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alphabetboyluvr · 5 months

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HUSH | MYG - TWO

pairing: rockstar!yoongi x female reader | mutual disdain - lovers (but also strangers - lovers? kinda?)

premise: in which you work for your brothers band by day and accidentally anonymously sext his bandmate on the regular by night! whoops !!

wc: 10k

for more details, pls see the master list (x)

note from holly: if you've read hush over on wattpad, then you've already seen this! sorry!! but this is everything that was on wattpad--the next upload will be 100% fresh hehe

warnings: alcohol, foul language, creepy men in bars, sexting (minimal!! very brief!), yoongi is both an asshole and a good guy, oc and yoongi are dumb!! and argumentative!! we learn a teeny tiny bit more lore for the night that never was!!

the app (x) | the band (x) | part one (x)

minors dni!!!

GOLDEN CLOSET STUDIO Big Hit Ent, Yongsan-gu

"Back again so soon?" Jungkook grins when you traipse into his studio the next morning.

Slumping down onto the sofa with a groan, you get comfortable like it's a second home to you. Only just gone midday, you're exhausted. You'll tell anyone who asks that you went out for a morning run, but you'll be lying through your teeth.

See, what made you tired may have given flushed cheeks, but sadly no cardio was involved. Just some pixels. Words. Another goddamn video call of a bedroom you know so damn well but have never stepped foot within. From his belly button down, you'd recognise your Damocles boys in a heartbeat. Wonder if you'd be able to tell if you saw him in the wild, fully clothed.

You doubt it.

No, what's made you so tired isn't the things that get you up in the morning, but rather the things that keep you up all night.

Or just 'thing'.

A singular.

You're not sure you want to classify him as a person, because currently he's just pixels on a screen - but the images those pixels so often make? The dirty words that form in negative spaces just for you to see?

Yeah. You think that he's too good to be true. Can't be a real man.

"Meeting," you mumble into the cushion of the chair. "You know how many logistics are involved in taking you guys on tour? It's mad."

"Logistics?" He snorts, knowing your job has nothing to do with that side of the business.

"I'm shadowing," you reply. "Jinyu sweet-talked someone she knows in that department. Following one of the planners around for the week."

"Really tryna work your way up, huh?" Jungkook asks, before quietly musing, "Hope Jinyu'll sweet-talk me some time."

He's not wrong. About working your way up, that is. Jinyu will never sweet-talk him.

Big Hit is a great stepping stone - an industry outlier, built from the ground up - but you don't want to be in your brother's shadow for too long.

You fear it'll look like you're complacent; as if you want an easy life that you don't have to work hard for. Get some experience, get a good reference, and get out; that's the plan. Maybe work somewhere overseas, away from the confines of your family name.

You don't entertain Jungkook's musings, instead opting to shuffle a little further into his sofa. It's leather and still smells brand new - not because it is, but because Jungkook is meticulous in his cleaning regimes. Will probably wipe it down after you leave. Is perhaps the neatest rockstar you've ever known - not that you know all that many.

And that's exactly your issue; even if you want to get out of Seokjin's shadow, you've no idea where to turn to. Bright light saturates everything else. Here, you're hidden. Safe. Comfortable.

Well, comfortable except for one particular thorn in your side.

"Get your song sorted with Yoongi last night?" You ask, genuinely curious about it. You're also incredibly nosey, and Yoongi is a dick. What you'd like to hear is that he's annoyed and frustrated, because that's how he makes you feel.

It's selfish to think that way. The album cycle is well and truly underway, and the boys are cramming every spare moment into perfecting it. You aren't too aware of the process, you just know that Yoongi speaks to you even less now that the stress is mounting.

They're made for the stage. Would spend all day every day performing, if it was sustainable. Don't enjoy the downtime - but you think it's because the slowness of it all interferes with their live fast, die young bullshit.

Jungkook shakes his head. "It's missing something. Can't figure out what. We're gonna leave it until after the Europe dates. Hopefully will have found some inspiration over there."

You accept his answer without a response. Know that any advice you could give would be redundant. You don't know the first thing about music production, and think it would be a waste of energy to float ideas for a song you've not even heard.

"Think Yoongi needs to rest," Jungkook muses a little mindlessly. "Was here till stupid o'clock last night."

You mumble a response, and Jungkook takes it as an indication to continue.

"Last email he sent was at like, what? Three in the morning? How his brain could've still been working, I've no idea."

"He's a night owl," you hum, as if it's a new discovery. "Works better that way. It's like you work best after a good sleep. He works best a little sleep-deprived."

"Yeah but how?!"

"I dunno. Brain science. Ask Yoongi. He probably knows. Psychology n shit."

Jungkook just rolls his eyes. He won't be asking Yoongi.

Just like he also won't be asking Yoongi if he wants to join you all for drinks later that evening.

That job? Yeah, that's up to you.

Neither you, Jimin, nor Jungkook wanna ask Yoongi, mainly because you all know he'll just say 'no.' What's the point?

A fierce battle of rock-paper-scissors had been fought earlier that evening, and you'd been the poor sod declared as the loser.

Already half a bottle down, they're drinking in Jungkook's studio (even if Hoseok strictly forbode it the last time they got legless at work (as if his orders have ever stopped them from doing anything they wanted)) when you finally meet them again.

They're getting a headstart on the evening's festivities.

It's nothing special. Just a chance for them all to hang out properly after the Seoul shows.

They rarely ever 'hang out', 'cause work often feels like that anyway. It's only when they take a break that they realise how much they enjoy each other's company. A few days rest from one another is always welcome - but exceed three days, and they start to get withdrawal symptoms.

"Ready to go?" You ask, but are met with curt shakes of their heads.

Jimin passes you the bottle of beer he's been nursing on. As you take a swig, he reminds you, "You've not asked Yoongi yet."

Lips pressed to the rim of the bottle, you roll your eyes. Have half a mind to backwash in retaliation, but you don't fancy bickering this early on in the night.

Shaking your head, you swallow down the froth. "He'll say no."

"Buuuuut," Jungkook sings, as if he thinks he can serenade you into asking Yoongi. "What if he says yes?"

"Well, one of you can ask!" You whine. Yoongi's studio is the last place you want to go to - especially after the messages he sent you last night, warning you about your relationship with Jungkook. "Give him your doe eyes, Kook. It'll work."

A game of rock, paper, scissors is legally binding, though. Jungkook tells you so. Says if you don't go and ask Yoongi, he'll be forced to take you to court.

"I've got Big Hit lawyers," he reminds you.

"Is this a threat?!"

"Yep. Now go ask Yoongi!"

You argue a little longer. Jimin takes two shots during that time. Jungkook interpretive dances whenever you make a compelling statement as to why you shouldn't be the one asking. You frown whenever he does the robot.

And so, mainly to get away from any more of Jungkook's bizarre hip-gyrations, you traipse down to the end of the corridor, where Yoongi's so-called Genius Lab resides.

The wait at his door is awkward. You question yourself, what you'll say, how you should stand. First impressions are everything, and if he's greeted with shitty energy, he'll give it back in return. You know him well enough to know this for a fact.

After a lifetime of waiting (27 seconds, to be exact), there's a mechanical whir of the lock coming undone.

"Hey," you offer a smile as you're greeted with his typical face of thunder. "Been sent to retrieve you. We're going out tonight. All of us."

He knows the plans. Is in the group chat. Ignored the messages for a reason.

His stare is a little frosty but not unkind. Just uninterested. "Can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both?"

You might be deluding yourself, but you think he smiles slightly when he says that.

"Ah, but you can and you will go to the ball, Cinders," you joke, giving him a small curtsy. "All work no play makes Yoongi a dull boy."

You're joking, but you believe it. He's been miserable the last few months. Keeps himself hauled up in his studio when they're not on the road, and avoids social interaction like the plague. It maddens you. How is he gonna write songs about life and the importance of living one, if he won't let himself do the same?

He's hard to read as he sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Shakes his head, then opens his door a little wider. Encourages you into his space.

A candle burns on his desk, faintly vanilla in its scent, making it feel far cosier than actually is. The room is sullen; dark greys and little else. In fact, it surprises you he's gone for such a pretty cream candle. LED lights that are hidden in the walls glow a deep blue, and it's no wonder he's so miserable. There's no passion in his little pit. No life. Just him, some screens, and the whir of computer fans.

"Will you give something a listen?" He asks, quite clearly seeing you as a last resort - but when you hit rock bottom, the only direction you can go in is up. He knows you're not musical, not like Jin, but perhaps he needs the ear of a consumer, not a creator. "Been wracking my brain trying to think of what this needs. Have listened to it so many times that nothing sounds right anymore. I just- Could you?" He pauses. Looks quite uncomfortable when he adds, "Please?"

You assume the file up on the central screen is the song he's been working on with Jungkook, so you oblige. Kick your shoes off and leave them by the mat. It's been a while since you've been given the luxury of access to the Genius Lab. You used to know the code.

Things with Yoongi used to be different, though.

Not much has changed within his four dark walls since then. He's gained a new painted canvas in the corner of the room, stacked behind the existing ones. It's deep navy blue. Sort of like him, you think. The blue continues. Illuminates his work area. No wonder he never sleeps. The mood lighting is cold. Alert. Is bound to fuck with his brain.

There are more speakers than you can fathom, and switchboards you can't even begin to understand. The programs that Yoongi's running on his computers are familiar, though. You've seen them enough times to get a rough idea of the composition. Can see tabs labelled for Jin's vocals.

Yoongi turns his chair as the door clicks shut, automatic lock whirring into place. There was a time when that sound would have excited you. Not for any lewd, scandalous reason - just for the fact there used to be a time, many moons ago, when you thought Min Yoongi was the hottest man to have ever graced the earth.

And can you blame yourself?

His midnight hair gracefully frames his face, perfectly waved, dark eyes stark against his pale complexion. His skin is dewy, cheeks a little puffy from his lack of sleep and the fact all he has in his system is an iced americano and blue Powerade - yet still, his features are sharp. A white shirt hangs off his broad shoulders, dainty bracelets sitting on his pretty wrists.

Every bit the heartthrob, he's only gotten better with age - but you've grown up, too. Are wiser now. Understand that devastatingly handsome men will always inevitably devastate you, too.

It's for that reason Min Yoongi doesn't bother you in the same ways that he used to. That, and the night that never was.

As you said, devastatingly handsome men will only ever devastate you, too. He's proven that point already.

He points to his chair. "Sit."

The way he's so demanding with his tone annoys you. You shake your head. Choose to stand. "It's cool. Just play the song."

You don't mean to be so sharp. So curt. You're just thinking about how unbearable he's been recently - especially last night. He'd left you on read. Obviously wasn't happy with your response, not that you care.

"Please don't be difficult," he says softly. "Just sit so you can listen properly."

Why your stature could possibly impact your ears and their ability to listen, you'll never know - but you don't argue. As much as Yoongi's contempt for you these days annoys you, you don't want to make it any worse than it already is.

The leather of his chair is warm from his perch. Kind of nice how despite his cool demeanour, he's always a little toasty. He brings the heat of Daegu with him wherever he goes.

"I'm all ears," you tell him, and watch as he presses down on the play button.

"It's not the full song," he says over the melody of an upbeat track. "You'll know the bit I mean though. It's like, not bad, but-"

"Yoongi, shush," you smile, making sure you catch his eye as you do so. Don't want him to think you're snapping. You just wanna hear the sections he's uncertain about in context with the rest of the song.

Quiet as the track begins to echo out, there's an uncharacteristically quaint piano faintly guiding the track. You know he plays, but it's rare for it to be a focal part of the songs he creates.

You understand immediately which section Yoongi's having trouble with - not because it sounds bad, just because the drop before the final chorus doesn't hit quite right. It builds and builds but the arrival at the final chorus is underwhelming.

"Rewind it a bit," you say, wanting to hear it again. Confirm that it's the right part.

Yoongi does as you ask, leaning over you slightly, and says, "Somethings off, right?"

Nodding, you listen for a third time. "Take away the guitar," you say.

He does. It's better, but still not right.

"Maybe you've overcomplicated it?" you muse, thinking that he needs to strip it back entirely, but not wanting to offend him.

"Hmm," he hums. "You think?"

He mutes a few more layers on the track. Plays it again. It's getting there.

"Better, right?" you ask.

He nods as he stands up straight, listening to it over again. Frowns. "Still not quite there."

"I think it might benefit from some distance," you suggest. "Come out with us tonight. Get your mind off this track. Might even get some inspiration."

Shaking his head, he watches as you stand and head towards the door. He's not been out with you since the night that never was. Doesn't enjoy the prospect of risking it all after a couple of drinks inevitably turns into a couple of bottles again - of which he knows it will. If you and Jimin are together, it will be messy. Just how it goes. Throw Jungkook and Tae into the mix? Disaster waiting to happen.

"Look," you sigh. "I know it's not really your thing - but the rest of the boys are game. They all want you there. Just think about it, okay?"

He purses his lips together. Smiles, and turns to face his computer screen once more. "Thanks for your help."

And just like that, you're dismissed. Considering the way he'd messaged you about Jungkook the day before, it went pretty well, you think. Try not to dwell on the fact he couldn't be less interested even if he tried.

It's funny, 'cause as Yoongi stews in his chair, rocking ever so gently, he sighs. Shakes his head. Grumbles to himself quietly: "'they all want you there'... but do you want me there?"

The boys aren't so disappointed when you return with no Yoongi behind you. They all knew what his answer would be, and only sent you so they didn't have to deal with his rejection.

"Took your time," Jimin notes.

You shrug. Deadpan. "Yeah, sorry, got distracted. Too busy shagging him."

"Really?!"

"No, of course not," you laugh, as if it's the funniest suggestion in the world. You sort of think it is. "Nah, he just wouldn't be convinced."

And so it comes as a surprise to everyone when Yoongi shows up at Jimin's place a couple of hours later with a bottle of whisky in hand.

"Shut the fuck up," is all he says as he walks into an absolute commotion, practically everyone in the room elated by his decision to join in. He hides his smile poorly, occasionally letting his teeth show despite his protests.

From the sofa, you catch his eye. Nod. He bunches up his face a little. Nods back - but is quickly distracted by Jimin holding up a clear shot glass filled with fuck knows what. You, too, find yourself distracted by chatter with the rest of the boys and a couple of the girls from the artist liaison team.

In the corner of the room, your phone is plugged into a charger. It's been there since you arrived. You've no need to check it - but you can never leave it too long.

You smile, butterflies kissing your tummy and making their way through your body when you eventually check it.

D4m0cl3s: got a work thing tonight, so probably won't be able to message much gonna be thinkin' about u tho don't miss me too much, clemmie x

The smile is hard to hide. You blame it on the alcohol.

Kind of like how Yoongi smiles half an hour later when he checks his own phone.

Cl3m3ntin3: been a busy bee today, sorry :( all work, no play? :( it'll make you dull, damocles boy x

But then he watches you as you laugh with Jungkook about something trivial. Reads over his messages again. Shakes his head.

Remembers you trying to convince him to join for the evening. How you'd called him Cinders. Told him that all work and no play made him dull.

His heart thuds in his chest. He swallows harshly. Pours a whisky. Swallows that, too.

Breathes a sigh of relief as he taps through a message - 'it's a play thing for work. promise i'll behave x' - and watches your phone after it's marked as 'delivered' in his chat feed.

Your phone is screen-up on the kitchen counter, just within his line of vision. It doesn't light up. Doesn't vibrate. Receives no message.

"Thank fuck," he mumbles, the sinking feeling in his chest lifting as he grabs a fresh whisky.

He quickly walks away from the scene of a crime that never was. Sort of like the night that never was. Is so pleased, in fact, that he's happy to sit beside you on the sofa as Jungkook sets up a drinking game with Jin.

Silly, really, how a few drinks seem to make him forget the concept of 'do not disturb' mode.

"Hey," you smile and he comes to sit down. "Glad you made it."

"Me too," he nods, lips thin, chin dimpling as a shy smile graces his face. He's a little whisky tipsy. Doesn't feel the need to keep such a strict distance from you, now.

"To a good night," you raise your glass to him, and he reciprocates. Clinks them together.

"To a good night."

STAIRWAY BAR Itaewon-ro, Yongsan-Gu

♪ // You First (Re: Remi Wolf)- Paramore

"You're never gonna be this young and this hot again," Jimin slurs after a few too many lemon drops. It's his third time making this point, because it's the third time you've shooed away a guy trying to make a move on you.

They've all been perfectly fine. Nice enough guys, you're sure, but you aren't interested in random hookups. The night really isn't about that. All you want to do is let your hair down with the boys you've known for most of your life.

As Jimin whines about the fact no one is ready to move onto a club yet, bored of the bar, part of you considers the novel idea that one of the men in your rejection pile could have been your Damocles boy. A funny thing to think about, really. He did say he was busy tonight. Said it was for work, but everyone knows how rowdy work dinners can get after the boss leaves.

He could be here. Could have his tail between his legs. Could be looking at you right now, without a clue.

The reality of that wouldn't please you, for it would mean he's out there searching for other women.

While he'd be well within his right to, you selfishly find that that you don't want him to. In fact, all you wanna do is send him a message. Let him know you're thinking of him. That you wish you were at home right now, alone in your sheets with nothing but an internet connection and that damn app to keep you company.

You're with friends, though. Can't open the app without fear of endless ridicule - and not to mention the fact your brother is with you. Not worth it.

As you come to join them, a fresh drink in your hand, you're easily distracted. Are brought back to reality by your favourite people. Neon lights on the ceiling, and relics of time spent in the bar pinned to the walls. Photobooth pictures, foreign currency. Life is embedded into the seams of this place, and it's reassuring, in a way. Makes your dependency on your Damocles boy a lot less intense. You can forget him. Live life. Neglect to check your phone.

"Objection!" Jungkook chimes, following you and Jimin to the corner booth of the bar where the rest of your friends sit. "Older women are, like, so hot. So damn hot. Damn." And then he's thinking to himself. Brows furrowed, pouty lips whistling out a hearty sigh as he shakes his head. Thinks about Jinyu. A couple of the older women at the record company. About Jimin's mother. Laughs. Nods. "Yeah, older women are where it's at."

Both of you look at him with an air of confusion, and yet neither of you question it.

"What did I miss?" Jin beams when he rejoins you, as a member of the bar staff follows him with a bottle of Ciroc resting in an ice bucket. Another staff member will soon bring you cans of drink to use as mixers, but you know damn well these boys will be shotting it down straight.

The bottle won't be on the house, but you know Jin will have charged it back to the company. Will get a bollocking from Hoseok the next time he's in the office. Doesn't care, cause he knows the band makes the record company more money than anyone else on the roster at the moment. The way he sees it, it's their money anyway.

"Jungkook's just declared his love for older ladies," Taehyung deadpans from the sofa opposite yours. "Nothing new."

"Better older than younger," Jin asserts, playfully pushing against your forehead as he walks past you and back to his seat.

As much as you're your own person, you're still his little sister, and the rest of his unruly group of friends will do well to remember that.

Jungkook snorts. Throws a smirk in your direction. "I can make exceptions."

"And I can get away with murder, Kook," Jin assures him - and he's probably right. As much as they like to play into the rock and roll lifestyle, they've got power. Fame. Something that hides them just as much as it projects them. "Don't even think about it."

There's laughter and chatter amongst everyone at such a declaration, but you can't help but wonder if a certain pair of eyes glanced your way upon hearing that.

It's not like Yoongi doesn't know Jin harbours such feelings. Told you the exact same thing, once: that Jin'd murder Jungkook if anything ever happened between the pair of you.

But you also remember what came next.

Even if it's never been spoken about since, you know that remembers, too. The way he refused to reply to your last text is testament to it.

See, he's been avoiding you since long before you got your little job with the company. Would turn down plans if you were in attendance. Declined invites to dinner, and bailed on drinks. Once you started working in such close proximity, it was harder to keep his distance, and so he built up walls.

They're steep, and they're topped with barbed wire. Impenetrable, or so it would seem.

Climbing has never been a strong point of yours, and scaling walls doesn't feel like a pastime you'd enjoy very much, so Yoongi's safe distance from you is kept. He's feline, in that way; how he'll stalk up trees and sit in amongst the branches, peering down at you. Out of reach, holding all the cards.

Flicking your eyes across to him, you find him embroiled in conversation with Namjoon. He's laughing, which admittedly does make you smile. It's been so long since you've been afforded the luxury of witnessing such a thing.

But you're torn from your thoughts by a sudden, sharp tug on your wrist, and don't even realise Jimin is dragging you out of your seat until you're already stumbling behind him. With a shrill yelp and soft giggle, you let him pull you to the stairs that lead up from the basement bar to the earthly realm above.

"C'mon," Jimin calls behind himself, as if you have any choice in the matter. He's got a death grip on you. You're coming along whether you like it or not. "The rest of them are being boring. I wanna dance."

"Maybe I was enjoying being boring!" You argue just for the sake of it, tapping at your pockets to make sure you've still got your phone with you. Not for any particular reason. Just to be safe. Totally not because you fear losing your only contact with your virtual lover. Nothing like that at all.

"Tough," Jimin asserts, not caring where you both end up just as long as there is a dancefloor and a dark corner.

It isn't for any sinister reason, but just because he isn't looking to be the life and soul of the party. His face isn't recognised in the same way that the other boys are, but it doesn't matter. He attracts attention regardless. Goes with the territory of having a face like his. Irresistible to men and women alike. You're yet to meet anyone who doesn't think he's the most beautiful man alive - though Jin certainly does take issue with such a title being awarded to anyone else but him.

But just like Jin, there's a magnetism about Jimin. Moths to a flame, the rest of the boys follow suit and head up towards the street. The entire area code is a cluster of bars and hole-in-the-wall food joints. It's made for this time of the night, when the clouds are shielding the eyes of the moon from all sorts of sin, just a few stray stars guiding the way.

Light pollution bleeds upwards and out. Even if you know the stars are there, you can't see them - and it's not like you get the chance to check either way, for Jimin's already pulling you down the stairs to another basement bar.

This one is larger - two stories. Quieter on the first floor, it's the second level where he wants to be.

A planner in both professional and personal life, even though he seems erratic and all out of order, Jimin has everything under control. Knows the managers of most (if not all) of the bars on this street. Called a favour in this afternoon for one of the downstairs booths, just adjacent to the dancefloor, to be roped off & reserved. Knew that some of the boys would, in his mind, be 'boring', but still wanted everyone together. It's the best of both worlds. He can dance, and they can talk, or whatever they wanna do.

♪ // Desert Eagle - Silica Gel

Min Yoongi doesn't dance. He drinks. He observes. He watches the debauchery unfold from a safe distance, much like he does with you. Sometimes - not always - he thinks. Ponders. Wonders if maybe he's wasting his time by not indulging in the same way other people do. If he's missing out. Considers perhaps his friends are right to revel in such mindless frivolities.

He doesn't debate his choices often, but as he gets comfortable in this new place, he can't help it. Thinks word must have gotten out about their planned attendance, 'cause he notices far more eyes on them than normal. Far more women vying for their attention. Men, too. Whether it be sex or status, their intrigue is always fuelled by something.

The rest of the boys revel in it.

Yoongi doesn't care for it - but there's a reputation to uphold. A brand image that being spotted in clubs and getting up to no good only helps. Seals them as the real deal. Gets them out of the bracket of 'posers' or manufactured, not that it really fuckin' matters.

There are two girls to each of them. Supply and demand. There aren't enough of The Scouts to go around, but people will share. Will take all they can get. Sharp eyeliner, pretty hair, the girls all have their wits about them, and it's potentially the worst part of it all - they're making the conscious, informed choice to lower themselves to a standard well beneath their worth.

The club stinks of sticky liquor and smoke, but beneath the veil they're all wearing the same perfume. Whatever's currently being marketed as 'irresistible' to men. Was vanilla a few years ago. Yoongi is certain it's something muskier now, but isn't sure what. Makes no difference to him.

There's only one perfume he knows he really likes, and has trained himself to despise it by association.

It's a shame that he hasn't trained himself to stop looking in your direction whenever he thinks of you. Is part of the reason he doesn't like drinking around you. Makes such stupid mistakes. His malevolent mask fails to hide him. The facade slips.

Tongue resting in the corner of his mouth, he doesn't realise he's staring. Eyes dark as they watch you with Jimin, Yoongi wonders if you've always had that tattoo just above your elbow. It's small, and dainty. Hard to make out from where he is, but when your arms are in the air, he's fixated on it. Thinks it must be new.

But then your arms drop to rest on Jimin's shoulders, and he's reminded of what you look like when you're all hot and bothered. Reminded of that night. The one that never was. Haunted by the rivulet of sweat that had trickled down your skin in a sauna that neither of you had any business being inside; just you and him in a silent descent into sin, and the smirk on your lips as his eyes had followed the droplet down your body.

His attention is yanked from you when an ice cube lands in his lap. Glacing across to the direction it came from as he pushes it to the floor, Yoongi scowls at Jungkook. "The fuck was that for?"

"Remember the rules," Jungkook smirks. "Look, but don't touch."

"Wasn't fuckin' looking," Yoongi sneers, completely ignorant of the women vying for his attention. "Was just thinking Jimin needs to to sober up. Man's a state. And unlike you, I wouldn't touch her if humanity depended on it."

"I'm a man of the people," Jungkook teases. "If repopulating the earth was my duty, I'd do it. Can't believe you wouldn't."

"She's got where she is today through sheer nepotism and audacity alone," Yoongi counters. "Doesn't have the kinda genes you'd wanna repopulate the earth with."

"Foul," Taehyung laughs. He's the only one of the boys without women hanging off him. Is stern and authoritative in his rejection of their advances; not yet married but wears a ring around his finger to let them know he's deadly serious. Landed himself in hot water a few months back after photos of him talking to a girl outside a bar - no matter how innocently - circulated online. A bad angle and misrepresentation of events had almost decimated the one thing he cares about more than the band: his relationship. Refuses to ever let it happen again. "Absolutely foul, Yoongi. You know you don't mean that."

"He just needs to get laid," Jungkook chimes in. "Has been celibate for so long he's forgotten how good sex is. Used to be a time he'd fuck anything willing with a pulse-"

It's not untrue. He was reckless in his youth - but aren't we all?

"Yeah, and then I grew up, Kook," Yoongi says with little to no emotion, getting to his feet. Taps his pocket to check for his phone, and then taps the other for his wallet. All there. "Should try it."

When Yoongi looks back up to the crowd, you're gone. He rolls his eyes. Shakes his head. Is almost mentally berating you, as if you've done something wrong - but you haven't, and he damn well knows it.

Perhaps that's the most frustrating part of it all: everything falls back on him. The awkwardness. The cold shoulders. The night that never was. If he would have just made more sensible choices back then, things could be easier now.

It's not that things are hard, as such - just that they aren't how they used to be. Rose-tinted glasses, and all that.

Over by the bar, there's a haze around you: clouded judgement, misted intentions.

The smallest things put a smile on your face, thanks to the alcohol in your veins. Could be the song that's already been played three times coming on yet again. Could be witnessing some random guy get pied by every single girl he approaches. Could be the way your vodka orange takes like juice. Anything and everything feels light. Airy. Breezy.

"What's so funny?" Some guy asks, leaning in a little closer to you - and just like that, your mood is soured. You're not here to make friends, but rather spend time with your pre-existing ones, and judging by the look on his face, he's hoping for a little more than friendship.

"Oh, nothing," you smile politely, crossing your arms over your chest as you angle your body away from his. Hope that he'll get the message.

He does. Just doesn't like it very much.

"No need to be a bitch," he sneers under his breath just loud enough for you to hear.

Normally, you'd leave it. Let him have his little tantrum. Be a big baby.

But you were in such a good mood, and you're annoyed that he's ruined it.

Wanna ruin his, too.

Snapping back to face him, you're about to launch into a tirade, but you come face-to-face with a chest that looks far too good in a simple T-shirt and find yourself faltering, instead.

Yoongi looks down at you, eyes dark, scowl ever-present. Says nothing. Just nods. You think he's asking if you're okay - so you nod back. Won't get into a debate over the fact you were perfectly fine, and have no issue asserting your boundaries with strangers.

Shoulders broad, the guy who had been bothering you is entirely eclipsed by Yoongi.

Glancing across to the bar staff, Yoongi nods. "Hibiki." Glances down at you. Checks the colour of your glass. It's obscured by the bar lights, but he knows it isn't dark enough to be coke, and remembers your order from before things got complicated. Figures some things haven't changed. Looks back towards the server. "Vodka Orange." Passes over his card. Says nothing to you. Just keeps his eyes on yours.

There's a subtle blush dusting his cheeks. The heat, you think. It's unnoticeable for the most part, but sometimes the lights hit him just right, and you're reminded of how warm he can be. How inviting.

He's always been impressive. Taller in sheer presence than he is in stature. Even back in high school, his nature was domineering. Respected. Lips gently parted, you're unable to move. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore. It's heavy. Thick. Suffocating. You're deaf to the bass of the music that thumps through your body. Ignorant of the people moving around you.

But then Yoongi's being offered his card back, and Jimin bounds on into you like a lost puppy finally finding its owner.

"For me?!" Jimin exclaims as the drinks are slid across the bar, passing the vodka orange to you and picking up Yoongi's whisky for himself.

Shaking yourself from the shackles of Yoongi's stare, you look down. Realign your mind. Glance back over and nod a silent thank you - but then you turn and leave the drink by the bar. Head for the bathrooms. Refuse to look back, so utterly perplexed by what on earth just happened.

In a frank, factual recount of the events, Yoongi just stood beside you and ordered a drink.

In your hysterical, deluded mind, Yoongi just stood beside you and opened the skies; let a flood of water torrent down. Drowned everyone in the process save for you - except you're the one gasping now as you stare yourself out in the bathroom mirror.

Phone still on don't disturb, you pull it from your pocket and check just in case he's thinking of you.

Not Yoongi, no. You push him out of your mind. Think of your Damocles boy. He's the one you wished had joined you at the bar. The one you've been yearning for all night.

And sure enough, he has been thinking of you, too.

D4m0cl3s: there are some weirdos out and about tonight, clem keep yourself safe for me, okay?

It's strange, how guilt needlessly creeps in so silently that you don't even realise it's there until an invisible hand is over your mouth. You're suffocating again, or so it would seem. Drowning, maybe. Perhaps Yoongi wasn't saving you at all; he was dragging you down instead.

You wish you were at home. Wish you weren't so drunk. Wish you could think straight. Wish your balance was a little better - but it's not, and as you try and think of a response that goes beyond 'i miss you' or a 'you should be here', you stumble a little. Lose your footing. Grab onto the sink to stop yourself from falling over entirely, only to send your phone crashing to the floor.

"Fuck," you curse, scrambling down to get it, only to be greeted with a fracture splintering right over the top of your front camera. Pulling up the app, it's very quickly clear that the camera absolutely ruined - but for the most part, your screen is okay. "Fuck."

You think it's a sign: go home.

Even if you're drunk, and you're in the business to make some bad decisions, you know that your Damocles boy is right. There are some weirdos about tonight, and as fucked up as it all seems, 'safe' feels a lot like a message thread with a man you've never met.

