#*GLASS BREAKING* *SIRENS WAILING*

[andy-clutterbuck]

Bye - 1x03 - The Ones Who Live

[lilbunnis]

❛ ♡. gif credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐬. ❜

★ ⎯⎯ big brother!aemond is used to your sweet moans and whimpers, though he is reaching his breaking point--- he must have you, no matter the consequences.

author’s note᛬ hii! first time posting on here--- this is obvi a new acc (personal reasons) but i also just wanna strictly post my writing on this blog. first time writing incest, too! oh, & im in my witchy era. anyways, if u’re a minor then do not fuckin interact, thx.

warnings᛬ mdni! smut, angst, dubious consent, dark!aemond, profanity, she/her pronouns, afab reader, innocence kink, corruption kink, manipulation, pussy whipped!aemond, incestuous relationships, breeding kink, cunnilingus, fingering, obsessive & possessive behavior, pet names. any grammatical errors are my own--- in advance, i sincerely apologize.

word count᛬ 1.5k

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕���� 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘.

oh, how sweet her lips were, so soft and plump, like the ripest of peaches during the middle of summer, ready to be kissed. gods, her eyes… so dark and tempting, yet warm and doe-like, a gift from their mother, the queen. her skin was pure and soft and untainted, almost whispering to him to touch, touch, touch--- touch her!

she was his--- since she was torn from their mother’s womb, bloody and screaming, a dragon come forth, his darling little sister.

he loved, he loved, he loved her.

the very epitome of a true born targaryen, made for him.

he knew since the day that she came into this cruel world that she would belong to him, that she would be his.

his, his, his.

“b-brother! no, n-no, i- nghh.. ‘m gonna—“ she babbled cutely, her voice like sweet music to his ears, a siren’s call, begging him to take her maidenhead.

the voices in his head were insistent and loud, screaming venomously at him, luring him to kiss, to touch, to take--- she was rightfully his by birthright, why shouldn’t he indulge?

yes, they hissed, encouraging him with their sweet, persuasive voices inside of his head--- had he finally gone mad? were the rumors of the targaryen madness true?

even so, he did not give a fuck.

his sweet baby sister was his, she always would be, and the way she clawed at his wrist, begging him to fuck her with his deft fingers faster, faster, faster!

or, perhaps… trying to push his hand away--- no, no. she loves him, and he loves her!

it was destiny, their destiny, to be together as husband and wife and bring forth a whole new bloodline of true born targaryens!

yes, his sweet little sister would give him so many babes, he’d fill her up and watch her as she’d grow round and fat with his many sons and daughters.

fire and blood, fire and blood, fire and blood---

then, a scream--- oh, so feminine and sweet; how he just adored his sweet little sister, his little darling.

aemond heard her cry out, the sweetest wail, fat tears falling down her flushed cheeks as he continued burying his long, nimble fingers inside of her sweet, drooling cunny, preparing her for his cock.

meanwhile, he kept pressing against that little patch of nerves inside of her that she could never reach by herself, stroking relentlessly--- meanly.

poor, sweet little lamb.

aemond was panting heavily, watching as her sweet little cunt sucked in his fingers greedily, making his lips twitch in amusement--- he could barely withdraw his fingers due to how fucking tight she was.

uncaringly, yet so lovingly, he would cruelly plunge them back inside of her, wet noises and her sweet, breathy little moans and whimpers filling his chambers.

“that’s it,” he cooed softly, his voice a raspy baritone, so convincing, “—doing so fucking well for your big brother, issa jorrāelagon.”

quietly, he continued into the night, moonlight spilling in through the glass windows of his chambers, his amethyst colored eye was fully blown wide and focused solely on her squelching cunt, watching as her little clit twitched and practically begged him for attention.

and who was he to deny his little sister such sweet, sinful pleasure?

not a second later, aemond moved to settle between his sister’s thighs, lowering his head until his breath ghosted over her wet, puffy folds, allowing him to inhale her feminine scent--- causing him to release a low, satisfied groan.

then, the prince nuzzled his sharp, prominent nose against her little, fleshy bundle of nerves, breathing her in further as two of his long fingers continued to wildly fuck her little virgin fuck-hole.

“b-bro-brotherrr! please, please! need.. n-need to--- please!” came her sweet, girlish voice which was higher in pitch than usual, making him let out a soft, amused hum.

“as you wish, sweetling,” he murmured against her clit, the vibrations from his deep voice causing her to squirm impatiently, before finally, she felt his plush, naturally curved lips wrap around her aching, throbbing clit, causing her to wail brokenly and clutch the silk sheets with tiny fists.

aemond, the kinslayer, could never deny her, could never say no to her--- perhaps, he should be furious at how weak she made him feel, but he could never find it in his cold, blackened heart to ever feel any sort of anger towards her.

his sweet beloved.

it was maddening how helpless he was against her, how deep his devotion to her was--- possibly, others would call it obsession, sinful, an abomination, but aemond knew the truth; dragons did not concern themselves with the likes of sheep.

oh, how he loved her, how he wished to possess her, to be the only person she would ever love, to be her one and only like she was his.

passionately and glowing, burningly real, her nude skin glistened in the moonlight, the few candles that were slowly dying out around his chambers and the burning fire in his fireplace teased shadows from the corner of his eye, the ghosts that still haunted the red keep were always watching and judging them viciously for their sins.

and oh, how their intertwined souls would burn in the brightest of flames, always together, even in the deepest pits of the seven hells, for all of time; for eternity.

still, he ignores the demons--- too drunk by the sweet taste of his little sister’s cunt.

“mine,” he purrs against her cute, twitching clit, suckling the nub into his watering mouth, which made his cock leak even more pre into his small-clothes, causing him to groan and harshly grind his loins down against his bed.

“say it, sweetling--- tell me that you’re mine,” he murmured, wrapping one of his massive hands around his sister’s smooth, left thigh, digging the tips of his calloused fingertips into the meaty skin possessively, holding her in place.

“ah, ah, ah— aemond, nghh..! oh-hmm, ‘m yours,” she babbled sweetly, her words slurring slightly as she began reaching her sixth peak of the night, causing more tears to spill down the sides of her face as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear her blurry vision as she felt her big brother scissoring her weeping cunt open.

wailing in despair, she felt her brother’s skilled tongue flicking and rolling her clit into his eager mouth again, suckling at it and nipping at the little nub mercilessly.

gently, with such cruel, bloodstained hands, aemond squeezed his sister’s thigh harshly, causing her to squeal and thrash her head around on his feathered pillow, her back arching like a bowstring as she finally reached her sixth peak, crying out and babbling her big brother’s name over and over and over--- pleadingly.

“oh, oh, ohhh..! f-feels so--- so good,” she sobbed brokenly, her thighs shaking and clenching around his head, making him continue to dig his neatly trimmed fingernails into the pillowy skin of her left thigh that he was still clutching, while moving his head quickly back and forth, stimulating her little nub until his little sister saw stars.

aemond knew it was sinful, having his sister gush and leak and drool all over his fingers and tongue as he continued suckling at her now overstimulated clit, her skin glistening with sweat, making her skin shine so beautifully against his silk bedsheets--- she was ethereal, an angel, his.

“sweet girl, you’ve done so good for me this evening--- so fucking perfect, little darling,” he praised tenderly, removing his mouth from her clit, while still gently nuzzling the twitching bud with the tip of the cleft of his nose, his fingers still moving almost lazily inside of her cunt, curling his fingers inside of her.

…as if he wished to stay inside of her; forever.

a soft hum escaped him in content, while he continued to gently fuck her with his fingers, more slowly as he heard her soft, girlish pleas--- more like sweet little mewls of his name.

“i think you’re ready for my cock now, don’t you?” he questioned darkly lovingly, pressing soft kisses against her engorged clit, allowing his slightly swollen lips to trail open-mouthed kisses all across the soft curls covering her mound, then across her inner thighs which were covered in her slick, watching as they continued trembling in his strong, possessive grasp.

silently, he gazed up at her longingly, a low purr rumbling deeply inside of his bare chest, the thought of plunging his furiously hard, weeping cock into his sister’s tight little cunny was almost too much to bear for the kinslayer.

oh, and how all of my devotion turns violent, aemond thought wickedly to himself, but no--- not with his sweet, beloved little sister…he would take her as his lady wife, to love and cherish and breed her nightly with loads of his seed until she was pregnant with many of his babes.

even then, aemond would never stop, how could he? she was his everything, and whether or not she was too fucked out by him feasting on her cunny for hours was no matter, because he already knew.

she loved him just the same, even if she truly did not know it just yet, his innocent little sister.

hm, what a sick little head he had, how his love turned into obsession, into possession--- but nonetheless, it was still love.

pure, undying love.

fin.

[hamsterclaw]

Yoongi’s a murder detective fighting burnout when he’s assigned the case that you and your former partner fucked up.

Paring: Yoongi x f! Reader

Genre: Detectives!Yoongi and reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of murder, bloodshed and assault, sex, depression and burnout, mentions of guns

The flashing blue lights in Yoongi’s window are followed by the wail of sirens cutting through the early evening bustle.

Yoongi looks out the window. He’s three floors up from street level, there’s raindrops tracking along the dirty glass, the faint smell of mildew that accompanies any rainfall in this filthy city.

Under the table, his good leather shoes, the ones he saves for weddings and funerals, have rubbed a hole in the skin over his achilles. Yoongi had worn them for his disciplinary hearing today, the part of him that still wants to be a cop temporarily winning over the part of him that doesn’t.

He wonders if this is what burnout feels like.

His superior, Kim Namjoon, had called him into his office after the hearing to tell him he was on probation, to clean up his act because he wouldn’t be so lucky as to get off next time.

The truth is, Yoongi had known while he was pressing the suspect’s face into gravel with his booted foot that it would come back to bite him on the ass.

He’d done it anyway.

Yoongi’s never been kind to scum who exploit children, but his partner, Jung Hoseok, had seen something in Yoongi’s face that day that had made him report Yoongi.

Yoongi doesn’t blame him. Hoseok has been his partner on and off for five years and he’s as sterling as they come. His moral compass is as strong as it was the day they graduated from the academy, despite all the fucked up shit they’ve seen.

Unlike Yoongi.

Yoongi was never black and white to begin with and now he’s so far into the grey he scares himself sometimes. It’s never been his goal to be the kind of cop who metes out his own justice.

Only madness lies that way.

Anyway now Hoseok’s been reassigned temporarily to narcotics, supposedly a break from homicide, and Yoongi’s partnerless.

Probably not for long, there’s always some hungry rookie wanting the credibility of working homicide.

Yoongi sighs, closes the file he’d been skimming. It’s well past seven, there aren’t any open cases that need his immediate attention and he figures he might as well go home to his apartment and his cat, Kenzo.

The pavement’s slippery under the smooth soles of his good shoes, Yoongi pulls his coat tighter against the early autumn chill as he walks the five blocks to his apartment.

The smell of fried wontons fills his nostrils as he passes a conduit street in the back end of Little China, Yoongi’s tempted to stop and pick up dinner.

He’s tempted every time and succumbed yesterday so he soldiers on, not without a pang of regret. He regrets food choices because he’d rather that, than think about his actual regrets.

The bang of a gunshot when he’d been two minutes too late to what then became a crime scene.

Fucking some girl with a cute face because he hadn’t been man enough to treat Mara the way she deserved.

Choosing to stay in homicide even after it had become clear to him that he had plumbed the depths of human depravity. Scarring his psyche repeatedly because it’s easier than making the active choice to request a transfer.

Yoongi unlocks his door, toes his shoes off, hangs up his coat.

There’s a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a flash of grey fur as Kenzo skitters across the entryway, close but not touching him.

It’s the kind of greeting Yoongi can get behind.

He pours out a serving of dry food into Kenzo’s dish, heads to the fridge to reheat yesterday’s wontons.

Eats standing at the tiny kitchen island, cracks open a beer to wash it all down.

He catches sight of his face, pinched in the scowl it seems to fall into more often than not these days.

Jesus, is he getting old?

Yoongi avoids looking at his reflection again as he showers. Changes into the same t-shirt he’s been wearing for weeks, contemplates watching porn just to take the edge off, but decides he can’t be bothered.

He falls into sleep, deep and dreamless, wakes up with an almighty crick in his neck just before dawn from the way he’d been huddled in a tight ball under the covers.

He knows he’s not right, but he’s been not right for so long Yoongi wouldn’t even know where to start putting himself together again.

***

Redemption comes in odd packages, Yoongi thinks, as he looks up a case he worked on six months ago, a shady businessman on the fringe of organised crime who’d got high as a kite and beat a sex worker to death.

He’d been killed on the way to serving out his sentence in the cushy prison in Busan his fancy lawyer had managed to negotiate, crushed in the back of the transport vehicle when it had been t-boned by a lorry.

Apparently a freak accident, Yoongi doubts it but he’s also not going to look too closely, it’s out of his jurisdiction and he’s too jaded to mourn the loss of another brutal asshole. They’d had to identify the sex worker by her dental records and DNA, her face had been unrecognisable.

There’s a knock on the frosted glass panel on his office door, Yoongi looks up as Kim Namjoon walks in, followed by the latest hungry rookie angling for a stint in homicide.

‘Min Yoongi, this is Y/N L/N,’ Namjoon says. ‘She’s a new transfer in from the Seoul branch.’

Yoongi doesn’t have to fake his disinterest as he nods politely at you.

‘What’s the case?’ he asks.

Namjoon looks pointedly at the crime scene photo blown up on Yoongi’s screen.

Yoongi waits.

He can feel your gaze on him, but he’ll get to that later.

The anticipation of a new case never gets old, he’s been in homicide since he graduated off the beat ten years ago and he no longer thinks it’s sick of him to get excited about another murder.

It’s the thrill of the hunt that he lives for, the translation of nebulous facts and witness statements into a puzzle that he can solve.

Yoongi’s damn good at his job. It almost makes the sacrifices in the rest of his so-called life worth it.

Namjoon hands Yoongi a case file, crisp, sharp edges waiting to razor his fingertips open. Flat.

Inside, the standard cover page, then a note that makes Yoongi sit up straight out of his slouch.

He looks at Namjoon to find Namjoon’s already looking at him.

‘The reaper of Seoul?’

Yoongi realises as he says the words out loud how it sounds.

The capture and subsequent conviction of the serial killer who’d terrorised the citizens of Seoul for three years had made headlines nationwide.

Last year.

‘Yeah,’ Namjoon says, the tension in his jaw evident now that Yoongi’s looking at him properly.

Namjoon glances at you. ‘It would seem he never left.’

You shift your weight and your eyes meet Yoongi’s.

‘My partner and I broke the case,’ you say. There’s a brittle smoothness to your voice that Yoongi recognises as a paper thin facade over the hauntedness underneath. ‘Turns out we didn’t.’

***

The note in the case file is a single sheet of letter paper, lined in blue.

The handwriting is precise, neat between the lines.

Oh dear.

Better luck this time?

Best regards from your neighbourhood Reaper.

Yoongi looks at you, sitting across the room at the desk Hoseok’s temporarily vacated.

You’re staring at your screen, face backlit in blue, expression unreadable. You’re in black, nondescript knitwear, your hair pushed back from your face, eyes narrowed.

He clears his throat. ‘You worked the case with your partner.’

It’s a statement you answer to like a question.

‘It was the first case I picked up when I joined homicide,’ you say, turning to Yoongi. ‘It started with -‘

‘Kim Seulgi,’ Yoongi says.

You nod, almost grimacing at the name of the Seoul Reaper’s first high profile victim.

‘Her family wanted answers.’

Kim Seulgi had been born of Seoul’s elite, an architect with her grandfather’s firm who had picked up a number of accolades for her work on the National Opera House.

She’d been engaged to an equally accomplished classical pianist, Jeong Minho, and had been the only offspring of her wealthy parents.

She’d disappeared three days before her wedding, only to turn up on her wedding day, floating in the Hangang, dressed in the clothes she’d disappeared in.

You say, ‘She was an ambitious first target.’

‘Was she the first?’ Yoongi asks.

The flicker in your eyes tells him this isn’t the first time you’ve considered this.

‘My partner Kiho.’ There’s strain in your voice. You start again. ‘My partner, Kiho, and I thought he’d killed before.’

You shrug. ‘The captain felt we were wasting time looking back into his early years.’

Yoongi says, neutral, ‘Budgets are limited, your case must have passed the thresholds for plausible deniability.’

‘It seemed to fit,’ you agree.

Your eyes meet again. ‘Not all of it, though.’

Yoongi knows, intimately, what it’s like to not be certain. Sometimes all you have is your instinct. It’s one thing to build a case no reasonable person would doubt, but you’re also betting on your gut. You’re betting on being a good enough detective to know that the pieces fit, without forcing them to fit.

You’re betting on being honest with yourself, and Yoongi knows more than anyone how tempting the lies can be.

Now you’re the one watching him, taking the measure of him.

His email pings.

‘That’s the link to the full case file,’ you say.

You get up, carry a stack of notebooks to his desk.

‘Our notebooks,’ you say.

Yoongi looks at the stack.

Every cop’s got their own collection of notebooks, raw data and impressions that don’t always make it into official reports.

The equivalent of dirty underwear when you’re not expecting company versus lingerie when you’re down to fuck.

This close, he can smell your shampoo, bright and faintly floral.

You blink at him.

‘I need to sort something with human resources,’ you say. ‘I’ll see you later.’

In actual fact it’s 36 hours later when he next sees you, at 4am, at a crime scene.

***

The rain falling is more than a drizzle, enough that the tent around the victim is the first priority.

There’s an imprint of violence in the air, Yoongi knows you feel it too by the way your lips tighten as you duck under the yellow tape to join him.

You nod at him in greeting, then there’s silence as you enter the tent.

The victim’s on her front, face turned to the right, hand tucked under her cheek.

She hasn’t been dead long enough for livedo to set in, she would almost look asleep if it weren’t for the purple of her lips, the greyness to her complexion.

The bath of blood she’s lying in.

Yoongi can just see the edge of the gaping wound on her neck.

You wait until forensics turns her body over.

The top three buttons of her silk blouse are undone, her chest slick with blood.

Yoongi’s reading the crime scene like he’s reading you, and he knows what you’re going to say before you say it.

‘It’s him,’ you breathe. The devastation in your eyes makes it difficult for him to look at you. ‘Fuck, it’s him.’

***

You’re shivering visibly despite the hot coffee Yoongi’s poured you, despite the fact that he’s turned the heating in his ancient Hyundai up as far as it’ll go.

There are droplets of water in your hair, sparkling incongruously in the gloom.

You’re waiting till first light to knock on neighbourhood doors, the victim was found in a quiet cul-de-sac.

Two minutes from her own front door.

Not much chills Yoongi these days but that fact does make him pause.

The audacity of it.

He says, ‘I have a blanket in the trunk.’

You’re protesting but Yoongi gets back out in the rain anyway, grabs the blanket and gets back in.

Hands it to you, takes your cup as you drape the blanket around yourself.

‘It gets colder here than Seoul,’ Yoongi offers, handing you your coffee back.

‘We fucked it up,’ you say, and Yoongi knows that’s what you’ve been thinking since you saw the body.

He’s just been waiting for you to be ready to say it.

‘So make it right,’ he says, simple.

‘An innocent man’s in prison because Kiho and I fucked up,’ you say.

Yoongi doesn’t want to minimise it but he doubts the man you put away was completely innocent.

‘I read your notebooks,’ he says. ‘Who’s Jeon Bogyeol?’

There had been twelve murders before the arrest. All women in their late twenties to mid thirties, all living alone.

They’d all lived in the same part of Seoul, but apart from that there was nothing to link them that he could find.

You look at him warily. ‘He was a night watchman at the apartments of seven of the women.’

Yoongi waits.

‘We cross-referenced staff at all the addresses, and his name kept coming up. Like Jang Daeseong.’

You flinch at the name of the man convicted of the murders, as though it didn’t fall from your own lips.

You keep talking, though, your voice never faltering. ‘We never found any links between Jeon Bogyeol and the other five women.’

‘Did he have a history?’ Yoongi asks. He’s looking out the window at the first rays of sunrise, muted orange through the rain. His shoulder aches, an old injury he doesn’t think about except when he’s tired, and cold.

‘There was a neighbour,’ you say. You’re chewing on your bottom lip, a tell Yoongi’s noticed for the first time tonight.

‘She called the police once saying she’d seen Bogyeol taking a woman into his apartment against her will.’

You’re frowning. ‘The beat cops who responded to the call out said there was no sign of anyone else in his apartment. The neighbour moved away.’

‘Moved away?’ Yoongi asks, and you glance at him, understanding the sharpness in his tone.

‘I was going to look into it when the Chief shut us down,’ you say. It’s stated simply, like a fact, no sign of defensiveness.

Yoongi offers you more coffee from his flask.

‘Where’s Bogyeol now?’

‘When the new letter came in I looked him up,’ you say. The steam rising from your cup obscures part of your expression for a moment, but Yoongi can hear the tremor in your voice.

‘He’s less than fifty miles east of here.’

Dawn’s breaking, the rain’s finally starting to peter out, but Yoongi’s chilled anyway.

***

The morning sun is high in the sky by the time Yoongi and you finish interviewing the neighbours and the new victim’s friends and family.

Yoongi’s phone rings. It’s Namjoon.

‘Can you talk?’ Namjoon asks.

Yoongi mouths ‘Namjoon’ in response to your inquiring expression, puts some distance between you and him.

‘Yeah,’ he answers.

‘The post-mortem results are back, and the preliminary tox screen is negative. The ME’s put the cause of death as exsanguination.’

Yoongi processes this. ‘It’s the same MO as the previous Seoul reaper victims,’ he says.

Namjoon sighs. ‘Has anything new come out of your interviews?’

‘No,’ Yoongi says. The victim had been well-liked, none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything, and on the surface of it there were no conflicts he could see. Her boyfriend of two years had been away on a work trip, his location confirmed around the window of the crime.

Yoongi’s looking at you as you wait against the car, and when your name comes out of Namjoon’s mouth he’s already got an inkling of what Namjoon wants to know.

‘I reviewed the case,’ Namjoon says. ‘There are no obvious flaws or errors in their investigation.’

Yoongi grunts. ‘There was a lead that they didn’t follow up on.’

He fills Namjoon in.

‘I’ll follow it up.’

Namjoon says, thoughtfully, ‘I wonder where her partner’s working now.’

Yoongi’s surprised Namjoon doesn’t already know, to be honest, he’s always two steps ahead of Yoongi.

He flicks his gaze to you again. You’re still waiting against the car, and there’s a loneliness to your posture, a fatigued downturn to your mouth that makes him say, ‘Hey Joon, I’ll call you back, ok?’

He ends the call, unlocks the car.

‘We should get back and compare notes,’ Yoongi says. His voice has dropped the way it does when he’s tired, and shit, he is tired. He hasn’t slept well for a while.

‘Let me drive,’ you offer. You take his keys, and your fingers brush his for an instant.

The contact, brief though it is, makes Yoongi’s skin tingle.

He wonders if you notice his reaction, but you’re already sliding in, adjusting the seat, starting up the car.

***

Yoongi wakes when you’re parking the car, sits up, a little embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, looking to gauge your reaction.

‘Don’t be,’ you reply. ‘I would have done the same if you’d driven.’

There’s a hint of mischief in the curve of your half-smile.

‘You mumble in your sleep.’

Yoongi rubs a hand over his face. ‘What’d I say?’

‘I couldn’t make out any words,’ you tell him, but there’s a twinkle in your eye that makes him wonder if that’s really true.

Mara is the only person who’s shared his bed in recent years, and she’d never mentioned anything.

You swipe your ID to get into the station, hit the lifts.

In the dire grey lighting you look almost as tired as he does.

‘Coffee?’ Yoongi offers, when you pass the vending machine on the way to the office.

‘Yeah,’ you say. You’re on your phone, frowning over a text.

Yoongi passes you a cup.

‘Problem?’ he asks.

‘Kiho,’ you say. You look at him. ‘My old partner. He wants to meet up.’

‘It’d be useful to talk through the case with him,’ Yoongi agrees.

Your expression is difficult to read. ‘He’s in a retreat a couple hours drive from here. He took time off after we closed the case.’

Yoongi gulps his coffee. ‘There isn’t anything else we can do here anyway, we’re waiting on leads.’

He reaches out his hand for the car keys. ‘I can drive.’

***

The retreat Kiho is staying in is set amongst the foothills of a mountain, rolling grounds all around, a view of the cliffs overlooking the sea.

It seems to Yoongi like a place only the very rich or the very damaged would live.

Unless you get better pay packets in Seoul he’s apprehensive about meeting Kiho.

You sign in at the front desk, the receptionist greets you warmly, like she’s met you a few times before.

You lead Yoongi through a huge lounge, through open patio doors and into a green. Yoongi’s looking around at the residents, scanning the area the way he does automatically whenever he’s in an unfamiliar place.

You’re waving a hand, and then you’re embracing a tall man tightly. Neither of you say anything but Yoongi can see the way your shoulders slump, like the tension’s draining out of you.

It’s only when the tall man looks up at Yoongi inquiringly that Yoongi notices the long scar running along his neck. Tracing the path of his jugular, vertical rather than horizontal.

Kiho extends a hand.

‘So you’re going to get our guy,’ he says.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that.

‘We’re going to get him,’ he says, finally.

Kiho turns to you. ‘You haven’t told him,’ he says to you.

You’re looking at Yoongi.

‘We can tell him now.’

***

‘I started getting notes after Jang Daeseong was convicted,’ you say. You’re sitting in a gazebo with Yoongi and Kiho, mugs of coffee in front of you.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

You flick your eyes to his, then look away, unlock your phone.

Yoongi takes your phone, scrolls through a gallery of pictures.

Lined paper, handwriting he’s seen before.

Yoongi reads through the content, then returns your phone to you.

‘The originals are with forensics,’ you tell him. ‘The paper and ink are generic, impossible to trace. There’s no trace of DNA, not so much as a partial print.’

‘The notes stopped coming last month,’ you say. ‘Right around the time I moved.’

Kiho’s scratching his neck absently, Yoongi catches how your gaze drops to his scar.

The length of it’s longer than a stab wound, he thinks the surgeons might have had to extend the scar to repair the vessels beneath.

You turn to Yoongi.

‘We have to stop him,’ you say. ‘Use me to lure him out.’

‘He nearly killed me,’ Kiho says. His expression is sober, his tone flat.

He stops there, but Yoongi can hear his next words, loud and clear.

What’s he going to do to you?

‘We can’t let him keep going like this,’ you say, very gently.

Kiho meets Yoongi’s gaze.

Yoongi doesn’t falter.

‘He has to be stopped,’ he agrees.

***

The drive back to the police station goes quicker - there’s something about seeing your old partner that’s given you a bump of energy.

Yoongi can practically feel the adrenaline fizzing in your blood, coming off you in waves.

He’s worried about the crash when the adrenaline ebbs.

He sure as fuck hopes you can cope with the lows better than he can.

He’d put in a call before you left the retreat, Namjoon’s fast tracking a last known address on the neighbour of Jeon Bogyeol who’d moved away.

You’re typing an address into the satnav yourself, face drawn, eyes serious.

Yoongi doesn’t have to ask whose address it is.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ he asks.

His voice is as neutral as he can make it but he already knows that you’ve made your decision.

It’s written all over you, in the way your shoulders are squared, in the tilt of your chin, in the way your hands are tensed into fists in your lap.

‘I need to see this through, Yoongi,’ you say.

Yoongi takes a moment.

‘What happened to Kiho?’ he asks.

‘He didn’t see who it was,’ you answer. Your eyes are fixed in front of you, jaw tensed.

‘He was heading home in between shifts and he got jumped in the car park under his apartment. If he hadn’t been found by the car park attendant —‘ you voice trails off, and you shiver.

‘He was lucky the car park attendant called for help right away. That his next door neighbour, fresh off a shift in the trauma department, arrived home when she did and was there to take over. That he lives five minutes on blue lights away from the best trauma centre in Seoul.’

You look at Yoongi. ‘Kiho’s damned lucky to be alive.’

‘It’s a different injury from the reaper’s usual MO,’ Yoongi says slowly.

You nod. ‘He was toying with us.’

‘You said you received notes from the Reaper,’ Yoongi says. He’s watching you carefully in the rearview. ‘What did they say?’

Your lips press together in a line, but your voice is steady when you answer.

‘He said he’d been watching me, and that he was coming for me. That I’d be his final kill.’

***

The address you’ve put in for Jeon Bogyeol is a house in a run down suburban neighbourhood, the type of place Yoongi grew up.

The houses are haphazardly arranged, like a careless scatter on a Monopoly board, connected by a warren of roads too narrow for more than one car to pass.

Yoongi can see you tensing up the closer you get to your destination, and after he parks and switches off the engine, he places his hand on your arm.

Your eyes are expressive, more so than your voice.

‘We haven’t got grounds yet for an arrest warrant,’ you say, flat.

‘We’re working the case,’ Yoongi replies. ‘And if it’s right, we’ll work it until it’s airtight.’

Your response is to stare at him a moment, then to push open the car door.

Yoongi notices that you’ve unzipped your jacket, making your holstered gun more visible.

His own gun presses against his hip, the weight of it reminding him that although he’s only drawn it a handful of times, each time has been with intent.

He sure as fuck hopes neither of you will have reason to draw your gun today.

***

The address is little more than a shack, a rickety door that looks like it’ll give under a strong kick, a boarded up window that’s visibly cracked.

Yoongi knocks, identifies you both.

Follows procedure because he’s determined to get it all right this time.

Get the monster locked up where he belongs.

You don’t have grounds to break down the door, at least not until you go round to the back and see the pink tricycle upended in the dirt, streamers splayed tendrils of pink and white.

There isn’t much that sends Yoongi into the grey as much as the suggestion that a child might be involved.

He doesn’t really recall looking at you to confirm, just knows that one minute he’s outside in the chill and the next he’s inside the shack, gun drawn, the metallic tang of blood in the back of his throat.

There’s nowhere to hide in the empty shack, Jeon Bogyeol is gone.

You do a cursory search but both of you know you aren’t going to find your answers here.

Then Yoongi must blank out, because the next thing he hears is your voice, firm, saying his name.

He’s panting, covered in sweat, back against a wall, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his jacket to keep him upright.

He blinks, and you snap into focus. There’s ringing in his ears.

Your mouth opens, and the ringing stops. He hears your voice.

‘Let’s go, Yoongi.’

He lets you lead him out, folds himself into the passenger seat of your car, notes distantly how you put your hand on the top of the doorframe like you’re worried he’s going to bang his head.

You start the engine and then you drive, and Yoongi’s grateful that you don’t say anything at all, don’t ask for an explanation of why a fucking tricycle sent him into a tailspin.

Yoongi looks down in his lap because he’s not ready to see if you’re looking at him differently now that you’ve seen him wig out.

You put the radio on after a few minutes, stop at a drive thru after an hour.

It’s only when you hand him a coffee, silently, that he’s moved to speak.

He clears his throat, and you’re the one who speaks, still looking straight ahead, out the windscreen.

‘You don’t have to tell me. I mean, I’ll listen if you do, but you don’t have to.’

Yoongi chews on that a moment.

‘Three years ago I worked what we thought was a murder in Busan. It turned out to be an abduction.’

Yoongi laughs. There’s no humour in it.

‘We found her. She was still warm. If we’d been ten minutes quicker at figuring it out, if her fucking dad had told us about the business deal he had that had gone sour sooner, if I’d even just tried harder…’

His voice trails off.

He risks a glance at you.

You’re still not looking at him.

‘I can’t speak to whether you could have prevented it, Yoongi. All I know is that none of us come to work to do a bad job.’

Your hand lands on his forearm briefly.

‘Some days are just bad days at the office.’

It’s not the first time Yoongi’s heard it, but it’s the first time it’s been said to him with no judgement that he can hear.

***

When you get back to the precinct, Namjoon’s waiting.

He hands Yoongi another case file.

‘I got Jimin to follow up on those leads we talked about,’ Namjoon says, no preamble.

‘We visited Jeon Bogyeol’s last known address,’ you say. ‘There’s no one there now, but it hasn’t been long since he moved out.’

Namjoon says, ‘Keep me informed.’

He nods to the case file. ‘There’s some interesting information in there.’

As Namjoon walks off, you turn to Yoongi.

‘I’m going down to visit someone I know in forensics, see if they can check the house.’

Yoongi heads for your joint office.

There’s a cleaning cart parked just outside the door, which opens just as Yoongi reaches for the doorknob.

The cleaner apologises and bows politely.

Yoongi steps aside to let her pass.

‘You forgot this,’ he says, spotting the dusting cloth left on your desk.

He hands it to her and places the file on his desk.

Outside, it’s raining again.

***

Yoongi wakes with a jolt.

You’re perched on the edge of his desk.

‘You should go home, get some sleep.’

‘In the middle of an active murder investigation?’ Yoongi mumbles.

‘I’m one of the potential targets, remember?’ you say, grimacing. ‘He might come to us.’

At Yoongi’s expression, you say, ‘We’ve been doing nothing but following up leads since the last murder. The last investigation took months, almost a year. What are you going to do, not sleep until he’s caught?’

‘I don’t sleep much anyway,’ Yoongi says, but he knows you’re right.

‘I know you don’t,’ you reply. There’s an empathy in your tone that reminds him you’re a homicide detective too.

You exchange a look, and then you both speak at the same time.

‘I should go —‘

‘Do you like wontons?’ Yoongi blurts out.

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Is this like inviting me in for ramen?’

‘What?’ Yoongi splutters. ‘No, not like that. There’s this place I go. They have—-‘

‘Wontons, I get it,’ you say. You get up. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

***

It’s been a while since Yoongi shared a meal with someone else, the last person was Hoseok, who could go straight from a crime scene to a steakhouse without turning a hair.

You’re chasing a wonton around your plate, fatigue lining the corners of your mouth.

Yoongi asks, ‘Where do you live?’

‘The other side of town,’ you tell him. ‘Near the financial district.’

‘Fancy,’ Yoongi muses.

‘More than I can afford,’ you say darkly. ‘If this case goes on for a while I’m going to need to move.’

You look up at him. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Close to here,’ Yoongi says.

‘Yeah?’

You put your chopsticks down. ‘I should —-‘

This time, Yoongi interrupts.

‘Do you want to come round for ramen?’

Your eyes meet, and there’s a beat of silence. Then a pulse of connection that sends heat through Yoongi’s veins.

Your knee brushes his under the table.

‘Yeah,’ you answer, deliberate. ‘Fuck, yeah.’

***

Yoongi’s always hated the preamble to a hookup, in his line of work uncertainty is a thing to be avoided.

You work the case until you get an explanation no reasonable person would doubt.

He finds himself waiting, though, now that you’re standing in his apartment.

You’re looking around, and he wonders if his existence seems as lonely on the outside as it feels on the inside.

He’s wondering if you’ve changed your mind, if you really did think he meant ramen, when you reach out and grasp the front of his shirt.

Slip the tips of your fingers just under, hold the placket as you use your other hand to unbutton. Start at his throat, work your way down, slowly.

His skin prickles under the warmth of your fingers.

You lean forward and press a kiss to the base of his neck.

Yoongi reaches up, slides a hand around the nape of your neck, and you tilt your face to his.

Close up, you’re soft.

Yoongi traces your bottom lip with his thumb, and your lips part.

You don’t say anything, though, and that’s ok, because Yoongi thinks you’re as talked out as he is.

It’s been a hell of a fucking day.

You’re kissing his neck again, instead of his mouth, and that’s ok, because this isn’t love, it’s comfort.

A human connection in a day filled with monsters.

Yoongi sighs as your hands slip over his bare chest, round to his back.

He helps you lift your top over your head, admires your breasts, nipples pressing against the fabric of your bra.

He cups the weight of them in his hands, and you moan.

Yoongi’s cock is filling out, and you’re undoing his belt like you want to see for yourself.

You drop to your knees in front of him, press your mouth onto the length of him over his boxer briefs, sigh with pleasure.

‘Not too much,’ Yoongi warns, ‘not if you want me to fuck you.’

You look up at him, hair mussed, a smile curving your lips.

You tug his boxer briefs down, and Yoongi curls a hand around himself so as not to hit you in the face.

‘Just let me —‘

You open your mouth to take him in, and Yoongi groans at the feel of your warmth.

When did he last —

His crown nudges the back of your throat, and you swallow, and he loses his train of thought.

He grabs your shoulder, tugs you up, kisses the smear of his own stickiness at the corner of your mouth.

The light slanting in through the window is hues of gold and orange, filling in the hollows of your face, outlining the curves of your body.

Yoongi has to stop looking at you because he doesn’t want to cry at how much he’s missed being close to someone like this.

‘Where do you want me?’ he asks, voice taut.

‘Anywhere,’ you say. ‘Just turn these fucking lights out.’

***

In the dark, Yoongi’s most enraptured by the warmth of you.

Your skin is smooth, so soft under his hands as he wraps his fingers around the curve of your hips.

His cock glides in and out of the heat between your legs, and your moans are beautiful but what really gets him are the hitches in your breathing as he moves.

He turns you over, onto your back, and you pull him to you. Your mouth opens on his shoulder in what would be a kiss if you weren’t biting down. Your tongue flicks over his bruised skin, an apology.

You haven’t spoken to each other in words in a while but Yoongi doesn’t think either of you need words right now.

At least he doesn’t.

You’re tightening around his cock now, your cries quickening until you gasp his name in a tone that makes him grunt and his hips jerk, taking him deep as he can go.

Even in his pleasure he makes sure not to crush you as he collapses next to you.

Then you’re up, walking over to the window, pulling up the sash, lighting a cigarette without asking if he’s ok with it.

Yoongi admires the outline of your profile against the glass.

‘I needed that,’ you say, taking a drag, hunching a little to blow smoke out of his window.

‘Me too,’ Yoongi says, honestly.

He ties off the condom, gets up to toss it in the trash on top of yesterday’s takeout.

Pours you a glass of water on his way back to bed.

He half expects you to be dressed, and you are, but in his clothes, not your own, an old t-shirt he’d tossed on the chair by the bed yesterday morning before he left for work.

He can’t see your face clearly in the dark. It makes it easy to find his voice.

‘You should stay,’ he says. ‘We can get coffee in the morning.’

You’re quiet. ‘I want to.’

Yoongi climbs into bed, and after a moment you slide in next to him.

Your bodies aren’t touching at all, but somehow having you there with him is enough.

Yoongi means to check on you, but he’s asleep so quickly he doesn’t get a chance to.

***

There’s a basketball hoop set into the wall in the back end of the station, a concrete square with a chain-link fence.

The building opposite is a block of offices, as is the building next to it.

