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raplinesmoon · 2 years

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Doom Boy (KNJ x F!Reader)

pairing: Namjoon x reader (also featuring hyung line) genres/au/rating: angst, smut, some fluff, mafia au, 18+ summary: Namjoon was a doom boy - he’d spent his entire life running from the ghosts of his past, keeping you and your son safe from the monsters that lurked on the city streets. He should have known that one day they’d catch up to him.

warnings: the mafia, attempted attack, drinking, mentions injury, mentions of past ab*se, brief mention of illicit subtances and money laundering, minor character deaths, choking, a great escape, Namjoon being an art hoe, smut warnings: sexting, dirty talk, brief daddy kink moment, explicit sexual content, soft dom!Namjoon, oral (f receiving), riding (it’s Namjoon duh), wrap it before you tap it pls

word count: 14.2k

a/n: happy Joon day (i hope i make the deadline) oh gosh, I don’t even know what this is like this was just supposed be some angsty yearning but it turned into this whole story bc Namjoon is the loml. i highkey think this is a huge mess and like cried outlining it bc i was feeling so many emotions, but it’s the first piece of writing in a month that i haven’t trashed completely (rip Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jungkook fics that shall never see the light of day). i really, really hope you like it! pls also excuse any grammar errors, i’ll go back and fix them soon!

Thank you to Ryen @kithtaehyung for the gorgeous banner!!

listen to the playlist!

By all accounts, it was a typical Friday. The sun blazed down on the pavement, rivulets of sweat making their way down Namjoon’s back on his commute home from the office. Shuddering, he loosens his tie, eager to let the shackles of his mundane office job fall away from his being. Combing a hand through the strands of his hair, he thinks that maybe he should get a haircut next week, but ultimately decides against it when he imagines your face in his mind, lips pursed in a pout and eyes shimmering with the glimmer of unshed tears.

I love your hair like this, he can hear you whisper breathlessly, his mind flitting back to the memory of your fingers tugging at the strands nearly a month ago, daring him to pull you into another kiss after what had already been an endless night tangled up in the sheets, making the most of the precious time Hyun had at his jobumo’s house. He’d never been able to deny you a single thing, not since the moment your hand had shyly slipped into his on the walk back from your college library, the comfortable silence between you two soon blossoming into a life he’d never dared to dream of for himself.

His steps become quicker as he grows more restless, pushing through the endless hordes of city-goers around him, the tall skyscrapers casting a grim shadow above the streets below. He’s suffocated by the heat as soon as he makes his way into the subway, descending multiple flights of stairs until he sees freedom within his reach, signified by the screeching of wheels against the railway track.

Stepping into the air-conditioned compartment, Namjoon lets himself breathe, shrugging the strap of his satchel back against his shoulders, his eyes surveying the crowded train compartment. The train comes to a halt at the next station, the doors hissing to let the next group of commuters in, and he pales when he sees the ghost of a reflection in the glass — someone he hadn’t seen for years.

For a moment, he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him, the tall broad, shoulders and dark ebony hair of a man his height disappearing as soon as the train starts again, but Namjoon remains deeply unsettled, the acrid memories of his past coming back to haunt him the most in moments like this. Moments where he didn’t have you, or Hyun, to remind him that with everything he’d left behind, he’d gained something exponentially more wonderful and precious.

His phone pings, snapping him out of his daze, and he looks down at it, a notification from you lighting up his screen. A smile makes its way onto his face, the tension seeping from his veins when he swipes on it.

Only to go slack-jawed a moment later. Namjoon looks around, making sure no one can see the bright light of his screen, before bringing the phone up closer, his mouth gaping at the picture you’d chosen to send him.

You hadn’t changed yet, the silky dress you’d picked out and shown him last night lying in a heap next to you on the bed, your body clad in the most provocative mix of lace and cut-outs, beyond anything his wicked mind could have conjured up.

Come home, you said. I can’t wait much longer.

Namjoon looks up as the train comes to another pause, a faint smirk making its way onto his face when he notes that it’s now time for him to get off.

Date night could finally begin.

Under the dim lights of L’Etalage, you babble on excitedly about the latest gossip from the work week - two of your coworkers were potentially flirting with one another; another one would finally take their sour attitude with them and quit, your supervisor just learned he was having a baby. Your heart grows ten sizes when you think about how you’d gone through those same life changing moments years ago, falling in love with Namjoon, the intelligent, outgoing man who’d sat behind you in one of your science classes, and how now, you were happier than you’d ever been. Life was perfect with him by your side.

You talk, and Namjoon just listens, enraptured by the sound of your voice, his lips twitching into a small smile when he sees your eyes twinkle like stars under the candleglow.

“Namjoon?” You interrupt his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, baby?” He smirks back, and you falter, flushing when you remember the text you’d sent him earlier.

There hadn’t been enough time to do anything about it, of course. Namjoon had barely pinned you to the wall, his hot breath fanning over your neck, before the phone rang, an excited Hyun up from his nap, babbling on FaceTime to his appa about all the fun toys his halmeoni had given him. You’d sheepishly excused yourself to go change into your outfit, leaving a frustrated Namjoon behind.

“This meal cost $200, Namjoon,” you raise an eyebrow. “We’re not about to leave right before I get my matchamisu.”

You jut out your bottom lip in a pout, and Namjoon laughs. The only thing you liked more than sex was sugar, and he couldn’t blame you. The matchamisu was delicious. Still, he couldn’t resist toying with you after the tease you’d given him earlier.

“Who says we have to leave?” He folds his arms, watching you bite your lip at the way his muscles strain against his dress shirt. “The bathrooms here are pretty nice from what I remember.”

Your lips part in an “O”, eyes dilating to pools of black, only for the waitress to choose that exact opportune moment to swing by, placing the matchamisu and two spoons on the table in front of you.

“Please enjoy,” she flutters her eyelashes, speaking only to Namjoon, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. Your husband was an attractive man, but he was also oblivious to the way other women flirted with him. He acknowledges her presence for a split second to give a polite nod, before his hand is reaching for yours across the table. His fingers fit perfectly into yours, the twin bands adorning your hands glinting brightly enough to send a message.

You shouldn’t feel smug when she walks away with a scowl, but part of you feels giddy.

Namjoon presses his lips to your knuckles, his dimples making an appearance as he grins while watching you dig in, moaning in delight when the sweet, creamy dessert hits your tongue.

“I thought you were only supposed to make those sounds for me,” he quips, yelping when you smack lightly him on the arm, lifting his hands up in surrender.

You return your attention to the plate in front of you, but Namjoon’s sharp, intent gaze has already done its damage, surveying you hungrily, a pool forming between your thighs. Watching as he excuses himself to the bathroom, you realize you both needed to get out of here.

And fast.

Washing his hands in the sink, Namjoon feels sparks erupt across his skin, anxious to get you home and have his way with you while the night was still young. You played off his salacious flirting, but he could see the way it affected you, your breath coming out in heavy pants, skin glistening with sweat.

He makes his way to open the door, only for it to swing open right before he can reach for the handle, his shoulder bumping into another one. Namjoon reaches for the shorter man before he can topple over, but freezes when he sees the face looking up at him, the blood in his veins turning to ice.

“Yoongi-hyung,” he manages to rasp after many moments of silence, unable to fathom the sight in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

Namjoon’s head begins to spin, and he feels like he’s floating, suspended in the air and watching the scene unfold before him, face-to-face with a man he thought he’d never see again, a man he chose to never see again, when he’d left the life he’d had before you behind.

“Namjoon-ah,” Yoongi’s arms reach out in an embrace, and Namjoon dodges it coldly, watching his hyung’s smile falter, cat-like eyes surveying his tense figure. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’m going to ask you this again,” Namjoon spits through clenched teeth. “Why are you here?”

His thoughts immediately flit to you, sitting out there alone, and he realizes you both need to leave now. Namjoon had been running from the ghosts of his past for as long as he’d known you, swearing to himself to protect you from the danger that lurked underneath the paved city streets. And now it had found him again.

“She’s waiting for you out there?” Yoongi asks, and Namjoon resists the urge to say something he knows he’ll regret later. So he knew who you were. He shouldn’t have expected any different, and he silently prays that Hyun’s been left out of their reconnaissance.

“Seokjin-hyung saw you today,” Yoongi continues, and Namjoon freezes again. So his mind hadn’t been playing tricks on him. He’d recognize Kim Seokjin’s broad shoulders and lithe body frame anywhere, remembering how it’d felt when they used to train together, tackling each other into hard concrete until one of them admitted defeat.

“Yoongi,” Namjoon abandons the honorific, and watches Yoongi’s face flicker in disappointment, before settling back into the stern, unfeeling mask he always seemed to have on. “You have to go.”

The older man opens his mouth to protest, but Namjoon pushes him aside, barely making it a few steps before he hears Yoongi call out to him.

“You can’t hide from who you are forever, Namjoon-ah,” he warns. “You and I both know that sooner or later, everything goes to shit.”

Resting your head on Namjoon’s shoulder, the two of you forgo a taxi home, walking hand in hand on the road, the pale moonlight casting everything in a soft glow. You lift your head gently to gaze at Namjoon, frowning at the way his nostrils flare and his brows seem etched in a permanent furrow. He’d been tense ever since he’d returned from the bathroom, and you wondered if he was upset with you for rebuffing him earlier.

“Joonie,” you whisper, turning his face to yours. The two of you come to a stop on a secluded street, and Namjoon’s face softens at the use of your favorite nickname for him. To everyone else, he was always Kim Namjoon, the prodigy from the south side of town, always crushed under the weight of expectations that weren’t his own. He’d hated the way his name sounded growing up, hollow and business-like to his ears, devoid of any affection or tenderness.

But to you, he was Joonie, the name you’d randomly come up with one late night studying, the two of you drunk on a caffeine high and laughing deliriously about anything and everything but the exam you had tomorrow. He’d fallen just a little bit in love with you that night, the way your smile shone brighter than the incandescent, artificial lighting of the library. It’d stripped him bare, piercing through the walls he’d built for decades, and Namjoon felt something with you he’d never felt before. He felt human.

“Talk to me please, what’s wrong?” Your eyes bore into his, searching for answers.

Answers that Namjoon could never give you if he wanted to keep his family safe. The lies felt like a stab to the heart every time he let one escape, but overtime, the wounds had begun to scar, leaving ugly marks in their wake. And it hurt a little less to keep the truth from you every time.

“We need a bigger house,” he says, stroking your temple with his thumb. It wasn’t wrong. “It’s about time we gave Hyun another sibling, don’t you think?”

The tension melts from your shoulders, and you flick him in the forehead.

“You idiot! I thought something was bothering you, like a life-and-death situation, and you’re just horny!”

“You caught me,” he wraps his arms around you, leaning to whisper in your ear. “Are you still wearing that little number you sent me earlier?”

“Who said I’m wearing anything underneath?” It comes out in a breathy moan, and you feel Namjoon go stiff beside you. “Now take me home.”

Namjoon doesn’t move, frozen in place, looking beyond you to a cluster of trees, his eyes becoming dark.

“___, hold onto me,” he chokes, his voice breaking, and you feel a chill run down your spine. “And whatever you do, don’t look anywhere but straight ahead.”

Namjoon’s hand comes to grab your wrist in a death grip, and you feel your hand go limp from the circulation being cut off. Your heartbeat speeds up instantly, blood pounding in your ears.

“Joonie? What’s going on?” A single tear escapes, running down your face, and Namjoon’s heart shatters down the middle. The fear in your eyes was something he’d told himself he never wanted to see, and he darkly wonders if running into Yoongi earlier had been an omen of what was to come.

You can’t see it, your eyes untrained, but Namjoon knows that the two of you are being watched. He can make out the faint figure of a human silhouette through the trees, and the gleam of something silver. And probably sharp.

He had to get you out of here.

“Listen to me, when I count to three, you have to run. Run as fast as you can, and don’t look back. Go to your parents’ house and find Hyun. You all need to leave the city now.”

“Namjoon, please,” you sob, and your wail echoes into the empty street. “What is happening?”

“____, that’s an order,” he says sternly, his face grim, and you cower in his presence. He’s shifted from your soft, loving husband into something far more menacing, his eyes narrowing in thinly veiled fury. “NOW GO!”

His voice snaps at you, and you break, turning from him and running as fast as your legs can go. Rounding the corner, you pause, peeking around just in time to see an unknown man in blank lunge at your husband, a silent scream lodged in your throat when you see the gleam of a knife in his hand.

You don’t stay long enough to see what unfolds, terror striking your heart and goosebumps erupting across your skin as the wind howls, the quiet streets eventually giving way to busy intersections, until you’re at a bus stop.

Heaving, you crumple over, sobs wracking your entire body as you wait for the bus to come, to take you away from the horrors of what had started out as the most normal night.

When it does come, you lean your head against the window, watching the city lights flicker outside, and a painful realization sets in one that leaves you completely numb.

Namjoon had never told you that he’d find you later, that everything would be okay. You should have stayed with him, should have protected him like he protected you and Hyun. But you’d let fear win, and now you’d lost him.

Namjoon shoves the man off of him, blood pouring from the stab wound he’d inflicted on his thigh. He wouldn’t be out for long. He’d been quick, but Namjoon was quicker. He’d been waiting for this moment for years, his instincts still as sharp as ever, honed from years of looking in the shadows, wondering if his demons would ever catch up to him.

But now you’d been caught in the crossfire - the way the blood escaped your face when he’d told you to run burned in the back of his brain. You were scared, and he knows for a fact it wasn’t just because of the unknown assailant. You were scared of him, finally witnessing the monster that Namjoon harbored deep inside.

Chest heaving, he catches his breath, tasting the bitter tang of salt before he even knows he’s crying, curses flying from his lips. He doesn’t know how long he sits there and sobs, shivering in the cold, but he hopes you’d listened to him, and that you and Hyun were far, far away from this hellhole. Neither of you deserved to rot with him.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps approach until someone is directly in front of him, their eyes taking in the sight of the unconscious man and the bloodstains all over Namjoon’s white shirt.

“Namjoon-ah? Shit, what happened? Where’s ___?”

Hoseok. The universe hated him, he was sure of it. Namjoon looks up, Hoseok’s worried face staring down at him, and relaxes when he doesn’t see a hint of anger. He wasn’t sure what to expect when they ran into each other again. Hoseok had been the one who took his leaving the worst; the loss of the only friend he’d had his age cutting deeply into him.

I fucking hate you, the last text had said.

“I was running patrol on the area when I heard one of Ahn’s men had been spotted in our neighbourhood. I came as fast as I could.”

“Is he dead?” Hoseok’s boot prods at the man, who looks barely conscious. Namjoon musters enough strength to shake his head, still unable to say anything, when he sees Hoseok’s gaze shift to the knife beside him.

“Let’s go,” he offers Namjoon a hand. “Whoever they were, they knew you’d be here tonight. It’s not safe.”

Namjoon falters for a moment, unable to accept Hoseok’s offer of help. If he did this, he knew Hoseok would take him back to the compound, back to everything he tried so hard to leave behind. And away from you. He feels like he’s in limbo, watching the road ahead split into two paths.

Hoseok says nothing when Namjoon rises and accepts his hand, giving a silent nod of acknowledgement before the two of them head off into the night.

“Mama,” Hyun sobs into your shoulder. “Where Appa go?”

His tiny fists ball into your shirt, and you do your best to bounce him up and down, keeping your own tears at bay. It’d been three days since you lost track of Namjoon, and in those three days, there hadn’t been a single text, call, or sign that he was okay. That he was still alive.

After picking up Hyun from your parents’ house, tearfully telling them the whole story, the two of you had returned home last night. In the back of your mind, you knew you were going against the last thing Namjoon had told you when he ordered you to leave the city, but you had to be here. He’d find his way back to you. He had to.

Every few hours were like this - Hyun would suddenly remember Namjoon and his tiny whimpers and sobs made you consider if it was finally time to stop waiting and call the police. Yet every time you dialed the number, something made you reconsider. The last look on Namjoon’s face remained burned into your memory, the shadows casting half his face in darkness when he asked you to run.

Your husband was a simple man. He left for work at 7:05am every day, and came back around 5:43pm. You knew he had excess money to spare, but you never asked him where it went, his only splurge being on an expensive bike he liked to ride on weekends. Date nights were mostly full of ramyeon and sushi on the couch at home, the fancy dinner a couple of nights ago a rare occurrence for you both. Which is why you were deeply unsettled by what had happened.

It was almost as though Namjoon knew trouble was waiting for you that night, as if he’d been anticipating things to blow up in his face, The way he’d been so prepared — his calm, collected demeanor through it all made you shudder. Like he’d had experience dealing with it before. And that was what gave you pause.

Namjoon never really spoke about his life growing up – he was an only child, and while he was sociable in college, he mostly kept to himself. That didn’t stop you from wanting to get to know more about him, his brown eyes glimmering with the depth of the man he hid from everyone else. Everything had been a whirlwind after, falling into bed just as easily as you’d fallen for him, eloping right after you’d both graduated, with Hyun coming soon after.

He’d never gone into detail about his family to you — only that his parents weren’t around, and you could see the pain in his eyes when he went slack-jawed and silent, eyes misty with unshed tears. That was when you’d decided that Namjoon didn’t need his family - he had the two of you right there, and that was enough.

But whatever happened that night changed everything. You shivered thinking about how you ran so easily when he told you to, how you didn’t want to stay to see who came out on top - Namjoon or the other man. You had a feeling the answer would twist your stomach into more knots than it already had.

Putting Hyun to nap on the couch, you decide to make a cup of tea to clear your head. And that’s when the doorbell rings.

Namjoon stares up at the ugly brown ceiling of his childhood bedroom. He’d begged his father to paint it to complement the green walls, yearning for a taste of the outdoors that he never got to see living in the compound, with its cold concrete floors and stark white walls. In retaliation, Namjoon’s father had smashed one of his plant pots, screaming about how Namjoon needed to get his head out of the ground and finally start taking responsibility of his duties as the leader’s son.

So Namjoon had done what any 16 year would do. He’d corralled a snickering Seokjin, a skeptical Yoongi, and a spirited Hoseok and taken his father’s car for a joyride to snag a few cans of spray paint.

The uneven paint job stares back at him, and he smiles at the memory of the four of them running out of the hardware store, whooping in delight. Not a hair looked out of place, the room the exact same way Namjoon had left it seven years ago. And yet everything was different.

Stretching, he looks at the pots on the windowsill, each plant a former paragon of pride for him. Evidence that he, Kim Namjoon, was nothing like the slimy crooks he’d grown up around. He respected life enough not to turn it into a living hell for others. Fingering the withered leaves now, he remarks at how big a fool he’d been to think so.

“I tried my best to water them,” Hoseok appears behind him, setting down a glass of water. “But you were always better at the outdoor shit than I was.”

He feels the bed creak next to him, and it’s silent between them for a few moments.

“Hobi,” Namjoon croaks, and he feels Hoseok stiffen at the use of his nickname. “I’m sorry.”

Hoseok’s lips purse into a straight line, giving no indication that he accepts Namjoon’s apology. But he had to say it anyway.

“I sent Yoongi-hyung and Seokjin-hyung to check on her,” he says softly, and Namjoon’s heart sinks with guilt because he hadn’t been thinking about you, or where you were right now. All he hoped was that you were safe.

“You fucking bastard,” Hoseok chuckles, a tear slipping out. “You got married and you didn’t even tell us. I was supposed to be your best man.”

He’s unsure how much Hoseok knows about you, or even Hyun, but the bitter regret in the other man’s voice tells him that he wasn’t the only one with wounds who’d been festering for longer than they should’ve.

Namjoon knows he owes an explanation to him, to all of them, but tonight, he’s tired. The moonlight filters in through the windows, casting an eerie glow over the room, and he can’t help but feel that everything’s about to change.

“____?” The man outside the door has eyes that gleam like a cat’s, piercing through the darkness as he surveys the home you share with Namjoon. Behind him, a taller man, his face covered by the shadows, looms, and a chill runs down your spine. Hyun was still sleeping peacefully on the couch.

“It’s about Namjoon.” The other man’s voice is gruff, his impatient sigh echoing into the night, and you watch his eyes widen as the door swings open.

“Who are you?” you ask through gritted teeth. “How do you know my husband?”

They step inside, their dark suits casting a shadowy gloom over what was once your bright and cheery home. Hyun naps away, and you become ever more aware of every tiny breath he takes when you see their eyes flicker to him, a surprised look on both of their faces.

“He’s yours?” The taller man asks, and you hate the way he looks at your son, a stone mask over his perfect features.

“Let’s talk in the kitchen, please,” you beckon them over, not liking the way they continue to study him.

Stepping into the space, it feels more cramped than you’re used to, Namjoon usually preferring to keep out of it lest he set the house on fire with his lack of cooking prowess. Thinking about him had you experiencing a pang of guilt.

“My name is Yoongi,” the cat-eyed man mumbles, and then gestures to his partner. “This is Seokjin.”

The other man, Seokjin, looks at you curiously, and you don’t like the way his eyes bore into you, as if he’s trying to convince you to unveil your darkest secrets with one glance.

“We were Namjoon’s friends,” Yoongi says calmly, which seems to set Seokjin off.

“We’re his fucking family, Yoongs,” he spits out.

You feel dizzy – Namjoon had never mentioned these strange men to you. As far as you knew, he didn’t have any siblings or cousins he was close to. Who were they, and what did they want with him?

“Is he safe?” You have a million other questions, but this feels like the most important one.

Yoongi gives you a nod, and you feel the tension seep from your body, only for your heart to stop at his next words.

“But he’s not coming back. Look, it’s not our place to tell you about Namjoon, and it pains me because you deserve answers that you’ll never get. But you have to listen to him and leave. It’s not safe for you or your family here anymore.”

Head spinning, you resist the urge to crash into the side of the dining table as you stumble, catching yourself quickly enough to take a seat.

“What do you mean? Where’s Namjoon? Why can’t I talk to him?”

“Listen,” Seokjin hisses, cornering you. “If you know what’s good for you and the kid, you’ll listen to us. We may fuck with a lot of nasty things, things that would make your toes curl, but there’s enough psychos out there on the streets who won’t hesitate to fuck over a woman and her child. We’re trying to give you an out.”

Yoongi looks you over, and you see his eyes flash with sadness at the tears that fill your own.

“Namjoon isn’t who you thought he was. I know it’s hard, but you need to listen to us. You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. You can still have a happy life, meet someone new, fall in love again.”

You feel delirious.

“You’re lying. Namjoon is my husband. No one knows him better than I do. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He literally rides bikes with Hyun and they pick flowers together, for god’s sake!”

You don’t know why you feel the need to defend the accusations against him. The fact that they were telling you this at all meant that your husband had caught you in his web of lies, that all the years you’d spent by each other’s side were a farce.

“Yoongi, let’s go,” Seokjin says darkly. “We’ve done what we needed to do.”

Turning to you, he spares Hyun one last glance before crossing the threshold.

“I hope we never have to see each other again ___. For your sake.”

“You have a son,” Seokjin says monotonously as Namjoon pads sleepily to the breakfast table, freezing in his tracks when he hears him mention Hyun.

He’d been too tired to think about anything last night, knocking out as soon as he hit the pillow, seeking reprieve from the mess of thoughts in his mind that wondered how he was going to get out of this. And back to you.

Sipping his coffee, Seokjin starts at him sharply, Yoongi looking past him at the paint chipping on the wall, and Hoseok’s mouth parted in surprise.

“For fuck’s sake, Namjoon, what else are you hiding from us? I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Hoseok’s voice rises, ignoring Yoongi’s warning to keep it down.

“Kim doesn’t know he’s here,” Yoongi seethes, and Namjoon pauses. They hadn’t told his father?

Looking at Yoongi, he knows he can always count on him to be the voice of reason, to work through the hundreds of questions Namjoon has.

“Are they safe?” The most important thing.

Yoongi nods his affirmation. “For now.”