Instead of replying to him, you open up your thread with Jimin. Let him know you're going home. Make your way up the stairs and out of the bar without looking back. It's rare for you to cry when you drink, but it kind of feels like you will now, and for no good reason. Just had a little too much, that's all.

The light around fades from the invasive red of the club into the murky blue hues of the streets.

And yet, there's a lovely little red flag waiting by the top of the stairs, unaware of your decision to head home, too.

"You leaving already?" You chirp in surprise upon realising who it is.

The sound of your voice, and the fact it's addressing him, seems to take Yoongi by surprise when he turns to face you.

"I, uh," he pauses. Looks down. Seems to be a little flustered. You wonder what's going inside that head of his, but when his eyes meet yours again, you decide you're better off not knowing. "Can't be home too late. I'm sorta seeing someone. Gotta get back for them."

"Oh," you say quietly.

I'm seeing someone.

"Yeah."

It's not like it matters, it's just that you never expected to hear him say those words. He's married to his music. Always has been. Spends his nights in the studio, not sleeping next to someone else.

Or perhaps he doesn't anymore. Just goes to show how little you know of his life these days.

"That's nice," you chirp, swallowing down your surprise. "Yeah. That's really nice, actually. I'm pleased for you."

In a way, it makes sense. Perhaps his strangeness lately has been less to do with you and more to do with himself and the fact he genuinely doesn't care about the past anymore. Thoughts of the night that never was are genuinely reserved for your brain, and your brain alone. Have no place in his. His warning about Jungkook was due to lessons learned by him.

"And you?" He asks, noticing the slight discomfort in your tone. He wouldn't normally entertain such frivolous conversations with you, but he's only human. Alcohol still gets him a little loose-lipped, too. "What's new in your love life?"

You laugh, now. Good fuckin' question. Genuinely don't know how to describe your Damocles boy, or if you even want to.

"Nothing new."

"No?"

"No," you smile in such a way that Yoongi knows you're not telling the whole truth - but who is he to pry?

"Well," he says, then coughs to clear his throat. Look out to the street ahead of you both. It's full of drunk revellers, and you're certain at least half of them will have The Scouts in their playlists. Yoongi's position in the band means he's never front and centre, so no one notices him like this. If they do, they're being incredibly discreet about it. "I'm sure you'll meet someone soon."

"Maybe," you shrug, knocking your shoulder against his arm. "Be easier if you didn't stand in front of every guy who shows an interest in me."

"It was one guy," he laughs, knowing not to take you too seriously. "And you know he was a creep. Was just standing in for your brother."

"Yeah," you nod, not caring to counter him, or to remind him how fucked up it is to refer to himself like that. Folding your arms over your chest, you're regretting the lack of a coat. Had left it back at pre-drinks, because a little bit of liquor and you suddenly think you're a child of the sun. "You're right. Thanks for that."

"No worries," Yoongi shrugs. Is about to offer you his jacket, when a taxi rolls up. "This yours?"

"Yeah," you nod, recognising the number plate from the taxi you'd ordered via an app when you'd been in the bathroom. "Want a lift?"

He shakes his head. "Gotta head to the studio first."

"Yoongi, you're drunk," you laugh. "What did I tell you about all work?"

"Yeah, yeah, dull boy," he laughs too - but it's not you he's thinking of as he recites it. It's the girl he's heading home for that enters his mind, and how she'd said something similar. Shaking his head, he's confused at how easily thoughts of her intertwine with how easy it can be to joke with you. Puts it down to the alcohol. His head's a mess. "Inspiration doesn't wait. Let Jimin or someone know when you're home."

"Get in the cab," you insist at his need to be difficult. "I'll route it past the studio. Inspiration doesn't wait," you imitate a little childishly, which does get him smiling. "Better to get to it quickly, no?"

He looks around. Looks a little uncomfortable. You don't take it personally. He looks like this a lot of the time around you. Even before it all got weird.

Eventually, he sighs. Relents.

"Route it to yours," he says. "I'll carry on to the studio."

"Studio is closer," you tell him, knocking your head to the side, pulling open the door. "C'mon. The driver will leave if you don't hurry up."

"And Jin'll kill me if you get stolen," he reminds you, as if that would be likely to happen. Even if the taxi driver was a creep, there are cameras everywhere in places like this. You're as safe as can be. "You first. Non-negotiable."

"You're a tough bargainer," you hum with narrowed eyes. He is at least here, and not walking in the cold. Would have to cross the river to get to the studio, and the thought of any of them drunkenly walking along it alone scares you. "Fine. But you better not get stolen, either. Twitter would have a meltdown- no, Twitter would kill me if you get stolen."

"Shut up," he laughs. Knows The Scouts have a fanbase that could scare even political leaders into submission, if they really wanted to. "They don't even know who you are."

But Yoongi is forgetting who your brother is. Forgetting that there's a good reason why Jungkook has 'look but don't touch' etched into his brain. Forgetting that there are Twitter accounts dedicated to posting updates from your socials, just for a glimpse of The Scouts.

And as you let silence simmer into the taxi, not caring to keep up a conversation, you're none the wiser that those exact fan accounts are currently screaming into the void.

The Yoongi-dedicated update accounts, too.

In fact, the entire app is on fire - and it's not gonna be an easy one to put out.

03:31AM

D4m0cl3s: you still out, clem?

Cl3m3ntin3: why? miss me?

D4m0cl3s: never

Cl3m3ntin3: hmmm well in that case, yes i am x

D4m0cl3s: i think you're lying you answered far too quickly

Cl3m3ntin3: i think you should just admit that you miss me and u just caught me at a good time :/

D4m0cl3s: but i don't? and ur nose must be soooooo big pinocchio

Cl3m3ntin3: yeah you do you've missed me sooooo much tonight, havent you? bet you've been all mopey just thinking about me aaaaaaall night me & my proportionally sized nose x

D4m0cl3s: dunno what you mean

Cl3m3ntin3: well, are you home?

D4m0cl3s: almost

Cl3m3ntin3: not even home yet and already texting me... but you don't miss me? you're lucky you've got such a nice cock i wouldn't let your lies slide so easily if you didn't

D4m0cl3s: so you're only with me for my cock?

Cl3m3ntin3: i'm not with you

D4m0cl3s: ouch noted

Cl3m3ntin3: you're the one who refuses to have me, remember?

D4m0cl3s: you know it's not like that, clem

Cl3m3ntin3: i know, babe i'm just fucking with you figuratively (sadly) i'm with friends though - i'll let you know when i'm alone, alright?

D4m0cl3s: don't worry about me enjoy your night trouble message me in the morning, yeah?

Cl3m3ntin3: if this is a ploy to make me message you first, it wont work

D4m0cl3s: finei 'll message you

Cl3m3ntin3: keen

D4m0cl3s: you love it

Cl3m3ntin3: suuuure i do

D4m0cl3s: stay safe, babe drink water before bed

Cl3m3ntin3: you wanna drink some clementine juice before bed?

D4m0cl3s: i dont think they make clementine juice and no you know the rules sleep off the alcohol first then send me pictures of that gorgeous cunt in the morning, yeah?

Cl3m3ntin3: and what will i get in return?

D4m0cl3s: the video i've just taken of myself stroking my big hard cock just for you

Cl3m3ntin3: fuck send it now? pls x

D4m0cl3s: keen and no x

Cl3m3ntin3: c'monnnn :(

D4m0cl3s: in the morning, baby just know that i'm a little drunk but so fuckin' hard

Cl3m3ntin3: no whiskey dick? i'm impressed

D4m0cl3s: i'm thinking about you nothing will ever stop me from getting hard when im thinking about you

Cl3m3ntin3: watcha thinkin about? gimmie specifics x i wanna touch myself

D4m0cl3s: that pretty cunt of yours how fuckin' wet you get god i wanna fuck you nice and slow NO FUCK STOP TEMPTING ME YOU SIREN

Cl3m3ntin3: 🙁

D4m0cl3s: in the morning

Cl3m3ntin3: you promise?

D4m0cl3s: i promise, baby go spend time with your friends message me if you need anything

Cl3m3ntin3: your dick?

D4m0cl3s: anything other than that you'll get it in the morning, clemmie promise x

D4m0cl3s is offline

GENIUS LAB Big Hit Ent, Yongsan-gu

"All good?" Yoongi hums as the door to his studio clicks shut.

He'd left the door on the latch so you could get back in when you went to the bathroom. Could have just given you the code, but he didn't want you to think he'd be making a habit of this. It's a limited-time offer. Not one that can be redeemed whenever you like. It's now, and now only.

"Yeah, yeah," you nod, pulling on the back of the spare desk chair Yoongi had rolled up beside his. You don't look at him, just at the screens as you tell a little white lie. "Just let Jimin know I was okay."

Yoongi grunts some sort of agreement, but doesn't vocalise a response as such.

It's not like a complete subversion of the truth. A text has been sent to your group chat. The one with just Jungkook and Jimin. No one else needs to know your business, as far as you're concerned.

It's just that a few more texts have been sent to your Damocles boy—but that's none of Yoongi's business. You're sure he wouldn't care to know.

You're also sure he's regretting the request for help bestowed upon you on the ride back. He'd mentioned the song he was going to work on, and you'd offered to lend an ear again.

It's not an unheard-of thing. There are a couple of tracks on the last album that have been tweaked as a result of your ear, including their biggest single. You're not listed in the credits, but you never asked to be. Was just helping out a friend—even if said friend then decided to become an asshole when they started making a name for themselves.

You're tipsy, and so is Yoongi. It's easier to forget how fraught things have become when you're like this. You wouldn't be here right now if you hadn't had a few too many drinks.

You also probably wouldn't be trending all over twitter, but you're still blissfully unaware of this.

"Same track as before, right?" You ask, kicking your shoes off to get a little more comfortable on the chair.

Again, words fail Yoongi. You're forced to decipher his small noises, 'cause it's all he tends to offer you. It's not like it's a uniquely you issue—the boys have learned to speak in Yoongi-code, too.

"Okay, play it from the start," you tell him. "Show me what we're working with."

There's a cautious nature to the way Yoongi works. So preoccupied with creating perfection, he hates letting people hear his work before it's reached his self-imposed arbitrary standards. There's only a very small circle who gets the privilege of seeing how his brain works.

Despite his ever-present disdain for you, it seems like you're one of the lucky few. He'll never acknowledge this. Never admit that he favours your opinions, because he genuinely doesn't think he does.

You're frank with him. Will tell him how it is. Don't sugarcoat it. Aren't seeking his approval, so don't care to lick his ass just to keep him happy—not that he ever wants you to lick his ass. Could think of nothing worse. Not because he isn't into it, but because the thought of being with you repulses him in a way he can't quite describe. Even thinking about it makes him shudder.

But maybe that's the issue. Maybe the shudder is indicative of something else entirely.

"Yoongi?" You ask, drawing him from his thoughts. The song has finished, but he doesn't even really recall listening to it at all.

"Hm?" He hums. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"The lyrics," you say. "What's the song about? 'Cause at the moment, musically, it sounds like a heartbreak song and love song all at the same time, and I think that's what's confusing about it. It can't decide what it wants to be."

Yoongi frowns.

"It's not really either," he supposes.

In the dim lighting of his studio, Yoongi is at his very best. Focused, he's shrewd in his astute calculations. Can put together different sounds and construct melodies you wouldn't even be able to dream of. For all of his issues, there is one undeniable truth: the man is a musical genius.

It's why this is all so perplexing to him. He hates not knowing how to make things right. This is his job. It's what he excels at—and yet he's failing.

"Well, what's it about?" You softly ask, turning to look at him. "Do you have the lyrics?"

Guard clearly up, the way Yoongi looks at you is puzzling. Whatever he's written isn't something that he wants to share.

"What?" you laugh, trying to not make a big deal of things. You know how quickly he closes up, and can already sense it happening. "You told me you're seeing someone, remember? God forbid you accidentally expose the fact you're a human being with real feelings."

You half think he might smile.

He doesn't.

Instead, he reaches across his desk for a small black notebook. A little weathered, it's clearly seen a lot of thoughts in the past. The leather of the cover is tarnished, and there's a faded sticker from some instrument brand wrapping around the spine.

"Just don't ask any fuckin' questions," he grumbles.

Rolling your eyes, you gladly accept the book. Tuck your thumb between the pages where a natural divide occurs. It's testament to how long Yoongi has spent agonising over the same words.

His handwriting never changes much. Always messy. Always hard to decipher.

Or at least, it's hard for other people. You've never found it to be too taxing.

What's curious this time are the little doodles on the page. Blossoms and small fruits.

"Cherries?" You ask, chirping with a little curiosity. It's hard to work out exactly what they are, but cherries seem like the most likely thing.

Yoongi just grunts.

Getting anything from him is like getting blood from a stone.

"How the fuck do you have a functioning relationship?" You mutter, casting your eyes back down to his words. The way he refuses to converse with you is infuriating.

"I said no questions," he curtly reminds you.

The way you roll your eyes this time is far less kind. Tossing the book back down on the desk, you reach for your shoes and get to your feet without a word.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," you tell him, as your hand reaches for the door handle. "You asked me for help, Yoongi—but I can't do jack shit if you won't let me."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for critique on my relationship, did I?" He snaps back. Feels his skin get all hot. Clammy. Relationship. That's not how he'd define what he's got going on. He doesn't know why he did call it that. Doesn't know why he didn't just ignore you, when you're clearly trying to wind him up.

"You're impossible," you tell him, patience thin. The alcohol made it easier to be friendly with him, but it also makes it easier to fight, too.

"And you're unbearable!"

"Me?!" You say with such offense it almost surprises Yoongi. Turning around to fully face him, you let go of the the door handle. Let it whisper shut, the lock softly clicking into place. You're willingly trapped in the confines of his studio. Could just leave. Instead, you choose to fight. "Oh, you have some fucking nerve—"

"I thought you were going?" He cuts you off, responding to your change in position by getting to his feet too. He's not one for confrontation, but there's something about you that just gets under his skin. Makes him wanna fight right back. "So why don't you just fuckin' go?"

"I am," you assure him. You should have known that this would end in disaster. "But maybe if you channelled some of this pent-up frustration into your music, maybe you'd actually get somewhere."

"I don't need you telling me how to do my job," he sneers. "If you hadn't noticed, I'm doing perfectly fine without your unsolicited advice."

Unbelievable. Was he not the one who asked for your help? Repeatedly?

"Holy shit," you scornfully laugh. "Listen to yourself, you deluded prick! You asked—"

"Yeah, well if you didn't insist on sticking your big fuckin' Pinnochio nose into everything—"

"My big nose?! Oh, you are such an asshole."

"You're no fuckin' daisy, either," he snaps. Doesn't even really know why he's being so rude. Just knows he doesn't want to back down. Doesn't wanna let you win. "Just do us all a favour and quit before the tour. No one wants you there."

It's never been a secret that Yoongi harbours contempt for the way in which you got your jobs, but you know damn well that you've proven your worth. If it was anyone else saying these words, you'd probably be offended.

Instead, you just shake your head. Laugh. Walk a little closer just to piss him off. Encroach upon his personal space.

"Tell me, Yoongi," you say quietly, picking off a little dust from his shirt just to see how he reacts. To your surprise, he lets you. Just looks down at you. Watches to see what you'll do next. Eyes flicking up to his, the air between you is frightfully thin. "If I quit, how would you explain it to Jin? Hmm? Would you tell him the way you speak to me?"

"I've got nothing to hide," Yoongi replies just as quietly. There's an intimacy to be found somewhere hidden between your mutual disdain and heated anger. The kind of coldness that can only come from someone you once knew to be warm. "He knows you're a piece of work."

This does make you laugh. "Nothing to hide, huh?"

"Nothing," he says. His jaw is tense, and his eyes are even more so. "Nothing happened that night."

"Yoongi, I didn't even mention that night," you remind him with a smirk, pleased at your ability to get under his skin.

That night has lingered with you both: the scent of damp cedar wood and the sensation of sweltering heat against your clammy skin. It's not the kind of thing you forget, even if you never speak of it. Not with Jimin, not with Jungkook, and especially not with Yoongi.

"Just get out of my studio," he growls, eyes centred on yours. He's unwavering in the way that he stares you out; unashamed and uncompromising.

"Gladly," you say as you pull away from him.

You're not gonna beg him to be cordial with you. This atmosphere is a product of his own creation, and as miserable as it is, he's gonna have to be the one to fix it. Both as stubborn as one another, you know damn well it's gonna stay like for a while.

The door slams shut. No amount of soundproofing can obscure the way Yoongi curses into the void left by you.

But right on time, as you reach the door that leads out onto the street, your phone vibrates in your pocket. It's a little longer than the vibration of your other apps, so you know exactly what it is. Who it is. Solace is found in the form of notifications from him. Satisfaction, too.

D4m0cl3s: fuck it i need you, now, clem

D4m0cl3s added new media to the chat!

end of part two

#yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #rockstar!yoongi #yoongi fluff #bangtan ff #bts x reader #yoongi masterlist #yoongi x reader #yoongi ff #rockstar!bts #dappleddaisies #byholly #dating app au #rockstar au #myg x reader #bts fanfic #bts smut

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genericpuff · 4 months

Note

are thanatos and hypnos still twins in LR?

Yep! They even share the same color swatch list hahaha

Biggest visual tells between them:

Thanatos has whites scleras with black irises whereas Hypnos has black scleras with light blue / white irises

Hypnos dresses in comfort-casual office attire with pressed out jeans and jackets, sweaters, etc. whereas Thanatos cares less for appearing formal and often wears dark-colored ripped jeans, leather jackets, etc.

Thanatos has both earlobes pierced, Hypnos has a single industrial piercing

Thanatos is about 1" shorter than Hypnos (don't ask where that missing inch went LOL)

#ask me anything #ama #anon ama #anon ask me anything #lore rekindled ama

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gigabyte-flare · 7 months

Text

He Comes Alive (Part 9) [FINALE]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Summary: You are found by Ada Wong, an agent from the BSAA sent to escort you to Tricell's laboratories. They promise to remove the plaga from you and your unborn child, but only if you help them first.

Word Count: 8.5k

Pairing: vampire/plagas!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

Warnings: Biting, blood, gore, murder, unprotected p in v, masterbation, oral (m and f receiving), stalking, pet names, kidnapping, breeding kink, blood play/kink, age gap, dubcon, pregnancy, monster f*cking, body horror, lactation kink, C-Section DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT

A quick reminder that I no longer do tag lists

Author's Note at the end!

You scramble back over to the driver’s side upon hearing the woman say ‘BSAA’ and open the door, climbing out of the truck. You see in addition to the red button up v-neck top and black gloves, she’s wearing black leather pants with knee high black boots with heels. She has a pistol in a shoulder holster. You watch her brown eyes shift to your hands.

“You’re infected,” she says; it’s not a question.

You look down at your hands, the inky veins pulsating, letting out a subtle gasp before hiding your hands in the sleeves of your shirt.

“Hopefully you’re not too far along to do something about it. Grab your bag; we’re leaving,” the woman called Ada commands.

You reach into the truck, grabbing the back pack before shutting the door of the truck, following closely behind Ada.

“Wait, Leon can’t be that close by, can he?” you ask.

“No but there’s an APB on that truck and we don’t want to be around when the cops finally catch up,” Ada replies as she leads you to a black Chevy Corvette, “get in.”

You open up the passenger side door, tossing your backpack onto the floor before getting inside. Ada gets into the driver’s seat, starting the car before getting back on the highway. The two of you are silent for a while, you rest your head on the passenger’s side window, watching the scenery outside as you mindlessly caress your belly.

Surprisingly, Ada breaks the silence, “is that Leon’s?”

You look over at Ada before glancing down at your belly, letting out a sorrowful sigh, “yeah… it is. I’m surprised you didn’t already know, being with the BSAA and all…”

“I didn’t have a lot of time to get filled in when I was sent to find you,” Ada replies, keeping her eyes on the road as she drives.

“Is… Clive ok?” you ask hesitantly, looking back over at Ada.

“As far as I know, he’s fine.”

“Can I talk to him, possibly? Once we get to wherever we’re going… that is…”

“Unfortunately that won’t be possible. I’ve been instructed to bring you to Tricell’s laboratories in upstate New York. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

You shift in your seat uncomfortably before looking back out the window.

Ada looks over to you for a moment before continuing, “don’t worry. We’ll stop at a motel or two to rest up, I’m sure you need it.”

“What’s Tricell?”

Ada pauses briefly before answering, “it’s a… multi-industrial company, mostly dabbling in pharmaceutical and biomechanical research. They fund the efforts of the BSAA.”

You nod, feeling your eyes grow heavy as you drift to sleep. You awaken when the car suddenly comes to a stop. Confused, you look over at Ada, still only half awake.

“I found a motel. Stay here and I’ll get us checked in,” Ada says before getting out of the car.

You watch her walk up to the motel office, opening the door to go inside. After a few minutes of waiting, you watch her come back out, dangling a key in one hand and motioning for you to go with her with the other. You open the car door, grabbing your bag as you climb out and shut the door, following her into the motel room.

Upon entering, Ada switches on one of the lamps next to the full size bed to give the two of you some light, the red lampshade casting an eerie glow in the room. You set your bag down on the floor next to the bed, practically collapsing into a nearby arm chair, letting out a loud sigh.

“How long have you been seeing Leon?” Ada asks, walking towards you and sitting on the side of the bed opposite of you.

“Since like… September or October I think… so much has happened; everything is a blur.”

Ada nods, her gaze shifting to her feet, “I see…”

“Do you… know Leon?”

Her eyes shift back up to yours before nodding, “I do… it’s complicated.”

One of Ada’s hands reaches up, pulling her v-neck aside a little until you can see what looks like a large burn scar, causing your breath to hitch.

“I met Leon in Raccoon City during a viral outbreak 15 years ago, crossing paths occasionally. A couple years ago, he and I hooked up and that’s when I found out he was still infected with Las Plagas. He had infected me.”

“And that scar is…?” you ask, swallowing hard to stifle your nerves.

“When it was removed by Tricell. Assuming you’re not too far along, they should be able to do the same for you, too.”

You look down at your hands, the faint inky veins still showing, pulsating. You clench your fists and tuck them back into your sleeves.

“I hope so…”

You wrap your arms around yourself, breathing deeply to calm yourself. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes until your curiosity gets the better of you.

“What was Leon like before… you know…”

Ada smirks, chuckling a little before responding, “at first? Like a little lost puppy. He was a rookie cop who was late for his first day on the force; unfortunate that he had to deal with a zombie outbreak on his first day of being a cop--”

“Wait a second… zombies?!”

Ada blinks at you a few times before continuing, “right… I forgot that wasn’t public information. Yes, zombies. The whole city had gotten infected with a virus developed by the Umbrella Corporation.”

“That big pharmaceutical company that went under? It was because they made a virus?”

“A bio-organic weapon,” Ada corrects you before continuing, “anyway, Leon became more charismatic as he got older; became quite the ladies man. Had the looks for it, too, as you clearly saw.”

You can’t help but smirk at that.

“But he had a heart of gold; it’s a shame that--”

Before Ada can finish her sentence, your head starts pounding. You cry out, gripping the sides of your head. Your eyes also start watering.

Ẅ̷͇h̸̬̪̐ē̴̦͠r̸̢̦̕ē̷̻͜ ̴̨͆ȃ̶̆͜r̴̮̈̈͜ē̴̡͋ ̴̢̞̒͂ÿ̵̨́ö̴̹́u̷͖̕͝?̸̰̎͐!̶̥̋́

“Fuck off!” you scream, the pounding in your head getting progressively worse as your finger nails dig into the sides of your head.

I̸̼̓ ̴̨̍a̴̙͌m̷̖͑ ̸̛͖g̶͓̃o̴̦̓i̵̬͗n̶̦̒ģ̵̒ ̷̳͒ẗ̴͈́o̷̘̒ ̸͓͊f̸̤͊i̶̞͛ń̸̲d̴͇̒ ̶̙͌y̵̪͒o̶̰͝u̸̲̇.̵̹̒

“Shit!” Ada says, standing up from the bed and rushing to you, one hand grasping your shoulder while the other swings up, holding something that looks kind of like a pen.

You feel a sudden sting in the side of your neck and what follows is instant relief. The pounding in your head subsides. You let go of your head and look down at your hands, seeing the inky veins slowly fade.

“Thank god I brought that with me,” Ada says, taking a step back and looking down at the device she just used on you.

“What is that?” you ask, out of breath from your ordeal.

“An inhibitor. It will slow the progression of the plaga, but not for long. We need to get you to the Tricell lab and fast,” Ada steps aside, motioning to the bed, “get some rest, we’ll get on the road first thing in the morning.”

“Right…”

You stand up from the chair, your body still weak from the outburst you just endured, staggering over to the bed and collapsing onto it on your side, falling asleep within minutes.

Ada waits until she knows the girl is asleep before stepping outside. She looks around, spotting a pay phone at the end of the walkway in front of the motel rooms. She walks up to it, digging a couple quarters from her pocket and feeding them into the machine. Picking up the receiver, she dials a number. It rings a few times before answering to dead silence.

“It’s me.”

“Do you have the girl?” a man asks, his voice rough, but full of authority.

“I do, however there’s one problem,” Ada replies.

“I don’t do problems, Ada, you know that,” the man growls.

Ada rolls her eyes, “Listen, Simmons, it’s not my fault. She’s infected and the plaga is taking over at an alarming rate. I had to use the inhibitor Luis gave me.”

There’s silence for a moment, she can almost picture Derek Simmons, the National Security Advisor for the President of the United States, stroking his chin in thought while wearing that ridiculous ring on his hand.

“We proceed according to plan.”

“What about her?” Ada asks, the alarm evident in her voice, “if we don’t do something, she’ll be completely under Leon’s control.”

“Ada… are you trying to tell me you’re concerned about the girl?”

Fuck you asshole… Ada curses internally, her eyebrows furrowing as her hand squeezes the handset on the phone. She quickly comes up with a plan.

“What if we make a deal with her? We use her as bait to lure Leon to us in exchange for removing the plaga from her.”

Again, Simmons pauses, probably mulling over Ada’s idea. Then she hears his trademark chuckle, causing chills to run down her spine.

“I like how you think, Ada. That should work beautifully. To add to it, Dr. Sera believes he’ll be able to extract the plaga from her unborn child as well; that’ll make Wesker happy at least.”

Ada can’t help but smile, “that’s great, that will give her more than enough of a reason to cooperate in Leon’s capture.”

“Now then, hurry up and get the girl here, the clock is ticking.”

Ada hangs up the pay phone, turning around to head back inside the motel room. She walks up to the armchair that the girl had been sitting in earlier and sits down. She tries to rest her eyes, but sleep eludes her; instead, she watches the girl sleep. She’s sleeping on her side, her shoulder slowly rising and falling with each breath she takes. Her eyes slowly shift to her belly, which is clearly visible under the blanket. Despite only being a few months along, she appears to be almost to term; the work of the plaga, no doubt.

Ada’s thoughts shift to Leon and she finds herself reminiscing. From that bright, shy, yet noble police officer fresh from the academy to an abomination hell bent on ensuring the survival of its species, she finds her heart breaking for him. The Leon Scott Kennedy she knew was dead and gone, corrupted by the plaga inside him.

She doesn’t realize she nodded off until she hears the girl whimper in her sleep, jolting her awake in the chair. The girl’s eyes are squeezing themselves shut, her hand gripping into the sheets as her body trembles, the tell tale dark veins pulsating on her hand. Cursing to herself, she looks over at the clock on the bedside table, reading just after 4AM. There’s no time to wake her up, they need to leave and get to the lab immediately.

Ada springs up from the chair, tossing the blankets off the girl and carefully picking her up bridal style. Ada kicks the door open, making her way over to her Corvette, struggling to get the door open. She sits the girl in the passenger’s seat once she gets the door open and rushes over to the driver’s side. She turns the ignition, the car roaring to live which causes the girl to rouse from her slumber.

“Ada…? What’s going on…?” the girl asks, her voice soft.

“I’ve got to get you to the lab, just hang tight.”

Ada pushes her foot on the brake, reaching her other hand to the stick shift to put the car into drive. Her gaze shifts to the rear view mirror; what she sees chills her straight to her core. Standing just inside the edge of the forest, illuminated by the red brake lights of her car, is Leon. The front of his shirt coated in what she can only assume is blood, his mouth hanging agape as blood drips from it, showing off his elongated incisors. The more she looks, the worse it gets; she spots his tail whipping back and forth and four large claws coming out of his back, outstretched.

“What’s wrong?” the girl asks, panic starting to settle into her voice as she wakes up.

“Nothing,” Ada replies sharply, furrowing her brows, throwing the car into drive and slamming her foot on the gas.

The car peels out of the parking lot, turning sharply to get back onto the main road. She has no idea how fast she’s going and she doesn’t care. She has at least another two hours of driving to do, if not more and time is of the essence. She knew the inhibitor wouldn’t last forever, but she’s alarmed that it wore off that quickly and by the fact that Leon had tracked her down that fast; she had driven well over a hundred miles before stopping at the motel.

She has no intention of stopping now. She can already hear Simmons scolding her for not using the opportunity to capture him, but it was too dangerous, she would need backup. That was the first time she had seen him transformed like that and as much as she hated to admit it, it had shaken her.

By some miracle, she doesn’t run into a single police car and the two of them arrive at Tricell Laboratories safely, more or less. She looks over to the girl just as she parks the car.

“Can you walk?” Ada asks as she opens the driver’s side door.

“I… I think so…” the girl replies, her voice weak.

It’s still the early hours of the morning, the sun is just barely starting to brighten the sky, so it’s no surprise to Ada that those inky veins are sprawled all over the girl’s exposed skin. Ada practically jumps out of the car, rushing over to the passenger’s side to help the girl out, wrapping an arm around her waist to help steady her balance as she guides her over to the Tricell building. Upon getting to the door, Ada slams the side of her fist into the call button, and a few seconds later, a voice comes through the speaker.

“State your business,” says a gruff male voice.

“It’s Ada Wong. I have the girl but she needs medical attention immediately.”

A loud buzzing sound comes from the door and Ada kicks the door open and rushes the two of you inside. Within moments, a group of men and women in lab coats come rushing in, pushing a stretcher with them. Ada guides the girl to the stretcher and several of the lab technicians help the girl lay onto the stretcher. Ada’s eyes shift to one of them in particular, an older man with dark skin and long dark hair. She watches as he pulls an inhibitor from his lab coat pocket, jabbing it into the side of the girl’s neck, injecting the serum into her.

“You got her here just in time,” he says to Ada; he has a thick Hispanic accent.

“I wasn’t sure if we we’re going to make it, Luis…” Ada says, her breaths heavy.

“Take her into one of the infirmary rooms and prep her for surgery; make sure you have the UV lights on,” Luis commands the other technicians, watching as they wheel the stretcher away.

“You won’t be able to operate yet,” Ada says once she and Luis are alone in the hallway.

Luis looks to her, raising an eyebrow at her, “and why not?”

