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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

Text

Late July

Fandom: Kingsman: The Golden Circle

Pairing: Agent Whiskey [Jack Daniels]/Reader

Rating: Holy shit explicit.

Summary: Upon hearing about you from Tequila, Jack Daniels seeks you out with a full set of emotional baggage to work through. You happily oblige, helping him craft a scene that just might grant him some peace of mind. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @wrestlingfae @cookiethewriter @culturalrebel @jackierey09 @crookedmoonsaultpunk @duker42 @agirllovespasta @nelba @pedrosbigdorkenergy @lestrange2703 @youmeanmybrain @luvley-shadow @theocatkov @miscellaneousjunkk @reluctantlyresponsibleadult @buttons-beads-lace @gooddaykate @lackofhonor

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains consensual non-consent (surrender play), light domination, roleplay, unprotected sex, frank discussion of safe words, usage of safe words, dirty talk and light bondage. Remember that fanfictions are not research and that you should never engage in any activity if you do not trust your partner. Stay safe!]

There was just something about you that put people at ease, and Ginger Ale noticed during the interview process. "You have a gift!" She had praised you, her smile unexpected and bright. "I can see why Tequila recommended you for this position."

Granted, being the 'head of first impressions' at a distillery that was actually a front for a secret intelligence agency had its ups and downs, but you enjoyed the work and (if you were honest) the exciting interactions with the Statesman agents.

Tequila, of course, would practically drape himself across your desk as he regaled you with (hopefully) exaggerated tales of his heroics. The two of you were sexually involved but preferred to keep each other at arm's length out of the bedroom, neither party particularly keen on surrendering your freedom and committing to anything serious at this point of your lives. You admired his dedication to Statesman, and he in turn respected your desire to have a successful career. He also was blatantly mooning over a certain analyst.

Ginger Ale was quieter and sharper than Tequila, her dry humor a joy to witness. She was the one who had done your interview, and she had given you the full behind the scenes tour once your background check went through. She was beautiful, charismatic and smart as a whip. You hoped to one day be as self-assured as she was.

Champ tended to keep to himself for the most part, though you had encountered him several times in the past when he dozed off in a certain chair at the end of a sunlit hallway. The elderly man was like an old tomcat, you decided, able to prowl but more than willing to take it easy.

Whiskey was often away managing the affairs of their New York headquarters and as such, was the one that you interacted with the least. He would come breezing in at all hours, a slow smile and a wink directed your way before he would saunter past. The rare occasions that he engaged you in conversation were nerve-wracking, as you were a little starstruck due to the glowing accounts both Champ and Tequila had given of his prowess in the past.

Ginger Ale was a bit more down to earth, thankfully. "He's just a man who's lost a lot, and his reasons for wanting to change things for the better may not be entirely altruistic." She had informed you concisely when you queried about the origin of one Jack Daniels. You had picked up on the veiled sadness in his dark eyes, the age that seemed to weigh him down that wasn't entirely related to years.

So when the aforementioned Statesman agent had drunkenly expressed a certain desire to you at a company party, you couldn't hide a little spike of curiosity. Mainly because the two of you interacted so rarely. Hell, you wouldn't even call yourselves friends. Tequila must have told him about your side activities.

"Ever since I lost her, I can't fuckin' bring myself to raw anyone else." The confession had come out of left field, but you had done your best to play it off like it was normal. Lord knew you had done enough paperwork in your career at Statesman to understand that agents would just kind of…say things thoughtlessly if they believed they were in a safe environment. A hazard of the job.

"What do you mean, Mr. Daniels?"

"Call me Jack. Jesus, I ain't that old." He had hiccupped sharply, grimacing. "I just mean I...it's like a mental block. I wanna', I'm excited about it, and everything's fine until I try to come and boom. Python shrivels up like a damn salted slug and I'm left holdin' the bag tryin' to explain myself." He stared into his glass, looking pensive. "Real mood killer."

"Any idea why this might be?" You had prompted, leaning against the bar and idly scanning the throngs of people around you. It wasn't every day that so many of the company's rank and file rubbed elbows with the higher-ups, but you had to assume these economic mixers were what had kept the company (and intelligence agency) on such an even keel. It was a grounding experience, a way to remind the suits of their humble beginnings.

He scoffed out a breath. "Oh I know exactly why. When I lost her, I...we had only learned a little while before that she was havin' a baby. We'd been havin' a rocky time and we were actually thinkin' of breakin' up, but that news…" Jack had tilted his head to glance your way, his brown eyes distant. "If I hadn't gotten her pregnant, she wouldn't have been out shoppin' that day, y'know?" A sad smile had quirked his mouth beneath his mustache. "My fault."

At the time, you had made a noise of sympathy and gone to lay a hand on his arm before you could think better of it. He, instead of shrugging off your touch, actually ended up twining his fingers through your own and giving your hand a light squeeze.

Agent Whiskey's past was a shadowy affair in the Statesman organization. Though to be fair, no one really asked anything about anyone. Ginger Ale reasoned that the less people knew, the safer they and Statesman were in the event of a security breach.

Anything you learned from any of the agents, you tended to keep close to your heart. It was your nature to gather useful information and foster trust for a rainy day. That personality facet had served you well as you had climbed the ranks from intern to head of first impressions, and knowing that you were someone that could be counted on to hold your cards close put many people at ease.

Including one Agent Whiskey.

"Tequila said you were good at helpin'. I'd be much obliged if you'd consider takin' a crack at my sexual baggage."

...

"Alright so for your words, you've decided on 'sixth' as your 'yes I'm into this', followed by second for 'slow down but don't break character', first for 'slow down and do break character' and finally neutral for 'full stop'." You tapped the customary notepad on your lap, glancing over at the man across the table. The two of you were currently sitting in the kitchen of the vacation cabin that your parents had willed to you, the modest dwelling often your staging ground for affairs like this. The warm wooden decor tended to make your partners feel more at ease and less vulnerable. Perceived safety was, after all, incredibly important when crafting scenarios.

Jack nodded. "Gears are easy for me to remember. Simple."

"Got it. And no kissing on the mouth. Can I kiss you in other places, or would you prefer I didn't at all?"

"Kissin's fine." Jack allowed. "Whatever you wanna' do is fine, just not on my mouth." You jotted that down. "Hey, I uh...I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate you agreein' to help. I dunno' if this will work, but…" Whiskey rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Thanks. When Tequila mentioned your...extracurriculars, I figured he was jus' bein' outta' pocket again."

You grinned at that, giggling a little. "Does he get weird a lot?"

"I mean, he's uh...well, he's got his moments." Jack replied with a smile of his own.

"So," you hummed once you had checked your notes again, "after looking over all the information we've compiled, and the ideas you gave me an outline of, I'm thinking that you may want more of a 'surrender-play' kind of experience."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Dare I ask how that's different from what I already suggested?"

"Look, you and I both know that I couldn't keep you from moving if you wanted to. Now, if we had a real working dynamic going on and I believed that you would listen and trust me implicitly so that you don't end up hurting yourself or me, then we might have something. But as we are right now, that's not gonna' happen." Whiskey inclined his head with a rueful chuckle, acknowledging the truth of your words. "So I propose that it's more of a scenario where all the agency is removed."

The agent leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "Explain."

"You need a scenario where you aren't in control and there's not even a chance of you being in control, taking any responsibility or guilt from the equation." You elaborated. "Basically, you would surrender your control so that you can indulge guilt-free. A lot of people do this coupled with a roleplay aspect in order to test new things that may be out of character for them."

"You coulda' jus' said you wanted to tie me up, sugar." Jack drawled. "I'll show you some good knots."

"You don't have any issues with being secured to...I guess a chair, probably? We'll keep you upright. If we sprawl you out on a bed that might be a little too vulnerable." You reasoned, waiting for his nod before you wrote it down. "I know it sounds contradictory, but I want you to be comfortable in what we do. Should I leave your clothes on?"

"If you can stand to, I'd appreciate it." The man answered with a cheeky wink. "Bein' naked and restrained is a little too close to the job description." He sighed after a moment, tipping the chair backwards as he laced his fingers behind his head. "Now I warn you, if I'm supposed to be an unwillin' party, I may display a little less Southern hospitality and a little more Southern history with my language, if you catch my drift."

You pursed your lips, squinting at him. "...is that your way of saying you might use a naughty word or two?"

You received a lazy finger-gun in reply, "bingo, cherry pie. You got any names you ain't a fan of bein' called?"

"Oh! I mean, I've heard just about everything in the book." You straightened up as a thought occurred to you, and then pointed back at him sternly. "No slurs."

"Ma'am," Jack sounded aghast, "I am not that breed of Southern gentleman. My lingo can verge on the spicy, but I sure as hell wouldn't stoop to that level."

You narrowed your eyes to drive your point home. "I really hope not." The agent inclined his head once more, putting a hand over his heart in a display of sincerity.

The front legs of the chair met the floor with a soft clatter, once again putting him on stable footing. "Now, I been wrackin' my brain tryin' to drum up a good premise like you asked, but I ain't exactly big in the screenwritin' department. I figure it could be kinda' like I'd been kidnapped? Drawin' a blank on why my kidnapper would be rawdoggin' me, maybe you can come up with somethin'?" He queried hopefully.

You furrowed your brow in thought, going silent as you carefully considered the hodgepodge of contributing factors. "Oh, I think I can manage."

...

This deck had been rigged from the start. In theory, you knew that he knew that. Still, he was certainly acting like it stung his pride a bit that he'd fallen into your 'trap' so cleanly.

Everything was going according to plan.

Whiskey struggled against the binds that secured him to the kitchen chair. His whip was safely confiscated. Lasso out of reach. Hat was still on his head. He had specifications, after all.

You left him to wriggle for almost half an hour while you got yourself ready. The man was a secret agent, after all. If he hadn't been restrained for much longer than that at any given point you would be very surprised.

You finally opened the bathroom door, sauntering out into the cabin's small kitchenette. "Miss me, love?" You crooned, committing to your role as villainous vamp stereotype number six. You had worn a plain set of underwear and an oversized white t-shirt, soft and see-through from the amount of times it had been washed. You got the feeling that if you went more elaborate, you might scare Whiskey off or make him too uncomfortable to really get into it. This scene was all about trust, and he hardly knew you. But he had sought you out for this. All you had to do was follow through.

"Was beginnin' to worry that you forgot about me, ma'am." The agent drawled back, his smile tightly sardonic and his low voice curling hot in your belly. "You fixin' to untie me yet?"

You clicked your tongue, the noise disappointed. "Whiskey, sweetheart, where's the fun in that? If I untie you, you'll just kill me."

"Can't blame a man for tryin'." Jack was absolutely in his element right now. He looked furious.

You ambled around behind him, slinging your arms around his neck and resting your weight on him briefly. "Remember," you murmured in his ear. "If you need me to slow down, or need to stop entirely, you say…?"

"Second, first and neutral." The agent replied readily. You patted his cheek.

"Good boy." You praised.

"Ain't my first rodeo." Whiskey's tongue darted out nervously to wet his lips and you wanted to reassure him, but you knew you had a job to do.

"Now, can I get you a light refreshment? Something to drink? Maybe some chips?" You offered, moving to the small refrigerator that you had stocked a little earlier in the day. Planning was imperative for engagements like this. "I have water, sweet tea, Coke…"

"Dammit woman, stop beatin' around the bush! Why the hell do you have me hogtied to this damn chair?!" Jack erupted.

"So rude." You chided him, removing a water for yourself and then leaning casually against the counter. "You really want to know, Mr. Whiskey?"

"Obviously." He scowled.

"Well be a patient boy and maybe I'll tell you." You hummed, not making eye contact as you unscrewed the cap on the water bottle. "It was more than enough trouble for me to get you here in the first place, big shot. Don't rush me."

"Listen, I'll be the first to tell you that I probably ain't who you're lookin' for." He said bluntly. "I'm just a simple liquor tycoon, nothin' more."

"Mr. Whiskey, if you continue to insult my intelligence maybe I will decide I've got the wrong man. And then I'll just get rid of you." You swirled the water in the bottle, fixing him with a thoughtful look.

"You're talkin' a mighty big game, woman." Jack grumbled.

You sloshed some of the water on your thin white shirt as if by accident, and began daubing at the gauzy fabric aimlessly. "Whiskey-"

"It's Jack." He spat.

"Oh, we're on a first name basis? How exciting!" You teased him, laughing when he muttered angrily under his breath. He was clearly enjoying the role of 'belligerent definitely-not-a-spy'. "Alright then, Jack. I won't beat around the bush, as you so tactfully put it."

"Hallelujah, some goddamn cooperation." He replied in a sulky tone.

"So, Jack, I need you to come inside me. Strictly so I can bypass Statesman's biomechanical security systems. It's nothing personal, I just assumed you would be the easiest target, you know?" You remarked with a shrug. "The flirty cowboy with the filthy mouth." He stared at you and you raised an eyebrow, half-convinced that his reaction was legitimate. "What? You do have a reputation."

"I hate to break it to ya', but you got the wrong beverage. You're lookin' for Tequila, ma'am." Jack retorted, his voice a little raspy. "You want...what?"

"I need you to come inside me so I can use the your genetic signature to bypass the security." Granted, you were pretty certain that Statesman used exclusively fingerprints, retina scans and time locks, but Whiskey had told you to weave a good story for the setup, not necessarily an accurate one.

Jack swallowed hard. "You've got bats in your fuckin' belfry, woman. You expect me to-"

"Oh no, that's the beauty of this arrangement." You interrupted him, still smiling. "I don't expect you to do anything aside from sit there and stay still while I ride you."

"Jesus fuck woman, you--shit, isn't there some other way to do this? I ain't keen on the prospect, but if there's literally any other way…"

"Sorry. This is the only solution that my superiors could get behind." You sighed, feigning regret. "And we might be here a while, from what I've heard." Jack's eyes darted to yours and he flushed, working his jaw. "Don't look so glum! I'm one of the best in my field. I'm sure I'll be able to compensate for your...lack of investment."

"You touch me and I swear to God-"

"Ah ah, naughty boys get gagged." You threatened gently, walking your fingers up the side of his face to stroke them back down his jawline. Jack glared at you, his dark gaze fairly luminous with fury and maybe just a touch of poorly-veiled interest. "Be a good boy and I'll let you talk as much as you want. Maybe I'll even let you play with my tits, hmm?" You asked, cupping your breasts through your still-damp shirt. "Would you like that, love?"

"I…" Jack trailed off, then snapped his eyes back up from your chest. "No!"

You tapped his nose, winking. "Oh I think you would. Don't be so stubborn, Jack." You cocked your head to the side. "No one from Statesman even knows you're gone. No one is coming to rescue you." You informed him, all the playfulness evaporated from your voice. "You're mine now, Jack. My own personal key-card."

"You won't get away with this." Jack snarled.

"I think I already have." You knelt between his legs, running your hands over the jeans that covered his thighs. He squirmed, trying to dislodge you, but you just moved with him. You dug your nails into his thighs. "You keep wiggling and I'm going to have to tighten the ropes, Jack. Is that what you want?"

"Oh you filthy fuckin' woman, you absolute bitch, let me go!"

"Hmm," you tapped your chin as he kept jerking and straining against the knots. "No."

Jack froze when your fingers unbuttoned the button at the top of his fly. "Now wait, wait just a damn minute, y-you can't--" he tried to plead.

"Oh I can. And I will." You looked up at him. "As long as we're in the right gear?"

"Sixth, sixth." He affirmed, flashing you a quick smile. You nodded and seamlessly resumed your play.

The zipper of his fly opened devastatingly slow, the agent exhaling raggedly when you pulled up his shirt and palmed his groin gently through the fabric of his boxer briefs. His cock was already half-hard, and you pointed that out with a mean little smirk on your face. "Oh no, looks like someone's interested." You crooned, rubbing your index finger over the head of his still-clothed dick.

"Fuck off, you...y-you-" he swore, rolling his shoulders as if he was testing his bonds. "You little bitch."

"Temper temper." You chided, ducking your head down to mouth over the fabric of his boxers. Jack gasped out another swear over your head, his hips twitching up to meet you before he slammed them back down. "Methinks someone doth protest too much." You snorted, splaying your fingers on the newly-revealed skin of his stomach. "We could make this so much simpler if you would just give in, Jack." You didn't miss the way his skin jumped at your touch, and you smiled against his boxers.

"You'll--you'll have to do better than that." Whiskey breathed. "You think just any ol' woman can get me up?"

You stood, leaning in close and pressing your mouth to his ear. His whole body flinched when you wrapped your fingers around his cock and gave him a nice, slow stroke. "Oh, poor thing. You must believe you're really special, hmm? God's gift to mankind every time you take someone to bed." You mocked, your teeth and tongue laving over his earlobe. "We're all so lucky to have you, Jack."

"Hhn-" Jack's shoulders went stiff, the man obviously biting his tongue.

"You don't have a choice, sweetheart. I'm going to get you hard. Then, I'm going to use your cock. And all you have to do, my lovely, handsome cowboy, is come inside me." You informed him, drawing a finger beneath his chin. "More than once, preferably."

"I'm not usually a man to voice my own shortcomin's, but I must warn you that this will be a futile-" Whiskey's words hitched in his throat when you stroked him again. "Fuck, no, don't touch me like that, you--"

"Stop playing hard to get, Jack." You murmured, slinking your free hand up the back of his neck to massage his scalp right beneath the band of his hat. "Give up."

"Never." He hissed even as his head lolled forward, granting you more access to rub his neck.

"Pity." You settled back down between his legs and wrapped your lips around his cock.

"No, no, dammit-" Whiskey growled, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Don't you fuckin'...no, no, don't use your tongue the-ah f-uck--" His protest died in a pitiful groan when his cock met the back of your throat. "Oh, you--fuckin'--you've got to be shittin' me woman, the whole-?" He grunted out haphazardly as you relaxed your throat and took him all the way down to the base. "You think y-you can take advantage of me jus' cuz' it's been a while since I got laid? Fuck you."

You hummed around his cock, wanting to giggle when he twitched and swore loudly. Your fingers dove past the hem of your underwear, and you moaned against him as you ran your index in slow, steady circles around your clit.

"I ain't fuckin' you, and I sure as shit am not gonna' come in your pussy." Jack snarled.

"Oh yes you are." You sang, rising to your feet and slipping your panties off. The white t-shirt came next, baring your breasts to the air-conditioned environment.

Jack seemed to forget that he was supposed to be vehemently against this yet again as he just...watched while you teased your nipples. You tugged at the taut peaks, rolling them between your fingers and making a show out of the whole bit.

"I can't wait to have you inside me, filling me up, just pumping me full of your come." You said with a smile, sauntering over until you would be in reach if his hands were free. Jack's tongue made a nervous reappearance and you tugged his chin upwards so you could see his eyes. "Are we still in gear? Or do we need to shift?" You asked. He seemed slightly dazed.

"Oh! Uh, sorry, s-sixth." He stammered. "Sixth, holy shit."

"Mm. Don't disappoint me and maybe I'll let you live." You remarked smoothly, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him. Jack's shoulders were rigid again and you kneaded at them surreptitiously, trying your best to keep him in the scene and out of his own head.

You were well on your way to soaking wet with arousal. There was nothing better than when you had a partner that trusted you, regardless of whether you had truly earned that trust. Just the fact that they had blind faith in you to execute the endeavor that they needed...it was heady and sweet and you loved every second.

You rutted your pussy against the underside of Jack's cock, the man snapping his teeth at the sensation. "Too good?" You taunted, laughing when he swore again.

"I can't believe that you think I'm fuckin' enjoyin' th--look, any dick perks up at heavy pet-"

Cutting Whiskey off mid-sentence was quickly becoming a favorite pastime, you realized as you angled your hips and let the head of his cock push past your pussy lips. "In, just a little, give you a taste, sweetheart…" you sighed, rocking your hips forward and back but not allowing him to sink any deeper into you. "There, that's not so bad, is it?" You cajoled as he shuddered beneath you. "Just keep being good, my sweet cowboy, and this will all be over so much sooner."

"No, no-" He struggled to move, to do anything, but you had made certain to tie him exactly as he had specified. "Dammit, when I get free of here, I'll--"

"Shh, you think too much." You tapped your index finger to his lips, smoothing it over the bristle of his mustache. "Focus on your job right now, and everything will be fine."

Jack turned his face away, inadvertently presenting the thick column of his neck to you. And you, channeling your inner villain, leaped at the opportunity to lick and bite at the bared skin. He made a strange noise, a combination of a moan and a whine that had you raising an eyebrow.

"Is someone a little sensitive there?"

"No, I am not." He answered through gritted teeth. "I hate that you're touchin' me, that's all!"

"Hmm, it doesn't sound like you hate it." You mused, suckling gently at the spot where his jaw met his throat. You were very careful not to leave marks, as that had been another specification. Whiskey struggled underneath you again, only succeeding in pumping his cock up into you slightly.

"Don't, don't--" His voice actually cracked and you smiled, nuzzling your nose beneath his jawline and letting his dick settle deeper.

"Oh no, it seems like you do want to fuck me after all." You shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back and stroking over the base of his cock with two fingers. "Warming up to the idea of being my little fuck toy, Jack?" You teased, noting the way his knuckles whitened from his grip on the rope and his Adam's apple bobbed with the force of his convulsive swallow at your words. "I could just keep you here like this forever, you know. All tied up, helpless for me…" You squeezed the base of his cock and he gasped, trying to stifle the noise. "Soon, I'd have you trained so that you couldn't come from any other pussy aside from mine. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Without waiting for an answer, you let the last few inches of his dick enter you. You leaned back on his thighs, feeling the muscles coil and strain beneath your touch as you reached down and grazed your clit. You could feel the heat of his gaze on you, those brown eyes fixated on the motions of your fingers even as his cock split you open. You were grateful that he was secured, you weren't sure if you would have been able to take him otherwise. His cock curved thickly against your back wall, the engorged head throbbing back and forth over the area that made your whole body shudder in delight.

Whiskey's jaw was taut, his shoulders set in a rigid line that made you ache to get him to come undone in you.

"You're so quiet." You pouted, raising your hand and brushing your wet index finger over his slack lower lip. "Aren't you having a good time?"

His chest abruptly expanded, like he had forgotten to breathe for a moment or two. "Fuck you." Whiskey seethed, making you chuckle softly. "I ain't nobody's goddamn fuck toy."

"Sweetheart," you chided as you sat up. "That's not a very nice thing to say to the person warming your cock right now." You deliberately clenched down on him and Jack swore under his breath, shaking his head. "I can make you feel so good, Whiskey, if you just give me what I want." You insisted, cupping his face and pulling halfway off of his cock.

"N-N...No." He replied weakly.

You sighed, rolling your eyes and shaking out your shoulders. "Well, I tried." Your hands landed on his shoulders and you gripped down to steady yourself, your hips meeting his own with a wet slap! of skin. Jack's chest heaved, his eyes closed and head tilted back as you began to ride him roughly. "All I wanted was for you to come in me. I don't feel like that's asking for much!" You complained petulantly, rolling your hips against his when he was hilted in you with an agonizingly slow grind of your body.

Jack bit out a low "fuck," those tense shoulders trembling under your touch. You tucked your face into his neck to tease the sensitive area even more, your tongue tracing random patterns that made him squirm and writhe underneath you. "I don't--can't, can't, don't make me--" he tried to protest, his words fractured and pitiful.

"Yes you can, and you're going to." You snapped, taking a handful of hair at the nape of his neck so you could urge his head back further, leaving his throat at your mercy. "You're coming in me, Jack! Give up!"

...

"First!" He choked out, and you immediately slowed to a crawl. Your touch on him gentled significantly, no longer demanding but cradling, caressing.

"Easy, easy." You soothed, the unrelenting assault of your perfect hips gone to a slow and careful rhythm, back and forth like a porch swing in the summer heat. Your eyes searched his own, concern shining through.

Jack was speechless, his blind panic melting away at the sound of your regular voice. What the hell just happened? He licked his lips, only now realizing how dry they had gotten. "Sorry, I uh-"

"No apologies." You murmured. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Would you like to stop now?"

Whiskey took a long moment, running a mental check on his body. Nothing was sore, nothing seemed out of line. Everything was raring to go.

Everything aside from his brain, that is. The damn thing wouldn't stop conjuring up scenes of you pregnant and everything going to absolute fucking shit. It didn't matter that he had zero attachment to you, it didn't matter that you were on birth control. This was how it always was.

Every damn time things got serious with a new interest, "oh, let's start a family," Whiskey just wanted to curl up into a ball. Without fail, like clockwork, he would shut down.

And then the accusations would start, the distrust, "How come you can do it with protection but not without?" and it was disheartening, crushing to go through again and again. Explaining didn't seem to do a lick of good, it was always just that he was stringing people along, that he was a damn selfish prick, that he didn't care about what his partner wanted.

That couldn't be further from the truth, of course, but maybe that was his own fault for not dropping the bomb before getting attached to someone. He just couldn't ever seem to justify asking a person on their second or third date, "hey so what's your thoughts on having kids?" It felt manipulative, cheap, and if he was being honest, he knew for a fact that sometimes just the idea of having children was enough to scare a potential interest off.

You were the first person to try and help Jack really wrap his head around this whole issue. And yeah, that was the whole point in sussing you out, but…

Tequila didn't tell him that you actually gave a shit, or at least you were damn good at acting like you did. Whiskey bit his lip. "I'm okay." He said finally, trying for a smile.

"Anything chafing? Do you need some water?"

"I…" Jack trailed off. "Huh, I admit I am a bit parched. But that means you'd have to get up." He realized unhappily.

"Were you enjoying yourself?" You asked, sounding curious.

Whiskey got the hysterical idea in his head of you pulling out some sort of satisfaction survey at the end of your engagement, the notion making him smirk slightly. "God, yeah. I...yeah." He flushed a little bit. "Dunno' if I ever got this far after…after all my mental hangups and stuff. The fact that I don't have a say in the matter seems to be helpin', though."

"Okay, don't go anywhere. I'll get you some water." You patted his thigh, cautiously settling your feet on the floor and then going to stand with a quivery little gasp that absolutely stroked his ego.

Jack couldn't help his own groan at the loss of your heat, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. "Damn it woman, has anyone ever told you that your pussy is fuckin' perfect?" He muttered, his usual honeyed words suddenly clumsy in his mouth. "I mean, hell."

You laughed, bending over to dig in the small fridge for another water. Whiskey felt his entire body throb at the sight of you presenting yourself to him like that, and he sucked in a breath at your obvious teasing. Even in the soft light of the kitchen, he could see the glisten of the wetness between your legs. Hell yes, he found himself thinking stupidly as you turned back around.

"I'm just glad that you're doing alright. That's the most important part to me, after all." You assured him, unscrewing the cap on the water and tipping it to his lips.

Jack gulped greedily, feeling a few droplets escape his mouth and run down his neck to blot his collar. "I am. One hundred percent." He said firmly after he had slaked his thirst. "Let's keep goin'."

"If you're sure, absolutely." You acquiesced, smiling again. Placing the water bottle on the kitchen table, you then swung your leg over his thighs like you were vaulting back into the saddle. Jack held his breath, waiting for you to welcome his cock back into your body. And God he was so hard, he couldn't remember ever being this hard, what the hell--

But strangely, you didn't immediately resume from where you had left off. Instead, you put your arms around his neck and actually rested your forehead against his own, bumping his hat upwards.

Jack swallowed roughly, confused.

"Let me take this from you." You whispered. Whiskey felt pinned by your stare, he felt as if you could see every terrible thing he had ever done, every transgression laid bare under the weight of your gaze. "Let go of it. I have you. I won't let anything happen to you."

The words washed over him, soft and sweet. Your fingers slipped up into the hair at the nape of his neck to toy with the mussed ends that lurked there. The whole exchange was oddly intimate and Jack found himself at a loss yet again, simply grating out, "sixth," when he couldn't come up with anything else to say.

You reached down and stroked his cock, rubbing the head of it against your clit. And Jesus he could feel you, the difference in heat, the slick--

"Are you gonna' take it from me, sweet girl?" He hissed through his teeth like it wounded him to ask, trying desperately to cling to the illusion that he wasn't willing. "Take everythin' I've got?"

The blur between reality and this playdate was getting messier by the second. He wanted to fuck you, wanted to bury himself in you, spend every last drop inside the hot embrace of your quivering cunt. He wanted that. Jesus Christ, this wasn't part of the bargain.

This was a pantomime, specially designed pornography that existed only to coax a very specific reaction from his confused body. So why did he wish he had met you years ago? Why was he suddenly hoping and praying that the sounds you were making were legitimate instead of exclusively for his benefit, hoping that you were also enjoying this?

You angled your hips and sank back down on his lap, your hands going to your breasts where you proceeded to fondle and tease them until your nipples looked like they ached.

Whiskey fucking ached himself to wrap his lips around one pert little peak, swirl his tongue across the tip and make you come undone, rut his dick up into you until you cried out his name and soaked him--

Whoa cowboy, he chastised himself, a little startled by how sharp the longing was. You just kept fucking yourself on his cock, that hot, wet little pussy molded perfectly to every ridge of his member and he had never been this hard, this ready in his life. Despite the air conditioning in the cabin, your skin shone with sweat from all the work you were putting in and Whiskey couldn't recall a time where he had been more appreciative of someone else accomplishing a task within his field of vision.

Your hand slipped down, down, and Jack found himself following the trajectory until it delved between your legs and you started playing with yourself. "Jack," you crooned his name and it was like a prayer, reverent and soft, tender enough to coil itself around his lungs and choke him to death without a whisper of protest. You parted your legs even wider in his lap, exposing yourself to him so he could watch his cock slide in and out of you, so he could see himself fucking you open.

"Are you gonna' come for me, sweet girl?" He gasped, craning his neck and managing to tilt his head so he could mutter into your ear, "you just gonna' wrench one out for me, beautiful?"

"Mm, no, I'm not coming until after you come." You whimpered, still moving your hand. "But I'm so close, Jack. I want to come."

Your plaintive whine had him ablaze. God, he had never wanted to please someone so damn badly in his life. "I know you do, sweet girl." He murmured huskily, exhaling hot over the shell of your ear and loving the way you quivered in his lap. "You're so good, lettin' me blow my load before you get off--gonna' pump me dry when you come, aren't you? Just keep me inside you until that little pussy is all fucked out," he growled, barely aware of the words that tumbled from his mouth.

All he knew is that you were all a-tremble at his voice, your body as hot as late July against his chest, your eyes heavy with adoration that he did not deserve and God, he couldn't get used to that look even if it was fake. What if you stayed? he wondered absently. What if you stayed?

Oh fuck, he was about to come. Panic jabbed like the blade of a knife between his shoulder blades and Whiskey went silent, his teeth bearing down on his lower lip and his eyes slamming shut as he focused harder than he ever had in his life.

The smell of you, the sounds, the heat, the little spasms of your cunt around his cock…

Yes. Yes, God yes, he could do this--

"Come in me, sweetheart." Begging him, pleading, demanding, "Jack-!" You cried his name.

Whiskey groaned hoarsely, so low it was almost painful, and let go. He bucked his hips up against you as best as he could, minute little thrusts while he came harder than he had in years. "Oh," he snarled, gritting his teeth, "fuckin' Christ woman, I think you've ruined me, Jesus fuck."

Your hands threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck again and you held him, not tightly, but just enough to keep him steady, anchored. "There," you said abruptly, the snide, put-upon tone of your role contrasting wildly with the gentleness of your touch, "was that so difficult?"

Jack burst out laughing, not overly concerned with how strange of a reaction that was. Hell, was he relieved? "Jesus fuckin' Christ, you're great." He remarked breathlessly. "I don't even know what just happened."

"Oh?" You replied, raising an eyebrow. "The mess between my legs seems to allude to you possibly having an orgasm. Jury's still out though."

He grimaced apologetically, glancing down. "Sorry darlin'. It's been a while, y'know?" You rose up off of him again and he grunted as his cock slipped free from your body. Whiskey felt half-drunk, relief and release combining into a potent cocktail that left him boneless in the chair.

You quickly put your shirt back on and then crouched at his feet, beginning the arduous process of untying him. Jack just sat there, watching you drowsily. He couldn't do much else, really. "Any numbness or chafing?" You asked quietly, stirring him momentarily from his daze.

"Nah, nothin' yet." He replied, straightening his freed left leg and rotating his ankle in his boot. "A little stiff, but I've survived worse than that."

"And how do you feel?" You questioned, "physically and emotionally."

Jack gnawed at his lower lip, trying to force his sluggish brain past the haze of serotonin in order to give you a satisfactory answer. "...good." He said finally, scrambling to elaborate, "or uh, better, I guess. More okay than I've been in a fuckin' while." It wasn't a lie, he was surprised to discover. He hadn't actually put much stock into this endeavor, figuring it would be a fun little diversion that would end just like every other time. Of course, it didn't hurt that you were easy on the eyes, prettier than a peach if he was being honest with himself.

Your smile was bright and Jack's stomach knotted confusingly. "I'm glad."

His right leg was released and he shifted his weight in the seat, groaning happily when his hip popped. "Hey, wait." The agent belatedly realized, "you didn't-?"

"We were here for you." You reminded him. "Not me."

"Whoa now, that don't seem fair at all!" Whiskey protested, taken aback by your nonchalance. "You just put in all the work!"

Your laugh tripped down his spine like an aftershock. "Don't get bent out of shape! It's standard policy, Mr. Whiskey. Once the desired result of the scene has been acquired, the scene ends and I start with aftercare."

"B-But--you didn't get to get off though!"

"Me 'getting off' wasn't specified in our planning."

"I needed to specify that shit?! I figured you'd just kinda'..." His right arm was free now and Jack seized the opportunity to make a certain gesture, raising his eyebrows. "I mean, I was at your mercy!" He continued, bewildered. "You totally coulda' just kept goin'-"

"Yes, and that's exactly why when the desired result has been achieved, the scene ends." You interjected firmly. "Because you trusted me enough to let me take control, and I'm not about to break that trust by doing something selfish on a whim."

Jack exhaled hard, scooting his hat a little further back on his head so he could study you. You didn't look disappointed, or annoyed with him. He wondered how many times you had fielded ignorant questions like his own and he cringed at himself. "I'm...shit, I'm sorry. I don't have any right to be all shitty about it." He apologized as you moved out of his field of view to untie the rope securing him to the back of the chair. "I just feel like you worked so hard an' got nothin' out of your end of the bargain."

"It's sweet of you to be concerned about that, but don't take it personally, okay?" You assured him, "I do this because I enjoy it. The whole experience, not just the finale." The ropes around his chest sagged and Jack slid forward a bit in the seat, relaxing.

"Can I get that water again? Christ, I need a cigarette and a tumbler of the strong stuff after all that." He joked, clumsily tucking his cock back into his boxers. You pressed the bottle to his hands and he nearly dropped it, chuckling self-consciously. "Whups, sorry. I had my fists all bunched up so my fingers are stiff." Jack proceeded to down the rest of the bottle, wiping his mouth and mustache with the back of his hand after the fact. "So...what exactly is it you do for Tequila?" He queried nosily.

You laughed at him and God, God he loved the sound of your laugh. "That, Mr. Whiskey, is on a need-to-know basis. Just like this little soiree between the two of us." You chided, your eyes bright with good humor. "I would never violate a partner's trust in me."

Jack tipped the bottle in your direction, as if making a toast. "I'll drink to that, partner. What's next on the menu?"

"We'll talk out the scene and wind back down. Get cleaned up. I'll probably…" you paused, squinting at the clock over the sink. "You want some pizza? There's a joint not far from here that serves pies and chicken wings until midnight."

Jack groaned appreciatively, "I knew you were my kinda' gal. Lead the way to the debrief, ma'am."

It didn't really matter in the long run, he supposed. You obviously weren't interested in anything serious (if only because he figured that your flings with the stereotypical 'bad boy' Tequila would have become more regular in spite of the younger man's painful crush on Ginger Ale), and he could respect that. Still though, he couldn't help feeling a touch morose over the possibility of never engaging with you again.

He toyed with the idea of asking you for another 'appointment', but dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it arrived. Better to quit while he was ahead.

Or rather, he amended ruefully as he settled down across from you in the diner booth, his hair still damp and curling slightly beneath his hat from the quick wash he had indulged in at your cabin, better to quit now before I make even more of a fool of myself.

Part Two

#jack daniels #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #kingsman: the golden circle #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character #agent whiskey imagine #consensual noncon #whew where did this come from #enjoy!#working things out

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codenamesazanka · 3 years ago

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I don't get it! Can fictional characters not be called out on racism?! Dabi is 100% racist! Whether it's "casual" or "totally in your face bigot", it's racism! I've literally had a lady at target call me and my friends spics because she didn't want to stop for us at the cross walk! (Slur for Hispanics)

And I dunno if I understood this right, but poc can't be racist? Is that what that other anon was trying to get at? Cuz if that's their argument then i don't mean to burst their bubble but poc can most definitely be racist to other poc.

First, i’m really sorry that happened to you and your friends. Even scarier that you imply you were pedestrians and she had a car. It’s always a bad shock to be randomly shouted slurs at, and I wish that you could’ve been spared that. I hope you and your friends are okay!!! (also. yeah, shit like this is always at like an target. its so weird. is it the red? making assholes rage even more??? color theory…)

Technically, it’s ‘fantasy racist’, because I do make a point to acknowledge that it’s an fictional issue and fictional prejudice. It’s an allegory for irl discrimination, and I do apply irl parallels, but still, I don’t want to be accusing a thing of something it’s not. Dabi is a fantasy racist, and I think I’ve been consistent about that key adjective.

But yeah!!! He’s a dick to heteromorphs. 100% complete asshole. I just think it should be acknowledged? I wanna see him get made fun of more.

Not quite sure what that anon means either, but yeah, you’re right. Racism is pervasive, structural/institutional/cultural, and insidiously part of the world we live in and often even in the thing we do, intentionally or not. To exist in this world (particularly in America, which I assume is the context me and anon and my friendly-argument-opponents are coming from) is to be exposed to it, be part of it, perpetuate it, whether we want to or not. So unfortunately anyone can hold racist beliefs, unconsciously or internalized or completely unaware of it if not taught to identify and combat it - thus, PoC can sadly be racist to fellow PoC (especially since it’s really too wide a term to encompass all the different dynamics between the many racial minority groups in America/the West. Enacting the tangible, structural consequences of those racist beliefs does go usually one way in America (white supremacy suppressing non-white people), but within that are multiple directions it can go and that’s where PoC can get entangled.)

I like to think being a person of color means I have been more aware of the taint I hold and can combat it, but it’s really a ongoing life process and there are many things i haven’t uncovered and addressed within myself; so, if you excuse the too-long paragraph, yeah, PoC can be racist towards each other. I don’t think it’s the end of the world or that it’s irredeemable if so, I think it just means we have to work even harder on ourselves.

Thanks for the ask!!! I hope you have a good day!

#nalslastworkingbraincell #asked #ask #answered #anon #anonymous #Still very sorry that happened to you and your friends and I’m sending good vibes #dumdum debacle

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lilyofthestyx · 4 years ago

Text

Aeipathy: Chapter Two

Disclaimer: i don’t (unfortunately) own Marvel or any of their characters, plot points, etc. so all right are to them and their our overlord Disney

AN: yeahhhh this one’s a shorty but i promise the next one will be longer and filled with plot and angst and shit so prepare yourselves <3

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: angst, mentions of torture, mentions of murder/arson, HYDRA collectively is a prick

Chapter One is available here!

Gnawing.

It claws through my body on all fours. Tearing, ripping, hacking, burning.

Monstrous fangs that sink into the deepest parts of muscle- I can feel it in my bones, the burning.

There is no noise, just the sound of whirring and the unholy screeching of demons in my ears. Faceless demons, demons whose faces have too much detail, demons that stare, demons that scream. Demons, demons, demons.

I have fallen. Fallen from grace. Fallen from…

No, no.

I am falling.

Something catches me. A savior in blue. Scarlet red smeared across their chest. Blood. My blood- the blood of sinners and saints and bystanders. Of children and ancients and of rich and poor.

There’s white streaked between the red. Piety. Purity. Righteousness. Desperately, I cling to the stark white stripes. Indecipherable mumbles pass my lips as I stare at the white. I beg for purity, to be clean again.

Every time I wake up, it’s always the same.

The immovable weight in my body. The unceasing shivering. The bite of frost. The writhing of filth in my veins. In my nerves. In every fiber of my being. Festering. Growing. Rotting. Corrupting. Remembering.

But why can’t I remember?

All I can remember are the demons. Faceless, nameless but never silent. Always screaming.

Screaming, screaming, screaming.

I cling to the white. The righteousness of my savior. Solidity in turbulence. Silence in cacophony. Purity. Cleanliness. Life.

I cling to life.

But life burns under my fingertips. It shrieks and squirms under my touch- tries to escape. Repelled by my presence, it retracts away from my grasp.

Color retracts into shapes as I take in my surroundings. An almost completely empty room completely made of concrete. A single contraption behind me made of metal. Icy fog slithers out of the open door, hissing and flicking at my ankles.

Words, however, remain blurred. The savior holds me upright- pulls me to my feet. Everything burns and aches. I’m so incredibly cold. Frosted water paints my skin, coats my clothes to my body. A puddle gathers beneath the writhing fog.

This seems familiar.

My eyes turn up towards my savior. The blood-stained guardian. Words fall from their lips, landing on deaf ears.

My body trembles as the cold becomes more vicious with its fangs. The savior turns away and says something. Everything is muffled- faraway and distant and like someone has their hands clamped down over my ears.

“Why am I awake?” I ask, straightening up. Every inch of me quivers while every part of me wishes to stop.

But I was awoken for a purpose. My mission.

And I’ll complete it.

Hail HYDRA.

Location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters

Date: 2012

“Woah, easy, ________,” I mutter, holding her upright. Her eyes wide, they flick around the room. Her hands grip my chest as she shakes violently.

She’s here. She’s alive.

She… she died. Died on that table- how is this…

“Steve,” Tony mutters, holding out a blanket. I take it and start to wrap it around her shoulders.

As her glazed eyes lock with mine, I look over her face. She’s drained of color- blue and white. Her chapped blue lips open and close violently.

Hoarsely, she starts to speak.

But not anything I can understand.

Over and over, she repeats questions with her eyes wide and wary of every moment and movement. My eyes dart over to Tony- who watches ________, his eyebrows furrowed.

Russian.

That’s what she’s speaking. Russian. And fluently. Extremely well. Why… Why is she…?

“She didn’t… usually speak like this, did she?” Tony asks, gesturing vaguely to her as she continues to shake in my arms. Broken words off a stolen tongue hiss past her lips. She furrows her eyebrows as she looks between the two of us.

“Her files told me she was-” Tony continues.

“She’s… she’s never spoken this before,” I mutter, adjusting my grip under her arms. “Raised in Brooklyn for most’a her life- I dunno why-”

“V chem... moya missiya?” ________ hisses, her voice shaking. I look down and watch her straighten up on unsteady legs. “V chem moya missiya?”

“...why is she…?” Tony mutters, stepping in front of her. He lets his head fall back with a sigh as he taps his leg with his finger. “It’s been a long time, let’s see if I can do this.” Rolling his shoulders back and snapping his neck, he focuses back on ________. “Kto ty?”

________’s head tilts to the side slightly. Her eyebrows furrow further as she glares at him through them. “...Hetaerae. V chem moya missiya?”

Tony sighs and closes his eyes as he speaks. “Ch… chto… ty. Chto ty?”

Her eyes glaze over as she stops shaking, standing upright. “Ya HYDRA.”

“...she’s… She died, Tony. I don’t… I don’t know what else to tell you,” I mutter, looking up from the desk. “She… she died before I even got the serum. I hadn’t even seen Doctor Erskine- Bucky… he hadn’t been shipped off to Europe yet.”

“I may be able to help explain that,” Tony says as he gets to his feet. In his hand is a thick folder filled with papers and photos and notes and scraps of paper. He places it in front of me with a thud. “Apologies- I would opt for the digital version but, uh… you… don’t even know what... that… is.”

“Tony,” I say sharply as I open the folder. He just shrugs and sits down across the table again. The top paper is mostly blacked-out with a few words left untouched. ________’s name. Her age. Her parents and their causes and dates of death. And other words that… don’t make sense. ‘Mistress’. ‘Replication’. ‘Improvement’. ‘Rejected’. ‘Baroness’. ‘Salbei’.

‘Hetaerae’.

Repeated over and over throughout the sea of black streaks is that word. ‘Hetaerae’. At the very bottom of the page in tiny letters are the words ‘Project Samsara- Hetaerae’. In the corner is a skull with tentacles writhing beneath it. ‘HYDRA’ is written along the curve of the skull.

My stomach churns. If HYDRA really is behind this then...

I start tearing into the folder. Photos of the various angles of the steel container from when I woke up. Under it is a handwritten note. ‘Cryo-container; Vrsn: Hetaerae’.

Another photo- this one of a chair. On the armrests and legs are cuffs, along with another one on the back of the chair. Something metal comes around the chair. It juts off the side of a machine and looms over it like an archway. A note is written over the photo. ‘Neck brace may prematurely terminate subject. Issue logged during first programming session’.

Another blacked-out stack of papers. The same words are repeated over and over again. ‘Hetaerae’, ‘Baroness’, ‘Samsara’, ‘Salbei’, ‘HYDRA’. My fists clench the papers before tossing them to the side. Tony watches in silence.

What the Hell is this? What were they doing- what did ________ have to do with it?

My eyebrows furrow as I manically flip through the papers. Papers fly to the side as I tear through the folder. I can feel myself getting rigid as I near the end.

Nothing. I’ve learned nothing. Not a single goddamn thing. There’s nothing here-

My hands stop as my eyes rest on the last few items. A file not blacked out. It’s completely intact. Nothing scratched, no scribbles, no hasty lines cutting through words. I snatch it and start reading.

Project Samsara; Hetaerae

Subject Name: ________ Bishop

Subject Age: 26

Subject Info:

Daughter of Leon Bishop (deceased) and Catherine Chambers (deceased)

Resident of Brooklyn, NY

Military background

Non-combatant medic

Attempted pilot training

Worked under Doctor Akin Nachtnebel- HYDRA researcher

Personal friend of Captain Steven G. Rogers, Sergeant James B. Barnes, political activist Odessa Lily Mae Ababio

Official status: Deceased

Simplified Process Log (see file 178953 for detailed logs):

Day 1:

Body retrieved by HYDRA.

Blood and tissue samples taken.

Heart/respiration rates taken.

Note: Hetaerae seems to be semi-lucid. May require sedation.

Day 13:

Serum incubation complete.

Visible changes in body structure internal and external.

Bone density increased slightly, muscle mass increased, other changes to be tested.

Day 23:

Regen. abilities test positive

Enhanced reflexes test positive

Body modifications test optimal

Note: Hetaerae seemed to negatively respond to pain. Possible weakness. Must train to not respond.

Day 68:

First programming session prematurely terminated. Hetaerae reacted negatively to programming.

Admitted to medical wing.

Near strangulation and bruised trachea.

Removing neck cuff on programming station and attempting again tomorrow.

Day 100:

Programming temporarily successful.

Hetaerae could not recall set of numbers given pre-programming for forty minutes.

Memory wipe testing will continue.

Day 173:

Hetaerae admitted to medical wing for treatment.

Major vocal cord damage.

Damage not irreversible.

Memory wipe testing will continue.

Note: Hetaerae begged for ‘Steve’ and ‘Bucky’ repeatedly during memory wipe. More research needed.

Day 234:

Three guards admitted to medical wing.

Hetaerae had clawed at their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths

Broken nails were taken from guards’ faces.

Admitted samples for research.

Extra-long memory wipe testing done.

Hetaerae will be allowed a day to rest after strenuous session. Cannot allow for subject’s termination.

Day 250:

Near disaster.

Hetaerae attempted escape.

Four guards killed. Two more seriously injured.

Must increase security.

Note: Hetaerae lethal before combat training. A promising candidate. Akin, in his paranoia, chose well.

Day 276:

Hetaerae broke free of restraints during memory wipe.

Too exhausted to attempt escape.

Memory wipe has prevented Hetaerae from remembering subject name.

Will begin codeword implantation process tomorrow.

Day 342:

Hetaerae begins Samsara training tomorrow.

Complete memory wipe achieved.

Hetaerae is the only thing within subject.

Day 3658:

Samsara training complete.

Winter Soldier co-training complete.

Complete memory wipe complete.

Codeword implantation complete.

Hetaerae to be placed in cryo to await orders.

Hail HYDRA.

HYDRA status: Active. Ready for use.

“Look at her track record,” Tony mutters, sliding a thick wad of papers over to me. Turning away, I shake my head. “...fine. I’ll read it for you.” He huffs, flipping through the various pages. “Uh… her first mission was to…” he scoffs, “To take out a mid-level politician that had apparently laid his eyes on something he shouldn’t have. ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’.”

“Tony…” I warn quietly, my shoulders getting tenser with each word.

“A few missions later, she’s retrieving lab samples and… and destroying the lab... Fourteen people killed. ‘Mission: success, targets: terminated’.”

“Tony.”

“I’m skimmin’ here, Cap, but listen- an orphanage in Saint Petersburg, a… a couple in Prague, a woman in Athens, a man in Cairo...” Tony continues skimming through the pages. “‘Mission: success, target: terminated’, ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’, ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’-”

“Enough!” I snap, turning to look at him.

Tony sighs and puts the papers down. Running a hand down his face, he purses his lips. “Dunno how else t’tell ya this, Cap- she’s dangerous. She has killed hundreds of people. She can speak seven languages, she can infiltrate a political atmosphere and topple it, she can... camouflage in any… social situation, she has a perfect kill record... Whoever she was before-”

“She’s still in there,” I cut in. “She’s still in there.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Are… are you not... hearing what I’m telling you?” He gestures to the original folder. “They laid into her for… ten years. Subjected her to torture. Wiped her slate clean. Whatever was in there, pal, it’s long gone.”

A huff leaves my lips. “...you don’t know what she was like,” I mumble coldly, reminiscing over what it was like to live with her, to live with her at my side like I was at hers. “She was… the most... hard-headed… stubborn dame I’d ever met. And strong, too.”

“Rogers-”

“She’s still in there, Tony,” I snap, my eyes flicking up to him. “She’s strong.”

“Good morning.” I say, waving at ________ as she sits on the chair. Her breathing is steady, eyes trained on the opposite side of the room. Her wrists are handcuffed to the armests- the same with her ankles. They clink slightly as she breathes.

The room is completely empty except for another chair across from hers. My shield lays against the chair- ‘a precaution’ Fury called it.

‘A threat’ is what I would call it.

I step further into the room and sit down on the chair. With glazed eyes, she watches me. “Are… those too tight?” I ask, gesturing to the cuffs.

She says nothing. Only blinks in response.

She… she looks so empty.

Her face was always glowing, her smile illuminating the clinic when Buck and I would walk in to bring her lunch or just to bug her. Letters would flood in every now and then from past patients or their families, thanking her for her patience and kindness. She would keep them all in a shoebox under her bed.

And her hands. She would wrap bandages around my wounds with care. She’d always tell me to not get it in my head to fight again… and then ask where the punks lived so she could ‘pay them a visit’. Her hands were always feather-soft when checking every injury’s progress.

Now they look… darker. Not in color but just… darker.

Stained.

Did she know what she was doing when she killed those people?

________ shifts slightly, the sound of the handcuffs pulling me out of my head. I clear my throat and straighten up. “...do you know who I am?” I ask quietly.

No response.

“Do you know who you are?”

“Haetarae.” She answers, eyes still glazed.

“Do you… do you know who you actually are?”

________’s eyes narrow for just a moment. “...HYDRA.”

“No. No,” I mutter, pointing to my chest. “...do you know who I am?”

...nothing.

“Steve. I’m Stevie. We… we grew up in Brooklyn together. With Bucky. We, um… Buck ‘nd I, we helped you out of a fight when you were thirteen. That’s how we met… you… remember that…?”

She blinks, eyes scanning over me.

Getting up from my seat, I reach into my pocket and tug a photo of the three of us out of my pocket. It was taken after she had gotten her nursing credentials. We had gone out dancing, just the three of us. We found someone willing to take our photo. A smile crosses my lips as I look down at it.

Colors start to fade into the black and white photo. Every detail is so crisp. ________’s chin is resting on my head as she stands behind me- a bright, red-lipped smile on her face. Her arms are wrapped around my chest as she leans over. Her hair is done perfectly- up with roses in her hair. Neat and tidy like she practiced. The skirt of her dress is the same shade of red as her lips. Black dots pattern the fabric of the skirt. The bodice was black- matching her heels. Hooked through her elbows was a creme-colored fur boa.

Bucky’s got his arm around her waist and he ducks down to my level. He holds a pressed black suit, wearing a red undershirt. His suit jacket is hung over his shoulder with his undershirt’s sleeves rolled up. I remember him shining his shoes that day while ________ meticulously placed roses in her hair. Bucky had sewn and hemmed my pants with pride. ‘It’s a special day, punk’, he mumbled with the needle between his lips, ‘can’t have ya trippin’ on your pant legs.’

She shifts again and I’m pulled right back into now. ________ sits in front of me. No smile, no roses, no brightness. And Bucky… Bucky’s dead and gone. Lost a long, long time ago. Slowly, I hold out the photo. “...see?” I mumble, “That’s me… before I… had a growth spurt. And that’s Buck.”

I look up to her. She’s focused on the photo, eyes slightly squinted and head tilted to the side just barely. “...Buck ‘nd you,” I laugh quietly. “He… he was… so crazy about you. He just… never realised it.”

The door behind us cracks open. Her body snaps tightly, eyes back to glazed. Tony peeks his head into the room and tilts it back. “Eyepatch wants you.”

I sigh. Looking back at ________, I tuck the photo into her hand. Slowly, her fingers wrap around it delicately. I nod once and start out of the room. As the door swings shut, I spare one last look. ________ looks down at the photo, her head slightly tilting once more.

“It may be our only option,” Fury sighs. “She’s unpredictable at best.”

“She’s still in there- if I can just… keep talking with her-”

“That is out of the question,” he says firmly, eye flicking up to me. “...you’re too close on this one, Rogers. I’m making the executive decision to-”

Lights start to flash overhead- red and screaming. A wailing buzz rips out of the hallway as the red light bathes us in scarlet. The door slams open, Tony standing in the doorway, panting. Fury slowly gets out of his seat, eye wide.

“She… She got out,” Tony mutters, gesturing outside.

My body launches forward as I run into the hallway. People are running, an anxious chatter swarming around them as they pass just in front of me. As I push into the main hallway, elbows and chests are thrown into me. Flicking to each person, my eyes catch the room where ________ was held. The door is almost completely torn off the hinges- the wood cracked at the handle.

I start to push through the sea of people. Like water, they throw themselves against me- eager to leave the building and get the hell out of harm’s way. But as I make my way to the door and push out the other side of the tempest, I can see the dangling cuffs still hanging around the armrests.

My fingers graze the splintering wood door, tracing the ridges of where her fingers had dug into the wood- leaving grooves in the shape of her hand. The hinges look relatively new as they hang lifelessly off the wall. The debris littering the floor is kicked around, leaving a partial trail down the hallway. I follow with a solid grip on my shield.

“________?” I hiss, looking around the empty hallway. Everything is dimmed by the red lights and the screaming of the alarms haven’t stopped. “________!”

I round a corner and every adrenaline-fueled tension melts away. At the very end of the hallway is a floor-to-ceiling window. Broken glass lays at the base of a gaping hole.

She’s gone.

#captain america #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x female reader #captain america x platonic!reader #eventual relationship #slow burn #angst #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #series #nick fury #tony stark

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dreamylyfe-x · 4 years ago

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Reactions: 11x06: Do Not Go Gently... (etc)

You know, I was going to do one of these for 11x05 and then I got so mad about the “Pollack” thing that I just couldn’t.

Shameless is such a challenging show in so many ways... because there is a lot of cringe a lot of the time and I am a delicate flower about those things. But... I do love it and so much of its strengths at this point are the performers and just the length of time we have been with these characters. And sometimes you really see that, and sometimes you frustratingly don’t, but this episode was much more the former than the latter.

I’m going talk about Carl right off the jump when I thought I was going to avoid talking about it at all because... not a topic I enjoy. If you don’t enjoy, I will keep it all in this bullet so it’s really skipable. I will see where I eventually land on it, because I am wary -- lots of bad consent on this show over the year and very little longterm exploration and all. But. I have seen a lot of sexual assault storylines over the years. I can’t readily remember if I’ve ever seen someone on a TV show have that moment where they feels weird, tell someone why, and get someone emphatically tell them that they’re right to feel weird, because they’ve been violated. That is something that is so common in life. I have unfortunately had more than one conversation with someone that took exactly that trajectory. There is so often this period of shock and uncertainty and people will then use that against people to demonstrate how they couldn’t POSSIBLY have been hurt. If they were going to tell a story about a sexual assault, I’m glad they did this -- something that they set up like “this is grey!” and then have Debbie say “It’s not grey. It’s a crime.” Weird to them basically SMASHCUT to a totally new topic but I will swing back around to that.

I like Debbie best with Sandy so this was a rough one for me with her.

Frank: WTF, why do I care about Frank’s story? They’ve set this up all season so it’s not a surprise, but... I dunno. Frank is awful. But he’s also an addict. And the thing I will always have empathy for on the topic of addiction is the way it can steal your life. What’s happening to Frank is scary and a direct result of an addiction which we have pretty much never seen him try to get out from under in any meaningful way. He has lost his life to it -- his potential, his relationships, his children -- and now he’s losing his mind. Just. Fuck.

Speaking of: Lip. WTF are you doing? I feel like, by the end of the episode, they’d made it clear that Lip is acting out. That he’s angry and frustrated and it’s making him do stupid and destructive things that aren’t actually going to add up to ANYTHING good for him. Which... Kinda classic of Lip. But those moments where Mickey is looking at him and is the voice of reason ... I mean, I love that. But Lip. That’s not a great look for you.

Once again, V’s story just sorta weird? Like active shooter drills being a replacement for gym class... Um. Wait. What is this story about, exactly? Gun violence or school funding? Or both? What are we doing?

Liam: Stop going to Carl with your problems. Christian: I love what you’re doing. Because boy do I feel Liam’s terror. And I’ll come back to that, too.

Gallavich! It was a Gallavich story where the focus was on MICKEY. Just... Wow. I literally didn’t think that was going to be a thing this year. We love to see it.

Mickey helping Lip rob Born Free... There are a lot of blanks in all of that, but he seemed quite integral to the operation, Ian clearly knew it was going down and Mickey seems to have primarily seen it as a way to do a thing for family. I love the Lip and Mickey relationship -- I love the history of it. I love that they’ve known each other since grade school and are completely different kinds of alphas. Lip has always had being the smartest in his back pocket, but Mickey often leaves him speechless by just being the most fearless. I love how there’s always been a bit of begrudging respect (and on Lip’s side, maybe a bit of sympathy) there and I love that the show let us have a moment where Mickey is going out to help Lip do crime and then coming back to the house with donuts for everybody. Just. Beyond my wildest dreams for season 11.

Speaking of “beyond my wildest dreams” -- that there would be some decent level of complexity with Mickey and Terry. I think a lot of that complexity was left up to Noel to convey -- but that’s a choice they’re making and I think it’s the right one. I loved Ian observing that this was the most Mickey ever talked about Terry, because that seems true. It’s a little nod, too, to when Ian desperately WANTED Mickey to talk about Terry and the fact that Ian has, for years, accepted that Mickey won’t. It’s in character for Mickey not to want to SAY a lot about his dad, and it’s also just a true fact that the writers can give Noel a non-verbal moment (or five) and get us as the audience what we need to understand about where Mickey is at. And that’s history, too. Because we have watched Noel let the audience see Mickey’s heart through nothing but his facial expression for 10 of 11 seasons.

One of those Milkoviches looks a lot like Jody, so that was weird.

So one of my less popular Shameless opinions is that it makes sense that Mickey is involved with Terry in season 10. For many reasons I won’t get into here, but one of them is just that... people who have been abused by their parents do tend to have some kind of relationship with those parents. Most of that is just the fact that Terry -- while being absolutely horrific -- is still Mickey’s father. And Mickey clearly struggles to completely shrug that off. He struggles with it in seasons 3 and 4, and he struggles with it now. He understands that he has every right. But. Mickey isn’t Terry. And that’s going to make it harder for Mickey to completely shut that door. Since Mickey actually DOES have empathy.

Ok -- everyone has and will say what I’m about to say, which is just: The scene on the couch was amazing. Being take care of is such a loaded issue for Ian. It was loaded enough that it broke them up in season 10. Ian might talk about being paralyzed, but he’s saying that knowing that he will have to rely on Mickey to take care of him sometimes. He knows Mickey knows that and he knows Mickey signed up for it. But it’s hard for him. I think Ian knows the answer to the question -- has to -- but he asks it to ground Mickey in the idea that they both have each other. Mickey isn’t going to end up like Terry. He isn’t going to be alone in his chair with every single member of his family satisfied to leave him on the curb in a hospital gown.

To take a step back, this is also why I love the prior scene on the sidewalk, because that is a lot of how Ian takes care of Mickey. I reblogged Gallavictorious’s post yesterday that talked about an accusation that the fandom promotes the idea Mickey is supposed to solve Ian’s problems. This is the show helping her rebuttal, because my gut response to that idea was “where is Mickey now if Ian hadn’t shown up and loved him the way he did?” -- and that moment on the sidewalk is an example of how that still impacts Mickey. That’s what Mickey sticks around for. To have someone standing right in front of him when he wants to do something that will blow his life up just saying “Don’t.” Like how powerful is it for Mickey to have someone care like that? Mickey doesn’t want to talk. That’s not how he wants to receive love from Ian. But I think it’s incredibly valuable and important that Mickey has someone telling him he doesn’t need to give up his life to punish his father. That Terry isn’t worth it and that Mickey’s life IS.

Back on the couch scene tip: How exhausted must Mickey BE at this point? He’s up all night helping Lip, then he’s driving with Ian all day. Just what a long 24 hours for this guy.

I love that Ian doesn’t chase Mickey when he gets up. That he follows, but he doesn’t seem alarmed. He seems to understand they are past the gun-to-the-forehead part of this experience.

I also love that Ian helps him. I’ve seen several people note that this is Ian observing Mickey’s boundaries and it is. But it’s also Ian pointing out that Mickey isn’t in this alone.

It WAS big of Mickey, Ian. I fully agree. Far beyond the call.

I think Ian’s been wanting to tell Mickey he’s better than that all day. But this was the moment where Mickey was most going to be able to hear it. 💕

Selling the house: Well, we are really getting to the “last season of Shameless” stuff. I get where Lip is coming from, when he looks at his options. I get Debbie’s reaction. I also understand, given Ian’s day, while he is IMMEDIATELY all in. I only have one question: WHAT ABOUT LIAM???? I’m already mad at all of you for not giving that kid a hug.

But. I mean, overall? Literally wanted to see that much Terry/Mickey stuff for years. I never thought it would get here, so I’m happy.

But oh my God. We’re halfway done. 😳

#of course I will always take more #but this was good #Save Liam #Shameless season 11 #Shameless 11x06

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bosspigeon · 4 years ago

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one for sorrow

Pairing: Gen, M!Detective/Mason Word Count: 3483 Summary: Juniper Fenn reflects on memories, nursery rhymes, loneliness, and wanting to be wanted.

Just a little (uh... kinda big, actually?) character study for my soft boy, Juni! It wound up a lot more emotional than I originally intended, but I like having this insight into his character.

CW for (implied) deadnaming, misgendering, coming out, and in the last portion a non-graphic post-sex scene with some allusions to said sex ahfdsjh.

One for sorrow, two for joy.

He thought the needle would hurt more than it did. He closes his eyes and looks away, and the artist gives him the hairy eyeball when he clutches at Tina’s knee, like she’s afraid he’ll jump off the bench and bolt for the door. He wants to ask if that’s happened before, but he thinks he’s made enough of a fool of himself so far.

“You sure you’re good?” she asks, giving him an out. Somehow, that just strengthens his resolve.

He takes a slow breath and nods, closing his eyes.

He hears the buzzing, and when the machine first touches skin, he almost jumps, but he’s more worried about looking like more of a baby than he already does than he is startled, so he bites his lips and forces himself to holds still. And it does hurt, but not like he thought it would. He squints one eye open to watch the progress of the first line over his skin. He expects to be repulsed, like when he’s having bloodwork done, and he has to look away from the needle going into his arm. But this is different, somehow. Doesn’t make his stomach turn.

“This is the quietest I’ve ever seen you,” Tina teases, when the first wing has taken shape. He almost jumps again, but he manages to contain it to a twitch. He’s going to tip the artist as much as he’s able after this is done, just for dealing with someone as fidgety as him.

He chews at his lip. “It’s… I dunno. I wouldn’t say it feels good, but it’s kind of soothing, in a weird way?”

She leans over, watching, and the artist gives her a bit of a look, so she backs up again. “Have you told your mum?” she asks.

He snorts out a laugh and looks away, back at the stencil on his arm that will soon be filled in with black feathers and ringed with flowers. “Of course not. She’d probably kill me.”

“She doesn’t like tattoos?” Tina tilts her head, watching his face like she’s waiting for him to start whining about how it hurts. She’s always been the tougher of the two of them, and he’s got no illusions about that, so he’s sort of proud of himself for keeping his cool—as much as he’s got anyway.

He shrugs the arm that’s not under the machine, and wonders when he’ll get his next tattoo. He’s already got ideas for more, and knowing that it’s not so bad as he was worried it would be is exciting. Not to mention, it’s something that’s just for him. Not for anyone else. He’s… never really done anything like this before. “I don’t know what she likes, but I doubt she’d approve.”

She sucks her teeth and he squeezes her knee again when she gives him that soft, sad look she sometimes does when his mum comes up in conversation. “What’s it going to be?” she asks suddenly. Tina’s a good friend, changing the subject before he can get moody about it.

“A magpie,” he says softly, looking back down to watch the lone bird slowly taking shape on his skin.

Three for a girl, four for a boy.

He asks what happened to all the pretty paintings around the house when he’s ten, because they disappear sometime after one of Mum’s visits, when she seemed more distant than usual. Maybe she hopes he won’t notice, but he misses them immediately. The house is too bare without them, it feels so lonely. It’s always been lonely, ever since Dad passed, but the bare walls make it even lonelier. Mum brushes it off, of course. He’s used to it at this point, so he doesn’t push her, but he’s also stubborn, so he goes looking. He’s even more determined when she tries to shut him up by replacing them all with clean, impersonal prints in neat little frames. He finds them in the attic, tucked away in a box, each one slipped carefully into a protective sleeve or folder and wrapped in tissue paper. He finds a dreamy matted watercolor of him as a baby, fat and freckly and smiling with no teeth, and he has to take a minute to sit down and cry as quietly as possible before he can start going through the rest. There’s a folder of scrawled pencil portraits, too. He finds one of Mum sitting on a pier, peeking back over her shoulder with her hair blowing in the wind. She’s smiling. He can’t remember the last time he saw her smile.

There’s a self portrait that makes him laugh through his tears, because the reflective surface Dad seems to have used as his mirror is a Christmas ornament, so his face is distorted, one eye huge, his tongue out, drawing himself drawing. He keeps that one for sure, and a few of the other ones he thinks he can get away with. An oil pastel of a wooden swing dripping with honeysuckle, a colored pencil drawing of the library, a few studies of people and plants and animals, and another watercolor of the three magpies, sitting in a juniper tree.

There are three magpies painted on his bedroom wall, from back when it was his nursery. Dad painted them right after he was born, before they brought him home from the hospital. They’d waited until he arrived to know what his gender would be. Of course, he went and messed that up, like he did most things. Sometimes he wonders if Dad would be disappointed, or if he’d think it was funny.

They used to be above his crib, and then his bed when he outgrew that, but he moves his bed to the opposite side of his room when he’s fourteen, and covers them with a poster. He thinks for sure Mum’s going to give him an earful about it, but he’s surprised she hasn’t tried to cover them up herself. He supposes it’s not really an issue, since when she is home, it’s not like she spends any time in his bedroom.

And then he's sixteen, and he’s been practicing his watercolor for years at this point. Sometimes, he creeps into the attic when he’s got the house to himself, rifles through Dad’s paintings, studies his style for as long as he can. He’s been old enough not to need a proper nanny for years now, though someone comes to check up on him frequently and make sure he’s got food and necessities, but beyond that he’s got plenty of time alone. He sits in the attic until he's sore from the wooden floor, trying to think of how Dad’s hands might have looked while he worked, the speed and angle of his brush strokes. He doesn’t think he can find anything new at this point, as many times as he’s snuck up here to look at Dad’s work, but out of the blue, he finds what might have been a really nice landscape, if it weren’t marred by fat little handprints in bright yellow and green, as if he’d smeared his hands across the palette the second Da took his eyes off it, and slapped them down in the middle of the paper. He comes back to it a lot, when he spends time in the attic, because when he looks at it, he swears he can hear what he imagines Dad’s laugh sounded like, his voice calling him a little menace with all the fondness in the world.

And then he’s eighteen, and he’s alone on his birthday. Mum calls, tells him she loves him and she would come and visit him later on, so they could do something together, but she couldn’t take the day off. She tells him how proud she is of her daughter being all grown up, and he winces, but keeps his mouth shut.

And then he maybe gets a little bit drunk, drags out his paints and brushes, rifles through the portfolio hidden carefully in the back of his closet, and finds the painting with the juniper tree and the three magpies

He takes another shot to steady his nerves, and paints in a fourth.

Five for silver, six for gold.

He shouldn’t be surprised Mum doesn't come to his graduation, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. She’s busy, she’s always been busy, she’s been busy since he was a toddler.

He was stupid to believe anything he did would be important enough for her to bother with. To believe that he could matter to anyone enough.

Tina’s stepmum had more foresight than he did, inviting him along to her and Tina’s celebration dinner at a fancy restaurant out of town, and he has to take a minute to cry in the bathroom after they proudly present him with a messily wrapped gift and a card that practically explodes with glitter when he open it, but he can’t even pretend to be annoyed because it has his name in it, and while he's trying very hard not to break down crying in public, Tina hugs him so tightly his spine creaks and tells him she couldn’t have wished for a better brother.

When they drop him off at home, his eyes are still red and a bit wet, he’s full of good food and affection, and he’s smiling like an idiot in spite of the fact that he can’t stop sniffling. The heavy sterling silver magpie skull charm rests against his collarbone, the weight comforting in a way he can’t hope to put into words. He'll never forget Tina’s dewy, smiling eyes as she clasped it around his neck and told him proudly, “Now you’ve got two.'"

He falls into bed holding the charm, reluctant to take it off, but knowing he should put it somewhere safe before bed. He exhales a happy sigh, laughing a bit wetly to himself.

And then his phone vibrates in the pocket of his slacks, and his heart seizes in his chest.

He doesn’t have to check the ID to know who it is. Nobody ever calls him, and his eyes flicker anxiously to the pressed dress in its plastic garment bag still hanging untouched on the back of his closet door. He’d given Tina the expensive name-brand heels for her own graduation outfit, because even if he did want them, he couldn’t walk in the damn things anyway. Lucky for him, they wear the same size shoe.

He takes a moment to calm his breathing, but that means he has to fumble to answer the call before it ends, and he winces when he sees two more missed calls in his log. “Mum!” he blurts, his voice instinctively pitching higher. “Hi! How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him easily. “I’m sorry again I couldn’t make it today. There was a—”

“A big project, I know,” he finishes. It’s always a project, or a trip, or a meeting. The details are always scant, but Mum knows how to make it sound big and important and in need of her attention. He’s tried not to be bitter about it, but there’s always been a part of him that wishes, for once, she’d decide he was important enough to need her attention. “It’s okay, Mum.” It’s not, it never was, but it would be selfish of him to tell her that. She’s got enough to worry about.

“Well, I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten, so I had a gift delivered. It should have arrived today.”

He bites back a sigh. He wonders if it would be easier if she had just forgotten. If it would hurt less than knowing she always made the decision not to see him. “Oh, I’ll go check!” he blurts, trying to inject as much enthusiasm into his voice as possible. He rolls out of bed and heads for the door, poking out to check the mailbox. Of course, inside there is a slim, rectangular package, wrapped in tidy brown paper. The address and names are printed on stickers.

He takes it inside with the phone tucked against his shoulder, weighing the box in his hands. It’s light, and he wants to be excited about whatever it is, but he’s suddenly drained from the day, from crying and laughing and crying some more.

The dining room, somehow, has always felt more lonely than anywhere else in the house, and he’s never been able to figure out why, but he puts the package on the table and starts picking at the neat wrapping. Mum is quiet on the other end of the phone, waiting, and Juni wants to break the odd silence, but can’t even begin to think of what to say. He wishes he didn’t bite his nails, because it takes him way too long to break into the pristine paper, and inside is a long red jewelry box. When he lifts the lid, there is a delicate gold necklace resting on a soft velvet pad, understated and objectively lovely, if not really his style, but it’s the note that flutters out of the box that catches his attention. His eyes skim the note, expecting her usual platitudes that he sometimes wonders if she has someone else type for her.

I am so proud of the woman you’ve become.

His breath leaves him in a painful, strangled rush, his lungs squeezing tight in his chest. And before Mum can speak, he blurts "I can't take this," trailed by a ragged sob.

“Of course you can,” she says gently, kindly. “I know how you get about expensive gifts, but really, it’s no trouble—”

His head fills with screaming static when she calls him what she’s always called him, what she doesn’t know better than to call him, because he’s never told her. He’s never had the chance, it’s never been the right time, it felt wrong not to do it in person, but whenever he sees her in person he feels like he shouldn’t waste the time with her by bringing up something so…

“My name is Juniper!” It explodes out of him, louder than he’s ever been with her, and it stuns her into silence. “I’m not your daughter!” he cries desperately, “I’m your son. You can’t be proud of the woman I’ve become, because I’m not a woman!” He sounds insane, he knows he does, shrill and frantic, but his heart is hammering so hard he feels dizzy, the walls are yawning wide around him, the dining room feels huge and so empty and so bleak. He’s never felt more alone in this dark, quiet house he’s spent his entire life rattling around in than he does in this exact moment, and it’s suffocating. His phone drops from shaking fingers onto the floor, and he drops with it, curling into a ball and struggling to remember how to breathe, dizzily hoping he won’t need to go scrambling for his inhaler. His fingers clench so tightly around the heavy silver charm he’s almost worried he’s going to snap the simple leather cord, but he needs to ground himself or he feels like he’ll dissolve entirely.

He hears Mum calling the name that’s not his, and when he finally manages to fumble his phone with nerveless fingers, he winces seeing the screen is cracked. “I’m sorry,” he sobs weakly, his eyes burning with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He can’t even be sure what he’s apologizing for, but he knows he has to, especially when he slams the end call button and buries his face in his knees so he can cry alone in the dark.

Seven for a secret, never to be told.

Juni’s skin is starting to get clammy, but he’s too comfortable to move. Eventually, he’s going to have to, if for nothing else than to get up and get cleaned up, but for now, he’s happy, if a little chilly. He nuzzles into the soft curls dusted across Mason’s chest, and lets his eyelids fall to half-mast, just open enough to absently count the freckles hidden under the chest hair, inevitably lose count, and start counting again. Mason smells good, cooling sweat and sandalwood, and dozy as he is, it takes a moment for Juni to realize he doesn’t really smell like smoke at all anymore. His room doesn’t smell lke smoke, either, he realizes. His heart thuds hard behind his ribs.

He gets distracted when a shiver rolls over him, the chill suddenly overwhelming against his sticky skin, and he curls further into Mason’s chest in an attempt to leach some of his warmth.

Mason clicks his tongue, and Juni’s whole body stiffens, worry zinging into his gut to rattle around there like a bird in a too-small cage. Mason shifts underneath him, and he starts to roll away, to apologize, to get out of his hair, before a strong hand clasps the back of his neck.

“Hold still,” Mason grunts, sitting up and patting around for the edge of the blanket. He pulls it out from under them both, which almost sends the detective rolling off the bed against his will this time, but Mason's hand shifts down to spread across his lower back and hold him steady until he can get them both tucked underneath.

He flops back against the pillows again, one arm tucked under his head and the other loose at his side, and slowly, cautiously, Juni crawls his way under it. The hand lands on his hip and squeezes, and Juni settles his head back on the vampire’s chest just in time to hear the pleased little rumble there. He flushes down to his chest and bites his lip, distracting himself by petting at Mason’s chest hair.

And then he pokes his flat, brown nipple and says, “Boop!” on some stupid impulse, and giggles like an idiot.

Mason scoffs and rolls his eyes, but shifts so that Juni’s thigh hitches up over his. “Keep that up, sweetheart, and we’ll be going into round two sooner rather than later.” Juni can feel the truth in that statement against his thigh, and he blushes so hotly he knows Mason can feel it at every point their bodies are touching. He might be approaching supernova levels of heat when Mason smugly adds, “Well, round two for me. Three for you.”

He hides his face in Mason’s chest with a long groan. “I’m going to explode,” he declares. “I’m going to collapse like a dying star.”

Mason laughs, sharp and startled and shockingly bright, and Juni’s head shoots up so he can see his face. His hair is a mess, but of course it still looks amazing, hanging around his face in loose, sweat-damp spirals. His vulpine grey eyes are crinkling at the corners, even his sharp nose wrinkling in a way that makes Juni’s heart almost stop. And his mouth, usually either pinned into a scowl, or twisted into a sly (and stupidly attractive) smirk, is curled into a smile, breathtaking in its open softness.

God, I love you, Juni wants to cry, his heart pounding in counterpoint to the desperate, silent declaration he traps behind his teeth by digging them into his lower lip so hard he’s almost afraid he’s going to make himself bleed. And it doesn’t stop. I love you, I love you, I love you drums in his chest, hums through his blood, and when Mason catches him looking, he reaches out to push the tangled forelock of curls hanging in Juni’s eyes out of his face, cupping his cheek to pull him into a kiss. Juni shivers and braces his hand on Mason’s chest, feeling the vampire’s heart thumping there, steady and stable and achingly familiar. His own matches it beat for beat, and thankfully his mouth is too occupied for the pulsing plea of love me, love me, please love me to spill out. So he dives into it, clings to it, and when Mason breaks away to let him breathe, Juni buries his mouth against the arch of his throat instead, presses messy kisses to his collarbones, his chest, his shoulders, throttles the words before they can escape him and pushes them into touches instead. Touches can’t damn him the way words can.

There’s a soft, shameful part of him he ignores like he always has that whispers to him that maybe, just maybe, if he pours enough of himself into every kiss, every touch, that the words will finally be understood. That the weak little part of him he buries deeper and deeper every time it cries out will finally be seen, and answered, and cradled tenderly in someone’s strong, freckled hands.

But until then, it will sit there in his chest under lock and key and ache, like all his secrets do.

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notveryglittery · 5 years ago

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birthday prince (3)

summary: virgil decides roman deserves a day off. words: 2,100 / ship: prinxiety (roman/virgil) author’s note: this is part three of my Giving The Gay Anything He Wants series for roman’s birthday (june 4)! all ships are written implied romantic but i’m not stopping you from interpreting it otherwise. check the end notes on ao3 for credit on these gifts (bc i don’t know where to put them in this post)! i hope you enjoy!!

part 1 (roceit) | part 2 (logince) | part 3 (prinxiety) part 4 (royality) | part 5 (dlampts) read on ao3

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“Best two out of three.”

“I thought this was a birthday gift!”

“Yes and?”

“So why don’t I automatically get to pick the first movie?”

“Because I know you’re on a princess kick and full offense, if I have to deal with a talking animal as the comedic relief sidekick, I might actually die.”

“... Okay. Fine, okay, that’s fair.”

“On shoot.”

One, two, three, shoot — Virgil’s scissors versus Roman’s paper meant that the birthday boy did, in fact, not get to pick the first movie. He feigned upset for only a few moments longer before flopping back into their pillow fort. He supposed, given all the hard work Virgil had put into this, he could put up with one non-princess Disney film.

Earlier in the day, Virgil had rather unceremoniously kicked Roman out of his own room, claiming he had something important to do. Were it not for how close they’d grown, Roman would have been upset and suspicious; he trusted Virgil now, though, and knew that nothing would go wrong. He’d spent an hour playing cards with Logan and Patton before Virgil shouted for him from upstairs. When he’d arrived back to his room, it looked almost unrecognizable. It was mostly illuminated by fairy lights, providing a cozier feel than what he was used to; the floor to ceiling windows looked out into a rainy forest instead of the usual rolling hills; his bed had been turned into a truly impressive collection of blankets, pillows, cushions, and stuffed animals. The canopy had been removed which bothered him a little but only until he realized the projector that had been set up, pointing at the ceiling. There was a basket at the foot of the bed, filled with snacks and bottled drinks. Roman figured they could stay here for the next twenty four hours and be perfectly fine.

Surrounded by what was possibly every soft thing to be found in the Mindscape, Roman clutched Mrs. Fluffybottom to his chest as Virgil got the movie set up. She’d been his favorite plushie for the entirety of his existence; he’d taken her on many adventures over the years but she’d comforted him through a number of breakdowns too. He swore there was actually something magical about her.

Virgil threw himself down next to Roman; he had swapped out his usual hoodie for one that was fully dark purple and had even longer sleeves. After Roman had stopped gawking around his room, Virgil had tossed a sweater at him. It was so bright it was practically neon but it was rainbow print and he loved it. He’d immediately changed out of his t-shirt and had grabbed Virgil in a tight hug. Roman definitely intended on starting a sweater paw fight at some point during their movie marathon.

“You good with Hercules?”

“No comedic relief sidekicks, huh?”

“Phil is not a sidekick!”

“What? Are you trying to tell me right now that Philoctetes is a main character? You can’t say he isn’t comedic relief! He gets hurt just for laughs way too often!”

“No! I mean. Maybe?”

Roman laughed, bumping his shoulder against Virgil’s. “Whatever, you dork. Of course I’m good with it. You could have picked The Black Cauldron and I would’ve been good.”

“Talking animal. Comic relief. Sidekick. Gurgi checks all of those boxes. I would’ve been going against my own word.”

“Hmm, fair,” Roman said, humming a little.

As the Muses began singing them through the opening, Roman took a moment to appreciate everything Virgil was doing for him. The basket of goodies was stocked with every one of Roman’s favorite snacks, including enough chocolate to make him sick. In fact, it’d been the first thing he’d decided on, before Virgil could even tell him what the plan for the day was. Not that it was really much of a plan, anyway. Today specifically had been set aside just for Virgil to spoil Roman however he wanted. That apparently meant marathoning Disney movies, napping as much as they pleased, and eating all the junk food they wanted. It was a far cry from how Roman usually spent his time; what with all of the projects he was constantly juggling, or the content he had to help Thomas produce, or the issues to take care of in the Fantasy Realm. He didn’t really realize even how hard he was always working.

Apparently, however, Virgil had.

Something was shoved into his face, startling him out of his thoughts. He shot a glare at Virgil, who was watching the movie and acting totally inconspicuous. The item turned out to be a stuffed dragon, one he didn’t recognize from his usual pile of plushies. The scales were shimmery, a nice ombre of purple and blue shades, the wings were tucked against the body, and… Holding his hand against the stomach was warmer than the rest, as if it had a belly full of fire. That was so cool! He squeezed it tight in his arms and went back to watching the movie, feeling even comfier than before.

With the credits rolling, Virgil ushered them both out of bed and into a couple minutes of stretching.

“I’m not having you complain to me later on when your bones start creaking.”

“You make it sound like I’m so old, Virgil!”

“Older than me,” Virgil teased. He ducked out of the way of a thrown cushion. “Oh, is that what we’re doing?!”

Roman took a face full of pillow and suddenly it was on. He couldn’t begin to guess how long they fought for, darting around the room and over the bed, swinging their feather-filled weapons at each other. He did know that by the time he collapsed on the floor, he was breathless with laughter. Virgil was so far gone that he’d dissolved into alternating between wheezes and complete silence. Eventually, they did manage to get back into their nest of blankets, though there was plenty of shoving, poking, and tickling as they did so.

“I dunno if I’ll make it through this next movie so pick one that I won’t mind falling asleep during.”

“You besmirch the name of Disney if you think there’s a single film boring enough to allow that!”

“You dozed off the first time we watched The Good Dinosaur.”

Roman spluttered. “I had just come back from a week-long quest! And that’s Pixar!”

Virgil actually cackled. “You can’t pull that excuse! Disney owns Pixar!”

“Stop bullying me,” Roman cried, “it’s my birthday!”

“It’s two days before your birthday, actually, so I can bully you all I like.”

“I’m picking The Black Cauldron, then! See how you like dozing off during your favorite movie.”

It perhaps hadn’t been his best choice. With Virgil snuggled into his side, warm and soft, the sound of his even breathing accompanying the utter lack of any songs… Well, Roman really didn’t last much longer. They found each other in the Dreamscape. Edges were fuzzy, sounds were muffled, and touch was electric. The Dream Palace was a blurry shape in the distance, attracting his attention every so often when its crystal spires caught the light. Virgil sort of just appeared, as if created from the colors of the setting sun. Roman had a feeling he was made of the field of flowers he’d woken up in.

“I like it here,” Virgil said, sitting down next to Roman.

“Remy does a nice job with it,” Roman agreed, slowly picking daisies and dandelions to weave into a crown.

“You do, too,” Virgil argued. “You have a hand in almost everything, you know.”

Roman frowned at him. “I do not.”

“Yes, Ro,” Virgil insisted, “you do. The Memory Archives look the way that they do because you and Logan watched one episode of Doctor Who together and had the inspiration to redesign.”

Roman chuckled, a little nervously. “I guess.”

“Memory Lane doesn’t hurt Patton because it knows better than to hurt anyone you love. It might be connected to him and his room, but you’re the one that created that safety net.”

“Virgil…” Roman tried, voice slightly strangled.

“I just need you to know how important you are. You aren’t told enough.”

“It’s fine—”

“You’re important, Roman. You matter. You make a difference.”

Roman finally stopped trying to tie together the stems of the flowers. Virgil took his shaking hands into his own and held them tightly. It was just enough that Roman could actually feel it versus the tingly sensation that the Dreamscape normally worked with.

“We love you. We appreciate you and your hard work.”

If it weren’t for that everything around them was already blurry, Roman might not have noticed his vision swimming when tears filled his eyes. It was hard to not know suddenly that he was crying, though, regardless of how physically present he was in this space.

Virgil let go of his hands and instead, cradled his face gently. “I know I go against you sometimes but in the long run, I want you to be just as happy as you make the rest of us.”

He waited a moment longer before smiling and squishing Roman’s cheeks. Roman giggled a bit in response. Virgil gave him two careful pats before pulling away. Picking up the flower crown Roman had abandoned, he set to work on finishing it. Roman wiped his tears away and sat still in the sunshine, content to simply let himself soak it up until he was completely warm from the inside out.

When they woke, the screen projected onto the ceiling was displaying a screensaver of 3D pipes. The forest outside the windows had been replaced with a cliffside view of the ocean. Virgil stirred next to him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He absentmindedly pressed a kiss to Roman’s cheek before getting out of bed. He was gone for a little while, during which Roman found two more plushies that he didn’t recognize. They were a gryphon and a lion, both extremely soft to the touch, and with fierce expressions that reminded Roman of how Virgil looked when he was in fight mode. He wondered how these new stuffed animals kept sneaking into his collection but he certainly wasn’t complaining.

When Virgil returned, Roman burst into laughter, because yes, he supposed there was no chance of sneaking that one into the pile.

“There won’t be any room for me in bed, Virgil!”

“Guess you better get used to sleeping on the floor then,” Virgil said, dropping the massive Simba plushie on top of Roman.

This just made Roman laugh harder. The fabric on this one was fluffier than on the others, something he could sink his fingers into if he wanted. It was nearly as big as him, or maybe it just felt like that right now since it was smothering him. Before he could move it, though, Virgil sank himself down onto it as well.

“Virgil!!” Roman gasped between snickers. “Get off, you fiend!”

“Hmm…” Virgil hummed, pondering. From where he was laying, he could just barely look directly into Roman’s eyes. This made it all the funnier when he finally decided, in the most deadpan tone, “nah.”

After some wrestling, which led to them both falling out of bed and Roman bumping his elbow and howling for five minutes about his funny bone before Virgil kissed it better, they were finally settled back in to continue their movie marathon.

They watched Moana, Tarzan, and, Mary Poppins before sleep began to take them once more. Seeing as the sun had sunk below the sea quite some time ago, it was safe to assume it was late enough to call it a night.

“I got you…” Virgil paused to yawn. “Got you one more thing…”

“Vee—”

“‘S not much.” He held out Mrs. Fluffybottom for Roman to take. “I just… I made it so that she can never be hurt.”

For a moment, Roman’s lethargy was chased away by astonishment and surprise. He could feel the enchantment just from holding her, though it was passing by the second as the magic was fully absorbed.

“I know you… take her on adventures a lot. Fightin’ bad guys ‘n stuff.” Virgil shifted further into the blankets as sleep continued to take hold on him. “Wanna keep her safe. Know you will, anyway. But jus’ in case.”

Roman rolled onto his side so that he was facing Virgil. He kept the bunny plush tucked between them and took one of Virgil’s hands in his. “Thank you…”

“Love you. Happy birthday, princey,” Virgil told him, papping him once more on the cheek.

Sleep settled over them quickly after. Roman would wake in the morning, feeling more secure and warm than he had in quite some time, surrounded by plushies and Virgil’s arms, and know that he had so much to be grateful for.

#sanders sides fan fiction #prinxiety #prinxiety fan fiction #roman sanders #virgil sanders #gifts for roman's bday #dani writes

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magicalcrwn · 4 years ago

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lost, then found // ksj

pairing: Seokjin x Reader

word count: 2.2k

genre: non-idol, roommates au, requited feelings, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst

warning(s): going in deep here so do not take these lightly, talks of loneliness, existential crisis, mental health issues, implied suicidal thoughts, mostly unedited

summary: “When it comes, the two hands overlap / Then the whole world holds its breath for a moment / Zero o’clock“

Life is hard, sometimes you just gotta take a step back and breathe.

a/n: been feeling horrible this year, so i poured all of my thoughts into this fic to just lighten the load i guess. this could also be considered as a late jin day gift, he’s been my ult and my main emotional support kpop boy for two years now and abyss even got me finishing up this fic. so in a way, it’s more of a vent fic but also a thank you for keeping a smile on my face. with that out of the way, i hope you’re all taking care of yourselves and maybe find some comfort in this. who knows? links: txt m.l || bts m.l

Sleep has always been an escape for you, especially from reality.

Everybody has those days, feeling lost and depressed no matter what happened -- could be out of nowhere, could be from exhaustion -- but today? Today is just too much, and you don’t know why. You feel heavy, drained both emotionally and physically, and want only to sleep the day or maybe the rest of the year or more away. Honestly, that doesn’t sound too bad -- an eternal sleep. In your dreams, you can do anything without a worry. An eternal dream would be heavenly, doing whatever you want with no pressure and stress from the world, doing whatever at your own pace instead of being pressured to keep up with the rapidly moving public.

So that’s what you do, or that’s what you try to do. It’s nearing sundown and you stay curled up under your bed on your phone while scrolling through social media, you only get up to get food and water and to use the bathroom. Anything else? That’s it. You look through every single platform you’re on underneath the blanket while cuddling RJ stolen from Seokjin’s bed.

Speaking of Seokjin…

You’ve been living with him as roommates for the past three years, and you have known him since high school when you were a freshman and him a sophomore. Whenever you two hang out together, some could easily mistake you as siblings, sometimes as lovers. You, however, don’t consider him a lover -- he’s just your best friend who agreed to live in this apartment together. Yep, just friends. Nothing more. Just friends. You don’t pay attention to his cute stupid grin whenever he makes a cheesy dad joke, nor his squishy cheeks that puffs up whenever he smiles. You also don’t pay attention to how he’s humming little melodies you’ve memorized overtime while he cooks, and you don’t pay attention to how he gets all giggly and happy whenever he gets excited. Though you do acknowledge how safe you feel around him, how comfortable it is to be around him.

He’s out today, working late as a recently hired producer and artist for Namjoon’s also recently opened company, MONO Entertainment, leaving your lonesome self the entire day. Speaking of loneliness, it feels more suffocating than usual. Music quietly plays through your phone’s speaker, you pull the sheets closer to your body as you try to dig deeper into the warmth of your safety. This duvet can’t keep you safe and warm, you’re well aware of that, you’ll have to eventually leave and rejoin the overwhelming society you know as reality.

Growing up, you always believed reality is perfect, a place where it has so many possibilities for you to strive for a better future -- or better yet, a better self. Oh, has the world proved you wrong.

The security alarm echoes throughout the apartment, accompanied by the sound of the door unlocking and opening. He's already home? Nevertheless, you stay in your bed, sliding even deeper into the duvet. Your name is called from the entrance, but you shut your eyes as you attempt to sneak in a nap. Today's pretty much not a social day, you just want to keep the talking to a minimum. Especially with your roommate. The door shuts, keys jingling in the distance followed by shoes thumping.

Soft padded footsteps nears your doorway, a crack between the frame and the door peeking into and out of your somewhat messy room. Seokjin, still wearing his fuzzy orange hoodie, gently pushes the door as he tries not to disturb you. Upon spotting the you-sized lump protruding from the blanket, he sighs with a small smile on his face. He walks to the nearest side of your bed, closest to the door, which surprisingly you left space for your full sized bed.

Once more, he calls your name, but you still don't respond. At least verbally. You just shuffle in place and push yourself even more deeper into the duvet. A light chuckle grabs onto your ears. Your friend sits on said empty spot of your bed and gently rests a hand on the lump, landing on your left arm.

"Hey bub," he says while gently rubbing your arm in small strokes. Seokjin moves his hands towards the edge of the covers to pull it down, but you whine as you feel the sudden shift in air once he moves it down at least an inch. A frown dons his face, "C'mon, you can't breathe if you stay down there."

You shake your head. "Come back in 2-3 business days," you mumble.

Surprised by your sudden remark, he lets out an airy laugh a moment sooner. You feel shifting behind you, the heavy duvet being moved around. A warm presence slides into your cocoon, inching closer to you. If you're not getting out, might as well get in.

"Jin," you whine pathetically, "get out."

"Aw, c'mon, can't I at least get a hug?"

You blink your eyes, practically rolling them at the end. He's pouting, you know he is. In fact, if you turn around right now, you'd see his pouty lips especially in the dark. With a straight face, you slowly flop over to your right to face exactly what you expected. A pouty Seokjin with -- oh no -- how dare he use those puppy eyes against you out of all people! Without even realizing it, you hold your breath as you two stare each other for a long, long time. At each passing second, you feel the effects of the forbidden Seokjinnie Pout™ dealing blows at your already rapid beating heart. Your face grows redder and redder as you continue staring directly at his face.

When your ears starts to burn enough, you release your breath and surrender, "Fine, you can hug." His eyes brightens at your words, his cheeks rounding up as a smile pushes through the pout. Has he always been this close before? Just inches away from your faces touching. You blink thrice then stammer, "Just... just once."

An arm suddenly reaches for your curled up body, Seokjin pushes himself towards you with his other arm on the bed. His warmth right against yours as he snakes his limbs around you, pulling you into his embrace. Out of habit, your arms wrap around his torso as you lean further into him and squishing RJ in between.

A hand reaches for your head, gently stroking it. His chest rumbles against your forehead while he asks, "Bad day?" Of course he'd notice, so you nod your head. He hums, still continuing his petting, "Thought so. Did you get up at all?"

"Only to go to the bathroom and eat," you reply back, subconsciously nuzzling into his fuzzy clad chest which steadily moves up and down with his breathing.

"Haven't gone out at all, hm?" This time you shake your head. He lets out a huff, patting your head twice before looking down at you, "What's wrong? You can tell me."

Your lips puckers into a pout, you smush your face closer into him as you mumble, "'s just -- I dunno -- just unmotivated I guess. Like there's nothin' I can do even though I know I can do it but -- yeah. That and just... lonely."

"Lonely? I'm right here, y'know," he lightly jokes as an attempt to lighten the mood.

"I know but like, the different type of lonely. Y'know, the type of lonely where you feel like you're just awkwardly standing in place of somewhere where you clearly don't belong. The type where you feel like you've been left out from everything that's happening no matter how fast or slow time goes by, even getting to the point where you feel like you’re lost." You swallow shortly afterwards, continuing with another mumble. Your arms tighten, "The type where you don't feel like you're alive."

He quietly stares at you, watching you breathe in his arms. Suddenly, you felt yourself being pulled up and out of the covers, being placed on the pillows while still in his embrace. You lift your head and look at him with an exhausted yet confused gaze. Both of you stare right into each others' eyes for a while, the slightly audible music still playing on the other side of yourself on the bed. "How about now? Do you feel alive?"

His sudden question caught you off guard, not even letting you respond with a suitable answer. Seeing your bewildered eyes, he repositions yourselves on the bed -- lying on his back and you resting your cheek on his chest, allowing you hear the faint thumps of his heartbeat. Right when you open your mouth, he immediately cuts you off, "What am I saying, it's much more easier said than done. Alive... It's a strange concept if you think about it. It all depends on how you live it, but how we live it is always the big question."

Leaning his head back onto the pillow, gazing up onto the ceiling, he subconsciously continues stroking his head as he too continues his train, "Sometimes I feel like I'm alive, finally getting a head start on my music career thanks to Namjoon, but sometimes? Sometimes I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if I enjoy what I'm doing, I don't know if I am doing what I'm capable of doing in this life. I don't know if I'm living a life that I want to live, a life where I feel alive." He slightly tips his head towards your side, lowering just a bit to look back at you. "Even though I'm familiar with the loneliness, I don't mind it. Sure it sucks, but it helps you even when you don't think it would. Gives you time to reflect, gives you time to think, and most importantly, it gives you time to rest."

Turning towards the window, he faces the sky at the blue hour after the sun has set. The faint sound of vehicles moving throughout the streets muffles against the wall and the window. "Yeah, the world's fast, a lot of us are moving fast -- moving onwards without looking back. Whenever I look at those people, I always think to myself, 'Wow, these guys... I can't keep up.' I still think of it to this day. Whatever they did in their day, no matter how big or small, they're always moving at their own pace to keep up with the world. I don't doubt it though, feeling the same loss and loneliness we feel every now and then. It catches us off guard, especially to them at least once in their lives. Just like today." Once more, his gaze falls back onto you. You , who stares with wide eyes as you listen to his philosophy.

His lips curls up into a small smile, warm enough to comfort you. "No matter how many times you feel this way -- everyday or every other day -- you're still you. The loneliness isn't always there to torment you, it's there to guide you, help you. Don't ever try to force it out, like misery, it loves company. Company that it can be useful to. No matter where or what you're doing in the world, you will seek that life again. The life you believe that you will fulfill to the end, the life that will make you feel alive even just by a smidge."

Loneliness. You never thought of it that way, honestly. You'd always think of it as an obstacle, something annoyingly in your way. Something which seems to be impossible to overcome. Shuffling up, moving into a more comfortable position, you rest your ear onto his chest. Hearing Seokjin’s voice say your name, you look up again.

In just a split second, he places a light feathery kiss on your forehead, immediately burning your ears red. "Take a break," he murmurs against your skin, "I mean it."

Underneath your head, you feel him shuffle as he starts to make his way out of the bed. "Seokjin," you instantly call. He pauses, a leg sticking out of the duvet and bare foot planted on the floor, then he looks back. Without even realizing, you ask him, "Can you stay here with me? Please?"

Blinking once then twice, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and slowly nod. Zipping off the hoodie, letting it fall onto the floor, he crawls back into bed and repositions himself in the same spot he was in.

You reach for your phone, turning off the music then placing back behind you in its original spot. Climbing up to him, you readjust yourself into your position from earlier, curling up against his warm body. Shutting your eyes, you whisper, "Thank you."

You didn't elaborate nor was there a need to. Seokjin watches you breathe, his gaze soft at the sight. Wrapping his arms back around you, he places another kiss on your head, "You're welcome. Have a nice sleep, love."

Love? Your heart stutters at the word, a grin threatening to burst out.

Tomorrow will be another day, the day where you'll put yourself back on track and pick up where you left off. While the world doesn't wait for no one, the only one waiting for you is yourself and maybe a specific somebody keeping you close to his heart.

a/n: it’s normal to feel lonely, even if you see it as a threat. remember that it will teach you to take care of yourself better. first things first, take a step back and just breathe.

#bts #bts imagine #bts oneshot #bts drabble #bts fluff #bts angst #kim seokjin #jin #seokjin #seokjin fluff #seokjin angst #jin fluff #jin angst #seokjin oneshot #jin oneshot

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godkilller · 4 years ago

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They met when the cicadas sang and every cooling breeze was a gift.

The air was hot and hazy along the swaying tree line spanning across a crooked horizon of mountains beyond. If not for the brilliant beacon of her soul, perhaps they would not have seen her amongst the blurring waves of summer heat blanketing her fallen form on the ground. She was a filthy thing, diminished by the lingering dark, the leeches of creatures which dwelled, too, within this grand forest. A victim of their hunger for a mortal’s essence, this poor human. A little girl all alone.

When the kami neared, they stopped at the treeline with piercing eyes ablaze. A faint after-image of three men, adults, filthy humans, came to memory that didn't belong to them. Hers, rather.

These men huddled around her, poking and prodding, such despicable things... as though she were an ant to be squished, prey to be toyed with by the end of a stick. The acts of man could disgust at times, how eerily soulless one could be of their own free will. The influences of demons could excuse very little when regarding a tainted heart. Scorched footmarks indicated such influences had been present, the taste of ash in the air burned at their nostrils. It was a miracle this child still had her soul at all.

The kami would not appear to her in the same height, the same manner, as the assailants that left her broken and crying. Nor was she young enough, an infant or toddler perhaps, for them to reveal their true form without causing her distress, confusion, and frustration while living out the rest of her mortal life knowing celestial beings walked amongst humans. Perhaps she was already jaded, left incapable of witnessing their genuine form in its entirety, all innocence drained from her. If that was the case, they could have walked forth regardless of appearance, and her mind would fill the gaps and the incomprehensible with something bland and utterly human, normal, capable of being processed with ease.

No, she still had a thrumming slice of light in her. Best to be reasonable and not test her faith. Instead, they shifted into another smaller form with complete fluidity, elegant robes and tails twisting into the winds and morphing, vanishing, shrinking, dissipating akin to snowfall in the summer air. In the gust of wind that breathed out around him, he stepped outward anew; a child, too. Non-threatening, he even went a year or two younger than her for the sake of her utmost comfort. Friend. I am your friend.

He stepped forward, put on a smile, and padded down from the confines of the lush trees and brush which cloaked him from sight. The rustling footsteps, bared feet on soft ground, seemed to indicate his approach well enough to rend the girl alert, scrambling to sit up and wipe at her eyes as though being caught in the act of emotion was something of an embarrassment.

In fact, she got quite defensive over the matter. Puffed her cheeks and everything. Until compassion washed over her, and concern.

Huh.

“What’s up with those marks? Are you bleeding?” Puffy eyes widened at him, and she rubbed at them again with the back of her hand as though to clarify what she was seeing.

Quieter, as though sharing a secret, she spoke again. "Did they get you too?"

Blinking, he raised a hand to observe, as though unaccustomed to its lightness, its flesh and bone, its power restrained; he felt tiny, contained into this little vessel to appease her. Idly, he found the issue upon the backs of both his hands. Red, smooth, these markings flowed up his wrists and arms beneath the robes he donned, then peeked out at the nape of his neck. As though the canvas for brushwork, brilliant in color, it stained his skin. He could only surmise that a blatant and decently sized crimson circle resided directly at the center of his forehead. Similarly colored lines beneath his eyes, as well as matching painted strokes of red trailing both legs, feet, buffered at the ends by circles just above his toes.

These were the blood-red designations of a kami, often following him through his other transformations unless he chose to deliberately obscure them. Seemed like he forgot, for a moment, to hide them from her.

“Oops!” He proceeded to dust himself off as though he recently tumbled through the same dirt she sat on. Each swift and hurried pat, swish, and brushing gesture seemed to quickly vanish those markings from his skin, magic. Like wiping away at a blemish, regardless of the fact that his divine marks were anything but a blemish, and he became less so inhuman.

He finished the adjustment, straightened up his simplistic yukata, then smiled wide and with triumph. A little shrugged gesture, hands displayed, to show her he was done.

“Better?” A flop of his hands at his sides, what skin that showed from dark yukata was now as pristine as the rest of him, as though his feet had not touched the ground beneath, as though he did not belong in the same breath as the dirtied rags on her shoulders. In any dimmer lighting, were the days not shining with warming rays of the sun, perhaps a faint cool glow would accompany his form. Numerous efforts were required in order to properly project humanity to her, his restraint being the key. He was attempting to dial things down.

Normally, he would not have even tried to fit in; appearing in a roar of blinding light and tranquility. Or send a messenger in his stead, copper fur and a mischievous grin. Perhaps he was a tad bit rusty, playing human.

She blinked at him slowly, recovering from a dazed state. Discreetly, invisibly, he nudged her away from the thoughts that lurked around his strange markings, at the way they dissipated before her very eyes. She blinked thrice more, then seemed to accept his soft tampering of her memory... unbeknownst to her. Not something he did too often, an unfair trick. He disliked influencing humans in such a manner.

“Y—… yeah... but why’s your hair silver ?”

...Ah, he forgot about that. Rustier than he initially thought, then.

Should he tamper with her again, or knock her out and wipe her memory… and start all over? That felt excessive. But...

“Oh, uh—”

Before he could even fathom how to casually adjust his hair color before her very eyes without causing alarm, or whether or not he should simply stun her into a daze to undo his missteps altogether… he felt the girl moving away from the topic on her own accord, thoughts trailing elsewhere, like where he came from, or if it was safe for her to stay here — if the demon-influenced men would return with their scary eyes.

So he left it as it was, his hair apparently silver. Absently, he decided from here on out to do a once-over by the reflection of a nearby water source… to avoid any further slip-ups.

She seemed unafraid, otherwise, especially in meeting his vibrant gaze with her icy blue eyes in kind. Others would avert, look away, unable to lock onto his eyes without a feeling of being pierced, of their soul being seen in its entirety, a hushed multitude of whispers caressing their temples, their minds, as his presence quietly overwhelmed them.

No, she was staying resolute. She could look into his eyes without divinity swallowing her whole. A brave girl full of heart, she did not fear. At least for now.

“What’s your name, anyway?” She was quick, cutting, a no-bullshit approach to the one who interrupted her moment of vulnerability and sadness. Her nose scrunched, and that telltale sign of wariness began to show.

Ukanomitama-no-Mikoto seemed like a mouthful, though it was first to come to mind; a lesser-known alternative to the given name humans doted upon for him. And there were too many others, far too many, and far too on the nose. Who was he, again? In days of old, they’d split into three. Or five. Into various shapes, sizes, and genders too. Today, he picked a boy, as lithe as she was. A non-threat, limbs thin akin to stalks of bamboo.

“I dunno, I’m a lil mixed up right now.” An understatement, apparently.

“That’s stupid, you don’t even know your name? I know my name, it’s Matsumoto Rangiku . Yours… hm, it’s Gin , ‘cause of your weird hair.” A head tilt was all her harsh tongue earned, a wholly unbothered air. In fact, he bloomed pleasantly at her decision to name him. Accustomed. Accepting. Appreciative. How often humans took in his kin, his shrines, naming torii and foxes alike, giving title here and title there, naming foods and offerings… and naming him, over and over. Naming, naming...

Gin, then. He was Gin.

Her thoughts, her scrutiny, veered closer to feeling some semblance of humor about him; how silly, this boy who hadn't even noticed he had those weird red stains on his skin, didn't even know his own name. Silver hair, too. How silly. She thought of him like a wild animal trotting over to her from the brush, as though feral and unaccustomed to seeing another person, unafraid due to ignorance and confidence combined. Curiosity, yes, she titled his motivation quite well.

Sharp, this girl.

Through her eyes, her assessment of him seemed fair, and Gin smiled wide in acceptance. The verdict this girl reached was of dismissal, distracted by the sharp reminder of hunger growling at her stomach.

“Hungry?” He asked, as though unaware, a boy simply answering the cue of that telltale sign. He knew she felt weakened and hadn’t eaten after she ran from her keepers. Several days, now. Midday, she was coming up on the fourth before he intervened, darkness clutching at her to drag her further off into the woodlands and mountains beyond.

A wandering soul awaiting oblivion, and the leering creatures thought her theirs.

No, not quite yet.

Gin knelt down to be at her height, crisscrossing his legs beneath him to settle in, and reached behind his back as though to unfasten a bag of a traveler. Nothing was there, really, nothing at the moment. Yet his patient palm subtly glowed with purpose and want, materializing within it a fruit readied to be eaten. He reckoned she’d want something sweet, and by his divine right it felt appropriate to give her one meant for longevity, delivered directly from the plentiful harvests he presided over.

“Here, I got this for ya,” Gin offered out the persimmon from behind his back, and watched as she squinted to peer around him, seeking out the tell of his little trick. Ever the skeptic, she sought out answers she could not immediately identify, this nameless boy that had blood-red marks on him, who did magic tricks with fruit.

Scoffing out a blow of air, she relented, then took it.

“Did you hide this up your sleeve? You’re so weird,” she whined out, though appeased herself swiftly with a big bite of his offering. Already, the diminishing glow of her soul was mending itself, illuminated by the unseen fury of celestial light embodying him. They sat together as she ate.

“Maybe, I like pullin’ tricks like that.” He reached back again, mirroring his earlier actions, and returned his palm out before him carrying another persimmon within it. He plopped the fruit into her lap and swayed back and forth playfully. “See? Pretty cool, huh? Wait, I think there’s one more …”

Reaching back, Gin brought forth a rock instead and acted visibly confused.

“Eh? How’d that get in there?” He dropped the rock, then made a show of searching his sleeves. She barked out a laugh, cheeks full of fruit and a smile full of light.

Gin beamed.

#[ drabble ] his silver tongue weaves words; but he doesn’t lie #[ verse: inari ] he would name himself trickster; demon; before claiming divinity #owo #long post /

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