas gifts. You’re willing to bet that most of them will stretch their budget thin on useless, meaningless knickknacks. Generic trinkets without soul nor purpose but that will, for the first half hour of ownership at least, fill the void in their consumers’ existence.

The traditional Christmas tree of unholy proportions is up and sparkling. Wrapped around the iron porch columns, electrical garlands blink in rapid sequences like luminescent spasmodic snakes. Storefronts are decorated with more or less taste. The temperature has dropped twice below 70. It’s that time of the year.

The merry season usually finds you adding a generous helping of anxiolytics to your daily cocktail of little helpers. This year, however, you haven’t popped a pill in days, and everything feels… more. Louder, too vivid, more oppressive. Sensations magnified and emotions amplified. Which is, after all, what you were aiming at when you unilaterally decided to taper off your intake.

Ava miraculously secures a free spot on the other side of the avenue, about a hundred yards in front of yours. You watch her parallel park, the maneuver surprisingly sloppy, given the parking assist technology the brand-new hybrid car is equipped with, and you wonder if you really needed to spend that much money on it.

In front of your own parked car, pedestrians agglutinate at the crosswalk. When the light turns green, they move as one, like flocks of extras on a movie set, coming to life on cue when the director yells “action!”

They’re not extras, however, each one of them is the main character in the movie of their life. Together they form a constellation of individual and interconnected stories, while you stand at the margin, forever exhausted, willfully forlorn. At best, a supporting part in Ava’s fantastic tale of eccentric adventures, but more likely a backdrop in your father’s gripping success story.

Although, your narrative has changed drastically over the past two months. You now got a part in your own right, unfolding in between takes.

You wait until Ava gets out of her vehicle before you exit yours, reluctant to leave the hushed safety of your old sedan’s cab, even for the few minutes it’ll take you to meet with her and step into the coffee place.

You wave at her from across the busy street until she sees you, but when she proceeds to jaywalk over to you, reckless and entirely indifferent to your pleading expression, you have to avert your eyes. There’s a crosswalk right in front of you, god dammit.

She levels up with you and pecks a kiss on your cheek, hitting your cheekbone with force, more headbutt than demonstration of affection.

“Hey,” she says, barely stopping in her tracks before she pushes open the glass door to the coffee shop.

“Hello, pup,” you answer fondly, your words lost to the street’s bustle.

Inside, the artificial air instantly pulls at your skin. The atmosphere is cool but dry, saturated with the smell of freshly grounded coffee beans and greasy-sweet pastries. The high-ceiling, cement floor, wide open-space is packed. The brick walls reverberate the ambient noises, and the late morning sun beams brightly through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, evenly spaced along the lateral walls. People sit in small parties around the white designer tables, sipping iced coffees from tall red paper cups with white snowflakes, large shopping bags at their feet.

Trying your best not to shrink and shrivel from the multiple overwhelming stimuli, you focus on Ava’s back, walking behind her as she leads the way to a free table at the rear of the coffee shop, between the counter and one of the windows. There’s a regal quality to her gait and the way she carries herself, not unlike your father, the resemblance enhanced by her preference for masculine clothing, and you have to love the irony, given how much she hates the man. She has your mother’s beauty, though. The same luxurious dark hair, fair, flawless skin, and wide green eyes, her frame tall, her figure athletic. She’s the masterpiece. Next to her, you look like a clumsy first draft, with blurry edges and hesitant features.

She throws her jean jacket on the back of her chair and collapses on her seat with a theatrical sigh.

Across from her, you sit down gingerly on the edge of the hard wooden chair, balancing your weight around the sore and delicious ghost sensation of Frankie between your hips.

“You look good,” you start.

“Yeah, you too!” she exclaims, like it’s unexpected, “tired but like, good. Are you getting any sleep?”

You smile, waving your hand dismissively.

“Don’t we have to go to the counter to order?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answers, “they serve at the table. I’m having an oat milk matte, what do you want?”

“An espresso, I think.”

Right on cue, a young woman dressed in a black cropped top and black skinny jeans presents herself at your table and proceeds to tap in your order on a rectangular electronic device. Her long acrylic nails hit the screen with a rapid succession of click-click-click. The sound brings you back to your parents' dining-room, the large table standing like an angular island on the shiny square of reflective tiles, in the middle of a shag carpet ocean. Your mother’s nails, painted in Revlon Desirable #150, rattling impatiently over the lacquered surface of the dining table near her untouched plate and a glass of G&T sweating with condensation. She never ate her food. She drank even when she was pregnant.

Your fingers find the back of your knee and pinch the thin skin there, so hard you flinch.

The waitress waltzes off, and Ava returns her full attention to you.

“I’m happy to see you,” she offers, and you smile softly at her uncustomary expression of affection. Your chest expends. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no reproach in her tone, but you are usually the one expressing ill-concealed concern over her long silences, and the reversal in your dynamic throws you off. Guilts gnaws at you. You choose defense.

“You were away.”

“Yeah, but like, I came back three weeks ago.”

Three weeks. Your smile fades and you slump in your chair, running a quick mental calculation.

Time has never been an easy concept for you to grasp, but until recently, you’ve managed to remain afloat and functioning, on a practical level at least, amidst a society that revolves around schedules and timetables. The watch on your wrist, yearly organizers, recently and reluctantly replaced by the iCal app on your phone, sticky notes, tin boxes filled with tickets stubs… All clutches to your failing memory, anything to keep you tethered against an overpowering and primal instinct to escape, let go, drift away. And perhaps, most of your exhaustion stems from this endless swimming-race against the current.

Lately, your inability to remember appointments, to navigate time and hold an effective grasp on reality has reached a new high. For the past two months, your life has revolved around Friday nights and the sound of a red pickup truck pulling in and out of a decrepit motel’s parking, tires screeching on the gravel. Inside this timeframe, your entire life is contained. Around it, the days stretch, spiral, and blend. And you’ve lost all motivation and interest in any counter-current swimming.

You frown slightly, scanning her face, but she doesn’t let on anything out of the ordinary. After all, if she genuinely worried, if she so badly needed to see you, she could have given you a call. You were the one to reach out and ask to see her this morning.

Something’s different about her, in the way she holds herself straighter on her seat, with her legs crossed and her head tilted to the side, exposing the undercut she got before the summer. You’re still not entirely sure if this was the bold fashion statement she claimed it to be, rather than a dramatic reaction to her girlfriend moving back to New York. With Ava, it could be both. She’s not wearing any makeup today, her face looks disarmingly young, and the concern she’s expressed, however subtle, churns your insides with guilt and affection.

You plaster a polite smile on your face.

“Well, I’m here now. It’s good to see you, too. Tell me, how was New York? How’s Polly?”

The waitress returns with the pastries and beverages you ordered, and Ava begins to narrate her two-week trip to the big city. She speaks fast, punctuating her words with large gestures to describe the cultural buoyancy, the hip neighborhoods and her thrifts finds, the street food and the refined, cutting-edge restaurants, how everything is bigger there, faster and better, how she fell safe walking hand in hand with Polly, the clubs, the galleries, the weather, crisp air and chilly winds from the north, a refreshing, comforting seasonality to pace the existence.

“I was fucking crying when I boarded the plane back, you have no idea.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” you sigh, shaking your head. “You don’t miss her too much?”

She doesn’t answer, and something in the way she avoids your gaze makes you frown again.

Polly and you have always gotten along well. You genuinely appreciate her solar personality and her worldly conversation. Their encounter four years ago had been the silver-lining in an otherwise horrendous year. The happy, coincidental consequence of a chain of events that had been years in the making.

When Ava dropped out of college halfway through her freshman year, it provided your father with the excuse he had been waiting for to kick his own child out of his house. You had seen it coming. In fact, you had spent your entire adult life shielding Ava from the paternal discontent, investing all your strength into becoming the son and successor he had wished for, and that neither of you could ever be.

Ava, however, had never put in the effort. She didn’t fit into the family portrait. She never had. You didn’t want her to, and she simply couldn’t. Too rebellious, decidedly unconventional, and, well, queer, to boot. Your father had spent years formatting you and there she was, standing proud, strengthened by your unconditional support, a glaring highlight of your diverging values, a breathing reminder of his failure with you both.

In the aftermath of the fall-out, Adrian had refused to take her in, and she had spent days out of your sight, sleeping god knows where. Eventually, you’d dug your heels in, as you only ever did when Ava was concerned and her wellbeing on the line, and obtained that she move in with you. The cohabitation hadn’t gone smoothly in the least. As usual, Adrian was more concerned about potentially upsetting your father than making you happy. You were once again caught between crossed fires.

The strained situation with your fiancé notwithstanding, Ava couldn't spend her time sitting idly at home. You had pleaded with her for weeks before she agreed to resume her studies. Only this time, it had to be with your funding. The realization that you didn’t have any consequential money of your own had been brutal, even though it shouldn’t have been a surprise: you lived in Adrian’s apartment, and were employed by your father, who refused point-blank to let you sell some of your company shares, knowing the money would go to his estranged daughter.

All you could afford was Hillsborough Community College, but things had eventually taken a turn for the better when Ava and Polly had met. Polly was teaching psychology, waiting for a tenure that she would never be granted. Because of the 20-year age gap between them, she insisted Ava graduate with her BA before they started properly dating. And when they did, the improvement in your sister’s mental state and overall balance was immediately noticeable.

Calm and collected, affectionate and thoughtful, Polly grounds your young sibling. She eases her anger and channels her energy into creative and fruitful endeavors, without snuffing her rebellious temper.

And now, despite Ava being almost fully independent, with a job and a place of her own, you don’t know what you’d do if they were to break up. If one of them were to decide that a long-distance relationship is not what she wants.

You lean forward, your hand coming to rest over hers, warm and smooth. “Hey pup, what’s up? Is everything ok between you two?”

“Oh yes,” she quickly assures you, withdrawing her hand, “and by the way, she sends you her best.”

Understanding downs on you like a bucket of ice. You suddenly feel stupid, pathetically naive, forever one step behind. Leaning back in your chair, you let out a short, soundless huff. What you’re facing is not a breakup, but the likely possibility that Ava will soon move out of town to follow Polly to New York.

Ava is talking again, about New York you’re guessing, but you can’t focus on her words. Behind your impassive eyes and your attentive smile, your mind reels and wrestles with a downpour of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Pride flares in your chest at the prospect of your baby sister setting roots in a city as intimidating as New York, but it tugs at something else, something you’re too scared to consider, and an ugly feeling you’re reluctant to acknowledge.

Would she hesitate before leaving you behind, after you’ve prioritized her freedom over yours? After you stayed so she could fly away? And wouldn’t it be the point?

Your eyes travel up along the trail of small tattoos adorning her forearms. Dominos, tea cups, a white rabbit with round glasses, a flamingo, several thin arrows, a broken heart in flames.

What’s your purpose, if she’s not here anymore? If someone else is looking after her? If your sacrifice is no longer necessary nor justified?

“How was Thanksgiving dinner? Did you have fun talking about politics with Richard?”

You wince involuntarily at your father’s name. She never refers to them as “mom” and “dad.” She hasn’t for a long while. But today the sarcasm doesn’t fool you, no more than her feigned indifference.

She’s not truly asking if you had to bite your tongue and smile through conversations that make you nauseous. She knows well enough you’ve got just enough political convictions to carry you to the voting poll, but hardly a step further. Listening to him is painful, but you get by, and your shameful silence buys you necessary peace.

No, what she wants to know is if your family inquired about her. And you don’t have it in you to answer that no, no one has, not last Thursday, not for the past four years, not ever. Not your indifferent father, nor your inebriated mother. Not your bigot grandparents, not your egotistic aunt and her gold-digging husband, not even the housekeeping staff.

You shrug noncommittally.

“Who were the guests of honor, this year?”

The question makes you groan and briefly close your eyes at the memory.

“Adrian’s parents.”

“No?! Fuck! They really want this marriage to happen, don’t they? Looks like you’re not gonna be able to dodge much longer.”

She smacks her hand over her thigh, letting out a short staccato of a chuckle, as if the subject of your confinement through marriage was a laughing matter. You glare at her, crossing your legs and folding your arms over your chest, but the shifting in your demeanor goes unnoticed.

Suddenly, her levity riles you up. She got away. You didn’t. And the only thing that carried you through this year’s Thanksgiving dinner is the perspective of being fucked senseless by a stranger on a dirty motel floor the following night.

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to bite, and retort that, contrary to her, you didn't spend the holiday on your own. But the truth is that you envy her the privilege, and she knows it.

Taking a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm your growing nerves, you stir the conversation towards another topic, finding neutral ground with her job. You’re stalling, and you’re not even good at it. You sit restless on that damn hard chair, squirming uncomfortably, sweat prickling under your armpits in the chill artificial air, eyes flicking down to your watch every other second.

“Do you have to be somewhere, or something?”

Your head shoots up. Again, you have no idea what she’s talking about, or how long she’s been rambling for. This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.

“Listen, Ava, I have to ask you something. A favor. I have to ask you a favor.”

Her eyes widen at your sudden change of tone but she nods. “Hit me.”

“I need you to… I need to be able to tell Adrian that I spend… that I spend Friday nights at your place. Actually, I’ve already been doing it for a while. He thinks we see each other on Friday evenings. I just… I need more time. I need the night.” You grip your shin with both hands and dig your nails in. “It really doesn’t matter anyway, he’s not home on Fridays, he plays poker and he never comes back until like, 3 or 4am, and I just need— I need to be able to come home after him. Not, like, every week. Or yes, maybe every week. Just in case. If ever. You know?”

She remains completely still and silent as you wrestle your words out of your throat. Her face hardens, her wide, green eyes strained on you. She gauges you in silence for another moment, while you rub your clammy palms on your jeans under the table. Above the table, you do your very best to maintain a casual air.

“And what exactly is it that you do, on Friday nights?”

You anticipated the question, of course you did. You swallow around the sharp stone stuck in your throat. Your eyes dart down to your espresso cup. It’s empty.

“I’m just taking a bit of time off for myself.”

More time, to commit his body and his face to your long-term memory after he’s left you, depriving you of his heat. The tiny bits of him that add up to form the formidable sum of the man he is. The locks that curl around his ears. The dip in his collarbone. The little target tattooed on his hand. You’re never sure which hand it’s on, you need more time, that’s all. And you won’t lie to her, not exactly. You set your mind on that early on. But you will not tell her the whole story.

A large shit-eating grin slowly parts her plump lips.

“Are you telling me that Richard’s favorite daughter is getting some side dick on a weekly fucking basis?”

“Jesus, Ava, why do you always have to be so crude?”

“But you are? Right? You are getting dicked down, every fucking Friday night? Right? Are you on Tinder, or something?”

“I’m not—” you start, but her excitement is louder than your exasperation. She uncrosses her legs to lean toward you, propping her elbows on the table and threading her fingers together, talking over you.

“Why didn’t you tell me? For once that something cool–”

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” you retort through clenched teeth, raising your voice. Her mouth hangs open in shock. You don’t give her time to recover. “And look, if you don’t want to do that for me, it’s fine, it’s not like anyone is going to call you to ask if I’m with you.”

She takes the blow, leaning back in her chair. “Wow. You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, shame and anger burning your cheeks.

“Why you’re telling me now, then?”

“Like I said. In case.”

“I case what? In case I find myself on a Friday evening in the same place Adrian takes his cuntsluts?”

You steel yourself and stare at her.

“Something like that, yes.”

—

Two months.

Two months of lies and deception, shoving your bright secret deep down inside you, shrouded under a veil of routine and normalcy.

Nine weeks, split into six days of stretched out hours, swirling languid and excruciating, like smoke from a cigarette stub in a room without air, and one day of counting. The minutes, your steps, your breaths, your heartbeats.

Saturdays, worn-out, appeased, pleasantly aching. Sundays rising slow like a lurking threat. Mondays-Tuesdays-Wednesdays merging, dragging and useless. People talking to you, expecting words, when your mind is filled with two glistening bodies entwined in golden hues. A tremor on Thursdays, the nearing promise, and by Friday morning you’re all frayed nerves and aching want, tapping into your pent-up emptiness for focus and patience.

Friday evenings sliced up into a ritualized sequence of actions.

At 6pm, you leave your office and head toward the employees' underground parking. There are 37 steps from your desk to the two silver-doors elevators on the landing. Seventeen stories down, including 2 underground levels, and 58 steps from the elevators to your designated parking place. It is crucial that you don’t allow the pace of your steps to catch up with the racing thumps of your heart.

From downtown Tampa, it’s an hour and thirty-six minutes drive north on the 589, before you reach the motel. An hour and fifty minutes, two hours top, if the traffic’s bad. There might be faster alternative routes, but you don’t use the GPS, so you don’t know about them.

Once you’re there, you park in front of room number 7, the one with the missing brass number. You stuff your phone into your purse, which you slide under your seat.

You exit your car and walk towards the reception in short, hurried strides, cursing the tight skirt that hinders your steps and gives your posture a subdued aspect, which is probably why your father imposes the garment on his female employees.

The reception is a square room with an old humming AC unit, dark-brown fabric wallpaper, yellowing popcorn ceiling and a counter behind which sits Raul, the night clerk. Raul is a short man in his mid-60s. His dark eyes are reshaped into tiny concentric boot buttons by the thick lenses of his small, round glasses. His light brown, straight hair is styled in a bowl cut. He only wears beige Henley’s with rolled-up sleeves and indigo painter overalls. You’ve never seen his shoes.

Every week, Raul hands you the key to room number 2 without lifting his boot-button eyes from the charcoal drawing he busies himself over behind the counter, and tells you in a thick accent that “everything has already been taken care of.”

Every week, you thank Raul, grab the key from his stretched out left hand, and chance a glance over the counter to see what he’s drawing. Mountains, infallibly, week after week, the scenery only varying in shape and shades of anthracite.

And every week, as you exit the reception, you feel Raul’s boot-button eyes strained on your back through his round glasses.

When you step inside room number 2, you flick up the two toggle switches by the door, turning on the lights and the overhead fan, and you go to the bathroom to wash your hands and check your reflection in the antique black-edged mirror.

Then, you return to the room and you sit on the bed. That’s where you wait for him.

You don’t undress, you don’t lie down, you don’t undo the bed.

You know what he’ll do to your clothes. Anticipation trickles down along your spine all the way to the ripe heat between your thighs, and it travels right back up to tug up at the corners of your lips, but you press them together, lips and thighs, as you wait.

He comes in after dark, preceded by the sound of tires on gravel and that of his boots stomping on the porch and he’s here, Frankie’s here, the rush of night air from outside when he storms into the room wafting over your face.

He greets you with a hoarse voice, like he hasn’t used it all week, and he takes a couple of long strides towards the desk, where he sets down his cap. You peer at his reflection in the framed mirror when he combs his fingers through his dark curls, tense jaw, creased brow. You study his broad shoulders, the rippling muscles of his strong back, when he takes off his jacket and drapes it on the back of the chair, swift, precise gestures. It’s his own ceremonial, you let him have it, his transition into this world that you share. The confine of this room. Brown carpet, yellow curtains.

When he turns to face you, at last, it’s always with a heavy, grating sigh, a sound so rough and primitive to express his relief, his hunger, the limit of his patience. You stand up slowly, unfurling in slow motion from your sitting position on the edge of the bed, eyes on him, forever and always. His want radiates from him in colorful angry waves, like a tangible, virulent aura, black eyes boring into your skin and you welcome it as it pours out of him and creeps up to you like thick fumes.

You stand tall in the charged stillness of the motel room, offered, but not quite yet within reach, waiting for him to come and seize you.

“Take off your clothes,” he says as he comes closer, tilting up his chin. The command rumbles low and guttural from his throat, and those words are your cue. You clamber out of your statuesque stillness, twisting your ankles out of your pumps while he tugs at your blouse, as he crashes his lips onto yours.

His first kiss is voracious, unescapable, your face trapped between his cupped hands, and you’re engulfed in the taste of him, drowning in the scent of him, leather and soap and musk. And something metallic you have no name for. It’s intoxicating, you’re floating, losing both bearings and balance, like when you were thirteen, and you’d sneak to the downstairs pantry to drink your mother’s gin before dinner.

On some Friday nights, you’ve already made it back to your glass prison when you notice a tear in the seam of your shirt, or a missing button. “Take off those fucking clothes, I wanna feel your skin.”

“Yes,” you answer with parted lips, parted heart, parted life, jaunty fingers working your skirt open.

Beyond that point, neither of you talks much.

It’s his name –Frankie– falling from your lips, a long but quiet whimper when you come, a whine of pleasure-plain when he inches into you, a moan when you plead for more, a whisper when you promise you can take it all.

It’s his clipped orders, sharp and short.

Open up

Push back into it

Let me hear you

I want you to come on it

And two words, always the same since that first time in the parking lot.

Stop me.

Stop me when he pins your hands above your head or folds your arms in the small of your back, his fingers like shackles around your wrists, and he lines himself up. Stop me before his saliva drips down his tongue in fat drops between your breasts, and he straddles your chest. Stop me, when he closes a fist in your hair and slides you down along his hard length, your chest caving in under your gag reflex, beads of tears like precious shiny diamonds clinging to your lashes. Stop me when he angles your spine backwards with a sudden tug on your hair, when he bands an arm across your belly and ragdolls you to the floor to fuck you harder and deeper. Stop me when he ties your wrists to your ankles with the black zip ties that bite into your flesh.

Stop me with the flat of his hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, Stop me with his thumb teasing your tight ring, Stop me with your legs around his neck.

Those two words, a beacon guiding you through the week that precedes.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you repeat them to yourself.

“Stop me,” you say, low and quiet, facing the mirror when you're applying makeup, staring straight into your eyes, so intently it twists your reflection.

“Stop me.” A whisper, and a slow-spreading, carnivorous smile that splits your face in two because someone, at last, wants you beyond reason.

Stop me. You will never stop him.

He fucks you twice, three times a night, before he leaves you covered in him, sated and sprawled on the rumpled bed around 2am, with a nod and a husked, “I’ll see you next Friday.” He sounds calm at last. Drained.

Once he’s gone, in the rumbling of the pickup’s engine and the screeching of the tires, your mental countdown to the next Friday is reset. You crouch into the narrow bathtub of dubious cleanliness, and ruefully wash him away in the trickle of hot water. You try to hold on to the thought of him, even more so than to the feeling of his touch. That’s what the soreness is for. It will stay with you until Monday at least.

But in your memory, his face is blurred. Only his sad angry eyes stand out, dreamlike, entrancing.

There's a conflicting distance beyond his hunger. An underlying restraint beyond his roughness. Withheld intimacy. A reluctance to give into your softest touches, when his forehead briefly rests on the plane of your chest, and you circle his neck, or carefully run your fingers through his sweat-soaked curls.

It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that if he wasn’t in here with you, he’d be somewhere else, doing something worse.

Some weeks, you go through strings of sleepless nights and restless days of anguish, your mind spiraling to the agonizing thought that you are nothing more to him than an empty and interchangeable vessel into which he can fuck his rage.

With masochistic thoroughness, you pull taut a red woolen thread to connect the clues of your insignificance.

He doesn’t name you. There are no sweet names, no terms of endearment, and he certainly never calls you Marion. The sounds he produces when he’s inside you, that’s your reward. Deep guttural grunts, and if you’re lucky enough, they resonate through your whole body when he holds you tight and close.

He never comes inside you. Where do you want it? he pants, when his hips start to fall out of pace. “Mouth,” you quickly answer, always, a greedy match for his gritty ways. And most times, he obliges. Flips you around or scoot over you and shoves his pulsating cock into your warm, wanton mouth.

But sometimes, he doesn’t. The thick pearly white ropes of his spend spurt over your back, your belly, your chest. That’s when he’s got a mind to rub it into your skin. That’s when you want to believe he might have chosen you to be here with him.

In those scarce instances, you are tempted to rely on your instinctual understanding of your relationship. Far from the toxic codependency that, according to Ava, you feed into with Adrian, what you share with Frankie is elsewhere entirely. Week after week, he presents himself before you, visibly wounded, willing to offer exactly as much as he needs to receive. The balance is perfect. No travesty, complete equality. The purest form of interaction. The most honest transaction you’ve ever taken part in.

And thus, no matter how remote he may seem on some nights, no matter how dark his eyes, how clouded his gaze, or how brutal his hold, you can’t help but feel safe.

The feeling thrums underneath your skin and finds an echo in his bloodstream. You hear it in your shared silence, when you lie side by side on the bed and stare emptily at the ceiling, chests heaving, bodies cooling off. When a shiver rakes through you, he gets up and turns off the overhead fan. Walks over to the bathroom to bring you a glass of water.

He’s given you everything you wanted and didn’t know how to ask for.

And when he looks you in the eyes, he doesn’t blink.

Stop me, he says, and what you hear is, Trust me.

He’s been quick to learn your body, and he’s greedy with your highs. He keeps you pinned down onto the threadbare linen with his mouth fastened around your cunt until your legs tremble and your throat is hoarse with your repeated high-pitched moans, the stubble on his cheeks scraping the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Bestowing pleasure, drinking it right back.

Your body expands into new sensations, after years of a dormant existence, curled up within your outer shell into the tightest ball, the smallest possible shape. You’re spreading, stretching into your limbs, filling them in. Growing nerve endings that shoot farther along your extremities with each fiery kiss, each starving touch, each orgasm, like trees rooting in beautiful, intricate ramifications.

The wild creature nestled between your lungs has a mind of its own. You’re developing emotions unknown to you until now.

The tranquil contentment he leaves you with when he steps back into the night and closes the door behind him rapidly fades over the following days. By Sunday evening, there’s nothing left of it, and you find yourself shivering, deprived of his heat, unsettled, agitated.

Your mind wanders to her. The faceless, nameless woman he drives back to after you’ve fucked each other free of your pain.

Envy, tinged with hatred, pours ugly inside your chest, pressing against your rib cage, hindering your breathing, its heavy particles tainting your oxygen.

Does he handle her with reverence? Does he use sweet names to beckon her into his embrace? Does he spit in her mouth, does she beg him to? Does he rub his spend into her skin, or does he stuff her pussy full of his seed?

Whenever you loosen the grip on your thoughts, you’re brought back to a large reception room on the last floor of another glass prison, stilettos wounding your feet, strangers with empty smiles and cruel eyes drinking from crystal champagne glasses. The excruciating misery of having to interact with Adrian’s colleagues, laughing at golf jokes you did not understand, desperate to fit in. Fighting your survival instinct, to tether yourself and not present a blank stare to those people you were supposed to impress. As Adrian’s fiancée. As your father’s daughter.

The effort seemed worth it, then. You were in love. Or so you thought. In hindsight, you’re not certain anymore. Reinterpreting your past is a temptation you try not to succumb to. In more then one way, you still love him.

There was a hushed tremor in the faceless assembly of tuxedos and cocktail dresses, and you saw her entering the room, parting the crowd. Slender, swaying, lush honey blonde locks and incandescent hazel eyes. Junior partner at Adrian’s firm, quickly climbing the ranks, flawless makeup and oozing self-confidence, she smoked Vogue cigarettes and when your gaze returned to Adrian, everything fell into place. You knew with a chilling certainty that this formidable young woman was fucking your boyfriend.

Adrian had had a couple of flings in the past, but this one was different. He fell for her hard, a grown man in a teenage-like trance. Your blood left your face when you realized everyone else in the penthouse, and most likely in the firm, could see what you were seeing.

You decided then and there that you were never going to marry him, regardless of what he or your father would threaten you with.

But even then, what you had experienced wasn’t jealousy. You’d felt trapped, and yes, betrayed. Wounded, in what little self-esteem you possessed. Thoroughly defeated. But you did not feel jealous.

You understand it now, and every time you think of Frankie’s touch grazing the faceless woman. Every time you torture yourself into considering the nature of their bond and the depth of their attachment.

Would Frankie look at you the way Adrian looked at her? With blunt desire, unabashed, irrepressible thirst? With belonging? Would people around you know? Would they identify you as lovers?

After all, a single glance had been enough for him to take you from a bar, to a parking lot, to a motel. To make you desperate to mean something to him.

Does he miss you outside your shared time? Does he think of you? Does his mind wander to your skin in the blue morning hours, does he try to name your scent?

Deep down, you are no fool. If there’s one thing you’ve always known in this life, it’s your place.

But some Friday nights are more dangerous. They give you too much hope. Prompting you to call your sister, for instance, and risk your little secret so you can spend more time in the small room with the yellow curtains. Wrap yourself in the dirty sheets that bear his musky scent, instead of jumping into the shower. Linger into that breach of your life’s continuum. Extend the delusion.

Last Friday, he buried his face into your core and drew violent waves of release that he kissed back into you, swirling his tongue into your mouth to coat it with your taste.

His face was shiny with your slick and his body glistening with sweat in the soft yellow hues from the bedside lamps, when he got up to the desk and slid his belt out of the loops of his pants.

Your eyes grew wide, but not with fear.

He placed you face down on the bed, with your arms along your chest, and he trapped your body with the belt. You accompanied his movements, docile, curious, without apprehension. The metal buckle was cool on your feverish skin, and the leather smelled like him.

Stop me. He was hard and thick, and he fucked into you in long, thorough strokes, dragging the round tip of his cock along your clenching walls, slamming his hips into the swell of your ass. With his thumb pushing into your asshole and his hand around the belt to keep you where he needed you to lie still.

You came in seismic tides that quaked along your body in concentric ripples, from your wrung out core to the extremities of your fingers and toes. The sound that came out of your throat was unrecognizable, and perhaps it was his. Your mind tipped over into unconsciousness. When you resurfaced, his cock was rubbing in the cleft of your cheeks, his come leaking down the curve of your back, mixing in with your combined sweat, his chest pressing down onto your shoulder blades.

You felt his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, hot breath searing his choked up words into your soul.

“You’re a good girl. Say it. Say you’re a good girl.”

“I’m— I’m—“

“That’s it, say it for me.”

He was lying heavy on top of you, sinking you into the mattress, his belt buckle digging into your side. This was going to leave a mark.

“I’m a good girl.”

“You’re my good girl.”

You will never stop him.

—

Sitting on the edge of the bed, with your back straight and your ankles crossed, you wait. Eyes on the yellow curtains, darting beyond the dusty fabric into the warm December night. It’s yours. All of it. Yours until morning.

There’s the faintest hint of a bad taste sitting on the back of your tongue. Coppery, bloodlike. It comes in waves every time you remember how you twisted your baby sister’s arm into covering for you. But the night is yours. You swallow hard, force a smile. You want to be guiltless, for once.

“Polly says you’re overly secretive. That you like to live ‘hidden between the folds of life’, as she puts it. Something about culpability being a coping mechanism…”

The words, delivered flatly after you’d stubbornly diverted and defused all her questions, had cut through the most tender parts of your flesh.

“Is that her professional opinion?” you had retorted, your chin tilted up as if you were not bleeding inside.

You swallow hard again. If you close your eyes, if you concentrate, you can almost hear it. The pickup’s engine, bolting down the asphalt, bringing him into your needy arms. You can feel the heat radiating from his solid chest and seeping into your body through your palms, resting empty and upwards on your lap. Your tongue tingles with his tangy taste, a trail of goosebumps breaks across your skin, anticipating his caress.

Frankie.

The daydream that carries you through the week, carries you through that very last stretch.

Until the man himself storms into the room like bad weather. Dark, electric, a standing threat.

One look at his face and you know. It’s going to be one of these nights that make you doubt everything.

At first, the change in the script is barely perceptible. There is no gentle acclimatization, no ceremonial, no tacitly shared ritual. He doesn’t face away to let you observe his reflection in the mirror. But he looks like he hasn’t slept since last Friday. The crease in his brow is forbidding, his eyes are too bright, too clouded, circled in black and you’re dizzy with the distance you find there. Tension rolls out from his taut muscles underneath his clothes and you stand up, alert, if not entirely ready.

“Get naked,” he growls, tugging his gray t-shirt over his head, his trucker hat falling to the floor and tonight, you miss your cue.

Instead, you come closer, extending your hands towards him. You call him in a murmur, Frankie, but the wild thumping of his heart under your trembling palms cuts you short.

The light flickers in his eyes, so you hang in brave, hang onto the thread of your touch, sliding your hands up his burning chest. He stills. His gaze focuses on you for the first time since he came in. Your fingertips brush lightly along his collarbone, to the dip at the base of his neck, where they linger, underlining the hollow shape of it, skating around his neck to his nape. His brow shifts, his jaw ticks, and you draw him in for a kiss.

He jolts when your lips meet his. His hands grip your hips, rough and desperate. This is the part where you melt into him, surrender to his touch, but tonight the balance is tipped off. He licks into your mouth with a pained, muffled whimper, and your eyes remain open.

You’re powerless, powerless to get to him and bring him back to you from wherever the hell he may be. And his distance settles between your two bodies, an invisible partition. It stands erect and opaque, projecting its shadow over you when he lies you down on the synthetic quilt and dives between your hips. His ministrations are detached, performative, mechanical. There’s no contained urgency in his handling of you. Empty touches, empty silence, and you orgasm weakly, the sensation floating on the surface of you.

You can sense him, trapped behind his black eyes and this damn crease that splits his face above them, only you can’t reach him. He won’t let you. For every one of your attempts at a caress, at tenderness, is rejected by a shrug, a push of his hand, a shake of his head.

Sweat breaks on his forehead and dampens his curls as he becomes restless, showing none of the familiar signs of the relief he finds in your release, when he hums softly into you, lapping at your entrance to capture what you offer him, what he drew from you. Impatience and desperation roughen his grip on you. He shoves you to the head of the bed and you scramble, sliding on the slippery quilt, curled on your side, until you’re caged between his rigid body and the headboard.

There’s no warning, no Stop me, when he lines himself up with a stifled groan. You bury your face into the pillow and bite down on it to muffle the pain when he splits you open. He starts rutting into you with unrestrained strength, forcing through the vice grip of your tight cunt around his hard length. You try to relax into it. That’s all you ever want, for him to fill you up, to be inside you and around you, but that’s the thing: he’s not touching you. Not really.

Instead of gripping the curve of your hips, or kneading your breast, or lying between your shoulder blades, his hands are clenched on the headboard, white knuckled. His bent knee doesn’t quite touch your folded legs, his hips don’t even slap against the swell of your cheeks.

“Frankie,” you try, but your voice comes out thin as a ripping thread. It’s immediately drowned under the sounds filling the room, the creaking of the bed, his strained breathing.

“Frankie,” you call again, louder this time, reaching to the side to grab his thigh.

