#dark mousy x oc

[kristamagness]

DN Angel OC Kurai Hikari. The FIRST girl with wings.

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 15 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 8.1k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

Library

Chapter 15 - September in the Rain

“This is not an interrogation,”

You don’t reply, concentrating all your energy on not raising your eyebrow into your hairline. 

“This more of a… fact check.” 

Nodding politely, you observe the thin man in the dark suit across the cold metal table as he leaves through the thick Manila folder in front of him. You’d say he looks mousy, but mouse-like is more apt. He has thin hair, combed back and set in place with an offensive amount of brilliantine. The sickly, sweet floral scent mixes violently with the sparsely furnished room's otherwise damp, cold smell. His voice is somewhat nasal, squeaky—somehow, you expected the Gestapo agent to look more intimidating. 

You shift in your chair uncomfortably, accidentally scraping the leg over the concrete floor as you move. The man’s head shoots up abruptly. Clearly, nothing escapes his notice, sniffing out every move.

“Let’s start from the beginning, Fräulein Anna,” The smile that contorts his face looks uncomfortable, like his muscles don’t naturally move that way, but he is straining to mimic some sort of human emotion. His beady dark eyes are trained on you in an entirely too steady manner, which contrasts strangely with the almost nervous movements of his body. “How long have you-” He interrupts himself with an awkward cough, the corners of his mouth still pulled up in an awkward grimace that’s presumable a friendly smile. “— did you know Fräulein Eva?”

“We were in the same class since primary school, Herr Weber,” You reply steadily. “So we’ve known each other since we were seven.”

“Knew.” He squeaks. 

“Knew.” You confirm, blinking slowly. He nods, scratching something in the file with a simple black fountain pen.

It’s been less than a week since Eva’s funeral. Every morning, you wake up, your brain filling in the sounds now painfully absent in your house: the hurried footsteps down the hall, clattering dishes in the kitchen, the radio playing in the living room. You tiptoe through the hallway to the door, back against the wall, the cold creeping up your spine like you’re walking over a grave. No trace is left on the polished hardwood, but you can’t unsee the stain in your mind’s eye. 

The skin on your hands is still raw and red from the scalding washes you’ve subjected yourself to. The stain of Eva’s death is now seared into your flesh and bones. Mindlessly, you rub your hands over your thighs like you’re trying to wipe your hands on the fabric of your dress. Weber’s eyes dart to your hands immediately.

Disgusting little man, you seethe. He knows very well Eva is barely cold in the ground. He was probably there if he wasn’t the one pulling the trigger. Forcing a neutral expression onto your face as you look at him, taking a deep breath. You pray his wretched, mousy little face was not the last thing Eva saw on this world.

“And you were close,” He states, eyes back on the folder before him, scribbling. “And you’ve lived together since… February 1940.” 

“Yes.” 

Weber simply nods in his strange, nervous manner.

“Quite an unconventional arrangement, no?” The way he asks the question is non-accusatory, but his underlying meaning is clear.

“Rent in the city is expensive,” You shrug. “Neither of us graduated university, so we had to pool our resources.” 

“Of course, very pragmatic.”

Weber sighs, putting down his pen and folding his hands. “So, fraulein, you knew each other for many years, you lived together, and you worked together,”

You nod.

“And now you are going to tell me you had no idea your lifelong friend, your roommate, was involved in committing treason.” 

You swallow dryly. Weber might not look intimidating, but he terrifies you.

“Which she was summarily executed for.” He adds, that contorted grimace returning on his face.

“I guess she was better at keeping secrets than I gave her credit for.” If anything, Eva was excellent at keeping secrets. She never sold you out, paying for it with her life. If Weber had anything on you, you wouldn’t have this conversation. You wouldn’t be having a conversation, period. Your jaw clenches, but you force yourself to calm down again when the beady eyes roam over your face. It’s getting increasingly difficult—Weber is expertly getting under your skin with innocuous-sounding questions. 

Those little corrections. 

The small jabs.

“Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—those are a lot of secrets to keep, don’t you think?

Your stomach twists painfully as you shrug in response. “I wouldn’t know.”

The lies just add to the crushing guilt.

Eva’s funeral was held in a church in her hometown outside the capital. The small chapel was ornately decorated with statues of saints, and the walls of the ship depicted the twelve stages of the cross. You hung back, entering behind the congregation before sliding into a bench in the back of the church. The empty eyes of the John the Baptist statue at the entrance are burning a hole in your back, judging you. You shouldn’t be here. It’s your fault Eva is dead.

You almost dashed out of the church when Eva’s family walked down—the sobs tearing from her mother are too much for you to bear. But you stayed, rooted in place on the wooden bench. It’s the least you could do for Eva. Honor her. 

If your guilt doesn’t eat you alive first.

Against everything telling you to leave, you joined the line for condolences. Mumbling through your sympathies, you could not look anyone in the eye, terrified they would see: it’s all your fault. They should not hug you or offer you comfort when all you have to offer in return are lies. When Eva’s mother pulled you against her, thanking you for coming and asking to please visit, you nearly buckled under the weight of your shame.

“Clearly,” Weber clears his throat. “There’s another matter I’d like you to clear up.”

You blink in a manner that you hope looks innocent, rather than nervous. Another matter? The first thing on your mind is Bradley. Immediately, you push the thought away, scared that the beady eyes look right through you, knowing every thought, picking apart things you want to keep hidden. 

“Yes?” Your mouth is dry.

“Just fact-checking, of course,” Weber grimaces again as if this is nothing more than a pleasant conversation. “So we can close the case—judgment has already been passed, as you know.” 

You nod as an automatic reaction rather than any real agreement. Weber’s attempt at a pleasant front is callous—you wonder for a moment if it’s a strategy he employs to get you to trip up or if he genuinely is only capable of human mimicry at best.

“So,” He leaves through the file. “According to the schedule, you usually worked the night shift, while Eva more generally worked days.” Weber’s beady eyes are moving at high speed over the pages. He doesn’t follow up with a question, letting the implication hang in the air. Stealing, black market dealing, forgery—how did Eva do it? Did you help her? Did you know?

“We switched shifts a lot,” The words tumble out of your mouth as horror washes over you.

How can you lie so easily?

“I usually forgot to change it on the schedule in the morning,” You add sheepishly as if admitting your part in this somehow absolves you of the horrifying lie you just told. 

You just pinned all your crimes on your friend.

It doesn’t matter that the Gestapo already thought that she was guilty. But you, you know she is innocent; that her murder was unjust. It feels like you’ve condemned Eva again: first with the bullet to the head, and now with every lie you tell to save yourself. Disgracing her memory—besmirching the person she was in life and abusing her braveness in death.

“Did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber doesn’t look up from the paper he is holding up now, his dry fingers rubbing against the paper. Nails on a chalkboard would be a more pleasant sound.

Your shoulders sag. That’s the night you broke into the ministry.

“I- I don’t remember,” You hesitate. It was less than three weeks ago. Is it strange you wouldn’t remember? Weber regards you, nose scrunching up, like he can smell the lie on you. You don’t say anything else, resorting to shrugging, eyes roaming around the room as you pretend to search your memory.

Weber is trying to lead you down a trap.

The violent scrape of the chair against the uneven concrete floor startles you, your hand grabbing your chest, trying to catch your heart leaping out of it. Weber ignores your reaction, circling the desk as quietly as a mouse—if you couldn’t see his feet, you’d assume he was tiptoeing. 

You hear him open the door, the metal handle clanking against the handle. He squeaks something down the hall—you don’t quite catch it. Starting to turn around, you freeze mid-motion, one hand clutching the back of your chair so hard your knuckles are turning white.

Shuffling footsteps are coming down the hall, distinct in its terror-inducing sound.

Abruptly, you turn around, clutching your hand over your mouth, trying to silence your heavy breathing. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. 

You need to calm down.

A gust of cold air passes you as the door behind you opens. You stiffen in your seat, eyes wide.

The dragging gait is getting closer and closer. Blinking rapidly, you try to get a grip before Weber notices—getting your facial muscles to relax is incredibly hard. Your jaw is clenched so tightly you think it might be stuck like that.

It’s coming closer.

You must take control of the situation because your whole reaction is screaming guilt. Face Weber and shuffling man head-on—don’t show them you’re scared. You have no reason to, do you? This is not an interrogation, after all, only fact-checking. 

And you are innocent. 

At least, that’s what you are going to make them believe. If you make it out alive, you’ll have eternity to burn in hell for your lies.

Sucking in a deep breath, you get up out of your chair. With a smile on your face, hoping it looks natural enough, you nod at the shuffling man.

“Sir.” You acknowledge him politely.

“Miss.” The shuffling man stops and looks at you pensively. Like he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you. You don’t give him more time to stare at you. Sitting back down, you busy yourself smoothing out your dress before folding your hands in your lap. Your nails are digging into your palm.

Weber has been scurrying through the background of the short exchange, only attracting attention back at himself when he sits down, scraping his chair over the floor again. You are sure he’s doing it on purpose. The shuffler, for his noisy gait, pulls out his chair quietly. 

“Detective Novak was a witness on April 19th and aided in solving the case,” Weber announces as he once again leaves through the papers in front of him. “I brought him in to help tie up the loose ends.”

Bile rises in your throat.

“Again, Fräulein, did you switch shifts on April 19th?” Weber looks straight at you. If there was any pretense of pleasantness in his tone before, it’s ice-cold now. You blink mutely, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I - no.” You try to swallow the bile, but your mouth is so dry there’s nothing to wash away the burning sensation creeping through your throat. 

“So, you remember now?” Weber’s tone is not mocking but increases your sense of unease because it’s just a reminder: he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

You bite your tongue from making some sort of glib reply. Well, it’s been stressful with you shooting my best friend in my apartment, leaving her body for me to find, and forcing me to clean up the blood from the floor. So you just shrug lightly.

“You mentioned you often forgot to amend it in the schedule,” Weber is staring at you without blinking. “How are you sure now that wasn’t the case that day?”

Fuck. You’ve given him too much information on your lie, and now he’s clawing at you. Weber was waiting for this. The palms of your hands are stinging, the salt from the sweat seeping into your rubbed-raw skin. You can’t help but wipe your hands over the fabric of your dress again, trying to alleviate the pain in vain. Now, two pairs of eyes follow your every movement. 

“I’m sure,” You begin, looking at Weber levelly, hoping your voice won’t waver from the loud beating of your heart. Your fingers are clinging onto your skirt, the fabric wrinkling under your sweaty grip. What stood out about the 19th of April? Why would you remember that particular day?

It’s the first time you kissed Bradley. It’s the first time you slept with him. Just the thought of Bradley’s soft voice in your ear calms your heart before you realize: shit. You have no alibi. You scoff, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, ready to commit another lie—after making your best friend take the fall for your crimes, can you pretend to have morals? 

“Because I was with-” The lie burns as hot on your tongue as on your face.

“It wasn’t her.” Detective Novak cuts in suddenly. You inhale deeply like you’re trying to breathe words back in.

Weber scrunches up his face, confused, stilling all movement. It takes you a second to realize your mouth is hanging open.

“I remember you,” Novak turns to you, voice clipped, as you quickly close your mouth. “You dropped the bucket in front of my office that day.”

The moment he mentions it, you remember how mortified you had been. But you forgot about all that in the elation of the information you found, the absolute dream of six days that followed it—but could it be that the man that condemned your friend to death will be your alibi?

“Oh—yes, I did.” You mumble, staring at your hands, trying to focus on the embarrassment you felt then, trying to recall it in every movement. From the corner of your eye, you see Weber nodding.

“So, detective, are you corroborating the night guard’s testimony?”

You hold your breath.

“Corroborate?” Novak scoffs. “We saw a flash of hair and a skirt—all I can corroborate is that the person we saw leaving forensics that night was a woman.”

You shake your head in fear as if to communicate it wasn’t you. At that moment, you hate yourself. By far, by far, you are not as brave as you thought you’d be. You don’t sit with your head held high, proud—you shake in your seat, and you lie to save your own life.

Novak shoots you a look before turning his attention back to Weber. “Although that old coot probably testified exactly what you needed him to.” He adds almost lazily like it’s all a joke. 

“Then what makes you so sure it wasn’t Fräulein Anna, detective?” Weber is now entirely focused on Novak, squeaky voice serious. It doesn’t escape your notice he doesn’t acknowledge the detective’s quip—like it doesn’t even register as odd to him. And why would it? It’s probably true. An icy chill travels down your spine.

You’ve been scared before. But the sheer terror settling in your bones right now, from the eerily calm conversation to the dank room, is nothing like you’ve ever experienced. 

“She’s the dim one.” 

Novak says it matter-of-factly like you’re not even in the room with them. You never realized you could feel relief while your heart dropped simultaneously. The strange, strangled sound that escapes Weber is supposedly how he laughs before coughing to regain his composure. You can’t help but exhale audibly, finally realizing the breath you didn’t even know you had been holding.

“Breaking into the ministry, not to mention operating the radio, would require a measure of stealth and smarts.” He continues arrogantly, clearly seeing this as an opportunity to showcase his detective skills and reasoning. 

You realize the radio must have still been warm from running by the time they got to it. Averting your eyes, trying to make it look like you are still embarrassed, you bite your lip. So they know it was used, but Weber hasn’t brought it up so far. Is he waiting to ambush you with it, or does he think he knows?

You feel an uncomfortable prickle on your neck. Bradley would be long gone now—surely. He left two weeks ago. He would not be in the territory of the Reich anymore. Except you have no way of knowing for sure. All you can do is hope. Dream.

He has to be okay.

You don’t think you could handle being responsible for Eva’s and Bradley’s deaths.

“It’s the kind of stealth and smarts it takes to steal and forge documents systematically,” Novak’s voice is getting louder as he appears to find his footing in the situation and with a seemingly captive audience. You’re looking at him blankly as he gestures wildly to make his point—meanwhile, Weber is taking notes, the corners of his tiny mouth downturned. “It takes planning, preparation, steady hands—she,” A short jerk of his head in your direction is the only indication he’s actually aware you’re still present. “She can’t stand on a ladder holding a bucket.”

Weber nods as he holds up a paper—beady eyes darting over the lines. “The night guard described as her slow in his testimony.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” 

Tears sting in your eyes. You are not even a person anymore—the story you spun so meticulously for so long worked so well it completely erased you.

You should be happy. 

It all paid off, after all.

But you just feel hollow.

***

Bradley’s pen is ticking against the table obnoxiously—speeding up and slowing down with seemingly no rhyme or rhythm. The only person he is annoying with it is himself. The office he has been assigned for the duration of his debriefing—an assigned office, ridiculous—is empty. Because to his immense displeasure, Bradley has been grounded until all procedures have been completed. Unfortunately, even in wartime, the red tape runs long. 

It’s August, a humid and sticky English summer. It’s over two months since he’s been back, and it’s like he’s been stuck in place ever since. 