Yoongi makes the shot, and you grab the ball on its first bounce.

You say, ‘Forensics got nothing from Jeon Bogyeol’s shack. He bleached the shit out of the place before he left.’

Yoongi grunts, watches you point and shoot.

He’d read through the file Namjoon gave him on the neighbour - it’s incomplete but she was last seen alive twelve weeks ago in a coastal town.

There’s something niggling at the back of his brain, he’d suggested shooting hoops in the hopes that the activity might shake the thought loose so his conscious mind can make the connection.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Namjoon.

‘I’m going up to see Namjoon,’ he says. ‘You coming?’

‘I’ll stay here for a bit,’ you say. ‘I’ll be up in a sec.’

Yoongi shrugs, lets himself back in.

Takes the stairs up to Namjoon’s office on the third floor.

There’s a cleaning cart parked next to the staff kitchen as he rounds the corner.

Yoongi’s about to knock on Namjoon’s door when his scattered thoughts crystallise.

The case file Namjoon had given him had a grainy photo of Jeon Bogyeol’s neighbour, the one who’d reported him and then disappeared.

He’s seen her face before, and recently.

Coming out of your office.

‘Fuck,’ he swears.

He grabs his phone out of his pocket, dials your number.

Your phone rings, and rings.

Yoongi takes off, down the stairs, back the way he came.

By the time he bursts out of the back door of the station, gun drawn, his heart’s thumping triple speed, but his hand is steady as he aims it at the man with a knife standing over you.

His finger goes from trigger guard to trigger.

‘Fucking drop it,’ Yoongi warns.

He doesn’t, so Yoongi shoots.

***

Jeon Bogyeol’s neighbour who had reported him was called Seo Hyerin.

She was in her early forties, an ex-teacher who he’d coerced into helping him by turning up at her new place even after she’d moved to get away from him.

She’d been too scared to disobey him, but in forcing her to help him, Jeon Bogyeol had given her access to enough information to clinch the case against him.

Once she’d found out he’d been shot and was likely to go straight from hospital to prison, she’d shared all that information with Yoongi and you.

The pieces fell into place so easily there was no need to make any of it fit.

And now Yoongi’s sitting in the kitchen of your apartment, watching as you pack things up.

He’d been right. Your place was fancy.

You were being transferred back to Seoul to finish up, see things through with the case.

He realises you’re looking at him.

‘My new place is a couple hours drive from here,’ you say.

‘Yeah?’ Yoongi says, like he hadn’t already looked it up.

He’d also looked up timed automated cat food dispensers, just because it was one thing to have a neighbour drop in and feed Kenzo if he’s stuck with a case occasionally, but it’s another thing if he’s regularly going to be driving down to see you.

If he’s regularly going to be spending the night away.

It’s uncharacteristic, for him, but he’s hopeful.

‘I slept pretty well that time,’ you say, looking down into your box.

You look up at him, and the curve of your lips makes Yoongi think to himself that he’d like to kiss you, sometime.

‘In your apartment,’ you clarify, like he wouldn’t already know.

‘I make good ramen,’ Yoongi says. ‘I can make it again for you, you know.’

You laugh, and the sound makes Yoongi feel warm.

He realises that he’s smiling.

Fuck, it’s been a while.

[proxycrit]

Elesa climbs to celestial tower to ring the bell. Emmet, stuck in between the distortion world, finds his way home.

Part 1/ Part 2

The conductor falls, down, down, down.

“What’s my name?” He calls to the abyss in terror (what is terror?)

He’s a singular being, right? (That’s not right. He’s one of a pair.)

The abyss gazes back. It has no answers to give, in its multitude.

Not to someone that’s so, so alone.

———

Somewhere else, one Elesa of Nimbasa rings the Celestial Tower’s Bell, over and over. Her companion, Chandelure, keeps watch.

Nothing happens.

Elesa’s stomach sinks. The reverberations of Celestial Tower’s brass bell mocks her in its echo. The vibrations of it’s distortion only makes the tears she tries to hold at bay worse.

In the blur of her failure, she sees chandelure’s flames suddenly die. Part of her panics.

The rest of her is apathetic and numb.

What’s the point? It didn’t work. Elesa closes her eyes. Tries to swallow, and fails. She’s so tired. She’s so, so tired. The deal with Azelf, the media storm she’s weathered, the constraints of her job, the almost loss of chandelure-

Emmet has been gone for three months. Ingo has been gone even longer.

They have gone where she can’t follow.

Elesa, the ghost whispers in her head. Elesa shakes her head in denial. She doesn’t want to plan right now. She wants to curl into herself, and disappear, just for a bit.

Elesa!

“I can’t do this,” she croaks. The sob in the back of her throat bubbles outwards. She wants Zebrstika. She wants Skyla. She wants her friends.

The paliphet Azelf forced her forward. It permeates her thoughts, drowning out logical thought.

(Too much willpower, and it will become an obsession, Azelf had warned her once in Ingo’s voice. And then, in Emmet’s voice: And when you fail, it willll break you. And finally, in her own voice: you will not have a choice but to move forward, with this curse.

I accept, elesa and told it back in the lake.)

I’m so tired, Elesa thinks now, two months later.

But she keeps moving forward. The bell rings again as Elesa strikes it, with all the hurt and rage and longing forced by her own hand into her soul-

-And that’s when chandelure screams, and there is a terrible rolling crack, and Elesa feels the sudden lurch in her gut as she looks up, her apathy torn into shreds as-

The sky tears open in a fractal wave.

Elesa gapes.

She can not comprehend the sudden black webbing across the sky. In the distance, sirens suddenly start wailing as people stop to perceive the impossible.

But Elesa does not care, because in that moment, the wrench in her gut is so great she almost staggers off the platform. Chandelure is by her side in an instant, her glass body a warm comfort to the sudden chill, because-

Something white is falling.

Elesa’s doesn’t know what she yells. But the tug in her chest feels like the beat of a drum, and she is helpless to the melody that calls for action.

Azelf’s blessed takes a leaping step forward, off the building. Chandelure lets out a panicked chime and the warmth of psychic cradles Elesa as she reaches out, arms outstretched, falling and flying and-

And Emmet, sparking with white electricity, reaches back.

NOTES:

AU’s Salvaging the Ship of Theseus! Everybody has a Bad Time. (Emmet and Eelektross go to Hisui and learn about the joys of the distortion world. Elesa hunts legends and makes bad deals. Ingo babysits some sneaslets.)

Backstory and explanation:

Prior this scene, Emmet was travelling Hisui with Eelektross before he falls through a mirror and becomes lost in the distortion world for a month. Elesa and Chandelure, meanwhile, refuse to give up on their remaining friend. (Ingo’s fine! He’s in Hisui right now trying to get fired so he can go searching for his memories. Eelektross is… less fine. We will Worry about That Later.)

Disclaimers: Everything’s a work in progress and subject to change!

Part 2!

[yeyinde]

in connection to the previous post about simon/price’s dynamics; do kyle and johnny have similar dichotomies w their loves ?

i love the surge in SoapGaz because we really get to see how insane these two really are together lmao but yeah. charm and obsession is kinda how i see them.

both are intense, bold. their attention makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, but not at first. when it first happens, it's a spotlight. red carpet. dizzying. who wouldn't go a little insane having such an intense, gorgeous man lazer all his focus on them? and the way they do it is fan-ish. an unfathomable concept to wrap your head around until you have a man checking every single box you've ever had, raising the bar to an unreachable height as they shower you with unparalleled attention.

but the problem is, you don't see all the red flags because their personalities blind you to it. a little bit like a tsunami. you don't see the wall looming in front of you when the water recedes because you're too busy staring at the pretty seashells they uncovered for you.

with them, it's all charm, manipulation, and an unhinged obsession to the point where they're not content to simply be with you. they need you rooted so deeply to them that you just can't be without them.

Gaz slowly, steadily breaks down every wall you've ever had and rebuilds it around the two of you. locking you inside. sealing the exit. and you let him. because why wouldn't you?

Gaz is mature. a rock. he's someone who immediately feels untouchable; a phantom in a dream you can't ever seem to catch. but when you finally get him, it's almost fantastical. he's solid. steady. takes everything single thing you throw at him and tidies it up for you. ailments, illnesses. quirks. nothing seems to phase him. there's not a single thing you could try and leverage against him to see if he'll leave because he has an answer to it all. he doesn't mind going to physiotherapy with you. he reminds you to take your pills. gentles you into submission. peels back the layers slowly and examines every single part of you until nothing is without his fingerprints.

Gaz leaves you yearning. there's nothing else after him. no one else.

(and if you happen to slip away, he makes sure of it. stalks you, the people you date. threatens them with a flash of his canines and eyes that look far more wolfish than they should. isolates you slowly. methodically. narrows your world down to just him and ensures you'll come crawling back.

what else is out there for you when he's the Perfect Man? just ignore the stench coming from the closet.)

Soap is tumultuous. a whirlwind. the sirens wail warning you of a tornado but he's already ripped your house apart by the time you hear it. his attention is undivided. blistering. he's too handsome for his own good. too sweet, too. lures you in with roguish charm and devoted from day one. if you met on a dating app, he's deleting it before the first conversation is over. doesn't need it anymore, he says. he found the one. with Soap, it's the most intense relationship you've ever been in. a nonstop marathon of everything: conversations, future plans, sex. he dotes on you, but doesn't treat you like you're made of glass. showers you in affection, attention. makes you feel wanted in every conceivable way.

without him around, you feel dazed. confused. waking up on the beach after falling asleep under the sun. a little sunburn and sick.

and that's how you stay without him. a sigh of relief, at first. the silence is blissful. but then you hit a wall. you stagnant. he's the human version of a serotonin hit and the moment he leaves, you're left feeling empty. sucked dry.

it just makes sense to go back.

they pull you in, strip you bare. wrap themselves around your neck like a boa constrictor but where Soap takes a bite right away and then breaks you down, Gaz plays the long game of slowly coiling around you until it's too late.

[zephyrrhiesfyrian]

Tinyformers First Aid who communicates with little siren wee-woos!!!

He'd wail them at you if he notices you don't care of yourself and your companions.

Forgot a meal? Wee-woo

Cut your finger and didn't disinfect and bandage it? Wee-woo

Forgot to water the plants? Wee-woo

Your computer makes a weird noise? Wee-woo! The machines suffer too!

I've shown you the description of his G1 toy, he'd be a little ball of too much empathy (I'd put him in a glass bc CHILL little guy I'll live--)

--- Thun

WEE-WOO WEE-WOO

Tinyformers First Aid is worrying over everything, no matter how small. He will literally break down into tears if you kill a bug. Please be careful.

He notices you shedding hair and has an entire crisis because he thinks you're dying. You will need to gently explain to him that human hair naturally sheds itself.

And GOD FORBID your TV remote need a new change of batteries. First Aid will try to have a funeral for the hunk of plastic before you can even take the drained batteries out.

[tikosblogg]

SAVE ME

Summary: you and JJ finally come forward with your feelings for each other.

Warning: SMUT. Unprotected piv.

A/N: I’m a whore for JJ Maybank. Sorry if it’s shit, and sorry for the abrupt ending it’s really late 🥲🫶🏻

The sun had just started its slow descent behind the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Outer Banks. It was picturesque—a scene straight out of a postcard—yet everything around me felt like it was unraveling. I had just left the town council meeting when chaos erupted. My one of my best friends JJ Maybank was at his absolute worst.

I had to get to him before the police did. It took all but 5 minutes to spot him in town. He was the embodiment of the wild spirit that thrived in all of us pogues; blonde hair tousled and eyes glimmering with a mix of fury and reckless defiance. With every swing of that wooden baseball bat, the glass shattered, sending echoes through the quiet streets. My heart raced not just with fear for him but with a sadness. There was something exhilarating about JJ—his antics, his bravery, his reckless abandonment. But this, this wasn’t the JJ I knew; this was a version engulfed in rage and despair.

"JJ!" I shouted, my voice slicing through the sound of breaking glass. He whipped around, breath ragged, eyes blazing like a stormy ocean.

"What are you doing here? You need to get out of here!" he yelled, his voice laced with anger, confusion, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

Before I could respond, the wailing call of police sirens echoed through the air. My gut instinct kicked in. “Just come with me!” I yelled, desperately grabbing his hand, pulling him into motion before he could protest. For a fleeting moment, I felt the warmth of his skin against mine, electrifying and terrifying. In his eyes, I saw both anger and fear; it was as if he feared losing control even more than he feared getting caught.

He didn’t resist as I dragged him into my car; his defiance had been stripped away by the overwhelming reality of our situation. I slammed the gas and the tires screeched in protest, sending us careening down familiar backroads toward the safety of my parents' house. The ride was thick with an unsaid tension.

JJ sat in the passenger seat, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of my seat, his breath still heavy. I could feel frustration radiating off him in waves. It was a mixture of fury, shame, and confusion. He was a storm of emotion. The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the thrum of the engine and the incessant clicking of the turn signal. Minutes felt like hours as I replayed what had just happened in my head. If I were honest, a part of me found my heart racing not just from the chaos, but from being this close to him—out of everything that revolved around JJ, I was just glad he was alive.

I finally pulled up outside my house “What are we doing?” he finally broke the silence, his voice calmer now but still laced with that simmering anger.

“You’re hiding out here. This is where you’re safe,” I answered, my voice firm, tinged with an emotion I barely understood myself.

His brows furrowed, confusion and disbelief etched across his handsome face. “I can’t! I don’t want to bring you down with me.”

My heart dropped at those words. I could feel my cheeks heat as I met his fiery blue eyes. “JJ, I don’t care about any of that. You’re my friend. More than that, I—”

I stopped myself. I was teetering on the edge of a precipice, ready to reveal the truth I had kept locked away for far too long. But the moment was interrupted as the sirens grew louder, closing in like a noose. He inhaled sharply, his eyes darting toward the sound.

“Come on,” I said, pushing him out of the car. “You promised me you’d be there for me. Just let me be there for you tonight.”

Reluctantly, he followed me inside. I could feel the weight of his silence, a storm brewing behind the facade of bravado he usually wore so confidently. The moment we stepped into my small living room, the atmosphere shifted; the events outside were deafening thoughts drowning in a hazy mix of adrenaline and concern.

I motioned for him to sit, needing to breathe, needing a moment to collect myself before diving into whatever was brewing in JJ's chaotic mind. He sat on the old couch, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, wrestling with the weight of his decisions.

“Why do you care so much?” he finally asked, looking up at me with a mix of gratitude and despair. “I mean, I’m just... a mess.”

“I care because you’re not just a mess, JJ.” My voice softened, and I found the courage to let my feelings spill out. “You’re so much more than that. You protect everyone, always putting your friends first. You’re fiercely loyal. You have a heart of gold buried under all the chaos.”

His eyes searched mine, vulnerability shining through the cracks of his facade. I felt the air thicken with tension as the moment hung between us, ripe with unsaid words.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice wavering. “I don’t know how to navigate this... all of this. I’m used to running away.”

“Then don’t.” I stepped closer, a surge of determination coursing through me. “Stay. Just tonight. Let me help you figure this out.”

For the first time, a flicker of something softer crossed his features. Under all his anger and bravado, there was the boy I had admired from a distance, the one I secretly loved—the one who needed help.

JJ took a deep breath, exhaling slowly like he was releasing the weight of the world. “Alright, but only for tonight. I can’t get you or the others mixed up in all of this.”

“That’s my decision to make. I wanna help you,” I said, my heart racing at the sincerity in his eyes. I led him up the creaky wooden stairs to my bedroom, my heart racing.

JJ sat on the edge of the bed, His hands had sustained multiple small cuts from all the shattered glass. I wanted to tend to those wounds.

I walked into the adjoining bathroom, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet. I ran the faucet, filling a small basin with warm water, and grabbed a soft washcloth. As I walked back to him, I couldn't help but notice the way his eyes.

Kneeling in front of him, I positioned myself between his thighs, feeling his warmth radiate towards me. His scent, a mix of the ocean and something uniquely him, filled my senses, making my head spin. I gently took his hands in mine, examining the tiny cuts on his rough palms and fingers. I felt a rush of tenderness for this man who had endured so much.

As I dipped the washcloth into the warm water, JJ's eyes never left me. There was a silent understanding between us, a connection that went beyond words. I cleaned his hands carefully, wiping away the traces of blood and dirt, my touch gentle and soothing. I could feel his eyes burning into me, his gaze intense and full of unspoken words.

When I finished, I looked up at him, my eyes locking with his deep, blue ones. A small smile played on my lips as I saw the mixed emotions reflected in his eyes. Before I could say a word, he leaned down, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that took my breath away.

His kiss was hungry, demanding, and filled with pent-up feelings. I melted into it, my body responding instinctively to his. His lips were soft yet insistent, and I could taste the saltiness of his skin, mingled with the sweetness of mouth. After what felt like forever, he pulled away, his breath warm on my face.

His eyes sparkled with unshed tears. His hand cupped my cheek, his thumb gently brushing against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I held my breath, waiting, wanting, and needing to hear what he had to say.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice hoarse. Those three words sent a jolt through my body, igniting a fire in me. I felt my face flush, and my eyes widened in surprise and pure joy. The JJ Maybank just said he loved me.

Overwhelmed with my own emotions, I leaned forward, capturing his lips again. This time, I took control, pouring all my love and emotions into the kiss. I tasted the salt of his tears as they spilled onto my lips, and it only fueled me further. Our tongues danced, exploring and claiming.

Breaking away, we both struggled to catch our breath. I looked into his eyes, my own now brimming with tears. "I love you too," I whispered, my voice trembling. His smile, so beautiful, lit up his entire face.

With a gentle tug, he pulled me to straddle his lap. I could feel his dick pressing against me, as I starting against it. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. He pushed my dress up to my hips, and he untied my bathing suit bottoms.

He tossed them to the floor, before kissing me again, nipping my bottom lip in the process. I whined against his lips, as he guided my hips back and forth over him. He shoved his face back into my neck. "Ride me, baby," he whispered, his voice gravelly with need.

I wasted no time, unbuttoning his pants, and pulling him out. I almost groaned at the sight of him. I positioned myself, taking him in slowly, feeling every inch of his thick length filling me. I gasped as he stretched me, a delicious pain mixing with the overwhelming pleasure. His hands gripped my hips, guiding my movements as I began to ride him, my body moving in a slow rhythm.

"That's it, baby." he groaned, his hands squeezing my hips roughly. "You feel so fucking good." His words spurred me on, and I picked up the pace. He reached out, pulling my dress completely off. He all but ripped my swimsuit top off eyeing my breasts as they bounced with each thrust. I leaned forward, my hands braced on his shoulders, as I took him deeper, riding him faster.

His hands roamed my body, cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples, and leaving a trail of fire on my skin. "You're so fucking beautiful," he growled, his voice rough and breathless. "My sweet, sweet girl." His praise only fueled my confidence, and I rode him harder, desperate to please him, to show him how much I loved him.

As my orgasm built, he suddenly flipped me onto my stomach, his strong arms easily maneuvering my small frame. I gasped, my face pressed into the soft pillow, my ass in the air, offering myself to him. He positioned himself behind me, his hard length sliding between my wet folds, seeking entry.

With one powerful thrust, he filled me from behind, claiming me, making me his. I cried out, my voice muffled by the pillow, as he pounded into me, his hips slamming against my ass. "You like that, huh?" he grunted, his hands gripping my hips tightly. "You love my cock inside you don't you?"

