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kunareads · 2 months ago

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if i believe you | chapter six

i did not come to bring peace

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 7.5k (sorry)

a/n: my own open wound is splattered all over this chapter. i promise i will stop torturing them soon i'm very sorry. if you see a typo please tell me i did proofread but the chapter is long!

content: angst again :D panic attack, religious trauma, internalized shame, hurt/comfort but not really.

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

satoru is in a good mood today. he woke up before the sun with the kind of lazy satisfaction that stretches into everything, making even a morning in the main estate feel manageable.

business is business, but it’s easier to handle with the warmth of last night’s kiss still thrumming under his skin. and, admittedly, with the thought of seeing you later.

he’s restless with it. this need to see you, to be near to you, to find some excuse to talk to you like he’s not supposed to be doing anything else. maybe he’ll bring you something from the market. fresh fruit, your favorite snacks. maybe flowers, if he feels like showing off. just to see that smile you’ve been trying so hard to hide from him.

he likes giving you things.

but the thought comes with a flicker of something quieter. even now, you hesitate. your fingers hover a little too long before you accept anything he offers. like you’re still deciding if you’re allowed to take what he so freely gives.

but it’s getting better. he sees it in the way your hands shake less and your voice sounds more like you.

he wonders if you’ve been thinking about last night the way he is. if you’re turning it over in your mind, wondering what it means. wondering if it’s okay to want more.

his lips twitch. he’ll show you soon enough.

but then the knock comes.

“come in.”

the servant’s face is pale, mouth pressed into a line that can’t quite hide their unease. “the lady’s parents have arrived, sir. they’re waiting in the main hall.”

his mood shatters. it’s an effort not to crumple the paper in his hand, the edges already curling under his fingertips.

no warning. no notice. they’re just here.

he’s grateful for his blindfold, because whatever’s written across his face right now would probably turn the poor boy in front of him to stone.

they didn’t send word because they wanted to catch him off guard. more importantly, they wanted to catch you off guard. see things for themselves. see you without the safety net of preparation.

the irritation that simmers in his chest is almost comforting, familiar in a way he doesn’t want to admit. but it’s laced with something else.

fear.

because you’ve only just started to feel safe here, with him.

he’s out of his seat before he realizes, striding through the halls with a purpose that feels instinctual—the sudden need to confront them where they are rather than have them brought to him like guests.

because they’re not guests. they’re intruders.

the main hall feels colder than usual when he reaches it. they stand like they own the fucking place—your mother poised, her back too straight, hands clasped in front of her in a show of her own composure. your father, stiff beside her, eyes sweeping the room with the kind of scrutiny that sets satoru’s teeth on edge.

they’re looking for faults, for signs of neglect, for anything they can hold against you.

he schools his expression into something controlled, forces his voice into something polite but not welcoming. “i wasn’t expecting you.”

“clearly,” your mother replies, not even trying to disguise her disapproval. “i would have expected our daughter to be the one greeting us.”

“she’s busy.”

his voice is flat, sharp around the edges. he knows it’s a mistake the second it’s out, but he won’t take it back.

your mother’s gaze narrows, a subtle shift, but he catches it all the same. “i see,” she says, and it’s the kind of thing that sounds like an agreement but isn’t.

his patience is wearing thin. he can feel frustration boiling under his skin, hot and restless. the same anger he’s felt since a child for people who think they know better. who measure worth in posture and tone and obedience. who think they’ll just show up here and find their daughter exactly as they left her.

“i’ll have you brought to her shortly,” he says. “in the meantime, you can wait here.”

your mother’s mouth twitches like she’s biting back something unpleasant. your father barely looks at him, his gaze shifting toward the door as if he’s done assessing the room and found it lacking.

satoru doesn’t wait for a reply. he turns on his heel and leaves, storm already building inside him as he makes his way to your home.

he’s moving too quickly, steps too sharp as he stalks down the pathway and into the house. the staff who pass him keep their heads down—some out of respect, others out of caution. a few glance up with careful eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge them like he normally would. he can’t. not when his mind is already running circles around what’s about to happen.

what he’s about to ruin.

he tries to pull himself out of it, tries to focus on anything but the exasperation winding around his chest. but it’s impossible not to notice you scattered around the house.

a neatly folded shawl draped over the arm of the couch. a half-finished cup of tea on the windowsill, abandoned this morning. a book open on the table—one he gave you—its spine gently cracked, a frayed ribbon marking where you left off.

you’ve been making this place your own.

he sees it now, all the quiet proof that you’ve been settling in, letting yourself be here in a way you hadn’t before. and they’re here to unravel it. to remind you of the version of yourself you’ve only just begun to shed.

his hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms.

he shouldn’t be this angry. shouldn’t be this desperate to keep you from shrinking into that quiet, docile silence you wore like armor. but he is, because he’s seen what you look like when you smile without thinking, when your hands move freely, when you look him in the eye.

and he wants that for you. more than he knows how to say.

he’s almost at the door when he hears it—quiet humming drifting through an open window.

he stops.

his irritation stills, displaced by something softer rising in its place.

you’re in the garden.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the sun is climbing high, the air thick with warmth and the scent of soil. your back is sore, there’s dirt under your nails, and your clothes are wrinkled beyond saving—but you feel good, peaceful. the kind of peace you’ve been slowly learning how to hold.

no one’s watching, no one’s standing over your shoulder, pointing out your mistakes. it’s just you and the plants you’ve been coaxing into something alive.

you’ve been thinking about last night. about satoru—how much you learned about him, how gently he listened to you. the feel of his lips, the way his fingers threaded so carefully through your hair. the way he looked at you, bright and quiet and almost reverent.

the memory comes with a small thrill, your cheeks going warm and your chest tightening.

you want to kiss him again.

you want to kiss him without feeling clumsy or uncertain. and you want him to kiss you, too.

it’s a quiet realization, but it’s not shameful. it feels nice.

you didn’t know this feeling existed.

maybe that’s why you’ve been out here so long. because the idea of seeing him makes you a little dizzy.

you sink your hands back into the soil, your fingers finding the stems of new growth. you let yourself feel happy.

“hey.”

the greeting startles you. your head snaps up, eyes landing on satoru at the entrance of the garden. his hair glows white under the sun, his expression unreadable under his blindfold, but familiar all the same.

a smile rises before you can help it, instinctive and unguarded. “satoru.”

he takes steps carefully down the stone pathway toward you, and for a split second, you think he’s going to smile back. he reaches out instead, his thumb tracing a line just below your eye. the touch is light, like he’s trying not to startle you. like he’s capturing something before it slips away.

“you’ve got dirt on your face,” he murmurs, brushing it away. and he doesn’t smile.

“is something wrong?” you ask. it’s concern, not yet panic.

“we have visitors,” he says carefully.

your stomach lurches. “visitors?”

“your parents,” he says, his voice steady, cautious—the same way it was the night you tried to offer yourself to him like some kind of penance. “they came unannounced. i came to tell you before they—”

the rest dissolves into white noise.

your parents. here.

the warmth you’ve been holding onto drains out of you as last night rises in your throat again, bitter now. you wonder if they’ll know. if your mother will look at you and see failure written across your skin.

you’re itchy all of a sudden. your clothes cling too tight. you’re covered in dirt and sweat, sleeves rolled, skirt stained from kneeling in the soil. far removed from the woman you’re supposed to be. the one they raised you to be.

“they weren’t supposed to come yet. i thought—i haven’t prepared anything.”

you’ve missed your parents in a complicated way. but missing them doesn’t mean you forgot. it was only a few weeks ago that you were under their roof, measured by their expectations, falling short even when everything was perfect.

and you know—even if your home is perfect and satoru is perfect and the staff are perfect—it won’t be enough.

even knowing they’d come eventually didn’t prepare you for the way your breath shrinks in your lungs.

your eyes flit around the tangled greenery, the leaves and petals and creeping vines. wild, uneven, full of life.

“she can’t see this.” your voice almost breaks. “it would embarrass her.”

satoru’s expression doesn’t change. “i can tell them to leave.”

you blink. “what?”

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” his voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it. “i can just make them leave.”

“they came all this way.”

“does that mean you owe them something?”

the words come out sharper than he means, frustration slipping through before he can stop it. he catches himself almost immediately. “you don’t have to see them just because they showed up,” he says, gentler now. “they can wait, or they can go. up to you.”

you shake your head. “they’re my parents.”

you don’t know what else to say. you can’t find the words to explain to him that it’s not that simple. that it’s not just about what they want—it’s what you owe. to them. to god. to the name you carry—carried? that you have to fit neatly into their expectations, even when you don’t know how. and that you don’t know how to unlearn that.

and you know—you know—that he would send them away if you asked him to. he’d do it without hesitation.

and for one aching, impossible moment, you want to let him. want to let him take you inside, shut the door, and pretend they were never here.

but they are.

and breathing feels like running underwater, the air thick and wrong and unwelcome.

“i’ll go,” you say, and it doesn’t even sound like your voice. your shoulders slump, the weight of obligation settling over you like it was never gone. it’s easier, in some terrible way, to fall back into the role they gave you than it is to fight it.

satoru’s eyes are still on you, searching, hoping. but whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.

he leaves you to clean yourself up, though stepping away from you makes his own discomfort twist tighter. the guilt starts immediately. he sends for your parents to be brought to the house, and the moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets it.

it feels like surrender. it feels like giving them permission to step back into your life and rip up everything you’ve only just started building.

the house feels too small once he’s back inside. every corner is loud with silence. his movements are sharp, mechanical, driven by restless dread.

he goes around collecting the scattered remnants of your morning. he picks up the shawl from the couch, puts it away even though he hopes it’ll be back where it was tomorrow. takes your cup from the windowsill, the tea cold now, and places it gently in the sink. finds your book and slides it back onto the shelf.

he’s making himself sick with it, this impulse to make everything perfect before they arrive. to beat their judgement.

he knows that’s what you’re doing, too. scrubbing the dirt from your skin and smoothing your hair and changing into something stiff and clean. erasing the version of you they haven’t approved.

the version he’s come to like best.

it shouldn’t fucking matter. it shouldn’t matter what they think.

but it does, and it makes him want to throw something.

he wants to find you, to tell you again that you don’t have to do this. that he’ll take care of everything. that he’ll take care of you.

but it’s not what you want.

so instead, he drags his hand over his face and forces himself to keep moving. straightening. waiting. every motion a quiet act of helplessness.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

you can feel satoru’s presence even when you can’t see him. the sound of his footsteps as he moves through the house. the low murmur of his voice when he instructs the staff to bring your parents over from the main estate. the quiet when he settles just outside your door, waiting but not knocking.

everything feels too loud. too sudden. you smooth your hands down your front, try to fix your hair, to twist a stray strand into place. your fingers won’t stop shaking. and no matter what you do, you’re never going to be what they expect.

by the time you open the door, your pulse is in your throat. satoru catches the tremble in your hands. of course he does.

“ready?” he asks, quiet.

you nod. it’s a lie.

he watches you a moment longer, like he’s weighing the cost of pushing. like he wants to say there’s still time to say no. but when you start walking, he falls into step beside you.

the hallway feels endless.

your heartbeat thrums in your ears, louder than your footsteps. the air feels thinner with every breath. you imagine this is what it’s like to stand at the edge of a cliff.

you step into the room first. satoru stays just behind you, but your mother’s eyes are already on you—sweeping over your appearance with detached precision.

“darling,” she says, her voice cool and measured. not unkind, but not warm, either. “you should have been the one to greet us. it’s only proper.”

the words land like barbs, small and sharp. you’d expected hello, how are you. something human.

you force yourself to stand a little straighter. “i was—” your throat tightens. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

she hums, a soft sound that manages to feel like disapproval. your father, silent beside her, gives nothing away.

satoru’s presence is steady at your side, a subtle heat against your shoulder.

“it’s nice to see you both,” you offer, stiff and formal. the words feel borrowed from someone else’s idea of a daughter.

“likewise,” your father replies. his tone is even, but it bites anyway. “we were beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about us.”

the implication cuts deeper than it should. like getting married was some kind of betrayal. like you leaving home to come here wasn’t something they arranged. like the distance you’ve kept is a failing—not a survival.

you hear satoru draw a breath, his jaw ticking.

“why don’t we sit,” he says. “you’ve traveled a long way. you must be tired.”

your mother nods, but her gaze stays locked on you, heavy and expectant, like she’s waiting for you to justify yourself.

the seating arrangement feels like a trap. your mother perches on the edge of her chair across from you, posture flawless, hands folded in her lap. your father sits beside her, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and satoru like he’s waiting for something to disappoint him. and satoru settles close beside you, his knee brushing yours—an anchor, even now.

“it’s a lovely house,” your mother says, but the tone is wrong. the kind of false pleasantry that leaves you bracing for the blow that follows. “though i must admit, i was surprised to find you so removed from the main estate. i would have thought your duties would keep you closer to the clan.”

your fingers twist in your lap, the fabric of your skirt crumpling beneath your grip. “it’s easier this way.”

“easier?” she echoes, the words clipped. her eyes narrow just enough to make your skin prickle. “i do hope you’re not neglecting your responsibilities for the sake of convenience.”

the way she says it knots your throat. and then she looks at you—really looks, scanning for fractures like she always does—and the judgement in her eyes makes your stomach drop.

“you look sick,” she says. “are you not eating properly?”

“i’m fine,” you answer, too fast and too small. “i’ve been… i’ve been adjusting.”

“adjusting,” she repeats, drawing the word out like it offends her. “i suppose that’s understandable. but you’ve been here for weeks. surely you’ve settled in by now.”

“maybe we should let her breathe,” satoru cuts in, his voice calm but threaded with something dangerous. “she’s been doing just fine. more than fine, actually.”

your mother’s gaze snaps to him. irritation crosses her features, mostly concealed, but you feel it, the same way you feel the tension crackle through satoru beside you.

“i appreciate your concern, but i’m her mother. it’s only natural to concern myself with her well-being.”

“and i’m her husband.” his smile is sharp. not friendly. not performative. it’s the kind that wouldn’t meet his eyes if you could see them. “i’d think that makes her well-being my concern, too.”

you can feel the heat rising between them, a low, simmering standoff. and you know satoru’s words aren’t meant as a reassurance. they’re a challenge, meant to draw lines rather than bridge them.

your father’s gaze drops to your hands, still clutching your skirt. “it’s good to know you take your responsibilities seriously,” he says to satoru. “but as her parents, it’s our duty to ensure she’s not neglecting hers. especially now that her role has… expanded.”

the implication is clear. and your heart sinks at the realization of what’s next.

“we haven’t heard any news of children,” your mother says smoothly. “surely you’ve been attending to the matter. it is your purpose, after all.”

your throat closes. you can’t speak, can’t even lift your head. because all you can think about is how you failed. how you offered yourself to satoru on your wedding night, like a task to be completed, and he’d turned you away.

how you’ve been letting him indulge you with stupid pleasures like that stupid kiss, and you still have no idea what you’re supposed to be doing, how you’re supposed to—

“maybe some things take time,” satoru says, his deceptively calm tone slicing through your thoughts.

your mother doesn’t miss a beat. “and maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

her words are a blade, clean and cruel. the accusation is so sharp, so pointed, that you feel your eyes sting with the effort it takes to keep your composure. your hands tremble harder, your fingers grasping the fabric of your skirt so tightly that your knuckles hurt.

satoru’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. his hand curls into a fist against his knee. he keeps glancing your way, searching for something. permission, maybe. protest. anything.

and you want to say something. god, you want to speak. to shout, to scream, to tell them they’re wrong.

but the words won’t come.

they’re lodged deep in your chest, pinned under every expectation you’ve ever failed to meet. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your gaze drops to the floor.

it’s easier not to see their faces.

“it is your duty to bear children,” your father says. the words are quiet. impersonal. “i hope you haven’t been… distracted from that duty.”

his eyes flick toward satoru—just for a second—but it’s enough. an accusation without teeth, because he knows the balance of power here. but it cuts anyway.

satoru goes very still beside you, and his next words are lower, laced with warning. “and i hope you haven’t forgotten that she’s a person,” he says. “one living under my roof, under my care, may i add.”

his voice lingers in the room like smoke. and you can’t quite breathe around it.

because all you can feel is the guilt spreading through you—thick, acidic, impossible to shake. it curls in your chest, taking on a shape that feels familiar.

you’ve carried it your whole life.

your father rises from his seat with a quiet authority, eyes flicking to satoru. “i’d like to have a word with you. privately,” he says, and there’s something final about it—not a request, but a summons.

you glance at satoru, searching for reassurance as he nods. his expression is tight, his shoulders squared. but you catch the silent, aching apology buried under the tension in his jaw.

and then he’s gone. and the room feels colder without him.

you’re left alone with your mother, and in an instant, you’re fourteen again. small and silent across from her, waiting for whatever strategic correction she’s decided you need.

“your husband has a sharp tongue,” she says, her voice cool and condescending. “but i suppose that’s to be expected, given his… upbringing.”

you recognize the tone. it’s the one she’d use when explaining why you weren’t allowed to play with certain children. why some people weren’t raised right. she’s drawing a line again—this time between you and the man you married. the one they gave you to.

the contradiction makes your head ache.

“he’s been good to me,” you say. it’s the truth, but the words come out sound too soft.

she hums. “is this what you want?” the question cuts deep. “to live like this? away from the clan, from what i raised you to be?”

you want to say yes. you want to scream it. yes, i like the quiet. yes, i like the freedom. yes, i like being here with him.

but your voice snags on thorns, raw and helpless.

“i—i’m trying, mom,” you whisper. “i’m doing my best.”

“i certainly hope so,” she says. and somehow, the disappointment hurts more than her disapproval. “because from where i’m sitting, it doesn’t look like you are.”

the words settle into you like ice.

and then, like nothing happened, her tone softens. her gaze shifts. the performance begins.

“your father and i have been praying for you,” she says. “we’ve been asking god to guide you in your duties. to help you fulfill the purpose you were given.”

and just like that, the guilt swallows you.

you want to cry.

“i want you to have this.”

she reaches for something hidden in the folds of her sleeve. a necklace. ornate, heavy-looking, the gold glinting in the light with a soft gleam that feels wrong. the kind of thing intended for a velvet display, not a body.

she holds it out to you. you don’t reach for it.

“i had it made for you,” she continues, her tone tender now. like this is kindness. “a symbol of your devotion. a reminder of who you are and where you belong.”

the weight of it is crushing before you even touch it. the pendant is a cross, carved with precise, elaborate craftsmanship, rubies set into the center like droplets of blood. it must have taken hours—days—to make. each detail is perfect, intentional.

your fingers tremble as you take it from her, the metal chilling your skin. it doesn’t feel like a gift. it feels like a chain. like a collar.

“thank you,” you whisper. not because you mean it, but because there’s the alternative is unthinkable. because refusal was never part of the script. because the nausea crawling up your throat is something she taught you to swallow down.

tears burn at the back of your eyes, but you don’t let her see them. you know better than that.

“pray on it,” she says softly. “and remember your duty. remember who you belong to.”

you nod.

because the words are meant to be kind. you know they are. and somehow, that only makes it worse.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the rest of the visit feels like wading through cold water. conversations continue in that strained, brittle way you’ve come to expect. your father’s voice is curt, his eyes on you like you’re a ledger he’s reconciling. your mother’s comments are softened by false concern, the veneer of kindness stretched so thin you think it’ll crack.

satoru’s silence is worse.

he’s tight as a bowstring beside you, his frustration held on a leash. he speaks when spoken to, his responses short and neutral. you keep waiting for him to break—please, a part of you whispers, just say something—but he never does. for your sake, probably.

the goodbyes are stiff.

your mother presses a kiss to your cheek that feels more like a benediction than affection, her fingers cold and firm against your skin. your father gives you a nod—nothing more—like you’re a stranger he’s being forced to acknowledge.

they’re escorted back to the main estate where the car waits.

you and satoru stand in front of the house as the trees swallow the last of their silhouettes. he hasn’t moved, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

when they’re finally out of sight, he exhales. “they’re gone,” he says, voice flat. like it should mean something.

you nod, your eyes fixed on the empty path. the breeze stirs the trees, but everything feels still. your lungs won’t expand.

“are you… okay?”

you flinch at the question. not because it’s unfair, but because it’s valid.

and because the answer is no. you’re not okay. not even close. and him asking only makes the ache feel sharper.

“i need a moment,” you say, the words coming out too tight. “alone, please.”

the flash of hurt on his face is almost enough to make you take it back. almost.

“alright,” he says quietly. his hands flex once, then go still.

you don’t say anything else. you can’t.

instead, you turn and walk away, your steps heavy. and even though you don’t look back, you can feel him watching you all the way to the front door.

you don’t exhale until it closes behind you.

satoru watches you leave, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt.

he lets you go because he doesn’t know what else to do. he wants to follow, wants to tear their words out of your head before they can take hold—but you asked for space, and he’s trying to give it.

it doesn’t make it any easier.

the house feels oppressive when he steps back inside. his frustration presses against his chest, restless and sharp, until he’s pacing—through the sitting room, past the kitchen and back again, around the main garden. his fingers twitch with the need to do something. anything.

but all he can think about is the way you looked when you asked to be alone. like he was just another weight dragging you under. like he was part of the problem.

it’s only when his pacing takes him past your bedroom door that he finally stops. something tells him not to open it. something else—louder, more desperate—won’t let him walk away.

his hand hovers just above the frame before he pushes the door open.

you’re on the floor, curled beside the bed. knees drawn to your chest, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to disappear. the necklace gleams in your palm, catching the dim light, too heavy and cruel for something so finely made.

you don’t look up.

“hey.” his voice is too small for the amount of space between you.

silence.

“i thought you’d be in the garden,” he tries, stepping in carefully. “but i guess not.”

your fingers tighten around the pendant. “didn’t feel like it.”

it’s the way you say it—flat, detached—that freezes something in him.

you’re drifting. pulling away from him even though he’s right here. and he doesn’t know how to bring you back.

he swallows hard, the helplessness thick in his throat. he would do anything to undo what they’ve done. to take every word they left behind and burn it until you never have to think about it again.

but all he can do is stand there. reaching for you without moving. wanting to fix what he doesn’t know how to touch.

and it makes him feel like a stranger in his own home. like a boy in a man’s skin. like the one thing that should come easy—loving you—is slipping through his fingers.

“can i sit?” he asks.

you nod without looking at him.

he lowers himself beside you, movements slow as if he’s trying not to disturb the silence. “you haven’t… said anything,” he tries, his voice too careful. “since they left.”

“there’s nothing to say,” you whisper. your voice is worn out, too thin.

silence stretches again. the longer it goes, the more it scrapes at him. minutes pass like hours, and satoru can feel it—frustration clawing beneath his skin, helplessness piling on top of it. he’s losing you. right here, right in front of him.

“come on, angel,” satoru says, his voice soft now, rough edges smoothed over by something almost pleading. “talk to me, please.” his voice catches on the last word, and he hates how desperate it feels. “you’ve barely looked at me since they got here.”

you flinch. the necklace slips from your hands and lands in your lap.

“i don’t know what you want me to say.”

he hesitates. then lets the frustration bleed out.

“i want you to say they’re wrong.”

the words come out harsh, too blunt. but it’s the truth. and now that it’s out, he’s not sure how to stop himself.

“i want you to realize what they think doesn’t matter. that you’re—”

“stop.” your voice cuts clean through his. trembling, but clear. “just stop. you don’t understand.”

his chest hurts. “make me understand.”

the challenge in his voice feels reckless. too much edge, too much need. still, he can’t back down. not when you’re slipping further away with every second.

“you heard what they said.” your voice frays at the edges. “about… duty. about children. and they’re right. i’m not—” you stop to swallow, but it’s like your throat is closing around the words. “i’m not doing what i’m supposed to do. i’m failing you.”

satoru knows what it feels like to be stabbed clean through the chest, but this feels worse. like the blade is poisoned. he wants to argue, but the look on your face stops him cold. you’re not arguing. you’re breaking.

“why would you even think that?” he asks, his voice smaller now, irritation replaced with something closer to panic.

“because i was supposed to get this right.” you won’t look at him. won’t meet his eyes. “i was supposed to… to handle my responsibility. and i haven’t. i—” your breathing hiccups, your chest shaking under the weight of it. “you’re supposed to have a dependable wife. someone who can give you what you need. and you’re stuck with me.”

he doesn’t think you’re aware of what you’re doing. of how you’re gutting him.

“you’re not—” he starts, but it comes out too rough. he pulls back, breathes through it, tries again. “you’re not some thing to be used or traded.”

his voice breaks on thing. he hates it. hates how clear it is that you believe it’s all you are.

he shifts closer, his voice thick. “you’re a person. my person now.”

the words echo between you, quiet but heavy, and he watches as something crumbles in your expression.

“then why didn’t you just—” you swallow hard. “why didn’t you do what you were supposed to do the night we got married?”

the question feels like a slap to the face. for once, satoru is speechless.

“what?”

“you should’ve done what a husband does,” you say, and it’s not just hurt in your voice anymore—it’s something bitter, something that burns him. “you should’ve taken what was yours. that’s what you were supposed to do. it’s what they wanted, what they expected. what i expected. and if you cared, you wouldn’t keep… holding yourself back.”

his pulse kicks up. his chest tightens.

he thought he understood. thought he was ready for the venom your parents would bring back into your life. but this isn’t theirs.

this is you. your voice, your pain. and it’s laced with something he didn’t expect—misunderstanding.

“i didn’t—” he tries to answer, but the words catch, rough and misshapen. “i didn’t do anything because you didn’t want that. you didn’t even know what you were asking for.”

“you don’t know what i wanted.” the words spill out like poison, like they’ve been festering for weeks. “i offered. i offered myself to you, and you told me to go to sleep. you didn’t want me.”

he realizes, too late, that you never understood why he said no that night. it made perfect sense to him, something that didn’t even need explaining. you were scared. uncertain. so he told you to sleep.

but now he sees what it looked like from the other side. not care, but rejection. not safety, but shame.

and it hurts.

your voice breaks, high and strained as you continue. “you still don’t want me. you’re just… humoring me, trying to be kind when i’m clearly not worth it. and it’s humiliating, satoru.”

your eyes are welling up, your lashes wet with the weight of everything you’ve been holding, everything that’s finally spilling over.

the sight tears something open in him.

“you really think that’s why i turned you down?” he whispers, hoarse. ”because i didn’t want you?”

you don’t answer right away. your lips part, then press together again, like you’re trying to swallow back the worst of it.

“i don’t know,” you admit, your voice trembling. “i just know i’ve been trying to be good. trying not to make anything harder than it has to be. and it’s not enough. not for them, not for you—”

you pause, breath catching.

“—not even for me.”

he reaches for you before he can stop himself. his hand wraps around your wrist, warm and steady, but there’s a tremor in it. something frantic.

“you’re not failing me.” his words come rushed, clumsy, because he’s never been good at this. never been good at making sense when it matters. “you’re—you’re everything.”

a harsh, broken sound tears from your throat, and it hits him like a dagger. his grip loosens on instinct, but he doesn’t let go. he can’t.

“if i was everything,” you choke out, voice cracking like glass under pressure, “you’d actually—you’d actually want me. you wouldn’t be wasting hours in the garden with me and kissing me like it’s all you need and pitying me.”

he can’t even comprehend the words. not at first. he just stares, stunned, mouth parting uselessly—because you’re crying now, really crying, and he’s the one making it worse.

“i need you to stop it, satoru,” you whisper, your voice too small for the weight of the words. “just—just stop.”

he’s fucking this up.

the realization sinks in slow.

no matter what he says, it’s not helping. it’s just making you hurt worse.

your shoulders are curled in like you’re trying to protect yourself from something he can’t see. a curse he can’t fight.

“i’m not—” your words trip and stumble, barely holding together. “i’m not what you need. not what anyone needs. and they’re right. they’re right about me, and you just—” you gasp for air, but it doesn’t seem to help. ”you won’t admit it.”

“that’s not—” he tries, but his voice gives out. the words collapse in his mouth before they can make it to you.

you’re not even looking at him anymore. your eyes are fixed somewhere past him, blank and distant, like you’re bracing for a blow.

“it’s not enough,” you rasp. “i’m not enough. i keep trying and it’s—” you cut yourself off with another gasp, your chest rising too fast. “it’s not working. i don’t know how to be what they want. i don’t even know how to be what you want.”

“angel, you need to—”

“stop calling me that.”

the words are a blade. sharp and cold and final. satoru’s mouth snaps closed.

“stop acting like i’m some perfect precious thing when you don’t even—when you won’t even—”

your voice breaks completely.

he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s too much effort to keep the air in your lungs. and suddenly, he’s not angry anymore. not even frustrated. he’s scared.

you’re slipping.

“hey. hey—” his own voice is cracking now, his panic bubbling up alongside yours.

but you’re shaking your head, lips pressed tightly together, and he can see the tears streaking down your cheeks. your hands are clutching each other, your body curling tighter with each breath that stays just out of reach.

“just breathe for me, okay?” he pleads, moving closer. “please, just—just breathe. you’re alright.”

he’s reaching for something solid in the chaos, fumbling over comfort because it’s a language he never learned. nothing’s working. nothing is working.

and then he sees it—really sees it. the panic in your eyes. the way your nails bite into your palms. the necklace still glinting in your lap like a burden. every piece of you bursting at the seams.

“i’m sorry,” you gasp. “i’m sorry i’m not—that i can’t—”

he moves before he can think.

his arms wrap around you in one motion, pulling you tight into his chest, anchoring you to him like it’s the only thing he has left.

“i got you,” he murmurs, over and over, the panic in his own chest dulling under your weight. “it’s okay, you’re okay.”

your fingers twist in his clothes. your breath comes in uneven gasps against his chest, and satoru can feel each one like it’s scraping against his ribs. still, he doesn’t loosen his grip. doesn’t let up for a second.

he keeps talking because it’s all he can do. his voice is low and steady, a soft rhythm meant to keep you tethered. “everything’s fine,” he murmurs. “it’s just us right now, nothing else matters. just breathe, angel. in and out.”

he feels your breath catch against him, feels your tears soaking into his shirt. you’re falling apart in his arms, and all he can do is hold on. his hand moves in slow circles along your back, a motion that grounds the both of you.

but it’s killing him.

because this isn’t what he wanted. he didn’t want to see you like this. he didn’t want his arms to be the place you broke.

his own eyes sting. there’s pressure behind them, sharp and unbearable, and he has to blink it back before it spills over. but it’s there—thick in his throat, hot under his skin. he can’t let it out while you’re still holding on by threads.

you’re still shaking, but your breathing is evening out, the jagged edge of panic smoothing over into something more manageable. he can feel the fight draining out of you, leaving something fragile and exhausted in its place.

he doesn’t let go. not until the tension in your body melts under his hands, your weight shifting just slightly under him.

“i’m not mad at you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “i’m not. i just… i just want you to be okay.”

the words feel clumsy, inadequate. but he can’t think of anything better. nothing that will fix this the way he wants to.

your voice is muffled against his chest. “i don’t know how to be okay.”

his heart cracks a little more. because of course you don’t. because they raised you to be perfect, not okay.

he swallows hard against the lump in his throat. “then we’ll figure it out,” he says, and it sounds like a vow this time. “i don’t care how long it takes.”

but even as he says it—means it—something caves in his chest. because today was supposed to be simple. all he had to do was protect you from them. and instead he watched them tear you apart and made it worse trying to put you back together.

he wasn’t fast enough.

he wasn’t enough.

and still, all he can do is hold you and hope it counts for something.

he stays there with you until the tremble in your hands fades and your breathing settles into something soft and slow. until your body settles against him, no longer shaking—just quiet. just tired.

and then, finally, he lets himself pull away.

he doesn’t want to.

everything in him is screaming to hold on, to stay. to keep you close until the hurt dissolves, until you believe him when he says you’re not broken, until he can see something in your eyes besides this brittle, aching weight.

but you’re too fragile now. and he’s already made this worse.

his hands move to cradle your face, wiping stray tears away with his thumbs.

“i think—” his voice feels raw, like he’s been screaming when all he’s done today is choke on his own words. “i think we should talk about this another time. when you’re ready. because…” he exhales, barely holding it together. “i’m not helping, am i?”

you don’t answer. not with words. you bite your lip like you’re trying to hold the silence in place. and it kills him.

“take your time,” he says. he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead—soft, lingering, like a promise. “i’ll be here when you’re ready.” his voice cracks again, and he wonders if you can hear it.

he stands.

and leaves.

because even though it feels like tearing something out of his own chest, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

415 notes · View notes

1343401 · 2 months ago

Text

captive desires - chapter three

pairing: hybrid bts x reader

status: ongoing

word count: 12.9 k

warnings: depictions of violence, death, family trauma, mentions of blood, yandere-ish, hybrids, animal abuse, implied murder, raw meat, animal attacks

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"is someone there?"

the voice comes again, soft, careful.

"who’s there?"

myah freezes.

her grip tightens around her phone, her breath locked in her throat.

it’s a man’s voice. low, smooth, too human.

too normal.

she expected something else. something that fit the unease coiling in her gut. a growl. a snarl. something scratching at the door, desperate to claw its way free.

but this?

this is something worse.

because there’s no panic. no aggression. just quiet, measured patience.

like whoever is on the other side already knows she’s standing there.

"please..."

a second voice now, softer, hesitant.

"please don’t hurt us."

chae-eun tenses beside her, fingers twitching like she wants to grab myah and drag her away.

"we don’t want trouble."

the way they speak, it’s too careful. too controlled.

too intentional.

the words aren't rushed or desperate, not the kind of thing said in a frantic bid for freedom. they're spoken like a warning. or maybe a test.

“myah,” chae-eun hisses, voice tight with warning.

but myah isn’t listening.

because something is wrong.

if they were dangerous, if they were monsters, why would they be pleading?

why would they sound like this, like they expected her hesitation?

she swallows hard, her mind racing.

"we need to go," chae-eun presses, barely above a whisper. her eyes flick toward the door like she expects it to burst open at any second. “now.”

myah shakes her head, her heart pounding. "no, chae-eun, think about it. they’re locked in.”

“for a reason.” chae-eun glares at her. "you don’t know what’s in there."

“exactly.” myah’s voice is sharp, more sure now. “i don’t know. and neither do you.”

“i know enough,” chae-eun snaps. “we found logs, myah. they were keeping something down here, documenting it like science experiments. you saw what they wrote.”

"which is why we can’t just walk away!" myah argues, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "they need help."

“exactly,” chae-eun bites out, frustration tightening her features. "which is why we need to call the Hybrid Protection Unit, not send in two twenty-year-old girls with no plan and no backup!”

"please..."

the voice is softer this time, more fragile, curling into the silence between them like a plea.

it doesn’t sound like something dangerous.

it doesn’t sound like a monster.

because what if they aren’t monsters?

what if they’re victims?

her grandparents had done terrible things. things she didn’t even know about until now.

what if this is just another part of their twisted legacy?

what if they locked them up, experimented on them, kept them in the dark for years.

myah swallows, realization crashing down on her.

it’s been days since her grandparents’ bodies were found. how long have they been trapped down here? without food, without answers, without knowing if anyone would ever come for them? they must be starving, confused, what if,

what if they’re hurt?

what if…

"we don’t want trouble."

her breath shudders.

chaos crashes through her thoughts, battling every instinct screaming at her to run.

but she can’t.

not until she knows the truth.

"we have to get in," she says.

chae-eun stares at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "are you insane?"

myah doesn’t answer. she steps closer instead, fingers grazing the edges of the door, feeling the cold metal beneath her touch.

she knows she shouldn’t.

but she has to.

"there has to be a way to open it," she mutters, eyes scanning the rusted locks, the worn edges of the frame.

"myah." chae-eun grabs her arm, forcing her to turn. her grip is tight, urgent. "this is stupid. even if they’re trapped, even if they sound harmless, we don’t know what they are."

"and if we leave, we never will," myah fires back. her pulse is a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her mind racing. "chae-eun, we don’t know how long they’ve been in there. it’s been days since my grandparents were found. what if no one’s fed them? what if they have no food, no water? they could die down here."

something flickers across chae-eun’s face. hesitation, doubt, the same war waging inside myah’s own head. she swallows hard, jaw clenching.

"this is a bad idea," chae-eun mutters.

"maybe," myah says, voice steady. "but leaving them could be worse."

chaos flickers through chae-eun’s expression. fear, frustration, something desperate, before she curses under her breath.

but she doesn’t stop her.

instead, she exhales sharply, eyes flicking toward the rusted tools scattered across the room.

“if we’re doing this, we’re doing it carefully.”

myah nods.

chae-eun exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. “this is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.”

myah doesn’t argue. because yeah, maybe it is. maybe this is the point where she finally loses it, where she stops making rational choices and starts making reckless ones.

but something deep in her gut tells her this isn’t just about curiosity anymore.

it’s about guilt.

about the blood on her grandparents’ hands.

about the weight of whatever was done in this house, in this basement.

about the quiet, too careful voices behind the door.

"thank you."

the whisper is barely audible. just a breath of sound curling into the air between them.

chae-eun flinches.

"we haven’t done anything yet," myah mutters, but her fingers are already tracing the edges of the door, searching.

there’s no obvious handle, no visible keyhole. just thick, bolted steel and the weight of something waiting on the other side.

"there has to be a mechanism," chae-eun murmurs, glancing around the room. "some kind of release. if your grandparents were keeping them down here, they had to have a way to access it."

she moves toward the far wall, scanning the rusted filing cabinets, the shelves stacked with dust coated objects.

myah keeps her focus on the door.

"how long have you been here?" she asks, her voice low.

"awhile."

the answer is careful. measured.

not desperate.

not frantic.

just… patient.

like they knew someone would come eventually.

like they’ve been waiting.

myah swallows. “how many of you are there?”

a pause.

"seven."

her pulse stutters.

seven.

the weight of it sinks deep into her bones.

"myah," chae-eun calls, voice tight. "i think i found something."

she turns.

chae-eun is standing beside an old, rusted panel on the wall, half-hidden behind a shelf. the metal is corroded, the edges barely visible beneath years of dust and grime.

but it’s there.

a switch.

a release.

"i don’t know if it still works," chae-eun mutters, fingers hovering over it, uncertain.

myah takes a slow breath.

her heartbeat thunders against her ribs.

"only one way to find out," she says.

chae-eun looks at her.

"are you sure?"

no.

she’s not sure.

but she nods anyway.

because there’s no turning back now.

chae-eun exhales sharply as she reaches out, pressing her fingers against the rusted switch.

and pulls.

the basement shudders.

the air shifts.

and behind them they hear heavy locks beginning to turn.

the sound of metal groaning echoes through the basement, vibrating through the stone walls, rattling through myah’s chest.

she should run.

she should turn, grab chae-eun, and leave.

but she doesn’t.

because the door,

it’s opening.

the heavy locks shift, one after another, the deep clunk of metal sliding free making her pulse roar in her ears. dust rains down from the ceiling as the old mechanism grinds into motion, the steel groaning as it begins to inch open.

the air changes immediately.

the cold that seeps through the widening gap is different, thicker, weighted, carrying something alive. something watching.

chae-eun steps back, tense, her breath quick and sharp. "myah," she hisses, panic edging her voice. "i don’t know—"

but it’s too late.

the moment the door fully swings open, myah’s breath locks in her throat.

the room is massive, stretching far beyond what she expected. the dim light from her phone flickers against thick iron bars, cages lining both sides of the basement, the scent of rusted metal and something wild thick in the air.

cha-eun grabs her wrist, grip like iron. "you sure about this?" her voice is low, urgent, barely above a whisper.

myah doesn’t answer. can’t.

because now that the door is open, she can feel it. the weight of unseen eyes pressing into her skin, the silence heavy enough to suffocate.

a shape shifts in the darkness. slow. deliberate.

myah swallows hard. "we need to know."

chae-eun exhales sharply, her hesitation a tangible thing between them. but after a beat, she steps forward, shoulders tense, muscles coiled like she’s ready to bolt at any second.

together, they cross the threshold.

golden eyes gleam in the darkness, reflecting the light like fire catching on glass. shadows shift, slow and watchful, movement rippling through the space like something caged but not yet tamed.

she barely has time to process before a voice calls out again,

"please..."

her flashlight sweeps across the first cage, and her breath catches.

a massive lion hybrid sits against the bars, his golden mane wild, tangled, his amber eyes locked directly onto her. his ears flick at the sound of her footsteps, but he doesn’t move, just watches. waiting. his thick tail curls around his paws, the tuft at the end flicking once, betraying the tension in his frame.

in the next cage, sprawled in the darkness, what looks to be a black panther lifts his head just enough for her to catch the sharp glint of his slit pupiled eyes. his inky fur blends into the surrounding shadows, only the faintest twitch of his whiskers giving him away. he doesn't make a sound. doesn’t blink. just tracks her with a slow, deliberate intensity.

"who are you?"

the voice is softer, coming from further down.

her flashlight flickers over a second pair of golden eyes, no, two.

one belongs to a cheetah hybrid, its lean frame curled against the bars, shoulders hunched like its trying to make itself smaller. They’re fully shifted, spotted fur sleek beneath the dim light, its tail flicking anxiously against the floor. honey-gold eyes dart between her and chae-eun, wide and uncertain, like the cheetah is unsure whether to be relieved or terrified.

the other, is human, well mostly.

a tiger hybrid, perched in the corner of his cage, bare feet planted firmly against the cold concrete floor. his thick tail curls lazily around him, but his shoulders are too tense, his expression too carefully blank. golden brown eyes hold hers, unwavering, unreadable.

she grips the flashlight tighter.

they look scared. but not fully.

but something in her gut twists.

because it doesn’t make sense.

her grandparents had locked them in here. that much was obvious.

but why?

and if they were truly just scared, just victims, then why did the air feel so thick with something she couldn't name?

why did their golden eyes gleam too much in the dark?

"please," the soft voice comes again, breaking through her thoughts. "we don’t want trouble."

it comes from the farthest cage, the hybrid curled against the bars, his hazel eyes wide, flickering with something fragile, something aching. his wispy silver-brown hair falls in soft waves around his face, his delicate ears twitching, tail swaying in slow, rhythmic motions behind him.

"are you here to help us?"

myah hesitates.

her pulse thunders in her ears.

"i—" she starts, then stops. because is she?

"we’ve been here for so long," the clouded leopard hybrid murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "we don’t even know how long it’s been."

her chest tightens.

the plea in his voice feels real.

but chae-eun isn't buying it.

"myah," she murmurs, voice low, sharp. "this isn't right."

myah swallows. "they’re locked up, chae-eun."

"and why do you think that is?" chae-eun hisses, taking a step closer, keeping her voice low. "you know your grandparents myah, do you really they just threw them in here for no reason?"

the words sting.

because no, myah doesn’t trust her grandparents. not anymore.

but something doesn’t add up.

her flashlight shifts again,

and that’s when she notices the scars.

not deep, not fresh, but there.

along the lion hybrid’s arms, faint and barely visible against his warm, tawny skin. a slash across the leopard’s hybrid’s collarbone. claw marks raked along the black panther’s ribs.

her stomach turns.

"who did this to you?" myah asks, voice tight, her grip on the flashlight unsteady.

a pause.

the silver haired hybrid’s gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his hazel eyes before he finally speaks.

"the man who put us here."

the words settle like ice in her spine.

"the man who—" she swallows hard, her pulse roaring in her ears, dots being connected.

no one says responds immediately, but the lion hybrid, broad, golden, imposing even in confinement, lifts his head just enough to meet her gaze.

his amber eyes flicker.

he doesn’t nod. doesn’t confirm.

but he doesn’t deny it either.

myah’s stomach twists.

the silence is enough.

"myah," chae-eun mutters, sharp and urgent. "we need to go." but myah can’t move. because this, this is real. this isn’t just a locked door. this isn’t just another one of her family’s secrets. her grandfather did this.

"how long have you been down here?" she whispers.

"too long."

her chest tightens.

she turns to chae-eun, her breath shallow. "we have to get them out."

"myah," chae-eun hisses, "we don’t even know what they are."

"they’re hybrids," myah snaps back. "they’re prisoners."

"and they were kept here for a reason," chae-eun argues, eyes sharp, voice low. "your grandfather wouldn’t have kept them down here without one."

myah wants to fight her on that.

but she can’t.

because she doesn’t know if chae-eun is wrong.

but she does know one thing.

"we’re not leaving yet," she says firmly. "not until I understand what happened here."

chae-eun exhales sharply, muttering a curse under her breath, but she doesn’t argue further.

instead, she moves toward the shelves, scanning the walls for something, anything that could explain why this place exists. behind the bars however the hybrids stay still.

watching.

waiting.

and myah swears,

just for a moment,

she sees the panther smirk.

as she turns back toward the cages, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. her fingers twitch at her sides, the weight of their gazes pressing into her like something tangible.

she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.

but she can’t walk away.

"why did he keep you here?" she asks, voice steadier than she feels. "why not just… get rid of you?"

the lion hybrid’s ears twitch, his thick tail flicking once behind him. he’s watching her closely, those deep amber eyes calculating, slow and deliberate.

but it’s the tiger hybrid who finally speaks.

"maybe he liked having pets," he murmurs, voice smooth as silk, golden-amber eyes gleaming in the dark. "or maybe he just liked knowing we couldn’t leave."

the way he says it sends a shiver down her spine.

"how long has it been?" another hybrid hums, tilting his head. "do you know what year it is?”

"of course i do," myah mutters. "it’s—"

she stops. because the way he’s looking at her,

the way the tiger hybrid shifts slightly beside him, the cheetah’s ears flicking, and the jaguars rolling his shoulders like they’re all waiting for something,

her stomach twists.

"you don’t know," she breathes.

none of them confirm it.

but none of them deny it, either.

chaos crashes through her thoughts, her grip on her phone tightening.

"we need to get them food," she says suddenly, turning to chae-eun. "they’re hybrids, not machines. if they’ve been trapped down here—"

"absolutely not," chae-eun snaps. "no way in hell am I leaving you down here alone with them."