He jerks at the contact, sliding out of you with a hiss like you just burned him with a red-hot iron. You grab the side of the headboard to haul yourself up. Behind you, you feel him falling back on his knees. For a few seconds, you can’t bring yourself to move. You remain hunched over, fingers wrapped so tightly on the hardboard, your nails digging into the cheap, tender wood.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and you turn around to face him.

Your heart sinks and chatters at the sight of him, of his glassy, pleading eyes that won’t meet yours. His chest heaves with exertion, and the weight of something else. He grazes a palm over his face, tilting his head down.

“I hurt you. I fucking hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tonight, this is it. These words are your cue.

“No,” you start, scooting closer to him as he shakes his head, exhausted, isolated. The gesture no longer carries the warning it did as he was about to succumb. It’s a measure of his failure, of the depth of his defeat, and it chills you to the bones.

“No,” you repeat, stronger, and you offer him the only lifeline you know.

Closing the physical distance, you straddle his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. When his body stiffens, you harden your hold.

“Frankie… Frankie…” you coo, again and again, like his name holds the solution, and all of your devotion. You say it as you press your forehead to his, as you rub your cheek against his stubble, as you nuzzle the sharp edge of his nose, and trace his plush lips with yours.

Until his shoulders sag under your embrace, until you feel the choked up breath that quakes his chest, you keep repeating his name. A few minutes, or an infinity of seconds, time doesn’t matter anymore. The night is yours, your skins are glued together in the soft yellow light.

His arms circle your waist, hesitant at first, but you encourage him, raking your fingers through his hair, twining them into his soft curls. He lets you, he gives in, tucking his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales you there, raising the soft hair on your nape. His voice is broken when he speaks.

“I’m not–”

“Frankie don’t, please don’t,” you cut in.

You know the words that are piling bitter and desperate on his tongue, know them on an instinctual level. You feel them swirling, black and hopeless inside his head, you’ve known them from the very beginning, recognized them in the sadness of his angry stare. And you won’t let him pronounce them inside this room you share, you won’t let him give them any kind of substantiality. Not between your arms, not against your skin.

“I’m not hurt,” you begin, pulling back to see his face, to look into his eyes and sink your words of hope and faith into him, past the barrier of remorse and regret, “I want everything you–” but his brow furrows deeper as he clenches his eyes shut, and you trail off.

Panic briefly floods your brain. You’re acutely aware of your shortcomings and limitations, of all the things you’ve never been taught growing up. How to translate feelings into words, how to express compassion, how to care for others. How to be heard.

You take a deep, shaky breath, your breasts pushing into his chest.

“Look at me, Frankie baby. Look at me. Let me–”

Let me in. Let me be yours. Let me mean something.

Your plea dies on your tongue when his eyes shoot open. They shine with unshed tears, pierced by a ray of light from the bedside table, and for the first time, you see that they’re not black. They were never black. His eyes are brown, a deep, rich, precious mahogany brown. The color paints your vision, it flows into your bloodstream and courses along your veins. It spreads into your heart, gets tangled in your soul. Around you, the whole world disappears, along with everyone in it. There is only him, his mahogany eyes brimming with tears, and the feeling of his hot, damp skin against yours.

His arms wrap tighter around your back, his warmth seeps into your bones. His hands find purchase on your curves, drawing you closer.

“I want you so badly to be real,” he whispers, quiet and pained, like he can’t ask you this much, but you know that, for him, you’re willing to be.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

Swallowing down the tremor in your throat, you give him a tender smile, tinted with gratitude, colored with praise. You cup his face, fingernails scratching at the heart-shaped patch on his jawline. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and you give him what he needs, leaning in to press them to his.

Underneath you, his length throbs with unreleased hunger, and you sway your hips over it. He moans against your lips, the vibration trails down to your core like hot, liquid amber. His tongue peaks out, and you open up for him, like you always have, like you always will. A grating sound comes out of his throat, an echo of your gratitude, a mirror of your pain, a reflection of your loneliness.

He breaks the kiss to lift you up gently, helping you find friction with his cock sliding between your folds, where it pulsates hard and thick against your clit. Your limbs turn to molasses, toffee soft and sticky, but your hips lock into a slow, languid rhythm, slick pooling down on him as you stroke him between your two bodies. His right hand skates up flat along your spine, to settle on your nape.

He draws you in closer, closer than you’ve ever been. His heart beats inside your chest, enveloping the purring wild creature you still can’t name or tame.

“Make us come, baby.”

A dry sob undulates up to your throat. Your eyes fill with hot tears, they spill against his temple. Mahogany explodes inside your brain. The night is yours.

“Yes, Frankie.”

“Make us come together.”

****

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hongism · 3 years

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mists of celeste ➻ 38

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 17.1k (._.) ➻ rating: m ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: blood, fighting, violence, weapons, choking (not the sexy kind sorry), self-inflicted injury, some psychological torture, graphic depictions of death, drowning but not really? someone being held underwater, implied suicide (but no graphic depiction) ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

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✧✧✧ act five ➻ part five

Stepping onto the bridge with Wooyoung in tow is an experience to say the very least. Mostly because it is eerily quiet when you arrive, so startlingly empty that you pause the second you step into the room. Hongjoong sits still as a statue in his usual place even though he has truly no need to be in the captain’s chair since you aren’t going anywhere quite yet. The only movements he makes are to cross one leg over the other back and forth every few seconds like he can’t stay put for too long. Other than that, he makes no effort to acknowledge your presence at the edge of the bridge, which would be expected if not for the crucial nature of your mission.

The effects of Soojin’s little concoction are still weighing heavily on your muscles and bones, but you are at least able to keep your eyes open now. Jongho refuses to let go of your waist, and you might complain if you didn’t think you would crumble to a useless heap on the floor once he let you go. You don’t trust your muscles to cooperate that much.

“I see you’re bringing good news,” Hongjoong states as you draw closer to where he’s seated. One quick glance at the observation window tells you he’s carefully watching your every move, including the pair behind you that consists of Yeosang and Wooyoung.

“Aye, Captain,” Jongho says through a smile. Hongjoong finally shifts to look your way, eyes hesitating on your slumped form for a moment before moving to where Wooyoung stands.

“Glad to see you back on board, Wooyoung.” His tone won’t commit to showing how he truly feels, but there is a certain light in Hongjoong’s eyes that he cannot hide, and you find relief in his features as he looks over Wooyoung. It’s brief and temporary, but the obvious warmth that his countenance holds as he and Wooyoung make eye contact is enough to show you how heavily this has been weighing on the young captain as well.

“Glad to be back, Captain,” Wooyoung answers in haste. You can hear the smile in his voice even if you cannot see it.

“Were there any issues with the mission?”

“No, just… a small hiccup.” Jongho glances down at you, and the slight shift has Hongjoong redirecting his focus to you as well. You steel yourself for some sort of lecture, a backhanded comment about staying focused on the task at hand, or maybe even just a comment about you being a weak link. Hongjoong’s gaze never hardens though. Instead, he offers a small nod then —

“I see. Be sure to check in with Yunho in that case.”

Something else nags at the edge of your thoughts then, mostly due to the absence of one certain person on the bridge at the moment.

“Where is Jisung?”

Hands squeezing hard around your throat, shoving you under bloody waters.

Cold, cold, cold. Red in your vision, hands on your throat, and everything is cold.

“In the brig. We — I decided it would be best to keep him there until the situation changes.” Hongjoong’s answer is spoken through a stiff and uncomfortable tone, and you expect that he was met with some resistance when it came to such a decision. But of course, that begs another question about the other person who is not on the bridge or by Hongjoong’s side like he typically would be.

“And Seonghwa?”

“Also in the brig.” Hongjoong presses his lips together, and he shifts to glare holes into the floor. The shift in his demeanor is slight but unsettling nonetheless, especially as he forces a tight grin onto his lips a second later. “Wooyoung, after you’ve settled and taken some time to recover, I’d like to chat. I won’t ask anything too invasive, but I need to know a little bit about the places you were held and where San and Mingi could possibly be. And Yeosang, a mission debriefing is needed as well.”

“We can talk now, Captain. I’ve got some news that should be helpful anyway!” Wooyoung steps around you to talk more directly to Hongjoong, Yeosang lingering at his side the whole time, and you pull back to give them more space. “I’ll go see our dear doctor after we chat. He’ll talk my ear off anyway.”

“Do you need to see Yunho?” Jongho asks, stepping back with you.

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Right now I… I think I just need to see Jisung,” you murmur. How are you going to stomach looking at him without thinking of his hands around your throat and trying to kill you?

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“If he’s in the brig being watched by Seonghwa, how much damage can he do?”

Jongho falls silent at that, mostly because your point holds strong, but he still stays by your side during the walk down there. And arguably yes it is your first time heading down to that part of the ship; the only times you’ve wandered in that vague direction are when you went to the cargo bay with Jongho. There is a different kind of tension in your muscles now though, one that feels much more like walking to your inevitable doom than anything else. That feeling intensifies with each step closer to the small hatch leading down to the brig, a ladder with metal rungs taking you to a place you aren’t sure you want to be. A quick glance over your shoulder shows you a minor portion of the brig, only enough to see three cells lined up on the left then a sharp corner that no doubt leads to more cells in a narrow hallway. Typical of a ship of this caliber. They aren’t built to house prisoners, and any slave trades made with such a vessel would only carry that precious cargo in the cargo hold. They would only need roughly twenty of these cells — five by five squares with just enough space for the average person to stand up comfortably but nothing more than that.

Yet when your feet hit the cold paneled floor and echo a hollow noise, your gaze falls upon Jisung and only Jisung. He is safely tucked away in the middle cell, walls of bars surrounding him and separating your body from his, but that’s hardly noticeable compared to Seonghwa’s absence near his cell. Hongjoong had claimed that Seonghwa was down here with Jisung, and the initial lack of his presence immediately sends your brain into danger mode.

“What did you do with Seonghwa?” You inquire without hesitation, leveling the man you used to admire so fucking much with a glare full of heat you didn’t even know you were capable of. Jisung laughs from the spot where he is curled up on the floor. He has his back pressed to the only solid wall in the cell, knees pulled up to his chest and elbows draped overtop them so that his hands hang loosely down in the space before him. The huff of air that passes through his lips almost sounds like a laugh. It does nothing to quell your nerves — if anything it makes your anxiety spike a bit higher, causing Jongho to lay a hand down on the small of your back in attempts to calm you some no doubt.

“Shouldn’t you be asking your dearest captain that?” Comes Jisung’s scathing reply, complete with a sneer and curled lip. The disdain in his tone isn’t hard to miss at all. His chin tilts. Eyes blaze with some fury. Then he presses his tongue against his bottom lip and forces the skin there to stretch under the pressure. “To think you escaped my cruel clutches just to fall into the filthy hands of a scourge who doesn’t care about anyone but himself. A beautiful irony, don’t you think?”

You don’t give him the pleasure of hearing any response from you.

“Don’t worry, doll. You’ll be safe in my hands soon enough,” he says, tone almost bordering on teasing rather than being serious with the threat. “What’s it? Got one back, no? Not the one you care about though, am I right?” Jisung brings his head forward again, staring down the line of empty cells before him like he’s taunting something nonexistent there. “Poor, poor lieutenant. Denied by both the people he loves. How much bending can an Elitist take until he breaks? I’ve always wondered that… never did get to see Hyunwoo snap after all. Perhaps now I’ll get to witness it with my own two eyes.”

“Don’t speak on things you know nothing about.”

That stops you dead in your tracks, your whole body lurching as you are midway to stepping closer to Jisung’s cell. The words don’t come from your lips, nor do they come from Jongho’s, but the tiny voice in the back of your head tells you that no one snuck down behind you and Jongho. And that Jisung’s staring isn’t coincidental or meaningless at all. A cruel smile curls the corners of his mouth. He prods at one side with the tip of his tongue and releases a laugh that is more hollow than anything else.

You force your legs into action and push yourself forward, although this time you don’t head for Jisung’s cell like you originally intended to do. Instead, you round the sharp corner leading to the remaining cells in the brig with bated breath and a growing sense of dread in your gut.

As it turns out, that dread is not misplaced in the slightest.

Because the moment you stare down the row of metal cages perpendicular to Jisung’s own holding cell, your gaze falls on something heart-wrenching and horrid to see. And Jongho might be confused — a bit beyond merely confused, you’ll admit — but you? You recognize this to be the cruel picture your mind conjured up the day Hongjoong told you that you would be going on the rescue mission for Wooyoung.

“I don’t know how much or what exactly you saw in Seonghwa’s memories. I do not need to know either. But something you need to know is that we have been back to Lynder exactly once since I met Seonghwa there. And that one single time, two years ago, we had to lock Seonghwa in the brig for six days straight to keep him from breaking out to kill his mother. Seonghwa tore cuts into his arms and shoulders so deep that Yunho had to come to stitch him every night until we finally chained him to a wall to get him to stop. When he finally gave up on trying to break out, I went in and took the cuffs off, only for Seonghwa to choke me hard enough to fracture my neck and leave bruises that lasted for several weeks.”

It’s Seonghwa who sits far in the back of the brig, curled in on himself in the very last cell in the block with what feels like leagues stretching between you and where he is. Chains cuffing his wrists together and a shackle hanging so heavy on his neck that he can barely lift his head. You’ve never seen a man look so small and insignificant in your life; the knowledge and realization that it’s none other than Seonghwa under those chains burn so deep in your chest that you forget how to breathe properly until Jongho shatters the weighty silence by joining you in front of the row of cells.

“Lieutenant?”

“The mission, Jongho. Did you recover him?”

How dare Seonghwa look so gentle and confident even while being chained and held in the brig of his own ship?

“I — yes, Lieutenant, we recovered him but — but you—”

“Good,” Seonghwa interjects. He gives a heavy nod that makes the iron hanging from his neck rattle. “Then there is no reason for you to be down here currently. I’m sure our captain would have much better use for you now than I do.” Seonghwa’s dark eyes remain fixated on you as he speaks, but you’re too far away to even try to discern the emotion concealed in them.

Jongho turns back to the ladder leading out of the cellblock. He doesn’t put up a fight or argue about the matter; merely looks the other way and follows the order like nothing is possibly wrong with the scene unfolding before him.

You, on the other hand, hardly consider yourself the kind of person who gives in so easily.

Thus, against better judgment no doubt, you step around the wall of cells separating you and Seonghwa, then take the steely walk over to that far corner of the brig.

And against better judgment, with Hongjoong’s words of warning ringing in your ears of how dangerous Seonghwa was the last time he was in such a position, you get as close to the cell as humanly possible. You curl your fingers around the bars as you sink to your knees in front of him, eyes unable to find a comfortable resting place anywhere on his body and instead finding purchase on the sliver of the floor still exposed under his knees. He, like Jisung, has his back pressed to the cage, bars digging harshly into his typical billowing black coat. He can’t extend his legs all the way in the cell and is thus forced to keep his knees bent at an awkward angle that will surely hurt after some time has passed. Hands are held together by that short chain and stretched as far as possible over his knees. You would never go so far as to say Seonghwa could ever look pitiful, but this brings you pretty damn close.

“I do not wish for you to see me in this position, Y/N,” Seonghwa whispers without looking over at you. He maintains the same honed stare on Jisung, and now that you’re closer to him you can see that flames of anger that lick at his dark eyes. Despite his words, you can’t bring yourself to move. The weight of your bones suddenly feels heavier than ever and even if you wanted to get up and leave, you don’t think you could. “It was shameful enough to ask Hongjoong to put me here.”

“You… you asked him to do this?” You inquire through a whisper of your own.

“He didn’t want to, of course, but—” Seonghwa cuts himself short and you watch his chest heave as he inhales sharply “—I’m ashamed to admit that I know how to get what I want from him. And thus… I made him put me here.”

“Seonghwa, I — you — why?” If only eloquence could be your strong suit.

“I cannot trust myself. I am not needed for these missions. I am a liability. Anything I do must be under careful watch and instruction, otherwise, I could risk the safety of the crew and the success of our missions.” Seonghwa swallows around nothing and drops his chin to his chest. His mop of black hair falls forward to cover his eyes. You hadn’t realized how long it had gotten in recent days as he pressed it back constantly, but now you can see how the ends caress his eyelashes and near the bottom of his temples. “I pose more of a threat than anything else in this state.”

“Says who?” You insist, pressing your face so far forward that your cheek squishes against the bars. Seonghwa seems startled by your sudden fervor. His eyes go wide and dart over to your face, but they linger for only a second before turning back to his lap. “Was it Jisung? Did he say something? Before he was locked up? Or maybe after? He’s — Seonghwa, you can’t believe anything he says. He wants to cause discord and issues in the crew, he wants trouble because he’s an enemy.”

“He has nothing to do with this, Y/N. Absolutely nothing.” The skin around his eyes crinkles as he squeezes his eyes shut, almost as though he’s in pain. “Please leave. I do not trust myself in this state, and if I hurt you on top of — on top of what I’ve already done, Y/N, please. I won’t forgive myself if I ever lay a harmful hand on you even in the slightest.”

“What did you do? No, what happened while we were gone?”

The chains around Seonghwa’s wrist rattle so suddenly that it startles you, and his abrupt movements send you back from the cage in a rush without thinking twice. You merely acted out of self-preservation and instinct, and yet —

And yet the damage is already done.

Your eyes dart up to look into Seonghwa’s. He looks more lost and confused than anything else, like a child who can’t find his way home. From the way his lip trembles to the wobble in his gaze and how his hands clench and unclench as though in an unknown ceremony of their own. The man seems — is harmless.

“Go, Y/N, before I truly hurt you.”

This time, you don’t fight him on the matter. You force your legs into action and push yourself up from the floor where you just unceremoniously sprawled in an effort to get away from Seonghwa’s cell. The walk away from him hurts something awful in your chest, like each step you take to get away from him causes a new piece of your heart to break off, but still, you walk until you reach the end of the hauntingly short hall. You can’t keep yourself from staring down that corridor to look at Seonghwa’s crumpled form one more time.

In that moment that couldn’t have lasted more than half a second, you believed that Seonghwa would hurt you, and he believed the same. It only took that much time for the line of trust you thought could be unbreakable to shatter and give out under you. Was it not only recently that you told him you were willing to place your heart in his hands and trust him with it?

“Are you content with yourself yet, Spectre?” Seonghwa’s voice rings clear in the room, echoing off the metal walls with more venom than before. You don’t think that venom is directed at anyone other than himself right now.

“Not even in the slightest, Lieutenant,” Jisung laughs in response. You don’t intend to make eye contact with him, but it happens nonetheless and once it does, you are transfixed on each of his movements. He drags his tongue over his lips before tucking it between his teeth and biting down hard on the tip. “I know plenty about making people break. And I can guarantee that by the time your dearest captain loses his will and decides to let you out, I will have broken you in ways you fear to even imagine. Let’s see how well you can play my game, Lieutenant of Death.”

The urge to reach a hand between the bars and strangle Jisung where he sits is so overwhelming that you see red. Somehow you find it in you to turn away, using some shred of reason and logic because you know you need Jisung as much as you wish you didn’t — until San and Mingi are safely back on the ship, you cannot risk killing him.

And to your surprise, Jongho is not waiting outside the hatch when you surface in the corridor again. It falls shut with a loud bang, trapping Jisung and Seonghwa both in their little prison once more.

The pressure around your head is mounting and becoming hard to ignore, even through the lingering effects of Soojin’s concoction. It seems the drowsiness wishes to win out, however, seeing as you pull yourself to your bedroom without much thought and more like it’s some form of muscle memory instead. Between all the things happening around you at the moment, it’s hard to pinpoint just one thing and focus on it.

San is still missing.

Seonghwa locked himself in the brig.

Han Jisung is terrorizing you and your crew out of some odd desire to claim you.

Mingi is still missing as well and at risk of being reprogrammed back into the Brute of Kebos.

Wooyoung, in the very least, is safely back but no doubt suffered new and awful traumas that he’ll have to deal with in the coming months.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa fought for what feels like the hundredth time.

You found Soojin in a brothel then promptly got confirmation that your memories were indeed wiped a second time without you knowing. Delightful, truly.

All that swirling back to the mounting headache that pierces the left side of your head so hard you see little flashes in your vision. And despite the need to most likely think through things, weigh your options, try to do something other than just sitting around and waiting for someone else to plan, you merely curl up under your sheets in the darkness after wiping away your leftover black lipstick and changing into some more comfortable clothes.

Alone again. It’s odd how you went from being on your own almost constantly for three years to now being so dependent on having someone by your side. Maybe it was the knowledge that you had no one back then that kept you sane. Now, however, you know there are people around you, close to you, people you would almost dare to say you can rely on for safety and trust. An image of Jisung’s cruel smile flickers in your mind before you close your eyes to sleep.

Trust got you nowhere before.

Would it be foolish to make the same mistakes again?

…

There’s a cold hand wrapped tight around your own, but even as you look down at it you can’t figure out who it belongs to. Another hand is folded over your eyes, blocking every ounce of your vision and leaving you shrouded in darkness. You have no idea where you are or where you are heading, and though your first instinct is to fight, you feel somewhat safe under the hand that holds yours.

“Kan han ceso, Umiko. Nu an nadu. Un cu nu, Umiko, un nukon.” The words grate against your ears, a soft-spoken voice whispering the foreign language to you through the darkness, and you blink hard against the hand covering your eyes.

“I-I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper back, only to be answered with more confusion and unknown words.

“Nadu, nadu. Sosun hen.”

The hand around your head slips away only to shove hard at your back. You don’t have time to turn to face your companion before a door is slammed shut on your back. You whip around to face the wall of metal, seeing nothing beyond the dark.

“Wait! Don’t — don’t leave me here!”

“Kidehon u Nurun, Umiko.”

Despite not knowing what any of the words mean, a chill rushes down your spine and leaves goosebumps all across your skin. Then a shrill scream tears you away from the door and back to the reality swirling together behind you. It’s moreso the contents of the scream that catch your attention because through the sudden swarm of yells and shouts, you catch one recognizable word.

“Yeosang!”

It’s like a veil is torn away from your eyes and you can suddenly see the world around you with so much clarity and brightness it hurts. And the first thing your gaze lands on is the sight of Wooyoung being dragged by the waist back into what seems to be a spitting image of the House of Lilies. His captors are hooded figures, unimportant and insignificant compared to Wooyoung who flails around desperately in their arms to get out. And across from him, running and running but never once catching up because a massive crowd of people blocks his path, is none other than Yeosang. You push your way forward as well in attempts to reach the Elitist. Each step is harder than the last with the way faceless figures shove your shoulders and force you back until his blond head of hair is out of sight. You can’t see Wooyoung’s face any longer either; all you can hear are a few distant shouts and screams that are unintelligible by now.

You have no choice but to let the crowd guide you to an unknown destination, shifting to follow their hasty steps before you get trampled to the ground. They’re too tall for you to see past their shoulders, all shrouded in black coats and suits with masks covering their faces as well, and you are only left with confusion the more you try to get a closer look at them. That confusion lingers for a while, and as you walk, the shouts and yells around you morph into cheering. It’s deafening, growing louder with each second, but the hoards simply continue into what seems to be the source of the sounds.

Once you finally reach that destination, your heart drops through your stomach because it’s tall colosseum walls that rise up around you. They are painfully recognizable, and you can almost guess what you’re about to witness given what you just saw transpire with Wooyoung and Yeosang.

The confirmation, albeit unneeded, hurts worse than you thought. As the crowd ushers you into the arena, you stumble up familiar stairs and come to a halt at the railing looking over the heart of the colosseum.

Mingi stands at the center of it all, donned in leather and copper armor like a gladiator of olden times that have long since become mere myths for children’s stories. Red streaks down his cheeks and covers him in a bloody glow under the sun. You watch him as though in a daze. Each movement he makes is like a dance between the way he swings a longsword in one hand and an ax in the other. The beauty of Mingi’s swings dissipates into a cloud of panic and horror when his opponent comes into sight across from his tall form.

“Jongho, Jongho, no!” You scream through the din ringing into your ears. A hand stretched down to the pit below in vain because there is no way for you to even attempt reaching them.

There’s a flash of red again, this time one that reaches across Mingi’s blade and spreads onto the sand below their feet. You clasp a hand over your mouth to silence the blood-curdling scream that tears through your lips.

“It’s not real, Y/N, it’s not real,” you murmur to yourself, not daring to look back down even as the cheers continue to swell around you. “It’s just a dream, you need to wake up. It’s not real.”

The most obvious clue that this is not real is the fact that you see Jongho — another Jongho — stepping out of the gates into the arena just seconds after Mingi cut him down. The body hasn’t even dissipated into thin air; it still sits at Mingi’s feet, a lifeless corpse that will continue to haunt you for god knows how long. The second Jongho comes forward to replace the last, standing completely still before Mingi like he’s nothing more than a training dummy for Mingi to kill over and over.

That is exactly what you are forced to witness too because the tall figures surrounding you refuse to let you budge or turn. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut each time Mingi lifts his arm. This hell is almost worst than the last. Seeing Yeosang and Wooyoung being torn apart burned deep in your chest but this?

Mingi killing the person who cares about him perhaps more than anyone else? Like it’s only a game or a sport to be played for entertainment?

That leaves a different pain in your chest. One that cuts deep and tries to sever your heart from your body.

You lose count of the bodies down in the area, and counting them would only hurt more so it’s a foolish plight to even imagine right now. Your limit comes soon enough, however, and in a fit of desperation, you shove so hard at the figures behind you that they topple over like dominos.

The mantra of reminders of how this isn’t real still runs on repeat in your head, but even forcing your way out of the crowds grants you no reprieve.

You can still hear the cheering, the way the crowd shouts for more blood then delights in another kill. And now that you know it’s Jongho being cut down by none other than Mingi, it makes matters much worse. You don’t make it three steps out of the arena before you’re stumbling to the ground on your hands and knees. A dry heave wracks your form, forcing up nothing but air. The contents of your stomach are nonexistent in this hellscape yet your body continues to convulse until bile drips from your lips.

“Please make it stop, make it stop, please, please, please,” you beg to the sand under your form.

“Y/N?”

Normally the voice would fill you with a sense of relief, but given what you’ve seen thus far, it only fills you with incredible dread.

You lift your chin to look Yunho in the eye nonetheless. He stands several feet away from you, unmoving and nearly statuesque with his pose. That peace lasts all of four seconds. He chokes out a cough. It sounds far too thick and wet for it to be merely a normal cough. Your fears turn to reality when blood coats his bottom lip after the next cough.

“Y-Yunho, no, n-no, not you too, please.”

Another cough and Yunho is on his knees like you are.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I… I wasn’t good enough to keep this from happening.”

“No, no, no, p-please, no, Yun—”

“This was the only thing I could get right.”

Your chin drops to your chest.

“You’ll be okay, won’t you? Our little Ghost…”

“No more. Please, Daichi, if this is your doing, then end it! End it please, please stop this!”

The response to your pleas is a hand clasping hard at the back of your neck. It shoves you to the ground with little effort until you are sprawled out on your stomach. You release a weak cry into the dirt, thrashing hard under the stranger’s grip. Another hand closes around your ankle. You aren’t given any time to prepare as it yanks you forward, dragging your body over the scratchy ground. You can feel your skin splitting under the impact yet as much as you twist to get out of it, the best you can do is flip onto your back and let the abuse continue there. Your new position allows you to at least see your attacker, a tall and lanky figure with sweeping black hair. You can barely see the outline of her face, but she looks strikingly familiar, like a person you’ve seen once in your dreams. It isn’t until you have been pulled all the way to a new destination that you realize exactly who she is.

“Mother.”

Seonghwa stands in the center of this barely lit room you’ve been dragged into, gun in hand and shrouded in a black cloak.

This is Seonghwa’s mother. Of course it is. This nightmare is not only yours but both Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s as well, the thing that has been so glaringly present for a while now. And in your inability to stop thinking about it, it has landed you here to live out this unending nightmare.

Seonghwa lifts the gun to aim it at his mother’s skull. He doesn’t spare you even the slightest glance, so dead-set on this mission that nothing else exists in his mind. You don’t have time to react before the gun goes off and echoes through the room. You scramble back on shaky legs when the woman in front of you crumples to the ground. Scarlet ebbs from her skull in mere seconds.

You think that’s it — hope would be a better word actually. You wish for the nightmare to end here with Seonghwa killing his mother, but it gets worse as Seonghwa turns the gun to his own skull and places the barrel against his temple. Despite already knowing that nothing you do in this dream will make it stop, you rush forward practically like an animal to stop him.

Something — or someone, rather — beats you to it.

A force hits you so hard that you are sent sprawling to the floor again, landing somewhere near Seonghwa’s mother, and upon looking up to see your sudden attacker, you find Hongjoong standing before Seonghwa instead. He’s in the middle of trying to wrestle the gun from Seonghwa’s hand, aiming it high at the ceiling before Seonghwa can hurt himself.

“Stop it, Seonghwa, I won’t let you do this!”

“Let me die, damn it, you were supposed to keep me from doing this!”

All you can do is watch as the fight unfolds before you with a growing sense of horror because you know where this is going to end. It will end the same way it has for everyone else in this nightmare. The thought of watching Seonghwa die and not being able to do anything to stop it is almost too much of a burden to bear.

If that was the worst scenario your mind could come up with, what actually happens minutes later is far far worse. You don’t see where it comes from but you don’t need to either; all you see is Seonghwa barreling into Hongjoong’s smaller form with all his strength until both are them are pressed to the nearest wall. The silence that overtakes the room is deafening. You don’t realize that there is anything wrong until you see hear the soft pitter-patter of blood dropping to the ground.

There’s a pointed metal spike sticking out of Seonghwa’s back, dripping blood from not only Seonghwa’s body but also Hongjoong’s.

“I’m sorry, my beloved.”

In a cruel twist of fate, you see the metal joining their bodies together, watch the way their chests rise and fall in shaky patterns that show their diminishing strengths. Hongjoong’s chin is the first to fall, dipping down to his chest as his eyes fight to stay open. Seonghwa is crying — no, sobbing with all the effort he can muster and pressing his lips to the edge of Hongjoong’s hairline through muttered apologies.

You know your limits, and you know you are not nearly strong enough to witness them die like this, even if it’s together and at Seonghwa’s own hand.

Thus, you push yourself up onto shaky legs and stumble out of the dark room as best you can with Seonghwa’s shaky cries ringing so loud in your ears that you fear you will never escape it for a second. There is a lingering sense of dread curling in your gut at the moment, however, because you have witnesses horrors happening to every single one of the crew except for one. And arguably, it is the one you fear the most, the one you wish to avoid the most, yet every attempt to force yourself awake before you can come across him fails miserably. The next room you stumble into is another familiar one, much like the distant memories you have of being strapped to a cold metal chair, but in this room, the chair is occupied by a man with jet black hair and a tuft of white at the front. You can’t manage more than a pained whimper as you step close to the chair.

Rounding the metal brings you face to face with him, although his eyes are shut as though he is asleep. For a fraction of a second, you think the worst has happened and throw your hands down on his chest to lean over San’s reclining body. He jolts at the contact, a sharp gasp tearing through his dry and cracked lips when he comes back to the land of the living.

“San, oh S-San, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re safe, I promise,” you babble like a woman possessed. Your hands come up to cradle his face and brush a few long strands of hair away from his eyes. It takes too long for him to fully come to his senses, eyes blinking against the harsh light that filters down from the ceiling, and you wait with bated breath for him to say something as he registers your face. “Hi.” You’re too lost in the moment to remember this is a nightmare, too enamored with the mere sight of San’s face. When the reverie is torn away from you, it hurts worse than you could ever have imagined it would.

“H-How do you know my name? Who are you?”

Your chest tightens to the point where it hurts to breathe.

“It’s Y/N, San, don’t you remember me?”

“I don’t know who you are,” he whispers back, pulling his face away from your hands as best he can in his current position. You withdraw your hands as though burned and fall back onto your ass so hard you bounce a little. It should hurt, but the pain in your chest outweighs that by far. San sits up and slings a leg over the side of the chair, the other following shortly after. He steps down off the metal to come closer to you. His head is tilted in question, and his eyes search your face like he’s attempting to recognize you.

You hardly realize what’s happening before he’s bending over you and latching his hands around your neck. When he shoves you down to the ground, you aren’t met with the cold floor but rather a splash of water. It’s murky and an almost copper shade, like someone has doused you in blood and water. San’s grip on your neck tightens until you’re forced to choke up a few air bubbles.

“Did you think you were someone worthy of remembering?” San speaks to you through the water, voice coming to your ears in a muted tone. His features fall into a blur, and he squeezes at your skin so hard you see spots dance across your vision. You cry out in the water even though you know it won’t do you any good. “Did you think you earned that right? What use are you to me? Someone who couldn’t even do the bare minimum and protect me when I needed it… useless.”

San huffs out a loud laugh that echoes around you.

“You are completely and utterly useless to me.”

Sleep might have come easy to you but it does not claim you for long. Rarely are you ever awoken by nightmares; your body tends to just continue on with sleeping until the morning, but tonight is one of those oddities where the nightmares wake you up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. With the end of dream San’s cruel monologue, you startle awake, gasping for breath like you had been holding it the entire time you were asleep. A quick glance at the clock on your bedside table shows that it’s nearing one o’clock in the morning, so you were hardly asleep more than four hours.

You almost wish that Jongho stayed by your side through the night, if only to provide the comfort you want so desperately from someone who isn’t here. It wasn’t even an offer he posed or one that you asked for, but you find yourself wondering if it would have been better to seek out that comfort. And maybe it’s selfish of you to crave that peace that Jongho claims to have brought him for so long, but the appeal of not waking up alone is too tempting. Being able to have that with Seonghwa — the ability to go to bed at night and wake up in the morning with the knowledge that someone was there if anything went wrong — is something you took for granted. On nights like these, it’s all you could ever ask for. And while you and Seonghwa made the mutual decision to sever the more intimates parts of your relationship, it’s become glaringly obvious to you that you don’t have anyone to rely on for physical comfort anymore, even just the smallest action of holding a hand or sleeping beside you. Did you dream of him? Jongho might ask, hand outstretched to offer some sort of relief from the anxiety tugging at your heart. Either that or to try to take it away as best he can.

Yes, and it was wretchedly awful and horrible, you think. Something wet slips down the side of your temples before you can stop it. I feel I might lose my mind if I cannot bring him back safely soon.

Why, why, why did this happen?

Surely you’ve been through worse in the past, but this feels so much more potent than those times, either because those memories are tucked away or because you’ve never felt this strongly about needing to protect someone before.

You roll onto your side and let the stray tears slide across the bridge of your nose now.

Staring at the bed does absolutely nothing (even though you knew it wouldn’t); neither does reaching out to put a hand over the cold sheets there.

These days you keep finding your mind slipping back to the memories of Echidna. They’ve become so much more vivid since the entire kidnapping situation, yet oddly enough you cannot bring yourself to recall the actual torture you and San suffered together at the hands of Cara. Rather, you keep coming back to a monotone hotel room with a creaky bed and fluffed pillows.

“I won’t leave this time,” you mutter. You can feel heat radiating from San’s cheeks even though you can’t see the flush to his skin.

“I’ll hold you all night to make sure you don’t,” San whispers back. Hot breath fans over your lips. You aren’t sure what comes over you but you lift the hand resting against San’s chest to trace over the outline of his lips with two fingers. He smiles into the touch.

It brings a startling realization to your bones when you find yourself reaching out to the nothingness before you like he will be there because how could he be gone, why is he gone, he isn’t supposed to be gone.

“I’m scared to let you in,” you admit, bring your gaze back up to San’s eyes. He’s looking back at you with a gentleness in his eyes that catches you off-guard.

“You don’t have to let me in yet. Just try to trust me.”

“Okay… okay. I can do that.”

“Then that’s more than enough.”

You should have never let go of the hand he outstretched towards you. It’s a hefty realization, one that weighs down on your body so much you struggle to breathe because you would do anything to have him back. And perhaps you didn’t appreciate him enough while you had him, perhaps you took that time where he was safe for granted and didn’t think it could happen again. Because even though you had told Yunho back around the time of the incident that you would never be able to look at him without worrying something bad would happen once more, you let your guard down and believed him to be entirely safe.

A huff of air passes through your lips, then you sit up in bed to throw your legs over the side of the mattress. Your gaze lingers on the bedside table for a moment, only to recall what’s been hidden inside there since you returned from Echidna. You haven’t forgotten about the pardon papers per se; your mind has understandably been elsewhere and things took a turn during that mission with San. Before then you were so dead set on leaving without a word.

It wasn’t Hongjoong who convinced you to stay back then even though you left you with several pretty threats and propositions.

It wasn’t Seonghwa with his comforting words and touches that burned your skin.

Nor was it any other member of the crew outside of San. It was always Choi San, the Spectre with a cat-like grin and pretty eyes, and he wormed his way into your heart with such little effort that it still scares you quite a bit. If you had absolute certainty that what you remember from your time in the military was true and real, you might say that the only time you felt this way towards another person was with Jisung, but you doubt that now with recent revelations.

How much easier would life be if you could simply roll back into bed and find San there waiting at your side, all warm smiles and gentle gazes as he urges you to sleep once more?

Unfortunately for you, life is far from easy and that is not an option, so you do the only other logical thing that comes to mind and that is to stand up and leave your bedroom without looking back at that cursed bedside table. If you can’t have San or anyone else to calm you down at the moment, perhaps a short walk around the ship will do you some good.

It is that very thought that lands you on the bridge and in front of the observation window. Despite the late hour, some workers are milling about in the hangar bay Hongjoong has landed you all in, doing their duties without cease. Some are cleaning and sweeping at the floor even though it looks spotless to you, others are polishing other ships in the bay, and you’re sure that if you could see near the bottom of The Horizon, you would find them doing the same there. There are a few others who don’t quite look like the workers do — perhaps people from the other ships — who sit on boxes and offer each other seemingly menial chatter based on the way their gestures remain casual. They seem so calm and at peace compared to what you have been experiencing with this crew where trouble seems to be around every corner and you can’t get a breath of peace for more than a day.

Briefly, you picture yourself in their shoes one day. It’s something you can only wonder about because you aren’t sure whether that’s even a possibility for you, but the image of sitting on one of those boxes with Jongho sitting on one side and Wooyoung on the other floats to mind. And maybe Yeosang would be wedged between Wooyoung’s legs with hands held tightly together like even a breath of air could separate them. You imagine Mingi would be lingering near Jongho rather than anywhere else, draped over the other Berserker and pressed as close to him as possible because it grounds him and keeps him in one piece for the time being. Yunho would probably be doing something like reading a medical article or book and muttering to himself about the contents of the writing, nearby but never too far from the rest of you. In that daydream, Hongjoong and Seonghwa would come around the corner of the ship side by side, and the captain would have a hand pressed to the small of his lieutenant’s back because he can’t bear to be any further than that. Then San — darling San — would rush around them with a smile on his lips and dimples flashing to barrel straight into your chest with a resounding laugh. You dare to let yourself imagine the peace and serenity of the scene, dare to picture San pressing his forehead to yours as he exhales a laugh over your lips, but every image your mind conjures up hurts worse than the last.

You may want that desperately, but it’s not something you can achieve.

The daydream ends with hands around your neck and bloody waters clouding your vision. And thus, you startle yourself back to reality and tear your gaze away from the hangar bay below as not to let the images come back.

The peace you wish for is not one you can ever hold in the palm of your hand the way you wish. The crew cannot have it either so long as you are present in their lives. The next sound to tear through your consciousness nearly makes you believe that they wouldn’t be able to have that peace even if you weren’t around to mess it up. There’s a resounding shout of frustration followed by something loud thumping against the wall off to your left and behind you a bit. You whip around to stare at the door to Hongjoong’s quarters, the source of the sound, and wait with bated breath for something else to happen. You aren’t sure what exactly you’re waiting for — perhaps for the captain to step out in a huff of anger or something like that — but nothing happens for the next thirty seconds, which is what causes you to pull closer to the door. It’s hardly your place to eavesdrop on whatever is happening inside, although that doesn’t stop you from doing so anyway.

“I shouldn’t have had to put him in that fucking brig in the first place!” That clearly comes from Hongjoong; you can tell just from his voice, but he must not be alone in there as it sounds like his rant is directed at someone. “This isn’t the same situation as last time! He knows that the mission is our priority, that the goal is to get San and Mingi back, he wouldn’t let himself lose sight of that. The Seonghwa I know wouldn’t do that!”

“Then you shouldn’t have listened to him when he asked you to put him in there, Hongjoong! You were the one who bent over backward for him yet again.” It’s Yunho’s voice that rises through the door next, and that is equal parts shocking and unsurprising because you aren’t sure who else would possibly be in there with Hongjoong at this hour. “Your only two options are to either leave Seonghwa where he is or let him out to do as he wishes. If he chooses to go out there and kill his mother, then so be it!”

“That’s not what he wants, Yunho,” Hongjoong refutes without missing a beat. “And it’s not what I want either — I don’t care for either of those options. I want to let Seonghwa out and have that be that, nor for him to go off and murder someone! He hardly wants to kill her, it’s just what he thinks he ought to do as an Elitist but — you… you wouldn’t understand it, Yunho. You wouldn’t understand what goes through Seonghwa’s head or what he wants.”

The next sound to fall from Yunho’s lips is a scoff, and you can almost picture the way his eyes roll with the noise.

“You can’t pretend like you understand what all Seonghwa wants either, Hongjoong.”

There’s another clatter and something smacks into the wall again.

“I’m trying my fucking best! I am trying my best to know what he wants right now. All I know for certain is what he is afraid of, and I know that he fears turning into the kind of person his father was and he fears losing himself. This would—”

“You can’t know whether this would make that happen, Hongjoong, that’s the point I’m trying to make here.”

“Are you encouraging murder all of a sudden? When have you gone a minute without chastising me for taking an innocent’s life?”

“And when have you ever hesitated to let your precious Lieutenant of Death kill someone? How many people have you killed yourself? How many have you asked Seonghwa to kill? How many innocents have bled under your hands, Hongjoong?” Yunho fires back, seeming to grow louder with each question he poses. “Is his mother innocent of all crimes? Does she not deserve to die? Because Seonghwa sure talks about her like she deserves a fate worse than death!”

“And if she deserves death then I will bring it upon her myself!” Hongjoong accentuates his words by slapping his hands down on his desk, letting the sound echo after he speaks, and Yunho doesn’t respond for a bit.

“How angry would Seonghwa be if he found out then?” Yunho inquires, tone so low you can barely pick up on the words.

“He wouldn’t need to, Yunho. He wouldn’t need to find out. He could just hear that she passed away in her sleep a long time ago because of age or illness.”

“You’re so ready to base your relationship with him on lies when doing so was what caused things to go to shit between you in the first place. I can’t fix you a second time, Hongjoong. I can’t do shit if you are the one making things intentionally worse. You need to sit your ass down in that fucking brig like a god damn man would and take responsibility for your mistakes. Then you need to ask Seonghwa what he wants and hear it from his own damn mouth rather than assuming what Seonghwa wants and hoping for the best. Fucking listen to him and trust him for once instead of making every decision in his life for him. Why do you think he ran off to Y/N in the first place?” That causes your breath to hitch in your throat, and you seize up as though both men inside know you’re standing outside the door as they speak. “He at least got to choose her.”

“He chose to join my crew, he asked to join my crew, he chose a fuckton of things in his life, Yunho! You want me to be a man? I am his captain. Is that not enough for you?”

“No, it’s not, Hongjoong. You being captain doesn’t mean shit to me unless you have the balls to back it up, and from where I’m standing, you aren’t going to step up anytime soon. There are only two people on this ship who can put you in your place. That includes both me and Seonghwa, but Seonghwa stopped doing it a long time ago because you changed the dynamic of the relationship without stopping to ask him how he felt.”

“Are you trying to act like you’re in control now?” Hongjoong counters, but his voice has lost a bit of the edge in it.

“Act?” Yunho releases a tiny hum. You can almost feel the way the mood inside the room shifts despite not being inside yourself. “Now you’re just trying to rile me up so you get what you want and I forget about this conversation.”

“That would only be the case if it works, Yunho.”

You pull back from the door, having a slight sense of where this conversation is headed and realizing that you probably shouldn’t stay any longer. As you move to exit the bridge, however, you can’t help but wonder how much of what Yunho said is accurate.

Would — could Seonghwa really want to kill his mother? Maybe for a sense of closure and peace? To put that part of his life behind him for good perhaps?

If Hongjoong truly were to kill the woman behind Seonghwa’s back, then you don’t doubt that Seonghwa would be enraged, to put it mildly. Everything you have seen from him thus far since meeting him has shown you that he prefers to do things himself than to rely on others to do it for him. Yet… even if his mother passed of natural causes, you are not sure that Seonghwa could have his closure unless he saw her body with his own two eyes. So maybe that is why his inner voice is as desperate as it is for him to kill her.

You cannot speak for Seonghwa himself, but you do know a fraction about such closure. Not seeing Hyunwoo’s body after the execution and having to dig an empty grave was one of the most painful experiences of your life, even if you cannot remember much of it or if it was completely fabricated, the pain you were left with from said memory is still sore to the touch. You would have given anything to have his body to bury but instead, you were left with absolutely nothing, not even something small and of value to him in life. You were denied closure then. It causes you to think back to those pardon papers again. If you had been granted that closure, would you have even sought the pardon papers in the first place? Would you have gone off and settled down somewhere no one could find you?

Seonghwa has mentioned craving peace before. You know you will never have yours because of your lack of closure, so perhaps if he were to achieve his, then things would end better for him.

That thought stops you dead in your tracks, midway down the corridor leading away from the bridge.

Although… Seonghwa mentioned begging to be put in the brig. If he truly wanted this, then why the hell would he ask for such a thing?

“Please leave. I do not trust myself in this state, and if I hurt you on top of — on top of what I’ve already done, Y/N, please. I won’t forgive myself if I ever lay a harmful hand on you even in the slightest.”

You make a spur of the moment decision right then and there, spinning on your heel in the middle of the corridor and inhaling sharply as you head back to the bridge with a new thought in mind. You wish to hear from Hongjoong himself what transpired before Seonghwa was put in the brig and the reasoning as to why Hongjoong agreed to such a thing. Sure, now might not be the opportune time for such a discussion, but you have already made up your mind and it’s unlikely you would be able to sleep with this plaguing your thoughts anyway.

Less than a minute passes before you are back at Hongjoong’s door, this time rapping your knuckles as hard and loud as you can on the metal. You hear nothing more of a conversation inside — neither his nor Yunho’s voices filter through the door until after your knocking ceases. Then a bit of shuffling resounds followed by some mutterings that vaguely sound like complaints of some sort. That could not have prepared you in the slightest for the sight that greets you when the door finally slides open.

First of all, it is not Hongjoong who stands before you, but rather Yunho.

And not only that little shocking tidbit because Yunho is very much standing half-naked with pants hung low around his hips and absolutely no shame or insecurity in the way he leans against the doorframe to greet you.

The inherent shock from the sight causes you to sputter and choke on air, gaze darting off to the side and away from the healer as quick as humanly possible. You truly do your best to ignore the very obvious trail of bruises along the column of his neck and collarbone, along with the ones traveling lower.

“Oh? Looking to join us, Y/N?” He asks. An amused grin paints his lips, you can see that much out the corner of your eye.

“Abs-Absolutely not, Yunho, are you mad?” You refute through a stutter and dare to focus back on his face (and his face only). Yunho arches an eyebrow, not at all shy in the way he drags his gaze over your body from head to toe. You ignore him with a scoff then ready to duck around his stupidly tall form. He seems to catch that before you can though because he darts a hand out across the doorway and effectively blocks your path inside.

“You certain about that? You seem a bit eager to come in.” Your only reply is a pointed glare. Thankfully, Yunho picks up on the hint in that look after a second and shifts his tone. “Is it an emergency?”

“I need to ask Hongjoong something, it’s important. About Seonghwa.” You see movement just past Yunho’s shoulder and glance beyond him. Hongjoong stands back at the other edge of the room in the doorframe to what must be his bedroom. You nearly don’t recognize him right them because of how… incredibly fragile he appears to be. A blanket wraps around his shoulders and torso, dwarfing his already small figure and making him almost come across as something delicate. If someone asked you to point out the horrifying and menacing pirate captain in the room, you would glance over Hongjoong without a thought.

“I take it you’ve been down to the brig then?” Hongjoong pipes up. His voice bounces off the walls to reach your ears, confident and knowing.

“I have.”

Hongjoong ducks his chin to his chest, and the way his breathing shakes his form almost makes him seem like he’s laughing at your response. Then he comes closer to join you and Yunho where you stand. You hardly miss the way one of the captain’s hands darts out to touch Yunho’s bare waist before he brushes a soft kiss over the back of Yunho’s shoulder. It’s a rare — no, more than simply rare, it’s frankly a sight you have never seen from Hongjoong before in that you have never witnessed him be so openly intimate with anyone in the crew in such a way. Perhaps the closest he has gotten was when you were left in the medbay with him and Seonghwa, but even that was not as… openly blatant as the way he touches Yunho before you now. Yet it does not seem to be meant to tease you in any way; you moreso get the sense that it’s almost a threat in a way. After all, you are still the newest on the crew and you aren’t sure you have fully gained Hongjoong’s trust. If this is a challenge, you aren’t sure how it is meant to test you.

“Go back to the bedroom. I’ll be there shortly,” Hongjoong murmurs against Yunho’s slightly flushed skin. The healer steps away with nothing more than a nod. Hongjoong waits until the taller man disappears into that room he just emerged from before turning back to face you. He still seems smaller in your eyes like this even though he is closer; the two of you are more evenly matched when he’s not wearing his typical heeled boots. The blanket around his body strains as he pulls it tighter. He, like Yunho, is very clearly not wearing much in the way of clothes underneath, but at least he covered himself mildly even if you can see a deep v exposing his chest through the folds of the fabric. It is enough for you to see numerous bumps and ridges along that strip of skin, all discolored and mismatched lines that mar an otherwise perfect canvas of tanned skin. Even if expected, it’s an alarming amount of scars for such a small expanse of skin. And if you look past the points where scars are, you can make out the barest hint of black ink accompanying the marks — it spreads over him like a constellation, connected by lines and threads of varying thickness to meet each other in other corners.

You tear your gaze away with great effort, clearing your throat as you blink up to look the captain in the eye.

“Seonghwa mentioned that something happened while we were gone on the mission. He asked me to leave before I had the chance to ask further about it but…” Your voice dies in your throat then, and nerves suddenly curl in your stomach. When you speak again, it’s in nothing more than a whisper. “What happened?”

Hongjoong hums.

It’s the only sound he makes for quite a while too, and you think he has no intention of continuing the conversation until he shifts his blanket all of a sudden and exposes the lower half of his body. Just as before with Yunho, you are swift to look in the opposite direction before you spot anything you do not wish to see.

“That’s hardly appropriate, Captain,” you grit out, finding a newfound interest in the wall to your left. Hongjoong exhales a laugh that’s so soft it sounds more like a sigh.

“Seonghwa stabbed me.”

Now that has your head jerking back to examine him, and thankfully, your eyes settle on pants around his hips rather than nothing at all. One of his hands slips down to tap what looks to be a bandage. He peels it back as gently as possible and reveals a narrow yet long slice along his abdomen, almost parallel to his side. All in all, it doesn’t appear to be too gruesome or gnarly, no doubt held together by liquid stitches of some sort.

“We had a small argument after putting Han in the brig,” Hongjoong continues. As usual, his tone is near impossible to read with no clues as to what he is feeling as he recalls the memory.

“Did it involve discussions of Seonghwa’s mother?”

“Yes, yes, of course, it did.” Hongjoong returns the bandage to its original placement then tugs the blanket back around his body. He brings a hand up to run through his mess of fading blue hair. “It didn’t start that way though. He accused me of caring more about him appearing to be an Elitist than anything else. Threatened to tell Jisung that he is a Siren along with the rest of the crew. I doubt Jisung even cares about Sirens in the slightest given the way he is hyperfocused on you instead, but Seonghwa has always been so adamant about being wanted by others because of what he is. And I know that we were both acting rashly and out of fear rather than reason, but it doesn’t — that does not excuse what we said to each other. I told Seonghwa that perhaps he might feel better killing me rather than his mother, and that obviously did not go over very well. That’s when he stabbed me, well, it was more a glancing blow than a stab. Hardly even deep enough to cause significant damage, but Seonghwa damn near acted as though I was fucking bleeding to death though. He called for Yunho to get me patched up them begged that I put him in the brig. As much as I wanted to deny him that, I complied.”

“I can talk to him,” you offer without a second thought.

“Talk to him? What is it you think to do, Y/N?”

“I was denied my closure, Captain, and that has haunted me every day for the past several years. You… you are a person who achieved that already; I don’t need to know the details of your backstory to understand that because it is more than clear in the way you handle yourself and matters around you. But Seonghwa? He hasn’t gotten his closure either. At least allow me to talk with him and see if this is what he truly wants before you rule anything out.” Hongjoong regards you with nothing more than a lingering stare for a bit. You take it as a cue to excuse yourself and leave, yet the second you turn to do so, he catches hold of your wrist and pulls you back to be face to face with him. The jerk of his arm sends you propelling forward more than you expect because it tugs you close enough to nearly smack foreheads with the captain.

“I am willing to trust you with this and with Seonghwa, at least for now. Take care to remember that, especially when it comes to Seonghwa’s heart. For if you mislead him in the slightest, there will be hell to pay.” Your subconsciousness has you straightening your back at those words, reading the thinly veiled threat with ease.

“I won’t do anything to influence his decisions. They should all be his own anyway, so I won’t try to change that for him. You have my word. Besides, you no doubt plan to talk with him again soon, right?” Hongjoong’s gaze falls into a pointed glare at that comment, and you catch yourself a little too late. “At least, I’m sure he would appreciate that either way.” That soothes the captain enough for him to release his grip on your arm, and he lets you step away from the door after that.

“I pray for both our sakes that his mind is kind enough to have a reasonable discussion with you. But… don’t — don’t get too close just in case the worst happens.”

“Understood, Captain,” you whisper back. The warning is a bit haunting albeit necessary; it’s moreso unfortunate that Hongjoong has to even usher the warning in the first place because the Seonghwa you know would never willingly harm someone he cares about. Especially not Hongjoong.

As you walk away from Hongjoong’s quarters and off the bridge for a second time tonight, you have to remind yourself that it is still Seonghwa down there. He isn’t a different person, he’s not some monster even if there is a bit of fear curling through your gut as you walk down to the brig. He remains the same Seonghwa that you know and care about so much. Perhaps you have just been blessed enough to only witness the pretty sides to his character in the time you’ve known him. Thinking all the way back to the way you met — how you knocked him out cold in front of an airlock — he was not cruel or heartless then either. In fact, every ounce of evidence up until recently made you wonder how such a compassionate soul could possibly be such a deadly and fearsome pirate.

“Perhaps it’s time for me to go home and face my demons after all,” Seonghwa whispers, letting his smile stretch a bit wider. It falls away a second later, and something dark takes over, something you decide you don’t want to see cross Seonghwa’s features again. Because in that moment, you see something sinister and cruel, and all the legends you heard about the man come to life before you. The stories of a man in a black cloak bearing a silver scythe in one hand with a gun in the other, the fearless killer who stands beside the Scourge of the Black Sea rearing death in his wake. When Seonghwa turns on his heel and leaves the room, you see it. The dark shadows billowing behind him curl outwards and sweep across the floor, crude shapes built by the light in the hallway, and that cloak of darkness sits on Seonghwa’s shoulders. It’s like the Lieutenant of Death has crawled his way out of the dark abyss of hell that Seonghwa kept him buried in, and the face he rears horrifies you.

That thought keeps you occupied the whole way down to the brig, and it continues when you climb down the ladder with hesitant steps. As before, Jisung is the first thing you see when you reach the bottom, although this time he is curled on his side and facing the wall. He must be asleep given his position, yet you’re hesitant to write him off as so without knowing for certain. You don’t dare stop to find out, however, and instead just move past his cell as quietly as you can.

You find Seonghwa still sitting upright in his own tiny prison. He has shifted to put his back to Jisung now though, and his head hangs at an angle that is uncomfortable to look at. Whether he was already awake or merely sensed your presence, you have no way of knowing. Nonetheless, he shifts to glance back at you when you approach, chains jingling and rattling in the silence of the room.

“I asked you not to return,” he murmurs once you are close enough to hear him. You don’t kneel before his cell in the same way you did last time. There’s a bit more distance between you and the bars now, enough to be just out of harm’s way but near enough for you to reach out if you so desired.

“You know I’m no good at following orders,” you reply with a melancholy smile. Seonghwa’s gaze softens a bit at that. He tilts his head back to rest on the bars, still staring at you out the corner of his eye. He seems exhausted beyond belief — muscles lax and with no strength to them, eyelids drooping every time he blinks, breath huffing out in deep sighs rather than even exhales. Despite that, you don’t get the sense he wants to rest at all.

“Why aren’t you resting? I’m sure you’re tired from the mission.”

“I rested enough earlier.” But couldn’t stay asleep because of the nightmares. Nightmares in which you killed both yourself and Hongjoong. Ones where San took the serum and forgot me. “I’m okay.” That seems to be more for your own ears than for Seonghwa’s. He hums a bit anyway, acknowledging your words as his eyelids flutter some.

“You don’t need to come keep me company, you know.”

“I can’t just see you because I want to?”

“Y/N…” Seonghwa faces forward before finishing the thought. Something seems to overcome him, if the sudden spike of distress that rolls off his shoulders is any indication at least, and he curls in on himself some more. Your first instinct is to move closer to him and offer some sort of physical comfort, but Seonghwa only pushes further into the corner of his cell when you move. “Don’t.”

“I trust you, Seonghwa,” you utter back. You heed his words though and stop dead in your tracks.

“That would be your first mistake.”

“Why?”

“What?” Seonghwa’s counterattack sounds nearly incredulous.

“Why would it be a mistake to trust you?”

“You are at a greater risk than Hongjoong, yet I still hurt him. Just like last time.”

“How am I at a greater risk, Seonghwa?”

“I don’t — I fear… I fear my mind mistaking you for someone who should die simply because you are a woman.”

“Ah…” you exhale. The implication is there: he’s afraid of mistaking you for his mother in the craze that his head is putting him through. You hadn’t even thought that to be a risk before honestly. From the memories you saw of her, you don’t think you look anything like said woman, but you also have no idea of what Seonghwa’s demons are capable of convincing him to believe. If they’re strong enough to make him harm Hongjoong, then no doubt they would be capable of that too. Seonghwa reaches down to rub at the skin around his ankles, where the flesh has already turned red and bruised from repeated abuse.

“I can’t stay here, Y/N. I’ll lose my mind. I almost wish that fool behind me would do more to antagonize me, but it’s my own head that refuses to let me come up for air.” The chains rattle once more as he reaches up to massage his hairline. The thin black strands of hair cling to his skin like he’s sweating buckets, and under the little bit of light in the brig, you can see a sheen of sweat on his body.

The room is deathly cold.

“Hongjoong mentioned… he said you believe he is forcing you to masquerade as an Elitist.” The words are spoken quiet enough to where you don’t think Jisung could pick up on them even if he were awake.

“I don’t. That’s the thing — I don’t believe that. I know he’s not. I don’t know what came over me when I said such a thing. It isn’t his fault that I-I am like this, and he shouldn’t even have to b-blame himself for it. I’m the one who chose this and demanded the masquerade before he even knew my true identity.”

“But—”

You stop the thought in your throat, cutting off with a small grimace and sigh of air. Seonghwa jerks to look at you anyway. He waits and waits for you to finish the thought, and under his intense gaze, you have lost much of the confidence you had in saying such a thing.

“From what I saw of your memories, and what you told me of your childhood, you were not the one to decide that,” you say after some deliberation. “It was her.” Admittedly, part of you fears the reaction you might garner from Seonghwa in mentioning his mother directly, so you try to keep it as vague as possible. “You never asked to be kept a secret.”

“My worst crime then was being born,” Seonghwa murmurs more to himself than to you. “Now what is it? A son who wants nothing more than to kill the woman who brought him into this world? The more time goes on, the more I… I-I lose myself. I don’t know where my line of morality is, nor do I know how to adhere to it. Y/N, I’m—” Seonghwa falls silent, tongue caught between his teeth, and when he looks to you, there are tears shining in the corners of his eyes. “I’m so afraid.”

You don’t think you have ever heard Seonghwa utter such words, at least not with the raw conviction he says them with or the wrecked pain that radiates off his body.

“Are you afraid of what might happen if you do kill her or what might happen if you don’t?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away; instead, he hangs his head between his knees and you can only watch helplessly as the man’s shoulders tremble under an invisible weight.

“The right answer… what a good person would say is that I fear killing her. But I’m more terrified of what happens if I don’t. How much longer do I suffer if I don’t take this opportunity now? Can I justify risking your safety, Hongjoong’s safety, the crew’s safety for being a good person? I know the blood on my hands is already immeasurable, the infamous Lieutenant of Death shouldn’t fear one more life ended, and I don’t. I just can’t figure out if the Seonghwa who isn’t an Elitist believes that or if it’s the Seonghwa I’ve pretended to be most of my life. Maybe part of me fears how you all might view me if I do kill her.”

“I can’t say it wouldn’t change anything, but I don’t know if anyone would view you as a bad or evil person because of it.”

Seonghwa huffs out a weak laugh and pushes his hair back with the hand he’s not keeping clenching into a tight fist.

“I think Hongjoong is convinced I’ll turn into some sort of monster.”

“He believes that you don’t want to do it,” you counter. “He thinks that your definition of losing yourself lies in killing your mother.”

“I thought it did too.” Hopeless. That’s the word you would use to describe Seonghwa’s current tone, and it burns you from the inside out to hear such desperation on his lips. “If I keep pulling away simply because I’m afraid to hurt any of you, then what right do I have to call myself a lieutenant? To work as Hongjoong’s right-hand? I-I should have some semblance of self-control rather than continuing to distance myself. I thought back then that my mind was crying for her blood bec-because it wanted me to go insane, but now it sounds more and more like a cry for help. When this is all said and done, when it’s time for me to rest, I don’t want to have lost any of you along the way. And I certainly don’t want to be the cause of it either.”

To you, that sounds like a decision. And so, you echo his words back to him with a resolute tone.

“If you tell Hongjoong that, he would take you there, Seonghwa.” You aren’t strong enough to push the full meaning into your words, but it lingers between you. He knows what you mean. “He’s adamant that the decision be yours, as am I. Even Yunho wants you to do what you think is the best course of action. And should you get there and not be able to carry it out, no one would force you to, and no one would do it for you unless you asked that of them.”

“I could never ask anyone to take that burden for me, Y/N.”

“Then you have your answer.” You muster up the courage to slide closer to Seonghwa’s cage and slip a hand between the bars. You don’t push your luck and touch him quite yet, merely letting your hand rest on the bed of metal for Seonghwa to regard with a terrified stare. Although it’s slow progress, he inches his hand down to rest a little ways away from your own. “I promised Hongjoong that I would do nothing to influence your decision, and I plan to uphold that promise. I just… want you to know you are loved today just as you were yesterday, and you’ll be loved tomorrow as well. Whatever kind of that love is, it’s love nonetheless. These people — the family you have built and chosen yourself — will continue to love you even if you get a little lost along the way.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound so certain of something before.”

It’s your turn to exhale a little laugh, although yours is merely one of faux amusement.

“I wish you could see the way they look at you, Seonghwa. The respect they hold in their eyes when they see you, the admiration and love and affection — I don’t need to feel what they feel to know how much they care. It’s not a matter of thinking you are strong because they know you are. You don’t have to force yourself to show restraint or continue to be the thing your mother wanted you to be for them to know you are strong. You have already been with them through some of the toughest moments of their lives, you have been at Hongjoong’s side and you have led just as much as he has. I firmly believe that is not a bond that could be so easily severed.”

Seonghwa’s fingers are so close to yours, so close to curling around your palm and holding you at last, taking that last step of the fickle little thing called trust. At this point, you are throwing yourself headfirst into it with reckless abandon. While there might be some hesitance hiding away in your bones, you would rather see Seonghwa take this step forward in trusting himself.

In the next second, that precious thread of peace snaps and frays at the edges.

“Bravo, Y/N, bravo.” You withdraw your hand from Seonghwa’s cell with a start, lips pressing into a thin line as you turn to regard the man who spoke with a glare. Jisung smiles back at you. It’s all poison and menace. His chains ring to an inaudible song as he claps his hands together. “Oh, you must be so proud of yourself for that one, little lady. Absolutely riveting and… encouraging and… inadequate, don’t you think?”

“Don’t you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” You hiss back without answering the question.

“I don’t think I do. Because every time I speak, I just dig my way under your skin a little more, and that? That amuses me to no end.”

“Don’t humor him, Y/N,” Seonghwa mutters. His hands are now withdrawn to rest in his lap again and curled into tight balls as he stares down at the floor. “I’ve found he wears himself out if you ignore him.” You can hardly imagine being trapped here for more than five minutes with Jisung, but Seonghwa has been in here for hours. Unfortunately, you don’t hold the same resilience that Seonghwa does.

You push up to your feet and stalk towards Jisung’s cell with no clear intent in your mind.

It feeds right into what he said though, it’s proof that he has gotten under your skin and bothered you to some extent, yet you don’t stop even with that knowledge.

“Don’t you have what you want? Haven’t you wreaked enough havoc in your stay here?”

“Oh? And what is it I want exactly, Y/N? Let me hear it from your pretty lips instead of my own.”

“You want me,” you spit back, leaning over the bars like it will intimidate the man behind them.

“And? Do I have what I want?”

“And you fucking have me. I made the deal, I did what you wanted, can’t you quit now?”

“Such foul language from my little lady’s mouth. A shame, truly.”

“I’m not yours to be clai—”

“Incorrect! You said it yourself: I have you. As far as I’m concerned that makes you mine. I really wanted us to find a nice peaceful place to settle down after all this, but you… you are so violent. Angry. I really would rather not be forced to deal with such behaviors, but if you continue to do so, then maybe we can try that method they’re using on the Spectre. What was it? Regression… therapy? I hear it’s quite effective in breaking someone’s spirit. Shall we try?”

You know better than to fall into that trap again. It’s all for show; Jisung is merely saying and doing these things to bother you because he knows how best to do so. He hasn’t yet even proven that he has the balls to follow through with anything he’s threatened, but he also understands that he doesn’t need to. Whether he proves it or not, he wins merely by garnering a reaction from you. It was a tactic you learned about years ago, something they taught your unit before you engage in high-risk intelligence-gathering missions.

“You don’t get to talk about San,” you fire back, right into the trap Jisung laid before you.

“San, is it? He’s the one you worry about most, no?” The smile painted on Jisung’s lips nearly seems genuine. It probably would be if not for the gleam in his eyes. “You always got too attached too quickly. I suppose that hasn’t changed.”

Jisung sits up on his heels and traces a finger over the bars separating you. Whatever the reason in doing so is a mystery to you, but you stand transfixed by the gentle movements.

“I bet you haven’t even told him how you feel. That’s the scary part, isn’t it? The part where they leave? Die? Or worse… forget everything about you? When the doctors go in to reset his brain, they won’t even think to keep those memories of you. If it makes you feel any better, I can take your memories of him away too.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

The laugh that tears through Jisung’s lips echoes off the walls and bounces off your ears.

“Is this so amusing to you?” Seonghwa is the one to pose the question, voiced raised a bit so it carries over to where you and Jisung are.

“I haven’t even begun to have my fun yet. I do so adore seeing relationships crack under the slightest bit of pressure though. I suppose that’s one thing dearest Y/N and I have in common. I’m not sure she’s let you glimpse into the cruelest parts of her yet.” His smile drops with such haste that it causes you to visibly flinch. “I’ve seen them all, Lieutenant. Oh, the fun we’ll have once together again, doll~”

“Fuck you, Han,” you spit through the curling fear in your gut. Your words have no effect and offer no respite, however; all it does is bring the smile back to Jisung’s lips and another laugh from his throat.

“You should be grateful that Hyunwoo spared you from living with the weight of your worst crimes. I wanted to let you live with them but he said you would be too guilty and too much of a liability if we left you with them. He had to be the one to take the weight of those crimes after all. I wonder how many of those broken memories will still be intact when I go back into that pretty little brain of yours again. Since Hyunwoo won’t be around to keep me from playing this time, that is. Which ones should I release first, Y/N?”

“Shut up.”

“You saw our lovely whore in Lynder didn’t you? Don’t tell me she forgave you for what you did… perhaps we should start there.”

“Shut the hell up, Han Jisung, if you want to keep your life.”

“Oh?” Jisung presses forward and gets to his feet without batting an eye. You hadn’t realized how close you had gotten to his cell until he comes face to face with you behind the bars, so close that the heat from his body radiates onto your skin. “I would be careful, Y/N. I’ve spent years learning how best to toy with brains using the military’s serum. If you want to keep your sanity, then I suggest you play nice like the good little doll you are. You wouldn’t want to be left with any horribly traumatic memories, now would you?”

Jisung’s lips fall into a faux pout, and you take a hasty step back from the bars in disgust.

“I told you: I know plenty about making people break. All I have to do is tell you the smallest white lie for seeds of doubt to take root. I can make you believe that you killed thousands of people without even taking a single step into your head. Take that into account before you attempt to threaten me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe, but we… we’re merely two halves of a whole crazy, Y/N. You need me to survive because if you didn’t, you would have forgotten all about me a long time ago, wouldn’t you? Isn’t it funny how someone who doesn’t even have any true and real memories of her past clings to it so desperately?”

“You know, from where I’m standing, you aren’t doing shit to help us find the others, so I have no reason to uphold my end of the bargain,” you deflect, turning the conversation on its head to escape his pointless scrutiny of your reasoning. It works to your advantage perfectly because Jisung huffs air through his teeth and rolls his eyes.

“We’re on Dorado, no? Your Berserker is in the Lower Echelon of Lynder near the Smokehouses. Large warehouse preparing for reprogramming no doubt. You won’t be able to get him out. Your best hope is to wait until after the reprogramming as my crew will take him back to our ship, then we can play tradesies and bring him back while you come with me.”

“Or you can go to that warehouse and tell them the deal is off and there’s been a change in plans.”

You squat down beside Jisung’s cell, hand slipping over your waistband and dipping underneath it to pull the sheathed knife you keep there out. It glints under the low yellow lights above your head.

“Scourge was right in saying that it’s hard to threaten a man like you. But one thing fucks your plans up, Jisung. If I’m dead, then what do you get out of this?”

The playful gleam in Jisung’s eyes fades like a candle being snuffed out. His smirk falls, expression growing grave in mere seconds, and you crank up the heat a little further as you dance the knife over the inside of your wrist.

“If it means ruining your plans, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure the safety of my crew. You should know that by now.”

“You haven’t fucking changed in all these years.”

“Is that a yes?”

“You fucking wish, you harlot. Do you really think—”

You cut him short by digging the knife harder into your skin, just enough to break through and cause a stream of red to slip out. He falls silent with a sharp inhale of air.

“I hope you agree before I run dry, Jisung. You want me to be a psychopath so badly? Let’s fucking play. Ten seconds until I cut again, and this time it’ll be vertical, so I sure hope you realize the stakes now.”

“You think your boy toy in the corner over there will sit still as you kill yourself to prove a point?”

“From where I’m standing, it seems like neither of you is in any sort of position to stop me. Five seconds, Jisung.” A drop of scarlet falls from the tip of the knife to the floor. Jisung watches it splatter, eyes calculating and careful as it moves, then he blinks back up to look you in the eye.

“I’ll tell them to cancel the reprogramming and send your Berserker back to my ship.”

“That’s not good enough,” you reply without missing a beat. The knife careens back towards your arm, and Jisung lunges forward in his cell as you shift, a desperate attempt to stop you from continuing the damage. He can’t fit a hand through the bars with the shackles around his wrists though, and he’s left to hiss out a complaint when the knife penetrates your skin again. It’s closer to your elbow this time, a deceptively shallow slice the runs parallel to the bone. Red blossoms over the line immediately. “You go in there, get them to cancel the reprogramming, then bring him out yourself to deliver him to this ship and this ship only.”

Jisung doesn’t respond right away, prompting you to lift the knife again in threat, and he snaps into action at that. Scarlet trails down the blade.

“Fine! You can even send some fucking lackeys with me to make sure I get the job done.”

“I’ll save you the trouble of trying to fuck it up while out there; I will go with you, along with our Berserker Jongho just so you don’t forget what you’re supposed to do out there.” It’s hardly your place to make such decisions or plans in place of Hongjoong, but since he’s otherwise preoccupied at the moment and you have this chance before you right now, you are going to do the most with it. And if Hongjoong has any issue with that? You’re willing to take the consequences of your actions later.

“If that’s what will make you happy, then so be it. My intention has always been to help you recover your lost crewmates.”

“Even though you were the one who kidnapped and sold them in the first place?”

“Did you think I would make things easy for you, Y/N? Come now… don’t let my kindness fool you. You haven’t even thought to ask about the other one — the Spectre, was it? Here I thought he mattered to you. You were oh so concerned when I spoke of him before.”

“I’m fucking getting there, Han. You’re in no position to be impatient,” you hiss out through gritted teeth. Jisung merely laughs at the fire in your tone.

“I’m hardly impatient, doll. In fact, I have all the time in the world. However—” he hesitates to lift one of his shackled hands and points a finger directly up “—that Spectre has a countdown looming over his head, does he not? Countdown to the hard reset? I wonder what stage of regression therapy they’re at by now. Or maybe he’s already given in? My men told me that he was… so responsive whenever your name was mentioned. I wonder if he’ll beg like the mutt he is when it comes time for him to break.”

That tips you over the edge you’ve been teetering on since entering the brig for a second time. You drop your knife to the ground, letting it clatter and fall away from where you’re squatted in front of Jisung, then you thrust your bleeding arm through the bars to close your fingers around his throat where the band of his collar can’t reach. The strain and pull on your skin burns and causes the wounds to split a bit further. It doesn’t stop you from squeezing Jisung’s neck until his face turns purple.

“Run that by me again, Han Jisung, and see what happens.”

It’s that slight insanity creeping back up your neck and into your mind — the same craze that overtook you when Taskmaster Cara stabbed San back on Echidna.

“What? Is this not a fun game for you? You were enjoying it so much not too long ago. Do you not enjoy it not?” You taunt as you twist the blade in her.

“Y-You’re a fucking – fucking psychopath.”

The smile returns to your lips. You pull the knife out of her leg with haste then move forward so that you can squat down in front of her.

“I’ve heard that before too,” you mutter as you twirl the knife in your grasp. The smile coating your lips dissipates. “But only by the people who deserve their fates.”

It terrified you then, made you fear who you were and what you could become. Now? Your mind fights the urge to kill Jisung as best it can, but it’s a losing battle, because no matter how hard you try, you cannot peel your hand away from his neck. It’s like a voice is playing on repeat in the back of your head, saying ‘kill kill kill’ over without cease.

Your ears ring with the blood thumping through your veins. If you squeeze just a little tighter then—

“Enough.”

Your hand pulls away from Jisung’s neck with such haste that you slam it hard against the bars as you’re trying to withdraw it from his cell. You scramble back from the cell full of a terror that can only be directed at yourself because you don’t know what came over you in that moment. The figure creeping up on your left doesn’t even register until he is in your space and squatting beside you. A hand overlays one of your trembling ones and pulls your arm out until your injured forearm is exposed.

“Reckless. What else should I expect from you?” It’s then that you finally decide to look up at the owner of the voice, finding none other than the captain standing over you like you’re nothing more than a petulant child who can’t learn a lesson. Still, his tone holds far more softness than anger, and you don’t get the sense that he’s truly enraged by your actions. “Go see Yunho and get these cleaned, hm? You’ll need to be in top condition if you’re heading out on yet another mission tomorrow. Though we’ll have to discuss your tendency to jump the gun on planning things without orders in the future as well.”

Ah, so he’s been present for a while if he overheard that bit as well. Then he had every opportunity to stop you from harming yourself or making any propositions with Jisung the entire time. It’s almost touching in a way knowing that Hongjoong allowed you to have that moment of control — a moment to take matters into your own hands — even if he’s all but told you that there will be consequences for said moment.

You offer a hesitant nod in response, glancing over at Jisung one last time before Hongjoong helps you to your feet. You are about to step past the captain when he yanks you back by the elbow in a similar fashion to your earlier stand-off with him outside his quarters. He presses so close to you that you smell the distinct musk of a fresh shower on his skin.

“Yunho’s still upstairs so don’t bother dropping by his room.”

You don’t understand why he had to whisper that fact to you like it was a closely guarded secret, but you are not going to point that out either. Instead, you murmur a quiet thank you and turn to climb the ladder out of the brig. Just before you reach the top, you dare to cast one more glance down to Hongjoong. He has moved to assume your previous position in front of Jisung’s cell, squatted low enough to be eye level with the man, and he holds your forgotten knife between two fingers. The scene is telling enough, but you can’t help but wonder what Hongjoong saw when you had your hand wrapped around Jisung’s neck. If he saw the way you started to pull apart at the seams and become slightly unhinged, that is. An even larger part of you wonders if perhaps what he saw was frightening enough to cause him to step in when he did.

The thought does not dwell for long; you put the brig behind you and leave Hongjoong to his own devices in there, deciding it better to not think about whatever he plans to do or say until he inevitably mentions it later to the crew. And even if he deems it unnecessary for the crew to know, you would accept that as well. Either way, you wish to leave what just happened behind you, bury it in the recesses of your mind like it’s a memory that does not belong because you wish it didn’t.

Your hands continue to tremble by your sides for the entirety of the walk back to the Hongjoong’s quarters.

I fear I will lose my mind if I cannot bring him back safely soon.

✧✧✧ a/n: here we are again i really played myself and said yeah this will be under 10k so i LIED to mYSELF um yeah wow okay i never know what to say after finishing a chapter i just go brrr i have a lot of energy tho feeling good about this chapter bringing back the survey bc it’s been a minute and i’d love to hear how we’re feeling nowadays and as always let me know how you feel in the comments replies whatever you wish just bring it on let’s GO hit me with the theories and thoughts!

if you would like to, you can take the survey here! if you would like to be added to the taglist, just let me know!

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mosswillow · 4 years

Text

Useless Dark!Steve Roger x Reader (part three)

Warnings: 18+ Adult content!, Werewolves, A/B/O, Possessive behavior, Dark, Non con/dub con, Forced marriage, power imbalance, general misogyny, Punishments, smut, spanking, branding.

Summary: “Trying to fight this is useless doll, we’ll always end up right back here.” You’re the bottom of the pack, an Omega, and Steve has chosen you for his mate.

A/N: The last chapter had a happier ending. Stop there is that’s what you want.

---

“You feel so good”

“Shut up and just fuck me already.” you claw at the strangers shirt and he pulls it over his head.

The alcohol you consumed earlier in the evening is still pulsing through your veins and giving you a pleasant buzz. The wolf you’re with now is nothing more than a hookup. You don’t even know his name and frankly don’t care to. It’s easier when you don’t.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a mouthy Omega before.” He quips.

The stranger climbs on top of you and holds you down.

“I kinda like it,” he says.

He slaps you in the face before devouring your lips and you wrap your legs around him. You make long scratches down his back that draw blood and the pain prompts him to work harder and faster. It’s a quick, meaningless fuck, one that only serves to distract you from the ever present anxiety that consumes your life. You lose yourself and for a few mindless minutes you forget about everything. It all comes crashing back though, just like it always does. You get up and gather your clothes.

“Fuck.” He breathes, still lying on the bed.

You roll your eyes and start lacing up your shoes but before you’re able to stand He grabs your arm, pulling you roughly towards him. You look down and realize your mistake. The bandage that usually covers your brand is missing and the mark that tethers you to your pack is visible.

“That’s the Avengers brand.” You watch the recognozation wash across his face.

You try to pull your arm back but he grips you tighter.

“You said your Alpha was dead.”

“Just let me go.” You say shaking your head.

“You know I can’t.”

He pulls you roughly to the bed and pins you're down by the throat, getting close to your face.

“Don’t move Omega.”

You sputter when he lets you go and scoot to the headboard, bringing you knees up to your chest.

He finds his phone and hits speed dial, pacing back and forth in the room as he waits for who you assume is his pack Alpha to answer.

“Uh, hey I have a bit of a problem...”

“...yeah, you know that Omega that went missing from the Avenger pack? Yeah like three

years ago... I found her....”

He sits on the bed briefly before standing and pacing again.

“Well I kinda fucked her.” He grasps his hair in his hand, shaking his head. You can hear the yelling from your place on the bed and almost feel bad for the trouble you’ve gotten him in.

“I swear I didn’t know until after!”

He listens for a few minutes while eyeing you. You look at him with the biggest puppy dog eyes, making yourself look as small as possible. He finally hangs up and shoves his phone in his pocket.

“You need to get in the shower before your Alpha shows up. I don’t want you smelling like me.”

You nod and hang your head.

“I’m hungry.”

He sighs. “Ok, I’ll get you something from the vending machine.”

“Thank you so much Alpha,” You say.

You smile and walk to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and count to twenty. You peak out finding the room empty ad sprint out to your car, not stopping for even a second.

“What an idiot.” you say as you drive away.

---

Three years. It’s been almost three wonderfully horrible years. You look at yourself in the mirror of your dirty motel room. Your mind returns to Steve again like it does every all day, every day. You pull your shirt off and turn around looking at your mark. You miss the guy. You miss your parents. You miss Tony and Carol, Sam and Thor. You miss playing with the pups and going to pack nights, roasting smores and running in the woods with your pack mates. You want that again, to feel part of something. They were all right, it’s not in your nature to be rogue. You’re tired of running. You’re constantly on edge, worried about the next time you have to pick up without a word and move to the next town. It’s a struggle every single day not to pick the phone up and call them. Still, you fear going back. You’ll lose all of the freedom you’ve carefully crafted for yourself.

You get dressed, walk to the closest coffee shop, and pull your laptop out. You’re a freelance writer, getting just enough work to support your lifestyle.

The door opens and you know it’s them, the local pack. This always goes the same way. Three Alphas make their way over to you and sit at your table. It’s always the same arrogant group, you refer to them as Jack, Ass, and Don.

“I thought she was joking, an Omega, really?” Jack says.

You look up feigning surprise.

“What are you doing here sweetheart?” Ass asks.

“Just passing through,” You smile.

“You smell taken. Where’s your Alpha?” Don says

“He’s dead, it’s just me now.”

“We can help you out little one, why don’t you join our pack?” Jack says.

“Thank you but no.”

Jack taps his fingers on the table. This part is important. You’ll either be running immediately or will have a few weeks until they try to kidnap you.

“I really think you should join us.” Jack says again.

This in your cue. It’s not safe here. You look down and pout.

“You’re really ok with taking care of an Omega like me?” You look up at the Alpha.

“We would be proud to take in a sweet little thing like you.” Ass says, running his hand over your cheek.

“Thank you Alpha.” You say, nuzzling into his hand.

“I’ll be right back.” you stand smiling and grab your laptop.

You keep the smile until you’re out of the shop and at your car. You get in and drive away, not looking back.

After driving for an hour you pull over and look at the map, picking a new spot. You run your hand over the area on the map where your old territory was. It’s not far from where you’re going.

As you get closer to the town you start recognizing things. You pull over your car into a scenic overlook as sudden panic grips you. You cry and tell yourself over and over that it’s ok, you’re ok. You look out at the trees which were once vibrant oranges and reds at the beginning of the season but have slowly lost their leaves.

You were full of hope when you first left. You traveled and saw so many things. You’ve swam in lakes and hiked countless trails. You’ve met wolves from everywhere. It’s starting to feel empty now. You’ve never found anything that’s satisfied you for more than a few minutes. Your mind craves adventure and freedom but your soul craves something more. It craves your family. It craves Steve.

You pull yourself together and keep driving until you reach your destination. The host asks your name for the room and you make a mistake, a purposeful mistake. You tell them your real name.

You arrive at your room and don’t bother unpacking. You’ll wait the night and leave tomorrow if he doesn’t come. You can’t quite bring yourself to go back to him but you can do this. A little breadcrumb. You don’t know if you actually want him to come or not. You know he’ll hurt you just like he used to. You know you’ll be forced to submit, that this life you’ve created will become a distant memory. There won’t ever be another chance to escape. But at least you won’t have the anxiety anymore. At least you won’t live looking over your shoulder. You can’t do that anymore and giving your real name was part of that. You won’t hide. You’ve always known you would have to face your past eventually and you feel as ready now as you’ll ever be. He’ll come, you’re sure he will, and he’ll be mad. You prepare yourself mentally for a fight.

You don’t sleep.

You lie in bed and look at the ceiling for hours before it happens.

A loud knock.

You stand and take weak steps to the door, stalling for a few moments with your hand on the knob before opening it.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He pushes his way into the room and slams you down to the floor. You kick and struggle as he fits a tracker to your ankle. He exhales after placing it and grabs your head, planting a violent kiss on your lips. You pull away.

“Steve.”

“You don’t speak.”

He tears your shirt in half and deposits it on the floor.

“I can smell other wolves on you,” He growls

You bite your lip.

His mouth finds your mark and he bites down, marking you again.

He backs away and you glare at him. Every bit of resentment comes back. You’re not going to roll over for him so quickly. You pull your arm back and punch him in the face. He stumbles and brings his hand up to his bloody nose.

He grabs hold of you and throws you across the room. You hit the wall and drop to the ground, the breath knocked out of you. You cough and hold your stomach before standing slowly.

“We’ve done this before, you know I’ll go until I can’t anymore.”

“And you know I won’t stop until you’re a bloody mess.”

You run at him again and he tackles you, flipping you over and holding you down with one arm. With the other he tears off your underwear before pulling out his cock out and driving into you.

“You. Left. Me.” he says, thrusting deep into you.

“You pushed me away!” you cry out.

Steve slaps you hard on the ass as he continues to pound you. You feel like your body is in a bubble, only you and Steve exist right now. The feeling of him in you, aggressively claiming you is everything. You cry in relief and frustration. It’s not long before you feel the warmth of his cum fill you. He pulls out and sits back on his knees, panting from the exertion. You crawl away and sit with your back against the wall.

“I’m so tired,” you whisper.

Steve pulls his shirt off and walks over to you. He hands the shirt to you and you put it on, letting the warmth and woodsy smell calm your shaking body. He pulls you into his lap.

“I am too.”

You cry in his arms until your tears eventually disappear and Steve’s heart rate goes down.

“Why keep fighting?” Steve asks

You look up at Steve.

“Why force me?”

Steve thinks for a beat before answering.

“I want you.”

“I want me too.”

You cuddle into Steve and close your eyes. This is the first time your anxiety has calmed in almost three years. He picks you up and carries you to his car, strapping you in before getting your things. You look out the window at the woods and reach down to your ankle, feeling the tracker.

You drive in uncomfortable silence for the entire ride. Steve reaches his home and turns the car off.

“What are you going to do to me?”

Steve ignores you. He gets out and goes around the car, opening your door. You tentatively get out and start walking with Steve to his house. The pack Alphas are waiting on the porch.

One by one each Alpha runs to you and pulls you into a big hug.

You all go inside and Steve makes a pot of coffee, handing you a mug. Thor sits beside you on the couch and puts his arm around you. Everyone is quiet and your anxiety starts building.

Tony sits in front of you and holds your hand.

“We’re happy you’re back.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Oh no, don’t think we’re not also pissed.”

You sink into the couch.

“This.” he points to the tracker on your ankle. “Will never come off.”

your mind starts whirling with ideas to remove it.

“Hey.” He snaps in front of your face.

“It can’t come off, trust me.”

You nod.

“Is the… is the tracker it or is there another punishment?” you ask.

The Alphas give you a sad look and Tony shakes his head.

“What else are you going to do?” you say barely above a whisper.

Carol comes and hugs you, shushing you.

“It’s going to be ok, we just want what’s best for you.”

They stay for the day, talking and asking questions about the years you were gone. Your anxiety starts growing the longer they’re there and they can all tell. The sun starts to go down and they each give you a hug and say their goodbyes.

Steve pours himself a glass of whiskey and takes a sip.

“Go to bed doll.”

You walk to your room and pull out the top drawer where you kept pajamas. You pick up the dark green chemise and hold it in your hands, feeling the soft fabric. Steve comes in and takes it out of your hands, slipping it over your head.

“Did any of it actually make you happy?”

“In some ways.”

He sweeps you up and carries you to the bed, climbing in after you and placing his arm over your body protectively.

---

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the absence of Steve's warm body. Then you notice the handcuff. You look around and see Steve standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. You start shaking your head and pull your arm against the cuff.

“Steve.” you whimper.

He turns away and closes the door.

It takes a full twenty four hours for you to start breaking down. The panic comes and goes and your wrist becomes covered in blood and bruises. After two days you give up any hope. This is where you die. You close your eyes and wait.

Steve unlocks your hand and gently pulls you up to a sitting position. He holds a sports drink to your lips and helps you take small sips. You can’t stop shaking, your body weak from lack of nutrients. Steve takes the handcuffs to the closet and you hear beeping and the sound of a safe opening and closing. You take small sips of the drink while Steve fills a bath. He undresses you and carries you to the tub, getting in behind you and carefully cleaning you.

“It’s ok i’m here now doll, you’re ok.” He says, kissing your shoulder. You stare ahead, not able to respond.

After the bath he covers you with a towel and brings you out to the living room.

He leaves you on the couch and walks to the kitchen. You eye a small statue next to you and pick it up. You hold it in your hands, feeling the weight and eyeing a sharp point on one end. Steve comes back with a glass of water and a piece of toast. He crouches in front of you making eye contact and waiting. You grip the statue and close your eyes then slowly put it back where it goes. You drop your head to one side baring your neck. Steve pulls the towel down and runs his hand over your mark. He takes a seat next to you and guides you down so your head is in his lap.

“You were always going to end up here.”

He terrifies you. He forced you to mate with him, almost beat you to death. controlled everything about your life. He left you for who knows how long chained to a bed until you broke into a thousand pieces, forcing you to rely on him to glue you back together.

He smells like home though. He’s like a lighthouse, guiding you through a storm. Always there no matter what you do or where you run. You can’t escape him.

“I know.”

#dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x you #dark!steve #Darkfic #alpha!steve rogers #Werewolf!Steve Rogers

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sylvies-chen · 3 years

Note

Thank you for doing these prompts! #25 for Brettsey please ❤️

Aww, it's my pleasure! I like spitting out these short but sweet fics, I'm just glad you guys are enjoying them!

(PROMPT LIST)

25. "I'm scared."

Sylvie Brett is a planner.

The minute she'd gotten pregnant, she and Matt had told Boden. They'd arranged for her next furlough to last a couple months, scheduled right in the last trimester of her pregnancy, so that she could have as much proper maternity leave as possible for after the baby's born. She'd dragged Matt to Lamaze classes, read nearly every parenting book in Chicago, furnished a 50-page birthing plan with colourful tabs and her very own laminator. Her due date is supposed to be April 3rd, and she'd prepared for every possible scenario before then.

And yet somehow, she still manages to be in the firehouse when she goes into labour.

She's only supposed to be there for a quick visit. Staying cooped up at home with this huge baby bump and sore feet was making her restless, so she'd decided to make her way over to the firehouse-- if only to say a quick hello to her husband and her firehouse family. 81 is out on a call when she gets there though, so she sits on one of the bunk room beds and waits.

She's not there 45 minutes though when she has to pee for the hundredth time, moves to go to the bathroom, and notices that her water just broke.

Shit.

The ambo is still here, meaning Violet's somewhere in the firehouse. Sylvie moves to find her, an abrupt jolt of pain shooting through her as she begins to walks.

It dawns on her that this is her first contraction, that it's painful as hell and it's only begun, and that Matt's not there with her. How did she manage to be this unprepared? Her binder isn't even anywhere in sight, and neither is her husband. It's pretty much the worst case scenario.

She explains the whole situation to Violet once she finds her, who handles it surprisingly well and jumps into action almost quicker than Sylvie. "Oh my god, you're in labour?"

"I think so," she tells her. "I just need you to drive me in the ambo to the hospital and get someone to tell Matt. Wherever 81 is, they need to hurry the hell up and get back here because this is--" Sylvie's sentence is cut off by her own pain, the second contraction washing over her. It's mild, but still painful. "-- painful," she finishes through gritted teeth.

"Ok. Ok, let's go," Violet declares, extending an arm to help Sylvie as they walk onto the apparatus floor and over to the ambo.

Sylvie's contractions are still far apart-- no less than 7 minutes, at worst. But Violet speeds through the streets with the sirens on, radioing for 81 to meet them at Med. If there's a response to her radio call, Sylvie's too panicked or preoccupied to hear it.

Dammit. She needs Matt right now, possibly more than she's ever needed him. She can't do this without him. Where the hell is he? Why is it taking 81 so long?

"No. No," she dismisses frantically, talking to Violet from the back of the ambo as she drives. "No, this can't be happening."

"Don't worry, we're almost there," Violet assures her, pulling around the block as they near the entrance.

Sylvie hobbles into the ED, Maggie greeting her immediately and guiding her and Violet up to the maternity ward. Sylvie gets seated on a bed as unfamiliar nurses and doctors surround her. They settle her in, telling her everything she'll need to know. It matters, and she pays attention, but her mind is on Matt the entire time. She really misses him, wants him, needs him here.

Violet stays with her, holding her hand and helping her through the next couple rounds of contractions. An hour passes and Matt's still not here. She's strong enough to do this alone but she never expected she'd have to. Why isn't he here?

She's in the middle of a really bad contraction now, the pain blinding as sweat drips from her brow. They're getting closer together, to the point where Violet's coaching is useless. Sylvie lets out a huge cry, squeezing onto Violet's hand and screaming. She's sweaty and she's tired, and she wants this baby to come out now. But mostly, she needs her husband. "Sylvie? Sylvie?" Finally, she hears Matt's distinct and panicked shouts coming from the halls of the hospital.

"Matt!" She cries out from the room until eventually, she sees him running in with a panicked look on his face. "Sylvie," he repeats, sweating almost as much as she is. He's still in his gear, his suspenders falling off to his side and his jacket covered in dirt and ash. "Hi, hey, I'm here."

"Where have you been?!" She asks him through a pained sob. She's crying now, she realizes, just from the pure relief and joy seeing him here brings her. "I was waiting for you. I— God, I was worried.”

"I know, I'm sorry," he tells her, his voice pleading but reassuring. He strokes her damp hair, gazing at her. "We got stuck in a house fire call but I'm here now."

Sylvie lets out a sob, overwhelmed by it all. There's only two minutes left until her next contraction but she doesn't care-- she cries anyway. She's not alone. Her friends are here. Matt's here. And he's alright, not dead or injured or any of the dark possibilities that have raced through her mind these past few hours.

"I'm scared," she blurts out, only just now realizing it herself.

His brows arch inwards and he continues to stroke her hair. "I know. I am too."

"What if something happens?"

"What?" He blinks, slightly taken aback.

"Julie died giving birth to Amelia," she explains abruptly, taking more deep breaths as her chest rises and falls with Matt's. "What if something goes wrong?"

"You're worried about the same thing happening?" He takes another deep breath, moving to lace his fingers with hers. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"I don't know," she admits. "It seems silly but... I just keep thinking about everything that went down with her. I don't want to leave you with our baby, alone.”

"Hey," he soothes. "It's not silly at all. But that's not going to happen. You're going to be fine, I promise. I'll be right here the entire time. We are having a baby, nothing's going to stop that. Okay?"

His voice is calm and comforting, like warm tea and honey. He's standing there, holding her hand, loving her unconditionally. She's a sweaty, sobbing mess and he still looks at her like she's everything. It makes Sylvie want to start crying again.

"I love you so much," she sputters, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I love you too."

The next contraction comes, and Matt's there to hold her hand this time. Suddenly, everything that she'd planned in the binder seems to be meaningless. Nothing went according to plan-- not the due date, not the hospital they chose, not the birthing suite. None of it. And it still seems so... perfect.

Matt eases her through the contractions, holds her hand the entire time.

They're becoming a family now. Nothing will stop that.

#aaaand they keep getting longer! love that for me!#don't know why I can't write something short but whatever #fanfic prompts #brettsey #abby writes

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

Text

It's Delicate: Part III

Summary: Spencer Reid finds himself at a gas station at 2:00 am, thinking he’s only leaving with a cup of crappy coffee. But something taped to the door catches his eye. Spencer leaves the gas station with more than he intended: the chance at a friend, and maybe something more along the way.

Word Count: 3.9

Author’s Note: Here's Part 3!! This was super difficult for me to get out, but I think I'm happy with it. I rewrote it like 3 or 4 times

It's Delicate: Part III

Spencer notices everything. He’s been trained to notice the slightest change in his environment. He supposes that his profiler training has helped him be more comfortable in social situations. But still, Spencer feels like a fish out of water as he pushes the door to the bookstore open. He knows he should feel at home when he’s in a bookstore, but his heart seems to be racing. Spencer tries to quiet his nerves before he can feel himself running away.

Thinking that it might be a good idea to distract himself, Spencer walks over to the bookshelf filled with books from the floor to the ceiling. He runs his fingers along the spine of the books. Some are old and used, and others are well cared for with their enabled and embossed writing on the spines. He recognizes some titles, but others aren’t too familiar. There’s a whole world of books out there that Spencer has yet to explore. There’s a couple other patrons in the store, an older woman who sits on the soft rocking chair in the back corner and a young woman who already has a pile of books tucked under her arms.

Looking around, Spencer walks towards the back of the store where a glowing sign directs him to the restroom. He goes into the Men’s Room and locks the door behind him. Spencer looks at his reflection in the mirror. He wouldn’t consider himself a vain man, nor would he consider himself aloof about his appearance. He’s very much aware of the deep lines that collect around his eyes and the dark bags underneath. Spencer runs his fingers through his hair, wondering if he should have gotten a haircut. He likes the way his longer hair looks. It took so long after getting released from prison to get his curls back. His hair is the one part of his physical appearance that Spencer can say he likes; the rest he’s a little less than indifferent about on a good day.

Spencer shuts the light off in the bathroom and heads back to the front of the store. He approaches the store clerk, who sits behind the counter. She’s talking with the young woman who had the pile of books tucked under her arms. Spencer looks around the store, trying to find a sign for where the book club meets. He realizes that he doesn’t even know what Y/N looks like. He decides to take out his phone to text Y/N that he’s here. Spencer walks to the short stories section of the store and looks for the “P”s. Once he finds the book he’s looking for he takes a photo and attaches it to the message.

Spencer: How have I not discovered this place sooner??

He doesn’t expect for Y/N to text him back right away, so he tucks his phone back into his pocket. Spencer walks to the front of the store. The display highlights the books of the month with different authors, genres, and themes. It’s a quaint little store and Spencer wonders why he put off visiting so long. The young woman finishes with the clerk and brushes past Spencer, her face buried in her phone. Spencer walks towards the shelves of True Crime books. He sees Rossi’s latest release about the Golden State Killer. Before Spencer can pick up the book, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

Y/N: Ooooh a man after my own heart :) I’m guessing you’re here too

Spencer: Yes...I just realized I don’t know what you look like?

Y/N: Well, I guess that means you have to find me

Spencer looks around at the patrons in the store. The older woman and the younger woman seem like the only logical candidates. The young woman doesn’t look up when Spencer brushes past, her attention is intently focused on the book across her lap, while the older woman swipes on her e-reader.

Spencer: You know I could just call you and your phone would ring

Y/N: That’s like cheating

Y/N: Turn around

Spencer turns around and is greeted by the young woman who brushed past him before. She smiles up at him and Spencer can’t help but grin back at her. He didn’t really give much thought to what Y/N looks like, and he can only hope that she didn’t think too much about him in that way. Spencer has to stop himself from that spiral, and remind himself that it’s not a date.

“You’re Y/N?” Spencer asks, hoping that he doesn’t sound too nervous.

“Yes, and I really hope you’re Spencer,” she says, “you’re nothing like I pictured,”

Spencer’s face must have shown his shock because Y/N’s hand comes up to gently touch his upper arm in an attempt to quell his worry.

“No, nothing bad, Spencer. You just text like a grandpa so I figured you were a lonely old man. I’m just surprised that you’re pretty...young is all,” Y/N finishes her voice climbing up a couple of scales making her nerves evident.

Spencer nods in agreement, used to people thinking he’s older than he actually is his entire life. He supposes that’s because of his intelligence coupled with his social ineptitude.

“Well, judging by your texting, I predicted that you would be around my age, or younger,” Spencer says he’s always had difficulties keeping conversations going, yet right now his mind is swimming of different things he can tell Y/N.

“So you ready for your first Book Buddy meeting?” Y/N asks. The corners of her mouth turn upwards in a playful smile. Spencer likes her smile and grows disappointed that the only time he’ll be able to see it is when they meet together. As much as he is technology adverse, he wouldn’t mind being able to see her smile through her emojis and snarky messages.

“I’m still not too sure what we’re supposed to do, but at least I’ve got you to show me,”

“Come on Book Buddy virgin,” Y/N says winking at Spencer as she walks past him to the staircase that leads to the store’s basement.

Spencer tries to ignore her comment, but even with his brain power he can’t stop his ears from turning pink. He’s always blushing around people who listen to him, especially when those people are so enthralling to watch.

In the basement, there’s shelves and shelves of books lining the walls. A couple of couches and sofas are tucked in the corner with a table and lamp. The soft light is warm and inviting. Spencer’s eyes can’t help but to scan the various titles in the collection. Y/N flops down on the couch and taps the seat, signalling for Spencer to sit next to her.

Sitting down next to her, Spencer wonders how much space he should put between them. He doesn’t want to sit so close and have her think he’s only here to make a pass at her. Nor does he want to sit so far away, because the scent of her peppermint and eucalyptus perfume threatens to mesmerize him.

Y/N brushes her hair from her face with her right hand, that’s adorned with a ring and a couple gold bracelets. She looks over at Spencer apprehensively and he tries to give her a comforting smile back, but he’s afraid that he just looks awkward. He suddenly is very aware that his breath tastes like stale coffee and his hair is wild, pointing out in several directions.

“So Spencer,” Y/N says, “usually we meet in a big group to do these Book Clubs, but this year the store decided to do this Book Buddy thing. Reading and picking out books for someone can be a very personal thing, so I’d like to get to know you a little bit better if that’s alright?”

Spencer’s eyes steady the woman before him. She looks over at him, her eyes never breaking from his. Psychology shows that holding eye contact is a sign of confidence, for a litany of reasons, Spencer has always had difficulties maintaining eye contact. He sighs loudly. It’s almost a mix between exasperation and confusion. Even though Spencer has spent a good portion of his adult life surrounded by very forward people, he still feels slightly nervous when he comes across those types recreationally. Especially when those types seem to have smiles so contagious that they throw every scientific study on germs out the window.

