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sassyhobbits · 3 years

Note

rowaelin with their first child and they get into that stranger anxiety phase and cry with everyone except when they're in their mothers arms and it's exhausting but also adorable but rowan sometimes feels like a bad dad because his kid doesn't want to be held by him so aelin has to reassure him and then some day this phase is finally over - prompt 😢🥺

ok i adored writing this one. dad rowan is so much fun to work with. i hope everyone enjoys!!

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In his over 300 years, Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius had been awoken by many different things. Whether it was a call to battle while sleeping in a war tent, a summons from his queen late at night, or a lover trying unsuccessfully to disappear quietly before dawn. Yet, none of these manners of waking up had filled him with as much dread as he felt currently.

He was woken in the middle of the night by a shrill shriek coming from the room that adjoined the one he shared with Aelin. In the recent months, what had once been a leisure room had been converted to a nursery for their new baby girl.

It took three years after Aelin’s coronation before they decided to start trying to have a child. It took another year before they were successful. Rowan counted his blessings. He had seen plenty of Fae couples take decades before they finally conceived.

Eliora was four months old now, which meant four months of troubled sleep for both him and his mate.

Rowan was instantly on alert at the sound of his daughter’s cries. He knew that they were no more than a normal babe’s troubles, but his instincts made him tense anyways. He quickly sat up, looking down at his wife quickly to see if she had woken up. Luckily, she still slept, likely beyond exhausted from the mix of raising a child and ruling a kingdom. If Rowan was successful, she wouldn’t have to wake up at all.

He got out of bed and swiftly stepped into the nursery, coming before Eliora’s crib. Her tiny face was pinched up in dainty outrage, small limbs flailing as she cried. Rowan took a deep breath, sending a prayer up to the gods more out of habit than faith at this point, and picked his daughter from the crib. Hopefully, this would be the time he could get her to stop crying.

The little princess shrieked and protested whenever she was in anyone’s arms besides her mother’s. Rowan’s included.

“I’ve got you, my little light,” Rowan whispered to his daughter, cradling her tiny body to his bare chest and lowering himself onto the rocking chair they kept beside her crib. “Everything’s alright.”

Despite his soothing words, Eliora still continued to cry. It broke Rowan’s heart to hear, broke it even more to know that nothing he did could seem to calm her down.

“Please stop crying, love,” Rowan pleaded, threading his fingers through the fine, silvery-blonde hair growing on his daughter’s head. “Your mother is so tired and needs her sleep.”

Unfortunately, even begging didn’t seem to work.

Over the sounds of Eliora’s cries, he heard the door hinges creek, and the sound of bare feet scuffing over stone. Rowan glanced over, finding Aelin walking towards him. Exhaustion weighed down her beautiful face, but her eyes were still full of fondness at the sight of the two of them.

Rowan looked to her apologetically before his face crumpled in defeat. “I can’t get her to stop crying. I’m so sorry, Fireheart.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love,” she whispered, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his hair. “Give her to me.”

Rowan handed the squirming bundle of blankets to his wife. Aelin situated their daughter in her arms before she lowered herself on Rowan’s lap, allowing him to wrap his arms around her waist, press a kiss to her shoulder, and begin to rock them.

Quickly, Eliora’s cries began to fade away. Her face unscrewed, looking at Aelin with those wide, Ashryver eyes that she had.

Aelin began to sing a low, Terrasenian lullaby as he continued to rock the three of them. It never ceased to amaze him how good she was with their daughter, how quickly she was able to sooth her temper. He only wished that he could do the same, that Eliora would look at him the same way she looked at Aelin and not scream and scream and scream.

Rowan’s heart was full of love as he watched Eliora’s eyes begin to droop shut at the soothing rocking motion and the sound of her mother’s voice. It wasn’t long before she was once again asleep, the night perfectly silent.

Rowan helped Aelin stand, keeping a hand against her back as she brought their daughter back to her crib and laid her down. Perfect. She truly was perfect.

A gentle hand on his arm drew his attention away from the slumbering babe. Aelin nodded her head towards their room and Rowan dutifully followed, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“I’m sorry, Fireheart,” Rowan said again, drawing Aelin into his arms and kissing her forehead. “I know you’re exhausted.”

“No more so than you.”

Rowan could only sigh, pressing his lips together tightly. His emotions were troubled, and he should have known that Aelin was going to notice. She leaned back slightly, peering up at his face.

“I know what you’re thinking, Rowan, and you’re wrong,” she said matter-of-factly.

Rowan wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t help but ask, “What am I doing wrong?”

He had faced many challenges over his years. Wars and battles and tortures. He had survived them all and came out victorious. And yet, the thing that brought him to his knees, was the fact that he couldn’t bring comfort to his own daughter when she needed it. A baby had finally defeated him.

“You know you’re not doing anything wrong,” Aelin said firmly. “The nurses said this happens sometimes. It’s not your fault.”

Rowan had heard this what felt like a thousand times. It did little to soothe his troubles.

Rowan was good at many things. He was a warrior and a general, had stepped confidently into the role of king consort. His hands could kill and heal and build, but they couldn’t get Eliora to stop crying. He couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, being a father… wasn’t something that he was made for.

It broke his heart to think. He remembered how excited he was when they found out Aelin was finally pregnant, how they cried and kissed and clung to each other, whispering about the future. He had been ecstatic, but also terrified. He knew Aedion, who had welcomed his own son into the world a year before Aelin got pregnant, had felt the same before he was born. But, Aedion hadn’t had the troubles Rowan did. He had stepped into fatherhood gracefully, and his son loved him immensely.

“Hey,” Aelin said, a bit snappily. She put her hand on Rowan’s cheek and urged him to look at her. In those eyes was a familiar fire. “Stop that. I know what’s going through your head. You’re a wonderful father.”

Rowan sighed and hung his head, pressing Aelin’s hand more firmly against his cheek. “How can I be a good father if I have no idea what I’m doing?”

“Do you think I’m a bad mother?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Well, I don’t know what I’m doing either,” Aelin said. “Neither did Aedion or Lysandra. No new parent has any idea what they’re doing. It’s part of the job.”

She made it sound so easy. Aelin had always had a knack for that.

“I wonder if there’s some secret behind it,” Rowan mused as Aelin tucked herself back into his chest and wrapped her arms around his torso.

He felt his wife shrug. “I don’t know… but if there was, I think it would be to love them. To support them. To do everything in our power to make sure they’re happy.”

“I love Eliora more than life. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

“I know, love.” Aelin rolled on the tips of her toes and brushed a soft kiss against Rowan’s mouth. “Now, all you need to do is have patience.”

He chuckled. “Look at you. Who would have ever guessed that Aelin Galathynius would be lecturing me on patience.”

Her grin was a slash of white in the dark. “I’ve been told I’m wise beyond my years.”

“Who the hell has ever told you that?”

“People. Now, will you come back to bed with me?”

“Of course, Fireheart.”

They climbed back under the covers, pressing their bodies close. Aelin fell back asleep almost comically quickly. Rowan wasn’t far behind, holding his wife tightly throughout the night.

…

Another month went by and little changed. Both Rowan and his wife were getting little sleep during the night, leading to some groggy mornings. He had seen Aelin taking short naps at her desk or dozing off when an advisor spoke for too long. She would, of course, deny it if Rowan ever brought it up, so he wisely stayed silent.

Eliora still abhorred being held by anyone except Aelin. The fact that it wasn’t just him brought Rowan a bit of solace. His daughter cried when held by Lysandra or Fenrys or Elide. She had a particularly nasty meltdown last time Lorcan had held her.

“I know, sweet girl,” Aelin had murmured, taking Eliora from Lorcan. “I wouldn’t want to be that close to him either.”

Still, Eliora’s reactions didn’t deter Rowan from trying to hold and soothe her, though he had not yet been victorious. Patience, Aelin had said. It was easier said than done.

The sun had set below the Staghorns hours ago. Eliora was asleep in the nursery, Aelin was treating herself to a long soak in the tub, and Rowan sat in one of the plush armchairs they kept in their room, sharpening and polishing some of his blades.

It was an easy practice to get lost in. The simple, repetitive movements were a welcome distraction. A good way to cool down before bed.

However, his hands froze when he heard a tiny whimper sound from the nursery that quickly morphed into a shrill cry. Eliora.

Rowan placed his blades down on the low table before him, pushing to his feet and quickly striding into the nursery.

Eliora was wiggling as she wailed. Rowan wished he could read her mind so he knew exactly what was bothering her and how he could help. But, all he could do was take a deep, bracing breath and scoop his daughter into his arms.

“What’s wrong, little light?” Rowan whispered, carrying her over to the rocking chair. “What is it?”

Eliora’s only response was to continue crying.

Rowan sighed, wondering how much longer he had before Aelin got out of the bath and came in to calm Eliora down. He had seen Aelin do it countless times. She would take Eliora into her arms, smile down at her, start to whisper nonsense or sing a low lullaby. She made it seem so easy.

“Everything’s alright, Eliora,” Rowan murmured, switching to the Old Language. “I’ve got you. I’ll never let anything happen to you, little love.”

And then, something amazing happened.

Slowly, Eliora’s cries began to fade away to a whimper and then, to nothing at all. Rowan held his breath, worrying that one wrong move would put her back into a fit of hysterics. His daughter slowly opened her eyes and peered up at him.

Rowan smiled down at her. “You’re just as lovely as your mother. Just as stubborn, too.”

And then, as if she understood his little joke, Eliora flashed him a gummy smile. The shift in expression floored him. She had never given him a smile before.

Rowan felt his throat tighten and his eyes begin to burn, but he smiled back at the tears welled up. A tiny laugh escaped his throat. Finally, finally, he had done it.

Eliora’s chubby arms reached up. Rowan held out a finger, letting her wrap a tiny hand around it. He always forgot just how small she was.

“I love you more than you could possibly know, Eliora.”

He was too distracted by his daughter and the little grip she had on his finger to notice that Aelin had entered the nursery until she was almost upon them. Rowan looked up at his wife, knowing that his eyes were still watery and there were likely tear tracks streaking down his cheeks. Regardless, he beamed.

“It would seem, once again, that I was right,” Aelin said with a triumphant smirk.

“As you often are, my love.”

She laughed and dropped a kiss to his forehead before draping her arms over his shoulders, leaning over and watching their daughter, who was studying them with wide eyes. Once again, Eliora smiled. Rowan would never tire of the sight.

“She looks like you when she smiles,” Aelin mused.

“You think?”

She nodded slowly, reaching out and running her knuckles along the smooth curve of Eliora’s cheek. “I still can’t believe she’s ours. She’s just so… perfect.”

“Like her mother.”

Aelin snorted. “Kiss ass.”

“Maybe a little.”

They faded into silence, simply standing there, wrapped up in their little, blossoming family. They stood there until Eliora’s eyes fluttered shut once more and she drifted off into a peaceful sleep. One she enjoyed for the entirety of the night.

Rowan didn’t know what he had done to deserve such bliss, but he knew it must have been something good.

#every time i write a baby fic im like #is it obvious that i know next to nothing about babies #rowaelin #my writing #tog

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lepusrufus · 3 years

Text

Wrong victim

Pure comedic self indulgence because we all need a funny break before shit starts to really go down in To bargain for immortality. Set quite a few years after the game events, around 2025, and is pure ridiculousness so enjoy.

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Her response to being unceremoniously shoved in the back seat of a car that looked like it's seen far better days was merely an annoyed grunt. It turned into an eye roll when the man that climbed in after her pulled everything out of her pockets.

"Wouldn't want you calling anyone," he said with a toothy grin while waving her phone in front of her.

"Trust me, that won't be necessary," she replied in a deadpan voice. It's not like she would call the police, she wanted them involved even less than her kidnappers probably did. As for other people she could reach out to, a phone call would be redundant really. "Do be careful with it, I'd hate to lose the photos of Daniela sleeping upside down."

After maybe ten minutes of driving down the barely illuminated outskirts of the city, and having her pockets emptied, dagger included, the burly man driving pulled up inside a parking lot. It was large and overgrown with weeds and vines reclaiming spaces that had been left without human activity for who knows how long. The lamp posts were nothing more than useless concrete pillars as they provided no illumination, resulting in her pitiful captors having to use flashlights as they made their way into the dilapidated factory.

Nicole sneered at the sight of collapsed walls and rusty metal walkways, reminding her of the one particular Lord she couldn't stand the sight of. She decided a distraction was needed from unpleasant memories.

"Abandoned factory?" She whistled. "How many cliche movies have you guys watched?"

She let out a chuckle when the man that had previously taken her phone shoved her ahead. Hopefully they wouldn't tape her mouth shut, there was so much fun to be had by mockery alone.

It didn't take long before all three of them entered a dimly lit room, numerous candles placed all around, either on desks or candle supports nailed to the walls. The three more people inside were wearing long black robes and white masks covering their faces. Nicole had to laugh.

"Oh so you're that kinda crazy."

"Shut the fuck up and stay put," the man holding her hands behind her back said while pushing her into a chair.

He then moved to a table and Nicole couldn't help but scowl at how unceremoniously her beloved dagger had been thrown on the wooden surface. Afterwards, he put on a mask not unlike the others, except with red streaks going down from the eye holes, and started to prepare something in the middle of the room. The others joined in on the task, all but the one man that had been put in charge of making sure Nicole stayed put. Because of course she could easily escape five people much bigger than her at any given moment.

She decided to take a look around, at the various dusty books opened on pages she couldn't quite make out from where she was sitting. A few pages were laying around, either with diagrams or with scribbled notes. Had she really stumbled upon a cult? She couldn't wait to have a laugh about it with her family.

"So," she started, craning her neck a little so she could see her captor's face. "Who you gonna sacrifice me to huh? I wanna know before you slice up my throat or whatever you're planning on."

A confused and suspicious look was thrown her way, surely due to the complete nonchalance she spoke with about what would surely be her untimely death. "The… the devil," was his unsure reply.

Nicole let out a small laugh. "Oh trust me, you do not want to meet her. Though devil is not quite the word," she continued despite a few other pairs of eyes landing on her. "Maybe a pissy fungal overlord with an unhealthy obsession for crows. Yes that's more like it," she finished with another chuckle.

The man with a slightly different mask, who seemed to be their self appointed leader, got up from where he was nailing something to the floor and walked up to her in a few long strides. His eyes were barely visible, but anger was clearly distinguishable.

He pulled out a knife, old, rusty and with a black worn out handle so typical of a kitchen utensil, and so incredibly ugly compared to the beautifully ornate daggers that decorated her home. She had to laugh when the dull blade got pressed to her throat.

"Will you shut up for one minute?!" He raised his voice slightly, as much as someone who was doing something they didn't wish to be caught doing would dare to. It didn't deter her though.

"Oh sweetie this is just what foreplay looks to me," she started with a grin that made her wish she had fangs like the better part of her relatives. "But please do me a favor and stay quiet, there's no fun in hunting if my darling finds you within five seconds due to you screeching like a broken squeaky toy."

The man blinked for a few seconds, taken aback both by the words and by the apparent passivity towards having a knife at her throat. He stayed like that until one person that was working with some ropes behind interjected.

"Of all the people you could've taken, how did you find this unhinged bitch?!"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Nicole said, bending slightly to the side so the person that had spoken up would have a clear view of her sickly sweet smile.

After that exchange, her captors seemed happy to move things along quicker, working in silence and begrudgingly ignoring any remarks she would throw their way, including an observation on the downright dreadful quality of the rope they had. Quality that she regrettably got to experience when her wrist and ankles got tied to the nails in the floor, having her lay down in a starfish position. It kind of reminded her of sprawling on the bed she shared with Cassandra simply to annoy the brunette.

After loudly reciting something in latin, the leader bent down, same rusty knife in hand, and tipped her chin upwards to expose the neck. She did let out a wince when the blade sunk deep in her flesh and got dragged downward, towards her chest, leaving behind a choking sensation and the taste of copper in her mouth. The knife however only made it to the base of her neck, before the sound of metal crashing caught everyone's attention.

"What the fuck," the man whispered, thankfully pulling the blade out so her skin had the time to begin stitching itself back together. She still had to turn her head around and spit some blood that made its way into her mouth.

Before anyone else had a chance to speak up, the door was kicked open, one of the rusty hinges breaking completely, to reveal a rather angry Cassandra with her sickle in hand, ready for bloodshed.

There were a few seconds of stunned silence before the blade was unceremoniously thrown into the first person's skull, spinning through the air for only a few meters before getting embedded into the bone with a sloshing sound. Anyone else trying to escape through the one door was met with a similar fate. One person had their knees kicked inwards before a knife held at the same belt as the sickle came down to slash their throat. Another had their head smashed to bits against the nearest wall in the blink of an eye. And last, the burly man that had driven and kept an eye on Nicole, had his heart ripped through the bottom of his ribcage when Cassandra shoved him against one of the tables, scattering the books and papers that were by then stained crimson.

The remaining man, the leader, got grabbed by the shoulders and forcefully shoved into the same chair she had been sitting in not too long ago.

"Stay put and I'll let you live," Cassandra spoke, all the cruelty polished over decades upon decades of sporting the title of the family's most sadistic coming through those few words.

He gulped and nodded, eyes glossed over by the pure human terror now so unfamiliar to both of them.

She then turned around, expression softening like a switch had been turned behind golden eyes. "Nicole," she started, barely an edge of concern and irritation at the sight of her wife's bloody skin.

"Hi babe." The self satisfied grin almost had the brunette chuckling while she retrieved her sickle and Nicole's things.

The weapon was used to cut her free, a grimace pulling the corners of her black lips downward at the same quality observation her wife had priorly made, no doubt. A hand was offered to Nicole to pull herself up, while the other presented the familiar dagger that was gifted to her so many years ago.

"Will you do the honors love," Cassandra asked, with that beautifully sadistic smile.

"Of course," came Nicole's reply as her hand wrapped around the leather covered handle.

With some of the wretched ropes gathered from the ground, Cassandra made quick work of the man's hands and legs, securely tied to the chair and voice frantic.

"You said you would let me live!"

Cassandra laughed, a low ominous sound, while grabbing the mask and throwing it on the floor. She did love to see the terror in her victims' faces after all.

"Unfortunately my wife made no such promises," she finished with a forceful pull of hair that kept his head in one place as she moved to the back of the chair.

Nicole approached with the dagger already out of its holster and tapped the blade's point against her lips in thought for a few moments. She could simply slice his throat and be done with it, or stab him and leave him to bleed out, choking on his own blood. A hum made its way past her lips. No, no that would not do.

She grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt, pulling it up almost to the neck. After a few mental measurements and approximations were made, the tip of the blade finally found its way into muscle, drawing thin trails of blood and pained screams. It took a good five minutes to carve all the intricate details she wanted to, the swirling patterns cutting cleanly through skin, courtesy of her wife keeping the blade sharp and in top condition.

After she was content with the level of detail, and screams subsided to pathetic sobs, she took a step back and, with a hum, looked at Cassandra for a reaction.

"Oh dearest," the brunette said, looking over the man's shoulder and down at the bloody cuts on his abdomen and chest, forming a crude yet not unfitting replica of the Dimitrescu crest.

At the adoration that made its way past the cruelty in her wife's eyes, Nicole smiled and gingerly took a hold of her unoccupied hand, bringing it close to her lips and leaving a small kiss and a barely visible blood imprint on each knuckle.

"I take it that you approve of my… design choice," she asked with another glance down at the jagged lines that formed their family's symbol.

"It's wonderful," Cassandra replied, fangs shimmering slightly in the low light, exposed from the proud smile that tugged at her lips.

A gorgeous smile, really, that made something swell inside Nicole's chest no matter how many times she saw it. Truth be told, her rendition of the crest was quite lacking, never having had the artistic skills to quite capture the intricate details that formed it. Nevertheless, if it brought a smile to her wife's lips, she was more than content with it. How unfortunate that it had to be ruined.

She let out a sigh, still holding Cassandra's hand. "Too bad those pigs at the BSAA would quite disapprove of us leaving such things behind. Oh well," she shrugged, bringing the hand she was holding over to the man's abdomen. "Better it be ruined at your hands."

The next second, claws dug deep into flesh, slicing the muscle and everything underneath all the way up to the throat. It left five deep gashes over the fine cuts of her dagger, but the satisfaction did not dwindle. On the contrary, when the gurgling sounds finally stopped and the body went limp, her smile was still there, turning into light laughter when Cassandra licked her fingers only to visibly cringe.

"Say what you will about the dungeons, but at least we feed our livestock well," she spat, taking out a napkin from a pocket and wiping her fingers clean. "But with that disgusting thing out of the way, let me help you with that," she continued, grimace morphing into a sly smile when her eyes landed on Nicole's still bloody neck.

She gave her no time to disagree, not that she would, before she pushed her backwards slightly into the edge of a table. Nicole wasted no time in lifting herself up on the wooden surface, bringing their faces just a tad closer to being on the same level.

Cassandra dipped her head down, lips leaving teasing feather-like kisses on her jaw before lowering even further so she could drag her tongue up the length of her neck. It made a shiver run down Nicole's spine, that turned into an impatient tug of her wife's hair when the motion was repeated again and again, until no traces of blood could be seen on her neck, save for the crimson stains that made their way to the hem of her shirt.

Their lips met in a hungry kiss, full of fangs and smeared lipstick and the taste of copper so familiar to the both of them, albeit for different reasons. When Nicole's hands went to the first buttons of Cassandra's blouse, their kiss was broken with a sly smirk.

"This is such a dreadful place for such things, don't you think," the brunette said, all too amused by her wife's exasperated sigh.

"You started it," Nicole complained, but before the words were fully out of her mouth, she was tugged off the table and on the way out, ready to get back home and have a laugh about the irony of her capture. They would have to pick up where they left off at a later time.

#cassandra dimitrescu x maiden #unhinged maiden™ my beloved #tw: gore #cassandra being cassantra and comin to save her wifey #don't take this as a clue to how the mutation sequel may turn out #fanfic

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paralleledmediaexperience · 3 years

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right before my birthday back in May someone made a post about Jack needing more love and hugs, and I had this idea in the tags and then went and wrote about a thousand words of this and then. forgot it existed!! anyway I’ve mostly polished it up now. enjoy Jack telling one of his dads he loves him and then not only being hugged but also hearing it back!! it’s what our boy deserves!!!!!

Now with part two!!!!!

Jack hadn’t meant to fix everything, in his defense. Yes, they’d defeated god with his powers, which had unintentionally released Amara, who had agreed to take her brother’s powers from Jack and then let the world mostly be as long as she got the chance to see him every once in a while. She’d returned the universe to normal, with a few additions for their happiness, as Amara had said. Dean had choked out Cas’ name, and Amara had frowned before replying that it might take a bit more time.

They had gone back to the bunker and then the bunker had been thoroughly overrun the whole next week by- it seemed- everyone the Winchesters knew, including a few faces who were apparently as back from the dead by Amara’s hand as Mary was last time she owed a Winchester a favor. Through it all- old friends and odd allies and more- Jack knows Dean isn’t doing well. Isn’t sleeping well. There’s only been one night- well, Jack hadn’t seen Dean drinking but he’d heard Sam’s arguing and Dean’s short, choppy answers, and it was familiar enough.

He’d googled “what to do when my dad misses someone and we can’t talk to them yet,” and wikihow had good suggestions- he’d read through the sections for both short-term separations, and managing the death of a loved one. He hadn’t really been able to figure out which would be more helpful. It had turned out to be the death of a loved one, which… shouldn’t be surprising, no matter that Cas would be back. Soon.

He couldn’t make Dean do any of the things on the list, but it had suggested that the person would like to feel loved during their time of grieving.

And when he’d searched “how to make someone feel loved,” the first article had said the easiest way was simply to tell them. So when Dean hands him a plate of pancakes with the bacon cooked just how Jack likes it, Jack thinks it’s such a small thing to make his heart feel so big and warm. And he smiles and says, “Thanks Dean. I love you.”