"i’ll be fine," myah insists. "just check the fridge—"

"no." chae-eun’s voice is sharp, her jaw tight. "myah, listen to me. we don’t know what they’re capable of. we don’t know anything about them. i’m not leaving you down here like some kind of—"

"bait?"

the voice is too smooth, slipping through the air like a knife.

both of them freeze.

the raven haired hybrid is watching them with lazy amusement, his sleek tail curling around his wrist, golden-amber eyes half-lidded.

"if it makes you feel better," he purrs, "we can promise not to eat her while you’re gone."

chaos erupts.

"nope," chae-eun snaps, grabbing myah’s wrist. "we’re leaving. now."

but myah digs her heels in. "they’re starving, chae-eun."

"and we are not their goddamn saviors," chae-eun hisses. "whatever your grandfather did, it’s not our problem to fix—"

"so you’d just leave them here?" myah cuts in, her voice rising. "leave them to rot?"

"they’re still alive," chae-eun points out. "which means they’ve survived this long without our help. we can’t do this on our own."

silence stretches between them, thick and tense.

behind the bars, the hybrids watch.

assessing. waiting.

"fine," myah mutters. "then we’ll both go."

chae-eun’s eyes flick toward the cages one last time before she exhales sharply. "fine."

she doesn’t look at them as they turn toward the stairs.

but myah can feel their eyes on her.

heavy.

lingering.

like they already know,

she’s coming back.

chae-eun’s car is as neat as she is. clean, organized, everything tucked away exactly where it should be.

except for the backseat.

myah stares at the mess of medical supplies crammed into the space behind them. bandages, antiseptic wipes, surgical scissors still in their sterile packaging. a neatly packed emergency trauma kit sits half-zipped on the floor, a few vials of painkillers barely peeking out. the interior smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented wipes. it should feel sterile. safe.

but now it just feels clinical. like a place built to respond to the aftermath of violence.

it’s not the first time she’s noticed it. she’s ridden in chae-eun’s car more times than she can count. on grocery runs, late-night drives to clear their heads, weekend trips to nowhere in particular. she’s seen the supplies. but she’s never really seen them.

this time, after everything that just happened in the basement, it feels different.

“you never told me how bad it got,” myah says, voice quieter than before, eyes still fixed on the mess of gauze and blood-stained tape peeking from beneath a box of gloves.

chae-eun doesn’t look at her as she starts the car. “i didn’t think i needed to.”

the engine hums low as they pull out of the driveway, the headlights casting long, pale streaks across the empty street. her hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. the kind of white that comes from trying not to let your hands shake.

myah shifts slightly in her seat, unsettled by the silence, by the weight of what they’d just seen. the hybrids. the cages. the way one of them, unshifted, bleeding had flinched when chae-eun so much as moved.

“you work with hybrids,” she says finally, almost accusingly. “why are you so—”

“those hybrids aren’t the same.”

the words land like a slap. sharp. cold. not cruel, but close.

cha-eun exhales through her nose, gaze flicking to the rearview mirror before settling back on the road. the city lights are beginning to blur past them, red and blue and green glowing against the windshield like reflections from a dream.

“i work in sector four,” she continues, voice clipped, tightly measured. “mostly human and female hybrids. the ones who get hurt the most. the ones who end up on my table covered in bruises, missing teeth, stitched up from some feral hybrid attack or worse.”

myah swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry. she’s heard stories. seen the news reports that play like clockwork every time a hybrid-related crime occurs. not all hybrids are victims. not all of them want help. some of them hunt.

some of them kill.

and chae-eun has seen the worst of it.

“you think they’re different because they looked at you like that,” chae-eun says quietly, her voice flattening into something tired, something brittle. “but scared doesn’t mean safe. it just means desperate. and desperation makes things dangerous.”

myah doesn’t respond. her stomach is twisted too tightly, thoughts tangled too thickly.

the silence stretches between them, thick with everything they’re not saying.

and then chae-eun adds, more quietly this time, almost like she’s afraid to say it out loud: “your grandparents died in a hybrid attack.”

myah turns sharply, staring at her. “what?”

“the reports, they said they were mauled. claws, bite marks. there were signs of struggle all over the kitchen. your grandfather had a shotgun. it didn’t help.”

the blood drains from myah’s face. she feels it leave her fingertips, cold creeping up her spine.

“and in that basement?” chae-eun’s voice is quieter now. measured. grim. “there are seven hybrids in eight cages.”

myah’s breath catches.

“you do the math.”

a cold sweat breaks across her back. she grips the edge of her seat, the world tilting slightly, the basement reassembling itself in her mind, seven sets of eyes, seven shadows behind bars. but she hadn’t counted the cages. hadn’t even thought to.

what if one had gotten out? what if that’s how they died?

what if it’s still out there?

“and you want to help them,” chae-eun continues, voice low, almost pained. “you want to free them. play savior. what if the one that escaped is the one that killed your family? what if the others knew and didn’t stop it?”

myah’s hands tremble. her chest aches.

but her mind,

her mind flashes again with soft eyes and silver hair, the gentle tilt of his head, the way he’d spoken to her like he saw her.

she should be running from this. from all of it.

but she can’t.

because something about him, about them, won’t let her go.

“so forgive me,” chae-eun says tightly, “if i’m not exactly in the mood to play savior to seven unregistered hybrids your grandfather locked in his basement.”

the car goes quiet.

outside, the neon of the city pulses like a heartbeat, flickering in the windows—restaurants, strip malls, pawn shops, each glowing with artificial warmth. it doesn’t reach her. nothing does.

myah turns back toward the windshield, her reflection faint in the glass. she stares through it, but she doesn’t really see.

because all she can think about is the soft voice that asked her to come back. the way he’d looked at her like she was something safe. Something he knew.

and that’s the part that scares her most.

chae-eun exhales sharply, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the steering wheel, the sound too fast, too tight. “and what exactly are we supposed to tell jisun when we get back?”

myah drags a hand down her face, the weight of the night starting to catch up to her. her head aches, tight and persistent like her thoughts. “i don’t know. that we went out for a drive?”

chae-eun lets out a humorless snort. “right. because that’s gonna fly. we both probably still reek of that place.”

myah goes still.

the basement.

she can feel it clinging to her now that chae-eun’s said it, the stale scent of dust and rust, old blood and sweat and something sharper beneath it all. something animal.

and not just that.

them.

the scent of fear. of power barely restrained. of too many eyes watching her through bars like they already knew her bones.

“i’ll shower before she gets too close,” she mutters.

chae-eun’s jaw ticks. “you could shower in bleach and she’d still know. myah, she’s obsessed with you.”

“she’s not—”

“don’t even try.” chae-eun cuts in, voice flat. “you know exactly what she’s like. the moment you walk through that door with a weird look on your face and half a story, she’s gonna dig.”

myah doesn’t deny it.

she can’t.

because jisun is smart. terrifyingly so. and worse, she’s protective. of myah, specifically. her moods turn fast. sweet like sugar one second, sharp like a snapped snare the next. and if she so much as suspects that myah’s hiding something,

"then we don’t give her anything to suspect,” myah says finally, her voice low. “we keep it surface. vague. just enough to make sense.”

“so we lie.” chae-eun doesn’t say it like a question. more like a dare.

myah glances out the window. the city’s creeping closer now, closer than she wants it to be. neon signs blinking against the dark like slow, mechanical winks. streetlights bending through the windshield, casting soft gold over the dash.

“we don’t tell her about the basement,” she says after a long pause. “not yet.”

“not ever,” chae-eun mutters, hands tightening around the wheel again. “jesus, myah, do you know what she’d do if she found out? she’d drag you out of bed, chain you to the damn radiator, and torch the house herself.”

the image is uncomfortably believable.

they both fall quiet for a beat, the air in the car growing thicker by the second.

“so,” myah says finally, voice barely above a whisper, “we agree, then. we figure it out.”

it’s not a real plan. it’s a compromise born out of exhaustion and panic and a shared instinct not to poke the sleeping bear that is jisun. it’s flimsy. reckless.

but it’s all they have.

“yeah,” chae-eun says after a long moment, the word more like an exhale than a commitment. “we figure it out.”

neither of them says anything else for a while. the car hums forward down the quiet road, the lights growing closer, brighter, sharper. they’re almost back now.

and myah can feel it in her chest—that tight pull, that creeping dread curling around her ribs. the apartment is safe. normal. filled with warmth and noise and the scent of jasmine tea. the kind of place that’s supposed to ground her.

but tonight, it feels too far away.

because the only thing she can hear, beneath the rumble of the tires, beneath the rush of blood in her ears, is that soft voice echoing in her head.

“thank you for not giving up on us”

and she knows, she’s not going to.

no matter what it costs.

they don’t speak again until chae-eun’s pulling into the lot.

the hum of the car engine fills the silence, low and steady, but it’s not enough to drown out the noise in myah’s head.

she watches the familiar curve of the building come into view—the warm orange glow of the hallway lights in their apartment complex, the too-small parking spots, the dented railing someone’s been complaining about fixing for months. it’s home. safe. normal.

and it feels so far away.

cha-eun shifts into park but doesn’t kill the engine.

her hands stay tight on the wheel.

“you’re already planning to go back, aren’t you.”

myah doesn’t answer.

not out of guilt, or because she’s trying to be clever, but because yes. she is. she’s been planning it since the moment she walked away. since she saw silver eyes in the dark and heard a voice that made something inside her sit up and listen.

cha-eun exhales through her nose, her knuckles pale. “of course you are.”

“i’m not going tonight,” myah says after a beat. she tries to keep her voice light. it doesn’t work. “besides, you’re working a double tomorrow. you need sleep.”

cha-eun’s head jerks toward her, sharp. “that’s your reason for waiting?”

myah doesn’t answer.

cha-eun exhales hard. “are you planning to go alone?”

“no,” myah says. and then, after a beat too long: “i’ll bring someone.”

“who?” she says, though she already knows.

“…kai.”

cha-eun stares at her for a second like she’s trying to figure out if she misheard before letting out a sharp, breathy sound that isn’t quite a laugh, too horrified for humor.

“kai. okay. great.”

“he’s a hybrid,” myah says, starting to defend it, already hearing how weak it sounds.

“exactly,” chae-eun snaps. “and do you honestly think that makes him qualified?”

“he understands how things like this work—”

“no, he understands what it means to survive,” chae-eun cuts in, voice sharp. “and the second you drag him into that basement and he sees what’s waiting down there? he’s not going to help you, myah. he’s going to shut it down.”

myah’s mouth opens. then closes.

“you think he’s just going to stand there and smile while you get cozy with a bunch of unregistered, starved, male hybrids?” chae-eun’s voice keeps climbing. “you think he’s going to just let that panther keep looking at you like that?”

myah’s stomach twists.

“kai’s not like that,” she says, too quickly.

cha-eun slams her hand against the steering wheel, voice cracking. “kai would rip him apart. rip all of them apartthe second he felt you were being threatened. and it won’t matter if you don’t feel threatened, because he will.”

the car is thick with silence again. this time heavier. uglier.

“he’s not going to let you go back,” chae-eun says finally, quieter now. “not once he knows what’s actually going on. not once he sees what they want.”

myah looks away, but that hits. hard.

because she knows what it looked like.

and she knows what it would look like to kai.

and he wouldn’t understand, not the way she needs him to. not without exploding. not without violence.

“then what,” myah says, voice tight. “just call it in? let some half-interested social worker show up and ‘assess the risk’? let the hybrids get drugged and shoved in a van and carted off to some overrun shelter in the middle of nowhere?”

“yes,” chae-eun says, like it’s obvious. “that’s exactly what needs to happen.”

“you can’t be serious—”

“i am. dead serious.” she leans forward, eyes flashing. “you’re not trained for this. you don’t know what you’re doing. this isn’t your responsibility, myah. it never was. this is government-level, containment-level shit, and you dragging in another hybrid, especially one who’s already attached to you, isn’t going to make it better.”

that lands harder than anything else.

and it hurts, because part of her knows she’s right. she is. but still, something in myah recoils.

“i need to know what they were doing,” she says finally, voice low. “my grandparents. the house, the cages, all of it.” she shakes her head. “it doesn’t make sense. none of it fits. and nobody else is going to care enough to look.”

“you think you’ll find some neat little explanation down there?” chae-eun snaps. “a confession letter taped to the underside of the freezer? myah, you could dig for months and still end up with more questions than answers.”

“maybe,” myah admits, “but at least i’d know i tried. i can’t pretend it didn’t happen. that basement is real. they’re real. and if it’s connected to my family, then i need to understand how.”

cha-eun exhales, eyes dropping to the dash.

“i’m not saying forget it,” she says, softer now. “i’m saying let it go before it swallows you.”

myah swallows hard.

and for a second, she almost says okay.

almost.

but when she closes her eyes, she still sees the silver-haired one, how he’d looked at her like he knew something. like the answers she was chasing weren’t in the paperwork, or the lawyer’s files, or the old photographs in her grandparents’ bedroom.

they were down there.

in the silence.

in them.

and it’s reckless. she knows it’s reckless.

but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.

“…i just need time,” she says quietly.

“you don’t have time,” chae-eun whispers back.

but neither of them says anything more after that.

neither of them move. not yet.

the hum of the engine is steady beneath them, but everything else is cracking. shifting. realigning into something neither of them asked for.

chae-eun finally leans forward and turns the key in the ignition.

the car goes silent.

myah had barely registered the motion of getting out of the car. her feet felt like they were dragging, her mind too clouded to focus on anything other than the feeling of dread that had settled deep in her chest. as they made their way inside, the building’s lobby seemed colder than usual, and the air hung heavy with the kind of stillness that always felt like something was about to break.

she had barely gotten her keys out when the door to the apartment swung open. there, standing in the doorway, was jisun, eyes wide with concern.

“where were you two?” she asked, her voice soft but demanding, like she knew something was wrong, like she could already feel the shift in myah’s energy.

myah hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug, trying to brush it off. “oh, we just went to grab a bite to eat,” she said, glancing at chae-eun for confirmation.

chae-eun nodded, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “yeah, we went to that cute little restaurant my coworkers have been talking about. the one with the soft, fluffy pancakes.”

jisun raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “you went to a restaurant in sector two?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. she sniffed the air once, then again, her nose twitching slightly as she processed the scent. her eyes narrowed. “you smell like... ferals,” she said, her voice quieter now, the concern creeping in.

chae-eun tilted her head. “ferals?” she echoed, glancing at myah with a raised brow.

“yeah,” jisun said, her gaze sharpening as she studied myah. “ferals... or someone’s trying to mark you.” she sniffed again, her posture becoming tense. “why the hell were you in that sector anyway? I get you were hungry but there’s a mcdonalds is down the street. you know how dangerous it gets this late.”

“someone marked us?!” chae-eun exclaimed, worry laced in her tone, her eyes darting between myah and jisun. “we didn’t—”

“no, not you,” jisun cut in, taking another deep sniff, her nose circling back to myah with an almost predatory precision. her eyes sharpened as she focused entirely on myah. “just her.”

myah’s stomach dropped at the implication. her chest tightened as jisun’s words settled in the air like a weight. she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “marked me? what does that even mean?”

jisun’s expression darkened, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “it means someone or something has claimed you, myah. not necessarily in the way you might think, but,” her voice trailed off as she looked myah up and down, her sharp eyes never leaving her. “this scent, this… feeling, it’s not a coincidence. and it’s not good.”

chae-eun shifted nervously beside her, crossing her arms tighter. “but how? how could anyone just claim her? what does it mean?”

“i don’t know,” jisun admitted quietly, her voice softer now, a flicker of concern breaking through the cool edge. “but it’s not something you want to mess with. you’re in danger now. and it’s worse the later it gets. someone’s definitely watching you.”

myah’s heart raced, her breath catching in her chest. “so what should we do? what now?”

“now,” jisun began, her gaze lingering on myah as she stepped closer, lowering her voice, “you stay close to home. you stay away from sector two. don’t go out alone. and if you feel anything off, anything at all, anything, you call one of us, or even that stupid fox, no questions. got it?”

myah nodded quickly, the weight of jisun’s warning settling heavily in her bones. the air around her felt thick with something more dangerous than she had realized, and she wasn’t sure how to navigate it. everything felt too uncertain now.

“we’ll stick together,” chae-eun added, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of concern. “no more risky moves. we’ll figure this out.”

jisun’s expression softened, but her eyes still held a trace of that intensity, as if she wasn’t fully convinced it was safe. “yeah, well. don’t get complacent. that’s how people end up disappearing.”

myah felt her skin prickle at the word. disappearing. it echoed in her mind like a whisper.

"we'll be careful," she said, though her voice felt small against the heaviness in the room.

the warning was clear, stay away from that house, that basement. yet myah knew tomorrow she would be back.

the morning light filtered softly through the blinds, casting a pale glow across the room. myah blinked awake, the gentle warmth of her bed pulling her into a moment of peace before the reality of the day ahead sank in. for a split second, she let herself sink deeper into the mattress, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound in the quiet apartment. it felt like a different world, a world where she could just stay here and forget. but that wasn’t her life anymore.

she shifted in bed, rubbing her eyes and groaning quietly. the bed beside her was empty, the sheets crumpled from when jisun had left for her early class. myah had barely noticed when she’d gotten up, the soft sound of her roommate’s footsteps and the creak of the door the only clues. jisun had always been considerate about her early classes, never wanting to wake myah up. it was one of those little things she did that made myah appreciate her so much more.

she pushed the blankets off her body, sitting up slowly, her limbs heavy from the lack of sleep, though it wasn’t from exhaustion, it was the tension of the night before still weighing on her. her heart beat slower now, but the unease from the warning, from the knowledge of what she had to do, lingered like a shadow.

as she stood and moved toward the window, myah caught sight of chae-eun in the kitchen, her back to her as she prepared breakfast. the soft clink of the kettle being set down, the smell of something rich and warm in the air. it felt oddly comforting. something familiar amidst everything else that had gone wrong.

“morning,” myah mumbled, rubbing at her eyes again, her voice thick with the remnants of sleep.

chae-eun turned with a soft smile, a cup of tea in her hand. “good morning. how’d you sleep?”

myah sighed, stretching her arms above her head as she walked over to the counter. “like crap,” she admitted, settling into the chair, her gaze flickering to chae-eun. “just can’t shake the feeling of... everything.”

“yeah,” chae-eun murmured, setting the cup down before her, her eyes softening as she studied myah. “it’s been a rough night. did you talk to jisun?”

myah shook her head, her hands wrapped around the warm mug. “she had an early class, didn’t want to wake me up.” she sighed again, this time louder. “i didn’t even want to wake up myself. it’s just one of those mornings.”

cha-eun nodded in understanding, but the way she looked at myah, that lingering thought on her mind. it was clear she wasn’t letting this go.

“you sure you’re okay?” cha-eun asked, her voice lighter but her eyes serious. “you don’t look like it.”

myah gave her a tired smile, but it was thin, strained. “i’ll be fine. just a little shaken up, that’s all.”

the moment hung between them for a beat, and cha-eun didn’t press. instead, she moved toward the stove, fiddling with the pots. “well, if you want to talk, i’m here. just don’t bottle it up, okay?”

myah gave a slight nod, watching her in silence as the air shifted, becoming thicker with the weight of their unspoken thoughts. cha-eun, always the one who saw the smallest details, could tell something was off, something deeper. and myah knew the next question was coming. she braced herself, trying to steel herself for the inevitable.

but when it came, it wasn’t gentle.

“you can’t seriously think about going back, right?” cha-eun’s voice was low, but sharp enough to cut through the tension. her eyes narrowed as she turned to face myah, the concern evident on her face. “especially after what jisun said? they claimed you, myah. claimed you. marked you.”

myah’s breath hitched, the word “claimed” hanging in the air, ringing in her ears like a warning bell. her heart skipped a beat, but she pushed it away. “i don’t have a choice, chae-eun,” she said quietly, her voice a little too steady. “i have to go back. i need answers. i need to understand what’s going on.”

“but—” cha-eun stepped closer, her face softening, her hands placed flat against the counter as if grounding herself. “you’re not thinking straight. you don’t know what’s out there, what’s waiting for you. What if jisun’s right, what if they’re not just marking you. they’re hunting you.”

myah opened her mouth to argue, but the words felt too heavy in her throat. cha-eun was right. she wasn’t thinking straight. but she couldn’t back down now. she had to know what happened, what her grandparents were involved in, what she had inherited by stepping into that house. something had happened there, and she wasn’t going to back away from it, no matter how many warnings or how much fear clawed at her chest.

“i don’t care,” myah finally said, her voice firm despite the cold dread spreading through her veins. “i have to go. i’ll figure it out. i just... i can’t leave it hanging over me.”

chae-eun watched her for a long moment, her lips pressing together in a tight line. she exhaled sharply, almost as if giving up, but then the words came, filled with that quiet edge of concern.

“okay, fine,” she said, her voice low. “but you’re going to need more backup than kai. you’re going to need... more.”

“more?” myah echoed, raising an eyebrow. “more backup? what do you mean?”

cha-eun leaned against the counter, her gaze shifting from myah’s face to the window, where the early morning light cast long shadows across the street. “call the police, myah. get professionals involved. you don’t know what’s out there. you’re not just going to walk in there and walk back out. and kai’s not enough. if something happens, you need to be prepared.”

myah swallowed, the weight of cha-eun’s words sinking deep into her chest. she hadn’t thought about it that way. she’d been so focused on going back, on finding out what was really going on, that she hadn’t considered how unprepared she really was. what if something happened? what if they were waiting for her?

“you’re right,” myah murmured, her voice quieter now, weighed down by the growing realization that she couldn’t do this alone. “i’ll call a hybrid service office. one that’s ethical and figure out what to do from there.”

“good,” cha-eun said, her voice softening as she reached over and squeezed myah’s shoulder. “this isn’t your responsibility. your grandparents might have fucked up, but you shouldn’t carry this burden alone.”

myah nodded, her chest tight with the unspoken promise. they would face it together. she didn’t know what was coming, but she wasn’t walking into it blind anymore.

the tension in the room began to lift slightly, the quiet comfort of their usual dynamic slowly returning as cha-eun began to gather her things to head out for work. myah remained seated for a moment, lost in thought. she could still feel the weight of the decision ahead of her, the uncertainty hanging like a cloud over her head. but for the first time that morning, she felt like she wasn’t carrying it alone.

“you’ll be okay,” cha-eun said, her voice light, though there was still concern in her eyes. “just remember to reach out if you need anything. me, the police... call whoever you have to.”

“i will,” myah promised, a small but genuine smile pulling at her lips. “thanks.”

with a nod, cha-eun picked up her bag and headed toward the door. “you’re stronger than you think,” she said over her shoulder, her words lingering in the air. “don’t forget that.”

and with that, she was gone, leaving myah alone in the quiet apartment once more. but the stillness felt different now. not so heavy. not so uncertain.

myah stood up, straightening her clothes, taking a deep breath.

she wasn’t going to back down, no matter how much she wished she could. chae-eun had been right, she needed more help, more backup. but who could she rely on?

her only family just died and everyone else was too far away or busy. school, work, their own lives. they wouldn’t be able to help, let alone understand the gravity of the situation.

and the police?

hybrid services?

the thought made her chest tighten.

her heart ached with something she couldn’t quite name. not guilt exactly, not fear either, something sharper. something heavier. like grief, but still forming. a knot of determination that hadn’t quite settled yet, tangled with something raw and restless and aching to make sense of all of it.

the truth was, if she called it in, if she let hybrid services come in and "handle" it, it would be the end.

they’d be torn from that basement, sedated, evaluated, assigned numbers, and locked away again. not for weeks.

forever.

because most of those hybrids, especially the predatory ones, would never make it out of a shelter once they were placed in one.

not the adults.

not the ones like them.

they were labeled too dangerous. unadoptable. unpredictable. too violent for re-entry into the workforce, too scarred for family placement. society had long since decided they were problems to be managed, not people to be saved.

and once they were in the system, that was it.

they'd disappear.

just like so many others.

but myah had seen them. not just down there in that cold, rotting basement, but years ago, back in high school, volunteering at a hybrid recovery center during summer break. she remembered the ones with hollow eyes and clipped ears, the ones who flinched at sudden movements and kept their heads down.

but she also remembered the way they moved when they thought no one was watching, silent, graceful, brilliant. she remembered the quiet strength in their bodies, the soft, unguarded moments when their masks slipped.

the kind of resilience no government file could capture.

no one ever looked long enough to see that part.

but myah had.

and now, she was seeing it again.

only this time, it wasn’t behind plexiglass and safety protocols, it was behind rusted iron, in the glow of a single swinging lightbulb, with eyes that watched her like she mattered.

and him.

the silver-haired one.

he haunted her thoughts more than the rest. not because he was the most beautiful, though he was, but because there was something in his voice when he spoke to her. something she couldn’t forget.

something human.

no judgment. no bitterness. just…

quiet gratitude.

warmth.

trust.

as if he already knew she wouldn’t leave him there.

as if he’d been waiting for her.

it made her chest hurt. made her wonder what he knew.

what he’d seen.

and that was the other thing, the part she hadn’t said out loud yet, not even to chae-eun.

they were the key to understanding everything.

the whispers sealed in her grandfather’s safe. the secret side of her family she never knew existed. who they really were. what they’d done.

there was a rot at the center of it all, and the only place she’d ever felt close to it was in that basement.

standing in front of those cages.

staring into those eyes.

no one deserves to be locked away.

not forever.

and that was why she couldn’t let it go.

even if it meant risking everything.

even if it meant lying to her friends.

even if it meant stepping straight into something she might not walk out of.

she wasn’t going to let them vanish into the system like they were nothing. she wasn’t going to let her life be defined by silence, by ignorance, by the same kind of cage her family had apparently helped build.

if she was going to get answers,

if she was going to help them,

if she was ever going to understand what the hell her grandparents had really been involved in,

then she had to start by going back.

even if every part of her said she shouldn’t.

even if it already felt too late.

she had to face it.

she shook off the lingering doubt and made her way to the door, grabbing her keys from the hook by the entrance. she stepped out into the hallway, the familiar scent of the building’s damp concrete filling her lungs, but it did nothing to ease the unease crawling up her spine.

the city was alive around her, bustling with the usual chaos, but she felt completely disconnected from it all. she moved quickly, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts, the questions of whether she was making a mistake.

as she made her way to the train station, the streets felt emptier than usual, the buildings casting long, looming shadows over the sidewalks. the rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and reflective, but the tension in the air was palpable, like the whole city was holding its breath.

her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she walked, the familiar route to the house feeling foreign under her feet. she glanced around, half-expecting someone to be following her, but there was no one.

just the hum of the city, the occasional car speeding by, the echo of her own footsteps.

when she arrived finally at the house, it seemed even more intimidating in the daylight. it loomed before her, quiet and brooding, as if it had been waiting for her return. myah paused at the gate, her heart thudding in her chest.

the house hadn’t changed, its faded, weather beaten exterior, the overgrown ivy clinging to the walls, the windows dark and lifeless. everything about it screamed abandonment. and yet, it was calling to her. pulling her back. demanding that she come inside.

with a deep breath, she pushed open the gate, the rusty hinges creaking in protest. the sound echoed through the stillness, making her flinch. she moved up the cracked stone steps, each one heavy under her feet, until she reached the door. she paused there for a moment, hand resting on the handle.

do i really want to do this?

the thought hit her like a punch to the gut, but she didn’t flinch this time. she couldn’t afford to. she had already made the choice.

she turned the handle and stepped inside.

the air was the same as yesterday, thick with dust. the old house holding its breath, as though waiting for her to make her move.

the floor creaked beneath her feet, the familiar scent of must and aged wood filling her lungs. the hallway stretched ahead, dark and silent, the faded wallpaper peeling in some places, revealing the skeleton of the house beneath. everything looked the same as it had when she left. and yet, it felt different. darker.

she made her way through the house, the silence pressing in around her as she moved towards the hatch to the basement. the steps leading down felt narrower than before, the air getting colder as she descended. her heart pounded louder now, the anticipation building in her chest with every step. she wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

when she reached the bottom, the basement stretched out before her, dimly lit by a flickering light bulb that cast eerie shadows on the stone walls. the cages were still there, stacked in rows against the walls. and there they were.

the hybrids.

the ones she had met just yesterday.

the ones whose eyes she could never forget.

the silence was suffocating. they didn’t make a sound. they just watched her. their eyes, so full of life and longing, fixed on her, waiting. expecting.

one of the hybrids, the lion, shifted slowly inside his cage, the bars groaning faintly as he leaned into them.

his movements were deliberate, graceful in a way that spoke of restrained strength. golden eyes, deep and piercing, locked onto hers, holding her captive in their intensity. the rounded ears atop his head flicked just slightly, attentive to every tiny sound she made, and his thick tail curled languidly behind him, swishing in silent contemplation.

“you came back,” he murmured, his voice a deep, rumbling vibration that seemed to ripple through the darkness, touching places within her she didn't fully understand. it carried a heaviness, something hidden beneath layers of calm control.

myah froze in place, her heart hammering against her ribs. his words echoed through the basement, hanging in the air between them, charged with meaning she couldn't decipher. she didn't know if she felt relief or fear, or some intoxicating mixture of both, but there was no turning back now.

“i had to,” she whispered back, voice barely audible, trembling slightly beneath the intensity of his stare. “i’m not leaving you here.”

he remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, gaze unyielding, a flicker of something unreadable.

something darkly possessive passing through those golden eyes.

his lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile, subtle enough to almost seem imagined, but unmistakably there. her breath caught as the realization settled heavily into her bones.

the silence stretched between them, deeper and more charged now, until it felt as though the room itself were waiting, holding its breath.

and in that quiet, myah sensed something else begin to take shape, something dangerous, enticing, and far beyond her control.

the silence lingered, dense and heavy, pressing in around her until myah felt like she could barely breathe. she let her eyes drift away from the golden-haired hybrid in front of her, shifting instead toward the others trapped in their cages.

they watched her carefully.

silently.

their eyes, so piercing and full of guarded curiosity, seemed to catch the faint, dim lighting in the basement, each gaze following her movements with a predatory focus she tried desperately to ignore.

she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat painfully tight, before realization suddenly flooded her chest. her heart twisted sharply as she took in the hollowed look to their faces, the subtle way their ribs pressed sharply against skin.

god, when was the last time they had eaten?

"oh my god," she whispered, voice breaking slightly, guilt stabbing sharply in her chest. "you all must be starving."

the golden eyed hybrid’s gaze softened, something almost amused flickering behind the predatory calm in his eyes. he tilted his head slightly, studying her carefully, his long tail flicking lazily behind him.

From across the room another hybrid, with midnight dark hair spoke up,

"you care," he drawled slowly, voice deep and smooth like honey, though an edge lingered beneath the surface, subtle and dangerous. "how interesting."

myah’s cheeks heated at the weight behind his words, but she forced herself to stay steady, stepping a little closer despite the warning bells going off in her mind. she ignored them, shaking off her hesitation. she had to help. she couldn't turn her back, not now.

"of course i care," she replied, voice stronger now, her chin lifting slightly with defiance. "no one deserves this. i won’t leave you hungry."

from one of the cages behind her came a quiet chuckle, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down her spine. turning sharply, she caught sight of another hybrid in the shadows, his silvery-white hair glowing softly even in the dimness, eyes glittering like shards of ice as he regarded her from behind the rusted bars.

"brave little human," he murmured softly, tone playful but dangerously sharp around the edges, "you have no idea what hunger really means."

myah tried not to let his words unsettle her further, tried not to let his icy stare cut beneath her skin. instead, she focused again on the lion hybrid, meeting his steady golden gaze head-on. "i’ll get food. just, wait here."

another amused sound drifted from the raven haired hybrid, his amber eyes peering at her from the darkness. his lips curved faintly into something sharp and unsettlingly knowing.

"we're not going anywhere," he drawled, voice silky but cold, dripping with quiet menace. "take your time."

myah took one last glance at their eyes, sharp, glowing, hungry, and turned quickly, racing back up the creaking basement stairs. her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she emerged into the stale air of the house, her mind spinning wildly.

food.

she had to find food. but what did they even eat?

hybrids, predators, they probably needed meat.

fresh meat.

her stomach turned uneasily at the thought, memories flickering through her mind of childhood visits spent here. her grandfather had hunted regularly, she remembered vividly.

yet, somehow, she’d never once seen a deer carcass or anything remotely like it inside the house.

no, there had never been any raw meat in the fridge. not even once. her grandparents had always kept their kitchen pristine and tidy, a place of warmth and home-cooked meals. there had never been anything bloody or raw tucked away.

so where had it all gone?

myah spun around slowly in the kitchen, pulse quickening as realization dawned on her.

the shed.

her grandfather’s old hunting shed. the little wooden shack that had always felt eerie and had been forbidden during her childhood.

it sat tucked back in the shadowed corner of the backyard, concealed by overgrown bushes and towering trees. she’d never been allowed near it as a child; her grandfather had always warned her away, claiming it was dangerous.

She always assumed it was because her grandparents didn’t want her to get ahold of her grandpa’s rifles and knifes, but now, she understood the true reason.

it must’ve been where he’d stored the meat, fresh from his hunts, hidden away from innocent eyes.

myah rushed out the back door, stepping quickly through the tall grass, the yard eerily quiet around her. the old shed loomed at the edge of the property, dark and weathered with age. ivy crept up its sides, tendrils gripping tightly onto rotting wood. it felt like something from a nightmare, shadowy and foreboding. but she pushed down the dread, forcing herself forward.

with a trembling hand, she grasped the rusty door handle, wrenching the creaking door open. the interior was dark, dusty, smelling strongly of leather, oil, and something sharp and metallic. the air inside felt colder than outside, raising goosebumps along her arms.

she fumbled for the old light switch beside the door, praying it still worked. after a tense moment, the dim bulb flickered to life, casting pale, sickly yellow light across the cluttered space.

her grandfather’s hunting gear lay scattered everywhere, rifles mounted on racks along the walls, knives and traps piled haphazardly on a workbench, old hunting boots lined up beside crates stacked high against one wall. but at the far end of the shed stood something else,

a large industrial freezer, humming quietly.

myah swallowed hard, stepping hesitantly toward it, her throat dry. her heart beat wildly in her chest as she placed her hand on the cold metal handle.

she’d come too far now to turn back.

with a firm tug, she opened the heavy door, a blast of freezing air rushing out to meet her, carrying with it the metallic scent of frozen blood. inside, neatly stacked on shelves, were wrapped cuts of raw meat, large and small. each package labeled meticulously in her grandfather’s neat, cursive handwriting.

deer.

elk.

rabbit.

even something labeled boar.

her stomach churned again at the sight, but relief flooded through her just as quickly. at least there was enough here to feed them. to ease some of their suffering.

carefully, myah pulled out several packages of meat, ignoring the sharp chill that bit at her fingers. she had no idea how much they’d need, but she grabbed enough that her arms strained under the weight. the freezer door slammed shut heavily behind her, echoing sharply in the quiet of the shed.

as she made her way back across the yard, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck, the creeping sensation of being watched. she glanced around quickly, but saw nothing.

just the still, empty yard, the trees looming silently. she shook her head, dismissing the feeling.

she had other things to worry about right now.

by the time she reached the hatch in the kitchen again, her heart was hammering so loudly she feared the hybrids would hear it. she steadied herself carefully, balancing the frozen packages awkwardly in her arms as she descended the steps, back into their cage lined darkness.

their eyes were waiting for her, glowing softly in the shadows, sharp and calculating. watching. hungry.

"i found something, i hope this helps," myah said quietly, steadying her voice as she lifted the heavy packages of frozen meat onto the worn wooden table. her pulse quickened under the weight of their gazes, each hybrid watching her with an intensity she stubbornly refused to show intimidated her.

The same hybrid stepped forward, his amber eyes narrowing slightly, glinting with predatory curiosity. his movements were smooth, deliberate, exuding a controlled menace barely contained behind rusted bars.

"oh, it helps," he purred softly, voice smooth and dangerously alluring, eyes never leaving her face. "you have no idea just how hungry we've been."

myah forced herself not to flinch under his stare, silently holding his gaze with quiet defiance. she wasn't going to let him see how easily he could rattle her. her composure was her armor, and right now, she needed every bit of it.

"interesting," the lion hybrid remarked softly, gaze steady and quietly evaluating. "you returned without your friend this time. was she too frightened to come back?"

myah paused slightly, she vividly remembered how tense chae-eun had been yesterday when they first discovered the hybrids; the way her friend's eyes widened at the creatures who'd seemed so fearful, so vulnerable in their cages. at that moment, they’d looked more frightened of them than the other way around.

myah couldn't help but wonder what had changed. were they simply hungry, exhausted, or was it something else?

"she thought it was better to stay behind," myah replied carefully, keeping her voice even. "after yesterday, i can't say i blame her."

from the cage closest to the stairs, another hybrid chuckled quietly, lounging with casual elegance against the bars. his deep brown curls drawing attention even in the shadowy basement, his tiger-like eyes playful and subtly teasing as he watched her reaction.

"shame," he drawled lightly, a lazy smirk curving his lips. "we barely got a chance to say hello."

myah raised an eyebrow slightly, managing a faint, wry smile despite the unease fluttering in her stomach.

"i think your idea of a greeting might be a bit different than ours," she replied dryly, masking her nerves beneath humor.

a quiet grunt slipped from the cage across from his, containing what looked to be a jaguar.

the hybrid was still shifted, however his gaze held a quiet amusement, silently studying her reaction with careful, thoughtful intensity.

the subtle tension shifted again when a gentler voice drew her attention, familiar, soft, and inexplicably comforting. her heart quickened slightly in recognition. this was the hybrid she’d spoken to through the door yesterday, the gentle voice that had quietly pleaded with her, easing her doubts.

the hybrid who had asked her to return, who she had been unable to forget about.

stepping slightly closer to his cage, she saw his delicate features more clearly, soft hazel eyes wide with sincerity beneath wispy silver hair.

"you shouldn't blame yourself," he murmured quietly, his gaze gentle, reassuring, yet tinged with subtle sadness. "we knew you'd come back. thank you for keeping your promise."

myah’s breath steadied subtly at his quiet sincerity, inexplicably comforted by his voice, his gentle expression. she couldn’t help but trust him, despite the uncertainty that still prickled at the edges of her mind.

"i just want to help," she said softly, earnestness slipping into her tone as she held his gaze briefly.

from the back again, the black-haired hybrid shifted slightly, regaining her attention effortlessly. his eyes narrowed subtly, golden gaze glittering with quiet amusement. "help," he echoed smoothly, voice dripping with subtle skepticism, yet somehow alluring in its challenge. "an interesting way to describe bringing raw meat to caged predators."

myah glanced at him, forcing herself not to react outwardly, though his words did send a small spike of anxiety through her chest. she knew there was truth in his statement, but she refused to let him control the moment. she held her composure steady, lifting her chin slightly.

"would you prefer vegetables instead?" she asked lightly, refusing to be baited further. "because i'm not sure rabbits were on the menu."

another soft laugh drifted from near the stairs again. the curly headed hybrid grinning wider now, openly amused by her retort. "see?" he murmured teasingly, eyes glinting with clear interest. "i knew she had claws."

the silver-haired hybrid, sensing the subtle tension rising again, spoke gently, quietly soothing the room once more. his voice was careful, gentle, subtly pleading for calm. "we're grateful for anything you can do," he assured her softly, hazel eyes earnest. "we just want freedom from this."

the quiet sincerity in his voice tugged deeply at her chest, melting some of the tension still clinging to her shoulders. despite everything, she felt drawn to trust him above all the others, instinctively believing the gentle sincerity he offered.

"i’m trying," she promised softly, sincerity clear in her tone. "i won't leave you stuck here."

silence briefly settled between them, and myah felt the weight of their collective stares again, heavier than before, each hybrid watching her carefully, some with amusement, some curiosity, others quiet calculation.

finally, she stepped back slightly, glancing around the basement thoughtfully, determination steadying her again despite the lingering uncertainty inside her chest. "alright," she said firmly, gaze flickering back to the silver-haired hybrid, quietly finding reassurance in his gentle, hopeful expression. "let's see if i can figure out how to get you out."

a charged silence followed her words, the air in the basement feeling suddenly heavy with cautious hope. myah drew in a slow breath, steadying herself as she glanced around again at the cages, searching for anything she might've missed before.

"do any of you remember how you got out last time?" she asked carefully, keeping her voice calm and gentle as she moved closer to the nearest cage, the one containing the lion. she kept her movements deliberate, careful not to startle or upset them.

he regarded her with quiet authority, eyes steady and watchful. after a brief moment, he shook his head slightly, the thick waves of his golden hair shifting softly against his shoulders.

"we've never been out of these cages," he replied evenly, his deep voice resonating softly in the quiet basement, laced with subtle yet firm certainty. "at least, not since we were put in them."

myah’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion, her heart giving a sharp, anxious twist. that didn't make sense. something wasn't adding up. "but, someone got out," she murmured, mostly to herself, recalling the reports of a hybrid attack, the police statements. her grandparents' fate. she swallowed hard, pushing down the sharp sting of grief. there was no time for that now.

the dark-haired hybrid with the intense amber eyes watched her closely, clearly noting her distress. his voice was soft, velvet-smooth, edged with quiet menace.

"perhaps someone’s not telling you the whole truth," he suggested quietly, his amber gaze narrowed and thoughtful, subtly unsettling in its quiet intensity.

she glanced sharply at him, feeling another small flicker of unease.

was he implying something about her grandparents?

about someone else entirely? she forced herself to shake the thought away, not ready to entertain those suspicions yet. not until she had more answers.

determined, she carefully checked the locks and hinges, examining each door for weakness. her fingers brushed against cold, rusted metal; the surfaces worn but still frustratingly secure. each latch held firm beneath her attempts. frustration began to gnaw at the edges of her composure, her pulse quickening anxiously with every fruitless test.

the curly headed hybrid leaning lazily against his bars tracked her with slow, interested eyes. his posture was relaxed, lounging like a cat sunbathing, but there was a flicker of something sharper beneath it.

something watchful.

"you seem pretty determined," he drawled, his voice light with amusement, but the glint in his eyes wasn’t playful. "but i doubt you’ll get these open by hand. believe me, we’ve tried."

myah let out a quiet breath, running a hand through her hair, trying to mask the growing tension pressing in behind her ribs.

"there has to be another way," she muttered, stepping back to scan the room again. "they can’t have just locked you down here without some kind of system."

"oh, there’s a system," came a voice from the farthest cage, low and smooth like velvet over blades. "you’re just not the one they built it for."

she turned sharply. the one in the shadows hadn’t moved much, but his golden eyes glinted in the dim light, watching her with quiet calculation.

like he was waiting for this moment.

"what does that mean?" she asked slowly. "how did the eighth hybrid get out?"

a beat of silence.

the silver-haired one shifted where he sat, his eyes suddenly distant. he didn’t speak.

the one lounging by the stairs stilled too, his expression folding in just slightly, the casual edge softening into something unreadable.

"there was no eighth predator," the black-haired hybrid said finally. deliberate. calm. like it was a truth he’d held in his teeth too long. "that cage wasn’t for one of us."

myah stared at him. "then who was it for?"

"prey," another voice answered, quieter, softer from the left side of the room. "they kept them there overnight. until they were…taken."

"they never returned," said the deep voice in front of her, steady but heavy. "not ever."

her breath caught.

"you mean prey hybrids? like rabbits? deer?"

"among others," the dark headed hybrid said smoothly. he shifted just slightly in his cage, his golden eyes never leaving hers. "kept in that cage. fattened. frightened. sometimes sedated if they cried too much. usually just…quiet. they knew what was coming."

myah shook her head. no, that didn’t make sense. it didn’t fit. "but no. my grandfather didn’t do that. he,” she paused, sucking in a breath, “he hunted, yeah, but he wasn’t like that. he believed in clean kills, in ethical tags and permits and—"

"you think he was dragging whitetail out of the forest?" the hybrid tilted his head slightly, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. it wasn’t a smile. it was a warning. "those went extinct in this region before you could even walk."

her stomach dropped.

"there’s no wildlife left out there," the one with the golden hair said, his voice calm but edged. "you’d be lucky to find a squirrel. the ecosystems are gone. wiped out. pollution, over-harvesting, fires—take your pick. all the original prey species are either dead, relocated, or too protected to touch."

"but he had meat," she whispered as she slid to the ground. "the freezer, there was venison, rabbit, he said he hunted in the northern woodlands—"

"hybrids are the only remaining source," the hybrid’s voice quiet now. almost gentle. "the gene carriers. you want deer meat, you need a deer hybrid. they harvest from us. still do. just not out in the open."

her blood went cold.

"you’re lying," she said. but it came out wrong. weak. like she was asking.

the one sitting near the stairs scoffed, his eyes gleaming. "do we look like the liars in this story?"

she turned toward the table, staring at the empty meat packages, the ones she’d pulled out of the freezer herself. her stomach twisted violently. she’d brought that meat down here like a gift. like an offering.

"no," she whispered, voice cracking. "he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t feed people—"

"who said it was for people?" the black haired hybrid murmured, almost too low to hear. "some of it, sure. the best cuts went to buyers. the rest? maybe to the staff. maybe into his own freezer. maybe right back down here to us, to see what we'd do."

her hands curled into fists. the nausea burned in her throat.

she looked at the cage again. that cage, noticed its smaller size, the lack of locks to hold it shut. it had never been meant to hold someone like them.

it had been a pen. a prep table.

livestock containment.

"i didn’t know," she said. her voice shook. "i didn’t know any of this."

"you do now.”

the words weren’t cruel. they weren’t sharp or cutting.

they were just…

final.

and somehow that made it worse.

myah stood there, frozen, the truth settling around her like dust after a collapse. heavy. choking. inescapable. she could still feel the cold metal of the cage beneath her fingertips, the weight of the meat she had carried down, the flicker of pride she’d felt for thinking ahead. thinking she was helping.

but that meat had come from someone.

someone who had slept in that cage. breathed in this basement. cried out in the dark and gotten no answer.

someone who had never left.

and her grandfather had known.

not just known, he had organized it. built it. maintained it. made it look normal. made it look ethical.

and she’d never questioned it. not once.