Every time the alarm sounds, and everyone starts scrambling to sortie, Bradley is inevitably on his feet, every muscle in his body rearing to go, his fingers itching—but then his brain catches up. He’s grounded. It takes so long for his heart rate to settle down again and the adrenaline to ebb away—but Bradley never feels entirely at ease. At some point, he realized the tension and powerlessness were there all along—his ever-present companions.

If only he could fly—he could finally feel calm again. Physically getting away from everything, finally be surrounded by open air. The wall of the office, the walls of his barracks room, every closed space is closing in on him, looming over him, keeping him confined. 

The crushing boredom of desk duty makes it impossible not to feel it constantly. Even if Bradley tried, it’s like he can’t escape that small room—he remains locked up, waiting even now. And you’re not here to make him forget the long lonely hours, to alleviate the constant tension in his body—he feels it in his soul. 

Around you, he could forget.

Bradley supposes he is happy he is around people again. He can move around freely—as much as possible while grounded on an airbase in wartime. At least he gets weekend liberty—normally, he would go drown himself in booze and soft skin, but these days, he just wanders the countryside enjoying the free space around him. Bradley never thought he would miss going outside so much again, not walking on eggshells every time he left the safety of the small room, the weight of the fear something could happen—something could happen to you—dragging him down.

He receives telegrams from home: Mav, Natasha, and even Bob, asking him if he is alright, to tell them what happened in the months he disappeared off the face of the earth. Once the news that he is no longer MIA spreads back home, more letters and telegrams start trickling in from friends and old lovers. Bradley tosses the letters from old lovers without opening them, uninterested in politely replying. For everyone else, there’s not much to say: he is okay, and no, he’s not coming home yet. 

It’s only when Mav pulls enough strings to get a phone call in, frantic—Bradley suddenly feels the guilt deep in the pit of his stomach. He disappeared for months: no leads, nothing. The War Department wouldn’t even confirm the sortie he had been flying. Mav, despite their rocky relationship, is the closest thing to the real family Bradley has left. But even now, they cannot help but fall back into old patterns.

“How can you be so calm about this all?” Mav’s voice is growing from frantic to frustrated over the crackling line. “Bradley—do you realize we all thought you were dead for the past months?”

“What do you want me to say?” Bradley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose—he sounds almost petulant, but Mav tends to be overbearing. “That I’m sorry?”

“It would be a start?!” Mav exclaims.

“I’m not apologizing for being alive,” Bradley bites out.

“You had everyone going crazy from worry. I promised-”

“Exactly.” Bradley cuts Mav off harshly, knowing precisely what he’s about to bring up. “You promised. No one ever bothered to ask me what I wanted. You just started meddling every chance you got to assuage your own guilt.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like you’re all back to your old self,” Mav retorts flatly. No matter how well he hides it, Bradley can hear in his tone that he’s hurt. “I’m glad you’re safe and well, Rooster.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley swallows, trying to push back the rising anger - Mav deserves a lot of Bradley’s wrath, but the matter is that he’s also trying to make amends in his own way. “Thanks for calling, Mav. Hope Penny and Amelia are okay?” He attempts conversationally.

“They’re fine.” The reply is ice-cold. 

They both stay quiet for a moment—the static on the line crackles. 

“If you want to talk…” Mav starts hesitantly before sighing heavily. “I - I’m sure you’ve been through hell—I can’t even imagine. You don’t have to go through it alone, okay, Bradley? Write, hell, call if you have to. I’m here.” He implores, his voice wavers from worry on the last syllable.

They haven’t seen eye-to-eye for a long time, even without speaking for several years. But it’s hard to forget: Pete was there for Bradley during his childhood when he didn’t have anyone else. Bradley always looked up to Mav, his de-facto father figure. They’ve been in an uneasy truce for a while now: neither can really let the hurt go, but they have too much history together to forget. 

“I can’t, Mav,” Bradley replies softly. He hears a soft ‘oh’ on the other end of the line. “It’s not… It’s not that I don’t want to,” He adds hurriedly. “I just can’t. The debriefing is classified, and all my communications are being screened with prejudice.” 

“No, no, I understand,” The relief in his voice is audible, however. 

“Thanks for calling,” Bradley re-iterates sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”

The rest of his days, weeks spent in debriefing are filled with a desperate monotony. Going over every detail of his time in the Protectorate ad nauseam. If he’s not talking about it, he is reading his own words back in reports. What did he see? Who did he talk to? Pinpoint places of interest on a map. 

He wishes it felt cathartic to talk about everything. Most infer he’s been held in a POW camp, and he just bounced back quicker than others. Ironically the only place where he can talk, in any way, about what happened to him is during the debriefing. And it’s killing him.

Every time he goes over the whole story again, the less he feels like it actually, really happened to him. In every version of the report that he reads, everything becomes a little bit more abstract, like his memories are nothing more than the words on the page, stripped of all nuances, feelings—love. The Department of War and Bradley’s chain of command are hardly interested in anything beyond the facts. But they want all the facts.

“Lieutenant,” The RAF officer across from Bradley is suddenly looking at him sharply—an old hand at internal affairs, pushing paper with a bushy mustache and a posh accent but no flight hours under his belt. It’s high summer and stifling hot in the dusty room. The leather chairs, part of the otherwise cozy old-world decor, feel sticky. The ice in his scotch has long melted, and the ashtray is overflowing with precariously piled-up cigarettes. Despite the open window, the curtains gently swaying on a summer breeze, the air in the room is heavy.  “What exactly was the nature of your relationship with your handler?”

Bradley has purposefully avoided that subject. Even now, he doesn’t answer immediately, mulling over the answer. It’s not be a problem if he admits honestly he was romantically involved with you—it’s wartime, and emotions run high. But Bradley doesn’t want to. It’s private. Fragile. The only thing he has left. It doesn't deserve—you don’t deserve having your intimate moments with him dissected and put on file for prying eyes.

“We trusted each other,” Bradley finally admits, sitting back, the leather softly creaking as he moves.

“Just that?” The RAF officer pries, a little too curious. Your handkerchief is burning in Bradley’s chest pocket. 

“Just trust?” Bradley scoffs incredulously. As if that isn’t central, pivotal, the most important thing between two people moving through the shadows behind enemy lines. It was the first time you really opened up to him when you dropped your mask so suddenly: 

“How much do you trust me?”

Bradley sighs. He would trust you with his life over and over again. And while he never told you as such, he hopes you know he’s also entrusted his heart to you.

“Trust is rare,” Bradley shrugs lightly before leaning back in his chair again. The leather creaks softly under his shifting weight. “I was lucky my handler was excellent.”

“Lucky indeed,” The officer adds under his breath. “You mentioned she was quite young…” He trails off as he looks for the paper with your information. “Not even 24 years old yet.”

Bradley rubs his face in frustration. “Lieutenant,” He starts sharply, reminding the officer across from him they are equal in rank. “Is there a point to this line of questioning?”

The officer guffaws, unintimidated by Bradley’s tone. “I’m looking to understand your bias.”

“My bias towards what exactly?” 

“The Czechoslovak resistance and their cause, your interpretation of events,” He shrugs as if it’s a run-of-the-mill question, not an invasive inquiry. “And everyone knows how you earned that call sign, lieutenant.” He grins conspiratorially.

At the casual, throwaway line, an ice-cold realization trickles down Bradley’s spine. He supposes he should find it funny. Sitting up straighter in his chair, Bradley reaches from the glass of scotch—the outside is covered in condensation—and takes a larger-than-necessary sip. You made fun of him for his call sign back at that mountain cabin, and it was the first time he was actually bothered, but its provenance. Now, it feels like a black mark.

“So,” Bradley clears his throat, trying to find the right words. “You think I thanked Any- Anna for risking her life for me by showing her a good time?” Despite his carefully crafted flat affect, he cannot help the venom that seeps into his words.

“Why not?” The officer shrugs. “Wasn’t she your type? Not pretty enough for your discerning tastes?”

Bradley put the glass he was holding back on the table with a little too much force, the dull thud reverberating through the wood. The officer across from him looks amused as he scribbles something down. 

“Like I said,” Bradley keeps his voice level. “There was a lot of mutual trust—I trusted Anna with my life, just as I trust my squadron in the air.”

He knows he needs to let the jab about your looks slide—it would only open him up to more questions. Although Bradley supposes if anyone had asked him about his type this time last year, he wouldn’t have necessarily thought about someone like you. And it’s not because you are not beautiful or because you are naively unaware of that fact; you just appear to care more for impressing with your wit and quick thinking—challenging him, giving him the constant runaround. There was a time when he wouldn’t have cared too much for that challenge—it wasn’t fit for purpose. 

You are so infuriatingly stubborn and difficult it drives him mad. But then you turn so beguiling and sweet, which is, possibly, even more maddening.

Have you influenced his perception of events? Of course. But it’s not because he’s entertaining some sort of schoolboy crush on you or because your relationship naturally, perhaps inevitably, grew deeper and more intimate. The basis was always trust. Bradley trusted you with his life before your lips ever touched his, even when you were arguing, even when you got so mad at him you disappeared for two weeks—you could have tipped someone off, gotten rid of him, and ensured your own safety. 

But you never did.

Everything truly matters is your stubborn sense of justice and your unwavering loyalty.

Mercifully, the line of questioning is dropped. When Bradley is handed the final version of the report on a rainy day in early September—he’s been grounded for months now—it states somewhat euphemistically: Lieutenant Bradshaw [code name: ROOSTER] shared a close personal relationship with his handler [REDACTED] [code name: DAYBREAK].

It’s funny, in a painful, ironic way, that Bradley himself doesn’t have the clearance to read the unredacted version of his own debrief—your name, of all things, has been lacquered out, as if you are a mere footnote to the story. He doesn’t miss the little jab in your code name you’ve been given either—the rooster crows at daybreak, after all.

Sitting in his office, he reads through the endless pages for days on end, reliving, at a distance, everything that happened in those few months behind enemy lines. It feels foreign to him like he’s having an out-of-body experience reading the abstract summary of what he lived through. 

As he reads, Bradley mindlessly runs his thumb over the delicate stitching of your initials. Because it all happened, right? You are real, his feelings are real. But why does it feel like it didn’t really happen to him? 

It’s like he sees his memories of you through a kaleidoscope: increasingly fragmented, mirrored, and endlessly replicated. He tries to hold onto every sliver of you: the smell of your soap, the sound of your laughter, your mischievous grin. The way you frown, the cute little crease between your eyebrows, and tap the pencil against your lips as you think. The way your eyes blaze with fury as you square up to him, completely unafraid: you will always fight for what you believe to be right and just.

But progressively, it feels like he can’t see those things anymore, and they are replaced by mere descriptions and summaries, abstracted from time and space.

As Bradley signs the final page of the report—the whole truth and nothing but the truth—it feels strange to close the book, literally and physically. This is the last step to get approved for flying again. “Congratulations, lieutenant Bradshaw,” The RAF officer nods approvingly as Bradley lays down the pen. “You can report back to your squadron; I’m sure you have been missed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bradley nods. He should feel happy—this was the final leg of his arduous journey. It’s what he wanted. But then, why does it feel so hollow? Saluting the officer, he turns to the door. Hand on the handle, he suddenly hesitates.

“Actually, I have a question.” Bradley turns back around, facing the officer, clearing away the report.

“Go ahead, lieutenant.” He nods.

“The report—will it be shared?”

The officer stills, looking at Bradley sharply again. His bushy mustache bristles as he mulls over the questions. “It will be shared with your chain of command on a need-to-know basis,” He finally replies. 

“And what of the Czechoslovak government in exile?” Bradley knows he’s pushing the envelope on this. 

The officer’s eyes narrow. “That’s beyond our purview.”

“So you won’t share with them vital information from the home resistance, which has been cut off from communication for over a year?” Bradley can’t stop himself from raising his voice. Because it was never just about him—you, everyone depended on him getting out to show the home resistance took a hit, but you are still functioning and strong enough to pull this escape plan off. They need to know. “Will you not tell them about everything the resistance has done, everything they risked?”

“That’s beyond your purview, lieutenant,” However jovial the offer had been before, his voice thunders now. “You are dismissed.”

***

The pillow is too fluffy. The sun streaming through the curtains that your mother forcefully pulled open, sniping at you to get up finally, is too harsh. The goose feather duvet is comfortably heavy, but uncomfortably hot. 

You’ve been home for weeks now. After stumbling out of the interrogation—or fact check—Detective Novak insisted on gentlemanly walking you to the exit; he left you with one final message. 

“We know who you are now.” 

Not directly a threat, but rather a reminder. The police and the Gestapo have you in their sights now—you are on file. Guilty by association.

You nod and utter a polite goodbye. Walking onto the street, you force yourself to walk at a normal pace—don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.

It takes forever to turn the corner. The moment you know you are out of sight, you stumble against a young oak tree, splattering the full contents of your stomach on its roots and your carefully shined shoes. Shaking, you return home, where you blindly pack a bag, and scribble a borderline rude resignation letter on a dogeared page from a note pad. Tearing it off, you stuff it in an envelope, posting it on your way to the station. Another, much more polite note, although not particularly elaborate either, is slipped under your downstairs neighbor's door—please forward my mail to my parent’s address.

Your hands are still quacking when you present your ticket for inspection. 

It’s hours later, when darkness is already setting it, and you’re walking down the unlit single road towards the small village where you spent your early childhood years in the far east of the country, you feel like you can finally breathe again. The sweet smell of orchards in bloom fills the air; everything feels so familiar, from the crickets in the grass to the wind rustling through the wheat fields. In the weak twilight, small bats shoot through the sky, hunting for insects. Your heart finally feels like it can return to a normal pace. You are home.

Your feet hurt—you didn’t bother getting changed before leaving. The once shiny, polished, heeled shoes you wore this morning are scuffed and dusty—your nice dress is crumpled and sweaty. But in the distance, you see lights: houses lining the empty, dark road. Heaving your bag over your shoulder gracelessly, you pick up the pace. The earlier you get there, the earlier you can get out of these shoes.

By the time you stumble into the front garden of your childhood house, it’s pitch dark. Your footing is unsure on the uneven slabs of stone of the old garden path—built by your great-grandfather, you’ve been told—as your shoes pinch and chafe your swelling feet. The front door is open, the light from the inside streaming onto the porch as the only light source. It looks empty—which is strange. As you move closer, a small orange ball of fur shoots past you into the darkness; you yelp, dropping your bag loudly.

“Andulka? My little songbird, is that you?” Your father, previously crouched in the shadows, is walking into the light now. God, he has aged so much since you last saw him—his hair is so much grayer, his face so much more worn. He is dressed smartly as always: dress pants, a matching waistcoat, and a crisp shirt. Your father might have retired as a lawyer at the outbreak of the war, resigning his government position and moving back to his ancestral house, but a lifetime of habits are hard to break. Uncharacteristically, he’s not wearing a jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. 

Even stranger, possibly, is the small desert plate in his hand and what looks like several barn cats tottering and yowling around his feet. 