Unfortunately, Jack hasn’t actually grabbed the plate when he says this, and Dean’s hands drop it. The sound of the plate shattering on the tile is only half as upsetting as the wounded look in Dean’s eyes as he looks back at Jack. And Jack isn’t sure why it went so wrong but he looks away immediately, the shame of causing that hurt somehow and the slow horror of realizing he’d ruined the breakfast that Dean had made him turning his stomach into knots. He steps back almost unconsciously before remembering the plate had just broken, and in just his socks, a piece of ceramic jabs into his heel and slices him open, and he actually can’t help the small cry of surprise and pain that slips out.

“Jeez, kid,” Dean breathes out, and Jack gets pushed into the nearest chair. “Get that out of your foot while I clean this up.”

The warm feeling in his chest was gone, pressed into something cold and tight in Jack’s throat. He’d just- the article had said it makes people happy to hear they are loved in times of grief.

He watches, silent as Dean turns off the stove and sweeps up the wasted food and plate pieces, soundly dumping it in the trash before digging under the sink for a second and coming out with a clean dishrag and a box of bandaids. It’s only when he sees Dean stop and take a quiet, private shuddering breath to forcibly relax his tensed shoulders that he lowers his gaze again. He picks the sharp sliver of plate out of his skin through the sock before peeling it off to examine the cut it left. Very shallow, but it still stretches two inches along on the inside of his heel, the blood sluggishly dripping out.

It’s not bad, but very inconvenient, so he almost heals it before remembering that Amara had said not to use his powers after she took Chuck’s powers. Not until she returned and okayed it, at least. He sighs, pinching it together with his fingers, half heartedly wishing it had been more awkward and antagonistic between his aunt and his dads, so he could have maybe convinced Dean that they shouldn’t listen to what Amara told him to do. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.

He hears Dean turn the water on to damp the cloth, but he can’t make himself look back up again. His gaze goes back down to the floor as Dean starts to turn back toward him, focusing on the small smear of red on the floor, where Dean had dragged the broom through the spots of blood he’d left.

He raises his hands as Dean approaches, ready to be handed the stuff to bandage himself up, but Dean just beats them away as he sits down next to Jack, hunching in as he grabs the injured foot. Jack still feels unbearably small in the silence between them, both him and Dean leaning in and feeling small and unwilling to speak as he wipes away the blood and then dries the skin around it. Jack grabs two of the bandaids and opens them, and Dean wraps them around the cut before patting it and drawing away, and Jack doesn’t know what else to do.

“Sorry,” He says softly, because he isn’t sure what he did wrong but it hurt Dean. And he wasn’t even angry, Jack could tell, cause his shoulders hadn’t tensed the way they did when Dean was trying not to lash out- they’d tensed the way they did when Dean was trying not to fall apart. Jack’s felt like he had to know the difference for a while now.

“Jack,” Dean says, and it’s so sharp that Jack jerks up to look at him. Had he read that wrong? Was Dean angry? But when he meets Dean’s eyes it’s still that hurting, the one that Jack could remember all the way from back when he was a newborn, or something close to it. “No, you don’t-” Dean lifted a hand to his face and dragged it down with a rough breath, and Jack wasn’t expecting him to look back at him but he did, eyes burning into Jack’s. “You don’t have to be sorry. That was on me- I dropped the plate.”

Jack tries not to squirm, because it’s not about the plate, is it? The food had been thrown away and the plate had hurt him, but he’d said he loved Dean and that had made him drop it. “I’m sorry that I-”

“Jack,” Dean cuts across again, and this time his brows are drawing together the way they do when he’s angry. But he looks away from Jack again, and he can tell somehow that it’s not anger at him. Dean doesn’t even want Jack to be looking at this anger. “You say whatever you want, okay? I’m not upset that you said it.”

It isn't that he thinks Dean doesn’t mean the words, but Jack’s also not sure Dean believes them either. “I am, though,” he says, petulant, crossing his arms and letting his foot fall back down to the ground, ignoring the bite of pain from treating the cut so roughly. “If it hurt you, I shouldn’t have-”

Dean cuts him off again. “No. Jack, that’s-” He struggles for a second, but Jack just wants to understand. Unbidden, he holds his breath and Dean draws his in, trying to find the words.

“You get to love me if you want to,” Dean grinds out, and Jack realizes there are tears gathering along his lower lashes. “And you get to tell me if you want to. This hurt ain’t about you.”

That does clear it up, somehow, and Jack nods and looks back down at his hands, realizing there’s still blood on his fingers, too. Dean turns away enough that they can almost pretend he’s not rubbing the tears out of his eyes. “I won’t say it if you don’t want me to either, though,” he says, and he grabs the cloth from the table where Dean had left it, finding a clean spot on the damp corner and using it.

“That ain’t how it works, kid.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just grabs the box of bandaids and closes it before gathering up the paper wrapping. It gets thrown out, and the box stowed back under the sink, and then Jack is just staring at Dean.

“How does it work?”

They both stop. Jack didn’t expect to actually let the question out, but it’s off of his lips before he can seal them.

Dean is frozen, staring at him.

“Not like that,” Dean says eventually, weariness dripping from each word. “Jack, do you… do you want us to say…”

He doesn’t say it, the kitchen fan blowing white noise into the quiet air between them. Jack knows that he could ask and Dean would say it right now. Dean always gives the people he loves what they want, what they need, and this would just be the next thing he could offer. Something he could give.

“I don’t need you to.” Jack says, honestly. “I know. I just wanted you to hear it, because I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to say it to you.”

Dean squints at him. “You... “ His eyes are wet again. Without warning, Dean grabs him and pulls him up, into a hug, and Jack grabs back as tight as he can, feeling lost. But it’s good, it’s good just like every time Dean hugs him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight as if he can’t feel the tears welling up in his own eyes, hot and stinging. “I love you too, Jack. I don’t get- you and-” Dean sputters off, still holding him. “If you want to hear it, you let me know. I’ll get better at it.”

“Maybe every once in a while,” Jack says, trying not to let his voice sound like he’s crying. It does anyway.

“Alright then,” Dean says, and he squeezes him one more time before letting go, turning away abruptly and bustling back to the stove. Jack wipes his eyes on his sleeve, his whole chest feeling empty and full all at once. The rag had fallen out of his hands sometime in their conversation, and he leans down to grab it, pausing to wipe up the blood on the floor. Dean comes back a minute later and pulls it out of his hand before passing him another plate. “Here, since the last one humpty-dumpty’d.”

They don’t continue the conversation. Jack eats his breakfast as Dean fixes himself another cup of coffee, and they sit quietly, waiting for Cas to come home.

#Jack Kline #Dean Winchester #supernatural #my fic #creativecaviar #pancake cinematic universe

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justimajin · 3 years

Text

Til Death Do Us Part ♜ Pt. 1

➟ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

➟ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut

↳ (3.7k), Arranged Marriage AU

➟ Summary: If someone told you that you’d be marrying the Kim Namjoon, you would think you were being lied to, or worse, that you were hallucinating. However, fate seems to have it’s own ways of making the impossible possible and before you even know it, the title of Mrs. Kim is bestowed onto you. There’s just one problem: you’re not sure if Kim Namjoon is the person he says he is and the truth of your own identity is dangling by the strength of a mere thread.

➟ Warnings: This series will involve themes of graphic violence, depictions of blood, major character death and hints of trauma. 18+ rating. Reader discretion is highly advised.

gif credit.

➟ Next Update: Tuesday, December 22

Love is a strange thing.

It pulls individuals together, sparking fireworks and blissful rays of euphoria within seconds. It renders people affectionate, words dripped with honey and caresses full of tenderness transcending without a means of stopping. To be frank, it’s majestic through the eyes of the beholder.

But love is indeed a strange thing.

It’s history has been plagued with moments of weakness and hesitation, moments that rip away layers to reveal raw, vulnerable selves from every individual. It’s inability to forget and move on clutches onto the minds of those that chose to associate with it, invading their memories and never granting them a single second to run free. Love is a strange thing, but it’s most putrid use has always been the necessity to use it like a tool.

A deep breath escapes your tinted red lips, cold hands clutching onto the delicate bouquet that’s been thrust into them. The petal pink and lilac purple flowers rest against the chaste white of your dress, the awaited arrival of yours long passed as you raise your head and sneak a peek at the person standing in front of you behind your veil.

Clad in a special tailored suit for the occasion, his dark brown hair has been brushed back and neatly tucked into the corners of his hair. He stands tall and confident, seemingly captivated by the words the priest mumbles through as he drags on through every dull phase written in his book. As if he can tell your eyes are on him, he suddenly looks in your direction and you return your gaze back to the ground, clutching onto the array of petals in your hands.

The priest goes on to dutifully declare the responsibilities you must carry, including the very ones that tie you to each other.

For better, for worse. Rich, poor. Sickness, health.

Love. Cherish.

“Until death do you part?” The priest peers up with fatigued eyes, glancing in between you. You suck in a shaky breath, eyes fixating on everything except for the man standing on the opposing side.

“I-I do.” You hastily mutter, swallowing the lump stuck in your throat. Patiently waiting for his answer, you try not to focus on the collection of eyes gawking at you from the altar.

“I do.” He states, firm and resolute with his answer. It shakes you to your core, eyes immediately flickering up to meet his warm ones.

You’re perplexed for a moment, but you’re not given time to dwell any longer once the priest shuts his book, content with your answers. Relief floods you in an instant, yet it’s short-lived and has your stomach churning instead.

“You may kiss the bride.” The priest steps back as if you needed room for the grandiose gesture, eagerly awaiting the showcase with the rest of the people seated in front of the altar. Nevertheless, your hands begin to quiver despite your best wishes and you remain planted in place.

Before you even know it, the delicate veil resting against your forehead is being pulled up and tucked away, projecting your dolled up features on full display. You can only fidget when he draws near, preparing for the worse until he pauses.

Glancing up in surprise, you’re caught off guard from the lines crossing his forehead and the dismay clouding his eyes. For a second, you could have sworn that you were gazing into a mirror, an image of your combined concerns being painted right in front of you.

You’re caught in between a daze and bewilderment when he advances again, however all you feel is a soft peck against your skin before your veil is placed back into place. Your audience seems to be at loss with the action, but once he turns around to face them in the midst of holding your hand, loud cheers and roars flood the room as congratulatory confetti bursts into the room.

Unconsciously, your hand drifts over to your cheek with furrowed brows and you steal another glance at the man you will be bound to for eternity.

***

The L/N Family.

Tactical and resourceful, known for their skillful strategies and trade explorations, a business they would go on to proudly pronounce in the arms industry. Others would look to them for support and reassurance, and they would in return cohesively make protective deals that would ensure no harm. Yonghwa, their head, would go on to make a legacy out of his family name.

The Kim Family.

Discreet and powerful, known for their relentless determination and invokable hunger, characteristics that would eventually seep into their weapon manufacturing business. They know how and with whom to pick their fights, vigorously acquiring a steady position in the industry within a flash before everyone’s eyes. Namjung, their head, carved the Kim name into a status no one would have ever imagined.

Trade and manufacturing, two able sides of the same coin. They seeked to forge an union that would unite their two sectors, to create a harmonious flow of success within their collective industries.

But not all deals, go as planned.

On the fateful day, Yonghwa was found on the ground in a pool of his own blood while Namjung was left visibly shaken. Catastrophe seemed to only follow the event there on after, with both families seeking revenge on the other. Their union seemed to be the last thing on either mind, but after the years passed and stained relations had been fully dragged out, there only seemed to be one solution that could bring peace to the two of them.

***

The wheels of the large suitcase hit the polished ground.

It’s lavish and grand, crystals littering the high held ceiling and lilies spread over the handles of the spiraling staircase. It ends right at the large chandelier, with more crystals dangling down opposite the shining marble that your slippers find purchase in.

You remain in place, staring with wide eyes and an agape jaw the scenery before you.

“Please,” A girl bows before you, dressed in a simple pale blouse and skirt that’s paired with an apron. There’s a small twinkle in her pleasant eyes paired with natural pouting lips; the delicate features drawing out the sheer youth the girl embodies. “Follow me.”

You snap out of your daze once she advances forward, her hands careful weaving through yours to clutch onto your packed luggage. At first, you’re a bit unsure as to if you should let her carry the heavy load up the stairs, but you’re pleasantly surprised when she manages to hall it all the way up.

She roughly pushes herself against a large wooden door, revealing the grand room behind it. It’s decorated similarly to the main portion of the house, however the sheer size of it has your jaw dropping again, eyebrows furrowed as its appearance.

Your suspicions are confirmed right away, “This will be your room, Miss Y/N.”

“I-I…” You can’t help but hesitate, “Are you sure?”

She nods, placing your luggage now. “Of course, Master Kim asked us to prepare it for you.”

You instinctively flinch at the sudden mention of your husband, but the girl tilts her head to the side, curiosity peeking through her.

“Don’t they have such rooms in the L/N residence?” Her eyes suddenly widen, and she slaps a hand against her mouth, “Oh no, I-I didn’t mean it that way!”

A smile curls on the corners of your lips, “What’s your name?”

She gazes at you with surprise, like she had been expecting a scolding fit for her lifetime. Nonetheless, she hastily answers your question with a bow.

“I am Eunjoo, one of Master Kim’s most faithful servants.”

“Little flower.” You decipher, “Sounds like a fitting name.”

“It could have been summer’s grace.” Eunjoo offers with a shrug, “Though I don’t really like summer, so I’ve tried my best to ignore that meaning.”

You let out a genuine chuckle from that, something that has Eunjoo instantly beam. The news of her own Master getting married to someone from the L/N family was initially difficult for her to digest, but it appears that she was too early to judge.

A lopped smile etching onto your features, “And to answer your previous question, unfortunately the L/N’s don’t have such a residence. We’ve lost much of our wealth after‒…” You pause, biting back your words, “...after, you know.”

You wave your hand away in the air and Eunjoo understandably nods, no need to delve into the long-lived history of your families that is known to all. She hurriedly aids in you in unpacking much to your reassured protests, following and assisting you around like a little fairy. Her company ends up being both interesting and comfortable, especially since the two of you discovered the other wasn’t well in adapting the titles you carry.

A knock resounds against the door, drawing out your attention. Immediately Eunjoo drops the clothes in her hands, right before she straightens up and takes a graceful bow.

Her reaction is telling of who's at the door, so with pinched lips and a creased forehead, you turn around.

He remains glued to the door frame, still adorned in his tailored black suit. Aside from the similarity in his put together appearance though, his shoulders are no longer hiked up in a noble stance, nor is there any remaining amount of warmth spreading through his eyes. Instead, he appears akin to how he was in the split-second before your ultimate union was official, the memory causing the skin of your cheek to slightly burn.

Swaying from side to side, he hesitates to step into the room.

“I see you’ve met Eunjoo.” He mentions. On cue, the servant straightens up, a huge smile on her lips.

“I was just helping Miss Y/N unpack!”

“Oh that’s nice, perhaps I can assist to‒” He isn’t able to finish his sentence, because the next thing you know you jolt at the sound of a loud crash that echoes through the room.

“Master Kim!” Eunjoo immediately rushes forward, scurrying to help the fallen man. He instantly rises up to his feet and dusts off his suit jacket, but remains of glass are scattered all over the ground.

He lets out a groan and Eunjoo sighs, “Master, you know you have to be careful.” She begins to quickly pluck up the shards of the vase, raising one up to eye level with a pout, “I especially picked this one out for your newly wedded wife.”

At the mention of you, Namjoon instantly glances up, pupils shaking. “I-I can get you a new one soon, it might take around a week but if I put in a request now‒” He scrambles around for a moment, before checking the inner pockets of his jacket for something to write on in a haste.

Unconsciously, a small smile cracks through the seam of your lips, increasing as he tries to intervene with Eunjoo to pick the shards, and she protests that he shouldn’t get his hands soiled with her errands. He eventually has to sheepishly stand to the side, staring at her defeated like a child that had just gotten scolded for misbehaving.

Eunjoo eventually collects all the pieces and ushers herself out, reminding you of the pending family dinner you’ll need to attend in the evening. She leaves the room and you decide to resume unpacking, until you come across the realization that you’re not alone.

“Do you need help?” He peers at your suitcase behind you, “I’m usually more capable with things that aren’t easy to break.”

The abrupt proximity catches you by surprise, but you merely shake your head at his kind offer, “I should be fine, thank you.”

He nods and you assume he’ll excuse himself after a moment, but he lingers and that’s when you crane your head over at him.

Appearing to be in between a deep ponder, he snaps back into reality once your questioning eyes fall onto him. “Uh I‒” A lengthy sigh leaves his lips, “I know this is strange.”

You wonder what he's referring to until you notice him gesturing to the gap between you, “It’s strange for me, and it’s strange for you. We didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck, a deep crease forming between his brows. You’re frozen in place, at a complete loss for words.

He suddenly sucks in a breath, looking up to gaze into your eyes, “But I’d like to get to know you better….a-as my future wife.”

Your eyes round and his declaration only receives dead silence in its awake. Flabbergasted, he attempts to correct himself amidst your prolonged response.

“T-That doesn’t mean right away! We can take our time and I’m not expecting anything from you, so you don’t need to worry and‒”

“I’d like that.”

He freezes, “Wait, really?”

You hum, a corner of your mouth lifting, “You’re right, it’s strange. But I’d like to get to know my husband better as well.”

His eyes immediately sparkle, like you’ve said the very words he’s been aching to hear, “That’s great!” A breathtaking smile overtakes his features, “I guess I’ll see you at dinner then?”

You nod with a smile, and he departs, the euphoria never once leaving his lips.

***

Evening draws near and long gone is the dilatory white piece of garment that’s forever confined you to your fate. Instead, it’s replaced with a delicate fabric of rose gold, perhaps to represent the luxury you have of being present in such a place or in the new beginnings that will soon follow you.

Regardless, you prepare yourself. Although you’re simply arriving to dinner, there’s a family waiting at the table that you don’t know of yet.

Eunjoo brings you down with her after putting your hair up and presenting a pair of matching heels your way. You’re wary as you walk down the spiraling staircase, barely balancing yourself on the elevated shoes. Luckily, Eunjoo notices and helps you down, but the split moment of relief is met with a jolt of surprise when you notice someone waiting at the bottom.

“I’ll take it from here, Eunjoo.” The women amiably bids. Eunjoo swiftly bows, mumbling something along the lines of Mistress Kim, before heading into the dinner room.

You immediately whirl around, eyes on alert like a deer in headlights. She mirthfully smiles at you, carrying a warm tone in her eyes that feels familiar.

“You don’t have to look so worried,” She reprimands, “I’m not going to bite your head off.”

Your eyes widen even more, “I-I’m sorry?”

She bursts out into laughter, concealing her ruby red lips with a hand that is glittering in assorted jewels.

“Nothing, dear. I’m just teasing you.” You nervously laugh at that, and she places a hand against your back, guiding you forward. “Come, I’m eager to know what my son’s wife is like.”

Politely nodding, you follow behind her and nearly freeze. If you had expected your bedroom to be astonishing, then you weren’t prepared for the enormous buffet that waits for you ahead.

Pieces of food are scattered all over the decorated table, ranging from freshly cooked to foods you would have never imagined yourself eating. It reminds you of times your family could barely manage to have a decent meal for one night, lost scavenging for food that wouldn’t make your empty pockets hurt.

You’re so lost in the thought that you don’t feel someone brush by you. There’s suddenly a warm hand planting onto your shoulder, drawing your attention with a smile full of dimples.

“Do you want to sit down first?” He gestures to the table, where his mother sits next to his father and opposite to his sister. Embarrassed that you’ve been just gawking at the table, you hurriedly take a seat and so does Namjoon.

Even though you’re only just sitting at the table, it seems like all eyes are on you, burning into your skin and tracing every move. The impending silence eventually does crack though, and it’s done by a person you would have least expected.

“Is that chicken?” Namjoon’s father blurts out, his eyes following a tray one of the servants brings by. His wife immediately interjects, dismayed by his reaction.

“Indeed,” She points a demanding finger at him, “But none for you, there’s a reason why your health hasn’t been the greatest as of lately.”

He pouts at her response, longley staring at the dish once it arrives. The childlike display catches you a bit off guard, eyebrows raised.

“That’s unreasonable though.” He suddenly looks in your direction, “What do you think, Y/N? Isn’t she being unreasonable?”

The abrupt inquiry leaves you speechless, no coherent words manifesting at the tip of your tongue. His wife whirls around, cocking up a brow in his direction.

“Why are you dragging her into this?” She faces you with a smile, “Y/N is the newest addition to our family so we should make her feel welcome, not bring her into such trivial matters.”

The pleasant response astonishes you, but more so the mention of your inclusion. He lets out a sigh, acknowledging his wife’s sentiments.

“You’re right.” He turns to you, “Y/N, why don’t you tell us about yourself?”

His mother hums, “I’d like to hear about where you grew up, Y/N.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really special,” You grow bashful, “I was raised in the outskirts of the country by my parents.”

The two of them nod, intently listening to you, “Before coming here, I studied in the imperial academy for a while.”

“Ah, involved in the industry I see.” He praises, “You must know a lot about how our businesses are conducted, right?”

“Not quite.” There’s a strained smile on your lips, “I didn’t want to actively participate in it.”

Although your answer seems to have taken both of them by surprise, his wife hums in approval. “So I’m assuming that was your personal choice?”

When you nod, a giant smile stretches onto her lips, and she elbows her husband, “A gutsy one, don’t you think?”

He smiles in retaliation, “Just like you.”

She blushes at his sudden compliment, but a voice from afar breaks the two out of their daze.

“Gross - we’re eating here.”

Appalled at the feminine voice, you notice the young girl seated across from Namjoon, a deep frown etched onto her stern features.

“Leave them be, Geongmin.” Namjoon coaxes his sister, but she lets out a grunt of disapproval in the midst of eating soup.

The corners of his mother’s lips turn up and his father faces you again, looking as if he had a million questions up his sleeve lined up just for you.

Much to your surprise, the rest of the evening is spent exchanging pleasantries with them and keeping conversation light. There even comes a moment when both you and Namjoon end up reaching out for the bread basket, only to pull away once you discover your hands had ended up meeting halfway. As you grow bashful, you notice his mother smiling tenderly and his father chuckling at the abrupt affiliation.

Once the evening begins to come to an end, you excuse yourself through the use of your own fatigue and request to head to bed first. They waste no time in understanding, with Namjoon’s father even wrapping a hand around his son and expressing that he needed to discuss some things with him anyway.

You leave the room as he heads off with his family, granting you with some much-needed time and space.

***

Treading back, you pause at the large wooden door that leads into your room. Your eyes briefly skim over the fine carvings on the wood, instead choosing to scrutinize the direction of your right and left side. A shadow casts over your pupils and your hand presses against the door, letting it slowly creak wide open.

Step by step, you stroll inside and let the light fade out, replacing itself with only darkness.

The moment the source of luminescence disappears, you move within a flash. The handle is locked, tugged at for a confirmation. There’s a speck of radiance coming from the small lamp you’ve turned on, enough to see the large suitcase you’ve brought get yanked out.

Zippers are flying and the cover is ripped off. Clothes are frantically thrown astray, dumped into a careless heep without much of a second look. Your hands are weaving through the material and running rampant, eyes flickering with something akin to desire and alloyed with increasing unease.

Once your hands meet with metal, a twinkle emerges within your orbs. The spindle of ore is unwound; detangling the material in a quickened manner. It looks distinctly similar to what one would use for electrical purposes, set with the intention of providing light in grim areas.

Right. The intention.

Unraveled, you cautiously drift over to the large window by the bedside and crank it open. Peering outside, there’s no glimmer or streak of luminescence meeting your eyes, only a dark, simple gray sky.

Unconsciously a breath of relief leaves your lips and you reach out, reclining your body just enough to reach above and then below the window’s hilt. The instrument effortlessly blends in, appearing like a simple cable that’s been tightly strung around.

You lean back and rummage through the luggage on the ground, pulling out a small plastic box that doesn’t appear to be much, but more or less, is the sole thing you couldn’t have departed without. With a small hinged click, it connects to the thin barbed string you just unraveled and right when a quiet buzz resonates through, does a smile tugs on the corner of your lips.

A knock resonates through the box. Followed by another, and then another. It’s succeeded with a prolonged silence on your part, your entire body remaining in a frozen state.

Static echoes and you let out the air you didn’t realize you were holding from your lungs.

Within seconds, you are nimbly knocking against the box in repetitive notions. Your actions range from different types of knocks; heavy, light, twice the sound.

More static echoes and your eyes immediately widen, hands balling up into tighter fists.

A heavier one.

“I have….”

Lighter.

“...successfully infiltrated….”

One last firm knock.

“....the enemy household.”

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flowesona · 4 years

Text

Visitation of a Lover - Yandere! Ghost Taehyung x reader

Happy Halloween! i hope everyone has a great evening and i hope you will enjoy this oneshot 🖤

Life never ceased to pass by. People were born and grew old, created their own families, earned themselves a legacy. Meanwhile, all that Kim Taehyung could do was watch. For hundreds of years he wandered around his estate, because he had nowhere else to go. No one that lived in his house even cared to acknowledge his life or history - he hadn’t heard his name leave the lips of his family in decades, and the portrait he’d commissioned of himself when the house was first built remained tucked away in the attic.

At the very least, he was thankful that he never had to see anything distasteful. The current occupant of his house - a very distant family member - was a mild mannered widower who only ever ventured into half of the rooms of the house, leaving plenty of space for Taehyung to live. The ghost had even been so bold as to start leaving a physical presence - in the dusty studio where he had spent many afternoons writing his diary when he was alive, he’d taken up painting landscape views. There was the slight risk that the old man could walk in and have a heart attack upon seeing a floating paintbrush but considering that he could barely make the trek to the kitchen for a cup of tea, Taehyung was more than happy to take that risk.

“Oh really? Good golly, you have to send me a picture?” Taehyung had been enjoying a light novel in the lounge when he heard the elderly man cheering loudly in his study. Curious, he folded the corner of the page and tucked the book away, phasing into the next room to see what was so exciting.

“A baby boy! Just like I wanted!”

He peered over the shoulder of his kin, seeing his open laptop on the polished maplewood desk. What the old man was so delighted by was an email showing a picture of a small newborn baby being cradled in a woman's arms. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this was a new member of the family, but what piqued Taehyung’s interest more was the woman holding the child. Even with her forehead drenched in sweat and her body covered by a not-so-flattering hospital gown, there was something ethereal about her. For the first time in ages Taehyung felt some yearning in his heart.

He wanted… no, he needed to meet her. Maybe this angel could be the salvation he needed, the key to him escaping his mundane existence in purgatory.

It just so happened that through death that they would be brought together.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The elderly resident passed away a week after his great-grandson was born. Unfortunate timing, as he never even got to see the infant. Taehyung, however, was more fortunate, as the wake was held at his manor as per family tradition.

It was at this somber occasion he was able to see the woman who had piqued his interest up close. Maternity had had its toll on her body with her breasts sagging slightly and her figure still slightly bloated but the black funeral dress still looked quite beautiful, Taehyung noted. Interesting, how she lacked the figure most men would desire yet her husband still looked at her as if she was Helen of Troy reincarnate.

He found himself tailing her for the most of the occasion, still keeping a safe distance out of fear one of his fingers could brush against hers and scare her away for good. It was through this stalking he learnt of the young woman’s name - (Y/N).

She was quiet and respectful - as to be expected at a wake - but a bright smile lit up her face when she showed pictures of her newborn child to anyone who asked. It was way more intriguing watching her interact with everyone at the wake than to read one of the romantic books he’d poured over so many times.

“We’ve been reading through the will. And it seems Grandpa Kim left you his estate, rather than the money.” (Y/N)’s father-in-law was speaking to the couple in a hushed voice, drawing the ghost’s attention instantly.

“Really?”

“Well, it was updated quite recently with the birth of your son. I guess he thought by giving it to you, it would make sure the property stays in the family.”

“How do you feel about moving here, darling?” (Y/N)’s partner Seokjin - Taehyung had also learned his name through eavesdropping - asked, cradling her hand within his own.

“I would love to. But what about the dust? Won’t that be bad for the baby?” On god, her voice was as sweet as a nightingale song. How Taehyung longed to hear it for hours on end.

“I’ll clean it for you, silly. But do you think we could live here for the rest of our lives?”

The nod of (Y/N)’s head sealed their fate.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Initially the change in ownership had been a nightmare. Between the seemingly none-stop arrival of moving trucks, the buzz of people helping to put things away and the loud whining of the month-old baby, it was hard to relax. Taehyung felt almost as on edge as the new owners of the house, Yet after many arguments and sleepless nights the couple were settled in.

They seemed to have more appreciation for the house than it’s former occupant, with many of the dusty spaces becoming clean and decorated again. Even Taehyung’s writing room - he’d watched with apprehension at first when they entered the room, but a warm feeling bubbled in his non-existent stomach when he saw (Y/N) taking his paintings and hanging them on the wall. Did she appreciate art just as much as him?

Even if the couple had settled properly, the one person who was still restless was their infant. The baby boy would often wake up in the middle of the night and wail loudly, leading one of the parents to climb out of bed and hush him back to sleep. This routine nearly drove Taehyung up the wall, as his peaceful naps were often disturbed by the cry of a hungry infant. It had been a while since there had been an infant living at the manor and Taehyung still had yet to adjust to the noise level.

“There’s milk in the fridge if he wakes up, and nappies are in the second drawer down in the nursery. Feel free to help yourself to anything in there, except the Sauvignon of course. We’ll be back at about 11PM, thank you so much for helping us!”

Taehyung was too distracted by the sight of (Y/N) dressed up so elegantly in a sleek black dress to process what she was saying to the spotty-faced teenager standing before her as Seokjin slipped on his shoes.

“No worries Mrs Kim.” The teen responded. With one last fret about the child, the couple left to get in the taxi, and the house felt like it had lost all of its life.

Taehyung wished he could trail after (Y/N) as he usually did, but being confined to the manor meant he had to seek out the next best thing.

The nursery had been fully made over by (Y/N) and Seokjin within a week or so of moving in. Gone was the Georgian wallpaper, replaced by a coat of blue paint and decorated with twinkling moons and stars. Taehyung approached the coat, his fingers brushing the plush mobile over the cot and watching it spin.

He heard the gurgle of the baby below him, glancing down to see the blinking brown eyes gazing back up at him. Perhaps not directly at him, but it was enough to make Taehyung double back in shock. He reached down into the cot and placed one of his cold hands on the baby’s face. Its response was a delighted giggle, as if his touch was ticklish. Taehyung chuckled, poking at the child’s ribs to see him scrunch up his tiny legs. Suddenly, gazing into the little boy’s eyes Taehyung knew what he’d been missing in both his alive and undead life. A real family, someone he could speak to and someone he could love.

He wished he could pick up this child and coo over its chubby cheeks with his wife. He wanted to write poems about his love for life, he wanted to fall asleep holding someone at night.

But not just anyone would do. He knew, he just knew, it had to be (Y/N). She would be his, and he would be hers.

However, whilst Taehyung was pondering this, the child was growing uncomfortable and it startled the ghost back into reality with a loud cry for attention. He glanced down at the child, panicking at the sight of tears running down its cheeks. Luckily, it seemed that the young boy was only hungry, as the room still smelt like fresh linen.

‘It’s okay. The babysitter will sort him out.’ He told himself.

However, after several painful minutes of waiting there was no sight of the teenager leading Taehyung to search the house for him. He found the babysitter lying on the couch fast asleep, a movie playing on the TV and an abandoned bottle of beer on the coffee table.

‘Pathetic’. Taehyung scoffed to himself. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

He found the bottle filled with breast milk that (Y/N) had left in the fridge, the teat already attached. With one last glance at the passed out teenager, he picked up the bottle and made his way back to the nursery.

It must surely be a jarring sight to see a floating bottle of milk, and furthermore to be picked up and fed by an invisible person. However, the baby didn’t seem too disturbed, happily drinking the milk and burping without a care in the world.

After the infant was fed he started to nod off the sleep again, and Taehyung gently laid him down in the cot. He gently traced over the warm cheek of the child before leaving, the most happy he’d been in his life.

He spent the rest of the evening waiting on the sofa for (Y/N) to return. Whilst the TV was showing some action movie, Taehyung couldn’t find it in himself to become interested in it. Not when he had much more pressing issues on his mind. His mind was flurried with the realisation of how he felt. How could he love someone when he’s dead? How could he win the heart of (Y/N) when she couldn’t see him?

Luckily he wasn’t left to stew in his thoughts for too long - as the clock crept around to ten o’clock the front door opened and shut as (Y/N) and Seokjin returned home. Her face was creased with worry as she crept up to the nursery to check on her darling child, whilst Seokjin stayed to pay their now conscious babysitter who had hidden all traces of delinquency and was happily accepting his payment for doing nothing.

Taehyung, as always, chose to join (Y/N) in the nursery. He stood by the doorway, watching as (Y/N) bent down to press a kiss to her beautiful sleeping child. Then, unable to resist he approached her and rested his arms on her waist. He felt her shiver slightly at the cold touch of his hands and for a second the melancholy of his situation hit him like a truck. But Taehyung couldn’t let it haunt him, not when the warmth of her skin under his hands made him more at peace than he had been for years.

She stumbled slightly as she left the nursery, the evening’s drink hit her harder than it usually would, but Taehyung’s hands steadied her. Whilst he secretly savoured the feeling of her body in his hold, he was more concerned about how unstable she was - most likely due to having not drank alcohol in over a year.

Seokjin still hadn’t returned to his wife’s side, and for that Taehyung was both grateful and condemning of the man - he despised how the man could be married to such an ethereal woman and not spend every waking moment by her side, but he was grateful to be able to fill that role. He gently guided her towards her bed, scared that she could fall, and once she had flopped onto the bed lay down next to her, admiring every one of her features as she fell asleep still in her fancy clothes and makeup.

Taehyung had waited hundreds of years to find his purpose in life, and now that he’d found her he knew he would do anything to make her happy.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

(Y/N) had become increasingly stressed since she returned to doing work, Taehyung noticed. Sure, it was only part-time and luckily they were happy for her to work from home meaning she didn’t need to get a new job. However, the incessant demand for attention from the young infant meant she rarely had a moment to rest her feet.

Taehyung wasn’t going to stand for it. Occasionally on the nights that his loneliness got to him, he would press his hand to her forehead only to find it hot and drenched with sweat. She was working herself to death, no doubt about it. And whilst Taehyung secretly longed for her to join the land of the dead with him, it wasn’t her time.

Thus, to take some of the stress off her back, he started to help out around the house. At first, it was minor things that (Y/N) wouldn’t think twice about. Putting dirty laundry in the basket, washing the dirty breakfast bowls, retrieving the toys that precious little Si-woo had thrown across the room, turning off the stove when she accidentally left it on. Seeing the positive effect these had on (Y/N), he started to get bolder in his actions - making her lunches (and letting her assume that it was Seokjin making them in the morning), taking out the garbage, shushing Si-woo when he started crying. All things Seokjin couldn’t do, that Taehyung would do everyday for her if she could only love him.

Spending time with her son was a new favourite hobby of Taehyung. He could stare at those twinkling eyes that inherited from (Y/N)’s for hours. He found that as the son grew he became more playful, and Taehyung was more than happy to keep the little tyke entertained. It was a risky game - if (Y/N) walked in and saw her son’s toys moving by themselves she would no doubt call an exorcist but with the delighted giggles that Si-woo made it was more than worth it.

However, with the increasing time he spent with (Y/N) Taehyung had a first hand seat to watching her relationship with Seokjin deteriorate. At first, it was just the lack of intimacy - Seokjin would often get home late, and by that time both (Y/N) and the baby were asleep leaving him to heat up whatever (Y/N) had made for dinner. When Seokjin woke up in the morning, (Y/N) had already been awake for hours caring for Si-woo. Seokjin missed everything, from Si-woo’s first teetering steps to the adorable way that he had said his first word: ‘dada’.

Then there was the argument.

“Have you seen my copy of ‘Eileen’?” In fact, Taehyung had borrowed it. Not only did he find the modern fiction way more interesting than his old romantic novels, he found it comforting to thumb the pages where (Y/N), much like he did, would fold the corners to save her progress.

“No. Where was the last place you left it?” Seokjin replied, not seeming nearly as interested in the issue as (Y/N) wanted him to be.

“I swear I left it on the dresser. Can you help me look for it?” She sighed in reply. Seokjin didn’t move.

“Is it such a big deal?”

Taehyung decided to leave his cozy chair in the corner to join (Y/N)’s side. He wasn’t sure, but he hoped she could feel his presence, to know that he was there for her even when her husband wasn’t.

“I just wanted to read it today. I was at a really good point.” His lover’s voice had a defeated tone to it, as if the book was her last hope in life.

“I’ll get you another copy. Come back to bed, (Y/N).” Seokjin purred, but (Y/N) shook her head.

“Why are you so selfish?” She suddenly snapped. “I feel like I do everything around here. I do all of the housework, I look after Si-woo all day long and I still find time to do my job! When was the last time you let your precious hands touch something domestic?”

“You think that I want to be away from home so much? I wish I could spend more time with my family but in case you forgot being in charge of a firm is actually quite demanding!” Seokjin stood up, his tone matching her aggression in a second.

(Y/N) paused, her eyes scrunching up as if she was going to cry.

“What happened? What happened to us that has made us this way? Why… why don’t I feel like you love me anymore?”

The sadistic side of Taehyung wished he could frame the scene and hang it up on the wall forever. The look of horror on Seokjin's face was simply priceless.

“You don’t mean that.” He said, trying to be firm only to have his voice shake with every word. “(Y/N), you can’t doubt my love for one second. Please.”

His wife just breathed out, rubbing at her eyes.

“I need a break.” She finally said. “I need to leave for a few days. Please.”

Seokjin looked hurt, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Take as much time as you need. I’ll look after Si-woo. You just need to look after yourself.”

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Taehyung was fuming. Half an hour after the Kims had argued (Y/N) had packed a small bag and left to stay with “some family”, allowing her husband to give her a small peck on the cheek before she left.

It was torturous for Taehyung, thinking of how much time he would have to spend away from his (Y/N). Although he was glad that she was going to have a break, the entire situation could have been entirely avoided if she had never married Kim Seokjin. If only she could have married Taehyung instead, he would’ve made sure she would never had to lift a finger and her every wish would be his command. Instead he could only have an invisible presence in her life, whilst she was stuck with a deadbeat husband who seemingly left all of the parenting to her.

Taehyung felt sick to his stomach seeing as he watched Seokjin act on his words, taking the next few days off work to look after his son. It just wasn’t fair, how he could talk to the toddler and get a babbled response or how he could hold out his arms and Si-woo would stumble towards him. Seokjin didn’t deserve fatherhood, Taehyung concluded. (Y/N) deserved a loving husband and father to her child and no matter how many hours Taehyung spent over the three days watching the broken family whilst (Y/N) was gone, nothing could convince him that Seokjin was the right match.

Seokjin had had a call from (Y/N), telling him that she was going to return home in a few hours. The giddy smile on Seokjin’s face as he told Si-woo that Mommy would be home today and they were going to help make her a special meal was just disgusting to Taehyung. No way did this pathetic excuse for a husband deserve to have (Y/N) back.

Taehyung sat at the table plotting what he should do as he watched Seokjin cook a meal to welcome (Y/N) back, as his adorable son sat on the counter and watched. He didn’t want to do anything in front of Si-woo, that would be too cruel. But he had to stop Seokjin in some way, and all his plans ended in the same result - killing him.

He could pour bleach down his throat. Or he could spill some oil onto him and set him alight. Or he could strange him with one of the curtain cords. All valid solutions to the problem.

“Daddy just has to go pee. Are you happy sitting in your playpen for a few minutes, hmm?” Taehyung’s murderous lines of thought were broken by the sound of Seokjin’s cheerful voice cooing to his son.

Finally, an opportunity. He could end Seokjin’s life in the bathroom, and Si-woo would be none the wiser as to where ‘Daddy’ was.

He waited until the scoundrel had placed his son in the playpen and left the kitchen before approaching the magnetic knife rail and plucking a decently sized blade from it. Taehyung then trailed a few metres behind Seokjin as he made a beeline for the bathroom - he couldn’t get too close, no doubt Seokjin would be immediately alarmed and his plan for subtly would be ruined.

When he finally reached the bathroom he cursed when it was closed (although luckily enough not locked) - whilst he could easily float through the door, his knife would not be able to and thus to enact the plan he swung open the door.

Seokjin turned around, slightly concerned at how the door was open when he was so sure that he’d closed it. Disregarding it as a draft he zipped up his trousers and was just checking his hair in the mirror when suddenly there was a force gripping his throat. His eyes darted side to side trying to find some answer but all he found was air. He wasn’t left in the dark for long, however - Taehyung would love to make the scumbag suffer but he didn’t want to risk (Y/N) walking in on the unfinished scene.

Thus, in one swift move he slit Seokjin’s throat and pushed him towards the bathtub, his victim’s body hitting the rim of the tub with a satisfying ‘thunk’. (Y/N)’s pathetic excuse for a husband’s last moments were agonising, his eyes wide with shock and confusion as he choked on his own blood. But before Taehyung had fully gotten to enjoy the pain of his rival’s death, life had drained from Seokjin’s eyes and his body slumped over. Taehyung drifted over to place the bloody blade in the corpse’s right hand, and as a final touch he wiped up the drops of blood that had fallen onto the ground just a little too far away to be believable.

Content with what he’d done, Taehyung left to visit Si-woo. The toddler seemed happy enough playing with his toy alpaca to even notice his biological father’s disappearance. Rather, he was delighted when he felt an invisible presence pinching at his cheek, letting out a hearty giggle. Taehyung managed to keep him occupied for the next hour, until (Y/N) returned.

Taehyung's non-existent heart thumped at a thousand beats a second when he heard a car drawing up on the gravel drive, and the car door slamming home announced that she was finally back.

“I’m home!” She called out, the only response she got being some babbled nonsense from Si-woo. She walked into the living room to see her son, smiling at first but the smile dropping off her face when she couldn’t see anyone else.

“Hey precious!” She cooed, scooping the toddler into her arms. “Where’s daddy?”

She didn’t hear the normal witty response from Seokjin nearby, leading her to click her tongue in annoyance.

“Did daddy really leave you all alone? That’s a bit strange, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Taehyung quirked back, scowling at how she seemed to have completely forgotten how neglectful of a father Seokjin really was compared to himself.

Evidently having not heard Taehyung’s comment, (Y/N) started to search for Seokjin, finding his abandoned cooking (although thankfully the bastard had turned off the stove). Taehyung just trailed behind her as usual, holding his breath as if she would be able to hear him.

After calling out for her ‘husband’ a few more times, (Y/N) gave up.

“I guess he got called into work. So much for spending time with his family.”

She made her way up to the nursery, placing Si-woo back down on the floor.

“Mommy just had a long journey, so she’s going to go to the toilet and then she’ll get you some dinner, okay?” (Y/N) said softly to the child, as if she expected a response. Si-woo just looked up at her innocently, completely oblivious to all that was going on except his own hunger.

Taehyung realised, as (Y/N) was walking away, that she was headed in the direction of the bathroom Seokjin had used and she was about to find his body. Upon that thought he followed her, hoping to support her when she found the grisly scene.

However, the shrill scream he heard when he was mere metres away from the room told him he was too late.

(Y/N) fell to her knees, tears rolling down her cheeks as she surveyed the situation. She was frozen still, unable to stop screaming until her voice was hoarse. Taehyung took the initiative to kneel beside her and rub his hand on her back. (Y/N) didn’t even seem to notice, not flinching from the cold as she usually did. All she could do was bury her face in her hands and weep at the sight before her eyes. And as much as it hurt Taehyung to see his (Y/N) in pain, his heart was telling him he’d done the right thing.

Now, (Y/N) needed him. She couldn’t survive as a single mother, not when she was struggling already when Seokjin was alive. But Taehyung believed with all his heart that he was more than fit to take on Seokjin’s role, as a father, as a husband, as the only one in the world who could truly love her.

#yandere kpop #yandere bts #yandere taehyung #yandere bts x reader #yandere taehyung x reader #kpop yandere #yandere au #yandere kim taehyung #yandere kim taehyung x reader #yandere v #yandere v x reader #bts v #taehyung x reader #v x reader #kim taehyung x reader #yandere oneshot #halloween special

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blueprint-han · 3 years

Text

on top of the world ↠ hhj.

genre: royal au; fluff inspired by a fucking barbie movie leave me alone okay

⇥ warnings: if having a ballroom dance with hyunjin is a warning, then <3, district names are randomly chosen, not meant in reference to SKZ !!

wc: 1.5 K

⇥ disclaimer: this fiction does not aim to represent the activities of the real Hwang Hyunjin, nor does it represent JYPE in any form. Events are pure fiction. ♡

type: drabble.

taglist: @stayverse @districtninewriters @inkidz @sunoo-luvs

part of: the url drabble game; requested by @tpwkjerii (requests for this are closed now!)

↯ note: dghwey i had literally no idea what to write for your url, so i searched up the full form of “tpwk” and ended up with “treat people with kindness”. I developed it into an idea i already had. Tell me if you like it <33 ⇥ dawn.☀️

↯ note 2: oh... i cannot... write fantasy for the life in me. ⇥ dawn.☀️

“Ladies, all in line.” The instructor clapped her hand, signaling all the princess and lady royals to line up in front of her. You quickly scrambled out of where you were seated, almost doubling over your heels as you tried to wobble your way to the line.

Oh curse those heels. They were gonna be the reason you crashed headfirst into the floor one day, you were sure. They were those typical pointy, magenta colored pumps that only an expert in poise could pull of properly. Your uniform didn’t help either, layers and layers of clothing — topped of with a jacket, which meant you would be sweating buckets if it weren’t for the air conditioning.

Gosh, you hated being the princess and heir to the next throne. Why couldn’t you just lounge in the courtroom in your sweats and sneakers? They were more fashionable anyway. When your mom had told you that you were gonna attend “Royal Training School”, you’d pictured horse riding in the lush green stables, elegant dinners with rich silverware, and most of all — just having some time away from the royal castle, just having some time for yourself and having fun in that time.

Well, you were in for a huge mess.

It’d been only a week since you attended this place, and you hated it. The place woke you up at 5 a.m., shoved breakfast (which was mostly a piece of “high gluten” bread) to your hands and then took you ballroom dancing. So your day was terrible from the beginning already. There was no horseback riding, no sword fighting, because according to your parents — “princesses didn’t do fights”. Seemed superstitious to you, someone with a forward thinking mind, but what could you do?

Too dazed in your thoughts, your foot slipped and you lurched forward. You yelped loudly, but before you could catch the attention of the class or feel the polished marble against your face, a hand wrapped around your waist, ceasing your fall and holding you mid-air.

“You okay, princess?”

You snapped back into attention, eyes meeting with your classmates, all of them having a shocked look on their faces, and some of them anger. Turning around, you were surprised to gaze into hazel brown eyes that seemed to draw you in without reserve.

“Um..., princess?”

“Ah, yes!” You snapped out of it once again, straightening up as you smoothened the fabric of your shirt. “T-Thank you.” You took once glance at his face, and... wow. He was absolutely ethereal. His golden locks of hair fell perfectly over his temples, he adorned a majestic black suit and by just looking at him, he exuded confidence.

He giggled. “It’s alright, princess. Glad you aren’t hurt.”

“Oh, that-”

“Ahem!” The both of you looked to the side, noticing now how the entire class, along with the instructor were giving you snobby glares. “If you’re done chit chatting, can we start out class, Princess Y/N and Prince Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin. That was a pretty name.

You noticed that there was another line of men, wearing similar attire like Hyunjin, lined up in front of the princesses. “They must be from another academy,” Silent thoughts flooded your mind as you took your place, and your eyes went wide when you found yourself face to face with the Hyunjin guy again, though there was a reasonable distance between the both of you.

“Now, royals.” The instructor chimed, clacking her heels against the surface as she waltzed to the edge of the room. “You’ve been practicing ballroom dancing with yourselves for a while now, so The Head and me decided that it would be a good idea for you to get a little peek of what the actual thing looks like.” She said uninterestedly, picking at the underside of the nails as she started the music.

Immediately, slow, melodious music flooded through the speakers as you looked at one another. and then at the guy in front of you... err, Hyunjin. “You’ve already been partnered up, so get started.”

Your mouth dropped open a bit when you realised what the instructor’s statement meant, almost panicking when all the girls next to you bowed down gracefully, coaxing you to follow the same. Hyunjin did the signature “bow down and lend a hand” pose like his other classmates, and you hesitantly straightened up, lending a hand to him.

Immediately, just like how confident he looked, he pulled you close to himself, settling his hands on your hips as a smirk graced his features.

Ah... so he’d noticed you blushing.

You didn’t know why you were blushing in the first place. You’d never met this person before, but something about him just made the giddy schoolgirl in you bubble up to the surface. You shyly settled your hands on his shoulders, moving along to the beat with his motions... and silently praying your ant’s worth of dancing knowledge would not fuck this up.

“So, should we do the introductions?”

“What?” You asked, almost stumbling on your feet once again. You made a mental reminder to burn the current pair of heels you were sporting.

“Don’t you introduce yourself to the person you’re dancing with?” he heaved a laugh, almost melting at how adorably bashful you were getting in his hold. You were about to mumble a response, but then stopped, gathered your confidence, and smiled sweetly.

“Oh well then, I’m Princess Y/N from District 8; honor to meet you.” You said in a sing song voice, muffling a laugh as Hyunjin twirled you around in his hold and pulled you back. The velvet coat was soft under your touch, and for some odd reason, you wondered how his soft-lookin hair would feel under your palm.

“I’m Prince Hyunjin from District 10; equally honored to meet you,” He tilted his head to the side and you noticed him bite his lip for a second. Brushing it off, you continued swaying to the music, feeling slightly more at ease now.

“How’s school here, princess Y/N? You enjoying?” His tone was respectful, almost like he was talking to a friend he met after many years,

“Nah,” You rolled your eyes, making Hyunjin look at you like a confused puppy, waiting for you to explain. Hyunjin wasn’t used to someone hearing they disliked royal training, especially when he’d found it nothing but enjoying.

“It’s just the same old. “Oh go to ballroom, learn to balance books on your head, walk with grace, eat your food elegantly, dance again. sleep early!” Your voice was a hushed whisper, yet mocking. “You’d think that’s what I should’ve expected, but I wanted to learn sword fighting, horse riding, that kind of stuff. They barely let us outdoors here.” You tsked, watching as Hyunjin bit his lip again.

“What?” You asked, figuring that Hyunjin knew you’d noticed his action.

He chuckled. “Your stepping on my toes.”

“Oh crap I am?” You looed down, pulling your feet farther away from his as an apology crawled up your tongue, but before you could shoot it out, Hyunjin stopped you. “It’s okay.”

“Maybe I’ll step on yours and we’ll get even?” He winked, a smug look on is face as he waited for your reply. The music was basically forgotten at his point, both f you lost in a world where nobody else existed, just you, your thoughts, your words, and your giggles. You mirrored his playful expression. “I’d like to see you try.”

Hyunjin didn’t break eye contact, and you felt a small flutter in your chest when he did so. He lifted his foot, but you were too quick, you moved your foot away the moment he settled his own down, and then for revenge, you stepped on his foot once again.

“Ouch!” Hyunjin shrieked, and thanks to the loud music. no one could hear him. You hadn’t stomped too hard thankfully, but Hyunjin’s cute expression when he crinkled his nose sent you into a spiral of giggles.

“Hey! You’re supposed to treat people with kindness” He pouted, twirling you around once again as he led you to the next spot in the ballroom. Your feet basically slid around at this point, and you didn’t even mind your heels.

“Yeah? That’s what you get for trying to step on a princess’ toes.” You rested your head against his shoulder, muffling your giggles as well as calming your heart at the sudden sprut of confidence.

Hyunjin’s grip on your waist tightened, making you straighten up, faint heat dusting your cheeks. The dance was almost coming to an end, and you wished it could go on forever. You hadn’t had such fun in a while, but unfortunately, Hyunjin didn’t belong to this academy. Sadly, the dance would come to an end.

“Maybe I can teach you horse riding?” Hyunjin inquired, a curious glint in his eyes as he watched your reaction. You gasped in shock.

“Y-you’d be willing to do that?”

“Of course, if you’re up for it.”

“How will we even do that?”

“I mean, you can’t tell me you haven’t sneaked out of the premises at night.”

You remained silent.

“Thought so.” Hyunjin winked again. “So, what do you say?”

You twirled around one more time, moving slightly closer to him when you came back this time. The next moment, the music stopped, and you murmured to him with a smirk pulled at your lips.

“I’d be on top of the world.”

↯ note: 🕯️ ignore me this is just a small prayer that tumblr doesn’t make me battle the tags yet again 🕯️ may the tumblr gods be in my favor atleast this once ;-; 🕯️ ⇥ dawn.☀️

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specialagentsergio · 3 years

Text

now i’m getting colder || part two

summary: Emily’s been dating you for nearly a year and she’s never been happier—until her past comes to call. Then she’s gone, and Spencer’s left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader (unrequited), emily prentiss x f!reader

category: angst

content warnings: (faked) major character death, mentions of / implied sex, swearing, grieving, mentions of drug abuse & addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms

word count: 5.1k

series masterlist || masterlist

The morning after Emily dies, Spencer wakes up to the smell of cooking bacon. He feels groggy and disoriented as he sits up in an unfamiliar bed. It’s not really a new feeling—it happens often enough with the amount of hotels he’s stayed at through work. This bed, though, feels way too nice to be a hotel bed.

He feels around for his glasses, eventually locating them buried under one of the spare pillows. I’ve got to stop falling asleep with these on. Once he can see clearly, he realizes where he is: one of the guest room’s at Rossi’s house.

It had been nearly four in the morning when the jet got back to Quantico. JJ and Hotch had gone home to their families, and Rossi had insisted that everyone else stay with him. “None of us should be alone right now,” he’d said in a voice thick with emotion.

Spencer tries to ignore the migraine he can feel building behind his eyes as he pulls himself out of bed. He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, only that it wasn’t long enough. He follows the smell of cooking food out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. Morgan and Seaver are already awake, chatting quietly at the island while Rossi cooks.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan says, noticing his arrival. He pulls out the chair next to him.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Seaver answers.

Morgan puts a hand on his shoulder when he sits down. “How are you feeling, kid?”

Spencer shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Where’s Garcia and (Y/N)?”

“Garcia was dead asleep when I got up,” he replies. “I’d guess (Y/N)’s sleeping, too.”

“Food’s going to be ready shortly,” Rossi announces.

Seaver looks to Morgan. “Should we wake them up?”

“I think we should at least check on them.” Morgan stands and pats Spencer’s arm. “Come on, kid.”

He trudges back up the stairs after Derek. He nods towards the door to the room you’re staying in before going into the one he’d shared with Garcia.

Spencer opens the door quietly. You’re barely visible from the doorway, huddled under the covers, but from what he can see, he thinks you’re still asleep. He really doesn’t want to wake you—he wishes he was still asleep himself—so he just closes the door again and waits in the hall for Morgan.

Garcia is with him he returns, her sparkly sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead. She hugs him immediately. “Where’s (Y/N)? Is she okay?” she asks when she pulls back.

“Still asleep,” Spencer says. “I didn’t want to wake her because I don’t think she’s been asleep for very long. The pillowcase was still damp.”

“Oh, poor girl,” she whispers. “I can’t imagine how awful this must be for her.”

Morgan puts his arm around her shoulders. “Me either, baby girl. Let’s just let her sleep for now.”

They make their way back downstairs, where Seaver is helping Rossi dish the finished food onto plates. When Spencer tells him you’re still sleeping, Rossi loads one up with everything and puts it to the side for you to eat later.

It’s quiet as everyone eats. The food tastes fantastic, and under different circumstances, Spencer would be delighted to be eating it. But as it is, he can’t even finish his plate.

“Somebody please say something,” Garcia says suddenly. “I can’t take this silence anymore.”

Awkward glances are exchanged across the table until Seaver offers up, “Um, I’m almost done with the academy training. The written test is just a few weeks from now.”

“Yes, good,” Garcia says. “Your test. Tell me all about the test.”

Spencer rubs one of his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. He’s hit the point where he can’t ignore the pain anymore. “I’m gonna go lie down,” he mutters to no one in particular.

Morgan looks up at him when he stands. “You alright, Reid?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” he lies. “Uh, thanks for the food, Rossi.”

Rossi nods in acknowledgement before focusing back on Seaver and Garcia’s conversation, and Spencer shuffles off towards the stairs.

Squinting against the light coming through all the windows, he nearly runs into you in the upstairs hallway. “Oh! You’re awake.”

You look smaller than normal, standing with your arms wrapped around yourself. It’s like you’re trying hide from the world. “Unfortunately,” you murmur.

“Are... are you okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Your laugh is humorless. “Of course I’m not.”

“Yeah, me... me either,” Spencer admits quietly. You don’t reply, so he keeps talking. “Rossi made breakfast. Well, I guess it’s more like brunch now. He saved a plate for you.”

“Alright.” You start to move past him, but he puts his hand on your arm. “What?”

“Could I hug you?”

You think over it for a bit, then nod.

Spencer doesn’t know if he’s hugging you for your comfort or his own, just that it feels nice. But then he puts a hand on the back of your neck and you draw in a sharp breath, pulling away abruptly.

“Don’t,” you mutter. “Em always did that. Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Sorry, I—I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I won’t do it again.”

You take in a deep breath and brush away the tears that have slipped down your face. “I’m gonna go eat.”

Spencer watches you until you’re out of sight, then returns to his room. He can’t stop himself from rubbing his eyes again. The curtains are already closed, but the room still feels too bright. He deliberately puts his glasses on the bedside table before crawling back under the covers. He pulls one of the pillows over his head to try and block out as much light as possible.

The insides of his elbows itch, and he wonders how he’s supposed to get through this.

---

The funeral is hard.

It’s a nice service, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Each member of the team places a rose on the coffin. You kiss your fingertips before putting yours down, pressing them to the polished wood and barely holding back a sob.

JJ drives you home, and Spencer tags along, not wanting to leave you alone in an empty apartment right after burying your girlfriend. But it turns out to be something he doesn’t have to worry about, because when you open your front door, you’re greeted with a meow.

“Sergio!” you gasp. You immediately drop your bag on the floor and pick him up. “How did you get here, buddy?”

“You know how Penelope and I have been feeding him? We both thought he’d be happier here,” JJ says. “I brought him by this morning, but you had already left. I hope this is okay; I just didn’t want you to have to go to Emily’s apartment if you weren’t ready.”

“It’s more than okay. It’s...” There are tears in your eyes. “Thank you, JJ.”

She smiles softly. “His things are by the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure where you would want them.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure we can find good spots for everything, huh, Sergio?” you coo, turning and heading in that direction.

Spencer exchanges a glance with JJ as they both follow. You’ve barely said anything for the past few days, so hearing you chatter away to a cat in a baby voice is a little disconcerting.

“Um, do you need any help?” he asks. “With Sergio, or with, um, anything?”

“Hm? No, I’m okay.”

Sergio has settled himself over your shoulder and is now staring at him and JJ. He shifts on his feet, feeling oddly unnerved by it. “Why’s he staring at us?” he whispers to her.

“I don’t know, Spence. He’s a cat,” she replies. “That’s just what they do.”

You press the side of your face against Sergio’s body and close your eyes. It’s the most content Spencer’s seen you since he noticed you worrying over Emily a month ago.

“You can go,” you say. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” JJ asks. “I don’t mind staying.”

“I’m sure.” But neither of them move, so you open your eyes to look at them. “Guys, I really appreciate all the support. It means a lot. But I also need space. I’ll be fine with Sergio here, I promise.”

“Just as long as you’re sure.” JJ gives you a tight hug. “We’re only a phone call away.”

You nod. “I know. Thank you.”

Spencer hesitates, though. He understands that you need space and privacy to grieve, but he doesn’t know that he should be alone right now.

Your expression softens when you look at him. You gently slide Sergio off your shoulder and onto the table so you can hug him properly. He all but clings to you, turning his head into your neck. It seems to clue JJ into his dilemma, because when you pull away from him, she says, “Why don’t you come visit Henry, Spence? He’d love to see you.”

He sniffles, trying to stop himself from crying. “Yeah, okay.”

He lets JJ lead him out into the hallway. You give him a small smile and a wave before closing the door.

---

Spencer’s never been one to frequent bars. They’re loud and often overcrowded. He doesn’t like the concept of drinking out of a glass that some stranger used the day before. And more often than not, the surfaces—be it a table or the bar itself—feel sticky. It’s just not his scene. But that’s where he’s found himself tonight, two weeks after the funeral. He’s staring down at amber liquid in a glass while his brain is fixated on an entirely different one.

He hasn’t had cravings this bad since Gideon left, and he ended up relapsing that time. He doesn’t want that to happen again. He swirls the glass, watching the ice clink against the sides as he silently debates with himself. Technically, drinking would be considered relapsing, but it’s better than using, right? If it’s between the two....

It’s the guilt that’s driven him here tonight. Guilt over Emily being dead because they didn’t get to her in time. Guilt over not seeing the obvious question, why families, right in front of him, the answer to which would have gotten them to her sooner. But most of all, guilt that he can’t stop craving companionship with his dead friend’s partner. Every time those thoughts come into his head, he feels like he’s betraying Emily.

Spencer feels himself slipping dangerously close to the ledge. So when a stranger sits down next to him, strikes up a conversation, and eventually asks if he’d like to get out of here, Spencer says yes.

It’s not the best decision he’s ever made, but it’s better than the alternative.

An hour later, he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling in the awkward silence that follows a hook-up. The stranger’s name is Ryan, he learned as he slid into the car’s passenger seat. And it was nice—god knows he’s touch-starved—but it was a risky choice. He knows all too well what getting into a stranger’s car can lead to. But he just hadn’t cared. Emily’s dead. They’re supposed to be the best, but they weren’t able to save her. So what’s the point of anything?

When his phone goes off, Spencer quickly scrambles out from under the thin sheet and sorts through the clothes on the floor to find his pants. The display identifies the caller as you. “Hello?”

“Spencer.” Your voice is so quiet, he can barely hear it; he has to turn up the volume on his phone.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He starts to gather the rest of his clothing from the bedroom floor.

“I...” Your breath catches, and it’s a while before you speak again. “I can’t sleep. Could you come over?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he answers immediately. “It’ll just—it’ll just take me a little longer than usual to get there. I’m, uh... I’m not at home.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just use your key when you get here.”

He ends the call and looks through the clothes in his arms, making sure he’s got everything.

“Was that them?” Ryan asks from behind him, and Spencer jumps. He’d nearly forgotten about him.

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean,” Spencer says, turning. He has a strange urge to cover himself, and nearly does before reminding himself that he wouldn’t be covering anything the man hasn’t seen already.

“When we were having sex, you were thinking of someone else,” Ryan says. “Was that them on the phone?”

Spencer opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure what to say. Eventually, he mutters, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says easily. “I only noticed because I was thinking of someone else, too.”

“Oh.”

“Mine’s straight,” he says. “How about yours?”

“Um, she loves someone else.” Spencer’s not sure why he’s telling a stranger this, but it feels good to get it out. So good that if you weren’t waiting on him, he could see himself oversharing and telling Ryan everything. But you are, so he says, “I, uh, have to go. Would you happen to know where the closest Metro station is?”

“Yeah, it’s a few blocks north of here. Just turn left when you leave the building and keep going straight.”

“Thanks.”

Spencer gets dressed quickly, double checks that he has everything he came here with, then leaves with an awkward little wave goodbye. He finds the metro easily; it’s right where Ryan said it was. He stops by his apartment to take a quick shower, then decides to drive his car to your place to get there faster.

At your door, he flips through his keyring to find the right one. As he unlocks and opens it, he knocks lightly on the doorframe in the pattern you’d set ages ago, a signal to let you know that it’s him coming in. The alarm beeps and he silences it by punching in the code, another thing he’s known for years.

After shutting and locking the door behind him, he calls your name softly. There’s no response, so he ventures in, eventually finding you on one of the couches, curled up on your side with Sergio in your arms. You’re staring blankly across the room, but you must be vaguely aware of his presence, because when he touches your leg, it doesn’t startle you. There’s a small trash can full of crumpled up tissues on the floor in front of you, and your eyes are red and puffy.

There’s a bit of space on the end of the couch near your feet, and Spencer takes it. He waits a while, but you don’t say anything, so he speaks first. “Why can’t you sleep?”

The breath you take in wavers with unshed tears. “The bed’s too empty,” you whisper.

Sighing, Spencer runs a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” you ask. “You weren’t at home when I called you, and instead of coming straight here, you stopped at your apartment to shower. You were with someone.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He didn’t think you would notice, but of course you did. Whether it’s because you’re a profiler, or because you know him too well, he isn’t sure. Either way, it makes him anxious, and he starts worrying the edges of his cardigan between his fingers. “I... I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits.

You finally look at him properly. “Look, I don’t care about you sleeping with someone,” you say. “Just... just don’t say you know what I mean when you actually don’t. It won’t make me feel any better.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You squeeze Sergio closer to your chest; surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s not the same as wishing you had someone. Emily is the love of my life. You don’t know what it’s like to have that, and then have it snatched away.”

Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. He wants to explain, to tell you that even while someone had their lips on his tonight, he’d felt incredibly lonely, and that it had only gotten worse afterward. And he absolutely should not tell you that he thinks he does know what you mean. He thinks he’s felt something similar to what you’ve just described, watching you with Emily the past few months. But you buried her. To compare that to him loving someone who doesn’t reciprocate is insensitive, to say the very least.

So he does what he always did before you came along and helped him open up: he bottles it up and shoves it down inside.

You look away from him, and after a few more silent moments, he hears your breath catch in your throat. “Was,” you say, voice cracking.

“What?”

“Emily... Emily was the love of my life,” you correct quietly.

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply, without thinking.

Your eyes fly back to him and hurt crosses your face. “Spence.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just meant, you don’t have to do that. Not with me, at least.”

You don’t respond, just look back at the wall again, and god damn it, he can’t stand to watch you stare blankly at it anymore. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe we could watch a movie,” he suggests.

“I don’t care.”

Spencer grimaces. Loss of interest or pleasure in most or all normal activities. A sign of depression. Of course, you’re grieving the loss of your partner. This type of depression is to be expected; it isn’t clinical. But he still feels uneasy seeing you like this.

“Well, I’m going to put something on,” he says, if only to keep the apartment from being silent.

“Knock yourself out,” you mutter. Then you tilt your head down, pressing your forehead into Sergio’s fur.

He takes the remote off the coffee table and flips through the channels until he lands on Discovery. Right now it looks like they’re showing Mythbusters reruns. He’d probably like it more if he knew less about physics and chemistry, but it’s interesting enough to keep him occupied.

You surprise him when the next episode starts by quietly asking what he thinks the outcome of the planned experiments are going to be. Eager to have something to do, he launches into an explanation. You murmur an occasional, “uh-huh”, but he doesn’t think you’re actually listening. You’ve still got that blank look on your face, but at least it’s focused on the TV instead of the wall. He suspects you just want to hear someone talk, to break the silence that’s been permeating your apartment since the funeral.

The affirmations stop after a while, and he looks over to see that you’ve finally fallen asleep. He stands up and Sergio lifts his head, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Stay there,” Spencer whispers as firmly as he can, afraid that the cat leaving will wake you.

He looks around until he finds a blanket to put over you, then settles down on the other couch with a second one. Neither the couch or the blanket are anywhere near long enough for him to sleep comfortably, but he doesn’t want you to wake up alone.

---

They had to practically drag you out to the movie tonight.

Things have been up and down since you came back to work, a week after everyone else did. You have good days and bad days. Today has been a bad day. You’d tried to just go home, but seeing that you were in a dark place, Spencer had insisted you come out with them.

“It’s unnecessary,” Garcia says as the five of you trail out of the theater. “There was too much blood and gore and ew.”

“Garcia, it’s a slasher film,” Spencer says, amused. “How do you do a slasher film without violence?”

“You imply it.”

“Baby, the movie is called Slice 6,” Morgan says. “What were you expecting?”

“A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy. I’m gonna have nightmares for a week,” she complains.

“With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?” Seaver asks.

“Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night.”

“Why are you worried? I’m sure that Morgan will protect you. As long as he’s not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl,” Spencer says, making no effort to hide his laugh.

Morgan rolls his eyes. “The only reason I jumped is ‘cause you guys woke me up.”

Garcia puts her arm through his. “How could you sleep during that?”

“Easy. You drag me out after a twelve hour workday, for what? You’re telling me that girl didn’t know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs? Come on, now.”

“Villain,” Spencer corrects.

“What?”

“In movies, unsubs are called villains.”

Morgan barely holds back a snort. “My bad.”

Spencer looks to his other side. You haven’t said anything at all; you’re just staring at the ground as you walk. In an effort to bring you into the conversation, he asks, “D’you wanna know why horror movies are so successful?”

You glance at him, but Morgan’s the one who answers. “Why’s that, genius?”

“They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman’s scream would signal danger, and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack. That’s why it’s always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman,” he explains.

“Well, that’s not the only reason,” you say quietly. “It’s no secret the film industry is sexist.”

“That, too,” he agrees, just happy you’ve said something.

Garcia smiles affectionately. “Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to science.”

“My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor,” Seaver says, playfully shifting her voice to sound intense.

“Ah, the ticking clock,” Spencer replies.

“The helpless victim walks through the dark, shadows reaching out to get her,” she continues.

He’s got a smile on his face now as he plays along. “A sudden noise draws her attention. Is someone there, or is it just in her head?”

“Still, it’s totally unrealistic,” Garcia interrupts. “No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night.”

Derek clears his throat, feigning offense. “Hello?”

“Ah. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side,” she corrects. Morgan chuckles in approval.

“But the best part of a horror movie?” Spencer asks, not done with the conversation. “You never know when the end is gonna come.”

Everyone splits up when they reach the parking lot, heading to their own cars. Morgan is driving Garcia, and you offer to drive Spencer home. But before you start the car, you ask, “Will you stay over tonight?”

It’s not really unexpected. He knows you’ve been struggling to sleep alone since the first night he stayed on your couch. He’s done it a few more times since then, and you’ve slept on his couch every now and then as well, when you reach the point where you’re absolutely exhausted and can’t take it anymore. You’re understandably lonely, but he suspects you’re also scared of Doyle returning, if the way you double check your front door, windows and alarm before bed is anything to go by.

“Of course,” he answers quietly.

You stop by his place on the way so he can pick up some clothes and a toothbrush. When he walks into your apartment, he starts to put his things down on the couch, but you take his wrist in your hand and pull him towards the bedroom.

His heart skips a beat. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“You’ve woken up with back and knee pain every time you’ve stayed on the couch. It’s too small for you. This bed is easily big enough for both of us. We’re adults; we can share it.”

“Uh, alright. Th—thanks,” he stutters.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

The bathroom door clicks shut softly behind you, leaving Spencer alone to take in his surroundings. He’s been in your bedroom before, of course, but it feels different this time. He can tell what side of the bed you sleep on by the personal effects on one of the bedside tables; he sets down his things on the opposite one. Once the shower has started and he’s sure you won’t be coming back in, he gets changed into his pajamas.

As he pulls back the bedcovers, he tries not to think about how Emily was the one doing this just a few months ago. And he especially tries not the think about what the two of you undoubtedly got up to in this bed, and what your face must look like when you—

Stop that right now, he scolds himself. And there’s that guilt and betrayal again, making his chest feel hollow. He leaves the room to brush his teeth at the kitchen sink (he doesn’t want to bother you or rush your shower), and splashes some cold water on his face after to try and pull himself together.

He’s settled down with a book by the time you come out of the bathroom, your hair wet and the scent of your bath products clinging to your skin. “Uh, how was your shower?” he asks awkwardly, feeling out of place in your bed.

“It was fine.” You plug in your phone to charge and get into bed. You turn off your bedside lamp and lay down on your side facing him, apparently ready to sleep right away. Spencer doesn’t want to keep you up, so he marks his place in the book and turns off the lamp on his side. As soon as he’s adjusted to a comfortable position, you speak.

“Would it be okay if I slept close to you?” you ask in a whisper. Your voice wavers when you continue, “I miss being close to someone.”

Spencer couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. He nods before realizing you can’t see him in the dark. “Yeah, sure.”

You scoot towards him and curl up next to his body, your forehead touching his shoulder and legs pressed against his side. He tries not to tense up so you won’t think he’s uncomfortable with it, because it’s very much the opposite. He’s always liked your touch, and right now your skin is still warm from the shower and you smell so nice.

You fall asleep quickly, your breathing becoming slow and even. It’s the fastest you’ve fallen asleep in weeks. He’s just about drifted off himself when you shift, startling him back awake by moving closer in your sleep. One of your hands settles on his chest and your legs straighten out, one of them slipping between his.

Slowly, hesitantly, he moves the arm closest to you, putting it around your shoulders and resting his hand on your back. You don’t stir, so he closes his eyes again. And if he lets go of the guilt for just a little while and allows himself to pretend that you’ve moved in your sleep to hold onto him because you love him back? Well. You don’t need to know that.

---

It takes ten weeks, but the team finally has Doyle in custody. Morgan’s in the interrogation room with him, but is interrupted when everyone is told to gather at the roundtable. Spencer’s one of the first ones in, followed by Garcia and you. The rest of the team isn’t far behind.

“You get anywhere with Doyle?” he asks Morgan.

“Doyle doesn’t think Gerace has the guts to take him on.”

“But that’s definitely Gerace on the tape,” Garcia says.

Hotch enters the room, looking much different than the last time they saw him, sporting a beard and loose, casual clothing.

“Welcome back,” Morgan says, a bit of surprise coloring his tone.

“Thanks. Everybody have a seat,” Hotch instructs.

Morgan stays standing. “Why? What’s going on? Everything all right?”

Hotch crosses his arms and looks at the table as he begins to speak. “Several months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But the doctors were able to stabilize her. And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration. Her identity was strictly need-to-know. And she stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.”

“She’s alive?” you choke out.

Spencer can’t process this; it doesn’t make any sense. “But we buried her.”

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision,” Hotch says. “If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.”

“Any issues?” Morgan asks, voice shaking with emotion. “Yeah, I got issues.”

“I’ll say,” you agree. But before either of you can continue, you’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind you.

---

Ten weeks. Seventy days. One thousand, six hundred and eighty hours. None of it went by without Emily thinking of you.

Ten weeks, seventy days, one thousand, six hundred and eighty hours had passed by painfully slowly as she waited for the call.

Every time her phone had rung in Paris, she answered it with bated breath, hoping this was the one, the call that meant she could come back to her home, her team. Her family. You.

Unfortunately, it also comes with the news that Declan is in danger.

The glass doors to the BAU don’t feel the same as she walks through them. None of the building does. She had expected to it to feel the way it always had. Warm, full of life, where she belonged. But tonight, it just feels cold.

Through the blinds, she can see Hotch talking to the team, presumably revealing the truth about her death. As she gets closer, she can hear voices.

“... anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” Hotch.

“Any issues? Yeah, I got issues.” Morgan.

“I’ll say.” You.

She stops in the doorway, and everyone turns to face her.

“Oh, my god,” Garcia whispers.

Everyone’s looking at her, but Emily only has eyes for you.

You’re staring back at her, mouth hanging open slightly, tears slipping out of your eyes and down your cheeks. There’s silence until you suddenly push back your chair and stand. Emily drops her bag to the floor just before you slam into her, nearly knocking her over. You cling to her, and she clings back.

Then she feels it. She feels the warmth and life, the sense of belonging.

Here, with you in her arms, she’s finally home.

---------------

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remmushound · 3 years

Text

Beyond the Bay Chapter 12 - Hidden City

Summary: The turtles go off in search of a new rift in the Hidden City

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @selfindulgenz @digitl-art-monstr @ilo-artistry

Leo hated every part of this. The sun was up, so they should be down, and out of sight. He had known his counterparts long enough to know how loose they often played with the rules his family followed so diligently, but to take to the streets under the danger of daylight for something that could easily wait for the blanket of night was absurd! In his two decades of life, Leo could count the amount of daylight explorations he had taken on two hands; the risk was hardly ever worth it. Despite the prickling insecurities inside him, Leo pushed himself onward to follow Raphael’s lead. This city was so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. So easy to get lost in. Leo found himself picking out familiar buildings to assure that this place was still New York, even in this toony world so colorful that he could almost believe a pallet of paint had been spilled over it. This was New York and New York would always be home, even if home was a whole dimension away.

Raphael’s guidance brought the group of anxious turtles to an alleyway. They dropped down from above; Leo felt a shutter go through his body, a cold chill seizing his senses and stealing away his breath as he passed through something that seemed almost… green. The sudden shock made him stutter, his balance unsteady enough to knock over a trash can upon landing. With a clutter and a clang the silver bin fell and rolled, several more loud crashes sounding off each time it hit something. The eyes of Donnie and Raph turned to the shock-stricken Leo, who could only stare with his wide, cerulean eyes. The people walking past in the streets to either side, just feet away from what they’d see as monsters, didn’t stopped. Leo let himself breathe and the three brothers, muscles still tensed and ready to hide at the slightest sign of trouble, moved back into a tight formation around their younger counterparts.

“What are we doing here?” Leo couldn’t contain it anymore and he had to ask. His voice was a low whisper. “We could be seen!”

“Relax.” Leonardo laughed, and his voice wasn’t at all soft. He was met with three sets of shhhhh from the Splintersons, but laughed each of them off, “This alleyway has a mystic shimmer. We can see them.” He cleared his throat, “BUT THEY CAN’T SEE OR HEAR US!”

True to his word, the people in the street kept on their way as if the turtles didn't even exist. So that was what Leo felt! What had made him stumble! The cautious tension in Donnie was immediately replaced by heart-fluttering curiosity. He couldn’t resist a high-pitched whistle, striding away from the group before Leo could say a word to stop him; he went as close as he dared to the end of the alleyway, waving and laughing and calling out to the streets with, to his utter joy, no response.

“This is so cool this is so cool this is so cool!” Donnie’s voice got higher with each repeat, flapping his wrists, “W-what is it, some type of four-lensed blind spot? O-or something using metamaterials or—?”

“Noooo, it’s mystic.” Leonardo said, and with a snap of his fingers Michelangelo perked up. He removed a small item that had been hidden in the rainbow pouch around his neck, the artifact attached to him by a slim golden collar; it was almost like a keychain he hung around his neck. “And so is this.”

Leo eyed the little trinket curiously; in shape, it was similar to Donatello’s gift, except with greens and golds instead of orange and reds. He could have mistaken it for an oddly colored compass with kanji if he hadn’t seen that familiar, lop-sided M in the middle. The compass itself was pointing directly at the wall, glowing the most vibrant neon and pulsing slightly. Leo could feel the energy radiating.

With a hand as steady as a seasoned artist, Michelangelo traced the trinket across the wall using the M as a guiding map. Before the astonished eyes of the Splinterson brothers, the compass left what looked almost like a trail of paint in its wake, except it didn't drip, and when Michelangelo had completed his work it began to glow. It was green at first, then shifted into a soft baby blue, and then into white as the faux paint finally started to drip and melt into a doorway. Leo felt an immediate draw toward it, like the force that would try to lasso them into Leonardo’s rift except not as strong. Raph gave a simple hiss in response, pulling back and shaking his head while Donnie did the exact opposite, reaching for the rift as if it were the most precious treasure.

“I thought only your Leo could make rifts…” Leo said.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Leonardo asked, dancing over to stand proud at Leo’s side, “Portals are the only way into the Hidden City!”

“Hidden City?” Raph breathed through his teeth, eyes still fixed on the rift.

“Yeah!” Raphael said unhelpfully, “You three should stay close to us; the mystic types can be pretty jarring for first timers.”

Raph started to say, “I think I can handle them” before he felt a gentle tug at his hand. Raph looked to see Michelangelo holding his hand, resting his full weight against Raphael’s arm without the older mutant so much as flinching. Michelangelo’s eyes were wide, the colors flowing in them like a warm sunset as he beamed up at his friend.

“Don’t be scared, Raphie! You can hold my hand if you want to!”

“Uh…” Looking down at this tiny, vibrant young shinobi that barely came up to his stomach in height, Raph couldn’t say anything except, “Y-yeah, sure. Thanks kid…”

Michelangelo have a happy giggle and wiggled his joy. He snatched Donnie with his other hand before the tallest box turtle could get very far.

“You can hold my hand too, Donna!”

“Donna?” Raph breathed through his nose, then laughed, “Hell yeah. Down with the patriarchy.”

Donnie, upon being grabbed by Michelangelo, had much the same reaction as Raph. He didn't know what to do, and then he fell to soft adoration as he realized he would do anything for this kid.

“Thanks Mike.”

“Can I hold your hand too?” Leo asked brightly

Michelangelo’s expression flattened. “Only got two hands, Leon.”

Donatello cleared his throat and stepped forward to motion the first group through the rift. “Please keep your hands and feet inside the mystic rift until the ride has ended, keep all personals close as we will not be liable for any limbs or items that may turn up missing. Keep your shells on, your heads low, and watch out for portal jackers as we take this small voyage to Run-Of-The-Mill pizza.”

With that, Michelangelo and the two other box turtles that had to crouch to be able to hold his hand went through the rift without fear. Leo, his mouth still hanging open, turned to look at Raphael, who could only shrug before going through the rift himself.

“Lady’s first~” Leonardo gave what could have resembled a polite bow if not for the mocking tone, motioning Leo through first.

Leo sucked in a breath, shaking the nervous jitters like water off a duck's back before he stepped through. The pull was very much so like the rift he and his family had taken to wind up in this world to begin with, except less painful. When he opened his eyes again he was standing in… a restaurant?

The smell of cumin and Chili filled the air. The feeling of the polished floor under Leo’s feet was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Like ice, except not cold; soft, but hard at the same time if that was possible. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the building and more details were quick to come to him; wooden booths with dark brown cushions and tables clean enough to shine under the candlelight that filled the restaurant; the candles, it seemed, were held up by nothing at all! They were shaped almost like they were living; Leo thought it nothing more than a cool design before he realized they actually were living! Living candles with curves and form almost like human women, their hair the flaming candle wicks and the bottom of their shafts flowing out like a ball gown! Closer still and Leo could even begin to make out tiny, detailed faces!

“You want your normal seats I presume?”

Leo blinked and shook his head as the familiar voice brought him back down to earth. Though he hadn’t seen Hueso in just over two years, the skeleton man had hardly changed at all. The calaca’s white pupils danced across the group with a curious hum.

“And shall I double your usual then?” Hueso queried.

“Bone man!” Leonardo explained, scooping Hueso up in a hug before the older yokai could make his escape. “Good to see ya!”

“Wish I could say the same.” Hueso grumbled, then added bitterly, “Problem child…”

“And that’s why you love me!” Leonardo blew a kiss, “Now Hueso, you remember the other us’s, right?”

“Unfortunately, it’s a pleasure to remake your acquaintance.”

Hueso was met with three half-hearted mutters of greeting; none of the Splintersons were even looking at him! Why would they when there were so many different creatures to see? In most every booth and table and barstool were mutants out of a fantasy book; beings even Donnie couldn’t single out as anything familiar! Some of them had characteristics that could have been compared to more natural animals— tentacles and fangs and frills. Creatures as big as an elephant or small as a shrew, with varying table sizes to accommodate all in between.

“Hey, listen bone man.” Leonardo tried to whisk Hueso away for a private conversation, but Hueso ducked to avoid the fate. His eyes and Leonardo’s were locked until Leonardo backed down, “We need a favor.”

“Don’t you always?” Hueso asked, “Seems every time you come to pay a visit it is for your own gain.”

“What? Noooo! Me? Noo!” Leonardo scoffed, waving a dismissive hand and laughing before quickly giving up the ruse, “It’s important this time. We need to find a yokai who sells decent rifts at an affordable price, and we need it like yesterday if we want to get these boys home.”

Hueso hummed, bringing his fingers to his mouth as he considered. “Define affordable.”

“Somewhere in the price range of… eight hundred US dollars or nine thousand Japanese yen.” Donatello said.

Hueso hissed through his teeth. “You won’t get any that cheap. Cheapest I know of would be Monroe, but quality rifters at his place run upward to three million pesos.”

Donatello took out his phone and ran some quick calculations. “Okay guess we’re not eating this month.”

“Wish I could be of more help pepino.” Hueso said, turning to leave while he was still talking, “I’ll go get you directions to Monroe.”

~~~

“This looks like the place…” Donatello said, and he indicated a small sliver of alleyway squeezed between two tall buildings.

“Doesn’t look like much.” Raph huffed; Michelangelo still had a tight hold on his and Donnie’s hands for support.

“But it is discrete though.” Donnie pointed out; his mind was still wandering, trying its best to soak up the tangled stimuli from the buildings and the mutants that looked almost like something out of a cartoon! Like a child had drawn these characters and these structures and planted them together in a bright, yet disorienting, array of flashing colors. “I’d hate to be an epileptic in this place…”

“Are we… gonna be able to fit through there?” Leo asked, his question directed toward Leonardo.

Leonardo flashed Leo a warning glare before saying, “Raph, are you and the guys gonna be able to fit?”

Raphael gave a low whine. His beak crinkled in concentration as his first idea was to simply walk forward, which proved him too wide. Then he huffed and turned sideways, but was still too bulky. It seemed Raphael ran out of ideas, so Donatello cleared his throat.

“If I could direct everyone’s attention slightly upwaaaard~”

Following his motion, they found what could have resembled a bell hanging above the alleyway. It looked as if it were made of slime with little chunks of something floating inside. Raph cringed at the sight of it, but Raphael gave a far too curious ooo and reached to touch it. Leonardo quickly stepped between Raphael and the slime-bell.

“No no no no, no no. No.” Leonardo said, forcing Raphael back, “Bad Raph.”

“I wasn’t gonna eat it.” Raphael pouted.

Leonardo narrowed his eyes. Raphael stuck out his bottom lip and tapped his fingers.

“Okay I was gonna eat it. You can ring it.”

“Eh… not sure if I want to…” Despite his words, Leonardo reached up and took the slimy rope of the bell, a texture not unlike a worm, and yanked on it. Instead of ringing, it gave off a sound like a foghorn blowing that made every turtle cover their ears, though Leonardo removed his hands from his head just as quickly when he realized it was still covered in slime. “Ew ew ew ew—“

There was a pop and they were swallowed by a slimy, green bubble. What followed was mixed reactions of terror and disgust as they moved into a tighter group, shell to shell with the bigger ones surrounding the smaller. The bubble lifted then off their feet and through the wall like they had no matter at all, carried past the narrow door and lowered to the ground on the other side before the slime bubble popped and left them confused and disgruntled.

“What is this place?” Donnie was the first to separate from the group to look around. The space around them was not unlike an auction house, filled with all sorts of items on display. They filled shelf after shelf after shelf, placed around with no true order. Looking up would reveal several more floors, all just as filled with artifacts and creatures for purchase, with a convenient opening through the middle of each floor.

“Looks like some sort of witchy auction place…” Raph commented. Not to be outdone by his younger brother, Raph separated and started to investigate the place for himself, “How does a grimy grifter get a place like this?”

“Wait a minute…” Leonardo frowned as he looked around, “Wait— I know this place.”

Raph picked up a gem-encrusted chalice, turning it around curiously. “Huh. Fancy.”

“Raph, don’t touch anything.” Leo groaned.

“What?” Raph scoffed, “Guess you don’t want me to do this either, huh?”

He began to juggle the chalice with surprising style.

“Raph, stop that!” Leo tried to intervene, but that only seemed to egg Raph on. He danced out of Leo’s reach, laughing as he pretended to drop the decor before catching it at the last second, “I’m serious!”

Raph only laughed. At least, he was laughing until he actually did drop it— right on the head of a small, purple yokai who had been observing the scene, as still as one of his statues. Raph swore, trying to recover the drop but it was too late. It sank into the yokai’s head as if he were made of pure gelatin, and they could still see the gold through the flesh and skin. The purple yokai blinked, and Raph screamed.

The purple yokai’s skin shifted into flowing rings of yellow and orange that forced the chalice up and out of his head, into his hand. He didn't look like much— something akin to a slug if anything— with a soft beak and a snaggle tooth like Raphael’s only smaller. He breathed onto the chalice and wiped it off with his sleeve before placing it back on the shelf.

“Please don’t touch.”

“YOU!” Leonardo pointed accusingly, “You’re that slug guy who sold me wallet-stealing hair! You’re Monroe?!”

“That’s a talking slug—” Raph withdrew back into the crowd of his brothers, eyes wide.

Donnie gasped, pulling his goggles down over his eyes and advancing as quickly as Raph had retreated. The slug drew into himself, his entire body constricting like a squeezed stress ball. Leo visibly cringed, while Raphael and his brothers didn't seem all that bothered beyond a few yawns or comforting pats for Raph.

“This is incredible— there’s compounds in him that fail to be isolated or traced!” Donnie picked up one of the slugs arms to investigate every inch of him. “He doesn’t even seem to be carbon based at all; there’s elements I can’t even identify— what…?” Donnie pulled up his goggles as the astonishment gave way to a confused frown, “Is— is he a mutant?”

“No.” Donatello scoffed.

That was met with three very confused box turtles casting side glances.

“Are… are any of them mutants?” Leo asked.

Leonardo laughed, “What? You though every yokai in the Hidden City was mutated by Draxum and his army of mutant mosquitoes? Ha! W-what dumb idiots would think that?” Leonardo was visibly sweating.

“Not these dumb idiots, that’s for sure.” Donatello tried to brush past, scratching his neck.

“W-wait, so none’a them guys we passed were mutants?” Raph asked, pointing back at the door.

“Well, some of them might have been, but the majority? No; they’re yokai and cryptids.”

“Yokai…” Donnie breathed, and that astonished look returned to his face as he continued to circle Monroe, “They exist in your world? Oh my kama this just keeps getting better—“

“Don.” Raph whistled as if Donnie was a dog, “Buy first, geek later.”

Monroe’s eyes lit up at that and he pulled himself away from Donnie to give a polite bow to the rest of the group. “If sales you wants, sales I’s gots! I gots artifacts from all around the world, from the tombs of Giza to the ancient Amazons. If you needs it, I gots it!”

“Great!” Raphael clapped. “Cause we need a high quality rifter.”

Monroe sank into himself. “Not that’s I don’t gots…”

A visible vein twitched in Leo. “What?”

“I solds out…” He frowned, tapping his nubby hands together.

“WHEN?”

“Like ten minutes ago, don’t yell at me.” The slug quivered, his eyes like saucers.

Leonardo sucked in a slow, deep breath, “Who bought them, Monroe?”

“Oh, an andoroido with a nice voice ands such manners. He’s having buying all my rifters. He’s very rich.”

“All of them?” Raphael whimpered, “Y-you don’t even got a… a small busted one in the back?”

Monroe shook his head. “Not one! He was be very insistent he gets alls of them. But I do has a very special hover pod with your name witten all over it if you—“

“Not interested.” Leonardo quickly dismissed, pulling on his face in his frustration, “Great. We— we’ll find somewhere else to look.”

“But I is to be assuring you that no other shop has rifters worth your while…” Monroe said.

“That's what every illegal rifter peddler would say!”

“Not this illegal rifter peddler, I swearing it to you!”

“And I swear I’ll bust your teeth in if you’re lying…” Leonardo seized Monroe by the collar and lifted him up.

“Leo.” Raphael was quick to correct. His eyes met Leonardo’s for just a moment. That was all it took for Leonardo to relent and release the Yokai. Raphael made a quick point to help Monroe fix his shirt. “Sorry ‘bout that. If you happen to find a rifter you missed, could you give us a call?”

Without having to be asked, Donatello had already written up his phone number and placed it in Monroe’s hand.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any more contacts, do you Don?”

Donatello took a long, slow breath. “I’ll see what I can find.”

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #tmnt au #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #bay turtles

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softly-savage-mint-yoongi · 3 years

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Heat Seekers II Genre: Dark Cyberpunk AU Pairing: Chanyeol x f.reader Words: 8k Fic Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. I’m serious people. If any of the chapter warnings are uncomfortable or triggering for you, please do not read this. Do so at your own discretion. Lots of angst and hurt, eventual smut. Chapter Warnings are below the cut. Author’s Note: There are some specific things in this fic that I’ve personally experienced, and some that I have not. Please understand my intention with this fic is a way of healing not just for myself but hopefully for others who unfortunately have experience with these types of situations. I did a lot of debating about whether or not I should even post this fic, and have spoken to a few individuals about it. Ultimately, with the intent of healing and moving past such trauma, it’s been decided OK to post. Please take my warnings seriously.

Chapter Warnings: panic, anxiety & triggers. Mentions of sex trafficking. Political injustice.

You push your way through the heavy doors into Blue House, ticking your chin forward in greeting to the entertainers standing in the comforts of the lobby, familiar faces you once considered colleagues. The one you’re looking for is at the bar along the back wall, sleek black beneath your fingers, unable to help the way they fan and smooth across its surface as you address him. “Thanks for the tip,” you grin, pausing momentarily to chastise the man before you, “Can I have the info now? I know you were looking out for me by taking it to save, but don’t you think you should have a little more faith in me?” Chan, who is your sole confidant- grins right back. “We don’t believe in faith, remember?” he retorts, flourishing two fingers in front of him to awaken his Atlas, fuzzing to synthetic life between you. You laugh mirthlessly at his reminder because he is right. He flicks his fingers and turns his wrist in a smooth motion, then waits while you blink your own to life and accept the request for sync that takes up the main holo in front of you. He waits for you to collect the job from his inbox and read the description; watching you with a blank expression you don’t see. “In search of a female escort, early to mid-twenties for one night job. The escort must possess advanced skills with Atlas Tech, and hacking. Body measurements are required prior to the job. Deliver in-person to coordinates 94.0114” N 94.0412” E. Details to follow. Payment is dependent on job success. 1200c.” Admittedly, the job description is short but to the point. If anyone were desperate enough, which everyone is, anyone could have collected this job. Now you see why Chan called you for this. Even without the price tag, the requirements complement your skillset spot on. You notice the job expires in two days. Good thing you didn’t have any other plans tonight, you muse to yourself. “Thanks, Chan,” you say with a smile, disconnecting the sync between your Atlas drives. He gives you a warm, dimpled smile in return, “Don’t mention it, babygirl. Just don’t be a stranger, yeah? You know Blue House will always be here for you.” His affectionate pet name for you makes your stomach flutter, just the same as it always did, but you sigh and turn away with a nod, plugging coordinates into your H.I. Pulling up your GPS menu, your smart tech automatically asks you if you want to register the coordinates it recognizes from any recent files you opened. You tap the green ‘register’ button on your interface the moment you slide onto the smooth leather seat of your hyperbike. You pull the visor of your helmet down, giving your H.I a moment to complete the reaction and pop up in your helmet visor. When it does, you scan the map, telling your Atlas you wish to start your bike. The artificial chime of understanding is a comforting sound, as is the low humming purr of the engine starting within the metal between your knees. Intimate, like a heartbeat between a ribcage. The route isn’t terribly long, about thirty-six minutes through the city… if you go the speed limit. A ridiculous notion to still follow, if only out of principle for the older generations. Nobody uses the rule of it anymore, and most people who use the road these days consider it an insult to the growth of safe traveling anymore to have ‘limits’ on speed, and by extension, how well a vehicle moves. Why make such advancements if the restrictions placed on them refuse to evolve? You tick your head to the side with a slight scowl. The trip takes you two-tenths of a second longer than you initially gauged. To a tech hacker such as yourself, inaccuracy is a flaw you’re desperate to rid yourself of. It makes you green with envy of Artificial Intelligence. The coordinates take you to a jewelry store on the north side of the city, closer to the outskirts and the wilderness of the Old City beyond it. Despite the location, the street is lined with tons of high-end shops that glow in the night, open for business. Odd, considering the best shopping districts in the city are further toward the center, and none of them look as classy as this street. You enter the store, raising a brow at the large panel that reads ‘Cloak & Dagger’ in clean, bold lines in the window. A strange name for a jewelry boutique. It feels out of place for you to be here, but you march forward carefully regardless of the uncomfortable way the white polished floor shines back up into your eyes. “Hello?” you call, approaching the largest glass case- it appears to be the counter, with a small tablet resting on a stand in the center. A woman stands up from behind another case to your left, sliding the glass panel closed with her hand before she approaches you. “How can I help you?” Her accent is older, perhaps European, and she looks as if she could be in her sixties. Even at her apparent age, she is exemplary. Your eyes drift down to the items in the case, drawing out a hum because the contents of the case are not what you expected. Now the name makes perfect sense. The jewelry doesn’t just mean your typical rings and pendants. The case is full of self-defense jewelry. Defender rings, ring knives, and other small weapons that are worn. Without answering her, you round the case to the one she stood from, and notice an assortment of larger wearable weapons. From strings of magnetic senbon to actual daggers and piercing finger cuffs. “Find something you like?” she asks, trying to prompt you again. Part of you immediately dislikes the way she’s standing. She seems too proud of your reaction, and with her back straight and hands folded perfectly on top of the counter, she has an air of superiority. With narrowed eyes, you stand back to your full height, “I’m here about a job that’s due in two days.” Her face is unreadable, and she nods minutely, “Can you show me what you’re referring to, dear?” She makes a finger gun and points it directly toward you, tilting her fingers up with the motion of it going off. It sets your adrenaline running with panic until she smiles and her Atlas opens between you. Her motion for opening it is horrifying, and you’re bewildered as to how she came about making that her initiation sequence. You don’t want to close your eyes tightly for the full second it takes to open your own, but you hold you breath and do it anyway. She hums in approval and understanding when you twist your H.I toward her and show her the job posting on your personal assignment bulletin. “I see,” she says, letting her eyes rove you up and down. Nothing you’re not used to, having worked in a brothel for years. “Very well then.” She types something into her own H.I and motions for you to come back to the center of the shop floor. When you do, she presses a button on her interface that expands it around the room. Suddenly, you’re standing in the center of some program she’s running, and the security cameras in the shop come to life. A bright blue light beams from each, pointing at your feet as they scan up your form. Momentarily, you’re impressed with the way she’s made her tech work. Multiple programs running from the same cameras, she’s clever, and you like her a little more for it. Perhaps a bit unorthodox and fitting to her shop’s name, cloaked in mystery, but you’re interested in how she came to be in this moment. She stands in front of you, one hand on her hip while the other goes between touching her lips to touching her main holographic interface, or H.I for short. She’s mumbling to herself as she works, letting your now holographic form float into the space above you. Reaching out, she pulls you out of the center and away from your holoclone. “Fry, darling, give me measurements without her clothes, will you?” “Yes of course, dear,” a disembodied voice echos back. Albeit quite synthesized, it is distinctly male, with an American accent. “Pardon me for the intrusion, miss. Varian Fry, at your service.” the voice says to your holoclone. No clothing is actually removed from either you or your clone, but the AI brings up a separate holo screen for each piece of your clothing. It’s fascinating, to see how quickly he can tell everything about the items, from their thickness and fibers to how many millimeters they equate for in your initial measurements. “At your request, dear,” he says, and an upbeat chime rings on her main interface with your naked measurements. The woman looks at you over her reading glasses, smiling, “He’s impressive, isn’t he?” You realize she asked because you’re smiling at his handiwork. Simply, you nod at her. “Fry, take these into manufacturing. Rush order, number…” she trails off, pausing as she tilts her head at you, “seventy-two, please. In black and violet.” You have no idea what she means and part of you feels like this is some strange super-suit she’s making for you. “Right away, dear.” Fry says, and her H.I blinks into nonexistence. She sighs, glancing at you wistfully, “I think he’ll be most pleased.” You know you shouldn’t because it’s cliche and quite honestly, she shouldn’t tell you, but you ask anyway, “Who?” She laughs, “Your partner for the evening, of course. Don’t worry too much, he’s one of the good guys.” That’s all she tells you before she’s ushering you back toward the door. “Come by again tomorrow midday, it’ll be ready,” she assures you just as she lets the door shut between you. The encounter leaves you feeling a myriad of emotions, though most prominently was the anxiousness of such a mysterious job. You’ve only had a small share of jobs from outside sources, and none that appeared to have so much riding on them. Without anything else to do, you ride back toward Blue House, craving pizza. Smiling, you decide to stop for a quick payday and a free dinner at The Cave. It takes less time than usual to make your rounds of the arcade cabinets, easily earning enough credits to pay for a large pie to take back with you. Plain cheese, well done. Same as always. When you walk through the doors of the brothel with a smile and a pizza box, Chan knows, “Oh no, how many people’s day did you ruin?” “Just a few, I promise. I really just wanted the pizza.” you comment, admitting that a few extra coins in your pocket from beating out cheating gamers never hurt anyone. His eyes zero in on the box settled on your palm with a swallow, “Did you just bring that here to make my mouth water?” There’s a hopeful spark in his eyes, but you decide to enjoy the chance to tease anyway, “We both know this isn’t the kind of thing that makes your mouth water.” Your eyes float around the lobby with a grin. His smile slides off his face briefly, until you shake your head, “Come on. Got some time to spare?” Immediately, the guardian of Blue House morphs his stance- away from the imposing spread of his arms across the sleek counter to the boyish delight of the one person you’ve grown to trust in this world like a starry-eyed puppy. His childlike wonder brings a smile to your lips at the stark contrast of his nickname in the business, as the Wolf of Blue House. He doesn’t mind it, and most of his clientele pay top dollar to have the attention and affection of that persona. You know the way, and Chan follows you through the door on the right, ascending the stairs tucked narrowly between the lounges. The rose-colored light gives the cramped space an intimate feel, and part of you takes artificial comfort from this familiarity, and the memories of it you can feel permeate your consciousness. Of the way you grew up here, together with Chan. Of how thankful you are to him for teaching you and helping you survive. The embarrassment of teenage years made you closer, and you try not to smile, remembering once when you were drunk and nineteen, after your first official orgasm ever, at his hands, and the victory of such a thing made you so emotional you confessed that you loved him. Gently as ever, he brought you back down and reminded you that pleasure isn’t love. In the darkness of your personal room in this very building, your tears fell from the sudden fear of weightlessness that overtook you with such release, and he was there for every step of the way. Chan was there, keeping you grounded and guiding you on a path that would make you strong enough, smart enough, to stand on your own feet and never need anyone else. You could want to your heart’s content, but you would never need. That seems like a distant past, now. Somewhere after eating the whole pie with Chan on the rooftop, you fell asleep. You’re positive he carried you back down the stairs to his den and let you sleep in his bed. The only difference was your jacket had been removed, neatly folded over the open door of his armoire. You’ve woken up here before, sometimes alone, sometimes not when you needed to feel safe so you could sleep without screaming. Weeks or months between. Never more than 3 nights in a row. Today, only the familiar scent of Chan lingers in the room. When you rise, you notice he’s left you some of your old clothes, if you feel so inclined, and a fresh towel. The mirror of his bathroom has wispy remnants of condensation still, and the balmy humidity in the room feels relaxing. The warm water kickstarts your tired bones while you shower, giving you time to think against the white noise it provides. You wonder what time it is, but don’t bother with rushing the moment. As usual, you find Chan working in the office with his natural curls still damp atop his head. They’re unstyled, the dry strands a bit frizzy- mused from his fingers running through them no doubt. Even though you know he’s very busy, he looks comfortable. “I’m out.” you coo quietly from your position, leaning against the door frame with your jacket tucked over your folded arms. It’s a little awkward saying goodbye, knowing you’ll be back in a few weeks after you’ve rotated through your other caches. You can never stay in one place for too long. His head snaps up with the sound of your voice, and he gives you a dimpled grin, “Okay. Stay safe out there, babygirl.” It’s obvious your decision to even say goodbye makes him happy, although he has never judged you for disappearing without small talk. Neither of you owe each other anything. You remain as you both are, separately autonomous. The time you share together is a boon of respectful interest and allied friendship. It’s half past noon as you sling your backpack over your shoulder and head outside, inhaling a deep breath as your palm habitually runs across the leather seat of your bike. Mounting, you bring up the routes of your recent destinations and take in the swell of momentary bliss you get when the bike beneath you roars to life. The midday sun feels good, the heat of it through your clothes and on your hands warming you the moment you ride onto the city streets from the cool shade of the undercity. When you arrive at Cloak & Dagger, you’re whisked inside by the same older woman from yesterday, and she makes a lot of fuss over you. “We’ve got to get your nails and your hair done before you can wear that dress,” she’s muttering, pulling at your hair and your hands to see your fingernails. “Excuse me?” you ask. The job didn’t entail all of that fuss. Why is going to that extent necessary? She gives you a dazzling, perhaps a little overeager smile. “You’ve got to look the part, doll. You’re not bad,” she comments, standing back to assess you from head to toe with a twist to her lips, “but we’ve still got to even out your ends and do you up for the event.” You’re uncomfortable with this, but when she confirms it will cost you nothing, you remind yourself it’s all for the money. Plus, you haven’t had a haircut in a while. “Close the shop, dear, we’ve got important work to do!” she coos in excitement loudly to her AI. Fry’s voice answers her with amusement, “We never opened today, dear.” She laughs, “All’s well that ends well, then!” as she takes your hand and walks you back behind the counter and into a large space that appears to be a dressing room. Immediately, she guides you to a comfortable-looking chair stationed in front of an old-style makeup mirror and begins talking to her AI. “Mm, yes, I think this one will do.” she says as she flips through a couple of hairstyles from a menu you don’t recognize in her H.I. Two arms fold down from the center of the ceiling here, sleek and soundless as they move. Fry’s voice is directed at you, “This is happening to you, my dear. Which of these would you like? I can do either with the length your hair will be once I even it out.” A display appears on the mirror in front of you and four hairstyles are displayed. You’re still trying to wrap your head around this ordeal and all the fuss over you, but you blurt out “number two” anyway. “Excellent choice, my dear.” he says, gentlemanly as always in his American accent. The arms behind you start working immediately, folding out to comb your hair and part it, taking clips from a tray that’s been set up just behind the chair. It takes longer than you anticipated for the AI Varian Fry to cut your hair and style it into the selected choice, all while he comments how wonderful it looks on you. You’ve lost count of how many pins he’s put in by now. The quirky woman jabs often at you with small talk that you needn’t reply to, or she comments on the work Fry is doing while she tends to your nails. “I can do that, darling. No need to fret.” the AI says to her while she fusses over evening out your nails, but she waves him off. “No no, I want to. It makes me feel useful. We never get to have this kind of fun anymore.” Her words are cryptic and the way she says them tells you there’s a mountain of information behind the comment, but she says nothing else about it. Your nails aren’t something you get a choice with, as she layers gel onto them, building it up and evening the edges before she finishes. You watch, moving your fingers in all kinds of ways to get used to having longer nails, almond-shaped no less. Admittedly, you like the matte hue she chose as the color. Once she’s finished, she stands and walks to the left side of the room. There’s a long, rolling pole with clothes hangers adorning it, and a single garment is neatly folded in a black bag. She removes it and unzips it just as Varian Fry places the final bobby pin in your hair, covering your eyes with a metal visor briefly while hairspray plumes into a cloud over your head. “I can’t wait to see this on you,” the woman coos excitedly, “You might just be our best work yet.” When Varian finishes your hair, the arms spin your chair in the direction of the woman, and she’s holding up a black and violet dress, the heavy yet gentle shine of velvet catching light. Typically, you’re not the dress type, but again, money is money. At least it isn’t hideous, and the colors and style are gorgeous. There’s isn’t much you find that would annoy you with it, other than perhaps the inability to run if necessary. “We’ve only got your makeup left to do!” she chimes while she hangs the dress on a hook high off the floor, just beside the mirror. Another cart is wheeled over by one of Varian’s arms, full of high-end makeup brands you recognize from huge ads in the shopping districts of the city. She takes your hand with a laugh, “Up up up, come on now, let’s get you into this.” Ushering you into another room, you’re granted a moment of privacy to use the restroom and collect yourself before she’s knocking at the door and shamelessly stripping you of your outer clothes. Being naked in front of others stopped making you feel insecure a long time ago, and the benefit of it is the efficient speed of doing the task you needed to do instead of milling about in a flustered state of undress for longer than necessary. It doesn’t mean you enjoy being in the nude, but when duty calls you do what must be done. The older woman of Cloak & Dagger doesn’t seem to bat an eye either, assuming years of her dressing up others in her creations has kept the professional efficiency all the same. If she notices any of your battle scars, she doesn’t pause or comment on them. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you don’t recognize the woman staring back at you, except for her eyes and the color of her hair. The dress hugs your form like a thick and warm blanket, accentuating the lines of your body and appealing to the curve of your hips you hadn’t realized were so generous. You turn several directions, analyzing yourself. Perhaps it had been too long since you looked in the mirror at your body. You could appreciate the shape of your own ass, and the swell of your breasts, the gentle caress of line that was your own spine, clearly visible in the cutout back of this dress. Even the muscle of your own legs, visible from the mid-thigh down to the shiny black heels on your feet. For once, even with every sad story of the scars you know riddle your body, you couldn’t stop staring at yourself, liking the way you looked. Finished with fussing over yourself, the woman cracks a grin at you, cooing with excitement at the spectacle before her. “You look ravaging, darling.” She opens the door and takes your hand. Leading you back into the center of the prep room, she waits. Walking in heels is going to be the death of you- you’ve never worn any quite this high and pointy. In your mind, the only upside is the way you could stab someone with one if warranted. When Varian doesn’t respond and no movement is noticed from any of the things he can control, she asks, “Varian dear are you awake?” To which the hand-like ends of the limbs from the ceiling give her a single finger of silence, he whispers, “No, no please I need a moment to enjoy this absolute dream.” The woman barks a loud laugh, giggling to herself with pride. The joke does not go over your head, realizing with a smile that Varian was giving you a compliment. The entire ordeal has taken far longer than you think is appropriate, but if you try to think about your feelings, you can admit you enjoyed the pampering, and you feel good. You’ve never done anything like this, and there are small parts of you that had always wondered about why women fuss over their appearances so much. Now, you know. “The car has just arrived, dear.” Fry’s voice cuts in just as the woman finishes applying one more layer of lipstick to your face. She claps her hands together and smiles, “Right then! One last piece.” With a sway in her step, she leads you back out to the front of the shop and muses over the selection of handbags to her right briefly, deciding on a black leather clutch with a silver crossbody chain that she drapes over your body. You spy through the front window curiously, eyeing a man standing beside a car door wearing a black suit and tie with dark sunglasses. He’s not moving. “One more thing.” says the old woman, her finger raised in the air as she rounds the counter. She pulls a small 10mm pistol from somewhere below the register, checking it with a speed you find almost as alarming as the immediate panic that sets into your bones. You’re frozen as she checks the six spaces are all filled with bullets, snaps it shut and puts the safety lock on. Then, she’s standing in front of you, holding it out for you to take. Slowly, as if the gears of your body have been rusted still far too long, you shake your head. “What’s the matter dear, don’t know how to shoot? I don’t think you’ll need it, but just in case.” “No,” your voice quivers. She makes a sound of disbelief, misunderstanding you as she reaches for your bag, attempting to put the gun in it. “Get that thing away from me.” you command, wrenching the bag out of her fingers. She gives you a look, open-mouthed and taken aback a bit. When the pause between you grows too heavy, the man at the car breaks the silence by knocking on the door. The old woman blinks, “Oh, goodness okay okay, have it your way. Just be safe. I don’t want any idiots ruining this stunning creation.” she says to you with a wistful smile and a pat to your shoulder. Once she ushered you outside, you’re not sure why, but your head seemed to turn of its own volition, back to the front window of Cloak & Dagger, where you spied Varian’s metal arm whipping a handkerchief from an unknown place and offering it to his wife. The SUV in front of you is dark. Black paint, black trim and rims, and every window except the windshield looks deeply tinted. The man in front of you, painfully obvious with his secret and important aura, sticks out like a sore thumb. His only motion is opening the rear door for you. You’re desperate not to wobble or fall as you climb inside, already scowling at the heels on your feet. The inside of the SUV is more spacious than you gave credit for, with the seats rearranged in a way that opens the space like a lounge of sorts, complete with ice bucket and the glow of colored lights overhead. You perch yourself on the edge of an open section of the long seat across from the only other person in the back of the car, save for the sound of the man closing the door behind you and climbing into the driver’s seat of the SUV from the other side of a thick panel of black glass. The eyes of the person across from you are dancing along your skin, you can feel them, but it’s not in a way that raises the hair on the back of your neck. When you look ahead, you find a pair of dark eyes, crinkled at the outer corners and smiling at you, one hand extended in your direction. “Good evening, thank you for coming.” His voice is smooth. Neutral, with a hint of amusement. You say nothing, waiting for him to elaborate. He is handsome, you’ll admit, but in an almost too-pretty way. Hair swept up and to the side, in a full three piece suit that looked as if it cost an absurd amount of money to buy. His posture, with one knee over the other and his torso draped at an angle, with one arm over the back of the seat across from you. He raises his thick brows once when you say nothing, still analyzing him. “Right.” he chimes, placing the glass from his hand in the holder beside him. “I’m Suho, the one who posted the job.” he states matter of factually, in a calm and even tone. The first indicator that his request is legitimate, you think. His posture is too relaxed and he speaks too clearly to be afraid of being overheard by nothing more than an anxious or guilty conscience. He is not out to get you. “What is it exactly that you need my help with?” you ask, matching his tone. A small part of you relaxes into the seat at your back, adjusting to sit a little more comfortably. He smiles wistfully, “I’m glad you asked,” a pause, before he sits up and places his elbows on his knees, hands folded together in front of him so he can address you directly. “We’re headed to a Gala as we speak. The Medical Advancement Technologies Gala, to be precise. There’s a certain politician attending that must be dealt with, but there is information I need from him in order to deal with him appropriately.” Suho explains, skirting the details. Whether at your expense or not, it pisses you off. “You don’t need to sugarcoat it with me, just so you know. So what did he do and why do you care?” He blinks at you, then quickly collects himself with a smile, “Apologies.” There’s a brief moment where his brows knit together before he continues, “He is… someone who uses his political power to do unforgivable things. I care, because one of those things is sex trafficking.” You don’t flinch, you don’t move, you don’t blink. You want to ask why that’s what Suho cares about, but you remind yourself that’s not the most important line of questioning right now. It’s not about Suho, it’s about the politician. Nodding when you notice he’s waiting for your response, “How is it that you came to find out about it, and how do you know it is him? Does he use an alias?” Suho hums with agreement, “He does. I’ve been tracking his association with trafficking for months, and have done what I can to gather information, but it is that last missing piece he keeps locked up that I need help with.” He makes a distinct motion with his right hand, elegant and graceful, almost as if dancing, so subtle and strange you almost miss it. It takes you a moment to realize that was his initiation to awaken his own Atlas. He begins flicking his way through a series of locked programs and folders in his own archives. Bold of him to do so directly in front of you. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, and although it isn’t easy to read some of his things both backwards and at a speed to see anything useful, it isn’t impossible to pick out the keywords ‘Olympus’ and ‘Tartarus’ from some of his files. “So you need someone to hack into his Atlas to retrieve the final key.” you assume of him, understanding now exactly why the job was so specific. The man in front of you motions for you to open your own, intending to share some files with you. Blinking it to life, you accept his immediate offer to link up after a brief moment of hesitation. You have plenty of safeguards on your own tech, and there should be virtually no way for anyone to hack and see anything of value since you are the sole creator and user of Ghost tech, but something else tells you this won’t be the last of Suho you’ll be seeing. Suho nods when you accept, “Yes. You’ll be with me all evening, and I’ll introduce you to him. I promise there will be no sexual favors or activities involved, whatsoever.” You tilt your head, puckering your lips for a moment. Your eyes trail him up and down through the glowing blue lines between you, gauging his reasoning for a woman rather than a man. “Why a woman then?” He blanches momentarily, before shrugging, “Just my personal preference I suppose.” He meets your stare but doesn’t express any other emotion, as far as you can tell. “Yet you wish for no acts of sexual service?” Suho nods, “That’s right. Just be my date. I won’t even kiss you.” Nothing here screams danger to you, no fight or flight instincts kick in, but you find yourself asking a question and playing a game regardless. A game your inner self loathes, and your survival self thrives on. The addiction of power that comes with winning in any form. You make a show of eyeing him from the dark hair atop his head, all the way down to the perfectly polished tips of his shoes. “That’s a pity.” Suho, who you barely know, blinks at you and surprise settles on his face, trying to hide the smile in the apples of his cheeks while he pretends to look out the window. You wait, openly watching him for any subtle signs of odd behavior. For any slip ups. This is where checkmate is called in the game. The part where your victory is certain but the game drags on. And yet, no such euphoric victory sweeps through your bloodstream. Instead, he murmur’s a simple phrase to flip the tables and lance you with the first striking blow of information. Information that is dangerous. “This is why it had to be you.” Quickly your dress seems to morph its shape into the most constricting piece of clothing you’ve ever worn. You can do nothing, sitting perfectly still. Suho takes a moment to realize your reaction was intense, a deep furrow in his brow when he understands. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me, though.” he attempts to pacify your anxiety, holding up his empty palms. “Explain. Now.” is all you can force from your throat. With a sadness to his expression, he tucks the corner of his mouth into his cheek and gives you a hard stare. Then, he sighs. He sags a little more along the bench seat across from you, letting his heavy head hang a little lower, shoulders a little looser. Relaxing his posture to appeal and seem less dangerous. “We need your help, Ms. Maneater.” he breathes at last, as if the face were plain as day. Your silence is heard everywhere like the command of a god in the small space of the SUV. “I’m one of the rare someone’s who gives more fucks to humanity than to money. I came from money, and lots of it. Until my humanity was handed over to a human trafficking trade by my own parent’s filthy hands.” For the first time in a full minute you take one small breath. Nothing in his posture or words or expression rings false. There is no tension in his throat, wrought tight with lies. “You could say I had my eyes opened. Today, I manage a team of others like me, with their own trauma and stories of how they’ve survived to rise from the ashes. Our scars are what keep us motivated to put bad people away in the deepest pits of hell forever.” He talks lowly now, just low enough to be more than a whisper. Your lips form a word, barely audible, “Tartarus.” This time, it is Suho’s turn to be taken aback with shock. “Where did you find that name?” His reaction gives you the strength to relax a fraction, fighting through the tension in your jaw to speak, “You’ve got nothing to fear from me.” He scoffs as you throw his own words back at him. “I just read it on your Atlas.” It takes him a moment to weigh your words, understanding how careful he should be. “I didn’t think that was possible, I moved through them so quickly.” You nod, folding your hands together, “Well, you did say it had to be me. I can only allude to that meaning of my technical abilities if you know my moniker.” His smile reappears, not too much, but just enough to curve his lips, “We need your help.” “How exactly am I supposed to trust you? You didn’t tell me how you knew it was me.” Suho pouts his lips, considering your question, “You’re not as stealthy as you think you are,” he begins. “Although we mostly went off of clues and a hunch, Mrs. Fry and her AI did their due diligence to confirm your identity through your Atlas.” You narrow your eyes at him, ready with a threat. “Varian is amazing, yes? There is so much he can do to go undetected if he only looks, but doesn’t touch.” Your rage is simmering, in part that you are impressed, “Why not have him do the hacking for you then?” Suho clicks his tongue, “AI are not allowed at the MAT Gala, and even if he were it would be incredibly suspicious to bring an AI for a companion to such an event.” “And you prefer women anyway.” you chide sarcastically. You sigh, “How did you know I would come?” At this question, he fixes you with a hard stare as if deciding what to say, “I didn’t, but I had hope that the price tag would catch the Wolf’s eye for you when I had Varian post it on the brothel’s board.” “Excuse me?” you growl, ready to whip off your heel and stab him if necessary. You push the shame down that you let your guard down with Chan. What if he is in danger because of you? Although no danger seems to come from Suho, it doesn’t mean there aren’t other targets on your back. You can only hope that Chan isn’t as stupid as you are. “Relax,” Suho says, “I’m not interested in that information, and I hope I’ve already established that I’m not in it for the money.” A tap on the black glass between you and the driver pulls Suho’s attention away briefly, “We’ve got about 20 minutes to talk about the job.” It takes you a moment to nod at him, “Fine. Tell me what I need to do.” He smiles at you, “Thank you.” It takes ten minutes for Suho to share the information he’s gathered with you so far, from pictures to audio recordings and statements of witnesses given to others and collateral information taken from various sources. All with the initials of CIG under something called ‘Project Zero’.

Suho gently tries to escape the horrific details that ‘Project Zero’ uses funds from taxpayers in order to feed, shelter and educate homeless persons and families in an effort to reduce the number to zero, and the fact that it more than likely means the funds are being used to eradicate or enslave them in the trafficking market.

In the last ten minutes, you think of how you’ll collect the piece of information Suho needs. An offshore account where his embezzled funds are kept and used, under the alias of one CIG. Suho shows you backdated statements of funds going to and coming from the account from another account, a tertiary, privately owned finance management company connected to ‘Project Zero’.

Suho has the login information for the accounts, and is certain the politician is the CEO of the finance company managing the whole thing. All you have to do is hack in and find the items necessary to link all three together.

The Gala is… impressive. Deciding to trust Suho for the evening, at least, you walk beside him, arm in arm down the velvety carpet rolled out between the street and the venue.

“How are you connected to all this?” you whisper to him as you pause, waiting your turn for the media and news outlets to take your photos. It makes you uncomfortable.

Suho hums beside you, smiling and patting your hand affectionately, “Do you know Guardian Hospitals?”

The name is not uncommon to anyone as a well-known chain of general hospitals across Korea and China.

He pulls you forward gently, walking to the center space between two glittering, fluorescent obelisks that frame the ‘MAT GALA’ backdrop for photos. Several cameras flash in succession, making you squint against the headache you receive by waving a hand and smiling, playing your part beside Suho.

“I own the Korean branch.” he says when you’ve passed the threshold into the venue, grinning from ear to ear at your expression.

You suppose that’s not too far-fetched an explanation. You know three things about Suho now, and although you don’t have time to consider the surely intricate way to link it, you idly wonder if his connection to the hospital chain is how he knew to find you. Once or twice you’ve had to go, for illness or injury and at Chan’s insistence.

He doesn’t freely give up any other personal details about himself or ask you any questions. Nor do you, and the fact that he is patient and doesn’t pry is something you accept with good grace.

There’s an excruciating amount of idle small talk fluttering around you and Suho where you’re seated. Other people of importance come to the assigned table and take their seats. Some leave and come back. The same conversation floats around the table over and over again, asking the same uncaring greeting questions.

Some, like yourself, are deep into their Atlas’s, reading articles or working to answer emails or draft important papers or speeches- even in the middle of an event like this, too preoccupied to leave their work alone.

You can’t say you blame them, considering you’re here doing the same thing, regardless of it being the sole purpose you’re wearing this ridiculous outfit in the middle of an uncomfortable situation.

Suho’s fingers gently caress the point of your elbow, subtle in the way he directs your shoulders to turn acutely to the right. His face leans close enough that only you will hear the words whispered at your ear, not that anyone else cares to listen.

“There, coming this way. Red suit.”

Only one person fits the description, and you reach for your drink on the table, taking a small sip as you watch to fit in with the movement of people around you. An older man, average build with a suit that looks just as expensive as the rest of the people here, a dark and bloody red.

You watch, leaning back slowly into Suho’s grasp as he slings one arm over the back of your chair and curls himself toward your shoulder to talk. A tactic you know to create a more intimate space and make watchful eyes turn away with discomfort.

Suho’s talking in your ear again as the man approaches. A slight moment of unexpected anxiety raises your heartbeat a fraction, wondering if you’ll have to speak to him. The tension dissipates as he stops at the table directly behind yours and pulls out a chair, talking immediately with someone he knows at the table. The breath you didn’t know you’d been holding escapes from your throat in a long, quiet exhale.

Suho notices your anxiousness, taking your hand and patting it gently as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to touch you with such care. Somehow, the action quells you nerves.

You’ve hacked people before, but never someone who looked as powerful or important, and never in the presence of the public eye.

Your counterpart leans closer to your ear again with a smile, “Relax,” he says. “Nobody is paying you any attention.”

His words aren’t enough to hold back the wildness in your expression, and he chuckles softly, “Not that you trust me very much, but I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. For once, you have someone literally looking out for you.”

This time, his assurance cuts deeper, but not in a painful way. There’s a sincerity in his tone you can’t dispel, and it helps ground you.

You blink, slow and purposefully, and the soft and familiar blue glow of your Atlas casts a wave of color on your skin that washes over you like a comforting touch. It steadies you to dive deep into your world.

Part of you is weary about Suho watching, afraid he may somehow know about your Ghost tech. You briefly consider this a test to see how true to its name your self-made program is, and the part of your conscience that wins is curious to see if you pass.

Refusing to let it weigh you down, you get to work.

________________________________________

Fourteen hours later, you’re sitting at a window seat table sipping strawberry milk and fidgeting with the in-ear piece you just finished outfitting with the latest hologlass tech.

The rays of sunlight warm your arm where its closest to the window, and the chattering of the bustling cafe helps fight your drowsiness. There isn’t a crowd here, and the noise is just the slow side of steady that its easy to pick up the conversation of anyone around.

So, you listen. To an older couple talking about the vacation they are on, although you’re not sure why anyone would vacation in this city. You listen to the table of young people in the corner booth talking about homework and research papers as they simultaneously watch a single tablet with a lecture playing at the head of the table.

You listen, when the middle aged man closest to your table laughs. “What a deplorable monster.”

The sentence piques your interest. Stealing a glance, you notice he’s commenting on the news.

News that shows a headline of ‘Breaking News’, and a video clip of a politician being walked down the wide and pristine granite steps of the city judicial building. He’s handcuffed, and there are tons of reporters and cameras in his face that the police are shoving out of their way as they descend.

Your blood runs cold the moment you realize it’s the politician from last night. You freeze, with a mouthful of strawberry milk you refuse to swallow, and wait for the rest of the information.

“Choi In Gyong will go on trial for the undeniable and anonymously leaked evidence of embezzling funds from Project Zero- a campaign he sired to help the homeless- and participating in the purchase, acquisition and selling of people in an American sex trafficking cartel.” explains the newscaster. Her expression of disgust is plain for all to see.

Her AI counterpart, wearing a suit and tie, gives further details, “Jumbotrons all over the city, as well as the police headquarters were somehow hacked, but only to blast the evidence of his connection to such atrocities. Details on who or how the information was obtained and who hacked into these secure networks are still unknown. Many have speculated it was the work of Maneater, but one detail snufs out that option.”

The woman anchor smiles, turning to her co-host, “Oh? And what’s that, Yeoguk?”

Anchor Yeoguk cocks his head to one side, a quirk all his own, “The only indicator from whom the evidence was sent was the letter ‘O’.”

You jump as your phone rings, facedown on the table beside your forgotten milk. When you turn it over, you recognize the first two digits of it as a payphone number.

“Hello?”

A hum from the other end of the line, followed by a familiar voice, “Have you seen the news recently?”

You’re still a little shocked, but snort at the obvious excitement in his tone nonetheless while you stand and make your way out of the cafe.

“I just happened to catch the headlines.”

“And have you checked into your collections yet?”

You smile, “Not yet. Why, is there 1200c sitting prettily in there for me?”

Suho laughs from the other end of the line, “Yes, and more if you’re willing.”

The meaning of his statement catches you off guard, “What are you getting at?”

He hums again, but this time there’s no excitable tone to his voice, “I’d like to make you an offer, Ms. Maneater.”

You pause, pulling your phone away from your ear briefly to look at it questioningly.

“Last night’s job was… a test of sorts. We’ve had our eye on you for some time and last night proved you are just what we needed.”

“Am I supposed to be offended or impressed?” you ask through clenched teeth. You feel uneasy about this, you’ve never worked directly with anyone before on your hacking, and certainly not with such high risk and reward.

Suho laughs again at your reply, “Consider this the official, cordial invite to join Olympus.”

You scoff, of course he would call it that. However, you can’t deny that it is worth considering. After getting past the shock of your work having such a huge, direct effect, you feel… content.

Content that what you did was important to a lot of people like you. Content to know that there is a little bit of hope out there. Content to know that Suho wasn’t all bark and that perhaps, you can learn to trust him and his crew.

“I’ll give you some time to consider. It’ll be in your inbox.” Suho says. “Thanks for everything.”

“Wait!” you try, hoping to get some more information, “What will be in my inbox? How did you get my number? Hello? Hello…?” To your frustration, the dial tone is the only response you receive.

#heat seekers #chanyeol x reader #exo fanfiction #exo angst #exo smut #exo hurt #exo dystopian au #exo fanfic #chanyeol fanfiction #exo dark cyberpunk au

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mommymooze · 3 years

Text

Lack of Vision

Reader x Black Eagles

The smell of ancient vellum, leather, ink, paper and polished wood fills your nose before you enter the room. Some of the students have begun to clear out having finished the bookwork assigned by their professors. You prefer the library to be nearly void of others, their whispered conversations disturbing your concentration and you can feel their eyes upon you as they watch you reading and looking for the proper materials for class. You come from a well-respected family in the Empire, not a noble, however your family works with them and high level healers and mages.

None of that matters here at Garreg Mach. Teenagers are cruel creatures, judging everyone by their superficial standards. The more aesthetically appealing, the higher the regard given to the student. You are nearly invisible to most of the students, nothing of importance about you. There are thick eyeglasses on your face that warps your appearance into something strange and difficult to look at. You attract no attention, nor do you draw attention to yourself. The only person that notices you for any reason is Hubert. He took interest in you for a short period of time to confirm that you are no danger to his Lady, once cleared he ignores you like the rest.

The Professor is extremely hesitant to allow you to accompany the group into any battle. Your primary focus is Faith magic and healing, however you do cast reason spells. Targeting enemies at a distance is, extremely difficult for you. As far as healing, Linhardt keeps his fellow students alive long enough for the group to make it back to the monastery, Dorothea being his backup. When the student is brought back to the infirmary, that is where your magic becomes the most useful. Your healing skills quickly rival Manuela. Not being distracted by sparring, fighting and traipsing around the campus flirting, fighting or pranking like most of the students, you immerse yourself completely into your studies.

You constantly write home requesting additional and more advanced healing tomes and books about magical theory. Even Professor Hanneman is jealous of some of the people you correspond with regularly, discussing points of rune manipulation and theory. Professor Byleth is surprised that you pass the Gremory test before the ball. You would be upset if you had not passed, perfecting your magic skill is your obsession.

Eyeglasses are the worst in every weather. They fog in winter, get drippy with spring rain. Summer they slip and slide from sweat. Fall it is back to rain. At the academy, there is just enough space between the buildings that your glasses quickly get acclimated to the cooler temperature outside, then as soon as you step inside, they fog up immediately, rendering them useless. Useless for you means near blindness. You can tell that things moving around are other people. There is no depth perception, stairs are terrifying. As soon as you make your way inside a building you seek a wall to put your back against as you wait for the fog to clear.

Once Ferdinand had found you just inside the building containing the library. He grabbed your hand and started to drag you to the stairs. You had to stop and explain to him why you were so intimidated and refused to go with him.

He should offer his arm so that you can hold on and if anything bothers you or you do not feel comfortable you could let go and keep your balance and composure. He then starts to march forward at his normal pace, which is great if you are tall and long legged such as he is, however your height is more in the category of Edelgard’s and you would have to nearly run to keep up with him.

“Pretend you are carrying a teacup filled to the brim with hot tea. How quickly would you move with that in your hand? Do you want to spill it all over yourself and possibly burn your hand?” You ask.

“Goodness no!” Ferdinand responds. “What a terrible waste of tea!” Ferdinand thusly takes his time and you arrive at the library unscathed.

Time passes, Emperor Edelgard declares war. You join her side without hesitation. The church is indeed corrupt. The noble system is useless and only sustains power to those that should never have been entrusted to it in the first place. The Emperor also announces the Black Eagle Strike Force. Not long after this announcement you approach her, Hubert always alongside of his liege.

You reach forward placing a handful of necklaces with a Black Eagle medallion on them. “I wish to distribute these to the members of the Strike Force with your permission.”

Hubert immediately notices that the necklaces are enchanted. “What is this?” He demands an answer.

“As you know, my sight distance is limited. This will expand my abilities greatly. Should someone undergo severe injuries or become surrounded by enemies I can remove them from the situation or cast physic on them. It does not have to be visible on their person, they can wear it under their armor.” You answer.

“How do you know one from another?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Once everyone has worn them for a few days I will be able to tell the difference, who has which necklace and once in battle I will have no issue identifying the correct person to assist.”

“Hmmm.” Hubert is hesitant to agree.

“I think it is a wonderful idea. We have a long difficult road ahead of us. If it provides the opportunity to save an ally, I cannot see how this would be an issue.” Emperor Edelgard smiles.

Leaving a necklace for the two on the table, you seek out the remainder of the Strike Force handing them their necklaces, giving them instructions to try to wear it at all times, always wearing it during a battle. You then find Linhardt and discuss the intricacies of the spell with him. He is quite impressed, not impressed enough with needing to learn anything further, lest it cause him more missed naps.

Unfortunately, you are not able to give Professor Byleth theirs before the attack on Garreg Mach.

Without being amid the battle itself, you greatly aid your allies. Two clerics with minor healing skills and perfect eyes describe the battle as it unfolds. They both speak at the same time describing everything they see. You have been training them for weeks. They keep you appraised of nearly everyone on the battlefield. You cast physic and fortify on several allies, healing them, allowing them to keep fighting. Nobody must be rescued as a result, however it is always an option.

The weary warriors return to camp, the injured head to the infirmary. Once you heal all wounded there, you quietly make your way around camp. Stopping at the entrance to a tent you announce yourself.

“You are injured. Let me attend you.” You whisper to the canvas entrance flap.

“I have seen too much blood today. Let me sleep.” Linhardt moans.

You enter the tent, shuffling forward until you touch his cot. “You’ll sleep better if you are healed. Assist me if you want this completed quickly. Fight if you want this to take longer.”

“Very well.” The sleepy man turns on his side, tugging at his robes to show his right leg and the gash in his calf.

You need little light to work, most of what you do is by touch. Cleansing the wound, folding and refolding the cloth to have the clean portion removing the debris and dried blood. Healing the wound, finally rubbing the scar with light soft touches of magic until nothing is left but smooth and slightly pink skin.

You leave, heading for the next tent. It is easy to tell who is injured. Sometimes the smell of blood alerts you. Whimpers of pain, cursing, stuttered breathing, all of them involuntary tells that they are hiding their wounds. No amount of chastising them has worked thus far. You must seek them out and find them before they fall face first in the dirt, fevers burning because of infection that quickly settles in their neglected wounds.

You can tell this tent belongs to Ferdinand. He makes the smallest high pitched squeak when he moves an injured muscle the wrong way.

“Ferdie, I’m coming in.” You give him ten seconds before you enter.

“S-Sorry. I should’ve…” The redhead begins to apologize.

“Shh. Guide me to the worst first.” You instruct him. You’ve been through this many times before. You recall back at the monastery you would drag him back to the infirmary after returning from battles. He would then invite you to tea and tell you about everything that happened. He would frequently let slip about a few people that had been hurt, and those you had not seen in the infirmary would be sought out later.

His hip had a deep gouge in it from the point of a sharp lance. You wonder how me made it back to the tent with something that deep, the blood had dripped all down his leg. You cleanse it, pouring some healing potion in to soften the burn as you prepare him for the alcohol to follow, flushing out the debris and who knows what that was on the enemy lance tip. Finally, you heal the wound closed now that you are certain it will not become infected. He tells you the next injury is to his shoulder.

Completing your treatment of each and every one of his wounds you get back on your feet. “Tell me what you find in the morning. The worst infections can come from the smallest cuts.”

“I know, thank you.” He calls out to the darkness of his tent.

You know whose tent is next. You stand outside, pausing. “Don’t blast me into next week. I must do what is necessary.” You announce before entering.

“Your concern is unnecessary.” He fumes.

“You prefer necrosis?” You sass.

“To be looked after –ugh.” Hubert groans.

“Better than dead. I’m going to be here a while, aren’t I?” You kneel in front of his cot, smelling blood everywhere. You know he has a high threshold for pain but this man is ridiculous. He is a human pincushion filled with so many holes he should be classified as swiss cheese.

You begin by placing him under a magically induced sleep. This slows his heart rate, making him bleed out slower. Lighting several candles in the room you need to pick apart this man, healing every possible wound new or old, removing all signs of infection.

He cares so little for himself it is a miracle that he can remain standing on his own feet most days. Tweezers and a scalpel assist you with removing four pieces of shrapnel from his back. Two fractured ribs are also healed. His legs are battered by the fallout of spells attacking him. He can deflect them from his head and torso, however he is so tall that his legs still feel some of the impact of magic and what it carries with it. One last scan for any further untreated injuries makes you sigh in relief. You pull back on the sleep spell a bit. He remains asleep, allowing him to rest, however he should not be so deep in sleep as to not be able to be rustled awake.

Sitting on the ground in front of his cot, you rest and meditate until morning. You will not leave him unprotected. Once he begins to rustle several hours later, you stand and face the exit to the tent.

“I would ask if I missed anything, but you will never tell me if I did.” You state matter-of-factly.

“Thank you.” He mutters softly.

You nod and leave.

Camp is broken down. Everything is packed into wagons or on the back of horses. Enbarr is the next destination. Back to the capital to plan.

Most of the fights for the next few years are smaller skirmishes. The larger battles are much fewer and further between. However, this current battle is quite serious. The Empire has had control over the bridge at Myrddin since the Emperor declared war. There is word of kingdom forces approaching, threatening the bridge and surrounding territory. The entire Strike Force is called together to interfere with the invasion.

You have the bridge map memorized. The strategic meetings provide you with the locations of where everyone is to be deployed and defending their area. Your assistants inform you of the fighting and position changes as the battle unfolds. They update you as the enemy moves forward beginning their attacks. Suddenly the watcher to the right is quickly rambling, upset and excited.

“What! Tell me what is going on!” You order, having no idea what is happening due to their rambling.

“They are swarming, trying to get past Caspar and Ferdinand, many are getting through and overwhelming Hubert. He’s moving back but…”

Immediately you cast Physic at Hubert then Caspar.

“I can’t see Hubert there are so many around him!” the observer is shaking moving left to right to see.

You cannot let him fall. You cast warp and appear standing alongside his fallen body. There are a few surprised utterances by the soldiers, however they are quickly gathering their wits about them. They are not as fast as you are, you throw a series of spells. The first is your Thoron. You cannot see well enough to cast it as a normal Thoron, your modified version is closer to clusters of ball lightning emitting from around you, arcing out in a rotating pattern. You lean over Hubert, who is still alive from what you can feel. The soldiers swarming him are very very much at risk and feeling your wrath. Their bodies jolt and shake with the electricity. Just as the spell ends you cast recover on Hubert.

“Muh…more coming!” The dark mage blurts out, casting Mire at the closest one.

You call upon the hellfire from within you, casting your own special Ragnarock. The smell is horrific as all flesh in a huge circle around you is incinerated in the heat of the flames that extends around you for a 30 foot radius.

“What next?” You ask the dark mage on the ground beneath you.

“You were successful.” Hubert says as he takes your hand to assist him in getting back onto his feet.

Hubert begins to walk briskly towards the next sign of melee. You grab his elbow and are dragged along.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” The dark mage asks.

“I’ve made it so far.” You counter, scared and excited at the same time as you are headed for the center of the battlefield.

There are a lot more sounds around you than normal. Spells going off, horses rushing in at the direction of their riders, the clashing of metal against metal. You keep turning your head at every sound. You hear the sound of boots coming closer, you cannot clearly make out a face, but the colors donned by the fighter are of the enemy, so you cast a normal Thoron spell at him. Hubert calls out and you direct your attention to him.

“Heal Ferdinand!” He orders.

You lock on the cavalier and cast Physic. A hearty Yes! is heard not too far away as you continue to be aware of your immediate surroundings.

Hubert dashes away from you, headed further toward the center of battle. You know better than to run into the thickest part of things where your clear vision extends not more than six feet ahead of you. A green coated figure comes close and you grab onto the arm of Linhardt as he walks past.

“Everyone good?” You ask as he is dragging you along with him.

“So far. I am glad this is almost over. I am so exhausted.” He groans.

You listen as the noise dies down, the sounds of spells being cast has ended. The voices are calling out more organizational orders than directing the forces to attack. Linhardt takes you to the area where they have set up camp, pointing you into the direction of the infirmary tent before he gets close enough to be dragged inside. A healer outside notices you and hauls you in, you are needed to put a few soldiers back together. Much later, as you emerge from the tent you are grabbed and warped away.

“Sit.” You are pushed backward until your calves hit a surface for you to sit upon. He stands in front of you, arms crossed.

“I know. It is a risk I had to take. You are too stubborn and so am I.” You confess before you are asked a question.

“Do you have any idea what-“ Hubert’s voice is full of venom and anger.

“Yes, I do. More than you. I did not join this war to do anything halfway.” You calmly answer. You know his bark is worse than his bite. And if he wanted to harm you, he would kill you first and ask questions later.

The dark mage turns to step away, then spins around to face you again. “And what of after the war?”

“I have no vision of what is beyond anything that I can see right now. I have bound myself to you through a blood oath that you did not participate in, so that I could help you live through this war.” You respond, quiet and rational. “You are not committed to me and owe me nothing. I knew you would not wear the necklace. I did what is necessary to keep you alive. We cannot win this without you. It is not like I will ever have a suitor clamoring at my door.”

Hubert is furious. You knew he would be. Based on ancient customs and rituals in several countries, one of them Brigid you created the spell. There is an exchange of blood between wedded parties, mixing their blood so the two could ‘become one’. However further research into the matter reveals that as a part of one’s self being with the other could be extremely useful, especially relating to magic spells to locate the other and/or to assist them.

The moment you warped to Hubert’s side, he knew what had occurred. You knew he would treat it as a betrayal of his trust in you, however this being a ‘one way’ blood passing would not bind him to you in any way. A complete exchange blood oath on his part would sever this one sided oath and cause a magical backlash to yourself. Since you had initiated this blood oath, you cannot perform this with another.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What is done is done. Leave.” He orders.

The tents and supplies are packed away again, the long convoy is back on the road. The anniversary of the millennium festival approaches quickly. The weather has turned quite miserable, raining day and night. The roads are getting sloppier every day. Riding in the back of the supply wagon is dangerous for you, but you feel it is worse it is worse as you cannot tell where you are stepping. Just as someone announces they can see Garreg Mach in the distance, the wagon you are riding in flips onto its side due to the deep ruts in the roadway and shifting of the cargo. You are buried under multiple boxes and cargo from the wagon.

When you awaken you are dry and clean and lying on a cot in the infirmary of the academy. You sit up in the bed and recall what happened. Your left arm is wrapped up to your shoulder. You feel a bump on your head. What you don’t feel, is your glasses.

“Cleric?” You call out. You know someone was in the room with you, you had heard them with papers.

“Oh! You are awake. I will fetch Manuela.” You hear her footsteps getting further and further away down the hall.

Manuela arrives and explains the situation. Your left arm will have to be in a sling for a few days. Your glasses were crushed under the wagon. A message was written and sent today requesting a replacement pair, nothing we can do for that in the meantime. She fits you with a sling and at your insistence you walk from the infirmary down to the first floor. Alone.

You were able to slowly make it to the end of the corridor that led to a courtyard. From there you only have to cross the courtyard, find the stairs down and then the dorms in order to get to your room. Piece of cake you think to yourself. You know the layout of the monastery, where the obvious dangers are. It’s just the minor details that you can’t see. If someone leaves items out where they don’t belong or an item is in an unusual spot, that could be a problem for you.

The open courtyard is intimidating, people can come at you from all angles, and they do. You do not get run over, but you get spooked when a large something crosses your vision suddenly. You feel better when you get to the area that has bushes all along one side. You stay close to the bushes, keeping out of the way of the faster people.

Now is the dangerous part. The stone walkway in front of you, and the stairs that go down to the dorms. You must choose embarrassment or death. You choose to not die today. Sitting on the ground you scooch your behind closer and closer to where you think the edge of this level is until your feet reach the end of the stone covered walkway. You scoot until your lower legs are over the wall and feet are hanging. From here you scoot right until your feet touch the stairs leading down.

Whew. Now you can stand on the steps, hold on with your hands on the level above as you cautiously descend down the stairs. One step at a time. Your hands are now flat on the wall above the stairs. One last step and there’s no further steps. You made it! Nobody saw you or if they did they said nothing and you lived!

Cautiously you walk across the small courtyard until you knock into the porches of the dorms. You grab a post, sit on the porch, spin your legs and then stand up next to the post. No stairs, no problem you think.

You are at the last room, that belongs to Byleth. You knock.

“Come in.” Is pleasantly called from the inside.

“Byleth, can you give me a hand and get me to my room. I’ve been released by Manuela.” You request.

The former Professor walks past you, stopping so you can take her elbow. “I am happy that you are out already and didn’t have any serious injuries. Your eyeglasses were smashed beyond fixing. Are you going to be okay getting around on your own? She inquires.

“I can make it here and there. I have problems with stairs, anything that is left out of place, cats and dogs being on the paths. I perhaps should get a walking stick to help with balance. I can see a little, everything is just very very blurry. While you may see a barrel, its edges, the lines of the wood, the metal band holding it together, I see a brown almost oval blob. I can judge by the size of the blob if I am close enough to bump into it.

Byleth leads you out the door, pausing at the stairs, then through the courtyard to the next set of stairs, finally over to your room that is next to Bernadetta’s. Thanking her you go through your room, arranging your clothes and belongings. You are always quite organized in your room. Everything must be in its place or you can’t find it. You go to your desk drawer and pull out your magnifying glass. If you have plenty of light you can just make out a few letters in a row on a written page. So you can read, but it’s going to give you eye strain. You decide that maybe it’s time to do some handiwork. Heading out the door you walk to your neighbor and knock on hers.

“Bernie, can we talk a minute?” You ask pleasantly.

Bernadetta cracks her door open then shuts it quickly. “Who is it!”

“Bernie, it’s me. I don’t have my glasses, so I guess I must look different?” you question as you answer her.

“Oh! You do look much different without your glasses on.” The purple haired woman opens the door, now recognizing you, she lets you inside leading you to a chair by her desk.

“I heard they were broken when the wagon tipped over. How are you doing? I bet Bernie can help you some.” She smiles.

“Oh Bernie, that would be wonderful if you can walk with me sometimes. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. I know you don’t like getting out much, but I do need to get to the dining hall. Honestly, the stairs scare me a lot!” You confess.

“Oh! I think they would be scary to someone that can’t see them. I will help you. Just let me know, okay?” Bernadetta offers.

“You have perfect vision, I trust you so much Bernie. Oh! I came over because I have a request. Since I can’t read much right now, I thought I would knit. Can I borrow a couple pair of needles you’re not using right now?” You request.

“Sure! I have quite a few different sizes, so you have a few to choose from.” The woman dashes to a drawer to grab her needles.

You are sitting on a bench outside the greenhouse knitting, a small rectangle grows longer below the needles.

Without turning you call out, “Hey Ferdinand, are you busy?”

“I did not see you there. You are looking quite well. Are you getting along all right? May I be of assistance in any way?” He happily answers, being the noblest of nobles, he must offer his assistance to all that could possibly require it.

“If you would have some time to escort me to the market briefly in the next few days, I would like to purchase some yarn.” You request.

Ferdinand bows low, “Of course, I would be most happy to assist. I do have somewhere I have to be, however I will return for you before dinner. I will then escort you to your room to store your purchase, and then take you to the dining hall as well. It is my duty to help all in need of aid. Please do let me know if there is anything else that I can assist you with.” He smiles brightly, you know because you can hear it in his voice. If a smile was ever loud, it would be his.

Time passes and Ferdinand returns to greet you again. “I am yours to command.” He says bowing before you.

“If you could please take me to the market and find the one selling wool and other knitting materials.” You say grabbing his elbow as he leads you past the pond.

“How are you getting along without your glasses? I see you are keeping busy.” He asks as you slowly stroll.

“I am doing fine. It’s not like I’ve suddenly lost my vision altogether. I simply cannot see clearly at the moment. The finer details are not visible. A basket of apples is varying shades of red in a brown circle. Grass is simply mottled green with no individual blades. Stairs do not show their depth, the ground does not reveal its pitch. If small thin items are on the footpath I cannot see them. Reading is difficult without a magnifying glass, and that gets tiresome after a while. I could not see very far away before, so nothing has changed there.” You reflect.

“Here we are.” Ferdinand brings you forward to the cart.

“Sir,” you ask the proprietor, “Have you any lambs wool or perhaps Angora?”

The man hands you two skeins of wool, one being a bit softer than the next. You feel some of the wool that he has on display. These two skeins are softer, but not by much, certainly not Angora wool.

“I have a project in mind for the Emperor you see…” You don’t care much for name dropping, however in this case, it is the absolute truth.

“Oh.” The merchant gasps. “I think this may be more in line with what you are looking for.” He takes the other two balls of yarn and replaces it with a different one.

This skein feels very silky and soft. There are long, soft hairs mixed in with the wool, which is much closer to the feel of the yarn you desire. “This is more like what I will need.” You answer. Haggling the price a bit you make your purchase. You also buy 8 other skeins of wool in different colors. And several pairs of knitting needles.

The merchant packages your goods and hands them to Ferdinand.

“Anything else?” the noble asks as he walks you back towards the dining hall.

“Thank you so much, it went much faster than me wandering from cart to cart, trying to identify what the merchant is selling.”

The next week you take your shifts in the infirmary, go to meetings and knit in your spare time. Bernadetta attends the meetings regularly, since she must escort you.

Guardian Moon is extremely cold to those from Enbarr. People from the Kingdom would probably walk about in their shirtsleeves. You invite Emperor Edelgard to tea in your room this day and she accepts.

You bustle about your room, gathering everything necessary for a lovely tea. The bergamot is steeping, smelling wonderful as she knocks.

“Please come in, Lady Edelgard.” You answer.

“You are as bad as Hubert! Just Edelgard, please!” She laughs.

“Please help yourself.” You offer sweet pastries with a delicious cinnamon crumble on top.

You fuss with the tea, removing the leaves now that the brew is complete. You pour for the both of you and offer sugar cubes or honey.

There is a knock on the door, “Package!” is called out in a male voice.

You are so excited you nearly knock over the tea table. You dive to the door and take the box from the delivery person, throwing coins at them and slamming the door.

You return to the table and hand it to Edelgard.

“Please open it for me. My new glasses!” You are beside yourself with excitement.

She laughs as she is handed the package and quickly removes the wrapping. Sliding the lid of the box open, she hands the box to you.

Your hands shake a little as you reach inside, taking the glasses in hand at the edge of the lenses, flipping the temples out, you slide them onto your face. You will have to adjust things a bit for the fit, but they feel like home.

“Well, how are they?” Edelgard excitedly asks.

“Perfect! You look even more beautiful than I remember you!” You grin widely, so happy to be able to see her clearly again.

“It is a shame that you have to wear them.” Edelgard comments. “They really distort your eyes. Perhaps some day they can create some type of magic to correct your eyesight.”

“Thankfully, I am not vain. I choose being ugly and able to see rather than be blind and pretty. As Dorothea says, beauty is only skin deep. It is the true beauty of the person inside that counts.”

“So true.” Edelgard nods.

You stand and scuttle over to a dresser. “I have something for you!” Reaching inside you remove a long red fluffy scarf. “It is getting colder outside, my hands need to keep busy. I made a scarf for everyone on the Strike Force.” You announce, handing her the scarf.

Edelgard takes it in hand and wraps it around her neck. “Oh my! This is the softest thing I have ever felt! It is so warm! I can feel my neck is warmer already!” She exclaims, then stands to give you a warm soft hug.

“We certainly need to keep warm through the next few battles.” You nod.

“Your perseverance is your strongest attribute.” Edelgard commends you. “We need people with that on our side. To engage the obstacles head on, finding new and different ways to get around them. I admire your strength in continuing to do your best, no matter what adversity is thrown your way. Knowing you makes me a stronger person.”

#fe3h #fe16 #fire emblem three houses #fe3h x reader #black eagles #fe16 x reader

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ghstandpucks · 3 years

Text

Cutting Edge ~ Nathan MacKinnon Ch.10

Chapter 10!!! Oh wow, we’re here! I was excited about this chapter, as I am with the next one! I hope you all enjoy it and let me know what you think of the series this far! I only have a few chapters left in my head to write for it, so we are getting closer to the end!

I hope you are all healthy and safe, and Happy Holidays!!! Let me know if you would like to be tagged in the series! Enjoy!

Cutting Edge Master List

Returning to Denver after Christmas, you spent most of your time at the rink after practice working on polishing your own skating again. You had been informed that all skating coaches would be performing at the upcoming NHL All-Stars weekend, and every figure skater had been sent music to choreograph a routine to. Luckily for you, choreography was one of your strong points. You had always loved putting your own routines together, and this was no exception. You had been sent the song CHAMPION by Bishop Briggs and though you loved the song, you knew your routine had to be flawless to skate to it. You were the reigning Olympic champion after all. Nate would stay most of the time with you, trying his best to be helpful and give you his opinion when you asked for it. He admittedly did not know much about figure skating though and usually just told you everything looked great, even when you knew it probably wasn’t. You appreciated his support though none the less.

Two weeks before the All-Star break was set, you found yourself traveling to Dallas as the boys had a game against the Stars. Along with the Stars came the one figure skater you could live without ever dealing with again, Ashley Wagner. Beside Nate, no one knew the animosity that was between the two of you, and you were hoping to keep it that way. You didn’t need to worry the team with a petty feud between two rival figure skaters.

You were staring out the window of the plane when you felt someone sit down next to you. Turning, you saw Nate settling into the seat as he gave you a questioning look. “You okay?” he asked. He knew you weren’t looking forward seeing Ashley, and was not sure what this new environment would bring out. You smiled and nodded, opening your book again to distract you.

Nate was worried about you. He had been watching you stress yourself out over putting together a perfect routine for the All-Stars, not to mention helping Jeremy put his together over multiple facetimes. Apparently, you were the one to come to with routine questions. He thought it was amazing, how you could take a song and within two days have a mostly completed routine laid out, he would never be that creative. But between coaching, working on your skating, and running to dress fittings at a shop you found in Denver, he had never seen you look so worn out. Nate was worried that if Ashley pushed a button correctly, you would snap. Your smile may be able to fool everyone else, but Nate had been paying attention over the two months you had been together and was starting to be able to read you like a book. Though it was comforting to you that he knew how you were feeling without even saying it; it also put you on edge. You were used to concealing your feelings behind a smile, and with Nate you couldn’t anymore.

The team landed in Dallas the evening before their game, and you enjoyed dinner with them before heading to your hotel room. You were just crawling into bed with the cooking channel on when there was a knock at your door. Opening it, Nate stepped in quickly and shut the door behind him. “What are you doing here?” you asked. When you traveled, the two of you didn’t spend time in each other’s rooms unless someone else was around to prevent any suspicion.

“No one saw me, we’re fine,” he said, placing a soft kiss on you lips. He grabbed your hand and pulled you over to the bed, getting in on his side as you did the same. “I won’t stay long,” he said gently as you rested your head on his chest. His arm that was around you started drawing absent minded figures on your waist underneath your shirt, as his other hand held yours. “I’ll leave early before anyone should be up,” he said into your hair as you both drifted off.

Around 5am, you heard Nate’s alarm go off and felt him get out of bed. He chuckled as you mumbled incoherently and deftly reached for him. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered, placing a kiss on your forehead. You sleepily watched him walk to the door and peak his head out, giggling at his large figure trying to be sneaky as he made his way out.

~ ~ ~

This was not happening. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Who does interviews before anything happens! You absentmindedly grabbed the figure skate charm on your necklace and bit your lip. You had just been told that you would be doing a pre-game interview. That wasn’t what was bothering you though. What was bothering you was that you would be doing the interview with Ashley. You knew someone had happened across your not so friendly history and planned this because you have never done an interview with any of the other skating coaches.

You were ushered to the area and sat down in front of a microphone when you were announced. Ashley walked in after, smiling brightly at you. You returned it, quickly snapping into performance mode. At first the questions were fine; how did you like being with your team, how were things going, did you miss skating yourself. Then the question came of how do you think your team will do in the game tonight. Ashley, being asked first, put on a brilliant smile that made you want to role your eyes. God she was so fake. “I think we’ll do great! I know how Y/N skates and I have prepared them for it. The Stars are a great team so we shouldn’t have a problem.” You kept your smile light, trying your best not to roll your eyes at her. The same question was then directed to you.

“I believe that the team is prepared. Similar to what Ashley said, I know how she skates and it should be a good game,” you answered. You heard Ashley snicker quietly and you had to bite your tongue. This was not the time or place to lose your temper on her. After a few more questions, you were asked to take a picture together. You had been fiddling with your necklace and didn’t pay any attention to it until you realized Ashley was looking at it.

“That’s new. Why is there a 29 on it?” she asked. You froze, but quickly recovered and turned the charm back around.

“It’s the maker of the charm,” you tried to shrug off. As you walked out of the room of the interview, Ashley followed.

“I’ve never heard of them. Where can I order one?” she pestered.

“It’s this little boutique in Denver. They don’t have a website,” you said off the top of your head.

“Well that’s too bad. Maybe you can take me to this 29 store the next time we’re in Denver?”

“Of course.” You both faked a smile at each other as you got to the hallway leading to the locker rooms. Unfortunately for you, Nate had stepped outside to see where you were. The team had seen the interview and you were taking a little long to get back. He volunteered to make sure you weren’t lost. Ashley didn’t miss him.

“What a coincidence, 29 looks like he’s looking for you,” she smirked, leaving for the Stars locker room. You walked over to Nate and started to push him back into the locker room. To say he was slightly confused was an understatement.

It was late in the third period, the score tied 1-1. The game had been highly physical, and you couldn’t help but be on edge. You were standing on the bench when the final buzzard went off, and the game was pushed into overtime. The game became even more physical if that was even possible, and you jumped as Perry checked Cale into the boards in front of you. A time out was called by the Stars, and you glanced briefly over to their bench. As you did, you saw Ashley say something to Jamie Benn, and he smirked looking your way. You saw him then eye Nate, and you had a bad feeling about it. Watching as Benn skated over to Nate, you could tell he was saying something. Nate tried his best to ignore the left winger, and you wish you could hear what was being said. The puck dropped, and as quickly as it hit the ice, gloves were also falling. You watched as Nate and Benn went at it, wanting to hide behind your hands but also not being able to look away. Without notice, you grabbed onto Tyson’s arm as he was the player you were standing behind. The bench was yelling, the crowd was cheering, and you didn’t know what to do. Watching hockey fights on tv or from the stands was one thing; but watching from the bench as the player you were dating was duking it out with another had you frozen in place.

To your relief, you saw Benn hit the ice with Nate on top and the refs scrambled to separate them. What you weren’t prepared for though was seeing Nate with a cut at his eyebrow, blood gushing from it. You unintentionally squeezed Tyson’s arm, and he turned back to you. “He’s fine Y/N,” he spoke lightly, patting your hand with his glove. Looking at him, you nodded and tried to compose yourself. Your first instinct was to run to Nate and see if he was alright, but you knew you couldn’t do that. All you could do was watch as he was escorted off the ice, his penalty longer than the amount of time left in the game. Benn had a bloody nose, and what looked like a busted lip, but that didn’t stop him from smirking over at you. You watched as Ashley tried to hide a laugh, and you were thankful that the game was about to resume or else you may have yelled something you shouldn’t. Unfortunately, a man down with Nate off the ice, the Stars scored first, effectively winning the game.

You were waiting outside the medical room wanting to see Nate as the Avs started to spill out of the locker room and head for the bus. You were in your own head, blaming yourself for the loss when you heard someone walk up to you. Looking up, you saw Tyson with a concerned look on his face. “You know he’s fine right? They probably just have to stitch up his eyebrow if anything,” he said, trying to judge your reaction.

“I feel like it’s my fault,” you whispered, tears starting to blur your vison.

“What do you mean? None of this is your fault Coach,” Tyson responded, confused as to why you were blaming yourself.

“I think he got in the fight because of me; because stupid Ashley can’t keep her mouth shut. And then we lost because we were a man down and it’s all my fault,” you swiped at a pesky tear that had fallen. Tyson wasn’t sure what to do, not entirely understanding why you were taking the loss so personally. They had lost a few times before and he didn’t think you had been this effected by it.

“You’re losing me. Why would Nate’s fight be your fault?” As Tyson finished his question, you grabbed the charm on your necklace and flipped it over to show him. You saw the moment his confusion turned into realization at what the ‘29’ was referring to. “Wait you and Mac?” he whispered, eyes wide and smile threatening to show. You nodded. “I knew it! Since when?”

“Since the home opener. But we’re keeping it quiet so you need to calm down right now!”

“Does anyone else know?” he asked, trying and failing to compose his face.

“Only Gabe and Andre on the team. Mel knows, and my best friend Jeremy knows, plus our parents but that’s it.” You said, then remembered why you were having this conversation to begin with. “But now I think Ashley knows, at least she guessed when she saw my necklace which is why this is all my fault. I shouldn’t have been playing with it which drew her attention to it and it landed on the wrong side.” You wiped angrily at another tear that fell, annoyed. You had always been a crier when you were mad though; it was how you dealt best with the emotion. Tyson went to comfort you as the door behind him opened. You looked around him and saw Nate, with the outlines of an apparent black eye and medical tape over fresh stitches over his right eye on his eyebrow ridge. You rushed around Tyson and wrapped your arms around Nate’s sternum, hugging him not caring that he hadn’t showered yet. He held you with one arm, his stuff in the other as he looked at Tyson who was smiling like an idiot.

“See you two lovebirds on the bus,” the younger man saluted and walked off. Nate stared after him confused for a second, but then seeing no one was around he bent down and planted a kiss on top of your head. You separated from him, looking up into his blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry if this is because of me,” you whispered, not bothering to stop another tear that had fallen.

“It’s fine baby. Does Josty know about us?” Nate asked, wiping a tear with the pad of his thumb. It was a risk, being this close in public. But he hadn’t seen you cry before, and he wanted to be near you after what Benn had said on the ice. You nodded and grabbed his hand, noticing he had also split one of his knuckles.

“I was freaking out because Ashley saw the 29 on my necklace and I think she figured it out and said something to Benn. I feel like it’s my fault we lost and I ended up telling Tyson.” You were looking down at your hands, then looked back up to him, your heart clenching at how concerned he looked when it should have been the other way around. “Why did you get in the fight?” you asked softly.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not your fault though. We’re a team Y/N, all of us. I screwed up and let what Benn said get to me. If it is anyone’s fault we lost, it’s mine,” Nate shook his head as you opened your mouth to protest. He really did not want to tell you what Benn had said as it had all been in regards to you. He had been vulgar, and Nate snapped. Giving your hand a slight squeeze, he continued. “I’m going to go change. Why don’t you get to the bus and I’ll see you in a bit okay?” You nodded, and Nate watched as you walked away. Though he was upset with himself for getting in a fight and subsequently losing the game, he would do it again for you in a heartbeat. And as you walked away from him toward the bus, he realized for the first time that he would do anything for you, and you were taking his heart with you piece by piece.

An hour later found you sitting against your headboard, giggling at Andre’s reaction to the Hallmark movie you had playing. He had complained about it at first, but your room your rules. He had surprisingly gotten into the plot, and was yelling at the man who mistakenly thought the main character was with someone else when he wanted to confess his feelings for her. After Chip Gate (what you loving dubbed Tyson and Cale’s chip debate after the first game), your room had become the place the team drifted to. Whether it was to conceal junk food that they shouldn’t be eating, an ear to listen to girl problems, or a comforting environment in terms of a loss on the road, you became the team’s go to person. Not to mention you had motherly tendencies and didn’t mind being there and fussing over everyone. It made you feel even more accepted as part of the team. This is why at the moment Andre was sitting on the floor leaning against the bed, Tyson had taken his usual spot laying across the foot of the bed, and Cale was sitting in the desk chair.

Before you could tell Andre to be quiet so you could hear what was being said, there was a knock at your door. Tyson got up and answered, Nate walking into the room behind him. His eye was swollen and bruising, but he seemed more relaxed as he walked over to the side of the bed and sat next to you. He put his arm around you, pulling you into his side and placing a kiss on your head. “Did I miss something?” you heard Cale speak up and you looked at Nate with wide eyes and a slight giggle.

“Dammit,” Nate mumbled. He forgot Cale didn’t know. This was the first time he thought he could be open with you, forgetting the young defenseman was still in the dark about your relationship.

“Coach and Nate are dating. Now shut up so we can see the guy stop being an idiot.” Tyson responded. “Also Coach, I hate you for making me so interested in this movie,” he complained over his shoulder.

“You know you love it,” you teased, snuggling into Nate’s side. Cale kept going between staring at you and Nate, then the tv, unsure of when this happened and how others knew. Luckily for him, the movie ended 20 minutes later and he started asking questions. You told him how you got together and asked him not say anything because you were keeping it quiet.

“Of course, but why do they know?” he asked.

“I was on the phone with Burky and Y/N sneezed in the background, and Josty just found out today because…why again?” Nate asked you.

“I was freaking out about you getting into a fight,” you answered.

“Does anyone else on the team know?” Cale questioned.

“Gabe, but that’s it. So you are now sworn to secrecy,” you said looking over at him. Cale nodded, and then turned back to the tv. After another hour the three of them left for their own rooms, leaving you and Nate alone. You turned the tv off and turned off all the lights beside one on the bedside table. Nate took his shirt off and climbed under the covers with you, the both of you on your sides facing each other. You ran your fingers gently over his swollen eye. “Do you want me to get you some ice for this, or anything?” you asked. Nate shook his head.

“No, I just want to lay here with you,” Nate grabbed your hand in his and kissed your knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, still feeling guilty over his fight, the team’s loss. Nate placed his arm over your waist and pulled you closer to him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You were right, Ashley probably did figure it out. But I would fight anyone for you,” Nate said honestly, moving strands of hair out of your face.

“What did he say?” you asked. Nate shook his head again.

“He was being inappropriate to you. That’s why I took care of it,” he stated, and you didn’t ask any further questions. Nate was glad because he did not want to repeat the vulgar things Benn had said to him. He wishes he would have hit him a few more times just thinking about it. Nate was brought out of his thought by a soft giggle.

“You defended my honor?” you teased him. Nate chuckled and rolled his eyes at you. “My hero,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his. Nate returned your kiss, maneuvering himself so your back was flat on the bed with him hovering over you. The kiss became heated as Nate slipped one of his hands under your shirt.

“Any day,” he whispered before kissing your neck. After what became a heated make out session, you were laying with your back pressed into Nate’s chest, holding his hand that was slipped under your head as his other rested on your stomach, holding you close to him. And though you never wanted to be someone’s damsel in distress, with how protected you felt in Nate’s arms, he could defend you anytime.

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