"i grew up in that house," she murmured, not to any of them, not even to herself, but to the ghost of something that had once felt solid inside her. "i used to sit on the porch with him while he cleaned his arrows. i used to help him label the cuts. i thought…"

her voice broke. she blinked hard.

"you didn’t put us here," a voice said quietly.

she looked up.

he was sitting near the front of his cage now, close enough to reach the bars, close enough that she could see the way his pale lashes caught the light.

the silver haired one.

his fingers were loose around the rusted metal, not clutching, just resting. like he’d been waiting. like he wasn’t in a cage at all. just keeping her company.

"but you came back." his voice was soft, careful, like he knew her heart was still in pieces. like he didn’t want to step on the shards. "that has to mean something. doesn’t it?"

myah blinked at him.

there was no accusation in his face. no push. just that unbearable calm, that gentle gravity he carried, like he was built to be safe, even in a place like this.

and that was the problem, wasn’t it?

he made her want to believe in something again.

she stood slowly, brushing her palms off on her jeans. her legs ached, but she kept her gaze on him, watching him watch her.

he tilted his head, just slightly.

and smiled.

not wide. not teasing. just this soft little thing that tugged at her ribs.

“you have a name?” he asked, voice low and warm, like it didn’t matter if she answered or not, he’d remember the way she looked when she did.

“myah,” she said, after a moment. “it’s myah.”

his smile deepened, just a breath.

like he was tasting it.

like he already knew it would ruin him.

“myah,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, like it was a word worth savoring. “that’s a beautiful name.”

her stomach did something embarrassing.

something fluttery.

and then he leaned forward, just a little, just enough for the light to catch on the golden flecks in his eyes, and said, softer, almost conspiratorial, “you can call me jimin.”

like it was a secret. like it was just for her.

she stared at him for a beat too long, her lips parting slightly, caught between suspicion and the stupid, impossible urge to smile back.

“thank you jimin,” she said finally, voice quieter than she meant it to be.

“anytime,” he murmured, leaning dangerously close, like the rusted bars weren’t even there.

"excuse me, sweetheart," a voice drawled from somewhere off to her right. "but some of us would like to eat."

her head snapped toward the sound, heat crawling up her neck like she’d just been caught doing something she hadn’t meant to.

the one who’d spoken leaned lazily against the bars, grinning like he’d been watching the whole thing and was thoroughly entertained.

her stomach twisted. because the grin didn’t reach his eyes. and his gaze, sharp and golden, wasn’t just amused.

it was hungry.

she looked back at the table.

the meat was still sitting there, thawed now. bleeding slowly through its plastic.

but when she turned her gaze back to the hybrid watching her, there was something in his expression that made her feel like that wasn’t the dinner he meant.

she swallowed.

hard.

and the room suddenly felt just a little too warm.

a little too quiet. like the real hunger in here had nothing to do with the meat behind her.

authors note: hey... um i am so sorry about how long this took me to get out. idk why this story is so difficult for me to like what i write, but i hope you guys enjoyed it !! finals are coming up soon so it might be a sec for the next part but then it should be good. also i think every member has been mentioned now (two have been quiet in scenes with myah but i wont say who for rn) , but take your guesses as two whos what hybrid (i'm planning on making like a post just about whos what i'll link it here when i do!) thank you guys all for the support, ik this chapter was kinda boring, but i wanted to set up some relationship dynamics, idk if its just me but i personally hate when a story introduces characters but then leaves them super one dimensional so i used this chapter to kinda flesh out chae-eun as well as start exploring some of the grandparents backgrounds. thank you guys once again i hope you enjoyed it !!

taglist: @moonxxlover @sassy-snassy @kameko-ko @jnghs @captainhoook @yoonjoongles @canarystwin @sathom013 @gracefulsakura98 @jungshaking @haileyisboring @pookieb99 @starlight-1010 @svnbangtansworld @ihatesnakeu7 @dachshunddame @iyeeeverydee @multifandomfreakster-blog @peachmarien @dawnzephyr @ukndtwme @steddie-steddie @plainoldalexis @vantelover07 @justasadb1tch @seomta @shakespeare-in-the-park7 @mar-lo-pap @chroniclesofbts @borahaetelevision @charlielecrayongris @minjianhyung @wannaghostbts @therealjaken @kpopdreamer95 @selfishlittlebeing @official-angi @calmyourtitts7 @wonder-and-wildflowers @cosmotannie @flowinj @riu @euphoricduck @sketchy-racoon @shadequeen712

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satorusugurugurl · 10 months ago

Text

Til’ the Day that I Die

Summary: You’re a popstar in need of a bodyguard when you find yourself with a stalker. That’s how you meet Fushiguro Toji, you’re insanely hot bodyguard. Who knows how to push your buttons, and get you feeling flustered. Just how far is he willing to go to protect you? And how far would you go to protect him?

Pairing: Fushiguro Toji x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: (PLEASE READ) mentions of anxiety, serious stalking, panic attacks, language, mentions of knives, some upsetting mentions of unauthorized photographs

Word Count: 4,457

A/N: Here’s the long awaited part two!! Oof this wrote itself!! 😈

Part One Part Three Part Four

“So yeah, that whole conversation you listen to with me telling my manager to tag the hospital in my video because that hospital inspired this song! It was a public service announcement, a reminder to help those who can’t help themselves!” You were fuming with anger at this bodyguard making some cold assumptions about you. One thing you wanted to do was use your stance in the public eye for good. God, you couldn’t stand assholes like him! Dicks who presumed they know everything and anything about you! “And another thing—!”

The next words didn’t have a chance to leave your mouth as the doors to the elevator opened to your apartment. The automatic lights you were so accustomed to being on were now off, which sent shivers down your spine, your sixth sense alerting you that something was wrong. Toji, the one facing forward, could see into your apartment, and he moved it before you even had a chance to look inside. When you asked him what was wrong, he remained silent, only shaking his head as the elevator doors shot and began ascending down.

That had been thirty minutes ago, and the once silent lobby was now bustling with police cars and passersby. They all stopped to take in the scene that was unfolding. Their peering eyes and camera flashes didn’t bother you in the slightest; that was something you were used to. It was not knowing what had happened in your apartment that set your anxiety off.

Toji's sighed and kept his eyes focused solely on you as a sleek black car pulled up to the police line. He recognized your managers hurrying out of the car and rushing towards you. Geto was the first to reach you, grabbing your shoulders, his eyes scanning you for injuries. Gojo was only a few feet behind his husband, sitting on the curb next to you, his arm draping over your shoulders as you visibly relaxed at their presence. Toji had unfortunately been in this line of work for a fairly long time and had seen his fair amount of lowlife managers, but with your manager's empathetic actions, your bodyguard knew you had lucked out with a great team.

So maybe he shouldn’t have judged you so quickly.

“What happened? Are you okay?!”

“We would’ve been here sooner, but traffic was a bitch.”

You took a deep breath, reaching up to touch Suguru's hand, which rested on one of your shoulders. “I’m okay; I don’t know if I could say the same about my apartment, though.” your friends shared a look that clearly communicated words without speaking.

“But you’re not physically hurt?” Satoru asked in a smooth, almost relaxed tone.

“No, I'm okay.”

“Oh, thank fuck, we thought it was worse.”

Something inside Toi’s chest snapped as he whirled around. “Worse?” he questioned, a black brow twitching. “This is one of the worst-case scenarios!” he stomped his suit, straining against his broad muscles as he pointed back toward the apartment building. “This bastard got into her apartment building undetected and was in her personal space for who knows how long.” You watched as Satoru removed his arm from around you, holding his hands up in front of him.

“I-I just thought it was good because she wasn’t hurt!”

“You’re lucky she wasn’t hurt! If she had been in the apartment when this asshole was there, you might not be looking at a fucked up breaking and something. How did you put it? Worse!”

Toji’s actions from the instant he saw your apartment to when you both were calling the police had gone from cocky, lazy full of attitude bodyguard to full-on protective mode. His eyes were constantly roaming around. If anyone approached you, he stood in front of you, making sure he listened to any questions they asked, or if they tried to hand you something, he looked at it first before deeming it safe for you to look at. This man standing before you had made a complete change, and you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t feel safe. This was the first time since the appearance of your stalker that you felt like you might be okay.

“Fucked up break-in?” Your dark-haired manager questioned his dark eyes, glancing in your direction, drawing you out of the thoughts that you had been distracting yourself with. “Just how bad was it?”

You swallowed at your slightly dry throat. “I-I don’t know.” you could feel the weight of their gaze crushing you.

“You don't know?”

“I wouldn’t allow her to see it,” Toji added in for you, sensing the growing stress in your chest. “ I refuse to let her see what’s inside.”

You fought against the rise of nausea that washed over you as Satoru and Suguru gave you concerned deluxe. You weren’t sure what thoughts were whirling around inside their hands, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know. Even though you were certain those thoughts revolved around what could have happened inside your apartment.

You didn’t want to know what he had seen that had him in such an alert state. The fact that he had covered your eyes, refusing to allow you to see what he had, didn’t leave you curious or eager to discover what happened, but you knew God. You knew it was going to be something you would have to see. Because you were out of your anxiety medication, and there were a few things in your apartment you wanted to retrieve, and there were certain things you didn’t want anyone else looking for.

“I-I’m going to see; I need to see it.” Your voice was barely audible, but whether it was because of his height and skills as a bodyguard or the fact that he was an earshot, you weren’t sure, but around, staring down at you as if you had just verbally insulted him, his mother, and his ancestors. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“There’s no way you just said that,” Toji swore before crouching in front of you as Suguru stood up, giving you space. “Please tell me my ears are still ringing from your concert, and I didn’t hear you say you need to see the state of your apartment. There is no way you just told me that; you can’t be that stupid.”

“Okay, for starters, I’m not stupid.” you snapped, eyes narrowing at the larger man before you. “I have to grab a few things that are in there.”

“I’ll grab them for you.” Toji barked back, glaring daggers into your eyes.

“I don't want you digging through my stuff.”

Through his head back with a laugh, his eyebrows furrowing together before he leaned closer towards you, closing the distance. “Sweetheart, I hate to break this, but somebody already has gone through all of your stuff.” his words struck you like hail in a raging storm with the terrifying reminder that someone had been in your home going through your things. But you didn’t appreciate the attitude he had behind his tone.

“Fuck you.” the words that left your mouth were like venom, but they seemed not to affect him. “I need to get some stuff. I don’t care what the state of my apartments is in.”

“Oh, trust me, you won’t like it. So no, you’re not going up there.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No—”

“She needs to grab more of her medication.” Suguru finally snapped in, putting a stop to the bickering. “That’s why she needs to go up there.” the look you gave your friend didn’t phase him. “My girls give me nastier than that, so keep it up. It doesn’t bother me. I want to get you out of here as soon as possible, but bickering isn’t moving along.”

So you took medication for the anxiety you Toji could see etched into your features earlier. His navy blue eyes glance down at your hands, watching your index and middle fingers twitch. You were fighting off one, and if it was this bad, you were most definitely going to need your medication. That still didn’t mean Toji was so keen on taking you upstairs.

“I can grab it for you. He said in a much softer tone that he would often use with Megumi. “Can you tell me where they are?”

“It’s upstairs in my closet.” Before Toji could even question why you would keep it there, you sighed. “Inside my safe—” You ignored the look he gave you, and you stood up instead. “I have people coming in all the time, and I don’t need anyone telling the paparazzi I have terrible anxiety. People do about anything and everything to have five minutes of fame.”

Toji shook his head, standing with you. “And I’m going to assume you’re not gonna tell me the code?” You just gave him the sweetest smile you could muster, one that was often reserved for the paparazzi.

“Seeing that you need my thumb to open it, I would rather keep it attached to my hand. I’m going to have to go with you.”

Toji did not like this. He didn’t want you to see the horrors that awaited you on the third floor of the building. He also knew that he was limited to options at this point. You were stubborn, stubborn as he was, and there was no point in fighting with you—not when you needed to go upstairs to open your safe. With a reluctant sigh, Toji motioned back towards the building.

“Let's fucking go; Geto’s right. We need to think about getting you out of here as soon as possible.”

You tried to keep a calm face, especially since you were already on the verge of a panic attack, and the flashing from the cameras didn’t help. The last thing you needed for this story to go public. You could see the headlines already! ‘New Rising Popstar Has a Stalker?!’ Or ‘New Popular Popstar Home Vandaliszed!’ Plus, if you were to slip up and let your mask slip, revealing the anxiety-ridden girl underneath, that would give anyone who knew you an opportunity to run to the press with information regarding your performance anxiety. Anyone would rush at the chance to spill the beans about how you put on a persona, and you weren’t the person that everyone believed you to be.

That sounded about as entertaining as this whole fiasco has been. So it was better for you to keep a straight face and head to your apartment. Suguru and Toji, the sooner you leave, the better.

Your managers had insisted on coming with you both up to your floor; that way, they could help you pack some bags and collect the things you may miss in the state of panic. You would most likely find yourself when you look inside the apartment. You would have to make a mental note to get an extra prescription to keep with your managers or keep your child home or somewhere else that wasn’t in a safe in your apartment that was supposed to be guarded around the clock but had somehow broken into. Unfortunately, you would have to consider doing this; it was like adding another cog to the clock, which was your busy life.

As you rode the elevator up to your apartment, thoughts of what to do and how to do it, plotting, planning, and preparing, were at the forefront of your mind. Thinking of stupid, mundane things to add to your already busy life had been the perfect distraction you needed. Otherwise, your mind would’ve been reeling with different scenarios or visions of how you pictured your apartment.

Was it trashed, spray painted on the walls, or did they go through your underwear drawer and throw them all over the place after doing terrible things with them? Were your beta fish still alive? Had your stalker destroyed all the books you had collected over the years? There were countless possibilities of what had occurred within those walls, and each time you came up with the scenario, you thought back to Toji’s reaction. You weren’t sure if the things you were thinking about were enough to start a man of his physique and demeanor.

The only thing you were sure of was that whatever awaited you was enough to make you never want to return.

The dinging from the elevator sounded as you reached your floor. You took a deep breath, lifting your head, only to come face-to-face with your bodyguard's chest. Your eyes roamed up the tight button shirt to his face, where he looked down at you with a weary look.

“It’s not a pretty sight. I’ve never seen anything like this before. So if it gets too much for you to handle or if you can’t handle it, you tell me, I’ll cover your eyes, and we’ll head straight to your closet, okay?”

“It’s that bad?” You asked, not knowing if you wanted the answer.

“Yes.”

You had made it a point that you needed to come up here and see what this had done to your home. If you were to turn around and decide you didn’t need the meds that would keep you calm and your mind clear, you most likely would’ve already turned around and begged to be brought back to the lobby. But as hard as you wished and dreamed that would be the case, you were close to losing it. You could feel the anxiety creeping up, wrapping its tendril fingers into your chest, constricting your airway. If you didn’t take your meds fast, you were going to break down, and that wasn’t going to speed up the process of getting you away from the apartment any faster.

‘They’re the best.’

Nanako had assured you just hours before. You needed to have faith in the bodyguard your managers, some of your closest friends, had picked out for you. Inhaling deeply through your nose, you shut your eyes tight before nodding your head once; you needed to go through with this, and if it became too much to handle or if you found yourselves spiraling down the drain oven anxiety attack, you could tell Toji. Assuring you he would be there for you gave you the strength to look into his eyes.

“I understand; if it becomes too much for me to handle, I’ll tell you, I promise.”

There was a glint in your eyes, one full of determination that Toji wasn’t expecting to see. But behind that determination, he could still see your finger shaking despite you doing your absolute best to try and conceal it. While he didn’t know much about you, you were pretty easy to read, and he couldn’t have been more about you with his first assumption. And he was glad about that. Because you would have to be strong to live with the sight you were about to see.

With a deep breath, Toji stepped to the side, allowing you to see your apartment for the first time in days. But it hardly looked like your apartment. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth as you stepped back further into the elevator.

How was this the same place you called home?

Thousands of pictures hung from the fifteen-foot ceiling on fluorescent red strings. From the back of the elevator, you could see that the pictures hanging from the strings were all photos of you. Pictures of you at your shows, sipping coffee at a café, shopping with your face mask on, covering your mouth and nose. There were photos of you and your family eating at a restaurant together—pictures of you at the gym working out, grocery shopping, stepping into your shower, naked.

But the pictures weren’t even the worst part. Your couch had been overturned and looked as though someone had a hunting knife to the cushions, carving in the initial of your first name, followed by a large X and an M. Red hearts had been scribbled all over your walls and floor, coffee table, couch, recliner. You could only hope that it was paint and not blood. But the piece of resistance was the mannequin facing the elevator entrance, dressed in one of your lacey undergarment sets—a wig sat on top of the mannequin head that resembled your hair type and color to the tea. But the mannequin didn’t have a face. Instead, a camera with a crevice where the face would usually be. And around its neck hung a piece of paper, with ‘I See You!” Written in the same red substance that covered your walls.

“Holy fuck.” Satoru whispered, overlooking the state of your once beautiful apartment. “I-I don’t even know what to say.”

“Is that still recording?” Suguru asked, glaring at the dummy. “Why haven’t the polic—”

“We’re working on dusting for fingerprints at the current moment.” A calm, soothing voice announced from further inside. Somehow, you had harnessed the strength to step inside the apartment, not wanting to be held down by the chains of disbelief and shock. “Please make sure not to touch anything if you can.”

You saw a man in a finely tailored suit approaching your group when you looked up. He wore white gloves on his hands and held a notebook. The detective was handsome, with well-trimmed blonde hair and a tie fastened perfectly. The man standing before you took care of himself, and from his body language, you could tell that he took his job very seriously.

“Hey, Nanami.” Toji greeted.

“Zen’in, good to see—”

“Nah, I go by Fushiguro. Took my wife's last name.”

“Ah, apologies, I hadn't realized.”

A certain amusement seemed to swell in your chest as you glanced between the two men. You didn't realize your bodyguard was married. He didn't have a wedding band on, and from his harsh tongue, you weren't sure if he had much experience talking to someone, but it seemed like you were wrong.

While you were trying to imagine what Toji’s wife looked like, honey-brown eyes clashed with your far-off gaze, snapping you back to reality. “And what can I help you with? We’re still investigating and looking through the security footage. So, as of right now, I sadly have no information for you.” As quickly as those words left Nanami, Toji jumped in.

“We just wanted to grab some things from her safe and some clothes. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

Nanami pulled his phone out to make sure his fellow officers and detectives were done with your room. Waiting for a response felt like sinking into water, and the photos that hung around you were like the current pulling you further under the surface. Seeing yourself in those pictures doing mundane tasks felt so dirty and wrong. You felt violated in ways that your heart had your heart squeezing.

“Fuckin’, is that our office building at the entrance to our house?” Satoru‘s disbelief pulled you back to the surface.

“Yeah, it is,” Suguru confirmed, looking at the photo his husband was motioning to.

Thoughts of their girls flashed through your mind, and it wasn’t just them. Your concern for all your friends and family twisted your stomach into knots of dread. Your stalker had been everywhere you usually went, from the photos hanging around you. Your schedule, habits, and favorite places to go had been documented and hung from your ceiling. In a way, it conveys what the mannequin just outside the elevator said. ‘I See You.’

This person has been watching you for God knows how long, and since they know pretty much everything you do to everyone you talk to, he leaves you feeling dirty and clean. You want to do nothing more than jump into the shower and scrub your skin raw to rid yourself of the film you felt wrapping around your body. You want to clean yourself of the fear, pain, and harsh reality that you had inadvertently put the people you loved in danger.

If your stalker went to such extreme lengths when it came to vandalizing your apartment, just how far would they go if your loved ones were to try to prevent him from drawing closer to you? Would they take further actions to harm you and everyone you loved? Dealing with a stalker was something you hadn’t anticipated happening—something you didn’t want to happen. Yet here you were, stuck with the unknown reality of what would fall upon you and the people you cared for.

“Hey.” the warmth of a hand gently grabbed your wrist and made a soft gesture. “Did you hear that?”

No, you haven’t heard anything but your thoughts. They had been buzzing so loudly, like an agitated hive of hornets. “Uhm, no, I’m sorry I didn’t.” Instead of annoyance or irritation, Toji gave you a gentle smile.

“Nanami said we can grab a few of your things.” Knowing that you would be able to get a hold of your medication relieved the tension in your spine. That brief relief allowed you to hurry up the stairs, fighting against the harsh, crushing reality you had found yourself in.

The second story of your apartment was in the same status as the first floor. Red hearts covered the walls and floor. Books from your office have been thrown around, but thankfully, they were still intact, and more photos hung from the ceiling. Your bedroom was a total mess. Clothes have been thrown around. The bed had been messed up. It seems the stalker had taken the same hunting next to your mattress. So you’ll have to buy a new one and sheets, fearing what might have happened to your once clean bed. Seeing the state your room was left in, your stomach was doing flips.

Unlike the main living area and office, your bedroom and bathroom are more intimate. Knowing someone was inside made your skin crawl with fear. It was wrong on so many levels, leaving you feeling claustrophobic. But you didn’t have time to process the loaded motions fully.

You rushed to the closet, opened the safe, and collected your medication while Suguru and Satoru packed a bag for you with some seemingly untouched clothes. Toji kept his guard up, not faulty, even though detectives and officers surrounded you. Seeing him so alert still left you feeling safe, even if this was one of the worst nights of your entire life.

But thankfully, the four of you were fast, and before you knew it, you were heading back down to the main lobby. The prospect of escaping the nightmare had you relax as you followed your managers to their car. You were so happy you were finally getting out of there. The crowd of spectators had grown, and it would only be a matter of time before someone took a photo of you by accident.

“Alright, let's get you back to the house.” Suguru opened the door to the backseat for you, and you were about to crawl in when Toji reached out, preventing you from moving. “Fushiguro, we need to get going—”

“She can't go there.”

“Uhm, yes, she can,” Satoru added, walking to the driver's side. “And if we don't get her out of her, there's a risk she could get recognized, and this isn't the publicity she needs.”

Toji seemed to ignore the words leaving your PR manager's mouth. “She was photographed at your office and home, right?” Silence grows between the four of you; the only sound is the growing crowd. “If she's not here, he can check for her at the gym or her parents’ house.” Toji shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Any place that was photographed is compromised. She's not safe at any of those places.” The truth of his words crushed you, leaving you feeling weak in the legs as you tried to think of anywhere you could stay.

“So what? We book her a hotel?”

“No, it's too risky, not secure enough.”

“This is ridiculous. I have a security system. She’ll be fine at our house.”

“As her bodyguard, I highly disagree.”

“As her friend, I assure you she’ll be safe with us.” Invisible streaks of lightning flashed between Satoru and Toji, the tension and testosterone growing between them.

You tightened your grip on your bag, gnawing at your bottom lip. “He’s right. I can't stay with you guys.” Suguru frowned, shaking his head as he gently grabbed your free hand. His lips parted to speak, but you quickly shook your head. “I can't put you and the girls at risk.” Satoru looked as though he was seconds away from throwing you into the car himself as you took a step back. “I-I can't put any of you at risk. You saw my couch and my bed; this person is dangerous.” The silence was nearly palpable, meaning they knew you were right.

“Okay—? So what the fuck are you going to do? It's not like you have a lot of choices! You can't stay here or in a hotel.”

“She’ll stay with me,” Toji announced, taking your bag from you.

You blinked once, your jaw dropping open before you shut it. “Huh?” You had misheard him; there was no way he said that.

“I said you can stay with me.”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @luvsymai

Til’ the Day Tag List: (AGE MUST BE IN BIO MDNI)

@justagirl-with-aphone @flowerpot113 @elitesanjisimp @fandomtrash5092

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pastshadows · 9 months ago

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 21: Scars Shine White in the Light

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Unlike before, time seems to fast forward, seemingly leaping ahead with every blink as Aldous approaches. The dagger quakes in your grip, and chastise your body for being so wimpish.

A golden beam of light splits the tenebrosity, akin to the sun crowning over the horizon at the break of dawn, and you reflexively throw yourself over Astarion to shield him from it. The sheer brightness makes your eyes clamp closed.

When you open them again, darkness shrouds you like a thick cloak, but this darkness is not natural. It’s teeming with the vitality of the Weave. Somewhere, you can hear the metallic clashing of blades. Your fingers curl into Astarion’s armour, terrified that if you let go, you will lose him in this rayless depth.

Your ears twitch as you catch the quick patter of footsteps, and you bring the dagger back up. It’s difficult to discern which direction the sounds are coming from, and your eyes dart around in an attempt to catch any movement.

The slightest flicker of light is all the forewarning you get before a figure breaks through the fog. The dagger is poised and ready to strike when the icy blue aura of healing magic scintillates within the penumbra, and Shadowheart drops down on one knee beside you.

Her hand nearly touches you before you drop the dagger, catch her wrist, and plant her hand on Astarion. The magic bathes him, flowing over his skin like a wave stroking the beach and fading out as it sinks into him.

Shadowheart’s hand searches through the gloom, finding your forearm. She fumbles around, shuffling on her feet until she can see you more clearly, and wraps her arms around you in a gentle, quick hug.

“Is he?” She gestures toward Astarion, trying once more to heal him.

“I don’t know.”

The spell is dismissed and diminishes within a split second to reveal Gale and Hecat. Gale breathes heavily, his eyes still glowing with the Weave, and Hecat’s sword is still poised in a defensive position. A thick river of blood drips from a wound in her bicep, off her elbow, and to the ground. You scan the area, but Aldous is nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone, my friend.” Gale confirms with more spite in his voice than you can recall he ever had, even when he was talking about Mystra. “His master must have tugged his leash.”

Gale and Hecat’s eyes sink to Astarion’s body, which still lies at rest in your arms, and you follow their line of sight with your head hung low over him.

“I tried,” you mutter. “He can’t be. He can’t… He…” You trail off, unable to even think of the word, or you’re positive that you will fall apart and never get up.

Hecat’s sword slumps down, the tip burying itself in the ground, and it strikes you that the woman is crying.

“We should go,” Gale says, kneeling and placing his hand on your shoulder gently. “There is no telling when he might return with greater forces.”

“I won’t leave him here,” you choke out between sobs. “I won’t.”

“Nor will I.” Hecat adds with a sombre intonation, her voice shaking.

Her stalwart loyalty to someone she doesn’t truly know strikes you as strange, but in this moment, you’re thankful for it.

“Of course we won’t leave him.” Shadowheart assures, wrapping her arms around you once more.

“He was our friend, too,” Gale weeps, rubbing the tears that are starting to form in the corners of his eyes.

Was our friend.

Was.

“Was your friend?” Astarion coughs hard, his eyes cracking open slightly. “So lovely to know what you’ve written me off already, my friends,” he groans satirically.

Your arms wrap around him, and for whatever reason, you cry harder with the overwhelming relief. Shadowheart’s arms encircle him as well, her tears leaving tracks down her rosy cheeks. Then Gale and Hecat join.

Astarion bemoans it. You worry it’s making him uncomfortable, but when your eyes meet his, there’s a small smile on his face. You think he’s finally realizing that he has people who truly care about him — much more than he thought.

“Let’s get you two back to camp,” Gale says, hooking his arm around Astarion and helping him to his feet. “Dinner should be ready when we return.”

You groan out loud even though you didn’t mean to, and Shadowheart stifles her giggling. “Kamena is quite injured,” she offers as an excuse to Gale.

“Yes, I’m sure that was it.” Gale scoffs.

“Good Gods,” Astarion barks. “Is no one going to tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Gale asks, brows arched curiously.

Astarion, ever truthful, ignores all of your frantically shaking heads and states the truth that everyone else is too nice to say. “They all hate your cooking, Gale.”

Gale shakes his head with a genial laugh and a Cheshire smile. “Oh, I’ve known that for quite some time. Yet they continue to eat it without complaint, too afraid to hurt my feelings. I wanted to see how long it would go on.”

“So, you’ve been feeding us food we don’t like on purpose?” Shadowheart’s eyes are wide, and her expression is stunned.

“Oh-yes,” Gale chuckles.

You lay with Astarion in the tent, but once he’s deep in his trance, you sneak away to sit by the fire. You’re exhausted, but your mind refuses to oblige your command to trance. It seems the others are in the same predicament, and one by one, Shadowheart comes to join you, then Hecat, and then Gale.

The three of you sit around the fire in silence for a while, each of you contesting with your own inward thoughts on the days events.

“How did you know to come?” You finally ask, staring at your fingers.

“It was Hecat, actually,” Shadowheart answers, and there is a lilt of surprise in her voice. “She said that you had been gone too long, and she was going to look for you.”

“Naturally, we couldn’t leave her to do it on her own,” Gale adds. “So, we joined.”

“And it was a godsdamned good thing we did!” Shadowheart’s voice borders on scolding. “You nearly got yourself killed, Kamena! What the Hells happened?!”

“Aldous happened.” You don’t have the energy to recite the entire story right now.

Hecat? She is the one who prompted them to come to look for you and possibly saved both of you and Astarion’s lives. Guilt sinks into your bones. You have not treated the woman very well. When you glance at her, she shrugs and offers you a warm smile.

Getting up, you awkwardly make your way over to where she sits and wrap your arms around her. “Thank you, Hecat. By the Gods. Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it, Kamena!” She says warmly. “Did you find what you’re looking for or just trouble?”

“Just trouble.” You sigh and drop back onto the ground, rubbing your tired eyes.

“You seem to be a magnet for it,” Hecat assesses.

“She is.” Shadowheart and Gale confirm unanimously.

They snicker, and you narrow your eyes at the pair. “It was your great misfortunate that I ended up in your prison cell.”

“I would say the opposite.” Hecat retorts, her flame-filled eyes cast to the ground. “I’ve been an outcast most of my life, and friends were a foreign concept to me until I met all of you. I know you don’t like me much, but you still have my gratitude, even if being here has put my life in mortal danger.”

“I…” You trail off while the guilt makes your heart squeeze in your chest. “It’s not that I don’t like you…”

Hecat waves her hand flippantly with a small, sad smile. “You don’t have to lie. I know I say stupid things. I’m aware that I have a hard time filtering my thoughts before speaking and only realize I shouldn’t have said something or worded it differently when it’s much too late.”

You’re usually a master with responses. You can twist letters and syllables into a tidy little package to persuade, intimidate, deceive, or placate at your whim, but your silver tongue stalls, and you cannot think of a response to save your life.

Shadowheart clasps your shoulder, interjecting to rescue you. “You should get some rest.”

You swallow hard, eyes pouring over the little camp. “Aldous might return—”

“Shadowheart and I will stay up to keep watch.” Hecat reassures, grabbing her sword and laying it across her lap to polish. “You look worse than I did when I escaped the Hells. Get some sleep, or whatever you elves do.”

You look to Gale in hopes that he might come to your aid and tell the others that you don’t need babysitting, but his bourbon brown eyes gaze at you with a hint of melancholy you were not expecting to see.

“They are correct, my friend. You require rest. We can regroup after and determine what our next move will be,” he says cajolingly, as if he were trying to persuade a rebellious child.

Being spoken to in such a way makes you cringe, and the voices in your head chant, broken, broken, broken. Much like a wilful youth, your first reaction is to be obstinate, to berate them for treating you in such a way that makes you feel small, but their intentions are good and they are not wrong.

You offer them a curt nod, not trusting your tongue to keep its remarks to itself, and shuffle toward the tent. Once you’re safely inside, you nearly collapse onto the furs and bring your knees to your chest while resting your head on them. How could you possibly sleep when every time you close your eyes you hear the clattering of boots, see the flash of chrome, and hear Astarion tell you he would have liked to marry you?

“So, you fly now?” Astarion’s groggy timbre surprises you, and your head jerks up to see flashes of crimson eyes peeking from behind thick lashes. “You have wings? Literal wings? I am not easily impressed by people, but you are quite a good person to know should I be thrown from a building... again.”

Before you can think better of it, you’re an ungainly mess of arms tangling around his neck with your hands twisting into his hair and grabbing handfuls of the silver-spun silk.

Astarion wraps his arms around you, pressing you into himself with an almost bruising strength. “I’m okay,” he soothes, his fingers stroking your hair. “I’m here.”

“You should be resting,” you murmur, still angling your body so that every part of you is pressed against some part of him.

“I can rest when I’m dead.”

You jerk upwards and glare at him with narrow eyes. “Not. Funny,” you scold in a sotto voice.

He smiles, brushing your hair back and taking your face in his hands. “Come now. It’s a little funny.”

You try to wrangle enough residual anger to chastise him for his ill-timed jokes, but as you just learned, time is a precious commodity. You never know when the last tick of a second marks the end, and you will not spend such a priceless asset on anger.

“You’re insufferable.” It’s a struggle to keep your expression serious.

“Aren’t I just?” He snickers, using his thumbs to pull your lips up in the smile they wish to curl into anyway. It breaks your composure, and you smile, silly and girlish. “There’s my girl.”

He pulls you back down to lay on his chest, curling his fingers into your hair. It’s quiet for a spell as you revel in the embrace you nearly lost.

“When did you learn that?” He asks in a low rumbling voice.

“Learn what?”

He pulls away only a little to arch a brow at you as if you’ve asked an immensely stupid question. “To fly?”

“When I jumped off the tower, I felt a weird feeling, like instinct, and—”

“I’m sorry, but hold that thought for just a moment. What?!” He cuts you off with a snap of cold in his voice. “You didn’t know you could do that before you jumped off the damn tower?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Have you lost your godsdamned mind, Kamena?” You can’t quite make out if it’s anger you hear in his voice, chastisement, or astonishment. Perhaps it’s an amalgamation of all three. “What in the Hells were you thinking? Jumping off like that! What a bloody stupid thing to do!”

His anger is similar to that of when you accidentally dropped a building on him, and although you probably shouldn’t, you’ve always found it humorous.

“Stop giggling!” Astarion scolds with a huff. “Can you not see that I’m angry with you?”

You cover your mouth to try and stifle your ill-timed laughter. “I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out. Clearing your throat, you steel yourself back into some semblance of poise, though you cannot wipe the smile from your face. “Sorry. Of course, I can see you’re angry.”

Astarion’s brows furrow while he searches your face. He rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “You still want to giggle like a merry school girl, don't you?”

You curl your lips inward, pressing them together, and nod.

“Hells below,” Astarion groans, racking a hand over his face. “You’re terrible. You know that?”

You nod again, not trusting your mouth to open lest you continue your undignified and improper laughter.

“Well, what are you waiting for, darling? Astarion tosses the furs back. “Get in here before I drag you in here.”

The red gash and dark bruising around it stand out garishly against the rest of Astarion’s pristine alabaster skin, and you suck in a sharp breath, poising your hands over the wound as if you might be able to heal it through sheer willpower alone.

“I’m fine, love.” He coos, slipping his fingers under your chin and guiding your eyes to his. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”

“You should feed,” you murmur, already pulling your hair away from your neck.

“As much as I do appreciate the offer,” he pokes your bruised forehead to bring attention to the fact that you are wounded as well, making you mouth “ouch” to him silently. “I will have to decline for tonight.”

“Fine,” you concede with a pout. “Tomorrow then. You know you always heal faster when you’re full.”

“Remember that, do you?” Astarion muses with a canted head, wrapping an arm around you as you sidle up next to him. “I’m not sure how much I liked this being known thing. It takes away from my intriguing mysteriousness.”

“Pardon me,” you quip, gesturing to yourself as if scandalized. “Allow me a moment to forget all things vampire so you can continue to bewitch me with your enigmatic charms.”

Astarion shakes his head, smiling boyishly, but it transforms into something more sombre and serious. “You could have died today, Kamena. If you hadn’t been able to fly...” he trails off, shaking his head. “Gods. I dare not think about it. Do not throw your life away so readily for me.”

“Don’t jump off any more buildings, and I won’t have to.”

“Kamena,” he starts with a sigh.

“No!” You shout a little louder than you had meant to, cutting him off and glaring at him with enough intensity to make him swallow thickly. “No.” You repeat more hushed. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do with my life, Astarion. It’s my choice. Do not take that from me. Please.”

Astarion nods, though you can tell he’s a little vexed, and you’ve likely not heard the last of his objections.

“I would also like to point out that I did not jump; I fell.” Astarion huffs dramatically in an attempt to ease the overbearing tension.

You lean in close to him and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. When your lips ghost his ear, Astarion shudders with a breathy whimper, and you whisper, “If I were you, I would go with the jumping story. Falling off a building is incredibly embarrassing, don’t you think?”

“Bloody Hells, darling,” Astarion groans, twisting his head to catch your lips. “Get some rest.”

Astarion wakes to a familiar smell, though not one he wishes to be reminded of, and a discordance of gruff voices that are trying to stay hushed. He glances at Kamena, who is still pressed up against him with her eyes closed, seemingly deep in her trance. An amalgamation of purple, blue, and yellow bruises extends down her forehead around a laceration that glares at him like he’s the guilty party.

He shifts Kamena slowly and carefully until she lays on the pillow and pulls the fur blankets up around her. She murmurs in her sleep, hands incoherently grasping for him, but soon settles. He tugs on his clothes, grabs his weapons, and marches out of the tent, prepared to see Aldous invading their camp.

When his eyes fall onto Aurelia and Leon, he nearly drops his dagger in numbed shock. Leon, he spent countless years with. The man was always striving to be Cazador’s favourite, and oh, how Astarion loathed it. Looking at Leon now, he pities the poor foul. He appears emaciated, hungry, and covered in filth from head to toe.

Aurelia is in much the same condition. Her clothes are darkly stained from sleeping in the dirt, her red skin appears sallow and wan from hunger, and one of her horns is broken off near her skull.

It’s clear that the Underdark has not been kind to his siblings, but anything is better than living in Cazador’s primitive hell.

Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat are already speaking to them in low tones, but as soon as Astarion is visible, all eyes snap to him.

“Astarion?” Leon says. “Is it truly you, brother?”

Astarion nearly cringes at being called “brother,” but schools his expression into one of near indifference.

“Leon, Aurelia,” Astarion says levelly. “A pleasure.”

“You have siblings, Astarion?” Hecat asks, and he only nods his affirmation.

“You’re… alive.” Aurelia says almost as if confused. “They haven’t caught you yet.”

“Are you truly surprised, sister?” Leon remarks. “He always was the wiliest out of all of us, to his own determinant. It’s the reason Cazador favoured his pain over ours.”

“Cazador preferred my screams because they were far more becoming than all of your croaking,” Astarion quips to hide his discomfort at the mention of his old master’s preoccupation with him.

His siblings do not know the truth, of course. He may have given up trying to escape, but he instigated Cazador to save the rest of them from his torments. Well, that and because it was dreadful fun to piss him off even if it did get him flayed.

“Why have you come, brother?” Aurelia asks.

“We came looking for you.” He states indifferently. “It seems you may have landed yourself in a spot of trouble.”

“That’s an understatement.” Leon says, glancing at Aurelia. “Someone has been hunting us and the spawn you released. We know not who they are—”

Astarion puts a hand up and shakes his head. “Yes, we are aware of the situation. It appears another vampire lord has caught wind of the Black Mass. They need our scars to complete the contract.”

“Can another vampire lord do that?” Aurelia asks, fear permeating her eyes. “Complete the rite?”

“It makes sense,” Leon sighs, coasting his fingers through his dirty hair. “They’ve been rounding up the feral spawn and our brother’s and sisters.”

“And Cazador was not exactly subtle,” Astarion adds quickly. “When Kamena and I were there, we found correspondence between him and other lords boasting about the power he was about to acquire.”

Leon and Aurelia sigh at the same time, obviously bone-weary and at their wits end. Astarion holds little love for his “siblings.” Cazador called them a family but did not refrain from pitting them against each other to create animosity between their ranks. It’s far safer to pit the spawn against each other over who gets to stay in the lavish, preferred spawn quarters, then run the risk of them conspiring against their master.

Astarion had caught onto that little plan straight away, but his siblings were too embroiled in their competition against one another to give a damn what he said.

Imbeciles.

“Where are the other spawn?” Shadowheart asks. “The feral ones.”

“Gone,” Leon answers immediately. “Those of them that were not killed by the dangers lurking in the Underdark were swiftly rounded up.”

“I told you to take care of them,” Astarion nearly snarls, but he manages to keep most of the animosity from his tone.

“We tried, Astarion!” Aurelia fumes with her fists balling up at her sides. “They were too far gone. Many of them had been starved and rotting down there for centuries!”

A flush of guilt labours through him. He had feared as much when he saw them, but he thought they deserved a chance like he had.

Then again, they did not have someone like Kamena at their side to love them through their bloodlust, pain, and misery.

“I should have killed them,” Astarion states with his eyes cast down at his shoes. “Selfishly, I did not want anymore blood on my hands than I was already drowning in.”

“You couldn’t have known, my friend.” Gale reassured quickly, his expressions sullen.

A placation, at best. Astarion had known. He had been lucky to come back from the year he spent in solitude, starved and alone with only silence and darkness as his company. When he had been released, he had long abandoned the abilities for speech and reason. If it had not been for Cazador’s compulsion, he would have tore through Baldur's Gate like a rabid animal.

“None of us did.” Leon acknowledges and offers Astarion a small smile. “What you did was admirable. It is a shame it turned out this way.”

“So, do you have a plan? Aurelia’s voice is high with anxiety, and her eyes run amok over the land.

Astarion observes her demeanour. She had never been the most courageous of the bunch of them, but this level of restlessness was rare even when Cazador was hunting her through the hallways.

“Find the vampire. Stop the vampire. Kill the vampire.” Astarion drawls in a devil-may-care fashion. “We are workshopping the details as we go.”

“They won’t stop, Astarion.” Aurelia sputters. “We’ve just spent Gods know how long hiding with fish.”

Astarion nearly chuckles. “Ah, the Kuo-Toa, yes? Fascinating creatures, are they not?”

“You could say that,” Leon groans. “So another vampire lord is looking to complete the Black Mass. Where does that leave us?”

“Targets obviously,” Astarion concludes briskly.

“Yes, we get that, Astarion. Thank you.” Leon remarks vexed. It makes Astarion smirk that he’s still able to get under their skin. “But where do we go from here?”

“We’ll take you to our home.” Kamena’s voice is flat, weighed down by the lingering traces of her trance.

All eyes jerk to her as she rubs her eyes and yawns. Kamena winces, and her fingers prod the bruises and cut on her forehead, testing the tenderness. She moves stiffly toward them, and though she manages to hide it well, he can tell she’s still in pain.

How could she not be? She leapt off a fucking building.

For him.

Him.

Try as Astarion might, he cannot fathom why anyone would put themselves in harm's way for him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Kamena.” Leon says with an awkward smile. “I’m happy to see you recovered.”

Kamena smiles politely, but it does not reach her eyes, and she refuses to look at him. He’s still not quite sure what happened down here. All his attempts to get her to open up are met with reluctance. He is trying, in the only way he knows how, and he knows he shouldn’t resent her for the problems he caused partially, but a small part of him does all the same.

She just has it so easy. Kamena can pick and choose when and what to open up about at her whim, but it’s clear that she doesn’t fully trust him. He will admit, he’s made mistakes—more than a few at that, but he has been trying, hasn’t he? He forces himself to open up to her even when it feels like he’s tearing apart his ribs to show her his heart and stitching himself back up.

But his openness is met with reserve, and it hurts him—a constant, blunt ache in his chest where his heart should beat.

In spite of the pain, Astarion sweeps the festering wounds to the wayside once more. What is pain to him anyway? After centuries under Cazador, pain is an old friend, although this pain is new to him.

Physical pain he can handle. It is known. It is predictable. This pain, though, he’s not quite sure how to traverse.

He can see that she is trying. He just wishes it was faster, so that they can luxuriate in the warmth of it for as long as possible before Kamena leaves him alone to forget how to love once again.

“What do you mean, take us to your house?” Aurelia asks uncertainly.

“It’s somewhere you will be safe.” Kamena morphs her tenor into something resembling a summer breeze — soft, warm, and welcome. She must have recognized his sister's unease. “You don’t have to go. The choice remains yours. If you want to stay with the Kuo-Toa, you’re welcome to.”

Astarion is still not very delighted with the idea of having his siblings in his home, using their bed, hunting in his woods, but leaving them here is a worse option.

“Does it have things to eat?” Leon asks hopefully, the pang of starvation in his tone.

He watches his brother and sister carefully. They should be nearly as practiced at controlling their bloodlust as he is, but he would be a fool to trust them completely. That kind of hunger can drive even the sanest souls mad.

“Animals,” Astarion confirms, and gives them both a pointed look. “Only animals. Is that clear?”

Both the spawn nod their acknowledgment.

“Lovely,” Astarion exclaims with terribly mimicked mirth. “Now, do any of you know Prestidigitation by any chance? They smell rank.”

Astarion and Kamena jog toward the Elfsong, with dawn threatening the horizon. Escorting his siblings to his house had taken longer than they had estimated, and staying the night there was out of the godsdamned question.

“Hurry up, Astarion!” Kamena urges him, placing her hands on his back and pushing him to run quicker. Panic infects her voice like a pathogen. “You can run much quicker than me. Go. I’ll catch up.”

He glances at the sky. They are pushing it close, but there is a little room to be had. Astarion has to choke back a scant chuckle. Kamena is more terrified of the sun touching him than he is, and it baffles him. She has seen the sun touch him on several occasions. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not a death sentence.

“We’re fine, love.” He tries to reassure, but it’s of little use to calm her. “We’re nearly there.”

Kamena gives him a firm swat on the ass, but her face is adorned with the most ambrosial, angelic smile. “I wasn’t asking, Astarion. Get this very charming ass moving!”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he purrs carnally, and then switches his demeanour on a dime. “It’s still a no, I’m afraid.”

"Corellon, grant me patience,” Kamena groans.

Kamena darts into the Elfsong, pushing the sweaty strands of her hair behind her ears, and placing a bag of coin on the counter. “We need a room for two nights.”

The barkeep meanders over slowly, and Kamena shifts on her feet, her eyes darting to the windows that are beginning to brighten. He remains unconcerned about the sun. His concern is for her. Fear has a musky, sour aroma that numbs his tongue. Then there is terror, and it smells like absinthal, burning metals that numb his entire body.

Kamena smells like terror.

“Sure thing,” The man dumps the bag of coins out onto the counter to count them.