His words, so raw and filthy, only heightened my pleasure. I pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, our bodies slapping together in a primal rhythm. I could feel my orgasm building, a coiling tension in my core, ready to explode.

"Cum for me, mama," JJ groaned, his voice hoarse. "Let me feel that sweet pussy cum around my dick." His filthy words pushed me over the edge, and I came undone, my body shaking as waves of pleasure rippled through me. I cried out, my release intense and satisfying, my pussy pulsating around his throbbing cock.

JJ continued to thrust, his own release building. He pulled out suddenly, his hands gripping my hips, and flipped me onto my back. His eyes, wild with desire, took in my wanton display, my body still quivering from my orgasm. He spread my legs wide, exposing my glistening pussy, and dove down, his tongue replacing his cock.

His mouth devoured me, his tongue lapping at my sensitive flesh, sending me spiraling into another climax. "Good girl," he murmured against my throbbing clit, his breath hot and moist. "One more baby." His skilled tongue and fingers brought me to the brink once more, and I cried out, my body arching off the bed as I surrendered to the pleasure.

He rose above me, his cock glistening with my wetness, and positioned himself at my entrance. With one smooth thrust, he slid back inside, filling me completely. He began to move, his pace slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. "I love you, Y/N," he panted, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you so fucking much."

His words, spoken between ragged breaths, sent a new wave of desire coursing through me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

As his orgasm built, our movements became more frantic, our breaths coming in short gasps. "Cum with me, baby," I pleaded, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, JJ, I need you."

His eyes rolled back as he thrust into me one final time, his body tensing, and he exploded inside me, his hot seed filling me. I came again, my pussy milking him.

Exhausted and fulfilled, we collapsed in a heap, our bodies still intertwined. JJ's heavy frame pressed me into the soft mattress, his heart pounding against my chest. I ran my fingers through his hair, my lips finding his in a soft, tender kiss.

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Twelve: Forbidden Love @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist // AO3 Link // Part One

Inspired mostly by Leverage but also White Collar

Summary: She’s a thief with only one thing on her mind: finish the job and move on.  When she’s asked to break into Terrasen’s Museum of Art, Celaena has her doubts.  Mostly because she’d much rather be grifting her way across Europe.  But when she learns what needs stealing?  Well…her schedule clears right up.  Enter the client, a pain in her ass.

.*.*.*.*.

The Too Far Gone Job (Part Two)

Rowan Whitethorn knew well the world of art.

He knew the ins and outs, the odds and ends.  He knew the facts and the tidbits, he knew the styles, he knew the people.  He knew everything there was to know.  Which was how he knew that Celaena Sardothein would double cross him.

Or…he should have known.

He stared at the empty black bag in one hand and the fake necklace in the other.  A dozen different curses ran through his head, each uglier than the last, when his cell phone rang.  Maeve Donovan.  Hell.

Overhead, a streetlamp illuminated the car where he sat, a few tendrils of light catching the necklace.  It was an excellent fake; he couldn’t deny that.  The real gold and the synthetic gems were so exquisitely cut that he could have been dupped entirely if he hadn’t seen the one blemish.

For a moment, he wondered if he should ignore the call.  That would only give him more grief in the long run.  He swallowed back his temper (barely) and answered.

“What?”

“Rowan,” Maeve crooned on the other line. “Why haven’t you given me my necklace?”

He knew that tone in her voice; it was the one that was too kind and too sweet in the way she drew out her words.

“Because I don’t have it,” he said, squeezing the satin bag in his fist.

Maeve was silent.  Rowan couldn’t hear anything except the low static that came from a burner phone.

“Explain.”

“It would seem that Celaena Sardothein double crossed me,” Rowan explained. “Made an excellent replica of the Eye and gave that to me.”

“And you couldn’t tell the difference?” Maeve’s voice was near deadly.  It made Rowan glad he was nowhere near her.

Rowan grit his teeth and tossed the fake necklace and bag aside. “No.”

“Oh, Rowan,” Maeve sighed. “You used to be better than this.  Sidetracked these days?  Letting a pretty face distract you?”

“No.”  He was going to break something. “I looked at the item and found it to be satisfactory.  Who ever created the replica did an exceptional job.”

Maeve scoffed and Rowan heard her shift.  It sounded like she poured herself a glass of wine.

“So you’re telling me, that you, a specialist in retrieving anything known to man, hires out a woman who tricks him because he cannot tell the difference of the real item?”

Put like that, he sounded like he had no notion of success. 

Useless, he thought he heard her mutter.  Strange, she usually made sure all of her insults were explicitly heard.

“You’ll need to kill her and get my necklace back,” Maeve said. 

Somewhere beyond the call, Rowan heard wailing sirens.  It was on his end.  He’d put enough distance between him and the museum and was sitting in an unmarked sedan in a busier part of town so no one would think him as out of place.  The response time from the police had been quick, which surprised him.  He’d barely managed to get out of the museum before he’d realized what was really going on.

Of course he’d been at the museum keeping an eye on everything.  He didn’t trust someone like Celaena Sardothein.  Known grifter with a too many names to keep track of—she was a creature unlike anything Rowan had encountered before.  It was why he’d insisted on having a comm for himself.

It didn’t help that she was beautiful.  Even with the faux red hair that washed her out.  But she was tall with a lean build and determined look in her eyes.  She was confidence embodied.  She had to be, given the work she did.  Each time she changed her name she wove a different story.  She’d talked men out of millions, he was sure.  But he’d done the same thing.  He’d taken artifacts, items, manuscripts, and blueprints from their rightful owner to give to whoever had the

“I don’t kill anymore,” he said.  He hadn’t been that person in two years, not after…

“You will.”  Maeve’s voice dropped into a dark promise. “You will because I told you to get the job done and instead you let that girl best you.  I trained you better than this.  Now, are you going to do what I ask, or will I need to have Cairn clean up your messes?”

Rowan’s blood chilled at the thought of Cairn anywhere near Celaena.  He knew his own past was a bloody, horrific mess but Cairn?  Cairn was a monster of the cruelest sort.

“I’ll get your necklace back,” Rowan assured her, “by the end of the month.”

Another long-suffering sigh from Maeve. “The end of the month.  Or you’ll wish you’d never betrayed me before.”

The line went dead before Rowan could respond.  Cursing, he flung his phone on the passenger seat and punched the steering wheel for good measure.  He was pissed.  Not just at Maeve but at himself too.  How had he let himself be tricked by Celaena? How had he gotten into this mess?  Being a lackey for Maeve and forced to follow her every edict had never been his intention. 

Once, he’d been an eighteen-year-old kid, desperate to make a difference.  He’d joined the army and finished a full tour before being approached by someone to transport a few cargo boxes back to the states.  And thus began his decent to hell.

Usually, it was vases or art pieces he found for his clients.  Sometimes it was baseball cards or signed memorabilia.  And then when he’d fallen in with Maeve, it turned to killing.  Ten years of his life had been bloody and cruel.  He’d inflicted far more damage than he could ever atone for.  Not that he deserved it.  Especially not he did what Maeve asked of him.

He cursed again, for good measure, and started the car.  He’d get that necklace back.  One way or another.

.*.*.

MESSAGE TO UNKNOWN NUMBER

     >>You have something that belongs to me.

     <<Do I?

     >>Necklace.  I want what I paid you for.  No one gets away with lying to me.

<<And yet…it took you three days to track me down.  Getting slow in your old age, eh buzzard?

Rowan stared at his phone and the teasing words she’s sent.  He wasn’t old.  He was barely even thirty.  He was in the prime of his damned life.  Old.

     >>Graystone Pub.  30 mins.

He sent the text and leaned back in his chair.  He knew she wouldn’t respond just as he knew she would be there.

Pushing away from his kitchen table, he went to stand at the windows that overlooked the city.  All things considered his apartment was modest.  Two bedrooms, two baths, a full kitchen and living area.  Sure, it was modernized with excellent heating and cooling, hardwood, chrome finishings, state of the art appliances.  Alright, it wasn’t really modest, but he could be in a mansion surrounded by acreage and ducks.  That sounded miserable.

He had nothing interesting in his apartment.  No art and no paraphernalia that indicated anything he did.  The only thing that indicated any sort of personality was the floor to ceiling bookshelf of history books he owned and collected.  And the watch his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday.

There was nothing else that really mattered to him, he supposed.  He’d cut himself free of all of that.  It was the only way to survive in his line of work.

Drowning in the memories wouldn’t solve any of his problems nor would it get him that necklace back. 

He turned away from the windows as he adjusted the collar of his button up.  He had a thief to meet and didn’t want to be caught off guard.  He knew enough about Celaena Sardothein to know she was one of the best grifters in the world.  She could steal just about anything and could do so with little more than a smile and flip of her hair.  Even though she’d been seen by hundreds, seen on cameras, even been detained once in Prague—she’d never actually been caught.

All of the research he’d done on her hadn’t amounted to anything.  Nothing other than four of her (many) identities and where not to find her.

The walk to the bar wasn’t long at all.  It was just on the corner of his building and often served as a place Rowan could go to forget his woes.  And, not that he’d told anyone, it was the same bar his father had used to frequent.  Which of course meant nothing at all.

Walking into the bar felt like coming home, strange as it was.  After his mother’s death, Rowan’s father brought him here at least once a week.  Only occasionally would Owen Whitethorn get drunk enough that Rowan had to lead him home (a different place than where Rowan currently lived).  Usually, the bartender would let Rowan eat a giant vat of curly fries while trying to help Owen sober up.  And if he wasn’t eating fries, Rowan was learning how to lie like a thief.  He’d sit in on poker games that ran long into the night.  He’d watch his father con men out of their fancy watches and stacks of money.  He’d watch family friends run the Game Delay on basketball games running on a ten second delay.

In the end, Rowan was never meant to become a good man.  He was doomed to repeat history.

He was going to head to the far booth, away from anything and anyone else in the bar, only to come up short at the sight of a woman perched on one of the barstools.  Her blonde hair tumbled in loose waves down her back, golden skin glowing in the lights.  She wore a black dress that clung to her curves and stopping at her mid-thigh.  The heels she wore could have been more a weapon than a shoe given how high and sharp they were. 

It took him just a heartbeat to realize who it was.

“Glad you too you’re somewhat capable of following instructions,” Rowan said as he slipped into the seat beside her.

Celaena didn’t look up, too absorbed by that giant stack of pancakes before her.  Rowan frowned at the sight.  The bar didn’t serve pancakes. 

“You don’t serve pancakes,” Rowan said as Brullo returned from the kitchen.

The bear of a man only shrugged. “She asked.”

“Delicious,” Celaena assured him.  She upended a bottle of syrup over the pancakes. “Truly, you are a master.”

The words were so sincere that even Rowan had a hard time determining if she were trying to run a con on the older man.  But Brullo wasn’t the type to fall into that trap.

“Black coffee, Rowan?” Brullo asked, already reaching for the pot.

“Fine,” he replied.

Neither he, nor Celaena said anything for a while, even after Rowan’s coffee was delivered.  She continued to demolish the pancakes while he could only watch in admitted fascination.  Really, given everything he’d researched about her, this certainly hadn’t been a part of his collected dossier. 

“You gonna talk or just stare at me?” She licked syrup from her fork and examined him. “As good as these pancakes are, I didn’t really want to come all the way out here.”

Rowan rolled his eyes and took a long sip of his coffee. “Where is the Eye of Elena?”

She stared at him with a perfectly blank expression.  Not even her gold rimmed eyes glimmered at his words.

“The Eye?”

“Don’t treat me like I’m stupid,” he all but growled, “you gave me a fake.”

She shrugged one shoulder delicately. “I’m surprised you’re surprised. I am a thief Rowan.  We both are.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

Her tongue dartled out to lick up a stray bit of sugar from her lips, her eyes never leaving his. “No, of course not.”

The condescension in her voice made his skin prickle and a flush creep across his neck.  There was something different about the way she held herself.  In any other situation, he would have said she was exactly like Maeve only in a lighter shade.  But where Maeve was cold and cruel, Celaena held onto warmth.

“I paid you for a service that you didn’t deliver on,” Rowan said.  He slid the plate of pancakes away from her when she tried to go in for another bite.  She scowled at him. “I want that necklace.  My client wants that necklace.”

She set the fork down with a clatter. “Who’s your client?”

“None of your business.”

“I generally like knowing who I’m getting into bed with,” she said in a deadpan.  But Rowan wasn’t fool enough to miss the nearly indiscernible twitch in her lips.

“I have more than enough on you to turn you over to the feds,” Rowan said.  He didn’t need to play this game with a woman like her.  Hell, she was a decade younger than him.  No…she had to be at least twenty-three, maybe twenty-four based on a potential foster care hit he’d found.

“Oh, I’m sure you do.”  She smiled at him, charming and free, as though they were on a date. “But, see, I’ve never killed anyone.  You have.  I think murder is just a little more serious.”

He almost wanted her to try and get him arrested.  That would be entertaining.

“The necklace,” he said, because that was the most important thing he needed from her.  And then…then he needed to make sure Maeve never heard her name again.

For the first time in knowing her, Rowan saw a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.  It vanished before he could read it properly, but it was there nonetheless.

“You don’t have it anymore, do you?” Rowan asked.  Anger rose in his chest and he clenched one fist in his lap, needing to release his coffee mug else it might break from his grip.

“I know where it is,” Celaena said.  She didn’t look at him, only reached for her own coffee that Brullo brought by.

“That’s not the same thing,” Rowan said.

“It’s safe,” she replied, nearly cutting off his response.

“Well, I need it.” He bit the words out, feeling as though he was choking on them.  “And my money back while we’re at it.  Or I will get the feds involved.  And Interpol.  I hear you pissed off some European country last year?  Stole a royal seal?  I’m sure they’d be delighted to know Elide Lochan isn’t dead either.”

Her lips pursed before she took another sip of coffee, eyes drifting wistfully to the pancakes.

“I can get you the necklace,” she said.  Her voice went incredibly soft, nearly pained. “Not the money back, but I’ll get you the necklace.  Just…Elide has to stay dead.”

He wasn’t a complete bastard; besides, he knew exactly what Elide Lochan was running from.  Or, more accurately: who. But he wouldn’t let Celaena know he was that soft.

He sneered down at her. “Fine.  Where is it?”

“Not close.  But close enough.”  She turned toward him, spine straightening. “I’ll need your help on another project, though.”

Rowan could have strangled her right there. “What are you talking about?”

“I can get you the necklace after I acquire this other item,” she explained, tone just as clipped as his. “This other item is just as valuable to my client as the necklace and it may be an adequate trade.”

“Who has the necklace?  I can just go directly to the source.”  He didn’t want, didn’t need, to play this game.

“You can’t do that,” Celaena said.  She leaned toward him for the first time since he’d sat down.  The first time she’d willingly acknowledged him, really.

It took all his effort not to lean across Brullo’s bar and snag a bottle of gin.

“And why not?”

She blinked, considering her words. “Because.”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “You always lie this bad?”

“No.  I’m not—It’s not—Shut up.”  She shut her mouth firmly as she glared at him.  A bit of color rose on her cheeks which surprised Rowan more than anything.  Of everything he knew about her—she didn’t let her emotions get the better of her.

“My client isn’t important,” Celaena said, “not to you.”

“You already sold it, didn’t you?”  He didn’t trust her, not even in the slightest.  She was a con-woman in her own right and she would have him running circles around the entire globe if it meant keeping her secrets.

Celaena tapped manicured nails on the bar top.  She didn’t answer immediately.  Which was fine by Rowan, she could take her time to spin whatever other lies she wanted to.  Silence never bothered him anyways.  In fact, it was where you learned the most about people.  Like the fact that the blonde of her hair was natural, her skin had that warm glow like she was perfectly sun-kissed, or that she held herself with perfect poise—as though she’d been trained to do so.

“All you need to know is that the necklace is safe and when we get this item you can have it back,” she said.

Without being able to see the real necklace, Rowan wasn’t convinced she had any idea where the necklace was.  He was going to be led on a wild chase around the city for no reason.  He should just kill her now, like Maeve told him to.

He remembered the last time he’d killed.  Two years ago in Moscow.  The job didn’t go the way he’d wanted, they often never did, but that job…no one was supposed to die.  But he’d been cornered and the easiest thing to do was pull the trigger.

“Fine,” Rowan relented.  He couldn’t keep going in circles with this woman.  And if agreeing to help her would get him closer to the necklace, he’d take it.  “What are we stealing?”

.*.

Celaena wasn’t sure what possessed her to bring Rowan to her actual apartment.  She had two other safehouses in the city, both a lot closer than this.  And yet…she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  So, here they were in the apartment that was a near perfect copy of the floor model when she’d first toured the place.  The couch was a dull gray color made of the scratchiest material known to man.  The kitchen had simple faux marble counters and the appliances blended in almost seamlessly. 

There was nothing personal here.  Not even the books she’d collected over the years.  That pained her more than anything.  She had boxes of them: the classics, the romance novels, the strange divergent genres that she’d never originally have read.  Books had always been her solace in a world that beat relentlessly down on her.  

It was technically why she never really thought of this place as home, either.  Without her books it was just another residence.  Once day she’d start bringing her things over.  One day.

Now, she just had to figure out a way to keep Rowan Whitethorn away from the Eye of Elena.

Two days after their meeting at Brullo’s, Celaena had Rowan come to her place to go over their plans for another heist.  She knew exactly what needed to happen.  She’d been planning on stealing this object for ages anyways but had needed a partner.  A male partner. 

“Whitethorn,” Celaena said when she answered the door.  He stood outside the door with his hands stuffed in his pockets and disinterest lining his features. “Come in.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” he said. “You could just give me the necklace and be done with it.”

Celaena rolled her eyes. “Where would the fun in that be?”

She let the door slam shut behind him and crossed the apartment to the cheap, foldable card table she used.  A portable chalkboard stood beside it, pinned with various photos and string to connect items together.  It was what she did every time she had a major heist to plan.

Rowan went to the display and looked everything ever.  A deep scowl etched his features as he stood there.  He’d taken his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest.  It was as though he were in deep study of something far more important than a planned heist.  Though, for people like them, nothing was more important that a heist.

“You want to steal from Henry Havilliard?” Rowan asked without looking at her.  “The most secure man in the Eastern United States?  You want to steal a piece of the Eyllwe Tapestry from Dorian Havilliard?”

“It’s not his,” Celaena said.  She came up beside him, mimicking his stance. “Nor is the necklace your clients.” She raised her chin to meet his gaze. “The tapestry belongs to the crown of Ellywe and we can return it to them.  Havilliard hasn’t even announced his ownership of it because it has to clear an authentication test.  We swap out the real for a fake and he gets outed as the biggest liar in the country and everyone is happy.  Simple.”

His green eyes bore into her.

“Simple?”

“Simple.”

“What you’re wanting to do,” Rowan began.  He paused and fixed her with a look of mixed confusion. “You’re telling me the person who has the necklace would be happy to trade for that tapestry.  The only person willing to do that—”

“It doesn’t matter who it is,” Celaena interrupted. “What matters is that this plan is fool proof.  Now take a look at what I have on the board and tell me if I’m missing anything.”

She didn’t want to betray her friend by telling Rowan Whitethorn of all people she was willing to hire out a thief to try and return her family’s history to her.  Nehemia didn’t deserve that.  She just deserved this one thing going right.

Rowan’s scowl somehow deepened.

“You should try smiling more,” she told him. “You won’t look so scary.”

“Mala above.”  He took a step away from her.  “So this plan—we’re acting as buyers for something else entirely, this Rembrandt, but instead we’re going to nab the tapestry…how exactly?”

“That’s where things get a little tricky,” Celaena admitted.  She pointed out Havilliard’s timetable and the real planning began.

Over the course of three days, she and Rowan worked together to perfect the original plan she’d laid out.  Much to her satisfaction, Rowan didn’t point out any glaring issues or blatant oversights on her part.  Rather, he offered his own insights and experiences to build the plan up stronger than what it had been.

It was strange, to have him so close at hand.  Strange to be working with someone who wasn’t Elide.  Strange to trust.  Not that she trusted him.  Far from it, in fact.  But perhaps she could get there.  Not trust, exactly, but a mutual understanding. 

They had another full week before Havilliard would put his full collection on display at a personal gala for him and his company.  A full week to make sure everything was in place and would go through exactly as it needed to.  And after that, Celaena would never have to see Rowan Whitethorn again.

Bright and early on the fourth day, Rowan returned, knocking because Celaena would not give him a key.  Even though she’d have to burn this place to the ground once the job was over, she was not giving him a key. 

He came into the apartment with his arms full of pastries from her favorite bakery and plenty of coffee to see them through the rest of the week by the looks of it.

“You don’t know my coffee order,” she said with a frown.

“Whatever has the most sugar,” he replied easily. “And then some.  Preferably if it has hazelnut in it, too.”

“How d’you know that?” She asked.

Rowan set the array of items out on the table.  He passed her one of the coffees and shrugged. “I know things.”

A shiver touched her spine that she fought hard to ignore. “You don’t know things.  You could have guessed that.”

She did after all keep hazelnut truffles lying about all over the apartment so she could have easy access to them whenever a craving hit.

“Celaena’s not your real name,” Rowan said.  When he met her gaze, there was something dark lingering there.  Dark and heated that she would only describe as hunger.  Which couldn’t be right.  Even if she read people for a living, even if it was what she was best at—she had to be reading him wrong.

“Of course it’s not,” she said, desperately trying to hide the strain there. “Any good thief doesn’t use their real name.  I wouldn’t expect Rowan to be your real name.”

“And if it is?” he asked, slowly raising his coffee to his lips for a sip.

Celaena swallowed.  She could feel her heartrate elevate and her skin flush.  From that fact he could actually know her real name.  It was impossible really, but it could be a possibility all the same.  She honestly didn’t know if there was anybody left who knew her real name.  Maybe…but they could very well be dead. 

And if Rowan did know her real name…it wouldn’t bode well. 

They didn’t trust each other after all, hardly tolerated the other.  She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him know her real name. 

No one stuck around long enough to know her anyways, everyone always left.  They chose to leave.  So she did what she needed to protect herself.  And she would start by not getting chummy with Whitethorn.

“You don’t know my real name,” she said, just to assure herself of the fact.

“I might.”

“But you don’t.”

He took another low sip of his drink. “Whatever you say.”

And then he turned back to their plans.

Celaena’s breath stuck in her throat as she waited for her body to relax and her over active heart to calm down.  Because even as her head made a perfectly reasonable plan, her heart continued to flutter.  Eventually the useless organ would catch up to reality, then she might actually know peace.

She finally took a gulp of her coffee, cursing silently when the perfect taste hit her tongue.

.*.*.

Celaena was eight when she first met Arobynn Hammel.  Her last set of foster parents had just returned her to the group home insisting she was a menace and unadoptable.  She hadn’t minded the words.  Her real family was going to come and find her after all.  They were the only thing that mattered to her.

It didn’t matter if her birth parents were dead, she had other family.  She could remember them.  Clearly.  And no stranger could convince her otherwise.

Arobynn Hammel tried his best, though. 

She’d been eight and he took her home telling her she would have a new name.  She would have a place to sleep and food to eat.  And she would be grateful.  She would be grateful because she could be stuck in the group home sleeping in dirty clothes, eating half rotted meals, without any hope of any good in the world.

She would be grateful even when he hit her.  Grateful even when he called her names.  Grateful even when he forced her to learn things, do things, she’d never wanted to do before.

Though, in a sad, strange twist of fate, Celaena was grateful.

Who could she be other than a lie?

It was all she was good for, so she may as well take advantage of what she knew.  What she’d been forced to learn.

It was still a ways out before the job was about to go down and she had a little down time.  Celaena used it as an excuse to run through her usual routine while prepping a job.  Plenty of hazelnut chocolate, red Gatorade, gummy worms (for Elide), and carrots.  The carrots were the only way to guarantee Elide would leave her alone for longer than an hour.  Celaena wasn’t known for her healthy eating habits.

She took a seat at her computer desk.  The space was clean thanks to Elide and Celaena knew better than to disrupt that.  There were three screens lined up neatly for the best display.  One ran through a series of security cameras, another running a facial recognition, and the third had an online auction site pulled up.

The security cameras kept Celaena informed of Havilliards movements at the venue they’d be hitting.  Already, she had a keen idea of how security would work and what to expect with decorations and item placement.  Nothing popped up on the facial recognition program aside from the usual expectations.  The only person she was truly concerned in seeing was Damon Perrington.  He was a known gun for hire with a rap sheet that could have rivaled Celaena’s.  She’d known Henry Havilliard was in cahoots with Perrington but it still felt like a jump scare seeing his face all the same.

Celaena clicked through another facial program she was running.  For the last three months, it showed nothing.  Not that she was surprised, but she’d made the foolish decision to hope.  She just wanted a glimpse, just a taste of the past.  With how big a name, a person, she was looking for, she’d expected something more.

She minimized the auction site and pulled up another dossier Elide compiled for her.  The start of the file was simple; a few childhood photos, school reports.  And then when the boy on file turned eighteen everything changed.  He became a ghost, a memory of faded snow.

Rowan Whitethorn was a curious creature and nothing she found gave her a clear picture of who he really was.

All she could figure out for certain was that he was intimately familiar with violence and death.

She pulled up a picture of him from last year, right after he’d swiped a painting she’d been after.  She still hadn’t forgiven him for that.  She wasn’t used to being beaten out on a target.  Especially not the way he’d beaten her.

Popping a truffle in her mouth, Celaena scanned his file.  Again.  Nothing new stuck out to her.  Ever since partnering with Rowan on this new job, she’d done everything to learn more about him.  Elide had put in plenty of overtime too.  But Rowan was proving to be just as elusive as her. 

She knew she shouldn’t be as intrigued by him as she was.  Knew that she shouldn’t trust him.  Just because she couldn’t dig up anything about his past didn’t mean there was nothing to know.  There were rumors of who he worked with.  His little Cadre, his crew, had been known for many terrible things.  If she turned him to the Feds, there would be no plea deal to keep him alive long.  Any of them.

Everyone had a story.  Just like her, something or someone had changed Rowan.  She knew though, that she couldn’t get close.  He was most certainly going to kill her the second he had the chance.  But she would be ready.  She always was.

.*.

Rowan stared at his Caller ID as dread iced over his chest.  It was of course, the one person he didn’t want to talk to.  The one person who any mention of made him sick to his stomach.  Perhaps that should worry him more than it actually did.

Maeve Donovan continued to flash across his screen.

Though, if he were honest, he’d never been happy under her employment.  Maybe for the first month when he’d been caught up in the thrill of it all, the newness of it.  Back when it felt like he’d had something to live for.

“Maeve.” He answered the phone as he always did: clipped and pissed.

“Is she dead yet?”  Maeve’s cool voice asked.

“No.”

“And why not?”

Rowan’s jaw flexed as he stared out his kitchen window.  It looked over the city and even on a foggy morning like this, he could still make out the other buildings and see just enough of the streets to know that traffic, for once, had died down.

“I still need the necklace,” he replied. He’d learned long ago how to cover his anger.  To dispel it with a simple breath, a careful meditation.

“Rowan, it’s been two weeks,” Maeve said.  Something clinked on her side of the call and Rowan wouldn’t be surprised if she were already pouring herself a glass of wine.

“And she doesn’t trust me,” he said.  He turned away from the window, returning to his empty apartment.  “That necklace is the one thing she thinks she can use as leverage over me and I need to let her keep thinking that.”

He didn’t like the way the words left his own lips.  Didn’t like how easily they came.  But they were true.  Celaena wanted to manipulate him, it was who she was, and lauding that necklace over him was the only way she knew how.  He could let her think she was winning whatever little game they were playing.  It was how he could manipulate her. 

Granted, Rowan’s means of manipulation often erred on the side of coercion and physical violence.  He doubted the likes of Celaena Sardothein would react very well to that.  She could probably kick his ass, or at least try.

“If you aren’t going to try and make progress—”

“There’s a plan in place,” Rowan said.  He wasn’t going to tell her the entire plan, even if Maeve was his boss (his client?), he needed some separation between her and this job. “And I’ll make sure it goes as planned.”

“She’s a rat, Rowan, you can’t trust anything she says or does.” Maeve spoke clearly, distinct in that way she always did. “The sooner you kill her the better.”

“Noted.”

He ended the call.

Thirty minutes later he was at Celaena’s with a round of coffee and fruit.  He’d been slowly trying to get to eat something that at least resembled health.  It hadn’t been going well.

When she answered the door, it was with her hair piled in a messy bun atop her head and she wore a simple pair of leggings and a sweater.  Rowan was struck by it—the sheer simplicity of it when he’d seen so many photos and videos of her wearing the most elaborate outfits, putting on grandiose performances.  Now she simply seemed…Celeana.

But…that wasn’t even her.  This wasn’t even her.  Was it?

“Please tell me that’s chocolate,” she said by way of greeting.

“Fruit,” he said.  He pushed past her into the apartment that had gotten to be too familiar. “It’s good for you.”

“Gross.”  She grunted as he pressed the Tupperware into her arms.

Rowan rolled his eyes, going straight to the planning board.  Only a few things had changed over the week.  Celaena was too stubborn than to admit she was wrong and Rowan wasn’t going to let her get away with doing whatever she wanted.

“You still think the Cuban Sandwich is the best route to go?” he asked.

“Well I’m not doing the Vegas Wake-Up Call.”  She at least went through the motions of looking at the cut-up apples and strawberries before setting them aside for her coffee.

“I didn’t say it had to be the Vegas Wake-Up Call exactly,” Rowan tried to argue, but that was the thing about Celaena—she was never wrong.

She must have downed at least half of the coffee before she set it aside.  Those gold rimmed eyes of hers bore into him.  He’d thought that maybe over the last two weeks they’d formed at least some sort of a friendship or even a comradery between thieves.  He should have known that it wouldn’t happen.  Celaena kept herself guarded more than anyone Rowan knew.  She could adopt a new personality at the drop of a hat, become an entirely new person.  And, strange as it was, he wondered if it were possible to know the real her.  He also wondered he wanted to.

“Well then you can be the one to flirt with Henry Havilliard and I’ll eat all the crab cakes I can find.”  She smiled brilliantly.

Insufferable woman. “Well then, what would you suggest?”

As it would turn out, those would be his famous last words. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him how much work she put into a job.  Given all that she’d done since she started grifting—Celaena was a capable thief.  A true mastermind in how she drew a plot together.

Being raised by Arobynn Hammel certainly had given her a leg up as a thief.

That bit of information was the only solid piece of information he had about Celaena.  Taken in at a young age with her entire real identity all but destroyed.  All Rowan could do was make assumptions about her. 

Found wandering the woods in a nightgown and taken to a local foster home—Celaena became a terror to anyone who took her in.  All except Hammel.  The thought made Rowan a bit sick to his stomach.

Hammel was perhaps the greatest thief in the world.  He was ruthless, cold, and unforgiving.  He took and took and took without a second glance.  Raising a prodigy like Celaena was probably something akin to his life’s work—a true testament to what he was truly capable of.

“Why are you looking at me?” Celaena asked.

Her back was to him as she pinned something to the blackboard set up with all their job details.

“I’m not,” he said.

She scoffed and glanced over her shoulder. “Please, don’t insult me.  I know when someone’s watching me.”

Rowan shrugged. “Just curious, I guess.”

“About?”

“You.  How do you become a thief everyone knows…and doesn’t know at the same time?” The question surprised him as much as it did her.  He wasn’t sure why he cared so much in learning about her.  Not when, no matter his feelings on the matter, she’d be dead in a few short weeks.

“How do you become a mercenary?” she replied. 

Mercenary.  It was far too kind a word for what he was.

Celaena smiled when he said nothing. “See?  We’re made into this, aren’t we?  Forced to become a little pawn for someone else.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Can you honestly tell me you set out to become the hand of Mala? Killing and killing and killing some more?  Or did someone tell you to?  That it was all you would ever be good for?”

She grabbed for the coffee sitting on the edge of the table.  Finding it empty she went to her desk drawers and grabbed a bag of chocolates.

“It’s the great test of Nature verses Nurture with us,” she continued. “Would we have ended up this way even if our lives had been different?”

It was an interesting question to consider, Rowan had to admit.  Though…he was convinced that no matter what he would have ended up right where he was.

“You think you’d still be here?” he asked, “ready to steal a priceless artifact and put it all on the line?”

“Yes.” She looked away, her mind clearly running down a rabbit hole of thoughts. 

Rowan wasn’t thinking clearly then because he had the distinct impression that he should comfort her.  It was a ludicrous thought.  He didn’t do comfort.  Really, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d hugged someone.  (Fenrys and his penchant for tackling didn’t count).  But it seemed like something one would to.

A hug.

A touch.

An indication of…something.

He wasn’t sure what, exactly he wanted to offer.  What he could.  Comradery?  Friendship?  That was sure to get his head bitten off.  The mere intimacy of any sort of offer was foreign to him.  Not to mention he would be killing her in a few weeks’ time.  And he knew better than to get close to his targets.

All the same, he wondered what she would do if he tried reaching out to touch her.  To tuck that stray strand of hair behind her ear, trail his finger along her jaw to the scar along her chin.  It was an even worse idea than trusting her to give him the Eye of Elena at the end of all this.

“I was doomed from the start,” Celaena said.  She tossed the remaining chocolate aside. “May as well make the most of it.”

.*.

[fleurrreads]

pairings: benny x cop!reader

warnings: none

author's note: based on this request ♡ im not 100% sure how i feel about it. only proofread once so yeah :)

Five beers deep at a small bar you meet Benny. Blonde, handsome, totally off limits. He approached you instantly, softly asking your name. He smirks at the mention of your name, repeating it a few times to get familiar with it. The blush on your cheeks not going unnoticed by him, he takes a seat next to you.

"So where are you from, darlin'?" he taps his fingers on the counter of the bar, a habit he's developed in the past few months. You give him a small smile, "Oklahoma. Born and raised." He raises a brow. "Oh you're a country girl? Would've never guessed that." he chuckles, taking a chug from his beer. You take this time to study his features. Really study them. He truly was a beautiful sight, and he probably knew it too.

°‧ 𓆝 ���� 𓆞 ·｡

The evening was going really smoothly, no ulterior motives in sight. Just good company and some laughs. You glance at your watch and much to your dismay it is extremely late, already in the early hours of a new day. "Well darn, it's time for me to head home." you say, grabbing your purse to take out your wallet, as a rough hand envelops yours, stopping you. "Don't worry about it, doll. I'll take care of it." Benny says, giving you a lopsided smile. Your heart jumps in your chest. "No I can't let you pay for it, I drank a lot!" you shake your head, a little giggle following your last sentence. You can't remember the last time you drank this much, especially since you've moved to a new city.

Benny insists, "Genuinely, doll. I got it. You can pay f'the next one." Your mind reels. He wants to see you again, he's made it perfectly clear. You nod, world a bit blurry, as you scribble your number on a napkin on the bar counter. "You can call me, I'm mostly at work during the day tho'." you say, handing him the napkin. He takes it and puts it in his pocket. "Yes ma'am. I never asked you what you do for work." he says, tilting his head to the side. Right, you nearly forget what your job is when he stares at you like that, and you gulp. "I'm a cop." you blurt out, and he chuckles. "Usually I ain't on too good terms with cops." he states, gulping down the last bit of his beer before throwing some money down on the counter and standing up, you follow behind him.

"Why not? You a troublemaker, Benny?" you joke. He laughs, "Somethin' like that."

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Benny speeds down the main street of town, surely breaking many road rules as he hears the police sirens wail behind him. He stops, his bike is too low on fuel to outrun them anyway. He sighs, defeated as a familiar silhouette approaches him. You take off your glasses, an amused look on your face. "Well well well... what do we have here? You do know that you were speeding multiple miles over the speed limit, yes?" the amusement never leaving your features as Benny laughs. "Well well. I didn't think that this would be how we meet again, doll." he says, running a hand through his hair.

"What can I do to lessen my fine, officer? I promise this'll be the last time you see me speedin'." he frowns, amusement shining in his eyes.

You sigh, "Tsk tsk tsk, I don't know. What can you give me that I don't already have, sir?" you smirk, enjoying the little game. His eyes widen momentarily, a smug look on his face. He takes your hand, placing a soft kiss, rubbing circles on your hand. "Oh I have a lot I can give you, ma'am. Why don't I take you for a ride?" he says, challenging you. You raise a brow, always one for a challenge.

You get on the back of his motorcycle, arms holding to his sides. Benny grasps your hands, pulling you even closer to him. You feel all giddy inside, your heart beating wildly.

"If I get fired it's gonna be all your fault. 'Just sayin'."

reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! ☆

[cococharm]

TWO ↭ rough night

The night had started like any other drinks flowing, the bass from the DJ booth pulsing through the air, and the usual crowd filling up Club Venus. Y/n moved through the chaos like she always did, balancing trays, dodging drunk patrons, and trying to ignore the lingering thoughts about Christian Yu that always seemed to creep in.

But halfway through her shift, everything changed.

A loud crash came from the far side of the club, followed by shouting. The energy in the room shifted, suddenly tense, the usual rowdiness turning hostile. Y/n looked up just in time to see two men shoving each other near the VIP section. One of them, tall and built like a tank, swung his fist. It connected with the other guy’s face, sending him staggering back into a group of dancers. Chaos erupted.

Christian was already moving, pushing through the crowd like a force of nature. Dabin and Hyungmo were close behind him, trying to break up the fight before it got out of hand, but it was clear that this wasn’t going to be an easy night.

Y/n froze for a moment, watching as Christian grabbed one of the men and wrestled him to the ground with brutal efficiency. But before he could get a hold of the second guy, another punch landed. This one squarely on Christian’s jaw.

Her heart dropped. She had seen Christian take down plenty of drunk idiots in the past, but this was different. This was a real fight, and he was outnumbered.

Without thinking, Y/n shoved her tray onto the bar and rushed toward the commotion. By the time she reached Christian, the fight had spiraled out of control. Blood smeared across his cheek, and his stance wavered slightly as he tried to keep the aggressors at bay. One of the bouncers managed to pull one of the men off Christian, but the damage was already done.

“Christian!” Y/n’s voice barely carried over the noise, but it was enough to get his attention. His eyes locked onto hers for a brief second before he turned back to the fight.

The next few minutes were a blur of shouting, fists flying, and the sound of breaking glass. By the time the dust settled, the troublemakers had been dragged out of the club, and the police sirens wailed in the distance. The crowd was still buzzing, and the club was a mess.

But all Y/n could focus on was Christian.

He stood near the bar, leaning heavily on one of the stools, his hand pressed to his side where blood seeped through his shirt. His face was twisted in pain, but he tried to play it off like it was nothing.

"You're hurt," Y/n said, her voice steady despite the knot of panic tightening in her chest. She moved closer, her nursing instincts kicking in. "Let me see."

Christian shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You’re bleeding," Y/n shot back, reaching for his arm to pull it away from his side. “Stop being stubborn.”

“I said, I’m—” Christian started, but the look in Y/n’s eyes shut him up. She was having none of it.

“Sit down,” she ordered, grabbing a towel from behind the bar. She pressed it to his side, applying pressure to the wound. “You need stitches.”

Christian winced but stayed silent, his jaw clenched in pain. Y/n worked quickly, cleaning up as best she could with the supplies they had at the bar. The bleeding had slowed, but it was clear he needed more than just a makeshift bandage.

“We’re going to the hospital,” she said, standing up and grabbing her bag.

“No ambulance,” Christian muttered through gritted teeth. “Costs too much.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, frustration bubbling up. “Fine. But you’re still going. We’ll take my car.”

Christian didn’t argue this time, too worn out to protest further. With some help from Dabin, Y/n managed to get Christian out of the club and into the back seat of her car. The drive to the hospital was tense and quiet, the only sound being Christian’s labored breathing. Y/n’s hands gripped the steering wheel, her mind racing. She wasn’t just worried about his physical injuries. She could feel there was something more going on behind those guarded eyes.

When they arrived at the hospital, Y/n parked the car and rushed around to help Christian out. He was clearly in pain, but still trying to act like it was no big deal. She had to practically drag him inside.

Once they were in the waiting room, Y/n turned to Christian with a scolding look. “You could’ve been seriously hurt back there. You’re not invincible, you know.”

Christian met her gaze, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m fine, Malibu.”

The use of the nickname caught her off guard. It was the first time he had ever called her that. Yuto’s nickname, yes—but hearing it from Christian made her heart skip a beat, despite the seriousness of the situation.

Before she could respond, the nurse came over to wheel Christian back for treatment. Y/n stood there, watching as he disappeared down the hall, a mix of emotions swirling inside her.

This wasn’t how she expected her night to go. But then again, nothing about Christian was predictable.

As she sat in the waiting room, the adrenaline from the fight started to wear off, leaving her drained. Her mind wandered back to those moments in the club. The way Christian had looked at her, the weight of his body against hers as she helped him into the car. There was something between them, something she couldn’t quite explain.

Maybe it was just the heat of the moment. Or maybe, just maybe, there was more to Christian Yu than she had originally thought.

And for the first time, Y/n wasn’t sure if she was ready to find out what that “more” really was.

previous | masterlist | next summary: you once lived a privileged life, until a family scandal sent it crumbling down. now, working as a cocktail waitress at Club Venus. you're drawn to christian yu, the head bouncer. you suddenly enter a world of fight clubs, friendship, lingering relationships, and dark past.

[andy-clutterbuck]

[songbirdseung]

bad boy, gone good / choi yeonjun

Choi Yeonjun — the epitome of a bad boy, known for his rebellious attitude and mysterious charm. His days were filled with the thrill of breaking rules, and his nights echoed with the adrenaline of living life on the edge.

Enter Y/N, a beacon of warmth and kindness, with a heart untarnished by the city's harsh realities. Fate intervened, weaving their destinies together in unexpected ways. When Y/N, the girl with a smile that could brighten the darkest corners, collided with Yeonjun's world, everything changed.

As their worlds collided, secrets unfolded, and the walls Yeonjun had built around himself began to crumble. Y/N's presence sparked a transformation in him, challenging the very essence of his rebellious nature. Can love be the catalyst for change?

Yeonjun's early years were marred by the harsh realities of an unforgiving environment. Growing up on the fringes of the city's underbelly, he witnessed firsthand the struggle for survival. Raised in a broken home, where love was a scarce commodity and instability was the only constant, he learned to navigate the tumultuous seas of his youth alone.

Fuelled by a hunger for control in a world that seemed determined to wrest it away, Yeonjun delved into the realm of defiance. The streets became his sanctuary, a place where rules were mere suggestions and boundaries blurred into shades of rebellion. His demeanor transformed, adopting an air of defiance and a reputation that sent shivers through the city's spine.

The allure of the night, with its neon glow and hidden corners, became Yeonjun's playground. Graffiti-covered walls and the distant wail of sirens provided the soundtrack to his tumultuous existence. He embraced the role of a bad boy with open arms, finding solace in the chaos that mirrored the storm within.

Yet, beneath the tough exterior and the smirks that hinted at a disregard for authority, there lay a complex soul. A boy who had grown up too fast, who yearned for stability amid the turbulence of his surroundings. The bad boy persona was both armor and camouflage, shielding the vulnerabilities that lurked beneath the surface.

The memory of that encounter lingered, a pivotal moment where the trajectory of Yeonjun's life shifted. The streets, once witnesses to his rebellion, became a canvas for transformation. In the tapestry of his past, that cold night held a defining thread—a thread that hinted at a yearning for something beyond the confines of the city's chaos, a yearning that would eventually lead him to an unexpected encounter with warmth and kindness, the likes of which he had never known before.

Yeonjun found himself on the familiar concrete steps of an abandoned building, the remnants of shattered glass and graffiti-covered walls bearing witness to the desolation that mirrored his own existence. The city slept, but not Yeonjun. His restless spirit roamed the streets like a lone wolf searching for purpose.

As he sat there, contemplating the harsh truths of his life, the echoes of raised voices and slammed doors reverberated in his mind. Flashbacks of a tumultuous household, where love was a scarce commodity and stability a distant dream, played like a haunting melody.

That night marked the breaking point, the moment Yeonjun decided to escape the suffocating embrace of his turbulent home. The city's heartbeat became his guide, and he embraced the streets with an air of defiance, determined to carve out a space where he could breathe.

In current time, the night air was thick with the energy of rebellion as Yeonjun, accompanied by his fellow comrades in mischief, ventured into the heart of the city. The neon lights painted the streets with vibrant hues, reflecting the chaos and vibrancy that fueled their nightly escapades.

Yeonjun's friends each carrying their unique brand of defiance, joined him in this ritual of rebellion. Beomgyu, with his mischievous grin, Taehyun with an air of nonchalance, Soobin radiating quiet intensity, and Huening Kai exuding youthful exuberance—this band of brothers made the city their playground.

The night unfolded in a series of reckless adventures, a collage of moments that defined their camaraderie. They spray-painted walls with vibrant colors, leaving their mark on the city's canvas. The distant sound of music wafted through the air as they danced in abandoned alleyways, an impromptu celebration of freedom.

Yeonjun, the orchestrator of this nocturnal symphony, led his friends through the labyrinth of the urban jungle. They scaled fences, traversed rooftops, and embraced the thrill of the unknown. Each daring feat was met with laughter and shared glances that spoke volumes—a silent understanding that this night was a manifestation of their collective rebellion against the mundane.

Amid the chaos, Yeonjun couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. The city, once his refuge from a turbulent past, had transformed into a playground of shared adventures. Yet, there lingered a subtle shift in dynamics, an undercurrent of change that hinted at a journey beyond the recklessness.

As the night wore on, they found themselves perched on the rooftop of an abandoned building, the city sprawled beneath them like a glittering tapestry. The collective laughter echoed in the silence that followed, and Yeonjun's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the first light of dawn painted the sky.

In that moment, surrounded by the camaraderie of friends who had become his chosen family, Yeonjun felt a subtle reassessment of his rebellious pursuits. The thrill of the night was undeniable, but there was a whisper of something more—a yearning for depth, for meaning, and perhaps, for a different kind of rebellion that extended beyond the shadows of the city.

As they descended from their lofty perch, the echoes of their nightly escapades still reverberating, Yeonjun couldn't shake the feeling that this journey, shared with those who understood the language of rebellion, was on the cusp of a transformative chapter—one where the shadows of the past might find solace in the light of unexpected futures.

The night hung heavy with the scent of salt and the rhythmic lullaby of crashing waves as the boys of TXT gathered on the beach. The sand beneath their feet felt cool and comforting, a stark contrast to the day's rebellious escapades. The moon cast a gentle glow on the water, and the city's distant lights shimmered like distant stars.

As they settled into the makeshift circle they'd formed, the atmosphere was charged with a unique blend of camaraderie and introspection. The sound of the waves provided a natural soundtrack to the quiet moments, punctuated by occasional laughter that echoed against the vast expanse of the ocean.

Yeonjun, gazing at the horizon, broke the silence, his voice carrying a reflective tone. "You ever wonder where we'll be in a few years? What we'll be doing?"

The question lingered in the air, prompting thoughtful glances exchanged among the group. Soobin, the silent contemplator, spoke up, "I mean, we're living this wild life now, but what about the future? Are we just running from something or toward something?"

Beomgyu, who usually wore a carefree grin, chimed in, "Life's one big adventure, right? But what if we're missing out on something important along the way?"

Huening Kai, always the beacon of youthful energy, added, "I never thought about it like that. What if we're letting the thrill of the present distract us from the potential of the future?"

As the conversation deepened, the beach transformed into a confessional of sorts. Each member shared their aspirations, fears, and the weight of expectations they carried. The moonlit night became a canvas for vulnerability, and the camaraderie they'd built was the brush that painted the tapestry of their shared journey.

Taehyun, usually reserved, spoke softly, "Sometimes I wonder if the choices we make today will define who we become tomorrow. Are we building a foundation or just stacking up uncertainties?"

The vulnerability in his words hung in the air, and a collective sigh seemed to escape the group. Yeonjun, looking at each of his friends, felt a sense of gratitude for the shared vulnerability that turned their nightly escapade into a poignant moment of reflection.

In the quietude that followed, the waves continued their rhythmic dance, a reminder of the ever-flowing nature of time. The boys, surrounded by the serenity of the beach, found solace in the shared realization that life's journey was a delicate balance between the thrill of the present and the unknown promise of the future.

As they stood up to leave, the moon casting long shadows on the sand, there was a subtle shift in the air. The beach, once a backdrop for rebellion and laughter, had become a canvas for contemplation—a place where friendships deepened, and the echoes of the night lingered as a reminder that every choice, every adventure, held the potential to shape the narratives of their lives.

--

The morning sun painted hues of warmth across Seoul, casting a soft glow into Yeonjun's apartment. As he blinked away the remnants of sleep, a lingering sense of introspection from the previous night clung to his thoughts. The beach conversations, the shared vulnerabilities—all echoed in his mind like a gentle reminder of the potential for change.

Yeonjun sat up, his gaze drifting to the cityscape outside his window. The morning held promise, a clean slate waiting to be written with new choices and perspectives. The weight of the past lingered, but the desire for transformation stirred within him.

A tentative resolution formed in his mind. "Maybe it's time for a change," he mused, the words carrying a whisper of determination. Yeonjun envisioned a different trajectory, one that embraced growth, stability, and a departure from the reckless patterns that had defined his life.

But as the day unfolded, the stressors of reality pressed upon him—deadlines, expectations, the constant hum of the city demanding attention. The allure of his old haunts, the familiar thrill of rebellion, seemed like an escape from the complexities of change.

In the face of mounting pressure, Yeonjun found himself retracing the steps of his past. The city welcomed him with open arms, the neon lights and graffiti-covered walls a comforting familiarity. The adrenaline of rebellion called out, promising a temporary respite from the weight of uncertainty.

Hours passed in a blur of graffiti, daring escapades, and the intoxicating thrill of defiance. The city's heartbeat matched the rhythm of his footsteps, and the echoes of the night played out like a familiar song. In the midst of chaos, Yeonjun sought solace, a fleeting escape from the internal conflict that tugged at his soul.

As the moon reclaimed the sky, Yeonjun, standing on a rooftop overlooking the city, felt a mix of emotions. The temporary euphoria of the night's escapades masked the underlying conflict within. The city's shadows, once a refuge, now mirrored the complexities of his own journey.

In the quiet hours before dawn, as the city slept and Yeonjun stood alone, the weight of his choices settled upon him. The desire for change, the yearning for a different path, clashed with the allure of the familiar. The morning sun would soon rise, and with it, the echoes of the night would fade into the reality of a new day—one where the trajectory of Yeonjun's life remained uncertain, hanging in the delicate balance between the past and the potential for a different, yet uncharted, future.

The night wore on, and the city's pulse beat steadily with the rhythm of rebellion. Yeonjun, still caught in the throes of his old habits, found himself stumbling into a dimly lit bar—a haven for those seeking refuge from the chaos outside. The air inside was thick with the hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the distant melodies of a live band.

As Yeonjun settled onto a barstool, the atmosphere of the place embraced him like an old friend. The bartender, a grizzled man with a weathered smile, poured a shot without needing a request. The amber liquid seemed to carry the weight of countless stories, each sip a silent acknowledgment of the night's tumult.

In the corner of the room, a spotlight illuminated a small stage where a singer crooned a soulful ballad, her voice a comforting melody in the midst of the cacophony. Yeonjun, lost in the ambiance, barely noticed the figure approaching him.

"Rough night?" A voice, tinged with empathy, cut through the ambient noise. Yeonjun looked up to find the hostess, Y/N, standing beside him, her eyes reflecting a curious mixture of concern and understanding.

He offered a half-smile, a gesture that held a hint of weariness. "You could say that. Just trying to escape for a bit."

Y/N nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken struggles that often brought people to the dim corners of the bar. "We all have our reasons for seeking refuge here."

As the night unfolded, the conversation between Yeonjun and Y/N flowed effortlessly. The clinking of glasses and the distant melodies became the backdrop to their exchange. Y/N, with a warmth that transcended the dimly lit surroundings, shared snippets of her own journey—the dreams she harbored, the challenges she faced, and the beauty she found in the small moments.

Yeonjun, typically guarded, felt a subtle vulnerability in her presence. The night, once a canvas for rebellion, transformed into a space for shared stories and connection. The weight of uncertainty, which had driven him to the familiar haunts of the city, seemed to momentarily lift.

As the clock ticked away, and the night began to wane, Yeonjun found himself captivated by the genuine nature of the conversation. In the midst of the city's chaos, he discovered a moment of respite and connection—one that hinted at the potential for a different kind of escape, one not rooted in rebellion, but in the shared understanding and warmth of unexpected connections.

As the night unfolded, and Y/N's laughter resonated in the air, a subtle shift occurred within Yeonjun. The dimly lit bar, once a refuge from the complexities of his world, now harbored the potential for something different—a connection that went beyond the neon-lit rebellious escapades.

In the midst of their conversation, a quiet realization dawned on him. Y/N's presence was more than just a temporary distraction; it was a gentle tug at the strings of his guarded heart. Her warmth, the sincerity in her eyes, and the authenticity with which she shared her stories created a bridge between their worlds.

As Y/N spoke about her dreams, her challenges, and the beauty she found in life's small moments, Yeonjun found himself drawn to more than just the words. It was the way her eyes sparkled with passion, the genuine laughter that danced through the air, and the subtle nuances of her expressions that etched themselves into his consciousness.

He couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between the chaos of the city outside and the serenity he felt in Y/N's presence. The night, once a canvas for rebellion, now unfolded as a tapestry of shared stories and unspoken connections. The music played on, a soft melody that underscored the intimate exchange between them.

In the quiet pauses between their words, Yeonjun's thoughts danced on the precipice of realization. He was attracted to more than just the allure of the city's shadows; he was drawn to the light that Y/N brought into his world. Her authenticity, the way she navigated life with a genuine spirit, resonated with a part of him that had long been buried beneath layers of rebellion.

As he stole glances, catching the subtle play of emotions on her face, Yeonjun acknowledged the stirring of something unfamiliar. It wasn't just attraction; it was a recognition of the potential for a connection that transcended the transient thrill of the night.

Yet, amid the subtle allure of this realization, uncertainty lingered. Yeonjun grappled with the juxtaposition of his rebellious nature and the yearning for something more profound. The night may have been a temporary escape, but in the presence of Y/N, he found himself confronting a truth that hinted at a different kind of escape—one rooted in the genuine connection and the uncharted territories of the heart.

The bar's ambiance hummed around them, the murmur of conversations and the soft melodies providing a comforting backdrop to Yeonjun and Y/N's shared connection. As they settled into a lull in the conversation, Yeonjun couldn't help but steer the dialogue toward the uncharted territories of personal preferences.

"So, Y/N," he began, a playful twinkle in his eyes, "what kind of guys are you into? Bad boys, perhaps?"

Y/N chuckled, a warmth in her expression that mirrored the sincerity in her words. "You know, Yeonjun, I've learned not to judge someone based on appearances or stereotypes. Whether they're a 'bad boy' or a 'good boy,' it doesn't matter to me. What's important is the connection, the compatibility. That's what makes someone attractive in my eyes."

Her words hung in the air, carrying a wisdom that transcended the casual banter. Yeonjun, caught off guard by the depth of her response, felt a subtle reassurance wash over him. It was as if Y/N's perspective lifted a weight he didn't realize he was carrying.

She continued, her gaze meeting his with a genuine sincerity, "People are so much more than the labels we give them. It's about understanding who they are, what they value, and finding that connection that goes beyond surface judgments."

Yeonjun nodded, a newfound appreciation for Y/N's perspective settling within him. The weight of his own self-imposed labels, the confines of being a "bad boy," felt a little less constricting in the face of her understanding.

"That's a refreshing way to look at things," he admitted, a genuine smile forming on his lips. "Sometimes, it's easy to get caught up in those labels and forget that there's so much more to a person."

Y/N's smile mirrored his own, a shared understanding passing between them. In that moment, the barriers of judgment and preconceived notions melted away, leaving room for a connection that went beyond the surface. The night continued, the ebb and flow of conversation carrying with it the promise of a connection built on authenticity and shared perspectives—something that felt, for both Yeonjun and Y/N, refreshingly real amid the transient thrill of the city's night.

--

A week had passed, and the bar that had become a refuge for Yeonjun seemed unusually devoid of Y/N's presence. Night after night, he found himself scanning the dimly lit space, hoping to catch a glimpse of her warm smile and engage in the conversations that had become a source of comfort.

However, fate seemed to play a coy game, and Y/N remained elusive. The absence of her laughter, the missing warmth in her eyes, left a void that echoed in the silent corners of Yeonjun's thoughts.

His friends, the members of TXT, couldn't help but notice the change in Yeonjun's demeanor. The usual twinkle in his eyes was replaced by a subtle hint of melancholy, and the playful banter that characterized his interactions with them took on a more subdued tone.

One evening, as they gathered in the living room of their shared space, Beomgyu couldn't resist teasing. "Hey, Yeonjun, what's with the long face? Did the bad boy finally meet his match?"

Taehyun chimed in with a sly grin, "Yeah, you've been looking a bit too contemplative lately. Is there a love story brewing in the shadows?"

Yeonjun, caught off guard by the sudden attention, sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's not like that. I've just been trying to see Y/N at the bar, but she's never there when I am. She's a part-timer, and our schedules don't seem to align lately."

Soobin, always the voice of reason, leaned forward with a knowing smile. "Ah, the mysterious part-timer. Yeonjun's got a soft spot for her."

The room erupted in laughter, and Yeonjun rolled his eyes, his attempts to brush off the teasing met with playful persistence. Huening Kai, ever the optimist, added fuel to the fire. "Lover boy Yeonjun! Who would've thought?"

As the banter continued, Yeonjun found himself opening up to his friends about the connection he felt with Y/N. The laughter transformed into genuine curiosity as they listened to the subtle nuances of his encounters with her at the bar.

Beomgyu, with a mischievous grin, declared, "Looks like our bad boy is turning into a romantic. Who would've seen that coming?"

--

As Yeonjun strolled through the bustling streets, the echoes of his friends' teasing still resonating in his mind, he found himself drawn to the familiar hustle and bustle of a nearby mall. The rhythmic hum of shoppers, the vibrant displays in store windows, and the scent of various cuisines mingled in the air.

Amid the crowd, a flash of familiarity caught his attention. There, across the bustling walkway, was Y/N. She navigated the mall with a sense of purpose, her presence standing out amidst the diverse sea of shoppers.

A rush of anticipation coursed through Yeonjun as he approached her. "Y/N!" he called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.

She turned, a surprised yet warm smile spreading across her face. "Yeonjun! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?"

He shrugged casually, the teasing banter from his friends still fresh in his mind. "Just taking a stroll, you know. Happened to stumble upon this place. What about you? Shopping spree?"

Y/N chuckled, her eyes lighting up with genuine warmth. "Not really. Just running errands and grabbing a quick bite. Care to join me?"

As they walked together through the mall, the atmosphere shifted from the casual banter of their bar conversations to the lighthearted exchange one might expect from friends catching up. The city's chaos faded into the background as they explored the various stores and shared stories about their day.

Y/N's easygoing nature and the genuine connection they shared created a sense of comfort that transcended the initial allure of the night. As they reached a quaint café tucked away in a corner of the mall, Yeonjun found himself appreciating the simplicity of the moment—a chance encounter that felt like more than just a casual run-in.

As they sat, sipping on their drinks and exchanging stories, Yeonjun realized that sometimes, the most meaningful connections can be found in the unlikeliest of places. The mall, once a backdrop for the city's daily rhythm, became the setting for a different kind of encounter—one that hinted at the potential for a connection beyond the dimly lit corners of a bar or the playful banter of friends.

In that moment, as they shared laughter and conversation, Yeonjun couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of curiosity about the unfolding chapters of their connection—a connection that, like the city itself, held the promise of unexpected discoveries and the potential for something more than meets the eye.

As the conversation flowed and laughter echoed through the cozy café, Yeonjun felt a surge of courage welling up within him. The warmth of the moment, the genuine connection with Y/N, emboldened him to take a step beyond the casual encounters of the bar and mall.

Summoning the strength, he cleared his throat and, with a sheepish yet sincere smile, asked, "Hey, Y/N, I was thinking… would you mind if I got your number? Maybe we could hang out sometime, like, properly?"

Y/N's eyes twinkled with amusement, and a playful grin danced on her lips. "About time, Yeonjun. I was starting to wonder if you'd ever ask."

Embarrassed yet relieved, he chuckled, "Well, you know, bad boys gotta be careful with their tender hearts."

They exchanged numbers, the promise of a new connection etched in the digits on their screens. Yeonjun couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the next day—a hangout that held the potential to explore the nuances of their connection beyond the confines of the city's night.

As they parted ways, the warmth of the cafe lingered in the air, and Yeonjun couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter marked a turning point. The city, with its chaotic rhythm and unexpected twists, seemed to be orchestrating a unique chapter in his life—one where a simple hangout held the potential to unravel layers of connection and redefine the narratives of his rebellious heart.

--

The next day dawned with the familiar energy of Seoul's bustling streets. The TXT members gathered in their shared space, a routine invitation to embark on their usual escapades hanging in the air. Soobin, the de facto planner of their adventures, couldn't help but extend the invitation.

"Hey, guys, what do you say we hit the usual spots today? Paint the town with our rebellious spirit?" Soobin suggested, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

However, Yeonjun, with a subtle smile playing on his lips, spoke up, "I think I'll pass today, guys. Got something else on my agenda."

A collective eyebrow raise from the group accompanied Soobin's teasing tone. "Oh, really? Got a hot date or something, lover boy?"

Yeonjun, unfazed, nodded with a smirk. "You could say that. Just something casual."

As he walked away, leaving a curious group of friends in his wake, the echoes of their laughter followed him. The playful teasing resonated through the space, and Soobin couldn't resist making one last comment before Yeonjun disappeared into his room.

"Looks like our bad boy has caught the love bug. Who would've thought?" Soobin quipped, eliciting a chorus of laughter from the remaining members.

In his room, Yeonjun couldn't help but smile at the banter of his friends. The usual rebellious pursuits were set aside for a different kind of adventure—one that involved the anticipation of a friendly hangout with Y/N. As he got ready for the day, he couldn't shake the feeling that this departure from their routine held the promise of something meaningful, a chapter in his life that unfolded beyond the city's night and the echoes of his rebellious past.

In the dimly lit corners of a Seoul nightclub, the atmosphere pulsed with energy, and the echoes of laughter and music filled the air. Yeonjun, known for his magnetic charm and carefree persona, moved through the crowd with an effortless swagger that drew attention like moths to a flame.

In this scene, we find ourselves in a moment from Yeonjun's past—a time when he was the quintessential heartbreaker, a playboy who reveled in the thrill of transient connections. His reputation preceded him, and many were lured by the enigma that surrounded him.

As he danced with someone new every night and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, there was a certain intoxication in the fleeting encounters and the admiration he received. The city's lights, reflecting in the eyes of those who sought his attention, seemed to validate the reckless pursuit of pleasure.

However, amid the dance floor's pulsating rhythm and the haze of nightlife, there were moments when Yeonjun, in the quiet solitude of his thoughts, felt a twinge of emptiness. The very charm that drew others to him became a barrier, shielding him from the depth of genuine connections.

The flashbacks are a montage of shared glances, whispered promises, and the ephemeral nature of his interactions. In each scene, we see glimpses of the playboy persona, the facade that hid a sense of hollowness.

Cut to the present day, and Yeonjun, as he prepares for a different kind of encounter with Y/N, finds himself dwelling on those moments of his past. The weight of his playboy reputation, the regret for the hearts he left in his wake, lingers in the recesses of his consciousness.

As he faces the present with a desire for meaningful connections, the echoes of his playboy days serve as a backdrop—a reminder of the journey that brought him to this point of reflection and the potential for growth and redemption.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the city, Yeonjun and Y/N found themselves in the heart of Seoul, ready for a hangout that promised to be different from their usual encounters.

They decided to explore the city's hidden gems, away from the neon-lit corners and pulsating beats of the nightlife. The evening air carried a sense of anticipation as they strolled through quaint streets, exchanging stories and laughter.

Their connection, once confined to the dimly lit bar and the casual encounters of the mall, deepened in the midst of shared experiences. They discovered shared interests, laughed at each other's jokes, and engaged in conversations that flowed effortlessly.

As they explored a cozy café tucked away in a quiet alley, the ambiance echoed the genuine warmth of their connection. The clinking of coffee cups and the distant hum of the city formed a comforting backdrop to their shared moments.

In this setting, Yeonjun felt a departure from the playboy persona of his past. The genuine connection he sought, the desire for meaningful moments, unfolded in the simple yet profound exchange of stories and laughter. The city, once a playground for his rebellious pursuits, became a canvas for a different kind of adventure—one that involved the exploration of authentic connections and the unraveling of his own layers.

As the evening unfolded, Yeonjun couldn't help but appreciate the shift in dynamics. The heartbreaker of his past found solace in the simplicity of the present—a friendly hangout that held the potential for something more profound.

For Y/N, the night held a similar sentiment. The playful banter of their past encounters transformed into a shared understanding, and the laughter that echoed through the streets became a testament to the budding connection between two individuals navigating the complexities of their own journeys.

Amidst the soothing ambiance of the café, Yeonjun found a moment to open up to Y/N. The warmth of their connection had already surpassed the transient encounters of the past, and he felt a genuine desire to share his thoughts with her.

"Y/N," he began, his gaze sincere and vulnerable, "there's something I've been thinking about a lot lately. I've been living this kind of… reckless life, you know? The playboy, heartbreaker image—it's not really who I want to be anymore."

Y/N listened attentively, her eyes reflecting a mix of understanding and encouragement. "It's never easy realizing you want to change, but it's a brave step to take," she replied, her voice gentle yet reassuring.

Yeonjun sighed, the weight of his past choices palpable in his words. "I've been concerned about where my current behaviors might lead me. I want something more meaningful, something that goes beyond the surface. I'm just not sure how to navigate it all."

Y/N offered a comforting smile, her words carrying a wisdom that resonated with empathy. "Change is a process, Yeonjun. It's about taking small steps, setting intentions, and being patient with yourself. You don't have to figure it all out at once. What matters is that you're aware of your desires for change and that you're willing to work towards it."

Her advice struck a chord with Yeonjun, a sense of gratitude swelling within him. "You're right. I don't have to rush things. It's just that… I've seen the consequences of my past actions, and I don't want to keep heading down that path."

Y/N nodded, her expression understanding. "Acknowledging that is the first step. And you're not alone in this journey. Surround yourself with people who support your growth, set realistic goals, and be kind to yourself along the way. Change takes time, but it's worth it if it aligns with the person you want to become."

As the conversation unfolded, Yeonjun felt a newfound sense of support and understanding. Y/N's words became a guiding light, illuminating a path towards self-discovery and growth. In her presence, he realized that the city, with its myriad possibilities, offered not only the echoes of the past but also the potential for transformation and a future aligned with the authenticity he sought.

The shared laughter and conversations took on a deeper meaning. Yeonjun, grateful for the connection he found in Y/N, looked towards the future with a sense of hope and determination—a departure from the playboy heartbreaker, and a step towards the person he aspired to be.

As they parted ways that night, the promise of future hangouts lingered in the air. Yeonjun, reflecting on the evening's events, realized that the city, with its myriad possibilities, was still full of surprises—a place where the echoes of his past were met with the potential for growth, connection, and the discovery of something more meaningful than the transient allure of his playboy days.

--

The night's gentle embrace lingered as Yeonjun returned home to the shared space where the members of TXT resided. The camaraderie of their friendship had weathered the storms of rebellion, and as he stepped through the door, he felt a sense of unity that encouraged him to share his thoughts with his friends.

Gathering the members in the living room, Yeonjun's expression held a mix of vulnerability and determination. "Hey, guys, there's something I've been thinking about. I've realized that maybe it's time for some changes in our lives, you know? Slowly, but surely."

The room fell into a thoughtful silence as the other members, each absorbed in their own contemplations, looked at Yeonjun with a mix of curiosity and support. Soobin, always the grounded leader, nodded encouragingly. "What kind of changes are you thinking, Yeonjun?"

Yeonjun took a deep breath before continuing, "I've been living a certain way, and it's been fun, but I can't help feeling like it's not sustainable. I want more from life, from our experiences. Maybe we can start making choices that lead to growth, connections, and something more meaningful."

The atmosphere in the room shifted, a shared understanding permeating the air. Beomgyu chimed in, "I've been feeling something similar. It's like we've been dancing to the same rhythm, and maybe it's time for a new tune."

Taehyun added with a thoughtful nod, "Change can be good, as long as we're doing it for the right reasons. What are you thinking, Yeonjun?"

Yeonjun, appreciative of the support from his friends, shared his reflections about wanting to shed the playboy image and embrace a more meaningful lifestyle. The room became a space for openness and vulnerability, each member contributing their thoughts and desires for change.

Soobin, with a reassuring smile, spoke, "I think it's a great idea. We've grown together, and this could be the next chapter for us. Let's support each other in making positive changes and explore the new possibilities that come our way."

As the conversation unfolded, the members of TXT found themselves in a collective agreement—a pact to embark on a journey of growth and change together. The echoes of their past, marked by rebellion and carefree pursuits, now harmonized with the potential for a future filled with genuine connections and meaningful experiences.

In that shared moment, surrounded by the support of true friends, Yeonjun felt a sense of relief and optimism for the transformative path that lay ahead—a departure from the old ways, and a step towards a future built on mutual support, understanding, and the enduring bonds of their friendship.

--

On Y/N's free day, Yeonjun took the initiative to introduce her to the members of TXT. The shared space buzzed with excitement as introductions were made, and Y/N's warm demeanor quickly endeared her to the group.

Yeonjun, ever the showman, decided to give a grand introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet the fabulous Y/N, the one who's going to save us from our rebellious ways!"

Beomgyu, with a mischievous grin, added, "The one who will turn us from bad boys to good guys. Or at least try."

Y/N, amused by the theatrics, curtsied playfully, "Well, hello, gentlemen. I'm here for the challenge!"

As they all sat down, the atmosphere shifted from grand introductions to more casual banter. Soobin, the group's natural leader, decided to break the ice with a friendly question. "So, Y/N, what brings you into the chaotic world of TXT?"

Y/N, with a twinkle in her eye, replied, "Oh, just felt like I needed a little more chaos in my life. Thought you guys could use some company."

The boys erupted into laughter, realizing they were in for a day full of unexpected surprises. Taehyun, always the observant one, couldn't help but comment, "I have a feeling we're in for an interesting time with you around."

The conversation continued with jokes, playful teasing, and Y/N effortlessly blending into the camaraderie of the group. Huening Kai, intrigued by the dynamic, chimed in with a humorous question, "So, Y/N, what's your superpower? How do you plan to tame the chaos?"

Y/N, with a mock-serious expression, replied, "Well, I have the incredible ability to turn rebellious boys into gentlemen with just a smile. It's a work in progress."

The boys burst into laughter, realizing that Y/N's presence brought not only a mission of positive change but also a healthy dose of humor and lightheartedness. Throughout the day, they discovered that Y/N's superpower wasn't just in her ability to suggest positive changes but also in her knack for turning even the most serious moments into opportunities for laughter and connection.

As the day unfolded, the shared jokes and funny anecdotes became the glue that bonded them together. Y/N, with her infectious laughter and playful spirit, seamlessly became a part of the group—a friend who not only saw the potential for positive change but also knew how to make the journey enjoyable along the way.

With a genuine smile, Y/N proposed, "How about we make today a day of trying new things? I've got a few activities in mind that might be a fun change of pace."

The boys, always up for an adventure, agreed enthusiastically. Throughout the day, Y/N curated a series of activities designed to replace their rebellious habits with more constructive and fulfilling pursuits.

She started with a visit to an art studio, encouraging them to channel their creativity onto canvases rather than expressing it through reckless actions. Beomgyu, who had a knack for artistic expression, found a new passion for painting, while Kai discovered the therapeutic benefits of sculpting.

Next, Y/N led them to a community garden, where they tried their hands at planting and nurturing flowers. The act of tending to living things replaced their destructive tendencies with a sense of responsibility and care. Soobin, who initially questioned the choice, found solace in the simplicity of gardening.

Lunchtime was an opportunity for Y/N to get to know each member on a personal level. She attentively listened to their individual goals and aspirations, taking note of every detail. Over meals, she subtly integrated conversations about healthier habits and positive lifestyle changes.

In the afternoon, they visited a local gym, where Y/N introduced them to various exercises and fitness routines. Taehyun, who enjoyed the adrenaline rush of rebellion, found a new outlet in the intensity of a workout. It became evident that Y/N had tailored each activity to address the unique interests and needs of each member.

As the day unfolded, Y/N's ability to understand and connect with the members became increasingly apparent. She acknowledged the little details, the personal goals, and the reactions to different activities. For Yeonjun, she suggested activities that channeled his energy into a constructive outlet, away from the reckless pursuits of the past.

The day ended with a cozy dinner where Y/N shared her observations and suggestions for positive changes. The members, initially skeptical, found themselves inspired by Y/N's thoughtful approach. The city, once a canvas for rebellion, became a space for growth, understanding, and the potential for a future built on healthier choices and genuine connections.

As they bid farewell to Y/N that evening, the members of TXT carried with them a newfound sense of optimism and the seeds of change that had been planted throughout the day—a departure from their old ways and a step towards a future filled with purpose, growth, and the unwavering support of a friend who saw the best in each of them.

Later, TXT gathered for dinner, the playful atmosphere lingered from the day's activities. Beomgyu, known for his mischievous side, couldn't resist the opportunity to stir things up a bit. A sly grin played on his lips as he exchanged knowing glances with the other members.

"So, guys," Beomgyu began, his tone deviously casual, "I've been thinking… Y/N is really cool, right?"

Taehyun and Soobin exchanged amused glances, fully aware of Beomgyu's mischievous intent. Huening Kai, always up for a bit of fun, nodded eagerly. "Yeah, she's pretty awesome. Don't you think, Yeonjun?"

Yeonjun, unsuspecting and caught up in the positive energy of the day, looked up from his plate. "Oh, definitely. Y/N is great."

Beomgyu, seizing the opportunity, leaned in with a mock-confessional tone. "You know, I was thinking… maybe I should ask her out."

The room fell into a sudden hush as everyone turned their attention to Beomgyu. Soobin, trying to suppress a smile, asked, "Really? Beomgyu, are you serious?"

Beomgyu, maintaining his poker face, nodded. "Yeah, she's just got this… I don't know, something about her. I can't help it. I think I'm falling for Y/N."

The words hung in the air, and Yeonjun's eyes widened in surprise. Beomgyu, relishing the moment, continued, "What do you think, Yeonjun? Should I go for it? I mean, you did say she's cool."

Yeonjun, caught off guard, stammered, "Uh, well, I mean, if you think you like her, go for it. It's not like I have a say in it."

The room erupted in laughter as Beomgyu revealed the prank. "Gotcha, Yeonjun! Just wanted to see your reaction. You should've seen your face!"

Yeonjun, a mix of relief and amusement, playfully rolled his eyes. "You guys are unbelievable. I can't believe you pulled a prank on me like that."

--

A year had passed since the transformative day when Y/N entered the lives of the members of TXT, bringing with her a mission of positive change and growth. Now, as they gathered in their shared space, the room resonated with a different energy—a sense of purpose, ambition, and the unwavering support of true friendship.

The boys had evolved into different versions of themselves, each actively working towards personal goals that reflected their newfound determination. Beomgyu, once the mischievous troublemaker, had channeled his creativity into a successful art venture. Taehyun, always the thoughtful one, had found fulfillment in pursuing a career aligned with his passion for helping others. Soobin, the natural leader, had taken on new responsibilities with grace and determination. Huening Kai and Yeonjun had both discovered their unique paths, each contributing to the overall growth and success of the group.

In the midst of these positive changes, Yeonjun and Y/N had found solace and strength in each other. Their connection had deepened over shared dreams, challenges, and a commitment to support each other's personal journeys. What started as a mission to change rebellious ways had transformed into a meaningful and loving relationship.

--

The night was calm, the city outside their window settling into a serene rhythm. Yeonjun and Y/N lay side by side in the dimly lit room, their conversations flowing seamlessly from one topic to another. The ambiance held a sense of tranquility, punctuated by shared laughter and the comforting hum of the city.

As they spoke about dreams, aspirations, and the little moments that had defined their journey together, the conversation naturally gravitated towards the topic that held a special place in both their hearts—their relationship. Yeonjun, with a sincerity in his voice, expressed, "You know, I never thought a simple mission to change our ways would lead to this. To us."

Y/N smiled, tracing patterns on Yeonjun's hand. "Life has a funny way of surprising us, doesn't it? I wouldn't have it any other way."

They spoke of the challenges they had overcome, the growth they had experienced, and the unspoken understanding that bound them together. In the quiet of the night, their words became a shared journey—a testament to the depth of their connection.

As the conversation settled into a comfortable silence, Yeonjun leaned in, capturing Y/N's lips in a gentle yet passionate kiss. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, carrying the weight of shared experiences and the promise of many more to come. Pulling back, they exchanged smiles, their eyes reflecting a deep understanding that words couldn't fully capture.

With a tender embrace, they settled into the cozy cocoon of their shared bed. The city outside may have been alive with its own stories, but in that moment, the world narrowed down to the warmth of their shared space.

However, just as they began to drift into the quiet embrace of sleep, the door burst open with a bang. The room was suddenly filled with the blinding flashes of cameras, and confetti canons exploded, showering the room in a riot of colors. The members of TXT stormed in, each holding cameras and wearing mischievous grins.

"So, we heard you were having a moment," Beomgyu declared, camera in hand. "And what's better than capturing the lovebirds in their natural habitat?"

Yeonjun and Y/N, still recovering from the surprise, were met with the chaotic entrance of their friends. Soobin, Huening Kai, and Taehyun joined in the revelry, holding confetti canons and wearing party hats.

Beomgyu raised his camera, aiming it at the disheveled couple. "Say cheese! Or in this case, say 'sleepover!'"

The room echoed with laughter and playful protests as the unexpected sleepover took shape. Despite the intrusion, Yeonjun and Y/N couldn't help but join in the infectious energy. As the confetti settled around them, the room became a haven of shared laughter, friendship, and the enduring bonds that had blossomed amidst the chaos of their rebellious past.

And so, the night continued with impromptu celebrations, shared stories, and the kind of camaraderie that turned ordinary moments into cherished memories. The city outside may have slept, but in the shared apartment of TXT, the night was alive with the vibrant echoes of friendship and the warmth of a love that had blossomed against all odds.

[xxlemon-chanxx]

How does Philip behave towards his children? Sons or daughters either,

(I have this AU where he has two sons, William(first son) Pip(second son) and Willie is a troublemaker who usually bullies other kids and mostly Pip because he’s jealous of him getting more attention. And Pip is very Quiet and reserved, he is named after Philip because he looks Exactly like him, basically a carbon copy of him.)

So how would Philip treat his children in general? Would he be strict and very Authoritative? Curious lolololl

Well, right off the bat I can totally see Belos pawning off Pip (who I'm assuming is the youngest?) onto Hunter because it's a recreation of him and Caleb when they were children.

I've already discussed how Philip/Belos would behave differently towards sons and daughters in another post, but, I do have some other thoughts if his kids are the equivalent of gremlins fed after midnight.

I actually had this conversation in my server YESTERDAY if you could believe it (albeit it was a different kid lineup where it had the Prince (from TOH beta)(eldest), Hunter (Second oldest), Sword Kid (William(?) from TOH beta), and another iteration of William as the youngest). We had a lot of laughs about what we thought Belos would be like as a dad of four very rambunctious boys. He's a very tired soccer mom. He can't get a break. He thinks he's got five minutes where nothing happens and he starts pouring a glass of apple blood suddenly he hears glass breaking and one of his little gaggle of sons is wailing like a siren and it sounds like a stampede in the halls. he sighs. It's just another day. And then of course, there are the times when the boys stay on their best behavior for a week or so to convince Belos that they're finally maturing and are going to listen, and THEN, as soon as they get let out into the open, you just hear one teenage boy yell "SCATTER" and Belos has to wrangle every single one of his children.

Good luck being a strict parent to a pack of hyenas. Even Belos has limits to his power.

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

breathes.

i doN'T HAVE THE FUCKIMG DIAMONDS FOR THBI S

I C

I CAN T BRE A THE

TJE MASK

THE FUCKSINFNSJFHSJF

THE OUTF

BOTH OF THE

THEYR S

T

"YOU LIKE LUMIERE THAT MUCH?"

"ME OR LUMIERE?"

THR FUCKINH

/LOUD INCOHERENT SCREAMING IN THE DISTANCE, GLASS IS BREAKING, SIRENS ARE WAILING, I AM NOT OKAY I AM NOT NORMAL I AM NOT SANE

I CAN'T DO THIS NO ONE TALK TO ME

I AM NOT BREATHING

I HAVE 20 FUCKING PULLS.

WE DIE LIKE MEN.

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Sketch in mostly greyscale with coloured fire and blood of Parker running over and starting to drop to her knees beside Eliot, who is lying amongst rubble, holding one hand to his abdomen, which is severely bleeding, and starting to push himself up onto his elbow. He also has blood on his head and face and elsewhere on his hands and chest. End ID]

-

Day 21: Blood loss

Eliot with very severe and rapid blood loss after an explosion causes him to acquire shrapnel wounds.

Ficlet below the cut

-

It was the sharp pain on the palms of her hands that Parker noticed first, the only clear sense in that confusion of noise and heat and swirling smoke.

Gravel.

Rough, sharp, gritty gravel underneath her hands and digging into her knees.

It had left bloody grazes where she had caught herself on the ground after Eliot propelled her behind the crate, throwing her to safety no more than a second before the explosion.

She hadn’t even really registered that there had been an explosion at all until she looked around and saw the fire, the smoke, the twisted fragments of metal and concrete scattered over where Eliot lay.

Or had been laying.

He was already pushing himself up from the ground, shards of glass catching the firelight from within his hair, glistening like the rich red blood that was rapidly darkening his clothes.

Parker stumbled to her feet, head feeling too heavy and body overbalanced, but within a couple of steps she found her limbs complying properly, and managed to get to Eliot’s side before he could get as far as standing.

As the thief dropped down, her knees landed in wetness, in Eliot’s blood, pooling rapidly beneath him as several deep wounds seemed to be determinedly pumping out his blood with each beat of his heart.

The worst, or where most blood could be seen, was his abdomen. He had his left hand pressed there, clutching the fabric of his undershirt tightly, both it and the clothing already covered in that shining red.

Knowing Eliot, knowing he would never just stay there like people actively bleeding out should do, she ducked under his arm to help him up, and together they stumbled back behind the crate that had protected her.

There had been three explosions in quick succession. More might be coming…secondary explosions as other things ignited and blew up.

Worse yet, she could already hear the wail of sirens, faint in the wake of the deafening explosion.

They needed to disappear.

Now.

If they were found there would be ambulances, hospital, police questioning, and Parker would either have to run and leave Eliot to be held prisoner in a hospital until they could break him out, or be arrested under suspicion herself so Hardison would need to get them both out.

She had to get out of there. Had to get them both out of there.

“Park,” Eliot, hoarse and close and quiet.

Next to her ear, not in it.

The earbuds?

She felt her ear, the device was still there but tapping it offered no feedback and she heard no reply as she called out Hardison. He always responded over comms, if they were working.

“Earbud’s fried,” she said, shifting it to her pocket.

Eliot reached for his, “Mine’s gone.”

Somewhere amongst all the debris.

Parker turned to Eliot, the motion making the world spin again for a moment, and she wondered if she had hit her head. Her brain felt too fuzzy.

“We have to get to Hardison,” she said, aware that he was probably thinking exactly the same, “Can you walk?”

He nodded, gaze fixed on her’s, assessing something that she didn’t understand.

“Okay…” she looked away, out at the gradient of lessening destruction as it went away from the epicentre. Somewhere out there Hardison would definitely go to park the van and wait to rendezvous. Did they wait?

“There!” Eliot pushed himself up, gripping her arm tightly and pointing towards an area some way off.

The deep shadow from one building was interrupted by an intermittent light. Regular sequence. Morse code, Parker guessed, and something that made Eliot smile slightly.

“Hardison?”

Eliot nodded, wrapping his arm back around Parker as she helped him to stand.

It was only a short distance - a hundred and twenty three metres - to the deep shadow, but it felt like twice or even three times that with Eliot practically a dead weight beside her, his steps slow and faltering, and having to hold one hand over his bleeding abdomen just unbalanced them more.

He stumbled and very nearly brought them both to the ground as they reached the van, saved by Hardison sprinting in to prop up Eliot on his other side.

“Dammit man!” Hardison took most of Eliot’s weight, freeing Parker to sprint ahead to get the van door open, “Please tell me you went and slaughtered a chicken or something on the way and that is not all your bl-“

“Hardison!” Eliot growled, cutting off his growing panic.

The hacker looked wide eyed and more than a bit ill as he got Eliot into the back, “We are taking you to a hospital this time.”

“No…just…” Eliot fumbled in his pocket, getting a hold of his phone, the screen cracked and blood in the fine lines of the glass.

More blood smeared over the phone as he dialled, fingers shaking on the buttons and making him mess the number at least twice. But he dialled what he intended and switched the phone to speaker, letting it fall gently onto the floor of the van, his hand limp beside it.

“Eliot Spencer. Got another imminent terrorist threat for me to have to deal with today?”

The familiar voice of colonel Vance.

“Discrete medic in West Michigan,” Eliot said as loudly as his failing strength would allow, “You got anyone?”

A brief pause, then, “I’ll text you an address and let them know you’re coming. Nature of the injury?”

“Shrapnel wound to the abdomen, severe blood loss.”

Vance abruptly hung up. Moments later there was a text, an address, and without a word between them, Hardison grabbed up the phone and jumped into the cab, kicking the van into motion almost immediately.

Through all this, Parker had been focused on the injuries that were quickly threatening to kill their hitter. The conversation, the suddenly moving van, her own bleeding hands and arms were distant. Like something happening elsewhere, out of the bubble of her and Eliot and all that blood.

He had taught her basic first aid, and how to slow bleeding, how to clean and stitch up wounds. Bullet wounds and knife wounds. How to stabilise a broken leg or arm…not this. Not this jagged, deep, metal-flecked mess.

But she had grabbed their first aid kit anyway. Well stocked. Eliot had a medic friend who designed him the sort of first aid kit he would need, kitted out for the types of injury most likely in his line of work.

She had pulled on nitrile gloves over her own scraped up hands, grabbed gauze, sterile and bundled, and packed some in the wound, applying pressure over the top with more gauze. Her pressing over Eliot’s abdomen made him wince, but nothing more.

“How long?!”

Hardison glanced back over his shoulder, “Twenty minutes. If we’re lucky.”

Parker looked back down at Eliot, fading fast, almost colourless as his blood kept seeping out through the gauze and between her fingers.

“Tie this down,” he slipped a shaking hand over one of her’s, “Make it tight.”

She nodded, letting him take over applying pressure as she scrambled to get another roll of gauze from its packet. She looped it round over the wound and behind his back a couple of times, tightening it until she saw him tense from the pain, then fastening it with a knot probably not meant for bandages but it was what she knew.

“Good…now IV…” Eliot rasped, clumsily pulling up his left sleeve to expose a vessel she could use, “You remember…how to…?”

She nodded and returned to the kit. The only time she’d done this before, he had been more conscious than he was now, and they were only doing it to deal with severe dehydration. He had been able to help more than he was now, and there wasn’t all this blood on his skin already and they weren’t in a moving vehicle and…

“Parker,” his voice brought her back, “‘s okay. Instructions…on the…”

She looked at bags, neatly packed in beside the lines and sterile needles. Taped on each was the clear name of the fluid in the bag, when to use it, and stepwise instructions for how to set the IV up.

Eliot had planned for situations like this.

So she followed the instructions, blocking out the sight of the blood and the sound of Eliot’s breath growing more ragged, and Hardison’s panicked updates on how long it would take.

She couldn’t focus on all of it at once and she needed to get the fluids into Eliot. He was losing a lot and he needed more. Blood pressure getting too low was bad. She knew that.

And she did it.

She got the IV hooked up, the fluid moving into Eliot’s body…

He smiled that soft smile that made her chest tighten, “Good job.”

She fought back a wave of fear.

Not good enough.

Eliot was still bleeding out, still getting paler and paler.

Parker held his hand in one of her's, using the other to try and put more pressure on the wound.

After about seven and a half more minutes, his finger's uncurled, hand falling limp and unresponsive in her's.

"Hardison!"

"Almost there," he replied shakily, catching her gaze in the rearview mirror, "Just hold on. A couple more blocks."

It felt like ten, twenty, a hundred more, every passing second making it less and less likely that Eliot would survive this.

But he was still breathing, he still had a faint pulse, when the van stopped.

The back doors opened and Hardison jumped in.

Parker looked beyond him, to the concrete parking lot and the white building beyond. A door was already opening and two people pushing a gurney towards them.

She heard them say something, Hardison call something back, but the words didn't really register, and suddenly they were in the van too, taking up too much space and too much air and she couldn't breathe.

"Babe," Hardison's voice in her ear, his hands on her arms, "Parker, they got Eliot. You gotta let go."

She looked down at her hands, still holding Eliot's hand and the gauze tightly, both red but the blood was drying and getting darker.

Mutely, she nodded.

These were the medics Vance had said were okay, and they were going to help Eliot.

Parker let Hardison guide her back out of the van into the too-bright world outside.

His hand was shaking where it rested over her shoulder. She held it to make it stop.

The medical people had Eliot on the gurney now, wheeling him into the building at a run. Parker wanted to follow but she knew she wasn't supposed to. She could watch from a vent maybe, but that would mean leaving Hardison alone, and he was breathing quickly, panicking now everything they could do was done.

"Would you like to follow me?"

The kind voice, with a smile that was completely inappropriate, came from a tall person wearing Crocs and multicoloured scrubs.

"We have a staff area where you can shower, and I can find you some clothes to borrow."

Parker looked down at her once-white vest top, now a reddish brown over almost all the front.

They didn't need to borrow clothes since they always had plenty spare in the van, which was good because Parker wanted something comfortable and safe and ended up, after a long shower, engulfing herself in one of Hardison's hoodies.

After they had both showered and changed, the kind person in Crocs brought them some water and offered them hot drinks and cookies. They were now sitting in a cheaply furnished room with hot chocolate and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, staring at the same door Croc-person came in through before, waiting for them to return and offer some sort of update on Eliot.

Last they had heard, when the kettle had been boiling for the hot chocolate, he was still in surgery and that was all Crocs knew.

An hour later, they still had no new information, and the sun was starting to set.

Parker finished her drink, long-since gone cold, and rested her cheek on Hardison's shoulder. She let her eyes fall shut, the white of that door lingering behind her eyelids, until it faded with the creeping darkness of an exhausted sleep.

She opened her eyes to a dimly lit, horizontal, world.

Her pillow had changed from the wool of a sweater to coarser denim, and the hood over her head had been replaced by a familiar hand resting lightly on her hair.

From this vantage point of Hardison's lap, she could see very little of the room.

The coffee table, part of the counter beyond, and a leg that she knew with a very distinctive boot at the end of it.

She slowly slipped out from under Hardison's hand, registering by the lack of response that he was asleep, and sat up to get a better look at their hitter.

Pale but not covered in blood, and wearing clothes that had to belong to the clinic, except for his own boots, which were not quite as cleaned of blood as the rest of him. He was sitting in an armchair with a beer in one hand and an IV hooked up to the other arm, watching her calmly.

"Hey," he whispered, voice still as weak as it had been when they first got him into the van.

"Hey," she echoed, the image of him sitting there all clean and bandaged felt less real, less tangible, than the bloody, bleeding out, Eliot she had been knelt beside for an unbearably long twenty minutes.

She was clean but her hands still felt dirty. She still had some of his blood caught up in the corners of her nails and on her shoes, like on his shoes.

He had nearly died right there in the back of Lucille, and Parker couldn't stop it.

She opened her mouth, but shut it before making a sound.

How could she voice the reality that she - they - could never bear to lose him, that it would destroy them both, and that they would neither of them survive the overwhelming grief...she couldn't form the sentence that conveyed it.

“You doin’ alright?” he asked softly, something in his expression and those words telling her that he understood perfectly those words she couldn't say.

She nodded, swallowing down tears she hadn’t realised had been welling up, “You need to apologise to Hardison. You got blood all over Lucille.”

Eliot bowed his head, “I’ll apologise when he wakes up.”

“You’ll clean her when I wake up,” Hardison mumbled groggily, not moving.

Parker smiled as Eliot let out a small, tired, laugh, “Never gonna happen, my man.”

-

[anetherealpoetess]

This is how Twisters (2024) could have been done in a God honouring way:

Jeremy Allen White plays Dr. Reed Harding, the storm chasing son of Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. His partner in science and navigator is Simone Ashley, a meteorologist studying for her PhD. For the sake of simplicity, her character is also called Kate Cooper, just like in the new film.

Reed is madly in love with Kate, but the mere thought of confessing this to her claws at his fraying sanity, dredging up painful memories of his father's sudden death. Grief grips him, suffocating, almost addicting. He can't bear to suffer the same fate as his mother, left to storm chase without her soulmate. So he keeps his true feelings buried deep within, afraid to expose himself to the pain he would feel if he lost Kate.

Their ragtag-bunch-of-misfit-scientists is comprised of Anok Yai (in her debut acting role), Abbey Lee Kershaw, Milly Alcock, Manny Jacinto, and the one and only Danai Gurira. Meanwhile, Eric Bogosian plays the leader of another storm chasing team. He is a respected father figure to Reed and the rest, giving them all scientific and safety advice.

Relevant note: see how cool Anok Yai looks in glasses:

I want to see her chase storms so badly.

And now that everything is organized, we can begin.

Our film does not start with Reed; instead, we open on Kate. She is a young girl enduring a sweltering hot day at home with her mother somewhere in the American Midwest. It's the 1990s, and her mum is wearing incredible jeans (which I believe is worth mentioning. Women in the ‘90s wore jeans like nobody else.)

We take our time to build suspense: the wind picks up, wind chimes whirl (in a nod to the original), the tv with news of the oncoming storm flickers, screen doors slam, and curtains snap and billow. Kate's mother rushes outside, frantically securing loose objects in preparation for the impending chaos. She asks Kate to go back inside, but Kate is rooted to the spot, fixated on something in the distance.

Kate: "Mummy ... who is that man?" Kate's mother: "What man, honey?"

Kate's mother follows her daughter's curious eyes to the horizon. There is no man standing there. But there is a tornado--a Dead Man Walking tornado. (Maybe the film is called Twister: Dead Man Walking. Maybe not. We can workshop it. )

[The phrase "Dead Man Walking" is commonly used to describe the appearance of some multi-vortex tornadoes. The multiple vortices look and move in such a way that the tornado appears as though it is walking. The expression is often associated with the 1997 Jarrell tornado due to a famous documentary, although it has been used to describe other tornadoes as well. The photo above is of the Jarrell tornado "Dead Man Walking." The gif below, I believe, is from the El Reno tornado which killed the TWISTEX team. RIP Tim, Paul, and Carl.]

Here is when their town's siren starts wailing, and our action sequence begins. Kate's mother is appropriately terrified. Quickly, she gathers Kate and their dog and rushes to the car. She knows they are facing an F5 Tornado and that without getting underground, they will not survive. The problem is the only underground shelter Kate's mother knows is at a neighbour's house. And they need to get there. Fast.

I don't need to break down the action sequence beat by beat. You know the drill. Kate, her mother, and their dog are caught up in the tornado, but they make it to shelter and survive. As they emerge from their hiding spot underground, they discover that the entire town has been destroyed, including their house, wiped off the face of the earth. Begin opening credits and then cut to decades later, when Kate is an adult in love with extreme weather and chasing with Dr. Reed Harding, who she is in love with too.

(I'll have to do a Part Two as this got away from me. But the general idea for the plot is the same as the original. The team encounter tornadoes in order of increasing intensity. The first tornado we encounter (besides the F5 tornado which opens the film) is an EF-1, the next tornado is an EF-2, and so on. The last tornado of the film is another Dead Man Walking Tornado, an EF-5.)