“You want to know about me?” Spencer repeats. He can feel his ears flush, and is thoroughly reminded that he hardly knows who he is.

“Yes, I want to know all your salacious stories Spencer,” Y/N says with a sly smile.

Spencer chokes out a strained laugh before he tries to think of an answer. He can’t remember the last time someone wanted to get to know him. Or maybe he does, and just wants to pretend that those memories died with her. But he can’t, because they are painful and real.

“I’m an FBI Agent, uh the Behavioral Analysis Unit specifically. We track down serial killers and other time sensitive cases,” Spencer says, used to giving the speech about his job on the rare occasion he does talk to another lonely soul at a random bar in a city.

He looks over at Y/N, ready for the reaction he usually gets. Sometimes it’s pity, other times it’s awe. But it all tastes the same with a shot of whiskey.

“That must be an incredibly exhausting job, Spencer. It takes a special kind of person to do that,”

That’s strange, Spencer thinks. Her words aren’t full of pity or awe, but almost understanding. It’s strange, but Spencer likes strange things, after all.

“It is,” Spencer says. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with useless words that he knows are stale and meaningless. Somehow the silence doesn’t feel awkward.

“How long have you been in the FBI?” Y/N asks. She’s curious, but cautious to proceed and Spencer appreciates that.

“Since I was 22. I’m 34. I’ll be 35 soon,” Spencer says, still not fully believing that he’s spent nearly 13 years at the BAU.

“22, that’s a baby. I didn’t think that the FBI would recruit that young,”

Spencer grimaces, realizing that sooner or later this conversation would arise. He figured it would have come up when he got through the books in an hour or two. Spencer hates having to tell people about his intelligence. He never wants to make someone feel inferior about themselves because of his brain chemistry and genetic lottery.

“I’m kinda smart. Technically I’m a genius but I really hate that term. The idea behind intelligence testing has a very sexist and racist background. Besides, I don’t think true intelligence is accurately quantifiable,” Spencer tells her, repeating his speech usually reserved for arrogant detectives.

“That sounds like something a genius would say. You’re a humble genius. That’s a rare breed, Spencer” Y/N says, that contagious smile turning up the corners of her mouth and threatening to take over Spencer’s.

“I think that’s a compliment,” Spencer says “what about you? Tell me about yourself?” Spencer says, trying to remember the points of the conversation books he used to read as a kid in hopes of making a friend.

“Let’s see, you already know the boys. I don’t have any siblings and my mom lives in Florida, so we don’t see each other too often. I’m a Funeral Director in Alexandria, took it over after my dad passed a couple years,” Y/N says.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Spencer responds. Y/N smiles again, clearly a little tense to be talking about a sensitive topic.

“So Second Cat, I take it you’re a Poe fan,” Spencer says, holding to help ease into a more pleasant conversation.

“I like his short stories the best, but Emily Dickinson poetry will always have my heart. There’s something so ordinarily beautiful about the way she writes. She was so brilliant. And her and Susan, that’s a tragic love story,” Y/N finishes. She plays with the hem of her jacket absentmindedly almost like she wants to say something more.

“I first read “The Tell Tale Heart” when I was around 5,” Spencer starts, he rests his elbows on his knees to tell a story and he can’t help but feel a little excited when Y/N leans in a little closer to listen in, “I checked it out from the library and brought it home to read. Now it just so happened that I got a chemistry set. I will not incriminate myself but I may or may not have used the set as the directions intended,” Spencer says, holding up his hands in innocence.

Y/N scams him with a calculated stare, it’s not mean or judgmental, but cautious and careful. It’s like she’s deciding if she can trust him or not. He supposes she does when she winks back and says, “I’m sure that’s true Agent Reid,”

“It’s actually Dr Reid, but I’ll get there another day,” Spencer says quickly, eager to get back to his story, “so the chemistry set had some chemicals, the kind that won’t hurt kids. But I stole some sodium chlorate from the local gardening store and a pack of gummy worms from the Mini-Mart. Then I got back home and took out the chemistry set. I drop some of the sodium chlorate and gummy bears into the test tube and it starts to glow!” Spencer says, his voice gets excited when he remembers the experiment. There’s very few happy moments of his childhood, and this is one.

Y/N, listening to him eagerly, wears an excited expression as Spencer continues with the story. He’s forgotten what it’s like to have someone so interested in what you have to say.

“How does Poe fit in?” Y/N asks. Spencer’s fingers make a “1” as if to tell her to be patient.

“So I do the experiment and there’s pieces of molten gummy worms in my hair and on my clothes, but then I hear my mother walking up the stairs so I panic,” Spencer says, he’s an animated storyteller and Y/N is a captivated audience. He tries to not pay close attention to how her eyes hardly leave his or how they seem to be looking at him with wonder. But it’s hard to ignore that when you’ve never been looked at like that before.

“I scramble into my bed and shove the experiment under the bed, and it’s still smelling like burnt chemicals and gummy worms, mind you. And I pretend to read, but I’m reading The Tell Tale Heart, which you know is about a man who’s trying to cover up a terrible deed but literally shoving it under the floor. You know I think my 5 year old mind exploded that day,” Spencer says, he leans back so his head rests against the wall.

“It must have made quite an impression on you at what 5? How on Earth did you read Edgar Allen Poe at 5 years old? I didn’t read that until like Freshman year of high school,”

“I told you I was kind of smart,” Spencer replies, hoping that it would suffice.

“Yeah, but like a child prodigy that must have been very lonely,” Y/N says in a voice that tells Spencer she knows a thing or two about being intensely lonely.

“No one ever says that,” Spencer says in a hushed tone, “no one ever gets that it’s a lonely thing being a genius,” he finishes, putting air quotes around genius to show his discomfort with the term.

Y/N nods, “I’m not a genius by any means, Spencer, but I was an only kid. Part of me thinks it’s my fate to lonely,”

“I’m an only kid too,” Spencer says, “when I asked my mom why they didn’t have anymore kids she just told me why mess with perfection. I know it was meant to make me feel better, but part of me wonders what it would have been like to have a built in friend,”

“Tell me if I’m overstepping, I tend to do that, but do you want kids?” Y/N asks, she twists a ring that’s wrapped around her finger over and over like it’s a bad habit. She looks at him, expecting an answer, from the corner of her eye.

“I did,” Spencer says in a quiet voice, terrified that he’ll reveal too much to this enticing woman with eyes that never seem to want to look anywhere, but his.

“So did I,” Y/N tells him. Her voice mirrors his in it’s guarded, yet scared to reveal too much tone. Spencer is too busy hiding his own worry to recognize Y/N’s.

“I was thinking,” Spencer starts, determined to end the stale silence that settled between them, “of what book I thought you’d like. It’s actually a personal copy of mine. I had know clue how these things work, but I thought we could write notes in the margins. You know our thoughts and ideas about the book,”

Y/N gazes over at Spencer intently, as if she’s trying to think of how she’ll respond. Spencer notices the way Y/N pauses to think before she speaks, he tries to subdue the profiler training that ebbs to the surface, but he can’t control what his instincts tell him. He knows that Y/N is holding something back, but then again, so is he and who is he to judge.

“You’re okay with writing in a book?” Y/N asks, “I know that could be touchy for some,”

“Most of my books have little writings in the margins. I always thought that a book is a love letter from the author to the reader. You get to see inside their mind and to me that’s incredibly personal,” Spencer says, rubbing his palms that grew sweaty on his pants. It’s useless, because they just slide off.

“Well, you’ve convinced me, I brought a book too, but it doesn’t have notes,” Y/N says, “but if this works out, I’ll do it next time?” Y/N asks him, the hope in her voice apparent.

“I’d love nothing more than that, Y/N,” Spencer says, wanting nothing more than to reach out and brush his fingertips against Y/N’s. Her hand keeps on creeping closer to Spencer’s, he thinks that she’s trying to send him a signal, but Spencer feels too wounded, too raw to take that first big leap.

“So,” Spencer starts, he decides to clasp his hands together to avoid this new predicament, “what book did you decide on?”

“Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, it’s one of the few books that is perfect,” Y/N says, putting emphasis on the “perfect,”. Spencer thinks that he can grow to be eager to wait each week for the hour or so he’s able to watch Y/N speak with such passion and love.

“I’ve heard about, but I generally read technically books and other that it’s mainly just books that aren’t in English,” Spencer tells her, he rummages through his bag, looking for his book for Y/N.

“Close your eyes please,” Spencer says, he hides the book behind his back, he smiles as Y/N’s absurdly contagious smile grows.

“Come on Spencer, I don’t like being teased,” Y/N whines, faux pout and all.

Spencer grabs her hand and guides it to the cover of the book, The Goldfinch. He lets go of her hand; his practically stinging from the way her fingertips pressed up against the back of his hand, even though it was only for a couple of seconds.

“The Goldfinch” Y/N says, “ooh how on Earth did you know I love Donna Tartt?”

“Lucky guess, I suppose,” Spencer says, a surge of confidence bolstering him enough to wink at Y/N.

Spencer watches as Y/N flips through the pages of her book. Spencer read it a couple of weeks ago and loved the way the author intertwined the mystery to create a riveting story. Spencer checks his watch, realizing that nearly two hours have passed since he and Y/N sat on the couch.

Just as Y/N goes to say something, Spencer’s phone rings, ripping him from his modest paradise. He gives Y/N an apologetic look and mouths “work” as he steps away from Y/N.

“Reid,” he says, he forgot to check the caller ID, a little too excited to finish this call and get back to Y/N.

“Is that seriously how you greet your favorite person in the world?” the voice, presumably Garcia asks.

“Garcia,” Spencer says, unable to hold back his slight annoyance.

“I know it’s time off, but I guess like male serial killers don’t respect women, they don’t respect our time off either,” Garcia quips.

“I’ll be there in 20, I’m out and I’ll need to get my go bag,” Spencer tells her, preparing for the inevitable.

“I know exactly where you are, Spencer. A little birdie told me you’d called him in panic. I really hope your lady friend appreciated your lavender shirt,” Garcia says. Spencer can hear the click of keys as she talks.

He rolls his eyes, but knew that this was to be expected, “Later, Garcia,” he says, hanging up the phone call. Spencer walks back over to Y/N, whose face is buried in the book. She twirls a pen in her right hand, like she’s thinking about what she’ll write in the margins.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N, but I have to cut this short, work emergency,” he explains to an Y/N understanding Y/N, who nods her head.

“Don’t worry, text me that you got home safe, please,” Y/N tells him, looking up at him with genuine worry in her eyes.

“I promise, Y/N. I’ll see you soon,” Spencer says, grabbing his book and making his way up the stairs. He reaches the top flight when his phone buzzes.

Y/N: I mean it :)

Y/N: It was nice meeting you officially….

Spencer reads over the messages as he walks, replaying the interaction in his head. It’s strange to have someone care if you make it home say. The only people on Earth, besides Spencer’s mother, that care if Spencer makes it home are the people that risk their lives with him as well.

Spencer shoots a quick message back.

Spencer: I promise and I hope you like the book, it’s very special to me.

Y/N: I’m sure I’ll love it! Now go save the world :) :)

Spencer smiles to himself as he reads the message, amazed that her contagious smile can make its way through the string of code from his smartphone. As he drives off, Spencer thinks about the way Y/N actually listens to him or the way her hair sees fall perfectly into place. He thinks about her laugh and the way she almost makes him feel safe in the short time he’s known her.

But all those good thoughts amount to nothing, when the biggest thought on Spencer’s mind revolves around the shiny ring that sits on her left hand on the finger between her pinky and pointer finger.

A wedding ring.

-TAGLIST- (Comment to be added or if I forgot to add you)

@shemarmooresfedora

@april-14-blog

@willowrose99

@calm-and-doctor

@spideygenius

@measure-in-pain

@nomajdetective

@spencerreid9

@saspencereid

@laurakirsten0502

@thatsonezesty13 (I'm trying what's wrong with this tag)

Thank You For Reading

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid comfort #spencer reid x reader series #criminal minds fanfic #it's delicate #spencer reid it's deicate

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laequiem · 3 years

Text

Mal d’amour - Part 5

/5 times the High King of Elfhame missed his exiled wife + 1 time she had enough.

The package is there, on the front porch, but it clearly was not delivered by the postal service. There is no address, just a name: her name in elegant cursive letters. The same handwriting that is on the note she keeps on her nightstand.

Cardan’s.

read on ao3 • masterlist • part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4 • last part

Cardan

It was already dark when I woke up from my dream and gave the package to Liliver. Due to mortals’ strange habit of living during the day, we have to wait the entire night before one of the spies can deliver the package.

Needless to say, I do not pay much attention to the various meetings and meals I attend during the night. I doubt courtiers notice, given my usual blasé attitude.

My participation in today’s revel consists mostly of drinking wine and asking the servants for more wine. Whenever someone approaches me for requests or conversation, I reply so shortly that they leave quickly. Nearing sunrise, the Ghost approaches and tells me the package is on its way.

I try to look like I am at least enjoying the revel in front of me. My tail is curled around my calf to prevent it from lashing wildly and betraying my nervousness. My fingers drum absentmindedly on the armrests of the throne as I stare distantly at nothing.

I only last half an hour after the Ghost’s appearance before I retreat from the throne room.

The Bomb

The air of Portland, Maine stinks of iron and gasoline. Nothing like the mossy and flowery scent of Elfhame. Liliver lifts her scarf over her glamoured face, hoping the fabric will filter some of the iron out. It doesn't work, not really, but at least she will not be staying here for long.

High King Cardan has assigned her the task of delivering a package, as if her talents weren't better used elsewhere. She had agreed, or course—money is money. Plus, she hopes to sneak a glimpse of Jude and assess how her friend is doing.

Ever since she left, she has been fighting the urge to peek at the contents of the package. It is about the size and weight of a dinner plate and is delicately wrapped in dark green fabric. Seeing how the King hid the thing, it must be quite valuable.

From the rooftop of the building opposite Vivienne Duarte’s apartment, Liliver can see Jude. She is sprawled on an old couch, numbly looking at some square box with moving images. She seems to be the only person in the small house right now—the perfect moment to deliver the package. The High King has made it clear that Jude has to be seen receiving it. Liliver cannot blame him for being careful.

She makes her way across the street, climbing the stairs as quietly as she can. After placing the box on the floor, she presses the button next to the door and knocks twice. She then jumps to the roof of the adjacent building, making sure she has a good view of the door.

And then she waits.

Jude

Jude groans as she gets up from her spot on the couch for the first time since waking up this morning. Vivi left for work hours ago. Usually, she tells Jude when she is expecting a delivery. Maybe the person rang the wrong doorbell. Still, Jude makes her way to the front door. A peek through the peephole reveals that nobody is on the other side.

It’s been 30 seconds, they better not have put one of those “sorry we missed you!” notices or else she swears—

Cardan’s.

Her chest tightens and she takes a deep breath. Is this hope or fear? It is her first time hearing from Cardan in more than six months. Part of her hopes that he will revoke her banishment and ask her to come back, but why would he? He is finally free to rule the kingdom by himself and be as cruel and unhinged as he wants to be.

The package looks out of place here, everything from the dried flowers used to decorate it to its delicate grassy smell scream Faerieland.

Jude closes the door behind her as she brings the package inside, certain that someone is out there watching her. She won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her reaction. She shoves the clutter off the coffee table and puts the package on it as she sits on the couch once again.

For a few minutes, she just stares at it, wondering if it isn’t better to just throw it out.

Like he threw me out, she hears the intrusive thought over the roaring in her head, loud and unwelcome.

She clenches her jaw, then undoes the strings tying the fabric together. Inside is a nicely carved wooden box topped by a folded piece of paper. She picks up the piece of paper and unfolds it. Her hands are shaking slightly, with fear or rage she does not know.

When she reads it, however, the rage takes over.

I miss you.

Your devoted servant,

Cardan

Jude crumples the piece of paper in her hand and lets it fall to the floor. She opens the box and immediately sees red.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she screams to herself as she picks up the crown, its jewels sparkling in the artificial light of Vivienne’s apartment.

She has never seen it before. Cardan either found it deep in the vault or he had it made only to send it to her as a sick joke. In a fit of rage, she throws the crown against the wall and storms to her room.

Her clothes are scattered everywhere, some of them lying on her air mattress for what might have been weeks. She picks out the darkest, most flexible clothes, then reaches under her mattress for Nightfell.

If it’s trouble he’s after, he’ll find her.

Cardan

“I almost feel bad, Your Majesty,” the Roach says, “pay up.”

I knew trying to sleep was useless, so I headed for the Court of Shadow headquarters instead, where I have been playing cards with the Roach and the Ghost for hours now.

“I hope you’re not cheating,” the Ghost replies, “the punishment could be deadly.”

I lost every single game.

I am not paying enough attention to win.

The cards in my hands are blurry, their numbers and designs utterly meaningless.

All I can think about is Jude.

Jude, opening my package and packing her things to come back here.

Jude, opening my package and immediately throwing it out.

Jude, immediately throwing the package out without looking inside.

This woman has occupied my every thought for years, and I still cannot predict her moves. She is a puzzle, a challenge I want to lose myself in solving. All I can hope for is that she opened it, at least.

My last letter. My last gift. My last chance.

If this is all the time I had with her, I royally (urgh) fucked up.

The Roach gathers the jewels from the middle of the table and brings them to his side.

I discard my hand and reach out to shuffle the deck when his attention snaps to the door, to the small form who just entered.

Immediately, I get up and walk to meet the Bomb.

“Did you find her?” I ask

“Yes,” she says, “She picked it up. I could not confirm that she opened it, but she brought it inside.”

“How is she?” I cannot stop the questions from pouring out of me.

“She looks… different,” she frowns.

I understand she is trying to find a way to phrase it without upsetting me. I do not even know what would upset me more, her being happy in the Mortal Realm, or her being miserable.

“I see,” I sigh, “Thank you.”

The words feel wrong coming from me—yet they seem right in the moment. I do not know if I have ever thanked someone before. But these people, Jude’s spies, have been dealing with me for the last half-year. They have seen me at my lowest. I cannot go much lower than crying after a particularly gruesome nightmare.

I did not tell them this was my last time reaching out to Jude. From the look of pity in the Bomb’s eyes, she knows. I can’t stand it. I walk past her and leave the Court of Shadows.

The hallways are almost empty as I make my way to the cellars. The guards stand straighter as I pass the various rooms, but none of them stop me or try to talk to me.

When I get to the cellars, I grab the worst bottle I can find. I wish the royal cellars had some really low quality alcohol—a budding brewer’s first try, anything that would taste as bad as I feel—but even the worst of the collection is still good. I drink the whole bottle.

Then another.

I drink until I forget.

Forget the responsibilities, the kingdom resting on my unworthy shoulders.

I try to forget about Jude, but I black out before I can.

#the folk of the air #tfota #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jurdan #judecardan #holly black #the cruel prince #the wicked king #fanfiction #angst #fanfic #cardan

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 4 years

Text

Pretty Voice

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues, all canon-typical. these are just some angsty bois sometimes, huh. other than that, none. this thing’s pretty fluffy.

Pairings: Logince. Can be platonic or romantic you choose, I don’t know anymore.

Word Count: 6367

The Imagination has a theatre. Roman holds concerts regularly. The others are invited to perform but Roman is the star. Today, it’s just him and Logan. Logan’s never wanted to perform. He sits a few rows back from the stage so he can see better and so his eardrums don’t get blown out. Also so Roman can’t really see Logan.

In other words: this isn't the first time Logan's made himself hard to see. It isn't the first time he's struggled to be heard either. Maybe it's time Roman did something about that.

It’s been about half an hour. Logan’s been clapping after every song, offering honest feedback which just happens to be very complimentary. Roman adores his compliments, they’re so unique and genuine. Logan did confess a few songs ago that he is having trouble keeping up with how incredible the performances have been, always finding something new to compliment all the same. And yet when he finishes quite a spectacular rendition about ‘From Now On,’ Logan’s silent. No clapping either. In fairness, the end of the song does kind of fade out, so…but Roman thinks it’s something else.

“Well, if you didn’t like the song,” he huffs melodramatically, perching his hands on his hips, “you could’ve just said so.”

His joking demeanor fades when Logan startles terribly.

“Huh? Oh, oh, my apologies,” Logan stammers, “I just…I fear I lost focus. It was…an incredible rendition.”

Roman squints a little. It’s really…how has he not noticed that it’s pretty hard to see Logan? Has he really been so involved in the performance?

Well, he has to admit, it’s pretty intoxicating. Especially with the acoustics they’ve got in the theatre.

“…are you sure you don’t want to try,” he asks, gesturing to the stage, “just a little song? Just one?”

Logan shakes his head. “I’m perfectly alright.”

“One verse,” he bargains, “a chorus?”

“I couldn’t hope to follow you.”

“Well yes, I am magnificent, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be too.”

Logan smiles and shakes his head again. Roman frowns, coming right to the edge of the stage and crouching down so he’s closer to Logan’s eye-line.

“Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Yes, I am perfectly alright, thank you.”

“And here I thought Deceit was the living lie detector.”

Logan shifts. “Well, it follows that you would have some sense as well. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“‘Focus on issues or focus on me,’ as I recall, is one of your favorite catchphrases.”

Yes, it is, but Roman would rather focus on the issues right now. “Come here.”

“What?”

He smiles, beckoning with a finger. “Come here.”

Logan does, standing up and walking down the aisle. Roman waits until he’s fairly close to stand up and jump down from the stage.

“And…up we go!”

Laughing as Logan squeaks in surprise, grabbing onto his shoulders, Roman picks him up and sets him on the stage. He rests his forearms on either side of Logan’s thighs, keeping a light grip on his hips. Even with the height of the stage and the slight downhill slope of the aisle, Roman’s still a little bit taller than Logan, so he takes a step back until they’re eye level.

“And…perfect,” he says, and leans forward until they’re almost nose to nose, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Hello.”

“…um, hello.” Logan glances around, still trying to work out why he’s no longer on the floor. “Why am I up here?”

So I can cuddle you while I ask you what’s wrong, of course. “Well, I figured shouting across the theatre perhaps wasn’t the best idea.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “I believe ‘projecting’ is the correct term.”

“So you have been paying attention.”

“I do have some theatre experience. I am a part of Thomas, after all.”

Roman gasps, mock-offended. “And yet you still won’t sing for me?”

“Believe it or not, my prince, I have no desire to humiliate myself like that.”

Oh, we’re using pet-names, now, are we? Well, lucky for Logan, Roman’s an expert.

“Dearest,” he coos, “you really shouldn’t sell yourself short like that. After all—“ he runs a thumb over Logan’s pink cheek, smiling— “sweetheart, you’re lovely.”

Logan shuts their eyes, making Roman chuckle as they bury their face in their hands. “Did you have to do that?”

“Do what, my sweet?”

“You,” Logan says weakly, and oh, he must be flustered if he’s so far gone from his typical articulation, “with the pet-names.”

“Well, darling, you did start it.” Logan shakes his head, only to blush brighter when Roman winks at him. “And what kind of prince would I be if I didn’t flirt with every dashing fellow I came across?”

“You’d be you,” Logan says, “isn’t that enough?”

Roman’s smile falters and before he can stop himself it slips out.

“…is it?”

Logan frowns, blush receding as he tilts his head. “Of course it is, Roman. You…you are an incredible force. Your work ethic rivals that of anyone else, including my own. Your resilience is something to be admired as well, not to mention how hard you work to keep Thomas as the center of your efforts. And you…your abilities…and how selflessly you share them with us…”

Logan takes a deep breath and smiles. “Of course it’s enough, Roman, you’re enough.”

Roman may have the high ground when it comes to flirting, but he has nothing on Logan’s sincere eloquence. All he can do is bathe in the words, try and soak up every single bit of it Logan gives him.

“…you believe me,” Logan murmurs, “right?”

“You really are too sweet to me,” Roman says finally, “aren’t you, little bear?”

He’s rewarded with an adorably confused head tilt. “‘Little bear?’”

“I like to think of you like a little bear,” Roman says, regaining some of his confidence as Logan starts to blush again. “Because you’re an excellent cuddler, just like a teddy bear. You are unmatched in your ability to comfort the rest of us—though don’t tell Patton I said that—and you are fiercely protective of your cubs.”

“And with this jacket—“ Roman pats the thick, fluffy, light brown jacket just about swallowing Logan’s form he’d been given when Roman noticed him shivering in the chill of the theater— “you’re just like a fuzzy little teddy bear!”

To prove his point, he flips up the hood, miscalculating just how floppy it is and smacking Logan in the face with it, sending them both into a fit of giggles.

“And bears like honey. Honey is sweet. And you,” Roman says, leaning close enough to bump their noses together, “are very, very sweet.”

He chuckles when Logan makes a frustrated noise and pulls the hood further over his flushed little face. They’re so cute.

“Aww,” he teases, tugging at the hood, “don’t hide from me, little bear! Let me see you!”

A brief tug-of-war later—in which Roman totally doesn’t cheat by sneaking his hand down and scribbling his nails over his knee—and he pulls the hood away, revealing an adorably flushed Logan pouting at him.

“There you are,” he says, reaching forward to boop his nose. “If you don’t like it, Logan, I can come up with another one.”

“No,” Logan mumbles, “I…I like it.”

Roman takes pity on the blushing mess on the stage in front of him, helping Logan tug the collar of the jacket a little snugger around his neck. “Little bear it is, then.”

Logan, meanwhile, is having a crisis.

Because Roman couldn’t just invite him to spend some one on one time in the Imagination, no. He had to sing to him in the most incredible voice he’s ever heard and then ask if Logan wanted to sing. He had to ask Logan if he was alright in that soft voice that he knows he likes. And he had to pick Logan up like he weighed nothing and set him on the stage, curving his body around him like he was something to be protected.

And he had to give him a personalized nickname and tease him about how cute he is.

And he had to be really, really attractive.

He’s right here, he’s touching you, and you still want more? He made up a special little nickname for you and you aren’t satisfied? What else do you want?

Don’t burden him with your problems too. He’s got his own stuff to deal with. He’s got more of a right to be upset about these things than you do.

You’re not even supposed to be upset in the first place.

“Little bear?”

Logan shakes his head. “You’re going to use that every chance you get, aren’t you?”

“Well, that and depending on how you feel about pet names—“

Why did you nod, you useless gay?

Roman’s smile just widens. “Then yes. Yes, I am. So, my sweet little bear—“ internal screaming can commence now, thank you— “what’s got you looking like someone stole all your honey?”

“I don’t…I don’t want…if you are not in a good headspace—“

Rolling his eyes fondly, Roman resettles his grip on Logan’s hips. “Gorgeous, if you keep being as sweet as you are, I am going to get a toothache.”

And Logan thinks he can brush it off, toss some meaningless barb back that’ll either get Roman to talk about something else or at least flirt with him to pass the time instead, but then Roman says: “you can talk to me, little bear,” in a voice so gentle it makes his chest ache.

Where do I start? How do I start? What if I say the wrong thing? Do I even remember how to do this?

What if he changes his mind?

This is stupid, just talk. You know how. Just say something. Anything.

“Sorry, I am…not the most articulate right now.”

“If the bountiful praise you lavished upon me earlier is any indication, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you.”

Well, there goes that excuse.

Why is this so hard for you? He’s not a mind-reader, you will actually have to talk to him. Isn’t that what you’ve been preaching, you hypocrite?

Do you even have anything to say?

You’re not just going to make something up for attention, are you?

Or is that what you’re doing now? Stalling for attention?

What’s the point of you having a voice if you’re not going to use it?

Now you’re just wasting his time.

The lightest touch on the side of his head and Logan startles terribly. Roman shushes him, finishing tucking a strand of hair out of the way.

“…you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No!”

Roman blinks, taken aback by the shout. Shit. Logan curls his fists in the coat.

“No,” he mumbles again, “I…”

Great job. Say something.

Roman watches Logan war with himself, growing more and more worried as his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. When he hasn’t moved for a few minutes, he racks his brain for a way to help.

“Once upon a time,” he murmurs finally, smiling gently when Logan’s gaze flicks to his, “there was a forest. A small forest, not too big, where all sorts of creatures lived. Cats, snakes, spiders, frogs, owls, dragons, bears…all sorts.”

As he talks, he rubs soothing circles into their hips with his thumbs.

“And they all had secrets, because everybody does, and they all kept their secrets in different places. At the bottom of their ponds, tucked away in their burrows, hidden their nests…”

Roman steps closer, bracing most of his weight on one arm, wrapping it around Logan’s back to hold them close.

“Where does the little bear keep their secrets?”

He takes his free hand and carefully pushes the flaps of the jacket aside, laying it gently on Logan’s stomach.

“What about here, in their belly? Where all the sweet honey goes? Maybe if I poke it a bit—“ Roman gently prods at a few spots, smiling when Logan giggles and squirms— “the secrets will come out. No, no, that’s a giggle. Maybe over here? On their sides? No, those are more giggles. Hmm…well, this may just be a giggle button.”

A little squeeze here, a little scribble there. Roman smiles when Logan’s face starts to glow that lovely pink again, his giggles still flowing out. He’s more than happy to stand here and lightly tickle Logan until he feels better, but when Logan starts gently batting at his chest and shoulders, trying to push him away, he relents.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, “well, I think there are only giggles in here. Let’s just…pat them a bit to calm them back down.”

He rubs his tummy firmly to soothe away any lingering tingles, then raises his hand to lay over Logan’s upper chest.

“What about here, in their chest? Right here…next to their heart. Oh, I can feel it,” he says, pressing his hand a little firmer, feeling the reassuring thud, “it’s a strong heart. Which makes sense, after all, for our little bear. But…”

Roman searches Logan’s face. Not yet.

“…no. No secrets here.”

Moving slowly, slow enough that Logan can stop him if he wants, Roman tucks his hand against his neck, feeling his pulse against his hand.

“What about here,” he says, “in their throat? Right next to these lovely vocal chords they’re so shy about, maybe if they sing a little, their secrets will come tumbling out?”

It makes the tiniest smile come to Logan’s face but he shakes his head. Roman pouts, unable to keep up the façade when it makes the smile grow.

“Alright then. No. No secrets here.”

Roman takes his hand away, stroking down the fluffy sleeve of the jacket, feeling the soft material tickle his palm. He slides it down to the warm wood of the stage, straightening his posture—the only straight thing on him—so he can lean against the stage between Logan’s knees, hands going back to his hips.

“Well,” he says softly, “I don’t know where else to look, little bear.”

Please, Logan, let me help you.

A trembling hand takes his, guiding it up, up, up to press his fingertips carefully to the underside of Logan’s chin.

“…here? Under your tongue? Oh…oh, I can feel them…there’s so many, you’re so tense here…”

He carefully rubs and presses, feeling how tight Logan’s jaw is. Logan swallows heavily and Roman feels his tongue move.

“Does it hurt, little bear?”

Shake.

“No? Are you sure?”

He won’t meet his eyes. Oh, Logan…

“Well, it can’t be comfortable, holding them all like that. Is…is this why your head feels so heavy? Here,” he says, cupping his chin properly, coaxing him to rest his head in his hand, “let me hold it for a little.”

That’s it, he smiles as Logan’s head sinks into his hand. He gives it a soft squeeze.

“Now, why don’t we try and see if we can make this a little easier for you, little bear? In fact, I…I think I can feel one…right here.”

He takes his other hand and mimes plucking something from the air in front of him.

“I think it wants to come out.”

He moves his hand away, slowly pulling the secret away, drawing it up and out. Logan’s mouth opens, yes, come on, you can do it…

“…I’m scared.”

Roman rubs his fingers together and sprinkles the harmful secret away. “And…poof. It’s gone.”

He comes back, resting his hand on Logan’s knee. “Good job, little bear. And it’s okay to be scared, I promise. And I’m right here, I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Logan’s worried little brow relaxes and it makes the ache in his chest release, just a little. Then he feels Logan’s chin wobble.

“Oh…oh, here’s another one…feel it?” He plucks another one from the air. “I’ve got it, don’t worry, here we go…”

“…I…”

“…say it,” he coaxes, “go on.”

“…I haven’t…done this…in…so long, I…I’m not…I…don’t…”

Logan swallows. Roman brings his hand a little closer to their face but he doesn’t let go.

“I don’t know if I remember how to do this.”

“That was a stubborn one,” Roman says softly, “wasn’t it?”

Logan nods. Roman turns to address his hand, still clutching the pesky secret.

“You’ve been living there for a long time, haven’t you? Well, I’ll have you know that’s quite rude,” he scolds. “You’ve caused my little bear an awful lot of discomfort. Now begone.”

He swats it away with a disgusted expression, softening when he feels the low rumble of a laugh in his other hand. Looking back, he sees Logan looking…a little better, at least.

“You feel a little lighter, my dear,” he observes. Logan nods. “Good.”

Taking Logan’s chin in both hands, he rubs his fingers along his jaw. “Let me see…feel around a little… any more loose ones?”

Anything else you’d like to tell me? Or talk about?

“…one.”

Roman nods. “Alright. Let me see…”

He waves his hand a bit in the air in front of them, as if he’s searching for something to grab onto. Finally, he picks a spot and forms a pinch.

“Ah. Here. Oh…oh, this one…” He gently tugs on it. “This one feels heavy. Like there’s a lot of it. Oh, you poor thing, shall we try and see if we can get this to stop hurting you?”

This time, Logan doesn’t hesitate and nods.

“Let’s see…it feels quite long…hefty. So, how about this: I will start pulling out the bits that feel a little loose already, and whenever it starts to come, you just say it for me, alright?”

Logan nods.

“Wonderful.”

With that, he begins to pull, miming retrieving a long, magician’s scarf out of Logan’s mouth. When his chin starts to wobble again against his hand, Roman frowns.

“Putting up a fight, are we? Well, this looks like a job for two hands.”

Standing at his full height, he starts doing the motion with two hands. One of the biggest parts of improv, apart from ‘yes and,’ is object work, and he coils the scarf neatly on the floor next to him, making sure he’s still pulling it out of Logan’s mouth, walking his hands along the scarf.

Logan wants to. He really wants to. But the words just won’t come out. So much so that when he opens his mouth his breath literally catches in his throat.

“Oh…oh dear,” Roman says worriedly, tugging a little, “it’s…it’s stuck.”

He mimes trying to pull it away with both hands but gets nowhere.

“It’s…it’s really stuck. I don’t want to hurt you but it’s being very stubborn.”