“Simmons wants to use her as bait to lure Leon into Tricell’s custody.” Ada says as the two of them begin to walk down the hallway together.

“What does he need Leon for? Does this have to do with why that pompous prick is helping Wesker with Uroboros--”

Ada stops in her tracks, grabbing Luis by his upper arm, squeezing it as she snaps at him in a hushed tone, “keep your voice down!”

Luis glances around to make sure no one is in earshot before continuing, “what on Earth would he want with Leon?”

“I have no idea, something nefarious, no doubt. But I’d much rather keep my head than question him and get on his bad side,” Ada replies, the two of them resuming their walk down the hall.

They come upon a set of doors; Luis swipes a keycard into the receptacle next to the door and the doors slide open, the two of them walking inside what appears to be a laboratory. Once inside, Ada lets herself relax a little, however the image of Leon in the red glow of her brake lights comes rushing back to her, causing her to visibly shiver. Luis looks over at her, once again raising an eyebrow at her.

“I saw him, Luis…” Ada says, her gaze shifting to make eye contact with him, “he’s on par with Saddler.”

“Shit…” Luis mutters under his breath, grabbing a pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter, putting one in his mouth and lighting it.

“What I don’t understand is… if Leon was still infected when he rescued Ashley, why didn’t he go brain dead like the others when he killed Saddler?”

Luis takes a long drag from his cigarette, grabbing it from his lips before exhaling a large cloud of smoke, “Leon and Ashley were infected with a special kind of plaga, ones that could act independently once fully turned. My guess? The plaga inside Leon could sense it was the last of its kind and mutated into a dominant, giving it the ability to infect others and breed.”

“I see…” Ada replies, her eyes looking to the floor absentmindedly as she wraps her arms around herself.

“What I don’t understand is why didn’t he tell anyone? Did he even know he was still infected? I could have saved him… it should have been me running the machine, not Ashley…”

“There’s no use beating yourself up over it. It was nine years ago--”

“But he saved my life, Ada!” Luis exclaims, throwing his hands up, “I should have died that day in the mines, the least I could have done was meet him in the lab and run the machine; that burden should never have been on the girl’s shoulders...”

The two of them stand in silence in an unspoken agreement to drop the subject. Ada drops her arms to her sides and starts to walk over to the doors leading out of the lab.

“I’m going to go check on the girl, are you coming or not?”

Upon opening your eyes, you're immediately blinded by not only bright fluorescent lights, but by the purple hue of powerful ultraviolet lights, causing you to wince and softly groan. However, your eyes quickly adjust and you attempt to sit up in the bed you’re in, only to find you are hooked up to all kinds of medical equipment.

“Hey. How are you feeling?”

You turn your head towards the familiar voice, finding Ada standing next to your bed, her arms crossed as she looks down at you. Relief washes over you, as the last thing you could recall prior to waking up was the immense pain rushing through your body and Leon’s voice pounding in your brain.

“Ok… considering…” you reply, your voice hoarse and your throat dry.

You unconsciously lick your lips, finding them chapped and sore.

“Here,” says another voice with a strong Hispanic accent, “I got some water for you.”

You turn your head to the opposite side of the bed, finding a man with longer, dark hair and tanned skin; he’s holding out a glass of water to you, which you don’t hesitate in taking and gulping down.

“This is Dr. Sera, one of Tricell’s lead scientists,” Ada explains, motioning one of her arms towards the man.

“Please… just call me Luis. I’ve never been one for formalities,” he replies smiling at you, “how do you feel about getting an ultrasound done?”

You slowly nod, taking deep breaths, “I feel ok enough to do that, but what for?”

“I believe that we may be able to save your child. Depending on the development of the fetus, we might be able to extract the plaga and spare your child’s life. That’s my hope anyway. Then, afterwards, we can remove the plaga from you as well.”

Your heart skips a beat. The possibility of being able to save your unborn child didn’t even cross your mind, it gave you hope for the first time since this madness started.

“Absolutely, if there’s any chance of saving my baby, I’ll take it,” you reply, the hope within you energizing you further.

“Alright, let me just bring over the ultrasound machine, señorita.” Luis says, walking over to the opposite side of the room.

Your tired eyes watch him attentively, feeling Ada place her hand on your shoulder, gently rubbing it.

“Alright! Let’s say hello to little Kennedy, shall we?” Luis says, his tone cheerful as he positions the machine next to your bed before powering it on.

You watch Luis take out a bottle of gel, using his other hand to lift your shirt over your swollen belly. He rubs the gel onto your belly, the cold gel causing you to flinch slightly. Grabbing the wand for the ultrasound machine, he presses it into your belly, moving it around slowly while watching the screen. At first, you don’t really see anything on the screen but then suddenly, you see her.

The clear image of your unborn child comes up onto the monitor; your eyes frantically searching for anything that would appear off about her. You weren’t sure what to expect; a tail… claws… but you see neither of those things. For all you knew, she looked like a normal, healthy baby. Your gaze shifts over to Luis, who has a subtle smile on his lips.

“The baby is almost to term and no sign of late stage infestation; I truly believe if we deliver soon, we have a chance of safely extracting the plaga from your child,” Luis explains, a hint of hope in his voice.

“That’s great, let’s deliver right away!” you ask, your tone eager.

“That’s the thing…” Ada interjects, “Tricell needs you to do something for them before Luis can deliver your baby, remove the plaga from them and from you.”

Your heart immediately sinks, your hand unconsciously rubbing your belly despite it still being covered in that gel, “Like… what…?”

“We need your help to lure Leon into Tricell custody. We can’t have him running amok any longer and risk him killing and infecting more people. Can you do that for us?”

Of course they’re using you as bait…

You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and mulling over your options. If you don’t agree to this, the only thing that awaits you and your unborn child is death. You truly have no other choice.

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

He watches her through the spaces of the grocery store rack, his body tingling with excitement; so much so he can barely contain himself. He was also doing his best to hide his presence from her, but with the sun beginning to set, that was becoming increasingly difficult. Her back is facing him as she browses the breakfast cereal aisle, completely oblivious to the azure eyes watching her every move from behind the grocery aisle behind her.

His eyes remain locked on her as she turns to the right, walking out of the aisle carrying a small basket full of various items. She walks up to the cash register, paying for her items before leaving the store, making sure to hang back quite a bit to avoid being seen. He watches her climb into a small sedan and he gets into his “borrowed” car, following behind the sedan as it pulls out of the parking lot.

Again, he tries to remain a decent distance away as to not raise her suspicions; but now that he is in the comfort of his own vehicle, he allows himself to let loose, the inky veins spreading across his skin and his eyes shifting to crimson, softly glowing in the low light inside his car.

The sun has completely set by the time he watches his quarry pull into a hotel parking lot, parking his car in such a way so he can watch her car and the front door of the hotel. He watches her get out of the car, carrying a grocery bag in one hand. His breath hitches upon seeing her pregnant form.

“Daddy gets to see you soon, Nora…” he says softly to himself, his grasp tightening on the steering wheel.

Closing his eyes, he focuses his thoughts on you, penetrating your mind with ease; his gift almost having its hold on you completely.

T̷̨̠͚̜͖͂̈́͌̋͗h̷̛̗̮̘̖̰̊͝e̴̛̯̐ ̶̫͇̻̱͑̾͘͠ṛ̸̡̘̒̔̑͠͝ͅͅo̷̝̅͐̔̑͠ö̴͖̙̺́̍͌̀͠m̶̖̭̈́̽̊͜ ̸̟̣̰̉̊͆i̴̢̓̓̚͘͝s̴͕̮͛̅̔̽.̶͖̙̜̏͘.̴̨̼̣̑̈́͝.̵̲͓̫̫̔ ̶͙̓̅y̷̧̞̓̂ë̶͙́̑͛̂̚s̸̠̊͌ ̷̧̨̕ͅI̶̢͓̼̲̍̅̀́ ̵̰͌̔͐́c̵̩̹̻̀̈̈́h̶̹͓͎̣͛̈́͝ë̷͔̦̮̮c̵͕͑̀͐ḱ̴̹͕̃ ̷̯̈͠o̵̱̺̩͔͎͆̈́͘u̸̝̳͆̋̓͂t̷͔̪͚̮̤͑͂̂̋̑.̷͕̈́̾͘.̶͙͔̖͈̈́̅̋.̶͔̥̤̩̖́͐̈͊͂ ̷̩̪͖̮̈́͜ȓ̸̜̒͛͑͝ǒ̷̹̲͇̏̀͋o̵̦̖̻̬͂͌m̶̯̒͋̀̂ ̵̛̝̙̰̇̉̀͘1̶̤͕̤̌̅̐͝0̶̻͚̰̝̤͐0̸̛͈͈̖͖́̓͘͝6̵͎̥͊͠?̸̛͎͕̜̊̂̚͠ ̷̘̉͋̈T̵̞̋̇̋ḩ̸̺̄͊͠ȃ̷͕͈̪n̴̠̙͂̈́̀́̄k̷̛͈͙̂̌ ̶͎͓͖̌͝ͅỳ̴͕̬̳̖o̸̫̪͉̜̅͜-̴̗̞͆̍̀̇-̴̢̹̣͂͐̊

A smirk crosses his lips as he withdraws from her mind. Now that he has your room number, getting inside should be simple. He waits another couple of hours before making his move. Getting out of his car, the inky veins no longer visible, he nonchalantly walks into the hotel, walking right up to the front desk to a tired looking receptionist. He glances over to the clock; it’s 11:00pm.

“Hi there,” he begins, leaning against the front desk, “my wife checked in a few hours ago. I broke down on my way here so I wasn’t able to meet her here like we originally planned. I imagine she’s sleeping now and I don’t want to wake her; think I can get a copy of the key?”

The receptionist lets out a loud sigh, rubbing her temples, “what’s the room number, mister?”

“1006.”

He watches the receptionist dig inside a drawer before pulling a key out that has a tag on it with 1006 printed on it, “here you are, enjoy your stay…”

“Thank you very much,” Leon says cheerfully as he swipes the key from her before walking over to the elevator, hitting the up button.

The elevator doors open and he steps inside, hitting the button for the 10th floor, putting his hands in his denim pockets as the elevator ascends. The doors open and he steps into the hallway, quickly finding room 1006. Putting the key into the door knob, he turns it slowly and enters the dark room, quietly closing the door behind him.

As he had suspected, she’s sleeping soundly in the king size bed on her side, facing away from the door. A smile appears on his lips as he approaches the bed, sitting down onto it and gently caressing your arm with the tips of his fingers. She stirs, rolling over to see what he can only assume are his soft glowing red eyes. She inhales deeply to scream, and he slaps his hand over her mouth, pressing his index finger to his lips, softly shushing her.

“Hey, hey, hey… I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassures her, “there’s nothing to be afraid of, angel.”

He watches her gaze shift to her arms, now sprawling with the dark veins. She starts to hyperventilate, tears threatening to fall from the corners of her eyes. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, using his thumb to wipe away her tears.

“Please don’t cry, I promise you, it’s going to be ok. The gift will bring us closer together, I assure you.”

“B-But…” you stammer, her eyes locking onto his, completely enveloped in fear, “I don’t want to hurt anyone…”

“Oh sweetheart…” he says with a sigh, shifting closer to her and wrapping his arms around her, giving a soft kiss to the top of her head and he runs his fingers through her hair, “I’ll do all the hunting for us, you don’t need to worry about hurting anyone.”

He places his hand on her belly, feeling his unborn child stir from his touch, instantly warming his heart.

“Look at you, growing our baby girl so well. So beautiful…” he coos, lifting your chin with his fingers before kissing you deeply.

He gently coaxes her to lay onto the bed. Sitting up on his knees momentarily, he pulls his shirt off over his head, tossing it aside before he then begins to remove the rest of his clothing. Once nude he cages her body with his own, the parasitic veins sprawling and pulsing across his skin as he gently removes her clothing as well.

“Let me show you how beautiful our gift is, angel,” he purrs, gently pulling your legs apart.

He wastes no time propping her legs onto his shoulders, practically diving into her pussy, running his tongue over her slit, stopping on her clit to suck the sensitive bud. He feels her thighs quiver on his shoulders and before long, he can hear her soft moans fill the room; music to his ears.

Letting out a low growl into her clit, he brings his hand up to gently stroke her slit before pushing two fingers inside her, curving them upwards. Her hips buck upwards in response, her entire body tensing up. He watches in delight as the veins on her skin grow darker, the gift further ensnaring her.

With a loud moan, he feels her come undone on his fingers, her juices heavily coating his fingers. He pulls them out, licking his fingers clean before he proceeds to climb onto her. As he settles his hips between her legs, his tail snakes out from his lower back, gently moving from side to side. He watches your eyes widen in fear, but he quickly brings his hands to her cheeks, gently caressing them.

“Please… don’t be afraid, angel,” he coos as he sheathes himself inside her.

In that instant, his back claws burst from his back, acting as a cage around her as he begins to thrust into her slowly. He stares down at her longingly, one of his hands gently caressing her belly. With each thrust, he increases the speed and intensity. He closes his eyes, leaning his head back and letting out a low groan as he inches closer and closer to his release.

The sound of a gun cocking, followed quickly by the feeling of a barrel being pressed into the back of his skull causes him to stop instantly. A low growl emanates from the back of his throat, his lips twitching and curling into a snarl as his eyes slowly open. He doesn’t even need to turn around to see who it is pointing a gun at the back of his head.

Ada Wong.

“Well, well, well… that’s one hell of a greeting,” Leon practically snarls, “couldn’t even wait until I came, fucking bitch.”

“Wow, when did you become such a prick, Leon?” Ada replies, the smirk on her face audible in her voice.

“The moment you discarded my gift, Ada,” he replies, another growl coming out of him, “what do you want?”

“Come quietly, that’s all I ask,” she says simply, pushing the gun into his head harder.

“Let me guess, you told my angel that you were with the BSAA, didn’t you?” Leon says, a smirk crossing his lips, “why don’t you tell her who you’re really working for.”

“Don’t listen to him,” she snaps, “it’s the parasite talking, he’s full of shit.”

“Ada…” his angel says softly, her gaze shifting over to Ada, “what is he talking about…?”

“Really Ada? How long have we known each other?”

“Are you going to cooperate or not, Leon? Stop wasting time.”

Leon sighs heavily, pulling himself out of his angel, his plaga appendages receding back into his body as he stands up straight, “If I go with you, promise me whoever you’re working for won’t hurt my baby.”

At first, Ada doesn’t respond, but he hears her exhale, “I can promise it won’t be intentionally killed, how about that?”

“Fine. Let me get my clothes back on.”

Arms and legs chained together and a crude metal mask covering the lower half of his face, Leon is led through the halls of Tricell Laboratories like some kind of wild animal. The armed guards lead him into a solid white observation room. On the back wall, there are shackles which are promptly put on his arms and legs upon being brought to them. The chains and mask are then removed and the guards quickly leave.

To Leon’s relief, they don’t have any UV lights on, so he allows himself to relax a little, his dark veins sprawling across his skin and his eyes shifting to crimson. For hours, he leans against the wall, unconsciously licking his upper canines and shifting on his feet occasionally.

Please let my angel and Nora be ok… he thinks to himself, closing his eyes.

The sound of the door across from him opening snaps him from his thoughts. He opens his eyes, immediately narrowing them upon seeing who has entered the room. He begins to growl.

“Derek Simmons… what on Earth are you doing here?”

“My, my… how the mighty have fallen,” Derek begins, standing several feet in front of Leon, crossing his arms and letting out a low chuckle, “it’s been awhile, Leon Scott Kennedy.”

“Answer the fucking question, Simmons!” Leon growls.

“I wouldn’t say working with him, it’s more like we both have a mutual interest in your condition. Wesker’s hopes are that the DNA extracted from you will help with his Uroboros project,” Derek explains, mindlessly spinning the large ring on his left thumb.

“Officially? I’m here to oversee your execution. Off the record, however, I’m here to watch you suffer as you become Wesker’s little pet project.”

“You’re working with Wesker?!”

“The fuck is Uroboros?”

“Dunno, you’d have to ask him yourself. Like I said, I just want to see you suffer, Agent Kennedy.”

“Fucking bastard…” Leon mutters to himself, glaring at him, feeling the plaga within him writhe in rage, begging to be unleashed, “what are they going to do with my angel and my daughter?”

“For starters, they’re going to attempt to extract the plaga from your unborn child, which will be used to further assist in Wesker’s ambitions, then, I believe the plan is to rid your darling ‘angel’ of your so-called ‘gift.’ She’s quite pretty, that one. I must say you sure know how to pick them, Leon.”

“You so much as lay a hair on her…”

“And you’ll what? You’re trapped here, Leon. Trapped like the fucking animal you are! You’re so pathetic, you’re not even half the man that lovely young lady deserves,” Derek taunts him, a sinister grin on his lips.

“Oh really?” Leon growls once more, his fists clenching.

He rushes forward, catching himself on his restraints, now within inches of Simmons. His tail bursts out of his back, taking a swing at Simmons’ neck, however he was able to take another step back to avoid the hit just in time. His back claws then burst from his back, his hands transforming into dark claws as he continues to fight against the shackles keeping him restrained. The sound of metal bending reverberates throughout the room as he further transforms. Leon lets out a loud roar, showing off his large and sharp incisors before his lower jaw splits in half, mandibles coming out of his mouth and his tongue elongated.

“How about now, Simmons?” Leon replies, his voice rough and distorted due to his transformation.

Simmons’ smug expression quickly morphs into one of concern as he continues to move away from Leon. The sound of metal breaking echoes in the room and in an instant, Leon pounces on Simmons, the sound of the chains dragging behind him.

“God dammit someone get in here and get him off me! He’s gonna-- ACK!”

Leon wastes no time in ripping out Simmons’ throat, his long tongue lapping up the blood hemorrhaging from his neck. Guards then come swarming in, firing several shots of tranquilizers into him. It takes a couple minutes for it to take effect on him. He knows they’ll punish him for this but it was worth it to finally get back at Simmons for accusing him of murdering the president some time ago, a B.O.W. attack perpetrated by Simmons himself that killed the president and resulted in the deaths of 70,000 innocent townsfolk. That was when Leon had gone on the run; Simmons had found out Leon was still infected with Las Plagas and used him as a scapegoat.

Leon closes his eyes as his face shifts back to normal, slumping onto the ground as he loses consciousness.

The loud cries of a newborn pull you from unconsciousness, your eyes fluttering open. Your eyes shift around the room before settling on the baby in Luis’ arms, caked in your blood and who knows what other fluids.

“Would you look at that, a healthy baby girl!” Luis exclaims, grabbing a towel from one of the lab assistants and wrapping the baby in it.

Luis walks over to you, you weakly hold your arms out to your baby, cradling her in your arms as Luis hands her off to you. She calms down instantly, you suspect because of the plaga you both share still. She has Leon’s blonde hair, however her eyes are still shut so you’re unsure what color her eyes are yet.

“Alright, I’ve got to take her to remove that pesky plaga,” he says before motioning to his assistant, “you know what to do. Get her stitched up and bring her to the removal machine and blast that plaga into hell.”

Nervousness quickly grabs hold of you, knowing there was a chance your baby would not survive the procedure, but Luis seemed very confident it could be done, so you have no choice but place your faith in him.

“Got a name picked out yet?” Luis asks, smiling warmly at you.

You look over at your baby, sleeping soundly in Luis’ arms, a warm feeling enveloping you as you reply, “her name is Nora.”

“Well then, little Nora, let’s go get that bug out of you, shall we?” Luis says to Nora as he carries her out of the room.

The assistant sews up the incision made to perform the c-section to remove your baby in record time before wheeling your bed out into the hallway. You’re then brought into a darkened room and you see a machine with a laser like apparatus on it. The assistant rolls your bed beneath the machine, positioning the arm of the laser at your chest.

“I’m going to warn you, this is going to be extremely painful. You most likely will faint. Let me know when you’re ready, ok?”

You take a couple of deep breaths, doing your best to calm your nerves before you finally nod, “I’m ready.”

The assistant flips a couple switches and you hear the machine whirl to life. Within seconds there’s a bright flash and then you feel what has to be the worst pain you’ve ever felt in your life. You let out a blood curdling scream, your hands gripping the arms on your bed so tight that your hands cramp up. Your eyes then roll into the back of your head and you pass out into a dreamless sleep.

Luis is holding up the plaga extracted from Nora, the procedure having been a success as he had anticipated. The child and her mother now resting together in one of the rooms. He looks perplexed as he examines it, turning the glass container that it’s being kept in.

“What’s the matter Dr. Sera?” one of his assistants asks, noticing the look on Luis’ face.

“I feel like something is off about this specimen. Like something is missing,” Luis replies, rubbing his chin with his fingers in the opposite hands as he continues to examine the plaga.

“We triple checked Dr. Sera, the entire plaga was extracted from the child. You have nothing to worry about,” his assistant reassures him.

“You’re right, I’m just overthinking, that’s all…” Luis replies, setting the container down onto his desk before walking towards the door, “let’s go get some celebratory drinks, drinks’er on me.”

On his desk next to the container is a diagram of the Las Plagas parasite, each part meticulously labeled. If one were to closely inspect this diagram and the parasite in the container, they would realize that the diagram had something the specimen did not:

A head.

December 25th, 1998… Ten years later…

You watch as Nora rips open her last Christmas present, your smile going from ear to ear as you hold your coffee to your lips. Nora gasps upon seeing the PlayStation logo on the box.

“No… shut up! No you didn’t, Mom!” Nora exclaims, ripping off the rest of the wrapping paper.

Other things were wrapped with the game console; a game and a memory card.

“You got me Spyro the Dragon! Thank you so much, Mom! Best Christmas ever!”

Nora jumps up from the floor, rushing over and throwing her arms around you to hug you tight.

“You’re welcome Nora, Merry Christmas,” you reply, kissing her cheek, “you deserve it. You’ve done so well in school this year.”

Nora steps back, her blue eyes gleaming with joy; Leon’s blue eyes. Everything about Nora reminds you of Leon, as heartbreaking as that is.

He’s right where he needs to be though… where he can’t hurt anyone anymore…

“Can I hook it up on the living room TV and play it, Mom? Pretty pleeeeeaaaassseee?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart,” you reply as you stand up from the dining table.

“Yay! Thanks, Mom!” Nora exclaims, scooping up the PlayStation, the game and the memory card and bringing them into the living room.

You let out a playful chuckle, walking over to your phone, picking it up off the charger and dialing a number. After a few rings a familiar voice answers.

“Hello?” your mother says.

“Hey Mom! It’s me!” you reply, “Merry Christmas! I wanted to thank you for helping me get that PlayStation for Nora. She absolutely loved it.”

“Oh good! You’re welcome sweetie! How’s the weather down in Florida today?” she asks.

“A beautiful 70 degrees,” you reply with a smile, “moving here was the best decision ever. Nora loves it down here.”

“Oh that sounds lovely! I’ll have to get down to visit soon. It’s snowing up here today, your step-father is out shoveling the walkway.”

“Oh yeah! How are things going with you and Darren? I can’t wait to meet him!”

“You’re going to love him, he’s got a great personality, really funny. The other day--”

You jump when you hear a sudden knock on the door, “sorry to cut you off, Mom, but I’ve got someone at the door. I’ll talk to you later, ok?”

“No problem, sweetheart, talk to you soon! Love you, bye!”

“Love you too, Mom. Bye!”

You hang up the phone, placing it back on the charger before walking up to your door and opening it. Standing outside is a woman you haven’t seen in a couple years, her black hair framing her face perfectly. She’s wearing a simple red tank top and denim jeans with knee high boots. You notice a 9mm strapped to her right leg.

“Ada! Merry Christmas!” you exclaim, giving her a hug, which she returns without hesitation.

“Merry Christmas, can I come in?” Ada asks.

“Of course you can, let me make you some coffee. Have a seat,” you reply as you motion to the dining table.

“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Ada says as she sits down at the table.

After you make her a cup, you hand it to her before sitting across from her at the table.

“How are you and Nora doing?” Ada asks, sipping on her coffee.

“Really well. Nora’s currently in the living room hooking up the PlayStation my Mom and I got her for Christmas. She’s doing well in school, she’s made friends. She’s a perfectly normal 10 year old. As for me, I just have a scar on my chest and that’s it, no adverse side effects as far as I can tell.”

Ada nods, “I’m really happy to hear that.”

You can tell her voice is strained, clearly something is wrong, “what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“You have that 50 caliber that I gave you, right?” Ada asks.

“Yes… why…?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Ada begins her explanation, “Two days ago, Tricell was transporting Leon to a new facility in Washington state when…”

Ada trails off, her gaze looking into the living room where Nora is happily playing her game, the sounds of the game softly traveling into the kitchen and dining room area. Ada lets out another sigh before continuing, “when he escaped; killing several people in the process.”

You let out a soft gasp, your heart jumping up into your throat.

“Don’t worry, the chances of him finding you are slim, this happened way out in Idaho. But I wanted to tell you nonetheless, as a precaution.”

“Right…” you reply, nodding subtly; your stomach is twisting in knots.

Ada grabs a piece of paper and a pen that are on your table, jotting down a phone number before handing it to you, “this is my cell phone number, if you hear, see or experience anything strange, you need to call me, ok?”

“Of course,” you reply as you motion to take the slip of paper, however Ada’s hands encase yours.

“Promise me that if you see him, you take that gun and you do not hesitate. Shoot to kill, understand?”

You take a couple of deep breaths before replying, “Yes, I understand.”

Later that night, you are tucking Nora into bed, covering her up with a beautiful floral quilt that your mom had made for her a couple of birthdays ago. She smiles up at you as you cover her up.

“This was the best Christmas ever, thank you Mom,” she says.

You gently run your fingers through her blonde hair, smiling down at her, “and you are most welcome, Nora. I’m glad you had such a good Christmas. Now, it’s time to get some sleep, ok?”

“Ok Mom!”

You lean over to turn off her bedside lamp getting up from where you were crouched next to the bed and walking to her bedroom door.

You’re at the threshold when Nora once again speaks up, “Daddy says he loves us.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, turning around slowly to look over at Nora, “wh… what did you just say?”

You must not have heard her correctly…

“I saaaid, Daddy loves us. He told me so.”

Your eyes widen and your heart is racing in your chest, “when did he tell you so, Nora?”

“Today,” she replies simply, her smile wide.

“O-Ok… good night, Nora…”

“Good night Mom,” Nora says, rolling over to face away from the door.

You walk out of her bedroom, locking and closing the door softly before proceeding to your own bedroom, closing and locking yourself in. You decide you’ll call Ada first thing in the morning. You’re hoping it’s just Nora’s imagination running wild again. But then again, Nora has never mentioned anything about Leon before now. You tuck yourself into bed, quickly falling asleep to the sound of the crickets outside.

That is, until a loud thumping sound wakes you out of a dead sleep, startling you. At first, you think it is just the remnants of a nightmare, until you hear the sound again. It’s definitely coming from inside the house. You open the drawer in your bedside table, pulling out the Desert Eagle that Ada had asked you about earlier in the day before climbing out of bed. You brought it to the local gun range to practice shooting with it once a week since you got it making sure you’d be able to handle it if the time ever came to use it.

You check to make sure it’s loaded and that the safety is off before slowly unlocking your bedroom door and stepping out into the hallway. Your first instinct is to check on Nora, maybe she had just gotten up to go to the bathroom. You slowly make your way to the bedroom, unlocking the door with a key in your pocket and quietly opening it. Nora is sound asleep, it definitely wasn’t her making the noise. You gently shut the door, locking it once more.

You hear the sound again from behind you, you turn quickly and aim your gun, but there is nothing there. Lowering your gun, you walk slowly down the hallway which leads out to the kitchen and dining room. You take a peek into the living room, thankfully not seeing anything, just the PlayStation sitting on the floor where Nora had left it. Confident that there’s nothing in the house, you turn to walk down the hallway to go back to bed.

However, you see a shadow cast from the lights of the Christmas tree of four insect-like appendages extending outwards, followed by a long tail, the shadow is also taller than you. Your breaths are ragged as you stop and slowly turn around, the gun clenched in your hands. Sure enough, you find Leon standing behind you, a soft smile on his lips that is barely visible in the low light.

It’s clear that he has aged, but admittedly he’s aged like a fine wine, still retaining his handsome features that first lured you to him in the first place. He is wearing a blue leather jacket with a black shirt underneath with denim jeans and work boots. His eyes glowing a soft red in the low light and the plaga black veins sprawling over his exposed skin.

“Merry Christmas, angel,” Leon says, his voice as smooth as whiskey, “you are as beautiful as the day I lost you, if not more. I’ve missed you both so much.”

You swallow hard, your feelings conflicted. You missed him too, terribly. There is still a part of you that loved him; you knew deep down there is still good in him; he would have been an amazing father to your daughter.

Leon continues, “how is Nora? Can I see her?”

You take a deep breath before shaking your head, raising the Desert Eagle to aim it right between his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Leon.”

You pull the trigger.

‘Glitch’ Text translation:

“Where are you?”

“I am going to find you.”

“The room is… yes I check out… room 1006? Thank yo--”

A/N: First of all, I want to apologize that this took so long to put out. I want to dedicate this part to my lovely friends @nexysworld @explorevenus @kaitkatme and @dollfacefantasy. They’re always supportive and have always been there for me when I needed it most and for that I am so incredibly grateful. I have made so many beautiful friends in the Resident Evil fandom. This fic is still one I am incredibly proud of and had so much fun writing it. Thank you for joining me on this incredible ride! I hope it is worth the wait

#leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader smut #vampire!leon kennedy #plagas!leon kennedy #gigabyte writes #he comes alive

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latenightdaydreams · 3 months

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Ok so first off I'm so obsessed with both your writing and könig right now, I just wanted to get that out, your writing is amazing.

I was wondering if I could request könig with a gn/fem s/o who's a burlesque dancer or stripper? I've started dancing this year and the thought of giving this sweet big boy a lap dance or seeing him in the audience keeps me going lmao (I'm going to be dancing to nicklebacks Animals and carly rae jepsens cut to the feeling in the next two shows I'm in, if you want to use either of those sort of vibes ✌🏽) tysm, lots of love

Thank you!! I love the idea of jealous König having a partner in that industry. he'd be so jealous but also cocky. "Yes, the hottest dancer in the club is MINE."

Gentlemen's Club (fem/gn)

(fem body but no gendered speech)

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab body, strip club, lap dance, oral

1.3k word count

💃🏽

When König got with you, he knew you were a dancer. He’s never had an issue with it aside from minor jealousy, but he understands that is just his own insecurities. He’s never actually seen you dance before, or visited you at work. Today, he was going to change that. König has just gotten back from a seven-month long mission, seven months without his Schatzi. He can’t wait for you to get off of work.

König enters the club. It’s not his vibe. The music is incredibly loud. Flashing lights annoy him, and he hates the type of men these clubs attract. He towers above everyone as he walks through the crowd. His blonde hair pulled back into a man bun as he wears a black suit that compliments his well-toned frame.