You don’t know why you feel so overcome with emotion—maybe because you haven’t seen your father in way too long. You forgot how much you missed him, maybe because he hasn’t called you Andulka since you were a child, or maybe because your dad has clearly, covertly been feeding the barn cats when never allowed you to have a pet.

Standing there on the garden path in your crumpled dress and dirty shoes, you simply burst out crying. Every tear and sob you swallowed for Eva, for Bradley, and for yourself, force their way out of you—but it’s okay now. You are home.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve returned—and you’ve spent most of that time in bed, asleep or staring at the ceiling. The moment you crossed the threshold of your home, it’s like every defense, every system you had to sustain, you just crumbled. You cannot summon the energy for anything: reading, talking or even smiling. Sometimes, you venture into the kitchen, you sit through dinner with your parents mostly in silence.

Your father doesn’t push the issue much. Once you assured him that you weren’t in any sort of trouble—which, formally, isn’t a lie—he left it at that. Emotional things were never much his forte, but in his own way, he tries to cheer you up in his own way. Your father cuts out the Saturday cartoon from the newspaper for you, bringing it to you with a cup of tea, and leaving it with a kiss on your forehead. 

Every day, he brings you interesting finds from his daily walks: a double-headed dandelion or a ghost leaf. Loitering in the doorway, he waits for you to smile. On your birthday, which you forgot about in the blur of days, he gifts you a simply wrapped tablet of milk chocolate, which is impossible to get. 

“Don’t tell your mother,” He whispers conspiratorially, grinning, knowing she will probably be upset at the cost of such luxuries. Unwrapping your secret gift, you sigh lightly.

“You shouldn’t have, daddy,” But despite your soft chiding, you take a bite out of the corner, savoring the chocolate melting on your tongue. The corners of your mouth quirk up automatically as the sugar hits your system. 

“Anything to have you smile again, Andulka.” 

You can’t stop your eyes from filling with tears at the words. Are you only capable of hurting everyone around you? How can you ever be worthy of kindness again?

But your mother—oh lord, as if you weren’t at odds with her already—she just won’t let it go. At first she is sympathetic, worried you are in trouble. Not the kind of trouble your father would think. But rather… trouble of the martial kind—a child out of wedlock, unwanted advances, or a broken heart.  

You don’t want to talk about it.

Any of it.

Not about Eva, and absolutely not about Bradley. It’s your burden to bear—the crushing guilt, the uncertainty—it feels that if you can keep it all in you, you can keep a grip on it. 

After all, it’s safer if your parents don’t know. They will never accept a roundabout explanation of why Eva is dead, shot dead by the Gestapo in their apartment. Your father especially will go digging for answers, looking for justice, and you don’t want that on your conscience. 

So you keep quiet.

Your mother cares for you and comforts you by bringing you food, brushing your hair, talking to you, reading to you. Cuddled up to her, you cry to yourself. But you can’t talk about it.

And as expected, your mother’s patience runs out with what she calls your histrionics. There is nothing wrong with you, you are just lazy and stubborn. As usual, you—or your shortcomings—are the reason for your failing. Age and retirement clearly softened your once serious and studious father, but your mother, who is a lot younger than him, seems to have picked up the slack more than anything.

You burrow deeper under your heavy duvet. Pulling out Bradley’s bracelet from under your pillow, you run the chain through your fingers as almost a force of habit, tracing your fingers over the embossed insignia. For a moment, it gives you comfort before your thoughts spiral - did Bradley ever make it out alive? Maybe he was intercepted, just like Eva. 

What if it all had been for nothing?

Your heart feels heavy, like every beat takes gargantuan effort. Grief is as much physical as it is mental; heart and soul suffer. You cannot even bring yourself to dream anymore - it’s just a mantra you repeat, because the alternative is dragging you into the bottomless pit of despair: Bradley made it out alive. He is safe. He is well.

Your fingers tighten around the bracelet, and your heartbeat evens out again, feeling just a fraction lighter. Your relative moment of peace is rather short-lived, however, as your mother has decided that she will whip you into shape.

“Get up, Anna,” She orders you, pulling the duvet off you. Quickly, you hide Bradley’s bracelet in your hand. “You are going to the Moravec estate today; the cherries need harvesting.”

“You’re sending me to do farm labor?” You ask incredulously, getting up slowly. The way she forcefully throws open the window of your bedroom and throws your duvet over the ledge to air out tells you you shouldn’t really challenge her right now. 

“Yes,” Your mother replies in a clipped tone, turning fully to you, anger etched on her face. You stare back, unamused. “The world didn’t stop turning just because of you—the Moravec’ sons and farmhands have all been drafted, so they can use all the help they can get.” 

Getting up from the bed, you swallow, unable to reply. Only your mother could make you feel guilty for grieving.

“And since there’s nothing wrong with your hands or feet,” She continues, walking over to your closet and pulling clothes out. “I volunteered you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, trying not to sound sarcastic while slipping Bradley’s bracelet into the drawer of your nightstand. It’s June and already blisteringly hot. The Moravec estate is on the southern hillside just outside the village, a prime location for their orchards and vineyards because there is nowhere to hide from the sun. You are going to burn to a crisp, you think sourly.

Your mother waltzes out of your room as abruptly as she stormed in—you take that it’s a hint for you to get changed. She comes back when you try to comb a particularly stubborn knot from your hair, sitting in front of your small vanity.

“Let me do that for you,” She offers kindly, gently taking the brush from you. With a sigh, you acquiesce. Systematically, your mother starts brushing through the strand of hair. 

“I know you’re mad at me.” She says suddenly, shortly meeting your eyes in the mirror's reflection.

“I’m not, mama.” You admit, not without difficulty. “I just thought you’d volunteer me for something…” You want to say more ladylike, but you decide against it—what you really mean is easier. “...something like the church or the library.” 

“They don’t need help like the farms around here do.” She replies levelly. “Besides…,” 

Your mother stops brushing for a moment, hesitating. You look at her through the reflection—she seems sad. Her normally stoic demeanor has suddenly cracked. “It will do you good, Andulka; the fresh air, the sunlight. You will bloom right back up.”

You swallow heavily, feeling like you’re about to cry again. You feel undeserving of affection.

“I thought it was because I’m lazy and stubborn,” You quip instead, averting your eyes.

“You are,” Your mother replies easily—you can’t even be offended anymore. “But you are also resourceful and clever: laying in bed all day is a waste of you.” 

Putting the brush down, she rests her hands on your shoulders, squeezing reassuringly.

“Your father worked too hard to give you every opportunity—the best schools in the republic, tutors, not to mention all those English newspapers and vinyls,” She shakes her head, smiling fondly. “He spoiled you.” 

“And I was top of my class,” You defend yourself somewhat weakly. “It’s not like I squandered any of my opportunities.” And I’m not lazy.

“That’s not the point Andulka,” She chastises you gently. “But you can’t give up just because things aren’t turning out the way you hoped they would.” 

“I didn’t -” The words die in your throat. You did give up. You know you did, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. Shoulders sagging, you hang your head in shame. Your mother’s warm hand brushes the hair from your face, kissing you on the temple.

“Your resourcefulness and smarts always served you so much better than your stubborn laziness—complacency doesn’t suit you,” Her voice is tender as her arms come to embrace you. “Don’t forget that.”

You lean into the embrace. Lazy, stubborn, spoiled—it feels like your mother never cut you any slack. To a certain level, you understand that she wanted you to achieve all the things that she never could, trying to instill resilience in you: you can only ever truly rely on yourself. But sometimes, you just needed her love and compassion without having to tick every box in her list of expectations for you.

“You need to get going,” Your mother’s voice cracks under the weight of her own emotions, as she pulls back. She grabs you by the shoulders again, not so gently, this time and pulls you up. “Take a scarf to protect your hair.”

You turn to call after her, but she is already out of the room. 

Over that long, hot summer of 1943, you harvest cherries, peaches, and plums, ending the scorching season in the wheat fields. And your mother was right—being outside does you a lot of good. Mostly because you are so exhausted at the end of every day, you don’t have any energy left. It gives you a strange kind of peace—nothing has changed, nothing has been resolved: Eva is still dead, you have been compromised as a suspected member of the resistance, and you will never find out what happened to Bradley. 

You simply don’t have the energy to fight it anymore.

Acceptance is both bitter and liberating. 

At night, somewhere between sleep and waking, you allow yourself to dream about the life that could have been. The silver of Bradley’s bracelet glints in the moonlight peeping through your window—the chain is soothingly cool against your warm and now-calloused hands. 

What if you had gotten onto the train with him?

You would be in England with Bradley now. He would take you dancing every weekend, your dashing lieutenant, looking sharp in his uniform. Maybe you could study again, on your desk, a small vase of wildflowers that Bradley would bring you. At night, you would stay safely wrapped in his arms, peppering his skin with kisses, Bradley whispering those sweet promises in your ear.

When the war is over, you could start a family—you imagine a house on the cliffs by the beach, the patter of tiny feet in the morning. Your handsome and brave Bradley, sunkissed and windswept, matching rings on your fingers. He would take you to see all the places you’ve only read about in books, all the places he teased tangled in the sheets of that small room with you. 

It’s the sweetest dream, unencumbered by reality. Escapism without consequence. You would have been happy with Bradley. You like to think you would make him happy too. 

Sometimes, you think you should have just gotten on that train: everything be damned. But in reality, you know you couldn’t live with yourself if you did that. Leaving behind your family, your friends, your cause to die. Some things are bigger than you, bigger than you and Bradley. He would understand.

The dream is all you have. And for now, it has to be enough.

note | sorry it gets worse

taglist |@katieshook02 |@gretagerwigsmuse |@yanak324 | @helplesslydevoted | @benhardysdrumstick | @chaoticversion | @cherrycola27 | @roosterschanelslut | @notroosterbradshaw | @eli2447 | @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog | @m-1234 | @phoenix1388 | @galaxy-moon | @indigomaegrimm | @annathewitch | @kmc1989

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 12: The Whore that Lies

AO3 - Masterlist

“This is a bad, bad idea,” Jelissa said with a quivering voice filled with anxiety, her hands twisting in distress as she paced back and forth, wearing a visible path into the stone floor. Unlike her companion, Daenera, who appeared calm and composed, Jelissa was a bundle of nerves. 

Meanwhile, Daenera sat upon the settee, attempting to stitch an intricate design of various plants. Her attempts proved futile, as the tansy resembled nothing more than a simple yellow circle, the bird’s-foot trefoil failed to portray its climbing nature and lay lifeless on the canvas, and even the coriander flower, while the most successful of her stitching attempts, left much to be desired. 

Jelissa’s apprehension echoed in her voice as she reiterated her concerns. “This is a very bad idea.”

“Yes, thank you for your assessment. I will take it into consideration,” Daenera replied dismissively, eyes never leaving her embroidery. Jelissa wasn’t the only one who gave voice to her apprehension, Joyce had also expressed her reluctance, but Daenera knew she would ultimately follow through with the plan, as she always did.

Jelissa’s worry persisted. “What if we get caught?”

“We won’t get caught, but he will know.”

“And what if it goes wrong?”

“Then we’re sure to be ostracized,” Daenera answered simply. 

Jelissa came with a feeble, mousy sound, beginning to further wear a path in the stone floor. How could Daenera be so nonchalant about it? 

As the doors swung open, the three hooded figures made their entrance. Fenrick hastened to shut the doors behind them, visibly uneasy as he removed his own hood, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He had been adamantly opposed to the plan from the very start. 

Joyce followed suit, removing her hood and the figure beside her did the same. A cascade of dark curls spilled around the woman’s shoulders, thick and lush, slightly shorter and more coiled than Daenera’s own tresses. A faint, uneasy smile played upon the woman’s lips as she stood before Daenera, hands folded in front of her, a display of nervousness that contradicted the flicker of deception in her eyes. 

Rising from the settee, Daenera carefully placed her unfinished embroidery on the table, her gaze fixed upon the woman. Slowly, she circled her, observing the woman’s figure and features with keen eyes, lips pursing in contemplation. 

The room was charged with tension, the air heavy and warm. 

The woman’s complexion was fair and unblemished, her face round and plump with youthful features There was a striking resemblance between the two of them, and in dim light, Daenera believed they could easily be mistaken for one another. However, the woman stood slightly taller and broader than Daenera, and the most distinctive difference lay in their eyes. 

While Daenera possessed cornflower blue eyes, the woman’s eyes were a deep shade of gray. 

Nevertheless, Daenera’s expression conveyed her approval to Joyce, a silent affirmation of her satisfaction with the woman standing before them. 

“What is your name?” Daenera inquired.

“Selma, misstre-my lady,” The young woman answered and made a sweet, albeit, clumsy curtsy. 

“And how old are you?”

“Nine and ten.”

“How long have you been in this profession?” 

Selma released a burst of air that could have turned into laughter, her body assuming the coy posture that mirrored Daenera’s own. Coy, yet sly. The similarity between them was not lost on the princess. 

“So, you’re asking how long I’ve been a whore?” Semla surmised, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. “Since I was two and ten, princess.”

“Would you prefer to be called a whore or a mistress of the night?” Daenera’s question seemed to puzzle Selma, as if she had never been given the voice of how she preferred to be addressed. Her wide gray eyes scanned Daenera, eyes flickering as she tried to decipher the situation. 

Daenera didn’t mind the skepticism, in fact, she expected it. It would be unusual for a woman in Selma’s line of work not to be wary of any given situation, considering the risk involved. 

“You can call me whatever you please, though ‘whore’ is the most common term used for what I am called,” Selma replied, her voice calm and measured. 

She began moving around in the room slowly, her eyes darting over the surroundings, keen to gather as much information as possible about the situation she found herself in. Daenera understood as much. 

Fenrick was less allowing, positioned near the door, and shifting uncomfortably, clearly unsettled by Selma’s ease in making herself at home. His scowl deepened, resembling someone bothered by a pebble in their shoe. 

Joyce was more relaxed in posture, but her eyes never left the girl. And Jelissa was standing in a corner, swaying from one foot to another, wringing her hands in front of her, shoulders up to her ears. 

“It is not often I am invited to The Red Keep,” Selma mused, running a finger over a table as if looking for dust. “Why am I here?”

“I have a task that requires someone of your profession .”

Selma’s clips curled into a playful, if not insolent, smile and plucked one of the berries from the array of fruits, savoring its taste behind her painted lips. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Obviously. I assume it requires deceit, deception and above all discretion.”

“Indeed, those are the key elements.” Daenera nodded, acknowledging Selma’s astute observation. “And what do you know about Prince Aemond?”

Daenera noticed Selma’s sudden shift in demeanor as her full attention was captured by the mention of Prince Aemond. The young woman’s eyes widened, her eyebrows rising and her lips parting in surprise. It was evident that this went beyond the usual encounters within the walls of the Keep. While whores were often sneaked in for the pleasure of lustful lords seeking refuge from the outside world, involving oneself with a prince was an entirely different matter. The stakes were higher, and the risk greater. 

“He’s the one-eyed prince,” Selma replied, her filled with apprehension. “I’ve heard rumors about him… and how he lost his eye.”