“You can have the whole bag if you tell me the room number right now,” Kamena blurts out.

Astarion’s eyes bulge. That pouch held far more coin than what was necessary for a room. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. No matter. He will just steal it back for her later.

“Room three,” the man says, cupping his hand at the counter's lip and sweeping the excess coin into it.

She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him upstairs. Unfortunately for him, the upper-floor windows are not shielded from the sun by the other buildings, and he has to dodge through it quickly to get across the hallway. A hiss of pain whispers through his lips when the rays dawdle over his arm.

Kamena bursts into the room, pulling all the drapery closed in a rush while he stands off to the side in a shaded corner until the room is cloaked in darkness. She snaps her fingers, and he watches little orbs, like infant suns, float through the air and land on the candle wicks.

She rushes over to him, grabbing his arm gently to get a look at the burn. “Are you okay?”

Astarion glances at the small patch of cracked, matte skin. “It’s a piddling injury, darling.”

Her brows pinch, and her eyes squeeze closed as she takes a deep breath. Astarion cocks his head, trying to read her. Sometimes he finds that he actually misses the worms in their heads that allowed them to link minds.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am,” he reassures, his hands finding her upper arms and squeezing while his thumbs gently rub. “A little sun is not going to be my end.”

“I know. It’s just…” She trails off, looking askance.

Astarion’s heart feels like it leaps, even though he knows it remains gripped by death. Is she finally going to open up to him? Is she finally going to let him in?

“Nevermind,” she sighs, and his heart stings with yet another dismissal.

They are both tired, dirty, and wounded. Astarion knows this conversation needs to be had, but he cannot bring himself to inflict any further pain right now.

“You forgot the fire, sweetheart.”

Kamena’s fingers snap once more, and the fire crackles and pops, flames gnawing at the kindling. They settle in, each having a bath and shedding the Underdark’s grime.

Kamena towels off and runs a comb through her hair. “Are you tired?”

“No,” he admits. “The last couple of days have been a lot.”

“Good. I’m going to go downstairs and fetch us some wine.” Kamena rummages through their bag, finding a pair of clean trousers and a shirt to toss on. “Any particular vintage I should ask for, snob?”

“Snob!” Astarion huffs false indignation, puffing his chest out. “It is not my fault you lack a refined palate.”

“Says the vampire,” she smirks. “I’ll ask them for their most expensive bottles.”

“It’ll likely still be plonk.”

“Probably, but not to worry. You can make merry with my vintage wine later,” she winks.

Just before she’s about to shut the door, he calls out to her. “Do make sure to get yourself some food as well.”

Kamena pokes her head back in to shoot him a pointed look and sticks her tongue out at him petulantly, shutting the door behind her.

Astarion settles in front of the fire and gets lost in the dance of the leaping flames. What will it take for her to start unwrapping the fragile, broken parts of her and trust that he will hold even the smallest slivers with care? Vulnerability does not come to him easily; not after emotions had been systematically squeezed out of him, but he swallowed his pride, fear, and bitterness for her.

It hadn’t been easy. Giving her access to his heart and having to trust that she would hold it gently had been the most difficult thing he’s ever done. Day after day, he’s placing his heart in her hands, but she’s unable or unwilling to put that same trust in him.

She loves him; he has no doubts about that, but he still feels like he’s swimming in a lake, and she’s standing on the sidelines, picking and choosing when to dip her toes in. Is that what their relationship has been reduced to?

He was her sanctuary once, where she ran to find peace when the pandemonium of their tribulation got a little too loud. Now she retreats. Less often these days, but still often enough for it to pain him.

What else can he do?

The creak of the door breaks him from his rumination, and he blinks, his eyes dry from staring off into the void of his mind. Kamena uncorks a bottle and sits with him. To his great delight, she carries a plate of food, which she nibbles on slowly. They speak idly about nothing in particular, passing the wine back and forth between them. A permanent blush stains her cheeks pink from the wine, and Astarion drinks in sight of her with a tipsy grin.

“Do you remember...” Astarion stops, trying to recall the name, and takes another sip of wine. “Gods. What was his name? Ah, yes! Kar’niss.”

Kamena visibly shudders. “The Drider? Gods. Why would you bring that up, Astarion?” She giggles unreserved. “I still have nightmares about him.”

“You threw the Lyre at him as soon as he popped up from the shadows, and do you remember what you did, darling?”

Kamena snorts out a small laugh. “I ran behind you. You make a very good shield.”

“Ran? Darling,” Astarion chuckles, shaking his head, “you yelped, scrambled behind me all flailing limbs, and forced me to talk to the damn abomination!”

She shrugs. “It was time you started pulling your damn weight!”

“All the locks I picked and traps I stopped you from barrelling into were not enough? You would have blown yourself up in that godsdamned ruined temple had I not been there to stop you from pressing buttons and walking over pressure plates.”

“My morally questionable, very pale hero!” She simpers and giggles delightfully.

“Don’t forget beautiful,” he quips.

Kamena places her wine down and approaches him. He grabs her waist and pulls her into his lap to straddle him.

“My morally questionable, very pale, devastatingly beautiful hero,” she amends, kissing his face between every word. He gathers her hair, sweeping it away from her neck to press unhurried kisses down the column. His fingers ruck up the hem of her shirt, and she takes it off, throwing it off to the side unceremoniously. Astarion takes a moment to take her in, his hand cradling her face and his thumb stroking her cheek. He dips his head to catch her lips. Astarion groans with the heat of her breath in his mouth, and he allows himself to get lost in his love for her.

Kamena undoes the buttons of his chemise with clumsy fingers. Once it’s undone, she smooths her hands with her palms slightly heated from her magic up his abdomen and chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, almost as if the sun’s rays were warming him.

His cock is already throbbing. “I want to lead,” he says huskily. “Like we used to.”

If he can get her to trust him in this, maybe, just maybe, she can start to trust him outside of intimacy. She requested he stop being so gentle with her, and maybe that is part of the problem. He’s too gentle, too affable, too meek, scared that one wrong move will send her spiralling — running.

It’s a long shot, but he’s running out of ideas. It does idly cross his mind if this is a manipulation tactic, but he doesn’t mean it to be so. He just needs to gain her trust, and this is as good a place as any to start.

There’s a small flicker of uncertainty before she nods. “Okay. You lead.”

“Do you remember what word you use if you need to stop?”

“…Astarion,” she says warily.

“I shan’t push too far, my love.” He comforts, lowering his voice into warmed honey so that its timbre sticks to her skin. “And you have only but to say the word if you want to stop.”

The look of wariness slowly ebbs and is replaced with determination. “Orchid.”

“Correct. Good girl.” Astarion pats her leg, picking at her trousers. “Stand and take these off.”

While she does that, he slips out of his pants, his cock finally relieved of that too tight hug of his leather trousers. He settles back on the chair, legs spread wide, and grabs her hips.

“Come.” He turns her around. “Sit. Yes. Like that.”

Kamena settles herself on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His cock is stiff and yearning against her heated sex, and it takes him considerable effort to thwart the temptation to sink into her.

Astarion draws her in close, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing down the back of her neck to the base of her spine. He settles his chin on her shoulder, making sure to position himself in a way that he can see down her body, and his breath fans her ear.

He trails the backs of his fingers down, lightly brushing them against the hardened peaks of her nipples, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the stimulation. He proceeds and feels her tremble in anticipation, but he stops short and traces his fingertips featherlight around her belly.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers into her ear. “Tell me exactly what you want, when you want it, how you want it. Where. Harder. Faster. Slower. Tell me everything.”

Kamena leans back into him. “I thought you wanted to lead?”

“I am. Just not in the way you were expecting.” He grins mischievously. “I await my instructions, my dear.”

“Touch me,” she mutters under her breath.

“Where?” Astarion plays stupid, bringing his finger to rest on the tip of her nose. “Here?”

She laughs, grabbing his hand and placing it exactly where she wants it. Her clit pulses against his fingertips.

“Okay, now what?” He asks.

“Play with my clit, gently at first.” Kamena’s legs jitter when he starts swirling circles around the border, and to his delight, she gets a little more brazen. “Faster with more pressure.”

Her cheek presses into him, her back arching, and she whimpers. Astarion slides his fingers down, parting her folds, spreading her open for him to admire.

“So wet for me, aren’t you, my sweet?” He nips her ear, a graze of his fang along it, and then he sucks gently. Kamena whimpers, and her fingers grasp any part of him available as her hips buck. “So needy.”

“Fuck.” She groans. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

A low, delighted growl rumbles in Astarion’s chest. There is his Kamena, unashamed to tell him exactly what she wants from him. His fingers skate around her entrance, veiling them in her silky desire, before he pushes his cock to the side slightly and slips them in. He starts slow, dipping in and out in the smallest increments to tease out her pleasure.

“Open your eyes, love.” Astarion instructs smooth as velvet. “Watch me fuck your pretty little pussy. You look positively divine with my fingers inside you.”

He smirks when he sees her face flush red, with an amalgamation of desire and embarrassment. Though she likes it, Kamena does not have much experience with vulgar dirty talk, despite the fact that he’s heard some downright obscene things drop off her tongue.

With his fingers sliding against his shaft on every pump, groans escape him unbidden. Kamena clenches around his fingers at the sound, answering him with whimpers. The fact that Kamena is aroused further by the sound of his need exhilarates him.

“My clit,” she pants with her eyes anchored on his fingers. “You can do both at the same damn time. Don’t be so lazy.”

He growls into her ear approvingly. “As you wish.”

His thumb presses against her clit, sweeping across in a regular rhythm, and her hips jerk and roll thoughtlessly. He increases his pace, driving his fingers deep and fast, curling them up with every pass. Kamena’s fingernails dig into the meat of his thighs as she gasps and jerks, sweat starting to coat both of their bodies.

Precum dribbles from his cock, and his hips start to buck involuntarily as it begs him for the attention he so desperately craves.

“A- Gods! Astarion,” she sputters. “Fuck me. Please. Fuck me.”

He would have liked to make her cum like this, but he cannot deny that he much prefers to feel her walls spasming around his cock, begging him to fill her with his spend.

“Lean in me,” he barks, and she relaxes into him straight away. He hooks his forearms under her knees, spreading her wider for him. “A hand, if you would be so kind, love.”

Kamena grasps his cock, swirling her thumb over his precum soaked tip and giving it a slow stroke before she aligns him at her entrance.

“Hard or soft tonight?”

“Bite me and fuck me hard,” she growls at him, sweeping her hair to the side and exposing her neck.

A shot of pure, unmitigated desire shoots straight through him at the words, and he buries himself to the hilt with one smooth snap of his hips. His eyes fall shut, revelling in the sensation of being sheathed in her — so tight, so wet, so warm, so perfect.

Astarion opens his eyes, watching himself pull out almost all the way and slamming back into her again and again.

He kisses her neck, moaning against her. “Gods above. You look magnificent on my cock. Do you like to watch me fuck you, Kamena?”

A desperate whine comes from her. “Gods, yes.”

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Play with your clit.”

Kamena’s hand reaches down shakily, skimming across her tender flesh. Astarion moans once more at the divine sight before he bites, quick and accurate, knowing exactly where and how to illicit the correct response. His fangs sink into her tender flesh, and her blood surges into his mouth.

His eyes roll back as the sanguine nectar skips across his tongue. If heaven has a taste, he’s positive that this is it. Astarion centres his attention on the push and pull of her walls, the ridges dragging against his hard length.

He can feel every squeeze of that slick, warm grip sending him reeling into mind-numbing pleasure. Kamena’s hips undulate in time to meet his hard thrusts, her fingers working her clit at a frantic pace.

Astarion drives into her, harder and deeper, making her take all of him with every thrust. Kamena whimpers and moans his name in an almost prayer-like chant, and every time it sends another wave of affection coursing through him.

She cries out, her cunt spasming and clamping down on him. The tightness, the way her walls squeeze him, makes it too hard for him to stave off his orgasm. He has to withdraw his fangs from her neck when he comes, the pleasure so intense that his toes curl and a sonorous whine erupts from his throat.

Astarion’s fingers dig into the meat of her thighs, holding on for dear life. His hips stutter, dipping his cock into her again and again and again, coaxing out every bit of his release and flooding her. His being narrows down into nothing but an impossibly compressed point of white-hot bliss as his hips buck, riding out his own shockwaves until they finally abate.

Kamena sags into him once he unhooks his arms from her legs and lets them relax. He presses a kiss to her temple, burying his nose in her hair with his own satisfied sigh.

“We might have ruined this chair.” Kamena shifts to look down at the evidence of their enjoyment. “We definitely ruined this chair.”

Astarion barks out an abrupt laugh in response. “Possibly,” he concurs with a rakish grin. “To Hells with them. You gave them enough bloody coin to furnish this room twice over.”

She turns to face him, draping herself over him with her arms around his neck. “You’re just going to steal it back for me anyhow.”

He grins at that, his chest feeling lighter. It feels good to be seen, known. “You know me too well.”

Kamena rests her head in the crook of his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as her eyes fall shut. “That was... fun. We haven’t done that in a while. You are okay?”

A typical question after they make love, but he finds it hard to answer this time. It’s not the physical intimacy that troubles him, but her lack of emotional intimacy is another matter entirely.

“Yes, my love,” he purrs. There will be a time and place for that discussion, but this isn’t it. “I’m fine. I would tell you if I wasn’t. Shall we clean up and go to bed? We have a long night ahead of us.”

She leans back, quirking her brow at him. “A long night?”

“Oh yes,” he smiles cunningly. “I believe I owe you a hot date, and I intend to deliver before we leave the city.”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

😮‍💨 Some complicated feelings going on for poor Astarion.

Date night is nigh!

🥵 (this is all I've got)

#astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x mc #bg3 astarion #astarion smut #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x female tav #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion x female oc #shadows of the past #explict #astarion

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justmeinadaze · 2 years ago

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Children of the Night Part 4 (Steddie X You)

Warnings: Vamp Daddy Eddie/Human Sub Steve/ Human Sub Fem Reader, SMUT (I was in a particular mood), Steve breaks a rule and gets punished, spanking, edging, overstimulation, A bit of FLUFF (there is love here especially between Eddie and Steve being that their relationship is more established), ANGST, blood drinking (brief), Steve and reader can feel Eddie's emotions, another vivid dream of Eddie's memories continued from the last chapter, Steve has a bit of a panic attack but Eddie and Y/N got him.

Word Count: 3962

You awoke the next afternoon on your side being a little spoon to the vampire behind you as his steady breath continued to warm your shoulder. The sound of another slightly heavier exhale caused you to open your eyes and land on the beautiful boy in front of you.

Steve’s eyes were squeezed shut as he tried to control himself from making too much noise, biting his bottom lip as an added measure of protection. The blanket below his waist was moving up and down with not-so-subtle schlick sounds that made it hard to misinterpret what he was doing.

“Steve.”

“Fuck.”, he grunts at the sound of your voice, turning so his eyes can meet your own. “I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet. I’m…I’m not even really supposed to be… doing this but you two look so beautiful…together…”

Your hand reaches out to caress his face and he sighs in pleasure at the gesture.

“Do you want some help?”

“Y-You don’t have to…honey. You’re probably still…still sore from last night.”, he pants.

“I can use my mouth.”

“Fuck. I…I should ask Daddy…if it’s…okay.”

“We can be quiet.”, you whisper. “Quieter.”

Once he finally nods, you carefully crawl out of Eddie’s embrace and pull down the covers that were blocking Steve’s actions. Your mouth salivated at the sight as his hand slowed its pace over his red, leaking cock that was fully standing at attention.

As your tongue darted out to lick his mushroom tip, his eyes rolled back and fluttered closed again. Fully enveloping his length, his jaw went slack as a silent moan pushed through.

“Fuck, baby, that feels so good.”, Steve murmured as he tried to control his hips from moving too much and shaking the bed. As your head bobbed, your nails ran along his thighs and up his tummy making him groan.

The growl that rumbled low beside you startled you both.

“Y/N, sweetheart, I know you’re new here but Steven knows to ask my permission first when it comes to his pleasure.” The man’s cock twitched in your hand at Eddie’s tone. He liked it. A ring covered palm reached out to grab his boyfriend’s throat. “What? You thought because she’s here my rules changed?”

“N-No. No, Daddy. Please…I’m sorry. I needed to cum.”

“Oh? You need it? So fucking greedy.” Without tearing his eyes from Steve, he addressed you. “Keep doing what you were doing, baby, but don’t hold back this time. You’re both already in trouble. May as well go all in now.”

Taking him into your mouth again, you fully descend his length till your drool was spilling out of your lips and down his shaft.

“Yes.”

“Feel good?”, Eddie asks condescendingly to Steve’s whimpers. “What feels better? Her mouth or you disobeying me?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Yeah, you will be. Didn’t I make you cum last night?”

“Yes, Daddy. I-I just—”

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care. What’s our rule?” Steve gets distracted when your hand replaced your lips around him and you stroke him as you suck on his balls. “Focus, little boy! What’s our rule?!”

“Y-You handle my pleasure in here. I-I-I can’t even…pleasure myself. Fuck, Y/N, that’s it!” His palm gripped Eddie’s neck as he brought his lips to his. “Her mouth feels amazing. Shit. I’m gonna cum.”

The vampire placed his forehead on his boyfriends as Steve panted against his face. His body shuddered as his face scrunched and his spend hit the back of your throat. After swallowing everything he gave you, you pulled away, allowing his now softening cock to fall against him.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you, baby.”

“I love you to, you idiot.”, Eddie teased. “Your punishment will come in a moment. For you young lady, this is your warning.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Y/N, maybe, now would be the time to talk about our relationship. You’ve been calling me Daddy and Steve said he was fine with it but I need to fully hear you agree to it. I have rules for him that would go for you as well.”

“What are the rules?”

“Well, the first one you know now. I control your pleasure; you can’t even touch yourself or have him touch you unless I allow it.”

“Can I kiss him and hold him?”

Steve grins softly at your question, loving that that is something you continuously want to do with him telling him that for you this wasn’t purely sexual.

“Yeah, of course, sweetheart.”, Eddie smiles as reaches out to touch your cheek. “So adorable. Do you have any don’ts we should avoid?”

“My exes were always…too rough. They always went one step to far every time. They would choke me too hard or, obviously, hit my too hard. Don’t be too rough.”

“That’s a little vague, honey.” Their eyes scan you over as you meekly apologize. “These past few nights…how was that?”, Steve asked.

“I liked it. I, um, I kind of wish I had all of Eddie last night. Not that I mind the vampire, just…I want to know you.”

“That’s fair. Whenever you’re ready, we can—”

“I’m ready!”, you shout a bit to enthusiastically causing both men to laugh.

“Didn’t I fuck you both? How can you both still be so needy?”, the vampire teases.

“You’re not sore?”

“I am little but not enough to need a break or anything.”

Eddie squints playfully in your direction before bringing his wrist to his mouth and flinching as he bites down drawing blood.

“Munson, what are you doing?”

“Helping. I figure if my blood can heal her maybe it will help with the pain between her legs.”

“She said she’s fine through.”

“Steven! Calm down, okay? She’s a big girl.” After offering you his arm, you crawl forward and sit on your knees as your lips connect with his flesh. “Fuck me, why does that feel so good?”

The way he cut himself was small enough to allow for trickles to fall on your tongue but to you it wasn’t enough and you desperately wanted more as you tried to suck his wound harder for sustenance.

“O-Okay, baby, that’s enough.” Ignoring him, his eyes rolled as a low rumble left his chest causing Steve to sit up. Forcefully grabbing your hair, you panted as he pulled you back and tilted your head towards his face. “What part of ‘I control your pleasure’ do you not understand, little girl? If I say that’s enough, it’s enough. Am I being clear?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

Shoving you away, he glances towards Steve who’s watching you intently.

“Y/N, honey, if at any point you feel uncomfortable I want you to say the word ‘Red’ ok? If for some reason he doesn’t hear it, I will.”

“Because I’ve never heard it in the past?”, Eddie pouts.

“Lots of trial and error when you’re dating a vampire.”, the other boy smiles, seeing the question in your eyes when you looked at him. “He’s come a long way though. Eddie and Daddy are diligent… the vampire on the other hand…”

The long-haired man’s jaw tightens as he looks away guiltily.

“Ok…say ‘red’ if I feel uncomfortable.”, you repeat.

Steve’s eyes scan you over with careful curiosity. “Does it really taste that good? His blood I mean. I’ve never…”

“Would you like to?”, Eddie asks after you nod your head.

As his boyfriend blinks nervously, the vampire bites himself again and offers his arm out for him to try.

“Wow. You really do heal quickly.”

“Yeah. The smaller the wound, the faster it heals.” His chocolate eyes never leave Steve as he speaks, watching him as he stares at the blood that begins to fall down his forearm. “Baby, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Steve exhales heavily as he leans forward and runs his tongue along his skin, collecting the sweet syrup before attaching his mouth to the bite. Eddie’s eyes close as he grunts, trying to control the vampire within.

“Ok.” His long brown mane whips across his face as he tilts his head towards your voice. “Ok I accept your rules and I want to be in this relationship with you two. I trust you.”

“Steve…Steve stop.”, Eddie grumbled. Just as he was about to tug him back like he had with you, his eyes opened, following your movements as you crawled towards the other man, and gently began kissing his neck.

“Steve, Daddy wants you to stop.”, you whispered as your fingers firmly pinched his jaw. As he let Eddie go, his hair fell into his face as he panted almost like he had just come back from a run. Making you straddle his waist, his arms circled tightly around you as his large palm pushed at the back of your head, bringing your lips to his.

His energy was like a man possessed as he tried to hold you tighter to him, grinding his hips against yours.

“Let her go, Steve. Don’t forget, you’re in trouble.”

Loudly groaning, his head fell against your chest as you tenderly ran your fingers through his hair.

“Please. Please, Daddy. I want her.”, he pleaded in a tone you had never heard from him before. Even Eddie’s head tilted at the sound as he tried to remain in control. “I can feel everything. It’s been so long since I felt so… alive.” The man breathily laughed as he shifted his gaze towards him. “I can feel how much you want to fuck her. Oh my god.”

Licking your lips, you clung to him tighter as you felt those feelings heighten inside of you as Eddie got more turned on.

“I can feel how much you want to fucking ruin me for disobeying you. Do it, Daddy. Please, baby.”

The wind blew as you were both abruptly pulled apart and positioned in different places; you on your back with your legs open and Steve on all fours with Eddie behind him. A couple of pillows were placed behind you so you could lay back and have a good view of the men in front of you.

“Here are the rules of your punishment, greedy boy. I’m going to spank you while you eat this pretty girl’s pussy. If you cum before I get to 10, I start over. Understood?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You, baby girl, just lay there and watch how a punishment can be delivered. Once I’m done with him… you’re mine.” Your body shuddered at his sexy smirk as his hand came down hard on his boyfriend’s ass. “Count.”

“One.”

Taking hold of your thighs, Steve’s tongue licked a stripe through your folds eliciting a small whimper from you. As his hand came down again, the other boy counted the number and wrapped his mouth around your clit, sucking the bud before coming off it with a loud smacking noise and repeating the process. The vibrations from his groan sent a shock wave through you as Eddie reached between the boy’s legs to casually stroke his stiffening cock.

“That’s it, Stevie. Get her nice and wet for me.” Licking his palm, he rubbed Steve’s balls as his free hand pushed a finger into his hole. “Tell Daddy how that feels.”

“Fuck.”, you mewled as he spit into your cunt, sliding in two of his long, thick fingers.

“It feels so good, Daddy. Fuck, I can feel you everywhere.”

After spanking him again, your eyes rolled back as Steve’s tongue flicked your bundle of nerves faster as he pumped his digits.

“You both look so sexy like this.” Steve felt his pending orgasm approaching as Eddie felt his cock in his grasp twitch. His palm came down and the boy whined as his boyfriend released him from his hold. “Don’t cum, little boy. We’re only at 4 right now. You should make Y/N cum though. She looks like she’s on the edge.”

Doing what he was told, he pressed his tongue against you, thrusting his fingers till he felt you tremble and your pussy quiver around him as you came while Eddie spanked him again. Starting his rhythm once more, he built Steve up till he was just about to explode before stopping completely till he calmed down.

It took the human boy a while to catch on but after the fifth spank, he didn’t do it again until after you came. By number eight, he was doing everything he could to get you there faster unsure of how much more he could take.

“Two more, sweetheart. You can do it. Remember, this is punishment. It’s not supposed to be easy.”

“D-D-Daddy…”, Steve sobbed. “I want to cum. Please…it hurts.”

“What color are we at, babe?”

“Green.”, he whined.

“Good. Good boy. What about you, princess?” Eddie couldn’t help but chuckle as you flashed him a thumbs up sign. “Good girl. My good little beauties. Keep going, Steve.”

Shoving his face between your puffy lips, his fingers dug into your thighs as he devoured you desperately. A burn you had felt before coursed through your veins and you opened your eyes just in time to see Eddie guide his cock into Steve’s entrance.

“Oh fuck.”, Steve grunted, his tongue lapping faster inside of you.

“St-Ste-Steve, slow down.”, you whimpered as you softly pet his head.

“FUCK! Nine!”, the boy screamed as Eddie’s palm came down hard. Tears streaked your face as his head shook between your legs, his tongue flattening and pressing hard against your clit as his hands held you in place.

An overwhelming feeling of euphoria crashed over as you came and while you were still lost in heaven, the sound of a smack reverberated through the room as well as Steve’s garbled voice as he counted out his final number. His head hung as Eddie thrust into him at a faster pace, building his boyfriend back up. Limply, you slid your body underneath him and placed his head on your shoulder.

“You can cum now, baby. You did good. I want you to cum on me, Steve.”

Lifting his head, his lips locked with yours, both of you moaning breathily into each other’s mouths as you felt Eddie’s arousal heighten. Pounding roughly into him, the boy underneath him grunt as his jaw went slack and he placed his forehead on yours. Reaching between your bodies, he pumped his cock aggressively till rope after rope of his seed landed on your skin.

“Ah, shit…”, Steve groaned, wincing as he continued to milk his overstimulated length till he was empty.

“That’s it, Steve. You did so good. I love you so much.”, you cooed as you ran your nails along his chest and back.

Eddie’s lips softly trailed up his back till they landed on his boyfriends with an encouraging smile.

“She’s right. You took your punishment like a good boy. Why don’t you lay back and rest while I take care of baby girl here.”

Steve lazily nodded as he collapsed beside you and you moved one of the pillows to place under his head. The vampire smirked and winked at you as he slowly crawled up the length of your body, kissing parts of you along the way. Hovering over Steve’s release, his eyes met yours as his tongue darted out to clean up the mess.

Your stomach moved underneath him as you pleasantly sighed, petting his head as you watched him below you.

“This is going to sound so weird but I like feeling you breathe.” When you smile down at him with half lidded eyes, his own grin grows. “I think it’s something I don’t take for granted anymore since I actually stopped breathing for a time. When Steve would sleep, I always kept my hand on his chest as I would watch it rise and fall. I don’t know why but it just made him more handsome to me.”

As his kisses continued to move their path up your sweaty skin, he paused again to lick the valley between your breasts relishing in the sound of your little moans as he wrapped his mouth around one of your nipples. A heavy breath escaped Steve’s lips as he turned his head towards you both, keeping his eyes closed as his hand rubbed along his chest.

“Are you alright? We can stop if you want to.”, Eddie whispered when he finally reached the shell of your ear. “You have to use your words, sweetheart.”, he lightly scolds when you nod.

“I’m ok, Daddy. I don’t know if Steve can take anymore though.”, you murmur, throat sore from moaning and screaming.

Chuckling, he extended his hand out to the man and caressed his cheek as his thumb moved along his bottom lip.

“Babe, can you still feel me?”

“Uh huh.”

This time you both giggle at his exhausted answer causing Steve to smile as well when he feels how warm it makes Eddie feel hearing the sound of your genuine laugh.

“Do you need us to stop?”

“Nu uh. Jus go slow.”

The long-haired boy’s beautiful eyes focus on you again as he grips your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist.

“That’s the plan.”

While delicately kissing your lips, Eddie reaches between you and guides himself into your core. Both men at the same time release a long moan as the vampire gradually thrusts his hips, pumping his cock into you inch by inch.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Steve really got you ready for me, didn’t he?” As his forehead fell against yours, you clung to his shoulders as your jaw fell and you quietly panted against his mouth. “God, you are so tight.”

His last word came out deep and heavy causing your eyes to open so you could look at his face. Eddie’s mouth open in a silent O and his nose was scrunched in focus as he continued to deliver long, smooth strokes that had your toes curling.

You and Steve could both feel it within him, the aggressive energy that just wanted to fuck you into the mattress but even he didn’t want that right now. He wanted to take his time and feel every part of you. More than anything, he wanted to maintain control. It really bothered him that Steve mentioned the vampire within him struggled to be reined in sometimes.

What bothered him most was that he knew it was true. He didn’t want to go overboard and hurt either one of you. He would never mean to if it happened but sometimes the vampire demanded attention.

“Eddie. Eddie, baby, look at me.”, you whispered softly as you tilted your nose to graze his. When he was finally able to do what you asked, his black irises reflected back. He expected you to be frightened or even disappointed but when you gently smiled back at him, a wave of comfort flowed through him. “It’s ok. Come back to me, Daddy. Come back to us.”

Blinking, his beautiful eyes returned to their normal color as he leaned down to kiss your lips. Both of Eddie’s palms glided along your arms as you lifted them over your head and he took hold of your wrists as his head fell beside yours.

Rolling his hips slowly but firmly, his cock roughly hit that sensitive spot inside of you that had you mewling.

“Yes. Just like that.”

A second set of lips should have startled you but it didn’t; you welcomed the feeling. Steve sucked and nibbled at your neck as his hand ran along his boyfriend’s back.

“You feel so good, pretty girl. Your pussy was made us. Fuck, you take me so well. Cum, baby. Cum again on Daddy’s cock so I can fill you up.”

The bed lightly rustled underneath you as he thrust into you faster. The coil that had begun to wind snapped and you cried against his cheek as he continued to murmur praises in your ear.

“I know. I know, baby girl. Daddy’s got you. That’s it, sweetheart. Good girl.”

With a few more rough pumps, his rhythm faltered and you felt him paint your walls with his release. They both continued to kiss your neck, whispering how much they cared about you and how beautiful you were as your eyes closed and you fell asleep.

############

“Eddie?”

The vampire huffs as he tosses the boy he had been feeding on to the side and grabbed the other to do the same. Something touched his shoulder and he angrily turned, grabbing their throat as he held them back. Steve gasped as he came face to face with the man he loved.

Silently, Eddie let him go and his thumb grazed along the man’s busted lip. He growled loudly as his palm caressed his cheek just beneath his blackening eye.

“H-How? I…we…we thought you were gone…”

“I was.”

At the sound of his voice, Steve collapsed into his arms and sobbed. He thought he would never hear his boyfriend’s voice again.

“I tried to bring you back home. Henderson and I tried but we couldn’t. I hated myself for leaving you there.”

Tilting his head back, he cupped the metalhead’s face and pressed his lips to his own. Eddie’s hands slowly lifted to grab his face as well, the fog of his hunger dissipating, and his love for Steve pushing through.

“I missed you so much, honey. You have no idea how lonely its been without you.” Wiping his eyes, he grabbed the man’s hand and started to tug him towards where his BMW was parked. “We need to get out of here. They still blame you for the murders and I’m not going to let someone take you away from me again.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m still hungry.”

Your eyes snapped open at the same time as Steve’s except he wakes up panting aggressively.

“So…Eddie’s greatest hits? How was volume 3?”, Eddie sassed from his spot at the end of the bed where he had been waiting for you two to wake up.

The other man promptly threw back the covers and chaotically moved around the room, sliding on boxers as he headed for the closet. The metalhead swished to his side and grabbed his wrist right as he was reaching for the suitcase they kept in the corner.

“Steve, what’s going on?”

“I…we…I need to…pack…we need to leave…”

“Why?”

Moving around him, he threw the suitcase on the bed just as you hastily moved out of the way and grabbed one of his shirts off the floor to put on.

“Steve, baby, slow down. Talk to me.”

“I can’t…we need to…I’m not…” His eyes searched around the room as if he couldn’t figure out where he was. “We…Eddie…”

“Is it because of your dream? What did you guys see? I felt the hunger again and your grief.”

“Steve realized you weren’t dead and said you needed to run.”, you answered for him causing Eddie to sigh as he tried to get his boyfriend to focus.

“Sweetheart, look at me. We’re safe, ok? We’re not in Hawkins, you got me out and away. Come back to me, babe.” Steve began to panic, trying to yank his arms out of Eddie’s firm grip. “Everything’s ok, Harrington!” “It’s not okay! I’M NOT GOING TO LET ANYONE TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME AGAIN!”

The vampire caught him as his boyfriend’s knees buckled and he fell into his arms, slowly guiding him to the floor as he held him.

“Everything’s ok, baby. I promise. You’re not alone anymore. I’m right here and so is Y/N.”

Sliding to your knees, you held his hand as he cried and Eddie rocked him against his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, Steve.”, you cooed as his fingers intertwined with yours.

############

@chelebelletx @mandyjo8719 @nailbatanddungeon

259 notes · View notes

according2thelore · 5 months ago

Text

ageswap!au ficlet, continuation of this

dean realizes, as he watches his older brother sleep, that he probably has the ability to end the world.

dean’s never been able to do shit. he’s the family disappointment. unlike golden boy sammy, he sucked at academics, never had the patience for team sports, never had a friend to keep to his name.

hell, he couldn’t even keep sam from walking out that door seven years ago, duffle bag in hand and thirty seconds away from forgetting he even had a little brother.

but now, dean’s gut twists as he reckons he’s the most powerful man alive. he’s twenty years old.

sammy’s snoring lightly, mouth slack and eyes twitching under closed eyelids. his hand is fisted in the fabric of dean’s tshirt at his waist, so part of his arm holds dean down to the bed.

it was probably strategic, the fucker.

sam keeps him close, now. sam still hasn’t told him what happened in the…months (?) dean’s been gone. dean can’t believe it’s only been months for him. dean was gone so long he had mostly forgotten what sam looked like.

dean can barely get a few feet away from sam now before sam starts to get twitchy. dean went on an unsanctioned piss break at a diner the other day and found sam having a panic attack on the sidewalk outside, having abandoned their booth because he’d come back to the table and dean was gone.

dean doesn’t mind. he really, really doesn’t mind.

they still get queen beds everywhere they go, but sam ends up in his bed more often than not. and the “not” involves him facing dean in his own bed, or doing research until he falls asleep over his laptop.

dean insists he’s not a child, but sam gives him his big “i want to protect you” eyes and dean capitulates.

dean knows sammy's not telling him everything.

ruby shows up at their door once a week, and she and sam disappear for hours. those moments are the longest dean goes without sam's hands on him, whether it's a guiding hand on his shoulder or an ankle pressed to his under diner tables, sam's skin always seems to be touching his.

until ruby comes, and then sam's jaw always tightens, a look that means there's not enough money for dinner or dean failed a test or dad took dean on a hunt sam thought he was too young for.

but he leaves all the same, making sure dean has salted and trapped the room to high heaven, like dean is some fucking invalid who doesn't know how to do his damn job.

sam swears he's not fucking ruby. he promises up and down, hands holding dean's face like he's a child, like he's some precious thing sam doesn't want to break.

dean doesn't know if he believes him, but knows sam comes home (home, whether it's the impala or the motel or just opens his arms and lets dean fall into him) just a little hard every time, cock half-full and swelling when he sees dean's bare thighs on motel sheets. they don't mention it.

he called sam while he was gone with ruby, one time, and sam picked up immediately, out of breath and demanding to know what was wrong, what happened. before dean could say anything, sam snapped that he was coming back. sam came back smelling of leather and sulfur and his eyes glinting golden in the watery motel neon.

dean knows about the blood.

of course he does.

you can only smell iron and sulfur on your brother's breath so many times when he falls asleep practically in your skin before you connect the dots. he didn't at first, just knew sammy's powers had gotten stronger. way stronger. too strong.

dean had a nightmare one of his first nights back, and woke up screaming. sam, who had fallen asleep with his hand in dean's hair, startled. when dean opened his eyes, every item in the motel room was three feet in the air, including their bed. the window had shattered outwards.

sam snapped the neck of a demon they ran into last week from thirty feet away. one time, dean caught him staring at the window, and only when he called sam's name and sam looked away did dean realize that sam had stopped the trees outside from blowing in the breeze.

the other night when they pulled up to this shit-hole with distinctly not-enough-money for a few nights, dean went first to the motel office to flirt their way into a few extra nights. sam had found him--of course--before he got too far, and he still hasn't seen the greasy, balding old guy who eyed dean up lasciviously since. he saw the guy's wallet next to the dumpster out back. dean is afraid to ask.

presently, sam snorts in his sleep, and his hand curls tighter into the fabric of dean's shirt. his mouth twitches, and dean wants to kiss him. he wants to kiss him with such an acuity that it's almost blinding.

but they don't do things like that. sam's concern has been entirely and completely brotherly. hell just took the parts of dean that already existed and made them worse.

it took his twisted love and need-want-need for his big brother and ratcheted the urgency up to eleven. dean can barely look at sam, with his eyes that still shine a little weird whenever dean looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, without wanting to drop to his knees and finally let sam fuck his mouth until his jaw dislocates.

dean reaches up, slow, and curls a hand around the amulet, slid to the side around sam’s neck. when sam had been wearing it when dean went to get him at stanford, dean had been shocked.

he had remembered wondering if he told his pretty little girlfriend about his little brother. and the way jessica had perked up when he said “dean,” he knew he had.

(dean later found the picture of him in sam’s wallet, a poorly cropped mall photo-booth picture of them both where dean had been putting devil horns behind sam’s head and sam had caught him mid-photo, shoving him down and out of the frame. both of them caught in joyous laughter, dean looking almost directly into the camera, eyes shining. dean hated him for having it. he hated that it felt like sam had kept this photo out of penance rather than love. it had wear marks at the edges from being taken out of the little plastic window so often.)

dean pushes some of sam's hair off of his forehead, and stares into the slack face of the man he'd worshipped for years. sam's hand loosens on dean's shirt, and dean jolts when sam's warm, broad palm slides up against his waist, along dean's ribs, broad thick fingers finally settling across his side.

dean's heat thunders in his chest, feeling the new calluses and just how strong his big brother's grip is when he tightens his hold briefly, mouth still slack in sleep.

dean knows without a doubt that he could end the world if he wanted to. that he could tell sam to kill someone and he'd do it. sam probably did it to the motel clerk, without dean saying or doing anything.

dean could tell sam that the world had hurt him, and sam would burn it to the ground. dean could whisper in his ear that ruby had been plotting against dean, and sam'd probably believe it. sam'd give dean her head with a kiss on dean's forehead.

dean could ask sam to crawl into hell and pull alistair out by his half-cut-off cock, and sam would lace up his boots like dean had asked him to make a grocery run.

that's why dean hasn't told him much. he hasn't told sam about what hell was like, not really. not only because it was all dean's fault--all of it, every sadistic fucking detail--but because he's afraid of what sam's capable of. he's not scared of sam, couldn't be, that's his big brother, but he knows sam's not...completely sam right now.

sam's a nuclear bomb that dean has strapped himself to, and he hopes they kill as few people as possible when they crash. dean knows he holds the kill switch in his pocket, could point at anyone and say "now" and end the world.

when dean looks at this reflection he doesn't recognize in the mirror, he's afraid he might press it. he's afraid he'll turn sam into a monster by association. that sam will hurt people and--because dean asked him to, because dean is rotten to the very center and his being metastasizes like cancer--that sam will like it.

that angel in the barn, the one that pulled dean out of hell, told him he had a role to play. dean doesn't give a fuck what some feathery asshole wants to tell him. dean is twenty years old. he can't even technically drink yet, he's still getting new hair on his face, and he just reached sam's shoulder a few months ago in terms of height. he can't be that damn important.

and the angel doesn't know a damn thing.

sam is his big brother. dean has been watching him since he was old enough to see, had been wrapping his fists in sam's shirt-tails since he was hold enough to grab.

he'd been wanting to be sam, wanting to be sam's, since he could think.

sam sniffles in his sleep, and his hand twitches against dean's side. he pulls dean closer, closer, closer.

dean lifts the skin-warm amulet to his lips, presses the wet insides of his mouth to it, and tucks his face into the crook of his brother's neck, like he's done since he was born, and lets himself fade away. he's too wretched to be forgiven, but sam's hands on his skin feel as close to forgiveness as dean will ever know.

if he's wrong--if dean's big brother is wrong--then they'll both be wrong. damn the consequences.

#lizzy writes #ageswap!verse #ageswap!samdean

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miraclesnail · 7 months ago

Text

kronus AU, title still pending

chapter 12, 13, 14, 15

First chapter, previous chapter, next chapter

@oopsies-i-did-a-thing

Google, what do you do when your childhood friend is set on beheading you in some crazy, apparently well-known and well-loved contest to be the absolute best at killing him?

Travis’s limbs shake with exertion and fear. He’s not scared. This isn’t scary. Just stay focused, stay one step ahead, don’t engage, don’t get close, run run run, and he’ll be fine. He’s going to be fine.

Annabeth glares at him and tries to stab him in the neck again with her knitting needles. Travis ducks and scrambles to the other side of the room. Annabeth lunges again and he dodges again, scrambling to the other end.

She’s getting really frustrated, glaring even more now. A pissed off Annabeth is not someone he wants around. He should really just make a break for it, but Annabeth isn’t giving any wiggle room. A second of distraction is death. A second of turned back is a needle through the skull. A hesitation and he’s dead. But it's okay. He's not scared. Not scared in the slightest.

Annabeth attacks. He runs. Annabeth taunts. He remains tongue tied. Annabeth tries to end him. He's barely keeping himself alive.

Travis doesn’t know how long the cycle went for. A few minutes. Hours maybe. Maybe just a couple seconds. But it’s interrupted by a knock on a door and Bianca’s voice, suspicious and wary. “Travis? You alright in there? I’m coming in, okay?”

Annabeth and him share a look. The hinges squeak.

“W—Wait! Anna—”

He talks first.

But Annabeth moves first, lunging for the door. And still he can’t do anything except watch as the door opens. The needle goes straight for Bianca. Travis is sure if he was in Bianca’s position, he would be dead. But the daughter of Hades steps back just in time, barely evading the needle with wide eyes and panic in her face.

Without missing a beat, Annabeth grabs Bianca by the back of the head and slams her head against the door frame hard. Bianca slumps over*** unconscious, blood pooling beneath her head.

Annabeth stands over Bianca’s down body with a blank expression. A finger curls and uncurls. An eye twitches. Her mouth fell open. But then it all snaps into cruel disdain and Annabeth rears her foot back for a kick.

His body moves then.

He tackles Annabeth and they both tumble over ungracefully. Annabeth picks herself up first and immediately tries to stomp his face in. Travis wishes he could say it was his well-developed and honed instincts from a decade of fighting that saved him but it was Silena ramming a pitchfork through Annabeth’s chest that did it.

“Run!” Silena yells at him, digging and twisting the metal deeper into Annabeth’s sternum. She turns her head back to face him and Travis can see that Silena is terrified. She’s petrified. Eyes blown wide and pupils dilated. Her hands holding onto the pitchfork are shaking way too much. Voice high and quavering. Fake bravado if he has never seen it before. Even with all that, Silena orders, “Take Bianca and let’s get out of here!”

He nods but his eyes are drawn back to Annabeth, unflinching and unbothered with the prongs sticking through her. Annabeth still has her knitting needles in her hand and it didn’t even register in his mind that she could fling it. It flies at him, right for his eye, and —

Dodge, his mind screams. You have to dodge. But Bianca is behind him. If he dodges, it’ll hit her. Block it then. He has to block it. Move. Go. Don’t die. Fight. Win. Survive. You have to survive.

But Silena takes the hit for him, shifting enough so it stabs her in the thigh. The force of it unbalances her and Annabeth grabs the pitchfork by its handle and rips it away from Silena.

Travis watches Annabeth yanks the tool out of her, punctures sealing shut in seconds. Like with what happened to Lou Ellen’s eye. Not a single injury save for the bruise on the neck. Then Annabeth twirls the rusty pitchfork smoothly with a single hand before tossing it aside, rolls her neck again, and charges. ****

It’s personal experience that’s telling him Silena won’t, can’t react in time. A racing mind. An adrenaline riddled body. The knowledge of knowing what to do. The technique to do so. None of it matters when someone is chained down by doubts and hesitancy. But Silena is still standing in front of him, unbudging. If anything, bracing herself even more. Stupidly brave and selfless like when she impersonated Clarisse to lead her cabin into Manhattan, when she attacked the drakon knowing she’s no match for it.

Annabeth comes at her needle raised and aimed at the neck. Silena hesitates and moves a second too late, realizing it too.

Travis sprints forward. Grabs Annabeth by the wrist, halting the blade just inches from Silena. His hand shakes with the effort. His body trembles with not at all concealed fear. He’s sure his face gives it all away, mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. His voice is a wavering mess, but he says it still and he says it loud.

“Don’t hurt her.”

He hears his phone vibrating somewhere in the midst of the neverending room decorating and shadow travel.

Someone is calling him.

The rule is to text first. Calls are only for emergencies.

As soon as Nico takes him to Annabeth, he kicks Perseus in the chest and creates a barrier to separate Perseus from them. There’s twins yells of concern but he ignores both Annabeth and Nico in favor of hitting the green accept call on the vibrating phone in Annabeth’s hands.

Silena’s screams for help come clear through. And his own voice, chattering about … apples? Something absurdly mundane. He can hear the sound of struggle. The screen shakes wildly. He can’t make anything out. Then Annabeth’s voice, the Annabeth he knows, the Annabeth he’s familiar with (dangerous, cruel eyes, persistent), and ah. This is bad. This is dangerous. And he’s not there to protect them. He’s useless over here. Powerless. Useless. Helpless. A failure. A loser.

[Fullscreen]

“Full screen, Silena,” he orders. A wave of dizziness overcomes him but he clings to consciousness stubbornly. He hopes he doesn’t mind. He grabs the phone from Annabeth’s lax fingers and places it flat on the ground. It’s unfortunate he has an audience. He would have preferred minimal distractions. But if he had to have anybody, then at least it’s just these two. They’re smart enough to not try anything. At least, he hopes.

The phone flashes black before it blinks back into focus, the screen white. The light extends outwards and pixel by pixel, Silena’s environment comes into view as holographic images. *****

They’re in their sleeping room. Bianca is down — dead, she’s dead. She’s gone. She’s gone. Dead. Gone. No no no [She’s alive. I can see her breathing.]

Silena, clutching the phone in shaky hands close to her chest. She’s yelling, teary-eyed, watch out Travis behind you duck oh my god Travis Travis Travis —

And him. Himself. In the orange shirt. Barely holding Annabeth at bay with quick dodges and ducks and evading that’s only millimeters away from certain death. Except he’s doing nothing but just avoiding attacks and Annabeth is fiercely aggressive, fiercely calculative in her strikes. A single step back, a single sweep of the leg, and Travis falls back on his butt and Annabeth is above him with her needle raised.

Immediately he dives in between them and holds his arms out, power itching in his fingertips but he holds it back for now. It stops Annabeth right away, her sharp eyes darting between him and the one behind him now scrambling to get back on his feet. Then to Annabeth, silent and unreadable, further behind him. To Nico. Then back to him. He can see her gears ticking and whirling.

“There’s two — two of you. And another me. I’m…fine. A parallel world? Time travel? Doppelganger? A long lost brother?” His Annabeth clutches a hand over her wrist. Her eye twitches once. She’s fighting. She’s fighting for them. Now’s their chance.

He lowers his arms and puts it behind his back but doesn’t budge from his spot. A glance at Silena and she understands right away, slowly inching her way behind him to his other self.

“Yeah.” He nods. He has to buy time, as much as he can. “That’s right. It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s impossible, right? You would like to know more, don’t you? You’re dying to know more, right?”

xxxxxx

Travis is so so so lost. After saving Silena, he figured that both of them can fight Annabeth off together. But Silena more or less tells him to hold Annabeth off while she calls someone. Which… well, not to be a downer, but that sounds like a shit plan. He can’t even beat Annabeth on her off days. On a good day? He has no chance. But he does as Silena asks while she fiddles with her phone.

Then the room fizzles with a bright white light for a second. And now there’s another Annabeth but this one is in a familiar orange shirt. Also this Annabeth is a lot nicer, not trying to stab his eyes out really helps with that. There’s Nico too and that knife-wielding, motorcycle-helmet Connor from earlier is here too. No. The guy said he’s not Connor. His look-alike then. His look-alike is throwing him signals with his hand behind his back in some secret code.

Sign language, his brain tells him after a few more signs.

Get Bianca and leave.

Over and over.

Silena is inching her way to him, slowly, foot sliding and then the other foot sliding, shaking like a leaf and eyes locked onto other-him and other-Annabeth. Silena glances at him for a moment, signaling for him to stand.

He does with wobbly knees. His shoe squeaks against the tile on his way up and Annabeth, the crazy one, the deranged one, the dead one, immediately goes to attack him.

He doesn’t panic. He didn’t even cry or squeal. He just freezes up and stares as Annabeth sidesteps other-him with her needle raise and a killer look in her eyes.

“No!” other-him yells, darting to be back right in front of him again. “You can’t! This guy isn’t me. We’re not the same. Do you really want to win the contest this way? Against a guy who doesn’t even know what’s going on? Will you really be satisfied with a win like that? No, right? Besides, he’s not me so is that really a win?”

xxxxxx

Not good. Not good. Not good. Not good.

“Annabeth,” he tries again, “Winning like this will just make you angry.”

“So what?” Annabeth says, her eyes twitch again. She scowls, sneers, grimaces, winces, flinches, eyes glazing over before coming back into focus. Her free hand clutches her wrist again and forces her weapon down. “Am I supposed to let you guys go? I won’t hear the end of it if — Ah. H—Hurry up. Get the fuck out —I do that.”

“Wait for me to come back,” he says to her, signing behind his back. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. “I’ll be back soon and then we can fight together all we want.”

Annabeth squeezes her eyes shut. She whispers something. An apology. A plea. Then like a switch of a light, Annabeth straightens herself. Cracks her neck. Her gray eyes are devoid of any and all emotions except for fierce fire and unyielding focus. ****

Crap.

“Go now!” he yells, heart in his throat, helpless as he can only watch Annabeth charge past him, phasing through his holographic body.

Silena, stupid brave selfless idiotic Silena, intercepts Annabeth, standing in front of other-him. Silena yells, maybe as a way to psyche herself up, but it doesn’t help her look less terrified at all. *** And he hates that.

Don’t look so petrified. Don’t do it if you don’t want to. Don’t be a hero. You should have just ran. Why did you run? Why are you doing this?

“Annabeth! Stop!” he yells, but it doesn’t deter his dead friend in the slightest. Annabeth charges and he can only watch as Silena blocks the first swipe of the needle. Silena blocks the following roundhouse kick with her forearm but it leaves her reeling and unbalanced. She’s wide open for the third attack. Silena isn’t as fast as him. She’s not as battle experienced as he is. Silena isn’t going to block the third attack. Silena is going to be cut open. Silena is going to die.

The power in his hand releases, but it does nothing but batters the wall weakly with gentle gusts

“Silena! You have to get it together!”

But Silena can’t. Not in time, at least. And he’s stuck in an entirely different plane. Can only watch just like back then. Do something. He has to do something.

[There has to be something]***

Something.

Anything.

Don’t just stand there.

Do something.

Please.

Please…

Don’t take another person from him.

xxxxx

He’s tired of fighting. He’s tired of people dying. He’s tired of losing friends. Michael and Silena. Beckendorf and Castor. He has enough of it.

It’s adrenaline pushing him forward, to tackle Annabeth by the waist and bring her down. They tumble and roll over each other. Travis learned from his mistake. He hooks his leg around Annabeth and angles it to prevent her from getting up. He has a hand on her wrist with the weapon. Other hand on the other wrist. They twist and roll and scramble all over, bumping into walls and shoving each other into the ground.

Annabeth fights to get free and he fights harder to stay in place.

Beyond that? He doesn’t have a plan. Maybe that’s why he’s losing this tumble.

Annabeth flips him over onto his back and presses him down with a knee on his stomach.

She’s raising the needle.

Silena screams. Nico, Annabeth, Connor — no other-him — somebody, everybody is telling him to get up.

Then Annabeth rams the needle down.***

Blood splatters against his face.

Travis grits his teeth against the pain, bites his tears back with his cheeks, and thanks the gods for his incredible speed. A few seconds slower and he would probably be eyeless or something. Blood trails from his impaled forearm and drips onto his cheeks steadily. People are still screaming at him, but there’s blood roaring in his ears. All he can focus on right now is Annabeth tightening her hold on her needle, her other hand gripping his hurt arm.

She’s going to yank it out, his mind calmly informs him.

It hurts. It hurts so much to do so, but he holds her hands away with his good hand and wrenches his hurt arm away. He tries to roll Annabeth off him. But she holds fast and wraps her hands around his neck instead. Then she squeezes. Hard.

Travis wheezes and claws and beats at the hands on his neck but Annabeth clutches tighter, digs her fingers into his trachea.

She’s scowling. Annabeth’s scowling, pained and tormented, like she’s doing something unpleasant but the pressure increases. His vision goes hazy. Other-him is screaming at him, at Annabeth. And he sees Silena trying to shove Annabeth off him. But strength is leaving his body with every passing second. Is this how he’s going to die? Is this how it’ll end? After all he has been though? No… no… He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. Desperately. With Connor and Chris. Katie and Miranda. Annabeth and Percy. Will and Nico. Cecil. Alice. Julia. Holly. Laurel. Lou Ellen. Clovis. This can’t be how it ends. He can’t die like this. *****

His vision narrows down to Annabeth and her scowl, the peripheral nothing more than a blurry shadow.

But his eyes are drawn to Bianca popping up from behind Annabeth in a flash, a shovel raised and poised, half her face covered in blood. Bianca swings, hits the edge against Annabeth’s nape. The pressure is immediately gone as Annabeth crumbles on top of him. And Travis scoots himself away and sucks in air, coughing and rubbing his sore neck.

“Tha-thanks,” he says, voice raspy.

But Bianca just raises the shovel again, metal pointed down, and slams it against Annabeth again. And again. And again. The metal reverberates against tissue and bone horrifyingly loud, echoing off the walls. Skin and flesh slice open. Bones crunch and shatter. But Annabeth doesn’t bleed. Zombies don’t bleed, he guesses. But pieces of flesh and gore fly with every hit.

Travis doesn’t like the anguished look on the daughter of Hades' desperate face.

“Bi…anca?”

Oh hey. Nico’s here too, right. He forgot about him. Travis really doesn't like the look on either of their faces right now.

“H—He—” He coughs and tries to intervene, “That’s enough.”

But Bianca raises the shovel again and brings it down with an enraged scream. The swings grow wild and uncoordinated.

Silena kneels beside him with a bottle of water, tears in her eyes, trembling body pressed to his, eyes darting around like they’re in danger, and stammers, “Bi-Bianca, enough. Annabeth’s down. You don’t have to—”

Another swing, a disgustingly loud crack. And a piece of what he’s sure is bone hits his cheek.

“Bianca.”

One word from other-him, voice’s heavy and a hint of regret, and Bianca pauses mid-swing. She’s heaving, wheezing almost. Muscles straining with yellowing bruised arms. Travis almost thinks Bianca is going to cry but she just whips around to them, almost losing her balance, with a wobbly smile and a shaky laugh.

“Travis, I can’t believe I had to save you like that. Hahaha… that’s a first. Lots of firsts today actually.”

Bianca stares at him for a moment, then her eyes move to Other-Him. Then to Nico, then to the nice, non-killing Annabeth and then back to him.

“Oh.” Bianca giggles and slumps against the wall, sliding to the floor, her feet kicking against not-so-nice Annabeth’s mangled body that’s already reforming.

They should probably get out of here. Soon. Like now. Right now. They should leave right now.

“I’m dreaming. Of course. That’s what's going on,” Bianca mumbles.

“You guys need to get out of there,” Other-him says, a tinge of desperation in his otherwise calm if a bit anxious voice. “Reyna and him and the others — they’re never far behind from Annabeth. Bianca, can you walk?”

Bianca shakes her head and chuckles to herself, mumbling under her breath about how this dream sucks, how she wished she dreamt about camp instead.

“I’m going with no,” Travis says to the other-him, who pinches his eyes and rubs his neck for a moment. When they reopen, they’re tinged with the beginning of panic and familiar, chaotic energy.

“Okay. Okay. That’s okay. Can you carry her?” Then he spots the needle still stuck in his forearm and revises it to, “Or help support her weight? Or were you hit in the head too?”

“I’m fine! A-okay.” But he guesses he’s not as convincing as he thought he was because other-him still turns to Silena instead. He’s about to ask her the same until his eyes land on her thigh wound.

“I can do it,” Silena says, flinching as she pulls the needle from her thigh. It bleeds profusely, a dark patch growing fast underneath her navy blue yoga pants. Silena pulls a rope from her belt, slaps a piece of rag over the wound, and ties over it. But it looks like it did nothing.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Silena reassures them, tucking the needle into a holster on her utility belt. She picks up two dirty travel backpacks off the ground and hands it to him.

“I can carry her and you just hold the bags,” Travis offers in her stead.

“No, no, you’re hurt. I can get—”

“Bianca?” Nico says, taking a hesitant step towards his dead sister, voice cracking in a way Travis never heard before, eyes desperate in a way Travis never seen before. “Are you… are you really Bian—”

“Later,” Other-him states, just as desperate. Like he knows what’s going on, like he understands. “You can ask later. But right now. Right now. Everybody needs to get moving.”

“But—”

“Later.”

“Neeks,” Bianca groans, attempting to pick her head up but it lolls to the side, and the whimper Nico made is something Travis could have lived without, “Travis said to do it. So let’s just do it. He knows best after all.”

“…okay.”

A whisper of a word. Barely audible. Nico steps back into the shadows without another peep. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth but now’s not the time to reconcile the siblings.

As Travis hefts Bianca onto his back with Silena’s help, blood dripping and staining his already ruined Camp shirt, he tries hard not to laugh at what Bianca said. Him? He knows best? Really? No way they’re the same person then. He’s a complete mess without Connor.

13 NICO **** flesh this out later

Bianca. Bianca. He’s sure that’s Bianca complete with the fond exasperated nickname. But she looks older. And her hair is shorter than he remembered. And she’s thinner now. A bit taller. More bones than muscles. And she doesn’t have any of that baby fat she had when she was still 12.

But that’s definitely his sister. His sister with her warm and soft smile.

Why?

How?

And Silena… Annabeth, the Annabeth that was trying to kill Travis. Two Annabeth … Two Travis…

Nico watches the weird Travis, the stabby and violent one. He talks fast, directs the trio around, pointing at empty shadows and telling them there’s a zombie there and here. He speaks clearly, confidently, encouragingly as he guides them to hop over a six foot gap to go from one room to another. (His Travis pauses and double-taked and panics and complains before relenting. Silena makes the long jump no problem. His Travis takes a running leap, jumps, barely clears the gap, and slips onto his back.) And again, down a ten foot caved-in floor (Travis complains even louder for that one before he gives in.) ****** flesh out or delete

Bianca had called this weirdo Travis too, but Nico disagreed. The guy is far too capable and competent to be the same person.

They made it to a room, their designated ‘safe’ zone though to Nico’s eyes it looks just like everything else. Dirty. Broken down. Ramshackled. A wall is even knocked out. Rain is pouring in. Half the room is unusable.

But Silena rushes them in and shuts the door, collapsing against it with a sigh of relief as the tension melts from her body.

“We survived,” Silena says, half a laugh, half a cry as Travis lowers Bianca to the floor. “We—we survived!”

Travis beams. “Yeah, we did! High five!”

“Shh. Not so loud. Starting treating the injuries,” Weird-Travis commands, bending to be eye level with Bianca with a grimace. “I think you need stitches this time, Bianca. Silena, if you don’t mind, could you do it?”

It’s not hard to understand when watching Weird-Travis flits across the room, hunching over Silena’s and Bianca’s wounds and offering advice. The way he’s brimming with worry. The way his hands fidget with each other. The way he talks and looks at them with this certain softness that he only ever seen him use for Connor.

He cares. He cares a lot for Silena and Bianca.

And as Nico watches the parallel version turn his attention to their own Travis, he could see the same worry in his eyes, could hear it in his voice, could see it in his movements.

Travis isn’t dangerous, Silena had told them. And Nico believes her now. If anything Travis just looks lost and scared.

“Silena, are you sure you don’t need stitches too? Annabeth may keep her needles clean but they’re not exactly sterile. Wait, Bianca, don’t get up by yourself. Do you need to throw up? No? How are you feeling then? Bianca? Bianca? … Do you think she’s concussed, guys?”

With the danger now gone and his mind could actually catch up and observe, Travis is noticing some really strange things. Like how Silena is holding a bracelet with Kronos’s trademark scythe on it as she carefully stitches Bianca’s wound close with supplies from a really bare medical box. Like how Bianca has a hair piece also with the symbol as she sits there quietly and motionless, staring intensely at Annabeth. How Nico looks extra pale and extra traumatized than usual standing far in the corner. How Annabeth can’t take her eyes off him with that same unnerving, calculating look as the one that just tried to kill him. How other-him isn’t as tall as he is. He’s actually a couple inches shorter than him, like how Connor is. How other-him talks sure and confident and … and…

Travis cocks his head to the side as he listens. He doesn’t really pay attention to how he talks normally, the words just come spilling out without much thought actually. But … but … the way other-him is talking…

Travis frowns. For some reason, it doesn’t sound like him. And when other-him turns his eyes to him, the off feeling intensifies. Instincts tell him that’s not him. Experience tells him something is wrong. A hunch tells him to not believe.

“We can’t leave that in there,” other-him says.

“Huh?”

Other him points and Travis looks down and remembers that mean—Annabeth did jam one of her needles in his arm. And now that he’s aware of it again, the dull pain comes back.

“Oh. Yeah. That. Uh, can I remove it when I get back home?” He hates how whiny he sounds. “Just pull out another one of those clover things like you did earlier.”

But Other-him shakes his head, grimacing for just a moment before he hides the pain. “I’m out. They disintegrated otherwise I would have hopped back to save you myself. Silena, Bianca, do you guys still have yours?”

Silena jumps at her name, nearly sticking the needle into Bianca. She cuts the thread and lays the needle down on a bloody gauze, fidgeting with the fraying end. “The clover? Oh. Um.” Silena reddens and looks away. “I... was hungry so… I ate it. I’m sorry.”

Bianca snaps her eyes away from Annabeth, brows creasing. “I don’t remember what happened to me. I probably gave it as a prize to Holly and Laurel.”

His heart clenches and he does his best to remain calm. But his voice may have given him away. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, d-does that mean I’m stuck here?!”

Other-him starts to shake his head again but thought better of it. “No. There’s more. We can get it tomorrow. But one thing at a time. Your arm—”

“Tomorrow? Why not now? I don’t want to make it sound like I hate it here, but I hate it here.”

“The sun is setting. It will get dark really fast. Less visibility. Zombies. Not a good combo. So let’s take care of your—”

Travis is getting desperate. “Ambrosia? Nectar? Some kind of numbing agent or something?”

Other-Travis grimaces. “We’re out. We’re also out of working hospitals too so getting an infection is potentially life-ending.”

Travis stares at him hard for a moment, searching for a fib, but he stares back without a blink, unreadable and unflinching. Annabeth’s no help, shaking her head. Nico isn't any help either, too busy staring at Bianca who’s too busy staring at Annabeth who’s too busy staring at him. Thanks guys. Thanks so much.

“Alright.” Travis looks away, chewing at his cheek. “Okay. Let’s do this then. I just need a moment to —”

The second Travis gives his permission, Silena leaps forward and yanks the needle out, clamping the gauze down in her ready hand with an iron grip. And holy fuck. It stings and burns and fuck. Tears well up but he refuses to let it spill over. He replaces Silena’s hand with his own, pushing harder, fingers digging into the uninjured part.

Far away, he can feel Silena rubbing his back, Bianca telling him to breathe through the pain, Nico reminding him the pain will fade soon, Annabeth asking if there for sure isn’t any ambrosia and really? None? Nothing at all? You guys have nothing?

The excruciating pain is in the forefront of his mind, encompassing and overwhelming. But distantly, he can hear another voice. Calmer, steady, familiar, blunt but in a comforting way. Grounding in a way that the others aren’t.

“Do you remember when you were seven and you just came to camp? You couldn’t sleep because everything was so different. A warm bed rather than a dirty alleyway. Crickets rather than engines. Near darkness, no headlights in sight. It was scary, wasn’t it? It was new and different and scary so you couldn’t sleep even though you trusted Chiron and Luke and Annabeth. C…Connor was asleep, finally sleeping soundly after so many restless nights, so you got up for a walk alone. Stupidly you went into the forest. Do you remember being lost for hours? Wandering around under the moon, underneath the tree’s shadows, even more scared than before because there’s no one there with you, tripping over the branches and then face planting into a tree, breaking your nose.

You almost cried from the pain, right? But you didn’t. You screamed and stomped your feet and rolled around in agony. But you picked yourself back up and got yourself out of the forest and into the infirmary. You ate an ambrosia square and then slunk back in the cabin just in time before everybody woke up, pretending you never went out. Annabeth kicked your ass during training and got really mad because she thought you threw on purpose. Luke almost had an aneurysm when you fell asleep on the climbing wall and lost your grip. This pain is just like that. It will pass. You can’t scream so just roll around. It will make you feel better.”

“What! H-How do you know any of that?” Travis squeaks out, face flushing in embarrassment. The pain now a dull ache if he doesn’t think too much about it. “I never told anyone! Did you have Clovis look through my memories? When was this? Clovis would never do this to me. You’re lying. None of that ever happened to me. Nuh-uh. Nah-dah. No.”

“It’s because I’m you,” other-him says, emotionless and straight faced and scarred and serious and. No. Liar. This guy is lying, his guts sing to him. He’s being lied to. “And you’re me.”

He doesn’t want to ask.

He wants to know.

He doesn't want to be right.

He has to confirm.

It’s fine to pretend things are okay.

Nothing’s okay.

Not everything needs to be said.

But this isn’t something he can just ignore. Not with Silena’s varelet. Not with Bianca’s hairpiece.

He blurts it out without coming to a decision.

“What makes us different then?”

Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Lie. Make something up. Anything but the truth.

Other him squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in. “The summer when I turned thirteen, Luke asked me to be his spy.”

“And you rejected and stayed loyal to the gods and your friends because there is nothing more important than your family — both immediate and extended?” he says, hopeful.

”No.” he looks away, shame and pain and hurt obvious on his face no matter how much he tries to hide it. “No. I didn’t. When Luke asked, I accepted.”

xxxx

“Oh.”

Is all Travis says.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Travis’s face tells him all he needs to know. [he’s melting down inside] The hurt. The betrayal. The fear.

And though he knows it’s not Connor, they share the same face and he can never find it in himself to hurt his brother. He says quickly, hurriedly, “It doesn’t matter now since the titan still lost the war and almost all of his power. He can’t do much other than a couple cheap tricks.” His head pangs and he flinches at the sudden pain. [don’t taunt him]

Bianca and Silena both rise to say something but he shoots them a look. Don’t. Not now, at least. Not in front of them. Silena backs down immediately but Bianca stares with defiance, nose flaring before she looks away too, arms crossing unhappily. At least she stopped staring at Annabeth.

Travis nods unsurely but his eyes go to the caved-in wall to the ruined cityscape. “If the Titans lost, then why is your world so… apocalyptic? What’s with the zombie? Why is everything dirty and broken? What’s with Silena and Bianca being alive again?” [What?] What? “What’s with this world Annabeth and Lou Ellen trying to kill me? And—and—and—” Travis starts wringing his hands and jumbling his words, eyes darting back and forth between the ground and him. “Where … where is this world Connor? Forget the other questions, just answer that one. Where is Connor?”

His throat tightens. Connor. He doesn’t want to talk about Connor. “I don’t want to talk about him,” he says without meaning to. [I can handle this if you want.]

“Why not?” Travis asks innocently.

He squeezes his neck, ignoring Nico’s disapproval, ignoring Annabeth’s silent, piercing stares, “I just don’t want to.”

“Why though?” Travis says, not backing down. “Did Connor do something here? Like, was he pissed that you betrayed camp for Luke? Because I would be pissed and I think Connor has every right to be mad at you. Are you guys enemies? Is he with Michael right now?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. It’s not relevant anymore,” he bites out. Images fill his mind. Of the Empire State Building. Of a blood-stained blade. Of screams for help. He digs his nails in the neck and the images disappear.

“I think that’s a good idea too,” Silena says, eyes flying between him and the others. “There’s probably other things more important right now.”

“What’s more important than Connor?” Travis says simply, matter of factly, without a hint of joke in his voice, dead serious, with eyes that demands him to match it.

“Nothing is more important,” he finds himself saying. This throat tightens. His vision blurs. Jumping off the building sounds more and more appealing. [no. don’t think that.]

A phantom hand holds his and squeezes and takes over, voice firm and sad all at the same time. “But Connor is dead. He's nothing but a shell of himself, just like Annabeth. He’s gone forever. Nothing you do will ever bring him back.”

“… what?” Travis’s blank face stares at him, not understanding, and he gets it. He couldn’t believe it when Connor died. For the longest time, he thought he dreamt it or hallucinated or it was a Connor look-a-like and the real Connor is somewhere out there, injured but alive, and — [He’s not coming back].

**** His chest hurts, like a punch to the heart. “Yeah. I know. But…”

Because even still… even still…

His fists clench and he stands with conviction, black dots floating in his peripheral that he ignores. “Nothing is more important than Connor. I get that. But Connor is dead. Has been dead for two years. The only thing that matters now, the only thing, is making sure no one else dies anymore. Silena, Bianca, Nico, Katie, Miranda, Clarisse, Percy, Michael. You. Me. Not a single one of us.”

“The only thing,” he repeats like a scratched record, stuck and never moving on.

xxxx

He’s not lying. He’s not lying this time. The entire time Other-Travis has been talking, his ‘they’re a big freaking liar’ senses have been blasting around in his gut. But when he said Connor is dead, it all shuts off.

He’s not lying.

Connor is dead.

Other-Travis is saying more stuff but it goes in one ear and out the other.

Connor is dead, this guy says. And all he could think about is how. When. Where. What happened? Is he like Annabeth and Lou Ellen in this world? Then where is dead-Connor now? Did someone killed him? Or was it an accident? What was he doing? How could he let it happen? What’s wrong with you? He’s your little brother. Why didn’t you protect him? What were you doing? How can you live with yourself?

He wanted to say all of that, to shout, to blame but it’s the haunted look in his doppelgänger’s face that makes him bite his tongue. This guy isn’t Connor but their faces are the same and he can’t bear seeing his brother in pain.

In what could not be a more awkward transition, he asks, “So, uh, New York. Kind of went through a major makeover, huh? I don’t think it looks too great though.” ******

Other-Him sags in relief, face grateful.

And even though his throat burns with the questions, his heart soothes a bit and the weight crushing Travis ever since he got here lifts just a little.

xxxx

He knew. He read his face and knew not to ask. Just like he knows all the questions running through other-him’s head because he thinks of it constantly himself. [you shouldn’t. It’s not your fault]

And even though the wall he made goes falling down and Perseus Jackson hacks his way in with Riptide with Will and Leo and Piper not far behind, even though Bianca finally stops her insistence staring at Annabeth and starts pointing her shovel at Perseus and begins yelling and summoning skeletons, even though Annabeth and Nico tries to cool the situation down, even though Silena begs him to do something, even though he knows he should. He needs to do something.

He can’t help but stares at Travis, not unhinged and deranged, more human than monster, and imagines his own brother in Travis’s place. That this weird, tiny flicker of warmth and safety he feels isn’t from his lookalike, but from his own brother.

He wonders, if he had died back then, just plunges the knife into his gut, he could have this moment of bliss with Connor instead.

15 BIANCA

Annabeth is dead. Connor is dead. Dad forsaken her. Nico no longer speaks to her. Clarisse hates her. Katie despises her. Michael can’t look at her. Miranda is terminally ill, clinging barely onto life out of sheer stubbornness that’s running out. Jason’s life is ruined because of her. Percy is basically dead. Lou Ellen is dead. Chris is dead. Will. Kayla. Austin. Dead, dead, dead. All she has left that's still alive is Silena and Travis.

They’re all she has in his cruel world she created.

They’re all she has in this empty world she made.

As soon as Percy bursts through the wall with Riptide in his hand and points it at Travis, fear makes Bianca raise her shovel at Percy. Without much thought from her, nearly a hundred skeletal warriors pop up from the ground. Not in her world surprisingly, but where Percy is. They refrain from sticking their spears and swords at the child of the sea at her discretion. Once he attacks, you guys are free to do so too, she asks of them.

There’s a pull on her control. Nico, she guesses. Stronger than what she’s used to, a lot stronger actually to her surprise, but still not enough for Nico to take over. Not even a fraction of her attention and she’s in command again.

“Touch him and I’ll tear you to shreds,” Bianca growls, ignoring how her hands shake (from exhaustion, not fear. She’s not scared), how her head pangs and throbs (from Annabeth slamming her hand into the wall, not reluctance. She will attack if she has too), how she hasn’t cleaned her shovel yet. ****

Bianca expected Percy to just ignore her like he always does. She didn’t expect Percy to glance at her and lower his weapon, his eyes becoming haunted, a look that’s all too familiar.

“Bianca?” he whispers, like he's seeing a ghost and she wonders what their history is in that world.

Behind Percy, three more people come tumbling in. Will. Piper. Leo. All alive too and it’s unfair. It’s so unfair. Just the mere sight of Leo and Piper sends Bianca’s vision red and hazy with anger. Why is everyone alive over there? Why can’t they have that? What’s so different? She refuses to believe Travis is the sole reason why things are different. There has to be something else.

“Percy, wait. Things changed,” Annabeth says, getting in between them. Then Annabeth looks at her, no familiarity in her gray eyes, no warmth either. Only just the barest of recognition. “That means you too. Put away the skeletons.”

“Cap Riptide and I’ll consider it,” is all she says when more are bursting at her tongue.

Annabeth. Bianca clenches her shovel tighter. Annabeth. Annabeth. Annabeth is alive. And she’s looking at her with this look like she’s a stranger. That hurts. That hurts more than Bianca thinks it should.

“But Bianca. Bianca is,” Percy stutters, then his eyes drift to Silena and they widen further. “Silena too! Silena is—” his eyes go to Travis, the weird Travis, the normal Travis, the Travis that existed before she fucked his life up, that Travis.

“Percy! Hey! You would not believe the day I had. It’s totally crazy. Also, never get Annabeth mad to the point of being homicidal because she is terrifying,” weird-Travis beams and Bianca forgot how bright Travis used to be. And how Travis used to be friendly with Percy. It’s… strange to consider when it shouldn’t be. It hurts to think about. Another part of Travis’s life that she ruined.

“You… there’s… two of you,” Percy says dumbfounded, eyes going between both Travises.

Connor comes barrelling in, okay and whole, and Bianca can’t remember to breathe.

“Connor!” a delighted voice chirps as one looks away.

More people file in. Lou Ellen. Miranda. Sherman. More people peeking behind the wall. Clovis. Holly. Laurel. She recognizes each and everyone even without the cut throats and missing eyes and detached arms. The sight alone makes the hand choking her heart squeeze tighter and tighter. It’s cruel how unfair this all is. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. Anything to make this pressure in her chest go away.

But it’s the stares she gets from Will, from Leo and Piper, from everybody over there, the confused glances between her and Nico. The contemplative looks on their collective faces. Their whispers. The pieces all come together.

“Dude, that girl looks like Nico.”

“Is… Is she controlling those skeletons?”

“Who is she?”

“She doesn’t look familiar.”

“I don’t know her. Pssst, Percy, do you know her?”

It all clicks together then.

She’s dead there.

She’s dead over there. So nobody knows who she is.

She’s dead over there. Everybody is still alive.

She’s dead and Connor is alive, Travis is happy.

She’s dead and there’s no zombies.

She’s dead and there’s no apocalypse.

She’s dead and the world continues.

Piper was right. If she had died back then. If she just let herself be killed. If she just offed herself sooner. If she wasn’t so scared. If she wasn't so selfish. If she hadn’t believed Jason and Travis and Silena. If she hadn’t wanted to live. Then all of them, all of this would have—

“No.”

The word cuts through her hazy thoughts immediately and she turns to find Travis, no longer lost to his thoughts but staring at her.

“Oh. Hey. Welcome back,” she tries to be cheerful because showing anything but happiness will make Travis worry and she caused enough pain to last 12 lifetimes. It never worked though. Travis will forever worry. Travis just shakes his head and she sees desperation and the hurt that’s always in his eyes.

“Bianca,” he says, desperation tinged in his voice.

It's then she sees her warriors, weapons no longer pointed at Percy but at her. More are at her heels, right in front of her, pointed edges inches from her. Silena is shaking her shoulders and pleading with her. She hadn't even noticed. With a wave of her hand, the skeletons leave to go back underground.

“Whoops, my bad,” Bianca mutters, hunching and scratching the back of her head. Not that it soothed anything. Travis and Silena are still worried. As bad as it sounds, Bianca can ignore their reactions. It’s inevitable. Something she just got used to seeing day after day. Just a constant stream of disappointment from her.

What she’s not used to seeing is Nico. In the corner of the room, far and hidden in the shadows, is her little baby brother Nico. Nico who’s staring at her like she’s not even his sister, like she’s a complete stranger, like she’s just committed a grave crime, like she’s a monster, like she’s inhuman even though they share the same blood.

Nico stares at her with what could only be disgust and loathing just like that day when she fucked up the world.******edit later.

#pjo #my fic #my writing #wip #kronos au #you know...#leaving all these fix later messages for future me is going to really screw me over #oh well #that's a problem for her #not me #and the more I reread what I wrote years ago #the more I realize my tastes have changed greatly lol #Should I just scrap this and start fresh?#like some parts I like and some parts I was like oh. was I sleep deprived or something when I wrote it?#idk #but anyway thanks for reading!

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shadowfoxsilver · 1 year ago

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Secrets untold of light and dark (Part two)

(Part one)

“And there she is…”

How long had he been searching for her? It had to have been decades by now at least. And yet, when going to find where his crystal had went, he had seen a silver figure sitting on a distant tree branch with bright yellow wings folded on their back. It had to be her! She had survived after all! He had seen her brother when attacking him long ago, but hadn’t seen her around and assumed she was gone. But there she was…Sitting on a branch. He promised he’d return once getting his crystal back. It wasn’t too hard of a task, really. Before long the rampaging dragon was knocked out and an oversized feline had the nerve to say it was their crystal. That didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting back to her. His sister.

He emerged from a rift just above a nearby branch and perched on it with his talons. He balanced himself as much as he could manage and folded his wings tightly out of sight. Oh if only he still had his arm wings…He could have showed them off! But he only has sparse feathers now and that wasn’t too exciting to brag about. Chaotic swallowed nervously as his tail twitched in anticipation. Would she still recognize him even without his wings? Did she still know who he was? He shook his head, then chirped loudly.

SFS heard the chirp, twitched her good ear a little, and then turned slightly to see what bird had called for her. But instead of a bird, she saw a vaguely familiar stranger perched there instead with their ears lowered a little and waving a hand at her. She stared a little, trying to recall just who this was. Her memory wasn’t really all that good after getting brought back to life. Old memories often were just a foggy recollection that made it difficult to remember anyone she had last seen ages ago. But this stranger…Just felt so familiar. But why?

Chaotic must have noticed her blank stare, because he looked startled and felt himself panic a little. Why wasn’t she greeting him? Surely she still remembered him…Right? He spent so long trying to find her. Countless years traveling the cosmos and universe for the only sibling that had survived and grown up just like him. Granted, she was still much younger than him and had changed since they’d last been in one place. And here they were again. Together again. Reunited. But why was his sister not greeting him? Shouldn’t she be happy to meet him again? She was so young when took away but had seen him numerous times. Surely she still knew him…She had to.

“…..Come on. Surely you still know me?” Chaotic spoke up as he held his hands together, mismatched eyes focusing onto SFS intently. He had one red eye and one green eye. It was something that made him easily recognizable aside from his colors. “You used to live somewhere else. We both did. It was our home and supposed to be the safest place…Until the intruder came and kidnapped you.” He grumbled softly in annoyance.

“I…” SFS began to speak as she shifted to stand on the her own branch, turning around to face the stranger fully to get a better look at them noting the mismatched eye color. “…Can’t really answer that question.” She finished with a deep sigh. “You look faintly familiar..But. I can’t really figure out why. Sorry.” She added with a lighthearted shrug and lowering her wings slightly.

Chaotic felt his heart break. She…She didn’t remember him. After all he did to find her. She just stared at him. Not even knowing who he is. He fidgeted his claws a little, tail flicking a bit as his eye twitched a smidge before he regained his composure quickly and opened his small wings enough for them to be visible and raised a brow at his sister as if to ask her if she knew now.

SFS tilted her head in thought, opening her own wings fully. Chaotic flinched and closed his wings tightly again.

“………..” SFS narrowed her eyes as she closed her wings and lifted her head back upright as she crossed her arms. “…..You called me a weakling when I was younger, didn’t you.” She said rather bluntly to Chaotic, finally remembering something at least but not quite what he was expecting.

“Wh- I mean- Listen!” Chaotic stammered back in response. “That isn’t important.” He waved away the words quickly.

“You also said I was small and sickly.” SFS added, eyes still narrowed. “But I also know what your name is. Chaotic.” She sounded rather cold now.

“I didn’t know, ok? But look at you now!” Chaotic replied, trying his best to look very happy. “You aren’t small and sickly anymore. You are healthy! And I’m back now. I’ve been trying to find you.” He added, tail wagging a little. “It’s been so long since I saw you. So very long…” He sighed with a small smile.

“My brother wouldn’t like seeing you here. So you should leave.” SFS hissed back, but opened her eyes at least. She had noticed Darkness was already inching his way down from the higher levels of the tree the instant he had heard the chirp.

“Your brother? Who’s that?” Chaotic asked, then spotted a dark form land beside SFS and hold out their arm in front of her as if to signal their arrival and for her to stand back.

“Darkness.” SFS beamed.

“She’s my sister.” Darkness growled as well.

“Pfft…Your sister?” Chaotic chortled, a sinister smile crossing his face as he hopped off the branch and floated over to them both. “You know nothing about her, she’s……” He trailed a little and Darkness interrupted.

“I know enough to know you are a problem.” Darkness sneered.

“I’m not the problem, annoying pest.” Chaotic hissed back. “The problem is you stole my sister, and now that I’ve found her again I’ve been itching to test my powers out….And I think you’ll do quite nicely for that plan. Maybe I’ll even tell you the secrets you don’t even know about what me and her really are.” He explained as his markings began glowing once more. “After all, I’ve not had a decent fight in many long years.” The fanged smile added to his ominous appearance. “And our last encounter didn’t end as well as I wanted it to.” Chaotic mused.

Darkness didn’t seem too frightened and instead just nudged SFS higher up the tree and opened his dark wings afterwards.

“Then let’s dance.” Darkness flexed his claws and shook off as a dark aura began to wisp around him.

“Of course. Let us.” Chaotic flexed his talons as electricity crackled from his tail.

And so it began.

#Story arc: Secrets untold of light and dark #my art #my ocs #sfs the hedgefox thing #chaotic the chaos thing #long post is long

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24-05txt · 2 years ago

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Got tagged in a writing train on Twitter so I thought I'd share the snippets here, too! First two are already posted and are just my favorite parts, the last two are teasers of projects I'm VERY excited to share. Links and snippets under the readmore 🌟

Figure Study

Ghost asks Soap to draw him like one of his French girls, in not so many words. Things devolve from there.

John slides his sketchbook onto the desk, then slowly—so slowly—leans down, puts his elbows to his knees, and runs his fingers across his scalp.

Deep breath in… Slow breath out.

When he can lift his head again, Ghost is still asleep in the same position he was before, as if he didn’t just make John the victim of the biggest display of trust since a cat showed a human their soft underbelly.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, and glares at the man in front of him. Ghost doesn’t so much as twitch under the scrutiny. John considers waking him up again, and this time he gets as far as standing and taking a single step over to the bedside before he hesitates. He keeps fucking realizing how much bare skin is on display, and the revelation attacks from a different angle every time, always catching him off balance. Ghost’s head is level with John’s abdomen and he wants to know what Ghost’s jaw would feel like pressed against his palm. He wants to know quite desperately actually, and after a moment John realizes that he’s not only staring, but that his hand has lifted up to Ghost’s shoulder, coming up to cradle his face like it’s already made the decision to do so without Johnny’s conscious input.

He holds himself still for a breath, thinking hard. Then, gently, he cups Ghost’s jaw in his palm. Stubble tickles his fingertips like a greeting and all the thoughts he has swirling around fall silent.

His mind is blank; the room seems that much quieter for it.

Then Ghost sucks in a slow breath, shoulders rising. His eyes crack open for a moment, then fall shut. They open again when he turns his face into John’s palm, brows furrowing slightly like he’s confused. John’s heart thuds, blood running cold, but he can’t bring himself to move.

“Johnny…” Ghost's voice is low, thick with sleep. His lips brush against the skin of John’s inner wrist. John can’t move, can barely think, but manages something he hopes resembles a smile.

“Mornin’ sleepin’ beauty. How’s yer nap?”

“Mm…” Ghost blinks once, twice, closes his eyes and sways dangerously forward, leaning into John’s hand. He can’t help but brush his thumb up the bridge of Ghost’s nose. Blonde lashes flutter in response. His heart thuds again. “Goin’ back to sleep.

“If yer gonna take an afternoon nap in my bed like an old man, at least put some pants on, hell’s bells,” he chides, mouth running of its own accord. (It’s for the best, really. Otherwise, he might just spend all day making Ghost’s lashes flutter with a finger on the bridge of his nose.)

Ghost hums philosophically and tries to press his entire weight into Johnny’s palm—he really does seem intent on sleeping that way. John’s heart is in his throat now, throbbing painfully; he feels like he’s just run a mile, like he should be out of breath and gasping but he’s just standing in front of his Lieutenant, cradling his face in his hand, like an idiot.

To Lie Down With Dogs - Ch.1

Soap finds a stray dog on base. Obviously, he investigates.

He’s woken up from some night-terror or another, (he won’t bother himself with recounting the details when he knows it’ll only make his shoulder ache and his chest tighten in panic) and even thought the sky is still closer to black than blue, he decides to take himself out for a walk. It usually helps to get some fresh air, remind himself of where he is and where he most certainly is not. Finding a conversation partner also helps, but it’s both too early and too late for that.

He gets one foot through the door before he spots movement out of the corner of his eye and nearly has a heart attack. For a moment, there’s a man crouched in the shadows bracketing the light spilling from the door. Waiting for him, mere meters away. Before he can do much more than pull his knife, it steps close enough to take shape.

A dog, not a man. Big enough that it has to be the same one he saw not too long ago. Its head is lowered warily, tail limp, but it doesn’t bark or growl or try to bear down on him any. Its eyes are reflecting the light, glowing a flat, sickly green, and the whole thing is fucking creepy. He can’t stop staring. (He wonders a bit if he’s still dreaming.) After a tense moment, he remembers reading somewhere that making eye-contact with dogs isn’t a great idea—canine-speak for ‘wanna have a go, mate?’—so he turns his head just a little, watching the dog from his periphery, trying to calm his pounding heart. (Dream or not, Soap doesn’t want to get bit.)

If it were so inclined, this would be a good time for it to try and take Soap down. There aren’t many other people awake, he’s out on his own, and he’s just as good as turned his back to it. Great going, Sergeant MacTavish. Ghost would have his fucking head.

The dog just looks up at him for a moment, standing less than a meter away. It doesn’t even blink.

Then it shakes its head, pointed ears flapping, and trots away. It passes in front of him—close enough to reach out and touch, like he and his knife aren’t a concern in the slightest.

Soap half-thinks to follow after it to find out where it came from, and is graced by the mental image of his forearm caught between those wicked jaws, gleaming eyes flashing red. He thinks better of it, and lets the stray wander off into the dark.

HAUNTINGS I: Architectural

WIP I want to talk about so so so much. Very self indulgent. Summary from my notes:

Soap is assigned to a safehouse in Mexico while assisting Mexican Special Forces with investigating a Cartel's movements. During the events of Las Almas he returns to the safehouse to seek the assistance of the residing ghost who tried to warn him of Shepard's betrayal.

He doesn't fall asleep so much as he passes out on that cellar floor. Dragging himself to the upstairs bathroom once he's awake is possibly one of the hardest things he's ever done, least of all because he still can not compel himself to leave the skull on the floor where it lay. He sets it on the toilet seat while he tends to his hands, tediously pulling each splinter, cutting out the one firmly embedded in the heel of his palm. Afterward he very nearly bathes in antiseptic solution, would drink it if he thought it could do him any good.

Then he steps into the shower, turns the knob as hot as it can go, and scrubs himself raw. He spends the rest of the hot water sat on the floor of the tub, knees pulled to his chest, making eye-contact with the man sitting on the lid of the toilet.

As the water starts to run cold and the grimy, itchy sensation finally recedes, he takes a breath to speak.

"How did you know Shepard would betray us?"

"He killed me." The ghost that used to haunt this house has scars that turn one half of its mouth into a tooth-bearing grimace, and the other into a gruesome smirk. It's a natural blond, with pale lashes that frame dark eyes and shaggy hair slightly too long to be in regulation with the drab tac-gear it's wearing. It could have been handsome, under different circumstances.

"What'd you do?" Soap asks. He doesn't have the energy to gentle his voice and the question comes out harsh, accusatory. The ghost frowns.

"Loaded question…" it mumbles, which is so patently ridiculous that Soap's humor cycles right back around to rage.

"Oh, aye? Is it? Cannae imagine." For all that it's still raining outside and the water is still running, Soap's tone is dry as the desert. The ghost's frown turns into a scowl.

"No, you can't," it says sternly, anger quickly overtaking the calm it had been presenting before. "You didn't get buried alive under a foot of fucking concrete—"

"You didnae have yer heid minced by a bloody poltergeist for a week straight, get shot by some two-faced slimy bawbag, nearly drown in sewer water and trek for two fecking hours just to shove your hands in a stranger's emaciated corpse on the off-chance of getting some help!" His voice strains at the end of his sentence, out of breath and fuming, but he's not done yet. "There's nobody! Ah have nobody on my side right now—Graves took the base, Rudy and Alejandro could be dead, Price is halfway 'cross an ocean and fucking Shepard is behind it all—that schemin', stinkin'—" his words become garbled, choke him, and his eyes sting even under the spray.

Lost and Found - Ch.?

Zombie AU, also SUUPER self-indulgent. First chapter is posted, but here's the current summary:

Running into a lost kid in post-outbreak Colorado makes a scouting mission infinitely more complex for our favorite duo.

“Well, I'm just going to check your vitals real quick, alright?” the nurse has shuffled closer while he was distracted, and is reaching one hand toward his wrist. He can't really be bothered to protest, so he just grunts and lets them take his pulse.

They do a few more things with his arm, but he struggles to pay much attention as the painkiller starts to drag him under again. He doesn't know when they leave, but he knows they're no longer prodding at him when Soap pushes through the curtain.

“Hey there, Ghost.”

It's a struggle to try and fight away the haze enough to force his eyes open and his face toward Soap, but his efforts are well-rewarded by a clear view of the other man's stupid lopsided grin.

“They got you good, aye?” Soap lifts a hand to his face, and Ghost cannot for the life of himself stop his eyes from fluttering closed as Soap slides a finger down the bridge of his nose. When he finally gets his eyes open again, Johnny’s smile has widened to a blinding grin. “Like a wee bab right now, you are. Off yer fuckin’ head.”

Johnny's thumb traces the shape of his cheekbone and the words go in one ear and out the other; he can hardly be expected to focus on both things at once under these fucking conditions.

Sudden laughter sparks something sharp and warm in his chest, and he fights his eyes open again to realize his face is securely cradled in the palm of Johnny's hand.

“Och, I'm sorry. Gowan, back to sleep with ye. I'll leave you be.”

Every cell in Ghost's body must be acting in tandem for him to react as quickly as he does, grabbing Johnny's wrist before he can get more than a step away from the cot he's laid in. He yelps, maybe; Ghost is more concerned about the look he's given as Johnny turns back toward him. Something about the expression makes his chest clench.

That's all! If you care to ask any questions or want to know more feel free to ask I love to chat about my AUs and shit lmfao.

#cod:mwii #fic.txt #ghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soap #fanfic #cod fanfic #cod fandom #wips #wip weekend #cod angst #cod au #hurt/comfort #wolf at the door au #existance after death au #figure study #lost and found

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 7 months ago

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okayyyyy!!! bad week politically but it's chapter five! and Tash is my uwu babygirl forever.

The following morning Tash Taylor woke up in a strange bed and promptly had a panic attack.

The time and place were terrible, as these things went, but Tash had figured out a while ago that there was really no such thing as a convenient moment to completely fall apart. Her heart was beating so hard that it felt like her chest was going to cave in, breath was coming in strained and strangled gasps, and her consciousness was shrinking rapidly away from her body. God, this was fucking mortifying.

Focus. Focus. She’d found things that helped, hadn’t she? She’d done all the research she could, trying to figure out how you put your brain back together when you would probably never be able to see a real doctor again in your life. Why had she never bothered to check out the free therapy on campus? She might have learned something, anything, that would help her now.

Think, Tash.

Breathe. Long breath in, hold that until it hurts, let it out slow. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Not all of the breaths work, sometimes it hitches and leaves her sputtering, paralyzed body jerking and twitching. Christ, she’s so cold. No, she can do this. One breath after the other. Tie everything to that, pull her mind back into her body even though it feels like an awful, shambolic place to be, like standing in a house getting ripped apart in an earthquake. Hold it together.

The five senses. That’s something, right? You’re supposed to check in, pay attention to things around you and focus on that so that your brain has something to do other than circle the drain. She can do that. All she has to do is open her eyes. Now. Now. Okay, now.

No. Not yet. Too overwhelming, too much unknown. Start smaller. What about smell?

She buries her face deep in the pillow and inhales deeply, surprised when she’s greeted by a vanilla-ish scent that’s not unpleasant. It’s a little too sweet, reminiscent of the glittery body spray every girl used in middle school. But there are worse things to smell like than a store in the mall where shoddy ear piercings get done.

The pillowcase is nice, too, and Tash rubs it between her fingers. That feels like silk, unless she’s very much mistaken, and so do the sheets. Her hair is already a disaster, badly damaged and sorely in need of a trip to the salon that’s probably never going to come, but it’s nice to imagine that at least she won’t regret sleeping with it unwrapped last night.

Okay. Okay. That’s two senses. What else is there? Taste?

No, that’s a mistake. The only thing to taste right now is the inside of her own mouth and that’s a bad place to be. That one’s always seemed like a mistake to her, anyway, really relying on the assumption that you happened to have something edible on hand when you started freaking out. Or maybe the point is to get you really tasting the back of your own teeth, catching a whiff of your last meal so you can ground yourself in how gross that is. It does seem to be working.

Tash rubs a little circle in the sheet, presses her face harder into the pillowcase. Her heart is slowing down, if nothing else. She thought she understood anxiety once, might have even blithely said she’d had a panic attack or two, but it turns out that all she ever had was a case of the social jitters. Oh, baby Tash, you get stressed out sometimes? You can’t handle a room full of strangers without a buddy to cling to or a drink in your hand? That’s cute. Wait until you find out what it’s like to have your own heart trying to kill you, beating so hard that it aches in your sternum. What then?

No. No, that’s not helping. Deep breath, deep breath. What can she hear, over the sound of her own mutinous body?

Movement. Not in this room, probably, but not so far away. And the sounds are right out of a commercial trying to sell you something breakfasty, somebody bustling around opening up rattling drawers and moving tinkling dishes. Fleetwood Mac is playing and whoever’s cooking is singing along with an incredible lack of self-consciousness considering that they are no Stevie Nicks. Something sizzles, and the smell of a greasy breakfast hits Tash with enough force to make her mouth water. She’s flirted with going vegetarian and even vegan in the past, opposed as is she to factory farming and the way cows fart out greenhouse gasses en masse and all that, but in this exact moment she’ll take the meat no questions asked. There’s a cold pit in her belly that doesn’t exactly hurt but never feels good; Tash can’t remember the last time she didn’t feel a little hungry.

She’s calming down now, which is crazy because Tash is pretty sure she knows where she is and it’s not somewhere she wanted to be. Later she’s going to have a meeting with her self-loathing that’s not going to go well for her, but for the time being at least she can be functional. The state of immediate crisis has passed.

Tash sat up, slow and achy, her body sore in ways that she’d forgotten. She’d slept pressed close to a wall, not far from a window whose blinds were hanging askew. She looked away sharply from that, before she could get any ideas; the last thing she needed was to suddenly be standing out on the sidewalk in her underwear. It had come to her attention that she wasn’t wearing much of anything, just her own boy shorts and a T-shirt that she could have been swaddled in. Upon closer inspection it bore a shitty cartoon of Ricochet and the words SUPERHERO APPRECIATION DAY, which made Tash want to hurl.

The rest of the room wasn’t much better on that front. This was a drag queen’s boudoir smashed together with a nerd convention; tucked among the sequins and stacks of magazines and an actual dress form there were countless action figures, plushies, art prints, and stickers depicting a whole host of costumed creeps that Tash didn’t know. But the ones that she did recognize were there over and over: Ricochet and Sub-Zero and Frostbite herself, rendered in every medium imaginable. It was ghoulish, to be sure, but it also brought Tash’s racing mind to a clunky, graceless stop through the power of sheer disgust.

“Jesus Christ,” she said out loud. “What is wrong with you?”

Which was when Frostbite, as if waiting for her cue, announced herself from the doorway.

“Hey! You’re awake!”

***

Tash flinched when Jessie spoke, which was fair because she had been drinking like a dog the night before and was probably hungover to hell and back, but she also jerked her head hard to stare down into her own blanket-covered lap, as if she was afraid that Jessie might be indecent. Which actually wasn’t an unreasonable concern either, on second glance.

“Whoa there, no worries,” Jessie said, hovering in the doorway of her own bedroom. “I just thought you might want some water and aspirin before breakfast. I didn’t know what you like, so there’s some of everything. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, coffee. I even chopped up some fruit. And I could make you some toast or a bagel, if you want.”

Tash was ignoring her, instead looking with suspicion at the glass of water and the pills Jessie had left on the nightstand.

“What? It’s just knock-off brand painkillers, it’s safe,” Jessie said. “I think I have ibuprofen too if you prefer that, and it’s only a little expired.”

“Why would I trust fucking anything you give me?” Tash asked, rough-voiced. “I take this and then what, you sell me to S.C.R.U. or the next highest bidder?”

“Jesus Christ, you think I work for the government? Seriously?” Jessie shoved down the urge to be annoyed by that. Now that Tash was sobered up and hungover she was evidently skittish all over again, which was an irritating step back but not insurmountable. “Babe, listen, you can take it or leave it. If I wanted to bag you up and raffle you off, I wouldn’t have waited for you to wake up. I’d just chloroform you while you were sleeping, you know? Work smarter, not harder.”

Which Tash looked disgusted by, but she evidently agreed with the logic since she shrugged and downed both aspirins with the entire glass of water anyway.

“Atta girl,” Jessie said. “Bathroom’s over here, if you need it. And your yoga pants are on the vanity, if you want ‘em. No worries if not, though. We encourage nudity here.”

But nudity wasn’t on the docket anymore. Tash returned from the bathroom dressed in last night’s squashed clothes, hiding in the protective hugeness of her sweatshirt as she skulked into the kitchen. Jessie was getting everything plated up at the small, rickety table by then, happy to present the heaps of food she’d made for both of them. Thank god she had bothered to get groceries yesterday; this would have been mortifying if she hadn’t had anything to offer but her freezer burned breakfast burritos.

“Jesus Christ,” Tash said, looking over the spread. “Did you invite more people over?”

“Nope. I just like to cook, and I haven’t had an excuse to go all out in a while. Grab as much as you want.”

Tash sank into her seat slowly, moving so gingerly you’d think she expected the chair to blow up, then stared at the food like she didn’t remember how to feed herself.

“Coffee?” Jessie asked brightly. “Orange juice?”

“Orange juice,” Tash mumbled. She blinked hard, keeping her eyes shut too long, then opened them and seemed more calm. “And coffee, black. Did we have sex last night?”

“What? No.” Jessie passed her the juice, which she’d gone to the trouble of squeezing herself because boredom and horniness were a powerful combination. “I mean, almost. You were really going for it. Didn’t quite shake out, though.”

“Jesus Christ.” Tash buried her face in her hands, shaking her head in slow despair.

“We didn’t actually get anywhere,” Jessie said. “If that helps at all. You got a little nervous.”

That was putting it mildly. By the time they had walked back to Jessie’s—not a short walk, mind you, made longer by the two of them getting into a couple fights on the way—Jessie was pretty well sobered up and feeling fine aside from a mild headache. She’d more or less abandoned the idea that anything sexy was going to happen between them; this was going to be a purely professional situation in which two colleagues shared a bed out of deeply unsensual necessity.

Then they’d hit the apartment and Tash, who’d been drinking like the world was ending and was very much still feeling it, had pounced with an astonishing lack of subtlety or ambiguity. One moment Jessie was fighting for her life trying to fumble her earrings out, the next Tash was kissing her furiously on the mouth. Jessie’s initial reaction to that was, admittedly, horror rather than excitement, because she’d thrown up in the gutter on the way home and god only knew what was happening in her mouth by that point. But on the other hand, Tash had held her hair back for her while she yarfed, which was the sweetest thing anyone who wasn’t Jonas had ever done for her. The feeling of Tash’s hands in her hair had been shockingly intimate, and those same hands cradling her face had her heart hammering.

She mumbled something embarrassing into Tash’s mouth, something like “Aren’t you tired?” but Tash had shoved that question aside rather forcefully with her tongue. Evidently she was as awake as she needed to be, tugging Jessie down into bed.

That lasted for all of a couple minutes, and that was a generous estimate. The point being that Tash very suddenly went still under Jessie, limp and unresponsive as a dead fish and squeezing her eyes shut tight while her breathing got all jerky.

Jessie had rolled away immediately. “Hey. Hey hey hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m,” Tash said, and then took a long, shaky wet breath that very much indicated that the rest of that sentence ought to be not okay even a little bit jesus christ. What she actually said was, “I’m fine. I just need a second.”

She was curling up towards the wall, holding her own head tightly in her hands. There was not much about this that suggested she was going to be fine in a second, or any time soon.

“It’s okay,” Jessie said quietly. “It’s fine, no rush. Maybe we just call it a night, okay? Do you want some water or anything?”

Tash whimpered. “No. I’m, no, I’m fine. I just think this was a mistake. Sorry. I’m really sorry, this is stupid. I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

“No,” Jessie said, too quickly, and then backpedaled, not wanting to scare her. “I mean, you shouldn’t do that. My couch is bad, and you said you’re already fucking up your back sleeping in your cousin’s living room, right? You take the bed, you’re a guest. I can sleep in the living room for one night.”

“That’s stupid,” Tash said weakly. Any trace of the confidence she’d rediscovered through the night was gone; she was curled in on herself whimpering and absolutely wretched now. “Just let me go, alright? I’m sorry, I fucked up.”

“Shut the fuck up. Sorry, but Jesus. You’re allowed to change your mind or whatever, okay? I’m not mad about it. Just hunker down and try to get some sleep.”

Jessie rearranged herself, smoothing out her pajamas and wiggling herself under the comforter. Tash was laying with her face towards the wall, her back to Jessie. Her side was rising and falling in a way that suggested she was breathing hard, trembling silently. Jessie wanted badly to reach out and touch her, give her a totally sexless squeeze of reassurance, but she worried that would make Tash jump out of her skin right now. She wrapped her arms around her own body instead, holding herself back.

She said, quietly, “I didn’t invite you over because I wanted you to fuck me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t scheming or whatever. I just thought this would be fun. So actually I should be sorry, I guess.”

There was a silence so long that she thought Tash had decided to completely ignore her, or had mercifully fallen asleep.

Then her voice, quiet and croaky: “Can I ask you something stupid?”

“It’s probably not stupid, but sure.”

“Will you leave that light on?” Tash asked, meaning the small lamp with the sequined lampshade that sat on Jessie’s bedside table. “I can’t sleep when it’s too dark. Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry. I’ve got a little sleep mask anyway, okay? It’s fine.” Jessie pulled on the mask, powder blue silk snug on her face with Princess spelled out in rhinestones. It had been a joke once, a thing that she bought because as a child she’d thought it was the most luxurious thing to have a little mask that you put on just to protect your delicate eyes while you slept. And then it turned out it was actually perfectly comfortable, and now it would let her keep the light on for Tash, which was evidently important even if Tash wasn’t going to tell her why. So it was fine, everything was working out. Like they were meant to be together.

She’d crawled out of bed earlier than she would under any other circumstances, more motivated to be awake than she had been in weeks. Ordinarily she’d beeline to the bathroom, pee, and then fling herself back beneath the covers for another hour or six. Today she was so overjoyed to find that Tash hadn’t sprinted away in the middle of the night that she immediately got to work on providing a stronger incentive to stay.

It was too much, right? All of the food, and and going so far as to leave her water and painkillers. What did Jessie think she was, some kind of 50s housewife? A little domestic debutante? Fat chance. But the whole morning while she’d been bustling around the kitchen she’d been thinking about how glad she was that Tash was sleeping in, getting the rest she so obviously needed. Jessie felt soft! Squishy and soft and it was weird, but she’d moved so far beyond wanting Tash to be her one night stand or even her partner in crime. Jessie wanted to wrap Tash up in a blanket and feed her a home-cooked meal, which was an abstract level of horniness that she hadn’t previously known existed.

Well, one out of two wasn’t bad. Tash was tight-lipped but staying, had popped a few blueberries in her mouth and nodded to herself when it turned they really hadn’t been laced with arsenic.

“Thanks,” she said. “For all this, and for being cool last night.”

“What, for not committing fucking date rape? Yeah, no problem. Low bar.” Jessie shook herself, startled all over again at just how low her reputation had sunk. She nodded to the food, because she knew she at least had to get some credit for making a damn nice breakfast spread. “Eat up already, will you? You look like a skeleton.”

Which Tash didn’t argue with, possibly because she had no actual rebuttal. She ate with a voracious efficiency, taking some of everything and chewing through it with a stoic focus that was, frankly, a little hot. When she’d finished everything on her plate she loaded up immediately on seconds and got to work eating with the exact same force, pausing only for alternating sips of juice and coffee. Any attempt at smalltalk by Jessie was rebuffed, not harshly but with a determinedly full mouth that prevented any responses more involved than grunts of affirmation or disapproval.

Near the end of her second serving Tash started slowing down, finally reduced to toying around with her fork on her syrup-smeared plate. She cleared her throat, awkward. “Well, it’s been real. Let’s never do this again.”

“I can give you a ride,” Jessie said immediately. “Maudie and the girls dropped my brother’s van off this morning while we were both asleep. And you said your cousin’s place is practically out in the ‘burbs, right? It’ll be way faster than taking the bus.”

Tash’s left eye was twitching, very slightly. “I told you where my cousin’s house is?”

“Not, like, the address, but you know. Approximate. You said it’s a pain in the ass getting to work, that’s the main thing. Do you seriously not remember?”

That was evidently the wrong thing to say, because it sent Tash’s lip curling up in response. “No, jackass. I’m a fucking alcoholic, okay? I don’t just do a couple drinks and then have a silly night, I binge drink until I black out and try to fuck people I don’t like. No offense.”

“None taken,” Jessie said, but it was one of the less convincing lies she’d tell that morning.

Tash groaned and turned her face downward, avoiding Jessie’s eyes. “No, that was a dick thing to say. It’s not that I don’t—I mean, no. I don’t, okay? I’m not into you like that. Last night was stupid, I shouldn’t have done it. And I shouldn’t have done the other time, either. But you’re not… you’re way cooler than I thought you were. I don’t respect the whole costumed domestic terrorist thing, but you’re not, like, you know. Somebody could do worse than you.”

“Stop, I’m blushing.”

“This is so stupid,” Tash said, in such a way that all of her frustration was obviously aimed inwards. “I mean that you’re fine, okay? You’re fine and I don’t hate you and I’m not mad at you because we almost hooked up, I’m mad at me for getting drunk and spiraling when I cannot fucking afford to do that. Okay? It’s not you and I’m sorry for acting like it was.”

“So last night, when you told me that I ruined your life…?”

Tash rolled her eyes, hard, at this interruption of her devastatingly sincere apology. “Yeah, okay, that was also a shithead move. I ruined my own life. Happy?”

“Well, I don’t think that’s true,” Jessie said. Externally, she was casually spearing a strawberry on a fork to give it a nibble, totally at ease. Internally, she was poised on the edge of a tall, tall building getting ready to take a leap. To extend that metaphor, she was hoping to sprout wings on the way down, but there was an admittedly enormous chance that she would simply splatter on the sidewalk or get shot in the head instead. The move she was about to make was risky, and there would be absolutely no going back once she started, and if she was wrong then she was going to look like a huge asshole and Tash was probably never going to speak to her again.

And in the best case scenario, where she was right, she was also going to look like a huge asshole and, come to think of it, Tash might still never want to speak to her ever again. But she had to take the chance. She took a breath, toppled the first domino.

“It’s not really your fault, right? It’s Mothwoman.”

It was instantaneous: Tash, wide-eyed and bloodless, her little hands balled up into tight fists, staring at Jessie like a kicked dog winding up to bite. She hadn’t been at ease before, exactly, but she’d been relaxed enough, probably as calm as she ever got these days. God, it hurt to do that to her. Jessie inhaled through her nose, forcing her expression to stay extremely neutral.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tash demanded. “I don’t care how drunk I got, I know I didn’t tell you anything about the Moth.”

Jessie resisted the urge to roll out that old cliche, pointing out that someone had turned guesswork into certainty by the force of their own reaction. She was, admittedly, trying to break Tash a little bit, but falling back on cliches was a level of pettiness that felt excessive even to her. Restraining herself was a sign of respect for Tash, one villain to another.

Instead she was going to, respectfully, tear Tash’s entire life apart.

“Listen,” Jessie said, her voice sliding ever so slightly towards the icy tones of Frostbite so as to convey that she was done playing. “I know what people think about me, but I’m not dumb. And I’m kind of obsessed with you, so when you talk I fucking listen. And even when you don’t, I’m paying attention. Alright? And here’s what I’ve got: you’re supposed to be back in Crown City going to grad school, not tending bar in a shithole like Polly’s, especially if you really do want to be done with the whole crime thing. And sidebar about that real quick: there’s no way. You were good. You were brilliant. And you goddamn loved doing it. I know you did, no matter what you say about it now. You don’t just walk away from a career like that unless something catastrophic happens to you.”

“It wasn’t a career,” Tash said. She was rigid now, voice a hoarse whisper. Once again her gaze was directed forcibly down, eyes locked on her own bruised knuckles. “I was running around playing dress-up like an idiot pretending that I was accomplishing something impressive, making any kind of real difference by stealing from people I didn’t like. You don’t know anything about it.”

“Wrong. I know exactly what it’s like. The rush when you realize that you can get away with anything, as long as you’re too cool to fuck with? That feeling when you always knew the world was a little bullshit and then it turns out, yeah, you were right? The walls are all just fucking cardboard and the rules are made of tissue paper and you can knock it all over like that if you want to, as long as you have the right attitude. How do you ever go back to being a normal person after that? You don’t. You can’t, unless you don’t have any other options. And how do you lose all your options?”

It was a good thing that rhetorical questions didn’t need answers, because there certainly wouldn’t be one forthcoming from Tash. She’d turned into a furious statue, shaking ever so slightly as her indignation boiled up inside of her. God, Jessie was a monster. She swallowed down hard on the guilt rising in her gorge, reminding herself that this would be best for both of them. She just needed to be able to make her case first.

“You get made,” she said, to Tash and her rapt imaginary audience. “Somebody figured out who you were under the cute little balaclava, so you had to run. Obviously it wasn’t the CCPD; they couldn’t catch you if their moms’ lives depended on it. Gotta be the Moth, right? She’s fast enough, that’s for damn sure. And if she caught your scent, that explains why you dropped out of school and decided to hide out somewhere like Rustbelt. You needed to be around other rogues, right? Seems counterintuitive, if you’re trying to lay low, but everyone knows that good bad guys don’t snitch. So you get to be safe hiding out with Maud, getting paid under the table and knowing that nobody’s going to call the cops even if they figure out who you are.”

Jessie paused here for dramatic effect, something she had learned with years of experience. People needed a moment to plead dramatically and shit themselves while they tried to convince you that they were wrong and you’d made up the whole thing, as if their overwrought reactions weren’t already confirming exactly what you’d said. Sometimes they’d try for defiant, crying or making a speech before ultimately admitting that you were right and they should do whatever the fuck you wanted.

It should have occurred to Jessie that Tash would be nothing like those goons.

Sure, she was visibly having a terrible time. But she was also furious, and that was radiating off of her as she dragged her gaze up from the floor and straight to Jessie’s core, which she glared through with withering disdain. “Okay, BBC Sherlock. You got me. What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

Jessie sipped her coffee to let the silence linger a little longer. Here was the thing: she was nearly half a foot taller than Tash and significantly heavier, and none of that would mean anything if it came to a fight. She’d seen Tash make mincemeat of Voltzz with no skin in the game; imagine what she’d do to Jessie if Jessie became a sufficient enough threat. Kind of hot as a hypothetical, but probably best to avoid making it a reality.

She put on her most inoffensive smile and hoped she wasn’t visibly sweating. “I want to offer you a job.”

“Declined and go fuck yourself,” Tash said immediately. “Thanks for breakfast, have a terrible day.”

Fuck, she was heading for the door. Jessie rushed after her, heart racing.

“Wait wait wait! Listen to me for three seconds, okay? You need money, right? You’re sleeping on a couch, you’re ruining your back! You’re picking up extra shifts at the worst bar in the world! That fucking sucks, you’re better than that! We both know you’re better than this!”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“So work with me! I can protect you!”

“What?”

Got her.

“Ricochet can’t touch me. How do you think me and Sub-Zero get away with everything? We’re good, but nobody’s that good. If we didn’t have something on her, we’d have gotten thrown in the can by now like every other freak of the week.”

Tash considered that. “Honestly? I heard it was because your brother’s hooking up with her.”

“What? No! Ew! What? Why? Who told you that? I want names, I’m going to ice their tongues out. Jesus. He would never, he respects himself too much to even think about it. God. Never say that to me again. Ugh.” Jessie scrubbed at her eyes, like she could wipe that image clean out of her brain. She knew that there was a fandom for that, of course, but she avoided the corners of the internet where it flourished and blocked it out so thoroughly that it had been practically eradicated from her life. Christ. She shook her head, trying to refocus. “What was I even saying? Look, we have dirt on her. Jonas figured out her secret identity years ago, not because he was fucking her, and we’ve had an arrangement ever since.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Jessie flashed her a wide, shit-eating grin, letting the cool facade finally slip a little. “She can’t ever take us in for good, or we’ll tell everyone who she is. She can try to stop us, sure, whatever, fair play; it would look bad if she never went after us at all. It’s like a game, right? Keepaway. She’s allowed to fuck with us, she can try to catch us and take back what we stole, that’s all in good fun. I mean, she hates it, but what’s she gonna do? We could ruin her entire life.”

There was Tash’s eye twitching again. “You have all that sway over her and you bargained with it? You should be having her transfer money straight into your fucking bank account! Why do you bother going through with all of this?”

“Because she’s flat fucking broke, for one. And this is more fun.” Jessie shrugged like it didn’t bother her, but the question didn’t hit quite right. Why did they do it that way? Even if Ric didn’t have a lot of cash herself, N.E.X.T. obviously did. It seemed like something Jonas should have thought of. But she kept up the smile for Tash, easy breezy. Her doubts were for her, not for other people to see. “But the most important thing is that she keeps this city locked down, alright? The director of N.E.X.T. gets really territorial about other heroes coming to Rustbelt, she doesn’t stand for that shit. Ricochet kicked Arrowhead’s ass all the way down Main Street last year when he started snooping around without her permission, it was crazy.”

“Who the fuck is Arrowhead?”

“Jesus Christ, how do you not know any of this? He’s that hotshot archery guy from out in Condor Cove, you must know him. The one with the sidekick who went off the rails and killed like three of their rogues, it was a whole thing.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Tash asked. “That thing you just said about people getting murdered, like it was a completely normal thing to say? That’s why I don’t want anything to do with this anymore. It’s not a fucking game!”

“Well, I’m not playing. I take it dead serious,” Jessie assured her. She’d had her little fangirl moment but she had to calm down, center herself again. Make the case. “But so does Ricochet, and she respects our agreement. She has for years. She’s not going to go back on it now, okay? I’m untouchable, so what do you think happens if you’re part of my crew?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Tash took a deep breath, rocking back on her heels as she weighed her options. “If I say yes, I’m not working for you, okay?”

“Oh, hell no. I’d never ask you to. It’ll be just like me and Sub-Zero, splitting everything 50/50. Partners.”

“And where is Sub-Zero in all of this?”

“Expanding our operation outside of the city. Why do you think I need some fresh blood around the joint?”

Tash squinted at that, like she smelled the bullshit and knew it. But that wasn’t her problem, was it? And she was too smart to ask questions that she didn’t want the answer to.

“Whatever. I don’t care, as long as he’s not around and you don’t think you’re my boss. Even split from all our jobs, I’m not wearing a costume, and I leave as soon as I have what I need.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“I’m in debt. Like, unbelievable amounts of debt. I want to pay all of that off, clean my slate, and then go somewhere the people have never even heard of Night Noir. And then I’m going to disappear forever.”

“Sounds good to me, babe,” said Jessie, who thought that sounded fucking horrible, actually. She had, like, one fourth of a friend and even that friend was already trying to make plans to vanish off the face of the earth and never see her again. But it sounded like Tash was going to need a lot of money, right? That meant that Jessie would have time. All she needed to do was make sure that it was enough time to convince Tash to stay. She had a way of growing on people like mildew; she could make it work. She gave Tash another smile that was wide and benevolent, definitely not the face of a woman who was panicking, and held out her hand. “Shake on it?”

“Pass,” Tash said immediately. “But count me in, or whatever. As long as you can keep me safe, I’m there.”

Jessie said something, some vaguely cool bullshit like “Let’s go down to business” or maybe “Welcome aboard” if she was feeling a little piratical, but ultimately that part didn’t really matter. She was running on autopilot now, unable to even enjoy her success. The important thing was that she was lying through her teeth, and she knew that could only last for so long before she got caught. She was going to have to figure out Ricochet’s secret identity the hard way, and she was going to have to do it fucking fast.

But how hard could it be, right? Jonas had done it, and Jessie was pretty sure she was at least five times as desperate as Jonas had ever been in his life. That had to count for something.

more of jessie lying wetly

chapter one

chapter two

cool art by @hamandeggbun

and brand new shiny chapter three. on god I am not allowed to post another one until I finish writing chapter ten.

The interior decor of One-Eyed Polly’s had changed precious little since the last time Jessie saw it, although the floors were a little more scratched up and the felt on the pool table had acquired some upsetting new stains. The only thing that had changed was the enormous NO SMOKING sign on the back wall, right where everyone could see it.

The second she stepped inside of the bar the universe conspired to give her the entrance of a stranger blowing into town in an old Western, with the jukebox pausing between songs and conversation hitting a lull just as she stepped on a creaky floorboard, drawing all eyes to herself. She flashed an ice cold Frostbite smile, tossed her hair, and wished desperately that she’d worn her costume. It would make her look like a total douchebag, sure, but it would also remind everyone she was dangerous.

Jessie strode back to the bar like it was a catwalk anyway, but the whispers and mutters that followed her were not promising.

“Still owes me twenty dollars.”

“Did I tell you she blocked me?”

“I thought she got arrested.”

“What did Sub-Zero say?”

Okay. Okay. Not awesome, but it was fine. They could say anything they wanted about her, but how many of these washouts and wannabes would actually try anything? None of them. They didn’t know that she was unarmed and floundering without her brother. She hadn’t worn her costume because she didn’t need to; her reputation was still strong enough to protect her. Not to mention she wanted all of these dweebs to see her wearing jeans that cost more than their mortgage payments and choke on the jealousy.

Maudie was behind the bar, grayer and butcher than ever. Her face was lined now, enough that it gave Jessie pause. Was her godmother getting old now? When did that happen?

Not that Maud was letting it soften her up at all. She raised a bushy brow at Jessie by way of greeting and launched right into putting her through the wringer. “Well, well. Look at that. A real-deal supervillain graces us with her presence. Thank you for deigning to descend from the gravy train, your highness.”

“Aww, Maudie, come on. Don’t be like that, it’s my birthday.”

“As if I don’t know. Did you get your card?”

“Did you send one?”

Maud rolled her eyes, hard. “Of course I sent one. What kind of schmuck do you take me for?”

Of course she wouldn’t know; Jessie hadn’t checked her mailbox in at least a week.

She realized, with despair, that there were tears crowding up around the edges of her eyes, little pinpricks begging to be let loose. When had she gotten so sappy? She wasn’t even most excited about the crisp fifty dollar bill that Maudie always tucked inside of her cards, although that was a relief. It was mostly that someone had even remembered she existed and wanted to do something nice for her that was really turning her into goo.

“Well, I appreciate it,” she said, choking down her onslaught of emotions. Maudie would hate her making a scene like that; she never knew what to do when people cried. “But, hey, I’m not here to talk about me. How are you doing? Are you feeling alright?”

“The hell do you mean, do I feel alright?”

“Well, you always said that you’d only make people stop smoking in here over your dead body. And now nobody’s smoking, so I figure you must have gotten real close to having a dead body.”

Maudie snorted. “We had a scare last year. Doctor thought he had something, turned out not to be serious. But you know how the dames are. Next thing I know, nobody’s allowed to smoke in here and I’m getting yelled at if I don’t eat vegetables and go for a fuckin’ walking every morning.”

She shook her head, fondly exasperated. The dames were the two iron-tongued femmes Maudie had been in a relationship with for decades, largely considered to be the real masterminds behind One-Eyed Polly’s. According to Maudie, they only kept her around to look pretty and serve the drinks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jessie demanded. “We could have helped with the bills, or I could have brought over soup. Something.”

“I didn’t want to bother you, kid. Your brother made it pretty clear that you were busy.” And then, before Jessie could apologize or otherwise risk making things sentimental, Maudie cleared her throat sharply. “You want a drink, or what? First round’s free for the birthday girl.”

“Yeah? Let’s do a straight whiskey and a burger,” Jessie said, knowing damn well that she’d be drinking nothing but dirt cheap beer for the rest of the night. “Do the fries still come with that, or is it extra?”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when I charge people extra for a side of fries. That shit comes with the burger,” Maud said gravely.

There were a lot of things that could stand to be improved about One-Eyed Polly’s, but the food was not one of them. So what if the fry cook telepathically talked with rats? He could work a grill. The basket that arrived in front of Jessie contained a beautifully constructed medium rare burger packing the exact correct amount of grease, surrounded by steak fries that had been seasoned to absolute perfection. Pardon Jessie while she drooled a little bit.

“Hey, Maudie,” she said, half a burger later. “You still have Joney’s van?”

Her godmother raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch, which for Maud was an expression of profound skepticism. “I’d love to know how the hell you think I could’ve lost it.”

“No no, that’s not what I meant. I just wanted to see if I could grab it from you.”

“Can’t get your car back from Voltzz, huh?”

“Hmm?” Jessie asked, playing dumb.

“Do not try the bimbo act on me, Jessica Jolene. You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

“God. How did you even hear about that?”

“Are you kidding? I hear about everything in here. We had a bunch of schlubs in here doing shots at noon because they thought Ricochet dragged you off for good.”

“Okay, tacky.” Jessie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly feeling extremely dry despite an abundance of gloss. “Maudie, can I ask you a question? It seems like I’m maybe, um, not very popular around here.”

Maud stared her down with eyes like chisels. “That’s not a question.”

“You know what I mean!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, kiddo. They hate your guts.”

“Maudie!”

Jessie’s complaining was cut short by a sweaty, nervous-looking man appearing from the kitchen and hurrying to Maudie’s side. He shot Jessie a look that could really only be described as distrustful, then leaned in close to deliver his message to Maud. She shrugged him away almost before he finished speaking, peeved by his damp proximity.

“So get her shift covered. Why do you need my permission for that? Call Billy. Or, hell, see if Tash can make it in. She’s always dying for extra shifts. Tell Jordan I’ll come sort her out in a minute and then get your ass back out here to cover the bar. The dishes can wait.”

Maudie sighed and turned back to Jessie as her dishwasher departed, shaking her head. She suddenly looked about a hundred years old. “Kid, I miss the days when the worst I had to deal with was bartenders coming in drunk.”

“What happened?”

“One of my girls, Jordan. She’s got that fucking, what do they call it? Void pox? She kept going see-through when she came in but she swore she’d be fine. Except she’s not fine, she started getting these little cartoon demons popping out of her head. Pretty harmless, only about this big, but if I never have to kill another one with a broom it’ll be too soon. Anyway, I had her sitting down in the back, but now she’s starting to make things levitate and I can’t have that. I need to find her a ride home.”

“Could I come see her?” Jessie asked with, in hindsight, way too much enthusiasm.

Her godmother hit her with a look that was genuinely withering. “You can keep your ass right here and be nice to Nikesh while he tends the bar. And you can leave Jordan alone. It’s a 24-hour bug, she’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“I know that!”

“So drop it, then! For once in your life, don’t get so pushy about this superhero shit.”

Maud ducked back into the kitchen on that deeply unencouraging note, sending poor Nikesh back out to hold down the bar in her stead. He studiously avoided Jessie’s gaze when she asked him how his night was going, spitting out single syllable answers until she gave up and asked for a hard cider, which he provided without once actually turning his face in her direction. Jessie dropped a five in the tip jar anyway, because she believed very firmly that you were supposed to tip generously unless the waiter had purposefully set you on fire and maybe even then. Running through the last of your money in the entire world was no excuse to be a lousy customer.

The problem being, of course, that she had hoped this would be a case of spending money to make money. She’d shell out a little for a night at One-Eyed Polly’s, reestablish herself as a villain of the people, and announce that she was hiring to thunderous applause. Henchpeople out the door, heaps of cash secured, the money that she’d pissed away on bottom shelf booze now a worthwhile investment.

Unfortunately, all of that had depended on there being someone, anyone, left in town who didn’t hate her guts.

“Hey, Nikesh? Do you like working here?”

“It’s a living,” he said, still looking down.

“If I offered to pay you, like, five times what you’re making right now, would you work for me?”

“Fuck no.”

“Ten times?”

He actually looked at her for a fleeting second, his gaze touching off hers for just a moment. Jessie was vomitously aware that there was something that looked a lot like pity in his face. “Look, lady. It’s not about the money. It’s about not wanting to get my ass kicked.”

“Jesus Christ. Am I really that bad for business?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Is that why you won’t even look at me?”

“Yeah. You understand. Can’t look like we’re getting friendly.”

“Respect. You gotta look out for number one, Nikesh. I can throw a drink on you, if you want.”

“Yeah? That might be good, actually. We could make people think I said something really nasty to you. That could actually be great for my rep.”

Jessie groaned, resting her face in her hands. This was going to be an absolute non-starter. Polly’s was the biggest rat-hole in town; everyone knew that this was a place where people would turn a blind eye to almost anything. Everyone put aside their beef here, because the place would never function if they didn’t and no one wanted to be the asshole who ruined the only functioning villain bar in town. If a bartender was too scared to even look at her directly, Jessie’s reputation must be worse than dirt.

Why? Because of last night’s embarrassing little tantrum? Couldn’t be it. Nobody complained about the time Voltzz snorted bath salts and went on a rampage, or when Incinerator got drunk and started taking potshots at cop cars. Hell, if anything they’d both gotten more popular after that. Jonas might sneer at the lack of precision and control, but Jessie had tried to tell him a thousand times that people liked to see a supervillain go a little off the rails. It was aspirational, right? It let people imagine what they might do, if they had the power to really cut loose.

Why was she different? Sure, people hated to see a woman having fun, but that couldn’t possibly explain all of it. Maudie could probably explain it, whenever she finished mopping up the poor sap with the void pox. Maudie heard about everything.

In the meantime, she might as well try to make the most of her evening. If she wasn’t going to be making new friends, she could at least have a little fun. Who cared about her bank account? If she was screwed, she might as well go out with a splash.

“Nikesh? Open me up a tab. It’s my birthday and I want shots.”

***

Jessie Chilton was not a lightweight. Despite spending most of her early life watching her father get eaten alive by booze she had an exceedingly friendly relationship with alcohol, and could usually hold her drinks pretty well. Jonas had never touched the stuff, erring hard on the side of caution, but Jessie knew that she could stop any time she wanted.

Her miserable 26th birthday was not that time. That night she drank like the world was going to end, because it very possibly was. Her world, at least, and what else was she supposed to worry about? She knew damn well the scope of what she could be held responsible for, and presently it was mostly downing as much tequila as she could.

Which meant she ended up in the bathroom, eventually, because all of that liquid had to go somewhere, and in the time-honored tradition of wasted girls everywhere she got weird about it. While Jessie sat in the cramped and questionably-lit stall she started thinking about how she’d very nearly been born in this very room and what a miserably inauspicious start that was, and how perhaps she should have known that her life was always doomed to go down the toilet despite a decade or so of delusionally believing that she might be meant for something better. She wished that she had some friends to cry to, and briefly regretted the loss of Whirligig. Getting sloppy drunk and crying in club bathrooms together had been about the only thing that friendship was good for, but sometimes that was all she needed it to be.

In the absence of anywhere else to turn Jessie called the person who had almost always been there for her, until he spectacularly wasn’t.

Hey, Joney. It’s your favorite sister. And I know what you’re thinking: ‘Jessie, you’re my only sister, why are you doing exposition like a lunatic?’ Well, it’s because you haven’t been acting like I’m your favorite sister lately, or like you even know me, so I figured maybe you needed the reminder.

Did you even notice it’s my birthday? You’ve never forgotten it in my entire life. But you know who remembered? Uncle Ray. And Maud. And that’s fucking it. And Ricochet was soooOOOOOOoooo mean to me this morning. Like, you wouldn’t believe. She’s getting way too cocky, if you ask me. You should come back and kick her ass into orbit. Remind her who’s boss around here.

You should come back in general, actually. I miss you. But I’m also mad at you. It’s, like, a real dick move to take off and not even leave me with any money. I mean, I had money. Past-tense. But it’s gone now. I could have, like, I could have definitely spent it better. Smarter? I got these really stupid expensive boots with real crystals on them and then when I tried to return them they said I couldn’t because there was a scuff on the toe, which is like… whatever. I’m wearing them right now even though they’re way too fancy for Polly’s. Might as well get my money’s worth.

But I also just don’t have anything. Like, where’s the bank account? Where is the bank account, Jonas? I earned half that money, so why can’t I… I mean, you literally never told me how to get into it. To my money. Which I guess in hindsight was, like, I should have had a problem with that way sooner, but you made it sound extremely reasonable! And now I’m this close to Uncle Ray throwing me out on my ass, because I couldn’t pay the May rent and I can’t pay the June rent, either, at the rate things are going. I opened a tab at Polly’s and I don’t have enough to pay it, so now Maudie’s going to be mad at me, I think. I don’t know, I’m not even actually sure how a tab works. Isn't that stupid? I'm, like, so mad at myself lately got how much stuff I don't know.

Everybody’s mad at me.

And you won’t even call me back, and I can’t even afford toilet paper, so that’s, like, a lot. And I’m not handling it well. And I’m drank as a skank at Polly’s, in case you couldn’t tell, so go ahead and get your panties twisted up about that. I’m fucking spiraling, buddy. I’m in my fucking up era out here.

So. You should come home.

Or at least tell me where you are or what you’re doing or why you left, okay? Because I hate no knowing that. We’re supposed to tell each other things. And I’m scared about what’s going to happen if you’re gone much longer because, like, everything is going wrong. And I think you might have really left me screwed here, okay? Which is crazy, because it was supposed to be you and me against the world, but I’m not fucking seeing it right now.

By this point Jessie was crying and snotting pretty hard, absorbed enough in her own agonies that she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone in the bathroom until someone rapped lightly on the door of her stall and almost scared her shitless.

“Hey. You okay in there?”

It was not the voice of someone particularly warm and fuzzy or confident about checking in on a stranger, which actually made it a little sweeter that they’d bothered.

“I’m fine,” Jessie lied, wetly. “I’m just, like, I’m on the phone.”

“Yeah, I can hear that.” Whoever they were, they were sorely tempted to leave it at that and go back to minding their own business. Jessie could tell. Outside the stall, a pair of tennis shoes that had been worn damn near to dust rocked back and forth, weighing the options. “I just wanted to say that they’re not worth it. Whoever’s making you feel this bad, you shouldn't waste your time on them.”

“Okay,” Jessie said. And then, into the message she was still leaving for her brother: “I have to go, a nice girl in this bathroom says you’re not worth it. Please call me, love you, bye.”

“Great,” the stranger said dryly. “Crushed it.” Their beaten-in shoes scuffed away, back over to the sinks. Had Jessie missed an entire other person pissing next to her? God, that was embarrassing.

She wadded up some genuinely horrific single ply toilet paper and dabbed at her face, hoping she didn’t look too atrocious. All of her makeup was waterproof, which had to count for something. “Hey, thank you for that. I really needed someone to snap me out of it. I was being so pathetic.”

“Whatever,” said the voice by the sinks. “Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve been there, I get it.”

Jessie’s heart was getting squeezed around like one of those awful tubes full of goo and glitter and little plastic animals, the kind that everyone used to make jerk off motions. Who was this? Would they still be so nice to her if they knew who she was? What were the odds she could salvage a single actual friend out of this wretched garbage fire of a day? It didn’t even have to be a lifelong bestie, just someone she could have a few drinks with.

“My name is Jessie,” she said hesitantly.

She heard her new friend sigh. “I’m Tash.”

“Do you come here often? I’m not asking that in the pervert way, I’m just curious if you’re, like, a regular.”

“I work here,” Tash said, with as much contempt as anyone had ever had for their workplace.

“Oh. Do you like it?”

“Sucks shit. But, you know. You do what you’ve got to do.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Are you okay in there? I’m gonna get my ass reamed if I let somebody drown in the toilet.”

“No, I’m okay. I’m just, you know.” Which was a fucking nothing explanation, but Jessie’s voice was still damp and wavering enough that it presumably got the point across. “I need a moment to get it together.”

“I hear that,” Tash said. “I usually use the walk-in when I need a second.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s not very big, but it’s quiet. And the cold kind of helps pull me together, I guess. Stay focused.” She cleared her throat again. “Sorry to dump that on you.”

“No, that’s okay. It makes sense,” said Jessie, noted cold enjoyer. “Do you keep anything fun in there? Maud’s never let me see it.”

“You know Maud?”

“Yeah, since I was a kid. Isn’t she the best?”

“She’s a real son of a bitch. But she's the only boss I’ve ever believed when she says she gives a shit about me, though.”

“Sounds like Maudie,” Jessie agreed fondly. “Anyway, what’s in the walk-in?”

“Fucking nothing exciting. Burger patties, mostly. I don’t know. Like I said, not a lot of room.”

“Plenty of room for you.”

“Yeah, every time I have a total breakdown at work.”

“Does that happen a lot? No judgment, obviously. Pot .”

“I don’t know.” Tash sighed. “More often than you’d hope. Which is never, obviously. We don’t have to talk about this.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What?”

“Your favorite color,” Jessie insisted. “I love asking people that. Nobody ever cares after you turn, like, twelve, right? But I care. And it’s a lot more chill than talking about, you know. Our favorite places to completely freak out in a shithole bar.”

“Okay. Sure,” Tash said. Everything about the strain in her voice suggested she was not naturally inclined towards whimsy, but at least she was making the effort to play along. “Will you assume I have clinical depression if I say gray?”

“Yes.”

“Well, joke’s on me, because I love gray and I do have clinical depression. But purple is also good. I like purple.”

“What shade? Eggplant? Periwinkle?”

“Just a nice, medium purple, I guess. Like, the platonic ideal of purple.”

Jessie had no idea what a platonic ideal was or why anyone would ever need to specify that they weren't trying to have sex with a color, but she was sitting on her stupid little toilet nodding like an idiot anyway because it felt so good to be making a connection with someone. “I dig that. Purple is good.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, cerulean for sure. With sparkles, ideally.”

“That’s blue, right?”

“Yeah. My jacket is actually, like, that exact color, I can show you.” Jessie sniffled tremendously, getting shakily to her feet and pleased to discover that she was feeling much more sober than when she’d wandered into the bathroom some time ago. And now look at her! Practically having a whole meet cute. What a turn around on the evening. “Okay, I’m coming out now. Don’t gag if my makeup’s a mess, I’m going to fix it.”

She tossed her hair and stepped out of the stall, at which point several things happened to her in rapid succession.

Tash was standing underneath one of the humming, flickering lights that barely managed to illuminate the dark cave of the ladies’ room. She struck a slim figure, drowning in a huge hoodie with two skinny black-clad legs sticking out like a cartoon character. She was wiping down the sinks but turned as Jessie emerged, the fuzzy light illuminating her from the back like a bargain bin halo.

The first thing Jessie noticed was that Tash was a lot shorter than she had been expecting.

The second was that Tash had beautiful eyes.

The third was that those beautiful eyes and indeed her entire face were curdling up in horror as recognition set in.

“What the fuck,” she said. “Frostbite?”

The recognition and reaction alone weren’t surprising, given the colossal combined levels of notoriety and bad PR Jessie was currently enjoying. The part that nearly knocked her on her ass was that recognized Tash back.

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed, overjoyed and utterly failing to read the room. “Night Noir? Holy shit, girlie, I thought you were dead!”

#jessie lies wetly

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avastrasposts · 2 years ago

Text

The Pilot and his girl - ch. 12

I don't have much to say about this chapter except I hope you enjoy it! We're moving further into the TLoU world and exploring it with the guys from Triple Frontier and our reader. Word count: 6.6 k

Warnings have their own post and they contain spoilers

Chapter 13

Start from the beginning: The Pilot and his girl

You count the hours, the minutes even, throughout the day. You pack and repack your own backpack, trying to squash any thoughts about leaving without Frankie.

From the window in your living room you see less and less people. You hear helicopters in the air and your heart clenches, thinking about Frankie, what if he managed to get to a helicopter? He’s on your mind every second, every sound from inside the building makes you jump and twitch, hoping to hear him stick his keys in the lock and open the door.

A few hours after Pope leaves, someone bangs on your door, it makes you jump up from the couch and grab the gun he left you with.

“Hey, anyone in there?” You recognize the voice of your neighbor from across the hall, a middle aged man who sometimes chatted to Frankie about the army, he’d served too. You think his name is Barry. He’s nice enough and doesn’t seem dangerous but you heed Pope’s warning and stay quiet.

“Frankie, if you’re in there, I’m getting some of the people in the building together and heading out of the city. Someone heard on an amateur radio receiver that they’re going to evacuate the city and then fucking bomb it. You’d better shift yourself and your girlfriend before that happens.”

You hear the man shuffle for a bit outside the door, banging on it again, before his steps retreat down the stairs.

They’re not possibly gonna bomb the city, are they? Why would they?

You carefully go to the window and look down onto the street, trying to not be seen. After a few minutes you see a handful of people exit your building, you recognize several of your neighbors as they head down the street. All seems quiet until suddenly, just before they disappear out of view, three people run from an alley, at the group. Through the closed window you only hear a distant wail but you see all too clearly how the group breaks up as the three running people attack violently. You sink to your knees, only your eyes peering over the windowsill, as you watch in terror as the three strangers tear into two of your neighbors. The rest of the group runs flat out and disappears behind a corner, and before long, they’re followed by the three attackers too.

You sink down against the wall under the window, breathing hard. Panic is rising in your chest as your nails dig into your palms.

Please, please, Frankie, come home, I need you to come home, I need you, please, Frankie.

You close your eyes and picture his face in front of you, his dark, unruly curls under that damn near permanent cap, his warm, brown eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners when he smiles and the dimple you always want to fit your thumb into, his scruffy beard, the patches that never want to fill in. You let the image of him fill your brain as you slowly breathe in and out, willing yourself to calm down, to control the panic.

Nothing is going to get better if you panic, just breathe.

You stay there, sitting on the floor under the window, until your legs go numb and you move to the kitchen. You have no appetite but you make yourself eat a couple of sandwiches. Anything non-perishable has been packed into your hiking backpack, Frankie’s is also full of necessities for staying at the cabin for a while.

You don’t want to stop to think about what you’d do with his backpack if he doesn’t come back. Part of you isn’t sure you’d leave if Frankie doesn’t, despite what you’d promised Pope. Maybe you’d just stay here until something else happened, maybe they would bomb the city, maybe you could just die here. The very thought of going on without Frankie is too hard to phantom, you can’t see past waiting here until he comes home.

You sink down on the couch, not bothering to wash the dishes. Pope had filled up your bathtub with water but told you to only use it for drinking. He had assumed the water would be cut off the same way electricity had and he was right, you hadn’t had running water for a few hours now.

It’s morbidly funny when you think about it; yesterday afternoon you’d been doing dishes, doing laundry, cooked some food, watched tv, like nothing was amiss. Now you were on the couch, a gun in your waistband, no water, no electricity, no phone, your neighbors’ dead in the street and society seemed to be crumbling around you. It took less than twenty-four hours for your world to collapse.

At some point in the evening you almost doze off, the adrenaline’s wearing off and your body refuses to stay awake. With the last bit of energy you push the couch out from the wall a little and lie down with a pillow, hiding behind it. You figure, if someone breaks in while you’re sleeping, they won’t see you at a glance.

…

The loud crack from the door startles you awake, as you blink, trying to orient yourself, you hear heavy boots on the floor, several pairs. You freeze in place behind the couch, quietly turning your head so that you can peer underneath it. Two pairs of black combat boots walk into the living room, one pair peels off to the kitchen.

“Clear in here,” the voice of a man, “check the rest of the place.”

“Yes, sir,” comes the reply and you hear footsteps head off down the hallway towards your bedroom. You can hear doors opening, the closets wrenched open. As you listen you wonder if you should make yourself known, maybe they are evacuating people, but something makes you stay quiet. If Frankie had been here you might’ve gone with them, but not without him.

The two men retreat from your apartment, shutting the now broken door, and you hear them move up a flight of stairs. You remain hidden, listening to the sounds of your apartment building. The soldiers are moving around upstairs, at one point you hear the sharp snap of a gun being fired, and then nothing. Eventually you hear several people move down the staircase outside your apartment and downwards, your building goes silent. Carefully you stand up from behind the couch and cross to the window that looks down onto the street. The sun is just coming up, fires are still burning in the distance, creating a haze over the city. You can see armed military men standing around a school bus, and as you watch, a few people from your building are ushered onto it. The doors close and the bus drives away.

You go back to the couch, go over yours and Frankie’s backpacks again and then check the time. It’s almost eight am, Sunday morning now. If you’re going to go to the cabin, you need to make a decision soon. You pace back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, you can’t make up your mind, stay or go? If you stay, you might die, your door is broken, hanging off the hinges and it won’t be safe to sleep here tonight. Or they might actually bomb the city and you die anyway.

If you go, if by some miracle, you manage to get onto the dirt bike and get to the cabin, will you ever see Frankie again? If that’s the case…you touch upon the dark thought that’s been at the back of your mind for hours now, it burns when you glance over it.

What if you never see Frankie again?

The thought makes panic rise in your chest, like acid, it pushes up your throat and you grab hold of the edge of the kitchen counter, your fingers dig into the unyielding surface. No, that is not the way this is going to go, he’ll come here or to the cabin. He will find you again and you’ll see him when he does.

Your mind is screaming at you to stay here, where it feels safest, in yours and Frankie’s home. But a small voice at the back of your head reminds you of what Pope said, If he’s not back by Sunday morning, he’s not coming back.

The thought of Pope, going to get Lucía and getting her to safety, pushes you out of your stupor. You take a deep breath, your mind made up. If Pope gets to Lucía she will need you too, Frankie would want you to get to her too, keep her safe when Frankie can’t. Pope will look after you and you will look after Lucía for as long as you can.

You need to leave him a note, hope that he finds it, and has a way to get to the cabin. You go to your small home office, the manuscript you’d been working on neatly stacked on top of your laptop, it seems like a lifetime ago. You take a large bright post-it and stick it to the middle of the kitchen table where it can’t be missed.

P went to get L. Meet you at D’s cabin. I love you always, stay safe.

You walk back into your bedroom and rifle through your closet. You’re still in the jeans and hoodie, Frankie’s hoodie, you were in on Friday. If you’re going to leave home you need to be smart about your clothes. Hiking pants, your thermal undershirt, the hoodie, thick socks, your hiking boots, more layers stuffed into the backpack, your waterproof windbreaker on top. You close the backpack and leave it in the hall and go pick up Frankie's bag.

You hear the footsteps on the staircase as you turn back to the hall.

They're slow, deliberate, and you quietly set the backpack down again and duck behind the couch, crouching down. The hard metal of the gun digs into your back, reminding you of its presence, and you pull it out, holding it as Pope showed you.

The footsteps stop outside your front door, and through the silence of the building you hear the metallic click of a gun being cocked. Holding your breath, still crouched behind the couch, fear creeps up your spine, making your skin tingle. The quiet footsteps move into your apartment and down the hall, you hear the scuff on the floor as someone steps into the living room. They stand still for a few seconds, you try to make your heartbeat slow down, it’s so loud you’re sure they can hear it, but the unknown intruder carefully moves into the kitchen. After a beat you hear them pick up the post-it from the table, and breath out a low “Fuck.”

But you’d know that voice anywhere, you rush to stand up, “Frankie!”

He turns on the spot, his gun up and trained on you in a split second, before he lowers it and moves towards you. You scramble out from behind the couch and stumble over the coffee table, he catches you as you grab onto him, your gun falling to the floor. His arms go around you, pulling you tight, tight, to his chest and you bury your face into his jacket.

“You came, you came,” you weep into his chest as you feel his lips press against your hair, his arms are squeezing the air out of your lungs as he sobs, you can feel him shake as it rips through him.

“Always, hermosa, always,” he whimpers into your hair as you feel his hands search up and down your back. “And you waited, you shouldn’t have waited, but, fuck, I’m so happy you did.”

He presses himself against you, grabbing onto you, you can feel his fists close around your hoodie, pulling you into him as he all but folds himself around you. Your arms are wrapped around him, you’re inhaling his scent and you can hear his heart race under your ear. He moves a hand up and cradles it around the back of your head, pulling you away a little so that he can bend down and press his lips to yours, kissing you desperately as you sob against him. His lips are rough and chapped, but it’s the most welcome feeling in the world. His scruffy beard scratches against your chin, his breath is hot on your lips and you can feel the tug of his fingers as they tangle in your hair.

But you can taste salt and blood on his lips and it takes a few seconds for your brain to register the iron flavor in your mouth. When it hits you, you pull back and look up at him.

“Frankie!” you exclaim and reach up to touch his bruised and cut face and he flinches, “What happened?”

“A bus hit the truck, it flipped over and I got cut, probably by the windscreen.” He pulls you closer again, his hand around your neck, caressing your hair as you bury your face against his jacket. “I was knocked out for a few hours, I think, when I woke up it was the middle of the night and it was fucking mayhem on the streets.” You draw a deep, trembling breath, grabbing onto him tighter.

“I managed to get out of the truck and into a basement of a restaurant for cover, I hid in a fucking broom cupboard. I passed out again and woke up the next afternoon, been trying to get back to you all night.”

He sighs and you feel him rub a hand across his face, pulling off his cap, still on his head, and run a hand through his hair. “I might have a concussion too, my head is fucking killing me.”

You look up at him again, searching his eyes this time, he looks tired, wiped out, and slightly red eyed as you gently trace his face with your fingertips. He takes your hand and presses kiss to your palm before he wraps his fingers around it.

“Let me clean your cuts and get you some painkillers,” you say, bending down to pick up your gun from the floor and he lets you lead him to the bathroom and sit him down on the toilet seat, but then he wraps his arms around your middle and pulls you close again.

“Are you ok?” you hear him mumble against your chest.

“I’m a lot better now that you’re here, Frankie,” you caress his sweaty curls, “and I’m not injured.” His hands have bunched up the back of your hoodie as he tilts his head and looks up at you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I should’ve fucking left work the second things started going to shit, we should’ve gotten us out of the city on Friday night.”

“How could you have known? I still don’t know what the fuck is going on, it all happened so fast,” you put the gun on the counter and wrap both hands around his soft curls and kiss his forehead, you see his eyes slip closed as you press your lips to him.

“Where did you get the gun?” he asks as you straighten up and take out the small first aid kit, the large one is packed in your backpack.

“Pope. He rang on Friday night and when I told him you weren’t home yet he decided to come here.” You gently dab some antiseptic onto the largest cut, just over his eyebrow, carefully cleaning away the dried blood, Frankie doesn’t wince, just lets you pat the cut with a cotton swab.

“He tried to get me to leave but I told him I couldn’t leave before you were back.” At this Frankie silently puts his hand on your cheek, stroking it gently while you continue to clean his cuts. “He’d looted two guns and a rifle and left me one. He’s gone to get Lucía to the cabin.”

Frankie gives a small nod, “I saw your post-it, were you about to leave, hermosa?”

You stop your cleaning and look down at him, your hand still on his face, “Pope said that if you weren’t back by Sunday morning…you probably wouldn’t come.”

“He wasn’t wrong, I almost didn’t make it,” Frankie clenches his jaw, his hand balling into a fist. “But I’ll tell you later. For now, I need to get to Lucía too, if Pope doesn’t already have her at the cabin, I’m going to get her, I have to.”

“I’m coming with you, I’m not letting you go without me,” you immediately say and Frankie nods.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again, cariño, you’re coming with me.” He stands up and looks at his face in the mirror, he’s got three deeper cuts, two on his forehead, one on his cheek, just under his eye, that was lucky. His head fucking hurts but he takes the two painkillers you hold out and downs them with water and pushes the pain to the back of his mind. He needs to focus now.

“Ok,” he says, looking over at you, “we need to pack what we need and get out of here as fast as possible. The only problem is we have no transportation but maybe I can hot wire a car in the street.”

You dig into your pocket and pull out the keys to the dirt bike. “Pope said there were two dirt bikes in the garage, he took one and left the other for us. It’ll probably be easier to get out of the city on them.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, the traffic was getting bad when the truck got totaled.” He walks into the living room with you behind him. “I thought I saw my backpack here, you packed it?”

“Pope did, I packed mine too,” you sit down on the couch and pull your bag over, opening it up and putting the painkillers inside. Frankie crouches down by his pack and quickly goes through it, getting up to add a few extras before closing it up again.

“Fill your big water bottle, and drink as much as you can before we leave,” he tells you. “There’s not much water between here and the cabin and we’re not stopping if we can avoid it.”

You do as you’re told and when you get back from the bathroom you find Frankie standing by the bookshelf, holding a photo of you, him and Lucía from a few months ago. You’d had it printed and framed for him and you know he has a copy of it in his locker at work too.

“Are you bringing it?” you ask in a low voice. He looks over at you and sighs.

“I’m not sure when we’ll come back here again, I thought maybe I should.” He looks back at the photo in the frame again before he flips it over and opens the back cover, sliding out the picture.

“Pope said it’s the world is falling apart, do you think he’s right?” you ask, moving over to him as he carefully puts the photo into his pack.

“I hope not, cariño, but…” he looks at you, he has a deep furrow in between his eyes, a worried look, “it’s not looking good, I saw some things I can’t explain out there, if you have something you don’t want to lose, you should probably bring it now. “

You turn and hurry back to the bedroom, quickly grabbing the picture you have on your bedside table. It’s your favorite of Frankie and you, from a BBQ at Will and Hannah’s place. Frankie’s looking at the camera with a big grin, his arm hooked around your neck, leaning into you as you press your lips to his cheek with a smile. You’d stolen his Standard Oil cap and put it backwards on your own head, Frankie’s dark curls are their usual unruly selves without the cap. You hurry back to the living room and slide it into one of the outside pockets of your bag.

Frankie’s waiting for you while you pull the zipper closed and hoist the bag onto your back. As you step forward to him, he pulls you close, his hand grabbing onto your waist. He leans his forehead against yours, and you wrap your arms around his neck as you feel his warm breath skate across your skin.

“I love you, I will always love you, no matter what happens,” he whispers.

You nod and take a deep breath, it feels like you’re savoring the last moment of calm before you step into the unknown, which you are, really.

“I love you, Frankie, I will always love you too,” you whisper back to him and he dips his head to your mouth. His lips are soft under the cracked skin, he still tastes like himself and for a second you imagine it to be just another normal Sunday morning kiss before you head out to run some errands.

But then he pulls back and takes your hand, moving towards the broken door. As he carefully pushes it open he drops your hand and takes out his gun and you do the same.

Definitely not a normal Sunday morning.

…

The apartment building seems empty as you quietly walk down the stairs with Frankie in front. He tells you to put your hand on his shoulder so that he knows you’re behind him. Your gun is in your hand, safety on, you don’t trust yourself enough to keep it off.

Frankie motions for you to stop a few feet behind him as you reach the garage door, it’s still locked. He pulls out his flashlight and keys from the side pocket of his pack, and presses the key fob to the door. The beep seems to echo through the quiet building and Frankie's waits, listening for any movement.

“Thank god for batteries,” he whispers before he cautiously presses down the handle and pushes the door open. It squeaks on its hinges and he pauses again. You see him raise his gun as he slowly moves through the open door, quickly swinging it left and right to cover both sides, holding his flashlight in the other hand.

When nothing stirs in the darkness of the garage, he motions you over to hold the door open as he moves further in. The dim light from the bottom of the stairwell illuminates a few cars and Frankie’s back as he cautiously makes his way over to where motorbikes are parked. He disappears out of view for a few seconds before you see him come back, he’s got an old motor oil canister in his hand.

“I’ll prop the door open,” he says in a low voice as he gets to you, “and we have an exit if opening the garage door doesn’t work.”

The garage door is electric, opened by pushing a button on a remote that Frankie keeps in his truck. The remote, and the truck, are obviously not here, so he plans on pushing the door up by hand, hoping the lack of electricity will make it easier to move.

You follow him through the dark garage, to the dirt bike propped up against the wall. He hangs his pack on one side, and yours on the other. “Keep your gun out, safety on, cariño,” he murmurs, before grabbing the handles of the bike and pushing it towards the garage door. You hold the bike up as he grabs the chain on the side of it and tug, sighing in relief as it glides smoothly up, only a low rattle as it opens onto the street.

“Push it up, I’ll cover you in case someone comes,” he says in a low voice, crouching down and moving up the slope to street level as you dig your feet in and push the bike. It’s slow, the bike is heavy with your bags on it but you’d rather have Frankie cover you than the other way round.

You get it onto the street and prop it up as Frankie grabs the handles and waits for you to settle on the bike. The street is empty of people and you can smell smoke in the air, not wood smoke, a more acrid scent of burning rubber and something else. Sun light streams through the haze, the many fires in the city starting to bleed together, as they burn unchecked. You can see a minivan on fire further down the street, next to where your neighbors were attacked. Their bodies aren’t there anymore.

Frankie leans in and gives you a quick kiss, “Once I start up the engine, people might come running and I’m gonna need to drive fast and dodge, so hold on to me very tight, cariño.”

Your eyes are wide and fearful as you nod, gripping tight onto his jacket as he straddles the bike in front of you. The dirt bike’s engine roars to life and you flinch, it’s horrendously loud in the silent city. You see Frankie’s eyes flick to the side view mirror and you look behind you, ice fills your veins as your heart all but stops. A stream of people are stumbling out of the alleys behind you, they’re moving with jerky movements, all focused on the noise of your bike, mouths stretched open in screams that you can’t hear over the roar of the engine.

“Hold on!” Frankie yells and you tighten your grip on him as the bike lurches forward. As you turn forward you see people coming out onto the street in front of you too, Frankie dodges left and right in quick succession to get past them and the bike flies down the street. You squeeze the seat of the bike between your legs and bury your face in Frankie’s back as the bike tilts back and forth. The wind whips around your ears, the roar drowns out any other noise and you try to only focus on Frankie in front of you, leaning your head against his broad back as you keep your eyes shut. His jacket smells of engine grease, the outdoors, the last BBQ at Will’s place. You inhale and grab it tighter.

The bike stops tilting back and forth and Frankie slows down a little bit. You carefully look up over his shoulder and see that you’re out on one of the big highways that cut through the city. It’s full of cars but the bike easily slips between them. With a sting Frankie realizes that his truck never would’ve made it through. Glad as he is that Pope thought to swipe the keys for the dirt bikes, he misses his truck, the safety of the cabin. He doesn’t think he’ll ever see it again.

The highway cuts through the city, every now and then the strange people stumble out, attracted to the noise of the bike, but he speeds up and puts them behind you. The road climbs up, an overpass over another highway, and he slows down to pass between a big eighteen wheeler and a bus at the crest of the overpass, just clearing them.

The wild looking man lurches out into the street, right in front of the bike, Frankie doesn’t even have a split second to swerves to the right, before the man’s hand flies out and grabs hold of your arm, ripping you from the bike as the bike topples over and skids over the ground. Frankie tumbles onto the asphalt, the dead man's grip stalling the engine, and the silence is deafening as he slams onto his back.

You can’t scream, the wind has been knocked out of your lungs by the force of the impact on the asphalt, and now the man is on top of you, only your arms between him and his deranged face. You fight to get your legs up under him, to kick him off, but his flailing limbs, his shoes scraping along the ground as he fights to get to you, pin you down. Your eyes are fixed on his mouth, you’re trying to scream for Frankie, but you can only take short, shallow gasps, as you see…something…move inside his mouth. Something is moving over his tongue, past his teeth, white tendrils reaching for you.

A gunshot echoes above you and the man is jerked backwards, slumping over to the side as you scramble back, grazing your hands on the rough surface. You kick him away from you, his mouth is still open and the white tendrils are still, flopping out onto the asphalt.

“Get up! Run, run!” Frankie yells behind you as you hear the screech of several people from between the bus and the eighteen wheeler. You whip your head to the noise and see four of them running for you, it takes everything in you to not freeze on the spot, Frankie’s frantic yells behind you. You scramble to your feet and run as fast as you can towards Frankie, he’s crouched behind a car, gun trained at the people behind you, the dirt bike still flat on the ground. As you get to the car he grabs your arm and throws you behind it and takes aim. Lying on the ground you watch him fire six rapid shots and the screaming stops. He holds his aim for a beat, his face focused and unblinking, then he quickly grabs you and pulls you to him. His hands grab your body, scanning you for injuries, yanking back the collar of your hoodie and running rough fingers over your skin.

“Did he bite you?” he almost yells, “Did he bite you?”

“N..n..no, I don’t think so,” you stutter as Frankie grabs your arms and pushes the sleeves up over your elbows, twisting your arms in his hands, searching the skin for any break.

“Frankie, wh..what’s going on?” your voice almost breaks, his fear is contagious as he frantically examines you.

“Get up, cariño, we need to keep going. More are on the way.” He pulls you to your feet and over to the bike, picking it up and quickly making sure your bags are secure. You get on and he swings himself up in front of you. The engine roars to life again, you wrap your arms around him and hang on as the bike speeds up.

Your hands are shaking as you lock them around Frankie’s waist, the adrenaline that coursed through you after the attack is giving way to shock and as Frankie speeds through the city you start to feel the pain where your body hit the ground. Your hands are throbbing, stinging from where they scraped across the asphalt, you’re sure you have a bump on your head and on the outside of your thigh there’s a welt growing. You desperately want to be back in your apartment, curled up in bed with Frankie, on Friday morning, before all this. You bury your nose in his jacket and swallow down a sob.

Frankie is more cautious after the crash, his heart is thumping as he swerves back and forth between obstacles, slowing down to scan for people. He sees them running towards the bike in the distance but soon loses them as he hits the main highway. He wants to stop, pull her off the bike and assess her injuries more carefully. Hold her tight and tell her he won’t fuck up like that again, that he’s trying to figure out how to combat what ever is happening to people.

The man over her, her silent fight to keep him off her, he swallows back the groan that forces itself up his throat, he could’ve lost her right there, not even out of the city. He tightens his grip on the handlebars; keep her safe, get to cabin, get Lucía if Pope doesn’t already have her.

Keep them safe.

…

As they leave the city there are less people, forty five minutes out into the open countryside, you haven’t encountered anyone since the suburbs. That’s until Frankie spots the makeshift roadblock up ahead, two nervous looking soldiers up front. As Frankie slows down they train their rifles on both of you, and he angles the bike so that his body covers yours. He turns his head and looks at you over his shoulder.

“Keep your head down, cariño. If they shoot, throw yourself behind the car on the right.”

You give him a quick nod and make yourself as small as possible behind him.

“Halt!” one of the soldiers yell, Frankie can see the single chevron on his arm, a private, green as can be by the look of his baby face and nervous grip on the rifle. Frankie stops the bike right by the car, about a hundred feet from the soldiers. The road block has hastily been erected, a big truck across the road, cars on either side, but they have gaps between them enough for the bike to easily slip through.

“Get off the bike!” the other soldier yells as Frankie and you come to a full stop, “Turn off the engine and get off the bike!”. He’s a private too, and looks just as green.

“We just wanna pass, we’re heading to our house,” Frankie yells.

“Get off the bike!” The first soldier calls back and you see him aim down his rifle at Frankie.

“We have orders to shoot anyone infected and you look infected,” the second soldier snarls, “get off the fucking bike and toss the keys.”

“Infected?” Frankie says, “What do you mean infected? Is that what those crazy people are?”

“Just get off the fucking bike,” the solider yells, raising his rifle too, “Final warning!”

“Get off the bike,” Frankie says to you in a low voice, “Get off slowly and get behind the car, crouch when I start shooting.”

“Frankie..” you whisper and he nudges you, “Do as I say, cariño, get off.”

You reluctantly obey and carefully swing your leg over the seat of the bike, stepping behind the car. He glances over at you, making sure you’re behind cover, before he slowly moves his hand as if he’s pulling back to get off. As he swings his leg over the bike he pulls his gun from behind his back and fires. You drop down behind the car as the soldiers' rifles rattle to life but it’s over in a few seconds, Frankie’s shots don’t miss, theirs go wide.

“Get on, fast,” he grabs your arm and pulls you up and you swing yourself onto the bike again, behind Frankie. The two soldiers are sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around them both, as Frankie revs the engine. Suddenly you hear two men yell, and you both turn to see two more soldiers sprint out from behind the big truck.

“Hold on!” he yells at you and gives the bike full throttle, the tires of the bike spinning as you clutch him tight. The sharp noise of gunshots zip around you as Frankie aims for between two of the cars, barreling through them and the sharp inhuman cry from the strange people, infected, goes up from somewhere behind you.

You hear the gunfire but it’s no longer directed at you, as you throw a quick glance over your shoulder, you see a large group of the infected, launch themselves at the two soldiers. The noise of the engine drowns out the sound but you see their screams as they’re overrun.

You turn back and press yourself against Frankie’s back, he weaves between the cars, finding a gap and leaves the highway. Crossing over a field, aiming for the mountains in the distance.

…

You’ve left the highway far behind you, bee lining for the cabin across as much open country as you can, avoiding farms and towns. You’re almost there when smoke starts to rise from the bike. Frankie hastily stops the bike and kills the engine as you both get off. You quickly pull your backpacks away from the smoke as he inspects the bike.

“Fuck, it got shot, a bullet through the engine block,” he points to the hole where smoke is pouring out, it’s less now that the engine is off. “Better it, than us though,” he sighs, looking over at your taut face. Your eyes are rimmed with worry and dark circles, your mouth, usually so quick to smile when he looks at you, is pulled tight with tension as you stare at him. It breaks his heart to see you so scared and he takes your hand in his, trying to give you some comfort.

“What do we do, Frankie?” you ask in a quiet voice, eyes drifting to the remains of the bike.

“We hike, we’re about two hours on foot away,” he points up the trail you’d been on with the bike, a sparse forest around you. “This trail connects with the trail that leads up to the waterfall, we’ll come down the back way to the cabin.” He hoists his backpack up and you copy him, settling it on your back.

“I really hope Pope is there with Lucía, and Will and Benny too,” you mumble, as he takes your hand again, his gun in the other, and starts walking up the trail.

“Yeah, me too, cariño, I sure as fuck hope they all got out.”

The hike is quiet, no people, no infected. The trees give you shade even though the late September sun isn’t very warm. You stop along the way to drink and fill your water bottles, the ice cold water in the stream reminding you of your trip to the waterfall on the Fourth of July. It seems surreal that the world, where a trip like that was possible, could crumble in all but twenty four hours. You have so many questions to ask of Frankie but he’s on high alert, his eyes swinging back and forth through the trees, his grip on your hand tight, you daren’t say anything until he seems to sense your mood and looks over at you.

“We’re almost there, hermosa,” he stops and puts his hand on your cheek, “are you tired?”

“Yeah, but probably no worse than you,” you lean into his touch, closing your eyes briefly.

“We’ll rest and take stock at the cabin, sleep there tonight before we decide on our next move, try to figure out what the hell is happening too.” His thumb strokes across your cheek, brushing over your bottom lip and for a moment his eyes soften, his face turning into that warm, sweet smile you’ve always loved him for. It’s only for a moment, something rustles the leaves above you and his gaze snaps up, on high alert again.

“Let’s keep moving,” he says, taking your hand again and moving down the trail.

….

It takes another half an hour for you to reach the cabin but as you approach, you wince, there are no cars or trucks parked up front, no dirt bike either. But as you get closer you can see the tracks from one at least, a sign that Pope has been here.

Frankie approaches slowly, telling you to hang back, hiding behind a tree. Nervously you watch him approach the porch and the front door. He slowly pushes down the handle, finding it locked. There’s a key box hidden under the porch, a code needed to open it, and Frankie quickly puts it in and finds the front door key inside.

Quietly he unlocks the door and motions for you to come to him. You walk across the grass as silently as you can, Frankie’s finger is over his lips. Motioning for you to wait by the door, your gun out, Frankie carefully ventures inside. He moves through the familiar surroundings, checking the kitchen and the three bedrooms before coming back to you.

“It’s empty, no one is here,” he sighs. “No sign of anyone else.”

Chapter 13

Taglist: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko @javicstories

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loosingmoreletters · 3 years ago

Text

Summary: Jin Ling has never met Lan Sizhui. On Dafan mountain, confronted with a statue they can't defeat on their own, he learns why.

Jin Ling has known all his life that he would one day lead a sect. Nowadays, he knows there was a time when it wasn’t certain which sect it would be, if he might have been presented as the Jiang Heir under the guise of while his cousin would have inherited the Jin Sect. But Jin Rusong is dead, which leaves Jin Ling with his father’s sect and too many cousins and sect heirs to talk to. He’s been exposed to the children of most famous cultivators, their parents hoping to make some connection.

The only one he’s never met is Lan Sizhui, which stands at odds with how close their families are. Their uncles are sworn brothers, it is obvious they should’ve met, but Lan Wangji keeps his son by his side and far away from politics.

If they weren’t running from a cursed statue hellbent on killing them all, Jin Ling would probably be expected to make introductions, but he has trouble keeping even far away from it to make an attack.

“Sizhui!” a loud Lan boy shouts, panic carved into his very heart. “Sizhui, get away! You’re not supposed to fight something like that!”

Supposed to, Jin Ling notes while he tries to pretend he isn’t shaking in fear. He said supposed to, not can’t.

Lan Sizhui smiles in a manner Jin Ling would categorize as apologetic, then he straightens his back and walks into the path of the attacking statue.

“Sizhui!” the Lan boy cries just as the statue’s arm pulls back to strike Lan Sizhui down.

Jin Ling can’t do anything but watch as her hand approaches, ready to squeeze the other teenager to death. He waits for the impact with fear in his gut, eyes open wide even though he wants to tear away from the sight of destruction.

It’ll be over in a moment, Jin Ling thinks hysterically. She’ll just kill him, and nobody’s moving to protect him. There’s not a single adult around, if jiujiu were just here—

The statue towers above Lan Sizhui and just when the impact should come, an unholy scream leaves her and resentful energy explodes around Lan Sizhui. The resentment forces Jin Ling and every other cultivator in vicinity to the ground as it spreads and spills, ripping into the statue like a pack of feral dogs.

Jin Ling struggles to keep his eyes open at the brutality. Even though a stone statue isn’t made of flesh, he can still see her bleed as the resentful energy feeds on her.

And right in the middle of that assault stands Lan Sizhui, not a single injury dealt to him.

He has to be in control of the resentful energy, but the thought alone seems ridiculous enough to startle Jin Ling into a breathy laugh. The righteous Gusu Lan wouldn’t tolerate a demonic cultivator in their midst, and yet while disturbed, none of the Lan cultivators in attendance seem surprised.

Eventually, the statue’s body stops twitching and the resentful energy returns to Lan Sizhui’s side, dark smoke twirling around him in an almost playful manner. How can Lan Sizhui stand it without throwing up? How did Jin Ling not sense it before?

“Jin Ling!”

Turning his head feels like a task as tiresome as running the steps at Koi Tower up and down, but he manages just in time for Jiang Cheng to arrive at his side and kneel down next to him.

“Jin Ling, what happened?” Jiang Cheng asks, but Jin Ling has no answer for him. How is he meant to explain that Gusu Lan has been harboring a demonic cultivator?

But his uncle is a Sect Leader, and he’s the strongest person Jin Ling knows. If anyone can deal with this, then it must be him. He’s been protecting Jin Ling for as long as he’s been alive.

The resentful energy around Lan Sizhui doesn’t seem to disappear. From a distance, Jin Ling can’t tell perfectly, but it almost seems like it’s not putting any strain on Lan Sizhui either. If anything, he appears to brighten as the energy tightens around him and wraps him up like an odd approximation of a hug. The limbs are too long, and the skin is as pale as a ghost’s. It can’t be human what steps out of the twilight there with its hair hanging in dark ribbons, dragging over the floor like rivers through Yunmeng, but it has a mouth that’s far too wide, turned up in a mockery of a smile.

And then a high pitch hum leaves its throat.

“A-Yuan,” it croons. “A-Yuan, my A-Yuan.”

It comes out like a song that sends shivers down his spine. Jin Ling thinks of the spirits of mothers who lost their children. They always linger, and they sing to him just as sweetly.

The clearing is dead silent; not even the forest around them dares to speak, thus making Lan Sizhui’s words echo all the louder.

“Hello, Xian-gege,” Lan Sizhui greets and leans into the monster’s touch. “Thank you for protecting me.”

It purrs in delight and wraps even more of itself around Lan Sizhui, who embraces it just the same.

“Always protect my A-Yuan,” the monster promises. “Always and always and always.”

And then it turns its head to stare at the cultivators surrounding them and Lan Sizhui’s robes wrinkle beneath the monster’s grip tightening. “Are they hurting my A-Yuan? They can’t hurt you, I won’t let them, I won’t tolerate it.”

“No, Xian-gege,” Lan Sizhui is quick to reassure, his voice only now strained. “I am fine. You kept me safe, right?”

“Yes,” says the monster, but it doesn’t look away. “I keep my A-Yuan safe. Nobody will hurt you, I won’t—”

The monster interrupts itself with a snarl and sends another wave of resentful energy, striking a Lan holding a talisman paper. “No!”

“Lan Sizhui!” another one of his sect members shouts as the monster grows more agitated. “Control it!”

There is no controlling monsters like that, don’t they know better? They can only be destroyed and Gusu Lan obviously failed to do that. Why was Lan Sizhui even allowed to leave Cloud Recesses if his presence contained such a spirit?

“Xian-gege,” Lan Sizhui says as he holds onto the beast as if he had any ability to stop it, “Xian-gege, you have to stop. They’re not harming me.”

“They will!” the monster screeches. “They always lie! Nobody will hurt you, I will make sure, I promise, I promise, my A-Yuan, nothing will ever hurt you again.”

“I know,” Lan Sizhui insists. “Xian-gege, I know, but you have to stop, remember? You promised to stop.”

At that, the monster cocks its head, bright red eyes narrowing as if in thought. “I promised?”

“Yes,” Lan Sizhui says. “To me, to Rich-gege.”

And then, suddenly, all at once, the resentful energy subsides. “I promised,” the monster says quietly. “I promised Lan Zhan?”

“Yes,” Lan Sizhui says. “You promised.”

The monster lingers a moment longer, then it wraps around Lan Sizhui so tightly that Jin Ling thinks it might just kill him before it vanishes and Lan Sizhui drops to his knees, breathing heavily.

“Sizhui!” the loud Lan boy from before shouts and runs to his friend’s side, stopping only a few meters short of him, hesitating.

“It’s alright, Jingyi,” Lan Sizhui replies. “Xian-gege won’t attack you.”

And that’s apparently all Lan Jingyi needs to know before he embraces his friend just as tightly as the dark beast before. The stark difference between the two images is enough that Jin almost wonders if the last minutes weren’t just a nightmare he’d got caught in. But his uncle’s hand is still on his shoulder and pulls him to his feet before Zidian comes to life.

The latter does not go unnoticed by the Lans either.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Lan Sizhui says quickly. “Please don’t attack. Xian-gege won’t take lightly to it.”

“Xian-gege,” Jiang Cheng echoes. Jin Ling has never heard his uncle speak with such disbelief and horror in his voice. “Tell me, how long have the Lan been sheltering you and Wei Wuxian, Wen Yuan!?”

#mdzs #lan sizhui #wei wuxian #jin ling #jiang cheng #lan jingyi #mdzs fanfic #fanfic

294 notes · View notes

stutterfly · 3 years ago

Text

Swipe Right 05 | Sleeper Build | JJK (M)

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader, brot7 x friendship

Genre: E2L, fluff, angst, humor, smut, PersonalTrainer!Jungkook, fuckboy!Jungkook, Nerd!Jungkook, Nerd/IT!Reader

Word Count: 12K-ish

Last time on SR04: You became unlikely friends with the one and only Jungkook, bonding over drinks and sharing some serious sexual tension. He made a promise to not make you cry again, and if he does you get to choose his next tattoo, so you know what? Win.

CW & Other Tags: Drinking, anxiety/panic attack mentions, slow burn, fuckboy Jungkook, voyeurism, oral sex (male receiving), masturbation, pining, sexual tension, HARDJungkook ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), soft Jungkook, misunderstandings and flip-floppin like a summer clearance sale

Series: Activate your SIMCard

Fic: Swipe Right (5/?- Ongoing)

Do not repost.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

He's not sure when he got to your door, or how he even knows it's yours, but when it opens you stand before him with a smile and a bottle in your hand. Jungkook spares a cursory glance around as he’s ushered through your living room, but can’t find anything to focus on. He’s ingested a lot of liquor and the world is blurry. But you invited him to drink more so he should oblige, right?

Your kitchen looks like Yoongi's. Or maybe this is Yoongi's? Regardless, you pass him a shot glass full of clear liquid and hold out your own, waiting for him to clink against it before you down it. It tastes like blue but it smells like red. There's no burn though.

As soon as he sets his glass down, he looks over to watch the way your face screws up at the taste. He's just in time to catch the sight of the liquid dripping down your chin and onto your hoodie. Before he can make a crass remark, you unzip the fabric and his mouth goes dry. You're not wearing a shirt. Why aren't you wearing a shirt?!

"Shit. I'm sorry," he says, reluctantly averting his gaze.

"For what?"

"Tits," he murmurs.

He spins to face the counter, only to knock over a giant glass of green liquid. It quickly soaks into his jeans and you're already on your knees with a towel, wiping up the spill with care. You turn your attention to his pants and dab at the damp material. It doesn't take long for you to notice the growing bulge beneath his jeans.

Just as he's about to apologize, you pause and quirk a brow at him. "Sticky, huh? Want me to get that for you?"

He holds his breath and offers a slow nod, giving in to the desire stirring within his gut. You proceed to rub in deliberate slow strokes over his crotch, keeping your eyes bound to his. He chokes out a strangled sound in an attempt to get air flowing again.

Seemingly satisfied with his reaction, you discard the towel and hum softly. You run your hands along his inner thighs until you’re smoothing your palm over the faint shape of his erection. Again he chokes on nothing, holding his breath as he rolls his pelvis towards the flat of your palm.

"Want me to get that for you, too?"

He shakily exhales the bubble of air caught in his throat with his breathy reply. "Oh, fuck yeah..."

Looking past his own heaving chest, he finds a mischievous glint in your eyes as you press a kiss against his jeans, teasing your mouth over the cock hidden below.

Oh, fuck. The sensation makes his jaw tighten. It's not enough. Before he can think to question your motive, he's already hastily working his pants down to reveal the thin fabric of his boxers.

His cock twitches within its flimsy confines, excited by the proximity of your mouth. You waste no time bringing your tongue to him, clamping your soft lips around the shape of his cock and sucking the moisture from the fabric.

"Shit," he whispers frantically between heavy breaths. "Take it out."

You reach through the opening in his boxers to spring him free, and without hesitation you take his hardened cock into your mouth all the way to the base. He plants his palms on the counter and hangs his head to watch you bob over him. But it's too much. His eyes roll into the back of his skull and when he opens them again, you're gone.

He searches in a panic to find you squinting at him from across the room, clad in the date attire he remembers so well, complete with those heels you kept complaining about. Your arms are folded over your chest, which only accents the cleavage revealed by the cut of your dress.

"You gonna fuck me right here or what?"

He sighs and drinks in the lovely skin exposed just for his eyes. "I'll fuck you anywhere you want."

Biting your lip, you lean against the wall, tilt your head and rake your eyes over him. "Prove it."

Kicking off his pants, he leaps over the counter and makes a beeline for you. Despite how quickly he tries to cross the room, every footfall declines to land where he wills it to. The gravity of heavy, tired limbs hold him in place. He looks down to assess why his legs seem to be failing him so miserably, and he finds himself stripped bare.

A giggle echoes from a hidden room around the corner. “Are you coming?”

“J-Just a second!” he calls, trying his best to will his legs to run towards the sound of your voice. But it’s no use. He sinks into the floorboards, solid ground giving out from beneath him.

He finds himself jolted awake by the sensation of falling, his breathing heavy, and it takes a moment for him to gather his bearings. The room is dark, but he recognizes silhouettes of furniture and it calms his nerves. Despite the sweat drenching the hair lining the back of his neck, he shivers. Goosebumps form across his chest. He curls himself into a tiny ball to conserve heat, snuggling further against the fabric he's wrapped himself in.

The soft snores of Yoongi and Namjoon bring him comfort, urging him to forget the temptation of the dream in its entirety. As soon as he closes his eyes, another sound steals his attention and holds it hostage. The unmistakable rhythmic sound of skin slapping skin coupled with a squeaking bed frame complicates his plan to forget every thought in his subconscious.

The chill in his bones fades away, replaced by a surge of adrenaline that heats his core. It's impossible to shake the image of you in that dress, looking like sin incarnate. He lets his mind wander, thinking of how your bed might squeak. Trembling legs, short tizzied sighs, banging headboards, rolling hips: it could all be yours if you asked.

Stop it.

He takes a deep breath. After everything that's happened he's trying to be careful with you. He promised. However a growing part of him relishes in the thought that you want him. That growing part happens to be his dick. Right now.

With a tiny grumble, he tries to shake those racy thoughts from his mind. He rolls over and checks the time on his phone, ignoring the low battery warning that greets him. It’s only been a couple hours. What concerns him more than the time is the notification of a text from you, a photo message at that, with a recent timestamp.

His dream returns to the forefront of his mind as he eagerly opens the message. Horny goggles immediately fall to the wayside when he sees the meme you’ve sent with the caption: 'how it feels when u in bed drunk af.'

A smile upturns the corners of his mouth and he stays his twitching fingers long enough to avoid an immediate proposition.

JUNGKOOK: Mood 🥴

JUNGKOOK: Can’t sleep either?

Hobi's guest makes a lewd sound through the wall and Jungkook bolts up from his place on the floor, heading straight to Yoongi's bedroom. If he has to listen to Hobi get called Daddy one more time tonight, he deserves a bed and some blankets. Maybe a pillow or two. If he's lucky it will drown out the sound.

Even with the door closed and all of the pillows piled over his ears, the memory of her moans echo through his head. He clutches the blankets with a groan and hooks a leg outside of them to rest on the body pillow. No matter how hard his dick is, there's nothing he can do about it tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Yearning for a distraction, he holds his phone close to his face, staring at the void of the chat box. Maybe you've passed out already. It's probably better that way. However, even as his eyelids begin to grow heavy, he's focused on the possibility of a response. Despite his hopeful patience, those blinking ellipses never appear.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

When the morning comes you're not ready for it. The sun is too bright, the birds outside are too loud, and the bed feels far too empty.

Really should have drank more water.

You pull the blankets over your shoulders as you roll away from the sunlight. Even as you wish for the bliss of sleep to reclaim your brain, you reach for your phone to start your daily compulsory notification check.

A loud resounding knock keeps you from clearing any of the icons that live at the top of your screen. While your body goes stiff, your mind wonders about the identity of the visitor. Hobi would have used the special knock. Yoongi wouldn't bother you this early. It's probably Namjoon.

When you shuffle out to unlock the front door, you open it without thinking. Jungkook's eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile as he greets you. It's like a punch straight to the gut.

"Morning, Princess."

For some reason he slipped your mind entirely. Maybe it's because you feel like you were constantly hanging over him last night. Did you touch him too much? Oh shit. Did you actually kiss him, or did you just want to? Your mind races to capture the hazy memories from the previous night. From the way he's bouncing on the balls of his feet you can surmise the reason he's standing before you isn’t in regards to any of it.

"Can I use your bathroom? Hobi brought a girl over last night and she won’t get out of the shower. It’s been like 30 minutes and I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

“I guess.” You step aside and gesture towards the bathroom with one hand while rubbing at your eye with the other.

“Thanks. I’ll be quick.”

As he runs past you recognize the sweater concealing his torso. “Is that my—"

Slam!

You tick your jaw and cross your arms as you march towards the closed bathroom door. It takes a minute, but when he emerges he looks relieved and refreshed. "Thanks.”

You grab at the fabric pooled around his neck before he can step past the threshold. "That's my hoodie."

Surprise mars his features, but it’s quickly replaced by smug satisfaction and a quirk of his brow. “You want it back?”

Adrenaline jolts through you, tricking your stomach into doing a somersault at the prospect of seeing his chest again. Your response doesn’t come out as firmly as you had hoped. “Y-Yes.”

His bottom lip disappears behind his teeth for a moment and he laughs. “You can have it back… After we train.”

“But it’s mine. ” You plant your hands on your hips and frown at him.

“Don’t pout,” he says with a laugh. Leaning against the doorframe, he shoves his hands into the hoodie pockets. “We can always start today... If you still want to.”

“Not today. I drank too much last night.”

You rub your temple and groan, giving his eyes a chance to settle on your chest, where two hardened points threaten to break through your thin tanktop. The longer he stares, the more he’s convinced he can see the faint shape of your areola peeking through the worn material. Combined with what he's seen in your bathroom, it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses to force his eyes back to your face.

"Tomorrow?" he suggests with a lick of his lips.

"Monday," you bargain with a yawn. "Is six too early?"

"For you? Or me?"

"Don't be rude. I'll be there."

"Good." He smirks. "Gives me time to think up a plan. We can talk through it a bit if you want."

"What, like right now?"

"Maybe later when you're less hungover." A hesitant pause parts his words. "...Want breakfast?"

Blood rushes to your ears and your chest constricts. Can't your heart take a little nap every now and then? Breakfast sounds horrible. You never want to eat again. Yet some part of you recognizes the basic human expression of kindness he extends, melting your insides into pile of mush. You want to say yes.

You're weak. You're so weak . It's so sad how badly you wish it was the type of ask your heart desires: a date. Feelings you keep pushing down come creeping back up so easily when you get the smallest amount of attention. Your brain aches for more as he leans against the doorframe. Those standards of yours really need some work.

"I'm gonna go back to bed," you lie with a small shake of your head, stepping out of his way so he can leave.

"You're coming later though, right?"

Your brain frantically searches for an answer. Later? Saturday. It's Saturday. What is the plan for tonight? Note to self: text Namjoon.

"Mmm. Ask me again when I don't feel like death."

"Fair enough."

As he passes by all you can think about is how nice he smells. Maybe his cologne will linger on your hoodie if he keeps it until Monday. The hope in your gut makes you feel sick. Why can't you get off this rollercoaster with him? Feelings are stupid. Maybe you should just go another round with your vibrator.

"By the way," he pauses as he opens the door to glance around, "your apartment is nice. Good vibes."

"Thanks," you murmur, adrenaline scorching the tips of your ears.

"Later, Princess."

As soon as he's gone you make a dash to the bathroom. You're certain your bladder has never been so full in your life. The moment of relief is quickly replaced by panic.

Oh no. No nononono.

You're never seeing him again, or any human in the world he has contact with. You can't. You are destined to forever be a hermit who lives in the shadows and is whispered to only exist in legends. Maybe you'll adopt a bunch of cats to keep you company in your solitude.

Poised on the countertop near the soap dispenser is a familiar pink object. There's no way he didn't see it, but at least you had the energy to clean it before bed. So there's that.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It’s late by the time Jungkook is within the comfort of his own home. Working out is his go-to for stress relief, and fuck if you haven't stressed him out in the last 24 hours. Distracting himself with three types of cardio and a full body circuit seemed like a good idea at the moment, but time passed too quickly. Thankfully there's some wiggle room for him to shower before anyone arrives.

He'll take any alone time he can get right now in order to prepare himself for the socialization that will be expected later, even by friends. Jazzy music streams from Taehyung's studio down the hall. It puts him at ease as he slips into the bathroom, peeling the sweat slicked tee from his back. The sound of water pelting tile drowns out all other noise as he slips past the barrier of the sliding glass door.

Freezing water electrifies his body as it cascades down sweaty, overworked muscles. The shock is enough to quash any need for a nap; there's nothing quite like it. Groaning as he dips his head under the nozzle, he allows the cold water to change temperature as it runs its course over his scalp. He's quick to lather his palms with soap, rubbing them across his neck and chest so he can let the suds drip where they will.

Water assaults his chest, his sensitive nipples taking the brunt of it as he stretches. That's his first mistake. His second mistake comes when he reaches for the faucet dial, transforming the temperature into something soothing, something far more welcoming than he should allow. He turns his back to the stream as the vapor in the air warms. The pressure feels so good. He closes his eyes. Mistake number three.

The dream he worked so hard to eradicate from memory comes flooding back. Every bit of muscle fatigue can't mask the vision in his head: you on your knees with a smile while you rub a hand up his thigh.

Want me to get that for you?

With a heavy sigh, he reaches down to grip his half-hard cock, feeling it swell with just a few pumps of his fist. Maybe it's best to get it out of his system. Water pools in his palm before he switches hands and allows his eyes to gloss over. As he watches the water circle the drain, a daydream pervades his mind: an image of you on the floor beneath him with your legs parted, holding a little pink device in the palm of your hand. He's seen enough pussy in his lifetime to place an adequate substitute, watching with severe intensity as the vibrator disappears inside it.

He strokes himself faster, trying to conjure the sound of your voice while the rushing water drowns out his own labored breathing. He imagines pulling the pink device back out of you, holding the vibrations steady against your clit for a moment to watch you squirm before shoving it inside again.

Mmm. I need your cock, Jungkook. Please fuck me.

Before he can fully envision himself tossing that little thing aside and burying himself deep in your warmth, he finds himself careening over the edge of a quick and wholly disappointing orgasm.

"Oh, no no no no no… Shit.”

It’s over in a flash that instantly makes him dizzy. He hates those sneaky ones. How is he supposed to feel satisfied when there’s no agonizing build-up? Forcing air through his nostrils, he attempts to push through the prickle of every stinging nerve ending. He continues on with the intent of dragging something rewarding out of it.

It doesn’t go well.

After a few strained pumps he slumps forward and resigns himself to his fate with a grumble. What was supposed to take the frustrating edge off of his thoughts has only sharpened into senseless irritation. While he’s unsure of its source, something nags at him from within. Even the pressure pounding his shoulders can’t assuage the tension. He reasons it’s some sort of delayed hangover and decides maybe some tylenol and a nap might be the answer.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Being alone is making you crazy. Your mind has too much time to dwell on every little embarrassing moment of your existence and keeping busy has been a struggle. There’s only so much Netflix one can binge, and a finite number of minutes your unblinking eyes can fixate on a laptop screen playing games. With a yawn and a glance at the mirror across the room, you decide it might be nice to know just how much effort you want to put into your look tonight. You reach for your phone.

YOU: hey what’s the plan later

JOONIE: Game night at Tae’s.

YOU: do i have to bring anything

JOONIE: ¯\_(. > .)_/¯

YOU: wow what good are you

JOONIE: Just bring yourself.

JOONIE: Besides we both know you’re too poor to pick anything up lmao.

YOU: wow rude

JOONIE: You’re still my ride right? 😗

YOU: idk I’m probably too poor to pick you up -_-

JOONIE: Touche. What if I give you gas money?

YOU: mehhhhh

JOONIE: …

JOONIE: How about Melona?

YOU: OMW 🤪

JOONIE: 😂 Give me like an hour? There’s a really cool documentary I want to finish.

YOU: wow what a nerd

YOU: but also like

YOU: 👀 link pls???

JOONIE: It’s about bugs. U sure?

YOU: Nvm

JOONIE: LOL

YOU: I guess

YOU: LMK when I can come

YOU: BUG you ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

JOONIE: …

JOONIE: I hate you.

YOU: 😘

Your phone buzzes as you attach the charging cable; your negligence has it struggling at a pitiful 8% that won’t survive the journey to Namjoon’s. You drag yourself from bed with a sigh and peer into your open closet. Planning ahead usually isn’t your strong suit, but you try to put together an outfit and makeup combo that will make you feel cute.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

It takes you longer than you hoped to shower and put yourself together. When you pull up to Namjoon’s place, he’s already outside, glancing up from his phone to casually check if it’s you. You roll down the window and call him with an apology for your tardiness. He hops in the car and quirks a brow at you, a confused smile spreading his lips.

“What?” you ask defensively.

He shakes his head, pulling it back to a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing.”

“I mean… It’s just weird seeing you all dressed up.”

“Oh.” Your heart drops to your stomach. “Is it bad?”

“No, no. It’s nice.”

“Okay, but like, listen. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. You look fine.”

You bite your lip and over-analyze the inflection of his voice. “Why are you laughing at me then? Do I look stupid?”

“Y/N. I’m not laughing at you. I’m smiling because you look extra nice. And I have a feeling it may have something to do with a certain someone who’s gonna be there.”

You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “I mean. I could just want to dress up.”

“Yeah, that’s true, but...”

He doesn’t say anything else and you take it as your cue to put the car in drive and be on your way. However, annoyance and shame begin to build within your brain. Despite his agreement you feel the need to defend yourself. Over-explanation time.

“Look. Jennie is coming tonight and I know she’s gonna look good without even trying and I don’t wanna be like a gross little goblin by comparison. That’s all.” You quickly follow up with, “It’s not because of anyone.”

Namjoon opens his mouth to speak but you interrupt before he can start. “--I mean. Even if it was for someone else, which, y’know, it’s not, is that really so bad? I could use the ego boost. It’s not like I’ve had anyone show any real interest in me.”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain yourself. Any way you frame it… You look great. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t have a brain.”

Driving should be your focus, yet here you are drifting back to anxiety territory. Can’t you just relax? Namjoon isn’t exactly wrong, so why do you feel so guilty for admitting you want the attention? Your ego is still bruised from being stood up. Twice. You swallow down the fat lump caught in your throat and tell yourself it’s fine.

A minute passes with only the sound of the radio filling the space between you. Your insecurity is apparent. He clicks his tongue, debating the best approach. “You know…”

“Hmm,” you hum, not trusting yourself to speak quite yet.

“I’m just saying. If you didn’t have that firewall rule, at least half of my friends would be all over you.”

The light ahead turns red and you’re forced to stop the car. Namjoon is looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to glance his way now that you can. He’s baiting you, trying to give you that ego stroke you crave, and you know it. You know he knows you’re questioning it. It’s not like you have a poker face.

Your eyes betray you immediately, focusing on the man in your passenger seat like lasers might sprout from your corneas to melt the information out of his skull. “Like who?”

He offers a dimpled smile and pretends the dirty semi-truck outside his window is far more interesting than your curiosity-tortured face. “Think it’s more fun if you guess.”

“Joonie,” you pout. “Don’t be mean. I don’t want to play this game.”

He just stares out the window and you spare a glance at the light. Still red. You lean toward him. “Jimin?”

He snorts. “See? You can play.”

“Tch. You’re fucking with me. You don’t know,” you huff, turning your attention back to the road.

“Could be true.” He shrugs. “You could ask.”

“Ha! Me? Ask? Okay,” you jest, taking a moment to roll your eyes. “Sure, Dad.”

After you were crushed last Halloween, you vowed to not mess with the group dynamic by considering any of them romantically. You enlisted Namjoon to help you keep up your firewall by cockblocking if you got too close to crossing a line. He finds it kind of silly to keep you out of trouble since you can often find it so easily, but still he indulges you. Doesn’t mean he can’t play devil’s advocate from time to time though.

"Okay, okay. So…. how’s Jungkook?”

The wheels give a slight squeal when you hit the gas harder than intended. You’re thankful for the light’s color transformation. “Why would I know?”

He holds back a chuckle. “You guys are getting along. At least you were last night when I passed out. Y’all stay up drinking late?”

“For a while.” You don’t offer up more than that.

You’re not freaking out so he’s guessing nothing terrible happened. He smiles. “Well, I’m glad. Seems like good progress.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “He’s kind of fun when he’s not being an ass. I don’t exactly trust him… but it’s a start.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

By the time you arrive with Namjoon, everyone else is already playing games and getting toasty, if they’re not already in such a state. Jin thrusts a drink into your hand the moment you cross the threshold. You stumble forward, trying to keep your balance as his broad shoulder moves around your back to pull you into a half-hug. He gives you a wink as he maneuvers around you before disappearing down the hall.

“Wait, is this for me?!” you call, watching him sprint to the bathroom. The door closes without a proper response, so you assume the cup is yours now.

You spend some time chatting with Jennie and drinking the majority of whatever coke-based drink Jin made. Taehyung, Jimin, and Namjoon start playing some card game on the living room floor, but you can’t tell what from your position in the doorway to the kitchen. Jungkook is nowhere to be seen. You find yourself caught between the throes of disappointment and relief.

You enter the kitchen just in time to see Yoongi set a final row of shots down, filling the table in its entirety. There are almost too many glasses to count.

Woah. No thanks to alcohol poisoning.

Hoseok slithers up beside you and casually links his elbow with yours, dragging you closer to the table. “Wanna play?”

“Uh…”

“Shot roulette,” Yoongi explains. “Only some are alcohol. The rest are water.”

Hoseok frowns, staring at the sheer amount. “I feel like there’s probably too much water compared to alcohol.”

“No such thing, especially for lightweights like you,” he replies pointedly at the pair of you.

“He’s got a point.” Jennie giggles, giving your arm a playful pinch as she bumps against your other side.

Confidence and sociability surge through your veins with her next to you. It’s a strange comfort how quickly and easily she can bolster your bravery. You suppose it comes with the territory of your long-lasting friendship.

Your eyes scan row after row of liquid, looking for some telltale sign of alcohol. Before you can make a selection Jin walks up to the table and grabs from the middle, tipping his head back and downing the liquid. He makes a sour face and hands the empty shot glass to Yoongi.

“Did you get—?” Hoseok starts.

“Ah…” With a twitch of his nose and dramatic flair, Jin turns to you. “Hydrating. Water you doing waiting? It’s your turn, you know.” He cracks a big toothy smile. “How about it?”

You grin and pick at random. As you bring it to your nose, long, slender fingers pull the cup away.

“That’s cheating. The fun is not knowing,” Hoseok says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

With a nod, you bring it to your lips again, squeeze your eyes shut and expect the worst, but the taste is bland. Relieved, you turn the shot glass over triumphantly.

“Water.”

The four of you go on for some time in a checkered pattern: Jin, You, Hobi, Jennie. With every “water” called out, anxiety and excitement grips the table. It isn’t until Hoseok makes a face and coughs after a shot that you begin to believe any of them are alcohol. After that it begins to feel like all of them are.

A couple of rounds later there are still two glasses on the table, but you’re not feeling particularly lucky after your third shot. Just as you’re about to make a choice, a tattooed hand reaches out for the same glass and beats you to it.

Jungkook tips his head back and smacks his lips once he’s finished. “Saved you from that one, Princess.”

He flashes you a smile and wink. Your brain goes numb while trying to drum up a worthy response. Your eyes target the hoodie perched over his perfectly-sculpted shoulders and you can’t help but scoff.

“What?” He asks this with a grin, as though he doesn’t know.

“I hope you wash it before you give it back,” you grumble.

Immediate prickles of regret line your stomach. With this new flirty push and pull dynamic you’ve adopted, it’s becoming harder to deny the lingering attraction. It’s a dangerous game, one that may end up hurting you if you’re not careful, but you don’t want to stop playing.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I will.”

That’s not the answer you were hoping for. You take the remaining shot to cover your disappointment with his answer, relieved when the liquid turns out to be non-alcoholic.

“Okay. No more shots for me,” you say with a forced giggle, taking a step back just in time to collide with the petite frame of a man.

As you turn to apologize, your heel makes contact with toes that are definitely not yours. The initial shock of the cold liquid splashing across your back causes you to squeak out the world’s tiniest scream, which is hindered only by the conscious effort of pursing your lips. Suddenly Jimin is the one apologizing, the slight discomfort of having his toes stepped on quickly forgotten.

“Oh, Y/N! Shit. I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I’m sorry!”

The bubbly drink has already soaked your shirt and you can feel it quickly seeping into the spandex of your bra. The slow drip down your back has you clutching your shirt to press it against your skin, but you quickly realize your folly. Black bra and a white tee: not your brightest outfit idea, even on a day where fluorescent blue Hypnotic isn’t coating your clothes like some high-class Pollock painting.

Everyone’s eyes are on you. If only there was an option where you could hop in your car and drive home, maybe you’d feel better. Your face grows hotter than the blaze of a thousand distant suns simultaneously exploding. The vacuum of said explosion sucks the air from your lungs. It’s not like you’ve had enough to drink to mitigate the embarrassment clogging your throat.

“It’s fine. It’s okay. I’ll be right back,” you say in your most petite voice. The tone threatens to crack as anxiety overtakes your mind, but before you can have a full-blown panic attack, you have the comfort of the bathroom door behind you, tearing off your shirt to assess the damage.

It looks like someone dropped the entirety of their drink on your shirt. It’s ruined. You crumple it up and hold it under the sink. Hot water soaks into the fabric, transforming it into a near-transparent material. There’s no way you can put it back on like this. You debate taking off your bra, but you can at least try to bear the stickiness of the band.

Just as you begin to wring out your shirt, there’s a soft knock at the door and you call out that you’re fine. It’s quiet for a moment before the knock comes again. Assuming it’s Jennie, you swing it open without a second thought.

Jungkook stands there with eyes wide and mouth agape, a black shirt hanging limp around his forearm. You’re frozen in surprise. How is it that you never considered other people would come check on you? Why did you just assume it was Jennie? Although Jungkook is the last person you expected to see, his pointed gaze reminds you he’s the one before you nonetheless.

“Jungkook?” you squeak out as your brain short-circuits.

Somehow he gathers the mental strength to close his mouth and swerve his eyes away from your tits. Staring at the floor distracts him enough to focus on the reason he knocked at all.

“Here.” He holds out the shirt to you, eyes trained on the tile by the shower slider.

Common sense reboots your brain. You snatch the fabric and shove the firm surface of his chest. He stands there like a slab of concrete, zoned out and entirely unmoving. Maybe you’re not the only one who short-circuited.

Don’t be dumb.

He’s already shown you how disinterested he is in you; this has probably just confirmed how hideous he thinks your body is, how he’s so far out of your league that you couldn’t afford a goddamn ticket to his game. You’re mad at yourself for even considering his demeanor denotes anything other than big yikes energy. Is it shame that drives the tears to your eyes, or disappointment?

While you’re grateful for his aversion to your form, you wish he would say something. It’s not until you punctuate his name with another push that he seems to respond. He purses his lips as his eyes flicker up. You turn away to avoid his gaze and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Sorry. I’m an idiot,” he murmurs, watching sticky trails of blue slide down your back as if to navigate the maze of stretch marks lining your waist. “I… You can take a cloth from the rack. They’re all clean.”

The lock clicks as you mutter a quiet, “Thanks.”

“You can toss your stuff in the wash if you want,” he offers from behind the door.

“Okay.”

It goes quiet and you’re about to unclasp your bra when he speaks again. “It’s right across the hall. I had some stuff to wash anyway. I’ll start it and you can throw your stuff in if you want. Just… Yeah. Okay. Sorry. Bye.”

You don’t say anything, voice caught in your throat. You wait it out for a few seconds to make sure he’s really gone before releasing it in the form of a screech, muffling the sound with the balled up fabric of the shirt he’s given you.

“Hey, Y/N?”

Your screech comes to an abrupt halt.

“I just… Don’t want you to think I walked in on purpose.” He pauses to let you reply. When you don’t, he takes a deep breath and holds it, releasing it in a puff to apologize once more.

You hate to admit that you believe him when you know you’re so easy to fool. Another drip slowly begins to trail down your back. Can it get more uncomfortable than this?

Pushing him from your mind, you work quickly to clean yourself up and assess the damage to your bra. Parts of it are damp and sticky and it smells like blue-raspberry. As it drops to the floor to join your shirt, you turn your attention to the soft black fabric recently given to you. You catch your reflection in the well-lit mirror and the shirt is over your head in a second, draping your form in a shapeless shadow. No one will be able to tell you’re not wearing a bra, not that it matters. At least you’re comfortable.

Against your better judgement, you pull the collar up to your nose and lean your cheek against it to inhale the scent. It’s subtle and devoid of cologne, but it’s unmistakably Jungkook: like soft fluffy clouds at dusk paired with a warm ocean breeze that carries the scent of a distant peach grove. There’s something about it that makes you ache to wrap yourself in it forever. It’s calming. For a minute, you forget it isn’t yours. He isn’t yours. And you shouldn’t want him to be.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

A couple of card games, never-have-I-ever stories, and flip-cup matches later, you’re resting your head against the base of the couch with Jennie’s fingers gently stroking your hair while you listen to Jimin recount some stories about fancy parties that turned into social scandals. Jungkook has avoided eye contact with you since the mishap. While you’re kind of relieved that he seems to be avoiding you, at the same time you know you’re just waiting for this nuclear bomb of tension to explode; it’s inevitable.

Taehyung is sitting cross-legged on the floor nearby, fascinated by the show Yoongi put on about glass-blowing. The two of them have been sucked in for some time, only passively excluding themselves from conversation as the night progresses. Hobi was out like a light after shot roulette. If this evening was a song, Hoseok’s steady, deep breaths from the corner of the room have provided a comforting white noise for its composure.

With Seokjin’s suggestions for spin the bottle and strip poker unanimously shut down, he’s taken to sulking on the Switch. Jungkook sits near him to explain what he’s doing wrong in the game every five seconds.

Namjoon howls with laughter beside you, enthralled with the conversation like the social butterfly he is. It’s kind of hard to count on him acting as your pillow at this stage of the night. Jennie’s sprawled on the couch, her eyes closed as she pets your hair. Each pass of her fingers diminishes in range of motion until you find yourself nuzzling against her hand like a cat. She awakens enough to continue for a bit longer, long enough to allow you to drift. You feel yourself sliding against the couch but the energy to do anything about it has long since been expended.

It’s Taehyung who first notices the droop of your head. So he crawls to where you’re hunched over and places a gentle palm over your shoulder in an attempt to rouse you before you fall too deeply into slouched slumber.

“You’ll hurt your neck sleeping like that,” he says softly.

It’s enough to jolt you awake in a minor panic, body tensing and gulping a breath like you don’t remember how lungs work. Behind his ashen side-swept bangs, his dark eyes meet yours. There’s safety in them. You relax.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Do you want a bed, sweetheart?” he asks.

You’re already leaning into his touch, too inundated with sleep to worry yourself over the pet name. With a small mumble, you drift towards the floor with his gentle guidance, where Yoongi ensures a pillow waits for your head.

“What? Bedtime already?” Jin teases. “Do Jimin’s stories bore you that much?”

“Hey!” Jimin frowns, peeking over Namjoon’s shoulder. “Don’t spread lies. Y/N loves my stories, right?”

You mumble something incoherent in response, but it’s a defensive statement nonetheless.

Namjoon glances in your direction and smirks. “We’ll wake her up if she starts snoring.”

Jungkook doesn’t look up until he hears you gasp. A pang of irritation stirs in his chest as he watches Tae lull your sleepy form towards the floor. The way he calls you “sweetheart” is innocent enough, but the hand on your shoulder is wholly unnecessary. It’s not like you can’t find the way down yourself.

Your features relax as soon as your head hits the pillow and Jungkook reminds himself this isn’t a competition. He eyes the baggy fabric billowed around your arms and tightens his jaw to hide a smile. It’s not a competition. So why does it feel like he’s winning?

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You awaken with a shiver and an unmistakably full bladder, which would be a poor choice to ignore. The room is quiet, save for a few snores and the hum of the vents. You sit up and rub an eye, brow still furrowed as you squint into the darkness.

Namjoon is on the couch with one arm behind his head and the other clutching a throw pillow to his chest. Hoseok’s form is still in the corner of the room. When you stand you see Seokjin’s limbs splayed haphazardly around him, the Switch resting on his chest. With careful navigation you make your way down the hall to the bathroom, relieved to find it vacant. Even though you complete your urgent task quickly, leaving the well-lit space allows the darkness to feel foreign as you step into the hall.

You want to give your eyes time to adjust, so you stand there a moment with your palm against the wall. It smells faintly of clean linens, reminding you the shirt you’re wearing is not your own. Maybe now is a good time to pick through the dryer for your things. The thought of someone else handing your bra to you in the morning makes you want to terminate all executive functions.

You tiptoe around, feeling your way to the closet containing the dryer. Much to your surprise your shirt and bra are folded neatly on top of the machine. Laziness strikes. You give a quick glance around just to make sure no one is around before you pull the black mass of fabric from your torso. There’s still a hint of warmth when your clothes meet your skin.

As you bend down to pick up the shirt, a creaking sound catches your attention. It’s subtle and you want to dismiss it as someone’s restless dreaming, but the more your ears strain to listen, the harder your brain works to identify the sound.

There’s a soft feminine moan followed by a hushed plea to quiet down. Something clicks in your brain. Namjoon was on the couch in lieu of Jennie. Good for her.

Immediately after your realization, your stomach churns with fear. Who is it? Why didn’t she tell you? It can’t be Hobi, Jin, or Namjoon, but your mind spins trying to gather the remainder of options. Despite knowing you shouldn’t, you listen in anyway like a total creep.

It's easy to miss the silent footfalls of the man on his way to the kitchen. He cocks his head to the side as he squints at your form, still half asleep. What are you doing standing in the middle of the hall?

"You okay?"

"What are you doing up?" you hiss, spine straightening at the sound of Jungkook’s voice.

The irritation that masks your guilt rubs him the wrong way. His mouth upturns into a pout and the furrow of his brow deepens. "I'm thirsty . Is that illegal now?"

Words struggle to leave your mouth. The silence gives way to the creaking bed beyond the nearby door. His tired features awaken, his body tensing up. Trapped by his stupefied wide-eyed gaze, you freeze and prepare for the teasing. A sly smugness gains control of his face. Suddenly he’s like the women gossiping around the admissions office.

“Who’s she fucking?” he whispers, excitedly leaning closer to the door.

You purse your lips. It’s really none of anyone’s business, but you’re curious and you can’t really say shit to object now that someone else is wondering the same.

“Dunno,” you whisper back, voice barely audible.

A masculine grunt from the other side prompts the involuntary clench of your cunt. There’s some shuffling and a loud smack, followed by the muffled sound of Jennie’s satisfied moan. The guy says something but he speaks so softly you can’t make sense of whatever he’s saying. Suddenly a quick, wet slapping of skin-on-skin grows in pace and volume along with the heat in your face. You wonder if it’s radiating enough for Jungkook to feel the heat because he turns his attention towards you.

Please be a dream.

Your mouth is dry as fuck but still you try to swallow. He watches you nervously dart your tongue out to wet your lips, a smug smile seemingly stained on his face. You really wish you could stop putting yourself in these situations with him, but if you’re being honest your heart races with anticipation every time.

You mouth a questioning “what” rather than trust yourself to speak at a hushed volume.

He leans in, his breath warming the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I got it.”

The word comes out louder than intended. “Who?”

You regret the decision to turn your face towards him. He’s so close. He stifles a laugh as he shushes you but you can still smell the liquor on his breath. Even though you start to shy away, when he grabs your arm you allow him to lead you towards the kitchen.

“You…” he pauses to grab a cup from the counter, beginning to fill it with filtered tap water, “are so funny.”

“Why?” you grumble, eyeing his cup with envy while you’re plagued with the worst case of dry-mouth.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Nevermind.”

Now you really want to know. Before you can ask again he finishes his cup of water with a satisfied click of his tongue. He says the name softly: Yoongi.

“Yoongi?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

You blink a few times, staring down his profile in the soft glow of the dim light. Is he lying? He’s got no reason to do so. You’ll have to grill Jennie tomorrow for details.

“Huh,” you murmur, trying to picture what Yoongi might look like in such a scenario. Your mind wanders long enough to be startled by the fresh cup of water Jungkook thrusts towards you.

“Here.”

The amused look he offers has you wondering if he possesses a mind-reading superpower. You cast your eyes to the cup and drink, unsure if it will satisfy your thirst in the way you need.

“Thanks.”

Your mind wanders again. Jennie has someone for the night. You don’t, not even in the most innocent of ways. Why don’t you? Maybe Hobi or Jin would let you snuggle up. That would be weird though, wouldn’t it? Should you wake them up to ask? Namjoon might let you, but there’s no room on that couch for two sleeping bodies and he would never let you live it down if you laid on his chest all night. What a weird world that would be.

“Don’t think about it too much.” He nudges you playfully.

The panic on your face blows the cover that you might be thinking of anything else. “I’m-I’m not.”

“Oh, okay.” He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners like he’s about to laugh. Even though he doesn’t, you can pretty much hear it in your head. “My bad.”

Tension weighs down the air around you, making your chest heavy with the buzzing of your nerves. You bring the cup to your lips to avoid saying anything stupid, eyes trained on his for longer than they should be.

Does he feel it too? You’re left wondering when he breaks the unofficial staring contest, turning his attention to the fridge. Probably not.

Goddamn him for being shirtless. Why can’t the man just wear clothes? The muscles in his arm flex as he presses the ice dispenser just long enough to deposit a couple of cubes into his palm. “Do you need anything?”

Arms. Bed. Companionship. A really good dicking.

The thought hits you like a truck. With everything that’s happened do you really want to further blur those lines? You swallow and shake your head. It’s easy enough to tell you’re holding back; you wear your feelings on your face. His tongue makes a brief appearance, darting out to wet his upper lip before popping the cubes in his mouth.

“Well if you do...” He crunches on the ice a bit and thoughtfully adds, “You know where I sleep.”

“That sounds like an invitation,” you muse with a coy smile and a slight roll of your eyes.

He shrugs and nonchalantly shoves his hands in his pockets, winking at you with a sly grin. “Maybe it is.”

The fact that he suggested the possibility doesn’t bother you. What bothers you is that such an invitation doesn’t bother you at all. In fact, tendrils of hope spread from your heart to your belly, filling it with warmth. You have to make a joke if you want to hold any sort of control over your encroaching feelings of loneliness.

“Sounds like you really want a dick tattoo on your chest, huh?”

“Could be a story worth telling.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, the everlasting grin spreading wider to showcase his perfect teeth.

You choke on a laugh, unsure if he’s being facetious just to test your reception. So you treat it as a halfhearted request to be left with an open ended answer: “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

His nose scrunches up like he’s about to laugh as he passes, giving you a tiny wave even as he’s making his way back to his room. “‘Night, Princess.”

The warmth is quickly nullified by the sudden low timbre of his voice. Your belly surges with adrenaline, the heat within replaced with an inescapable electric chill up your spine; it makes your skin tingle with goosebumps, followed by a shiver that wracks your body with tremors.

As soon as he’s out of sight you scurry back to your claimed spot on the living room floor. You should sleep, but fluffing your pillow doesn’t make the floor less hard. The throw blanket you pull over your body doesn’t make it less cold. No matter how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut, it doesn’t make your thoughts less chaotic. You should really sleep, but you can’t.

Again you tiptoe past the sleeping form of Seokjin and the soft groans of your friends still enjoying each other’s company, heart racing as you approach the closed door you seek. Do you text? Do you knock? Do you just walk in? Your resolve wavers even as your knuckles softly rap against the door.

You listen with held breath, attempting to discern any sort of answer. The wait isn’t long. Jungkook swallows hard when he opens the door, his long hair disheveled, eyes blown out, and sweatpants hanging low around his waist. He seems completely stunned that you’re actually standing before him. The pair of you keep your eyes locked, reading one another in the low light as if treading through a silent conversation into unknown territory. It seems like an eternity until he steps aside and gestures you in.

The door clicks closed and featherlight fingers brush against your arm, immediately causing the skin to bristle and rise. You mean to tell him you came for a comfortable place to sleep. You mean to tell him you want his body heat for warmth and nothing else. You mean to tell him there's a kink in your neck, your back is sore, the throw blanket barely covered your legs, and your mind can't rest when your body is so restless. Instead your held breath stutters its way out of your mouth.

It’s too easy to lose yourself in the way he gently passes his fingertips down your arms. His chest is firm and his embrace is warm as his hands cross over your waist. Fuck, it feels good to be held.

He lowers his chin to your shoulder, turning his nose towards your neck. “Can I kiss you here?”

Your face explodes with a tingling heat and while you’re tempted to scream at the top of your lungs in response, you know you have to clear this up before it goes too far.

“I… didn’t come for that,” you murmur, already regretting your decision.

What’s wrong with making out? We can just have fun. Why do you have to worry about everything? You try to bargain with yourself, knowing full well you are a shitty poker player and a terrible liar, and you will definitely want more than anything you can get out of this night.

The soothing warmth falls away with a drop of his arms. A defeated chuckle escapes his mouth, breath fanning the skin at your neck. He mumbles something quietly to himself and takes a calculated step away. When you spin to face him his features are a sheepish mess of guilt and confusion. He shoves his hands in his pockets deep enough to force the band at his waist to stretch and snap back against his abdomen. This action very quickly reminds you just how hot he is. Fuck. Are you insane for turning him down?

“What do you want, then?"

For you to fuck me into next week.

You push the thought down with a firm swallow. "Can-can I sleep here?"

His eyes move from you, to the bed, back to you again. "Uh… yeah, yeah I guess so." He scrambles towards the mattress. "Just let me grab a pillow and I'll go--"

You pluck it from his grasp and hold it close to your chest before he can get very far. "Jungkook."

His features contort in confusion, unsure what to expect. You tuck your chin and bury your face in the pillow as you plop down on the edge of the bed. The words you say are muffled and hard to hear with the way you've hidden your face.

"What?" he asks with a tiny laugh, the inquiry softened by the smile in his voice.

You adjust your head so you can speak slightly away from the pillow. "Don't leave."

His heart immediately drops into his stomach because your voice breaks. It's clear that you’ve hidden your face for a reason other than embarrassment. You're crying. All humor leaves his body as he sits down beside you. He brings his arm up behind your back, intending to comfort you with a soothing motion like he’s seen Namjoon do, but he second-guesses himself and decides to fold his hands over his lap.

"Do you… want to talk about it?"

You’re unwilling to speak until you can get your shit together, so you shake your head and wait for the tightness in your throat to subside. Letting loneliness get the better of you makes you feel infuriated at yourself. Why are you crying? Things are fine. They’ve been fine. They kinda suck sometimes, but they’re mostly fine now! Everything is looking up. So why are you having a breakdown next to Jungkook in the middle of the night? This is the last place you would ever expect to have a panic attack.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your shallow rapid breaths bookending the apology.

“It’s okay.”

Have you ever heard his voice sound so soft and small? You peek up from behind the pillow and find his eyes staring back at you, full of worry, pity, and beauty. He’s so goddamn attractive. Putting a pause on the hyperventilation doesn’t seem to be an option. Maybe you should hold your breath so you stop gasping like a fish out of water. The moment you do your body trembles.

“It’s okay,” he encourages in a light, soothing tone. It’s not like he has a ton of experience with this kind of stuff, but he tries anyway. “What can I do?”

You force your eyes shut and apologize again as lightheadedness begins to set in, which only makes things worse because you drop the pillow and reach out for his hand, tapping his arm until your fingers meet his knuckles. Sandwiching your hand between his, he gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“Please, don’t leave,” you whisper. “I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”

“It’s okay. I’m not gonna leave.” He finally places his arm around your back; the natural instinct to comfort triumphs over his own abashedness.

You let him draw you in, welcoming his strength as yours fails you. There’s no space in the room for embarrassment and there certainly isn’t enough air in the room for your hungry lungs. Another weak apology slips from you as the full weight of your body crashes against him, face squishing against the flatness of his chest.

Oh shit.

He’s terrified. Surely you’ve just lost consciousness, but your rapid breaths and heaving shoulders indicate otherwise. As loudly as his brain screams at him to find someone more competent to help you, he scans the confines of his mind for a solution. Just as quickly as adrenaline prickles his lungs, it’s dispersed with the foggy memory of relaxation exercises.

“Y/N?” The plea of your name is quiet and hints at patience. "Can you breathe with me?"

He falls into a steady rhythm of long, deep inhales followed by pauses and large exhales. It takes a few repetitions but his exaggerated motions somehow make it to your ears. The movement of your shoulders slows and your eyelashes flutter against his skin. Even as you plant your hand against his chest in an attempt to rise, your heavy head remains in place. Bereft of strength, your arm quickly falls limp.

Goddamn it. You can’t even sit up on your own. You’re probably dying. This is the end. Goodbye oxygen-poor environment.

“Try,” he encourages, leading you with another slow inhale.

His voice is so low and calm. It coaxes you into a vague sense of trust, allowing you to do as he suggests. Cheek flush with the warmth of his chest, you focus on its rise, pause, and subsequent fall seconds later. It’s enough to keep you distracted from the irrational fear that you might faint.

Eager to regain some sense of independence, you grip his thigh to hoist yourself up. The muscles tense beneath your palm and your arm quivers on the verge of collapse.

“I’m sorry."

“Shhh just breathe with me." He cups the side of your head with one hand, gently rubbing his fingertips against your scalp. His other hand gives yours a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here for you, okay?”

Following his lead seems so effortless when he offers comfort so freely. It doesn’t take long until you’re fully synced and your unified breaths are the only sound filling the room. His body is steady as his fingers still work against your scalp in slow downward repetitions. Even though you’ve recovered from the sweaty, lightheaded sensation and there’s no longer a risk of fainting, you can’t bring yourself to move away. This feels so fucking nice. He’s being so fucking nice.

“Are you asleep?” he whispers, unwilling to take the chance of disturbing you.

When the motion of his hand slows, you give your answer in the form of a small groan, nuzzling your head towards it as a plea for him to continue and he laughs. "Does that mean I have to sleep right here?"

"Maybe."

You hum and lazily tilt your head back. An uncontrollable smile spreads your lips as your eyes fall upon his lopsided grin. It wouldn't take much to close the distance, just a bit of courage and stupidity. At this point Bravery is hard to muster, but you're hoping he can provide what you can't. There's no doubt he can follow the direction of your gaze. He does. A flash of his tongue wets his lips and he leans in, the dark pink flesh of his lips glistening in the low light.

His eyelids sheathe any lingering logic floating behind them. His fingers tilt your chin towards him and a shiver wracks your body. The subtle tremble just below his fingertips along with the sudden jerk of your shoulders gives him pause.

"You should... get under the blankets," he murmurs, breaking the moment quicker as it had come. Before you can try to revive it he's already on the other side of the bed, rearranging the sheets behind you.

Disappointment and relief swirl in your gut and bubble with guilt as they pass through your chest and catch in your throat. At least the pillow is soft against your head and the mattress is squishy and supportive, a comfort you definitely didn't have when you were on the floor. He’s been surprisingly chill about all of this, a fact you’re thankful for as he pulls the comforter up to your chin and climbs into the space beside you. You frown at the way he settles on top of the layers, keeping the warmth of his skin farther away than you’d like. His chest is riddled with goosebumps as he rolls to face you.

“You okay?”

Instead of answering, you gracefully avoid with a question of your own, “Aren’t you cold?”

You don’t have to say another word. He shimmies underneath the covers and gives you a devilish smirk. “Not anymore.”

Not a second later, you have an arm stretched over his chest and a leg swung over his waist. You’re past the point of caring if this is stupid. He’s warm. He’s been kind. He’s here.

"Jungkook?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Much to your surprise he scoops an arm under your neck to nestle closer, his hands molding the perimeter of your skin into the relaxed security of a silent embrace. For now, it’s enough.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Your eyes have to fight their way open to remind you that you’ve got the bladder the size of a pea. It’s still dark out, but barely. A tangled mop of black hair greets you in the low light. You almost forget where you are but you’re able to look past the curtain of twisted strands shielding the soft features of the man beside you. Jungkook looks so peaceful while he sleeps.

Face to face, his steady breath whispers against the edge of your cheek. He’s so close. It dawns on you you’re too close to him. As you start to wiggle yourself backward, the arm slung over your side tightens. He grumbles and ensures his thigh is comfortably slotted between yours by hooking his foot around your leg. His palm slides across your lower back and ushers you closer.

God, that feels nice.

Too bad your bladder doesn’t agree. You push against his chest and attempt to untangle your limbs but he tightens his grip.

“I have to pee,” you hiss in defense of your need for departure.

He groans as you push him again, but reluctantly allows you to slink away, his heavy limbs dragging over you as you go. Thankfully your excursion out of the bedroom is short and uneventful. No one is around to call you out for sneaking back into the bedroom you probably shouldn’t be in anyway. It looks like he’s still asleep when you return, having assumed a position that isn’t facing you. Disappointing, bur probably for the best.

After burrowing under the covers and getting settled, you find yourself staring into the darkness. The mattress shifts behind you and before you can ask what he’s up to, his leg swings over your side and his arm pulls you close to his chest. Your mind goes blank as he sighs against your ear, his voice raspy and weak when he speaks.

“You came back.”

He sounds surprised. You are too. No words come to your lips so you offer none. You just nuzzle against his arm and pretend you’re going back to sleep. But you don’t. He knows it. There’s no need to prove it. Still his fingers brush over your collarbone on the way to your neck. His knuckles gingerly trail across your jaw and leave featherlight echoes along your cheek.

What possesses you to turn your mouth to him? Fuck loneliness? Fuck these stupid firewall boundaries? Fuck pretending like you don’t want this? His tattooed middle finger makes contact with the chapped skin of your lips. Not long after, the wet heat of your tongue presses against the pad. He takes a deep breath through his nose and slowly exhales. Something stirs in your belly when you realize the air that escapes him is unsteady. This prideful sense of power quickly ushers you to dip the tip into your mouth.

You threaten to swallow him whole. He stiffens. Are you trying to tease him or drive him insane? He doesn’t have the self-control for this, not right now, not when he's just waking up with a lingering sense of sexual tension, mixed signals, and moral confusion. The raging boner doesn't help. He knows if he crosses a line with you now, it will be very hard to uncross it, especially in the sober incoming light of day. Still...

This is dangerous. It’s a thought you both share. It’s a thought you both ignore as Jungkook’s pinky cradles your chin. His thumb settles against your jaw as he sinks his finger into your mouth, just past the nail, then slowly back out until you’re barely kissing the tip. The moment he teases the opening in your lips, you pucker and guide him deeper until his finger rhythmically glides over your tongue. You can almost imagine it plunging into your cunt.

The moment you roll your hips back to meet his pelvis, he groans a small, croaky noise against your neck. A surge of wetness soaks your panties, clit pulsating with the idea of gaining some friction in the event this turns into some horny, hormone-induced, teenage-style dry-humping session. You’re pleased with yourself, especially for the brief moment in which, what is most certainly his dick, rubs against your ass. Eager to repeat the action with fervor, you rolls your hips again. This time the muscles of his thigh tighten and squeeze against your side, trapping you from seeking satisfaction. His finger leaves your mouth with a pop!

“Jungkook?” you question innocently, trying your best to casually entice him with a firm wiggle of your hips.

I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t. Logic finally begins to creep back into his brain.

“We should sleep,” he whispers, a faint attempt to convince himself more than you.

Persistent bravery compels your hand to grab his before the moment passes. “Maybe I don’t want to sleep.”

The way his body goes stiff transmits a jolt of instant regret up your spine. He doesn’t say anything and you’re too afraid of what might come out of your own mouth. You wish you could sink deep into the pillowtop beneath you and never rise again. As seconds pass, they feel more like minutes — minutes in which you have nothing that will save you from the humiliation of his unspoken rejection.

“You don’t mean that,” he finally says.

“And if I do?” You place his hand over your chest and press it down against your tit.

His heart pounds within his ribcage and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He squeezes, kneading what he can through your clothes. Would he like to fuck you? Of course. It’s always lurking somewhere in his mind whenever you come around. Is it a good idea? Absolutely not. He feels guilty for even entertaining it now. It’s difficult to refuse with his body on autopilot, telling him to glide his hand under your shirt and grind his dick against your ass. Somehow he doesn’t. His hand settles on your waist instead.

You didn’t want to last night. Nothing’s changed since then, Princess.

Except it has. You’re both lucid now. In the light of day with sober mind, he feels weird. An uncomfortable stomachache accompanied by weights in his chest brings a heaviness to his thoughts, a feeling too foreign to put words to even as he tries to detect the cause. It feels bad. Real bad.

“You don’t,” he says plainly.

“How do you know?”

Your question exacerbates his guilt, even as you’re tempting him. Why do things have to be so complicated with you? He can make you feel good. You’d probably taste like heaven and he could drink the sweet nectar between your legs all morning. Your cries of ecstasy would ring throughout his room and soak his sheets. But what then? It's not like he can ghost you, and he's not boyfriend material. You're a temptation too hot to touch, even though he would gladly let the flames lick his skin. The fleeting pleasure he can provide isn’t worth the tears that will follow and the disruption in the friendship dynamic. Or is it?

Impulsivity is so much easier. Fuck the consequences. Let's not worry about later. Let's feel good right now. That's what he's used to. Instinct dictates that's the answer. It's how he's managed his relationships (or lack thereof) all this time. But this road leads nowhere good for you. Maybe that guilt is what’s weighing so heavily on him. You're naïve and sweet and you've obviously confused him for someone who is a good fit for your affection. He knows better than to think of himself being worthy of such a thing. Should he selfishly allow the heat continue to rise, your tears are inevitable. And he promised.

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You want to tell him you don’t care if it hurts, that you’re cool with having a… whatever the fuck you’d have with him, but you still don’t believe such a fat lie, so you swallow it down. You’re not a casual one-night-stand kind of person. Friends with benefits seems like a disaster in waiting. So what are you even doing here? What are you looking for in the arms of a man who only knows that world?

“Just make me feel good.” It sounds like a plea from a broken woman bargaining with herself. It is. You both know it. It’s pathetic to keep propositioning him yet here you are.

He reminds himself once more to hold his ground, even as you plead for the opposite. I promised. You're too important to-

He cuts the thought off, rolls onto his back, and sighs.

You flop around to face him but his arm is draped over his forehead, covering his eyes so you can’t get a read on his expression. His head is somewhere far from here; that much is apparent. You feel guilty and stupid for even sticking around at this point.

“What would make you feel good?” he asks, almost sounding defeated, adding to your guilt.

Just look at me, you think dejectedly.

“I’m sorry. This was dumb of me. I'll go,” you mumble.

"Stay." He sits up the moment you start to pull the covers away from your body, reaching but never touching your body. "I'm..." he pauses, something in his voice weak and unsure, "please stay."

A foolish scenario plays in your head a dozen different ways. He looks at you and smiles. He tells you he wants you. You dip underneath that arm and kiss him right on the mouth. You leave a trail of kisses down the length of his neck. You trace the divot in his collarbone with your tongue. You show what your mouth can really do. You turn this into… something.

Hope spurs you on while fear paralyzes your body. It’s all just big brain fantasy, but you’re still here, even after the brain bubble bursts. After a quiet moment of inaction, you snuggle up to his bare chest and drape an arm around him. The comfort of his reciprocation is immediate, soothing the sting of his earlier rejection with a gentle touch.

Seconds stack atop one another and you lose track easily. The moment he moves his fingers along your scalp, a muted melody vibrates against his closed lips. Like magic, the familiar lullaby quickly lures you to sleep before you can place the tune.

A moment later the door closes behind him.

#bts smut #bts fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #bts fic

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