As König walks through the club, a dancer approaches him. She’s around 5’10 in heels with red hair in pigtails, her makeup bright and glittery. Her outfit is a neon purple color that glows under the lights.

“Hey handsome. Are you looking for some company?” She asks, putting a hand on his peck.

He politely and gently removes her hand and looks her in the eyes. “I’m looking for y/n.”

You’re on-stage dancing with two other girls as you all share the stage. You lean your body back after a spin on a pole; you see a familiar figure that towers over everyone else. With an excited look on your face, you turn around quickly. “König!”

König walks up to the stage and reaches a hand out to you. He lifts you off the stage and hugs you tightly, your legs wrapping around his waist. His fingers dig into your thighs, feeling your soft flesh poke out through the holes in your fishnets.

“You look so sexy up on that stage, Schatzi.” König leans in and kisses your lips.

“Look at you!” Your lips hungrily kiss every inch of his face. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I miss you too. That’s why I’ve come to look for a…what’s it called?”

“The VIP treatment?”

“Ja, VIP treatment.” He repeats, smiling at you.

“Okay, put me down and follow me.” You giggle as you’re put down.

His massive hand slips in yours as you walk him to a private VIP room towards the back of the club. As you walk, men watch your breasts bounce and hips sway. König notices their gazes. He tries his best to not let their stares get to him. Your body is stunning and you’re dressed revealing. Of course they’re looking. If you weren’t his, he would still look.

König lowers his eyes to watch your thighs and ass instead, so he doesn’t let the men ruin his reunion with you. His eyes gaze around the room you bring him into, a large leather sofa against one wall.

You gently push his chest for him to sit back on the sofa, straddling him as soon as he sits back. His hands like a magnet grasp your ass, moving your hips to grind on his erection. Slowly, he moves his hands lower, trying to stick a finger into your pussy.

“There are cameras, you’ll have to wait for home to touch me like that.” You whisper to him before kissing him more.

“Then let’s give security a show, ja?”

A soft giggle escapes your lips as he speaks. “You’re so naughty. How about a dance?”

“A dance…a dance would hold me over until you get off work.” König’s hands travel the curve of your plump ass and move up to your back.

You stand from his lap, his fingers falling from your fleshing leaving him wanting for more. His eyes are glued to the way you stand before him, leaning your body over his and putting your hands on either side of the couch behind him.

There is a sexual aura about you as you turn a switch in your head and treat König as if he were a paying customer. He sees a new look in your eyes that draws him in. His little Schatzi turned into a little vixen. As you pull away, he leans forward, as if he’s desperate to have you that close to him again.

König chuckles at his own reaction and leans back. His hand moving over his cock to give it some of the friction it’s craving for you right now. The way his pale blue eyes travel across your body makes you tingle. He’s hungry. It’s been almost a full year without you.

Your body moves in a hypnotic motion, hands moving slowly behind you to pull on the bikini string around your back. The fabric pops up to reveal under boob to König. He gazes with anticipation as he watches your hands reach behind your shoulders and let your top fall to the ground.

“Beautiful…” He whispers once your hardened nipples and full breasts are exposed to him. König can’t help but to lean forward. His large hands reach out to cup your breasts. His thumbs passing over your nipples before you playfully swat his hands away.

“No touching König. Be a good boy.”

A growl escapes his lips as you hit his hands. He gazes up at you, pupils blown from desire and lust. “I can’t control myself, Schatzi.” With his last inch of will he leans back, continuing to rub his cock.

You stand before him, hips swaying with the music blaring throughout the club. His eyes drop from your breasts to your rear as you slowly back up to him. Your ass widens as you sit on his cock, his erection twitching in his pants. A warmth radiates over his crotch from you sitting on him.

König’s hands caress your thighs, slipping his fingers between the holes in your fishnets. He has to use all of his self-control to not pull them and rip them off of you. You roll your hips on him, matching the beat on the music. A small groan leaves his lips as he pulls you back to rest on him.

His lips are hungry as he kisses down your neck, his sharp canines dig into your neck pulling a whimper from you. You lean your body back as he continues to bite down your neck. His hands move up, gliding across your body until he cups your breasts. He pinches your nipples and lets out a tender sigh.

Your hips are still grinding on him causing König to close his eyes and enjoy the moment. He begins to daydream about you bouncing on his cock right now. How the security guards would be beating their meat looking at you getting fucked by his massive dick.

In a fluid motion you move away and off of König. His hands still reach out for you, he hates how good you are at teasing him. Your eyes drop to the bulge in his pants, causing you to bite your lower lip.

Approaching him, you lift your leg up, resting it on his shoulder. He turns his head and kisses your ankle and leg.

“Kö Kö, pay attention.” Your tone teasing him.

König turns his head and looks at you. You move the thing fabric of your thong to the side, exposing your waxed pussy to him. König’s jaw drops and stares. He’s been dreaming of that sweet cunt all these months. His eyes watch like a hawk as your fingers move down and begin to rub that tiny little clit.

“Mein Gott…” He reaches out to feel your wetness when you slap his hand away again. His eyes meet you instantly as he shakes his head.

“You can’t touch.”

“Like hell I can’t.” König whispers as he moves forward and grasps your ass, pulling your pussy to his face. He breathes you in before kissing all over your soft lips and clit. Your head drops back in ecstasy as he sticks his tongue out to lap at your cunt.

You grab his bun and hold it tightly as he eats you out. Your leg on his shoulder twitching slightly with every pass. It’s been so long; you’ve missed how his mouth feels. While pleasing you, his hand rubs along his cock, stroking it slowly. He knows they’re being watched, but fuck it. He needs you now.

#konig #konig x reader #konig cod #könig x reader #konig smut #könig cod #könig smut #könig #konig x y/n #könig mw2 #cod smut #konig x reader smut #smut #light smut #könig call of duty #könig x you #konig x you #könig x y/n #konig call of duty

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gimmethatagustd · 3 months

Text

call me baby | kth + jjk

Amidst a heartless divorce, Taehyung, a renowned film director, desperately tries to hold himself together. Enter Jungkook, the Kim family's devoted nanny, who has had his eye on Taehyung for years.

○ Pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: PWP, sugar daddy au, angst, fluff, smut

○ 15 / 100 Drabble Challenge (Babysitter)

○ Word Count: 8,461

○ Warnings: TH's wife cheats on him, divorce, TH is def depressed, JK is a little bratty, hand jobs, phone sex, daddy kink (i stole part of the scene from two of my reader-inserts, see if you can guess jhskdfs), age gap, unprotected anal sex

○ Notes: This was supposed to be a standard little PWP and then I made it depressing. 🥲 I wrote it for the Top Taehyung x Bottom Jungkook Fest on AO3. I'm going to write a part 2 eventually~

○ Post Date: June 10, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Crosspost

○ What was Jai listening to? older - isabel larosa

The most fucked up part about being a film director married to one of the most prominent actresses in mainstream cinema is having to still cast her in films after already signing the divorce papers. Second on the fucked-up list would be the forced joint attendance at premieres, galas, and other red-carpet events, with all the reporters asking the same goddamn questions:

Was their split amicable?

Have they told their daughter yet? Their goddamn six-year-old daughter who can barely tie her shoes and has never heard the word divorce before in her life?

How do they manage to work on set together?

Is Taehyung upset about the fact that his soon-to-be ex-wife is already in a relationship with the lead actor of a film he fucking directed? Amidst allegations that she was cheating on him with said actor during filming?

Of course not! Why would Taehyung be upset? It’s only that he is the reason Eunji and Sunwoo ever met each other. He chose to pair them as the main love interests in what critics have referred to as the catalyst for a new era of the modern love story, and he encouraged Eunji to take the lead role despite her belief that she wasn’t talented enough.

Of course, Taehyung isn’t upset. He’s a romantic! How could he possibly be upset about true love? The scowl Taehyung wears as he rips off his suit jacket and kicks off his black leather Louboutin Chelsea boots in the foyer of the mansion, which he still shares with Eunji, isn’t from being upset. He just has to sneeze.

“Taehyung,” Eunji calls to him as she gingerly tiptoes toward the grand staircase across the foyer, heel straps threaded through manicured fingers adorned with thin gold rings on all but the one that matters. “Can you pay Jungkook, please? Cash, this time. He said he was having issues with KakaoPay.”

She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone as she climbs the staircase. She had barely looked Taehyung in the eyes all night, aside from during their obligatory photo op on the red carpet, this time for the premiere of a film he hadn’t directed.

They’re gorgeous together, Taehyung and Eunji, tall and lean with angular faces and piercing eyes that they’ve passed on to their daughter, Yuri. Growing up poor and raised by a single mother, Taehyung was taught the value of hard work and humility. Still, even he knows that he and Eunji are the film industry’s power couple—that they were the film industry’s power couple. Everything the Kims touched turned to gold, except for each other. Eunji shines just as brightly as she did when they met fifteen years ago, but now Taehyung crumbles like ash between her fingers.

Taehyung waits in the foyer until the creak of the floorboards tells him that Eunji is in Yuri’s bedroom. Only then does he follow in Eunji’s footsteps up the stairs, taking the opposite direction down the hall.

Taehyung’s bedroom reminds him of a mouth full of missing teeth, with white walls and empty crevices around every corner. One half of his king-size bed is made. The double sink in the attached bathroom is bare on one side. Only one robe hangs on the hook beside the shower.

He likes to poke at the empty crevices just to feel how groundless and gummy it makes him when he does. Lately, he has made a habit of running his fingers across the ornamental dresser next to the door of the walk-in closet. There are shapes in the dust that covers the dresser’s surface, one rectangle where Eunji’s antique jewelry box used to sit, others small circles and squares where she threw rings and makeup compacts whenever she was too tired to properly put them away. Taehyung links each shape with his finger, drawing little crossroads between them, and doesn’t think about how Eunji has left him with the dust—in the dust.

In the kitchen downstairs, Jungkook is washing dishes. He’s wearing loose sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves folded past his elbows because Eunji keeps the house freezing in the summer. On the island counter is his laptop and a tattered leather-bound journal flipped open to messy notes. When Taehyung leans his hip against the counter, he reads the English alphabet repeated in Jungkook’s swooping handwriting in the journal and notices a podcast in English paused on the laptop. Beginner’s language learning may seem trivial, but it’s more than what most twenty-two-year-olds Taehyung knows are doing with their time.

Jungkook’s hair is a weak shade of green, pale like the mints Taehyung enjoys flicking around his teeth with the tip of his tongue when he’s trying to mask the smell of cigarette smoke on his breath. It never works; the minty burst a scent as weak as its color. Taehyung thinks if he sucks on multiple, it’ll make a difference, as though a minty smile is a bandage strong enough to clot the bloody wound in his marriage.

That part of him has been amputated now. The only thing worse is knowing that other people know how miserable this has made him.

Jungkook knows, probably better than anyone else. The nondisclosure agreement he signed before Eunji hired him prevents him from ratting Taehyung out for being lonely, but he knows, probably even more than Taehyung does.

“Welcome home, Mr. Kim,” Jungkook greets as he dries his hands on a towel. They own a high-end dishwasher that Jungkook refuses to use. “Are you hungry?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Taehyung holds up his hand when Jungkook opens the refrigerator to reveal the leftovers from his dinner with Yuri. “How was she tonight?”

“Perfect, as usual, though she’s still doing that weird picky eater thing,” Jungkook says what Taehyung already expects.

It feels domestic, Jungkook putting away the remaining dry dishes while Taehyung fiddles with his gold cufflinks. They often end up like this at night when they cross paths, Jungkook getting ready to leave and Taehyung finally coming home, both needing a quiet moment to wind down from their uniquely stressful days.

Few people in Taehyung’s life don’t expect him to do something. Life is a performance, even if he isn’t an actor. Everyone expects something interesting, something worthwhile. Jungkook expects nothing from Taehyung; nothing feels better than the relief he feels when so much weight is lifted off his shoulders.

“She gets the picky eater thing from her eomma.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgment of Taehyung’s comment but doesn’t respond.

Taehyung should tell Jungkook that he doesn’t need to finish cleaning the kitchen when it’s far past midnight on a Monday night, and he’ll need to be back at the Kim residence to take Yuri to school in the morning. He doesn’t, though. Just watches and fiddles and ignores the ache in his hip from the edge of the counter pressing against his hip bone.

“Do you need help with that, Mr. Kim?”

“Oh, no, I—”

Jungkook gently swats Taehyung’s hand away and grabs the sleeve of his white button-up shirt. Taehyung wonders how touch-starved he must be to shiver when Jungkook’s fingers brush his inner wrist as he removes Taehyung’s cufflinks. They’re elegant little gold pieces Eunji bought him for their first wedding anniversary. There’s no way for Jungkook to know that, but Taehyung feels judged when Jungkook drops the cufflinks in his open palm with a hard stare, as though he does know.

“There,” Jungkook says quietly, and Taehyung wonders if he imagines Jungkook’s fingers lingering against his palm just a second longer than necessary.

It’s been two years, yet not enough time for Taehyung to have learned how to read Jungkook, especially when they spend such little time together, just these little moments of gentle small talk and light touches that Taehyung ignores with the expertise of an acclaimed actor.

“You should go home,” Taehyung replies when Jungkook lifts his tattooed hand to his face, covering a yawn.

Jungkook shrugs with a cheeky grin that makes Taehyung’s body grow warm.

“Sometimes, I feel like I might as well ask to become a live-in nanny, considering I’m here all the time.”

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitches, a swell of affection making his body betray the melancholy muddling his brain.

Rolling his cufflinks around in his hand, Taehyung considers whether they need a live-in nanny. Between Taehyung and Eunji traveling for work and Taehyung’s habit of locking himself in his home office for weeks at a time while he juggles conference calls and passion projects, he knows Yuri’s family life is unlike most children’s. She doesn’t care, has never known any other way of life. Between kindergarten and Jungkook, her time is well-structured and enriching.

“Would you want to be one?” Taehyung doesn’t know why they’re speaking so quietly. The house is massive. No one can hear them.

Jungkook wets his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing over the metal hoop pierced through his bottom lip. Taehyung drops his gaze to focus on rolling his loosened sleeves.

“Well, I actually wanted to talk about—” Jungkook is interrupted by Eunji’s shrill voice slicing through the quiet.

“Taehyung!”

Cringing, Taehyung twists to face the kitchen doorway, his back to the counter and his hands at his hips to squeeze the edge of it.

Eunji is still wearing her wine-red dress from the premiere like a porcelain doll dipped in blood, but now she’s in sandals and carrying one of her many designer purses Taehyung never remembers the names of. She runs her fingers through her jet-black hair and fluffs it over her shoulder.

“Yes?” He tries not to breathe in the sweetness of her perfume.

“I’m going out,” Eunji tells Taehyung but looks at Jungkook, “I’ll be back before Yuri’s ballet class in the afternoon.”

It’s nearly one in the morning.

Taehyung inhales to speak, but Eunji is gone between blinks. Her goodbye sounds like the front door’s lock clicking once it’s shut.

“She’s going over to Sunwoo’s.”

When Taehyung turns his head, Jungkook seems closer. He mirrors Taehyung and leans his hip against the island counter. He’s slightly shorter than Taehyung but bulkier in his upper body. Something about Jungkook’s physique reminds Taehyung of how much older he is. His late thirties haven’t been unkind, but he misses his youth now more than ever.

“I know.”

“They’ve been fucking for almost a year, Mr. Kim. Sometimes here, but normally in other places.”

Taehyung twists to face Jungkook once again. Their hands slide into each other as he readjusts his grip on the counter.

“I know.”

Now.

He knows now.

Tension builds like anxiety washing over Taehyung’s nervous system, an almost electrical feeling that sparks from where Jungkook’s fingers drag along the back of Taehyung’s hand. They follow a protruding vein up his exposed forearm before he hooks his index and middle fingers in Taehyung’s sleeve, right at the inside of his elbow.

“You deserve better,” Jungkook tugs lightly, but Taehyung’s arm easily gives, letting Jungkook pull him forward. “You realize that, right? That Eunji noona isn’t worth the bullshit?”

What’s the bullshit? An arduous divorce procedure that Eunji will pretend won’t turn into petty arguments over whether Taehyung gets to keep all the jewelry he bought her or if she gets more time with Yuri since her schedule isn’t as busy? Or does Jungkook think Taehyung will try to win Eunji back?

The thought makes Taehyung laugh, dark and shallow.

“I appreciate your concern, Jungkook,” Taehyung pulls his arm out of Jungkook’s grasp, “But what goes on between Eunji and I isn’t worth the bullshit, either.”

“I know that,” Jungkook snorts and Taehyung thinks it’s stupid that it hurts his feelings. “But you’re so… Respectfully, Mr. Kim, you don’t pay attention.”

Taehyung doesn’t, apparently. If this divorce has taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t.

Sighing, Taehyung squeezes his cufflinks until their corners bite his palm and pushes himself away from the counter. He’s tired, and thinking about Eunji before bed is the best way to prevent himself from sleeping.

“I’ve told you, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair, ruffling the strands, thick with gel, until they fall across his forehead.

Chewing his piercing between his front teeth and bottom lip, Jungkook watches him intently enough to make Taehyung’s stomach flutter.

“I could give you something better, hyung,” Jungkook whispers, his fingers hooking through one of Taehyung’s belt loops.

Taehyung knows a proposition when he hears one, but he struggles to comprehend this one. Jungkook is young, with a good head on his shoulders and a future of possibilities. He has a life beyond the Kim home that isn’t tainted by divorce and abandonment.

“I do not doubt that,” Taehyung murmurs, unable to look Jungkook in the eyes. He drops his gaze to watch Jungkook twist his belt loop between his fingers to tighten his grip.

“Okay,” Jungkook’s tone is mocking, with a twinge of amused curiosity.

Taehyung shouldn’t be surprised when Jungkook cups his jaw to force him to look him in the eyes.

It’s been years since anyone looked at Taehyung the way Jungkook does now, with a gaze that slithers down his body, just to flit back up and remain steady on his mouth when he parts it slightly, suddenly breathless. Jungkook’s fingers tug on his clothes harder than before.

Taehyung has no reason to follow Jungkook’s lead—except that he hasn’t been touched in so long, and Jungkook is pretty. His eyes crinkle, and his nose scrunches when he smiles, exposing prominent teeth that give his face an innocence that starkly contrasts with the rest of him. There’s something soft about him despite his hard edges. Funny, how Taehyung initially thought Jungkook, with his tattoos and facial piercings, would be more of a bad influence on Yuri than her own parents.

“Okay?” Taehyung doesn’t know what he’s asking and gasps because Jungkook has him backed against the counter.

He should be more intelligent. Isn’t he? He can’t think with Jungkook’s thick thigh slotted between his legs, his mind too foggy from the draw of Jungkook’s cologne to consider how suddenly this has escalated.

“Will you let me?” Jungkook seeks permission for something Taehyung doesn’t understand.

He gives it to Jungkook anyway.

Despite how rough Jungkook is as he digs his fingers in the hair at the back of Taehyung’s head to hold him steady, his whimper when he slots their lips together is so soft that Taehyung feels dirty from how the sound makes his cock twitch. He’s noisy as he sucks Taehyung’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping and flicking his tongue over it.

It isn’t difficult for Taehyung to remember the last time he was kissed, though the memory quickly spirals because it begins with a kiss and ends with, “Taehyung, I want a divorce.”

Kissing Jungkook won’t end in divorce, but Taehyung can’t keep himself from thinking about Eunji’s words, how they flayed him open with sharp precision, each syllable slicing off a piece of his heart. He thinks about them whenever he smokes his cigarettes, a more frequent occurrence now that he and Eunji live separate lives, Eunji hardly around enough to pester him about the smell.

Taehyung wonders if Jungkook tastes cigarettes when they part their lips to roll their tongues over each other, flicking and pressing back against each other until their lips are slick with spit.

Cigarettes and kisses, water and oil in Taehyung’s failed marriage. The less time his lips spent kissing, the more often they curled around a cigarette butt.

“Stop it,” Jungkook hisses into Taehyung’s mouth, “Stop thinking about her.”

Taehyung wants to tell Jungkook that he can’t. They’re in his kitchen, in the house he still shares with his soon-to-be ex-wife and his daughter, who is fast asleep upstairs.

But his words melt into moans as Jungkook grinds his thigh against Taehyung’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Taehyung tilts his head back to let Jungkook leave wet, hot kisses along his throat.

“You sound so good, hyung,” Jungkook grabs a handful of Taehyung’s shirt to untuck it with a hard yank so he can slide his palm against the warm skin of Taehyung’s waist, “Feel good, too.”

Jungkook’s fingers dip lower, brushing along the edge of Taehyung’s Calvins and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Can I touch you?” Jungkook pants against Taehyung’s lips while he fumbles with the button of his slacks.

The sound of Taehyung’s cufflinks clattering onto the marble floor gets lost beneath his moans.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Taehyung’s stomach swoops and dips as Jungkook unzips his slacks and wiggles his hand down the front of his underwear. His cold touch makes Taehyung’s cock twitch and jump, just as unsteady as the rest of his body.

“Always knew you were big,” Jungkook smirks, his teeth pressed against the curve of Taehyung’s jaw, and strokes his cock in one long, smooth movement that gathers the slippery precum that dribbles from Taehyung’s slit and drags it down to the base.

Taehyung can hardly appreciate the praise and can’t come up with a single coherent thought. He quivers. Jungkook has to force his legs farther apart with his thigh because Taehyung’s knees buckle by the third stroke.

It’s a tight fit because neither of them pulls Taehyung’s slacks down far enough to get his cock out, but he likes the restriction for some reason. It feels wrong, like something quick and dirty, too secret to risk getting comfortable.

It is wrong, quick, and dirty, a secret Taehyung has no option but to keep.

But Jungkook is pretty, and he watches Taehyung with innocent doe eyes that shine brighter than the polished gold cufflinks sprinkled on the floor as Taehyung moans and pants, the build of his orgasm turning his insides to lava. The innocence is a facade, but Taehyung thinks they’re both getting off on pretending.

Taehyung slips his hands under Jungkook’s hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it to rake his nails across his skin, searching for the perfect section of smooth skin to dig into as his orgasm shudders through him.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung panics, bucking up into Jungkook’s hand.

“Already?”

No one has touched Taehyung like this in nearly a year. He rarely touches himself like this.

Taehyung cums with Jungkook’s mocking laughter huffed along the curve of his ear. He nearly bends backward over the counter, dragging Jungkook with him. He pulls back, like he's trying to run from the pleasure.

Unphased, Jungkook cups Taehyung’s balls with one hand to stroke them while they pulse, keeping his other hand rolling tight circles with his palm over the head of Taehyung’s cock. It does nothing to contain the mess, but neither of them cares.

Once Taehyung calms, Jungkook wipes his cum-slicked hand on his thigh. Taehyung’s brain is too floaty to be upset about cum getting on slacks that cost over a million won.

“I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever made someone cum,” Jungkook looks over his shoulder as he teases Taehyung on his way to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

Jungkook’s comment makes shame curl in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach. The level to which Taehyung enjoys it concerns him.

If Jungkook is bothered by how mute Taehyung is, he doesn’t show it. If anything, Taehyung thinks the whole situation seems funny to Jungkook, like he’s getting a kick out of making Taehyung cum on himself and regress into a fumbling, breathless, mindless version of himself fueled by the desire to be touched in a way no one wants to touch him anymore.

It’s rather pathetic.

Cheeks burning and body still suffering an occasional tremor, Taehyung is afraid to speak when Jungkook returns to stand between his legs with his hands gripping the edge of the counter at Taehyung’s hips.

“I can’t believe Eunji is going to miss out on that,” Jungkook prods Taehyung’s clothed, soft cock with his knee.

“Shit, don’t,” Taehyung curls inward from oversensitivity, “I, she—”

Jungkook’s lips are pillowy and smooth when he isn’t biting and sucking Taehyung’s. They shut Taehyung up and make him melt against the counter. Jungkook is hypnotic, his presence somehow all-encompassing, all-consuming when it usually isn’t.

Or is it? Taehyung thinks he can’t remember what it was like to know Jungkook before this.

The difference twenty minutes make.

Taehyung’s eyes fly open when Jungkook breaks the kiss to pluck Taehyung’s wallet from his back pocket. He’s got that cheeky, lopsided grin that makes Taehyung feel weird as he counts the bills inside, pulling out just a little more than what the Kims owe him for the day.

“A little extra won for the additional services,” Jungkook winks, tossing Taehyung’s wallet on the counter, “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Kim.”

–

Taehyung sees Jungkook in the morning, hardly five hours later, but only briefly.

They squeeze past each other through the front door. Jungkook, with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair tousled from little sleep, and Taehyung, with a suitcase in one hand, a duffle bag strapped across his chest, and the rim of a disposable paper cup of English breakfast tea clenched between his teeth. At the same time, he tries to stick a wireless earbud in one ear.

“Hey, I know you forgot, but I have to be in New York for the next two weeks,” Taehyung snaps once he takes the cup from his mouth.

Taehyung gives Jungkook an apologetic look when he realizes it sounds like he’s getting pissy at him, and not Eunji complaining in his ear that he is so inconsiderate of her time, like as if Taehyung should schedule his life around Eunji’s extramarital affairs.

There’s little time to feel embarrassed by the memory of the night before when Taehyung needs to get on a plane and Jungkook needs to prepare Yuri’s breakfast before school. Still, Taehyung’s stomach dips so low that his groin pulses when Jungkook grabs his waist to steady him after he nearly trips down the stairs leading from the house’s front door.

“Eunji, listen, no—Listen to me. I told you a month ago that I need to tour the premises before I can just sign off on the—”

Taehyung is scouting the perfect location for his upcoming movie; shouldn’t she be excited for him? Instead, the beep of Eunji ending the call ricochets in Taehyung’s skull.

“Do you need help, hyung?”

How many times in the past two years has Jungkook asked that question?

Taehyung holds his breath when Jungkook presses his palm flat against his chest, curls his fingers around the strap of his duffle bag, and lifts it over his head to carry it on his own shoulder. Their fingers brush on the handle of Taehyung’s suitcase, and his body remembers the pleasure in the kitchen, their hands intertwined against the counter.

Late, the Kim family’s chauffeur finally pulls up to the house in a nondescript black car. He rushes to help Jungkook with Taehyung’s luggage, carrying it as if it’s precious cargo, not two weeks' worth of underwear and a high-end camera that Taehyung could buy a billion times over.

“Tell Yuri I said I love her,” Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s wrist when he turns to jog back up the driveway, “She didn’t want to wake up when I went into her room.”

Jungkook’s gaze lingers on Taehyung's lips, his eyes lidded and heavy with sleep. Unsettled, Taehyung tries to divert his attention elsewhere.

“You’ll call?” Jungkook asks.

The air around them is tainted by the smell of car exhaust, but Taehyung is engulfed by the fruity and sweet aroma of Jungkook's shampoo. His chauffeur has already slipped into the driver's seat, and the heavily tinted windows make it difficult for Taehyung to tell if he and Jungkook are being watched. The question hangs in the air, soft and warm, like Jungkook's breath brushing against Taehyung's cheek.

They're standing too close.

“Yeah, I’ll call,” Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s wrist before he lets go to open the car door.

As the chauffeur drives away, Taehyung leans against the window, watching Jungkook standing at the end of the driveway until they round the corner and he can no longer see him. With a heavy sigh, Taehyung lets his head fall back on the seat and wonders why it feels like he has just made a promise he can’t keep.

–

Contrary to what most people assume, Taehyung hates traveling. He likes to travel, experience the world, and live beyond what he’s accustomed to, but he hates the act of traveling—planes, cars, buses, etc. Taehyung hates it all. He can’t stand transitory spaces, moments in time when he’s not quite where he once was but not yet in the next place he needs to be.

“Oh, so like your marriage,” Namjoon points out in the middle of Taehyung’s rant, much to Taehyung’s disliking. “Divorce proceedings are like a liminal space. You’re still married, but you’re not together. One foot in the door, the rest of your body out. Or, well, your body is still in the door. Eunji just barely has her big toe still across the threshold.”

“Can you shut up?” Taehyung glares at Namjoon over the rim of his glass before taking a sip, hissing once the amber liquid washes over the back of his throat. Bourbon isn’t Taehyung’s drink of choice, but Namjoon said it’s “distinctly American” and thus a requirement for their trip.

Were multiple glasses of Bourbon a requirement, though? Taehyung distinctly thinks not. Yet here he is, both forearms crossed against the sleek, black marble counter of some high-end cocktail bar, with rosy cheeks and an open tab.

“Am I not wrong?” Namjoon slams down his glass, empty aside from melting ice cubes.

“For as long as I have known you, you are always wrong.”

Ignoring Taehyung, Namjoon beckons the bartender and asks her for another round of drinks in Korean. The woman’s gaze slides from Namjoon to Taehyung, who kicks Namjoon in the shin and nearly throws himself off the barstool he’s perched on.

“Sorry, it’s a mess up here,” Namjoon laughs as he taps his forehead and tries ordering in English this time, his smile all sweet and dimpled.

Namjoon’s entire face is red, and sweat beads along his hairline. Despite the chilly air outside, it’s hot and stuffy inside the bar. Crowded yet calm, the bar patrons respect the quiet atmosphere, with its dim lighting and dark furniture, that seems to mute conversations. Even Taehyung and Namjoon, both easily boisterous, are subtle in their playful bickering.

“Did the rest of the crew leave already?” Namjoon asks as he looks over his shoulder at the booths and tables.

“Didn’t you hear Wonho say they’re going back to the hotel?”

It takes a second for Namjoon to react. Taehyung wonders if they’re both too drunk to properly communicate with each other anymore. His lips are beginning to tingle, and that’s never a good sign.

“It’s not even that late,” Namjoon pouts. He hands his credit card to the bartender in exchange for the next round of drinks anyway.

Taehyung doesn’t want another drink. He’s exhausted from the jetlag that a fourteen-hour time difference triggers, and he’s spent the past few days talking nonstop. There’s always something. As Taehyung grows older, he realizes he desperately wishes for less.

“Are you even listening? Did you hear what I said?” Namjoon shoves Taehyung’s shoulder hard enough to tip his barstool.

With a panicked yelp, Taehyung clutches the edge of the bar counter to hold himself upright as the stool wobbles.

“You’re going to knock me on the fucking floor,” Taehyung grumbles.

Namjoon watches Taehyung with glossy eyes when he asks, “What are you thinking about, Tae?”

Namjoon waits for a response with a sense of earnestness as if he genuinely cares about what’s made Taehyung so quiet. He does care; he’s not only Taehyung’s colleague as a fellow film director, but he’s also one of Taehyung’s dearest friends.

“Yuri hasn’t wanted to talk to me since we got to New York. She has only called me a handful of times,” Taehyung admits with a sigh. He runs a shaky hand through his hair as he speaks, “We spoke on the phone two days ago, briefly, and she told me she blames herself for everything going on with Eunji, as though she thinks she has done something to make Eunji and I no longer love each other.”

Taehyung reaches for the receipt and pen in front of Namjoon to sign for the expenses. He doesn’t bother paying attention to the cost; he only mentally processes it enough to calculate a tip before he tosses the pen on the counter.