He frowns, keeping one hand tightly around the secret and using the other to cup Logan’s chin again.

“Maybe I can make it loose back here…maybe if I feel around…find where it’s stuck.”

The searching motions of his fingers under Logan’s chin make him fidget a little. Roman sees, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Maybe I can tickle it loose, hmm? If I tickle very gently,” he murmurs, scribbling his fingers lightly all over the sensitive skin, smiling as it coaxes more giggles out of him, “can I tickle it loose? No, no, that’s just getting me giggles. You really do have a lot of giggle buttons, little bear. Oh, oh no, it’s going back in, well, that’s not going to work.”

He stops, cupping Logan’s chin firmly, letting him calm back down. Poor thing doesn’t even have the strength to look embarrassed or flustered, no, he just looks frustratingly hopeless. If he wasn’t holding his chin, Roman’s sure Logan’s head would drop right to his chest and he’d never want to raise it again.

“…oh, little bear, is it hurting you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a bit…hmm…darling, will you listen to me for a moment?”

Logan nods.

“Close your eyes. I have this pesky thing, it won’t be going anywhere.”

The sheer amount of trust it must take for Logan to close his eyes, resting almost the entire weight of his head in Roman’s hand, makes Roman a little light-headed. But he has a job to do here, so he comes forward until his nose is just about brushing Logan’s forehead.

“You are not making me do this,” he whispers, “I’m here because I want to be here. I will keep your secrets safe, I promise.”

He lowers his head, pressing their foreheads together.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Logan. Not with me.”

Logan opens his eyes. It pinches in the little pouch where his chin meets his neck.

“…for as long as I can remember…”

Roman pulls the scarf out once and grabs it again.

“…I…”

His hand moves an inch.

“…have…”

Another inch.

“Are you seriously going to do that word by word?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Deep breath.

“…for as long as I can remember, I have never been a part of any kind of relationship where it does not hinge on how useful I am.”

Logan closes his eyes, feeling Roman’s hand leave his chin.

“I…I am a function that is indispensable but not one that is wanted.”

Swallows. Keeps going. The pinch doesn’t let up.

“My entire being is based on how much I know. What I can do. And…and if I cannot do the thing I am meant to do, I…I cannot exist. But there are so many things I cannot do in order to do the things I need to do.”

The pinch still doesn’t let up.

“And I…I let it happen.”

Has silence always been this deafening?

“Because I have no choice.”

The pinch spreads, turns to a clench.

“…I am useful. I can explain things to you when you need them explained. I can help you sort through things that you do not fully understand. I can provide solutions to problems when they arise.”

He tugs the jacket tighter around himself, trying to huddle in a cocoon of safety.

“I…I am Logic. I am Logic. That is my job.”

The words curl on his tongue and taste bitter. He briefly wonders if this is what Janus feels like.

“But it is not only my job when it is convenient,” he spits, “it is always my job. And I…I have to be able to do my job. B-because if I don’t, you’ll—“

He swallows heavily.

“…I understand that…there are many things that you and the others do that I do not understand. And I understand that I am…convenient. And when I am not, I—you—“

He huffs. “I understand that I do not understand.”

It’s hot. It’s too hot. The jacket is sweltering, trapping him now. But he can’t let go, can’t move. Can only speak.

“And I cannot understand. Because that would require me to have emotion. And I cannot have emotion. I am Logic. Logic cannot have emotion because logic falls apart when emotions come into play. But I can’t just be Logic!”

It comes out in a horrible burst of agony, ripping up his throat as it comes out.

It h-hurts.

It hurts.

“…you do not require me or Logic.”

He curls into the jacket, not caring about how much it hurts.

“I…I know that logic must always have a place. I know that sometimes you would rather not listen to Logic. But s-sometimes…”

The others don’t always want Logic. They don’t always want Logan either.

“I cannot be human,” he whispers, “I cannot be held to the same standard as a human.”

I am a being of Logic. I am the Logical Side.

“…I cannot have the same luxuries as a human.”

Emotion is a luxury I cannot always afford.

“…I have tried. For you and for Thomas, to…be Logic.”

They didn’t see. They never saw.

“And it has worked. It has worked so well that I—I—”

The line between Logan and Logic blurs so much that it is near impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. But now…

Now when Logic has been silenced, not even Logan can speak.

“…I am Logic.”

Who is Logan?

“I…I know I have feelings, but I…I can’t. I’m not—Logic is not equipped to deal with them. I know I have to be Logic, but I…I can’t.”

Logan was being an inconvenience. Because he was taking more time than I should be. Because everyone else was ready to move on…and Logan wasn’t. Logic was.

“…and I will stay. Because you need Logic.”

Logic would stop talking during a conversation because no one wanted to hear Logic. Logic didn’t care about my emotions, only how I could help them deal with theirs.

“Because you have always needed L-Logic.”

Logic. Logic. Logic.

There is no room for Logan.

I am so scared, so scared of not being useful that I let other people introduce me. Because you would know how I could be the most useful.

I must be useful.

I must be Logic.

There is no room for Logan.

They do not want to listen to Logic. They silence Logic.

They do not even know Logan exists.

“If…if I was smart…you kept me. If I was hardworking, you kept me. If I was useful, you kept me.”

And when I wasn’t enough, they replaced me.

I can’t be Logan. Not here.

…can I be Logic?

Will that be enough?

“…if I’m Logic, will you keep me?”

Silence.

His hands are balled so tightly in his jacket they ache.

He can’t remember the last time he’s talked so much.

He can’t remember the last time Roman was so silent.

What…what has he done?

“I’m—I’m sorry—“

“Don’t you dare, Logan.”

Logan’s head snaps up in horror. Roman stares at him, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. A blazing fury burns in his gaze and Logan shrinks, trying to make himself smaller.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he repeats in a low voice.

Is…are those…tear stains?

Roman tried. He tried to just pull the secret out, lend a sympathetic ear, return the favor Logan had given him so many times. But he couldn’t. Tears had welled up by the time he’d mentioned the others only keep him around because he’s convenient. He can’t…he can’t imagine…having to stifle something so integral to himself like emotions, being kept around only because he was useful, being tokenized and objectified over and over and over and reminded that he wasn’t enough on his own…

And not being able to sing? To do all the things that Roman can do, is permitted to do as Creativity?

“Oh, oh, sweetheart,” he manages to gasp, “come here—“

He’s sobbing. He’s sobbing, the tears bubbling up as he reaches desperately for Logan, for his face that…that isn’t crying at all, how can he go through this much and not cry, do…can he not cry anymore?

That only makes him cry harder.

“You’re—you’re wanted, Logan, so—so much, I want you, I need you to—to stay, yes, we’ll—we’ll keep you, oh, darling—“

He understands. He understands so much and it hurts because there are so many secrets nested inside that big secret and it’s so much and he’s so proud of Logan, for surviving, for telling him—

He needs Logan closer. He tugs him off the stage, into his arms, holding him up, holding him close, scooping him into a tight hug.

And oh, it’s exactly the way a heroic knight should hug. Strong. Powerful. Protective. It’s safe as Logan clings to him. He feels safe. Cared for.

Loved?

It’s only when Roman goes to cup Logan’s head that he realizes he’s not really holding that much of Logan’s weight in his arms. Instead, he realizes Logan’s clinging to him just as tightly, their bodies curving into each other as Logan holds himself up by his legs wrapped over his hips.

“…well,” he murmurs, “aren’t you strong?”

“I can hold my own.”

“I know you can, Logan,” he says, pulling back a little so he can see Logan’s face, “but it’s okay if you don’t always want to.”

Logan looks at him, one of the few times where this means he has to look down, a soft smile on his face. “It’s fine for you too.”

Roman can’t help but shake his head in disbelief as he sets Logan—gently!—back on the stage. “How are you already back to taking care of me?”

Logan shrugs. “Instinct? Habit?”

Useful. Right.

They all need to work on that, to work on this, for Logan. Not for Logic, not for Thomas, for Logan.

“In all seriousness,” Logan mumbles, “thank you.”

“No,” Roman corrects, his arms still tightly around Logan, “thank you.”

And when Logan looks up he’s so hopeful that Roman has to lean forward and rub their noses together.

“Is…is this how it f-feels?”

Oh.

“Yes, Logan,” Roman breathes, trying to push the feelings across that little gap between them, “this is how it feels.”

“…I…I—“

“You don’t have to say anything, dear heart,” Roman soothes, “truly.”

Logan’s eyes drift closed and Roman frowns, worried when he takes another deep breath and squeezes his eyes tighter.

“…is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Make what up?”

“Pay you back then.”

“For what?”

“Roman…”

He relents. Of course he relents. Even if the question made him want to wrap Logan up in a warm blanket and tell him he’ll be safe forever, or leave them with the others and grab his brother and go teach whatever nasty beastly voices in Logan’s head caused this a lesson, he relents. He understands how hard this must’ve been for Logan.

“…yes, there is something you can do for me.”

Logan looks up and the plea in his expression is almost enough to break Roman’s heart all over again.

“When you say you don’t understand,” Roman says softly, still tracing idle patterns over Logan’s back, “some of the things we do, can you give me an example?”

“P-Patton bakes,” Logan manages, “I…I have seen Remus draw. Virgil listens to music or he…he runs. Janus dances.”

He gestures around the theater. “You sing.”

Roman smiles gently. “Will you sing something for me?”

Logan’s breath catches and he tenses, despite Roman’s efforts to soothe him. “…it’s not going to be any good.”

“Who said anything about being good?”

He reaches up to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“I don’t care if you’re too loud. I don’t care if you’re too quiet. I don’t care if it’s too high. I don’t care what key you’re in,” he says firmly.

Oh, he wants to go and make sure whatever put that unsure look on his face never happened.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmurs instead, “it’s just you and me. I want to hear you, little bear. And to prove to yourself that you can.”

A few moments later and Logan breaks out into the smallest of smiles.

“…so what am I singing?”

“Oh, no, that’s not how this works,” Roman says with a smile, “you choose the song, dearest.”

“I…”

“I don’t care what it is. It doesn’t have to be some big, meaningful choice. I’m not here for Logic, I’m here for Logan.”

He knows how hard it can be to be alone on stage, so he steps back to boost himself up to sit next to them.

“…would it help if I sing with you?”

“No.”

Roman looks down at the floor. Even though his feet can just about touch, it…it looks miles away. And he should know how hard it is to pick a song to sing, especially when he hasn’t sung in a while. There’s just so many to choose from, and if you’re scared about what you’re going to be able to sing, then…

Perhaps this was too much to ask.

For a moment, he thinks his phone’s going off, or someone’s computer outside the Imagination, playing an a cappella version of ‘Bright Lights and Cityscapes.’

Then…then he looks.

Logan’s voice, not quite polished, a little worn, makes him cry all over again. It’s just this side of warm, full of longing and heartbreak and barely restrained sorrow and so, so good.

He finishes the song and Roman immediately wants to clamor for another one.

“…you have been holding out on me, darling.”

“You…you like my voice?”

“Oh, dearest, I could write ballads about it.”

“You do not have to.”

“But there are so many songs you could sing so well, and I will never understand how we could silence you, how we could make you believe we don’t want to hear you…”

Logan blushes a pretty pink, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling. And Roman just has to shuffle a little closer to tilt his chin up to see it properly. It’s lovely.

He cups Logan’s chin, feeling the spot under his tongue.

“…still a few more in there, hmm?”

Logan nods, his fingers twitching and growing restless. He looks down to see Logan stimming with the gold trim on his clothes, running his fingers over the coarse twine. Roman smiles, shifting a little to let him work his way along the lines, up the seams, to the ones on his chest. The blush stays on Logan’s cheeks, obviously a little nervous about touching him this way, but…stimming is stimming. Roman understands.

“Do you like it?”

Logan nods.

“I like the sash too,” he says quietly, gently smoothing it right next to Logan’s hand, encouraging him to do the same, “smooth, right?”

“I seem to recall a song lyric about being buried in satin?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to sing it for me.”

“…I believe the song is called ‘If I Die Young.’”

“You’ll have to sing it.”

“Do you know it?”

“Yes.” When Logan looks up at him, he understands. “Do you?”

“Not all of it.”

“Most of it?”

“…most of it.”

“May I sing it with you?”

“If you like.”

He ruffles Logan’s hair gently. “You start then.”

His hand slows where it’s toying with his sash. Then…

“If I die young,

bury me in satin,

lay me down on a bed of roses,

sink me in the river

at dawn,

send me away with the words of a love song.

“Oh, oh…oh, oh…” Logan looks up at him. He smiles and sings the verse.

“Lord, make me a rainbow,

I’ll shine down on my mother.

She’ll know I’m safe with you

when she stands under my colors, oh.

Life ain’t always what you think it oughta be, no.

Ain’t even gray but she buries her baby.”

He raises his eyebrows, dipping to sing the harmony for: “The sharp knife,

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

The next chorus is smoother, Roman’s smile growing as Logan’s voice starts to ring. His harmony grows warmer.

“If I die young,

bury me in satin,

lay me down on a bed of roses,

sink me in the river

at dawn,

send me away with the words of a love song.

The sharp knife

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

Logan may have been lying about not knowing all of the song, because here Roman is, happily singing the harmony.

“And I’ll be wearing white—“ Roman raises his eyebrows, making them laugh—

“when I come into your kingdom,

I’m as green as the ring

on my little cold finger, I’ve

never known the loving of a man

but it sure felt nice when he was holding my hand—“

Roman covers Logan’s hand, holding it firmly to his chest, thrilling at the way it makes Logan’s voice stutter just a little on the next line.

“—there’s a boy here in town, says he’ll

love me forever.

Who would’ve thought forever would be severed by

the sharp knife

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

And damn can Logan hit that high note. He whistles in approval, grinning wider when Logan just…keeps it going.

“So put on your best boys,

and I’ll wear my pearls…

what I never did is done…”

The smile fades when Logan’s face drops, looking back at Roman’s chest. The hand under Roman’s begins to tremble as he keeps singing.

“A penny for my thoughts, oh no,

I’ll sell ‘em for a dollar.

They’re worth so much more

after I’m a goner,

and maybe then you’ll hear the words I’ve been singing.

Funny when you’re dead, how people start listening…”

No. Not Logan. Not on his watch. Not on any of their watches.

Roman shifts even closer, letting Logan lean his full weight on him, clutching his hand tenderly to his chest. For a moment, he thinks they’re going to just let the song end there, he wouldn’t blame him, Logan’s already made him so proud, then…

Then Logan takes a deep breath and raises his chin. A single tear stands out on his face. And it’s beautiful.

“If I die young,

bury me in satin,

lay me down on a bed of roses,

sink me in the river

at dawn,

send me away with the words of a love song.

“Oh, oh…the ballad of a dove,

filled with peace and love.

Gather up your tears,” Roman sings as he wipes it away,

“keep them in your pocket,

save ‘em for a time

when you’re really gonna need ‘em, oh.

The sharp knife

of a short life, well.

I’ve had just enough time.”

He’s so proud of them. He’s so proud.

“So put on your best, boys,” Logan sings, holding Roman’s gaze, “and I’ll wear my pearls…”

The last note fades out. They’re breathless, even despite the relatively easy nature of the song. Roman clutches Logan’s hand tightly to his chest, Logan leans against Roman.

Roman reaches out and gently trails a finger in an arc around Logan’s neck, creating a string of pearls that lay just over his collarbones.

#sanders sides #fic #dragonbabbles #roman sanders #logan sanders #logan sanders angst #logince #romantic logince #platonic logince #you choose I don't know #sympathetic roman #sympathetic logan

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fanfic-collection · 3 years

Text

Loki x Reader: The Manor - Ch 8

I feel Tolkien man, cus like, I wanna describe everything in excruciating detail but also I kinda just want the story to advance. Don’t you just want to describe every hair follicle???

In the morning, Loki woke before you.

You were roused from uneasy dreams by a gentle touch to your shoulder. Opening your eyes, you looked up and saw Loki standing over you. He offered you a comforting smile.

You sighed, “Of course.” Nodding at the unspoken exchange, you allowed him to help you to your feet.

Loki cautiously guided you to the door of his room and peered out into the hallway.

Nothing.

Stepping out, Loki motioned for you to follow him. Carefully, and painstakingly slow, the two of you inched your way back to your room with the wretched door. The gashes were deeper than ever, and they would be impossible to deny. The door would have to be replaced.

Loki reached for the handle, steadied his breathing, took a long deep breath and pushed the door in.

The door swung inward ominously, creaking slightly on its hinges. It had been knocked off balance by the onslaught from the night before.

The room within revealed itself and other than your strewn about belongings, all was as it should be. Nothing was untoward.

Loki stepped in and peered around.

You wondered if his pulse raced in his chest as fast as yours did; a fluttering bird desperate to escape its cage, flapping around for its last vestiges of life. You swallowed it down, hoping to calm it.

Glancing over his shoulder at you, Loki walked over to the curtains and threw them open, letting the early dawn light in.

You winced at the purity of the sun. Could something so clean and beautiful exist in this world after such a darkness of the evils of the night before? You looked down at your wrapped wrist, proof of the attack, proof of the horrors.

Loki let out a soft breath he had been holding. “I think it’s gone for now. Whatever it is.” He glanced back at you.

You swallowed thickly and felt tears in your eyes, fighting the urge to fall to your knees and sob. How you longed for home.

Another part of you did not want to leave Loki to face whatever this was alone.

“I’ve seen it lurking in the shadows before, but never like this.” Loki muttered, once more gazing around the room, as though the monster might spring out at any moment.

Had your presence inadvertently stirred whatever this creature was from harmless entity, watching the denizens of the house, to malevolent monster trying to attack and possibly even kill? But what had you done? You asked Loki.

Loki’s brow furrowed, “I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with that attic.”

“I’m not spending another night in this room.” You declared.

“Then we’ll investigate it tonight.” Loki affirmed.

You blinked at him.

“I have lived in ignorance for too long. No more. We will find answers tonight.” Loki lowered his voice, “Tonight, after you have put out the lights, meet me at my room so I will know you are ready. Do not go to your room. We will go to the attic and investigate. The monster can hack at your door all it wishes, you will not be there. We will solve the mystery of who is in the attic.”

“What if there’s someone in there? Do we help them?” You asked. “Remember I saw a hand.”

Loki pursed his lips, “Well we can’t help them until we know why they’re in there. First we have to know exactly what it is that’s in the attic and why this… thing seems to be connected to it.”

You nodded, “Yes, of course.”

“Continue the day as normal, do not speak of this to anyone.” Loki grabbed your hands and squeezed them, looking you in the eyes. He smiled at you and you could see an excited glint in his eyes.

A new shiver ran up your spine, another thrill and skip of your heart but this was far different than what the entity brought. You returned his smile easily, barely even registering when he had let go of your hands and left the room to prepare for the day.

You stared down at your hands, finally realizing the absence of his. A tingling sensation seemed to run through them and you sighed, missing the lingering feeling of his touch. You shook your head and set about readying yourself for the day. There was no way you could risk the outcome of your task by acting unusual today.

As you changed clothes though, you hissed in pain at the cloth sliding along your burnt arm. Biting your lip, you looked at the ugly burn. That would have to be tended to by someone.

You hurried down to the kitchens for breakfast and made sure to stand near the stoves before asking Lady Frigga if she had any salves for burns.

From his seat at the table, Odin grunted irritably about useless staff, not able to avoid getting injured.

Lady Frigga gasped at the sight of the ugly burn. If she realized that it did not at all resemble a stove burn, she did not let on. Hand on shoulder, she took you to one of the private bathrooms and selected medical supplies to properly wrap and tend to it.

“There now, don’t mind my husband, accidents happen. You can always come to me if you get hurt, no matter the circumstance.” Frigga inclined her head, turning and leading the way back to breakfast.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, so it seemed. Though everywhere you cleaned, Odin seemed to have some business in the room at some point. You found there was no time to talk to Loki.

In the library Odin needed a book, in the halls Odin wanted to admire a picture, even in the music room Odin felt the need to inspect the instruments.

You felt on edge all day, and evening meal arrived, you brought the tray up – untouched – and returned it.

Merida glanced at Frigga, Frigga looked pointedly away.

You looked towards Loki and he picked at his thumb, sweeping from the kitchen and no doubt going to his room.

Odin lingered in the kitchen, making small talk with Merida. Merida looked at him with a strained expression, clearly wanting to be home with her family.

You stood in the shadows, knowing you could not sleep until the last family member had gone to bed. It was, after all, your duty to put out the lights.

Odin saw you lingering, “Servant, bah, what are you doing skulking over there?”

“My lord,” you bowed your head, trying to keep the exasperation from your voice, “I am waiting for you to go to bed that I might put out the lights and put the last of the house to sleep.”

Merida seized her chance, “Yes, it’s late my lord, I need to get home to my family, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned and grabbed her cloak.

Before Odin could protest, she turned and trotted from the kitchen.

Odin opened and closed his mouth in a small snapping like protest. Slowly he turned and rounded on you. “I was rather enjoying that conversation.”

You bowed your head again, “It is very late, my lord, it would do you well to get your rest.”

Odin stared down at you with his eye, hands on his hips. “Have you been following my rules?”

You felt heat rise on your neck, grateful for a high collar on your dress. “Completely, my lord.”

“I should hate to think what would become of your drunkard father if you weren’t.”

You nodded and grit your teeth, “My lord.” You gestured towards the kitchen doorway, leading in the direction of the stairs.

“Still though, you get along well enough with my boy, Loki. What exactly do you to…” He squinted down at you. “There’s nothing between you two, yes? He is a nobleman’s son and you are nobody, you remember this.”

You stepped back, stammering, “Absolutely, of course, I would never dare to think otherwise.” Despite your words, you felt as though you had been slapped in the face. Had you dared to hope that maybe, perhaps…

You had spent the night in Loki’s bed. It was for completely pragmatic reasons of course, but to wake up cocooned in his scent with him staring down at you. It was incredibly improper for a lady, but you could not deny that it was… nice.

And the softness with which his hands had brushed over yours when he wrapped his torn tunic over your burns.

Odin nodded sharply, “Good, I don’t want some servant girl prone to flights of fancy. You will do your job, pay off your father’s debt and then decide if you wish to stay as a paid servant or leave to go birth children like every other peasant does. Meaningless drivel you lot are.”

You nodded stiffly, “To bed then, my lord?”

“Fine, fine, very well.” Odin turned and walked from the kitchen, calling over his shoulder. “Don’t go asking questions that you shouldn’t be asking now, do you hear me?”

A single tear rolled down your face and you sniffled, quickly wiping it away.

You had a task at hand and you were not going to fail it.

In short order you were outside Loki’s door and softly tapping on it.

Loki opened the door and tilted his head curiously, “Are you well?”

“Me? I’m fine, why do you ask?”

Loki pursed his lips, “You look like someone who has just talked to father.”

You looked away, “Let’s just get this over with.”

Nodding, Loki gingerly took your good wrist and stepped out of his room and guided you down the hall towards the attic ladder.

Carefully, he opened the attic and began to climb the ladder up, motioning for you to follow when he had reached the top.

You followed up after him, silently cursing your skirts.

The two of you were now at the landing outside the simple door with the metal flap at the base. Both of you huddled together, staring in fright at what lay before you.

“What now?” You asked.

Loki pulled out a lockpicking set.

“You know how to pick locks?”

“Hobby.” Loki muttered, crossing the last distance between the attic entrance and the door. The only light came from the light in the hall below streaming up into the dark. Crouching down, Loki insert the lockpicks and began working at the lock. He worked by sound, nearly blind in the gloom and you stayed by the top of the ladder, heart rate increasing as you watched his actions.

There was a satisfying click.

Loki looked back at you and you could see his smile in the gloom. Putting his things away, he straightened up and reached for the handle. You cautiously approached him, slightly behind his shoulder but ready for anything.

Slowly, breaths held, you watched as Loki turned the door handle.

It was well greased, no ominous creak.

It swung outward easily.

Outward, that was curious. Designed to keep something in.

The first thing you noticed was the large window overlooking the grounds with thick metal bars. They made a latticework shadow on the ground in a pool of moonlight to light up the otherwise black room.

The room itself was bare.

“Wait.” You breathed.

“There’s nothing here.” Loki whispered.

You looked around, stepping further into the room.

Loki followed after you warily, looking around. He turned and inspected the door.

You looked at the walls. Bare. Save for nails every few feet, sometimes with bits of parchment sticking out of them. There was two large square spaces where the wood floor was a slightly different color than the rest.

“Furniture.” Loki breathed, pointing at where you were looking. “And look.” He pointed at the door.

Deep jagged scratches, identical to the ones on your room ran the length of the door. “Something was in here.”

“But the hand I saw… it didn’t have claws like that. It couldn’t have done that.” You mumbled.

“Maybe whoever was locked in here had the same night time visitor you did.” Loki muttered.

You walked over to the walls, running your fingers over the nails. Your fingers caught on the parchment slips and you tugged on it, pulling it free to look closer. “Do you think… do you think this room was decorated?”

Loki looked away from the door, “What?”

You held up the small bit of parchment. “What if these were drawings nailed to the wall?”

Loki bit his lip, and picked at his thumb, “We should go, if that thing shows up at your room and here, we’re not safe.”

You blanched, “Right.”

The two of you scrambled from the room. Loki quickly turned and locked the door behind him as you waited by the ladder, ready to climb at a moment’s notice. As soon as the lock clicked shut, you began your descent. Loki rushed over, all but jumping from the attic to the floor.

Both of you ran back to Loki’s room and slammed the door shut, collapsing onto the floor as you leaned against the door and held it closed, shoulder to shoulder.

Looking at each other, faces inches apart, and for the first time that night, able to freely breathe, the two of you finally let out a long sigh. Slowly the two of you smiled as you looked at each other. The pent up tension turning into giddy laughter as each of you threw back your heads and just laughed at the stress of the whole situation.

New questions had been raised. But for now, you just had to survive another night.

#Loki #Loki x reader #ficbit #fanfiction #reader insert #no y/n #the manor

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lesbianlotties · 3 years

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would you have it any other way? | Andy x Quynh

The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020 | @theoldguardevents | Art created by @elenorasweet can be found here

Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Andy | Andromache the Scythian/Quynh | Noriko Words: 6773 Summary: If you put together the age of all the other immortals, it still wouldn't match the number of years that Andy and Quynh have loved each other. Their love, the oldest, the strongest, and the truest thing they both have ever known in their endless lives, might be about to go through the most challenging test yet. The entire team, the entire family, is going through one of its most difficult times so far, including the appearance of a new immortal. Meanwhile, Andy and Quynh have a secret within themselves that they also have to deal with, but, at least, they're happy to be dealing with all of it together, as they were always supposed to do.

aka basically just the exact same plot of the movie, but Quynh is there the entire time because canon is too cruel and i said no thank you

Golden light filled the streets of Morocco and two women walked there as confident as if they could command the very sunlight to their will.

Andy wore black from head to toe and nobody dared stare at her long enough to notice the details. The gun on the waist of her pants, the knife on the heel of her boots, the thin thread from which an ancient pendant hung from, the backpack filled with gifts for her family, and the dark dragon printed on her t-shirt. She looked ready to kill, but so heavily charged with emotional specifics that nothing she did could possibly be taken as meaningless. In conclusion, she looked like she had plenty of reasons, several people in fact, that she was more than ready to kill for. One of them, and pretty obviously judging by the way her otherwise stone-cold face lighted up with a smile every time their hands so much as brushed, was the woman right beside her.

The lightness of Quynh’s outfit, much more fashionable than Andy’s, didn’t exactly make her look any more approachable. She wore a fresh white shirt and stylish, cream-colored pants, but she knew how to hide a dagger in any kind of attire, and if her purse carried nothing but a gun, that was still a deliberate fashion choice. Both women wore dark sunglasses but, where Andy’s frown warned people she wouldn’t hesitate to begin or end any kind of trouble by whatever means necessary, Quynh’s little smile was more of a promise there would be trouble following her.

Still, when the annoying sounds of a bike got impossibly close and a man finally caught up with the women, stopping his bike right ahead of them, Andy and Quynh grinned with genuine affection.

“Booker,” they greeted him in unison.

“Ladies,” the frenchman playfully bowed his head, parked his bike, and then with easy familiarity wrapped his arms around both women, “You guys good? Did you travel?”

Andy fondly patted him in the back and when they all pulled back from the hug she answered, “We did. And I brought you something.”

While Booker admired his first edition copy of “A Hundred Years of Solitude,” Quynh chuckled and led them forward.

“Don’t be fooled, Sebastien, I got the gift for you, Andromache only carried it on her cute little bag,” Quynh looked back once, smirking at Andy, and reached out to brush her fingers to the other woman’s wrist, teasing.

When the doors of the hotel room opened, for an instant, time stopped. Time crashed, time got all tangled up on itself, turned over on its own head. Time was meaningless. Because, how many times had this exact scene played itself in the past thousand years? Andy embraced Nicky with all solemnity and all-encompassing care they felt for one another and the people around them. Quynh pretty much jumped into Joe’s arms, almost, but never completely, catching him off guard. He spun her around once and when he put her down she kissed his cheek with all the unmeasurable love that to this day still made him happily blush. The hugs continued, of course. Joe lifted Andy up in a bear hug that got a laugh from her unlike any other in the world. Then Quynh hugged Nicky, allowing herself a second of safety and warmth surrounded by his arms before playfully doing her best to lift him up. He laughed like only the people in that room had ever heard him.

Greetings, jokes, and gifts exchanged, Quynh let herself fall on one of the couches beside Andy. She had a feeling this moment of bliss wouldn’t last too long and that was the only reason she didn’t allow herself to truly get comfortable at least resting her legs on top of Andy’s. But, she was content for the time being, watching the love of her life get absolutely, almost inappropriately lost in a sweet piece of baklava.

It’s been centuries and this never gets old, Quynh thought, shaking her head fondly as she broke her own gifted baklava in imperfect halves. As always, she ate the smaller half. As always, she saved the rest of Andy.

All too soon the conversation shifted to the reason behind their reunion. It’s a job, we can do some good, this is what we do, we’re not helping, they said. Andy sighed and stood up, walked to the window, and addressed Quynh. “What do you think?” Andy asked her, even though she probably knew, even though it was always the same.

Quynh, who, at that point had twisted herself on the couch into a more comfortable, most probably improper position, thought about it for a second. All around her, her family had felt compelled at one point or another to aid humanity for all possible reasons. Duty, sheer goodness of the heart, guilt, nothing better to do. Personally, she was a restless person. She couldn’t stand being still in a place for long, let alone be useless for longer than to catch her breath and have some fun, her mind wouldn’t let her, her heart wouldn’t allow it. But she didn’t let the struggles of the world plague her every thought, not like Andy did.

“Let’s hear him out,” she said finally, unsurprisingly. If they had had to vote at the moment she wouldn’t have said yes. She would have agreed with Andy, it was too risky, and probably useless. But, every time, as soon as she heard the details of whatever horror humanity was currently inflicting on itself, she’d be the first one out of her seat, ready to right all the wrongs of the world.

Carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for thousands of years, Andy got used to the feeling. But that didn’t mean it ever stopped being so fucking heavy. It got heavier each passing day and, just lately, Quynh was finding it increasingly difficult to soothe that burden on her lover’s back, to get her to share a little of the strain. She could see, like she didn’t ever remember seeing, Andy truly struggling with the weight of it all or, more specifically, with the conviction it was any worth it to keep holding on. Handling her part of the weight, plus her determination to help the love of her life, it was its own kind of burden on Quynh’s shoulders, but she wasn’t focusing on her own pain, physical, psychological, or of any kind, she didn’t want to.

Almost without Andy noticing, Quynh walked up behind her. The shorter woman wrapped her arms around Andy and kissed her shoulder. They stared out the window for a moment longer before Quynh stated, “This one’s special,” she murmured, fearless as always to put into words what the other woman felt to her core, “I am going with you.”

Usually, Andy would meet with their contacts alone or with Booker, they made a good team. And it was always useful to have a plan B, to make it seem like they had a trick under their sleeves, like they were more in numbers than anyone would ever know, to hold back laughter when poor devils that thought they could play smart with them had to face a meeting with Quynh and Nicky. So, that day, Andy, Quynh, and Booker, met with James Copley.

They accepted the job.

Even if Andy didn’t secretly hold the belief that her own heart continued to beat after countless deaths partially out of sheer desire to beat along with Quynh’s heart. Even if she wasn’t forever, eternally in love with the other woman. Even still, Andy would have been thankful to have her on her team, to travel with her, to fight alongside Quynh.

Nobody would question Quynh’s professionalism. She hadn’t selfishly or accidentally endangered her team or their missions too many times more than any of the others had throughout the centuries. She just had the strange little talent of knowing exactly when and where and how much she could push the boundaries of their professionalism in order to make the most out of their time on Earth.

In helicopters, she playfully disregarded security measures. In deserts, she walked with a spring on her step. Wearing a picture-perfect ponytail, dark sunglasses, and all-black clothes that somehow she had forced to fit into a greater fashion sense than any mercenary had ever been known for, she did every little thing only she could get away with. Starting with genuinely trying to distract Nicky when he was about to shoot two guards at once, as she had dared him to do, but just because she trusted him, because she’d taught him that move herself. Then, being the only one quick enough to shoot just once before the five of them died on that kill floor. Lastly, winking at Andy as they came back to life, with holes on their clothes and wounds still healing and just seconds away from tearing down a small army of men.

Quynh was a synonym for life, Andy thought, she is life, I am alive because she is life, and I will live as long as she is with me. Quynh lived her endless life in bold, bright strokes of a brush. And things, the best and worst of them would have probably been so much easier, simpler, if Quynh had been just that, excitement, energy, a mischievous smile. But of course, she was so much more

Quynh was gentleness in places that knew only hostility. She was capable of conjuring patience and calm in the blink of an eye. She was endless conversations and fantastic stories. She carried little kids when they saved them, she found ways to make women feel safe and men believe in peace. She washed Andy’s hair with all the care in the world, and she made sure none of the boys had any blood left in their beards after a battle. She held Andy’s hands because she could tell Andy needed her, but she held so tightly because she needed Andy. At times she was quiet. She was thoughtful. With really big events she took her time to process them instead of any relatively usual impulsiveness. A trait of hers that pained Andy because she knew, the longer Quynh thought about something, the longer she was hurting.

Quynh believed in revenge. She always had. Her heart could fit millions of good, selfless, benevolent feelings, but she still believed in revenge. If the stars aligned for her, she’d kill James Copley herself. But it was never so easy, was it? They had made mistakes too, that day. Could she get revenge on herself? Self-recrimination was one excruciating characteristic she shared with the love of her life. There was no use in pondering about it, if it was a coincidence or if they had picked it up after the other one. At least, one thing more powerful than that was the fierceness with which they’d protect the ones they loved, resulting in them perfectly protecting each other, even from themselves.

They were on a train somewhere away from their latest mistake. Booker had started to snore and Joe and Nicky had been perfectly still in each other’s arms for a while now. Andy’s thoughts were too loud to let her sleep, and Quynh’s thoughts too dangerous to keep herself awake for them. She was laying down, with her head comfortably resting on Andy’s lap, even if the rest of her body was unusually uncomfortable in the rough surface where they lay.

“Sleep,” Andy would tell her every few minutes, mindlessly slipping into the old habit of a dead language that only they could remember.

“I can’t, not without you. Sleep with me, my heart. Sleep,” Quynh replied, again and again, the ancient words coming out almost easier than modern English ever did.

“Sleep,” Andy insisted, soothingly running her fingers through her lover’s hair, even after Quynh fell asleep, just until she slept too.

It didn’t last long though… there was Nile.

“She’s beautiful,” Quynh said, somewhat sadly, a minute later as they all discussed what they saw of the new immortal in their dreams, “and smarter and braver than she knows what to do with.”

She exchanged a look with Andy, silent understanding of what it all meant. It wasn’t the most convenient of moments, but it had never been convenient at all, right? Together they had welcomed four other immortals, and it never got easier. Not when Lykon died. Not when having to explain to Joe and Nicky why they’d never win the war one of them had started. Not when watching Booker lose himself when he lost his family. And it certainly wouldn’t be easy to explain to the new kid how an endless life would mean the ending of the life she already had.

But Nile Freeman was beautiful, smart, and brave. Quynh could tell. Just as she once said Lykon was a hero unlike anybody else, and Joe and Nicky were naturally kind, and Booker was, well, he had been mostly just tired. Her favorite judgment, however, remained that one of a day thousands of years ago when she woke up from a dream, firmly convinced that she had just dreamt of the love of her life.

“Good. You’re awake,” Quynh smiled down at Nile.

While Andy was driving the car, Quynh had insisted on sitting in the back to keep company to the new kid. Nevermind the young woman was unconscious after Quynh had allowed Andy to go pick her up by herself.

“Who- What’s going on?” Nile mumbled. Her head hurt and she could barely make sense of the scene around her beyond being in a strange vehicle with an unknown woman gently smiling at her.

“I know you probably have a lot of questions- Ugh, fuck!” Quynh’s explanation was cut short when Nile’s knife pierced through her chest.

An instant later, the young woman had kicked open the trunk of the car and fallen off it.

“What the fuck?! Quynh are you okay?” Andy slammed the brakes of the car and quickly got out. She had been trying to be nonchalant about this whole thing, but a line had been crossed. “Did you just stab my wife?!” she yelled at the retreating figure of Nile, and pulled out her gun.

“Andromache, don’t!” Quynh reached her just in time to make it so that Andy shot only at the ground near Nile. The surprise made her stumble and fall, but it could’ve been worse.

“She stabbed you!” Andy protested, frowning and the blood that was tragically staining Quynh’s otherwise perfectly white t-shirt.

“And we kidnapped her,” Quynh gave her wife a pointed look and with a hand on her arm prompted her to walk forward to properly introduce themselves to the newcomer.

“Who are you?” Nile asked when they were close enough to talk. She was still on the ground, breathing heavily and trying to think of a way to get out of this situation. In front of her were standing two women, one with short brown hair, a black tank top, and a look in her eyes incredibly threatening. Beside her was another woman of long black hair, wearing a now blood-stained white t-shirt with rolled sleeves and looking a little too put together for the desert they were in, she was smiling, but she somehow didn’t seem much more friendly than the other one.

Before replying, Andy shared a look with Quynh, as if finding all necessary answers there. “Don’t worry,” she said at last, “You’re safe, you’re not in any danger. We are… we are people like you. I know you just figured out you can’t die, we can’t either. I know it might not look like it at the moment, but we are saving you from much worse situations. We don’t have all the answers, kid. But you don’t have to figure it out alone, okay?” There was a pause then where Andy and Quynh exchanged another look. It might have been reassuring or encouraging, teasing, or amused. It could have been an entire silent conversation in the span of a second. But the point was that Andy looked at Nile once more and with more relaxed features added, “Now, could you please get back in the car?”

Andy offered Nile her hand, and helped the young woman stand back up. When Andy started walking away, Quynh turned to look at Nile. “Her name is Andromache, you should probably call her Andy. And my name’s Quynh,” She offered her hand to Nile, smiled when she heard her name, and then immediately tightened her hold until it almost hurt. “If you stab me again, you’re going to regret it,” she winked, and she was smiling, and Nile was fascinated by the perfect balance of menacing and welcoming in that gesture. “Welcome to the team!” Quynh added in a sing-song, turning around and following Andy back to the car.

Throughout history, Quynh had to sleep in the strangest of places. It was just a part of their lives, warriors couldn’t be picky about a place to rest their heads for a few hours. Besides, with one of Andy’s arms draped over her waist, Quynh felt safe enough to fall asleep even in the sketchy plane of an even sketchier… businessman, of sorts. However, her sleep was interrupted after a while when, in a matter of seconds, she made a move to turn around, found herself restrained, her struggle woke up Andy, they realized they had their wrists chained to the seats of the plane, and the new kid was pointing a gun at the pilot of the plane.

“Oh, this will be fun,” Quynh mumbled through a yawn, getting comfortable in her place.

She smiled when the pilot played dead as instructed by Andy. “Yeah, I do not recommend it,” she said when Nile swore she wouldn’t jump off a plane. “Not me?” she playfully pouted when Nile freed Any first. And she grinned expectantly as she watched the two other women engage in a fight that she knew was necessary and more meaningful than any outsider would have guessed. She teased Andy, cheered Nile on, and threw her head back laughing when the young woman got two hits at Andy’s face.

After the fight was over, Andy took the keys from Nile and got Quynh out of her restraints. The newest immortal was still standing, looking a little lost and teary-eyed in the middle of the plane, when Quynh stood up and faced her. “My turn?” she playfully asked, and felt her heart swell with affection at the sight of the confusion and hint of irritation in the young woman’s face. “I’m kidding,” Quynh said softly and smiled genuinely this time. Then she opened her arms, a silent offer that she wouldn’t push and wouldn’t be offended if rejected but-

Nile stepped forward and lightly wrapped her arms around Quynh’s shoulders, accepting the hug. It was strange, it was completely unfamiliar, but so much had happened in the past day or so. She had died, for fucks sake, she deserved a hug. “I’m sorry for stabbing you,” Nile grumbled.

In response, Quynh chuckled, “It probably won’t be the last time. And you can thank me for the clothes, Andromache alone would have kept you in your bloody uniform.”

“You two are the oldest,” Nile stared seriously at the two women at the other side of the table.

Andy and Quynh exchanged a look. “Andromache is a little bit older,” Quynh said with a smile.

“How old?” Nile asked.

“It’s not our first millennium I can tell you that,” Quynh took a sip of wine and leaned back on her chair.

“How old?” Nile insisted.

“Too old,” Andy said with finality.

The night wasn’t quiet, it never was in that place though. They were all accustomed to the sounds of the planes, and Nile had been exhausted enough to fall asleep despite the noise. Still, Quynh was so in tune with her lover’s mind, that she felt Andy’s thoughts to be even louder than the planes above their heads. When everyone else had gone to sleep, she had stayed in one of the armchairs, talking with Andy about everything, and nothing, and their upcoming mission. At least, they had been talking about that, until Andy’s worries got the best of her and she was rendered silent, staring at her own hand as if it was the first time she saw it.

From her place curled up in the other chair, Quynh stared at her. She wouldn’t be surprised if she had figured it out before Andy herself. She could say with certainty she knew Andy’s body better than she knew her own. Their way of living had made it so that at times they went years without facing an actual mirror. In all her years Quynh had stared at Andy way more than at herself. Had loved her intensely, tenderly, carefully, hurriedly, in every way they had possibly thought of. She had held her in her arms as she died and came back to life more times than she could count. There was no language, in all languages humanity had ever come up with, for Quynh describe the intimate connection she shared with Andy. It would have been a deadly offense to her for anyone to think that she hadn’t noticed a change, in Andy’s eyes, in her hands, in her skin, in the very way she was breathing.

Andy had been lost in her thoughts until she noticed Quynh perching herself on the arm of the chair she was in.

“I’m sorry, my love, what were you saying?” Andy looked up at her, just realizing she had stopped listening and talking a while ago.

Quynh sighed and met Andy’s eyes, kicking through any and all walls the other woman could attempt to put up to hide her real thoughts. Andy’s eyes widened a little when she realized Quynh was already caught up with her train of thought, but she didn’t have anything to say, not yet.

“I was saying…” Quynh started to say, picking up Andy’s hand to kiss her knuckles and then hold on tightly, “That you look beautiful tonight, my heart,” She felt a knot on her throat and it only worsened when Andy smiled at her. It was a unique smile, amused, genuine, she was thankful, she wasn’t afraid, but there was an apology in there somewhere. “As beautiful as the first day I saw you,” Quynh added with all the conviction she could muster without breaking down.

Both women were still silent, staring at their intertwined hands when Nile woke up from a nightmare, gasping for air.

“His name was Lykon,” Andy said, trying to explain to Nile why she’d just had a nightmare of a warrior dying from a wound on his stomach. “He was the third immortal. Only Quynh and I got to know him. He died before the rest of you were born, way before.”

“He was dying,” Nile whispered, “He was… he was bleeding so much, and there was no way to stop it. He was calm, he felt… ready but, it hurt. It hurt too much, and I don’t think he wanted to die.”

Andy didn’t need to turn around to know that, behind her, Quynh was standing by the dining table, holding to its edge until her knuckles were white, and her eyes were burning a hole on the ground. Lykon’s death would never stop hurting them, not really. He was Quynh’s best friend in a way that nobody could ever match again. He was far from the first soldier Andy lost, but definitely the one loss that hurt her the most. Plus, only with his death, and after thousands of years of life, the two women had to face the reality that they weren’t completely immortal, and losing each other would forever be a possibility.

“He was the best warrior, and man, I’ve ever met,” Andy stated, her voice steady, unwavering, honoring him, even thousands of years later, “He was all full of courage, light, skill and… smiles.” She made a quick pause, allowing herself to remember one of the most painful days of her entire existence on this Earth. “We were fighting a small battle, nothing we hadn’t done a hundred times before. Everything was going according to plan, seamlessly. We got hurt, we stood back up. Until… he didn’t. He got hurt, and his wounds didn’t heal. Just like that. His time had come. Nothing we can do about it.”

Nile closed her eyes for a second. She still had an arm holding on to her own abdomen. “Why am I dreaming of him?” she asked, opening her eyes to glare at Andy.

“The dreams stop when we meet. Then they restart, when one of us dies. Those dreams, memories of them, they aren’t constant, but they don’t stop,” Andy explained, taking a quick look at the rest of her team, the three men that had dreamed of Lykon their entire lives without ever meeting him. “They won’t always be of his death, I promise,” Andy tried to explain, but a second later Nile was standing up and hurrying out the door.

After another meaningful look to the other half of her family, Andy grabbed a gun out of habit, and followed the young woman outside.

“I’m going with you,” Quynh said, as Andy passed beside her, “I need some air.” And the group was split in half, for longer than any of them could have expected.

“Wait for my signal,” Andy said to Nile before turning around, accepting the sword Quynh was holding out for her. Then the two of them confidently moved toward the abandoned church, to wait for a group of soldiers that during their last seconds of life would deeply regret ever taking that job.

“I could have done this by myself, you know?” Andy smiled at Quynh from their hiding place among the shadows.

“You could, doesn’t mean you have to,” Quynh replied, making an effort to not even hint at the fact that for the first time ever Andy’s mortality wasn’t as certain as it had always been. Instead, Quynh put on the playful smile that she knew Andy needed to see in her. “My heart, it’s been an eternity already, please accept that for as long as I’m here, you’ll never have to do anything alone.”

Quynh kissed Andy’s cheek and a second later she urged her lover to get out and dive, almost literally, into the fight waiting for them. Quynh let her go first, Andy always went first, and usually, Quynh didn’t complain. She loved looking at her wife conquer a battle fearlessly, almost effortlessly, it was a sight worth all the treasures in the world. But then, of course, as soon as one of the men showed even the remote intention of pulling a knife from behind Andy, Quynh was already there, making sure he didn’t live enough to even picture Andy hurt because of him.

It went on and on, almost too easily. Andy and Quynh fighting side by side, picking up guns and swinging their swords and not letting their enemies even a chance to think about the goddesses of war that had stepped in their paths. It was over as quickly as it started. The whole place catching fire, Joe and Nicky already too far away, Nile and Booker in the backseat of the car.

Quynh had been there to guard Andy’s back, and keep her from any serious injury, and maybe she was the only one looking for confirmation of her greatest fears, but the fact remained that she could hardly tear her eyes away from Andy’s bruised knuckles holding the steering wheel. Insignificant little bruises, but they were there, not healing as they should.

Quynh had to take a step back when Nile explained to Andy why she couldn’t go along with them. That experience was hurting Quynh more than anyone realized. She felt physical pain in a way she couldn’t explain. She had accepted Nile as a member of their family, she already felt protective, and charmed by the young woman. It hurt to watch her go, it hurt to watch her pick a different side when they needed her.

Andy seemed to understand though, of course she did. Andy had been a leader for pretty much as long as she had been alive, which was… a lot. Andy could make sense of why everybody did what they did, in and out of battle it seemed, and she always explained it to Quynh in a way that was too forgiving of the others. It hurt Quynh to watch Andy understand what was the right thing to do, it hurt because there was no one and there would never be anyone like Andy. It hurt Quynh because she could never do what Andy does, be like Andy, and she didn’t ever want to take over that role, didn’t even want to picture it, and now she might have to.

So, it was only Andy, Quynh, and Booker stepping into Copley’s office. It felt wrong, Quynh couldn’t explain why but it did. What kind of man is so calm when three immortal warriors are pointing at him with guns?

Well, the explanation lies with the third immortal, Booker, who wasn’t aiming at Copley at all. He was shaking, making the most difficult decision of his life, even if it was just a small part of the worst decision that he had already taken a while ago. He was thinking about how long they take to heal. He was thinking about who would react the quickest, and who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him in the head for shooting her wife. So, he shot Quynh in the heart, killing her instantly, and buying himself enough time to shoot Andy near the stomach. Andy had enough time to shoot him in the leg, but her gun fell off her grip, and she fell to her knees.

By the time Quynh came back to her senses, there were tears streaming down Andy’s face, and there was a wound on her stomach that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Quynh gritted her teeth and accepted the pain, forced herself to accept Andy’s mortality, Booker’s betrayal, her own rage, and her even greater heartache. She wanted to reach out to Andy, she wanted to kill Booker a thousand times over this, she wanted to just lie there and hope for it all to be a nightmare. She didn’t have a chance to do any of that before she was restrained by a group of strange men taking her and her broken family away.

“Fuck! Let me go,” Quynh groaned as she was being securely tied down to one of the beds in Merrick’s lab. She was the only one fighting it. “Let me kill him just once and I’ll gladly settle down after. Fucking-”

Andy was staring at her while the doctor sedated Quynh for the third time already. If she had had the strength, maybe Andy would have smiled. It was the natural reaction, to smile when she watched Quynh fight, smile when Quynh was bold, when she was playful, when she loved Andy in every way possible, and beyond. It didn’t feel right then, to look at the love of her life and feel only the need to start crying. From her point of view, this was the end for Andy. The weight of the world had finally become too much for her to bear. The world had finally crumbled down around her, taking her family down with it, turning Booker against her, rendering Joe and Nicky helpless, and Quynh… Quynh would lose her any moment now. Was this where all their promises would break?

Their time in Merrick’s lab was anything but boring. Quynh had been angry enough, had been quick enough, to knock out one of the doctors and free one of her hands on one occasion. That was as far as she got. She was sedated two times more. Each time she woke up was more frightening for her than the last. Andy’s name was the first thing coming out of her lips, and the first thing she heard was her lover’s reassuring “I’m here. Still here, Quynh, still here.” But it could only be so reassuring when “here” was one of the worst places they had ever been.

Two memories had made its way to the forefront of Quynh’s mind. One, the first time Andy and her died after Lykon’s definitive death. She had never felt as scared as she was during the seconds it took Andy to come back, and she had never been as desperate to come back to life, back to Andy, as she did that time. The second memory, the witches’ trials, the iron coffin, the feeling of being trapped, entirely hopeless. Andy had escaped just in time to follow in a different ship, but she couldn’t stop them from throwing Quynh to the ocean. She jumped right after her, but it still took hours to free Quynh from her prison. Some nights she still had nightmares where they didn’t manage it at all. This couldn’t be it. Not again. Quynh knew she had to fight with everything she had but, what if it wasn’t enough?

Andy wasn’t putting up a fight. Her hopelessness pained Quynh more than she could put into words, but it also inspired her to fight harder, to get all of them out of there. But it was difficult. It couldn’t be impossible, but it was difficult. She couldn’t even hear herself think. There was Joe fighting Booker, and Quynh related to that anger, but she had new priorities. There was Nicky trying to calm Joe down, and Quynh understood his silent rage, but she didn’t have time to listen to all their words. Least of all, she couldn’t stand the noise of Booker trying to defend himself. Loudest of all, however, was Andy’s silence, and Quynh’s own heart, breaking in her chest.

Nile’s arrival had been the closest thing to a miracle the four immortals had seen in their long, long lives. Quynh grinned as soon as she saw her, because it wasn’t a miracle, it was the most, if not only reasonable thing she’d seen in days. She had known, maybe since the moment that Nile had stabbed her, that the young woman had the potential to be everything the world needed, and more. At least, at the moment, she was everything the group needed, and that much was clear. Nile was hope, and just the sight of her was enough to send the five warriors up to their feet and ready to fight.

Andy convinced Booker to stand up, and convinced Joe to postpone the arguing. However, nobody, except for Booker, flinched at all at the moment Quynh confidently and calmly walked up to him just to punch him in the face strong enough for him to require a few seconds to recover. It was enough, for the moment. They had bigger problems waiting for them on the other side of the doors.

The fight was equal parts exciting and terrifying. It wasn’t the most difficult thing they’d done, but it was the first time they did it while one of them was mortal. It wasn’t easy, trusting their backs to Booker during the fight, but it came naturally enough. It was their priority, but it was undeniably difficult, to think of protecting Andy. Andy, who always moved first, Andy who regularly died for them, Andy who barely adjusted her fighting to be a little more defensive than usual, but not enough. Quynh and Nile found a common ground there, fighting anything and everyone, including Andy herself, to make sure the newly-mortal woman remained safe enough. If Andy slipped away from them at one moment, well, that much was inevitable.

There was one moment, right before the worst of the fight.

“Are you going to let her do this?!” Nile asked Quynh, talking about Andy refusing to wear any protection and insisting on entering the fight first.

Quynh was resting her back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing heavily. She had never felt this exhausted for as long as she could remember. Her body was screaming, her mind was beyond overwhelmed, and her heart couldn’t exactly handle the emotional stakes of the situation. There would be pain in seeing Andy risk her life, the only life she had. There would be pain in seeing Andy be careful, in seeing the love of her life, who Quynh had associated with invincibility for all of her life, act anything but unbreakable. Quynh could ask, she could very seriously ask and she could probably get Andy to take a step back for once in her life.

“I can’t stop her,” Quynh replied finally. But not in the way Nile thought right then. She couldn’t stop her, because Quynh knew and understood her wife and so she knew that to ask this of Andy at that moment, it would be an offense she wouldn’t be able to take back. Andy needed this moment, even if it was the last one, especially if it was the last one. They would walk into this battle as they always had and if it was up to them, they would also walk away from it as they always had.

Finally, it was all over. The boys were chasing the elevator down to catch Merrick, Andy and Nile were standing by the window, talking. Quynh was just rounding a corner, walking toward them with a smile, when something hit her in the head hard enough to knock her down to the ground.

Quynh fought with everything she had to stay conscious. She opened her eyes, and Merrick was pointing his gun at Andy. She closed her eyes and heard gunshots. She opened her eyes, and only Andy was standing there, looking proud as ever.

“Is it over?” Quynh asked Andy with a smile while the taller woman offered her a hand to get her up to her feet.

“Which part?” Andy laughed.

They were both a little unsteady on their feet but, holding on to each other, they walked over to the elevator and started their descent. It was the first quiet moment they had to themselves in days. They could finally breathe, they could finally take a good look at each other and let the reality of their situation settle in around them.

“How do you feel?” Quynh asked.

“How do you feel?” Andy turned the question around on her. She smiled when she noticed the confusion on Quynh’s face. “You’re bleeding, my love,” she explained, her voice breaking just slightly. Andy moved a hand to Quynh’s face and one of her fingers just lightly grazed the small wound where Merrick had hit her with the handle of Andy’s labrys. Quynh hissed in pain. She had felt it for a short while already, and the confirmation wasn’t as startling as it should have been. She wasn’t healing either. “But you were out there, risking yourself for me,” it was just a statement on Andy’s part, not really a question, but not completely a reprimand either.

“Well, obviously,” Quynh replied, smiling as genuinely as ever, smiling in that particular way that Andy loved more than ever, brighter than any star, more meaningful than any combination of words could dream of being.

“We will figure this out together,” Andy said, taking Quynh’s bruised hand and interlocking their blood-stained fingers with all the tenderness they had accumulated through three thousand years of love for each other and the world around them. “Just you and me,” she promised.

Quynh looked at her, her best friend, the love of her life, the person she admired the most, the person she’d die a thousand times and come back for, her favorite endless source of happiness and passion, purpose and strength. They had first made this promise back when they didn’t know an “end” was even possible for them. This time would be the most difficult occasion when Quynh would have to say the words, but also the most important. “Until the end,” she swore, meaning the words more than ever before.

The doors of the elevator opened, and Andy and Quynh walked out, hand in hand, facing the beginning of their end bravely, happily, ready, as long as they were together.

#ToGMiniBang2020 #the old guard #andy x quynh #andromaquynh #immortal wives #andromache the scythian #quynh #tog #the old guard fanfiction #my fic #i said no to canon #here it is!!!

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vajranam · 3 years

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Power Of Virtue

Results of Doing the Ten Non-Virtues

1. Killing any living being. It includes abortion, suicide (ruining a body that could have reached nirvana in this life), and participating in the military (even being a cook, it is as if you shot the gun yourself).

Personal Result: Your life is short; and you get sick easily, have little energy.

Environmental Result: Food, drink, medicine, crops, have very little effect, are always inferior, are not nutritious, are hard to digest, and cause disease in you. Most beings around you die before reaching the end of a full life.

2. Stealing anything of value: includes shady business deals, cheating on rent, taxes, or bills, underpaying what is due to local government or society, etc.

Personal Result: You do not have enough to live on or to make ends meet; and what you do have is all just common property with others.

Environmental Result: The crops are few and far between, they have no power to remove hunger, they spoil or never come up; dry spells stay on too long; it rains too much; the crops dry up or die off.

3. Sexual Misconduct. It mainly means adultery — cheating on your partner, a person to whom you are exclusively committed. It also includes some specific secondary behaviors.

Personal Result: The people who work around you are “inconsistent” (unreliable); and you find yourself having a lot of competition for your partner.

Environmental Result: You live in a place where there is urine and feces all around, and mud, dirt, filth; everything stinks and everywhere seems unpleasant and distasteful.

4. Lying, giving someone else a wrong impression about what you have seen, believe, or know; unless it would save someone’s life or prevent real suffering. If you lie and get something, the benefit comes from past good deeds, not from the lie.

Personal Result: No one believes what you say; even when you are speaking the truth, others are always deceiving you.

Environmental Result: Your work in cooperation with others fails to prosper and people around you do not work well together; everyone generally is cheating one another and is afraid, and there are many things to be afraid of.

5. Divisive Talk, splitting people up with your talk; saying things to alienate or separate two different people, (regardless of whether or not your words are true); causing one person to like another person less; it is usually subtle, like in your tone of voice.

Personal Result: You lose friends easily; people around you are always fighting one another; and people around you have an undesirable character.

Environmental Result: The ground you live in is split up, uneven, covered with crags and gullies, highs and lows, so travel is difficult and you are always afraid and there are many things to be afraid of.

6. Harsh Talk, with bad intent and effect; it includes sarcastic “nice” words and swearing.

Personal Result: You hear many unpleasant things, you hear things as bad sounds; and when others talk to you it always seems to you as if they want to start a fight.

Environmental Result: The ground where you live is covered with obstacles like fallen tree trunks, thorns, stones, sharp broken glass; it is rough, dreary, no streams or water springs; the ground is parched and poisoned, burning hot and threatening; there are many things to fear.

7. Idle Talk, meaningless chatter, criticism, disputes, useless joking, whining, complaining, speaking out of the motive of attachment or craving; gossiping about politics, sports, etc., or about people engaged in wrong livelihood; reciting prayers while not thinking about their meaning. Gossiping about others’ values or spiritual practice. Dharma is sacred and should be discussed in holy private whispers on special nights, not casually — talk in hushed tones, very beautiful sacred speech, talk about inspiring things. As an aspiring bodhisattva, you may need to discuss mundane topics with others for their benefit, but keep the ultimate goal in mind, and do not be drawn into worldly conversations.

Personal Result: No one listens to you; no one respects what you say — no one thinks that what you say has any particular value; and you are afflicted with a lack of confidence and self-esteem.

Environmental Result:Fruits refuse to grow, or grow at the wrong times, seem ripe when they are not, have frail roots; there are no leisure places around like parks, or pools of cool water; many things around make you afraid.

8. Craving/Coveting, is similar to coveting in the Ten Commandments. Wanting others’ possessions and personal qualities like their intelligence, health, fame, youth, or spiritual achievements. It comes in five stages: you are attached to your own possessions, desire to accumulate more than you have, discover another’s possessions, like to make them your own, and the desire becomes unmanageable and you “lose shame” (then you act).

Personal Result: Your personality is dominated by desire; and you are never satisfied with what you have.

Environmental Result: Every good thing you manage to find starts to get worse, decrease as days, months, and seasons pass.

9. Ill-Will, is to wish bad things upon others; being pleased when others fail or have misfortune; competitiveness, like “Oh, how did they mess up? Tell me more…” not feeling as bad for an unfortunate person as you would feel for yourself if you were them.

Personal Result: Your personality is dominated by anger; you are always finding yourself without help, or never find the help you need; and you are always hurting others, or always being hurt by others.

Environmental Result: You live in a world of chaos, diseases spread, evil is everywhere, plague, conflict, fear of harm from the military, dangerous animals, you are surrounded by harmful spirits, thieves or muggers, etc.

10. Wrong View, “Incorrect world view” means not regarding karma as being the direct cause of every microsecond of experience we have. This leads to doing misdeeds #1–9.

Personal Result: Your personality is dominated by stupidity; you are a person who keeps harmful views; and you are a deceitful person.

Environmental Result: You live in a world where the single highest source of happiness is steadily disappearing from the earth; where people think that unclean and suffering things are actually nice and happy; where there is no place to go, no one to help you, nothing to protect you.

THE TEN VIRTUES

Any actions we do that cause both oneself and others to experience happiness as a result are known as virtuous actions. The classification of virtuous actions is:

Not taking the life of living beings

Not taking what is not freely given

Abstaining from sexual misconduct

Speaking truthfully

Not engaging in divisive speech

Speaking gentle words

Not gossiping

Not coveting the wealth of others

Giving up holding ill-will towards others

Right view

Contrary at what we think virtues wasn't here before the Buddha teaching, we can find on vedic and pte hindu text the notion of virtues very similar, now when we come to Buddha teaching Shakyamuni stress on those virtues because he realised that without that nothing happened.

Virtues is rightous act made in selfless action, without thinking “ gonna get good karma doing this “ , virtues are made in selfless mind to.

How do we do virtues by practicing the Dharma ? So we do virtues because first we renounce to samsara, second we want to practice for sake of all sentient beings and last we generate bodhichitta. Without those we won’t make any virtues, now virtues applications so yes we will mess up in today world full of extreme yes we will do non vitues to cancel them we need to confess fault and hiden fault by the body, speach and mind.

There's a zen proverb that say that the zen master made more mistakes than the students. So making mistakes well it’s normal our day will be more grey tham pure with or dark. What we mistaken to be like Garchen Rinpoche for example that years of work, Garchen Rinpoche himself said himself if we look to his karma he didn't had much virtues but he didn't give up on Dharma not even for a day.

That same attitude we need to have, yes we will face hardship someday we will make just non virtues and that ok because we will regret transform and carry on its part of learning Dharma to the deep.

It’s very easy to see if we got virtues and on what we use those virtues, in past I was worried about money because I was very poor, till I notice well I am not so poor because I met Karmapa, Shamarpa, took refuge very high vows with Garchen Rinpoche, recived empowerments that Milarepa himself had, wasn't poor was extremely ritch I just noticed that virtues was in Dharma there for I focus on those and left the rest. So we maybe poor, ritch or whatever but we can see on what way go our virtues for example in our life there's an area that very grow that where is our virtues, after that area maybe not Dharma mean we actually burning virtues and if we want to practice we need to develop bodhi mind .

#mahasiddhas #wisdom #spirituality #mindfulness #meditation #religion #buddhism #self care #zen #visualization #tibet

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redrobinhoods · 3 years

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shattered hopes | Foxiyo Week 2020

AO3 Link | 1,560 words (approx)

A/N: I think this is my first fic narrated primarily in the present tense. A challenge to write for sure and I think I slipped up at times and that I’ll keep to past tense narration going forward! Happy New Year!

Summary: A threat has been made against Riyo Chuchi, but she’s determined to give a speech representing Pantora at a Senate event. Fox consents so long as she has a guardsman at her side. [CW: Character deaths, depression]

Shatter: fragment, burst, fracture. Day 4 @foxiyoweek

“How do I look?” She asks, spinning around to face him.

His was the most useless answer to that question in the galaxy. “Like a goddess.” But she always looked like a goddess to him. His goddess. His Riyo.

One of her most beautiful smiles parts her lips and she crosses the room to him. “Then that makes you a god.”

“Can I be god of properly executed blaster safety?”

“I was thinking protector of soldiers and senators, but that works too.” Her delicate fingers reach up and remove his helmet and Fox finds himself leaning down to kiss his beloved. She smells like she always does in the Senate, of makeup and formal clothing, but her touch is as soft as it is in her apartment where no prying eyes could ever see them. “I’m not worried, Fox.”

“I am.” He confesses. Assassination threats were standard for all senators and nothing ever came of most of them. But there were a few threats, often around the time of a bill’s proposal, that were acted upon.

“I’m not. Thire will be watching over me. And you, I suppose.” Another brilliant smile.

Thire possessed only a meager amount of the suicidal drive that had fueled his mentor, but in place of that he was utterly loyal to the duties of the Guard. Fox had no doubt that if the assassin struck that they would have to shoot Riyo through Thire’s body.

Fox felt his lips move to mirror her smile. “I’d be offended, but he’ll be the one glued to your shoulder all night.”

“I look forward to it, we haven’t talked in a while.”

Another thing he loved about Riyo, that she loved his brothers.

“Then you’ll have the whole evening to catch up.” He raises a hand to her face to stroke his fingers across the golden arcs that highlight her cheeks. “I need to go gather the boys. I’ll see you later, Ri.”

“See you later, Fox.” But she doesn’t step away and neither does he.

Raising his other hand to her face, Fox bends down and kisses her again, holding her to him longer than he had before. “Let’s get a drink on the way home.” He whispers as he draws his lips back, keeping their foreheads pressed together.

“I would love that.” She whispers back, her breath hot on his face. “Go.” She raises her voice back to a standard speaking level. “Take care of your men.”

With the pain of leaving her in his heart, Fox kisses Riyo one last time and goes to fulfill his duties.

---

Fox watches from the rafters as Riyo takes the stage, Thire on her left with his blaster rifle drawn in his hands. The theater below is small compared to many of the rooms in the Senate, and from his position Fox can see everything happening below. Riyo is speaking now, but Fox isn’t listening to her speech; he has heard everything practiced before and he knows that if he allows himself to become distracted by her voice her life will be at risk.

His comm buzzes to life. “There is a being on the right wing who is fumb-blaster!”

Fox had begun moving the moment he had a location, and now he watches as the being raises the sniper rifle before being felled by a shot from one of his men. With the danger passed, Fox allows himself to relax. Then there is the crack of a rifle and the crowd below screams. Three more shots follow.

In the chaos, Fox loses sight of the stage.

“Requesting a medic on the stage, the commander and the senator are down!”

“The medics are dead!”

“Then call the medical facility and get more here!”

The words on his comm are meaningless to him as Fox races to the stairs, desperate to be at Riyo’s side. He carries bacta with him, he can keep her alive until the medics arrive.

There was nobody on the stage but two of the beings he loved most. Fox pushes through the crowd of onlookers, some of the few beings who hadn’t fled, and falls to his knees beside them. Thire is draped over Riyo, his head resting on her stomach. Two black holes are burning on his back with a third char mark between his shoulder blades. One shot to the front, two to the back. He took the blasterfire for her and tried to shield her until- Fox had to stop his mind from analyzing the injuries any further. There’s nothing he can do for Thire anymore. He has to save Riyo.

She was still, so still. One arm lay over Thire’s shoulder, the other spread at her side as if it hadn’t had a chance to react to the shot. Fox gathers her head and shoulders into his arms, ignoring the bit of training that screams at him that all wounded should be left where they fell except for extenuating circumstances. The dying and the dead could be moved, but Riyo, his Riyo, could have never been either of those things. But she was still unmoving in his arms.

“Riyo.” He whispers, reaching one hand down to gently push away the loose hairs from her face but never letting his fingers come close to the dark hole that burns on her forehead. “Ri.” But her blank eyes don’t turn to meet his. He tries to say her name again, but it catches in his throat and he falls silent, doubling over from the agony in his chest.

He pulls Thire up so that he can hold both of them in his embrace, burying his head between them. He wishes that he could press his bare forehead to them, feel Riyo’s skin under his touch, but to remove his helmet he would have to let go of them, and he cannot let go. Not when he knows this will be the last time he will be permitted to touch them. Not when he knows that Riyo is about to be taken from him forever. Not when he knows that this will be the last acknowledgement of their love that he can give her.

When a medical team arrives, they have to restrain Fox to separate him from Riyo before they take her away, leaving Fox kneeling over Thire alone.

---

Fox didn’t feel anything after that day.

Hunger, thirst, texture, temperature; all ceased to exist.

Physical pain? He could feel that. But even that was distorted into something different than before. Dulled and lifeless. He’d have given nearly anything to feel something as small as a papercut as he had before. He wished more than ever that Thorn was alive so that Fox could tell him that he understood now, so that he could ask him how to live. But Thorn was gone too, and all Fox had left was Stone.

Stone, who immediately took command of the Guard, who had taken it upon himself to promote and delegate their men to fill the void in the chain of command, and who had learned how to grieve, was the only thing that kept Fox alive. He forced him to eat, drink, shower; sat beside him on the days Fox insisted he was feeling well enough to work; slept by Fox’s side to comfort him from the nightmares both sleep and wake brought; and arranged it so that they carried out all of their duties together so that he would never have to leave Fox alone.

When Fox found himself pinned down beside Stone in the middle of a shootout, there was no question of what to do when a blaster was pointed at his brother.

He didn’t feel the shot. Only Stone’s embrace as he caught him even as he fired back at the being who had shot him. When the being hit the ground, Stone holstered his blaster and gently brought Fox to the ground, cradling him.

Fox opened his lips to try to speak but found himself unable to find the breath. He still couldn’t feel the wound.

Stone, helmetless now, gently removed Fox’s helmet and set it aside so that he could rest his hand on the back of Fox’s head. “Ssssh. You don’t have to say anything, Fox.”

Fox still struggled to try to speak, even as Stone’s expression sunk deeper into pain watching him fight. There was so much he wanted to tell him. He wanted to thank him for his love, reminisce with him about the time they had spent together on Coruscant and the few interactions they’d had back on Kamino, assure him that he would be the perfect successor as the commander of the guard. But breath escaped him and he was too tired to mouth the words he wanted to say.

“It’s okay, Fox. You can rest.” Stone’s grip tightened on Fox’s body as he brought their foreheads together. “Give the boys and Riyo my love. Rest.”

With Stone holding him, safe, Fox closed his eyes. The sensation of Stone’s body against his was fading, but a new sensation of smaller, delicate and soft hands was upon his face. He thought that he could smell the scent of makeup and formal clothing as the hands brushed across his skin. When everything but the soft touch had faded away, he gave in to Riyo’s embrace.

#foxiyo #commander fox #riyo chuchi #commander thire #commander stone #foxiyoweek2020 #my fics

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aesop1 · 4 years

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the office documentary [1]

jungkook x reader

a/n: hello, this was something on my mind and i wrote it down.

word count: 7.2k

warnings: none

-------------------------

jungkook was ecstatic when he finally received the call he'd been waiting for all week: he got the job. it wasn't a very major career or anything, but it was something he thoroughly enjoyed doing and couldn't wait to start his first day of work. it was a long term project, so as long as he didn't fuck anything up, he'd have a steady source of income for a good few years.

what could his job be, you may ask?

he was a cameraman.

his intrigue in photography began at a young age, blossoming into a full fledge desire to capture everything on film by the time he had become a teenager. photos lined his walls, his computer was overflowing with nonsensical videos of his friends or his travels; he loved to be behind the camera. he fully believed that filming and photographing were the most surefire ways to salvage your life's memories. he didn't dare trust his unreliable pea brain to remember the most valuable moments of his life.

photography gave color to his childhood, ensured that he could relive his best of times at the flick of a page in his many albums. filmography intensified those colors tenfold, still leaving him awestruck at how vivid his memories relapsed when rewatching his videos. he knew that he had to hold a camera wherever he wound up in life.

it was actually a friend of jungkook's who suggested he take this job, having come across a 'help wanted' ad on Instagram. he leapt at the opportunity, sending his resume in and awaiting the news. he didn't know exactly what he had signed up for, all he knew was that he was going to be a cameraman for an up and coming documentary titled "The Office." it sounded boring as all hell, but he couldn't care less. he got the job and he was going to take whatever came at him because he loved filming more than anything else.

it was on his first day that he realized how... monotonous his new job was. how wasteful it seemed to be, taking up precious storage and time and for what? some dull, meaningless office supply middle man by the name of "Big Hit." they didn't make their own paper, so he couldn't document the creation of such a reliable resource. there was no action, the whole floor consisting of adults ranging from their 20s to their 60s just sitting in some boring chairs at some boring desks, fiddling with their boring computers all day.

he tried to remind himself that first days were always boring, especially in this case. it was the beginning of the documentary and the film crew had to introduce all of the employees to the viewers. one after the other, the subject would state their name, their occupation, why they started working here, what they want out of life, so on and so forth. jungkook sat back, not having anything to do at the moment and just listening to these people drone on and on about their useless, middle class lives. some people were just not made for the camera, not intended to interact with it at all; from their awkward glances to the crew behind it to their constant periods of silence where their brain shut down on them, he sympathized with the poor, deprived camera documenting all of this. jungkook was about to tear his hair from his scalp the minute a namjoon sat down and kept giggling, rubbing the back of his head nervously, more 'umm's and 'ahh's than actual words coming from his mouth. jungkook hadn't known the true definition of relief until that man finally rose with a bow and evacuated the room.

"these candidates are so dry, aren't they?" another cameraman, taehyung, strode over to where jungkook sat, plopping beside him with a hefty sigh and a lopsided grin. they were the youngest of the crew, and jungkook grew rather close to him during the first hour or so of setting up. "I've been screaming inside for the past half hour."

"tell me about it," jungkook breathed out heavily, slouching in his chair and waiting for the next spectacle to commence. "how can they film a show on such a boring cast of people?"

"well, I would still definitely watch," taehyung retaliated with his signature goofy snicker, patting a rhythm to his corduroy clad thighs while smiling to the younger man. "call me unique, but I see something very... genuine with this production." jungkook narrowed his eyes to taehyung. he was quite the outlier to other people, seeing the world in a shade of yellow which kept his mood extremely optimistic. jungkook admired his outlook on life greatly, never having met someone so naturally radiant, so he sat silently, fully intending to soak in everything taehyung was about to say with a new perspective in mind. "reality shows say they're reality, of course, but we all know they're scripted." jungkook nodded, expelling some air from his nose in a soft laugh. "this, though, this show." taehyung leaned back, eyes darting around the briefing room they were situated in. "it's really awe inspiring. to see the lives of those we wouldn't spare a passing glance to." he looked over to jungkook, a shimmer in his eyes that jungkook truly was envying. "there's just something so beautiful about the ordinary. life consists of the extravagant and the average, and both of them make living worth while."

"you know, you're a pretty alright dude, taehyung," jungkook elbowed the guy beside him, shooting a grin back at him. he wished he could see the significance of this documentary the way taehyung did. before taehyung could respond, the producer shuffled in with a small girl in tow.

she wore typical officer attire; a grey cardigan layered over a simple white collared shirt, tucked into a loose fitting black skirt. her hair was tied back and out of her face, revealing a painstakingly stoic expression plastered onto her face. with one analysis of her, jungkook concluded that she had to have been the youngest soul in this office, dare he say even younger than him. she took a seat before the camera, scanning the room of crew members with that same blank look, her eyes glazed with a sheen of boredom. he couldn't help but feel a pang of shame towards her. to not appreciate the effort put forth to document her life, a position many aspiring stars would kill for.

"okay, so just like I was saying before," the producer, Nick, had began, sitting in a chair beside the camera facing her. "just look at the camera, and introduce yourself. then, we'll ask questions and you just go along with it." she gave a curt nod and directed her attention to said device. jungkook began feeling the flares of jealousy creeping through his system as he took note of her through the small screen behind the camera; she was a natural. her gaze was unnecessarily intense, and he felt he suddenly understood the purpose of America's Next Top Model. how could someone who appeared to be so disconnected from reality draw so much passion from within. yet beneath his broiling rage, he could feel the kindling of an admiration for her and her mystery.

"hello, my name is (y/n)," she began, never breaking from the lenses aimed at her. "I am the youngest in accounting and in the office in general."

"how did you get this job?" Nick questioned her.

"my uncle was a salesman here, and he put in a recommendation for me. he retired a few months ago, though. I stayed."

"why are you working here?"

"I needed a decent job to pay for college."

"what do you want in life?"

"not sure yet. haven't thought that far ahead."

"okay, and what do you think about this show?"

for the first time since she sat down, she paused to consider her words, eyes finally straying from the camera to opt for the ceiling. other than the averting of her gaze, she remained as statuesque as ever. after a mere 5 seconds or so, she returned to the camera.

"I think it's a rather bad idea," she answered honestly, piquing the interest of Nick facing his first bad opinion of the day. "nothing happens here. we're just office suppliers. I don't think anyone would ever want to watch this show." jungkook grew increasingly irritated with her. how ungrateful could someone be? truly, she had to be the most dense human in this city. although he felt the same way about this show, she was the one gaining fame from it. how can a subject from some unknown suburb not leap at the chance for the spotlight.

"alright, thank you for your honesty," Nick chuckled out, gaining a few more laughs from the others. she, however, remained unmoving, offering a wry grin in response. she was dismissed, leaving jungkook steaming in his chair. he didn't understand this show, and now he didn't understand these people. as a result of this confusion, he didn't understand taehyung's words which he had tried so desperately to grasp. in a seething rage, he silently glared at her departing form, vowing to make something of this documentary series; vowing to prove her, and ultimately himself, wrong.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 2 years later *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"welcome back, everyone," Nick announced, calling for the attention of the crew around him. jungkook sat beside taehyung, pushing back his unruly curls that have amassed over the years. taehyung had dyed his once golden locks to a dark brown, also allowing for a mop of fluff to overtake his features. the two continued to spend their free time hanging out together, earning their title as brothers. their nearly identically long locks hadn't helped their case, but they didn't seem to care. in their eyes, they were very nearly brothers in just two years. "as you all may know, our second season was a complete success." this earned a room full of applause from the production crew, including the two boys seated in the back corner. jungkook had put his heart and soul into filming. it wasn't much, but he put all of his efforts into capturing whatever piqued his interest. it had worked, and he slowly became the lead cameraman amongst their crew. "thank you to everyone. your work is greatly appreciated, but now is the time for season three."

"can you believe it's already the third season," taehyung leaned over, listening intently to their producer who began discussing plans for this season.

"I really can't," jungkook responded. the first season was very... vague. as it should be, the personalities of the workers having to build and develop for the viewer. jungkook was praised for his abilities to catch the best moments. whether it be the chaos surrounding the office, the humourous occurrences that would've never been seen, or the most endearing of moments between lovers, Nick had begun relying on him to capture the focal point of each episode. which is how their second season had accumulated thousands more viewers over the summer hiatus.

"jungkook, taehyung, I'm going to need you two for this season," Nick pointed over to the two, scanning his papers once more. "we've compiled our focus group results for the past two seasons and have found our one weak point that you guys have to fix this year. are you willing to take the challenge?"

"of course, sir," taehyung answered for the both of them, knowing how competitive jungkook gets when he hears the word 'challenge.' he already knew his friend was ready to bury himself in his work.

"great, so I'm going to need at least one of you two on (y/n) at all times," Nick stated, causing jungkook to finally sit up for the first time since the meeting began.

"uhh, Nick," jungkook began, leaning an elbow on his knee to lean closer from his distance. "yeah, I don't know if you know this yet, but (y/n) is an impossible feat. I've already tried to find some semblance of... personality from her, but she lacks any."

"yeah, poor girl," Nick sighed, finally looking up from his paper to stare at the wall across from him. "which is why I need you two on that. I really want some positive reviews on her by our next focus group testing, so get on that." without another word on the matter, Nick continued on, giving more roles to his crew.

jungkook groaned to himself, falling back onto his chair and shutting his eyes. how was he supposed to draw any charisma from her? for the years he's known her, she follows the same routine every day. get to work, do work, eat lunch at desk while working, then work some more. she rarely ever gets up to mingle, keeping to herself most days or only whispering to the other accountants around her. jungkook had only captured one entertaining moment from her, and he was praised for a good month afterwards. albeit, all he did was zoom in on her drinking coffee in the break room whilst ignoring a full fledged argument beside her, but it briefly became a meme. how could he beat the 'that's none of my business' meme he managed to bring to life? he was brought out of his dissociating by a hand resting on his shoulder. it was taehyung, alerting him that it was time to leave. production would start in one week, so jungkook had one more week of relaxation before having to embark on his most tasking duty.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

jungkook leant against the filing cabinets beside him, camera resting on his shoulder, but not recording. his aim was on (y/n), as it was forced to be, and neither of them enjoyed it. it had already been about a month of production; a month since jungkook was obligated to partner with her and a month since she was his designated subject for the season. taehyung was free to roam around and record whatever his heart desires, but jungkook was grounded to (y/n) and (y/n) only.

what a waste of his talents. of film. of the productions time. he wanted to leap out of the window beside him just to take him out of his misery of accounting. he kept promising himself that he'd smash his camera right then and there if he heard one more click of the calculator, yet each time the calculator was pulled out, jungkook found himself grumbling quietly and fiddling with whatever he could get his hands on.

the other young accountant on their team, namjoon, was actually quite the riot for jungkook. well, when it came down to accountants. he made jungkook laugh quite a bit, and knew to get back to work whenever their bosses were around. workers weren't allowed to waste company time, and production crew members weren't allowed to converse with the subjects. did they really obey to that rule? not really, considering jungkook and taehyung have begun going out with jimin from the mailroom and hoseok from sales. he made a mental note to add namjoon to that list after the man had run about the office like a headless chicken when he spilled some tea on his khakis. of course, (y/n) just stared blankly, head resting on her propped hand as her coworker hollered for napkins before the beverage stained (which it most likely wouldn't have, considering it was leaf water).

the end of the day finally arrived, the clock having finished it's mocking towards jungkook. he packed his camera haphazardly, ready to head home and entertain his dying brain. if he were a sim, his fun levels would be nearly red. the thought of hopping onto his pc and gaming till daybreak tickled his mind and he couldn't think of a better way to end his miserable week.

when he thought he was home free, the beacon of sin known as Nick appeared from the doorway of the manager's office.

"jungkook," he summoned, motioning to enter the room with a head tilt, lips pressed in a tight line of disappointment. anxiety welled up in jungkook's stomach as he made his way into the room.

upon arrival, (y/n) was already seated and slumped over in a chair before her manager and his. wordlessly, he sat beside her, not bothering to look her way as she hadn't for him.

"before we begin, we sincerely apologize for the... inevitable outcome of this meeting," her manager, Thomas, stared downwards at his desk, pushing aside some papers from the center of his desk.

"jungkook, it's been a month since this season has started, and you still haven't given me anything on (y/n)," Nick chastised, leaning against the wall behind the managers desk.

"it's literally not my fault, I have the camera on her every second of every day and she gives me nothing," jungkook defended. he didn't dare glance her way, knowing that her jaw would be tightened as it always becomes when she's frustrated.

"I can confirm that," she instead agreed, raising her hand in agreance.

"and while I do applaud you for your resilience in work, we need you to make a larger effort into this documentary." Thomas informed, finally looking up to meet (y/n)'s gaze.

"why?" both (y/n) and jungkook questioned. they glared at each other for a second before focusing on their bosses once more. (y/n) was just an accountant, she felt no need to smile for the cameras raiding her workplace. jungkook found intrigue in the other inhabitants of the office, he didn't understand why this girl specifically needed the spotlight.

"what you guys don't understand is that she's integral to the show," Nick pushed himself off the wall and staggered over to the desk. "we don't have to focus on the warehouse workers because they're not constantly in the limelight." Thomas nodded, sitting straight in his desk as he listened to his colleague. "she, however, is in the office, a documentary on ///everyone/// in here. the first two seasons were funny with her as a silent role, but viewers are curious, they want more of her. they want to know more about that beautiful girl who stunned the audiences with just her eyes. we must listen to the viewers."

"I'm pretty sure my absence from the show won't drastically affect the views." (y/n) crossed her arms indignantly, a blush creeping upon her face nonetheless. Thomas analyzed her for a moment, searching for any sign of wavering before sighing aloud and signalling for Nick to close the door.

"(y/n), do you remember years ago when our department became nearly barren?" he asked, to which she nodded. "do you know why we became so empty?"

"everybody was being transferred around," she answered simply with a careless shrug.

"they were being transferred because of that form you had to sign. I remember talking to you about this because I had only mentioned being transferred, and you signed the papers because you didn't want to be transferred. you didn't hear the conditions."

"what are you getting at?" she muttered, her resolve faltering as she began picking up what he was hinting at.

"you signed the form as a complacency to participate in this documentary and become an active and willing subject."

(y/n) went pale, realizing what she signed herself into. she was young, and she couldn't stray far from home. now that she's older, she'd be willing to move, but at what cost? giving up her comfortable apartment? a sustainable job? to move to a foreign city hours away from her home just to steer clear of this documentary? she felt her stomach tie in knots and her head hung low in disappointment.

"I'm sure you realize the circumstances of your lack of cooperation."

"I understand, sir," she sighed out, leaning forward to bury her face in her hands.

as much as jungkook hated it, his heart ached for her. she really didn't ask to be put in this position. she just needed a job. he began feeling the ebbs of guilt rising up, and he quickly turned his face to his lap in shame of his neglect to her over the years. he forgot that many people don't want to be famous.

"and (y/n), you really are essential," Nick rushed in to interject before the atmosphere got too sullen. "many people are curious about you! they want to see more of you."

"it is true, I've read a lot of the reviews of the episodes," Thomas added, offering a small grin to the girl in question. this did nothing to alter (y/n)'s current state, chewing on her bottom lip and fiddling with her skirt.

"the people want more of you, (y/n). give us the opportunity to offer to the viewers what they want."

she stayed silent, almost as if she hadn't even heard a word that was said to her, but she heard every word, struggling to digest it all whilst also battling the conflicting thoughts occurring in her muddled mind. she already knew her answer, but she couldn't fess up to it. jungkook felt remorse for her, surprisingly understanding her situation and her grief. a small part of him reached out to her, promising to make this trial of hers easy for however long it took. oh how this simple girl has affected him so.

with a broken 'okay' from (y/n), the duo were dismissed. jungkook found himself naturally accompanying his subject, not as a cameraman, but as a coworker. the ride in the elevator and the walk to the parking lot was deathly quiet, but he made sure she got in her car before he followed suit into his own vehicle. puffing out an exhausted sigh, he watched as she retreated from her workplace and her problems temporarily. with her absence, it allowed him to soak in everything which just happened.

"tomorrow will be an eventful day."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* the next day *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"so what's your plan exactly?" taehyung asked, biting into his granola bar with a tilt of his head. jungkook pursed his lips together, knowing that what taehyung was eating was actually his whole breakfast. deciding to ignore the lack of nourishments his friend was receiving, he continued setting up his camera.

"I'm not sure," he stated simply. "I just need to get her more interesting footage."

"yeah, I get you." jungkook stood and began making his way down the hall to accounting, taehyung following suit. "I can slip a note to namjoon to set her up or something?"

"no, I want it to come naturally. that's always the best content."

"you're really serious about this, aren't you?" taehyung nudged jungkook reassuringly before diverting into the sales room to visit his friends.

jungkook switched his camera on, resting it on his shoulder as usual. he studied the grey carpet beneath his feet through the small screen, making sure everything was in order before he finally pushed the accounting door open.

upon entering, he was greeted by the sight of all the accountants laughing and cheering. he froze in his steps as he spotted (y/n) at the front of the enthused crowd. she rolled a paper ball in her hands intently, eyes trained on an object on the wall and completely disregarding jungkook's presence at the door. with a small hop in her step, she tossed the ball into the air, jungkook naturally following the makeshift ball with his camera as it landed flawlessly through the miniature basketball hoop positioned on the opposing wall. a resounding chorus of hurrahs washed over the small group and jungkook captured all of it, including the beaming grin across (y/n)'s face. namjoon massaged her shoulders encouragingly as the others began high fiving her and congratulating her.

jungkook grinned to himself as she continued to glow, brightening the room with a dazzling, one-in-a-million smile. her eyes shone with such mirth, akin to a child's wonderment at an amusement park. jungkook found himself admiring her raw joy, giving himself a moment more to soak in her radiance before continuing his filming. namjoon finally took note of jungkook and retracted from (y/n), bouncing over to him instead.

"do you want me for the interview to explain why we're pumped, or would you like (y/n)?" namjoon asked once jungkook lowered his camera. jungkook glanced over at (y/n) who was currently speaking to one of the other older accountants, that damned smile still affecting jungkook in ways he hadn't known were possible.

"I'll take (y/n)."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"okay, so just like you've seen everyone else, just casually talk to the camera like you would namjoon or someone else." jungkook had realized a little too late that this was (y/n)'s first personal camera moment. they had pulled everyone else for confessions at some point through the series, but (y/n) was never given the opportunity.

"okay, I understand," she answered with a curt nod. jungkook studied her one last time before nodding and starting the camera. at the sight of the green light, she straightened up and began. "usually, the end of the fiscal year consists of loads of work for the accountants as we have to wrap things up pretty quickly. usually namjoon and I work ahead so we can work leisurely towards the end and help the other accountants." she took the briefest of moments to glance back behind the camera to jungkook, almost as if for reassurance. he gave her a twitch of a smile and she then turned back to the camera. "without any deliberation, the accountants had all finished their work early. so now we have a whole day of doing nothing. we've decided to occupy ourselves as best as we can."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

it was as if fate had finally decided to work with jungkook and (y/n) for once, as jungkook had received plenty of footage for his weekly report and (y/n) seemed to be completely recovered from yesterday's bad news. today showed a whole new (y/n) different from the prior seasons. a (y/n) who managed to make a tower of index of cards that almost reached the ceiling. a (y/n) who reached nearly 5000 on the Google dinosaur game. a (y/n) who performed a one woman interpretation of Shrek 2 in less than 45 minutes.

a (y/n) who has completely changed jungkook's opinions of her.

he was somewhat proud of himself, but almost entirely of her. how she was able to overcome such an obstacle of fear in one night and become an entirely new person, but at the same time keep her own unique traits that never really showed. jungkook had realized the camera truly did love her, she just contained herself at all times. today, she blossomed as a rose bloom would; such refined integrity in each step, beauty in her own individual way.

jungkook was about to leave the office when he was once again summoned to the manager's office, his nerves alighting like a campfire. he closed his eyes in gratitude as he didn't spot (y/n), meaning she was clear for the night. at least he hoped. instead, taehyung sat with his leg propped over the other.

"jungkook, we've decided to have you and taehyung stationed at (y/n)'s house," Nick said, not even allowed jungkook to digest his words. "you both will be there until 8, which I believe is a reasonable time, hopefully you'll catch something good–"

"Nick, I already have a lot of footage from today," he interjected, gesturing to his camera bag leaning outside the door.

"I'm sure you do, as you always manage to pull something together," he continued, a slight tone of annoyance spiking his intonation. "however, tomorrow is the day we give our first focus group of season three the raw footage. I need to make sure we have something. so tonight, you're both going to her house to get some last minute footage in case today wasn't enough."

"will do, sir," taehyung answered, standing and lugging jungkook out of the room before he could snap back. "dude, just go along with it. no harm in getting extra footage."

"I realize that, taehyung, but..." jungkook trailed off as he spotted her in the distance, walking out of accounting with namjoon. her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, some strands escaping the confines of the hairband to obscure her vision, to which she pulled them back with a delicate touch across her cheeks to behind her ear. ebbs of joy still lightened her mood, a small smile gracing her features. happy looked good on her. very good.

i don't want to tarnish that smile.

jungkook couldn't voice his thoughts as she grew closer to taehyung and him, and yet jungkook remained staring at her.

"hey guys," namjoon nodded his head to the two before him, (y/n) lingering beside him. "what's going on?"

"nothing of significance," taehyung replied coolly, turning down to face a startled (y/n). "jungkook and I are on (y/n) duties tonight, so we'll be at your house til 8. is that okay with you?"

"I guess," she replied quicker than she intended, processing the words told to her after her response. she glanced at the three boys before her and then turned away to the elevator. once she was out of earshot, namjoon clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"I love her, I really do," he began, crossing his arms and keeping his gaze on the lift she disappeared into. "but she can be so dry." shifting to face taehyung, he tilted his head in question. "you really think you guys can get anything good tonight?"

"all we can do is try," taehyung replied.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

as jungkook drove, following the monotonous droning of his phone guiding him to (y/n)'s apartmemt, all he could think of was what he was about to experience. the quietest girl in the office and what she does after work.

what could she possibly do during her free time? she doesn't seem like the type to go clubbing, or the type to have girls nights to gossip. she doesn't seem like the sociable type, but they always say to watch out for the quiet ones.

silently, he prayed to get some good footage. he was beginning to like her, and he just hoped the audience could follow suit. see the true nature behind this background character and her undeniable charm. he began grinning as he reminisced on that golden smile of hers. she was a happy virus, he'll give her that. even if nothing comes of this late night endeavor, he knew that she'd gain quite the crowd with just her laugh from today.

he pulled into an apartment complex, checking his phone for the floor and apartment number before heading into the building itself.

303, 304, 305

he stopped before a 306, taking a moment to gather his semblance of professionality before raising his fist and knocking at the door. there were a few seconds of silence before the door swung open, revealing a taehyung bearing his signature squared off grin.

"welcome to casa de (y/n)." jungkook rolled his eyes and trudged past his friend, tossing his camera bag on the closest kitchen counter. "she's changing right now. I scolded her for still wearing work clothes when this has to be natural."

"good, thanks for being ahead of the game." jungkook scanned his surroundings. a quaint apartment, mute tones. it was definitely cozy, a welcoming embrace already trying to lure him into sitting on the couch watching TV all day. however, even jungkook could see someone else lived in this domicile. books neatly stacked in bookshelves while magazines were strewn across the coffee table. some small plants were very much real and taken care of, and then there were some fake plants collecting dust. and if those indicators weren't enough, there were also many shoes of varying styles and sizes adorning the front door, and he knows (y/n) would never step foot out of this apartment with those glittery red heels that caught his eye before brushing past taehyung.

another thing jungkook couldn't help but notice was the lack of masculine items in the room. no pictures of boyfriends, or oversized hoodies laying about. either they were well hidden, or both of these girls were single.

"stop snooping, she'll come out any minute," taehyung scolded, emerging from the kitchen with a water bottle.

"I'm not snooping, I'm acknowledging," jungkook sassed, stepping back nonetheless to unpack his camera. "wheres her roommate?"

"she went out to a friend's house, Snoopy."

"Snoopy. how long did it take you to come up with that?"

"it was in the heat of the moment, but now I'm kind of regretting not saying Snoop Dogg."

"that would've been better, but I wasn't snooping. I'm just a very good analyzer."

"oh, yeah, sure, of course..." taehyung paused, racking his brain for any new variation of 'snoop' he could use. with a snort, jungkook shook his head and powered on his camera.

"take your time–"

"I'm back." jungkook whirled around in time to spot (y/n) plodding out of her room with sweatpants and a t shirt. "I didn't want to be too informal, I know you said– oh hi jungkook."

"hello," jungkook sighed out, eyes falling upon her relaxed form. her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft tendrils, framing her face in such a delicate manner, jungkook was left breathless. she adorned the softest of smiles, a smile that would put the mona lisa to shame. she embodied the grace of a marble statue, crafted by the hands of michelangelo himself. his jaw fell agape at the sight of the comfortable appearance, as if she hadn't a care in the world while on the contrary she carried so much weight on her.

"so what do you want me to do?" her question knocked jungkook right out of his stupor and he forced his eyes away from her.

"we need you to just do your everyday thing," taehyung explained, giving her a reassuring grin. "it would be easier to get some footage if we had another person with us, but we'll make do."

"I can call my neighbor," she offered, shrugging her shoulders. "she's usually not doing anything." before the boys could answer, she was already making a beeline to the apartment across from hers, allowing for taehyung to turn to jungkook with a raised brow.

"what was that all about?"

"what do you mean?" jungkook took a seat at one of the barstools, fiddling with the worn leather handle of his camera.

"dude, you were ogling," taehyung leaned next to him, scanning for any sort of give away that he may be too distracted for this task.

"it's nothing, I've just never seen her let go before. it's refreshing." jungkook thanked the heavens above that he managed to find his words and not make it seem completely creepy that he was indeed staring.

"oh, you're right," taehyung chuckled, pushing himself up to stand straight again. "for a second I thought you were crushing. you're right, though. it is nice to see her when she's not completely straight faced."

jungkook's eyes widened. crushing? he would never. that was their one rule; don't interact with the subjects. that's a big no with Nick. of course taehyung breaks that rule to hang out with his friends, but that's friendship. love would change the playing field entirely. he couldn't imagine one of the crew just willingly throwing away their job to pursue some romance with no potential.

before he could dwell any longer on his thoughts, she ran in with a girl in tow.

"everyone, this is Cindi, she's willing to help me."

"yeah, she promised to cook me dinner one of these days, and I feel this is a perfect opportunity," the friend explained, smiling over to (y/n).

"great idea," taehyung gave a thumbs up excitedly before pulling his camera up from the table. "okay, let's get to the kitchen."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

jungkook was pleased with the footage he was getting. there was nothing extravagant, but it really showed her humanity. how she interacted normally with friends, her genuine laughter, all of it was gold to him. he had to bite his lip when he had managed to catch her choking on cilantro, zooming into her face just as she gagged and started choking. why she decided to try raw cilantro, he didn't know. nonetheless, he was undeniably satisfied with how smooth everything was coming out (and his potential new meme).

"how fast can you chop the celery?" Cindi asked, stirring some noodles by the stove while (y/n) was prepping the vegetables. she looked up towards the cameras, looking to taehyung and jungkook for a second as if verifying she had heard correctly before turning back to her cutting board.

"not to brag, but I am a mean dicer." within 10 seconds, the entire celery stick was chopped, albeit slightly messy. jungkook's muscles relaxed, having clenched unknowingly during her risky endeavor. Cindi nodded, examining her friend's work with gusto.

"not bad, mean dicer," she chuckled out, taking the cutting board to add the celery to the noodles. (y/n) leaned into her counter, twirling her knife between her fingers.

"what can I say, they don't call me the mean dicer for no–" the knife stuttered in her fingers, causing her to lose grip of it. the utensil hopped about from one hand to another until she finally got a grasp of it. unluckily for her, it was the sharp end, causing her to immediately release her death grip on the blade with a gasp.

jungkook was frozen. his eyes strayed from the screen to her hand in real life. she was clutching her wrist in pain, examining her splayed out, trembling palm. jungkook tightened his hold on the device, waiting for something, anything, and at the first sight of crimson, he was tossing his camera onto the counter and rushing over to her before he could think. he took her hand from her, watching as more blood began to accumulate across the plane of skin.

he began dragging her away, down the hall to the only open door of the house which just so happened to be the bathroom. placing his hands on her hips, he lifted her up and placed her on the sink counter before digging through her drawers and medicine cabinet for a first aid kit. once attained, he pulled her hand beneath the faucet to wash away the blood before then wetting a rag with alcohol.

"this is going to hurt, please don't cry," he whispered to her before pressing the cloth down. she winced, biting her lip and closing her eyes as she soaked in the stinging sensation. jungkook removed the alcohol soaked rag from her and began tying bandages around her hands before blood could build up again, and with a knot at the end, jungkook finished in record time. "are you okay?" jungkook cradled her injured hand in his, staring at his work as if it could come undone any moment.

"yes, thank you," she breathed out, her eyes glued onto the man before her. never has anyone gone to such an extent to assure her well being. she could've easily just clutched a towel for a few minutes and dealt with the pain later, but here she was being nurtured by a man she's known of for 2 years, but is only just now beginning to meet properly.

at this proximity, she really noticed how... endearing he looks. soft lashes encircling large, round eyes. curly black locks falling over his forehead. light, dewy skin that just screams, "dermatologists hate him." he was rather handsome. why hasn't she ever noticed him before?

"I'm sorry to cut this little game of doctor, but I think Cindi is going to somehow burn the noodles," taehyung whispered out, having been standing at the entrance of the bathroom the entire time.

"oh, my bad," (y/n) hopped down from the counter before rushing off to the kitchen, trying to erase whatever just happened from her memory. meanwhile, jungkook felt the stabs of anxiety piercing his heart, knowing that he just broke the cardinal rule; interacting with the subject.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

jungkook felt like throwing up come Monday. they had to turn in their memory to the editors of the show who would compile the best of the raw footage to show the focus group. which meant that chanyeol, the lead editor, would definitely put in his little knife mishap just for giggles. he almost dreaded to see said man, knowing that he'd just give knowing smiles to him everytime they passed each other.

jungkook's fears seemed to prove correct as he was immediately called into the manager's office again where Nick and Thomas sat patiently. he found himself sighing from relief again as (y/n) was no where in sight, meaning it had nothing to do with her and her footage; just him and his disobedience.

"sit, jungkook," Nick started. "we wanted to talk about the footage you got last week."

"look..." jungkook began, already leaning forward in his seat. "i–"

"you did great," Thomas interjected, mouth stretched from ear to ear to show his approval. "never in all the years that I've known (y/n) knew she was such a sweetheart."

"it really was incredible footage, and you already know a promotion is on the way." Nick continued to which jungkook replied with a dramatic jaw dropping. "now here's the... interesting part." jungkook closed his mouth to gulp, folding his hands in front of him nervously.

"the focus group loved (y/n)." Thomas explained, Nick nodding behind him.

"they did." Nick looked down to the ground, arms crossed over his chest. "and they also loved you." jungkook was completely shocked. his stomach didn't know whether to flutter from gratitude or drop from nervousness. "jungkook, you broke our main rule."

"i-i know." jungkook looked down at the desk, tracing the dark lines of the mahogany with his eyes. "it was just in the heat of the moment, I panicked. she was hurt. I didn't know what the protocol was for that."

"you're not in trouble." Nick reassured, looking up and extending a hand as an offer of peace.

"actually, your promotion has some... strings attached," Thomas twiddled his thumbs to fill the awkwardness building up. jungkook awaited the fine print, not thinking anything bad of it. with one last sigh, Nick stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"you're going to have to date (y/n)."

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction

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