Looking at the three men, men who he’s known for most of his life, Namjoon finally lets himself feel the anger that’s been building inside of him. Everything had been fine, he’d been happy. Why’d they have to fuck it all up?

“Then do you mind telling me what the fuck I’m doing here?”

“Should’ve left his ungrateful ass on the streets, Hobi,” Seokjin quips. “Ahn’s man would’ve taken care of him when he came to.”

At the mention of Ahn again, Namjoon looks at Yoongi curiously. “I thought we had a deal with the Ahns. Why were they roaming around our territory, looking for trouble?”

Yoongi pushes the chair towards him, beckoning him to join them at the table. Namjoon takes the seat uncertainly, pleading with them to finally answer his queries.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

. . .

Your father is dying. Seokjin’s words have been echoing ceaslessly in the back of Namjoon’s mind, ever since he uttered them an hour ago. We need you.

The news brings Namjoon more relief than he’d cared to admit. Kim Yonghyun had never been much of a father to him anyway. His own mother had known better than he did, vanishing when Namjoon was twelve, never to be heard from again. She was still out there somewhere, hopefully where Yonghyun couldn’t find her.

Looking out the window, he looks out onto the courtyard of the compound, the bars on his window reminding him that this was the same prison he’d run away from years ago. Even if his room was still pristine and untouched, like it was waiting for him to come back. Even if Hoseok had still brewed him a cup of his favorite espresso after Namjoon had coldly refused to talk further about Hyun.

His own son was named after the monster who created him, and Namjoon wonders if he’d ever truly been able to let his past go. Or if it’d always remained, a black stain hiding under the disguise he’d created for himself, the false life he’d built. The one that was now about to come crumbling down.

He’s driven our organization to shit, Hoseok had said. Starting careless disputes with the other families, engaging in pointless violence. We need a better leader, a stronger one.

They needed him to finally step up to onto the pedestal they’d created for him, to accept his legacy with open arms. If you’d asked him seven years ago, Namjoon would have vehemently refused, convinced that there was a better life for him out there, one where he could live freely and be a normal kid who went to college, who fell in love, who got married and bought a house. Now, he wasn’t sure if those had been dreams or delusions.

He needed to talk to you.

It’s not even a day later when you hear the distinctive clink of Namjoon’s keys at the door, Hyun babbling at the table.

The soft thud of his shoes at the entryway feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever heard, heavier than the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

“APPA!” Hyun screeches with joy, his chubby arms reaching out for Namjoon’s longer ones.

“Hyunnie,” Namjoon’s eyes crinkle in adoration, lifting him up out of the high chair swinging him around. Hyun’s delighted giggles echo, Namjoon’s soft chuckles accompanying them, and for a moment, it feels like everything is back to normal. But it isn’t.

You don’t lift your eyes to look up at Namjoon, and he notices. Pressing a kiss to Hyun’s hair, he sets him down.

“Hyunnie, go play with your toys. Appa needs to talk to Mama for a few minutes.”

“Hyunnie miss you Appa. Pleez don’t leave again.” And with that he waddles off, leaving the air heavy in between you both.

Namjoon takes a seat next to you at the table, watching the way your throat bobs like you’re trying not to cry, and he feels tears of his own spring forth.

“___,” he reaches for your hand, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb, and that’s when you explode into quiet sobs, praying that Hyun can’t hear you from the other room.

Namjoon’s arms wrap around you in an instant, stroking your back until the sobs subside, urging you to take deep breaths, and finally you’re ready.

You reach behind you to grab for something, and Namjoon pales when you push a folder with a stack of papers his way, his worst nightmare coming true.

“No,” Namjoon protests, refusing to open the folder. “Absolutely not. Why are you doing this?”

“You lied to me Namjoon,” you declare firmly, doing your best to overcome the wobble in your voice. “Or is that even your real name?”

All the blood rushes out from Namjoon’s face at your accusation, wondering what you found out, what you knew now, and he aches with the regret that he never got to tell you himself.

He’d been thinking about this moment for years, about what he’d do if this ever happened, and despite the thousands of theorized and calculated ways he’d settled on going about his explanation, he chokes back a sob. A needy, desperate feeling overcomes him, one that tells him that this isn’t it, that this can’t be the end.

“What are you saying ___? Are you calling me a liar? Look at me.”

He lifts your face up to his, searching your eyes for a spark of emotion, anything that would convince him you didn’t mean what you said, but all he finds are hollow pools of emptiness.

“I’m still Namjoon. I’m your husband, I’m Hyun’s father. This, this is all real. What we have is real. I’m begging you, please, please don’t throw it away like this.”

You take a moment to respond, knowing that what you have to say will be the end of this, will probably drive a stake through the spectacle that had been your marriage, and you feel less guilty when you remember that he did this first. That while all you’d ever been was honest, loving him with everything you had, he’d kept secrets from you. He’d put you and Hyun in danger.

“Is it drugs, then?” Namjoon recoils, feeling his stomach drop. “Or do you fuck with people’s money instead, putting them in helpless situations just for a couple hundred dollars you need to survive? I always used to wonder, why it felt like even though I was your wife, I never knew you properly. Never knew anything about your past. I thought it was because you had some kind of unresolved trauma. But that’s bullshit. You’ve been the one traumatizing people for years. You and the rest of your friends.”

You knew who he was, the legacy he came from. He doesn’t even need to ask how you found out. You’d always been the smartest woman he’d every known, putting together the most complex mathematical formulas. All you needed was a hint. Yoongi and Seokjin had fed it right to you.

“This isn’t fair,” he chokes out. “You don’t know anything about the other side of things, ___. You can’t even imagine what I’ve had to go through, why I’ve had to do what I do. I did it for you!”

“Stop saying that!” you cry out. “Stop it, please. If you really wanted to protect me, if you really wanted to protect Hyun, you would have left. You wouldn’t have brought this darkness into our home. Do you know what could happen to him, Namjoon? He’s only three years old!”

At your outburst, Hyun comes running into the kitchen, his face falling when he sees his Mama’s eyes red with tears.

“Mama,” he reaches out for you, and you pull him onto your lap, holding him in a death grip, because you’re afraid of what will happen to him if you let go.

“Mama, no crying peez, Appa came back,” he wipes a tear from your face, and Namjoon’s heart breaks into two. Hyun didn’t know that it was his fault. You gently stroke his dark hair, whispering in his ear to go up to his room and change, and that you’ll come by for a bedtime story soon. You say nothing when Hyun asks for Namjoon to come up too, and Namjoon knows tonight will be his last night ever spent in his home.

When Hyun leaves, he reaches back out for you, but you slap his arm away.

“___, please, there’s no need to overreact. I can explain everything, just please, please don’t push me away. I need you.”

The last sentence comes out in the form of a sob, and Namjoon wishes more than anything that you’d hold him right now, that you’d stay by his side while things fell apart around him.

“Do you know what the worst part of this is, Namjoon? I’ve been staring at my phone for days, trying to summon up the courage to say something, to call the police, to ruin you. But I can’t. Because there’ll always be some sick, twisted part of me that loves you. But I don’t want you to lie anymore. I want you to leave.”

Namjoon’s shoulders slump in defeat, and his voice shakes.

“Is there nothing I can say to convince you to fix this?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Namjoon accepts. “I’ll go.”

You don’t say a word to him as he pads out of the kitchen, slipping his coat over his shoulders and tying his shoes. He wonders if he should stop in and say goodbye to Hyun, but decides against him. His son would hate him eventually for what he did, and if Namjoon had learned anything from running away from home, a clean break was best. He hopes that the two of you can live peacefully now, no longer burdened by the demons he’s had to shoulder.

As he slips out the door, he hears your voice, so quiet that he’s almost not convinced it’s real.

“Thank you.”

Hoseok is awake when Namjoon returns, red-eyed and aching, drunk off one too many glasses of whiskey. He says nothing at first when Namjoon collapses onto the seat across of him, but eventually he can’t hold back.

“The old man wants to talk to you in the morning.”

It feels like another punch to Namjoon’s gut, having to face his father after losing you. He feels like a laughingstock, hearing his father’s mocking words in the back of his mind, calling him weak, sentimental, a fool.

For the first time in his life, Namjoon agrees with him. When he was a boy, he’d dreamt of a life away from the city’s underbelly, one that wasn’t governed by the shackles of duty and tradition. His mother leaving had only fueled his desire to seek an out. Because Namjoon didn’t want to commit himself to a life of lies, violence, and deceit.

He knew that Yoongi, Hoseok, and Seokjin operated outside of the frame and that the work they did was illegal. To them, the Kims had always been about being the shining paragon of the city’s scum. Their deals with the cops to keep trouble off the streets had worked for decades, but now it seemed like just like Namjoon’s own life, his father’s empire was collapsing. He knew Yonghyun was growing senile with his old age, and Namjoon shivers when he thinks of how bad things had gotten for them to come looking for him again.

As he ponders, Hoseok studies him curiously, remarking that the Namjoon that sat before him now looked nothing like his clumsy childhood friend who’d always raved about poetry and or school. Namjoon had always been the best of them, a bright star amongst a sea of dark mercenaries. But now, he looked completely worn, ready to submit to a fate he’d never wanted.

“Do you really hate us that much, Namjoon-ah?” Hoseok asks quietly, and Namjoon gulps, unable to answer him. His head was pounding.

Hoseok knew Namjoon had snuck out to see you, and for the first time, he realizes how little he actually knows the man who he used to call his best friend. He assumed at first that is was some kind of magic pussy that kept Namjoon in a chokehold for so long, but seeing him now, he can’t help but think it’s something deeper.

Hoseok had never really known love growing up. He couldn’t even say he loved the fiancée his parents had chosen for him. But he had an inkling that love was what destroyed Namjoon’s life, what turned him into the shell of a man sitting before him.

He’d do anything to get his old friend back.

“Hyunnie, please let go of Mama, please,” you beg your screaming son, snot and spit soaking the side of your blazer as he balls his tiny fists into the fabric, refusing to go with the daycare teacher.

He hadn’t understood Namjoon’s departure at first, asking you every day if he was coming home, if he’d been working too much. You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, so you lied, saying Namjoon was away on a trip. He’d believed you for a while, but Hyun was as smart as Namjoon.

Now, he realized his father wasn’t coming back, and it only meant he clung on tighter to you. It broke your heart that Hyun thought you’d ever leave him. You wondered if he’d hate you should he ever find out you sent Namjoon away.

Summoning up the urge to peel Hyun off of you, you press a dozen kisses to his tear-stained cheeks, his tiny sniffles sending pangs of guilt through you. The daycare teacher smiles sympathetically at you, before luring Hyun away with a book, and you muster a tiny grin at his somewhat excited face. He was Namjoon’s son, through and through.

The thought of Namjoon sends a jolt of pain across your temples, and you resist the urge to cry in public, knowing you had a sea of tears stored. You thought you knew what you were doing, ending things between you two, but you’d never imagined how impossibly hard it would be doing everything alone.

Namjoon had been your partner in every way. He’d shouldered every burden with you equally, and celebrated every happiness. To have it all stop so suddenly felt more overwhelming than you could put into words.

It felt like your life had come to standstill, the man you’d left behind taunting you, while the future remained dark and murky. You’d do your best for Hyun, of course, but you didn’t know if you’d every truly be able to recover.

You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you. You can still have a happy life, meet someone new, fall in love again.

Yoongi’s words echo in the back of your mind, and you want to tell him just how wrong he was, but the sight of someone leaning against your car stops you.

Your shocked face stares into Namjoon’s dark eyes, and you feel the ground slip out from underneath you. Namjoon’s arms are out before you can even topple over, catching you. He looks taller, his hair longer, wearing what looks like an expensive designer suit, the fabric more fine than anything you’ve seen before.

He looks at you with concern, studying for any signs that you’re sick, or hurt. When he’s satisfied with your overall condition, he finally speaks.

“I’m not going to take up too much of your time, I swear. I have some things to do after this.”

You wonder what things he’s referring to, and decide you don’t want to know.

“I just,” he starts, but pauses mid-way, shoulders slumping. “I just wanted to see you again. And Hyun. I’m sorry ___.”

You give a subtle nod, but no indication that you have any sympathy for him, and turn to leave. Before you can get into the car, he spins you towards him again.

“My real name is Kim Namjoon. Not Kang. I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but my father’s name is Kim Yonghyun. You don’t have to say anything, or respond, but you deserve to know.”

And then he lets you go.

Tucking a sleeping Hyun into bed, you sit down on the couch, the bright glare of your laptop hurting your eyes. Opening Google, you type in Kim Yonghyun, and your mouth gapes in shock.

The articles about the Kim family go back for decades. They’re not just a lowlife gang, they’re an entire organization. Yonghyun was their current leader, and Namjoon was his son. Heir to a criminal legacy. Your gut twists as you click more articles, names popping up that were familiar to you - Lee, Ahn, Song. These people owned over half the city. They were everywhere, infiltrating your daily life. And you’d fallen in love with one of them. Suddenly, parts of Namjoon’s past begin to click for you. The way he’d been so desparate to have a normal college experience, dragging you out to a bar with him. The way he’d put his entire soul into doing well at his classes, interviewing for jobs. You’d always told him to slow down, that the two of you had many years to figure it out, but for Namjoon, figuring it out was difference between life and death.

You wonder if your kind, gentle husband who loved books and stopped for tiny animals on the side of the road had ever killed a man.

Slamming your laptop shut, you curl up in the blankets of the couch, hoping that tonight Namjoon wouldn’t chose to visit you in your dreams again.

Namjoon frowns, looking over the stack of files that Seokjin had unceremoniously dumped on his desk. Unbelievable. His father had him reading through twenty years’ worth of documents on the organization, everything from the code of honour to the accounts. The old man didn’t trust him.

His glasses slide down his nose, and he rubs at his temples. Disappearing without a trace hadn’t been his finest move.

“This look suits you,” Seokjin snickers from across the table, and Namjoon scowls. “You look like a proper godfather.”

“Shut it,” Namjoon grumbles, and Seokjin’s smile only grows wider.

“Only like being called daddy, huh?” he quips, and Namjoon’s ears go red. Fuck Seokjin and his merciless teasing.

“Oh my god, don’t tell me—” Seokjin looks at him with wide eyes, and Namjoon holds up a hand to cut him off.

“One more word, hyung, and you’ll wish you kept your stupidly perfect mouth shut.”

“So,” Seokjin ignores him completely, spinning around in his office chair. “What’s the grand plan, Godfather Kim? You gonna take over for Yonghyun or what?”

Namjoon doesn’t respond, and Seokjin leans over the table.

“Is it really that bad, Namjoon? Our org is more well-run than most of the other lowlifes on the streets. You have everything here - unlimited respect, unlimited bitches, unlimited money.”

“There’s more to life than bitches and money, hyung.” And Seokjin rolls his eyes.

“God, you and Yoongi are the exact same. You get married and turn into huge simps. So, tell me about her.”

Namjoon looks up, prepared to tell Seokjin that he’s not in the mood for his jokes, but the look in the older man’s eyes is sincere, like he genuinely wants to know.

“___ is,” Namjoon begins. “She’s everything to me. Before I met her, I didn’t know one person could change your entire life. After I ran away, I wondered if I made the right decision, about whether leaving this all behind was worth it. But she, she made it worth it. She and Hyun are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

Namjoon closes the file, rising abruptly. Running into you had been an impulsive decision, and he hadn’t fully prepared himself for the rush of emotions he felt seeing you again. Your hair still smelt like the jasmine shampoo you used, the bags under your eyes darker and your clothes a little rumpled, but his body still responded in the same way it had when you’d shyly kissed him when he dropped you off after a study date so many years ago. And he felt guilty.

“Namjoon-ah, I’m sorry.” Seokjin’s words make him turn sharply. “We didn’t want to drag them into this, I swear.”

“What do I do hyung?” Namjoon holds back a sob. “I lost her.”

“You’re a smart guy, Namjoon-ah. You’ll figure things out. You always have.”

The knock on the door startles you awake, and you nearly fall out of bed looking at the time on the alarm clock. 12:03am. Quietly slipping into your house shoes, you check on Hyun, afraid something had happened to your baby. A deep sigh of relief escapes when you see him nestled in his crib, sleeping peacefully with one fist curled up into a tiny ball.

Padding down the stairs, you look at the various pictures on the wall - photos of you and Namjoon and Hyun throughout the years. Your graduation photos, your engagement photos, your wedding, Hyun’s first birthday. Memories that had been destroyed in the blink of an eye. The crushing realization hits you that you aren’t sure if you’ll be able to keep this house anymore. What’s worse is that you realize you may not want to either.

You peek through the doorhole, paling when you see Namjoon on the other end, and you’re sure he knows you’re currently behind the door. Throwing the door open, you take in his disheveled appearance, suit rumpled and hair sticking up in every direction, Yoongi right behind him.

“I–, I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I just wanted to see Hyun. Five minutes, that’s all.”

“He’s asleep,” you clarify, wanting him to leave as quickly as possible. “Now is not a good time.”

“Please,” he begs, his eyes misting, and you move without thinking, stepping aside to let him in.

Behind him, Yoongi follows, back in your home for the second time in as many months, and you watch his eyes flicker to the various portraits that line the walls and sit on top of the tables.

Namjoon climbs up the stairs, and you don’t know why you decide to follow along, intruding on the private moment as he disappears into Hyun’s nursery.

“Hyunnie,” his low voice echoes into the emptiness of the room. “How are you buddy? You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you.”

The heaviness in Namjoon’s voice makes it clear to you that he’s crying, and your arms itch to wrap around him, to comfort him. He wasn’t a terrible father.

Namjoon stares at the cot for a few moments longer, never making a move to reach for Hyun, and then he turns and makes his way out, stopping in the hallway.

“Thank you—”

“Do you want a cup of tea?” you blurt out.

Nodding silently, Namjoon follows you down to the kitchen, Yoongi appearing shocked that he doesn’t seem to be heading straight for the door.

“Both of you sit, please. I’ll make some tea.”

You get to work, pots and pans clattering as you swear under your breath, trying to keep the volume down so you don’t disturb Hyun.

Yoongi’s sharp eyes peer across the table at Namjoon, and he nods, subtly willing Namjoon to break the not so awkward silence.

“My father, I mean, I, uh-, I have some money set aside for Hyun’s college fund.”

Yoongi’s neutral stare turns into daggers, and Namjoon grows even more flustered.

“I don’t want to take your money.” You set the tea mugs on the table, pulling up a chair, the only sound the be heard the occasional slurp of the hot beverage.

“___, is there nothing I can do to make this work? I want to fix this.”

His plea surprises even Yoongi, who turns to look at your reaction. You remain frozen, mouth agape, before firmly nodding your head.

“I can’t trust you Namjoon. You lied to them, you lied to me for so many years. That doesn’t just go away.”

“I know. It won’t go away, but it doesn’t have to. But maybe we can put these pieces back together, use them to build a stronger foundation. Like kintsugi.”

The mention of the golden seams fills you with a warmth you didn’t think was possible to feel again. You look down at the mug you’d picked out, and a small smile graces your face when you see that it’s the one he repaired for you in the same way right after you’d dropped it during your first week in the house.

The conversation suddenly feels too suffocating, to intimate for your weary-eyed self in the dead of the night. There was a lot the two of you had to work through, things that could take years to properly unpack. Could you condemn yourself to that nightmare? Could you subject Hyun to the pain of two parents who had a hard time being in the same room? You weren’t sure it was worth it. But you also knew that Namjoon would keep turning up, using Hyun as an excuse or blaming a coincidence, just so he could convince you again.

“We should get some sleep,” you put the mug down, your soft steps echoing as you walk out, leaving the two men alone, but not before you hear Yoongi’s hushed voice.

“College fund? Really?”

The recoil of the shot rings in Namjoon’s ears as he watches the bullet whiz through the air, missing the target completely and lodging itself into the wall. He lets out a heavy sigh, the empty weapon falling from his hands.

“Great job, Namjoon-hyung. You were so close! You’ll definitely make it next time.” The doe-eyed boy next to him bounces with pent-up energy, patting him on the back. Jeon Jungkook was every bit the son that Yonghyun deserved. He, along with new recruits to the Kim clan, his cousin Taehyung and Park Jimin, were the sons that Yonghyun always deserved. Never missing a mark. Never fucking up a mission. Never running away from anything. Namjoon doesn’t have the heart to tell Jungkook he missed on purpose. Not because he sucked, but because he was a coward. The pressure from his father had been mounting for him to finally prove himself worthy of the Kim lineage, and to send him out on a mission. Namjoon had accepted with reservations in his heart - no longer sure where his life was taking him.

The good news was you started to let him visit Hyun, Namjoon slipping through the door at the middle of the night to stroke his son’s hair. He could feel your eyes watching him from the nursery door, but you never came inside.

He thinks back to his last visit a few days ago.

He’d been brave enough to press a kiss to Hyun’s chubby face, his cheeks puffing out as he stirred slightly, which was Namjoon’s cue to back away. Until he heard it.

Come back Appa, the tiny voice whimpered, and Namjoon had never walked faster out of Hyun’s room, tears clinging to his lashes until he bumped into your frozen figure outside. Your cheeks were wet with tears too, and Namjoon didn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around you, sobbing into your shoulder, the two of you staying like that longer than he could count.

When you finally separated, a choked whimper escaped you, like you wanted to say something, but instead, you turned on your heel, sprinting towards what was once your shared bedroom. The soft thud of the door slamming shut had been the end of that.

“Jeon, can I steal him for a second?” Yoongi comes up behind him, clapping Namjoon on the back. He’s not alone. His wife, who Namjoon had known well throughout their childhood, is behind him, the two of them looking at him with a mischevious glint in their eyes.

“You’ll never believe who we ran into just now,” Yoongi’s wife laughs, and Namjoon tilts his head in confusion.

She launches into an animated discussion about how she’d seen ___ and Hyun while touring a a daycare for Hana, Yoongi’s daughter.

“She’s wonderful Namjoon, why haven’t you ever introduced us?” Namjoon looks to Yoongi for support, but the other man just smirks, placing a reassuring hand on his wife’s back.

“Don’t worry dear, I have a feeling we’ll see Namjoon and ____ together sooner than we’ll think,” reaching for his phone.

Namjoon’s own phone pings with the notification of a text, and he looks down to see that Yoongi has sent him a discreet picture of ____ and Hyun, smiling happily as they talked to his wife, and he breathes a sigh of relief. The way you talked to them with ease puts a small glimmer of hope in his chest, that maybe with time, with convincing, you could be okay with this. Okay with him. And that the three of you could be happy again.

He’d keep fighting for you both. He had to.

Shivering, you shake tiny droplets from your hair as you step inside, the stark, white walls of the gallery as uninviting as the outside climate. You chatter your teeth and rub your arms in an attempt to warm up. Hyun was at daycare, and part of you felt guilty for leaving him there when you knew you didn’t have any work meetings today, but you needed time alone. To think.

The receptionist greets you with a warm smile, excitedly telling you all about their latest exhibit, and you smile and nod politely, eager to get away from her chipper presence, and to bask in your own gloom. You could have done anything else today - caught up on paperwork, tackled the massive pile of laundry that sat in your room, had a treat-yourself session at the mall, but something compelled you to come and see the new gallery that had opened in the city. Sighing, you realize it’s probably because Namjoon would have loved it, and you missed seeing the way his eyes twinkled when he saw a piece he liked, standing behind you and sending goosebumps all along your arm when he whispered the meaning into your ear.

Half the time, the comments would quickly stray away from the art, and turn to the way he couldn’t wait to get his hands on you at home, to tear your clothes off, to have you screaming under him while he made you forget your own name. Another shiver hits you, but this time, it’s not from the cold.

Shoes clacking, you step into the open space, the paintings arranged neatly along the wall, and you pick one to study.