“Six years old, and she’s already carrying the burden on her tiny shoulders. This is exactly why I said I didn’t want to fucking tell her about the divorce.”

“Taehyung…” Namjoon clasps Taehyung’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the tense muscles through his shirt. “Yuri just doesn’t fully understand what’s going on. She’s trying to make sense of it in her own way. Kids don’t understand how life can just… change like this, with no warning, no reason apparent to them.”

Namjoon is correct, but that reality doesn’t make Taehyung wrong. Yuri is young and impressionable, and she doesn’t understand, which is why she’s vulnerable to such terrible thoughts. Taehyung insisted that these things be kept a secret, but Eunji had other plans.

Before Namjoon can say anything further, Taehyung’s phone vibrates loudly against the bar counter.

“It’s Jungkook,” Taehyung mutters, reaching for his coat hung on a hook below the bar counter. He doesn’t wait for Namjoon to follow him as he shoulders past the other bar patrons until he can step into the chilly night. It’s still noisy. New York always is, but Taehyung feels less distracted when he can lean against the cold brick at the corner of the building and focus on accepting the incoming video call.

“Appa!” Yuri shouts, her little voice cutting through the sirens ringing in the city streets.

“Hi, baby. How are you doing?”

“Good! Jungkookie oppa took me to the park! There was a doggy named Mouse, isn’t that silly? We should get a puppy and name it something silly. Like, well, um, I need to think about it.”

Taehyung smiles as Yuri rambles on, waving her arm in every direction as she shows Taehyung the park they’re at. He can’t see Jungkook in the video, but he can hear him giggle with Yuri when she says something particularly amusing.

Yuri is dressed cutely, with her hair in evenly parted pigtails, and wearing a sky blue puffy dress she refers to as her “princess dress.” Sometimes, Taehyung thinks Jungkook does a better job raising Yuri than he does.

As most children are, Yuri is easily distracted. She quickly loses interest in describing every special rock she finds at the park and eventually passes the phone to Jungkook so she can “make new friends” and test out how many spins on the swingset it will take for one of them to throw up.

“Hi, hyung,” Jungkook’s smile shines in the midday sun, his eyes sparkling with the warm rays of light. Taehyung can’t stop himself from smiling, too.

“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung nearly whispers his name, still too aware of their secret. “How is everything?”

“I know she’s been kind of stubborn, but she misses you,” Jungkook says. The wind ruffles his minty hair, lifting his bangs and giving him an angular look. “I miss you, too.”

“Jungkook…”

“Hyung,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, and Taehyung is, too. “Just tell me you miss me.”

“I do,” Taehyung obliges, and it isn’t a lie.

Every business trip away forces Taehyung to remember the fact that his days are better when he gets to spend those sacred quiet moments with Jungkook at the end of the night. In that transition period, the two of them come and go. He misses that, even without the handjob.

They’ve been through this already, earlier in the New York trip. It’s wrong to talk to Jungkook like this, someone so much younger than Taehyung, someone who works for him.

It’s also wrong to deposit a little extra money in Jungkook’s bank account every time he leaves Taehyung little reminders of how much more Jungkook could do to remedy the lonely ache in Taehyung’s chest every night he goes to bed alone.

It’s so, so wrong, but Taehyung doesn’t put an end to it—and he could. He could ignore Jungkook’s call later, when he’s back in his hotel room and Jungkook has put Yuri to bed for a nap. He doesn’t, though. He could end the call when Jungkook tells him again how much he misses him. He could tell Jungkook to stop when Jungkook moans into the phone and tells him that he’s touching himself to Taehyung’s rich, smooth voice.

Taehyung could end all of it because it’s wrong, but he doesn’t.

Instead, when Jungkook calls Taehyung during the New York trip, Taehyung lies in the dark hotel room as warmth spreads from his chest lower until he can’t ignore his cock stirring in his boxers with each of Jungkook’s moans.

“Hyung, I can’t stop thinking about how incredible you sound when you cum,” Jungkook whimpers later when Taehyung and Namjoon have returned to the hotel and gone their separate ways. “I’d fucking listen to that all night, every night.

The cool air in the hotel room blows against Taehyung’s chest, making him shiver, but the heat pooling in his stomach is enough to keep him warm.

“Where are you, Jungkook-ah?” Taehyung can hear rustling in the background.

“In your bed. Eunji noona took Yuri out shopping.”

Taehyung lets his head fall back on his pillow as he closes his eyes and imagines Jungkook sprawled on his bed, the one he’d shared with Eunji for so many years. He wonders if Jungkook would be even prettier than she was when Taehyung had her underneath him.

“I don’t believe you,” Taehyung lies because he knows Jungkook will send him a picture. He doesn’t directly ask for one, though. He hopes that makes him less bad.

Taehyung’s cock is a heavy burden fisted in his hand. Slowly spreading precum, he runs his thumb along his slit and thinks about the heat of Jungkook's mouth. He can practically feel them engulf his cock, stretched lips swollen and bitten red. He wants to know what Jungkook tastes like, what his name sounds like as a whimper or a moan spilling from Jungkook's needy mouth.

“Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jungkook moans through the wet, sloppy sounds echoing over the phone. “Please, daddy, let me cum. Tell me I can cum.”

“Daddy?” Taehyung nearly chokes. Shame tightens his chest when his cock twitches at the pet name.

“You like that, daddy? Do you like when I call you daddy while you imagine you’re fucking my mouth? God, I wish I could taste your cock.”

Jungkook is cheeky and mocking, even when he’s praising Taehyung. Taehyung likes how shameful that makes him feel, too. He lets out a breathy sigh and draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he pumps himself harder, slightly picking up the pace.

“Tell me,” Jungkook hisses in what sounds like an attempt to hold back a whimper.

“You can cum, Jungkook-ah. You can—”

Taehyung presses his palm against his mouth to keep quiet when he cums, knowing Namjoon’s hotel room is right next door.

The rub of Taehyung’s meaningless wedding ring, which he still wears out of depressing habit, dragging along the throbbing veins of his cock is what finally sends him over the edge. He cums into his hand as he imagines what it would feel like to sink inside Jungkook. In reality, his cum is messy and hot as it drips down his pulsing cock and between his fingers, making his useless ring stick uncomfortably to his skin.

Taehyung is so fucked.

–

If someone told Taehyung he’d become a renowned film director, get married, have a child, get divorced, and become a sugar daddy before he turned forty, he would have laughed in their face.

Now, his bank statements from the past few months reveal an embarrassing pattern of purchases of children’s toys, payments to his lawyer, and seemingly random purchases that always end up in the hands of Jeon Jungkook.

Taehyung’s money isn’t endless, but the likelihood of it ever running out is slim. He supposes he could live off of royalties alone and never pick up another film project for the rest of his life. It’s not about the money, though. For other people it may be. Capitalism destroys art, though, and Taehyung prefers to keep thoughts about his finances separate from his film passion projects. If he considers his art his paycheck, he’ll never want to create anything again—and what kind of life would that be?

Money is different for a twenty-two-year-old with dreams of making it big. The English language learning and desire to brush up against fame aren’t just for fun. After nearly two years, Taehyung finally learns that Jungkook’s true passions lie in acting and film production. Jungkook has goals, and Taehyung, as the seasoned professional between them, can’t possibly sit back and not help.

If Namjoon looks at Taehyung funny when he asks him to babysit Yuri while he attends yet another obligatory celebrity event, this time with Jungkook, well, there’s nothing Taehyung can do about that. If Taehyung is going to be a proper mentor, he must ensure that Jungkook ends up in the right rooms with the right people.

The fact that they have phone sex practically every night because Taehyung is too afraid to fall asleep alone and Jungkook likes the money he gets out of it is beside the point. Ever since that night in the kitchen, nothing physical has happened between the two of them. Taehyung and Jungkook maneuver with and around each other as though they don’t practically fall asleep to the sound of each other coming. Jungkook is sweet and caring to Yuri, as always. He gets along well with Eunji despite the tension that Eunji brings with her into every conversation. When he’s with Taehyung, he’s polite and cheerful.

It’s strange, living a double life. It makes Taehyung feel even slimier, but he doesn’t stop.

The thing is, Taehyung should have known that what's done in the dark always comes to light.

Taehyung’s desk is littered with to-do lists. Some are on looseleaf paper, others on sticky notes or scrap paper ripped from notebooks or crumpled in the back of desk drawers. An artist type in the most terribly stereotypical way, Taehyung has yet to master the arts of time management and organization. He even maintains a digital to-do list attached to his work email account calendar. However, that one is a bit more successful than the physical to-do lists that get accidentally thrown out or left in the pockets of his slacks to disintegrate in the washing machine later.

The digital to-do list is ideal because it’s more reliable and makes a cute little sound whenever Taehyung marks an item as completed. The application cheers him on whenever he completes more than five daily tasks.

Five may not seem like much, but when Taehyung spends half his office days on conference calls, arguing about salaries and film sets, he needs something to motivate him.

For now, he clicks through an old list of tasks on his to-do list to watch the virtual confetti rain down his computer screen while two of his colleagues argue over the phone. Taehyung is working from his home office, so he keeps his wireless earbuds in rather than put the call on speaker phone, not wanting the loud conversation to carry out of his office and disrupt anyone else who may be home.

Barely five minutes into the phone call, Taehyung already wants to hang up. He has more important matters to deal with, like buying a new condo in the city so he can have a good excuse to get out of this goddamn house.

Too distracted by his colleagues, Taehyung doesn’t hear the knock at the door, nor does he notice someone slip inside his office until they’re picking at the stray papers scattered across his desk.

“Hyung, your office is a disaster,” Jungkook says, amusement flickering like sun rays in his eyes and with a twitch of his mouth when he holds back a smile.

Muting himself on his phone and removing one earbud, Taehyung slightly tilts back in his desk chair to stare at Jungkook.

“I’m on a call, Jungkook. Do you need something?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. Nightly orgasms and a little more money in his bank account have turned Jungkook bratty. Taehyung hates that he likes it.

“Eunji noona brought Yuri with her to her halmeoni,” Jungkook reaches for the removed earbud, but Taehyung pulls his hand back before Jungkook can snatch it.

“So?”

“So,” Jungkook rolls his eyes again, “I’m bored.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to—” Taehyung cuts himself off as he scrambles to unmute himself when his colleagues address him on the call, “Yes, Seojoon, I already sent those documents to Bogum last week. The executives at Park Enterprises said security clearance wouldn’t be difficult to obtain once the cast is finalized.”

Returning the earbud to his ear, Taehyung gives Jungkook a stern look before focusing on pulling up the documents on his computer. They’re highly technical, with lots of legal jargon that even Taehyung wasn’t well-versed in, so he has to review the document with his colleagues.

“I assume they’ll all have valid passports?” Taehyung scrolls through the files, searching for the correct section to review.

Determined to make his problems Taehyung’s, Jungkook maneuvers around Taehyung’s arms until he can forcibly sit in his lap. On another day, it could be cute and maybe even send Taehyung into a little panic attack, but Taehyung isn’t in the mood when he has frustrated coworkers in his ears.

Get off, Taehyung mouths to Jungkook because his phone is out of reach now.

Jungkook leans with his back against Taehyung’s chest, and his legs spread to rest on the outside of Taehyung’s thighs. When he turns his head, his lips brush against the base of Taehyung’s throat.

“No,” Jungkook whispers before giving Taehyung's throat a gentle kiss that makes goosebumps spring across his skin.

Jungkook’s weight feels nice, even more so if Taehyung just sits back and lets Jungkook get comfortable. Taehyung is too on edge for that, though, especially when Jungkook wiggles to get comfortable and inadvertently grinds his ass on Taehyung’s crotch.

Hissing quietly, Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s hip to still him, but Jungkook giggles and does it again. He leans forward to grab the edge of the desk and gyrates his hips, grinding down on Taehyung in slow circles.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung whispers, fingers digging into Jungkook’s skin to tighten his grip on his hip bone. When he tries to reach for his phone to mute himself, Jungkook snatches it and sets it near the corner edge where Taehyung can’t reach it.

“Are you mad at me, daddy?” Jungkook asks quietly. “I just want to spend time with you. Real time with you, not just on the phone.”

Jungkook is wearing skimpy athletic shorts just like his homemade crop top, which exposes the toned expanse of his abdomen. It’s a shame that Taehyung can’t even appreciate it since Jungkook isn’t facing him, but he does have a full view of how firm Jungkook’s ass is as he rubs Taehyung’s now fully hard cock through his slacks. Each roll of his hips hikes his shorts up further until they’re at the crease of his thighs, putting his legs on display.

“You’re always so busy,” Jungkook whispers against Taehyung’s throat when he leans back again.

“It’s on page fifty-eight,” Taehyung’s voice cracks on the last syllable when Jungkook grabs his hand off the mouse and presses Taehyung’s fingers against his ass. Taehyung feels something round and knobby between Jungkook’s cheeks, not needing to see what it is to know that it’s a butt plug.

Taehyung takes a deep breath as Jungkook curls his fingers around the waistband of his athletic shorts and uses both their hands to pull them down his thighs so Taehyung can see the diamond nestled between his cheeks.

“I thought you might want to know where your money is going,” Jungkook smirks when he looks at Taehyung over his shoulder.

Taehyung thinks he might start crying if his coworkers don’t stop asking him to read parts of the legal document out loud to them.

It’s clear that Jungkook has turned this into a game. He twists around in Taehyung’s lap to rub his palm against the hard bulge in Taehyung’s slacks and grins when Taehyung tries not to look at him while he reads off the computer screen. Every time Taehyung opens his mouth to answer his colleagues’ questions, Jungkook squeezes his cock.

“Can I have it, daddy?” Jungkook rubs the head of Taehyung’s cock through his slacks as he pulls down the zipper, “Please?”

Taehyung shouldn’t do it. He’s already struggling to breathe properly on this phone call, and his forehead and the nape of his neck are damp with sweat. He can’t even put himself on mute. Jungkook is twenty-two. Jungkook is their nanny. Taehyung shouldn’t do it.

Jungkook leans forward to brush their lips together as Taehyung lifts his hips so Jungkook can pull his pants down far enough to release his cock. If having Jungkook half-naked in his lap wasn’t enough torture, when Jungkook turns back around, he guides Taehyung’s hand to the jewel sitting pretty between his cheeks. The plug makes a wet, squelching sound when Taehyung pulls it from Jungkook’s stretched hole, lube dripping from it in sticky strings that smear Taehyung’s desk when he puts it off to the side. One of his colleagues asks him a question, but he’s too mesmerized by how Jungkook’s shiny hole flutters now that it’s empty.

“Give it to me,” Taehyung thinks he hears Jungkook whine.

Taehyung swipes his thumb over a glob of lube that leaked down the inside of Jungkook’s thigh and uses it, along with his own precum, to slick up his cock. He takes too long, though, and Jungkook swats his hand away to grab his cock and line it up himself.

Rather than go slow, Jungkook drops onto Taehyung’s cock with all his weight, making his ass slap against Taehyung’s thighs and ripping a moan out of his throat so loud that Taehyung immediately ends the phone call.

“What the fuck, Jungkook?” Taehyung wants to be stern and wants Jungkook to understand that he can’t just fuck around like that with Taehyung’s job, even if Taehyung encourages it.

But then Jungkook leans forward to lift his hips and drop back down again, enveloping Taehyung’s cock in his wet heat. Taehyung’s other complaints immediately morph into moans so breathy and pathetic that he shocks himself.

“I feel good, don’t I?” Jungkook whimpers as he fucks himself on Taehyung’s cock even harder, using the desk to give himself momentum. “Tell me, daddy, tell me.”

“Fuck, baby, you do,” Taehyung flings his head back and bucks his hips to meet Jungkook with his own thrusts.

“Mhm, you wish you had me sooner, don’t you?” Jungkook’s voice takes on a higher pitch, something whiny and cute. “Could have been fucking me instead of wasting your time being sad about noona.”

The chair creaks and scratches against the floor as Jungkook bounces on Taehyung’s cock, filling the office with the sound of their moans and wet skin slapping together.

Taehyung nods fervently, his head rolling and lolling as Jungkook uses him, drawing breathy moans from Taehyung, little “ah, ah, ah’s” that make him feel lightheaded because he isn’t inhaling.

“Yes, fuck, yes, yes,” Taehyung’s arms fall limp at his sides as he lets Jungkook control the pace.

“You like when I fuck you, hyung?” Jungkook sounds so smug as if he knows he has Taehyung right where he wants him. Taehyung can’t even care to feel ashamed of how easy he is.

Taehyung nods, his voice caught in his throat.

“Touch me. I wanna cum, please.”

“Yeah? Fuck, baby, fuck,” Taehyung reaches around to fist Jungkook’s cock as he feels his own orgasm build. It dips and burns the pit of his stomach almost as quickly as it had that first night, all those months ago.

“I could give you something better, hyung,”

As touch-starved as Taehyung is, he holds off until after Jungkook cums with a cry that makes Taehyung glad there’s no one else home.

It’s messy and loud, and it takes too long for Taehyung to come down from his high. He feels sluggish, even after Jungkook climbs off him and strips his shirt, using it to clean himself off before tossing it to Taehyung. It’s been so long since Taehyung has felt so content, not just satiated from physical pleasure, but from shared intimacy—even if it will make him feel slimy later.

“If I didn’t work out so much, that position would have been too hard to maintain,” Jungkook mumbles against Taehyung’s chest when he climbs back into his lap.

He’s unfazed by their current physical state and never seems shy about the fact that he’s fucking his boss, the father of the kid he cares for. Taehyung wants to be free like that, unashamed, unapologetic. Eunji is; she’s even worse. It’s a bunch of bullshit, just like Jungkook said.

“How are you so casual about this, all the time?” Taehyung asks quietly, eyes closed so he can try to think through the fuzz in his brain.

“I don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs, “I like you, you like me. What else is there?”

It feels too simple, but Taehyung likes it. He thinks back on how much of a hopeless romantic he is and how his films revolve around finding love, or at least acceptance and intimacy. Does Jungkook love him? Taehyung feels too silly to ask, but he thinks if this were one of his films, he’d want it to end just the way they are, cuddled up despite the mess they’ve made of each other, without shame.

“I’m not like her,” Jungkook likely mistakes Taehyung’s pensiveness for sadness. “I won’t do you the way she did you.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s forehead, lips brushing a light kiss that can’t begin to convey the swell of affection Taehyung feels for the man he cradles against his chest.

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd &daddytaehyungie).

#taekook #taehyung x jungkook #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #taehyung fanfic #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #100 drabble challenge #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #call me baby

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thedansemacabres · 10 months

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An Introduction To Wine for Dionysians

A photo from my wine class, the pink being my Chambourcin and Sangiovese rosés.

[ID: An image of two wine glasses on a stainless steel table. The first glass, closer to the observer, is bright pink. The second glass, to the right of the pink one is a salmon colour and slightly blurry.] THIS POST IS SLIGHTLY BASIC, IN MY OPINION. It’s not exactly hard to research wine, especially now that the industry is beginning to have new winemakers such as myself. But this is my job and passion, so I thought it may be useful in the end. Especially for us Dionysians, most who never engage in the winemaking process—which is fine, but it does offer a more intimate knowledge of his realms. So as a winemaker myself, I want to share the wonders of winemaking with others. This post is meant to be a quick introduction to wine from a viticulturist and enologist.

SOME TERMINOLOGY

Entering the world of wine does require a basic understanding of some jargon. To make it easy, I have listed some common terms:

Anthocyanins — the red-purple colour compound in red grapes

Bret — short for Bretannomyces, this is an endemic yeast to Europe and often a pest in wineries. This yeast creates leather, hide, barnyard, etc., flavours and aromas in wine. This is often desirable in small amounts in certain styles, but can quickly overpower a wine.

Fault — an issue with the wine, typically in flavour, aroma, colour, or taste. Faults are subjective and sometimes may be beneficial. A key part of wine sensory analysis is tasting faults.

Macerate — a process in which colour and flavour is leached from the skins of the grape. This is most common in reds and is aided by ethanol.

Noble Rot — a form of Botrytis Cinerea that is beneficial within the wine process to make sweet wines.

Press — a winemaking device that extracts juices from grapes to make wine

Terroir — the characteristic taste and flavor imparted to a wine by the environment in which it is produced.

Vintage — the year the grapes were harvested and are typically fermented in the same year, however, this is not always the case.

ANCIENT, OLD WORLD, AND NEW WORLD

The wine world has often been divided into “old world” and “new world”, but I have personally taken a liking to the classification of some wine regions as ancient world wine regions. These regions would be Georgia, Armenia, Assyrian lands, Greece, some parts of Italy, and more. Ancient winemaking is well, winemaking in regions that have continuously made wine with the same or similar techniques over thousands of years. An ancient wine that I always recommend to Dionysians is Retsina.

Old world wine is essentially European wine. While this term has its issues, it is the one that the wine industry understands. Europe has been making wine for hundreds of years, thousands in some regions. Old world wine is known for the less fruity, more aged styles, along with producing table wine. These wines also tend to be oaked, in which the wood imparts flavours into the wine which is dependent on the type of wood used. Bret is also common in the old world, which is often a hit or miss with consumers.

New world wine is wine made in wine regions that are relatively new, associated with more scientific approaches to wine. Another way to look at it is wine regions that are or were colonies of Europe, though a few new world wine regions do not have this history. New world wine is often associated with brightness, fruity flavours, higher alcohol levels, etc.

Simply put:

Ancient — regions such as the Fertile Crescent, Palestine, Assyrian lands, Greece, parts of Italy, etc.,

Old — Europe, including wine regions more similar to the new world such as Slovakia

New — Generally colonised countries, the largest example being the United States.

TYPES OF WINE

Most people grasp the basics: white wine comes from white grapes and red wine comes from red grapes. However, of course, it gets more complicated from here. To list it simply:

White wine is wine made from white grapes that are removed from the skins.

Red wine is made from red grapes left to macerate on the skins.

Orange wine is made from white grapes left to macerate on the skins.

Rose is made from red wines removed from the skins.

Pink wines are wines made through blending white and red wine, considered of lesser craftsmanship than a rose by most winemakers

Commercial wines are typically whites, reds, and rose/pink. Orange wines are seldom found outside of Slovenia and Georgia due to tradition. Overall, the wine world considers orange wine strange, however the market has been increasing in recent years.

Wine is also a term applied to fruit wines (fruit other than grapes). Legally in most regions, wine can only be applied to fermented grapes—though of course, nobody listens to that. Essentially, I like to phrase wine as anything made from fermented fruits, roots, and tree-sugars. Cider is technically wine, but this is defined in the USA by tax brackets—below 8% ABV is a cider, over is an apple fermented product/wine.

WINE STYLES

To put it simply: there are thousands of wine styles. I cannot summarise them here, however I will try to summarise some of the common styles I know of.. ‘Old world’ and ‘new world’ are also considered broad styles.

Dessert Wines

Dessert wine as a term is dependent on location, as in the USA it is any wine over 14% ABV. In the UK, it is often classified as a sweet wine drunk before a meal. It is also usd colloquially for sweet, high-alcohol wines that are drunk with dessert. A bit of a meaningless term, but it is used regardless.

Sweet Wines

Sweet wines are wines that have residual sugar from fermentation. Most wines are finished dry, which is when the yeast consumes most to all available sugars and converts them into ethanol. This can be intentional or the result of a stuck or dead fermentation. Sweet wines are known for getting people drunk quickly and giving a particularly nasty headache.

Table Wine

Table wine is perfectly named, as these are common wines that are meant to appear at the dinner table and be paired with food. Italy is famous for creating popular table wines such as Chianti and Prosecco. The table wine market is however slowly dying. I personally liken table wines to Dionysus Hestios.

Straw wine

Straw wine is wine made from grapes that have been dried. This makes very sweet wines due to the lack of water.

Rot wines

Rot wines, also called Noble Rot wines, are a unique form of sweet wines created by noble rot. In viticulture, botrytis is a fungus that often ruins clusters by mummifying grape clusters. In the right conditions however, it instead only takes the water content in a grape berry over a series of days before perishing. Rot wines often occur near rivers, lakes, and other regions with mist and then scorching sun. This fascinating process creates natural sweet wines—many of which demand high price points, such as sauternes that are priced at over one thousand euros. Another form of rot wine I enjoy is Slovak tokaji.

In my personal practice, these wines hold a special spot due to my focus on divine rot. Dionysus wise, I think these wines possess such a unique quality of him—they are dead yet not, and Dionysus may be found in the marshes where rot blooms.

Sparkling Wine

Often known as champagne, sparkling wine is wine that when opened/poured will fizz with carbon dioxide bubbles. This is usually due to secondary fermentation, in which yeast are inoculated to ferment trace amounts of sugar to create the carbonation that appears when you open the bottle. Sparkling wine can only be labelled champagne if it is from Champagne, France. With the climate crisis however, champagne may disappear and Southern England has been contending to become the next major sparkling wine region.

There are lesser quality sparkling wines made by injecting carbonation into the metal wine vats. This is common with sparkling juices that are not fermented.

Fortified Wines

When you think of Port, that is a fortified wine. These wines are mixed in with ethanol, typically spirits, to increase the alcohol content of the wines. This makes them less likely to spoil and creates a unique flavour profile.

Some traditional fortified wines are Port, Sherry,

Cooking Wines

These are wines that are not typically used for drinking, but rather feature as a culinary ingredient. This does not mean low quality however, as some cooking wines such madeira can fetch a very high price point.

BARRELS

Barrels are enchanting. Even if I see them daily, there is a bit of romance to working with them. Wines are put in barrels for storage and for flavour. The most common wood used in wine are oaks, with French oak (Quercus robur) and American oak (Quercus alba) being the most common and stylistic. Barrels are a core aspect of traditionally ageing wine, as the barrel allows enough oxygen into the liquid to be beneficial. For those who do not know, oxygen degrades wine over time. This is why cheaper wines quickly turn bad, as they were not designed to age.

The flavour-changing profile of wood-contact on wine works through phenols and other compounds interacting with the oak, creating vanilla flavours. For other woods, a similar process occurs, such as Pine creating a pinewood taste, chestnut increasing the perception of sweetness, etc. Research is being continued on alternative woods in winemaking.

Barreling is not the only source of flavour profile in wine. Wines gain their flavour from three sources. This is simply:

Primary: flavours derived from the grape

Secondary: flavours derived from yeast. Yeast often create secondary flavour compounds, such as floral, herbal, spicy, etc notes.

Tertiary: barrel and ageing flavour.

When doing wine tastings, these are excellent factors to begin wine analysis. Deciphering these notes allows one to build a palette and understand more of the expanses of vinification.

GRAPE CULTIVARS

Grape cultivars, also called varietals, are what impart unique flavours into a wine at the primary level. Each cultivar gives its own unique flavour profile. The most commonly planted grapes are the noble varieties, which were prized by French nobility—these being grapes such as Chardonnay and Sauvignon blanc.

Grape cultivars can change their profile depending on where they are grown, called terroir. As an example, a French Cabernet Sauvignon is completely different from a Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. Terroir encompasses soil, weather patterns, climate, etc. Another example is that wines made in years of heavy wildfires often taste smoky and Australian wines taste burnt due to the extreme sun exposure.

Profit and market trends have caused lesser known and cultural grapes in many places to become extinct or endangered. There are movements and efforts to preserve these cultural vines and many wine drinkers are interested in the unique experiences rare cultivars can provide.

Cultivars also often have regional and cultural significance. The Bacchus grape has been found to grow excellently in southern England, Agiorgitiko is the most common Greek red grape, Sangiovese is the grape for Tuscan Chianti, etc. In the new world, Grape cultivars often take on new significance, such as Sauvignon Blanc in New Zealand. As obscure grapevines become more popular, regional and forgotten grape varieties have been reappearing.

Hybrid vines, which are some of my favourite, are the result of viticultural science. These are vines bred to exhibit certain traits, whether as a ‘find out’ project or specially designed for certain wine regions. These are often called French-American hybrids, however hybrids are also being produced in Korea, Slovakia, and other countries. One of the most commonly planted hybrids is Chambourcin, called ‘king of the hybrid reds’, due to its striking fuschia red or barbie pink rose and desirable flavour profile. I have made a post over these hybrids before and they are readily searchable for anyone interested.

There are thousands of cultivars and new cultivars are created each year. The world of wine is ever expansive when it comes to grapevines, just as Dionysus always brings something new. There is always something new to try, or a new spin on something familiar. Yet when we crave a taste of something familiar, traditional varieties and vintages are around to return to. Wine is both new and old, alive and dead, familiar and yet ever-changing.

HOW TO BEGIN IN WINE

Beginning in wine is as simple as buying wine. Advancing understanding then comes through sensory analysis, experimentation, trying new and different wines, historical research, and much more. I doubt most people will be like myself, who decided to get an associates degree in winemaking and make it my secondary career. Honestly, it’s much more fun as a hobby than a job.

I recommend experiencing the differences between reds and whites, along with sampling table wines with and without food. Picking out grape varietals is also fun, but may be subtle. As an example, a sauvignon blanc is immediately recognisable for its bellpepper note, but I have developed the skill to taste the general region where sauvignon blanc was grown (it is my favourite white wine grape).

I have touched upon sensory analysis and terminology with it, such as palette and body, but I will reserve that for another post. Trying wine and research is the best way to begin—and there is no such thing as beginner wine in my opinion. There are wines that are harsh, different, and likely undesirable to someone who is used to sweet juice and unchallenging sweet drinks, however I believe it limits a wine explorer when you limit yourself to “beginner wines”. Finding that brings you joy matters most, whether that is a classic sweet wine or mouth-punching red. And pour some out for Dionysus, the sweet lord of the eternal winepress.

view this post on wordpress

References

Bird, D. (2011). Understanding Wine Technology, 3rd Edition: The Science of Wine Explained. Board and Bench Publishing. Puckette, M., & Hammack, J. (2018). Wine Folly: Magnum Edition: The Master Guide. Penguin UK.

Wilson, J. (2019). Godforsaken grapes: A slightly tipsy journey through the world of strange, obscure, and ... underappreciated wine. HARRY N ABRAMS.

Wine microbiology. (2007). In Springer eBooks. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-0-387-33349-6

#vīnum #dragonis.txt #witchcraft #paganism #hellenic polytheism #witchblr #dionysus deity #pagan #dionysus worship #hellenic polytheist #helpol #hellenic paganism

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simstorian-blog · 1 month

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Residential Floorplan Suggestions

New York City: TWO

(CC List + Links)

World Map: San Myshuno

Area: Spice Market – Waterside Warble

Lot Size: 30 x 30

Capacity:

A Dive Bar

An Internet Café

A Pizzeria

A Tattoo Parlor

Bonus: 6 residential rental units floorplans completed – not assigned

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

Cats & Dogs

City Living

Discover University

For Rent

Get Together

Get To Work

Growing Together

High School Years

Horse Ranch

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dine Out

Dream Home Decorator

Jungle Adventure

Outdoor Retreat

Parenthood

Spa Day

Star Wars: Journey to Batuu

Strangerville

Vampires

Stuff Packs

Crystal Creations

Home chef Hustle

Laundry Day

Moschino

Kits

Castle Estate

Courtyard Oasis

Cozy Bistro

Desert Luxe

Recommended Gameplay Mods

(Please read through what each mod has to offer before deciding if it fits your gameplay style or not.)

Carl’s Dine Out Reloaded

City Vibes Lot Traits

Functional Tattoo Parlor

Functional Venue Lot Traits

Lock/Unlock Doors for Any Lot

Spawn Refresh

Use Residential Rentals shared areas as Community Lots & Create Multi-Purpose Community Lots

Build Mode

CharlyPancakes

Chalk Pt.2 (Tiles)

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 1 (Stone Foundation)

Chateau Pt. 2 (Doors, Metal Pieces, Tiles, Walls)

Colonial Pt. 3 (Fence 2, Plaster Foundation 2, Railing 2)

Florence Pt. 1 (Fresco Mural)

Grove Pt. 4 (Plaster Column, Plaster Floor)

London Interior (Dining Chair, Stool, Walls)

Paris (Cartouche Large, Corbel, Swag)

Schwerin (Terracotta Female)

SOHO Pt. 2

SOHO Pt. 3

SOHO Pt. 4

Harrie

Brownstone Pt. 2 (Traditional Door Frame – Med, Traditional Door – Med, Traditional Window 2 - Med)

Coastal Pt. 2 (Column)

Klean Pt. 3 (Concrete Floor, Painted Walls)

Kwatei Pt. 1 (3x1 BiFold, Double Arch, Single Interior Door)

Mutske

Stairs Add-on

Lijoue

Louer Collection (Iron Fence, Railing, Stone Stairs)

Peacemaker

Bistro Expanded (Awning 1x1)

Graffiti Mural 01

Pierisim

Winter Garden Pt. 2 (Double Door High, High Window w Bottom x2)

Sooky88

Checkered Marble Floor

English Country Wall Set (Subway Tiles, Subway Tiles w Wallpaper)

Scandinavian Wall Set (Plain w Tiles)

Syboubou

Neighborly 1 (Ceiling Outdoor Light, Mailbox)

Neighborly 2 (Interphone)

Buy Mode

AroundTheSims4

Laundromat (Seating x3 – Metal Base)

Tattoo Parlor (First Aid Kits, Gloves, Ink, Ink Display, Light, Saddle Stool, Tattoo Gun)

Cepzid

Functional Tattoo Chair

Felixandre

Berlin Pt. 1 (Curtain – Tall)

SOHO Pt. 1

Harlix

Baysic (Coffee Table, container, End Table, Kitchen Cabinet, Kitchen Counter, Kitchen Island, Kitchen Sink, Kitchen Trolley, Kitchen Accent Counter 1-3, Sofa)

Jardane (Leather Pouffe)

Kichen (Cabinet, Cups, Glasses, Plant, Shelf)

Kichen 2.0 Pt. 2 (Glasses 2 & 4)

Harrie

Shop The Look 1 (Armchair, Coffee Table)

Shop The Look 2 (Ceramic Side Table)

Shop The Look 3 (Circular Cushion)

Spoons Pt. 2 (2 Tile Glass Pedastal- Short & Tall, Counters, Espresso Bar, Island, Pastry Platter, Pizza Board, Shelving)

Kiwisims4

Blockhouse Dining (Booth Seating)

KKB

The Chilling Home (Module Bar Stool)

LittlleDica

Greasy Foods (Napkins, Salt Shaker, Stalls Door, Stalls Wall, Vents, Wet Floor Sign)

Modern Kitchen Stuff (Soft Breeze)

Rise & Grind (Décor Mural 2, Décor Syrup Bottle, Décor Wall Painting Menu, Dining Tables – All, Wastebun Counter)

Max20

Happily Ever After (Sign of Attention)

NANDO

Fashion Store (Ceiling Lamp)

Pierisim

Coldbrew Coffee Shop Pt. 3 (Menu, Paper Cup, Tea Box, Tips Jar)

MCM Pt. 1 (Simstudio Display)

MCM Pt. 4 (Kitchen Island)

Ravasheen

Shake and Shimmy Dance Floor

Shop Chef (Drink Dispenser)

Severinka

Industrial Light II

Simkoos

Clutter Dump Pt. 2 (Boba Notepad, Boba Stacked Cups V1, Cafeteria Straw Dispenser)

SimspirationBuilds

Toffee Pt. 1 (Art)

Syboubou

Catherine Sushi Restaurant (Wall Shelf 1 & 3)

Contemporary Haven (Armchair, Artworks, End Table, Sofa 3P Left)

Macaron (Counter Display)

TaurusDesign

Lilith Chilling Area Pt. 1 (Bartender Kit, All Drinks, SulSul Sign)

Tuds

Cave (Panel Light 2 x 4)

IND 01

IND 03

Turn Couch

Wondymoon

Fraxinus AIO Computer (DL on Patreon)

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: DOWNLOAD

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whoisthispersonwow · 5 months

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Hello people of tumblr! :)

I am not used to using this app but I thought i would give it a shot as the fandom works featured here are straight up the best things i've found on the internet, and the community seems just AMAZING on all regards!!! So I thought, yk, that I would share my ideas for this AU fic that perhaps maybe I would write sometimes...... idk....

Actor Bucky x Model Buck

Set in the 90s, this AU follows this rough outline : despite the 90s being a time of counterculture for the youth, (grunge, alternative movies being pushed forward and towards larger audiences) and being out of the 80s and all it entails (glam rock and so on) there was this paradoxally reinforced idea of masculinity (leather jackets, men having to be "strong", etc.) and lattent ideas of homosexuality being a "bad, filthy thing" in some places, interlinked with the misinformations concerning the HIV epidemic (if you're gay, you'll get AIDS, you'll die in a few months, all this stuff), which causes the Bucks have to hide their relationship from the public in fear of retaliation and backlash.

Buck is a male model, in a decade in which supermodels are emerging, and put on a pedestal : it's a decent job for him, despite not being a Claudia Schiffer or a Kate Moss (as female models, especially in that decade, were getting paid way more than male models, and overall just represented couture houses more than men did.). People know his face, he's had a few campaigns, but it's not enough to make him one of the A-list celebrities, not that he minds. He's slimmer than what is the norm for male models, but compensates it with his face : it is his strength as much as his weakness concerning bookings. He is known by his peers as this wise and generally kind man, not overly flairy as people can sometimes be in their industry, and overall very discreet about his personal life. He is extremely professional, a master of his craft that knows exactly what is expected of him at any time.

Bucky, on the other hand, is an actor. Freshly discovered among the rest of a new generation of actors, he climbs steadily and surely his way to the top, and has people from all over the USA watching his career with interest. He acts in movies which in our timeline would feel like "The Matrix" ; "Trainspotting" ; "Fight Club", and all of those sorts of very "mainstream yet still posessing their bit a flair" movies. He's extending his choices and taking more risks, ones that could perhaps lead him to great rewards (not that he is especially looking for it : Bucky would be content to act in a short movie by a middle schooler if it was done with love and passion.) Charming, bubbly, he is loved by many of teenage girls (and others, ofc :p). Everyone has a story about Bucky, be it good or bad. "Oh yeah, he bought me a car when mine broke down" says a make-up artist on a set. "He got so drunk he forgot I was here and punched me square in the face when i got up to pee" says his friend Curt Biddick.

(i made an ugly ass moodboard for the vibes)

-> now i'm gonna dump random infos for no particular reasons

TW : mentions of drugs, alcohol, homophobic cliches.

-They met at a party/gala of some sort for a brand, for which Buck modeled and Bucky was ambassador : it didn't click right away, but closely enough for it to feel like fate played a part in it.

-Buck is kind of excluded during parties as he's fully sober, whether it's from drugs or alcohol : a rarity, in the modeling world, and often not a welcome one.

-Bucky on the other hand, is a bit too much of a party monster : he drinks a lot, perhaps snorts a little cocaine in the bathroom, takes a little speed... Which GREATLY concerns Buck.

-Bucky is as cocky in his confidence and his career as he fears (and represses A LOT) the possibility of everything tumbling down and just going back to being nobody (THIS MAN NEEDS TO BE LOVED BY EVERYONE)

-He's terrified that fame will change him, that he will become a parody version of himself, that people will only know and like the version of himself he presents them and nothing else, not seeing his worth as a person, as an individual of flesh and feelings.

-Between the two of them, he's the one who desperately wants to tell the general audience about their relationship, not caring about the consequences, because in his eyes, love is love, and there sure as hell ain't nothing wrong with loving Gale Cleven, and people should know that he loves him, that they love each other, that they're a pair, that life only ever feels complete when they stand side by side, hanging in each other's orbits. They sometimes argue over this.

-Buck, on the other hand, wishes for their relationship to stay a secret, as he fears if it was to be known, it would taint Bucky's image, this very manly, confident and suave man, mingle it with dumb cliches (in a gay couple one is a "Folle" and the other has to be effeminate, because they're like GIRLS yk) and that it would basically ruin his career, tarnish his talent and hard work, get him blacklisted from most studios/directors and only perhaps offered type-casted roles in homophobic movies written by straight men. Buck could not stand seeing the love of his life being disgraced in the public's eyes, just because of some dumbass cliches, because of his love for him.

-Marjorie (Marge) covers for Buck. She's his front : They are seen dining together and huddling on benches by paparazzis, giggling and talking as they walk in the street, and that's enough. Their story makes people dream, these two young people who grew up together and fell in love, still a couple until this day, still loving each other as much as they did on the first day... They are a lavender couple (when both member of a relationship are queer, and use their couple to cover any suspicions) which helps making Buck and Bucky seem like just buddies. Marjorie is most likely not famous, or if so, she'd be more of a writer than anything else.

-Bucky is EXTREMELY jealous and FUMES whenever he cannot kiss Buck in public, touch him, do his little Bucky things, make Buck feel his. Despite that, he's sort of reckless and allows himself gestures that would not fly were the two men not viewed as pinacle of masculinity and a great example of brotherly love. Buck can't even bring himself to ressent him for it, and does not hold it against him : he too wishes they could hold hands on red carpets.

-Bucky is basically a disaster waiting to happen at some point, a pressure cooker dangerously whistling : he bottles everything he feels, just grits his teeth and says he's fine when dark times arise, drowns himself in alcohol and wishes to forget about his worries, thinks about simpler times when he had none at all. Gale stays by his side, no matter what, no matter his terrifying relationship with alcohol and the memories of his father.

-They live together, despite the risks : Buck couldn't bear having to say no to Bucky when he bought their appartment with a huge check from the royalties he earned over his first blockbuster. It is approprietly cozy : most of the decorum is Buck's doing, but Bucky's things still find their ways in there ; baseball posters, pictures, awards and silly little drawings on stick-it notes... It feels like home, to both of them.

-They probably have bought some sort of ranch or farm, somewhere, to run away from the city when things get crazy : they bask reverently in the fact that there, nothing they do or say matters, watching the sunsets on their patios, enjoying the melody of nature without any civilization.

That's pretty much it for now, I'll most likely add things later! :D I'm begging you to excuse any mistake I made, i'm just a poor French person trying her best. Don't hesitate to tell me how you feel and stuff, I am so nervous to make this post you can't imagine lmaoo

To end things, I guess I'll just post an extract of a wip, a written transcription of a fake interview Bucky probably had on some talk show!!! :]

#clegan #buck x bucky #bucky x buck #gale cleven #john bucky egan #alternate universe #idk how to tag sorry #mota

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shopcat · 1 year

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otay here is every single outfit item steve harrington wears in all four seasons of stranger things including specific brands

8 months combined work an autism diagnosis and 16 hours straight of finishing touches and formatting this post let's go babycakes

billy, edd*ssy, rpf fans dni, pr0ship/fic dni

– NOTES 📌 ★ human error cannot be overcame by one autism boy's realness but i tried my best and everything listed is either 100% accurate and confirmed or is as best as i can do. if it's not listed i just don't know! ★ so while i would say i tried VERY hard for a long time, there is a disclaimer that i just cannot know bc i'm not a professional lol </3 ★ therefore: this is not in any way "complete" or fully sourced, mostly due to the nature of vintage clothing being hard to source even if it's in your hands and i just had pictures, but that's okay because this is mainly a visual reference resource i made for art and not pedantism 😭 ★ feel free to message me if you have any (100% sourced please...) corrections or additional finds!! ★ EVERY item is vintage and dated give or take, '80 - '95 with a few things sitting even older. if you use this post to try and source any of the items for personal/cosplay use this is important to remember for screen accuracy's sake (but not entirely necessary either lol. for example you could definitely just cop any old similar cut of his plain sweaters, etc. but things like the leather jacket or vest would be more accurate as genuine vintage! whereas i recommend getting new shoes just for them being in good condition if anything... go with ur gut!!) ★ heavy on formatting for clarity and organisation, if you need a plain text version contact me! ★ in appearance order: 23 complete outfits, minus what he wore to barb's funeral because...? well duh ★ YES I'M CRAZY!!!!!

– WATCH ⌚

he wears a watch on his left wrist with every single outfit (including in the upside down)

season 1 ➜ season 2: Russian Soviet military style wristband, 16-18mm chestnut brown leather with light stitching, sterling silver detailing and white clock-face season 3 ➜ season 4: a Hamilton CLD (most likely) dress watch, 16-18mm walnut brown leather wristband, gold detailing and white clock-face

1. BLUE LONG-SLEEVED BLUE STRIPED POLO [season 1, episode 1] ★ light blue H R Robinson's long-sleeved polo with blue stripes, tucked ★ khaki trousers ★ navy canvas and brown leather Tommy Hilfiger belt with brass buckle ★ black socks ★ mahogany brown leather loafers with suede laces ★ yellow canvas duffle bag with white straps

2. GREEN SWEATSHIRT [season 1, episode 2] ★ green raglan mixed fabric sweatshirt ★ Levi's dark wash jeans ★ no belt ★ black Adidas Original Superstar's

3. YELLOW POLO [season 1, episode 3] ★ yellow and grey striped Le Tigre polo ★ Levi's grey jeans ★ no belt ★ black Harrington jacket with silver detailing ☆ slash pockets with silver buttons ★ black Nike Classic Cortez's

4. BLUE LONG-SLEEVED MAROON STRIPED POLO [season 1, episode 4] ★ light blue H R Robinson's long-sleeved polo with maroon rugby stripes ★ Levi's black jeans ★ no belt ★ red Nike Bruin's

5. GREEN LONG-SLEEVED POLO [season 1, episode 5] ★ forest green long-sleeved polo with dark green rugby stripes ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ black Harrington jacket with silver detailing ☆ slash pockets with silver buttons ★ red Nike Bruin's

6. GREEN SWEATSHIRT 2.0 [season 1, episodes 6 ➜ 8] ★ green raglan mixed fabric sweatshirt ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ black Harrington jacket with silver detailing ☆ slash pockets with silver buttons ★ red Nike Bruin's ★ Louisville Slugger driven with industrial nails

7. CHRISTMAS SWEATER [season 1, episode 8] ★ green Eddie Bauer Christmas sweater ★ maroon polo collar only ★ khaki trousers

8. MAROON LONG-SLEEVED POLO [season 2, episode 1] ★ maroon Brook's Brothers long-sleeved polo with blue rugby stripes ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ Ray-Ban 1983 Wayfarer sunglasses ★ blue Harrington jacket ★ original design Nike Classic Cortez's

9. PUFFER VEST AND POLO [season 2, episode 2] ★ dark blue long-sleeved rugby striped polo ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ navy puffer vest with matte plastic shank buttons

10. RISKY BUSINESS HALLOWEEN COSTUME [season 2, episode 2] ★ black tweed suit jacket ★ black fitted cotton tee-shirt ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ Ray-Ban 1983 Wayfarer sunglasses ★ original design Nike Classic Cortez's

11. GYM UNIFORM [season 2, episodes 3 ➜ 4] ★ cotton tee-shirt, printed with "Hawkin's Phys Ed" green gym shorts with triangular seam cutouts ★ green and orange hem-striped tube socks ★ solid blue Nike Classic Cortez's

12. MEMBER'S ONLY JACKET [season 2, episodes 5 ➜ 6, 8 ➜ 9] ★ navy blue long sleeved cotton tee-shirt with white varsity sleeve stripes, tucked [1] ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ silver-grey Member's Only racer jacket [2] ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ Ray-Ban 1983 Wayfarer sunglasses tucked in jacket breast pocket when not in use ★ grey backpack with black straps ★ original design Nike Classic Cortez's ★ Louisville Slugger driven with industrial nails ★ yellow rubber dishwashing gloves ★ a solid yellow, striped rainbow and red and white comic book speech bubble band-aid post-fight ★ grey gardening gloves in tunnels ★ yellow swim goggles in tunnels ★ red paisley bandana in tunnels

1: definitely was a practical, keeping-warm choice and i'm sure the intention was to have the ensemble pass as a plain, short sleeved tee but a fun little thing anyway:

2: steve wears a technically-modern version of the classic Member's Only but the differences are entirely cosmetic and superficial, like zipper lengths and metal colouring. the fit is the same! notably, he wears the silver-grey model and not the standard grey.

13. RED SWEATER [season two, episode 9] ★ red woollen, knit crewneck sweater

14. SCOOPS AHOY UNIFORM [season 3, episodes 1 ➜ 8] ★ royal blue uniform shirt with sailor's flap collar and attached red neckerchief ☆ white double striped hemming ☆ semi-cropped, box cut with a slightly fitted waistline inset for shape ☆ red and white striped tee-style dickey piece [3] ☆ embroidery patch of an ice cream cone on the right sleeve ★ royal blue uniform shorts ☆ white double striped hemming ☆ white pocket detailing and innards ★ red Scoops Ahoy nametag ★ dixie cup style costume sailor's hat ★ white nylon belt with a chrome box buckle, detachable red tool pocket ★ white apron ★ white tube socks ★ silver Style Auto Carrera design jacket [4] ★ navy blue Adidas Gazelle's with aftermarket blue laces [5] ★ red and white striped undershirt ★ blood splattering on collar post-fight

3: assumedly the red striped dickey piece and undershirt are one in the same. behind the scenes footage shows both, and occasionally joe seems to not be wearing the undershirt... ? 😭 usually sailor style shirts and costumes use a dickey piece for convenience as it ties in more uniformly than just a tee-shirt sitting underneath it's like schrodinger's striped shirt here

4: the same jacket he wears in season 4! notably, the tag is left blank, most likely because it isn't a statement piece unlike in season 4. note the ring pull collar, black pocket button detailing and the visible black zipper that points towards the Carrera design:

5: missing the Gazelle gold lettering, either faded due to them being vintage or purposefully removed for screen

15. COCA-COLA COMMERCIAL [season 3, set post-episode 2, pre-episode 3] ★ white windbreaker with red elastic cuffs and accent detailing ★ white cotton fitted tee-shirt, tucked ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ black Nike Bruin's

16. MARTY MCFLY VEST [season 3, episode 8] ★ dark wash and red denim two-tone Guess Jeans sleeveless vest ★ fitted white cotton tee-shirt with blue and yellow varsity striped sleeves, tucked ★ Levi's 501 dark wash jeans ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ black Nike Bruin's

17. WHITE HENLEY [season 4, episode 1] ★ white long sleeved cotton henley ☆ silver pop buttons ☆ two matching decorative zips on the sleeves ☆ fitted hem ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ Family Video name tag [6] ★ green Family Video vest

6: to me the sticker he put on it looks like a simple gold star, but it could also be the "Be Kind, Rewind" slogan with a smiley face design, or some sort of assistant manager/ask me anything-type sticker!

18. PURPLE POLO [season 4, episode 2] ★ purple criquet Arthur Stripe polo, tucked ★ Levi's 501 dark wash jeans ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ Family Video name tag ★ green Family Video vest ★ silver Style Auto Carrera design jacket ★ red Nike Bruin's

19. STYLE AUTO JACKET AND POLO [season 4, episodes 3 ➜ 4] ★ navy polo with a white horizontal band stripe and white sleeve hemming, tucked ☆ fitted, or potentially a size too small ☆ yellow shadow striping ★ white cotton tee-shirt ★ Levi's 501 light wash jeans ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ silver Style Auto Carrera design jacket [7] ★ red Nike Bruin's

7: the original Style Auto patch has been removed for licensing/circulation issues, or, the jacket is just potentially not the actual name brand version and instead an adopted design therefore brandless. or it fell off i don't know. the plastic insert on his breast (haha) now reads a custom generic 80's label:

20. YELLOW SWEATER [season 4, episode 5] ★ yellow crewneck raglan cotton sweater ☆ fitted cuffs and hem ★ grey cotton chinos [8] ☆ elastic waistband with drawstring ☆ printed blue patterned cuff hem ★ white socks ★ red Nike Bruin's

8: for some reason the Quiksilver x Stranger Thing's "The Steve" pants are actually an almost… 95%? exact recreation of the pants he wears in-show. and like, despite being listed as a collab with the wardrobe dep this is the first time i've seen any sort of replica clothing for something like a random character's pants but it's cool! there may be a little variation in the exact patterning but even to my super perfectionist eye they do seem identical/highly similar :). i belieeeeve what would have happened is the wardrobe made the pants, and Quiksilver received the design to then streamline for their own version. the Quiksilver version has printed pocket linings including the welt of the back pocket, whilst the on screen version are unprinted except for the hem.

21. EDDIE'S BATTLE JACKET [season 4, episodes 7 ➜ 8] ★ Levi's light wash trucker blanket-lined jacket ☆ sleeveless, distressed ☆ hand stitched Iron Maiden, Megadeth, Motörhead and Leviathan Cross patches ☆ hand stitched Dio, The Last in Line's album cover tee-shirt on back panel ☆ Judas Priest, W.A.S.P., Accept and Mercyful Fate pins personally i would omit wasp/mötorhead in recreations/art/etc but that's just me... ★ grey cotton chinos ☆ elastic waistband with drawstring ☆ printed blue patterned cuff hem ★ barefoot (lol) ★ torn cotton cloth wrap field bandage

22. WAR ZONE OUTFIT [season 4, episodes 8 ➜ 9] ★ type A-2 brown leather flight jacket ☆ custom patches ☆ second-hand in-show ★ camo print cotton tee-shirt ★ long cargo pants ★ M-1955 marine's flak jacket ★ vintage Vietnam jungle boots ★ wooden axe, Molotov cocktails

23. BLUE HENLEY [season 4, episode 9] ★ blue cotton henley ★ white cotton tee-shirt ★ Levi's 501 jeans ★ brown leather belt with rounded end brass buckle ★ blue Nike All Court's

that's all folks!!!

for any shoes or jeans that are off screen/unseen, i would make a safe bet for them being whatever he seems to be wearing the most that season. like he wears the cortez's for the entirety of season 2 even at the halloween party (he is insane) except for in gym so it'd be safe to assume every other shoe would be that one, for example.

★ bonus eddie section: Shot brand black leather jacket with DIY silver chain on the broken sleeve zipper, screenprinted Hellfire Club baseball pattern tee-shirt with the Daydream fontface, texturised. he wears a Casio F-91W digital watch (which he wears... upside down...) and, of course, white Reebok EX-O Fit Hi sneakers

please don't leave inappropriate, weird or sexual comments on this post! they're just jeans 😭

#🍦#sts #okay i'm done making these types of posts forever

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photo1030 · 1 year

Text

Leather and Lace - Chapter 17: Feelings Revealed

PART 3 - THE GRAND GESTURE

Summary: Arthur leaves camp in search of something to repair your relationship. But meanwhile, you are getting closer to leaving altogether.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

*I’ve seen this image in a few different places, but not sure who owns it. I downloaded it from wallpaperflare.com. If anyone knows who specifically owns it, let me know so I can give photo credit.

Tag List: @rivetingrosie4 @bimbo-dollz @pine4pple-b0i @redwritr @kuri-chans-blog @queer-sadie-adler @joelmillerswifey @gimmethosedaddymilkers @pcotarelo @delilah-grimes @maemortem @wistfulwisteriawitch @lilacxxdreams @mentallyillfrogs @absolutegeek @spurz @sophiaj650 @uniqueclodzinevoid @lookingformaurice @pawoui @randomidk-123 @yyiikes @eddiemetalheadmunson @twola @kmartkiddieisle @red-dead-simp @regwishesshehadmagic @rhehr241 @earwen-x @akariver75 @djennty @nervousmumbling @xliliths @unbotheredbeeeee @onnetonprinsessa @kittiowolf210 @ezrynn @suhsis @arthurmargon @codnerd1999 @queer-sadie-adler @alice-vanderlinde @sweetandstoned21 @j4llyf7sh @spooky631 @m0r4xr @ilovrxats @i-69-urmom @ddbluesie @ivuravix

*I tagged people who expressed interest in the continued story. If you’d like to be added or removed, please let me know. There are a few that would not let me link, so I apologize if this doesn’t ping some people.

Arthur fidgets slightly in the worn saddle as Buck’s hooves clop in the mud below. The sloppy, wet sound creates a white-noise in the back of Arthur’s mind as he nears the town of Rosewood. He can see the edge of the town with its filthy white-washed buildings quickly approaching on the horizon line. The sun’s rays cause the image of the structures in the distance to waver and blur in the heat waves, causing the town to look even more depressing than it is. He’s never been to Rosewood and all he knows of it is what he’s heard from you. And based on that, Arthur already hates it. An irritable sigh involuntarily escapes his ribcage. He has half a mind to burn it all to the ground out of spite, just for you.

He spurs his horse on as he swallows the hateful bile in his throat and heads into the town. It is a makeshift traveling town for the railroad; a greasy little industrial thing. It’s dirty and smells of iron, oil and other disagreeable things. There seems to be nothing happy or pleasant about this place as he watches the people shuffling about. The people seem to move both with purpose and without motivation at the same time, like shadows that are tethered to a person and pulled against their will. Upon quick examination, it seems to be made up of a lot of cheap labor, probable criminals, and those who just simply want to disappear.

Arthur has a hard time picturing you here in a town like this. You must have been like a flower trying to grow out of the dry and barren earth, desperate for sunlight and refreshing rains to grow and flourish. It’s no wonder you fit in so well with his gang now. It makes Arthur angry to know you had to work in these conditions. His hands clench in and out of fists as his mind goes back to when he found you. The bastards that chased and beat you were from this damn town. They killed your father and were in the middle of assaulting you when Arthur put a bullet into each and every one of them.

His lips curl in disgust at the memory of it. His mind’s eye sees you curled up on the ground, face beaten and terrified, yet still trying to defend yourself like a wounded animal. The thought of it makes his stomach turn now just as much as it did then. It seems like a lifetime ago now. So much has changed since that day, and he hopes for the better for your sake. He’s still not 100% sure what he’s looking for here, but he hopes to find it quickly and get the hell out of here.

Now that he’s here, Arthur figures the best place to start is the hospital where you worked. Since that’s where you and your father spent the majority of your time while here, there’s a good chance he’ll find someone there who knows you. But first, he looks around, surveying the area from where he sits high on his massive horse to get an idea of what’s going on here. He always needs to know his “mark” and his “exit”. It's instinct to know your surroundings.

“This ain’t no damn job, you idiot.” He shakes his head at himself and his ever-paranoid ways. “Although, I suppose it kinda is,” he murmurs, looking about.

Arthur takes a calming breath as he thinks over his plan again. He’s hoping that he can find someone still here that knows you or your father and can offer something to bring home to you. Any token, any object, anything at all that may be a tie to your past or family. He’s broken your heart already, so maybe this would be the thing to mend it, as the memory of your father is your most treasured possession. Arthur is filled with both excitement and trepidation, causing his heart to sputter a bit in a reaction to both. If this works, you and Arthur will be on good terms again, maybe even more. He can’t screw this up.

With determination on his side, Arthur begins to walk Buck down the dirt street that runs the middle of the town. He tries his best to ignore the suspicious stares he’s getting from the townspeople. Like a reflex, his fingers reach up to pull his worn leather gambler's hat down over his tired eyes. His hand drops to his muscular thigh, inches from the revolver on his hip. Just in case.

Getting impatient from wandering aimlessly through the town, Arthur pulls Buck to a stop in front of a woman who is sweeping the front porch of, what appears to be, a feed store. Her hair is pulled back away from the harsh features of her face into a tight bun that makes her appear to be older than she really is. This is in no way helped by the unflattering gray frock that she wears. He nods in her direction, leaning over slightly in his saddle. “Excuse me-”

“Employment office is down the street, third building on the right.” The woman barks the statement at him, only giving him the slightest of glances before returning to her sweeping, her arms moving aggressively to remove the stubborn dirt on the worn floorboards.

“Uh, no. I’m looking for the hospital here.” Arthur’s eyebrow furrow, his frowning lips pressed together slightly at the rebuke.

“End of the corridor, turn left.” The woman’s response is just as quick and dismissive as the first.

“Thank you,” Arthur grumbles with an eyeroll and is quick to nudge Buck on further with no desire to overstay his welcome. But, now that he has a direction to follow, his spirits begin to pick up a bit.

As Arthur gets to the end of the mud-caked street, a largish building comes into view. It’s haphazard at best. It’s more of a barn than anything. It was probably a quick assembly job to get the building erected with the town growing so fast and the traveling citizens constantly pouring in and out. It’s bare wood, no paint anywhere. The windows sorely need to be cleaned, in fact one is broken out and boarded-over.

But, amid all of this depressing atmosphere, Arthur notices a small barrel by the main door. Turned over, it has been made into a planter with some deep violet wildflowers growing in it along with some bright green ivy-like vines cascading down the side. The vibrant pop of color catches his eye in this otherwise dreary place. Arthur smiles a bit at the sight of it, wondering if it was you who put it there. Seems like something you’d do.

After tying Buck to the hitching post out front, Arthur walks through the doors of the hospital. It is one large open room lined with beds, many already filled with patients; a sort of “post-op”, general-care common area. There is a large desk that is cluttered with papers in the immediate corner to his left, flanked by bookshelves, and towards the far back wall, he can see a hallway that probably leads to more private rooms for seeing patients. The room is fairly well lit with sunlight, considering the grime that coats the windows. The air smells of a nauseating mixture of bitter iodine and sweet chloroform, as well as soap and chlorine solutions. Arthur has to resist the need to cover his nose with his hand.

His eyes scan the room and among the patients, Arthur sees a young woman about the same age as you, maybe younger, flitting about. With multiple things in hand, she tends to every person she passes. A nurse of some sorts, she works diligently as she hands a pillow to an older man in one bed, and checks foreheads and fixes blankets as she passes multiple others. She even pulls a small toy out of her apron pocket and gives it to a poor child who is laid up with a broken arm.

She multi-tasks around the occupants with purpose and determination; a seasoned veteran at this hard job. The woman reminds Arthur of a young Susan Grimshaw in that way. She has dark auburn hair, with long curls that are semi-contained with a ribbon behind her neck and vivid jade eyes that dart around, taking in every detail of her patients around her. The young nurse moves about the hospital ward as if she owns it. Intrigued, Arthur feels someone as important-looking as this must know something of you.

“Excuse me!” Arthur’s voice carries across the humming noise of chatter of the room full of patients as he lifts his hand in a slight wave to try to get her attention.

The nurse gives Arthur a quick glance, annoyed at being interrupted. “If you’re not bleeding, wait over there.” She gives a dismissive wave where chairs line the far wall behind him. “If you are bleeding, tell me how bad and then I’ll tell you where to go. Although it can’t be that bad if you’re upright.”

Arthur shuffles his feet slightly. “No, I ain’t hurt or nuthin’-”

“Then what do you want? I’m kinda busy here.” She motions to the beds surrounding her as she makes her way over to him, blowing a strand of hair out of her eye before her hands land impatiently on her round hips.

Seeing the nurse standing still for more than a minute, an older woman in one of the beds off to the side calls over with a faint and brittle voice. “Miss Darcy? Can I get a drink of water, please?”

The nurse turns at the brief distraction and gives the poor woman a kind and sympathetic smile. “Yes, Florence, of course. Just a minute, hon.” She then turns back to Arthur, flipping back to that same air of impatience again. “See? Things to do and people to take care of, probably more in need than you. Now out with it.” She waves her hand to encourage him to speak quickly.

Even though she is quick, Arthur can tell that this woman means no real harm or insult, but rather takes her job very seriously and doesn’t put up with any bullshit - something he can relate to.

“Did you know Dr. (Y/L/N)? Maybe his daughter (Y/N)?” Arthur asks carefully.

Arthur notices how Darcy instantly stiffens to his question, eyes going hard and giving him a distrustful side-eye glance as she sizes him up. “Who wants to know?” She bites back suddenly, almost protectively. “Who the hell are you and what do you want with them?”

“I’m…uh…a friend of (Y/N)’s,” he stammers, taking off his hat, running his fingers through his disheveled hair before fiddling with the brim and replacing it upon his head..

“Yeah, I bet,” Darcy says, scanning him up and down cautiously. “(Y/N)’s not here, don’t know where she is so you best move on.” She turns to walk away, quick to go back about her business.

“No, no, I’m not here for her,” Arthur adds quickly, reaching his gloved fingers to her arm before he loses her to the crowd of sick and infirmed. “I mean, I am here for her, but not to see her.” He’s flustered, panicking that he may lose his one opportunity to make this work. “What I mean is, I already know where (Y/N) is and-”

Darcy stops dead in her tracks, spinning back on him. “What the hell are you babbling on about?” she interrupts, holding her hand up to cut him off. Her expression quickly changes from one of annoyance to concern. “What do you mean you know where (Y/N) is? Where is she?!”

Arthur hesitates at Darcy’s intense scrutiny, not sure how to answer that. His face goes hard as stone, not sure how much he should tell this woman.

Darcy takes a few steps towards Arthur, her jaw clenching slightly and her cheeks flush a deeper shade of red with her impatience. “Look, mister,” her voice is serious and threatening. “She's my friend. Her father was killed by a bunch of assholes and then those same assholes were found dead. I need to know if she’s OK.”

“She’s fine. She’s with friends,” Arthur replies evasively.

“Friends, huh?” Darcy looks him up and down with a skeptic eye again. He’s been riding for two days and sleeping in the woods. He must look like quite the sight. It's no wonder Darcy doesn’t trust him.

“Yeah, friends.” Arthur regains some of his composure, remembering his purpose and locking eyes with the woman. God, she really must be a friend of yours, as she’s just as fiery and obstinate as you.

Darcy crosses her arms over her chest in defiance. “How do I know you even know her? You could be making this whole thing up.” She waves her hand at him. “If (Y/N) is alive and well, how do you know her, then?”

Arthur gives a long-winded sigh bordering on a groan, thinking for a moment.

"She's got a way about her, can't quite describe it,” he begins, his eyebrows crease as he tries to find the words to explain himself. “It's like…she's a mix of both hard and soft; both hellfire and holy water at the same time. Eyes are beautiful, like you can see right into her soul, ya know? And she's got a mouth on her that won't quit, too," he chuckles softly with a shake of his head. “She don’t care who thinks what. And yet, she's still real gentle-like and caring.”

He pauses as he reflects deeper on you, his gaze relaxing and focusing on nothing as he retreats further into his own reverie.

“(Y/N) takes good care of our people, the whole lot of us. She keeps us patched up and looked after. Oh, and she's got the voice of an angel, too,” he adds, pointing his finger at Darcy as he just remembered yet another thing he loves about you. “She’s always singing and humming some tune or another.” Arthur continues to gush on and on like a love-sick teenager as this is really the first time he’s allowed himself to talk fondly about you out loud to anyone.

“We got a kid with us, a young boy. (Y/N) likes to play with him like she’s a little kid herself, don’t care how foolish she looks..." Arthur's voice trails off as images of you continue to jump and scatter about in his mind, flashing so fast that it’s hard for him to focus on one thing at a time.

He misses you so damn much right now. Not just physically being apart from you, but it’s the emotional distance between the two of you lately that’s taking its toll. He hates being at odds with you. This fight, this tension between you, is just too much. And he didn't realize just how bad until now. Arthur has come to rely on you for his very sanity, to help him start to make sense of the tumultuous world around him. Just walking beside you makes him a better man.

Arthur can’t wait to finish this quest of his, as he wants nothing more than to rush back home to talk to you immediately. It's odd how you can meet someone today that makes you forget all about yesterday and also have hope for tomorrow. It’s been a long time since he’s experienced that. His hand slowly comes up to rub along the back of his neck as he gets lost in his own head.

Eventually, he remembers where he is and refocuses, looking over at Darcy. Darcy watches Arthur as he goes on and on, reassessing the gruff-looking man standing in front of her, trying to figure out if she should trust him or not.

"Yeah, that sounds like her alright," she finally concedes as she softens and lets her guard down just a bit.

A blush dusts slightly across Arthur’s cheeks, as he clears his throat, and quickly changes the subject. "Look, you gonna help me or not?" he huffs out.

"Depends.” Darcy crosses her arms. “What are you doing here?"

"I don’t really know," Arthur admits looking about, like he'll find the answer sitting in one of these beds. “I was hoping to find something of (Y/N)’s or even her father's, maybe? Something I could bring back for her." His voice drops to a soft yet hopeful sound, one that Darcy reluctantly finds endearing.

“Bring back to her where, exactly?” Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “What happened after she left here?”

“That’s another story for another day, I’m afraid,” Arthur sighs rather sheepishly, hoping to God she doesn’t get frustrated and just walk away from him altogether.

Darcy thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I think I have just the thing for you. I have to finish what I’m doing here, though. Meet me at the square in about an hour.”

Arthur can’t believe his luck!

“Alright, then.” He gives her a quick nod of thanks, a huge grin sparkling upon his face, before turning to head back out the door to leave her to her work.

Arthur walks out the hospital doors, and takes a moment as he stands next to his horse, looking about the town. An hour? What the hell is he going to do in this shithole for an hour? An hour seems like an eternity right now. A slow exhale pushes out of his nose as his lips draw inward impatiently. He tries not to be too disappointed, though, as he is one step closer to his goal.

Arthur decides to clean himself up a bit and grabs a bite to eat to kill time, trying not to think about the delay. And eventually, he makes his way to the main square to wait for your friend. Looking about, he figures she’s smart, meeting a stranger in a public place like this. Honestly, he’s surprised that she’s even agreed to help him. But truth be told, Darcy is more interested in helping you than Arthur. He just happens to be in the middle.

Eventually Arthur scans the crowds and sees Darcy walking down the street with something tucked under her arm.

“Still here, eh Mister?” She calls to him as she approaches, giving him a wry smile. Arthur only spreads his arms out wide in an exaggerated gesture.

“I never did catch your name, by the way,” Darcy mentions casually. “Suppose you could at least tell me that much?”

“Arthur”, he replies simply with a raised eyebrow.

“Arthur,” she parrots back with a grin and a nod of acceptance. “Well, nice to meet you, Arthur.”

After a brief moment, Darcy proceeds to pull the item from under her arm to hold it in front of her. It is a wooden box, sanded and varnished, and about the size of a shoe box. She looks down at it, placing one of her hands upon the top, one last hesitation as to whether she should trust this large, intimidating man whom she doesn’t know.

“Here,” says Darcy with another grin as she hands the box over to Arthur. “I think this is what you are looking for.”

Arthur carefully accepts the item from her dry and cracked hands that are weathered from her work. He gingerly holds it, tilting it slightly as he looks it over. There are initials carved into the top, which appear to be your father’s. Arthur looks back to Darcy with a quizzical look.

“If you know (Y/N), and you’re here of all places, then I’m assuming you know what happened here in Rosewood.” Darcy gazes at the box as memories flood back to her. “I knew Dr. (Y/L/N). He was a good man.” She nods with conviction towards the box.

“When all that shit went down, it was chaos around here. The town’s people ransacked their little house, tore through the hospital here…” she shakes her head in disgust at the memory of it.

“Anyway,” she sighs, “I ran to his office and grabbed this from his desk. Kept it safe just in case they ever came back.” Darcy lifts her chin, gesturing towards the box. “Open it.”

Arthur lifts the lid with care and a small huff of a laugh pushes out of his nose, stunned at the contents. He finds several items carefully nestled inside the keepsake box, including a small silver locket on a thin elegant chain, your father's pocket watch, a family photograph, and your father's personal medical journal.

Arthur carefully picks up the locket charm, tiny in his massive fingers, and pops it open. Apparently this had belonged to your mother as an image of her and your father are secreted within.

Arthur replaces the locket in the box and takes the photo out next, gently holding it in his hand as if he is holding the very souls of the people in the image. He recognizes Dr. (Y/L/N) of course, as he helped you bury him after you fled Rosewood. But seeing him alive and young in the photograph makes Arthur wish he had known him.

Your mother is beautiful. Soft curls and large beautiful eyes that sparkle and draw you in, even through a photograph. There’s a delicateness to her that reminds him so much of you today. He doesn't know how, but Arthur can tell that you take after her. A warm feeling spreads across his cheeks, as if he is being introduced to the parents of the girl he's courting.

And of course, there is you in the photograph, very young, about 7 or 8 years old. You look like a sprite or fairy. Bright eyes, mischievous smile, and small for your age.

This is exactly what Arthur had hoped to find. And he is elated that this plan of his is going so well.

“Thank you, Miss Darcy, thank you kindly,” Arthur’s voice pregnant with overwhelming gratitude, as the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle with his growing smile. “(Y/N) will be right pleased to see these.”

Darcy looks at him with a knowing smirk on her face. "You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?” Arthur’s eyes shoot up from the box to meet her suspecting gaze. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Arthur opens his mouth to speak but Darcy holds her hand up to shush him. “Of course you are," she declares before he can even deny it. "(Y/N) has that effect on people." She folds her arms over her chest in approval.

Arthur says nothing, only draws his lips inward and nods, as if being caught red-handed.

“Well, I hope she’s OK. And, I hope she’s happy, wherever she is. Lord knows this place wasn’t going to do it.” She waves her hand at the town around them. “I hope that you can make her happy, Arthur,” Darcy emphasizes.

“I will do my damnedest. I promise you that.” Arthur gives her an adamant nod.

“You better. Or I will hunt you down,” Darcy teases as she gives his shoulder a playful punch. “Tell (Y/N) I miss her.”

“I will.”

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

“(Y/N), I need to speak with you for a moment.”

You lift your head to see Hosea striding towards you with purpose in his step to where you are working in your med-tent. You give him a small, tired smile as he approaches, brushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. “I have the medical supplies almost completely restocked-”

“Yeah, fine, fine, but I don’t want to talk about that,” he waves at you impatiently as he finally comes to a stop, his hands leaning onto the workbench. “I want to talk to you about Arthur.”

The mention of his name makes you freeze. Your jaw clenches to the point that your teeth ache. Your fingers drop the bundle of dried herbs that you are cutting and they slowly curl into the palm of your hand, causing your nails to cut into the skin there.

“No.”

Your firm response causes Hosea to halt dead in his tracks, not expecting you to flat-out refuse his request. His silver eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Excuse me? No?”

Your eyes suddenly turn dark as the corners of your mouth drop into a hard frown. You pull a long, deep inhale through your nose in an effort to remain calm.

“I don’t want to talk about Arthur, Hosea. Not with the girls, not with Charles, and not with you.”

“Good,” he retorts sharply. “Then I’ll do the talkin’ and you just be quiet and listen.” Hosea’s voice carries that stern fatherly tone that instantly puts you back into your place. Like a child, you pout slightly as you turn your face away to avoid his disapproving gaze.

“Look, I know he’s as hard as a rock and stubborn as a mule, but Arthur cares for you, (Y/N).”

“You think I don’t know that?” you snap, your face turning again to meet Hosea’s.

“Then why in the hell you givin’ him such a hard time?” he shoots back.

Your palm slams onto your table as your patience breaks. “Because he can’t have it both ways, Hosea! I am not a some-time lover. Arthur can’t act like I’m his ‘special sweetheart’ and then go on to ignore me for days on end. He can’t repeatedly act like there’s hope for us to be together and then keep telling me it's never going to happen.”

Your eyes burn intensely, causing Hosea to back-peddle to a gentler countenance now, realizing that he’s just sparked a volatile powder-keg.

“You just need to be patient and give him a chance, (Y/N),” Hosea implores you, holding up his hands in surrender as if trying to calm a spooked horse.

Your chest tightens as if a vice grip is strangling it and you can feel the anger radiating off of your ruby-flushed cheeks. “I’ve given him many, many chances, Hosea, and he’s done nothing. Besides, don’t you think you should’ve had this conversation with someone else awhile ago?”

“Now look, girl, you know what we do here and why this isn’t easy for him,” Hosea points his finger accusingly at you in warning. “How can you be so harsh?”

“Harsh?!” The word huffs out of your mouth as if you’ve just eaten a bitter piece of fruit. The mere suggestion of such a thing is so ludicrous to you. “Ha!” Your eyes roll so hard to the sky, it’s amazing that they don’t fly right out of your head.

You give Hosea a sarcastic smirk. “You know, I’ve been with you all for awhile now, Hosea, and I’ve done my part around here as best I could. So I’m a little offended that you think so little of me. I know what you all are and I know what you all do. But I also know who you are.”

You stand taller now and pull your shoulders back, lifting your chin a bit in defiance, as your arms fold defensively over your chest in agitation.

“Are you and Dutch some evil masterminds or just two men trying to live wild and free in the world? Hmm?” Your eyes flash in challenge at him and Hosea tries to get a word in, but you just ramble right over him and he quickly hushes in submission.

“Is John some feral man, or some sad soul trying to overcome the hand he’s been dealt in his life? And Arthur…” You choke for a brief moment as his name crosses your trembling lips, your eyes wide and flashing. “He’s not the monster everyone makes him to be.”

You shake your head, taking a deep breath to draw the cooler air into your lungs to try to recollect yourself. You pause in your rant and Hosea mercifully does not say a word, waiting for you to finish.

“But it doesn't matter now.”

Hosea shakes his head incredulously. “Do you know where Arthur is right now, (Y/N)? Do you have any idea what he’s doing for y-?”

“I don’t care, Hosea!” you snap sharply again, holding your hand up to keep him from saying another word, as you are dangerously close to the edge of your sanity. “I don’t care where he is, or what he’s doing. Because I’m done with it! You hear me?” Your eyes sting, but at this point you have cried yourself out and have no more tears left to shed over this. “I’m done, Hosea. So just stop. Please.” Your voice becomes dejected and hopeless as your shoulders droop in defeat with that last syllable.

“Now if you excuse me, I have work to do.” Your hand involuntarily comes to cover your mouth as you push past him.

“(Y/N), C’mon now…” Hosea calls after you, disappointment clearly written all over his features.

As you hurry off, Hosea rolls his eyes to the pristine-white clouds floating innocently in the sky above and shakes his head, planting his old, weathered hands on his hips before lowering his gaze back to watch you walk over to Ms. Grimshaw. “Whatever the hell you’re doin’, my boy, your ass had better hurry up.”

You hate being cross with Hosea. You’d rather cut out your own tongue than to speak harshly to him like that. But you just can’t take this anymore. It’s hard enough trying to navigate around Arthur, but now you have to deal with everyone else as well. You had hoped that the old man would be your buffer to this fiasco. But of course, he’s going to take Arthur’s side. And by rights, he should, you suppose. He’s Arthur’s “father”, not yours.

With your face flush and hands flexing at your sides, you stalk over to Ms. Grimshaw, desperately seeking yet another distraction. That is one habit that you have definitely picked up from Arthur while you’ve been here: when frustrated, you relentlessly throw yourself into work.

The matriarch is standing outside of her tent, looking over a recent newspaper in her hands when you call out to her.

“Ms. Grimshaw, do you have anything that you need me to do around here?”

The woman looks up at the sound of her name being called and gives you a scowl of impatience. “Oh, for the love of…Come here, girl. Sit down,” she orders, pointing at the chair outside of her tent.

Surprised by her annoyance, you meekly sit as you’re told to do, looking at her expectantly.

“Now, I appreciate your help as much as anyone,” Ms. Grimshaw says, trying her best to remain calm, briefly bringing her fingers to clasp the bridge of her nose in frustration. “But you’ve been in my face and up my ass for weeks now. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

“What do you mean?” Scoffing, you blink back at her.

“Don’t play innocent with me, Miss (Y/L/N).” With a reproachable glare, she pokes herself in the chest with her thumb. “I invented that game.”

After a moment, Ms. Grimshaw finally caves and gives you a resigned sigh. “Women get a raw deal in this day and age. I get it. You’re supposed to sit pretty and smile, and yet spread your legs and still be an angel.”

Her bluntness makes you blush a bit and avert your gaze. You’ve never had such a personal conversation with the woman.

She pauses before she continues, trying to be more tactful as she stands towering over you. “I know what you went through in Rosewood, what they did to you.”

The mention of your assault makes your cheeks burn red and you avert your gaze down again.

“Well, I suppose I had to toughen up pretty quick after that,” you respond matter-of-factly, not wanting to talk about that subject. Yet your voice carries just a hint of a quiver that is not lost on the woman. “A camp of wanted outlaws is no place for wallowing in self pity.”

“Yes, well, strong women like us don’t do well as the victim, can’t afford that luxury,” she agrees. “We stand up straight and deal with this world, and all its shit, don’t we?”

Her statement takes you aback a bit. ‘Like us?’ Is she actually looking at you as her equal? You had always thought this woman didn’t like you. At best, you always figured she simply tolerated your existence.

“Now, you listen to me.” Grimshaw pulls another chair up to sit directly in front of you, lowering her voice as she continues. “Don’t hang all of your hopes and dreams on a man, my dear. Look at Abigail. Hangin’ on any scrap of attention that John is willing to give her. And she’ll be hard pressed to find a husband elsewhere at this point when she’s already saddled with a child. Not that Jack is bad, mind you. (Grimshaw is quick to stress that point.) That boy is the best thing to come out of that relationship, if you ask me.”

Ms. Grimshaw leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest, taking a deep breath before she continues her motherly lecture. “Arthur is a good man and all, and we’d all be lost without him, for sure. But he’s still a man. And a dense one at that when it comes to women.”

Your face twists in painful recognition as you look down at your hands sitting limply in your lap. You wish it were different between you and Arthur, but that’s what is so hard about this whole thing. Neither of you can deny the connection that is so rare to find in another soul, yet still knowing you won’t ever be together. You can’t force that spark with someone where it doesn't exist, just like you can’t deny it when it does.

You love Arthur to the depth of which you’ve never known possible, even though you probably shouldn’t, and for reasons that you can’t quite explain. You understand that Arthur thinks that he doesn’t deserve your affection, either. But that isn’t going to stop it from overtaking your heart, now is it? You can’t change how you feel just like you can’t stop the rain from pouring down, or the sun from shining afterwards.

Ms. Grimshaw takes a moment to look you over, watching as your eyes dart around in spastic thought. She notes how your chest rises and falls raggedly as you quietly try to keep yourself from crying all over again. God, you are so exhausted from crying. And you are at the point now of being sick and tired of being ‘sick and tired’ of everything. Her heart goes out to you as she knows what you’re going through. Because she’s been there herself.

“You know,” Ms. Grimshaw says softly, hesitating slightly before continuing. “I used to have a thing with Dutch.”

Your red-rimmed eyes shoot back up to Ms Grimshaw’s face and widen a bit at her revelation. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

“MmmHmm. Cast me aside for the young and pretty, he did.” She turns a glance towards Dutch’s tent where he sits reading, a cigar sitting confidently between his teeth, while Molly perches upon their cot, fixing her hair in the mirror.

Turning her attention back to you, Ms. Grimshaw quickly refocuses on the purpose of her lecture. “If you want to stay here with us, (Y/N), no one will be happier than me to have you.” This admission rather stuns you as her voice takes on a softer, more nurturing sound. “But don’t you let this gang take you down.” She points her finger sternly at you. “You do what’s right by you. ‘Cause you’re the only one who has to live with your decisions.”

Ms. Grimshaw holds your gaze a moment to make sure you understand what she’s telling you. When you finally give her an appreciative smile and a nod, she places her hand overtop of yours, patting it in reassurance.

From somewhere over in the distance of the camp, there is a ruckus and you both look over at the interruption to see Rev. Swanson drunk and stumbling over people before falling down altogether. Ms. Grimshaw huffs sharply in annoyance, hands on her knees, as she pushes herself up from her chair. “I swear, it’s always something around here.”

And just like that, the camp mother is off to settle yet another issue in her camp. You watch her as she marches over to the man, shooing away the others who have gathered around. She gives Rev. Swanson a few words before bending down to heave him up by the arm. For whatever reason, the woman has a soft spot for the disgraced man of the cloth. And now, apparently, for you as well.

A slight breeze picks up and the cooling air settles your nerves a bit as it dances across your cheeks, lifting the fine wisps of hair along your face. You sit in contemplation, thinking about what Ms. Grimshaw has said to you. She has a point. She may come across as a hardened shrew, but she definitely knows what she’s talking about, as she speaks from personal experience. You’ve been debating about leaving the Van Der Linde gang for awhile, and now, maybe you have the voice of reason to actually do it. Absentmindedly chewing on the back of your thumbnail while in thought, you try to figure out what your next move is going to be.

It's taken you awhile to come to terms with what happened in Rosewood. You had hoped to draw strength from your new family and finally find a place of belonging. You haven't even thought of a future with a man since what happened, finding the closest thing in Arthur’s simple and unassuming company.

Losing your father in such a cruel and abrupt way was devastating. But with the parental guidance of Hosea, and unknowingly of Ms. Grimshaw, you have begun to make your peace with it, despite the frequent melancholy that only comes with the death of family.

But you can’t handle this drama anymore. You had told Karen awhile ago that you couldn’t bear it if Arthur ever hated you. And seeing as every interaction between the two of you seems to be getting more toxic with each encounter, that seems to be the very path your relationship is heading. You really don’t think that you could ever be happy here if you didn’t have Arthur. The thought of it is a boulder dropping in your stomach.

Maybe you’ll go back to Silverton. The doctor there had offered you a job several months ago, and a place to stay at the boarding house, too. But how will you even get there? It’s not safe for a woman to travel on her own in these parts.

The time has come for you to decide: Should you stay with the Van Der Linde gang? Or should you go?

Wrestling with which path you need to take, your thoughts are interrupted when you see Mr. Pearson prepping one of the wagons. His chubby face huffs and turns red as he mills about pulling straps and checking over the wagon.

You nibble your bottom lip as you watch him, anxiously wringing your hands together. “Mr. Pearson? Are you heading into town?” you suddenly blurt out with seemingly no self control.

He looks over his shoulder to give you a quick glance. “That’s right, Miss (Y/L/N).”

You swallow hard before you speak again. “Need some company?”

And before you realize what you are doing, you offer to go along. Your intent is to see who in town may be heading back south towards Silverton and maybe catch a ride. That doctor there seemed quite persistent in getting you to work with him. Maybe the job offer is still good. If not, at least you’ll be out of the Van Der Linde camp and can start to put this whole mess behind you once and for all.

—--------------------------------

It is late afternoon at this point and the copper sky has just begun to unfurl its bewitching colors for all to see. Arthur heads down the back-country path that will bring him back to camp. The familiar white wildflowers still bloom and line the path, offering him a welcoming sight as he gets closer to home. His hand rests protectively on the saddlebag to his left side where your father’s wooden box sits carefully tucked away.

As he gets closer to home, Arthur begins to rethink his plan a bit. Is it too selfish to expect you to just fall into his open arms because he gave you a few remembrances? He isn’t turning his back on his decision, nor the idea that he wants you. But he feels that maybe it isn’t fair to just expect it of you. That may be a little too presumptuous.

Out of respect for you, he resigns himself to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. But at the very least, Arthur wants to just stop fighting and to simply be able to speak civilly with you once more.

When Arthur arrives back at camp, he doesn’t see you anywhere, even though Blue is tethered at the hitching posts. He slips your horse some peppermints upon arrival, which he contently munches.

“Where’s our girl, mister? Hmm?” he wonders out loud to Blue, reaching up to give the horse a good scratch behind his ears while he surveys the open area.

Arthur eagerly scans the camp and immediately seeks out Hosea to find out where you are. He’s already waited several days to get this task done and he’s eager to finish it.

“She went to town with Pearson,” Hosea informs him. “Shouldn’t be too much longer, I reckon.”

Arthur purses his lips and nods, thinking to himself as his gaze, of course, goes to the path heading into the camp, half expecting to find you there.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Hosea asks, eyebrows peaked with interest as he raises his cigarette to his mouth, eyes squinting in anticipation.

A grin slowly crawls across Arthur’s face. His eyes twinkle a bit in mischief when he turns back to Hosea. “Oh yeah. I found it.”

Hosea lets out a quick chuckle as he pats Arthur on the shoulder. “Good. I knew you would.”

Hosea decides not to say anything to Arthur about the conversation he had with you earlier today, fearing that your outburst may deter Arthur from going ahead with his intentions. It’s taken so long and so much to push Arthur to get to this point. Hosea doesn’t want his son to get discouraged now, not when he’s so close to a chance at being happy.

Since you are not here, Arthur decides to leave the box in your tent for you. He’s afraid that if he approaches you directly with it, you’ll end up in an argument before he can even give you the damn thing. He desperately needs for this to go well. He walks over and stands outside of your tent, hesitating before he goes in. But with a nod of reassurance to himself, he enters your personal space.

Arthur looks about for a moment, taking in the surroundings. Everywhere he looks in the modest space, there’s evidence of you. The faint scent of the lavender oil you use in your hair permeates the area. Arthur’s eyes roll back into his head as he deeply inhales the intoxicating flowery aroma.

Along the side, your cot is neatly made up with a knit afghan laid across it. The spread is a beautiful green color, but the pattern and knot work are not quite so perfect. The knots are clumpy and lopsided and unevenly distributed. He chuckles as he remembers when you made it, trying your hand at the domestic task. ‘It’s not perfect, but at least I’ll be warmer at night,’ you said when you proudly showed him the efforts of your work.

There are a few books stacked on an overturned crate-turned-end table by your pillow, a few of which have multiple bookmarks and pieces of paper haphazardly sticking out, indicating that you are in the middle of reading multiple at a time. The small table in the corner has a bowl with women’s baubles such as combs and other simple jewelry, every one of which Arthur has seen on your person, the smallest details of your style committed to his memory.

And pinned to the wooden pole in the center of the tent is the flower crown that Jack had made for you, now delicately dried and preserved. Hanging in the center of the brittle greenery, Arthur notices a small piece of paper. He takes a few steps over to take a closer look at it and realizes it's the sketch he did for you.

It’s a simple drawing of flowers in a meadow, with the sun shining down. He had drawn it while out on one of his jobs and gave it to you. ‘So you'll always have somethin’ pretty to look at, even when things are shit ‘round here’, he had told you. Arthur can’t believe you’ve kept it all this time. The idea that something so trivial and insignificant that he had done was so special to you makes his heart swell to the point of bursting. He lifts his hand, his dust-coated fingers affectionately catching the edge of the paper. He then looks down to the box in his hands.

“God, I hope this works,” he whispers. He steps over to your cot, bending down to gently set the box upon your blanket. He slowly stands and stares at it, taking a last moment to contemplate his decision. “Alright, then.”

And with his habitual saying being muttered into the comfortable silence in finality, Arthur takes his leave of your tent and heads over to his own.

Meanwhile, you have headed over to the small town of Middleton with Mr. Pearson. The cook had needed to head in to the post office to mail a letter, and to see if he had received any in return. You casually excuse yourself from his company as the wagon rolls to a stop, explaining that you need a few things in the local general store. Pearson pays you no mind, but what you really need is to see if the local shopkeep knows of anyone traveling towards Silverton. Since this place of business has the most traffic of varied clientele, you figure if anyone knows the dealings of the town, this is where you’ll find out.

As fortune would have it, after chatting with the store owner, you find out that the local lumberyard is making a delivery to Howardsville in the next few days. It’s about 4 miles east of Silverton. You could walk that if you need to. (At this point, you’re not sure if you’ll be taking Blue with you. The horse was a gift to you from Arthur, so technically he does belong to you. But a horse is a highly-valued possession. It would be rather presumptuous to think that you could just take him with you if you left the gang. And the thought of leaving the beautiful animal behind, your beloved Blue, is yet another twist to the phantom knife in your heart. But you have to prepare yourself for any scenario.)

You quickly make your way over to the lumber office after that, and proceed to convince the owner to let you catch a ride with the next delivery heading out. You have a little money saved up and offer to pay your way, which is the only reason the man is allowing it. He is leaving at sunrise in two day’s time. You’ll have to be there at the office door by then, money in-hand, or he is leaving without you.

And so, you put things into place to make your exit from the Van Der Linde gang.

When you arrive back at the camp, Arthur is sitting by the fire and doesn’t say anything, but carefully watches you out of the corner of his eye as you help Mr. Pearson put away the wagon and secure the horse. Arthur notices that you are mindful to keep your head down and eyes averted from everyone. There is a touch of anxiousness to you that catches his attention, but he figures it's just the tension that has been growing around you for weeks now.

He takes a deep breath and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, striking the match on the bottom of his boot, and keeping the brim of his hat discreetly pulled down over his face.

Here it is, this is it. Arthur is not sure how you are going to react to his “grand gesture” as Mary-Beth called it, but he's hoping that this will at least open the door and allow him to speak to you again.

When you’re done securing the wagon, you head straight to your tent, avoiding everyone just as you have been doing of late. You draw back the corners of the canvas and push through the opening, quickly pulling it shut behind you. You still can’t believe that you’re leaving. And you really don’t want to risk talking to anyone about it right now, either, until you can fully wrap your head around the concept. God willing, you just need to avoid Arthur until then, for fear of losing your nerve and any strength you have left to go through with your plan.

You tiredly pull the strap of your small tan satchel off of your shoulder and set it on your little table. A long, exhausted sigh rattles your bones and your eyelids feel like stones as you run your hands over your hair before they link behind your neck, cradling the tense muscles there.

“Well, I guess this is it,” you mutter to yourself. You’ve made your decision and set things into motion. You turn about and survey your belongings, noting that you’ll have to discreetly start to pack to avoid causing a scene. Fortunately, you don’t have much to begin with.

You don’t notice it at first. But then, you catch it out of the corner of your eye. Something sitting on your cot. You do a double-take as you instantly recognize the wooden box. Suddenly, it’s like seeing a ghost and having the wind knocked out of you. Your eyes go wide before arching in confusion. You gingerly walk towards your cot and slowly lower yourself to sit, eyes glued to the item as if afraid to touch it, lest it not be real at all. Eventually, your trembling hands reach out and set the box on your lap, hesitating before you open it. Your fingers hover over the woodgrain, gently tracing along the smooth surface. Slowly lifting the lid, you let out a small gasp, your hand springing up to cover your mouth, as tears begin to gather in the corners of your (y/e/c) eyes.

Fingers that continue to slightly shake trace over the contents inside the box, items that you remember with such fondness. It’s as if a hundred butterflies are swarming inside you right now, their gossamer wings fluttering against your sides to escape.

The pads of your fingertips slowly rub over the polished surface of the pocket watch before you collect it into your fingertips. The silver is cool and comforting to the touch. A vision of your father’s hands with his long, slender fingers holding it instantly pops into your mind, as he used to absentmindedly fidget with it whenever his hands sat idle.

Setting the watch back down, you then move to pick up your mother’s locket and affectionately rub the silver charm between your thumb and fingers. The etching has worn over the years, as she never took the piece off, but the tiny emerald chip that is inset on the front still gleams like a new spring leaf.

But it’s the photo of your parents that puts you over the edge. You smile to yourself as you stifle a slight sob as you look upon the faces of your family, faces that you never thought you’d look upon again. Your heart is overwhelmed with both sadness and joy at the same time.

You simply sit and stare at the print in your hands, soaking in their images as if searing it into your brain once more. You pour over every detail of your parents’ faces, gazing at their features, silently saying hello to long-lost loved ones. You close your eyes as you gently cradle the image to your chest over your heart as a single tear breaks free from your lashes and gently rolls down your freckled cheek.

Suddenly, your eyes fly open as you realize that you have no idea how the box got here. Well, you have a suspicion. Damn him! This is the very shit that drives you insane. What in the hell are you supposed to make of this, now?

Sniffling back your emotions, you quickly put the contents back into the box, carefully setting it back down onto your pillow. With a fire in your stomach, you rush out of the tent and briskly walk to the center of camp where everyone is sitting.

“Where did that box in my tent come from?” Your eyes dart around the circle of gang members, waiting for someone to confess. Your slight frame just vibrates with energy right now, wound up like a hornet.

“What are you talking about, (Y/N)?” asks Abigail, looking up at you from her seat at the fire.

“The wooden box in my tent,” you clarify, tossing a finger back behind you towards your personal area. “Who brought it here?” Your eyes flash like fire as you scan the small crowd gathered around, demanding an answer. “Who?”

“I did,” admits Arthur quietly from where he’s sitting on one of the crates. He finishes his cigarette, tossing the butt to the ground as he stands. “I know you’ve been unhappy, missing your family and all. So I thought I’d see if I could find something of theirs for you.”

You stand silently, your eyes locked onto Arthur, not really sure what to say. What in the actual hell is happening right now?! Damn him. Yet another example of mixed signals and confusing cues. Your head spins and feels like it will explode from trying to figure this out, taking your heart along with it.

“That’s where you’ve been all this time?” asks Mary-Beth, looking at Arthur. “You rode all the way back to Rosewood?”

Arthur nods in confirmation, but when he takes note of your hard and intense gaze on him, he’s not sure what to make of it. Uncomfortable under your stare, he tilts his head down with the brim of his hat covering his face and eyes again.

“I can’t believe you did that,” says Abigail, shocked.

You have been quietly watching Arthur during this exchange, but he won’t look at you now. He can’t get a read on your reaction. You almost seem…angry? But truth be told, you kind of are. You have already made up your mind to go. It was an agonizing decision to make, but you have finally made it and already started the difficult mental process to sever your ties here. You have already put your plans in motion to leave the gang. And now this.

And then suddenly, your whole body relaxes in defeat. Your face twists into something almost akin to exhausted disappointment as you simply give in under a wave of emotion. Like you had said to Hosea earlier, you are done with the fighting.

A measured sigh escapes your lips. You slowly, but deliberately, begin to walk over towards Arthur. You don’t break stride, but silently walk right up to him. He looks up at you, flinching slightly as you get closer, as if he expects you to slap him. (You've been so angry at him lately, it wouldn’t surprise him if you did.)

Without hesitation, you firmly cup Arthur’s face with both of your hands, squeezing just a bit so that he can’t run away from you. And you pull him down to you and kiss him deeply in front of everyone in the camp.

You kiss him without warning or permission, and without premeditation, simply because you can’t fathom doing anything else at this very moment.

Time stops the moment your lips touch his. Everything goes silent and dark like the vast universe filled with its blanket of stars. The only thing that registers to you is the feeling of Arthur in your hands.

In the background, there are hoots and hollers, clapping and cheering. John leans into Uncle exclaiming “Told you!” and elbows the older man in the ribs, who reluctantly hands John $5 out of his pocket.

After several moments of your heated lips pressed against his, you release Arthur’s cheeks and tightly wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders, pulling him to you in a strong embrace, unwilling to let go of him just yet.

Arthur’s hands land softly at your waist as he hides his face into your neck. A tidal wave of relief washes over him, crashing down all in one fell swoop. You are not mad at him anymore. You are not leaving. And he has you in his arms where you belong. Finally.

Arthur slowly pulls back from you, searching for any misgivings. But to his relief, he is only met with the sunshine of your face. There are a million things that he wants to tell you, as the words he hasn’t said all this time are the very ones you need to hear. But it’s not the type of thing he wants an audience for, as he’s suddenly very aware of where the two of you are right now.

His hand lifts from your hip to wrap around your bicep, his thumb drawing over the muscle as he leans in closer to you. His gaze briefly sweeps over the small group of onlookers before coming back to you and whispers “Wanna get out of here and go someplace more private to talk?” His gravelly voice is soft and quiet for only you to hear as the lines around his eyes wrinkle delightfully with a smile.

“More than anything.” Your large doe-eyes shine up at him along with a smile that beams back brightly. Arthur grins, his hand now moving to caress your cheek, reassuring both you and himself that this is really happening.

“C’mon,” he encourages you with a slight head tilt. And with his hand at the small of your back, he gently nudges you away from everyone else.

You both abruptly turn away from the group of gawking eyes and giggling whispers to head towards the horses, walking shoulder to shoulder. You catch each other’s gaze shyly, a few giggles of your own erupting from your lips. When your hands casually brush against each other’s, you reach over and take Arthur’s large hand into yours, wrapping your delicate fingers around his. Arthur looks down at the sight of your hands entwined. He lifts your hands up to his lips and places an ever-so soft kiss along the backs of your fingers, making you catch your breath for just a moment over such a simple, yet affectionate gesture.

Buck is already saddled, and Arthur is too impatient to wait to saddle Blue, so he carefully lifts you up onto the back of his horse before he swings himself up as well. And the two of you head out of camp together.

As Buck quickly sets himself into a brisk canter, you wrap your arms around Arthur’s waist, pressing your torso against the warmth of his back. The bulk of him is just so comforting to you. Sure, you’ve ridden together like this before, but now there is a profound difference in the way your arms settle around him. Your face sets upon his back between his shoulder blades as you close your eyes and smile blissfully. Arthur hums contently in response, laying his own strong hand along yours as they link across his ribs in front of him.

Arthur decides to take you to your favorite hunting spot that the two of you like to use. It is nestled deep in a thicket of dense forest, about twenty minutes outside the camp, and there’s an old trapper-style, lean-to shelter there.

It’s quiet out as the sun starts to set, and the only sounds in the woods are the chattering of the squirrels and squawking of the birds as you reach your destination. Arthur pulls Buck to a halt at the edge of the trees, his watchful eyes quickly scanning the camp to make sure it’s safe before letting you down. He’s waited this long for this moment, he just wants everything to be perfect.

“Stay here a minute while I take a quick look around. Let’s make sure no one else is holed up here,” he says over his shoulder. Arthur dismounts, pulling his revolver from his holster as he walks about the small make-shift camp. You happily watch him move about, your cheeks dusting with color at how protective he is of you. Your bottom lip folds up between your teeth in quiet excitement, hardly able to contain yourself in anticipation of finally being alone together with all that previous nonsense now removed.

After he walks the perimeter and deems it safe for you, he waves you over. You flick your heels to nudge Buck forward a few paces until you are now in the middle of the camp. Arthur walks over, reaching his hands up to you to help you down from the back of the horse. His hands tenderly find your hips and your own hands find his broad shoulders as he lowers you down. Your eyes never leave his face, causing him to blush under your longing gaze.

He gives you an awkward grin and a brief chuckle as he walks Buck over to the side of the small clearing, tying him to a tree for the time being. You stand perfectly still in anticipation, watching his every move, until he walks back to you, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“So…” Arthur stands in front of you, taking off his hat and playing with the brim nervously, not really sure what to say or do now.

“So...” you grin at him with a little shrug. “Here we are. Finally.” You step closer to him, smiling coyly.

You stand there, staring into each other's eyes, knowing that this is the turning point. Whatever happens after this moment, move forward or walk away, it changes the relationship forever. There is no going back to what you were before. That’s not even an option anymore. One way or another, it's going to change for the two of you.

Arthur replaces his hat back upon his head, freeing his fingers which fidget nervously as they find their way to your hips again and slowly pull you in closer to him. Your palms come to rest softly on his chest as you look up adoringly into his crystal-blue eyes.

”Kiss me, Arthur.” Your angelic voice is a yearning whisper that dances in his ears, making his heart skip a beat.

He cups your face with his right hand, drawing his thumb along your check bone. The skin there is oh so smooth, like porcelain. His other hand wraps around your bicep as your own hands still sit upon his chest, resting right over his heart. Your fingers play gracefully with the fabric of his worn shirt, causing goosebumps to ripple across his skin underneath. He slowly dips his head down, his lips hovering close to yours before he presses them together.

The kiss is soft at first. And his lips are just as you imagined. Although slightly chapped, the skin is soft as flower petals, the muscles strong underneath, as his mouth encompasses your own.

The kiss isn't too long, just enough to indicate the romantic intent behind it. He pulls back from you and notices that your eyes are still shut, savoring the moment. Your lids are slow to flutter open and peer up into his vivid eyes, which are staring expectantly back at you and waiting for some sign of doubt or regret. But to his relief, he finds none.

When Arthur sees your smile rise up like a sunrise over the horizon, shining its light and warmth upon everything in its path, he rapidly pulls you in for another kiss. He’s desperate not to hurt or offend you, but when your mouth opens slightly, working over his own, and your tongue pushes across in search of his, sweeping across his plump bottom lip, he reciprocates, suddenly hungry and needy. His hand moves from your cheek to cradle the back of your head while his other arm snakes around your waist to pull you tighter against him.

He should feel ashamed at how he holds your hips to his own, but Arthur is feeling selfish right now, giving in to his own desires for once. Your own hands fist around the soft cotton of his shirt, greedily pulling him down to you. You push your hips into his, desperate to be as close to the man as you can get. The symphony of heaving breaths and the wet sound of lips rolling over each other fills the air. A soft whimper, a barely audible moan, delightfully escapes your chest like a bird freed from its cage.

Your heart leaps at how there is such a fine line created between love and madness with just a simple thing as a kiss. You are a bit of a hungry, hot mess inside, aching impatiently for him, waiting for his hands and lips to begin to roam your skin and curves. But yet, you also adore how focused those same hands and needing lips slowly knead and nip at your tender, soft flesh right now.

Arthur’s fingers clench slightly with restraint at the nape of your neck. When you both reluctantly pull away from each other to fill your lungs with air again, he leans his forehead to yours, eyes closed to regain composure. He exhales slowly, shuddering just slightly with measured breaths.

“I want you.” His voice, low and hungry, yet definitive, cuts through the warm air between you. He needs you to hear it, but more importantly, he needs you to know it.

A soft laugh of relief huffs quietly out of your nose at the statement. You smile slightly, so happy to finally hear him say the words out loud after all of this time.

“I want you too, Arthur,” you breathlessly whisper. You lift your face away from his to look into his alluring eyes again. “So very much.”

He searches your features, digging deep, for any last minute hesitation. When he sees none, Arthur kisses you yet again, this time passionate, but not as desperate. His large hands find their way to your back as he pulls you into him even tighter than before, wrapping you up against him. You can feel his hand splay-out under your shoulders, while the other trails down towards the small of your back.

The feeling of his wide and strong body against yours makes your knees weak, and heat begins to build in your abdomen. Your arms rush to extend past his barrel-chest and over his shoulders to fold around his neck, matching the force Arthur is using to keep you close. Your arm curls up to cradle his head, fingers entwining in his hair, which feels like heaven to him. While your other arm moves to firmly wrap around his shoulders, your lips never part. Arthur notices how your knee bends slightly to scissor between his thighs.

The two of you stay like this for several heated moments, finally taking the time to feel one another, to experience what you have both been sorely longing for all this time.

The connection is massive and electric; it’s almost oppressive, making it hard for you to breathe. This feels different than it did previously. Before, it was a sweet longing, yet held back by the tethers of impropriety and notions of “never-to-be”. But now those ropes of restraint have been cast off, tossed to the wayside, allowing free-reign for you both to push the limits and boundaries. A herd of wild horses couldn’t pull the two of you apart right now. Arthur would sooner lose his hand than release his grasp of you. And you would rather be blinded than gaze at anything other than his handsome face at this moment.

When he pulls away again, you chase his lips with a pout, clearly not wanting the intimacy between you to stop. Arthur smiles down at you, gently moving a piece of your hair out of your eye with his fingertip.

“I’ll get a fire going. Why don’t you get the bedroll from my saddle and get comfortable, hmm?”

*I’ve seen this image posted in multiple places on Pintrest. I tried to track down the owner, but can’t locate him. If anyone knows @bushcraft_jack, let me know!

A/N: Sorry if this one does not have the spark that the previous 2 did. But, I think you all know what’s coming next. Stay tuned for Part 4.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader fluff

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anachilles · 5 months

Note

[INJURY]: after having been badly wounded themselves, the sender tries to reassure the frantic receiver by cupping their face and comforting them.

Oh my god I love this prompt list! Requesting ^ with Gale and John if you’d like to write it ☺️

same, buddy! and i'd love to. hope you enjoy this one! 🫶 -> prompt lists i'm currently accepting requests from: [ x ] [ x ] <-

“Holy Mary Mother of God! Buck, are you hit?! Are you hit?!” Curt screeched from the co-pilot seat, having just been thrown sideways with the great lurch the plane gave as the other man momentarily lost control of the craft.

For a single heart-stopping second, Gale presumed that he had been.

It sounded cliché to say so, but the burst of firepower, hot on the heels of Curt’s frenetic “Fighter, 10 o’clock!” warning, truly did feel like it came out of nowhere. They weren’t far off the chosen industrial targets in Abbeville, and had gotten eerily lucky with the flak up to that point, a couple of solid knocks but no major casualties or issues reported from the crew. For all intents and purposes, it should’ve been a clear run to the IP.

Whatever Luftwaffe pilot, speeding down from the clouds above, that happened to catch an opening to get a lucky shot in at the side of their fort, however, had other ideas. When all's said and done, it could’ve been worse; the couple of bullets that actually made impact having just about caught the metal frame bracketing the port-side window rather than shooting straight through the window itself. But all the same, the pane still shattered in a blinding spray inward. His reflexes quick, Gale had managed to duck his head and avoid the worst of it, but…

“Oh, God” Curt squeaked out, the last of the colour draining from his face when Gale turned to look at him.

Although in reality only taking place over the course of a couple of seconds, it stretched on what felt like several minutes when he saw it in his peripheral vision, swallowing down the wave of nausea that threatened to break over him at the realisation of the little shard lodged into the corner of his forehead through the lined leather of his flight cap. As if he’d needed to see it to activate the relevant neural pathway, only then did he feel the warm, sudden wetness of blood on his face, soaked into his bangs where they were flattened against the cap.

Alright, turned out he was hit.

Beneath the rush of blood in his ears, the roar of the engines, and the rattling of the ship's frame, he was distantly aware of a frantic flurry of chatter in his ear over the radio, but for that little pocket of a few moments it may as well have been miles away.

“Major Cleven, are you hit?!” “Is Cleven down?!” “Bombardier to pilot, what the hell’s going on up there? Curt, is Buck hit? Over.”

Disregarding the demand of the voices echoing in his own headset, “A-Are you okay?” Curt stuttered, blatantly making a real effort to look him in the eye and not at the shard just above his eyeline, whilst still keeping one eye on the sky in front of them as Gale remained holding the fort steady.

Gale blinked hard, and allowed himself half a moment to consider it, taking brief stock of all his senses. Could he see? Yeah. Hear? As much as he could before over the general racket of piloting this thing. His cognition seemed to be fine beyond the shock, his hands were trembling a little, but they were still held firm on the yoke with a mindless but steeled determination. The adrenaline was clearly preventing him from feeling any sort of immediate pain from the wound beyond the sticky dampness of the blood that...

...he also realised had stopped actively flowing. Long-forgotten lessons from first aid classes ranging from his Boy Scout days right up to mandatory medical training through basic and at flight school flashed through his mind with a violent jolt. The shard mustn’t have lodged too deep, the cap likely softened the impact a great deal, and the wound must've already started coagulating around it, like a stopper in a bathtub plughole. He just could not take it out, despite how every natural instinct he possessed screamed and banged from the box he'd locked them up in in the back of his mind to get it the hell out.

Surprisingly, he surmised he actually was okay, relatively speaking. Enough so to get them to the target and with as much chance of getting them back as he ever did.

With a deep, fortifying breath and a hard swallow to push down what remained of the urge to panic, Gale engaged his radio, addressing the entire crew. “Pilot to crew, I’m fine, boys,” he reported, willing his voice into the steadiness that the rest of the men had come to expect from him. “Mission continues as normal. ETA, um… 15 minutes or so to the target, so bombardier, standby.”

Curt was looking at him, pale faced and wide-eyed, like he’d lost his mind, but there was no time to argue about it, as enemy fighters continued to dog what was left of their formation on the approach to the target.

What else could Gale do, though? What other option even was there for him other than to bear down and carry on, especially when he was physically able to do so?

So they carried on, only a little bit chillier and more blustery than they were used to thanks to the broken window.

"It's probably good I get a spot of fresh air, all things considered..." Gale had tried to joke at one point, when he feared the stony silence after all of the commotion was getting to Curt. He didn't seem to like that one, though.

"Yeah, well, crack open a window next time rather than have it shot through."

They did eventually make it to Abbeville, they hit their targets, and then by some miracle limped their way home back across the Channel, through more Kraut fighter fleets and a floating minefield of flak. All the while, Buck grit his teeth against the constant, corroding paranoia about moving too fast, knocking his head on something, forgetting it was there in all his blind determination to get the job done and get them back, or accidentally jolting the shard, goading it to shift and allow it to start bleeding again, properly this time.

The wary, concern-filled glances Curt kept sending his way, even as he was clearly doing everything he could not to throw Buck off his rhythm, weren’t helping. They just kept reminding him that it was there, something sticking out of his goddamn head that wasn’t meant to be there.

That thought became more and more pervasive, growing vines and burying deep into his subconscious the closer they closed in on the Thorpe Abbotts runway, unable to be avoided now even if he tried as the ache gradually started to set in. Gale wasn’t the squeamish sort, but even he couldn’t help the queasy feeling as he went through the motions of the landing procedures. Every time he shifted now, he felt it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Curt reach for the little pocket where they kept the flares.

By some miracle they’d had no other significant casualties.

“Don’t bother with a red flare, Curt” Gale said, steadfast gaze fixed on the runway as it grew closer below them.

Curt froze, his hand slowly retreating from the pocket, looking at him like he had three heads. “You’re kidding me, right? You're as white as a sheet.”

Gale winced and let out a pained huff of a breath, the wound twinging as the altitude dropped on the descent. “Some of the other boys got chewed up rightly out there. Clearly, I’m surviving here. They need the priority for triage.”

“Major,” Curt said, tone imploring and although referring to him by rank, it was imbued with an unmistakable, desperate kind of affection. But Gale just didn’t have the capacity for it right now, to think about anything other than getting them on the ground after getting them this far. He’d apologise for any liberties of manner later. Later, later, later…

“Look,” he snapped, voice rigid and brittle. “I’m landing this damn plane, and then I’m gonna get up and walk off it of my own volition. Is that understood?”

Curt looked momentarily surprised, and like he wanted to put up a bit more of a fight about it, but it must’ve been clear either in his expression or tone that Gale wasn’t for having his mind changed. Curt gave up with a dissatisfied huff, settling back down into his seat.

“Pilot to crew, prepare for landing. We’re home, boys. Over.” Gale said, hands shaking but sure of themselves as he went and landed the damn plane.

With a shard of his port-side window lodged in his head.

There was blessed finality in the sensation of rock solid tarmac under their wheels as they taxied into their ship's designated spot, and Gale resigned to let himself sit in that for a little bit, breathing, breathing, trying to get his bearings about him as well as letting all the other men clamour out first.

With the crushing weight of duty and the mission and getting the boys back safe above all else lifted from his shoulders, it quickly relocated itself to right on top of his chest, that sickly, queasy feeling trickling back in until the trickle became a flood and it started pooling in his stomach. He realised was cold all over, but all clammy at the same time. He didn't want to get up, was starting to fear it, not trusting his feet under his own weight, but he knew he couldn't just sit there.

"You go on Curt," he drawled out, just as final as the Earth under their landing gears, but... Curt being Curt, who'd pointedly lingered behind as the other men departed, gave him an incredulous look. "I'm right behind you," Gale insisted.

He went, albeit muttering 'crazy son of a...' under his breath, and then louder, "I'm waitin' outside, y'know!"

Gale knew there was going to be a whole big to-do when he did emerge, even just the thought of the flap and attention itching uncomfortably under his skin before it'd even happened yet. Christ, when Bucky sees him like this...

Gale hoped like hell he hadn't landed yet, that he could slip away to med without him having to see.

God his head was hurting now.

Sucking in a lungful of air, he forced himself to stand through the light-headedness, forced himself out of the cockpit and out the hatch, down onto the tarmac under overcast British skies through the dark spots that were dancing around in front of his vision. The world grew fuzzier around him with the harshness of the drop down, the organised chaos of ambulances and shouting and bodies running to and fro suddenly sounding far away, like he was listening to it with his ear pressed up against a door that separated him from it.

Gale bit back a heave and tried to put one foot in front of the other, in what direction and with the intention of going where he didn't quite know (he just needed to go, he knew that much), swaying a little until a hand caught him under the forearm. He turned his head to see where the hand came from, who it belonged to. Instead, he caught a slightly warped, blurry reflection of himself in the shiny metal of the fort's shell in between the flak holes, actually saw with his own two eyes the piece of that plane stuck in him, melding itself with his flesh, making itself a part of him. He dropped down onto his knees then, falling under the weight of some invisible force acting against him as the last of the blood in his head drained away.

With seemingly one part of his fortitude giving up the ghost, others took that as the cue to follow, his stomach finally committing to rebelling properly, as he promptly fell forward onto his hands and vomited down onto the asphalt.

*********

"Ooooh, Jesus" Bucky had winced in sympathy as he inched the yoke a little to the right, adjusting them so they were properly in line again where they were supposed to be in the formation (he could always tell - just knew in his gut - when they weren't properly positioned), his gaze cast out the window and down to the left. "Who's fort was that? That hit looked nasty."

He'd heard the garbled "Fighter, 10 o'clock!" from one of their gunners and snapped to look, but by the time he had it had already swooped down and set upon one of the ships below, the fort lurching in an all too telling way that whoever was piloting it was in some sort of trouble. In the next second it was gone though, zipping away to circle back around again and likely have another go.

Beside him, Brady paused for what felt like a deliberately extended few seconds, like he knew the answer to the question but was still considering his words and if he really wanted to say them. The nosedive Bucky's heart took down to his stomach started before Brady had even had the chance to grit them out as his eyes remained scanning the horizon.

"That's, uh... Cleven and Biddick, I think," he said, in that plain, no-nonsense way of his that Bucky actually to some extent appreciated most of the time.

He hated when they assigned Buck and Curt to the same goddamn plane. Like they deliberately placed all of Bucky's eggs in one tiny, fragile, threadbare basket that was ready to come loose at the seams any second.

His jaw tense, Bucky chanced another look down at the fort in question, safe in the knowledge Brady was watching the rest of the skies while Bucky watched out for them, unable to leave it alone until he could see with his own two eyes they were alright. The knot in his chest loosened to find that they'd seemed to quickly correct course. Brady's eyes followed his own, leaning over a bit as he strained to get a look.

"I think they're fine though, Major. Looks like they mustn't have hit anything important."

Bucky allowed the reassurance of that to wash over him, tide him over for the time being, if only for the sake of being able to focus back in on the mission. Buck and Curt, they hadn't dropped out of formation, they were keeping pace, they hadn't radioed any of the other crews for assistance, their engines weren't trailing any smoke. All signs pointed to them being okay. He could live with that. He'd have to.

*********

The world around Gale was muted and muffled like he was hearing it from underwater, narrowed down into a single point like he was trying to look through the eye of a pin as he tried to catch his breath after heaving up his breakfast. The chill he'd felt creeping in before was now permeating his bones, his teeth beginning to chatter with it. His head was killing. He wanted to stand up, to move away from all the commotion, but the strength it would have taken for him to do so seemed to have abandoned him.

As if in slow motion a pair of legs came into view from the corner of his eye. He couldn't hear the stamp of the boots against the ground but it was almost like he could feel them reverberate through the tarmac they were hurtling towards him so fervently. That's when he knew who it was, and all at once the thick fog of the disorientation began to clear, Bucky's stricken face coming sharply into focus, bringing the chaos of the world around them with it. He wasn't sure whether the ache he felt was distress or relief.

"Bucky..." he murmured dumbly, uselessly, his name the only word clear in his mind as he tried to will his tongue to conjure the right words, whatever they were, as the other man immediately fell to his knees beside him. Gale lazily followed Bucky's eyes as they scanned his body first and then his face. He was able to pinpoint the moment he must've forced himself to look at the head wound, take necessary stock of it, all that blood, his nostrils flaring, breath catching in his throat as his complexion paled to a sickly greenish-white. Now he looked like wanted to throw up.

In the next breath though, one strong, decisive hand found purchase in between Gale's shoulder blades, rubbing gently in precaution, though the gagging had now stopped. When he yelled out into the crowd, it came out rough and strangled. "We need help over here!", and sent a couple of the younger lieutenants running. The other hand pressed gently then into the centre of Gale's chest, pulling him back so that he was leaning onto the support of Bucky's body.

"How the hell did you manage that, huh?" Bucky stammered out through breaths that were coming quicker and quicker, gesturing vaguely to it, his gaze flitting between the crowd rushing around in front of them and Gale's face. He'd had to strong-arm himself into looking just a minute ago, now he couldn't seem to look away from the angry red outline around the embedded crystal shard, the dried up blood tacky and dark crimson where it stained down the side of his face, his nose, soaked into the once fair strands of his hair.

Head injuries always bled much more than they were worth, somewhere just unreachable they both knew that, even the most superficial of flesh wounds likely to give most people a scare at first glance. But Bucky looked like his very foundations had been shaken.

Knowing he needed to do something, but clinging onto what little thought he had left in the moment for relative propriety, Gale hooked a hand around Bucky's forearm where it was still crossed against Gale's chest, giving it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. "Bucky, I'm fine, I promise," he said, voice gravellier than he would have liked.

The other man nodded jerkily. "You're fine. Of course you are, why wouldn't you be? We're going to get someone over here," he echoed, raising his voice and projected it outwards, "...and then you're gonna be fine."

Gale could feel the other man's unsteady breathing in the uneven rise and fall of his chest against his back. He flexed his fingers, held tighter. "I'll have you know I got us to the target, back from France and got two wheels down on that very runway like this; I'm fine now," he insisted, faux-annoyed and trying for humour to snap him out of it, soothe his nerves. But it clearly didn't help none, a crease of worry just crossing Bucky's face before he looked back out again into the distance, eyes slightly wild, waiting for someone, anyone to emerge from the pandemonium. To fix this.

Pulling himself up a little so he was sitting up straighter, Gale twisted round in the other man's hold. It was lost on him in the moment just what violence was apparently necessary to make what they were doing now acceptable in the eyes of society rather than repugnant. It was something he'd ponder later, when he had little else to be doing than laying up in the infirmary. Now though, he brought a still-trembling (but still equally sure) hand to cup Bucky's pallid cheek in his palm. He even dared, in a beat of pure uncharacteristic recklessness and capitalising on the chaos, to swiftly swipe his thumb across the handsomely sharp angle of Bucky's cheekbone.

Gale's gaze snared Bucky's in his own in that moment, refused to let it go in the name of sitting down, shutting up, and listening to him.

"John," he damn near pleaded, his voice low and slow, heavy with purpose and meaning, leaving no room to be denied or argued with. Miraculously, it seemed to cut through, go some way to grounding him, the frantic edge of Bucky's movements suddenly sanded down, right down to the sharp swivel of his eyes up, then down, then up, and back down again. "It's all going to be okay. Trust me."

Bucky was powerless to do anything but nod in his palm, just about restraining himself from pressing a most definitely and irrefutably improper kiss to the centre of it, before Gale lowered his arm once more, robbing him even of the chance to ruin them both. Spoilsport.

Somewhere in the not too distant future, when he was feeling more himself, Gale would look back on this and be mortified at the scene he was causing; the dramatics. Half-fainting, on his hands and knees heaving on the ground on account of a non-fatal injury while other men were being pulled from their forts with limbs missing, flesh torn apart, maimed irrevocably.

It felt like both seconds and hours, though it was likely only minutes, before Curt, who'd promptly disappeared as soon as he arrived by Gale's side, returned with an ambulance crew. The sight released a shuddering breath from Bucky he hadn't even seemed to know he'd been holding.

"Look, if there are other guys worse off needing help, I can hang in here-" Gale dared to start from below his chin, ever the martyr, only to be unceremoniously cut off by a much more robust, bordering on menacing bark from above. Gale wasn't sure whether the tone was meant for them, or him.

"Get over here, now."

#clegan #buck x bucky #masters of the air #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #is this anatomically or physically realistic in the slightest? probably not #but i had a lot of fun writing it so maybe the believability was simply the friends we made along the way<3 #idk if you've picked up on this but i really do just be italicizing stuff for the craic. based on vibes and vibes alone.#if i accidentally randomly switched a POV out of nowhere i'm sorry i'll probably do it again #me when i can't decide whether to jump inside and knaw on buck or bucky's brain #my writing

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