#augh this is so exciting oml..... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

agustdenovo · 3 months ago

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OH MY GODDDKJGDFH this is so well-written istg you never miss with any of your fics 😭 minted played out just like an action movie I LOVED IT SO MUCH AUGH

can we talk about yoongi i mean agust though holy shit. HOLY SHIT. ik he's a whole criminal but why is this man oddly endearing i cant 😭😭😭

"Just wanted to." MARRY ME.

i can't wait for the rest of this fic oml this has to be the most excited i've been for a fic in a while (other than 3tan ofc my fav <3) EEEE I NEED MORE OF MINTED YOONGI AND MC AUHGDJGH

minted (explicit) | myg

title: minted (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street cart vendor!reader rating/genre: explicit (18+) ; angst , suspense , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: all you do is wake up, sell your fruit on the dusty streets below your flat, and go to sleep. but everything changes when a customer you always look forward to seeing turns out to be dangerous. really, really dangerous. note: again, this wasn't on the docket for 2024 until i saw one (1) mint yoongi edit on my pinterest feed💀 anyways, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: this series may not be for everyone, language, violence, weapons (guns/knives/chopsticks/etc.), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, murder, gang activity, poor reader is just trying to get through the day, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, tension, slow burn, choking, reader suffers from “my cabbages” levels of disaster, slight e2l, fight sequences, multiple future explicit scenes, yoongi deserves his own warning, chains but who is ever ever shocked, graphic depictions of violence drop date: august 5th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.4k aiyaaa✌ mood playlist: here

—

Ever since you could remember, gang activity in your town has run unchecked.

Anything goes. Rough fights out of nowhere, car chases busting streets, or even random delinquents snatching food on the run, dust kicking up onto stock they left behind.

And out of all the districts, yours is begrudgingly the second worst.

Why? You still aren’t completely sure. But you do know that the darkest is reserved for the underbelly that only slithers in rumors. A place in which you will never find yourself.

But you do wonder what must happen there to warrant the winning title because each day here is a battle to keep yourself afloat.

All you do is sell fruit. Why are you fighting for your life every week? Why can’t you exchange goods for money in peace? If you could compare it to the movies you grew up watching on an outdated television, it’s a grungy reflection of the wild west.

But through all the shit you’ve chosen to endure, at least one person is always kind enough to buy his wares and go.

And today is no different.

You still don’t know his name. But you yearn to. Because his hair is the color of magic and rebellion, and his tattoos really set off that bright mop of locks.

If those lethal, piercing eyes weren’t enough.

When he lifts three long digits, it takes all your strength to nod and get his purchase together. This is the part that never changes, either.

Just like always. One, three, or five fingers for tangerines. Never two, never four, and never any other fruits.

It’s charming, in a way. As if he’s more particular than most about what he wants—a trait elusive to many.

Like clockwork, you would hand his order over in thin plastic, and he would walk away to hitch a ride on a passing cart. Just like he does right now with a lazy gait, white tee billowing from his jeans.

Another day. Another exchange.

In the wavy heat of summer, you sigh. Wondering if anything is ever going to change, and if you would ever get to know more about your most frequent, most mysterious patron.

After a while, you do try talking to him.

Those looks of confusion slowly turn into little hums or grunts, then into single words that keep you going for days. Even though you rarely hear it, his voice is just as attractive as he is.

One day, you offer him a plantain, handing it over and telling him it’s on the house.

“Thanks,” he says amongst the clinks and conversations of the street, pocketing the food away.

When he does, you see a flash of black metal, and you already know what he’s carrying. You’re used to seeing all sorts of those around nowadays. In this district, you’d be shocked if he didn’t have an arsenal on his person while traveling through.

Besides. Even you have a couple collecting dust in your own flat, handed down by extended family but never used.

“If you ever need anything other than tangerines,” you start with a point to his pants, “Please buy those instead.”

He’s unmoving. Blinks are all you get so you have no choice but to explain,

“I’m so tired of eating them with everything.”

When he huffs in amusement, your heart flutters thrice. There’s no reason for a sheen of sweat and sticky mint locks to be so deadly.

“Then eat something else,” is all the stranger advises before walking off.

Well.

Even though you don’t have much of a choice, the guy does have a point. You wouldn’t be shocked in the slightest if his aim’s just as straightforward as his wit.

Once one exchange lasts longer than a sentence, the two of you start little conversations during his visits. Which prove more fatal than normal since he’d rest his tattoos on the top shelf of your cart.

From what you can make out, there are creatures stretching in beautiful teal and vivid orange, and even striking white on his other arm. They ripple so well with his veins, a canvas that sways and hypnotizes with every drum of his fingers.

You know what they symbolize, though it’s unique to have all of them together.

Taboo, even.

But you can’t hold back your admiration because of the sheer beauty. What would they feel like if you just…

“You always stare this long?”

Shit. “Oh, sorry. I just… I rarely see anyone’s ink up close.”

To your dismay, he takes his arm back. “I don’t have a lot of time today, princess.”

“Right, sorry. Hold on,” you respond, cringing hard at blurting two apologies in a ten second span.

Meanwhile, your way too handsome regular cocks a brow, clearly comfortable making you squirm as you hand over his bag.

Effortless. In your chaotic life, It’s almost intoxicating feeling someone this resolute in their whole demeanor. If only you could be so commanding and assured one day.

But here you stand instead, pretending to count fruit you one hundred percent know the stock of already. “Your art is really nice, by the way,” you admit to your inventory. “All the high-powers. I like what you picked.”

“Didn’t choose these.”

Ah. Way to assume things.

Raising your head, you make to apologize a third time.

But he’s already retreating with his tangerines, hand stuffed in a pocket and beautiful waves a little less vibrant than you recall.

“What.”

“I worry sometimes.”

His gaze lifts. “About me?”

“Yeah.”

You don’t know why you choose to say that of all things. But it’s honest. You always wonder about him and think about the weapon in his jeans. Does he use it? Does he ever need to?

Maybe you should pick up a hobby or two.

Fingers resting dangerously close, he asks with a tilt of his head, “What would you do, doll? If something happened to someone like me.”

Someone like him? What does that mean?

Great. Now you have even more to wonder about, as if he knew that was your exact predicament.

You stare, roaming along his arms before meeting his eyes—almost. “Find someone else to buy my tangerines.”

Huffing, his brows tick up with his mouth. “I respect that.” His attention doesn’t leave your face as he slowly takes his purchase. “See ya.”

“Bye,” you whisper back, watching him go. More thoughts and concerns bouncing around your mind in the sticky heat of midday.

These little nicknames he’s using also aren’t helping your issue in the slightest.

It starts when you hear shouting from a block down.

“Here they come!”

“Bunch of idiots this time.”

“What do you mean this time?”

Rough raiders this early? They should know it’s almost time for Dragon’s sweep. Bold.

After you hear the telltale yells, clanks, and bangs, your section of the street braces for impact.

And it swoops in like a whirlwind, ruffians tearing through, pillaging and stealing and swiping goods into thick woven baskets.

Baskets? The usual suspects always carry leather bags. You assume because of their sturdiness and inconspicuous nature, but what do you really know.

Here it goes again.

As your fruit is taken right from your cart, you sink to your toes, mourning the regular loss of your menu.

No use fighting. Like every other time, you all let it happen because there’s no point in trying to protect anything that isn’t valuable. Perishables and small homemade goods aren’t worth getting gutted over. Truly, the worst losses you suffer are when—

Your cart shifts violently before thieves topple it over, cracking one of your wheels and splitting the wooden boards in three places.

Springing to your feet, you douse the perpetrators in anger, “What the hell!”

“Oh, this was yours?” Someone chides while his cronies run past. “Thanks for the oranges, love!”

“They’re tangerines!” you correct at his retreating back, kicking your cart before yelping at your bad decision. “Damn it…”

Back to your knees you go. Head drooping, arms encircling, and disappointment pooling around like a shadow.

More shouts and feet in the road rampage through. Then it gets quieter. And quieter.

Then it’s done.

After silence swells in the wake of chaos, groans start making their way down the street.

“What’d they get from you this time,” you ask your neighbor, a charming old man selling anything from bowls to wide, round frying pans.

Looking over his little wreckage, he blinks hard. “They got my woks. Nothing as bad as yours. You okay?”

Walking over to help clean his mess up first, you bend down with a sigh, “I’ll be alright. But it still sucks.. My poor tangerines..”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not much to do about it now,” you resign, all your energy taken from you, too.

A little bit of time passes as you complete your usual round of help, though this raid was worse than others. As they all give their thanks, you keep thinking about how to make the whole situation better. Moreso for them than you because you’ve always been one of the least vulnerable ones on the block.

“You should find another place to sell, dear.”

In disagreement, you slip into a saddened smile. “I can’t leave you guys,” you explain to the lady you’re holding pails for. “Who will help clean everything up?”

“Don’t underestimate your elders now.”

“Fair,” you respond through a chuckle, handing her one of the metal buckets. “If only better protection was an option around here.”

“You know the rules,” another shop owner drones through lingering spices, “Dragon won’t protect us if it isn’t in their own interests.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Every single raid that hasn’t coincided with a gang sweep goes overlooked. Even the city police don't bother coming down your street anymore, which is another issue in itself.

If only Tiger or Crane had been the high-powers in place instead.

At least they seem to be more fair.

After you finish helping, you finally venture back to your own cart, realizing that the trek is a lot further than you thought.

Did you really walk so far this time? The damage was dealt for much more than a block at this point.

Not like you need to sprint back, though. What’s left to steal? Everything you got swept into those woven containers.

Still so odd…

But not as odd as the sight that greets you on your return.

Because instead of seeing your wreckage of a cart tilted and abysmal, it’s upright and being mended.

By none other than your favorite set of hands.

What the hell? What’s he doing here? You quite literally have nothing to give so there’s no reason for him to spare a second at your broken stand.

Fast-walking, you hastily try to halt his help, “Oh, shit, you don’t have to—”

“Course I don’t.”

That shuts you up. In your split second of silence, you note with agony that his hair is messily tied in a minted bun. Are his sleeves bunched at his biceps, too? Great. What were you even telling him again?

Ah, yes. You were telling this mystery of a man that he doesn’t have to literally put your stand back together. “Seriously, I got it.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“But it’s my cart, I don’t need your—”

With one look over his shoulder, your mouth snaps shut. And suddenly can’t move to argue again.

What the hell is up with today?

Forget all that. What’s he doing? At least you’re familiar with all the shop owners and vendors on your block, though you can’t say you wouldn’t do the same thing for someone you don’t know. But this guy has always been so standoffish and barely approachable. So how is he lending both hands to help you right now?

Whatever. If he’s gonna be as stubborn as this heat, you can be, too.

Scanning the area for scattered tools, you find a sun-warmed hammer and get to work, fixing one end of the cart while he works on the other. When you feel his gaze on your working shoulder, it takes massive strength to ignore him—even if you wanna know what his issue is and why he smells really, really good this afternoon.

Looks like you need more nails for this board to fit. When your eyes find a couple on the ground, you clinch a second piece between your teeth while hammering in the first.

Sounds stop at your side, but you wait until you pluck the metal nail from your mouth and stamp it in to look over.

Oh. He’s eyeing the hammer. Not you. Obviously.

You wordlessly hand it over, arm slicked with exertion. Because after the day you’ve had, you don’t feel like everything needs a spoken sentence attached.

It takes the guy a bit to take it from you, but when he does, he holds your stare. “Thanks.”

You simply nod, eyes sticking to him as he works on the tattier side wait it looks almost new. Better than it has in a very long time. Did he really get that much done in the time you were gone? There’s been great care taken during his repair if that’s the case.

Hmm. You finally learn something about your favorite customer. Maybe he’s just been a mechanic or carpenter this whole time?

Contemplative, you get up on sore legs to walk to your cooler—something thankfully missed by the rough raiders. Digging through the clinkage, you retrieve a local beer you recently procured from the restaurant across the street.

It’s not much. Absolute bottom shelf. But it’s all you got other than a few pieces of oni-coin, so he’s gonna have to deal with it.

When you offer the glass, your regular eyes it for a moment. More than enough time for you to get a good look at his striking floral top.

Well. Mechanic and carpenter are out of the question because that one piece of clothing looks more expensive than your entire apartment building.

Who even is this guy? Now you feel destitute handing him something so cheap.

Just when you think he’s gonna refuse, he takes the beer and smoothly shucks it open, suddenly making you wonder how a bracelet can do that and why it was so attractive.

God. You need to walk straight to the nearest inlet stream and dunk your head right in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, gulping at his full swigs. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“Got some time to kill,” he shrugs. Standing, the man takes another sip, peering along the street with sunlit eyes. With the bottle near his mouth, he murmurs, “You really need to set up somewhere else, doll. This street’s turning into a hot spot.”

Squinting up at the long lines of clothes and curtains floating in the breeze, you sigh at the building nearest. “I live close,” you sulk. “And this is the easiest place to get to.”

Those are excuses. Just tell him the real reason you won’t venture out and plop yourself somewhere more profitable. Well, maybe not all of the reasons, but the main one.

Leaning back on your cart, you stare at the loose dirt, swiping some with your shoes. “Maybe I’m just used to it at this point.”

He won’t respond. Or he’ll respond in his own way, which is mostly silence.

But a bright strand falls over his face before he hums, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Many people have warned you at this point. It’s basically your stubborn and spiteful nature that’s making you stay in the first place. Why would you move when you chose to be here? Why leave a place you actively choose to call home?

Fighting spirit quelled, you nod right to your stand as you count what’s salvageable. “I know, but I like it here.” When he lifts an unbelieving brow, you look away. “It’s true. But trust me, if there was a way to just make it all stop, I’d take it.”

He takes another swig, both of you looking into the street and watching things slowly get back to normal pace. Adults and kids alike are back to wandering around, buying what’s left and offering condolences.

“I’m not fixing another cart,” your patron turned repairman grunts, motioning to your wheel as he steps back. “So don’t fuck this one up.”

Huh? It wasn’t your fault! All the accidents and chaos that blow through aren’t something you can control oh he’s grinning. Why is he grinning? Why do you feel hot all over?

His teeth shine in daylight. “I’m messing with you.”

Ah.

This version of him is not good for you at all.

When he starts to walk away, you blurt out a quick, “Wait!”

Shit! Why did you do that? What are you possibly supposed to say right now? All you wanted was to see him a little longer… And while staring at his backside would be more than enough, you kinda wanted to actually talk.

What do you do? He stopped; he’s waiting.

And he looks impatient as hell.

Snapping into action, you round your cart and trot over, offering your name as if you didn’t just give up where you lived.

Then—without thinking—you ask for his with the most curious, innocent, “What’s yours?”

Silence has never been so booming.

In the dusty swirls of your street, you wait with a back that’s getting sweatier and colder with each passing second.

Was that not okay to ask? Did you fuck up with a single question?

Perfect. You just blew your one good thing about being out here. Wincing, you crush your words so hard you think your teeth will break into dust, drifting off into the very breeze wafting his striking locks.

After a condescending puff, he only smirks.

Then he takes one step. And another. And another.

The air around you melts, weighing on your shoulders while lighting them aflame all at once. It’s a feeling you can’t describe to anyone else, because they would just need to stand next to this man to believe it.

Checking to see if the street is clear, your best customer leans over. Slowly. Purposefully. “Yoongi,” he offers with a voice so handsome you’ll think about it for days. “But don’t fucking tell anyone.”

Oh.

Why did… you kinda like that?

Blinking, you swallow. “I won’t.”

This is when he’s supposed to just leave. He’d walk away, bag swinging with his strides. But ever keeping you on your sore toes, the man just chuckles low before rasping out the most devilish sentence in existence,

“Always took you for a good girl.”

Then he backs away, turning on his heel and leaving you a statue in the street.

Yoongi.

For a hardened soul, his name is so…

Tender.

For the next sixty days, you don’t get ransacked once.

But there’s also been no sight of Yoongi.

As the weeks trudge by, you can’t decide which outcome is worse.

The skies are magnificent today. But obviously at a molten price.

“Thank you for trying,” you say to a lovely wares owner before venturing back out into simmering streets. Exhaling, you wipe sweat from your brow, squinting before choosing to walk left or right.

Left seems promising.

You’ve been searching for hours now, perusing through shops, checking out vendors both nice and catty. But after a whole day’s search, you still haven’t found what you’re looking for.

It’s nothing urgent or pressing. But you would at least like to be prepared.

Since your initial mission is a bust, hopefully your next one makes up for it before you melt right into gravel and dirt.

Find a meal.

Walking along the busy roads, you pass a few options and keep them in mind, making sure to greet a fellow tangerine cart vendor with a smile. Hopefully they do well today.

A couple steps further, a giant cooler catches your eye. Seafood of all types lie inside along cubes of ice, and you weigh the pros and cons of smelling like fish just to have a cool head.

But before you can make any choices, the smell of spices and hearty soup softly pull your feet inside the restaurant nearby.

What’s here? Noodles? You’re always down for that. Apparently even in scorching weather.

After ordering, you take your seat at a random middle table in a chair facing the entrance.

Always facing the entrance.

Damn. You really need to accomplish what you set out to do. But sunset is fast approaching these days, and you aren’t anywhere close to home. All you have time for now is eating and heading out.

The service here is quick, at least. You’re already thanking the owner for sliding a bowl in front of your sweaty form.

With a head full of thoughts, you stare into nothing, stirring your noodles and waiting for the heat to die down.

Maybe you should’ve just walked a shorter distance and checked the shops you originally wanted to browse. If things went to plan, you could’ve been back by now, freshly showered and curling up on a worn down bed.

But instead, your feet are sore, your head is anything but washed, and you have to trek home empty-handed—on the first day off you’ve had in months.

Defeated, you sigh, going back to your bowl and watching sliced vegetables swirl in aromatic broth.

At least the food in this area seems good. And the fading decor really adds to the…

Ambiance.

Wait.

Dragons. A lot of them.

You can’t pull your eyes away from the crew walking in, bringing heat from the sweltering sun in their eyes and donning their telltale, striking teal.

But you can only kid yourself for so long because the one that truly has your gaze tethered is the man in front. The one you haven’t seen in weeks. The one looking right back at you with a visage so shadowed you feel like moving tables to let him pass.

…Yoongi?

His jacket. The colors.

He’s in Dragon?

Suddenly his hair makes terrifying sense.

As his guys stalk through, you swallow hard, not expecting to see him and having no earthly idea what to do with this harrowing information. There are so many thoughts overlapping each other that they all amalgamate into one huge batch of sludge.

Aren’t you smack dab in Crane territory? There’ve been white suits peppering the streets everywhere.

So what the hell is Dragon doing here?

From the slight confusion pinching his forehead, you know Yoongi didn’t expect to see you, either. Which makes it even weirder when he slowly takes your chopsticks right from your fingers.

Hold on, what—

“What are you—”

A lone, long digit over lips is the only response you get, silencing you immediately before you whip your head around to watch him rush past.

All of them waste no time tearing up the stairs, a myriad of blues blending with gritty paint and smoke.

And just like that, your reunion is over.

Home. You need to go home. Leave, leave, leave, because something is bound to be going down upstai—

A thud faintly shoots out into the staircase, and you spin around again in your chair, eyes snapping to the ceiling.

Shit.

Even though you’re on high alert, you realize with a quick sweep that no one else is noticing. Or moving. Or even paying attention to anything else but their own company.

Does no one else care about the commotion? Do hits happen in this area that often?

Mind running, you can’t decide what to do. Because even though Yoongi’s guys have plenty of weapons, he clearly had nothing since he needed to borrow your damn eating utensils.

Another crash rains dust on conversations around your shoulders, causing you to look up one last time.

Go home, go home, go home. In what universe would Yoongi himself ever need your help here?

With one more look at your noodles, you curl your lips before biting a side.

Already yelling at yourself for choosing to book it towards the back staircase.

Shit shit shit this is so stupid. This is probably the worst decision you’re gonna make in your life.

But your gut is churning thinking about Yoongi. Even a seasoned swordsman needs expertise to wield mere chopsticks and win.

Fuck, if you succeeded in your search today, you probably could’ve been a little more useful.

Swiping your own set of red from a nearby cup, you hightail it up, slowing as you round a corner and immediately hear multiple clangs and scuffles beyond the last turn.

Stop. You can go back. You can still turn around and go home.

An inhale.

Your feet propel you up and into a dark hall. As you slowly slide along the wall, your gut churns and churns. At a bang, you crouch with a skipped beat of your heart.

This is really, really dumb. But you can’t stop yourself and you have no clue why.

Nothing happens around you. So you keep going. With each careful slide of your foot, you get closer and closer to the noise.

Approaching the corner, you very slowly stick your head out for a peek.

And it’s pure commotion. Pure chaos. Holy shit, what is going on?

Fuck, there’s already a body lying limp on the floor meters away—

Your chopsticks. You wanna hurl.

But a man flies out of a room ahead before he grips and wrestles with another, and you reel yourself back to avoid being seen by either one.

Where is Yoongi? Is he okay? Did he leave already?

You give one more peek, scanning the long raucous corridor as swift as you can to see any sign of.. Mint.

He’s still here. How’s he just walking so nonchalant as his crew fucks shit up? Crap, he just went into a room and out of sight.

“Where’d they go?”

“Upstairs!”

Fuck, that was in the restaurant! Get up get up you have no choice but to hide now.

With pounding steps, you rush forward and book it, entering a large room to dive behind some steel shelving and large, woven baskets right as more Dragons come in behind with fists clenched.

Breathe. Steady. Calm the fuck down.

The grunts rush to the hallway to join the fray, and you wait in the now pungent solitude of your room. With only a still body to accompany you.

What do you do? What even can you do?

Just as nerves grip your stomach like a vice, Yoongi strides into the open area, heading right for the exit and not even sparing his kill a glance.

Go. Go now. Why can’t you move? Why aren’t your hands letting go of your cold confinement? It smells like death and blood and you need to leave with the only person you know—or don’t—so why can’t your feet just fucking—

Someone else slithers into the room. A man in brown with a knife. A knife, a knife, a knife he’s getting faster and Yoongi doesn’t hear him the guy is too quiet fuck! “Yoongi!”

It all happens before your brain can paint the bloody picture. Shooting out from your hiding spot, you race towards the assassin, slamming into their lanky build just in time.

Both of you topple to the ground, your target roaring in pain and twisting like hell to fight back fuck you didn’t get him how you needed to he’s got you—

Pain erupts in your hip as you’re grabbed, the room spinning as you’re thrown to the side and your ear hitting concrete right before chopsticks ping down. Thinking quick, you knee the guy as hard as you can, scrambling to finish the job because if you don’t, you’re gone gone gone.

“Bitch!” Your opponent clutches your shirt right as you reach for the nearest red pair, seizing your throat right as you grip and swing them around to stab the other side of his neck with a yell.

Luckiest timing of your life.

“Hng!” Fuck, he’s still holding down hard and choking, choking, squeezing. “Fuck you!”

Fight back. Keep the weapon inside he’s too strong finish him finish him.

Darkness. Ink drops in water. Your vision taints as your grip loosens, and you can only hope that Yoongi got away safe. He had to. At least you… Were able to do…

This one thing…

…

Oxygen and life rush back into your lungs, color burning through your esophagus as you gasp for sweet sweet air. Right as you come to, all you witness is the heavy heel of a boot twisting the forearm latched onto you.

And when the shoe leaves your vision. Lifeless eyes stare back.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck that was close. Oh god. You actually did it. Oh fuck.

Coughing, you rush up as you get tugged and pulled right against chains and embroidery, your ears ringing with a gravelly command and glass breaking in the nearby corridor,

“Don’t say my fuckin’ name so loud.”

“Excuse me?”

Yoongi roughly lets you go before pinning you with pure anger. Not to say thank you. Not to tell you any words of gratitude at all. The only other thing he finds the need to say is simply,

“You shouldn’t be up here.”

What the fuck. You just murdered someone for him and this is all you get? Eyes welling, you feel your body slick and sticky with crimson when you turn, coughing and spitting out regret before you wheeze, wheeze, wheeze, “That’s—that’s all you have to say?”

Dread swirls around your stomach like poison.

But the sternness from before completely vanishes as Yoongi lifts your chin. His eyes scan your throat and chest, and you rip your head away from his touch because he is not excused just yet.

“It’s not mine,” you snap, knowing exactly what he’s looking for and what you must look like to him. Dirty. Gross. Certainly a far image from the girl selling tangerines.

But your face is gently held again, and somehow this softer turn carries more strength to swivel you forward.

Why is Yoongi still looking? Now he’s holding your gaze as if he’s never seen you before. What’s that about? You’re still the same, the same, the same.

…Are you?

More crashes and shots are heard down the hall, and Yoongi snaps his head up in an instant.

God, you smell. You reek. Your nose is tainted and your hands even more so. There’s no way he’s gonna have anything to do with you now.

But you get the shock of the century when the man commands you to come along. “Let’s go.”

Absolutely not. This is all you got in you for a lifetime. “What? No, no, no. No way, I’m going home.”

“And they’ll follow you the whole way back.”

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

Shots ring out before grunts barrel out into the short hallway. All of them piling out from crevasses and hidden passages.

You give one more look at the two men now crumpled on the ground, bile rising up and threatening to spill.

“Tough shit, princess. You did, now live with it.”

Live with it. How poetic.

You were protecting him. You did what you had to do. But you have blood on your hands again and now Yoongi will see you as something else besides a fucking street vendor.

“Are you coming or not?”

You’re gonna puke your guts out.

With a stilted cry, you bend to snatch your weapons up yet again—gagging at the squelches and much deeper red—before following Yoongi’s long steps.

Your hands. They’re shaking so bad you can’t even pocket the chopsticks properly. But you finally get them down, crushing your palms and squeezing just to stop them from rattling.

When you wait behind Yoongi checking the corner, you turn around to make sure you aren’t being followed. And seeing the hallway still a moving mass of broken glass and hard swings, you think you’re safe.

The stairs feel so different on the way down. Is that because you feel completely changed? There’s no coming back from this. Another side of you died right alongside those two people upstairs.

No time to think about that. You have to follow his lead. And he’s slowing down why is he slowing down?

Oh. Normal. Be normal to not garner suspicion. You have to do the same.

Wait. You can’t go down there with a shirt full of stained evidence! Grabbing him and pulling back, you whisper, “Yoongi—”

His growl is so fierce your head spins, “What the fuck did I say about my n—”

“My clothes,” you panic. “I can’t.”

Yoongi gives you a quick look before gripping the duffle strap. Brows lowered, he grits out while dumping it, “Lose the shirt.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

“Where’d he go?”

“It’s gone!”

Your heads snap up before you lock eyes. And he doesn’t need to say anything to show you what he’s thinking behind those minted bangs.

As you hastily strip, your brain works in weird ways. Instead of processing how you very much need to hurry the fuck up, you lament the bra of choice today. And how sweaty you look. Because of course those are your thoughts of choice right now.

Something’s dumped on you before your shirt hits the ground, and you think about its warmth before you realize exactly what’s on your shoulders. “You sure?”

He’s already heading down. Oh god. You’re really putting this on shit shit shit.

You’re quick to slip into the material before checking for your chopsticks, rushing down the rest of the stairs to meet him. Nerves firing on all cylinders, you follow Yoongi out of the restaurant with a single, disturbing thought.

This is going too well.

But you’re passing tables, you’re walking by the fish display, don’t fucking sob you’re out in the street now.

Relax. You’re walking. His white tee is flawless and people have no clue you left a bloody shirt on a stairwell. Don’t fucking cry.

But suddenly.

Shouting erupts behind you both, just as a cop car rolls past the restaurant only to get surrounded.

And with one look back, your brain freezes. Right before Yoongi sounds a little too delighted to say something so foreboding,

“Looks like you’re in it now.”

Adrenaline spikes as you burst into motion. Hot summer air stings your lungs as legs propel you forward, with nothing in sight except for your partner in high crime.

Yoongi’s right.

You’re in it now.

And just like the delinquents that you despise, the two of you both kick up dust on the run.

You’re really doing this.

Holy shit, you’re really doing this and there’s no waking up, no jolting awake, no pinching yourself to know that it’s all a dream. The only thing pinching is your sides, fresh stings of karma with each heavy footstep through crowded streets, buildings, levels, wherever the fuck you go.

At least Yoongi is commanding as he leads you through the city—clearly from a heap of experience. Though rattled, you follow him with more adrenaline than questions. Because running is all you know. Run, run, run, escaping is your only objective and you cannot let up even once.

Your feet pelt down a staircase before you leap onto a disposal bin, impact denting as you follow Yoongi’s long strides across the colorful tops. Shouts and metal pings echo behind you as your chasers catch up, and you grit your teeth so hard they rattle as you jump to alley ground. “Fuck!”

Searing, searing pain rushes through your legs as you twist and wind through busy corridors, squeezing into the gaps Yoongi finds as he barrels in front.

“Get back here!”

“You fuckers!”

Who’s following you? Are they even Crane? You don’t see a shred of white on their clothes at all so are they working for some random guy Yoongi stole from?

When you watch him turn at the shouting, all thoughts vanish as your gut churns.

He’s grinning.

You just killed someone for him. And he probably has more blood on his hands than you can imagine.

And he’s… enjoying this?

You feel sick, mind blazing with a million red warning signs. How could you ever have had feelings for h—

You bounce off a passerby as you run, grunting at the sudden pain in your shoulder when another person rams into your back and topples you over, dirt scraping into your palms and knees.

Shit shit shit it’s so dusty on the ground and all you see are traveling shoes where are you? Where is he did he leave did he even see you fall? It’s too condensed here there’s no way he’s not taking the next chance to disappear.

Forget all of that, they’re coming. The chasers are coming and you see them see you down get up get up get up what the fuck get up now.

Ripping out a groan, you rush to your feet as soon as someone swoops in, bashing someone right behind you with someone’s crate of fruit.

Yoongi? He waited for you?

“Go!”

Both of you hightail it with you now in the lead, and your eyes buzz as you slip through holes in the crowd. Left, left, right, around, left again, between.

An intersection ahead. Yes. Lose everyone in the vehicle traffic or hitch a ride with a stranger. Fascinating how the survival tactics that spawn from your block develop in real time on the run.

Almost there, almost there, almost there—fuck!

Whiffing in front of your nose, a metal weapon smacks the ground at your toes.

Flailing, you dodge the next swing, ducking before you see a black duffle smack your assailant in the face.

Keep going. Finish him and get away. As Yoongi shifts left, you lunge forward, sending a swift punch to the guy’s ribs that hurt like hell goddamn oh fuck someone brought a knife!

“Yoongi!” Just as the surrounding civilians yell and clear out, you rush toward his aid before you’re tackled, air whooshing out of your lungs as your back pummels into gravel. Fuck fuck fuck this masked woman also has a dagger. A thick one. Don’t let her win don’t let her win hold on for dear fucking life.

Did you think you’d find yourself in a grudge match to keep metal from sinking into your chest today? No. Ever? Also no.

Your arms are shaking. Shots ring out. Sweat is your enemy. The street is in uproar. Where’s Yoongi did he hear you? Fuck, the metal tip is pricking you now this is—

Mercifully, your attacker yelps as something slams into her side, dark brown clothes crumpling before you’re hoisted upward and dragged back into the crowd.

“Let me go or I’ll kick your ass—”

“You good?”

Oh, it’s Yoongi. Again. Okay. Eyes swirling, you lock onto the gun held flush in his other hand before you nod. “I—I think so—”

“Then keep up.”

Winding between people, you’re only focused on getting away. But when you catch glimpses of him, he’s back to his glint. He’s exhilarated.

If only you were both doing anything else. If only you weren’t so queasy and guilty and loathing of your own self.

Right as you finally burst into bustling traffic, Yoongi boldly stops a taxi at its hood, motioning you to follow him inside.

Shocked but head reeling, you open the door closest to your sweaty legs and slide in.

And before you can even greet the shouting driver, Yoongi pulls you to his side and rushes something out in your ear,

“Kiss me.”

“I said get out!”

“What?”

“Come here.”

You’ve kissed before. Not many times, but enough to know that this man knows what the fuck he’s doing because you feel like your soul just abandoned you to exist in this car forever. You don’t know why this is happening or where this came from, but his lips feel as soft as his name and as deadly as the gun he’s pulling on your driver—

“Han Station,” he drawls, halting time and space. “Or your papers are burned by morning.”

Oh.

You were just… Oh.

Lips puffed and head swirling, you sit frozen in your spot, marinating in the realization that the best kiss of your life was a mere distraction. And as you watch Yoongi keep his aim straight, you assume he probably didn’t even think much of it, either.

“…I thought you looked familiar,” the driver slowly grits, hands gripping his wheel before he shakes his head. “You’re a little far from home.”

You think that’s all he’s gonna say. But his eyes are sharp in the rear view mirror, knowing a gun is pointed straight at his dome. “Aren’t you.”

What is he getting at you need to leave fast—

“Agust.”

…Huh?

Agust?

This is the first time you feel a heartbeat against your arm, and you hold a breath as Yoongi tightens his fingers on the gun.

When he doesn’t reply, the car fills to the brim with tension, and you feel crushed by its liquid weight.

Don’t you have to go? Aren’t you in a chase? Are you getting a little too hot?

When you go to slide to your own side of the car for some space, the hand around your shoulder squeezes.

And you’re more confused, exhausted, and thrown off than ever.

“Han Station,” is all Yoongi—Agust?—repeats, voice ice. “Now.”

To which the taxi driver stares, standing his ground until he breaks eye contact first to obey.

“Fuckin’ Dragons and their useless whores.”

Oh, fuck that.

Before you can lunge forward to outright strangle the man, Yoongi does something that has your eyes magnifying into saucers and hands shooting up to your mouth.

He fires the gun straight at the man’s thigh, yelps leaving both the driver's throat and yours holy fuck!

“You bastard—”

“You’ll live. Drive.”

“Fucking—fuck!”

The car shifts through traffic, swerving left and right and cutting off slower vehicles. When force smushes you closer into Yoongi’s side, you can’t help but notice how fit he is, and how calm he’s being despite the whole chase. Despite that spike in adrenaline. Despite blowing a hole in a stranger’s leg for six words.

He also feels really, really good against your side, but you can’t let that matter anytime soon. There’s absolutely no way you can let this dangerous man in, especially after this entire nightmare of a day.

So you swallow, trying to compartmentalize because you’ll reach insanity if you don’t.

Does anyone out there know you took a life minutes ago? Or hours ago? You just kissed a criminal five and a half minutes ago. Would they care about that, too?

The window is suddenly much more interesting than any of your wandering, slingshot thoughts.

Wait. It’s very pretty in this area, and you finally can tell some semblance of where you are. Because you only know of one part of the city that looks like this, and it’s deep in Crane territory.

Did you both really make it this far?

Carefully tended to, it’s a lot greener on the sidewalks, and more open on the roads. And it’s on one of these roads that you finally notice the sunset, gold accents shining on sleek street signs and the tops of buildings that seem much more at rest than you do.

Rest. Sleep. Home.

With the luck you’re having, it would be a miracle and a half to reach even one of the three.

Did you get followed? You don’t know how much longer you can run, so you really fucking hope not.

“Almost there,” Yoongi whispers, voice scratching your ear in the worst and best ways. “When we get out, move your ass.”

When you watch the wary, heavy breathing driver in his rear view mirror, you bite out, “I know how to get out of a car, thanks.”

“Just listen to me.”

“Why?”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

That came out quicker than you could stop it. But Yoongi only lets silence come between you before he squeezes your shoulder. When he speaks, you can hear how carved out his smirk is without even seeing it,

“Good girl.”

And you spoke the truth. It wouldn’t have come out so fast if it weren’t. But you know to at least follow his advice here because he’s kept you alive thus far. He didn’t need to drag you out and protect you the whole way, so it’s not like he would steer you wrong here. Right?

Right?

“Here,” Yoongi orders before the car slows to a stop.

That wasn’t so bad. You can get out normally now so why did Yoongi say—

Right as your foot hits ground, the taxi peels out, forcing you to throw yourself out of the side before the rest of your body leaves with it.

Fucking hell that hurt what the fuck was that for?

Dirt and dust coats your tongue before you do anything to spit it out. Saliva rushes from your glands as you cough and hack, all while feeling every muscle group in your body begging to not stand up.

But you feel rough, commanding hands on your arms. “You good?”

“Yeah—”

“Then get up. Get up.”

Straining and wincing like hell, you follow Yoongi’s lead yet again. Because you hear cars rolling up with bad intentions and that means you have to sprint again.

What the fuck did Yoongi steal? And how the hell are these guys still on your tail? Their resources have got to be as good as Crane’s and yet, they don’t feel the same at all.

You’re hobbling, but you’re going. You’re rushing. You’re going to get through this alive.

Instead of heading into the underground, you find yourself ascending a flight of steps. Rumbles and rattles hit your ears as you realize exactly what kind of station this is—one you haven’t seen anywhere in your district.

Han Station is a floating railway?

Holy shit, where are you?

Yoongi skids around a corner before you plant hard to stop yourself, only to see him clash with someone before something connects right with your stomach, and you crumple before you feel a solid hit to your head.

Oh.

The world spins and moves as you hear vibrations, slowed sounds that could be shouts. Gunshots? Or maybe songs? You don’t truly know but your head is aching—

Your arm rushes up to block something before your body follows, and you scream before gripping whatever you can and flipping a whole body forward.

Reality crashes back into your ears as you snap out of your head.

You haven’t had to do that maneuver in forever. Was muscle memory more than enough?

“Come on!”

Go. Go, follow him, both of you need to get to the rail shit it’s leaving!

The blaring reverberates through the air, pinging off metal and wheels screeching on the track lines as you bolt for the open doors.

Mid-stride, Yoongi swings to look at the people barreling up the stairs. “One more time: do you trust me?”

“No!”

“Good”—his hands grip your waist—“Jump!”

Head empty, you leap onto the railcar right as it starts to pick up speed, and you watch in horror as Yoongi empties his clip behind him until he can’t anymore.

“Yoo—” Fuck, what was his name? He seems to not prefer the one you call him and that has to be for good reason. What was it?

You’re leaving. He’s gritting his teeth while hitting the bottom of his gun but he needs to get up! What was his fucking name!

“Agust!”

Yoongi finally whips his head around, dashing to the end of the train and straining to carry the duffle.

He needs to launch it or leave it behind. There’s no way he’s not being weighed down so hard. “Here!” you yell, knowing that look is only reserved for people he doesn’t want to trust. It’s normal. But it still stings. “Hurry up!”

After one more second, he swings it around and flings, leaping onto the side handrail after you get blasted by the bag holy fuck that hurt.

He was running with this the whole time? No wonder his shoulders are so cut this is heavy.

Straining, you peek out into the wind, seeing Yoongi holding on and scooting along thin steprails towards your awaiting hands.

Shit, this is dangerous. Buildings and the city below fly by, and a parallel train whooshes and roars past as you finally tug him inside with shaky wheezes.

Just like that.

You made it out.

What the fuck. You did it. No one else was able to get onto the train. You’re safe for now.

Finally, finally, finally able to breathe.

But goddamn, you both stand out like blood on a blank page.

As you struggle to fully stand, you notice everyone else on the train—well-kept, carrying themselves in sleek linens and lush outfits, hair done beautifully and to perfection.

Which makes it unsurprising that plenty of them regard the pair of you with suspicion and morbid curiosity. While intrigue covers the one with an unfairly handsome face, zings of jealousy and judgment fire your way.

You feel so out of place. You are so out of place. But that doesn’t give anyone the right to look at you like filth. The words from the taxi driver pierce your brain again, and you feel rage and pain bubble up to your tongue,

“Anyone got something they wanna sa—”

But Yoongi does something that has your brain chemistry altering because he casually bends a knee in front of you while holding the top rail, forcing you back into the side of the train car and only seeing his jewelry.

When your eyes snap to his, he regards you before peering outside. “Stop,” he mutters. “You're causing a scene.”

“Me?” Oh, he has some nerve. “What did I do, you’re the one—”

“Quiet.”

Ridiculous. Huffing, you let disagreement tug your lips while joining him in watching the world go by.

Realizing with a pang that you are probably never getting back home. You’re never gonna see your favorite neighbor with his woks and caterpillar eyebrows. All the produce you were planning to sell will only succumb to mold and time.

Your tangerines…

When a tear falls, it glints in your reflection before quickly being swiped away.

No. Don’t do any of that here where people can see—where he can see. No one will know what the hell you just went through today. Be normal, strong, normal.

The ride lasts a little longer, with people coming and going during each stop. When there are seats open, neither you nor Yoongi move to take them. The two of you stay glued where you stand.

Silent, together, and covered in hidden blood.

The next stop seems to be in a quieter sector of the city. All around you are buildings you’ve never seen before stretching miles into the sky, and the streets are so neatly paved you’re convinced they’re fake.

“This is us,” Yoongi whispers, hand guiding your hip to move toward the doors.

Skin scorching under his touch, you can only nod.

Where are you now? Where are you getting off?

You both exit the train with a few others, and you watch with heightened curiosity as they carry satchels and wear shoes that look horribly uncomfortable. As you move down the steps, you keep craning your neck to take everything in, and more questions fill your head than answers.

But the truth remains even as you and Yoongi stop in front of your destination.

You cannot run anymore. Even if more of whoever those guys were showed up, you may just choose to sit down instead of take another stride. Besides, your body is still running a thousand steps even though you haven’t moved since getting on the train anyway. After today, the chase may never stop.

“We’ll stay here.”

We? Stay?

“Here? This place is…” You keep peering up and up, the top of the building so high your neck hurts. It’s so foreign and magical your only adjective is a quiet, “Nice.”

At your side, Yoongi seems annoyed when he asks, “Expect something different?”

“Yeah, like… I dunno, a secret lair or something.”

Air whooshes from his nostrils, but there’s a stark absence of a smile. Looking up at the building, too, he explains something that you’ve never heard of before,

“We’re in a grey zone. No one will follow us here.”

Right. Because that somehow makes sense to regular civilians like you. Because you are one, are one, are one. “Allegedly,” you scoff, not knowing what to believe anymore.

Yoongi pauses before heading up, and his agreement makes you look. “Allegedly.”

Mm.

After taking the tiny steps to the entrance, you wonder what he must be thinking bringing your haphazard look in tow.

Because he could’ve left you behind at any point in time. But he didn’t. What does that mean? Why is he keeping you alive and at his side?

While you’re taking in the opulent and vast lobby, Yoongi guides you toward the front desk, shifting the duffle on his shoulder.

This place is gorgeous. Nothing like you’ve ever seen. How were they able to install a waterfall in a building? What kind of money does this so-called grey zone have?

Yoongi nods toward the concierge, who quickly nods back and scurries away and into a room.

If you weren’t so tired, you could probably make something of that exchange. But you are very much exhausted so frankly, you don’t give a shit right now.

Although. You do give a shit about the fingers suddenly interlacing with your own. As your hand is held, you shoot your best client a look so potent he stares back. “What now,” you snip, question low and dripping with distrust.

Unfazed, Yoongi slowly pulls you into his side, a steady hand coming up to wrap around your tired hips. So nonchalant, so lax, so confusing as he murmurs,

“Just wanted to.”

Your heart trips into the next beat.

On sore legs, you wait until the concierge comes back with a key, eyes swiping over you as if they finally noticed your existence. Which seems to perplex them as they hand over the metal device.

And Yoongi just takes it, not a word said before he directs you across the lobby to what look like elevators.

Even these look fancy as fuck. Wherever you are and whatever this place is, you feel even more out of place than on that judgy train.

A hotel worker bows before he motions to the opening doors. “Nice to see you again,” he murmurs to the ground, seemingly expecting the same non-response given to the front desk. “Would you like the usual, Mister—”

“No,” Yoongi clips him off. “Not this time.”

“Understood.”

Brows pinched, you’re starting to get a weird feeling.

How does everyone know Yoongi so well here? He said this was a grey zone, which you’d think would be akin to a neutral or non-threatening one. So why does it feel like he’s got this area on lock? Who exactly are you getting into an elevator with?

…Who exactly did you save?

Yoongi was right when he said you’re in it now. But faced with more questions surrounding him than anything or anyone else, you’re starting to wonder what pit of hell you dropped yourself into.

Especially after catching the look of utter panic from the serviceman.

Right before sliding doors shut the world out.

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: thank you all for being so patient as i work through this! it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but i like, need characters to get to know and learn about one another before heading into spice lmao. I NEED PLOT OK. THERE WILL BE LOTS OF SMUT I PROMISE DSHFKDSF we just gotta get through the slow burn first >:)) a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ minted masterlist (coming soon!)

#also man poor mc #mc is Going Through It #agustdenovo fic recs #yoongi fic recs #kithtaehyung

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thenotsofantasticlifestory · 5 years ago

Text

Baby Madness

Killer x reader, Kid Pirates, Pregnant!reader

Warning: Cursing and confused Kid

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: This started as a silly drabble oml

++++++++++

Killer wrapped himself around you, even with the swell of stomach his long arms circled all the way around. These moments were rare, sitting quietly in bed and just basking in each other’s presence and warmth. A slight twinge of pain shot through making you flinch and Killer quickly jerked his head up.

“You okay?” he asked. Being so close to your due date he’d been even jumpier than usual. Every twitch you gave had him dashing to your side ready to go.

“It’s fine, I’ve still got another week,” you said, rubbing his arms affectionately. “I’ve read that false alarm contractions are pretty common as you get closer.”

You could feel Killer’s whole body loosen as he settled against the pillow, setting his chin back onto your shoulder. He still looked a bit nervous as he said, “If you say so, but if you feel anything else you tell me immediately okay?”

You turn and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, “I promise Noodle. Besides, we’ll be at the next island in a day or two. We’ll find the doctor there and everything will be fine.”

He nodded against your shoulder, arms tightening just enough to give a slight pressure without squeezing the baby, “Okay, everything will be fine,” he repeats, almost more to himself than to you. He’d been very precise with the navigator that when your labor started, you’d all be settled on an island with a doctor and not giving birth on the ship. The Victoria Punk was a majestic boat that had survived several battles but it was certainly not the hygienic, safe environment in which to bring a newborn infant.

“It’ll be fine,” he murmured again.

+++++

“You have the stopwatch with you right?” Killer asked as he readjusted the helmet on his head. It’s morning now and he knows there’s plenty of duties he needs to get done, more so if he wants to get ahead of schedule enough to dedicate all his time to you at the next island.

“Yep, really Killer I’m telling you fake contractions are very normal,” you said. Killer had been tenacious in his studies as soon as he found out you were pregnant, bringing back piles of books and reading them through with you, sometimes making notes and underlining important topics in the pages. It was really very sweet but it had also quickly become overbearing. You knew he was just worried though, if anything you’d swear he was the one having a baby, not you.

“Okay but if you feel it again, time it, and if it’s five to seven minutes-“

“I’ll come and find you immediately,” you finish for him. “Killer don’t worry so much, we’ve got it all planned out.” You reached up to place a peck against his mask, his hands going to your stomach subconsciously. “Go be first mate, get stuff done. Me and the little munchkin will be here resting up.”

Killer sighed as his shoulders slumped in defeat, “Yes babe.” He’s worried true, but right now his heart feels full, the woman he loves carrying his child, things he thought he’d never have in his life and he’s thankful for them every day.

+++++

You were settled in comfortably, reading one of the dozens of baby books that littered the nightstand. There had been a couple more ‘contractions’ and it was a little odd to be having this many so early. Checking all the chapters on early labor hadn’t made you feel much better, but your pregnancy had always been on calendar. You were practically a text book example, hitting each new checkpoint exactly when the books had said, so labor would still be a week away at least.

The rumble that came from your belly pulled you from your thoughts, it had been a few hours already since Killer started working. Maneuvering awkwardly to your feet, you padded from the cabin down the hallway toward the kitchen. When you had reached your door, a sharp pain split through your abdomen. That definitely wasn’t hunger, were fake contractions supposed to be that strong? You shoved the worries aside, chalking it up to the hungry baby inside you.

Heat and Kid were doing dishes in the kitchen, well, Heat mostly as Kid halfheartedly dried them. You were considering what to get for a snack before another contraction hit, this one strong enough to stop you in your tracks.

Oh, something was definitely wrong.

You clutched the side of the door frame as another splitting pain shot through your abdomen. Heat turned to look in concern, your groan drawing his attention. Sweat was beading on your brow and before you can catch your breath a sudden pressure dropped onto your lower back. Warmth spread and the sound of splashing reached your ears as your eyes widened in horror.

“Oh fuck…” Heat murmured.

Kid turned now too, only to make a face of disgust seeing the water spilling from your body, “Oh my god, did you just piss all over the floor? That’s fucking disgusting!”

You take a steadying breath before spitting back, “My water just broke you asshat!”

“Oh,” is all he manages, face dawning into comprehension as Heat rushed to your side. He throws down a dish towel on the spill and helps you into a chair.

“I’ll get Killer” he says as he rushes out.

Kid looked completely at a loss now, dishes abandoned as a very pregnant woman was still slightly dripping on the chair, and visibly trembling in pain.

“Uh- “he started, “Um, what should I- do you need anything like-“

“Kid” you cut him off mercifully, “just come here and hold my hand.”

“Yup,” he practically jumped to your side, careful to avoid the now damp towel on the floor and grabbed your hand with his human one.

“Just this?” he asked.

“Yes, just that.”

You settled down slightly, starting into the breathing techniques you and Killer had practiced countless times. In and out, in and out, long slow breaths. Kid fidgeted next to you, unsure how to help, and found himself talking again in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.

“So uh, how long do I need to do this? You just like,” he made a vague motion with his metal hand, “pop it out right?”

“Kid.”

“Yeah huh?”

“Just, just shut the fuck up and let me breathe.”

Kid was saved from snapping back by Killer who nearly slammed into the doorframe to catch himself. He’s panting hard, even through the mask, with Heat right on his tail.

“Is it happening!?” he demands.

Kid turned to his friend, more than happy to pass off this responsibility, “I think so? I mean one second she’s fine, the next sh-shit ow!” the audible crack of finger bones breaking startles him as you squeeze his hand through a particularly intense contraction. Kid’s cursing nearly drowned out your own pained moan before he slammed the metal hand against the table.

“Fuck let go! I’ve only got one good hand left!” he screamed. As the pain passed you release his hand, which he yanks to himself, shooting a glare at you. Killer replaced him in a second, shoving Kid to the side much to his annoyance.

“How long between contractions?” he asked, voice frantic but obviously excited.

A few more calming breaths, you hadn’t really timed yourself this time but it seemed like the was a decent gap, “Not sure…I think, eight minutes? Maybe?”

He’s already whipped out his own stopwatch, “Okay, just let me know and I’ll time it, how are you feeling? Is it bad yet?”

You can’t help but chuckle in relief, Killer really was prepared for anything, “It’s bearable, we’ve still got some time-“

“Are we going to ignore that you crushed all my fingers just now?” Kid demanded.

Killer’s mask whipped around, ready to reprimand him, but you place a hand to his shoulder, wordlessly backing him down. You turned to Kid and locked eyes with him.

“Listen to me very carefully,” you said, and Kid flinched at the seriousness of your voice.

“I don’t think you understand what is happening right now,” you said, “What I’m about to do is essentially the equivalent of shitting a watermelon and even before that happens, even before I shit a goddamn watermelon Kid, I get to sit here and feel my insides rip themselves open slowly for at least six hours. And it’s just six hours if I’m lucky. So do you really wanna bitch about your bruised fingers right now? Right now?”

Kid opened his mouth but couldn’t find anything to say before closing it again with a stupefied look on his face. After about a minute of absorbing this horrifying knowledge he just nods his head.

“Okay, fair.”

With Kid metaphorically on board, Killer returned his attention to you.

“So it’s really happening now?” he asked.

“Her water broke,” Heat added.

“Are you seriou-NNfgh!” Killer flinched as you squeezed his hand, another contraction, but he starts the stopwatch, keeping a diligent eye on the timeface despite the pain shooting up his arm. Behind him Kid snorted, seeing Killer now on the receiving end of your iron grip.

“How long till we reach the island?” Killer choked out.

“We’ve still got at least nine or ten hours, we weren’t expecting to hit port until tonight,” Heat said.

The tension in your grip fades as the contraction passes and Killer slumps.

“No, no that’s not gonna work,” you said, “we need to get there sooner.”

“Well, I mean- “Heat stumbled, “let me check with the navigator.”

He leaves, and Killer takes your hand in both of his now, stroking gently, “Babe, maybe we should get a space here ready too, just in case?”

His voice was gentle and coaxing, but he’s unsurprised when you reject the idea, “Absolutely not. I love you but we will not have our baby in the same place where Kid left a rotting body for three days just to prove a point to Heat.” You pointed to the very clear outline stained permanently into the floorboards.

“Oh yeah,” Kid snickered, “I won that fucking bet too.”

Killer sighed, scratching at the head of his helmet in frustration, “Okay well, shit, okay,” He rises and starts to pace, “I guess we just have to wait? Can you make it that long?”

“Yeah, It’ll be fine, we’ll be there before you even know i-augh!” the pain cuts you off as Killer clicked the stopwatch.

“Ten and a half minutes,” he said, “Gives us some time but it’s not a lot.” You nodded, attempting to get to your feet before plopping back into the chair, sending both Kid and Killer with hands out to catch you if necessary.

You waved them off, “Kid, go grab some of those baby books, they might have information how to slow this down.”

He grumbles but rises, striding from the room.

You call to him, “They’re in the top nightstand drawer!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” he calls back.

+++++++

You sat for a while, Killer stroking your back and holding your hand as you continued into the breathing techniques. The time between contractions, while still at least ten minutes apart according to Killer, felt far too short before a fresh wave of pain rolled over you.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stayed before Heat returned, looking slightly relieved and holding something behind his back.

“Well?” Killer asked.

“The wind’s in our favor so we dropped every sail we have, as long as it stays that way, we can probably make it there an hour or two earlier than expected.”

Killer groaned, but you squeezed his hand in encouragement.

“It helps but it’s still a ways away,” he said.

“We don’t have a choice,” you said, “I can make it until then.”

“By the way,” Heat shifted awkwardly, pulling out what was behind his back, “wasn’t sure when to give this but a couple of us wanted to make a baby blanket.”

It was thickly stitched with patches of various color and design, but it was soft, and you tear up, “This is so sweet! Where do you guys find the fabric?”

He scratched at his head, “Some civilians of the last island ‘donated’ them to us.”

“‘Donated’?”

“Well, from their clothes. That they were wearing.”

Killer inspected a corner of a patch, “Is that blood?”

“Yeah don’t worry, that’ll wash out.”

You held the blanket to your chest, “It’s perfect, thank you Heat.”

Heat flushed, mumbling something inaudible, clearly not used to the attention. Killer turned to him.

“Hey did you see Kid?”

Heat straightened back up, “No I thought he was here with you two?”

Killer scratched at his helmet, “The hell, he was just supposed to grab the books.” He turned to you, “just wait here, I’m going to see what he’s doing.”

+++++++

He managed to find Kid, sitting cross legged on the floor with his nose buried in a book. All of the baby books were scattered around him, lying half open or tossed haphazardly. Kid’s head snapped up, hearing Killer enter, and his face looked absolutely haunted.

“Dude, have you read this shit?” Kid asked.

“Yes, several times. Kid what are you doing? You were supposed to bring the books back.”

Kid placed the book down, eyes still wide and he looks as though he’s aged ten years, “I mean, holy shit?” he said, “I-… I’ve seen some pretty nasty stuff but that is just-it’s…” He shuddered, unable to voice the trauma of what he’d just read.

Killer sighed, nudging Kid with his foot as he gathered up an armful of books, “Just come on already.”

“I mean what the fuck? People do that? Why can’t they just, I don’t know, lay an egg or some shit?”

“You know that’s literally how you were born.”

“Still,” Kid said, “it’s fucking gross.”

They returned to the kitchen where you and Heat were engrossed in conversation over the blanket. He was pointing to a square of blue cloth.

“That one actually came from some rich dude at the last port, so it’s probably good material.”

“What about this one?” you gestured to a pink square with an elegant pattern.

“Oh yeah, that guy was a dick.”

Kid wordlessly rushed forward, clasping your shoulders in his hands and staring down at you now with the sympathy of a fellow soldier holding a dying friend.

“You’ll be okay, we’ll get that thing out of you,” his voice was more serious than you’d heard it before.

“I- Thanks?”

Kid nodded in resolution, giving your shoulders a soft squeeze before he let go. Killer had dumped the books on the table and was flipping through them.

“Shit,” Killer said, “there’s a lot of ways to speed up labor but not to slow it down,” he gave the last book an agitated slam shut.

Kid looked around the kitchen, visibly searching for ideas, “How about we get her drunk?”

Two smacks, one from Heat one from Killer, followed immediately upside Kid’s head. He cursed loudly and rubbed at the sore spot.

“Fine! Fuck! I’m just trying to help here! What about food?”

Killer smacked upside his head again, more on instinct than anything, before he paused, “…Actually that’s not a bad idea.”

“Fuck you!” Kid screamed.

You groaned, food sounded like the least appealing thing as your stomach swirled and you said as much.

“I think at this point,” Heat said, “we just have to stay distracted long enough to get to shore…”

With the sun still high in the sky, the idea of waiting that long was impossible, but Heat was right, there wasn’t another option.

+++++++

By the time the sky was just beginning to darken, those hours had felt like the longest in your life. Contractions were now four minutes apart and Killer had become increasingly frantic with no sight of the island in sight.

They had managed to kill an hour with Kid reading through his hit list, featuring occasional explanations on why a particular person was going to die exceptionally slowly, until Killer had decided discussing murder methods probably wasn’t great for you or the baby.

As your contractions grew in pain and shortened in rest time, the kitchen was echoing loud groans of pain every few minutes. Kid kept a wide berth from you, protecting the few human fingers he had left, as Killer took the brunt of your crushing grip. During a particularly rough minute, Killer, needing some way to alleviate his own pain, gripped Kid’s shoulder, effectively creating a train of pain. Wire had appeared in the doorway, alerted by the screaming of you and Kid, but seeing what was actually happening, turned around and left before he could be pulled in.

After what felt like a lifetime the merciful cry of “Land!” was heard, and you could’ve cried with relief.

+++++++

The Victoria Punk nearly crashed into port in its haste as the dead of night was broken abruptly by lanterns lighting and men shouting from the ship. The town was clearly prosperous, you could see it in the pristine white walled houses that lined the cobblestone walkways. A place like this would normally be a prime target to loot and burn, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

Kid leaped from deck to shore before the gangplank had been pulled, followed by Killer carrying you bridal style.

“Watch the ship! We’ll be back!” Kid called to whomever was within earshot on board.

As the two men sprinted down the street, spurred on by your increasing groans of discomfort, both come to the realization that neither knows where the other is going. The houses are nearly identical and mostly likely residential, with tall trees and manicured gardens blocking sight of the roads ahead. Kid swerved to the nearest house, banging against the front door hard enough to splinter it, “Wake up! Where’s the doctor? We got a delivery!”

When the door looked ready to crack in two, its opened by a very disgruntled and sleepy middle-aged man, who took one look before screaming.

“Eu-Eu-Eutass Kid!”

The door slammed shut, followed by several clicks of locks.

Kid turned with a satisfied smirk, “Look at that,” he jerked a thumb at the door, chest puffed in pride, “I’ve got some reputation here.”

“Kid!” you and Killer demanded in unison.

“Right, yup, shitting a watermelon.”

At the next house, Killer pulled back Kid before he approached the door, “Let me this time.” He set you gingerly to the ground, making sure you were steady on your feet before knocking more politely. After a minute or two, a bedraggled looking young man opened the door. His eyes shot open as he processed the men and woman before him and motions to shut the door, but Killer is quicker, planting a foot in the entrance to hold it open.

“Listen,” he grabbed the man by his silk robe before he can run, “my girl is about to have my baby, we just need to know where the doctor in this town is.”

“Y-You can’t t-tell me what to do, pirates!” he’d admit, this guy had some guts, but Killer was in no mood. He was about to unleash a scythe to help make him talk before your voice caught his ears.

“Look here buddy!” clearly you were in no mood either, “I am crowning as we speak, so either you tell us where to find a doctor, or I hike up my dress, squat down, and have the baby right here on your goddamn lawn!”

If it were even possible, the man’s eyes widened more, a hand to his mouth in horror. Lights from neighboring houses were beginning to flicker on to see what the commotion was.

“O-Oh- “the man muttered, “Oh no- no no no! Do not do that!”

“I’m gonna do it so help me!” you screamed.

“She’ll do it,” Killer reiterated.

“Where’s your fucking doctor!?” Kid bellowed from the sidewalk.

A loud groan of agony ripped from you, and seeing you reach down to gather up your skirt, the man finally snapped to action.

“Okay! Okay, just, don’t do that!” he grabbed your hands away from your clothes, but released them immediately seeing the deadly glare Kid had sent. Hands raised in submission, he continued, “the doctor’s not far, just go down the road here and-“

A large solid metal hand clasped his shoulder and cuts him off. The grip is anything but friendly as Kid’s lips stretched into a manic grin.

“Oh no, you’re gonna take us there buddy.”

Even in the lamplight, the man’s skin has dropped three shades paler, “I-I…”

Once Killer stands behind him, trapped between these two wanted pirates, he knows he doesn’t have a choice.

+++++++

When they reached the doctor’s house, said physician, a wrinkled little old man of at least sixty, saw the pained look on your face and the straining swell of stomach and immediately pulled you in without question. With a strength surprising to his age, the doctor had pushed back Kid and Killer, keeping them in the adjacent room while he phoned to a nurse and got you settled. Your unlucky escort had managed to slip away in the chaos, most likely returning to the safety of his home.

Kid and Killer now sat awkwardly in the small quaint waiting room, the nurse having already arrived and sounds of increasing discomfort echoing from through the door. Killer had his helmed head in his hands, knee bouncing erratically as Kid tried to find something to say to help his friend. Another cry ripped from the doctor’s room, making them both flinch. Kid fiddled with the metallic end of this prosthetic fingers as a thought dawned on him for the first time.

“Killer…you’re gonna be a dad.”

Killer barely muffled the snort that left him as he picked his head up, “Did you just now realize that?”

“No! I just- “he struggled around for the right words, “…it’s all gonna be different now, won’t it?”

“Probably.”

Kid’s eyes returned back to his hands; brow furrowed. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the carnal noises that came muffled through the other room. Killer looked toward his closest friend, head still bowed in thought, and agreed in his head. It would be different now, as soon as he walked through that door and met this new child that would become the center of his life, things never would be the same. Even their day to day sailing that seemed so simple would change. And he realized now that Kid was thinking the same thing.

“Kid.”

He grunted in response.

“It’ll be different but, in a good way.” Killer said, “just think of it like…getting a new crew member.”

Kid barked in laughter, “A useless crewmember.” Killer shot him a look, “Sorry,” Kid continued, “you know what I mean.”

Killer sighed and rested his head against the wall behind him.

“At least they won’t be alone,” Kid said.

Killer turned to him, though Kid kept his face down, but he knew what he meant. He remembered how hard it had been growing up alone and on his own, and how things had gotten just a bit easier after meeting Kid. Remembered how hard it was even with the two of them, just to get by and put food in their stomachs, to not get mugged or killed, and even if something happened there would be no one to mourn that loss except the other. But this child, they wouldn’t have to know that suffering, the pain of trying to sleep in the freezing night while your body cried out for food and warmth. They would never be alone or abandoned like them. Kid met his stare now; his eyes were deep in some long-forgotten memory.

“No,” Killer said, “they won’t. Never.”

Kid nodded, a silent promise.

The moment broke when the door cracked open, the doctor’s wrinkled face peeking through, “Which of you is the father again?”

Killer sprang to his feet.

“Come with me, you’ve got someone to meet,” the doctor said and returned into the room.

Killer moved forward but sent one look back at his friend before he walked through the door. Anyone else wouldn’t see the slightest tremor in his arms, but Kid wasn’t anyone.

“Go on,” he gave Killer a lop-sided grin, “go meet your new brat and be gross with Y/N.”

Even through the mask, Killer’s grin could be felt, “Thanks.”

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