Daenera leaned closer, her voice dropping to a hushed tone. “Tell me, Selma, what else have you heard about the prince?”

“He’s… unlike his brother. That the prince, Aemond, is restrained, a skilled fighter, fearsome and cold. One could almost call him frigid,” Selma revealed, hesitant and cautious. 

Daenera nodded in agreement. “Yes, he possesses all those qualities. But he also possesses a sense of moral superiority and smugness. It infuriates me. Aemond carries himself with an air of righteousness, believing himself above the same vices that inflict his brother. I intend to expose his hypocrisy.”

Understanding dawned on Selma’s face. “You wish to humiliate him.”

Daenera’s eyes gleamed with mischief and she made an upside down smirk. “Exactly. Aegon is known for his indulgences in pleasure, he visits the brothels often and has a reputation of being a pervert. The Queen must be disappointed with her firstborn. I want to show her that her other son is no different.”

Selma’s eyes fixated on the heavy coin purse Joyce pressed into the palm of Daenera, greed flickering in the whores eyes. 

“And what is the task you require of me?”

“I want you to surprise Aemond in his chambers, to be discovered in a compromising situation,” Daenera informed, head tilting to the side as she observed the woman. “I want you to make a scene when he tries to remove you from his chambers.”

“What if he does not try to throw me out? What if he takes my presence as a gift?” Selma posed a valid concern, her eyes glimmering with as much curiosity as the did caution.

Daenera’s mind briefly faltered at the thought. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Aemond might not react as she expected him to do. The notion grated on her. It felt like an itch she could not scratch. Bothersome, uncomfortable and confusing. After all, Aemond was a man, and men were weak to the desires of the flesh.

But Aemond was also a man of steel and ice, a complex puzzle of conflicting traits. Daenera regained her composure and spoke with certainty. “If he chooses to take pleasure in your company, that will be your decision. However, your primary task is for you to cause a scene that will be heard throughout the Red Keep. I want to embarrass and humiliate him.”

Selma’s eyes flickered with caution. “Men can become dangerous when they’re humiliated. They may lash out, leaving marks or worse.”

Daenera met Selma’s gaze and said with assurance. “Aemond may threaten you, he may corner you, but he will not harm you. He considered himself above such acts.”

“Many men do, princess. It doesn’t always stop them.”

The assurance Daenera had given wasn’t entirely false, but it wasn’t entirely true either, and a whore knew that well. Daenera also knew the fierce look that had once glickered in Aemond’s eyes, the moment he had contemplated violence, where he had picked up a rock and prepared to swing it, or more recently, in the sept when he had burned her hand. Instinctively she brushed a thumb over the healed skin. She could never be certain of his limits, nor assured by his restraint. “He may tighten his grip on you, but he would not take your life.”

“And what of the Queen?” Selma continued. 

Daenera’s expression softened slightly as she considered the Queen’s potential reaction. “The Queen will likely want you to leave discreetly. She may even offer compensation to ensure your silence, along with a threat.” Daenera took Selma’s hand and pressed the heavy coin purse into her palm. “And if not, this should be sufficient to secure your discretion.”

A mischievous smile played across Selma’s lips as she closed her fingers around the coins. “Discretion is a whore’s most precious trait.”

With grace and precision, Aemond skilfully evaded Ser Criston Cole’s sword swipe, his silver hair swishing with each nimble movement. He dove and spun, his sword pointing at the Kingsguard as if daring him to strike again. The exhilaration of combat coursed through Aemond’s veins, his muscles primed and tingling with anticipation. Training made him feel alive, much like riding Vhagar, his heart pounding within his chest.

Ser Criston pressed forward, their swords colliding with the intent on winning. Aemond absorbed the impact of each blow, skillfully redirecting the force while yielding ground. The vibrations reverberated through his hands, arms, and shoulders, a familiar ache that no longer caused him to drop his weapon.

“I heard about the incident with the princess,” Ser Criston commented, his dark eyes intently focused on Aemond’s every move. 

Aemond pressed on, annoyance gripping his lungs tightly at the mere mention of Daenera. Ser Criston met each swing of the sword with practiced ease. 

“It was unbecoming of someone of her status to even consider something as… indecent as that. I suppose she takes after her mother in that regard,” Ser Criston sneered. His disdain for Rhaenyra and her children was no secret, even if he attempted to withhold the bitterness from his words. It seemed as though their very existence repulsed him to his core. 

Silent determination etched across Aemond’s features as he deflected Ser Criston’s sword and delivered a powerful kick to the Kingsguard’s chest, causing him to stumble backward. Aemond continued his assault, landing blows upon Ser Criston’s padded form. 

“Good,” Ser Criston complimented as Aemond pressed the tip of his sword against the Kingsguard’s chest, signaling the end of their practice round. 

A smug smile curved Aemond’s lips as Ser Criston clapped him on the shoulder, both of them breathing heavily from their intense training session. They made their way towards the benches, seeking respite from the intense training. 

“The princess has always thought herself better than everyone. It wouldn’t hurt to take her down a notch or two,” Ser Criston continued, grabbing a ladle to fill with water and lifting it to his lips. “ Once, she kicked me in the ribs. She’s always been insolent. Women shouldn’t act in such a manner.”

Irritation stiffened Aemonds movements as he began to undo the leather straps around the grip of his sword so that he could redo it again. “After you were attacked by Ser Harwin Strong.”

“Yes,” Ser Criston replied, his voice dripping with loathing. “That man had no honor. He was a meddlesome cunt.”

The vivid memory of Ser Harwin Strong overpowering Ser Criston, sending him crashing to the ground, flashed in Aemond’s mind. It had been a display of pure brute strength, each strike capable of killing a lesser man. Yet, Ser Criston had endured with a resilience bestowed by the gods, aided by the intervention of four Kingsguard members and his own stubbornness. Ser Harwin had earned his epithet, ‘Breakbones,’ for a good reason. 

And Ser Criston possessed a thick skull.

Aemond also recalled the events that led to the fight. 

“And it would seem his… offspring are much the same,” Ser Criston lowered his voice, recognizing the sensitivity of calling the princess a bastard. 

Aemond felt a twinge of annoyance at the lack of respect the Kingsguard showed Daenera, despite him calling her much worse. She may be a bastard, but she was a royal bastard, and one not to be trifled with so easily.

“She appears to be a whore, much like her mother. It is fortunate that the court is now aware of her nature.”

“Ser Criston,” Aemond interjected, his tone stern. “I understand you hold them in low opinion, but do not forget yourself.” 

“Of course, my apologies, my prince,” Ser Criston conceded, though his emotions often overwhelmed him. “Aegon should be careful, she’s sure to retaliate.”

“I am sure she will,” Aemond agreed, wrapping the leather strap tightly around the hilt of his sword, the leather groaning as it was pulled. 

Underestimating Daenera and her capabilities would be foolish. Aemond made that mistake before and vowed never to repeat it. However, he couldn’t shake the belief that any damage she could inflict would be limited. He did not have a salacious letter and his reputation would not be easily damaged. 

He had burned her hand, and in retaliation, she had poisoned his sword, causing his hands to burn and itch. 

Now, he humiliated her publicly, and he knew she’d attempt to do the same. What he couldn’t figure out was how, or when. 

Daenera had shown herself to be petty and resourceful, something was bound to happen, and while he felt apprehensive there was also a peculiar intrigue growing within him. 

As the sky turned orange and a chill descended upon the air, Aemond and Ser Criston persisted with their practice in the tiltyard. When the session drew to a close, Aemond bid Ser Criston a goodnight and made his way into the Keep. 

He followed the corridor that led to Maegor’s Holdfast, where his apartments awaited, fatigue hummed through his weary muscles. 

Aches lingered in his limbs, while the tips of his fingers had gone numb from the repeated strikes his sword had endured. His hair clung to the nape of his neck and his undershirt seemed to stick to his skin. Crossing the threshold of his chambers, he found solace in the small sitting area positioned before the crackling fire where he took his meals. Adjacent to the hearth were his bedchamber, the canopy bed itself adorned with heavy curtains that was tied to the posts. 

Books lay strewn around the floor beside the hearth, a testament to his voracious appetite for knowledge. 

Kicking off his boots upon entry, Aemond unfastened his sword belt and laid it alongside them. With a satisfying stretch and a roll of his neck, he proceeded to undo his doublet, casually tossing it over the armrest of a nearby chair. 

The hearth cast its warmth and radiance throughout the room. Typically dimly lit by candles, the heavy curtains by the windows limited the ingress of light, creating an atmosphere of seclusion seldom found elsewhere. Here, he could relish in solitude, free from the weight of expectations, surrounded only by his books. 

Lifting the flagon of wine, Aemond poured himself a cup, the bitter liquid meeting his lips as he took a prolonged swig. As he turned his gaze, his eyes were drawn to the entrance of his bedchamber, his bed more specifically. In that moment he froze, brows drawing down in a confused frown. 

There, a woman leisurely sprawled out across his bed. With her back turned to him, her dark, cascading hair adorned her bare shoulders and fell like a river of black silk down her back. The pale, smooth expanse of her skin stretched over plump yet delicate curves, the flames licking across it with wicked intent, an invitation to be touched, to be claimed. 

Perplexity held Aemond captive as he stared, his heart thrumming within his chest as a fervent fire kindled in the deepest pit of his stomach, spreading warmth through his veins. It was as if his senses struggled to reconcile what lay before him with the familiar reality he had always known. 

“Daenera?” He muttered the name, soft, gentle, confused. 

Aemond’s eye darted over the woman’s enticing figure as she sat up, her back still partially turned to him. Her hand traced the contours of her hip, causing his breath to hitch. With deliberate slowness, she rotated her body to face him fully, her voluptuous breasts captivating his attention, her abdomen smooth and alluring, and a hint of curls nestled between her thighs. 

Aemond blinked, his mind struggling to process what was before him and a fist seemed to tighten around his stomach. 

As her face came into view, he scrutinized her features. It was her face that betrayed her, with its rounded shape, the subtle shadows that emphasized her cheekbones. Her lips possessed a sharpness he didn’t anticipate, her nose slightly more prominent. Yet, it was her eyes, deep gray and distinctly different from the ones that haunted him, that confirmed the truth. 

A smile played upon her lips, a mischievous tilt of her head indicating amusement. She remained on her knees on his bed. 

Aemond snapped out of his stupor, his confusion transforming into a surge of indignation that radiated through his body like icy tendrils

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He sneered at the unfamiliar woman who was distinctly not Daenera. The deception festered in his stomach, a churning of rage and… bitter, awful disappointment . 

“I’m here for you, of course, my prince ,” the woman purred, her voice shrouded in playful sensuality. It was a voice that didn’t belong to Daenera, and it’s very sound grated against Aemond’s core as a dull blade trying to cut wood.

“Get out,” Aemond breathed in anger and disbelief, an underlying reverberation of frustration making its mark on his tone. 

“My prince?” 

“Get out!” Aemond’s shout echoed through the room, his cup of wine abandoned on a shelf as he stormed towards the woman on the bed. It felt like a violation, and intrusion of his space. With rough force, he grabbed her arm, causing her to cry out in shock and pain. His voice trembled as he spoke, “Who put you up to this?! Aegon?”

“Please, you’re hurting me,” the woman yelped, attempting to pry his hand from her arm. Fear and confusion contorted her face, her gray eyes, so unlike the ones he desired, only added to the dissonance of the moment. 

“Who sent you?!” Aemond yelled, shaking her vigorously, his grip tightening.

“Aegon! Aegon sent me,” she yelled back, her flustered cheek and downturned lips betraying her distress. “Aegon sent me. He thought you would enjoy my company, my prince.”

“You’re one of his whores,” Aemond concluded, seething with contempt. It was utterly characteristic of his brother to do something like this. It was never enough to ruin his own reputation, he also wished to ruin Aemonds. And Aemond had been foolish to believe Aegon would have ceased to bring whores into the Keep after the last time Aemond had caught him. It seemed his brother couldn’t help himself, wholly unable to resist his own vices. 

It disgusted him, and now Aegon wanted to ensnare Aemond into his sordid affairs. 

“Please,” the whore pleaded, attempting to quell the tension by placing her hand on his chest, the thin fabric barely separating her touch from his skin. Her distressed expression shifted into a mask of seduction, with a false innocence. “Let me please you.”

She pressed herself against his body and murmured, “I can be whatever you want. Whomever you want.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust as a wave of revulsion washed over him at her touch, her hand sliding up his chest and grazing the tips of his hair. The audacity of her presumption made his blood boil. He recoiled, his body instinctively rejecting the woman’s advances. 

Her eyes, once filled with fiery desire, now flickered with a dull gray, lacking the unique depth of the eyes that haunted his dreams. Aemond knew all too well the truth behind those whores eyes, they were nothing more than a facade, lacking the spark of intellect and captivating mystery that had drawn him to Daenera in the first place. 

He hated the whores eyes for not being Daenera, and he hated Daenera’s eyes for being the way they were. 

“I can be Daenera if it pleases you,” she whispered sweetly.

Aemond steadied himself and met her gaze with unwavering coldness. The corners of his mouth curled into a disdainful sneer, his voice dripping with contempt. “ I will not be deceived by some cheap imitation. Aegon may find amusement in pretense, but I will not be so easily corrupted. You disgust me.”

Something snapped within Aemond, shattering the barriers that had held him back. In an instant, his demeanor had transformed from a controlled facade to a maelstrom of repulsion and fury. His eye blazed with an intensity that seemed to consume the very air around him. How dare she presume to know his desires, to imitate Daenera, the very thought twisted his features into a snarl of disgust. 

Without hesitation, Aemond seized her, his grip firm and unyielding, and forcefully pulled her off the bed. In one swift motion, he propelled her towards the arch that marked the barrier between his bedchamber and sitting room. The woman collided with the stone column, her body staggering, her hands scrambling for purchase on the cold stone. She glanced back at him with fear and confusion etched upon her face. 

Aemond was upon her in an instant, closing the distance between them. His hand found its place around her throat, pressing her back against the unforgiving stone, denying her a chance of escape. The woman’s eyes widened in shock, the same color of dirty water, so far from the elusive, unfathomable blue that haunted him. 

A grim satisfaction filled Aemond as he gazed into those gray eyes, words spoken with disdain. “You are nothing more than a repugnant creature.” 

The tension seemed palpable as Aemond held her captive, the air between them filled with fear and raw loathing. She had clearly been sent to his chambers due to her resemblance to the princess solely for the purpose of taunting him. She had wished to deceive him, to lure him into bed with the batting of her eyes, to taint and shame him. 

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh, as he leaned in closer, his voice laced with venom. “You mistake me for my brother if you think I would lower myself by fucking a whore.”

“Aemond-,” she choked out.

“Do not call me that,” Aemond seethed, his face twisted with anger. “I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, and you will address me as such.”

“Please, my prince,” she stammered, her breaths coming out in panicked gasps. 

Aemond gritted his teeth and forcibly disengaged himself from her, prying his hand from her neck to snatch up her scattered garments and thrusting them into her arms. The woman stumbled as he dragged her towards the door, unable to match his long strides while clutching her clothes and trying to cover herself, teetering on the verge of dropping them all together. 

He swung the doors to his chambers open and flung her out into the hallway, with little thought on anything else that removing her from his apartments. The girl stumped and a sock fell from the bundle of clothes that she used to cover her exposed body. 

It was only then he had realized his mistake as loud gasps echoed in the hall, and he froze. 

Queen Alicent’s eyes were wide, darting between the naked girl, her face flushed and tear-streaked, and Aemond’s furious expression, his ears visibly crimson. The silence grew uncomfortable, punctuated only by the sniffs of the disheveled girl desperately attempting to shield her nudity. Her legs, shoulders, and entire backside were exposed, while her dark, tangled curls resembled more a bird's nest than what he had previously noticed. She looked like she had just rolled out of bed. 

In the light of the hallway, the semblance between the whore and Daenera dissipated like the morning mist, and the differences became evident. The whore stood taller, broader, with faint lines etching across her face as a testimony to the years she had spent in her profession. 

“Mother…” Aemond’s voice faltered as Queen Alicent raised a commanding hand, silencing him with a single gesture. 

Standing behind the Queen was lady Talya, her lips pressed into a thin line, fully aware that this was not the opportune moment to interject. To Alicent’s left stood lady Merryweather, lady Caswell, and, to Aemond’s detriment, Princess Daenera herself, her eyes widened with shock and something else. The remaining ladies either wore expressions of surprise or maintained tight-lipped composure, but Daenera’s lips held an unmistakable quirk, as if she found the situation somewhat amusing. 

Alicent directed her eyes towards the disheveled girl, naked and still recovering from her undignified expulsion from Aemond’s chambers. The Queen’s demeanor remained poised and composed, seemingly unfazed by the scandalous scene before her, though her clasped hands betrayed the tension simmering beneath the surface. 

With regal grace she addressed the girl. “What is your name?”

“S-selma, Your Grace,” the girl answered, voice quivering as much as her body was. Selma attempted a curtsy, but dropped more of her clothes. 

“Selma,” Alicent spoke with an air of authority, her tone belying the underlying anger she undoubtedly felt. “May I inquire as to what is transpiring here?”

“I… I was keeping the prince company, Your Grace,” Selma replied, her brows lifting in an attempt at honesty. She dared not meet Aemond’s incensed eye, the glare sharpening as she spoke. 

“We… We were…” Selma hesitated, leaving the unspoken words to hang in the air, allowing the audience to fill in the blanks. 

Aemond’s eyes snapped back to her, ablaze with accusation and bitter at the insinuation that something had transpired between them when it was wholly false. He clenched his jaw, hands curling into fists.

“We were in bed together, and I must have… I must have said something that offended the good prince… for he… he…” She trailed off, her hands tracing the cold skin of her arm, precisely where he had forcefully grabbed her. A bruise had formed, a visible mark of aggression. Then, her trembling hand moved to push a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the redness and bruising around her throat and eye, a testament to an act of violence. The bruises were a deep purple, and stark against the pale of her skin. 

The accusation of violence lingered heavily in the air. Aemond knew that his grip had not been strong enough to cause such bruising, and he had certainly not hit her. The accusation was a blatant lie, but why would she?

“I beg your forgiveness, my prince, if I said something-,” the whore whimpered, tentatively approaching him.

Aemond loomed over her, his face a mask of icy indifference, unyielding and unrepentant. She reached out for him, but the clenching of his jaw seemed to deter her. 

Lady Merryweather gasped, her face flushing bright red as her eyes averted to the ceiling after having caught a glimpse of the whore’s buttock marked with red and purple handprints. 

Aemond glared coldly at each and every one of them, daring them to say anything. His eye flickered to Daenera and grazed over the sly quirk of her lips, almost forming a smirk. At that moment, he understood. 

That wretched fucking bastard. 

“Please, my prince. Please forgive me!” Selma the whore pleaded, playing her role with skilled ease, understanding just how to make the performance believable. She knew precisely when to turn, when to raise her voice, when to appear pitiful and sympathetic. “I have done nothing wrong, you must believe me.”

“Hush now,” the Queen cooed, attempting to calm the sobbing whore. She shot her son a piercing glare, conveying her disappointment and disapproval. “Talya, would you kindly see to it that this girl is dressed and quietly escorted out of the Keep?”

The request was short but firm, and lady Talya nodded, gracefully moving towards Selma. She picked up the garments the whore had dropped and gestured for her to follow. Lady Talya knew exactly how to handle such delicate matters with discretion, armed with a pouch of coins and an unspoken threat. It was after all not the first time she had to deal with something like this. He supposed she never expected he would be involved. 

The Queen then turned her attention to the other ladies, offering them a tight, apologetic smile. “Please forgive me, it appears there are matters I must attend to. I kindly request your discretion. It would not serve anyone well if it were to become a point of discussion.”

The ladies all bowed to the Queen, assuming the facade of innocent, virtuous girls who would never dream of spreading such scandalous gossip. Yet, they all knew that the whole castle would know by supper. 

Aemond’s eye narrowed, the intensity of his glare cutting through the air like a dagger. Daenera’s mask of false innocence only fueled his anger and contempt. She was a wretched, spiteful cunt, who had caused all of this. And he had played right into her hands. The realization burned bitter at the back of his throat. 

“I never thought Prince Aemond would…” Lady Merryweather whispered as she turned the corner with the other ladies, leaving Aemond behind with his mother. The whisper only confirmed that the incident was beginning to circulate. It wouldn’t be long before it had spread to every corner and crevice of the Red Keep. 

Aemond and the Queen retreated into his chambers, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. As his mother faced him, her expression contorted with disapproval and concern, and Aemond knew he was about to face the consequences of what had transpired. 

“Aemond,” his mother said, her tone stern. Her green skirts swirled around her as she moved, her hair pinned up in a net of gold string and pearls. “Explain.”

Aemond swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth, this tongue gliding over the back of his teeth. His voice was strained as he spoke. “It’s not as it seems.”

“So you did not create a spectacle by exposing a naked and distressed whore in the halls?” Alicent interjected furiously. “And you did not lay with her or put your hands on her?”

Aemond clenched his jaw, his body coiled like a tightly wound spring. “I was framed.”

“Framed,” Alicent repeated, tasting the word. She shook her head in confusion. “Why and by who?”

“Daenera,” Aemond answered, unable to hide the resentment and disdain in his voice. “It is retaliation for humiliating her.” 

“The letter,” Alicent assumed. “I thought it was Aegon who humiliated her.”

“He did but I was the one who gave him the letter,” Aemond admitted. Of course, his mother had heard about the incident, he assumed it was the Lord Confessor who had brought her the news. 

Alicent stepped back, her astonishment bleeding into disappointment. She had warned him about Daenera’s scheming nature, but he had failed to heed her advice. “And now she humiliates you.” 

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “It appears so.”

“I warned you to exercise caution around her,” Alicent retorted sharply, pacing back and forth on his rug, unable to keep still. “I specifically requested that you keep an eye on her to prevent her from causing any trouble, and yet you choose to provoke trouble instead.”

“I thought hurting her reputation would send her fleeing back to Dragonstone,” Aemond said, his contempt seeping through his words. The idea of humiliation had worked in the past, so why shouldn’t it now? Rhaenyra had fled to Dragonstone when the rumors of her indiscretion nibbed at her heels. Why shouldn’t Daenera’s indiscretion cause the same reaction?

Alicent’s brown eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a strand of silver hair away from her son's face. Her eyes lingered on his eyepatch, and guilt and shame bloomed on her face as it always did when she looked at it. “You mustn't be so careless with your own honor by risking it to humiliate Daenera. It is clear that she is more poisonous than her mother, like Daemon. We cannot afford to act recklessly. We do not possess the same security that they do. We must be better than them, and I believe that justice will be served in the end.” 

He understood her implication, acknowledging her belief that justice would eventually prevail for what he had endured. However, Aemond harbored doubt, for he had never witnessed justice being served for the loss of his eye. If justice were to be achieved, he knew he would have to take matters into his own hands. 

He hated being reminded of it. 

And he hated Daenera for humiliating him. He felt it burn within him, gnawing at his senses, eating away at him and festering in him. 

“We must endure her presence and minimize the damage she may cause,” Alicent continued, regaining her regal composure. “Do not let her get under your skin.”

How could he not let her get under his skin? She was everything that infuriated him, everything that he resented, everything he was haunted by. Her mere presence was a nuisance. 

The desire to ruin her coursed through his veins like poison.

[missrandomdreamer]

Apple Pickin'

~Smoker x (OC) Beatrice Snippet~

(Note: Vermouth is the owner of the pub Beatrice works at and is a father figure to her ;3 also reference of Smoker's outfit form the One Piece Grand Collection thanks to One Piece Grand Collection for archiving this photo because oof i love this outfit) Also pretty much wrote this and didn't look back so sorry if there is a bit of erros >>

A bear claw reached up and plucked an apple from the branch before it was placed in a wicker basket. A soft song came from the woman as she picked apples one by one. "Beatrice! You have company!" Vermouth called from the farm house yards away. Beatrice felt her lips twitch into a smile before she peaked through the large boughs of the apple tree in time to see her visitor: Vice Admiral Smoke, come down the steps of the weathered farm house. Today he wasn't in his marine attire perhaps trying to blend in more wearing a leather jacket, olive green button up with tight jeans. She watched him from her hidden spot before bringing up her legs completely hiding her from view. Her hazel eyes could still see Smoker who now looked confused as he looked from tree to tree. She had to admit-it was a very cute look on him. She suppressed a giggle as she still walked around confused.

"Bea?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Smoker thanked the older gentleman who gestured to the backdoor of the farm. "Beatrice should be out there picking apples-somewhere. I haven't seen her in awhile, but the basket of apples is growing." Vermouth shrugged and gave a tired smile, "That girl doesn't know when to take a break, make sure she gets one, Admiral." He patted Smoker's shoulder causing the Vice Admiral to crack a smile, cigars hanging from his lips.

"Ill try, you know how stubborn she can be." The old man laughed shaking his head,

"Don't I know it. Good luck with her." Vermouth hobbled back into his home leaving Smoker to attempt to find the bear woman hiding in the orchard. The air was crisp, somewhere close by someone was burning leaves. Smoker took in a deep breath, his body feeling at ease. This had started occur since coming to visit Beatrice-he started to feel less uptight. Speaking of which-

"Bea?" Smoker eyebrows furrowing slightly looking from tree to tree, peeking up into the bows, "Bea? Where are you?" He kept looking from left to right until suddenly heard a hush of leaves behind him. He had just turned around and look up when something-someone jumped down from the tree. Smoker let out a yell in surprise as he felt a weight on him, knocking the breath out of him and crushing his bits---a bit. He grunted in pain as he looked up to see Beatrice sat on top of him, a large grin on her face,

"Boo!" She giggled as she took an apple from the basket on her arm, taking a bite out of it smirking. "Good to see you Smoky."

Smoker just laid there, wind knocked out of him, and his nether regions crushed just looked up at her with wide brown eyes and his face burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger, quickly spreading across his face: his cigars had fallen out of his mouth which he held agape. There was Beatrice straddling him as if it was the most normal thing to do, her smoky mousy hair cascading over her chest in waves, hazel eyes full of mischief, and maroon colored lips smiling down at him. She was wearing dark brown turtleneck sweater and patched up short overalls but the most endearing part of her appearance were the leaves stuck in her hair form being up in the tree.

"Beatrice!? What-what the hell was that for?" he breathed. " I could have hit you!"

Beatrice just laughed, "But you didn't and anyway I would have dodged it." taking another bite of the apple. He watched her swallow the piece of fruit before his brown eyes flickered away from her throat up to her hazel eyes, they were shining. "I actually wanted to jump on your back but this works to. Your lap is very comfortable." Bea laid down on his chest, still straddling him, chin resting in her hand, Smoker's face flushed, " I wanted to surprise you. Are you surprised?" Smoker grunted, he wanted to move his legs but he was to afraid too. "Y-Yes, very." Beatrice grinned again and put the apple she had been eating to his lips.

"Good-have a bite. These apples are absolutely delicious." Smoker nodded and took a bite, making the the bear woman smile, her soft ears twitchy cutely, before she slid off of him. Smoker sat up quickly, as she removed the apple from his mouth swallowing the piece of fruit looking away sheepishly, also trying not to choke. The bear woman looked down at him, head cocking like a curious bear cub before taking another bite. " I'm glad you are here. I'm almost finished up here, care to help, you can take some back to your boat?"

Smoker sighed, taking out two cigars then lighting them. He suddenly reached out and removed the leaves in Beatrice's hair eliciting a small blush from the woman. With one of the leaves he bopped her on the nose, her hazel eyes widening at him causing him to grin. " Yeah I'll help ya, Bea, but no more tricks."

Beatrice grinned and put out her bear claw of a hand, "All right deal." He just shook his head before shaking her hand. The two then took to it, Beatrice scurrying up the tree with ease while Smoker held the basket. The vice admiral watched her and couldn't help have a smile on his lips. With each time they met-she too seemed to let down the dark and intimidating facade.

It didn't mean she still couldn't be scary as hell but when it was just the two of them like this, doing the most mundane things, she seemed a lot happier and playful-sweet: attributes Smoker didn't want to admit he found endearing. Smoker just watched her move with ease in the tree trying not to stare at her backside and the little cute nub of a tail, nor the way he saw her muscles move or the way her hair look incredible soft in the afternoon light. Smoker coughed, shit, he didn't want to admit...maybe he had it bad for the woman...maybe.

"Smoker do you need some water?" Beatrice looked down from the tree eyebrows furrowed in concern, but he shook his head and waved his gloved hand in front of him,

"No-no I'm fine."

"Okay..if you are sure."

The two worked on, mostly in silent but comfortable in the silence of each other. By the time they were done, the sun would be setting in an hour or so. Vernmouth came out and waved them in,

"That's enough for the day you two. You both did more than enough." The old man grinned, "Feel free to take a basket home with you-each of you. "

"Thanks Vern-" Beatrice came up and gave him a hug and he just patted her head before she pulled back. Smoker just gave the man a handshake,

"Thanks, appreciate it." With that the two set off, each with a basket of fresh apples. They walked side by side-Beatrice flexed her bear claw and attempted to rush Smoker's hand but the man seemed to be lost in thought. She cleared her throat, Smoker's soft brown eyes looked over to her,

"You know-it will be dark pretty soon. You could stay at my place for the night."

Smoker laughed, "I ain't afraid of the dark, Bea. I could make it to the ship just fine." Beatrice frowned and looked away,

"Well-I thought you would be tired after all that labor and you might want to stay in a nice little cottage, with a warm fire and a good meal for the night." She tossed her hair over her shoulder, pouting. Smoker didn't answer her. "Not to mention, a comfortable bed to sleep in, better than that hammock you are used to on the ship."

Smoker furrowed his eyebrows, "You only have one bed." He turned to look at her and she met his gaze and smiled, her eyes looking a bit mischievous again,

"Oh I know-I don't mind sharing." Smoker nearly choked on his cigars and looked away, "I have a couch too, but it might be just a tad less comfortable then the queen size bed, and all those warm blankets." She shrugged.

Again Smoker couldn't answer her, his face felt heated. Silence again, came between them. Beatrice would steal glances at Smoker, trying to gauge his mood but his face was unreadable, except maybe for the blush now on his cheeks but that could just be the glow from the setting sun. Smoker didn't turn to look at her even though he felt her eyes on him. He heard her make a small noise before she bumped up against him causing another shiver to run through him.

" Smokey?"

"Hm?"

"Can you give me a piggy back ride?" Beatrice's voice came out a lot softer than her usual tone, perhaps she was embarrassed at the request. Smoker turned to look at her, eyebrows furrowed , cigars forever puffing, had he heard her right?

"What?"

Beatrice looked at him, perhaps a tad shy. She twisted a piece of her soft mousy hair around one of her bear claws, " Piggy back ride...Can I get a piggy ride back please."

"Do your feet hurt?" She shook her head no. Smoker furrowed his eyebrows more, " Did you hurt ankle?"

Beatrice felt her face heat up, "No- I just thought...

"Then why would I-?" Beatrice looked away blushing and lips pouted,

"Oh never mind." she snapped, her tone not angry just tired and perhaps a bit sad.

Once more silence, before Smoker just huffed and stomped in front of her, "All right Bea, get on, and stop that pouting." He grumbled, hiding his face from her. He heard a little excited 'eep!' before she scampered up onto his back. He felt her weight against him and her face rest against the back of his head. Her lower bear arms and claws draped over his shoulders while he held on to her legs.

He then felt a soft kiss flutter on the back of his neck causing another shiver to race up his spine, "Thanks Smoker." her breath warm and gentle against his skin. Smoker just grunted and cleared his throat,

"Hm. Whatever. Don't get used to it though, I'm not going to be letting you do this all the time."

Beatrice laughed, "How about only on special occasions?" "This isn't a special occasion."

"It's special to me." she said factually. "And you never answered my question?"

"What question?" Smoker adjusted his placement on how he was holding her, shifting his weight slightly, adjusting the basket of apples on his arm along with still holding on to Beatrice.

Beatrice sighed exasperated, "Are you staying over or what? Or am I going to spend a lovely fall night all alone?" He could practically hear her pouting. "Hmph." Smoker let smoke out through his nose, he chewed on his cigars a bit harder. He didn't want to admit it but he really wanted to. Not just because yeah, sleeping in a home would be nice instead of sleeping on the ship but he wanted to be with her. Though in his heart he knew it would be not wise. He couldn't -he shouldn't. "I can't keep seeing her like this....I should just cut ties now. I don't want to hurt her." He sighed to himself, he felt her lean more on to him, perhaps trying to turn her head to see his face.

"Smoker?" her voice was soft in his ears.

" I want to though...I want to be with her but I know with her living here and me being a marine-I don't know how long it's going to work out for us." "Hey Smoker...are you okay?" Smoker felt a gentle touch on his exposed skin, the skin that was peaking out from his button up shirt. He jolted and his grasp suddenly tighten on her as if she would suddenly disappear from him.

"Yes... I'm fine." he paused exhaling a breath, releasing his touch ever so slightly on her. "I'll stay over...if it isn't trouble." he muttered. He shouldn't but he would. Who knew how long he would get to be with her, might as well take all the time he could get.

"Wait what really!? You will?" Beatrice gasped and hugged him his neck causing him to choke.

"Be-Beatrice choking!"

"Oh-oh sorry I'm just happy!" she nuzzled her nose into the back of his neck causing that little tremor through his body, "I'm so happy you are here, Smoker." her voice going softer. Smoker just huffed a laugh, gently patting her legs, his chest tightening.

"Yeah...me too."

~The End~

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Valentine's Day Ori - Column 1 - Sweet Bingo

Happy Vday to y'all!

In a very self-indulgent gesture, I shall post Ori for today :D

A random AU generator gave me "We take the same bus", and I've decided to do "Romantic Dinner, Secret Admirer, Candles, Flowers, Sunset" for this one!

Enjoy!

Words: 1 150

Characters: Ori x OC

Warnings: Only fluff

Ori stared at the old clock, hanging somewhat crookedly on the dusty kitchen wall, willing it to magically switch to half past 5.

Maybe, she would not come, he told himself for the umpteenth time, desperate to keep his spiralling expectations in check. Why would she? She barely knew him after all.

Stepping back out onto the small balcony after having strode in only mere moments ago, he let his eyes sweep frantically over the small feast of tapas and other snacks he had prepared with painstaking diligence all afternoon.

Stubbornly, he kept himself from falling to his death by leaning too far over the railing in hopes of catching a glimpse of the young woman with whom he had, thus far, nothing in common besides a short bus ride on their daily commute to work.

In a further effort to distract himself, Ori tried to cast his mind back to the first time he had consciously become aware of Amal. It had been a rainy day, and she’d been soaking wet as she’d sped towards the long vehicle that had been about to throw itself back into the agonisingly slow morning traffic.

“Can I sit here?” she had panted, pointing her dripping finger at the free seat next to the mousy accountant who was never late or forgot his umbrella.

Despite the nasty looks the other passengers had given her, Ori had agreed.

Overwhelmed by her alluringly dark eyes and her generous smile, he’d even lent her his old, worn umbrella—and that was how their story had started.

From that fateful morning onward, they’d dutifully saved a seat for one another whenever possible, exchanging mundane observations about their co-travellers or sharing the odd complaint about work or the weather.

Of course, Ori would normally never have presumed to read more into their daily interactions than a casual friendship of convenience.

Nevertheless, when she had brought up that she’d spend Valentine’s Day alone, he had smiled sheepishly and promptly spent the following night tossing and turning as his mind kept replaying the playful, expectant expression he had believed to have discerned.

Paralysed by impossible hope and driven half-mad by fatigue, Ori—who usually was known to be the most prudent and reticent of men—had slipped a note into the side-pocket of her bag on the following morning.

A part of him had hoped that she’d never find the embarrassing invitation.

The other had been trying to give him a premature heart attack by never letting his pulse slow down.

The next day, he’d found an empty gum wrapper in his coat pocket. On the inside, penned in a feminine, sloping handwriting, one single word—“Deal”.

Time had slowed to a crawl since—Ori was, as his friends and kinsmen never stopped pointing out, painfully shy, and he had not dared bring up the subject to Amal’s face afterwards.

Instead, he’d tried his hardest to banish every thought of that looming event from his tortured, overactive mind to focus on his work—he’d unfortunately had only middling success in that endeavour, obsessing about Amal’s teasing remarks and warm smiles whenever his mind started to wander.

And now, the moment had come, and she’d either show up or not.

Dutiful and more romantically inclined than he willingly admitted, Ori had dragged the space heater onto his narrow, cramped balcony so they could watch the early sunset together.

In spite of his secret hopes and dreams, he was painfully aware of the potential danger the gorgeous stranger would put herself in by coming to his flat, so he had made sure to choose a reasonable time—Amal could come straight from work and, if, for any reason, she felt uncomfortable or bored, she could leave before the public transit became irregular and unsafe.

One last time Ori checked the flowers—snowdrops and daphnes rather than roses—and the slender, white candles that were his only concessions to his impossible yet irrepressible yearning for this to be more than just an amicable afterwork get-together.

“Oi, I have been ringing your doorbell, you nut!” a strong, melodious voice floated up from the street, and Ori all but swept the fruits of his careful labour off the rickety table as he whirled around, only to find Amal standing in his neighbour’s flowers, her beautiful hands cupped around her inviting mouth to holler at him.

“I’ve left my ugly winter coat at the office,” she added, “so I’d be thankful if you could open the door!”

Without answering—a grievous, shameful omission—Ori dashed through the open glass door, nearly slipping in his haste, and threw himself onto the buzzer.

“Calm yourself, man,” he mumbled under his breath and had almost regained control over his racing heart when Amal appeared at the top of the stairs, flushed with cold and exertion, and wheezing out a joyous chuckle.

“Happy V-Day,” she chirped and rummaged in her huge black bag to fish out a heart-shaped box of chocolates, looking a little worse for wear, and an origami rose. “Made that one myself during my meeting,” she explained and, when Ori merely stared at her in bewilderment and anticipation, she stepped closer to press a light kiss onto his flushed cheek.

“Erm…yes, come in,” Ori stammered and flapped his hand helplessly. “I’ve set the table outside, but if you’re cold—”

“I’ll take this, thank you,” Amal laughed and grabbed a sweatshirt—bearing the name of his Alma Mater, printed in fat, garish letters all over the worn fabric—he had forgotten to clean away. “So, how was your day? Shame that we never take the same bus to go home…”

“I—yes…It would be creepy to ask you when you leave work, wouldn’t it?”

Amal cocked her head. “Well, yes and no. It would be disappointing if you didn’t follow that question up with an invitation to grab a drink somewhere. We don’t live that far apart, after all, so neither one of us would have to trudge around in the early hours on a weekday…”

“Would you like it if I asked that kind of question?” Ori said in a toneless, tense voice, remembering that he had—in a temporary fit of madness—invited her to his home.

“I would,” she laughed. “I’d think of you as my secret admirer, my bewitching bus beau…” Throwing back her head with that vivacity that never failed to entrance Ori, she laughed heartily. “I am a bit fanciful, forgive me!”

“Not at all,” he squeaked. “I’d love to go for drinks one of these days, and—after today—I guess I am not that secret an admirer anymore, am I?”

“Oh, you’re adorable!” Amal giggled. “All of these things are questions for another bus ride. How about we open that lovely bottle of champagne, sitting there in your empty paint bucket, and watch the sun go down to start?”

@fellowshipofthefics here's the first one for this month!

Welcome aboard for a new adventure! I love to have you!

Lots of love and well-wishes!

-> Masterlist

[macadoodlewrites]

The Devil Doesn't Bargain - Part Four (Peter Parker Mob AU)

Summary: Peter Parker is well on his way to taking over his adoptive father’s business – but with new threats emerging, Peter and Tony Stark decide that a deal between rivals needs to be brokered. A marriage proposal between enemies brings Hallie straight into the arms of Peter, and it won’t take her long to realise that escape will not be easy.

Warnings: kidnapping, drugging, dub-con behaviour, torture, smut, swearing

Ships: Peter Parker x OC

Main Masterlist

The Devil Doesn't Bargain Masterlist

Word Count: 5.6k

Tony is going to make him an offer that he can't refuse.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? If Tony and my father had been in a rivalry for many years and never before had they come to a cease-fire, what could Tony possibly offer that would ever end their competition. And why, over all of these years, had my father never entertained a meeting with Tony Stark?

I wanted to believe that it was because my father would never associate with him. I did still believe that. Which led me to further questions, such as, what could Tony want with Dominic Whittingham? I did not believe the lies that Peter and Tony had spouted about my father, not for a second. Sure, I wasn't as involved in the family business as my brother, Aiden, was but I still knew what we did and what we sold. Buildings, cars, land. My father and brother were not criminals.

Peter could take his lies and his files and choke on them for all that I cared.

We were walking back towards his office, but thankfully this time he was not dragging me or holding me. I was a step behind him, my sock-covered feet silent. I could have turned and ran, but I had a feeling that Peter would have known if I had done so without even looking at me.

And his warnings were still at the forefront of my mind, the way he had held me down, threatened me. The delight I saw in his brown eyes as he had stared at his hand at my throat. I didn't want to upset him again - at least not until I knew that I could escape.

He opened his office door, holding it for me, and I walked through the doorway, making sure that not a single part of our bodies touched. He must have noticed because the sound of his scoff filled the empty room. I approached his desk and resisted the urge to take my file into my hands, looking down at it. It felt wrong for him to have something like this, something so personal about me, but I did not want to show him how affected I was by it. At least the file mostly contained surface information - family, friends, boyfriends, events I had attended, schools and the grades I had achieved. It would have been infinitely more frightening if I had seen more personal information such as my likes and dislikes, childhood pets and adolescent nicknames. Personal information was not something that you could find in a magazine, and I would have been even more terrified about how he had gotten it.

I did, however, open the other remaining files and look at the pictures at the front of all of them. There was my mother, Eloise, sporting the blonde hair that Aiden and I had inherited. He had also inherited her hazel eyes; mine were a light green, from my father. My father's picture was a business shot of him, in one of his usual dark grey suits. His hair, once a mousy brown, was grey now, and he was not smiling. Then again, when it came to business, he hardly ever smiled. Those were reserved for me and my brother, as they had once been reserved for my mother.

Aiden's picture was taken from a magazine article that had named him one of 'thirty under thirties to watch.' He was smiling at the camera, and I felt an ache in my chest. I had not seen him this morning at the breakfast table - both he and my father had already left the manor before I had woken up. But I was reminded of the phone call I had made back in the café to him, trying to find any way to get Eric and I to safety. I prayed that Aiden had made it in time to find Eric and get him to a hospital.

Then there was Eric's file. It was as large as Aiden's, and there was a picture of him and I at the front of it. It was one from my twenty-first birthday party at the manor, and he had looked his most handsome. I had chosen the expensive suit that he was wearing, and his mint green tie had matched my long green cape swing dress. The ache in my heart cracked at his smile. He was possibly dead now.

I traced a finger down his face, and then moved to pick up his file, but before I could, there was a hand at my wrist. I looked up and was met with depthless chocolate brown eyes staring at me.

"I said that you had to find out about your boyfriend the hard way. No spoilers," he said, and his other hand slid Eric's file away from me and snapped it closed.

"I wouldn't have believed anything written about him, anyway," I snapped, tugging away from him. Surprisingly, he let me, and I backed away to place the desk between us. "Neither do I believe a single thing that you have said about my father."

"We have been over this, Halston. Why would your file be entirely correct, but Dominic's be full of lies?"

"You tell me. You're the manipulative one here. You said it yourself; you knew that I would read them. Maybe it is some twisted way to get me to think that all of them were true."

"And why would I care about what you do or don't think of your father?" he asked, derision in his tone. "I, frankly, do not care what you believe."

Fine, I thought. This is the game that he wants to play. "That's a lie, and we both know it. You left the files on the desk for me to find. You told me that my father is a crook and tried to explain why. Someone who did not care for what I thought would have done none of those things."

Placing Eric's file back on the large, wooden desk, he continued to watch me. I did not want to be near him, so I stepped backwards by a few paces, putting myself back near the sofa that I had woken up on. With a strange and frightened thought inside of my mind, I realised that my clothes were nearly the same colour as the sofa set. Peter liked dove grey.

He took a seat behind his desk, sitting tall. "Clever girl. The magazine's do not give you enough credit."

Not wanting to give him even an inch of higher ground, I remained standing. "Excuse me?"

"The magazines," he replied. "Most call you America's sweetheart, the Whittingham daughter so loved by the country. You and your brother are like a little prince and princess of your kingdom. Your father has put on a good front, I'll admit."

"It's not a front-"

He didn't stop speaking. "But there are some articles that have said you are nothing more than a pretty face. A brainless, little heiress with nothing to contribute to society. A dim-witted socialite. But I knew that you were smart."

"Because you have a stupid file on me? You know nothing about me just because you know what schools I attended. Some grades mean nothing. I could have paid someone to achieve them for me."

"You didn't though, did you?" Peter remarked, his eyes flashing. "You would never do something like that."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Because, darling, despite who raised you, you are a good person."

I wanted to stomp my feet, huff like a small child at the satisfied expression on his handsome face. But I remained still, only crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes darted down to the movement.

"Stop acting like you know anything about me. You don't. I have friends, family, and a life that does not involve you, and as soon as my father has rejected Tony, I will be back to it and never have to see you again."

"I know plenty, besides what is in this file," he shrugged, his hands coming up and opening the file with my name on it. I shivered as he looked down at the picture of me. "And your father will not reject mine. Trust me."

"Never going to happen."

"And you're not getting rid of me that easily. Once the deal has been struck, you'd better get used to having me around."

He sounded so confident, like he knew something that I did not - which was probably true. I was in the dark, had no idea what Tony wanted with my father, and wanted nothing more than to go home. I wanted to lay in my own bed, listen to my brother's terrible singing voice coming from his bedroom down the hall. I wanted Eric.

Before I knew what was happening, any remnants of energy that had been in my body was gone and I was sinking down to sit on the grey sofa, tears falling from my eyes. I refused to look at Peter as they dripped onto my lap, soaking into the knitted joggers. Ones that he had chosen for me. It sickened me. I continued to stare at my feet, even as I heard him getting up from his chair and walk towards me. Why should he get to see me cry? He was the source of my tears.

He crouched down in front of me, balancing on the balls of his feet and before I could move backwards in my seat, Peter's fingers were under my chin. His grip was gentler than it had been before when he had grabbed me, and he tilted my head up so that I would look at him. I had originally thought that he had smelled of smoke perhaps from a bonfire, but I had since narrowed it down to cigars - a smoky, sweet aroma with accents of leather. I watched his eyes take in the tears on my face and his other hand came up and wiped them away, his finger then trailing down my cheek. It took everything in me to not jerk away from the gesture, and I knew that he could tell that I had tensed up from the way that he sighed.

"Do you want me to show you the greenhouses?"

"You have plants here?" I implored incredulously. "What do you do, use flowers as target practise?"

He laughed and it sounded like the first real laugh that had fallen from his lips. "No. We are currently in the office building, and we do hold meetings here with prominent members of the community. We have to make the place look good and legit." At my continued dubious staring, he stood back up. "Come on, darling. I know that you like flowers."

Once again, it disturbed me to no end that he knew something so simple about me - yes, I did love flowers. My mother had passed on her love of gardening to me. But that was not in my file. Peter must have read it in an interview I had participated in at some point. I hoped.

Petulantly, I mumbled, "I don't have any shoes."

I shouldn't have said anything. Peter walked back to his desk, opened a cupboard underneath and pulled out a pair of fossil-grey timberland boots. He then walked back to me slowly as I eyed up the shoes. Once again, they matched my outfit, and it did not take more than a second glance to know that they were my size.

If this was not proving to me that I needed to leave, that their plans had been well-thought out and that Peter knew too many things about me, then nothing else would. But being cooped up in this office was not going to help me. So, swallowing my revulsion, I took the shoes and put them on, then stood up. He shot me a very realistic smile, but I didn't return it.

Following him out of his office, we took the same route that I had already taken twice today towards the stairs. At the bottom, where I had originally turned right, and the second time, Peter had led me straight on, we now went left. I cursed myself inwardly. It had been a one in three chance for me to choose the way that would take me outdoors, and I had chosen wrong.

Peter's hand found my waist and rested on the small of my back, guiding me along until we came to a set of doors that had a small pad next to them. Peter stepped ahead of me, blocking my view as I watched him remove a thin piece of plastic from his blazer pocket. He must have placed it against the pad because the doors opened with a loud beep.

Eric and I's coffee date had been interrupted mid-morning, but now the sun was starting to set in the winter sky, casting a pale, cold light over the earth. I shuddered at the sudden chill in the air as we stepped outside, and Peter noticed. Pocketing his access pass in his trouser pocket, he shrugged off his blazer and held it out for me. No matter how much I despised him, I was not going to turn away something that would keep me warm, so I took it. He then started walking, his black shoes crunching over the frozen grass, as I followed. He led us past the building and further through the grounds. I took in every inch of my surroundings as we went, noting the high walls around the complex, the men and women that were stood guarding certain buildings. The office behind us was by far the largest one and its glass walls shone in the dimming sun.

We came to a driveway with multiple cars parked on it, still within the property, and further along was a gate. Large black gates, three times my height, a solid wall of metal. From my distance, I could just make out a small pad, the same as the door we had exited.

The tiniest flair of hope rose in my stomach. I needed an access pass. And then I could leave. Who knew what was on the outside of those gates, but it had to be better than what was inside.

Not letting my gaze stray for too long as I felt Peter's eyes on me, I continued to look ahead as we approached another glass building. I stepped in through the open doors, and instantly felt the temperature change.

For the briefest of moments, I forgot about my predicament as I took in the rows and rows of flowers. Here were cherry red and snowy white geraniums, then there were candy floss pink petunias, followed by lavender pansies. My mouth fell open at the sight of the flowers, a full rainbow against an overwise dreary day. I gently touched the soft petals, held the leaves between my fingers.

From my side, Peter spoke but it was quieter than usual. "Do you like it?"

I turned to him, the surprising happiness still on my face and he took it in. A pure smile graced his lips. "I do," I whispered and looked back at the flowers. Peonies were my favourite, and I could see a collection of them in the corner of the greenhouse, their delicate pink petals the softest colour in the room. I walked straight towards them, and before I could help myself, I asked, "do you tend them?"

He snorted lightly and I turned to him once again. He had followed me across the greenhouse and was stood behind me, looking at the peonies and then back at me. "No, we have gardeners." His expression was slightly off, his eyes flickering all over my face, a question in his eyes.

"What?"

"That's the first time that you have smiled. At me."

And just like that, it was all back. This was not a boy showing me a handful of pretty flowers. This was a manipulator, someone who knew the things that I liked because he had researched me and wanted to use me. The smile fell from my face, and his faded slowly as well.

"Well-"

Before I could retort, we were interrupted by a man in a black uniform bursting through the door, clearly out of breath. He straightened up at the sight of Peter and me.

"Sir," he said. "Mr Stark needs to talk to you. He mentioned something about preparations for moving certain packages."

The guards' eyes flickered over to me, and Peter coughed, drawing his attention away. "That'll be all. Tell Tony that I will find him shortly, that I am currently with Miss Whittingham."

It looked like it pained the guard to speak further. He couldn't have been more than a year or two younger than me, but the infinite difference in his and Peter's rankings was evident. "Sir, I apologise, but he insisted it had to be now."

Once again feeling Peter's eyes on me like small daggers, roaming me and checking me over, I continued to look at the guard. On his chest, clipped to the outer pocket of his padded waistcoat, was what looked like an access pass.

Sighing at my side, I felt Peter brush my side with his hand as he moved to face me. I looked up at him, trying to paste an expressionless stare onto my features.

"Would you like to stay here whilst I deal with this business?" He was trusting me to stay alone? As if reading my thoughts, the corner of his mouth quirked up. "With Jared, of course."

"Right," I mumbled, doing everything in my power to keep the excitement out of my voice. "I would like to stay here. Please."

It must have been the right thing to say because Peter's hand rose up and cupped my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. I did not flinch. I felt like I was barely breathing. "You can stay," he said, his chocolate eyes wandering from my eyes to my lips and back up. His touch was soft, and I must have been selling the part of docile prisoner well for him to consider leaving me. "Don't cause any trouble, darling." He leaned forwards, lips grazing my ear. "Let's not have to make me the bad guy."

And then he was gone, his hand sliding away from my cheeks, fingers lingering for only a second, as he then walked towards the open door. He muttered something to Jared, and then was gone with only one final glance back at me.

I watched him through the glass walls of the greenhouses all the way back to the office.

As soon as he had stepped back inside of the building, I knew that I had to act quickly. I started to walk between the aisles, gently brushing against the hanging flowers and their beautiful petals and waited to see what Jared would do. Whatever Peter had muttered to him must have been serious, because he followed along behind me, hardly further than three steps away at all times. I knew that he was guarding me, the eye he was keeping on me was purely one of duty, very different from Peter's. When Peter had been walking behind me, he had been gauging my reactions, taking in my movements.

Which was why this was going to be so easy. Peter would have been expecting me to do something, would have seen how nervous my breathing had become, how my hands were suddenly clammy. But not Jared.

I gingerly looked over to him, pasting a coy, girlish smile on my face. "Aren't they lovely?"

Clearly shocked at being addressed, he nodded with a bewildered expression. "They are, Miss Whittingham."

"Do you know much about flowers?" I continued.

"I cannot say that I do," he replied. "My girlfriend prefers chocolates as presents. She has allergies."

"Well, can I show you something?"

He hesitated but took a small step forward. Up this close, I could see the boyish roundness to his cheeks, and a small splattering of teenage acne. I had been wrong. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, which made what I was about to do all that much harder. But I had to leave.

"Here," I gestured at the fuchsia rhododendrons in front of me. "Look at these petals."

Jared stepped again towards me and leaned down to look up close at the petal that I was holding between two fingers. As he did so, his eyes left me, and I took my chance.

Releasing the petal, I grabbed a large, ceramic pot and picked it up. Lifting it over my head, and realising just how heavy it was, I smashed it over the back of Jared's head.

He fell to the ground, unconscious before he could get a chance to yell out. Flowers, compost and shards of brown, ceramic clay coated the back of his head, his hair and his uniform, and I stopped only briefly to check that he was still breathing before snatching his access pass from his pocket.

Sprinting out of the greenhouse doors and towards the same gates that I had seen on my walk over, they seemed much further away than they had before. The air was even colder than I remembered and the sweat at the back of my neck was frigid, but my footsteps were steady, as was my grip on the pass.

And then I was at the gate, checking over my shoulder for any sign of Peter, or even Harry or Ned, but no one was there. No one had seen me run.

Through a small crack in the side of the gate I could see what looked to be one long road, and along each side was trees. There was no sign of any other humans, buildings, or cars. But I did not care. Once I was out, I would then focus on finding help.

I slapped the pass against the pad next to the gate, waiting for them to creak open, but that was not what happened. Instead, the pad flashed at me, bright red letters.

ACCESS DENIED.

My heart plummeted to my stomach, but I tapped it again.

The same thing happened.

I had put too much of my faith into this plan, such a desperate, mindless last-ditch attempt at freedom. But it had failed. I screamed, banging my fist against the metal gate and barely registering the pain that broke out through my knuckle. I did the same thing again, rage coursing through each and every part of my body. Rage at the unfairness of my situation, rage at my idiotic attempt at escape, and rage at Peter Parker for putting me into this predicament.

Blood cracked along each of my knuckles as I raised my fist again, but something stopped me. Something warm and brutally tight. It yanked me backwards at a bruisingly fast pace, turning me and slamming my already bleeding hand against the gate.

Eyes full of unadulterated rage glared at me, the colour I believed I would always associate with anger forevermore. One loose lock of walnut brown hair had fallen onto his forehead, reaching his eyebrows, which were furrowed downwards.

"Peter," I breathed before I could stop myself. My heart felt like it was going to fly out of my chest at any moment, it was beating so fast, and there was a lump in my throat that was practically stopping any air from entering my body.

The bones in my wrist were close to snapping from the pressure he was exerting to keep it pressed against the metal gate. "You asked to stay in the greenhouse," Peter ruminated lowly, his other hand clenched at his side. "You asked, so I kindly let you. And this is how you repay my kindness, Halston? By disobeying me? By attacking one of my men in training?"

"You kidnapped me-"

His eyes flashed, and every word I could have said left my body. "I am speaking. Do not ever interrupt me." The hand at his side came up to my chest, his rings glinting in the winter sun. "I knew that you were putting on that compliant little act for my benefit. Did you really think that it would work? Do you think me that stupid?"

The hand at my chest had been slowly creeping upwards, fingers lazily tracing the material of the shirt that he had chosen, but at the word stupid, his long fingers clenched around my throat. Eyes wide, I could do nothing but grip his wrist with my free hand, staring at him and all of his anger.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"You aren't sorry, so do not lie to me. I was being generous to you before, letting you believe that I would like your co-operation. But I have never really needed it, darling." The hand at my throat tightened immensely, and I tried to pull it away from my neck, tried to regain some of the air I needed so desperately to live. My nails dug into his skin, but he hardly looked as if he noticed. "You will do what I want, do as I say, and eventually, you will stop fighting. I will break this rebellious spirit of yours as easily as I had your boyfriend killed."

It was a cruel and cold thing to say. So far, I had not known if Eric was dead or alive, if my brother had found him in time.

Tears welled in my eyes, and they spilled over as I tried to take a gasp of air. Pushing against his hand that held my near-broken wrist to the gate was as impossible as moving a car with my bare hands. The hand at his wrist had given up, now trying to push against his immovable chest. There was such little distance between us that I struggled to even do this. "Please-"

I could barely get the word out. Peter leaned down towards me, a savage sneer on his face, lips viciously curled in anger. His grip tightened further, and I started to sag against the gate as an endless blackness entered the corners of my vision.

"Your boyfriend is gone. Your father will agree to our negotiations. And the only way that you are leaving me is over my dead body. Your fighting is pathetic and a waste of my time."

Was he going to kill me? It certainly felt like it as finally my body started to give up, the darkness a living thing, crawling over my eyes as they fluttered shut. Just as I thought that it was over, he was going to let me die despite telling me that he could not kill me, his hand disappeared at my throat, and instantly moved down, a tight band around my waist as I started to fall. He pulled me against his body as I took in painful breaths of cold air, my lungs both frozen and on fire at the same time.

My forehead was against his shoulder, every limb numb, but I felt his lips against my hair. "The only way to reward disobedience is with punishment."

And then his hand was in my hair, yanking my head backwards so that it made contact with the thick, metal gate. A blinding pain hit the back of my head, taking over everything as I still struggled to breathe properly.

But he wasn't done. I was finally seeing the real side of Peter Parker, not the boy that he had been presenting himself as to me. Continuing to hold my hair, I was being bent over backwards, only his iron grip around my waist stopping me from dropping to the ground. My scalp was on fire.

He stared down at me with eyes full of flames of anger and a violence that threatened to take my life.

"I won't run again. I promise," I choked out, every syllable hurting my aching throat.

"Forgive me if I have trouble believing a single word that comes out of your pretty mouth." I watched as his eyes trailed down from my face to my heaving chest. "All of the things that I could do to you. So many options."

I increased my struggling again at his words, tried to pull his hand away but all that I succeeded in doing was getting him to yank again, my long blonde strands wrapped tightly around his clenched fist.

And then he turned, letting my waist go abruptly, but keeping his hand in my hair. As he marched, I was pulled by his grip, bent backwards awkwardly.

"Stop! Let me go!" I screamed. "Peter, stop!"

The words fell on deaf ears, and if anything, his grip only tightened so that there was no physical way for me to untangle his hand. All I could so was try to keep up with him, to create any kind of leeway possible to relieve me from the pain in my scalp and where he had slammed me against the gate.

This man was a monster.

Here I was crying, defenceless, and in an infinite amount of pain all caused by him, and he did not care. If anyone could see us right now, I prayed that they would intervene, but I doubted it. Everyone was frightened of Peter. I was learning that I should have been more scared.

We were back at the driveway when he finally let go of me. He viciously tore his hand free from my hair, giving me no time to reclaim my balance, and I toppled straight to the concrete floor, my shoulders, back and head thudding painfully against the hard surface.

I stared up as he stood over me, his figure tall and imposing. His hands were at his sides as he looked down. Every part of me was shaking, my head on fire. Every hair felt like it had been torn away - hair that I had grown so long over the years, treated to a trip to my hairdressers nearly every week. This was just another thing that Peter was taking from me. My life. My right to choose my clothing. My freedom. And now something I cherished as simple as my hair. I sobbed, raising a shaking hand to cover my mouth.

The edge of his boots were touching my hips. "You’re lucky that I’m so nice. Imagine if you were with someone who did not have as much patience as me. They might have done something horrible, by now." I sobbed again; a choked cry muffled by my own hand as a sinister smile graced his handsome face. "But disobey me one more time, Halston, and you'll find that I will actually do something about it."

I nodded up at him. He then put one of his hands out, slim fingers pointed down towards me.

Without even a second hesitation as I could see the anger in his face despite his smile, I reached up and took it. He pulled me to my feet easily, and the throbbing in my head intensified. Further tears fell down my cheeks at the pain and at how close I was to Peter.

"Now what do you say?" he said, his hand stroking a finger down my tear-soaked cheek. I closed my eyes.

"I'm sorry for trying to leave."

"And?"

I swallowed heavily, my throat sore. Surely there would be bruises later. "It won't happen again."

"Good girl," he whispered, the fingers almost tenderly caressing my jawline. "I really hope that you don't go back on your word, darling. I really do hate liars."

Nodding, I slowly opened my eyes and nearly jumped back. His face was right in front of mine. "What-?"

"Get in the car," he said, gesturing to an expensive-looking, blacked-out range rover.

"Where are we going?"' I did not move.

He clicked his tongue at me with a sigh. "I'm afraid that you have lost any right to ask me questions. Now, get in the car."

I did not want to anger him further, but the terror I felt at the idea of getting into a vehicle and going anywhere with him was causing my chest to constrict. My breaths were coming out painfully, small, gasping sounds.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t control myself.

"Halston, you need to breathe and do as I say."

"I can't," I whispered, a light-headedness starting to take over.

Thankfully he did not take my words in the wrong sense and feel that I was trying to disobey him. Instead, he reached down into his pocket, and pulled something out. I was too focused on trying to keep my breaths even that I did not look down and see what it was.

"I assure you, that this really is for your own good," he whispered, and as I struggled to breathe, I caught a whiff of that pleasant cigar smell of his.

"What-“

And then there was the smallest prick in the side of my neck, so familiar, but this time I accepted the way that my body started to shut down and my limbs started to give up. I let his arm wrap around my waist and leaned into him, my breaths slowing down, my head against his chest. I felt him lower slightly, and then I was in his arms, his grip under my back and knees keeping me afloat in a world that was otherwise fading away. My head fell backwards and I looked up to the pale, white sky before Peter filled my vision. His expression was softer now.

"You're smarter than this, Halston. Trying to escape is futile, and besides, what makes you think that I'd let you leave? I would find you, no matter what it takes."

My mouth was empty of words, no retorts coming to my blank mind, and as the world went black, I welcomed the darkness.

PREVIOUS PART //

Tagged -

@tomsirishgirlx @steveharringtonswifey09​ @slut4bradbradshaw @annellie​ @roxanne-ragnvindr​ @peachescream1723 @sydneybehlman

[ichorai]

GALVANO ; the first war.

pairing ; winter soldier!40s!taehyung x reader (gender-neutral)

chapter summary ; falling in love with kim taehyung was surely a pleasant surprise, but never had you imagined your tiny friend, jungkook, to become the world’s first superhero.

words ; 19.3k

themes ; marvel au, superhero au, winter soldier au, 40s au, scifi, action, romance, angst, fluff, slowburn, drama

warnings / includes ; war/violence/death, mentions of n*zis, cursing, lots of angst ;-; i'm so sorry, jungkook is captain america in this fic and he's a dumb fuck just like steve !!, this is a tae fic but jungkook is in it more i hate it here, irene is super cool, oc can't catch a break honestly

a/n ; this chapter follows the movie captain america: the first avenger! upcoming chapters will follow the general mcu timeline !! this is also for @ficscafe​’s trope event, using trope number seven :D

series masterlist. series playlist. bucky barnes version.

The city streets smelled of smoke, heavy in your lungs and stinging in your eyes. It didn’t help that a car blew its gaseous exhaust into your face as it sped down the damp road, leaving you to turn over with a grimace while waving your hand over your face. Amidst your discomfort, there came the clattering of trash cans in the dark alleyway behind you, followed by a groan of pain.

Now, your ma always told you to stray away from danger. Keep your eyes straight and your feet marching along, she used to say with a stern tone.

You always had a hard time following directions.

Cobblestones slid beneath your black shoes as you shuffled forward cautiously, eyes wide and bottom lip caught between your teeth.

A scrawny mousy-haired man appeared in your line of sight, no more than a couple inches above five feet tall. A sheen of sweat painted his skin paler than it already was; a sickly hue that was most definitely not a healthy look. Was that a trash can lid he was holding between his trembling fingers?

Another person—a raven-haired man five times his size, by the looks of it—cocked his fist backwards, propelling forwards to launch a nasty punch into his face.

“No!” you shouted just as the hit painted itself black-and-blue on the smaller fighter’s face.

Neither of them paid much attention to you.

He was sent sprawling into the trash bags, but scrambled to his toothpick legs less than a second later, raising his arms in a defensive position. Stay down, idiot! You can’t take him!

“You just don’t know when to give up, do ya?” he spat out, a scowl marring his brute features.

The brunette bounced on his heels as he gasped out, “I can do this all day.” With that, he launched forward with as much energy as he could muster (not much), and arced his own fist towards the other man. This proved to be a futile attempt, because he somehow ended up back on the ground with trash bags obstructing his breathing once more.

Oh, enough was enough.

You grabbed at the man’s shoulders and yanked him towards you, using the momentum to shove him lower while you raised your knee to lodge painfully against his nose. There was a bilious yet satisfying crack that echoed in the alley. You just broke this man’s nose!

An additional black eye wouldn’t hurt, would it? Not you, at least.

Blood dribbled down irregularly from his nostrils as he wailed out a song of confused rage, but you thrust the ridges of your knuckles into his eye with a frown. You let go of him as he collapsed onto the ground with another shriek, dusting your hands off with an air of nonchalance.

“Pick on someone your own size,” you simpered, toeing at his writhing form. He scampered away with a metaphorical tail between his legs.

A new pair of footsteps running towards the two of you had you whirling around, prepared to confront another bully. The moment your gaze fell upon him, you could immediately detect the genuine concern etched in his hazel irises. Your fists dropped immediately. He shot you a slightly confused, slightly appreciative glance before rushing to help out his friend.

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched,” he commented suavely, shaking his head and clicking his tongue while helping him back up to his feet.

“I had him on the ropes!” the smaller one squeaked out in reply.

Yeah, right.

“I doubt that, punk. Did you even say thank you? I’m Taehyung, by the way. This is Jungkook.” He angled his face towards you with an ever-so-charming smile dancing across his lips, sticking a hand out for a shake. Your eyes leveled with his pretty ones once more, and you could feel a tremor dance up your spine.

You slipped your own palm into his grasp. “Y/N. Pleasure to meet you. And it’s a pleasure to save you, Jungkook.”

He tipped his head to you in gratitude, brushing the trash off of his clothes. “Didn’t need to be saved,” he muttered nonetheless.

The scoff that rumbled from Taehyung’s chest was accompanied by him bending down to pluck papers that had fallen out of Jungkook’s jacket during the fight.

“Seriously? How many times is this?” His pupils darted as he scanned the displayed information. “Oh, you’re from Paramus now, is it? It’s illegal to lie on the forms, Jungkook.”

Completely disregarding Taehyung’s lighthearted reprimanding, Jungkook shook his head with a disdained sigh. “I just wanna go home, Tae. Try again tomorrow. Erm, thanks again, Y/N.”

“It’s no problem,” you said quietly. “Men like him deserve to get knocked down a peg or two every once in a while.”

A ghostly smile crossed Jungkook’s lips and a smirk curled at Taehyung’s. “I like you,” the latter spoke out with a certain confidence you were envious of. Heat flourished upon your skin and you parted your lips to say something in reply, but found that you had little to speak of. So you shut your mouth and nodded once with a slight grin. “Hope to see you around, darlin’.”

Darling. You were never quite fond of the pet name, but the soft way he uttered the word, as sweet as buttered honey, made you reconsider your stand.

With an awkward wave, the two boys left you alone in the trash-strewn alley.

‘See you around’ grew to be the understatement of the year. The world truly was smaller than you initially reckoned; you saw Taehyung and Jungkook every which way you went. The second time you bumped into each other, it was at a little diner where the pair were enjoying slices of apple pie with two girls sitting across from them. One looked particularly excited to be talking to the Kim Taehyung, animatedly chattering with wild gestures of her manicured nails. The other looked ready to march straight out, not even bothering to glance at Jungkook (whom you presumed to be her blind date).

You had slanted your lips to the side with a slight pout of sympathy. Alas, you hardly had any time to loiter, so you leaned over the counter to order supper. Soft music echoed from the jukebox and you gently bobbed your head along to the jazzy beat.

A shriek erupted from you as a figure appeared on your side out of the blue, and that piercing, handsome gaze of his didn’t help your thrumming heartbeat whatsoever.

“Hey! Y/N, right? What’re you doing alone on a fine Saturday evening like this?”

It was safe to say that you weren’t alone on a Saturday ever again.

Taehyung and Jungkook grew to be a constant in your life after those first two meetings, and you honestly forgot what things were like before the two of them permanently stamped themselves into your daily routine. It started slow and tentative; you weren’t quite sure what to think of the unusual pair at first. However, Taehyung seemed to beam brighter than the sun every time he spotted you, constantly asking you to join him and Jungkook on a night out. And how could you say no to such a pretty smile? Expectedly, it didn’t take you very long to warm up to them either; they were very likely to be the two kindest souls in all of Brooklyn.

When Jungkook wasn’t obsessing over enlisting, he was actually quite a sweet, starry-eyed man with an affinity for drawing and reading. The two of you often went on library trips so you could read while he drew.

And Taehyung. Oh, Taehyung.

You never thought you’d find yourself falling so quickly. You tried, did you try to stave those feelings away. After all, it’d only been a couple months since you’ve met. Practically every living soul in the city was in love with Kim Taehyung; how could you let yourself fall into the mix?

It happened on a warm night. Swing music blared far too loudly for your liking, standing with Jungkook at the side of the dance hall as the two of you nursed watered-down beverages. Taehyung had a pretty dame melting on his arm as they danced with jubilant expressions. There was a distasteful sensation in the back of your throat while watching them, so you averted your gaze.

“Next time, we should just say no to him,” Jungkook grumbled. “He’s the only one that ends up dancing, anyways.”

A laugh twisted its way out of you. “Neither of us can really say no to him, you know that, Guk.”

“Say no to who?”

“Speak of the devil!” You practically flinched out of your own skin, landing a smack to his shoulder once you recovered from your initial shock. Taehyung chuckled mirthfully. “You gotta stop doing that!”

Shooting you a mock-apologetic quirk of his eyebrow, Taehyung extended his arm so it just barely brushed against your hand. “Hope you don’t mind me stealing Y/N for a song, Jungkook.”

For the first time that night, Jungkook appeared somewhat entertained. “Go ahead.”

“Me?” you questioned in befuddlement as he tugged you to the center of the dance square. “Taehyung, there’s so many other people who want to dance with you.”

“You being one of them, I hope.”

The way he curled his arm about your midriff sparked a fire somewhere within your lungs. “What—?” He smelled of peppermint and something else so purely Taehyung that it made your heart ache.

“Because I just want to dance with you now, darlin’. You look real good tonight, you know.”

It was hard to reply when you were out of breath and spinning along to the fast tempo of the song, but you craned your neck to face him once more. “You’re a shameless flirt, you know that?”

He shot you a wink that had your insides turn into complete mush. “Just for you.”

The song ended before the both of you knew it, and you found yourself stumbling back to Jungkook, giggling lightly and shoving at each other’s grappling arms.

“It’s late,” the brunette said. “I’m going back home to get some shut eye. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, arm slung over Taehyung’s broad shoulders. “You say that every time, Jungkook. You gotta—”

“Good night!” Jungkook started walking away at a pace that was startlingly quick for someone of his stature.

Both you and Taehyung exchanged half-worried, half-amused glances.

“The night’s still young. You wanna go to that park you’ve been itchin’ to go to?” he asked.

You bit at the inside of your cheek as you mulled the idea over. “I wanted to go with Jungkook, though. He’s been dying to draw the trees there.”

Fingers combed through dark tresses as he chuckled out a breathy laugh. “You can go with him next time, darlin’. Just you and me tonight, how does that sound?”

Your heart hammered against your ribcage so hard you were partially surprised to find that it hadn’t fallen out. “Sounds great, Taehyung.”

Quiet was rare with Taehyung. He liked chattering; he liked music; he liked laughing; he liked noise. Silent moments like this… only came after you entered his life. It was different, intriguing, so very refreshing. You were a change that he never knew he needed.

Taehyung realized that he enjoyed the quiet just as much as he enjoyed the racket.

The grass fell soft upon your backs as you sank down with a sweet sound of relief falling graciously past your lips. His arm found its way beneath your neck, and your eyelids slowly shut at the feeling of his lips pressing against the side of your temple.

“There’s no stars out today.”

“There’s no stars out ever, Tae,” you whispered with an air of amusement. “It’s called light pollution. Us city folk have a hard time seeing the stars.”

He hummed, a gentle sound that reverberated pleasantly in his chest. “I’ll take you out to the country one day. Get you a house. A farm with as many cats as you’d like. