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bvidzsoo · 1 year ago

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Love Me Like A Rockstar (1)

ー☆ Chapter 1: The death of peace of mind

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: Song Mingi x female reader

ー☆ Warning: light cursing ー☆ Word count: 6.9k ー☆ Genre: university!au, enemies to lovers!au, rockstar!au ー☆ Rating: sfw ー☆ Summary: Love. You wanted none of it. You had already been heartbroken very badly once, you didn't wish to go through that ever again. But the Universe works in intricate ways and, somehow, you found yourself webbed up in a local rockstar's life, Song Mingi. He was everything you expected him to be, yet nothing like you imagined him he would be. What happens when you find mutual understanding and have heartful conversations? Will he be able to break down your walls? Will you be able to chase away his darkness?

A/N: Hii, first chapter is out, hope you all enjoy it! I hope the lyrics aren't confusing, I went ahead and tried out something new with this story, hopefully it's as enjoyable as I planned it out to be. Please do check the playlist as it'll be updated with each chapter and I also advise you listen to the song before or while reading the chapters, it'll have a different feel. Taglist is open, thank you for showing interest! Please leave feedback and enjoy now!

Taglist: @orshii @lovely-red2 @juicy-red @scarfac3 @sunaswifes-blog

⟨Series M.list ⟩

♫Playlist♫

『I made another mistake

Thought I could change, thought I could make it out』

The rustle of paper, the zipping of a pencil case, the drying scent of freshly used paint, and the oily feeling on your fingertips after using acrylics, the slight burn against your middle finger after having held your pencil tightly for hours were all things I was used to, familiar with. I bit my lower lip as my eyes were stuck to my A5 sketchbook, the paper thick, entranced by the black charcoal forming a way too familiar shape. The outline of the person was dark, shadows creeping around his body, faceless. I didn’t have it in me to put too much detail into his face, my mind kept wandering. I was feeling slightly lost. The weather was getting worse day by day, the sky dark, casting a gloomy feel over our heads. It didn’t help that I haven’t slept well for three days in a row, but perhaps that had something to do with the full moon—or so my mother has said while cooking dinner yesterday.

A sigh left my lips as my fingers itched to trace another line against the paper, to perfect the stray strand of light-colored hair falling against the man’s forehead. My shoulders were hunched over and I only now registered the soreness in my neck and lower back, having been sitting at this stool for almost two hours now. When I was drawing, or painting, time seemed to fly by in a wink, leaving me completely oblivious to everything happening around me. It was a means to calm my mind, to soothe my feelings, and a means to existing without wondering, dwelling, or feeling the dread of not being good enough—and perhaps the worst thought which quite often recurred in my scattered mind was that I didn’t know what I would do with myself once I was done with University. Opening an art club for all the art lovers was a small step in feeling a little accomplishment, however, that would be gone as soon as I was out and away from this place. Who would take over then? Were there students who were interested enough, loved art enough, to continue the little legacy I would leave behind? Those were pressing questions in the back of my mind sometimes, and I knew I was worrying about insignificant things, but they felt very crucial to me. If I could leave a little piece of me behind everywhere I went, nobody would be able to forget me, right?

“Bye, Y/N!” The sudden chirping of my name combined with the greeting finally snapped me out of my thoughts and I looked up, a small smile forming on my lips as I waved at the leaving students. They weren’t my students per se, I was only an Art major, but I did view them as my little apprentices. They were ambitious and determined to learn everything they could, eager to contribute as much as they could. I appreciated their effort and felt glad that people like them existed, it gave me hope in humankind. Not that I had much with everything going on in the world, but I could only appreciate and admire those who found a little kindness in their hearts to share with others.

I finally felt like I was done with my drawing as I sat back, rolling my shoulders back and cracking my neck as the last few students left the room, leaving me alone with the approaching girl with a grin on her face. I turned my head and watched her as she giddily approached me, gripping her sketchbook to her chest.

“Wanna see?” She asked with a chuckle and I nodded with a smile, eyes falling on my best friend’s drawing. I instantly recognized the features of the older woman and I chuckled as I took in the smaller version of my best friend, grinning up at her mother as she held a little flower up to her. She never stopped amazing me with her beautiful creations, and I couldn’t help but clap for her briefly.

“This is gorgeous, Seulgi, I’m in love.” I said as I reached my hand out and lightly traced the leaves of the willow tree in the drawing, making my best friend grin happily. She had her hair down today, her black curls falling around her shoulders. Her hair has gotten long, but she didn’t want to cut it, said she liked it more like this. It did suit her and gave her a younger look; her colorful outfits complementing her personality and overall looks well.

“What did you draw?” She asked and I glanced over at my own drawing, sucking my lower lip between my teeth. I really shouldn’t have drawn him again, but doing so brought me comfort. It always did. Despite the heartbreak he left in his wake, Yunho was a person whom I have deeply loved and found shelter in once—my drawings of him only reflected that. I have anticipated Seulgi’s reaction as I took my sketchbook off from the drafting board, turning it around and letting her eyes rake over it as she sighed, giving me a slightly disappointed look as she placed one hand on her hip. I looked away and quickly closed my sketchbook, getting off the stool. My hips and back protested in pain as I stretched my arms overhead, letting out a groan when my stiff muscles strained and vertebras finally popped.

“I thought we agreed you would stop drawing Yunho…” Seulgi trailed off as she watched me start packing away my things into my dark green backpack. Oh, well, she certainly wasn’t wrong, but I got carried away today—I haven’t even realized I was drawing Yunho until I was done with the outline of his body.

“Uh, yeah,” I muttered slightly embarrassed as Seulgi shook her head and closed her own sketchbook, balancing on one leg as she unzipped her backpack and placed it against her thigh, “But we talked about the feeling of comfort today and a place or person whom makes you feel safe and—I got carried away, sorry.”

Seulgi gave me a sympathetic look as she had forced her sketchbook inside her backpack and lowered her leg, swinging her bag around her shoulders, “And you couldn’t have drawn you—mother? Or teddy bear from third grade?”

Her offhanded question made me chuckle as I looked at her amused, my backpack hanging off my shoulders as I only wore one strap.

“Mom would flip if I drew her and made even the smallest mistake. I’d rather avoid getting scolded about making her eyebrow darker than it actually is.” Seulgi and I shared a look before we both started giggling as I recalled the one and only time I drew my mother, swearing to never do it again as she found every single little detail wrong about her features, pointed them out to me, and then proceeded to ignore me for the next three days. Thinking back on it, it is a quite hilarious memory, but back in that moment she made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, talented enough, making me doubt my skills for a very long time. Until I met Seulgi and she started freaking out about my art, calling me phenomenal.

“Yeah, perhaps drawing your mom wouldn’t be the smartest, but seriously, Y/N, how long has it been?” Seulgi seemed to think for a second as we started for the door, “Five years? You certainly should be over Yunho by now.”

Hearing his name left a sour taste in my mouth even if it shouldn’t have. Despite the passing of years he somehow still made me feel bitter about everything that’s happened between us. I hate that feeling, but I couldn’t get rid of it and it was frustrating.

“I am over him.” I muttered as we left the art studio and I locked the door, making Seulgi hum next to me sounding not too convinced. I sighed and rolled my eyes as I pocketed the key, then we started walking down the empty hallway, headed for the exit.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” Seulgi decided to change the subject as she bounced on the balls of her feet, a huge grin appearing on her lips. I raised my eyebrows at her sudden excitement and thought for a second before I shook my head no. We turned the corner to the left, having arrived in the musical studies department. The hallway was littered with doors on both sides, which were studios for the music majors, private little rooms where they could record and write whatever songs they wanted.

“Cool,” Seulgi grinned and suddenly gripped my hand, her lips falling into a pout, eyes slightly widening. Oh, I knew what was coming next, yet her honey like tone still made me cringe, “Come with me to the Outlaw? Please?”

My eyebrows furrowed hearing the mentioned place. It was famous amongst our university’s students. It was a run down and cheap pub where degenerates gathered to have fun almost every night, drinking their night away, wasting their money and braincells on unimportant things.

“Why would I go there?”

“Because I’m asking?” Seulgi raised an eyebrow, “And because the Noir Zenith are playing tonight and I really want to go—”

“What is a Noir Zenith?” I asked confused, making Seulgi’s eyes widen to the point of bulging out. She looked funny as she let go of my hand and gasped as if I had sworn out her mother or someone she really cared about.

“It’s the coolest band from our university! Are you telling me you haven’t heard of them?” She asked outraged making me laugh, “I’m speechless.”

“Well, you know I don’t waste my time by drinking my sorrows away in a shitty pub surrounded by even shittier people who try to chase fame with scratchy and awful voices. Is the band made up by some music major students?”

“They do not have scratchy and awful voices, Y/N!” Seulgi looked outraged by this point, making me raise my eyebrows in surprise, “God, they are one of the best bands to ever exist—”

“Yeah, right,” I rolled my eyes as we entered the main hall of our university, “Go on and disregard all of the previous phenomenal bands to ever exist, nice one, Seulgi—wait, is this about Wooyoung? Didn’t you say he’s part of a band as well?”

At the mention of said boy all anger and incredulity disappeared from Seulgi’s face and she shrunk back, hiding her face behind her hair, “Yeah, he’s actually a vocalist of the band. Noir Zenith.”

“Oh,” Was all I could say as I watched her push her hair behind her ears, face almost as red as a tomato. I tried not to laugh at my best friend, her crush on the boy painfully obvious, “And I assume you want to go watch them perform tonight?”

Seulgi nodded wordlessly as she pushed open the double doors for us, “At Outlaw?”

She nodded again and I hummed, raking my brain for any plans I had made for tonight, but I found none. I had zero excuses to refuse Seulgi for so I glanced at her as we ascended the few stairs, licking my lips as I dwelled on the idea of being seen at such place. I mean, it couldn’t be that bad, right? After all, it was just a band singing from our university and I would be out of there the second they were done. That sounded pretty reasonable and alright to me, so I hummed, and smiled at Seulgi.

“What time?” Her eyes widened as she whipped her head towards me as we were headed to the bus station.

“Oh, my God!” She shrieked and flung herself at me, almost throwing us off balance, “You’re the best, I love you! Seven, you should be ready at six thirty, and I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive there together—oh, my God, I’m so excited! Wooyoung said they’ll be performing their newest song and he said it’s so fire! Mingi wrote the lyrics, and Wooyoung helped with the chorus, he actually showed me a snippet—do not tell Mingi that—and it was so good, oh, my God—I’m rambling, sorry, but you said yes and I just—”

Seulgi cut herself off with a shriek as she let go of me, leaving me partially deaf as her shrill voice rang through my right ear, making me wince. Of course, I wouldn’t tell Mingi, whoever that was.

“Alright, I’ll be done by six thirty.” I muttered as Seulgi skipped ahead, sitting on the bench by the bus stop, grinning from ear to ear as she took her phone out of her pocket, starting to type furiously. She was probably texting Wooyoung, but I couldn’t be too sure, they had periods when they would talk all day and night, and then periods when they would go radio silent for a week or so. Their relationship was interesting but Seulgi never talked too much about it, having once muttered that if she thought about Wooyoung for too long she’d fall for him—or something like that, I couldn’t be sure, Seulgi says a lot of things which she only half-heartedly means.

『Promises break, need to hear you say

"You're gonna keep it now"』

The pub was exactly like in the stories of others, and an exact replica of what I had in my mind. Which was bad, so being right here only made it worse as I allowed my eyes to travel to the ceiling, noticing all the uncovered pipes traveling above our heads. The lights were dim and there was almost like a light fog in the air, thankfully there weren’t any foul smells, like cigarettes or something else. The room was spacious, which was the only alright thing I could find about this place, as the walls were made of burgundy brick, a few falling out here and there. The dark wood floor seemed to be rotten in some places and I could only hiss as the front of my boots caught in an uneven plank, sending me slightly forward. Seulgi threw me an amused look before continuing her trot towards—I didn’t know where, but I decided to follow her blindly as I really wasn’t vibing with this place. Posters hung from the brick wall here and there and some graffiti covered it where the bar was. Chairs and tables were littered around the room, all looking quite old in age as I noticed one chair missing a leg, chuckling at the idea of someone toppling over once sitting on it. Seulgi gasped quite loudly and stopped walking for a second, making me crash into her back and throw her an unamused look as she swiftly turned around, lips pressed together and hands cupping her cheeks.

“Do I look alright, Y/N?” She blurted out, eyebrows furrowing, “Or am I too much? Do you think—did I totally miss the vibes with this outfit? I look ridiculous right now, don’t I—”

“No, Seulgi, you don’t.” I decided to cut off my best friend’s panicked rambling, placing my hands on her shoulders. I allowed my eyes to take in her outfit again and I smirked at her as we made eye contact. She was wearing black nylon bomber pants paired with fishnets which were peeking out above the waistband of her pants, her white crop top stopping at the middle of her torso. A black bomber jacket was thrown around her shoulders, matching her pants, and her white boots reached just underneath her knees. She had straightened her long hair and I helped her by making a smokey eye for her, accentuating the depth of her beautiful eyes, sharpening her stare. She looked absolutely gorgeous and I needed her to stop second guessing her outfit, “You look fucking hot and anyone in their right mind would want to devour you right now.”

“You included?” Seulgi flirted cheekily and I pretended to gag as I pushed her playfully away by her arms, making Seulgi laugh as she pushed her hair behind her shoulders, “Alright, I believe you.”

“Very well.” I grinned and allowed her to grip my elbow as the crowd was slightly denser here as we made our way towards the front of the room, headed to where the small stage was. I could see a drum set up on the dark stage, and suddenly I was veered to the left, almost getting whiplash by the force Seulgi pulled me after herself. I took in the people around me and decided that I definitely wasn’t part of this crowd, and it was showing. One, I was painfully sober and they weren’t; two, I certainly missed the point of this being a pub dominated by rock lovers, and my outfit had nothing to do with it. Against my better judgement, I have decided to wear a tight black skirt which barely reached the middle of my thighs, paired with high heel boots which reached my knees. A white tank top peeked through the burgundy long sleeved blouse I wore over it, having discarded my leather jacket in Seulgi’s car out of fear of losing it. All in all, the outfit was awesome, it’s just that it didn’t really match with the place in question I was at. I was slowly starting to regret coming here as we finally stopped walking and Seulgi’s hand, which brought comfort, disappeared from my elbow. I suddenly became aware that we have stopped by a table, and my best friend’s arms were around a guy’s shoulder as the two hugged each other—rather tightly, might I add. I allowed my eyes to fall on the guy and realized, only because Seulgi had shown me countless pictures of him, that it was Wooyoung. The only reason we were here, her crush. I tried to hide my snickering as they pulled away from each other and I have noticed Seulgi’s flushed cheeks, which was probably wise as Seulgi’s eyes were instantly on me, holding a warning in them.

“This is Y/N, my best friend.” She said sweetly as she lightly pushed Wooyoung towards me, “Y/N, this is Wooyoung the—vocalist and guitarist of Noir Zenith.”

“Cool name.” I muttered half-heartedly as Wooyoung extended his hand to shake, I was only speaking because I had to say something if I didn’t want to come off rude. A huge smile broke onto Wooyoung’s face at the praise of his band’s name and he eagerly shook my hand, making me force a smile onto my face when he held my hand for an unnecessary long time. The guy was just around my height and seemed to be buzzing with energy as he tapped his foot against the ground, sneaking glances towards Seulgi before finally facing her. His jawline was sharp and nose high as I took in his profile, his pretty eyes focused on my best friend. His hair was longer at the back and had two colors, black and blonde, it certainly didn’t look bad on him. He seemed to be the only one, besides myself, not dressed fitting for the place, and suddenly I didn’t feel as singled out as I had been moments prior, thankful for the light grey extremely baggy jeans littered with glitter he was wearing and for the grey and black faded out loose shirt hiding his frame. The front was slightly tucked in and a maroon belt held his pants to his hips, matching the color of his sneakers. The guy wore a few earrings and I just heard Seulgi complimenting them, making me chuckle. I knew she wanted to talk to him, so I didn’t bother them and instead looked around again, feeling slightly awkward, before I rested my gaze on the other two sitting at the table.

One guy was looking down at his phone, completely immersed by it as his long fingers were typing quickly, his wavy black hair falling into his eyes. He wore a very intricate white shirt, the material seemed to part at his shoulders and only covered his upper arm, cuffed and puffed out at his wrists, leaving the rest of his arms bare. A black corset like looking fabric was wrapped around his torso, stopping right below his chest and everything was neatly tucked inside black dress pants, an expensive silver chain hanging under the neckline of his shirt. The outfit was something I would’ve never thought of putting together, yet, it looked fabulous on the man and for a few seconds I found myself gawking at him. But I quickly caught myself and looked away awkwardly, hoping that nobody noticed my staring, instead, I found myself looking at the third guy, taking him in. His demeanor screamed confidence as he wore a smirk on his cherry red plush lips, jawline visibly sharp as his head was turned to the side, his nose tall and long. His tan skin glistened underneath the shitty lights of the pub, yet you were able to spot a few covered up blemishes around his jaw. His neck was heavily decorated with silver chains of various dimensions, a shinning silver pick dangling lower on his exposed chest as his black tank top was low cut and form fitting. The guy had a big midnight blue jacket over his frame and it had an interesting design, his jeans ripped at the knee and black like his tank top. Silver chain like bracelets wrapped around his wrists and I found my eyes drawn to his hands as he was pushing his glass from one hand to the other, fingers littered with smaller and bigger rings, the one with a red gem catching my eye. His nails seemed to have dirt scribbled over them, that is, until I looked harder and realized it was chapped black nail polish. I couldn’t deny how nice this guy looked and as I looked back up at his face, I found him looking back at me. My heart somersaulted but I played it off—hopefully my face really didn’t show any emotion—as I steeled my gaze and allowed blankness to settle over my features. His black hair was shorter and fell over his eyes, covering his forehead. The guy’s eyes were sharp and his gaze intimidating as his face remained unexpressive, features cold as he seized me up, suddenly the smirk back on his face. My eyes narrowed as the guy continued watching me smugly, and I just noticed the little something which looked like a smudge of something on his right cheekbone. Did he smudge dirt on it? Was he even aware that it was there? The possibility of him not knowing his perfect face was tainted brought a smirk on my lips and an eyebrow of the guy’s flew up, his gaze almost challenging as our stare down was abruptly stopped by a chair scraping backwards. My gaze went back to the very handsome man and I was surprised by the friendly gaze sent my way.

His features were soft yet sharp at the same time, his eyes big and warm as his lips were plump and looked soft. His skin was tan too and the highlighter reflected off his cheekbones, giving him an ethereal feel. There was a small piercing in his nose and I was slightly alarmed as he suddenly walked around the table, approaching my side. My body tensed and I glanced towards Seulgi, who was deep in conversation with Wooyoung. I assume these three must be friends since they were sitting at the same table.

“I’m Seonghwa, Wooyoung’s friend.” The guy finally spoke up, his voice was definitely softer than I expected it to be, and I reluctantly shook his extended hand.

“My name is Y/N.” I answered politely and retracted my hand from his as fast as I could. Seonghwa continued smiling as he looked towards Seulgi and his own friend, “Oh, uhm, I’m Seulgi’s best friend.”

“I figured,” He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. The aura this outfit gave him certainly didn’t match his current attitude, “Wooyoung mentioned Seulgi coming by and bringing her friend, it’s nice meeting you.”

“Oh, you too.” I offered him a lopsided grin and clasped my hands together in front of myself, Seonghwa’s demeanor not as off putting as most guy’s—or like the other guy’s who just stood up from the table and started approaching us. I watched him, eyes falling on him involuntarily as there was something about him which demanded attention as he came awfully close to Seonghwa and I, towering over the both of us. Seonghwa was a tall guy too, but this third guy’s height seemed to loom even over him, but I didn’t let that affect me in any way as I looked up at him with a bored expression.

“Found another little fan of ours?” I gulped at the hear of his voice, which somehow matched his face, it was deep and slightly raspy, however, the tone he used rubbed me the wrong way. My eyes narrowed at him and before Seonghwa could answer him, I fired an answer his way.

“A fan of yours?” I chuckled drily, “You certainly can’t be as self-centered as to think every female around a mile radius would instantly throw themselves at you, no?”

A beat of silence followed before Seonghwa started snickering, hiding his mouth by his hand as the other guy’s eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t look pleased by my question and he leaned down to be at the same height as me, gaze boring into mine. When his face was blank, his eyes seemed to get sharper and it somehow made my heartbeat pick up, but I ignored it. It was just the adrenaline, the annoyance, probably which threatened to seep through my bloodstream sooner than later.

“And who are you again?” The guy’s voice was quieter, dropped lower as he tried to belittle me with his stupid question, but I just rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Don’t think I introduced myself to you before,” I snapped and the guy clicked his tongue, “Who are you, first of all?”

“You don’t know who I am?” His eyebrows suddenly furrowed as confusion washed over his face and for a second—but just that one little second—I thought the guy looked cute as his features softened.

“No, I don’t.” Him lowering himself allowed me to see whatever that was on his cheekbone better, and I could make out that it was some sort of logo, however, I have never seen it before, “And you have some dirt on your face.”

I pointed at my own cheekbone and Seonghwa’s sudden loud laughter alerted Seulgi and Wooyoung as they finally seemed to realize there were others around them, especially me, as Seulgi quickly stepped close and gripped my shoulder.

“That’s not dirt!” The man exclaimed and for someone with such a deep voice, his tone went incredibly high, “That’s my signature, bro.”

“Okay, bro, you’re self-centered, like I said—” Before I could really go off on this guy Seulgi gasped and laughed loudly, awkwardly, as I threw her a small glare.

“Aren’t you two hitting it off right the bat?!” She tried to diffuse the tension as Wooyoung chuckled, amused by the situation as Seonghwa was grinning too, “Y/N, this is Song Mingi, the bass player, singer, producer, lyricist, founder of Noir Zenith—be nice.”

The last part was only whispered to me and my eyebrows furrowed as I looked back at this guy, Mingi, who stood back up straight and threw a glare my way as I scoffed, shrugging my shoulders, “What a waste of talent on such personality.”

Seulgi’s eyes widened to saucers as Wooyoung inhaled loudly before breaking out into an ear-piercing laughter, making me wince, while Seonghwa had to cover his mouth again as he threw his head back and laughed.

“Y/N—that’s—” Seulgi stammered but I hushed her and smirked up at Mingi as he seemed lost for words for a second before his eyes hardened and he pulled his shoulders back, jaw clenching.

“What are you doing here if you don’t even fucking care about our band?” He hissed and for a second the viciousness in his tone took me off guard, but I didn’t let it show as I wrapped my arm around Seulgi’s shoulder and pulled her into my side. She looked mortified and tried speaking again, but I beat her to it—to my pleasure.

“My lovely friend, Seulgi, dragged me here because her and Wooyoung are friends, happy?” I felt Seulgi slightly relax in my grip, but she still subtly poked my side harshly, making me bite my lower lip to keep the groan of pain inside. Wooyoung had stopped laughing, thankfully, and was looking very amused as he punched Mingi’s arm weakly.

“I think you got a little bit humbled, dude.” He whispered loudly—probably on purpose—and Seonghwa giggled again as he quickly adjusted the front pieces of his hair.

“Why would anyone who doesn’t even listen to us come here?” Mingi muttered more to himself as he turned around and sauntered off towards the bar, throwing a glare every so often my way, making me giggle as I found it amusing. Poor dude, couldn’t handle a little humbling, but he definitely needs it.

“Y/N is a little bit—of a bitch—ow!” Seulgi hissed as she rubbed the spot on her arm where I had punched her, “You didn’t let me finish! She’s a bitch, but she’s my bestie and she doesn’t mean harm. I’m sure you guys will charm her by the end of the night.”

Charm me my ass. Maybe Seonghwa and Wooyoung, Mingi not—for sure. Not now or ever. Not that there will be another time and another chance for him to do so.

『It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind

You're in the walls that I made with crosses and frames hanging upside down』

The music coming through the speakers shook the little pub as I sat at the table the three boys have claimed as theirs earlier. Seulgi was by my side, but she was standing up, and she was jumping to the beat, somehow knowing the lyrics to the band’s newest song. I had a feeling Wooyoung had shown her already everything, but she did ask me not to tell Mingi—to whom now I could associate a face—and I had no desire to speak to him ever again, so she really had nothing to worry about. I couldn’t help but admit that they were good—not that I would ever say that out loud, especially not to Mingi—as the rock music blasted from the stage, purple and white lights illuminating the boys. Mingi stood in the center as he gripped his microphone, face scrunched up and the veins on his neck straining as his raspy voice involuntarily covered my skin in goosebumps.

『For granted, in vain, I took everything I ever cared about』

My fingers were tapping the rhythm of song, chin placed on my palm as I rested my hand on the table, watching each boy with curiosity. They all seemed to have different personalities and styles, yet up on the stage, they blended together and they worked well. Their voices complimented each other, where’s Mingi’s was raspy and low and harsh, Seonghwa’s seemed to be lighter and raspier, but then Wooyoung would jump in and his was powerful and high, and yet it still felt like a soft caress of a whisper at times. Their outfits, despite being so different, also made them look exquisite and gave the band a special and unique touch. As I glanced around I noticed how taken everyone seemed by their music, hanging onto every note they played as Seonghwa played the drums at the left side of the stage and Wooyoung the guitar to Mingi’s right.

『I miss the way you say my name

The way you bend, the way you break』

Mingi was gripping his microphone as his eyes were closed and nose scrunched up, eyebrows furrowing as the words slipped through his lips smoothly, his raspy voice soft and tender, like a steady but soft caress of your cheek, the light flutter of your eyelashes as if he was right by your side, whispering the words to you, trying to seduce you.

『Your makeup running down your face

The way you fuck, the way you taste』

Suddenly his eyes flew open and he looked out onto the crowd, locking his gaze with mine. I was about to grab the glass of water and take a sip, but I froze as a smirk slipped onto his lips, mixing in with his voice and very obviously making him sound smug. My jaw clenched just as the people, especially the girls in the front row, started cheering loudly, enjoying Noir Zenith’s performance. I tried to convince myself that I was just imagining things, but I could’ve sworn Mingi’s gaze remained on me and only me, singing the words from deep withing his chest, all kinds of emotions and feelings plastered over his face as he took his microphone out of its stand and started walking around the stage, crouching down and pointing at the girls close to the stage.

『When the curtains call the time, will we both go home alive?

It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind

When the curtains call the time, will we both be satisfied?

It wasn't hard to realize love's the death of peace of mind』

They played two more songs after their newest, the crowd going wild as they sang along and I could feel all those unslept nights catching up as my eyes threatened to shut closed at any given time. Seulgi noticed and grew concerned, but I reassured her that I was only tired and would head soon home if she didn’t mind. She insisted I wait at least until the boys finish their performance in order to not be seen rude as I have, probably, already offended them. Not that I would mind, even though Mingi is the only one who actually deserves it.

Once they got off the stage everyone was swarming around them, congratulating them and offering them drinks, and I watched as Seonghwa kindly turned down all of them, meanwhile Mingi carelessly accepted almost all as Wooyoung was pushing his way through the crowd, eager to get back to the table. His cheeks were flushed by the time he reached us and Seulgi sprung onto her feet and went to hug Wooyoung but suddenly paused, looking awkwardly at her feet, until Wooyoung went and pulled her into his embrace instead. Seulgi’s face lit up and she started animatedly talking, but I couldn’t hear as the crowd was loud. Seonghwa seemed to be nowhere as Mingi managed to make his way through the crowd and now was grinning smugly at me, one eyebrow crooked as I rolled my eyes, still not impressed at all by him. He said nothing as he sat down next to me and took a sip of his drink, eyes falling on me. I could see him staring at me from the corner of my eyes, but I ignored him, and instead reached for Seulgi’s jacket to get her car keys so that I could fetch my jacket before leaving. As I felt around her pocket I became aware of two people towering over me as they had stopped behind my chair. I turned my head around and raised my eyebrows at the two girls as they were giggling, waiting for Mingi to notice them. And when he did, that irritating smirk was back on his lips and he greeted the girls with a wide smile, biting his lower lip as they started praising him.

“Mingi you are so cool!” The brunette exclaimed, grinning at him, “I swear to God, this new outfit concept is so hot on you.”

If I could, I would’ve died from the second-hand embarrassment these two girls were giving me, but instead, I decided to stay just a for a little bit longer and see what nonsense they manage to sputter so that I can use it against Mingi later.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you singing so passionately like tonight, Mingi, the new song is so good I’m already obsessed with it.” The blonde chimed in fast, throwing a slight glare towards the brunette. I guess the friendship between them flies out the window the second they step closer to a relatively attractive male—not that Mingi is attractive or good looking.

“Ah, you two…you always know how to flatter me.” I possibly have thrown up a little bit in my mouth because of Mingi’s sultry voice and narrowed eyes—he partially looked like he was about to pass out and partially like he would inhale one of the girls, if not both.

“You so deserve it, Mingi!” The blonde quickly exclaimed and placed a hand on his bicep, “Who is your new song about?”

My breathing faltered for a second as Mingi glanced my way, but then I threw him a glare and rolled my eyes, realizing this was our first time meeting. Why did I even think for a little second that the song could’ve been about me? That sounded crazy, and now I felt crazy as I shook my head and downed the glass of water I have abandoned like half an hour ago.

“Someone who won’t leave your mind and makes you want to crawl up the wall, thoughts filled with them, desiring them like no one else before.” Mingi’s voice dropped a few octaves and I couldn’t help but look over as I smirked, abruptly standing up.

“Oh, girls, not to disappoint but he’s said that to like—three other girls before you two, and I don’t think that’s entirely what the song is about. Or maybe Seonghwa was talking about another song…” In fact, I have lied. Mingi hasn’t talked to anyone since he sat down to the table, but the lie was worth it, because the girls expressions dropped slightly, “You know men are usually more desperate to get laid than women, I suppose it makes them say all kinds of things, doesn’t it, Mingi?”

Mingi’s jaw clenched as the two girls looked unsure as they looked back at him, and he chose to laugh it off as if I have said the funniest joke on Earth, leaning slightly forward as he looked up at me, “I suppose someone wasn’t really paying attention tonight to our performance.”

“Right,” I hummed and stepped around my chair, “I prefer listening to real bands and good music, not to some wannabes wailing to a crowd of drunken and high as fuck university students—have a lovely night!”

I only caught the irritated huff of air Mingi let out as I headed towards the bar, where Seulgi and Wooyoung were talking to some people I didn’t know. I didn’t want to disturb them for long, but I had to tell Seulgi I was leaving and would get my jacket before going home.

『You come and go in waves

Leaving me in your wake』

By the time I have gotten home it was very late and despite my body feeling tired, my brain was relentlessly swirling with thoughts and replaying tonight’s happenings, so after fifteen minutes of laying in bed and staring up at the dark ceiling I realized sleep wouldn’t come easy neither tonight. I sat up and turned on the lamp on my bedside table and grabbed my smaller and thicker sketchbook, flipping it open to an empty page. I sighed as I grabbed a pencil and pressed it against the paper softly, letting my wrist curve whichever way it wanted as I started doodling, humming to myself a melody which sounded slightly foreign yet somehow familiar. I knew I have heard it before, probably recently, but I couldn’t figure out just which song it was.

『You come and go in waves

Swallowing everything』

It didn’t take me long to have the outline of something, which was starting to look an awful lot like eyes staring back at me, and I continued tracing lines and shading in the spots where depth needed to be added. I licked my lips and narrowed my eyes as I pressed the pencil harder against the paper, tightening the frail lines and finalizing the quick drawing of the eyes. I extended my arm and stared at the eyes, which almost felt like they were glaring at me by how sharp its stare was, and my eyebrows furrowed as I realized the eyes looked nothing like Yunho’s. I couldn’t remember the last time when I drew anyone else that wasn’t Yunho and for some reason that scared me as my eyes bore into my drawing, my humming coming to an abrupt stop when I realized who’s song it was. Noir Zenith. And the drawing, the sharp and glaring eyes, were of Song Mingi’s. I gasped and without a second thought started scrawling at the drawing, heart racing and mind an awfully lot quiet. What was I thinking singing his song and drawing his eyes? But there it was, the answer, I wasn’t thinking. And I was sleep deprived. I needed to sleep, like right now. I threw my sketchbook to the floor and jumped back underneath my blanket, pulling it over my head as I screwed my eyes shut. Sleep, I must.

『Are you satisfied?

Love's the death of peace of mind

Mine

Mine』

❱❱ Next chapter

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spnmoosejerk · 6 months ago

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Throwback to Casey’s 3rd birthday

@walkingdeadlightsimmer

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dimepdf · 2 years ago

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★ 𝐈𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒, 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. + 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

masterlist. / taglist. / tip jar. synopsis. your small town was known to those who carried money in their pockets, especially attention-grabbing men like Miguel, who needed a place to stay in town for the night. luckily, your hostel-owning cousin is willing to make just the perfect bargain for the traveler.

─── ☆ notes. oh brother here we go again. | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 4k (30 minute read)

THE POPULATED TOWN of Edgewater was a place you called home. It was strange when it came to its fair share of travelers, from coin-hungry merchants to empty welding warriors and the cobbled roads that stretched from land to the seashore.

Edgewater was known for its lively community, always something happening from dusk till dawn, the moon only encouraging those of the night to linger on.

Most would call it anarchy. You would call it a pisspot full of people who didn't know what else to do with their lives, so all they could do was drink.

Your uncle, who had owned one of the town's most sought-after local love hostels, catered to the sleazy travelers that would stumble their way into the heart of the town with more coin than they knew what to do with, calling the grotty drunken things that would come through looking for an easy way to settle their darkest desire good for business.

Your uncle, who wasn't actually your uncle but had been the closest thing you unfortunately considered family since the day you could first remember, had always been guided towards the promise of good wealth. He was a grimy older man you had been stuck with since he had first adopted you after your mother's unfortunate passing. She had been one of his workers who had collected more debt than the men she would have ever bedded combined.

Debt that had been carried on down like a tragic legacy, leaving you shackled as the one and only handmaiden forced to clean whatever was leftover from the men you would envy as they had the ability to actually leave. Your forced imprisonment was the main reason why you would snide at every man that would struggle through the front door, drunk fools with not enough coins in their pockets to pay for rent or take care of their families back at home, yet just enough to come to your uncle's love hotel and buy off one of the mistresses to give them a temporary good time.

You thought them to be all the same, balding drunks running away from their lives off with some mistress that falsely tolerated the disappointment that they used to think with between their legs for the coins in their pockets. You couldn't blame them for their jobs. In fact, you preferred to be the one scrubbing the aftermath, then bed with some of the toothless, grimy slobs considered customers your uncle would welcome as if they were his old friends.

You would even consider the fact of having some sort of liking for your job. Being considered a lowly maid came with its rare but useful perks. Other than not being a lady of the night because you were too busy wiping the stained cum from sheets, you were allowed to dawn more comfy drapes, allowed to eat whatever you pleased without your uncle chastising you about your weight since your body wasn't his to display, and lastly, the best part of it all: the eavesdropping.

The town was big with gossip, word to mouth was how normally word would spread throughout businesses and homes faster than the ink would dry from the papers being passed out. Since you were the only real task hand in the love hostile most upkeep jobs besides cleaning were included in your wages. During afternoon runs through the market, you oh so loved to keep an ear out for bickering couples, big-mouthed children, or even merchants that would slip their tongues of secrets.

Said way was also how you caught word of an interesting wanderer that had stepped foot on the town's soil. With whispers of a dark-skinned, broadening warrior that stood out from the rest, hipping an iron sword and battle scars, you heard word that he was merking somewhere around for a place to rest for the day, along with some supply trading.

Your brow almost raises at the mention of places to stay the night. Edgewater was a place where you could murder someone and then sell the clothes off their back for a nice dime, not necessarily the place you could go trusting just about anyone to stay the night, especially if you were lugging around the type of gear the merchants already had as big as the target on your back as this guy did.

This is why you were surprised later in the night to see two men ram their way through the front door of the building. You were working on sweeping some of the dust from the wooden floorboards near the entrance, almost flinching out of your own skin as the doors slammed open. You quickly collected yourself, holding back from muttering something rude under your breath instead of turning to greet the guest.

An older man, who you had assumed to be the cause of the door hinges being in their last life, stumbled in and almost slumped over if it weren't for the man beside him carrying his drunken dead weight as he rambled on and on to the other man he leaned against about how great this hostile was for the eye candy and how he whiffed on and on about how he could get them both discounted personal rooms just to prove his point. The other man made you halt in greeting, almost choking on your words as you took in his appearance.

You were starting to understand how he had managed to grab the town's attention now that you were able to see him with your own eyes. He was a much taller man compared to the other, you only assumed he'd be taller in his own height if it weren't for his hunched structure, practically lugging a grown man on his left shoulder. He had been a fit fighter for the warrior description, with his broadened shoulder and the peak of muscles from his sleeve being yanked up as the dark curtain of hair that shields most of his face from where you stood. Though his clothes were tatted and worn-looking, on his hip was sheathed a sword.

His presence alone would suffocate you alone if it weren't for the awkward situation of him babysitting some bubbling idiot. It only took seconds for your uncle to come budging in, greeting the two and settling them into separate rooms. He had managed to even squeeze a little more coin out of the newcomer, your uncle offering him a place for the entire night since he heard he had nowhere to stay "out of the kindness of his heart." You almost snorted at his fancy act of knocking up the prices and throwing in packages that didn't exist to the poor mystery tourist.

Since the unnamed stranger's arrival, the powder room has erupted into a fit of frenzy. You hadn't seen this many of the women chatter about being excited and happy since a few years back when a strangler of men came back to town with their hunt earnings and decided to make the poor decision of blowing all their newly earned money in one night.

It was sad to say that the excitement would slowly die out more and more as the night progressed. Even though who you considered the most stunning women to come back with pouty faces and empty pockets cussing the new handsome-faced fellow's name under their breaths, the man had managed to do his rounds of rejecting just about every working lady in the hostile, much to your uncle's dismay, who at first just waved his dismissal off as him being just being another picky man with a type.

Your uncle wanted to charge him for more than just the bed he had offered him, yet no matter how many times he would send a new girl to his doorstep, the man had gotten to the point of annoyance where he wouldn't even bother to have the courtesy of not slamming the door closed in their face before they could utter a word. Unfortunately, due to their demise for failed flirting, you were the very last option at your uncle's attempt at ringing money out of the warrior's pockets. You put up a quiet fight, making every excuse under the sun until your uncle flat out struck you across the face and spat that he would threaten to stop giving you pay and instead add the wages you've collected to the long list of debts you were trying to pay off.

The threat was enough to have you taking your sweet old time, shuffling your feet against the floorboards, making your way down to the stranger's door, your hands tracing over the soft throb of the cut he had lifted, marked in a scratch from the backhand of one of his rings. You hadn't even bothered changing out of the clothes you had been working in all day. Instead of protesting with what was left of your pride in your hands, you held some spare straw pillows that your uncle gave you to use as some sort of excuse to coax you into at least opening the door.

You lightly tapped your knuckle against the wood for a moment before you knocked once more with just a bit more force, "Excuse me, sir." You hadn't even finished your sentence before the door creaked wide open.

By the slight raise of his brow, you guessed that he too wasn't expecting to see that you were the one behind the intrusion. Your words shriveled down your throat at the towering sight of him. Now standing tall in his full glory, his height almost reached up to the top of the door if he hadn't been using the frame to slouch against, very shirtless.

You took a step back out of instinct, taking in his muscled torso, bared with scars and marks you could only imagine the battle he earned them from. In Between the distance that parted you two was another beat of silence, his as he stared down at you, his features now plastered with what you could only assume was boredom as you gaped up at him, your mouth parting like you were some type of fish as your brain struggled to form the words you wanted to come from your throat.

"Uh, sorry, just—would you mind if I….offered company?" Your voice trembled as you couldn't make the request sound more awkward, forcing the strength surging through your veins to hold you upright as his eyes shamelessly traveled down your body as if you were some sort of prey ready to get swallowed up.

"And what company would you ever have to possibly offer me?" An annoyed grimace soon followed as he spoke, making it difficult for you to even process if the question was supposed to be insulting.

"I offer an exchange. You take these pillows and let me hide out in your room—at least until you leave, so my uncle stays off both of our backs." In the offer, you lifted the pillows towards him, watching as he scanned them with the same expression of boredom as if you were offering him vegetable soup.

"I should mention that if you do not accept, my uncle will be more furious with me than you." Clarifying the stakes you were taking, the beast of a man gave your face a once-over, his expression softening to something that you could only guess was a pity as a sigh parted his lips, gesturing you inside with a careless limp wave. He had not bothered moving over, only raising his arm to let you walk under and into the room before closing the door and making his way to the bed.

You could only watch, standing close to the other corner of the room, as he slouched, sitting against the headboard almost too comfortably against the creaking wooden mattress to what you assume he continued his interrupted task of sharpening his sword.

The room, besides the moonlight that leaked onto the floor from the open curtains. Had the room been poorly lit, a light orange from the oil lamp that sat on the crate-made nightstand illuminated the man's figure and sword dangerously. The light kissed his muscles and tanned auburn features, basking in the handsome aura that he was intertwined with, reminding you of the portraits you would see strung up in royal galleries of oil-painted men ascending from the parted clouds.

Your staring had not gone unnoticed. The man's dark eyes flitted over to you, gazing upon all the scabbed, light scars that riddled up from his torso to his face as if they were tattoos. "Could you at least give me your name before undressing me so unkindly with your perverted eyes?" he offered out another vague-sounding insult, dipping his sword back into its sleeve as he reverted his attention to you. The raising of his thick brow was the demise of any offense you could have possibly reacted with. You spoke your name softly, almost as if you were in the blink of forgetfulness, falling under whatever spell came with him bearing his charming canines.

"And I, Miguel," he returned, easing back his shoulders slightly, bowing his head, and reaching his arms out for you in a small polite greeting, which you could only assume to be considered manners outside of your town. Your steps were skittish, pausing for a moment before your legs processed the placement that you stood away from had to be closed for you to shake his hand. You had practically wisped across the room with the light of your feet as your hand ghosted close to his.

He took the first step in closing the distance, reaching for your hand and pressing the back of your palm against his lips. To say that the gestures had not stirred something inside of you would be a deep lie as you caught your eyes following his mouth. Your hand flinched under his gentle hold, molding against the callus of his fingers before you had even realized it. Your fingers brushed up against the scar that stretched against the end of his brow.

Miguel yanked back in a wince as your breath hitched, his brows knitted together, and a large hand fisted around the bend of your wrist, yet his hard stare never left the same mouth your fingers had just rudely traced over. "Just what is going on in that perverted mind of yours?" His tone held a strong accent that made every word sound condescending yet more gentle than the last time he spoke, his grasp planting you just beside the bed between his legs.

You wanted to call him out on his insulting accusation. If it had been any other man on the street, you probably would've given him an earful by now, yet there was just something so alluring about Miguel that left the bend of your knees threatening to wobble as he glanced up at you with his dark, intimidating eyes. "I bet you're not even going to apologize. How rude."

Your own lips parted in hopes of a response, yet shut quickly as his hand interpreted you once more, guiding your hand by the hold on your wrist back to his face and letting your palm rest against the curve of his cheek. Your fingers dance against all the small scabs and smudges he had yet to clean from his face, almost as if he were caressing himself with your own hand. You didn't bother pulling away, letting his warmth dance under your palm at his grasp. Your thumb graced under the most prominent scar caught close to the side of his lip, tracing the mark and pausing at just the underside of his mouth.

The very inmate exchange had opened a portal of doors for your hands to explore the curious marks on his body, from dark specks of moles scattered against his brown skin as if they were constellations to the ugly scabs dug on top of his abs from wounds that healed over from his troubled past. Spread against his skin were stories and experiences, all of which you could never imagine from the bubble of your small rural village.

Miguel let your curious fingers wander on their own, the palms of his hands coaxing around your hips and guiding you into his lap. Not once did you break contact with the light gleam in his dark eyes, not even when you realized that you were practically straddling yourself over just one of his spread-tensed, muscly thighs.

There was no point in squirming away. You had no desire to lean back now, no want to back now, backing away from the control of his cosset, instead melting into the warmth that engulfed under his touch until you were supporting yourself up by the brace of your swung arm around his neck to stabilize yourself.

All senses are overcome with sheer curiosity, with your fingers tracing every ridge and mottle, following the rise and fall of his bare chest. There grew a stained festering of want, a need now revealing its restlessness growing tight within you, so much so that your initial fear was soon drowned out by the heat shifting within your core.

Miguel did just about everything, yet so little to entertain your touch, letting your eyes swallow him whole, knowing just what he was doing and pressing just the right amount of pressure into his fingertips that held around your waist.

His expression had shifted from that bored and somewhat tired look to something more heavy that you could not quite decipher in the low light. You would have been mistaken for thinking that he hadn't had any interest in the fact that you were sitting in his lap if it weren't for the faint throbbing reaction you felt pressing against your thigh.

You were all for self-respect and protecting your dignity, but you just couldn't help but yank that fucking bar down to the dirt and throw yourself at him. If anything, it was more of a freefall you took, leaning in and pressing your lips against your body to cut through the thick tension.

It was your nervousness fading at the sooth of his hands, bringing you in closer by the waist, your back arching to press closer to his chest. His kisses were as rough as you thought they would be, from everywhere his lips grazed, from your mouth to the curve of your collarbones. They left your nerves jolting at the brush of his sharp canines brushing against a sensitive spot close to your jugular.

The whiny small pleads of encouragement were all that could part from your kissed lips, his hands unknotting from the hold on your hips to slowly undoing the buttons to your nightgown, exposing more of your skin for him to assault, his hands cupping your breast through the cotton fabric, groping and suckling at your budded nipples through the fabric of your arching body with a drooling obsession.

With your eyes fluttering shut and head tilted back, drowning in pleasure, already putty under his touch, it was easy for him to lay your limp figure down against the uncomfortable hay-stuffed mattress your uncle would be too cheap to call a bed.

Hiking your thigh over his shoulder with a quick yank, his clean-shaven face smooth against your spread thighs, burying himself between your legs. The ghost of the ghost wanting to admit to it being your first time caught in your throat, cutting through the thick cloud of your worries and insecurities. The moment he brought his mouth close to your mount, his tongue was practically savage against your poor clit.

The vibration of his grunts as your nails knotted around a handful of the hair that curled around the nape of his neck, shifting your hips against the rhyme of the roll warmth of his tongue. A sigh was launched down your throat the moment his thick dark lashes fluttered open, instantly latching onto your gaze, a shiver running down your spine at the lewd scene of the man between your legs desiring your pussy with his mouth.

In the back of your mind, you found it ironic how you were practically close to screaming out Miguel's name as if it were a praying plea for your life, yet in an earlier time in your life, you would always look on in disgust at the moans that would leak through from rooms your coworkers serviced, swearing to yourself that you would never find yourself behind those same doors, yet there you were climaxing under a handsome stranger's tongue as he lapped your twitching cunt through the hard ripple of your orgasm.

His lips tasted like you.

That was the first sense that welcomed you back down from whichever cloud you were floating on. Miguel's tongue invaded your mouth, and swallowing whatever breath you tried to pant out, the struggling continued. He pressed your thighs apart enough to slot himself in between them as a tensed string itched in your lower thigh muscles, your legs trembling under his fingers.

The head of his cock was intrusive and rude, to say the least, bumping his girthy length against you, shamelessly shifting his hips, covering himself in the wetness of your legs, kissing back every whimper that came up your throat at his fat tip, threatening to breach between your lower lips without any proper hopes of a graceful welcome.

The stretch of his fat tip parting you open left a cry falling from you as Miguel grunted into the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath against your sweat-clad skin. Your back arched up against his broad chest as the lewd size of his cock overtook the rest of the sense you had left within your fogged spirit, his dawning pace merciful with experimentally slow strokes deep enough to make your toes curl against the scratchy duvet bedding to a rough pistoning rhythm against your core.

Your fingers clamping tight into the straw pillow at the all too familiar tensing knot forming in your stomach, begging with each harsh thrust, you let outpaced, panting, punched-out moans, following the lead of Miguel's hips, who barreled through your tight cunt as your second orgasm rudely yanked you back to bliss. Your body trembled from exhaustion under Miguel's unsetting ramming hips. The minutes flew by as your brain struggled to do anything but cry out unfinished sentences leading with his name.

Using your noises of encouragement, Miguel chased after his own pleasures, slowly drifting into a less rhythmic pace. His hips buried themselves as he rutted deep inside of you, filling you to the brim with his size, snug enough to twitch his cum into where he lay with one last low, strung-out, stuttering groan.

With each other's hearts hammering, you and Miguel fell fatigued against one another, welcoming the slug of his weight as a comforting weighted blanket, neither bothering to curl away from the other nor making any effort to pull himself out, instead using the strength that you deemed to be infinity for him to reposition you on top.

His arm wrapping around the lower part of your torso and nuzzling his chin against you with a tired breath, more than content with spending the night in his room, knowing that your wobbling legs would betray you the moment you stood on your own, closing your eyes and slumbering against his chest in comfort.

Maybe that was why you shifted away with an aching start, the bruising mark littered across your skin a shade of a hinting purple and red, as well as the mess between your legs painted as a lone reminder of the acts you had committed last night. Miguel had apparently gone after sunrise, leaving the spot in which he lay empty with a stricken feeling in your chest and a defeated spirit after hearing your uncle congratulate you for milking enough money out of the visitor to pay off all of your debt completely.

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#[ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ ★ — t.wrks. ]#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #spiderman smut #marvel #into the spider verse

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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Of Gods and Men (the gift)

This is Dune/GOT/HOTD/FAB/ASOIAF crossover AU that you've voted for. If you always wanted to see House Targaryen in space, I got you. Please note how some of the lore of both universes is bent to blend in both worlds. This is my original idea that I've been cooking for at least two years. Be gentle with my work, and enjoy the ride.

- Summary: House Targaryen survives their ancient exile after being overthrown by House Corrino and the Bene Gesserit. Fleeing to the unknown planet Albiron, the Targaryens build a hidden civilization powered by drakaon crystals, reviving their dragons and creating advanced technology. Millennia later, whispers of their survival begin to surface as the Bene Gesserit confront a mysterious Red Woman on Arrakis, who warns of a coming Prince That Was Promised destined to challenge their control. The Targaryens secretly prepare to return, ready to reclaim their legacy.

- Pairing: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: daenys

- Next part: resurgence

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Two days had passed since the forces of House Atreides and House Targaryen had established their temporary base together on Arctis. The bitter cold still clung to the landscape, but the combined forces had made steady progress in securing the area from the Harkonnens. Targaryen banners now flew alongside the Atreides hawk, marking a temporary alliance born of necessity rather than trust.

Inside the main command tent, Aelor Targaryen, Duke Leto Atreides, and Duncan Idaho stood over a holographic map of the underground hatchery—the ancient structure that had become the focal point of the Harkonnen presence. Aelor’s expression was resolute as he traced the coordinates with his finger, his voice calm but insistent.

“We should commence an orbital strike on the underground hatchery,” Aelor proposed, his tone leaving little room for argument. “Once it’s destroyed, the Harkonnens will have no reason to stay on this planet.”

Duncan, standing to Leto’s right, crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “It’s odd,” he said, his voice laced with suspicion. “The Harkonnens have already lost most of their ground here. Their operation is compromised, and they’re outnumbered. So why are they still here, insisting on these ground skirmishes?”

Leto nodded thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the map. “There must be something else they’re after,” he agreed. “With the Harkonnens, there always is.”

Aelor’s violet eyes flickered as he looked between Duncan and Leto. “Regardless of their plans,” he said firmly, “the hatchery is the key to their presence here. If we destroy it, we leave them with nothing. They’ll be forced to withdraw.”

Leto considered Aelor’s words carefully, his mind turning over the possibilities. “An orbital strike is a risky move,” he said slowly. “But it might be our best option to force them off this world for good.”

As the council continued their discussion, you stood nearby, observing from the edges of the room. The tension between the two Houses was felt, but for now, their common enemy kept them aligned. Not far from where you stood, Gurney Halleck sat on a low bench, adjusting the strings on his baliset. His fingers moved deftly over the instrument as he listened to the council’s debate, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward you.

You caught his gaze after a moment, and he gave a small nod in your direction before speaking, his voice casual but curious. “So, lass,” Gurney said, not looking up from his baliset, “how does someone like you get caught up in a mess like this?”

You smiled faintly at the question, though there was no amusement in it. “I’ve been in far worse situations than this,” you replied, your tone steady. “This is just another battle.”

Gurney raised an eyebrow, his hands still moving over the strings. “Is that so? You’ve certainly got the fire in you, but I can’t help but wonder how a lone Targaryen ended up giving Harkonnens so much trouble.”

You tilted your head slightly, considering your response. “We don’t have instruments like this on Albiron,” you said, gesturing to the baliset. “But my father often asks me to sing during our celebratory events.”

Gurney’s gaze softened at your words, his thoughts clearly drifting elsewhere. His expression turned somber, and for a moment, he seemed lost in memory. “My sister used to sing,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with sorrow. “She had a voice that could silence a room.”

There was a brief silence between you, an unspoken understanding passing through the cold air. In that moment, you saw something of Gurney’s grief, his memories of loss that mirrored your own.

Just then, the council’s discussion came to an end, and Aelor approached you, his posture relaxed but purposeful. “We’re moving forward,” he said, his voice resolute. “Prepare yourself. We’ll commence the final strike against the Harkonnens soon. Once the hatchery is destroyed, we’ll leave this planet.”

You nodded, your hand resting instinctively on the hilt of your sword. The time for words had passed. Now, the battle would decide the future.

As you turned to leave, Gurney’s voice called after you, gentle but firm. “Keep your guard up, lass. And maybe after all this is done, you’ll give us a song.”

You smiled slightly, but your thoughts were already on the coming battle.

As the command room slowly cleared, Leto Atreides stood quietly, watching as the Targaryen siblings, Aelor and you, left together, heading off to prepare for the final strike. The storm outside seemed to have found its echo within the Duke's mind. Aelor’s proposal had merit—destroying the underground hatchery could force the Harkonnens to abandon the planet—but it wasn’t just the military strategy that weighed on Leto now. It was the woman, Daenys Targaryen, you, who had caught his attention in more ways than one.

Leto’s gaze lingered on the spot where you had just been standing, the memory of your composed yet fiery demeanor still fresh in his mind. It wasn’t often that someone from another House—especially one with such a complex history—captivated him in such a way. There was something about your presence, something he couldn’t quite place, but it gnawed at him nonetheless.

Turning to face Gurney Halleck, who was still adjusting the strings of his baliset, Leto allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. “I heard from Duncan that Daenys gave you quite the chase.”

Gurney looked up from his instrument, a wry smile playing on his lips as he met the Duke’s gaze. “Aye, my Lord. The lass is more capable than she appears. Gave me the slip more than once before I caught up to her.”

Duncan Idaho, still seated at the console across the room, reviewing the latest reports on the Harkonnens’ movements, chimed in without looking up. “She’s not just capable. She’s fast, strategic—trained, no doubt. And there’s something about the way she moves… like someone who’s lived their entire life preparing for moments like these.”

Leto raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued further by Duncan’s assessment. It was one thing for Gurney to acknowledge your abilities—Gurney was seasoned, but also sentimental. Duncan, however, was practical, and his judgments carried weight.

“She’s more than just a survivor, then,” Leto said, his voice contemplative.

Duncan finally looked up from the reports, his eyes steady as they met the Duke’s. “Much more. She’s a Targaryen through and through. I’ve seen plenty of soldiers—both natural fighters and those trained from birth—and Daenys? She’s got the instincts of both.”

Gurney nodded in agreement, his expression turning more thoughtful. “Aye, my Lord. There’s more to her than what we’ve seen on the surface. I didn’t know what to make of her at first, but after that chase and seeing her in action, I’d wager she’s been through more than we can imagine.”

Leto paced slowly, his mind working through the layers of implications. House Targaryen’s sudden return, the alliance of necessity between them and the Atreides, the Harkonnen threat—all of it pointed to a shifting balance of power. But Daenys added an entirely new dimension to it. She wasn’t just a pawn in the game, but a player in her own right. And now, she and her brother had drawn the Atreides into something far larger than they could have anticipated.

As Leto’s thoughts continued to turn, he paused by the table where the holographic map still glowed faintly. “Regardless,” he said, his voice more resolute now, “we have a mission to complete here. The Harkonnens won’t let this planet go without a fight, but once the hatchery is destroyed, they’ll have no choice.”

Gurney’s eyes followed the Duke’s movements, his tone more cautious. “And after, my Lord?”

Leto looked up, his gaze steady as he met Gurney’s eyes. “After we return to Caladan, we’ll be facing more than just the fallout from this battle. The political implications of our encounter with the Targaryens will be enormous. It will shake the very foundations of House Atreides.”

Duncan nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “The Imperium, the Emperor, the Bene Gesserit—they’ll all take notice once they learn that the Targaryens are not only alive but allied with us, however temporary that alliance may be.”

Leto sighed softly, knowing the weight of what was to come. “And that’s what concerns me most. We’ve just become part of something far bigger than a fight for control of a frozen world. If the Emperor catches wind of this, if the Harkonnens spin the narrative in their favor… House Atreides will be caught in the storm.”

Gurney, ever loyal and steadfast, leaned forward slightly. “We’ll face whatever comes, my Lord. House Atreides has survived worse.”

Leto allowed a small smile, though the weight of his thoughts was still evident. “Yes, Gurney. We have. And we will again. But this time, it feels different.”

He cast one final glance toward the door where the Targaryens had left, his mind already turning toward the future. They had a mission to finish here, but the real storm—the political storm—was waiting for them back on Caladan.

And Leto knew, deep down, that nothing would ever be the same after this.

The cold air of Arctis was heavy with anticipation as Leto Atreides, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck stepped outside the command tent. All around them, the soldiers of both House Atreides and House Targaryen moved swiftly, making final preparations for the upcoming strike. The combined forces had reached a tenuous but effective alliance, and now the time had come to push forward and bring an end to the Harkonnen presence on this planet.

Leto’s sharp eyes scanned the flurry of activity, his mind already calculating the next steps. His soldiers, disciplined and ready, were preparing to launch their assault on the Harkonnen defenses above the underground hatchery. The Targaryens would lead the initial charge, breaking through the Harkonnen lines, and once the Atreides troops disabled the jamming equipment, they would evacuate, leaving the Targaryen starship to fire on the exposed target from orbit.

Hawat joined Leto at his side, his expression as always calm but observant. “Everything is proceeding as planned, my Lord,” Hawat said quietly, his eyes flicking over the battlefield preparations.

Leto nodded, his voice steady. “The Atreides troops will rush in to disable the Harkonnen jamming equipment above the hatchery once the Targaryens break through their defenses. As soon as that signal is disabled, we’re pulling out. The Targaryen starship will fire from orbit on a clear target.”

Duncan and Gurney, standing nearby, exchanged quick glances before turning to Leto.

“We’ll get it done, my Lord,” Duncan said firmly. “We’ll make sure the Harkonnens don’t get another chance.”

Gurney’s grizzled face was set in determination as he tightened the strap on his rifle. “We’ll push through, one way or another.”

Leto offered them both a nod of confidence. “Good. Get to your men. We don’t have much time.”

With that, Duncan and Gurney turned and rushed off to join their respective forces, leaving Leto and Hawat standing among the flurry of soldiers preparing for the battle ahead.

As the activity around them intensified, Leto’s eyes were drawn to a different scene just across the field. Daenys Targaryen, along with two of her people, was crouched in front of a Targaryen Ornithopter, working on a device that was unfamiliar to him. The Ornithopter itself stood ready for launch, its sleek, dragon-like form glistening in the pale light of the storm. Leto’s curiosity piqued as he watched the Targaryen woman, her focus sharp as she adjusted the device in front of her.

Without a word, Leto began walking toward her, his steps purposeful. Hawat, noticing the shift in the Duke’s attention, gave him a curious glance but said nothing, following him in silence.

As you worked on the device, making the final adjustments, you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. Looking up, you saw Duke Leto approaching, his expression one of curiosity. You stood, wiping the snow from your gloves, and offered him a respectful nod.

“Duke Leto,” you greeted him, your voice even despite the cold. “What brings you here?”

Leto’s gaze shifted from the device in front of you to your face, then back to the intricate piece of technology. “What are you working on?”

You gave him a small smile, gesturing to the device. “This is something that will help your men disable the jamming signal faster. Once we break through the Harkonnen defenses, I’ll leave it for your soldiers to use. It should save time.”

Leto’s gaze lingered on the device for a moment, impressed by your initiative. His eyes then flicked to the Ornithopter standing behind you, its design so different from the machines he was used to. It was sleek, elegant, and undeniably alien in its construction.

Sensing his interest, you tilted your head slightly, amusement flashing in your eyes. “Curious about our Ornithopters, Duke?”

Leto’s gaze returned to yours, surprised by your question. “I am,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like them. I’d be interested to see how they fly.”

Your smile widened, a flicker of excitement in your eyes. “Would you like to join me, Duke Leto?”

He hesitated for a brief second, caught off guard by the offer. But the thought of experiencing one of your people’s advanced machines firsthand was too intriguing to pass up. “I would,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. “I’ve always been fascinated by technology. It would be a welcome distraction before the battle.”

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. “Then we shouldn’t waste any more time.”

Hawat, standing just a few paces behind, watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow. He was too perceptive not to notice the small, almost hidden smile on Leto’s face, a smile that revealed a spark of excitement—something that rarely showed itself in the typically composed Duke. Hawat allowed himself a brief moment of amusement at his lord’s expense.

“You seem eager, my Lord,” Hawat said quietly, his tone neutral but with an edge of teasing.

Leto shot him a quick glance, his expression composed again but not without a hint of warmth. “Perhaps I am, Thufir. It’s not every day one gets to fly in something so… unique.”

With a final glance at the soldiers preparing for battle, Leto stepped forward toward the waiting Ornithopter, his curiosity and anticipation momentarily eclipsing the weight of the coming conflict.

As you finished adjusting the device, you nodded to your fellow Targaryen soldiers, signaling them to secure the equipment for transport. Then, without another word, you climbed into the Ornithopter’s cockpit, turning back to see Leto and Hawat following closely behind.

As the Duke settled into the co-pilot’s seat beside you, you glanced at him, a glint of challenge in your eyes. “Hold on tight, Duke. Our Ornithopters aren’t quite like anything you’ve flown before.”

Leto chuckled softly, his hands hovering over the holographic controls that shifted to standard Galach symbols aromatically as he prepared for takeoff. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The Targaryen Ornithopter lifted gracefully into the icy skies of Arctis, its sleek, dragon-like wings humming softly as they cut through the stormy air. Despite its size—large enough for both a co-pilot and a passenger—the craft moved with an effortless precision that left Duke Leto Atreides momentarily awestruck. He settled into the co-pilot’s seat beside you, a smile playing on his lips as he examined the holographic interface that floated before him.

“This flies… beautifully,” Leto murmured, his hands hovering over the controls, though he knew better than to interfere with your navigation. The neural feedback system was unlike anything he had ever experienced in Atreides technology. Every movement of the Ornithopter felt intuitive, as though it were responding to his thoughts as much as your commands. The interior, like the exterior, was silent, a stark contrast to the noisier, more mechanical machines he was used to.

He couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship, his eyes tracing the sleek lines of the console and the way the control surfaces shimmered with a soft, amber glow. “There’s almost no sound at all.”

From your seat, you glanced at Leto and caught his expression, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Our Drakaopters, as we call them, are powered by drakaon crystals,” you explained, your tone steady as you focused on the controls. “Just like the rest of our technology. The crystals provide nearly silent propulsion and ensure our ships are undetectable by conventional sensors.”

Leto raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “Incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Behind you, Thufir Hawat sat in silence, his sharp eyes observing everything. His analytical mind was cataloging every detail, from the neural feedback system to the seamless way the other Targaryen Ornithopters—smaller, more nimble craft—flanked them as they ascended higher. The Targaryen technology was light years ahead of what the Imperium used, and that knowledge alone weighed heavily in Hawat’s calculations.

As the Ornithopter climbed into the sky, the flickering light of explosions in the distance caught your eye. You glanced at the holographic map in front of you and your expression hardened.

“Harkonnen troops are approaching,” you said, your voice suddenly sharper as you adjusted the controls. The Ornithopter’s plasma cannons began to warm up, their energy readings visible on the interface before you.

Leto’s gaze shifted to the horizon, where he saw the black dots of Harkonnen ornithopters growing larger, rapidly approaching from the east. At the same time, the ground forces below were beginning to clash—the Atreides and Targaryen troops advancing toward the Harkonnen base while their enemies tried to dig in and defend the hatchery.

You activated the plasma cannons, the hum of energy filling the cabin as the weapons powered up. The shields surrounding the Ornithopter shimmered momentarily, absorbing and dispersing the energy of the oncoming fire from the Harkonnen forces.

“Brace yourself,” you warned, your tone cool and focused as you maneuvered the Ornithopter into position. The smaller Targaryen craft flanking you began to engage the enemy, plasma bolts lighting up the stormy sky as they tore through the incoming Harkonnen ornithopters.

Leto watched in awe as the energy shields absorbed the blasts with ease, shimmering faintly as they dissipated the impact. He had never seen such seamless energy defense systems in action before, and it left him with a newfound respect for Targaryen engineering.

Just then, another squadron of Harkonnen ornithopters appeared on the horizon, larger and more heavily armed. Leto's eyes narrowed as he noted their formation. “Another squadron, coming in fast.”

You nodded, adjusting the controls to bring the Drakaopter into a more aggressive stance. The smaller Targaryen Ornithopters around you quickly peeled off to intercept the new threat, their plasma cannons firing in synchronized bursts that tore through the Harkonnen forces.

“We’ll punch through,” you said, your voice calm despite the chaos around you. With a quick motion, you locked onto the ground-based anti-air cannons positioned near the Harkonnen base and fired the crystal-tipped missiles. They streaked through the air, glowing a faint gold as they zeroed in on their targets.

The ground cannons exploded in a brilliant flash of light, the crystal-tipped warheads shattering the hardened emplacements with ease. Leto watched as the Harkonnen anti-air defenses crumbled, leaving the base exposed.

“Ion disruptors engaged,” you continued, your hands deftly working the controls as the Drakaopter’s disruptors activated. A wave of yellow energy rippled from the ship, crashing into the Harkonnen systems below. Leto watched as the disruptors caused their further defenses to sputter and fail, disabling their communications and rendering their systems vulnerable.

Leto was beyond impressed now. He had seen many battles, but never had he witnessed technology like this in action. “Your technology,” Leto said, his voice full of awe. “It’s beyond anything we’ve ever encountered.”

You didn’t look at him, your focus still on the task at hand. “We’ve had centuries to perfect it. And it’s the only reason we’ve survived this long in exile.”

Leto nodded thoughtfully, his admiration clear. But there was no time to dwell on the implications. The battle was far from over.

As you guided the Drakaopter toward the Harkonnen base, you glanced at the holographic display, noting the positions of the Atreides ground troops. “Once your men break through, I’ll land,” you told Leto. “We’ll take out the jamming signal and evacuate the planet.”

Leto gave a nod of agreement, his gaze locked on the battlefield below. “Let’s not waste any time, then.”

Behind you, Hawat observed quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He had seen the Duke’s enthusiasm for battle before, but there was something different about this. Perhaps it was the technology, or perhaps it was the presence of Daenys herself, but either way, Hawat could see that Leto was more engaged than usual. It amused the Mentat to see the Duke so captivated.

“Shall we?” you asked, glancing at Leto with a hint of challenge in your voice.

Leto returned your gaze, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Lead the way.”

With that, you accelerated toward the Harkonnen base, ready to finish what had been started. The final push had begun.

The Atreides forces surged forward, their precision and discipline cutting through the Harkonnen lines like a blade. The chaotic din of battle rumbled beneath the clouds of Arctis, plasma bolts lighting up the gray sky. The sound of explosions echoed through the air as Harkonnen defenses crumbled one by one, and now, with their anti-aircraft cannons destroyed and the Atreides troops pressing hard, victory seemed imminent.

In the distance, your Targaryen Drakaopter descended, landing gracefully in the midst of the controlled chaos. The wings folded in with a mechanical hum, the sleek craft setting down without a sound. As the hatch opened, Duke Leto Atreides, Thufir Hawat, and you exited, your eyes immediately scanning the battlefield.

Leto’s gaze hardened as he took in the scene. His men were doing well, but they didn’t have much time. The Harkonnens would regroup, and they needed to disable the jamming signal before reinforcements arrived. His mind was already calculating their next move, but before he could speak, Sergeant Kellor came rushing over, his face tense but determined.

“We’ve secured the perimeter,” Kellor said, his voice sharp as he motioned to the area ahead. “But we’ve only got a short window to disable the jamming signal before the Harkonnens can regroup. We need to move fast.”

You stepped forward, your expression calm but focused. “That’s enough time if you use this device properly.” You handed the small but intricate piece of technology to Kellor, who took it with a careful grip. His eyes flicked over the device, trying to understand its function as you quickly explained.

“It’s simple,” you said, your voice clear despite the chaos around you. “This will interface directly with the Harkonnen signal disruptors. Once you get to the jamming site, activate it by pressing here.” You pointed to a small, glowing node on the device. “It’ll overload their system and disable the signal in seconds. But you have to be precise—don’t give them time to recover.”

Kellor nodded, his expression determined. “Understood.”

More Atreides soldiers joined, forming a protective perimeter around the small group as Leto, Hawat, and you prepared for the final push. Leto turned to Kellor, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “We’ll give you as much time as you need, Sergeant. But the moment the signal is down, we retreat. The Targaryen ship is ready for the orbital strike.”

Kellor saluted before turning to his men, issuing orders with quick efficiency. The group of Atreides soldiers moved out, heading toward the jamming site with the Targaryen device in hand. They disappeared into the rocky terrain, their silhouettes blending into the storm.

You stood beside Leto, your gaze following Kellor’s team as they advanced. “I’ll help with the defense,” you said, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword. “Once the jamming is down, we start the retreat immediately.”

Leto glanced at you, his face a mixture of admiration and resolve. “Agreed. But we have to make sure Kellor’s team gets through. If the Harkonnens stop them, we lose our window.”

You nodded, drawing your sword with a swift, practiced motion. The familiar weight of the Valyrian steel in your hand felt steady, grounding you in the midst of the battle. Around you, the Atreides forces prepared for the next wave of Harkonnen resistance.

Hawat, ever vigilant, stepped forward. “We’ll need to hold the Harkonnen forces here until Kellor can disable the jamming. Once the signal is down, we retreat. The orbital strike will be swift, and we can’t risk being caught in it.”

Leto turned to his men, his voice carrying over the noise of battle. “Hold the line! We give Kellor and his team as much time as they need. Once the jamming signal is down, fall back to the transports.”

The Atreides soldiers responded immediately, their formations tightening as they prepared for the final push. Plasma fire rained down from the sky as the Harkonnens sent in reinforcements, desperate to hold their ground, but the combined forces of House Atreides and House Targaryen were relentless.

You took your place beside the Atreides soldiers, your sword at the ready. The Harkonnens advanced, but you met them with the ferocity of a dragon, cutting through their ranks with swift, precise strikes. The Atreides forces fought with discipline and determination, but your presence on the battlefield was something else—an unmistakable force that turned the tide.

Leto, armed and resolute, fought alongside his men, his every strike calculated and efficient. His eyes flicked to the horizon, watching for any sign of Kellor’s team. Time was running out.

Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the sky, and the distant hum of energy signaled that Kellor’s team had succeeded. The Harkonnen jamming signal went dark, their defenses crumbling as the disruption ended. The time had come.

“The signal’s down!” Hawat shouted, his voice rising above the chaos. “We need to move—now!”

Leto turned, his voice commanding. “Fall back! To the transports!”

The Atreides forces began to retreat, moving quickly but with precision as they made their way to the transports. You turned to follow, your sword still in hand, as Leto gestured for you to keep close.

The battle was won, but the clock was ticking. Above, the Targaryen starship loomed, its weapons primed for the orbital strike. The Harkonnens would soon face the full fury of dragonfire from the stars.

You met Leto’s gaze briefly, a shared understanding passing between you. “We don’t have much time,” you said, your voice steady.

“No,” Leto replied, his expression resolute. “But we’ll make it.”

Together, you and the Duke of Atreides moved toward the transports, the sound of the orbital strike looming in the distance as the final chapter of the battle began.

As the transport hurtled across the icy landscape of Arctis, Aelor Targaryen's voice came through the comms, his tone calm but firm. "The orbital strike is in progress. All forces, stay clear of the target zone. We'll be hitting the Harkonnen base shortly."

The announcement was met with silence, save for the occasional murmurs of soldiers securing their weapons and gear. You sat near the front of the transport, your sword still in hand, resting against your knee. Leto sat beside you, his sharp gaze fixed on the horizon, while Thufir Hawat stood nearby, scanning tactical readouts.

Suddenly, a blinding amber light filled the transport, casting everything in a harsh, surreal glow. The grand rumble that followed shook the very ground beneath the transport, causing it to jolt violently. The entire cabin rocked as the orbital strike hit its target, the shockwaves from the impact reaching even this far.

In the chaos, soldiers braced themselves against the walls and seats, gripping whatever they could to avoid being thrown around by the tremors. You felt the transport lurch beneath your feet, and your balance wavered as the violent shake threw you forward.

Before you could fall, Leto acted quickly, reaching out to steady you. His strong hands gripped your arm, pulling you back against the seat and holding you upright as the transport continued to shake. Around you, the Atreides soldiers did the same, steadying themselves as the rumbling subsided.

"Thank you," you said, your voice calm despite the intensity of the moment. You met Leto’s gaze, a flicker of appreciation in your eyes as you settled back into your seat.

Leto gave a small nod, releasing his grip on your arm but keeping his attention on the aftermath of the strike. "We’re not through just yet," he said, his voice steady but carrying a note of caution. The amber light from the blast still lingered in the distance, fading slowly as the transport pushed forward.

You glanced out the viewport, watching as the fiery remnants of the orbital strike’s devastation glowed on the horizon. The Harkonnen base had been obliterated, reduced to nothing more than rubble and smoke. The dragons of House Targaryen had, once again, left their mark on the battlefield.

After a moment of silence, you turned back to Leto, your expression shifting as the reality of the situation sank in. "My ride awaits," you said, your voice tinged with a sense of finality. "At specific coordinates. Once we reach them, we part ways."

Leto studied you for a moment, his eyes searching your face as if weighing the gravity of your words. "And you’re sure this is the end of our path together, at least for now?" There was something in his tone, a subtle note of regret, though it was buried beneath his usual calm exterior.

You nodded, your gaze steady. "For now, yes. Our paths will diverge. The strike was successful, and we’ve achieved what we set out to do. But House Targaryen still has its own battles to fight, and we have a world to return to."

Leto considered this, his eyes flicking briefly to the horizon before returning to you. "Your House… it’s unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. And yet, there’s something familiar in the way we fight—something shared in our desire for survival."

You gave a small, thoughtful smile. "Perhaps there’s more in common between us than we realize, Duke Leto."

The two of you fell into a brief silence, the rumble of the transport continuing beneath your feet. Around you, the Atreides soldiers were focused on their tasks, but the weight of the moment hung between you and Leto. The alliance between your Houses had been forged in the fire of battle, but as you both knew, such alliances were rarely permanent.

"Where will you go from here?" Leto asked, his voice softer now, as though the question carried more meaning than just the practical.

You turned to meet his gaze again, your violet eyes calm but resolute. "Back to Albiron, for now. But the galaxy is a vast place, Duke. And I have a feeling our paths may cross again."

Leto smiled faintly, a knowing look in his eyes. "I’ll look forward to that day."

The transport began to slow as it neared the designated coordinates, the vibrations beneath your feet softening as it approached the drop point. You stood, sheathing your sword with a practiced motion, and glanced once more at Leto before heading toward the exit.

Hawat, ever observant, watched the exchange with quiet curiosity. As you prepared to leave, he stepped closer to Leto, his expression unreadable but perhaps tinged with amusement. "You seem particularly interested in the Targaryens, my Lord."

Leto didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still on you as you moved toward the door. After a beat, he glanced at Hawat, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How could I not be, Thufir? They’re more than just an ally—they’re a mystery we’ve only just begun to unravel."

Hawat chuckled softly, his gaze flicking between you and Leto. "A mystery indeed."

As the transport came to a halt, you stepped outside, the cold air of Arctis biting at your skin once more. In the distance, your Targaryen transport awaited, sleek and silent like a shadow on the horizon.

You turned back one last time, meeting Leto’s gaze from the doorway of the Atreides transport. For a brief moment, there was an unspoken understanding between you—a shared respect, perhaps even a shared future, though what that future would hold remained uncertain.

And with that, you moved forward, heading toward your ship and the path that awaited you beyond the frozen world of Arctis.

The Atreides spaceship hummed quietly as it ascended from the frozen surface of Arctis, carrying Duke Leto, Thufir Hawat, Duncan Idaho, and Gurney Halleck safely back toward the stars. The planet below slowly disappeared from view, the battle now a distant memory as the crew settled into the familiar routine of post-mission debriefing.

But something was different this time. The atmosphere on the ship felt heavier, as though the weight of what had just transpired still lingered in the air. House Atreides had won a decisive victory against the Harkonnens, but it was their encounter with House Targaryen that now dominated their thoughts.

As the Atreides ship entered orbit, the massive Targaryen spaceship came into full view. Its sleek, obsidian-hued hull reflected the faint light of the distant stars, its design elegant and mysterious. The ship was larger than anything Leto had seen, far more advanced than even the most powerful vessels in the Imperium’s fleet. It was a sight that left an indelible mark, one that would be difficult to forget.

The comms system crackled to life, and Aelor Targaryen's voice came through, calm and composed. "Duke Leto, this is Aelor Targaryen. On behalf of my House, I thank you for your assistance. Together, we’ve defeated the Harkonnens here, but our paths must now part."

Leto stood at the command console, his eyes fixed on the Targaryen ship as he listened to Aelor’s words. "It was a hard-fought battle," Leto replied, his voice steady. "But I believe we both gained something from this alliance."

There was a brief pause on the comms, and then another voice came through—one that made Leto’s heart skip for just a moment.

"Duke Leto," you said, your voice softer but still clear through the comms. "I wish to thank you personally. Your men fought bravely, and for that, House Targaryen is in your debt."

Leto’s gaze flicked briefly to Hawat, who watched the exchange with quiet curiosity. The Duke’s expression softened slightly as he heard your voice, the memory of your parting still fresh in his mind.

Before he could respond, you added, "I’ve left a small gift of goodwill with Gurney. Consider it a token of our alliance—and a reminder of our shared victory."

Leto turned slowly, his brow furrowing in mild confusion as he looked at Gurney, who stood just behind him. Gurney smiled knowingly, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small, carefully wrapped sachel. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he handed it to the Duke.

"I believe this is what she was referring to, my Lord," Gurney said, his voice low and filled with a certain fondness.

Leto took the sachel, his fingers brushing over the soft material. Slowly, he unwrapped it, revealing the contents within. His breath caught as he lifted out the object that lay inside: a dragon egg, petrified and turned to stone. The intricate markings on the surface glistened faintly in the ship’s artificial light, and despite its stony exterior, Leto could feel the weight of history and power in his hands.

The room fell silent as the Atreides crew gathered around, their eyes fixed on the stone egg. Even Hawat, ever the pragmatist, seemed momentarily taken aback by the sight. The dragon egg was more than just a symbol—it was a piece of House Targaryen’s legacy, a relic of a time when dragons ruled the skies.

Leto stared at the egg for a long moment, his mind racing with thoughts of what it represented. The Targaryens were more than an ancient, forgotten House—they were alive, powerful, and still connected to the legacy of their dragons.

Just then, a bright flash of amber light illuminated the viewport, and Leto looked up just in time to see the Targaryen ship vanish from view. It was gone in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the cold, empty void of space.

The crew stood in stunned silence, watching as the last traces of the Targaryen ship disappeared from their scanners. Leto, still holding the dragon egg, felt a quiet sense of loss. The alliance had been brief, but it had left a profound impact on him and his House.

He whispered softly to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ship. "Goodbye, Daenys."

His fingers tightened around the egg, feeling the smooth, ancient surface beneath his touch. The weight of the stone was a reminder not only of the Targaryens’ power but of the connection that had been forged in the heat of battle. A connection that, despite their parting, felt far from over.

Hawat, ever watchful, stepped forward, his eyes studying the Duke’s expression with quiet understanding. "A gift, indeed," he said, his voice low.

Leto nodded, still holding the egg as he turned back to the viewport. "A gift," he repeated, though he knew it was much more than that.

The soft hum of the Atreides starship filled the silence of Duke Leto’s quarters as the vessel made its steady course back to Caladan. The quiet was almost soothing, but the Duke’s mind was far from calm. He sat at his desk, his gaze fixed on the petrified dragon egg resting in front of him. The smooth, stone surface seemed to shimmer faintly in the low light, as though it held the weight of centuries within its hardened shell.

Leto’s thoughts were miles away, lost in the memory of his brief encounter with Daenys Targaryen and the strange, powerful House she represented. The Targaryens were more than a legend—they were real, and they were dangerous in ways the Imperium could hardly comprehend. Yet, there had been something else about them, something that left Leto both intrigued and unsettled.

The door to his quarters slid open with a quiet hiss, and Thufir Hawat stepped inside, his sharp eyes immediately assessing the Duke’s posture. Leto didn’t stir, his attention still fixed on the dragon egg, though his expression was unreadable.

Hawat cleared his throat lightly before speaking, careful not to break the Duke’s deep concentration too suddenly. "My Lord," he began, his voice measured, "we should consider formulating a response for when the Emperor’s inquiry reaches us. The events on Arctis will no doubt draw attention."

Leto’s eyes remained on the egg, his fingers brushing lightly over its surface as he answered absently, his voice distant. "Yes, Thufir, I know."

But Hawat could tell from Leto’s tone that the Duke’s mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were still with the Targaryens, perhaps more with Daenys herself. There was a flicker of something in Leto’s gaze, something Hawat rarely saw—an almost wistful contemplation.

Hawat stepped closer, his analytical mind working through the implications of what they had just experienced. "Young Paul will no doubt be intrigued by this gift," Hawat remarked carefully, his eyes on the dragon egg as well. "Our new… friends have certainly left us with much to consider."

Leto’s lips twitched slightly, his gaze softening as he thought of his son. "Yes, Paul will be fascinated." His voice was quiet, and there was a warmth there when he spoke of his son. "But Jessica will be… less than pleased, I imagine."

Hawat’s brow furrowed in slight surprise, and he turned his full attention to the Duke. "You don’t intend to tell her?"

Leto glanced at Hawat for the first time since he’d entered, his expression more focused now but still guarded. "If there are no inquiries from the Emperor, then there’s no reason to speak of this to anyone. Not even to Lady Jessica."

Hawat’s surprise deepened. The Duke had always been relatively transparent with Jessica, despite her ties to the Bene Gesserit. This, however, was different. It took the Mentat only a moment to realize why Leto would be cautious in this matter. "Ah," Hawat murmured, understanding dawning. "You wish to avoid the involvement of the Sisterhood. They would take a keen interest in such an encounter."

Leto’s face hardened slightly as he nodded. "Precisely. The Bene Gesserit would insert themselves quickly, and I’d rather avoid that. The Targaryens are… unpredictable. There’s no telling how they would react to Bene Gesserit involvement. For now, this stays between us. If the Emperor or the Landsraad does not ask questions, we will let this fade into obscurity."

Hawat nodded slowly, his sharp mind already calculating the risks. "And what of the Harkonnens? Surely they won’t reveal their plans to the Emperor. It would expose their failure and their hidden operations on Arctis."

Leto allowed himself a small, tight smile. "Exactly. They’ll have no interest in informing the Emperor. We’ll report the events on Arctis as nothing more than an ordinary skirmish between our Houses. Routine border conflicts. Nothing more."

Hawat nodded in agreement, his mind already cataloging the steps needed to manage the situation. Keeping the Targaryen encounter under wraps would be a delicate task, but it was one the Mentat could handle.

Just as Hawat turned to leave, Leto’s voice stopped him.

“Thufir,” Leto said quietly, his gaze returning to the dragon egg. “What are the chances… of us encountering the Targaryens again?”

Hawat paused, considering the question carefully. The Targaryens were enigmatic, elusive, and far more powerful than even the Atreides had anticipated. Their sudden appearance had changed everything, and their departure left a trail of unanswered questions.

“I’d say, my Lord,” Hawat began, his voice measured, “that the chances are higher than we’d like to admit. They are not a people who vanish easily.”

Leto nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “No… they are not.”

With that, Hawat gave a slight bow and left the room, leaving Leto alone with his thoughts once more. The Duke stared at the egg, the weight of its significance heavy in his hands. He whispered softly, as if to himself—or perhaps to you.

“Until we meet again, Daenys.”

The thick, oppressive atmosphere of Giedi Prime clung to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen like the oily, polluted air that filled every corner of his home planet. As his shuttle descended toward the capital, the dark, industrial landscape stretched out beneath him, a grim reminder of his family’s iron-fisted rule over their wretched domain.

Feyd’s jaw tightened as he gazed out the viewport, knowing that this return would be far from triumphant. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had already received news of the failure on Arctis—of the defeat at the hands of the Atreides and, worse, the reveal of the Targaryens. His uncle’s rage would be visible, and Feyd knew he would be the primary target of that fury.

Yet, there was something else—something Feyd clung to. They had achieved a sliver of what they were after. The Targaryens had revealed themselves, drawn out from the shadows of obscurity. The Baron may not be pleased with the overall outcome, but Feyd believed that this failure could still be turned into something useful.

As the shuttle touched down in the landing bay of the Harkonnen stronghold, Feyd took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and prepared himself for what was to come. The heavy doors hissed open, and he stepped out onto the cold metal floor, his steps echoing down the corridor as he made his way to the Baron’s chambers.

The familiar scent of grease and decay filled the air as he approached the grand doors of his uncle’s throne room. The walls of the fortress were adorned with dark tapestries depicting the conquests and cruelties of House Harkonnen, reminders of the family’s ruthless ambition.

Inside the chamber, Baron Vladimir Harkonnen sat on his hovering chair, his corpulent form draped in luxurious, dark robes. His pale, bloated face was twisted into a sneer, and his small, pig-like eyes flickered with barely contained rage. Standing beside him, the ever-brutal Glossu Rabban, Feyd’s brutish brother, looked on with a mixture of amusement and impatience.

Feyd stepped forward, his chin held high despite the weight of his failure. He knew better than to show weakness in front of the Baron.

"Uncle," Feyd greeted, his voice calm but respectful, bowing slightly as he addressed the Baron.

The Baron’s sneer deepened, and his eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned forward in his chair. "So, my dear nephew," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You return to me a failure, do you not? After all, your mission on Arctis… did not go as planned."

Feyd met his uncle’s gaze without flinching, though he could feel the simmering anger in the air. "Yes, the Atreides interfered, and we were forced to retreat, but—"

"But?" the Baron hissed, his bloated fingers gripping the arms of his chair. "But? There is no ‘but,’ Feyd! You lost. You were humiliated. The Atreides and those damnable Targaryens bested you!"

Rabban chuckled darkly from his place beside the Baron, his thick arms crossed over his chest. "A failure is a failure, brother. There’s no excuse for that."

Feyd clenched his fists but held his composure. "We may have lost the battle, but we achieved something important," he said, his voice steady. "We drew the Targaryens out. They revealed themselves, showed their hand. That was the true goal, was it not?"

The Baron’s sneer faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered Feyd’s words. He leaned back in his chair, his expression momentarily thoughtful. "Ah, yes. The Targaryens. The ancient dragons who were supposed to be long dead. And now… they return, do they?"

Feyd nodded. "Yes. They are more powerful than we anticipated, but they are no longer hidden. They’ve shown their faces, and that gives us an advantage. Now, we know what we’re dealing with."

The Baron’s face darkened again, though his rage had softened somewhat. "Perhaps. But make no mistake, Feyd—this failure is still yours. You did not eliminate the Atreides forces. You allowed them to gain the upper hand. You are fortunate that the Targaryens revealed themselves, or I would not be so lenient."

Rabban grunted in agreement, his brutish face twisted into a grin. "You’re lucky, brother. Very lucky."

Feyd ignored Rabban, his focus on the Baron. "I understand, Uncle. And I take full responsibility for the setback. But I believe we can use this to our advantage."

The Baron raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Go on."

Feyd stepped forward, his voice lowering slightly as he spoke. "Now that the Targaryens have shown themselves, we can manipulate the situation. The Imperium will take notice, especially if we… steer the narrative. House Atreides is already under suspicion by the Emperor. If we can make it seem as though they are allied with the Targaryens—an ancient, unknown threat—then the Emperor may act against them. We could use this to weaken both Houses."

The Baron’s eyes gleamed with interest, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of his chair. "Hmm. You may be right, Feyd. The Emperor is always wary of rising threats. And if he believes that the Atreides are conspiring with the Targaryens… it could work in our favor."

Rabban, ever the brute, looked confused for a moment but eventually nodded in agreement, understanding only the basic idea. "Sounds good. Let the Emperor deal with them."

Feyd allowed himself a small smile. "Exactly. We use the Targaryens’ return as a weapon. Let the Emperor and the Landsraad turn their gaze on the Atreides. And when they fall, House Harkonnen will be ready to take their place."

The Baron’s laughter filled the room, deep and malevolent. "Ah, Feyd. You may have stumbled, but you’ve shown some cunning after all. Very well. We will pursue this path, but make no mistake—you will not fail me again."

Feyd bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I won’t, Uncle."

The Baron’s laughter faded, and he waved his hand dismissively. "Go, then. Begin preparing the groundwork. We’ll let the Imperium know about our new friends, the Targaryens. But we will do so on our terms."

Feyd nodded once more, then turned and left the room, his thoughts already spinning with plans and schemes. He had failed on Arctis, yes, but the game was far from over. And the next time, he would make sure both the Atreides and the Targaryens paid the price.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, Feyd allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. This was just the beginning.

...

The vast throne room of Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV was cold and silent, save for the soft echo of footsteps as Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam and her attendants led the Red Woman into the chamber. The priestess, dressed in tattered crimson robes, her flame-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, had been a mystery ever since her arrival on Arrakis. Now, despite all the efforts of the Bene Gesserit to break her will, she remained unresponsive to their usual methods of interrogation.

At the far end of the room, Shaddam sat on his gilded throne, his expression unreadable as he stared down at the Red Woman. Beside him, an array of documents and reports lay scattered across a marble table—conflicting accounts of the events on Arctis. One report from Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, claiming his forces had been ambushed by House Atreides, painted the Duke as an aggressor and the unexpected return of House Targaryen. The other report, from Duke Leto Atreides himself, painted a different picture—one of defense against Harkonnen treachery. Neither report fully aligned with the scarce updates from House Ix, who had remained curiously evasive since they had delivered that parchment with dragon seal to the Emperor.

Shaddam's frustration simmered beneath his composed exterior. This was not how things were supposed to go. And now, with the Targaryens resurfacing, the entire balance of power in the Imperium was at risk.

The Red Woman was brought before the Emperor, her face serene despite the chains that bound her wrists. Her eyes, fiery and unwavering, met Shaddam's without fear. Mother Helen stood just behind her, her presence a quiet threat.

Shaddam leaned forward, his voice low but firm. "You have defied the Bene Gesserit and refused to answer their questions. But you are in my presence now, priestess. And I will have answers. What are you doing on Arrakis, and what is your connection to the events on Arctis?"

The Red Woman's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "You align yourself with serpents, Emperor," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The Bene Gesserit whisper in your ear, guiding your hand, but they do not serve you. They serve only themselves."

Mother Mohiam's face tightened in anger. "Careful, woman. You speak to the Emperor."

But the Red Woman did not flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on Shaddam, her gaze burning with an intensity that unsettled even the most seasoned court attendants. "The time of false kings and the Sisterhood's shadowy plots is ending," she said, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of fire. "The Lord of Light has sent me as a warning. You think yourselves rulers of this universe, but your reigns are but flickering candles in the darkness. The true prince will come, and he will burn away the corruption that festers in your Imperium."

Shaddam’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. "I asked for answers, not riddles. What do you know of the Targaryens? Of their return?"

The Red Woman’s gaze flickered with something unreadable, her smile never fading. "The dragons are of the flame, born of the same fire that will cleanse this universe. You cannot stop what is coming. You will either bend before it, or you will be consumed."

Mother Mohiam stepped forward, her patience long gone. "Enough!" she barked, her voice filled with frustration. "You dare speak in riddles and prophecies while defying the Sisterhood? You are a servant of chaos, and you will answer for your insolence."

The Red Woman’s smile only widened, her eyes gleaming with something almost otherworldly. "The night is dark and full of terrors, Bene Gesserit. And you are blind to the true threat. Your whispers of control, your breeding programs, they are nothing in the face of what is coming."

Shaddam's eyes narrowed, his annoyance boiling over. "Enough of this. Remove her from my sight," he ordered, his voice cold. "She is no more than a madwoman spouting false prophecies."

Two guards stepped forward to take the Red Woman away, her chains rattling as they pulled her toward the exit. But as she was led from the room, her parting words echoed through the chamber like a curse. "The time of shadows is ending, Emperor. The Lord of Light sees all."

When the doors slammed shut behind her, silence filled the room once more. Shaddam stood from his throne, pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mother Mohiam approached, her voice cold and accusing. "You knew of the Targaryens' presence long before the Sisterhood did, didn't you? And you said nothing."

Shaddam stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face her, his expression hardening. He had known about the possibility of the Targaryens' survival for some time, though he had kept that information close, using it to his advantage when necessary. But now, with conflicting reports, he realized someone had leaked sensitive information.

"It seems," Shaddam said, his voice measured but edged with annoyance, "that certain reports have slipped through the cracks. There has been a leak, and the Targaryens' presence has become known before I intended."

Mother Mohiam’s eyes narrowed. "The Sisterhood could have acted had we known sooner. Now, the situation is slipping from our control. The Targaryens are a threat we cannot afford to ignore, and this… priestess has stirred up resistance on Arrakis. Her followers are growing, undermining our groundwork for the Kwisatz Haderach."

Shaddam’s patience wore thin as he rubbed his temples. "I have a plan to deal with the Targaryens, but it will take time. As for Arrakis, your order should focus on securing the situation. We have little time left before things spiral further out of control."

Mother Mohiam’s lips pressed into a thin line. "The groundwork is already in place, but the presence of these servants of the so-called Lord of Light is complicating matters. They are spreading dissent among the people, speaking of a prince that will come to save them."

"Then fix it," Shaddam snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. "The Bene Gesserit have manipulated rulers for centuries. Surely dealing with a few religious zealots is not beyond your capabilities."

Mother Mohiam’s expression darkened, but she said nothing further. The tension between them was palpable, but she knew that the Emperor’s patience had limits. With a final curt nod, she turned and left the chamber, her robes billowing behind her as she exited.

Shaddam stood alone in the vast room, his gaze once more settling on the conflicting reports before him. The Targaryens, the Atreides, the Harkonnens—all were playing dangerous games. But in the end, Shaddam intended to be the one holding the strings. Time was running out, and soon, all the pieces would need to fall into place.

But first, he had to deal with the shadows lurking within his own empire.

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justicesocietyweek · 4 months ago

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JSA week will take place January 5-11! There are 3 prompts per day. For the event, you can use any of them in any combination or do something different. The prompts are to help give ideas, but if there's something you'd rather do instead then please go ahead! You're also absolutely free to work on prompt fills now and save them to post in January.

Day 1: Win the War/Win the Peace -- Generations -- Legacy Day 2: Forgotten heroes -- Lost time -- Golden Age Day 3: Hurt/comfort -- "Just because there's a crack in something, doesn't mean you throw it away." -- Scars Day 4: Found family -- Mentorship -- "You hurt our kids." Day 5: Rivals to lovers (or friends) -- Role swap AU -- Multiverse Day 6: First day -- Fluff-- Holidays Day 7: Free day -- 3+1 -- Time travel

Check out our rules and faq. If you have any questions, the inbox is open!

#jsa #justice society #justice society of america #dc comics #dc fandom #dc fan event

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fall0utmind · 25 days ago

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Medical Leak AU pt 12

Hi friends!!

Finally got around to finishing this chapter - after almost a full rewrite - I hope you like it. Thank you sooooo much to everyone who has shown me love, appreciation and support for my works. I feel v lucky x

Anyways I hope this lovely almost 6k chapter makes up for the delay. It's very very angsty - finally all that Vale guilt you wanted.

TW// Suicide (more graphic than anything else I have written) - crashes - death - injury

Probably about 2-3 more chapters left!!!!!

Love you all - ch below cut

AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59751640/chapters/158547442

CH 12 - REGRET

Valentino gets home late on Monday evening with a million thoughts in his head and the heavy weight of exhaustion clinging to him. The beginnings of a headache are throbbing behind his temples, an indicator of a long weekend of overthinking. Despite this, Valentino cannot rest, too wired from a weekend full of mistakes and surprises. It has categorically been one of the worst weekends of Vale’s life. From finding out about Marc’s past and watching him fall apart in front of his eyes, to somehow making it even worse by opening his mouth. In hindsight, he realises that historical emotions with no place in the present fuelled their exchanges, lighting the spark for an inevitable detonation. He let his ego rule his mind, took it out on Marc and was disbelieving even as he stared down the truth. Not his finest moments. It has taken too many years to realise that he loves Marc and now he is faced with the incomprehensible fact that he might lose him altogether if he can’t make amends.

He used to know Marc so well; he doesn’t know when he stopped understanding every intricacy and started attributing them all to some form of evil. But somewhere along the way, every little thing Marc did was labelled as corrupt and dangerous in his mind. It costs his pride to set the habitual instinct aside, knowing he has made mistakes along the way. He is now going against years of conditioning intended to forget the affection he once felt for Marc. And yet here he is sitting in his kitchen, back at square one, after years of messing things up for both himself and Marc, with that same affection reignited and his heart shattered by his own mistakes.

Despite a greater acceptance of his shortcomings in the past years, Valentino struggles to swallow the realisation that this was his fault. Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn part of him protests the concept; it is the same fragment which is still bitter about 2015 and the loss of his tenth title. When Valentino allows himself to think about it, he still feels some frustration about the 2015 season, both with himself and Marc. But he can also look back and realise that he was a grown adult and Marc was 22; one of them should have known better, and it wasn’t Marc. Moreover, instead of choking down his anger at the time, and talking to Marc privately, Valentino decided to air it out to the world at large. He tries to push the feelings down and bottle them up, unwilling to let something as fragile as an ego ruin this. Valentino’s ego destroyed their relationship last time- a combination of his self-importance and visceral need to win. Alongside, there was a self-doubt which niggled at the back of his mind for years until he let it engulf him. He began to doubt Marc’s loyalty and trustworthiness, even though Marc looked at him like he held the sun. He can now identify that his feelings were a combination of the dread that Marc could be better than him and the fear of his overwhelming and undeniably romantic feelings for the younger man.

It's all irrelevant now. Valentino has spent a decade screwing it up and denying his feelings. Now, he must weigh up whether Marc, the continuation of his legacy as the best, or his pride are more important.

(The choice is surprisingly easy)

Valentino takes a deep breath, blowing it out between his teeth and screwing his eyes shut. He needs a plan. And yet, he’s still at a loss about how to get Marc back. He has tried begging, reasoning, and telling the truth but none have worked.

Albeit, he thinks bitterly, after each attempt, he promptly screwed it up again. He imagines it might take time for Marc to come around. It had taken Valentino years to destroy him and almost a decade to realise his own stupidity - he should give Marc time now. But patience has never been Valentino’s virtue, and he reckons he can speed up the process a little – some more positive interviews, or some flowers and much sweet talking. Nothing too overbearing, but Marc has always had a bit of a thing for praise, especially from Valentino.

No matter how hard he tries though, it is uncertain whether Marc will ever be able to trust him again. After everything that has happened between them, it feels like a far-off prospect. It doesn’t help that Marc had physically run away from him in Misano, fleeing his motorhome and leaving Vale standing there like an idiot, feeling bereft.

Now he almost wishes that he stayed, waiting for Marc to come back. He doesn’t focus too much on the small voice saying that he probably deserved to be abandoned by Marc. Thankfully, he didn’t have a long drive afterwards, and it was even quicker when he had barely paid attention to the road, too tied up in his thoughts. He was glad that the winding roads had been almost deserted, allowing him to follow the route by muscle memory, barely twitching at the occasional set of oncoming headlights.

His thoughts are running away from him, spinning off on tangents like what his journey home was like, rather than the task at hand. It is a solid indicator of his fatigue. The next time he looks at the clock, it’s almost midnight, signifying that he’s been sitting in one position for far too long. He groans as he hauls himself out of his chair, his knees cracking. He feels like this weekend has aged him. He pops his back and stretches his arms above his head, shifting as he tries to gather the will to move to his bedroom.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on him whilst he half heartedly brushes his teeth, skipping along shower until tomorrow. He shucks his clothes off before throwing himself into bed, feeling overwhelmingly grateful that he has the money for the fancy mattresses he adores. He falls asleep quickly, his overactive mind shutting down to give him a brief respite. Before he retired, sleeping used to be tough after a race weekend fuelled by adrenaline, now though he usually sleeps like a baby. Dreams come in hazy wisps of half-formed scenes. A young Marc giggles at something Valentino has said, an older version of him studiously avoiding his eyes. A flash of tanned skins and thundering engines. The harsh words which were cruelly spat at each other all those years ago. He is thrown from dream to dream, his imagination running wild.

Valentino sleeps until the sun is already high in the sky. He is endlessly grateful for mornings in bed on Mondays. The joys of retiring early. He showers quickly, perfunctory, and avoids thinking of Marc or his perfect face and plush lips lest his body betrays him. He towels himself down in much the same way and sets to start his day. He’s already written off a productive week, content to relax and wallow in self-pity after the shit show of a weekend. He putters around the kitchen for a bit, making himself some breakfast and a coffee, taking the time to do it in the fancy way that he usually brushes off as too excessive. Clutching his mug and plate, he wanders into the living room, laying his breakfast on the coffee table. He grabs his laptop and settles on the sofa. Now that he has returned to the safety of his own home, Valentino has plans to go online to read watch and consume every piece of literature about Marc Marquez that he had missed over the last decade. Thankfully, he already knows plenty: his rookie years, family, and success he is intimately familiar with. But he’s shied away from much of it: the crashes, his recovery, relationships, and the recent news. He has to start somewhere – for some reason, he thinks the crashes (and there are many) might be easiest.

Before he even consciously thinks about it, the video of Jerez is loading on his laptop – go big or go home and all of that. He watches in a half-daze and winces when Marc is thrown off the bike; the high side seems to happen in slow motion as he is flung through the air before slamming back into the earth. Valentino’s sharp gaze focuses on how Marc grits his teeth, his arm hanging limply by his side. He knows it was bad; he was there. He hadn’t seen the actual crash, and it is different now seeing it as it happened. He remembers that day, his bitter and forced indifference at the time. The vicious kind of vindication that Marc could not finish after Vale’s race had ended prematurely. Looking back now, it was fairly indicative of Valentino’s not-normal feelings. Afterwards, when he became aware of the surgery, an odd combination of panic and pleasure coursed through him. It was one less championship to Marc’s name, but Valentino also dedicated himself to researching the surgery and ensuring the doctors were the very best that money could buy. He had stopped looking into Marc's treatment after the second surgery, attempting to distance himself and by surgery number four, he thought Marc would retire – he didn’t know how to feel about that.

The video loops. He rewatches it until he can memorise the exact second Marc lost the bike, the angle at which it bucks, and the pain on his face when he thinks the cameras are no longer watching. Marc looks like he wants to scream in agony every time. Valentino wants to burn the circuit to the ground. The next time through, Valentino doesn’t click replay, staring numbly at the screen, the vision of Marc falling seared behind his eyelids. The next video loads before he can stop it. It’s a clip of Marc talking to a camera, a distant look in his eyes; it’s from that stupid documentary - the one Valentino has been avoiding for years. He hums thoughtfully, if he wants to get to know Marc again, this might be a good idea. How bad could it be? A quick Google search tells him where to watch it and it’s all too easy to set it up on his too-large TV and press play.

Valentino didn’t expect it to be so excruciating, seeing it so clearly laid out in front of his eyes. It’s difficult to watch. Whenever Valentino is mentioned, Marc’s face shutters slightly and Valentino finds himself physically recoiling from the pain in Marc’s voice. He trains his eyes on the screen, no matter how much he wants to look away. Surprisingly, the documentary cements that Marc is willing to rip himself apart to win, sinking his teeth into success and clutching on for dear life. Although Valentino already knew this; he didn’t realise Marc was willing to show everyone else. What he didn’t know is that, before it all fell apart, every time Marc did something wildly impressive, he looked to Valentino after, as if to seek his approval. In this light, Marc looks unbearably enamoured and so keen to please. He can see how Marc tore his heart open to keep Vale, only to be left with the tattered remains of their relationship – it aches. Unsurprisingly, there is also venom in Marc’s family’s descriptions of Valentino. Watching Roser talk about throwing his merchandise away after their fallout makes him wince. He remembers the smugness he felt when he lied to the Italian media as if he didn’t see the awe in Marc’s eyes. He remembers the first time he met a young Marc and the startling clarity that he was Marc’s world back then. (He remembered then too). Guilt engulfs him. He turns off the documentary and closes his eyes, unable to continue. His coffee is cold.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur, he organises his bookcase and then his room. He ambles around the track and rewatches some races from before Marc’s premier class debut. He locks himself in his office, passing the time by organising and doing trivial admin tasks which he has been putting off for months. He doesn’t feel like eating but forces himself to choke down a slice of plain toast, it still makes him nauseous. By the time he’s settled on the sofa again, the clock has struck nine and the light has faded to a pale dusk. The TV feels like it’s taunting him, its red light winking threateningly. He stares at the black screen.

A memory springs to life from the depth of his mind, unbidden. Marc, baby-faced and eager in 2013, in some shitty bar God knows where. He was drunk, absolutely hammered, his phone clutched in his hand as he waved it around, showing Valentino the pictures of his childhood room, full of old merch (most of it was Valentino’s). He remembers being unbearably fond, incredibly old, and slightly embarrassed on Marc’s behalf. A strangled noise erupts from the back of his throat. He had lied, to everyone; he had always known Marc had idolised him and he had taken that vulnerability and stabbed him in the back. Valentino feels sick, a vivid picture of Marc’s mum in the documentary, her disapproval clear to the world, even as Marc had remained hopeful.

Valentino can’t bring himself to turn the TV back on. He is a coward. He stumbles to his feet and fills a tumbler from the kitchen with whiskey - the expensive shit that Pecco got him last Christmas. He doesn’t want to think about it, about Marc, and he certainly doesn’t want to feel anything. So, he does what he does best and ignores it all, playing melancholy music through his too-expensive sound speaker and drinking away his sorrows and regrets. He doesn’t think of anything, or maybe he does – it all passes in a blur. The remnant shred of his sanity takes charge after three drinks, reminding him that alcohol is not actually the solution to all his problems. He leaves the glass on the side, promising himself that he will wash it up tomorrow. Staggering to his bedroom is an unwelcome reminder that he is far too old to be drinking alone in his empty house, he suddenly feels strangely lonely. He avoids looking the single toothbrush in the holder and the shower which only contains one set of body wash and shampoo. He ignores the thought that he wishes there were two. By the time he has finished in the ensuite and crossed the room to his bed, his eyes are already drooping. Valentino falls into a dreamless sleep the minute he hits the mattress.

The next day, Vale plans to watch the 2015 season from start to finish, and then study the replays of all the worst races across their time as competitors - Sepang, Argentina, Jerez, and Philip Island, the ones Valentino considers the turning points for their relationship. He is determined to pick apart the catalysts of their supernova implosion. It is a strange sensation to watch the worsening of their relationship as an outsider on the screen. He can barely bring himself to watch Sepang, too embarrassed by his childish and unsportsmanlike behaviour. He didn’t like Marc’s behaviour that year and didn’t enjoy losing (he never had). But the lies were atrocious, let alone thinking of what they led to. He turns it off before the press conference. He remembers how Marc had looked all too well, how he looked amused at first like it was all some elaborate joke before his face fell and shock took over.

He watches some of the better ones too, where he would pull Marc close in parc fermé and spray him with champagne on the podium. Marc looked so happy, so young, and in awe of Valentino. A startling difference from the Marc he now knows, to the one he created. His current Marc ignores Vale, putting up his walls whenever they interact, so much so that Valentino can barely recognise the real him. In his head, he can’t seem to reconcile all the Marcs, the real and the fake, the ones he knows and doesn’t. Valentino wonders which Marc is real, which Alex gets, and which Dovi gets. Is there even a real one, is it all an act, or is he all the Marcs in one?

It is a testament to how little Valentino knows Marc because, as much as he doesn’t want to think about it, apparently, he also relied on painkillers and was so hurt after everything that happened that he tried to end his life (twice). And even though he was there to witness it all, Valentino hadn't even realised. Marc fears vulnerability (he didn’t before), keeps his cards close to his chest, and doesn’t let anyone in; it makes him want to scream. He doesn’t understand how he missed it. He watches the end of the 2015 season particularly closely, searching for an indicator that Marc was feeling so low, any slip of his mask to see the true feelings beneath. He tries to find the clues that he missed, back then, the hints that Marc was struggling, if only he had looked. It hurts, watching, seeing Marc go from joyful and naive to guarded over a year is so obvious now that he is not overwhelmed by resentment. The pain wrenches at his gut, pulling painfully like a fishhook and making unnamed emotions rise within him. To the rest of the world, Marc is indifferent, a jokester, portraying a happy persona despite his internal turbulence, just like he was before Valentino. It is almost unfathomable that he didn’t notice him shutting down, the way his face would fall when Valentino was cruel or blasé. In the early years, of 2015 and 16, Marc hadn’t learnt how to throw up his walls quickly enough and his eyes betrayed him, if you knew what to look for. Over time he got better, or maybe he just stopped caring and became numb to it all. He did this, he hurt Marc in unspeakable ways. He thinks that if he were Marc, he would never forgive himself.

For a split second, he pauses and wonders why he is doing this to himself, putting himself through all this pain. But then he considers the pain he caused for Marc, how his face had crumbled at the press conference of Friday, and the awful truth of the past which stares him down. Marc deserves better, and Valentino wants to give him that. He imagines his face after winning, looking so alive, his beautiful smile which lights up a room, and his ability to overcome anything. So, Valentino mentally prepares himself, turns on the documentary and wades his way through the rest of the programme, for Marc. Occasionally, he must tear his eyes away when it becomes too much, and Marc’s pain becomes too apparent. He feels sick at the end of it, sick and wrung out. So weighed down by his guilt that he doesn’t think he will ever stand up again.

Valentino’s curious though, wondering quite how bad it all was medically, how much he fucked up. He opens his phone, searching for every article he can find about Marc’s extensive injuries and hospital records. It is like one of those sick fascinations where he doesn’t want to keep reading, to torture himself, but he cannot help it, he wants to know more. He reads it all until it’s tattooed on his brain. The surgeries, the failed attempts at recovery, mainly due to Marc’s frankly stupid plan to get onto a bike again so soon. The man has always had a death wish, unafraid of falling, throwing himself into the deep end. Fall or win – die or live. Marc ran on a scale of dichotomy. He looks at the scars marring Marc’s skin, how they transform him into something unbearably more attractive, determination written on his skin. The medical records are difficult to digest. Of course, he has already seen them, but this time he imagines, feels, and believes it (he still feels guilty about that too). He is shocked that the descriptions are so… vivid. He puts himself in Marc’s shoes, well as much as he can, and considers how he would feel if suddenly everyone knew his secrets, an intimately private part of his life. Evidently, the whole arm situation isn’t new, but Valentino doesn’t think that anyone knew Marc experienced chronic pain – every day. He must admit, riding through that is incredibly impressive, but also terrifying. He can’t believe that Marc hides it so well, the fact that he is constantly in agony is chilling.

Valentino reads on. He didn’t know about the medication, but why would he? The word addiction haunts him. He doesn’t think too much about the suicide, he just reads. If he does it will break him. He might already be broken. At some point, he switches from putting himself in Marc’s shoes to imagining if he was there. What if he had been the one to find Marc and not Alex? If he and Marc were still friends, would Marc fall asleep on him as he does with Dovi? Would he trust Marc to give him the right dose of painkillers when he needs them? The more he thinks about it, he realises that he wants to be the person Marc turns to when his arm aches; the one to massage it and look after Marc when he’s on the strong shit that they give you for this kind of pain. The domesticity of the fantasy shocks him, it was never like this before. He wishes he could turn back time, to be that person, but instead, he is sitting alone in his empty house, reading about the man he used to adore because he has been too busy lamenting in hatred to care.

Valentino gives up on functioning afterwards, devastated by the loss of the life and love he could have had if he had opened his eyes. He cries until he can’t produce another tear. He gets drunk on an expensive bottle of wine and wrecks his kitchen in a fit of anger. He flits between despair, rage, and depression. He sobs into his hands, before he throws his glass against the wall, spilling red wine everywhere, staining the floor. It’ll be a bitch to clean. He doesn’t care, not when he’s staring into the face of a reality where he almost lost Marc. His Marc, who overdosed twice because of Valentino's stupid actions and his belief that it was a God-given right for him to win a tenth title. He doesn’t think Marc was wholly right, even now, for what he did back then, for how he raced. But he never needed to react the way he did, to cause a stir and turn everyone against him. He let them break into Marc’s home, threatening him and his family. At the time, he had thought it was funny, now he recognises the concealed fear and anger in Marc’s eyes. Upset. Not for himself, but for his family, especially his little brother. He imagines if it was him in Marc’s position. If it was Luca. His stomach sinks. Suddenly he is filled with an overwhelming sense of self-hatred. The most painful part is his own failings- that he wasn’t there for Marc when he needed it most, that he caused it. If it wasn’t for his own stubborn misconceptions or his overinflated ego, this might have all been prevented. Guilt eats him alive. He is a horrible person, he hates himself. He does not deserve Marc.

The dreams start that night. He begins to have nightmares, screaming himself awake at 2 am as he once again watches Marc hit the gravel and fall still, lying motionless on the ground. Lifeless, like he had thought for a heart-stopping moment on Saturday. He sits bolt upright, drenched in sweat and panting like a dog. He has to make himself tea to calm down. After, he sits in bed, with the light on, staring at the wall for an undetermined amount of time. By the time he settles, it’s 4 am and the first cracks of dawn are rising – he doesn’t sleep again.

The next night is the same, this time an endless montage of Marc screaming in pain after Jerez, of him high siding so severely that he gets double vision again, or shatters both arms, an ambulance taking him away on a stretcher as he shouts himself hoarse. It shifts into something different, darker. It starts okay, a normal race weekend, except Valentino is on the bike again and he kicks out at Marc, who goes flying. He doesn’t move again after that, dead or paralysed or some other awful fate. He shouts himself awake in the middle of the night once more. There is a soft, wet nose pushing against his leg – one of the dogs. He must have woken them. He shifts, moving to the side of the bed and letting his toes dig into the soft rug, trying to ground himself. He stands quietly and pads down into the kitchen. He has only slept a few hours, but the thought of going back to bed makes him feel sick. He makes a coffee and goes outside. He walks until the sun is rising and his feet hurt. He is aware he must look crazy, in sleep clothes and hair mused. He is glad no one else can see.

When he gets back, he looks in the cupboard for food but then he imagines Marc, still as a statue, and promptly loses his appetite. He doesn’t know what he does that day, time is thick and sticky, moving slowly as he simply exists. He dreams again at night, Valentino is stuck in the garage, unable to move or help as Marc slips from his bike, high sides, and crashes. Again, and again. Misano, Jerez, Silverstone, Sepang, Malaysia. It turns fuzzy after the 30th crash, the 30th time he watches Marc die. This time he is in an unfamiliar home, empty and quiet. He calls out but gets no answer, so he begins to wander. The house is huge, cavernous and bare – all stark whites and polished surfaces. It feels vaguely familiar, certain items on the sides that tickle his memory. He pushes a door open, there’s an unmade bed and a helmet on the side. It clicks - Marc’s house. Valentino wants to run, but he also wants to stay. Curiosity gets the best of him. Marc’s room is the only part of the house which looks like him, it is strange to have such exuberance and such a boring house. He pushes open the adjoining door, opposite the bed, it leads to an ensuite – he sees the gigantic shower head. Then he sees the body. It’s Marc’s body with blood pooled around him and soaking his clothes, the source unidentifiable. There is an empty box of pills and a half-full vodka bottle next to him. Valentino dry heaves. He bends down, touching Marc’s face, searching for a pulse. Valentino screams.

He's crying when he opens his eyes, tears that roll down his cheek and turn into big, gasping sobs. He can barely breathe and he’s shaking. Getting his legs steady enough to walk into his ensuite takes nearly half an hour. He looks at the shower and automatically scans the floor. Almost immediately he is bent over the toilet, throwing up the minimal food he has eaten recently. He doesn’t look at the floor again, he is smart enough not to make the same mistake twice. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t recognise himself. There are dark purple bags under his eyes and his cheeks look gaunt. His face looks puffy and red from crying. He washes his face and cleans his teeth without meeting his gaze. It's like déjà vu, silently tiptoeing down his hallway to the kitchen before the sun has risen for the third time in as many days. They have blurred together into a montage of his own imagination. Between daytime and nighttime, he is plagued by horrible thoughts. He imagines Marc not recovering after Jerez or 2015, a life without Marc, and MotoGP without Marc. He doesn’t sleep again.

It’s Pecco who finds him, maybe 4 days later, barely functioning and no longer sleeping at all. He doesn’t know what day it is, and his only indicator of time is the sun in the sky. His house is a mess, and he doesn’t remember the last time he ate, let alone cooked. There is still glass on the floor from when he smashed it. Pecco looks at him with barely disguised panic which melts into sympathy when Vale feels tears burn in his eyes. Valentino guesses there's something rather off-putting about seeing your mentor in such a state. He watches in a daze as Pecco begins to tidy before ordering Valentino to shower. He finds new clothes out of his dresser, wincing when he realises how disgusting he is. The shower is nice, he turns up the heat as high as it will go, almost scorching, trying to burn the feelings out of him. Once he’s out of the shower, feeling slightly more human, he wanders back into the living after. Luca is pushing through the front door simultaneously, his eyes wide as he takes in the messy house and Valentino’s appearance.

“Oh, Vale” he whispers, striding forward and pulling his big brother into a hug. Valentino lets go, sobbing into Luca’s shoulder and letting the younger man haul him to the sofa. He clutches onto his little brother’s hoodie, shoving his face into the crook between his shoulder and neck. He tries to quieten his crying, but still ends up gasping in between sobs, it is slightly mortifying. At some point, he must fall asleep because the next thing he knows a glass of water is being pushed into his hands and a bowl of soup placed on the table. The washing machine is humming in the background, the curtains have been opened, letting in midmorning light, and the room is much tidier. Luce is standing over him, with Pecco loitering over his shoulder.

“When did you last eat?” Pecco asks, his trepidation apparent.

“Um, I’m not sure”, Valentino answers under his breath, embarrassed.

Luca sighs but does not reply, pushing the bowl towards Vale and staring at him expectantly until he begins eating. He hums appreciatively. It’s good, probably home cooked, and he is a little hungry. He knows once he’s finished, they’ll try to talk to him, he’s endlessly grateful to them for helping but it’s humiliating; he’s 46, and he should have his life under control. Pecco and Luca continue to tidy the house and feed him as if he is in his twenties and not them – he did not think he would ever sink so low. Once they are done, and Valentino has finished eating, they come back into the room, sitting on the opposite sofa and observing Vale in silence. He clears his throat awkwardly; it makes Luca sigh.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He starts, “you are going have to talk to him at some point, rather than wallowing in self-pity”.

Valentino stares at the floor, gulping a deep breath before he speaks.

“Did you know? About Marc, the surgeries, chronic pain, the suicide.” He asks; it is unclear whether he is directing the question at Luca or Pecco.

Pecco shakes his head, trying to catch Valentino’s eyes to convey his earnestness.

“No, not the suicide, or the painkillers – I don’t think anyone had any idea, apart from Alex. Dovi said he didn’t know either.” Pecco whispers. At the mention of Dovi, Vale whips his head towards Pecco.

“You spoke to Dovi?” Valentino questions, he knows his voice is doing something funny, the now familiar feeling of jealousy stirring within. Luca groans.

“On Sunday, after the race. I knew about the pain, Marc never quite rode the same since Jerez, I asked him about it ages ago but knew that he was lying – I pieced together the rest myself.” Pecco reveals. “He hides it well, I am not sure how he does it, considering everything that we now know”

Luca interrupts him, “Vale, what happened?”

Valentino sighs, telling them about the past few days – researching Marc, freaking out, the nightmares. By the time he is done, they have established that it is Saturday, 3pm. Luca suggests that he should contact Marc, get some closure to it all or try again, but Valentino immediately vetoes the idea, countering that now is not the right time. Luca rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about it never being the right time and then he changes tact. He suggests that the boys should come over, they could stay a few nights, maybe practice. Even though Valentino knows it is to keep an eye on him (because he's incapable of being an adult), he doesn’t protest. Some company sounds nice right now, he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts at the moment, and maybe it could also distract him from Marc.

(Wishful thinking)

#motogp #marc marquez #rosquez #motogp rpf #my fics #medical leak au #valentino rossi #pecco bagnaia #luca marini #finally guys #took so long #rip

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