The interlocking lines and the bold geometric patterns kept you busy, your eyes flitting from corner to corner, head swimming with thoughts about the tricks the painting seemed to be playing. They looked like they went on forever, creating a grid, or a map, that careened off the canvas, trailing off into infinity. It made you feel even more lonely, a mere speck in this huge world, full of so many things you were unaware of.

“It’s called Nucleus,” a voice calls out from behind you. One that you knew all too well. You turn to see Namjoon, his hair equally soaked and heavy coat dripping onto the floor. You should have known he’d be interested in the exhibit. It wasn’t like mafia bosses existed outside the realm of humanity.

You want to back away as he comes closer, but remain frozen in place.

“The lines and patterns are supposed to draw your eyes to every corner, make you study the entire painting, but it’s a trick of course. All that really matters is how they come together in the center, creating a focal point of attention. A nucleus. An omphalos. A heart.”

You look up at him, sucking in a sharp breath, and you want to be alone, somewhere private, somewhere he couldn’t see you break down from all the pain, all the hurt that you’d put the two of yourselves through.

Namjoon senses you’re about to leave before you do, and he already slips an arm around your waist, stopping you in your tracks.

“It’s raining. Let me drop you home.”

Gulping, you nod your agreement, his hand never leaving it’s place on your waist as the two of you step out into the deluge.

. . .

Rain always scared you. You hated how dark it made everything seem, the eerie shadows it would cast through the blinds of your home, the loud crackle of thunder that would wake Hyun up with a sob.

Namjoon, on the other hand, loved the rain. It reminded him that the world wasn’t monolithic, that it was ever-changing. It helped him realize that he didn’t have to be forced into a role he didn’t want to play, that while it poured outside, new life could be born and could blossom.

The two of you come to a pause outside the doorstep, Namjoon’s eyes mirroring the storm outside, full of uncertainty. You were sure you were the same, the two of you mirroring each other, but no longer having the same nucleus to pivot around.

Namjoon holds his breath, wanting a few more moments with you to remember, before fate would inevitably set you on your separate ways again. He can smell the dew collecting on the grass, but there’s also the fragrance of your shampoo, and he observes the way the droplets collect on the tip of your nose, before dropping down to wet your lips.

You surge forward, seeking his lips, and Namjoon stumbles for a brief second, before his arm comes up to wrap around you, meeting you halfway. You feel dizzy, clinging onto his warmth like it’s an anchor, keeping you from floating away from this moment.

The solid wood behind you falls away when Namjoon wrestles with the doorknob, the two of you slipping and sliding into the entryway, Namjoon’s tongue becoming more insistent, and a low whine escapes from the back of your throat.

The two of you part, soaked and trembling, and Namjoon rests his forehead to yours. You can feel his hot breath fan against your cheeks, now flushed from the cold, and you realize your fists are still balled into the heavy material of his jacket.

Heat rises in your chest, and you feel like a livewire, tingling at the mere thought of having Namjoon so close to you again. You knew this was a bad idea, that it would complicate everything, but you didn’t have it in you to care, heart skipping a beat when Namjoon pulls you back in, seeking your lips once more.

The coat falls to the floor in no time at all, and you can’t stop your hands from roaming everywhere, Namjoon’s damp shirt doing nothing to hide the body you knew so well, the one you’d probably never forget.

His thumbs slip underneath the hem of your shirt, tracing circles into the top of your hips, you whine even louder.

Moments later, the scratchy sheets of the bed meet your back, Namjoon setting you down softly, reaching over his head to take off his soaked clothes. Sighing, you reach for his hands, the warm fingertips slipping through your cold ones easily, and pull him towards you, limbs tangling together in desperation. Your skirt slips up to your waist, exposing your soaked panties, and Namjoon’s hands settle on your thighs, gripping them hard enough to leave marks, and dips his head down to leave soft kisses on your core.

“Say it,” he begs. “Say you want me.”

“I n-need you, Joon, need to feel you, fuck–”

You moan when he pushes the fabric to the side, flicking his tongue against your folds, and your hands reach for his hair, tugging at the strands while he groans underneath.

“Fuck, I missed the way you taste, always so good for me,” he groans, slipping a finger in to circle around your clit, and you writhe against him, unable to take the teasing.

“Does my pretty girl want me to fuck her?” He groans into your pussy, arms flexing to keep you spread out underneath him, and you babble incoherently, unable to put your desire into words. All you knew was that you never wanted this moment to end.

When you feel yourself teetering on the brink, body flushing with anticipation, it all stops. Panting, you look at Namjoon, his dark eyes surveying you hungrily, and a shiver makes its way down your spine.

“Ride me, baby,” he orders.

Peeling the rest of your wet clothes off, you watch Namjoon settle into the pillows, like he never left at all, and it makes your heart lurch. His hand reaches for yours when you climb back over him, hips straddling his thighs, and he presses it to his chest, right above where his heart beats, hissing when he slips into you.

You rock against him slowly, gently, your heavy breathing the only sound amidst the backdrop of rain, and his hands reach for you, roaming over every bit of your body, light touches that drive you wild. Leaning back, you anchor yourself on the sheets, allowing him to roll his hips upward, the two of you moving in tandem.

“Mine,” he sighs, cupping your ass. “All mine.”

“Yours,” you echo, walls clenching around him when he began to slowly rub circles on your clit, tears stinging your eyes.

His other hand reaches for your neck, pulling you in to wipe the tears away with the pad of his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours as you fall apart around him, Namjoon’s thrusts speeding up as he groans into your shoulder, your arms drawing circles into his back as he spills inside of you.

Lifting you off of him, his arms reach around your body to press you against him, his lips ghosting your forehead, and you feel a wet trail of tears on his cheeks as the words spill out, and he tells you everything.

Tells you about growing up with a father who belittled and abused him for being weak, about his mother who left when he was a teen, about Seokjin, Yoongi, and Hoseok, his friends who he feels like he’d abandoned. He tells you that he’s not sure what the right thing is anymore, not sure who needs him more – the city or his family, and how he feels so fucking lost all the time. He rambles until his voice becomes thick with fatigue, slowly eventually to the deep breaths you’d come to know beside you for yours, and you wrap his arms tighter around you.

When you wake up in the morning, he’s gone.

Namjoon’s head pounds with guilt as he follows his father into the car, the tinted windows obscuring his plight from the world around him. Behind him, Yoongi and Hoseok look on with sharp eyes, guns belted into their holsters, preparing themselves for the imminent shitshow that was about to arise.

The problem was, it had already begun the moment Namjoon kissed you last night. His mind runs through the countless memories he’d stored from that night, from your soft lips to the sharp cries of pleasure that he’d wrought from you, and decides that he’s even more fucked now.

Looking at his phone, his thumb hovers over the text you’d sent him, one that was definitely borne from anger at seeing an empty bed when you woke up.

I’m leaving with Hyun in a week. Please don’t come and see us again.

Sighing, he decides to focus on the car moving to quell his nausea, to keep back the bile that rises in his throat. He had to hold it together in front of Yonghyun. If he messed this up now, he’d have nothing left.

. . .

Taking the receipt from the bank teller, you survey the amount of money withdrawn, praying it’s enough for you to start somewhere new with Hyun, your heart breaking at the thought of finally leaving Namjoon for good. You’re one foot out the door when you hear a voice behind you.

“___? Is that you?” Turning, you’re met with the handsome face of Kim Seokjin, looking grim-faced in a black suit.

Ignoring him, you keep walking. You wanted nothing to do with him, nothing to do with Namjoon anymore.

“___, please, please wait,” he stops you with a hand on your arm, beckoning you to sit with him. The two of you make your way to a secluded bench in a park, and Seokjin stares at you, before sighing in defeat, realizing you weren’t going to talk.

“Yonghyun is taking Namjoon to make a deal with the Lees today,” he looks out at the people strolling by. “It’s a test for him – if Namjoon does well, he’ll become the leader. These types of things usually go one of two ways - either we handle it, or becomes a bloodbath.”

“Good for him,” you grit through your teeth, ignoring the way your heart does a flip. “It seems like that’s what he wanted all along.”

“I’m not here to talk to you about Namjoon,” he says somberly. “Whatever happened is between him and you, it’s not my place to interfere.”

“Look,” you say with a clipped voice, “Can we cut this bullshit? What do you want Seokjin? You can’t convince me to go back to him.”

“I’m here to tell you about me,” he says, his eyes trained to the ground. “About my story.”

“What makes you think I want to hear anything about you?” you say, instantly regretting how rude it sounded.

“You probably don’t, but I always do this. Whenever I have this random feeling like everything might go to shit, I find the most random person I can think of, and tell them about Kim Seokjin. It makes me feel like less of a petty criminal, and more of a human, like someone people would want to remember. Sometimes it’s the ahjumma who runs a fruit stand, or the ahjusshi on his way to work. Sometimes it’s a bored kid. Today, I just happened to find you.”

He offers you a sip of his coffee, and you politely decline.

“I guess I should start at the beginning,” he chuckles. “I’ve known Namjoon since before he could walk. My father was his right hand man, but my parents were killed when I was young. Namjoon’s family took me in, and soon enough Yoongi and Hoseok joined our little circle. We were the best of friends’ thick as thieves, and for a while we were happy, but then Namjoon’s mother left.”

Your mind flits back to Namjoon’s hurried conversation in bed, babbling about how his mother had enough, about how she had to go.

“Namjoon was nothing like his father. He was everything like her, and the moment he saw that Yonghyun had pushed her away, had turned her into an unhappy shell, he grew restless. I always knew he’d leave us one day, that he’d try to carve out his own path.”

“Yoongi and Hoseok were bitterly upset, they couldn’t believe him. I couldn’t either. I mean, what kind of dork runs away from a multi-million dollar empire for a college education?”

You laugh hollowly at his joke, and he musters a small smile.

“It must have been about two weeks after he left. Or maybe it was a month. I’m not sure anymore. When you’re as old as I am, the days all start to blend together.”

“You don’t look a day past thirty,” you quip, and he snickers.

“It started with a girl,” he sighs. “Most things do. Contrary to what you think, even members of the mafia need our old wake me up call, and I stepped into a random coffee shop, and there she was. I flirted with her like an idiot, cracked my silly jokes, and it felt different from all the pointless hook-ups I had, from all the missions I’d spent with a gun strapped to my back chasing money. We started seeing each other.”

You look past him out onto the park, guilt permeating your body at his words. Was this how Namjoon had felt when he met you? Were you really worth leaving behind everything to him.

“A month later, she was dead. Shot outside the coffee shop after locking up one night. All because they knew she was associated with me. All because I was selfish, and only thought of myself. That’s when I realized there was no way out for any of us, except Namjoon.”

Shuddering, you think back to the years Namjoon spent shrouding the dark side of himself from the world outside, how difficult it must have been to carry this black mark on his back for so long.

“I fucking hated everything in that moment. I hated my family, I hated my friends, I hated this life, I hated her. But most of all, I hated myself for being a walking target on the backs of those I cared about the most. I couldn’t console her family, her co-workers, I couldn’t do anything. They all would have seen me as the monster who caused her death. All I could fucking do was go back to doing what I had always done.”

He rises suddenly, telling you that he has to go soon, but that he needs to finish, that there’s something you need to hear.

“There was one night, where I was wandering around, recklessly drunk, probably in a park like this. I felt like doing something stupid – maybe killing someone, maybe shouting into the void. And I saw him. Namjoon. With you.”

You freeze. You and Namjoon had gone to the park hundreds of times, sometimes walking through it at night, other times riding your bike through the day. A chill runs down your spine when it hits you how close the two of you had come to meeting, Namjoon’s two worlds colliding.

“I wasn’t spying on you, I’m not an asshole. But you guys were being all cutesy and shit, and it finally struck me that he was in love. He hadn’t run away out of some misguided sense of fear, or superiority. He just wanted to live a normal life, one that was full of happiness. I never told anyone I saw you two because I knew it’d blow up in his face. And mine too. But I guess it did anyway, huh?”

Tapping his foot anxiously, his hands begin to shake as he grows restless.

“I gotta go. But even if you don’t take Namjoon back, and I’m not telling you that you have to, I’m telling you there was something there worth fighting for. Namjoon’s not a stupid man, he knows how to set priorities, and he chose you. And Hyun. That has to mean something.”

He turns on his heels, and you feel your head throb, eyes misting with tears.

“Seokjin!” you call out to him, and he turns, looking at you curiously. Smiling at him, you let a tear trickle down your face. “In another world, do you think we could’ve been friends? All of us?”

He smirks, crossing his arms.

“Maybe. But we’ll never know, will we?”

And with that he walks away.

Sweat trickles down Namjoon’s back as Yonghyun’s face grows redder, his screams becoming shriller. He can tell the Lees aren’t amused with his proposition to buy up more of their territory. His heart thuds in his ears, and he looks down the line to Yoongi, Hoseok, and Seokjin, who’d joined them recently. They all remain stone-faced, like they’d been through this before.

“Kim Yonghyun, you bought from us years ago and promised you’d double our investments,” Mr. Lee says calmly, and Namjoon fears him. “Instead, you’ve driven our businesses into the ground. Our partnership isn’t working anymore, we see no reason not to forfeit it.”

Every one of the Kims tenses around him, their shoulders slumping in defeat, mournful at the ruination of their empire. Namjoon, on the other hand, sighs in relief. This was it, he could finally be free from everything tying him down, he could make it right with you.

“You can take the boy,” Yonghyun says, nodding towards his son, and Namjoon’s blood runs cold. “Marry him off to one of your daughters. He’s of no use to us anyway.”

“NO!” Namjoon interrupts him, and Yonghyun cackles at his panicked face, his withered arm reaching for Namjoon, offering him up to the Lees.

Namjoon squirms in his father’s tight grip, the Lees looking on in horror, and Yonghyun groans.

“God, shut up, you stupid boy!” he howls. “I’m sick of you.”

And his arms close around Namjoon’s neck.

Namjoon’s lungs burn as he squeezes, the blood rushing out of his head, and the sounds around him become muffled, his father’s screams of delight the only thing he can hear as his vision becomes spotty.

Until a shot rings out,, followed by another and Namjoon feels his father slump forward, choking on blood as the two of them thud to the ground.

“Namjoon-ah,” Hoseok screams. “Are you with us, shit, shit, shit! Yoongi, help me, goddamnit.”

Together, the two of them pry Yonghyun off of him, and Namjoon regains enough clarity to see Kim Seokjin in front of him, smoke coming from the end of his pistol while he clutches his chest, the white of his shirt seeped in blood. Seokjin gives him a nod, and turns to leave, his footsteps echoing on the concrete stairs.

“We need to get you to a hospital, fuck,” Hoseok sobs, clutching Namjoon for dear life, and they carry him out.

Stirring, Namjoon rubs his eyes sleepily, the beep of a heart monitor and the IV attached to his arm telling him he’s in the hospital. Blinking, he focuses enough to figure out he’s alone, the only other person in the room the nurse who charts down his vitals.

“Are you feeling better, dear?” the kind voice asks, and Namjoon’s heart drops to his stomach. He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Eomma?” he croaks, turning to look at a face he hasn’t seen in years. She looks the exact same as the day she left.

“Namjoon-ah?” she whispers, her eyes looking him up and down like she can’t believe it. “Is it really you?”

She lets out a sob, coming to hug him, and he winces when she presses into his body.

“Oh I’m sorry, I forgot your arm was sprained,” she blubbers, and he doesn’t say anything, surveying her.

“You were here this whole time?” he says, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you come back to us? Why didn’t you find me?”

“Because I never wanted to see you like this, Namjoon-ah. I was afraid, and I was scared. I left because I knew what your father was capable of. He made it his personal mission to turn the lives around him into a living hell, to the point where people didn’t even want to live anymore. I didn’t want to one day cradle your lifeless body in my hands, either because he’d had enough or because you’d had enough.”

Namjoons eyes fill with tears at seeing his mother, the only other woman in his life who’d shown him what it was like to chose himself, to chose happiness. Everything that he’d been through, everything he’d had with you, had been by her example.

“I kept tabs on you, though, I’d always look in the charts of nearby hospitals, looking for your name. It was a sign of relief every time I didn’t see it.”

“Will you stay with me, Eomma?” Namjoon asks, and she smiles sadly.

“Namjoon, I can’t—, if your father ever got word of me, he’d—”

“He’s dead,” Namjoon declares. “Seokjin killed him.”

His mother’s eyes widen in surprise, a tear leaking from them, and she collapses into sobs, shaking at his bedside. Her body is so withered, frail from so many years of abuse, and Namjoon holds her in his arms, whispering reassurances into her ear.

“You’re safe, Eomma. We both are.”

Namjoon looks nervously at Yoongi and Hoseok, their nods encouraging him to go on, and he straightens the tie his mother had picked out. Making his way up the path to your door again, he prays that you and Hyun haven’t left yet.

The door opens before he can even knock, Hyun’s tiny figure looking up at him with wide eyes, and Namjoon resists the urge to sob at how much he’d grown up in the past couple of months.

“Hyunnie?” you call out to him, sounding exhausted. “Who’s at the door?”

When Hyun doesn’t answer, you decide to come check, only to find him wrapped in Namjoon’s arms, your son sobbing into his father’s shoulder. You freeze when you see his arm in a sling.

“Never gonna leave you again, bud,” he says, muffled into Hyun’s tiny shoulder.

“Namjoon? Why are you here? What’s going on? The Kims—”

“There are no Kims, ___. Not anymore. It’s over.”

You throw yourself against him, sobs wracking your body.

“I missed you, god I missed you so much, I was gonna go insane.”

Taking your hand in his, you look up at him, lifting them to press a kiss to his knuckles, and he smiles at you.

“Don’t leave me again, okay? Whatever you need to say you can it. I promise I’ll listen, and we can work through it.”

Gesturing for Hyun to come join you, he wraps you both in a tight hug, savoring it, until you lean close and whisper in his ears.

“You’re our nucleus, Namjoon.”

Namjoon realizes he’d never really been weak at all. Not like Yonghyun had seen him. And now, as the autumn leaves crackled on the lawn, and Hyun ran excitedly outside, jumping through them with Yoongi and Hoseok, he realized that there may come a time in his life where he’d have to choose again. And for all the times he could have committed himself to a life of doom, times that sought to tempt him with his worst nightmares, he’d come out of it choosing you every time.

Epilogue - 3 months later

“What do you mean he’s gone?” you look at Namjoon brows, furrowed in worry. Across the kitchen, Namjoon paces back and forth, feet clacking against the tile, as he resists the urge to rip his hair out.

In the distance, you can hear Hyun giggle, his halmeoni chasing him around the living room, and your eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Jungkook told me they haven’t been able to get a hold of him. Yoongi and Hoseok are up the wall.”

Rising from your seat, you try to calm your fretting husband, pressing a peck to his lips. You pout, and he sighs in resignation, knowing that it isn’t his problem to worry about. His hands come up to rest on your stomach, running over the tiny, firm bump that had brought forth new change into his life just two weeks ago.

“He’ll be fine, Namjoon,” you reassure him. “I know he will.”

“How?” Namjoon croaks out with worry, and you can’t blame him for his freakout.

“He’s Kim Seokjin, duh,” you deadpan, and Namjoon chuckles at your expression. “Now, stop this worrying, okay? I was promised matchamisu tonight, and I’m holding you to that.”

Accepting your hand, he lets you lead the way. Time for another date night.

a/n pt. 2: thank you for joining me on this crazy ride! for reference, the artist Namjoon and OC are talking about is Lee Seung Jio, and his series called Nucleus. As always, any comments or feedback are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi <3

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kairiscorner · 9 months

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OMIGOSH ok so what if spiderwoman reader moves into miles’ world and they have a sorta like ladynoir dynamic😻😻😻 but in the end miles goes over to readers house and finds out eachothers identitys omggg

HI !! OMG that's kinda cute ngl :> I WANT MORE TEASING MILES, YES PLEASE ?????? i hope u like this :>

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ GUESS WHO? — miles 1610 x spider woman!reader

• ·➤ summary: you were always miles' favorite spider person to tease, and to find out you were going to be staying in his world for a while... it made him a excited to finally have someone he could work together with. coincidentally, he met a new girl at school who caught his eye, he didn't realize she was hiding a big secret from him–until he discovered it himself.

• ·➤ pairing: miles 1610 x fem!reader • ·➤ genre: mainly fluff !! • ·➤ word count: 1,564 • ·➤ author's note: THIS DYNAMIC IS SO CUTEEEEEEE I HOPE Y'ALL LIKE THIS <333

"never thought we'd cross paths again, spider woman." called out a playful, nonchalant voice from behind you as you were seated atop the roof of the high rise building you were perched upon. you sighed as you looked back at him, your mask's lenses showing evident frustration. "great, it's the guy whose armpits are bleeding." you murmured as miles smirked at you from underneath his mask, strutting around you, acting cocky as usual. "cold as ever, i see." he remarked as he playfully tapped your shoulder, with you sighing as you looked off into the distance. "y'know, this is my city to save, i'm the spider person of this dimension; never thought i'd be getting a sidekick. and to have my number one fan be that sidekick? gosh, i'm so flattered." he said sarcastically with a sigh. you didn't plan to stay any longer and instead swung away while miles wasn't looking. "hey, wait up!" he called after you as he swung off, following you. you expertly swung from building to building, underneath the railways of the trains moving from above, with miles calling out to you all the while. he finally caught up to you and nudged you with his elbow. "how long are you staying for?" he asked you as you shrugged. "i don't think you have to know." you promptly replied as you threw yourself up and landed on an abandoned building's rooftop that provided the best view in all of brooklyn.

miles followed you and watched you from afar as you looked over all the lit up buildings and streets below you all. he chuckled as he walked over next to you. "i know you aren't sidekick material, you're more... heroine material, but can we just... set aside the fact you're always annoyed by me and just protect the city? i mean, now that you're here and all." miles rambled as you placed a hand on his shoulder. "these people are gonna be the people i need to save now, so... 'course i will. but you'll be the sidekick." you quipped as you leaped off the rooftop and swung off into the night. miles chuckled as he watched you go with a grin. he had known you for a while, ever since the collider incident, he had looked up to you and appreciated how well you upheld your duty as spider woman, though he never knew the person behind the mask. he wasn't going to pry your identity from you, after being spider man for a whole year, he's come to value and separate his secret identity from his superhero identity.

the next day, he had met this new girl in his class. she was a little quiet and didn't have many friends; she kinda faded into the background, but miles was immediately drawn to her, as if he had this sense that just compelled him to talk to her. "hi, you new around here?" miles asked her in a cheery voice, with her appearing a little surprised at miles' friendly demeanor. miles promptly stepped back a little and awkwardly smiled. "um, yeah, i am." she replied as she looked deep into miles' eyes. miles didn't really feel uncomfortable at her intense gazing into his eyes, though he did feel a little self-conscious. "sorry i'm staring, i..." "it's cool, you don't have to explain yourself, it's fine." he said with a flustered voice as he smiled a little wider that a girl was giving him so much attention, a sweet and pretty one, at that.

miles offered to show her around the school, but not before they both introduced themselves to each other. the two hit it off naturally, and they agreed to meet together after school to get to know each other a little better. though when a crazed tech geek started robbing a local pawn shop, they both had to cancel. miles ran off to change quickly into his spider suit, and before he could even make it back to get the villain's attention, spider woman was already dancing with the villain. miles hit the villain's blind spot, catching their attention as you webbed up their gear. "ey, right on time! i would compliment you for coming on time, but you stole my thunder, so that's not cool!" he quipped as he punched the villain and webbed up their arms.

"so what if i did? these streets aren't just yours to save now, sidekick!" you shot back as you both swung around the villain and webbed up their eyes. you both knocked the villain out with swift kicks to their face as they lay there on the pavement, dazed and for the authorities to clean up. the onlookers all had their phones out, buzzing and capturing this very moment: spider man and a spider woman are teaming up? everyone was applauding you two, while also clamoring you both with questions. as miles tried to calm and appease the crowd, you ran off and swung your way back home. "hey, wait for me!" he called out to you as the crowd watched you two go off, still asking questions, like where spider woman came from, what your relationship is with each other, who's the sidekick between you two--but all those questions went unanswered as miles caught up after you, with you weaseling away from him.

miles still looked around for you, searching every alleyway and street for you--every place he would hide if some spider person he was annoyed with to no end was following him--but you were nowhere in sight. "just wanted to say thanks for your help..." miles muttered to himself as he got a text notification on his phone. it came from the girl he just met today, and her asking him if he was okay. miles texted her back with a cute, smiley kaomoji that he was okay, he just had to make a quick break for the bathroom because... he did not piss himself when the villain arrived, of course!

miles was texting her as he swung off, heading home. he asked her if he could visit her still since the issue back there was taken care of by brooklyn's coolest spider man and his new sidekick, spider woman. she defended spider woman's honor and said it seemed like spider man was her sidekick back there. "whether spider man was the sidekick is like time, relative! you see it your way, i see it my way." he texted her as she sent him an eyeroll emoji. she told him he could come to her house soon, trusting him with her address. miles told her he'd be over in 5, but was already on his way there, seeing as how she... was actually living in his neighborhood.

he found her address and saw a glimpse of the back of her head by the window and swung over to her. he was about to crawl over to the front door once he confirmed it really was her, all safe and sound at home, though... she turned around immediately when miles' gazed lingered on her back while she was all clad in... a spider suit? "is that... spider woman's?" he asked himself as her gaze suddenly met his, and– "you?!" he exclaimed as he almost lost his grip on the wall he was scaling, nearly falling down to the sidewalk below if you didn't rush to your window and shoot a web on him, catching him before he fell.

miles caught his breath and lost it again as he stared up at you. "you're... the new girl." he murmured as you pulled him up and into your room. you hoped nobody saw you shoot a web at him, but miles was staring at you with enlarged eyes and a flustered face. "you knew... i was... wow. you stared at me a whole lot today, then..." he realized as he soon smiled to himself as you webbed his mouth. "...not another word, morales." you said in an embarrassed tone as you looked away from him, evidently flustered that miles discovered your true self; the self that was... kinda interested in being friends with miles.

miles ripped your webbing off his mouth as he winced and slightly smirked at you. "if you wanted to be friends, all you needed was to say it, i would love to be friends, not just sidekick and heroine." he said with a chuckle as you crossed your arms over your chest. "not happening." "well it did happen since you invited me over..." "i invited miles morales, not spider man." "it's a two-in-one deal, either you take it or leave it, and i know you wanna take it." miles teased you as you looked at him from the corner of your eye, trying to conceal your flustered expression. you sighed as you sat down on your bed, with miles following you and sitting down next to you. you extended your hand out to him. "fine. to being friends, i guess." you muttered as miles took your hand in his and shook it, with a big grin on his face. "to being friends... and being my sidekick–ow!" he exclaimed as you jokingly punched him when he called you his sidekick. looks like brooklyn has two new defenders, and two new... not really enemies trying to be friends and living as normal teenagers, more or less!

tags !! @k4tsu3 @fiannee @luvstarrstruck @toneystank-3000 @ii01vq @maxoloqy @popeheywardssecretgf @solecitoszn

#miles morales #miles morales x reader #earth 1610 miles morales #earth 1610 miles morales x reader #earth 1610 miles morales fluff #earth 1610 miles morales x you #earth 1610 miles morales x y/n #atsv #atsv imagines #atsv fluff #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse x reader #spiderman across the spiderverse fluff

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crvptidgf · 1 month

Text

Bad Blood • pt. I

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

➸ summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, you find it difficult to let go of the past. Your trauma lies deeper than you think. When when you meet somebody who understands your pain, your journey of self-discovery and healing begins to set sail. For once, everything in your life seems to click.

➸ warnings/notes: reader is of romanian descent, afab! reader, mentions of trauma, descriptions of death and traumatic events, profanity, friends to lovers trope, hurt/comfort, eventual smut (18+), trauma bonding, eventual mutual pining, mentions of the golden trio being dicks for the sake of the story

word count: 1.9k

————————

THE TRAIN TO Hogwarts screeched against the rusty rails, bumping along the coast. I looked outside the window, staring down below. The waves crashed into the pillars that were holding the railway up, and I almost shook with discomfort at the thought of it breaking.

I felt someone's arm link through mine, gently resting their head on my shoulder. Looking down, I noticed it was Ginny. Her ginger curls were swept back into a ponytail, but her hair tickled me nonetheless.

"I can't wait to start our first year," she said.

Hermione hummed in agreement as she studied me somewhat intensely. She could read people like the back of her hand - it was something that always both annoyed and comforted me. I knew that she would always be there for me, but I could also never hide anything from her.

"How about you?” asked Hermione to which Ginny lifted her head to look at me.

I shrugged and looked to the side.

Harry and Ron had fallen asleep ages ago. Ron's snores merged with the various other noises inside the train, and it had long became background noise. Harry's glasses were askew on his head - Ginny adjusted them before looking back at me to hear my response.

"Nervous, honestly," I said plainly.

I didn't want to tell them just how anxious I was about starting college. About how I was scared because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life - how I felt like I was miles behind all of my friends. How I didn't feel like I belonged.

Hermione was smart and kind - she had ambition and was the most empathetic person I knew. Ginny was brave, beautiful and she knew she wanted to pursue Quidditch professionally since she was 14. Harry and Ron wanted to be Aurors, and Fred and Weasley had opened their joke shop since before we even graduated.

Me? I didn't even know who I really was. Sure, I knew I was a Slytherin - and that I was pretty good at potions. Besides that I had no clue about where I wanted to be in life.

I didn't even feel like I fit in with my own friends, let alone a whole college full of people with ambitions and goals. With real, true goals.

Hermione always reassured me that I was still young and I had ages ahead of me to figure it all out. Yet when everybody around you is already at the stage of growing up and moving on, its hard to believe that.

I knew I was only 18 but that fact provided little comfort to me.

"Ron, Harry. Get up!" shouted Hermione as she pulled on her robes in the unstable carriage. We had arrived outside of Hogsmeade station, the yellow lights of the street lamps illuminating the black abyss of the water before us.

We all walked onto the platform, Harry yawning as he tried to press his unruly hair flat down. He always had messy hair. It grew impossibly fast even when he cut it. At some point he gave up and just let it grow; which led us to now, as his hair almost reached his shoulders. Ron had followed in his footsteps, letting his mane grow out, too. Their matching shoulder-length curls was just one of many things that they shared in common.

A giant of a man trodded his way forwards, introducing himself as Rubeus Hagrid, Groundskeeper of Hogwarts. His long beard was frizzy, long, and dark - but not as long as the hair on his head. He could give Harry a run for his money.

Self-rowing boats made their way towards us, the darkness of the lake being broken every once in a while by the ripples of the oars.

"Four to a boat! Move on, move on," said Hagrid.

All five of us looked at each other before glancing at the boat. I honestly didn't mind being alone, so I wrapped my robe around my shoulders before nodding at my friends. Ron asked if I was sure, offering to give me his seat.

"It's okay. I'll see you guys inside."

I walked a little further to where an almost full boat floated in the water. Three boys sat inside, arguing about seemingly nothing. I heard a few names like Blaise and Pansy, whom I remembered being in my class in secondary school. They were fellow Slytherins.

Their conversation suddenly halted, and I felt their eyes on me as I neared them.

"Sorry to interrupt - but can I sit here?"

I saw one of them shift to the side a bit more, making space for me. He looked slightly familiar, but I figured he must have just been someone I passed in the hallways in our old school.

"Sure, hop on," he said.

I climbed into the wooden vehicle, jolting forwards as it began to move. A hand came to grip my wrist, gently pulling me back so I didn't tumble into the water. I pulled my hand away as I sat down, my eyes meeting his.

The moonlight shone beautifully against his skin. I vaguely felt like I knew him, but I wasn't quite sure of his name. Maybe it was Matthew, or Matthias - or was it just Matt?

"Thanks," I said. His eyes were almost as dark as the night sky, his features sharp but gentle. With the little amount of his face that I could make out in the pitch black of the night, I came to the conclusion that he was attractive. Realizing that we were just staring at each other, I looked away from him quickly, opting to stare at the castle that we were rapidly approaching.

"So..." came the same voice from beside me. "I'm Enzo."

Lorenzo Berkshire. Of course.

My breathing halted for a moment. I knew I recognized him. Our parents had been friends for as long as I can remember. Up until our 3rd year of secondary school we had been best friends - that is, before our parents had gotten into a huge fight and we drifted apart.

His parents had gotten caught up in the war - becoming Death Eaters in order to protect their son. My parents were having none of it. I was advised to never speak to him again; something about how he would 'become just like his parents'.

But Voldemort was dead - and so were Enzo's parents, along with half of the Slytherin population's families too. The past was in the past. There was no use in dwelling on it.

"Ah. Berkshire, right?" I asked. His eyes shot up in surprise.

"You know me?"

I laughed lightly as I looked towards him. Maybe I had changed a lot since we last spoke - it made sense that he didn't realize who I was. I barely recognized him either. We hadn't spoken in almost 4 years.

"You don't remember me? Sunt ofensat!"

The other two boys had an intrigued look on their face as they watched me and Enzo's interaction.

Enzo's already wide eyes lit up at my words. We always spoke Romanian to each other - we called it our secret language. Even though it's a common language, most of the wizarding world in England were not foreigners.

"Oh my God! Y/N?"

I smiled as I noticed the recognition in his eyes.

Our families were one of the only well-know Romanian families in the wizarding world, so it was no surprise that we had grown close when we were young. I felt bad that we couldn't spend more time together during our last years of school. Those were hard times - especially for him. I only wish I could've been there to help.

During the war I remember that I had ran to find him. He betrayed his parents to fight alongside us, against the Death Eaters - I was afraid he'd been killed. It was a tough time for everyone, but I could never forget the look on his face that day.

However, I didn't want to think about that right now.

His arms came to encase themselves around me. I forgot just how affectionate of a person he was. My arms came to rest under his, hugging his torso tightly as my chin landed on his shoulder.

"Okay. What the fuck?" said one of the other boys.

Enzo pulled away from me, smiling.

"Remember my childhood best friend I told you about? This is her," he beamed.

I put my hand out for them to shake. They introduced themselves and Theodore Nott and Mattheo Riddle. My heart slightly stuttered at the sound of his surname, the memories of what his father did swirling in my mind.

I wondered how Dumbledore ever accepted him here, but I tried to push the thought out of my head. No use in overthinking it right now. If I never judged Enzo for his family, I figured I should give Mattheo the same chance to prove himself.

And anyway, if someone as kind as Enzo was friends with him, how bad could he be? Sure I hadn't talked to him in years but I would always harbor trust for the boy. We had been through thick and thin together. You could even say we had even been through hell, literally.

"I didn't know you talked about me," I joked, nudging Enzo's shoulder.

He grew flustered as he tried to dig himself out of the hole. Mattheo had an amused look on his face as he smirked at Enzo's nervous attempts at covering up his words.

He looked over at me, the devilish smile still plastered on his face.

My eyes trailed along his cheekbones and jawline, eventually resting to stare at his plump lips. For someone whose father was the most evil wizard of all time; he sure was hot - and also surprisingly nice, I came to find out.

Apparently after Enzo and I had stopped being friends, Mattheo and Theo took him under their wing. They included him in their friend group, inviting him out to parties. That was nice to hear - he was quite antisocial when we were younger. He seemed better now.

We had already arrived at the castle when Mattheo's eyes finally dropped from mine. His gaze seemed to find mine during every conversation, whether he was speaking or not. The dark brown orbs seemed to stare at me intensely, no matter what I was doing. I could feel them on me even when I wasn't looking, and when I was, he never shifted his gaze.

It felt like a contest of who would look away last - and I won.

"Alright I should go meet my friends for the sorting ceremony," I said as I clambered out of the boat, "thanks for letting me sit with you guys."

Theo raised an eyebrow at me.

"What, your Gryffindor buddies didn't want to be seen with a snake?"

I rolled my eyes at him, giving him a sarcastic laugh. Of course he would have a weird sense of patriotism for his house. The Nott family was the type. Not that it was bad to be proud of where you were placed - I just never understood where all the hostility came from.

Stealing a glance at Enzo, I gave him a look. He only shook his head as if to say 'I'm sorry'. Rolling my eyes at Theo, I turned my back on him.

"Funny."

And with that, I was on my way, sprinting quickly to Harry and Ginny who were waiting for me by the shore.

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constellationandcompendium · 4 months

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Writeblr Intro

Greetings traveller!

About Me:

She/her approaching 30

PhD graduate working in heritage

British (obsessed with tea)

Also sings and crochets

Enjoys both Star Trek & Star Wars

Occasional NaNoWriMo participant

Fanfic writer of 15 years making the jump into original fiction (find my fandom blog @thetamehistorian)

Happy to take asks / play tag games etc.

Has a habit of designing covers rather than writing

Second attempt at this blog (main blog this time, cha cha real smooth)

Tends To Write / Read

Sci-Fi & Cyberpunk

Urban Fantasy & Fantasy

Historical

Comedy (this suprised me too)

Introducing My WIPS

A crime thriller with a touch of cyberpunk...

Featuring

Man with habit of doing wrong thing for right reason

Best buds to reluctant allies to ‘I would die for you’

That ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this’ meme

Conspiracies and double agents

Lots of angst and hurt (with some comfort)

Wholesome parent / child relationships

Summary

Solaris City has a problem. Whilst the metropolis flourishes, down below in the old mines the Undercity grows wild and dangerous, it’s people cut off from the prosperity above, dreaming of the sun and spreading Haze - an addictive drug.

Elias also has a problem. Working for the Bureau has cleaned his slate but he hasn’t cut all ties with those underground. Now there’s a girl hidden in his flat and something big has been uncovered that has his contacts in a flurry.

With two days to go to a vote on unifying the two halves of the city, and his friend Sebastien caught right in the middle, Elias has a feeling that it'll only take one domino falling for everything to come crashing down.

WIP Tag

First Draft Complete, If Messy (Mind the Plot Holes)

A sci-fi comedy of a ship of misfits...

Featuring

Puns for ship names (and just bad jokes in general)

Captain packing up the ship and all its crew because they can no longer thrive in this household

Overly social parents (please stop inviting my professor over to dinner)

Space worker unions (and aliens)

Learning self-worth and finding strength through working together

Found family

Summary

The United Earth Ship Archimedes patrols the border of charted space. Beyond it - the vast and unexplored reaches of the universe.

It’s an exciting prospect for Aster Kobor, newly graduated from the fleet academy and hoping to make her mark upon the stars. Unfortunately, it only takes a few weeks for Aster to realise that the Archimedes is nicknamed ‘the screw’ for a reason. It’s a ship for the rejects and misfits, those deemed unfit to serve in the frontier ships and command never lets them do anything exciting. Still, Aster is determined to make the best of it and, unbeknownst to her, her meddling Captain is about to give the crew of the Archimedes their chance to show command what they're made of.

Soon a bad reputation is the least of their troubles and, whether the crew like it or not, they’ll have to learn to survive in deep space - where their only certainty is each other.

WIP Tag

Currently Wrangling Vibes Into ~ Characters ~ and ~ Plot ~

A historical novel about determined women, trains, and winning a war…

Featuring

One woman’s obsession with the railways

Code breaking commuters

Breakfasts cooked on a coal shovel

Being accidentally adopted by an elderly fireman and driver duo

Occasional air raid for added ~spice~

Solidarity in the face of adversity and outdated systems

Summary

Bea had always been fascinated by the railways, but her dream of driving one of the locomotives always seemed out of reach. Working the trains is dangerous, dirty, and completely off limits to the fairer sex.

Then the war came and the men went off the fight. Answering the call to help, Bea and her fellow railway volunteers find themselves with an opportunity of a lifetime. Obscured from judging eyes by steam and smoke they shadow the veteran drivers and engineers, learning what they can on the job and hitting the library when they can't.

The trains need to run, they are vital to the war effort. All it would take is one rogue bomb, one mishap to take out a driver and the wheels stop spinning.

Or at least, that's what the station manager thinks.

Currently Doing Research and Initial Planning!

#introductions #wips #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writeblr intro #writeblr introduction #writer

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tokkias · 2 months

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you can just fall into me ship: natsu dragneel x lucy heartfilia summary: Lucy had always known that big changed would come into her life as she stepped into her new role at Heartfilia Konzern she just hadn't expected one of those changes to be the result of a threat to her safety. The feeling of dread through her veins is no longer an uncommon one, but at least the feeling is eased when Natsu is by her side. ao3

insp

The quiet bloop of an incoming email pulled Lucy out of her moment of concentration as she tapped away on her keyboard. Any other time, it would have been an inconspicuous sound that she paid no mind to, just a regular part of her business day, but things at the Heartfilia Konzern had been... complicated as of late.

Stepping into the position as C.E.O. and owner of Heartfilia Konzern, she had kept a low profile. Sure, she had expected massive changes in her life—that there would be more attention on her than she was once used to—but what she hadn’t expected was the intense attention of one individual in particular.

It had started innocuous at first—a few social media posts expressing their infatuation with the pretty new girl in charge of the railway conglomerate—but it had slowly devolved into something much deeper and sinister. A few social media posts had turned into a few emails, turned into a few phone calls, turned into showing up outside one of the office branches one morning in a bid to catch her on her way in or out. Thankfully, it had not been one of the buildings she frequented, but it had sent her anxiety over the edge. This man was obsessed with her and was quickly becoming a threat to her safety.

She didn’t read through the incoming email for the sake of her own sanity, but from the brief glance she had captured, she got the gist of it. They’d gone from pleading to threatening, an attempt to scare her into giving him the attention he craved. Her team had told her not to respond, and though she had heeded their advice, it had made her feel so helpless.

She was scared.

Even with her security team around, there was always the lingering thought about how there was someone out there who quite possibly wanted to hurt her, and based on his actions so far, he very much had the means to do so. For the most part, she could push it to the back of her mind to get through the work day, but reminders like this did her no good.

If she thought she had successfully masked her anxiety, she was quickly humbled by Natsu’s worried expression from across the room.

Just as she was about to speak her reassurances, a knock came at the door, causing Lucy to jump and undoing all the work she had put into convincing Natsu that she was fine. Peering out the glass wall of her office, she saw her secretary, Aries, standing outside, and she let out a quiet sigh of relief. If someone were here to kill her, they probably wouldn’t knock, after all.

“Um, Miss Lucy?” She meekly said. “Mr. Beaufort’s assistant just called to say he’s cancelling his meeting with you next Wednesday. He said something about… um… security concerns.”

Lucy didn’t bother to hide the frustrated groan she let out, her head falling into her hands, elbows thunking against the table.

It was easy to pretend the problem didn’t exist when the problem wasn’t making itself at home in her work emails. Admittedly, she was picking up a bad habit from her father before her of throwing herself into her work to avoid thinking about the problems in her personal life, but suddenly her personal problems were beginning to affect her work life too. This was not the first time someone had cancelled a meeting for safety concerns, and for as long as this issue was prevalent, she was certain it would not be the last.

“I-I’m sorry!”

“No, it’s not your fault,” she assured with a weak smile. “Thank you, Aries.”

With her dismissal, Aries rushed out of her office, leaving just the two of them alone once again.

“Dunno what he’s talking about worrying about security concerns,” Natsu said, air quotes around the last two words. “You got the best security around,” he added with a grin.

Lucy offered him a smile at his fighting words, but it didn’t quite go up to her eyes, and she knew he could tell. Any other time, she would have wholeheartedly agreed. Natsu and his team were great; they had never let her down before now, but they had also never faced a threat like this until now.

She tried not to frame it like that. He wasn’t a "threat," he was just some random with too much time on their hands, chasing after her like all the boys had in high school, but then again, those boys hadn’t shown up outside of her place of work. She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t a big deal, that she would be safe, but she still couldn’t help but worry.

The only time she ever truly felt safe these days was when Natsu was in the room with her. If she was a little jumpy in the office, that didn’t compare to how she got when she was at home. Given the current circumstances, Lucy had a member of her team with her at all hours of the day, but realistically, it couldn’t always be Natsu. He was her employee who still had to go home at the end of the day. He had friends he drinks with on Saturdays, he had a cat at home to feed. There was no amount of money she could pay him that would take away the fact that he still had a life to live outside of her.

Natsu protects her during her work hours, while Erza and Gray take the night shifts at her apartment. They were both scary and more than qualified for their jobs, but she just seemed to feel at ease with Natsu in a way she couldn’t with them. That wasn’t a knock to them; there was just something about Natsu that she could never find in anyone else. She always felt calm around him, entirely at ease.

The rest of the afternoon came and went without incident, much to Lucy’s relief, and before long she found herself being escorted into her apartment by Natsu behind her. That wasn’t originally part of his job description—he would meet her at the office in the mornings and leave in the evenings, but now that there was the concern about her being jumped on her commute, it was better safe than sorry.

Gray was taking the evening shift tonight, and while it would have been reasonable for him to be the one to escort her home, these days it was always Natsu taking her to and from work. Even though he was technically off the clock, even though he wasn’t paid for the extra twenty minutes before and after, he never complained about it, and Lucy couldn’t be more thankful. Maybe having someone on her tail at all times could have been overbearing to some, but she didn’t mind it so much when it was Natsu.

Gray was already standing outside her building by the time they arrived, and the pair escorted her to her apartment with only little fuss.

Though a little unnerving at first, Lucy had grown used to having someone with her at all times. It was better than the alternative, given her current situation. Gray mostly minded his own business, and Plue had gotten used to the company quickly, so it wasn’t all that bad. Tonight, though, the company just didn’t seem like enough to keep her from getting antsy through the evening.

She tried her best to busy herself to keep her mind off today’s events. She cooked her and Gray dinner rather than ordering out; she finally got a start on that new podcast that she had been meaning to listen to, but even as she tried to focus on other things, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander. It was bearable for a while—she could rationalise with herself when the lights were on and Gray was in the room, but as the sun dipped below the horizon and Plue yapped at her to get into bed, things quickly went downhill. Every time she closed her eyes, her brain would be washed over by a series of what-ifs.

What if the security wasn’t enough?

What if when she opened her eyes, he was standing, looming over her?

What if he intended to make good on his threats?

Even with Plue snuggled up in bed with her, ready to go on the offensive and do whatever his little body could do to protect her should the need arise, she just couldn’t seem to shut her mind up.

She wished Natsu were here.

He was the only one who could truly make all the voices in her head simmer down, if even for just a few moments. Natsu had proven himself time and time again as her protector, shown his willingness to go above and beyond for her to keep her safe. She knew that all of her team would do that—it was their job after all—but with Natsu, it felt like something more than that. It wasn’t just the physical safety he provided her; it was emotional too.

Harm couldn’t come to her when Natsu was around; he would never let it. That was even true when it came to the anxious thoughts plaguing her head.

She tried not to talk about these problems with anyone, to not let anyone in on the fact that she was struggling. She already had so much pressure put on her as the new head of a massive conglomerate. The media made sure everyone knew she was unqualified for her position, and they were right—she was just a nepo-baby stepping in to uphold what little of her family legacy was left behind for her. Still, she couldn’t let the media, the public, or her peers think of her like that. She was a hard worker; she was well-spoken, smart, and kind. Given the time she knew she would flourish into something great.

She couldn’t let them see that behind that confidence and composure, she was just a scared little girl, lost and confused.

With Natsu, she didn’t need to maintain that image. Due to the nature of his position, he was the person she spent the most time with these days, and there wasn’t anything she could hide from him. He was the only one who really knew the inner workings of her brain, the real fear and confusion she felt from everything that was happening around her. He was the only person she really felt she could confide in.

A soft sigh passed through her lips as she gazed at the dark ceiling. Yearning would not make Natsu magically appear, nor would it make all her woes and worries disappear. Figuring she wasn’t about to get to sleep soon, Lucy crawled out of bed and made her way into the kitchen in hopes that a warm drink might ease her woes.

The lights were still on in the living room when she passed by, and the television was playing softly as Gray kept himself occupied. Though she tried to pass by unnoticed, Gray was still on the job and wasn’t about to let anything slip past him.

“You alright?” He asked.

His voice stopped her in her tracks, leaving her standing static in the doorframe.

“Yeah, I just…” She trailed off, realising that Gray was no fool. There was no stepping around it, no pretending that she was fine. “I can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he sympathetically replied. “I’m sorry.”

He furrowed his brows as he tried to search for some words of comfort, but he was her guard, not her therapist. Though they were friendly, he wasn’t close to her like Natsu was.

“You’ll be alright,” he settled on.

Lucy offered him a soft smile.

“I know.”

She bit at her lower lip, hesitating for a moment before she made her way to the kitchen.

“What time does Natsu start?” She asked.

“He’ll be here at six,” Gray replied.

Lucy glanced at her phone, finding that it wouldn’t be another four hours until Natsu would arrive. She’d usually be long asleep by now, but today’s events had been weighing heavy on her mind, leaving her more anxious than usual.

“Okay,” she said, trying her best to hide the disappointment lingering in her voice. “Thank you.”

☆♡

The taste of lavender overcame her senses as she sipped on her mug of tea, hoping that the warmth that spread through her body as it went down would soothe her.

Plue let out a soft whine as she crawled back into her sheets, roused from his slumber upon her return. She murmured a soft apology as she stroked his fur in an attempt to soothe him back to sleep. She would rather at least one of them get a good night's sleep tonight.

She didn’t have a television in her room, knowing that one would just keep her up on nights she just needed to know what happened in the next episode of her soaps, but she had never regretted that more than right now. A distraction was more than welcome right now—a trashy reality programme to keep her mind off her own problems. Unfortunately, tonight it was just her and the flitter of moonlight that made it through the curtains.

She closed her eyes and tried to simply will herself to sleep, counting sheep until her consciousness faded into dreams, but as had become routine for this evening, that just wasn’t the case.

And so she lingered awake, accompanied by nothing but the shadows on her walls and Plue’s dreamy whimpers.

After what felt like hours of sleep evading her, a soft knock came on her door, and assuming it was Gray, Lucy let out an affirmative murmur to let him know he could come in. When she looked up, however, it was not Gray’s gaze that she was met with. In her doorframe stood her day guard, Natsu, with messy hair, a dark grey hoodie, and a pair of pyjama pants covered in little cats.

“Natsu?” She croaked out. “What are you doing here?”

She wondered for a moment if she really had fallen asleep, if she was simply dreaming this moment up. What he said next proved that she was very much awake.

“Gray called me and said ya couldn’t sleep, so I came over to make sure you were okay.”

Lucy was quiet as Natsu made his way to her side, sitting down on her bed next to her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said. “Your shift doesn’t start until six; I’m not paying you to be here.”

“I’m off the clock, which means I get to make my own decisions, and right now I wanna be here for you,” he replied, his hand reaching for hers in a comforting manner. “I’m not just your bodyguard, y’know. I’m your friend, too.”

She looked up at him, even in the dark, still able to make out that trademark Natsu smile on his face.

Natsu was always a nice guy, always kind and friendly towards her. She was never sure how much of his friendliness was just part of the job that she paid him for. In his words, she realised that their relationship went beyond that of the paycheque she signed for him every week—he saw her as a friend.

“I’ll stay for however long you need me.”

His thumb ran gently across the back of her hand, and immediately she felt herself growing more at ease. The worry still lingered in the back of her mind—it had never fully gone away since the very first incident, but with Natsu by her side, she finally felt herself safe enough to let out some of the fear that had been plaguing her brain.

“Natsu…” She murmured, her voice soft and low as she spoke. “I’m scared.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, his brows knitted together in concern. “But I’ve got you, okay? Nothin’ bad is gonna happen to you while I’m here.”

She wholeheartedly believed him.

He had protected her from drunkards and catcallers; he had never hesitated to throw himself in harm's way to keep her safe. Nothing could dare touch her if Natsu had anything to say about it.

The thought of him fending off some perpetrator in his kitty cat pyjamas made the corners of her lips quirk up in a small smile. That sounded like exactly something the silly boy she had come to know would do.

“Get some sleep, okay?” He said, his voice more tender than she thought she’d ever heard it before.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be alright,” he assured her. “Me and Plue are gonna keep you safe, isn’t that right, buddy?”

At the mention of his name, Plue stirred a little before giving out a huff of what Lucy liked to believe was affirmation before going back to sleep.

At his words, she slowly sunk back into her pillow and let her eyes fall shut.

She felt better, safe, comfortable.

She felt like grasping sleep tonight was no longer something well out of her reach, and as she faded out of consciousness, she was in no mind to consider the moral implications of falling asleep, holding her bodyguard’s hand.

#nalu #natsu x lucy #fairy tail #nalu fanfic #nalu fanfiction #nalu fan fiction #mya writes things #ngl i forgor i can post my fics to tumblr wumblr

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apas-95 · 10 months

Text

On Authority

A number of Socialists have latterly launched a regular crusade against what they call the principle of authority. It suffices to tell them that this or that act is authoritarian for it to be condemned. This summary mode of procedure is being abused to such an extent that it has become necessary to look into the matter somewhat more closely.

Authority, in the sense in which the word is used here, means: the imposition of the will of another upon ours; on the other hand, authority presupposes subordination. Now, since these two words sound bad, and the relationship which they represent is disagreeable to the subordinated party, the question is to ascertain whether there is any way of dispensing with it, whether — given the conditions of present-day society — we could not create another social system, in which this authority would be given no scope any longer, and would consequently have to disappear.

On examining the economic, industrial and agricultural conditions which form the basis of present-day bourgeois society, we find that they tend more and more to replace isolated action by combined action of individuals. Modern industry, with its big factories and mills, where hundreds of workers supervise complicated machines driven by steam, has superseded the small workshops of the separate producers; the carriages and wagons of the highways have become substituted by railway trains, just as the small schooners and sailing feluccas have been by steam-boats. Even agriculture falls increasingly under the dominion of the machine and of steam, which slowly but relentlessly put in the place of the small proprietors big capitalists, who with the aid of hired workers cultivate vast stretches of land.

Everywhere combined action, the complication of processes dependent upon each other, displaces independent action by individuals. But whoever mentions combined action speaks of organisation; now, is it possible to have organisation without authority?

Supposing a social revolution dethroned the capitalists, who now exercise their authority over the production and circulation of wealth. Supposing, to adopt entirely the point of view of the anti-authoritarians, that the land and the instruments of labour had become the collective property of the workers who use them. Will authority have disappeared, or will it only have changed its form? Let us see.

Let us take by way of example a cotton spinning mill. The cotton must pass through at least six successive operations before it is reduced to the state of thread, and these operations take place for the most part in different rooms. Furthermore, keeping the machines going requires an engineer to look after the steam engine, mechanics to make the current repairs, and many other labourers whose business it is to transfer the products from one room to another, and so forth. All these workers, men, women and children, are obliged to begin and finish their work at the hours fixed by the authority of the steam, which cares nothing for individual autonomy. The workers must, therefore, first come to an understanding on the hours of work; and these hours, once they are fixed, must be observed by all, without any exception. Thereafter particular questions arise in each room and at every moment concerning the mode of production, distribution of material, etc., which must be settled by decision of a delegate placed at the head of each branch of labour or, if possible, by a majority vote, the will of the single individual will always have to subordinate itself, which means that questions are settled in an authoritarian way. The automatic machinery of the big factory is much more despotic than the small capitalists who employ workers ever have been. At least with regard to the hours of work one may write upon the portals of these factories: Lasciate ogni autonomia, voi che entrate! [Leave, ye that enter in, all autonomy behind!]

If man, by dint of his knowledge and inventive genius, has subdued the forces of nature, the latter avenge themselves upon him by subjecting him, in so far as he employs them, to a veritable despotism independent of all social organisation. Wanting to abolish authority in large-scale industry is tantamount to wanting to abolish industry itself, to destroy the power loom in order to return to the spinning wheel.

Let us take another example — the railway. Here too the co-operation of an infinite number of individuals is absolutely necessary, and this co-operation must be practised during precisely fixed hours so that no accidents may happen. Here, too, the first condition of the job is a dominant will that settles all subordinate questions, whether this will is represented by a single delegate or a committee charged with the execution of the resolutions of the majority of persona interested. In either case there is a very pronounced authority. Moreover, what would happen to the first train dispatched if the authority of the railway employees over the Hon. passengers were abolished?

But the necessity of authority, and of imperious authority at that, will nowhere be found more evident than on board a ship on the high seas. There, in time of danger, the lives of all depend on the instantaneous and absolute obedience of all to the will of one.

When I submitted arguments like these to the most rabid anti-authoritarians, the only answer they were able to give me was the following: Yes, that's true, but there it is not the case of authority which we confer on our delegates, but of a commission entrusted! These gentlemen think that when they have changed the names of things they have changed the things themselves. This is how these profound thinkers mock at the whole world.

We have thus seen that, on the one hand, a certain authority, no matter how delegated, and, on the other hand, a certain subordination, are things which, independently of all social organisation, are imposed upon us together with the material conditions under which we produce and make products circulate.

We have seen, besides, that the material conditions of production and circulation inevitably develop with large-scale industry and large-scale agriculture, and increasingly tend to enlarge the scope of this authority. Hence it is absurd to speak of the principle of authority as being absolutely evil, and of the principle of autonomy as being absolutely good. Authority and autonomy are relative things whose spheres vary with the various phases of the development of society. If the autonomists confined themselves to saying that the social organisation of the future would restrict authority solely to the limits within which the conditions of production render it inevitable, we could understand each other; but they are blind to all facts that make the thing necessary and they passionately fight the world.

Why do the anti-authoritarians not confine themselves to crying out against political authority, the state? All Socialists are agreed that the political state, and with it political authority, will disappear as a result of the coming social revolution, that is, that public functions will lose their political character and will be transformed into the simple administrative functions of watching over the true interests of society. But the anti-authoritarians demand that the political state be abolished at one stroke, even before the social conditions that gave birth to it have been destroyed. They demand that the first act of the social revolution shall be the abolition of authority. Have these gentlemen ever seen a revolution? A revolution is certainly the most authoritarian thing there is; it is the act whereby one part of the population imposes its will upon the other part by means of rifles, bayonets and cannon — authoritarian means, if such there be at all; and if the victorious party does not want to have fought in vain, it must maintain this rule by means of the terror which its arms inspire in the reactionists. Would the Paris Commune have lasted a single day if it had not made use of this authority of the armed people against the bourgeois? Should we not, on the contrary, reproach it for not having used it freely enough?

Therefore, either one of two things: either the anti-authoritarians don't know what they're talking about, in which case they are creating nothing but confusion; or they do know, and in that case they are betraying the movement of the proletariat. In either case they serve the reaction.

- Engels, 1872

#on authority #engels

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agendabymooner · 5 months

Text

odds || pg10 fic

“I’m never giving up against all odds.”

pierre gasly x ofc (88rising!singer!ofc)

EXTENSION TO NEWSFLASH (SEQUEL OF) AND LOWKEY (PREQUEL OF)

Summary: Her songs told a story about how her courtship with Pierre Gasly went and ended in a happy note. OR their timing wasn't always right— that was what she thought as she continued to think that their situationship’s downfall would happen sooner or later.

Content warning: Based on Niki’s EP, wanna take this downtown. No specific date is used for the release of her music. Use of explicit language, situationship scenarios, miscommunication, OFC being set up, Pierre being a dry texter, only uses a partner’s name (nothing too personal- just a passing comment), a bit angst but has a happy ending (?), indented texts are lyrics

Note: I’m not sure if my taglist would like to read this but I’m adding them into the list just in case :)) enjoy xx

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

This has got to be a joke. The universe fuckin’ hates my guts. Remindin’ me ‘U’ and ‘I’ don’t spell ‘us.’

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Heeeey!!! My brain is soooo fried today and Brian decided to fuck up my computer. Now I’m just here doing nothing but hope that my dear tech works in the next hour. Sent at 10:21 PM

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): How r u??? I hope you’re not training too hard and you’re hydrating :) Sent at 10:25 PM

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Good morning, Ens. Have 2 train sadly ttyl ;) Sent at 8:31 AM

Well wasn’t that fucking sad, Ensley huffed out quietly to herself as she wished to throw her phone against the wall. They’ve been in what… two dates?

Well, two in-person dates and three unofficial FaceTime dates with shitty takeouts in front of them. Not that she counted; she could have sworn she did not like him that much.

She wasn’t sure who she was lying to more, though. But just as she continued to deny that she hadn’t looked at her phone every thirty seconds, she was feeling more pathetic.

What was it about men and why did she continue to give them all a chance? All they do was fuck it up and Ensley was going insane at the thought that the cycle of being with the shittiest men ever wasn’t broken.

“All I know is suddenly without you, the bed feels too big… That’s good. Good job Henny.”

“Trying to find where your head is but I’m losing myself in the process— no wait, tryna,” she muttered to herself before scratching out the first word of her chorus.

She thought that songwriting was a way to distract herself from the Pierre fiasco. Everyone said so, as well. They thought that if she kept her head straight she’d be able to think of inspiration and clearly they were right.

Her friends, Brian and Joji, were laughing at the fact that the said inspiration was the same person they tried to distract her from.

Pierre Gasly. The man who continued to travel as the Formula One season went on while Ensley remained in Los Angeles. Pierre was the man that the Indonesian woman had been thinking about day after day, his charming personality filling that empty space in her head after he asked if she’d be more than willing to take their relationship to the next level.

He did warn her about his busy schedule, which Ensley was grateful for. What he hadn’t told her, though, was that he’d eventually drive her insane because of the lack of texts he’d send as time went on— all thanks to his schedule.

The first month of their situationship was great. He managed to call her and asked if she had supper or whatever meal it was she had to eat in her time zone. He’d often eat his food just as she’d munch on whatever she had that day— sharing conversations while they took a break from whatever the fuck they were doing.

Hell, Ensley also managed to take the international railways to Rome to meet with him. They were getting along so well that she cuddled with him in his bed twice.

But in the second month? Fuck, she wasn’t sure anymore. Perhaps it was because it’s the last month of the racing season and everybody’s scrambling to make their way up to the World Driver’s Championship rankings— that included the Frenchman.

She could understand how busy it is for Pierre and she did what she could to not hover around him. But she was missing him terribly— him and his sex jokes and his never ending storytelling. What could she do? Nothing. She didn’t have any form of label but a situationship with him.

“You come see me only when I ask first. When you kiss me— do you wish it were her?”

“—That’s bullshit,” Brian exclaimed as he stood by the oven of Ensley’s open kitchen. Ensley glared at him, and her friend (Brian’s girlfriend) Vanntey smacked him lightly as a warning. Brian gave his girlfriend a questioning look and stated, “Boy Baguette didn’t even kiss her yet! Henny, don’t put that in if this song is about Pierre. That’s just full on delusional.”

“Who says it’s about him?” Vanntey asked with a scoff before telling Ensley, “Henny— your song, not Brian’s. Do whatever the hell you want.”

“At least someone’s sensible enough,” Ensley murmured before turning back to her notepad. Her Twitter notification, one that she intentionally left opened, made a noise as she glanced down at the “related tweet” notification. The post and the responses that came with it were… baffling to say the least.

We share different postal codes Maybe that’s why I never got the memo; She’s the real deal, and I was just a pretty demo.

ensleygaslysoz: y’all— pierre’s ex was at the paddock today 😭😭

peargaslit: nooooo~ YOU CANNOT SAY THAT!!! IM ROOTING FOR HIM AND HENNY!!!

misskikagasly: ok but they were cute as hell b4 tho 🫠 no h8 to ensley but kika was the shit and i think they should get back together

Ensley’s shoulders slumped at the comments. God’s timing was always wrong, and she’s never hated anything more than the fact that she was actually besotted and in love with Pierre Gasly.

And chances are that he was just waffling about taking their relationship to another level. Men lied to Ensley endlessly, and if she didn’t know any better— she would’ve fallen harder than she did with him.

And yet my world remains the whole of you to this day. Doesn’t matter what my location says. I’m always tryna get to you.

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Are you going to be in London sometime soon? I will be back in Milan and I’d like to stay in with you :) Text me when you get this Sent at 12:31 AM

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Can’t. Sorry— Still in the process of producing an EP :) looking forward to chatting soon Sent at 12:32 AM

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Likewise. Sent at 2:01 AM

When I'm there, you're not You're here, I'm caught up with my job And your clingy ex comes back a lot Then she leaves and you shoot your shot But there's someone new I've got

The 88rising studio was where she stayed most of the time now. With the record label releasing an album with their artists, Ensley’s time was taken up by her work as she continued to produce four songs with them.

That and her own EP took up her entire schedule, thus furthering her communication line with the Alpine driver.

So much for a good situationship.

“You wrote this song, Hen,” Isaac — one of the songwriters — told her with a shrug, “he lives in Milan, right? Instead of, I mean, Manhattan’s nice, why don’t you put, Milan is nice?”

“They have good sunsets in NY,” she murmured quietly. “Look— let’s not talk about him. He’s got his business— this is mine.”

“Your EP so far shows that you’re writing about him,” Isaac replied. “By the way, you’ve got one more to write if you want to have four tracks.”

“Eventually,” Ensley responded with a wave, her shoulders sagging before her sight moved from the screen of her laptop to the door that swung open.

Brian walked in with a shit-eating grin, he was followed by Jackson Wang who carried, Ensley could’ve sworn, the biggest bouquet that could’ve ever existed. And just as Jackson walked towards her with a huge smile, her eyes scanned the set and the white card that contrasted with it.

Dahlias and daisies. She never even mentioned it to anyone before.

Then she remembered a conversation she had about flower markets. She loved Los Angeles, but she couldn’t help but swoon over those Pinterest boards full of flower markets in Italy.

She tried to romanticize her life in the UK before, but when she flew out to Milan once to see the beauty of it? Nothing could compare to Italy. She remembered telling Pierre that— how she’d kill to have the prettiest flowers in her flat that came straight from the market.

“What kind of flowers do you like, then?” Pierre asked, amused at the sight of her swooning as she continued to squeal at the photo.

“If I were to get my photos taken like this? Ugh,” Ensley grinned from ear to ear, “daisies? There’s just something about daisies that makes me think of I dunno… summer? I love the sun— I’m sure you can understand that. You live in Milan.”

“I do.”

“And what else? Huh… Dahlia!” Ensley exclaimed. “It’s just a nice name, no?”

“I agree,” Pierre said thoughtfully before repeating the word, “dahlia, dahlia, dahlia… It’s a pretty name, indeed.”

À la plus jolie fille, was intricately written on the envelope as her stomach fluttered at the name. He always called her that for whatever reason, and she eventually learned why.

“Pretty girl,” Ensley translated the writing as she thanked Jackson, holding the bouquet before placing it down on the table. Her hand eventually grabbed onto the card and pulled out the letter. She didn’t care about her friends as they watched her expectantly.

Her eyes remained on the letter.

“My Collette,

This is not bought to make up for my absence, but to remind you that you are as cherished as the bright flowers in this bouquet. I hope you’re taking care of yourself, ma jolie fille.

While I cannot speak to you, I’ll continue to think about you.

XO,

Your Linguini.”

“Your— your Linguini?!” Jackson gasped from behind her, making her turn around as she watched Brian wheeze in laughter.

The glare that she gave the two left Jackson to shut his mouth and Brian to continue his teasing. Regardless of what the singer just watched, Jackson shook himself out of his thoughts and asked, “Are you gonna text him?”

But she already did. Long before Jackson could even comment.

Her eyes scanned on the text message she sent Pierre, knowing full well that he wouldn’t text back a minute or so later.

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): They’re the prettiest. Thank you, Remy ❤️ Sent at 3:21 PM.

'Cause I know you've got somebody My friends say I could have anybody now that I'm somebody But I don't care if I'm nobody to you, oh

She sighed, not knowing if it was out of contention or sadness. All she was getting from him so far was mixed messages, with him having his ex in the paddock and sending the flowers.

He seemed to be happy to be around his ex, and she was still nobody to him but some person he wasn’t really in a relationship with.

Maybe she should try to shift her attention away from him. Maybe she wouldn’t think a lot about him that way.

And that was what she did. She stayed in London for a week or so after her other single with 88rising, La La Lost You, was released. She hung out with Will Lenney and his mates.

She found herself sitting between Harry Lewis (or Wroetoshaw for those he didn’t know well) and Becky James. Harry was newly single and everyone tried to set him up with anyone with a pair of boobs; Ensley was sadly the newest target of their interest.

But between the two of them, Ensley and Harry’s “not so friendly” interactions were nothing but banters. They wouldn’t hesitate to tell each other that they’d kiss each other on the mouth but they wouldn’t dare let their jokes go as far as touching each other with a ten-foot pole.

Regardless, everyone tried to root for them and getting too drunk meant trouble. Everyone saw what they wanted to see, immediately pulling their phones out to make a post or more about the two as Ensley and Harry cuddled up in the booth.

“Why do you let the bloody idiot win, Ens?” Harry whined against the ear of the singer, ranting about Pierre as the Guernsey man continued, “I saw the tweets you know? You’re as much of a somebody as he is— don’t let the bloody cunt ruin your life.”

“Too late, Harold,” Ensley slurred, sipping on her third sangria of the night. She and Harry didn’t even notice Becky nor their other friend Callum recording their interaction in the background, for the two of them were busy bitching to each other. “He’s ruined me- as in ruined me the moment I went to the bloody Grand Prix in Singapore. In a good way though!”

“Ruin you in a good way,” Harry scoffed, his hand rubbing her back for comfort as he continued, “You’re writing about him. Your fuckin’ EP is all about him— it’s only reserved for those bastards who broke your heart obviously he’s one of them!”

“No, they’re really not,” Ensley snorted, “my songs are not all about heartbreak nor friends with benefits I fall in love with.”

“Then name one song about loving then.”

I know it's pathetic but I couldn't care less I'd wait until the stars uncross and say yes I'll always try to get you

Silence.

Harry’s drunken state continued to be a factor in his calling out as he raised a brow, “See? You’re a bad fucking liar, Ensley. You love him and you’re yearning— I can see it on your bloody face. So now you’re writing about how much he’s letting you down.”

She pouted in annoyance and slumped against his chest. Pierre didn’t even know how much she yearned for him. At the wrong time, while you’re at it. But she didn’t care.

It’s been nearly a week since they last spoke, and their messages consist of nothing but dry responses and simple check-ins. Was it to ensure that the hope for a successful relationship remains intact or to actually make sure that they still had each other to talk to and that they hadn’t gone and talked to other people? Ensley wasn’t sure.

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): What are we? Like… really?

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Whatever you would like us to be. And hello too?

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Hi. And really? We kept on saying that we’d be making plans but they never happened. It’s like I dunno. We’re avoiding each other because we’re always busy.

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): I know I have to make the effort to come by sometimes, but then… How would you even the odds? I really don’t make an excuse when it comes to heading to London just to take the railways and see you.

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): I’m not even mad. I’m just saying that my time and heart are yours should they be available. Break my heart as much as you’d like but try to even out these odds— without girls trying to waste your time and mine.

The next day she had woken up with an infuriating headache. Thanks to the sangrias she had and Sambuca shots she was handed, she wasn’t able to get in touch with Pierre as early as she could.

She could, however, strangle Will and the rest of their group for posting those cutesy pictures of herself and Harry while the pair were chatting shit about whatever. Everyone now thought that they were seeing each other.

“WroetoSoleil? Harry, I'm begging you to bag her already!!!” Said one tweet.

“This is a sign that the friends-to-lovers trope is real.”

“Pierre, where you at? Ensley’s being won over by W2S now!”

“I still have some faith in Pierre and Ensley, tbh.”

And to be honest, Ensley was still faithful to the two of them too. It’s only a matter of time before she begins to shift to someone else if neither of them makes a move.

Well… she already made hers. It was his game to play now.

She tried to get on with her day after getting too drunk with her friend’s mates. Her flat in London was surprisingly less than dusty despite being untouched for a while. She supposed that’s what happened when she allowed Will and the other lots to occupy her place whilst she lived in LA.

Then her attention diverted to her notes, writing down lyrics as she sipped on her homemade tea.

She hadn’t even realized that she had Pierre muted — out of annoyance — until her phone began to go off. She peered down only to see an unknown number FaceTiming her.

But it said Monaco at the bottom of the number. She could assume that…

“W- oi! Hello!”

Never in my damn favour I don’t want you for later Never was much of a waiter.

She was right. It was Lando and a certain Monegasque. This number was Charles Leclerc’s and she was subjected to some bullshit that they were up to.

“I’m ending the call—“

“Wait- no! Henny, don’t! We have to talk,” Charles started. They weren’t even close yet he called her Henny. Whatever he was trying to say, he was desperate to get it out before she could end her call.

She sat her phone on the coffee table and crossed her arms, watching the two men scramble as they both sat down.

“We heard about what happened with you and Pierre,” Lando started. “Like how you two haven’t spoken properly and all that…?”

Ensley stared back at them, making the two sigh. They wouldn’t be able to get something out of her and so Charles went on, “He saw that picture and video of you and that guy… What's his name— Harry? Yeah, he saw it and he’s basically just… pouting and all that.”

“Long story short, there’s a lot of miscommunication going on between the two of you,” Lando cut off the Monegasque. “I know you’d never date Harry and we all know that Pierre’s not seeing his ex. The two of you right now are misunderstanding each other— just talk, please. Both of you are sulking and we’re all sick of you two being lovesick and shit.”

“It’s not that easy, you bastard,” Ensley swore, flipping off Lando as she grumbled, “Every time I’m available, he isn’t. Whenever I’m not, he’s coming around asking me to travel to Italy as if I have the money to travel with. I’m not as well off as you guys— and clearly, he isn’t making the same effort as me!”

“How? He’s sent you a lot of flowers,” Charles pointed out. Ensley smothered her face in the cushion and screamed before she turned back to look at her screen with a grim smile.

“You’ve obviously no concept of making an effort without using a material, and it shows,” Ensley snarked.

“It’s just… he’s never asked me if he can stay over in my flat in London before,” she sighed, “it’s always me who has to adjust. I do appreciate it but at the same time… what about me? What if I can’t make it there and he’s still available? Will it stay like that? Just me hoping for some miracle that he’d come by? It’s just… I don’t know. It’s just tiring having to work hard only to end up with nada.”

Lando and Charles shared a worried look. Clearly, they didn’t understand her side of the story until now. It wasn’t as if she was painted as a bad person— they genuinely didn’t know how she and Pierre spoke and how the duo treated each other.

“I’m just so ready to say, ‘Yes, be my boyfriend like I’m begging’ but he’s not there all the time for me to answer it!” Ensley exclaimed in frustration, crossing her arms in annoyance as she slumped against the couch.

“French boy—“

“I’m Monegasque—“

“Monaco boy, tell your best friend that he’s a piece of shit for making me feel like this—“ Ensley said. “God I just want to see him but at the same time I don’t—!”

“Why?”

“Because I know he wouldn’t even these odds no matter how much he wants to,” Ensley chuckled humourlessly. “I don’t even know if he wants to.”

But I’d wait on you to drink you in

Lando almost glanced in front of them, only nodding along at Ensley’s rants. Meanwhile, Charles stared at Pierre with a raised brow.

The Frenchman sighed silently.

He really didn’t want to mess this chance up, but it was too bad some things didn’t like to go in his favour.

Even the odds, indeed.

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Hello mon amour, are you still in London? Sent at 8:21 AM.

To Pesky Pierre: Yes… why? Sent at 8:22 AM.

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Are you off to somewhere else today? Sent at 8:22 AM.

To Pesky Pierre (Respectful): I— why are you being so cryptic? But no, I’m just staying in. 8:23 AM.

From Pesky Pierre (Respectful): Okay. See you in half an hour :)

When I'm there you should, I don't know, like, call up your boss Probably take the day off Maybe we could change the odds!

Ensley Zara Soleil was never the one for surprises. She loathed them so bad.

But if surprises came in the form of an Alpine driver often then she was willing to welcome it with open arms. Pierre Gasly stood in front of her flat with a bouquet of dahlias and daisies in hand, his smile brightening her day immediately as Ensley smiled like a fool.

She’s never felt this great over a man for a long time.

“I’m here to even the odds,” Pierre told her with a grin before it fell into a serious expression as he said, “I’m really sorry if I haven’t tried to do it before. I was the one who pursued you first and I should’ve tried harder—“

“Shh…”

“Pardon?” Pierre gave Ensley a puzzled look.

And rather than telling to shush once more, Ensley gave him a wide grin and took the bouquet from his hand. The confused look remained on Pierre’s face for a brief moment as she inhaled the scent of the flowers.

“You’re here now, P,” Ensley told him. “I was wondering what you meant by your text but I’ve been expecting you… for a good while.”

Pierre’s confusion was replaced by a wide smile, pushing his shoulders back as he said, “So… where can I start?”

Ensley smiled and stepped aside, allowing him to enter her flat as she said, “Come in and have a cuppa. We’ve got a lot of things to catch-up on.”

Don't care how long it takes, My heart is yours to break I'm never giving up against all odds

fin.

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @topguncultleader @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico

#pierre gasly fluff #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly au #pierre gasly fanfic #pg10 #pierre gasly #pierre gasly x oc #pierre gasly fic #formula one fluff #formula one fic #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #formula one x oc #f1 fanfic #formula one hurt/comfort #formula 1

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training4theapocalypse-backup · 1 year

Text

On Her Majesty’s Supersonic Service (Adrian Chase x Reader) Ch. 2

Chapter 2: Bird after Reading

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7K

Warnings: SMUT, Fluff, Romance, Praise, Descriptions of murder, Descriptions of violence, Phone sex, Send noodz, FaceTime sex.

Summary: On a rare night off after the Glan Tai massacre, Vigilante gets your phone number from the 11th Steet Kids group chat and talks you through some things.

A/N: He is being really, really sweet to Birdie and she can’t help but be charmed by him. My heart :(

Masterlist

Chapter Text

Last night did not go to plan.

Still, the sound of pleasant chit-chat hums through the air as everyone loads up the van to make the two-hour journey back to Evergreen. The team is in good spirits on this bright summer morning after a successful mission. Everyone except you. You just want to curl into a ball and die.

After clearing up last night’s misunderstanding you practically ran back to your tent to hide in shame. Adrian called after you “Wait! So we’re not even gonna cuddle?” but you couldn’t even bring yourself to turn around and acknowledge his wounded voice with a glance.

It was only when you were nestled back into your own sleeping bag that you noticed your lip was cut and bleeding from when you hastily removed the duct tape to use your sonic scream.

This morning, however, you’re kind of surprised to find that Vigilante has a spring in his step already. “Good morning!” he beams cheerily, leaning against the van as you and Chris are the last to haul your duffel bags and packed tents over to the vehicle.

“Woah, what happened to your lip?” asks Economos. You give a small dismissive shake of your head and glance at Vigilante.

“Hey- let me get those for you.” says Vigilante. Chin in the air, you stride past him and load the bags yourself. You can’t accept special treatment from him after last night.

Not any more special treatment anyway.

“Thanks, Vij,” says Chris, tossing his bag into Vigilante’s outstretched arms.

“Aw, man!” He pouts after you.

You brace yourself for confrontation as your steel-toed boots continue to stomp over to where Harcourt and Adebayo are discussing next steps. You wait for them to finish, back straight, eyes ahead, hands folded behind you.

They look up from the iPad. The mischievous glint in Adebayo’s eyes and the smirk on Harcourt’s face tells you that Adebayo has been briefed on the mistaken attempt to rescue you last night.

"At ease, soldier. Or should I say 'damsel in distress'?" teases Harcourt.

“What was Vigilante going to do, Blackbird? Tie you to the railway like an old-time cartoon villain?” Adebayo adds with a laugh.

The brutal intelligence officer training you’ve endured enables you to remain composed and you stand tall preparing to explain yourself, despite the dread stirring in the pit of your stomach. As neither of them knows sign language you pull out your phone, quickly type a message on your notes app and hold up the screen

‘I apologise for acting unprofessionally last night.’

Harcourt pulls a face, deciding how to proceed. She really should reprimand you for indiscreetly fraternising with a colleague. But you’ve noticed the way her gaze lingers on Chris Smith lately and you wonder if that’s why she’s choosing not to jump down your throat.

Adebayo beats her to the punch “Listen Blackbird, we’re only giving you shit because we’re your friends.”

“Yeah but if Smith or any of those fuckers,” Harcourt points at the rest of the team beside the van “If they have anything to say about last night, we’ll tell them to go fuck themselves.”

Well. That was very unexpected. And, despite yourself, your shoulders loosen slightly as you feel a rush of gratitude for the pair sweep through you. You have respect for both of your colleagues but you didn’t think that they’d consider you to be friends. Let alone friends who would back you up if the rest of the team gave you a hard time. You type on your phone again.

‘It won't happen again’

They read your screen and then share perplexed glances.

“I get it, I mean, even if I was straight I definitely wouldn’t have sex with either of the roided-up himbo lunatics on this team… would you?” Adebayo asks Harcourt.

Harcourt hesitates.

“I don’t know. Peacemaker is mostly a piece of shit. But I guess he’s kind of handsome?”

They laugh and you allow yourself a small smile. Harcourt hates that she’s interested in Chris even more than you hate that you might feel a tiny bit of attraction to Vigilante. Your turn to look at the rest of the group and catch Vigilante staring over at you, clearly interested by the giggling.

“All I’m saying is- it couldn’t be me. Remember, Vigilante is kind of fucked up. I heard he murdered people for doing graffiti for crying out loud!”

You consider this. Adebayo is right but then again, you’re no beacon of morality. Peacemaker isn’t the only one on this team who’s done unspeakable things on behalf of a government agency. A government agency that now hates you and sent you on this mission as a punishment for your misdeeds. So what if Vigilante kills people on his own accord?

“Don’t dwell on last night. It’ll only distract you from the mission,” says Harcourt “It’s not even the most embarrassing thing that’s happened so far. Remember when Adebayo showed everyone that picture of her vulva?”

“Hey!” Adebayo hits her arm with the iPad. “It’s a risk you gotta be willing to take for amazing phone sex.”

“Listen, all of us can see that you and Vigilante work well together in the field. Maybe it’d be the same outside of work? You could teach him about sarcasm… he could teach you to be less serious.”

This is rich coming from her, who insisted you all referred to her only as Agent Harcourt until literally yesterday.

Adebayo echoes your thoughts “Coming from you?!”

“Serious like in a sad, solemn kind of way,” she explains with a pitying look “If anyone needs cheering up it’s Blackbird. No offence.” She adds.

None taken. Losing your voice has made you simply recede into yourself with despondency. You look over at Vigilante who gives you an enthusiastic wave. You feel guilty for ignoring his offer of helping you with your bags. Maybe spending more time with that maniac will do you some good.

“Just be careful.” Adebayo shifts uncomfortably as she watches Peacemaker and Vigilante roaring with laughter at Economos gesturing like he’s wielding a chainsaw, regaling the story of yesterday's mission.

After finding out that Murn wants a briefing of yesterday's events, the three of you walk back to the van. Vigilante extends a gloved hand to help you up into the back. You hesitate for a beat too long but he keeps his hand out all the same. You grab it, allowing him to pull you in.

You perch on the seat next to him and when the doors close and Economos starts driving, he removes his mask.

Ugh, he’s even more handsome in the daylight.

“Y’know Blackbird, you’re the only one who hasn’t removed your mask yet,” says Chris, removing his helmet. “You saw Vij last night, which means we all know each other’s faces now.”

Oh. Your domino mask - issued together with your suit- covers from your eyebrows to your cheekbones. You’re supposed to wear it on missions to conceal your face from both CCTV and civilians. You shrug and remove the mask, unpeeling it from your face- your life is in London so it’s not as if you have a secret identity here to worry about.

“Wow,” remarks Adebayo “You look exactly the same.”

The van erupts in laughter and you smile reluctantly.

“Nuh-uh, we know she has eyebrows now!” says Adrian. “I’m glad you have eyebrows by the way,” he adds quietly to you.

The good spirits continue as you speed along the highway- ugh, motorway, you take a mental note to eradicate the Americanisms you’ve picked up on this trip from your vocabulary. The team plays music and bonds over their shared love of Glam Metal. It’s not really your thing but you enjoy just being amongst the camaraderie.

This time yesterday you had all been at each other's throats. But apparently almost being beaten to death by a giant gorilla controlled by a butterfly was just one of those things that you can’t go through without becoming friends afterwards.

Adrian’s gaze lingers on you for longer than usual. Your eyes meet his but he doesn’t look away, embarrassed, as most people would if caught staring. He studies you blatantly and then leans in to whisper in your ear. The sudden intimate closeness takes you by surprise. You’re acutely aware of his knee pressing against your own and you catch another whiff of his bergamot and bonfire smoke scent.

“You’re even prettier without the mask.” Adrian whispers into your ear and the warm vibrations of his breath make the hairs on your neck stand up pleasantly.

You see Harcourt and Chris watching you interestedly from across the van so you give a pronounced roll of your eyes at his remark. “And I can see you rolling your eyes at me even better now!” he adds earnestly.

The van hurtles its way towards Evergreen and Harcourt takes out her phone to snap a picture of you all. You listen to them reminisce about concerts while Adrian tries and fails to include you in the conversation. Chris suggests he asks you ‘Yes or No’ questions and he fails miserably.

“What’s your favourite band?” You raise an eyebrow as Chris berates him.

“She’s British so I know she prefers The Spice Girls to Motley Crue!” exclaims Adrian “Right?” You nod and he beams.

A while later you pull up to the video shop. You listen as the team debriefs Murn on what happened in the factory. “This is good work,” he says, nodding at the equipment on the desk. “We're gonna need to sort through this but that can wait until tomorrow. You all have earned a rest.”

Adebayo raises a fist in celebration and you all file out towards the car park, laughing and joking. You and Adrian fall behind the rest of the group. “You know I really wish Economos had passed me the chainsaw. I’ve always wanted to kill someone with one.”

You give a small nod but your agreement is actually sincere - it would have been kind of hot if you had gotten the chance to see Adrian wielding the chainsaw. But after last night, you’re definitely biased. His face lights up at your silent encouragement.

“See!” he yells to Chris up ahead “Blackbird agrees!”

“That’s only because she’s fucking you!” retorts Chris without turning around. You glance at each other and both put your masks back before exiting the building.

Vigilante’s pace drops and you match it- you can tell he’s prolonging your goodbye “I’ve got to get to work but do you need a ride home first? I’ve got the Vigalante-mobile.” he gestures to a beat-up old Chrysler Sebring. You shake your head and jerk your thumb over to Economos who’s waiting at his own car- you’re staying at the same motel.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks. His eyes are obscured but you think he’s looking at your lips. Is he going to kiss you? You’re annoyed at how hopeful your inner monologue sounds.

Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach as he places a gloved hand on your chin and tilts your head up towards his masked face.

“Sorry about your lip. I didn’t realise duct tape was so dangerous.” You shake your head to say it’s not your fault. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and you resist closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. Economos clears his throat and Vigilante withdraws his hand quickly as if burned. You give an awkward nod goodbye and walk over to Economos’ car.

For fuck’s sake John.

You glare at him and decide to make him stop by a liquor store on the way home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in your motel room you pour yourself a large whisky and run a shower. As the water is warming up you get a ping on your phone.

‘Emilia Harcourt added you to group ‘11th Street Kids’’

Harcourt shares a group photo of you all in the van. A smile creeps over your face as you examine it. You’re sitting next to Adrian and you just now realise his arm is resting on the back of your seat. Was he working up the courage to put his arm around you? He’s less sure of himself in the daytime than when he’s lurking in the dark as Vigilante.

Notification light up your phone screen - it’s the 11th Street Kids groupchat.

Peacemaker: [Hands up emoji]

Economos: So fucking cool.

Vigilante: [Merman emoji]

You wonder what Adrian’s emoji means. You type:

Blackbird: Nice one! x

You tap on the name “Vigilante” and your thumb hovers over his contact details, thinking about texting him. Or at least adding his contact details into your phone. Just in case of emergency. Another notification pops up.

‘Vigilante has added you as a contact’

Vigilante: Hey what’s up B- bird? [Penguin emoji]

You’re relieved he immediately had the same thought. You still haven’t acknowledged what happened last night directly with him. This morning, in the cold light of day you felt ashamed of your one-night stand - not least how it ended. But now as the steam rises in the bathroom and the whisky burns your throat, you’re a little bit giddy that he messaged you. You contemplate for a moment.

Blackbird: Lmao that’s not even close to a blackbird! x

Vigilante: What’s the X for? Is it a British spy code?

Oh. Technically ‘x’ at the end of a text is shorthand for ‘kiss’. Back home almost everyone signs off like that to friends or family. It’s second nature to you when you write a message- words, space, x, send. Clearly, this cultural norm doesn’t translate well. You carefully craft a message to explain it to Adrian, trying to sound nonchalant.

Blackbird: Sounds weird but it means ‘kiss’. It’s just how we end text messages in the UK lol :) x

Well, that was lame.

Vigilante: So you’ve given me 2 kisses since we started this conversation?

Blackbird: Not exactly- It’s just a habit when I send messages to friends x

Vigilante: Oh

Maybe he just isn’t used to being friends with his hookups afterwards? And according to Peacemaker he has plenty- of hookups, not friends - sometimes they even have one-night stands together, with the same woman.

A small stab of jealousy twists in your side at that thought.

Not Peacemaker and Vigilante sharing a woman, God no, but that you’re probably just the latest in a string of casual encounters. After all, he didn’t kiss you this morning when you thought he might, outside the video shop.

Blackbird: I can stop sending them if they’re bothering you?

Vigilante: What would you send to someone who was more than a friend?

A lot of people back home would use ‘xx’ at the end of a text to a boyfriend- but you haven’t had any reason to do that for a while.

Throwing caution to the wind, you type a flirtatious message, delete it, reconsider, take another drink of whisky, type the exact same thing again then hit send. You hold your breath.

Blackbird: Probably nudes :) x Blackbird: Just kidding. Probably more x’s. ‘xx’ rather than ‘x’

It’s been a long time since you flirted with anyone. It makes you want to launch your phone across the room but instead, you stare at the screen in anticipation.

Vigilante: Damn, this is REALLY bad timing but my break is over. I gotta get back to work. Later Birdie.

You catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror- your face falls. Is he blowing me off? Like I did to him at the van this morning? You feel betrayed by your own disappointment but you probably deserve it.

Stepping into the shower, you sigh as the hot steam fills your lungs. Your hair still smells of bonfire smoke and you’re almost sad to wash it away because it reminds you of Adrian’s smoky and citrusy scent. Shampooing your hair, you think about how Adrian curled his hand through it last night when you kissed him.

Ugh - stop it. You simply cannot catch feelings right now.

You press your head to the cool tile on the wall as the water from the tarnished chrome showerhead flows down your back. You need to scrub yourself of any feelings you have for Adrian. Even if he did feel the same way, what would be the point of starting a romantic relationship nearly 5000 miles from home? Or when you work in a job that has you in a different country every month?

The water pressure is surprisingly strong and you’re grateful for it as it soothes your sore back muscles. Yesterday’s mission and the night that followed have left your body exhausted. There’s still a pleasantly dull ache between your legs from last night.

You felt a connection with him like you’d never felt before. Like he was reading your mind. Every thought, every want, every need.

The only thing that has ever come close to it is how well you fight together. It almost seems silly that you haven’t been able to admit that to him today but the sensible voice in your head reminds you that you have a job to do.

Your hand slips down the nape of your neck to your chest and you think about his skin. Pale and covered with scars, though you couldn’t see them all in the darkness of the tent last night. You wanted to look at each one, you wanted to kiss every single scar, cursing whoever had caused the damage to his lean, sculpted body.

You find your favourite lavender soap and as you wash your body from your toes to your head, you take note of your own scars. Several cover both of your legs from the jet crash, one deep one in the meat of your thigh where you were stabbed that one time, another on your forearm from when you were stabbed a different time, and one on your shoulder blade where you were stabbed… again. Perks of the job. But you really need to get better at not being stabbed.

You wonder what he’s doing after this shift and hate that you hope he’s staying safe. He likes to prowl the streets at night looking for criminals and regularly ends up in life-threatening situations but you want him to go straight home - you all have enough to be getting on with, with the butterflies and everything. And if you ever want to get back home and in MI6’s good graces, this mission needs to be a success.

You finish up in the shower and decide you’d better remind him.

Blackbird: Rest up tonight Adrian. We’ve got a big day tomorrow and need you to be awake x

A few hours later at 11pm your phone pings in reply. Having spent the night drinking whisky and watching terrible TV, your stomach twists with excitement at the interruption.

Vigilante: Great! Just need to figure out what we could use instead of duct tape…

A pleasant tingle goes down your spine. He must have finished his shift at Fennel Fields.

Blackbird: Not that kind of big day. We’ve got a lot of video equipment to check x

Vigilante: I only need to patrol the neighbourhood for a few hours. Do you wanna join?

Blackbird: Sure- I can see the headlines now, ‘MI6 linked to string of vigilante murders in Washington.’ x

Vigilante: Awesome! Will I come and pick you up?

Blackbird: No! That was sarcasm Adrian x

Vigilante: Okay - your loss! A team-up would have been SUPER cool FYI. TTYL

Blackbird: Wait! What can I say to convince you not to go out tonight? x

Vigilante: Awwww, are you worried about lil ol’ me, Birdie?

Blackbird: I need you on top of your game tomorrow. Finding the butterflies’ food source is more important than ANYTHING else we’ve got going on right now x

Vigilante: Stopped reading after “I need you”. Admit you need me Birdie and I might stay home tonight [Penguin emoji]

You get up and pace around the room. He’s so resilient even after you ignored him last night and outside the van this morning. You’re relieved he’s flirting again. And you can tell from his messages that all he needs is some reassurance that you’re still interested in him after your stand-offishness this morning.

You pause in front of the mirror at the vanity table, catching a glimpse of your exposed neck and the top of your chest flushed red again. And a familiar warm sensation pools in your lower abdomen as your mind wanders back into Adrian’s tent.

Blackbird: I need you… Blackbird: to see something :) x

Vigilante: Ooookay?

Blackbird: But you need to be somewhere private. Such as your home. Alone. In your bedroom. With the door locked x

Vigilante: I have no idea what’s going on right now

Blackbird: I will message you a special surprise if you promise me you’re home x

Vigilante: WAIT- are you talking about the nudes you mentioned earlier???

Blackbird: Only one way to find out. Prove you’re home, tucked up in bed with a cup of tea and NOT prowling the streets looking for crime x

Vigilante: On my way home RIGHT FUCKING NOW Vigilante: PS what kind of tea should I get?

Blackbird: I’m just joking about the tea x

In the bathroom, you take in your appearance in the giant, circular mirror. You’re wearing a plain white T-shirt and another pair of unexciting black cotton underwear. Looking over your shoulder into the bedroom at your suitcase, you curse yourself for not bringing at least one set of skimpy lingerie. But then again- why would you?

After spending all day in a Kevlar and leather suit, all you want to do is to sink into something soft and comfortable. And, after more than a year of abstinence, you never thought you’d find love in Evergreen, Washington.

A hookup, you correct yourself, you never thought you’d find a hookup in Evergreen.

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head at your Freudian slip. You put your hands on either side of the sink and stare at yourself sternly.

You are not so touch-starved and devoid of self-respect that you’d actually fall for Vigitlane.

Sure, he’s good looking and yes, you have an undeniable connection that you’ve never felt with anyone before but you remind yourself he’s a psychopath. A very enthusiastic and sweet one, certainly, but a literal vigilante murderer nonetheless.

Even so, you sort of want to look cute for the man who, you remind yourself again, is wanted on multiple counts of murder. Christ, what does that say about you?

He called you pretty this morning.

And you just rolled your eyes at him, concerned about what your colleagues would think. When what you really wanted to do was call him pretty too. Grab his stupid, pretty face, straddle his lap and kiss him, bite his lower lip, grind on him, leave love bites all over his neck. Right there in the van. The thought of it makes you feel feverishly hot.

You tie a knot at the back of your white T-shirt, pulling it taught against your body so that your nipples poke through the fabric and your curves are accentuated. You adjust the hips on your underwear so they show off more of your leg. You take a couple of mirror selfies - one with your whisky glass resting subtly on your chest - finger brushing your nipple and one of you sitting on the sink - back to the mirror and looking over your shoulder. Looking over them carefully, you decide you’re pleased- artfully sexy but nothing too wild. You want to give him a tiny little taste to reassure him you like him but no more. You both have work tomorrow morning, after all.

Your phone pings.

Vigilante: I’m home. I wish I’d seen your message before I went to the Starbucks drive-thru.

Blackbird: Lol :) But I’ll need evidence to verify your location x

Another notification. Adrian sends you a photo of himself holding a Starbucks cup- a mirror selfie. He’s got his Vigilante suit on but you can see the mask thrown on the large bed with comfortable-looking burgundy sheets behind him. Ugh, he looks so dreamy with his cute hipster glasses and wavy black hair. His room is very clean but bare- the only decoration seems to be his weapons, at least a dozen guns and several blades displayed on the wall.

Blackbird: Do you sleep in an armoury!? x

Vigilante: What?? I sleep in a bed in my apartment!

You really do need to teach him about sarcasm.

Blackbird: I’m just joking - you DO have a lot of guns in your room x

Vigilante: Oh, the ones in here are just for display- you should totally come over and see the rest!!!! Vigilante: Anything cool in your motel room?

Blackbird: IDK… this mirror is pretty nice x

You wander over to your bed as you flick through the selfies you took. Hesitating, you decide to send him the one of you sitting on the sink.

Vigilante: Did you realise your reflection is visible?

You blink at your screen. Your ass is literally the main focus of the picture.

Blackbird: That was sort of the point Adrian… x

Vigilante: NOICE!!!! In that case, I am SO glad I came home. I would literally never leave home again if you wanted me to.

Fondness for him cascades through you and it makes your cheeks grow hot. He is so whole-heartedly earnest about his thoughts and feelings, it makes you wish you told him how good he looked when he sent you his picture.

Does he know he’s good at getting you flustered over text? Your brows knit together as you remember Chris telling the group about their strings of one-night stands together and horror strikes you.

Blackbird: Adrian, I need you to know that if you show that to anyone I will not hesitate to murder you in cold blood. I’m not one of your women to be shared with Peacemaker.

There's a pause and you watch the three dots moving as Adrian writes his reply.

Vigilante: Okay first of all showing your pics to Peacemaker without consent would be classed as REVENGE PORN which - by the way - is ILLEGAL. I’ve killed people for less!!! Vigilante: Second of all there is no way I would ever break your trust Birdie. You are my second BFF.

Oh no, a pang of guilt. Of course, he wouldn’t do that. Another message pings.

Vigilante: Thirdly you could never murder me because I am a much better marksman AND better in combat AND I know how to disarm you.

You scoff silently. You could definitely beat Vigilante in a fight.

Vigilante: And last of all, you are mine and I would never share you [Merman emoji]

You are mine. Your eyes rake over the black pixels on your screen. Mine. Fuck, why is your heart rate increasing? Warmth creeps in deep in your tummy. You smile and shake your head at his audacity.

Blackbird: Ahem, yours?? x

Vigilante: Yup. At least your pussy is

Blackbird: Hmmmm is that so? x

Vigilante: I’m the only one who can make you cum (and that’s including you btw) I can show you how if you’re nice to me for like 5 seconds.

Blackbird: I’m not sure I know how to be nice x

Vigilante: It was pretty nice of you to send me a pic of your ass… Vigilante: BTW I will delete that pic if you’re worried. Just give me 3-5 minutes with it. I know the drill - burn after jerking.

You laugh silently but his consideration for your situation makes you melt. It makes you want to get on your knees for him to show your appreciation.

But he’s not here so instead you finish the rest of your drink in one quick gulp, lift the bottom of your shirt up, exposing your tits, snap another mirror selfie and hit send.

Blackbird: Don’t delete this one x

Vigilante: Fuck, Birdie you have the most perfect tits I have ever seen. I mean it. Vigilante: Even if I do delete it, this pic is now uploaded permanently into my spank bank.

Blackbird: Is this all you needed to keep you off the streets? Just a little peek of me? x

Vigilante: YUP. And I am so fucking turned on right now. I wish you were here.

Blackbird: Show me x

Ping. Another picture. This time you need to sit down on the edge of the bathtub to steady yourself.

It’s just his body - he’s still wearing his Vigilante suit but a familiarly shaped hard bulge protrudes against the fabric. Your breath hitches and you can feel the steady beat of your heart pounding in your chest. You’re a bundle of nerves and you want to see more. Swallowing thickly you type:

Blackbird: You look v sexy in your suit <3 x

Vigilante: Birdie? Is that an actual compliment?! I think it’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me.

You’re no good at expressing your feelings but he needs to know how ridiculously hot he looks in his suit. A vivid image flashes through your mind of a masked vigilante breaking into your motel room, holding you down and covering your mouth while he fucks you. Fuck, the imaginary scene nearly burns a hole through you as you wander back to the bed.

Blackbird: Have you ever had sex in your mask? x

Vigilante: I basically only have sex in my mask. Secret identity is kind of a bummer.

Except for last night. Though you did burst into his tent and catch him off guard. But how does he…

Blackbird: How do you kiss? Or…do anything else? x

Vigilante: Kissing, cuddling, eating pussy - three things I can’t do as Vigilante. You were the best thing I’ve tasted in a LONG time.

You sit down on the edge of the bed and cross your legs, trying to stop yourself from squirming. The more turned on he makes you, the more reckless you become. In just a few texts you go from a tough superhero intelligence officer with a reputation to protect to a simpering mess with no regard for professionalism.

Blackbird: You are so fucking good at eating me out Adrian. I wish you were here x

Vigilante: You’re gonna make me jizz in my pants if you keep saying stuff like that.

Blackbird: Hey not yet- I have more to show you x

Vigilante: Fuck. Seeing you talk like this makes me wish I could hear you in person.

Blackbird: You wouldn’t like me if I could talk again. People said I was very unkind - to put it mildly x

Vigilante: HAHA as if I can’t tell what all those eye rolls mean. You’re such a meanie but you LIKE me.

Everything just bounces off of Adrian. Every cutting glance from you or dismissive comment from Harcourt. Even the time Peacemaker just let Goff torture him. The world is literally ending and Adrian is just riding the wave and enjoying being included in this mission. You wish you could take a leaf out his book and be less serious in the face of an alien invasion.

You hold your phone to your chest and lie back on the crisp white linen bed sheets. Staring at the ceiling you wonder what it would be like to be here with Adrian, in an actual bed rather than in a sleeping bag. Both uninjured and free to take your time, not worrying about other people catching you.

You take your T-shirt off completely this time. You snap a selfie with you laid back on the bed and send it to him.

The phone starts ringing immediately.

‘Vigilante is requesting video chat’

Here goes nothing. You accept.

“Fuuuuuuuuck.” He drags a hand from over his eyes down his face. You hold the phone still above you. “I just had to check if you were real, Birdie. For a second I thought ‘What if last night was an insanely realistic wet dream and now I’m speaking to a snarky but sexy AI bot’. But you are real.”

From what you can see on the screen, he’s shirtless too. As he stretches out getting comfortable on his bed, one hand behind his head, you can appreciate his broad shoulders and chest. A flicker of animalistic urge to bite the exposed underside of his arm leaps through you.

You bring up the keyboard.

Blackbird: I’m glad last night wasn’t just a dream either x

You watch his face as he reads your words pop up on his screen, blue light reflecting on his glasses. He lights up with a wide smile and it makes your heart leap. You tilt the camera down and gently run your fingers up and down your exposed stomach and tits, your fingertips gently tickling your skin. You hear his breath catch in his throat. You move the phone camera back up to your face and slowly, deliberately suck your fingers and move them inside your underwear to start gently circling your clit.

Your phone remains pointed at your face so he can watch you sink back into the soft pillows and close your eyes as your movements pick up the pace.

“L- let me see. Please.” he chokes. You shake your head, the corners of your mouth turning upwards in a smirk. You open your eyes and nod towards him. You first.

He removes his hand from behind his head and flips to the back-facing camera so it’s almost like you’re watching from his point of view. He unzips his black kevlar-weave trousers and tugs down his boxers. His cock is hard already. You swallow thickly- you forgot how big he was. Taking it in his hand, he slowly jerks himself up and down.

How did all of that fit in you? You need to inhale and exhale deeply, steadying yourself. You remember the stretching feeling as he slowly entered you, pressing his forehead against yours and checking you were okay. Oh fuck, the memory makes you speed your fingers up. You move the camera down your body so Adrian can see your fingers working in your underwear.

“Hold on a sec.”

He pauses what he’s doing and urgently takes off the bottom half of his Vigilante suit. He recentres the camera and lets you see him now fully naked. You can see the strong outline of the muscles on his thighs and decide you’d quite like to bite them too.

“Fuck, I wish you were here. You felt so fucking good last night, the way you took all of my dick in that tent like such a good girl for me.”

You writhe back into the pillows as pleasure begins to wash over you.

“Please… show me how you do it baby. Let me see that perfect pussy again.”

It’s too much, his words make you let out a small moan and - CRACK. The sound of glass breaking. You jump in fright. Fuck! The alarm clock on the motel bedside table is shattered in pieces.

“Woah, are you okay?” Adrian returns to the front-facing camera and adjusts his glasses.

You nod and show him the broken alarm clock. You check for any pieces that might have landed on the bed and he waits patiently.

“Hey at least it wasn’t your phone!” he says enthusiastically. You frown. You should have realised something like this would happen. It’s too dangerous to do this - especially on your own. “C’mon Birdie, it’s okay… I personally think it’s really hot that you could kill both of us by cumming. As far as powers go, you’ve gotta admit that’s pretty OP.”

You give him an embarrassed smile. “Is there somewhere you can balance your phone so you have both hands free?”

You carefully place your phone against the lamp on the bedside table and kneel on the bed in front of it. His eyes look you over from your head to where your knees connect with the mattress.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful,” You blush hot red again and he smiles reassuringly “I can’t believe I get to see you like this.” He is being so sweet and it’s killing you. Last night he was teasing you so much that you’re actually beginning to wonder if he was just getting back at you for being so rude to him the past few weeks.

You feel exposed, almost the full length of your body is on display on your video tile. The thought of him seeing all of you out so brazenly makes the hairs on your arms stand up. You’re brave in the field but being so openly vulnerable takes a different kind of boldness you don’t get to exercise often.

Heart pounding in your chest, you slip your underwear off and throw them aside. That’s it, nowhere and nothing to hide now. He groans and angles his phone down his body so you can see him stroking his cock, a clear bead of precum leaks from the tip from it.

You move your hands over your body and watch his eyes follow them. You pinch your nipples and move one hand down to your clit again. “Wait, Birdie, do exactly as I say,” he interrupts “We don’t want you sending a sonic boom through to Harcourt’s room this time.” You bite your lip and nod slowly, it would be embarrassing to say the least, having to explain why the wall between your rooms was rubble if something did go wrong.

“Get on your hands and knees for me,” It’s forward, direct but he says it with such confidence that you don’t even think twice about doing so, obediently. It reminds you of the way he effortlessly relays instructions at you in combat. “Now grab that pillow… lay your head on it and put your other hand down between your knees.” You feel your insides buzzing as you lie, literally face-down ass-up, waiting for him to tell you what to do next.

“Now use that hand to touch your clit for me.” This is obscene, you think but you do it anyway, your head on one side so you can look at Adrian on your phone. He drags his hand up and down the length of himself more slowly than before, taking his time and enjoying the scene in front of him.

“When you start to get close you can turn your head into your pillow and let it out,” he says, watching your figure, side-on as your walls start to clench, begging to be filled. You allow yourself to test it out quietly, biting down on the linen and polyester and letting a small cry out. It vibrates but nothing else happens. You hear him let out a small whimper at the sight of you biting into your pillow. “Fuck, Birdie, have you ever thought about OnlyFans? I’d subscribe.”

The jape unlocks something in your brain. Shyness quickly disappearing, you turn your body another 90 degrees so that he’s looking at you directly from behind. You open up your knees wider and adjust the pillow so you can lie your head back down. All he’ll be able to see is your spread legs, ass and soaking wet cunt. Your fingers reach down to stroke your wet folds.

“Hooooooly fuck- that view. Keep doing that. No, wait- just your clit. I want to see your pussy leaking for me.”

Your muffled whine is impatient. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you are for him but you can tell from the way his breathing is getting quicker that he’s getting close, just from looking at you like this.

“Hey, look at me Birdie.”

You turn your head and look past the side of your body, and see him on the carefully balanced phone screen.

“You know what you are, right?”

You bite your lip. I’m a slut, I’m a fucking slut touching myself on camera for you, Adrian.

“You’re mine. And that beautiful pussy belongs to me.”

Oh. It’s too. Fucking. Much. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stop your fingers as they bury deep inside you curling up and tapping a frantic rhythm while the heel of your hand puts delicious pressure on your clit.

You can’t see him anymore but he makes sure to narrate it for you. “That’s it. Think about me fucking you as you’re doing it, B.” You hear the wet slick of his own hand speeding up too.

You close your eyes and as you curl your fingers inside yourself, you imagine Adrian’s huge cock filling you up. The way he’d grab your hips, smack your ass and bite your shoulder as he thrusted deep inside you.

“I love this angle. Keep doing that for me. Fuck, you look amazing like this.”

Letting out another sigh into your pillow, you feel the swell coming, feeling immense satisfaction that Adrian is watching you on his phone and furiously pleasuring himself, he too imagining that he was pounding into you deep from behind.

“You’re doing s-so good, baby. Such - such a good girl.” he stutters and inhales sharply.

In response you bounce your hips a little, in sync with your fingers, wishing you were backing up and gyrating into his hips. You take another peek at your screen to see his head leaning back and his Adam's apple moving as he swallows and clenches his jaw. He looks back at the screen and catches your eye “So… f-fucking… hot.” he pants. You feel another jolt of searing heat between your legs. Your pussy desperately clenches around your fingers, wishing it was his cock.

“Say my name when you cum for me. Come on, you can do it. Into the pillow.”

The pillow envelopes your face just in time for you to moan his name.

The whole bed shakes violently this time. You tumble straight into your release as you continue to whimper. It’s hot and wet and desperate, heat radiates from your centre, making your knees tremble weakly as the orgasm rips through you.

“I’m gonna- I’m - fuuuuck.” Adrian groans and you move your head again to watch him finish. His eyes squeeze shut and he shudders, thick ropes of cum shooting out onto his chest and stomach.

You lie still for a few more moments, your leaking entrance still twitching and exposed to the camera while you eventually catch your breath. You crawl around to grab your phone and roll onto your back, holding the screen above you.

You both stare at each other, flushed and glowing with sweat. Adrian adjusts his glasses, wipes himself off with a towel and lies on his side, one arm propping his head up. You think it would be very comfy to nuzzle into the crook of his neck right now. Maybe you’d trace your fingers over his scars and listen to him talk about how he got each one.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And trust me, I’ve watched a lot of stuff.”

You smile in a self-satisfied sort of way and pull up the keyboard.

Blackbird: I like seeing you too. And hearing you talk to me x

“Okay, so we need to do this again in person next time.”

Blackbird: I’d like that x

“And can you admit you like me yet?”

You give him an indifferent jerk of the head but he reads through you and grins triumphantly.

Blackbird: Okay I DO like you Adrian. But I’m just not sure if we should be doing this at all x

“I get it if you’re embarrassed to be with me - we don’t have to tell the rest of the team.”

You shake your head fervently. Relief washes over his face.

Blackbird: It’s not that… I can’t let myself fall for someone when I need to leave the country right after this mission x

You also don’t trust Amanda Waller or MI6 right now and don’t want to give them any personal leverage. But you can’t put that anywhere in writing. Even in an encrypted message to Adrian. It’d be too dangerous for both of you.

“Wait - are you saying you’re falling for me?”

You freeze- your mouth opens stupidly as you reread your last message. Shit.

“Because Birdie I fell for you the first time I saw your burst someone’s head open with your sonic scream. You’re the hottest, most badass person I’ve ever met. And if you feel even sort of the same way, it would be stupid to ignore it- right?”

Blackbird: I think it’s stupid to even discuss it. We shouldn’t get attached when I live on another continent x

“Yeah but you’ll only live there if you actually survive!” he says with newfound enthusiasm “There’s like a really high chance we’ll both die pretty soon.”

Blackbird: And if we’re both fortunate enough to live? x

“Eh,” he shrugs “Sounds like a problem for future us to worry about. No point dwelling on hypotheticals.”

You wrinkle your nose but butterflies dance in your tummy with excitement. Okay, we’re doing this…. and if we both live long enough for me to go home, we can call it a summer fling and move on.

Blackbird: Fuck it. If we’re gonna die we might as well hook up a few more times… :) x

Adrian rolls onto his back and punches the air “Go out with a bang. Literally.” he pauses “Are you going to start putting two x’s at the end of your texts to me now?”

You pull up your keyboard.

Blackbird: Yes xxxxx

Chapter 3: The Spy Who Came Out in the Cold

#adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase x you #vigilante #vigilante peacemaker #vigilante x reader #vigilante x you #freddie stroma #peacemaker #fanfic #smut #female reader #x reader

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thedeafprophet · 8 months

Text

Character Summary: The Vitriolic Thief

Alexander 'Alex' Hastings

Pronouns: He/him

Ambition: Light Fingers

Profession: Silverer /Thief

Main Skills: Shadowy, Dangerous, Glasswork

Main Quirks: Subtle, Steadfast, Magnanimous

They say… “A face seen on wanted posters around the city, and glimpsed in dreams at night. Harsh words for those who cross him, a helping hand for those who need.”

Further Writeup under the cut:

Backstory

Alex was born November 15th, 1872. A troubled childhood, Alex's mother passed shortly after childbirth, and his father passed in a housefire when he was 8. Him and his older sister Adelaide were left to face the world on their own, with the minimal help that came from soceity. Alex ended up falling into crime from a young age and had more then his fair share of experiences with the underhanded parts of life.

Alex was sent to an industrial school when he was 15 years old, where he met and became friends with Jamie and Josephine. 2 years later, he fled from the school with the other two in tow.

His late teen years and early adulthood were spent with a beginning combo of pratical work, Alex working in kitchens, before going further and further into Alex's 'work' with thievery and other crime. He was comitted to not only his own survival, but that of his friends as well. Alex started presenting as a man in his late teen years, and chose the name Alexander for himself when he was around 18.

Most of his crimes were for the purpose of monetary gain needed for survival, but became more and more situations of addrenline and petty venegeance against those 'on top'. Alex also has a history of pyromania, and perhaps a few cases of arson. Suffice to say, he had a considerable police record even back on the surface.

In the end, Alex mainly came down to the Neath because of Josephine's goal of doing so. Prior to the descent , Alex met with a contact familiar with the location in order to gain any potential information on the threats, and things to do there.

The relationship between Alex, Jamie, and Josephine was a bit strained by the time the game began, but that comittment and care still stood.

It was 1898 when Alex came to the Neath, at 26 years old.

Game Timeline Events

Alex's experience in Fallen London began with aquainting himself into the world. He quickly rose among ranks in petty thefts within the underworld's underworld, his experience with crime on the surface giving him plenty of skill to complete the jobs. His storyline consists in part of that of the shadowy Making Your Name questline. Alex toasts to no one but himself.

The crime options of the neath provided far more substainial gain for Alex then the surface did. He found himself an apartment pretty early on, and has refused to leave it ever since. Beyond crime, Alex ended up connecting heavily among the dockworkers in the neath, and often ended up on their side in any form of ongoing strike. Alex knows the bare minimum of right and wrong.

Once he was established in the neath, it was then Alex set out to find a contact from the surface.

Alex's experience with Light Fingers is a whole other post on its own, but to say in short, the experience greatly affected him. He cared quite a bit for the rest of the Light Fingers crew, and the hybrid holds a very important place in his heart. Alex always feared having children for the dread of somehow ending up like the adults who failed him, but that choice was taken out of his hands. He loves his child dearly, and did everything he could to guarantee its safety.

The experiences in Parabola during Light Fingers led Alex to have a great interest in the way of dream weaving, which eventually led to his role as a silverer. He takes on a protective role in dreams, defending against the more violent of nightmares.

Following the end of Light Fingers, Alex was dragged into the Railway Questline at the behest of Jamie, using his thievery skills to help provide resources for the GHR. In his role he met Furnace, of whom he came to greatly respect, and considers her a friend.

The railway also brought Alex to further interactions with a previous enemy, Mr Fires. Events during this lead to further contact between the two, and their antagonistic dynamic took on...more complicated aspects. The exact details of their relationship, well, even they arent too sure about that one....

A few exceptional stories are also canon to Alex's timeline (some spoilers for such stories here):

The Ballad Of Johnny Croak

Alex sided with Johnny and blew up the factory. Following the events of the ES Alex continues to visit Johnny, and occasionally gives the kid a place to sleep if he's ever back in the city. Alex is very protective of the kids, and sees a lot of his childhood self in him

The Icariun Cup

The events of this ES left Alex with the Dawn Burnt affect (this action will have consequences)

and then Adornment and The Queen of Elephants are also considered canon to his timeline.

#rejoice: Alex's backstory finally be upon you #ummmm this got long. sorry.#one down three more to go XD eventually #fallen london #fallen london oc #oc: alex #my writing #it counts okay

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tigertofu · 10 months

Note

Heyyy! I’m very glad you’re doing requests cos your writing is AMMMAAZZZZINNNNGGGG

I’d love to see some headcanons of North Yankton Trevor with a fem!reader who does boxing🫣🫣 No worries if not! :)

TY GIRLIE <3333 and u got it! as i worked on this i discovered its difficult for me to just list off headcanons w/out some sorta story attached so i hope this like,, mini-story with headcanons interlaced throughout is ok !! ^^ ;;

pairing: fem reader/Trevor

summary: a barfight involving a stranger in a little north yankton tavern turns out to be the start of something much more.

cw's: mild, non-explicit smut

wordcount: 1,335

you'll meet him in a bar one night.

the place is a seedy little affair with concrete floors and weak lights that fill the smokey air with a buttery glow. it's the only tavern in the little podunk town you live in, and tonight, just like every night, it's filled with the usual slew of patrons. cattle farmers sleepily nurse at sweating beer bottles at the bar. railway workers sit slumped in chairs at the round tables taking up the rest of the cramped room. a lazy country song spills out of the jukebox in one corner of the room. johnny cash? bob dylan? something like that. you aren't really paying attention to the music. you're only interested in downing your beer and letting the booze warm you up a bit before you venture back out into the snowstorm and trudge the rest of your way home.

suddenly, the music stops. you look up from your seat in the corner of the bar. a man you've never seen before is fiddling with the jukebox, a cigarette drooping from his scowling mouth. you watch him, curious, because you could swear you've never seen him in town before. his dark brown hair is slicked back into a long, scraggly mullet; strands of it fall around his face. he's wearing a roadworn bomber jacket, dirty jeans, black rubber boots caked in mud. definitely not a local.

as you stare, you realize that the atmosphere of the entire bar has shifted. Mr. Mullet finally figures out how to work the jukebox. a punkish rock song begins to blare from its speakers, causing the other patrons' heads to swivel in his direction. he plants his hands on his hips and looks at it triumphantly.

a particularly burly farmer heaves himself out of his seat at the bar and trundles over to the stranger. he taps him on the shoulder. says something that you can't hear, but can tell isn't nice. Mr. Mullet snaps back at him loud enough for you to hear: something about how the previous music was about to put him to fucking sleep and that this is a "free country." the farmer doesn't back down from the stranger's posturing and, in the blink of an eye, their altercation turns physical.

for reasons you can't parse, you immediately jump to the stranger's aid. muscle memory pounded into you by years of boxing makes quick work of the drunk farmer, but not before he's able to get a few good hits in on the stranger, who fights with blind, wild passion. while the both of you reel back from him to catch your breaths, the bartender yells at you two to get the hell out of his bar. you both do, but not before the stranger calls everyone in the establishment "a bunch of braindead stick-in-the-mud yokels."

outside, you both share a cigarette, shivering in the snowfall. he tells you his name is Trevor. he asks where you learned to fight like that, and you tell him in the ring. he smiles, and despite the bruise blooming around his busted lip, you can tell it's a handsome smile. he says he likes a girl who knows how to scrap. you smile back and tell him you like his music taste. he asks what you're up to that night, and you tell him that you just want to get back to the warmth of your home at this point. he offers to walk with you, and you accept.

once you reach your place, he tries to invite himself in so he can show his "appreciation" for helping him beat the shit out of the farmer at the bar. you laugh and tell him maybe some other time. he huffs, but relents, so long as you give him your phone number. you do.

"some other time" comes around quick, because in the few days following your night in the bar you realize that you can't stop thinking about him for some reason. you invite him over; he shows up with a six pack and a grin plastered over his face. you spend an evening talking and listening to music on your old cassette player. you're delighted to find out that he likes all the same bands you do. the six pack is quickly emptied, and the both of you get a bit tipsy. at some point, he brings up the barfight again. he asks to wrestle so he can see what you're "really capable of," slurring his words, giving you a sly look. you laugh and try to tell him that wrestling is hugely different from boxing, but he insists, and you give in.

he lets you win almost immediately. the way he lets you playfully sock him in the arms without fighting back tells you that maybe he has no intention of fighting back. afterwards, as you both lay on the floor of your bedroom, catching your breaths from the little tussle as he's pinned beneath your muscular form, you notice a hungry sort of glow in his dark brown eyes. before you can ask why he's looking at you like that, he leans up and smashes his mouth against yours.

you fuck him there on the floor and it feels almost like a fight; the most satisfying fight ever, that ends with the both of you winning.

one hookup turns into two, then three, then four. soon enough, you're meeting up with Trevor regularly. he never spends the night, always slinking off sometime after you've fallen asleep. you try to learn more about him, and he freely unloads his personal history on you. he's from the "Canadian border region of America." he likes flying planes; used to be in the air force before getting discharged. when you one day ask him what he does for work, he suddenly gets cagey. tells you not to ask questions you don't want the answers to. you guess he doesn't make his money in entirely legal ways, and don't bring it up again.

a few weeks after meeting him, you invite him to the local boxing club to watch a match you've been training for. he shows up, of course, and cheers you on from the sidelines with embarrassing yet oddly adorable enthusiasm the entire time. it's a hard fight that winds on and on. by the end of it you feel like you've been thrown into a box and rolled down a hill, but still, you pull a win out of thin air. and as the ref announces you the winner, you see Trevor standing in the crowd, yelling triumphantly while others awkwardly stare at him: "That's my girl!"

you rush home with him afterwards. the entire short car ride, he can't keep his hands off of you, almost crashing the car into a snowbank on the way. the second you reach your home, he pounces on you. he rips the boxing garb off of you; passes hungry kisses over your figure before your sweat has even had a chance to dry. in bed, he worships you as you straddle him, his hands unable to stay still as they grab and rub over your muscles. he whines that he loves you, that you're amazing, that he's so lucky, over and over, and at the peak of your climax, you pant out that you love him, too.

as you both lay in a sticky heap afterwards, he kisses all the sore spots on your body: the places your opponent had gotten hits in on you. the kisses turn into unskilled but eager massages. you fall asleep, soothed by his jittery hands.

the next morning, you wake to find him still with you. in the morning glow seeping in through your bedroom window, you pass a hand over his forehead, brushing back his hair so you can see his sleeping face.

and in that moment, you decide that throwing yourself into that now-long-ago barfight was one of the best decisions you've ever made.

#was so so fun doing my first request !! :DD thx again rach <33 #trevor philips/reader #trevor philipsxreader #trevor philips/you #trevor philips #trevor philips fanfiction #gtav fanfiction #gta v #gta5 #gtav #requests

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vulpes-fennec · 1 year

Text

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 1)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Friday, March 8th, 1889

***Nesta***

The rain had let up by the time 25-year old Nesta Archeron stepped out of the St. John’s Wood Road station. Taking the family carriage was preferable to clustering with all the grimy plebeians, but riding the Metropolitan Railway was considered en vogue for young adults in 1889. Besides, showing up to a suffragist meeting in a fancy carriage wasn’t very humble.

Political disagreements—revolving around Prime Minister Gladstone and Irish Home Rule—had left the budding suffragist movement in disarray. Still, Nesta’s particular group of women’s activists managed to meet every Friday. Which was why, even on freezing March days like this, Nesta was committed to trekking out to central London.

Central London itself was a veritable sludge of shit, coal soot, and rot. But she’d rather be wading through the mucky Victorian streets than walking up the front steps of the Archerons’ house. Nesta didn’t have issues with the four-story building crafted from warm red brick, with its ample windows and three full-time staff to attend to their needs. The home was even outfitted with running water—what more could she ask for?

Nesta had issues with her mother’s disagreeable presence.

Nesta hadn’t minded being her mother’s favorite child when she was younger, for it meant receiving pretty dresses, compliments, and plenty of dance lessons. But as Nesta grew older, she realized Isabella Archeron cared only about social status. And once Nesta joined the suffragist movement, it became abundantly clear that her mother saw her as a marriage mart project—and never as an actual person.

Isabella Archeron had fallen ill last spring. Her health failed to improve at their country home, at the southern coast, and even at the hands of their family doctor. So shortly before Christmas, Nesta’s father returned the family to London.

“The pollution is not ideal, but there will be better doctors in London,” he’d reasoned. “And better chances of finding a husband for you, Nesta.” Nesta had agreed to the move, but not because she wanted to get married. If she couldn’t go to Manchester, where the beating heart of the suffrage movement lay, she would find like-minded women in London.

Society in the country moved at a snail’s pace, as things often did when the closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Women’s suffrage was met with blank stares, and then revulsion once Nesta explained it in simple terms. Really, did no one find it illogical that in a family with three daughters, the father was the only individual with any say in matters of politics? The women in the family outnumbered him four to one!

“Miss Archeron.” A maid dusting the vases in the front foyer gave a little bow as Nesta entered. Her brown eyes lingered on Nesta’s muddy boots. Though the servants turned a blind eye to Nesta’s comings and goings, she was certain they gossiped amongst themselves.

“Hello, Bridley.” Nesta gave the maid a nod. Poor, poor Bridley, a sweet girl married at such a young age to a boorish man who drank and gambled away into the night. This was precisely why Nesta had no intention of getting married, for upper-class men were hardly any better.

“Your mother called for you several minutes ago. I tried to borrow time, saying you were in a bath, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I must make haste.” Nesta waved Bridley off and ran up the stairs. She felt a bit guilty for tracking in street grime, but her mother was a woman who did not appreciate being kept waiting.

Nesta hastily threw on a tea gown and undid her braid, making sure there was no dirt on her face before opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. “You called, Mother?” Nesta greeted cautiously.

“Nesta, dear.” Only Isabella Archeron could make terms of endearment sound unpleasantly cold. “Come, sit by me.” Nesta entered and perched delicately on the edge of the four-poster bed. “Sit up straight, Nesta. You won’t attract any aristocrats with that slouch. And goodness, I know you just got out of the bath, but there is no reason for your hair to be undone,” her mother chided sharply.

Nesta automatically tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. Surely even Queen Victoria would not meet her mother’s standards for appearances and proper etiquette. “My apologies,” Nesta gritted out.

“Hmm…I just purchased the scarlet dress for you from the catalog.” Her mother’s attention flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly, and she waved a ladies’ fashion pamphlet at Nesta.

“Mother, I have five dresses that have not been worn in public yet. The scarlet dress is hardly a necessary purchase,” Nesta protested. Prices in those catalogs were astronomically expensive, but of course Isabella Archeron loved spending money like it grew on trees.

Nesta refused to balk at her mother’s icy look. “Yet two of those dresses have already fallen out of fashion! You must make a stunning entrance at the Beddor’s gala next week. It’s the debut event of the season, and I heard that several families from the House of Lords will be there, with sons of marrying age.”

Nesta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s obsession with marrying up in society. Didn’t she realize that most courtships these days were based on love—not social and economic value? Did she ever think about how much potential was wasted when women were limited to marriage, children, and managing households? Clearly not.

Her mother continued chatting. “...and Tomas Mandray should be a fine option. Did you know that Lord Mandray’s wealth increased by 40 percent since last year? He was so smart for investing in those railways…”

“With the Beddors hosting, it would be poor taste for me to upstage Clare,” Nesta said carefully.

“Clare? Upstage her? Why, Nesta, that poor girl is so plain, even Bridley could upstage her in last season’s frock.” Her mother chuckled cruelly. “Oh, don’t give me that cross look. You know it’s true.”

Nesta suppressed the urge to defend Clare. Perhaps Clare lacked remarkable features, but at least she didn’t possess a nasty personality like her stunning mother. Besides, vying for attention from men was as close to pathetic as one could get. “But Mother, how am I to attend the gala if you are unwell and Father is still away?”

Isabella Archeron bristled. “Unwell? My dear girl, I am just a bit under the weather. I will be in perfect health to accompany you to the Beddors.”

Nesta highly doubted her mother’s chronic illness would magically clear up in a week, but she chose not to say anything.

Her mother pressed a pair of garnet and gold earrings into Nesta’s hand. “Wear these earrings to the gala, Nesta. They were your grandmother’s, and they will surely catch the eye of every man in the room. I know this to be true, because your father asked me for our first dance when I wore these 27 years ago.” Icy gray-blue eyes glinted with cunning.

It was nauseating. What kind of mother expressed affection in the form of social-climbing strategy and materialistic goods? Where were the hugs, kisses, or warm words of comfort? Although the earrings were beautiful, they reminded Nesta of her fate: you will marry, just like the generations of women who came before you.

“Thank you,” Nesta managed to say, closing her fist.

“You may take your leave now, my dear. And tell your sister Feyre to join me for afternoon tea.” Isabella Archeron’s placid tone indicated she’d grown bored already.

“Yes, Mother.” Nesta closed the door, gripping the earrings so tightly that the metal backings left pricks of pain in her palm. Days like this drove her to dance away her self-loathing in the parlor downstairs. The waltz, the tango, the metal pole…Nesta was a master—or should she say, mistress—of these forms. But first, Nesta needed to find Feyre.

***Elain***

A colossal structure of wrought-iron stretched up, up, and up into the twinkling night sky. What a magnificent building! If Elain craned her neck, she could barely make out the tricolor flag of France fluttering from the upper viewing terrace. The grand lawn before her, a bursting promenade of shops, exhibits, and worldly wonders, invited her to explore at a leisurely pace.

A solid arm looped over her shoulder, drawing her close to a warm body. Elain gasped, startled at the rush of sensations he—for the person was definitely a man—elicited. She felt warm, like she was sitting by a toasty fire. Secure, as if she’d come home. Elated, like champagne bubbles rushing through her body. Elain glanced to her right, trying to see who the stranger was…

Knock, knock, knock. Sharp raps on her door woke Elain from her nap. “Elain! Elain!” Her younger sister’s muffled cries sounded from the hall. “Are you in there?”

Elain stifled the urge to snap at Feyre when she opened the door. She was fairly certain her dream had featured the Tour Eiffel: the architectural wonder waiting to be unveiled this summer at the Exposition Universelle. Photographs of the attraction had been kept hush hush, but if Elain had just seen it in its full glory…that meant it wasn’t just any dream. It was a premonition.

“Elain, look what I managed to get!” Feyre was excitedly waving three slips of paper in Elain’s face. With her mismatched servant’s clothes and faint smell of coal, Feyre must have been wandering the slums of London again.

Elain blinked, trying to regain her post-nap bearings. “What is that?” She took the shimmering crimson slips of paper from Feyre’s hands. In gold lettering, the paper read:

Admit One | Prythian’s Fantasia

A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth…

“Three tickets to see Prythian’s Fantasia!” Feyre gushed breathlessly, her blue-gray eyes shining with excitement. “Remember, the circus that arrived last week?” Ah, yes. The circus that Feyre had been raving about every spare minute.

“This side of earth?” Elain repeated. A craggy mountain with two branches of magenta amaranth flowers crossing below it was printed on the ticket. A strange choice of imagery for a circus. “What does that even mean?”

Nesta’s angular face appeared behind Feyre like a ghostly apparition. “Feyre! You’ve been out of the house again, haven’t you?” Nesta accused sharply. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or caught some venereal disease!”

Feyre’s expression soured. “Says the one who went to a suffragist meeting today!”

“Be quiet.” Nesta whipped her head around anxiously. “Unless you want me telling Mother about your dalliances.”

“Look, Nesta,” Elain tried to diffuse the situation. “Feyre got us tickets to Prythian’s Fantasia.”

Nesta’s icy eyes narrowed at Elain’s hand. “Where’d you get those from? Isaac Hale?” She spat his name like a bitter root on her tongue. Elain winced. Isaac Hale, the butcher’s son in the seedier side of town, was Feyre’s paramour. She’d met the man once, and found him relatively handsome and well-mannered. But she privately agreed with Nesta: Feyre could do better.

“He gave them to me for free.” Feyre crossed her arms indignantly. “Why are you in such a mood today?”

“Nothing in this world is free. Especially between men and women,” Nesta scoffed.

“Well, they’re for tonight’s show. Eight o’clock. Do you want to go or not?” Feyre jutted her chin out stubbornly. Eldest and youngest Archeron sisters faced off, like a viper versus a wolf, their matching blue eyes blazing. Elain held her breath, preparing to intervene again.

“Fine.” Nesta was the one who relented. “By the way, Mother asked to see you for afternoon tea.”

“How is she?” Feyre asked, cooling down quickly from their verbal exchange.

“As superficial as she always is.” With that, Nesta turned and left. She didn’t have to specify that their mother only wanted to see Feyre. Isabella Archeron rarely asked for Elain.

Perhaps all middle children were simply doomed to be forgotten.

It was always like this: Elain meekly sandwiched between Nesta and Feyre, the two rebellious and squabbling women of the Archeron house. Nesta, who openly derided the male species and passionately spoke about women's rights. Feyre, who renounced high society by excelling at archery and sneaking off to the seedier parts of London.

While Feyre’s artistic talent was her only refined hobby, Elain seemed the perfect lady, all agreeable manners and poised like a princess.

But it was all a defense mechanism. Excelling as a high society lady prevented her cruel mother’s scrutiny. And if the peerage saw Elain as a docile, conventional woman, they would not suspect her of seeing the future. For what man would marry a woman who fell into fitful dreams, one who could predict his death and misfortunes?

At least Elain’s visions only came when she lulled herself into a meditative state or dreamed. If she fell into random, episodic trances, she would definitely be sent off to an asylum for insanity. The future came in flashes and snippets, always cryptic but never subject to change. And with the number of startling—and sometimes horrific—premonitions she received outnumbering the pleasant ones, Elain would hardly call her ability a “gift”.

“Any news from Papa?” Feyre asked Elain. Reginald Archeron, a renowned merchant who sailed to the four corners of the earth to do business, had set off for Continental Europe just after Christmas. He still had not returned.

Elain shook her head. “The postman didn’t have any correspondence.”

“It’s unusual for him to be gone so long, and not send any word.” Feyre chewed her lip worriedly. “Perhaps we should alert the authorities?”

“What good will that do?” Elain replied shortly. “We don’t even know what country Father is in.”

“I don’t see how you can be so calm about this.”

Elain blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral. Why worry about her father, when he was probably having the time of his life cheating on their mother? The terrible premonition arrived three years ago: Reginald Archeron kissing a woman with dark hair and emerald green eyes in a continental-style opera house. Possibly in Moscow. Or perhaps it was Berlin.

The most striking detail was the ornate golden locket that had glinted in the woman’s hands. Elain went rooting through her father’s study when he returned from his trip, and she found the exact same locket, complete with the woman’s picture in it. Holding the offensive jewelry piece in her very hands had Elain tasting bile.

Elain had been 21 years old and well aware that not all marriages were pleasant. Still, the realization that her own father was unfaithful had been a shock. That her loving Papa was one of those types of husbands. But Elain didn’t dare breathe a word of her findings to her sisters, who knew nothing of her abilities. Nesta…Nesta would probably tear their father apart with words alone. Feyre…Feyre, who valued their family unit more than anything, would be crushed.

Feyre sighed, not waiting to hear Elain’s response. “Well, I’ll see what Mother wants. Be ready for the circus by seven. We need to travel to the south bank.” Elain nodded, closing the door distractedly.

Elain’s mind returned to that mysterious man from her vision. Oh, how she longed to return to that hazy dream, so warm and tantalizing it was! He existed somewhere. He had to. Elain didn’t catch any of his features, but she felt so sure that he wasn’t anyone she knew at that moment. The man was waiting for her in the future. In Paris, too!

Oh, Paris! The Continent! As her father’s favorite child, Elain was shown the goods he’d help procure, like beautiful fabrics, spices, rough-cut gems, and wood carvings. She had fond memories of spending hours in his office, staring at the large maps on the walls and devouring books about foreign lands. “I’ll bring you to the continent next year, Elain,” Reginald Archeron had promised. Then he promised again, the next year. And again, the following. Many years passed, a slew of broken promises in their wake.

Not that she would ever want to explore the continent with her father now, knowing that he spent those trips canoodling with mysterious women. But the London gloom outside her window had Elain wishing her life was different.

If Nesta and Feyre were shamelessly carving their own unconventional paths, why couldn’t she do the same? She didn’t need to wait for her father to take her to the continent; she was 24 years old, a modern woman with the means to travel the world.

As if an answer to her thoughts, the mystery man’s phantom touch seemed to linger on her shoulder, urging Elain to make her way to the Exposition Universelle. To find him in real life.

***Feyre***

Isabella Archeron had been a formidable woman just two years ago. Her golden-brown hair had been a luscious mane that shimmered even under England’s clouds. Her back had been ramrod straight, the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw had nary a wrinkle. Flitting from one party to the next, Isabella Archeron was truly London’s finest social butterflies.

But her mother’s hair turned limpid, even gray. The pale hue of her skin was almost sickly, and the angles of her face only made her look hollowed out, older. Now, Isabella Archeron spent most of her time confined to the bed or the bath.

Watching her mother’s chest rattle with phlegm-filled coughs and her frail hands tremble, Feyre wondered if something swift and sure like cholera would have been better. It would’ve been better than this gradual chipping away at life over the months.

“How are you feeling, Mother?” Feyre asked cautiously when she entered the room. Although illness had dulled Isabella Archeron’s quick mind, it soured her temperament, leaving her prone to mood swings.

“Feyre. Pour me a cup of tea, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre dutifully placed a sugar cube into the dainty china cup, and poured steaming tea from the ornate teapot.

She was about to stir the sugar and cream with a spoon, when her mother snapped, “And do not stir the tea. I may be ill, but I am not invalid.” Feyre set the spoon down cautiously and dutifully walked towards her mother’s bed, hating how her shaky hands rattled the cup and saucer.

“Have you heard from your father?”

“No, Mother.”

The difficult pregnancy had meant that Feyre would be the last Archeron child. Feyre suspected her parents hoped she would be a son who could inherit the family business and lead the household while Reginald Archeron was away for work. Feyre wasn’t a son, but her parents still expected her to be the “most responsible” of her sisters since early childhood.

For example, ever since she was 16, her father assigned her to managing their bank statements while he was abroad. All Feyre had to do was sign the checks and record the transactions in the balance book, but at this point, she could forge Reginald Archeron’s signature in her sleep. Feyre had also tended her sisters whenever they got sick, bringing them warm soup and administering tonics. Thanks to those years of “experience”, Feyre was now charged with managing the rotating circle of doctors, household expenses, and servants ever since her mother fell ill.

Perhaps she was assigned this role of “caretaker” because her parents were reluctant to change their attitudes toward her sisters. Nesta, the first-born, could have easily been taught the tools of the trade. But Isabella Archeron was keen on shaping Nesta to be the wife of a lord or a prince, not a merchant’s apprentice. Then came Elain, who took after their father and automatically became his princess to dote on.

That left Feyre at the scrutiny of both, but without the love from either parent.

“Hmm. I’m feeling rather abysmal today. I fear these doctors are not helping me whatsoever.” Her mother gestured to the array of tonics and powders on the bedside table. Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a pile of brown-stained handkerchiefs.

“Are you coughing up blood?” she said in alarm.

“Don’t be silly. Why would I be coughing up blood? I just spilled my tea.” Her mother sounded like she even believed it herself. But Feyre was doubtful; she’d seen those tell-tale colors on Isaac’s work apron numerous times. “Do write to your Aunt Ripleigh and ask if she could send some more of that rose and daisy tea. It was delightful.”

Aunt Ripleigh had been dead for six years now. There was no rose and daisy tea in the house, either.

“Of course, Mother.” She made a mental note to ask Nesta if their mother had experienced another bout of memory loss during their session together. Isabella Archeron’s diminishing moments of lucidity were concerning.

“Well, Feyre. You’d better hurry along and get ready for Watson's charity ball. I’ve already told Mrs. Watson that I’ve fallen ill, but your father should be able to accompany you three.” Isabella Archeron’s blue-gray eyes closed, and within moments, she’d fallen asleep.

The charity ball her mother spoke of had occurred two seasons ago.

Hopefully she would sleep past supper and continue assuming her daughters were at a charity ball instead of a circus. Isabella Archeron considered anything below the opera or classical music hall a lowly performance unfit for their presence. Laughable, considering the Archerons were only wealthy merchants, not the aristocracy.

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre said, even though she couldn’t hear her. She touched her mother’s hand before she left the room. It was deathly cold. Feyre didn’t love her mother, but she didn’t want her to die. Despair rose within her like the tide, as if it was her fault Isabella Archeron wasn’t getting any better.

It was rumored that Amarantha, the circus ringmaster, was a powerful witch doctor. Apparently she learned her craft from the natives in the tropical latitudes and left a trail of miracles from town to town. Feyre had nearly laughed in Isaac’s face when he told her that.

A female ringmaster? Impossible. And a witch? Those were from the Dark Ages.

But now, Feyre was desperate. If modern science could not cure her mother, why not try other methods? The Archerons had money. Jewels. Exotic antiques. Feyre was quite confident she could pay Amarantha for a little healing spell.

Nesta was wholly focused on the suffragist movement. Elain was swept away by the pageantry of fancy dinners and shows in London. Both seemed rather ambivalent about their mother’s health and their father’s suspicious silence over the last few months. Once again, it fell on Feyre to do something, anything that would keep her dysfunctional family together.

Tonight, she would see for herself what this Amarantha was all about. Even if the ringmaster turned out to be a dud, at least she got a famed circus show out of it.

✨

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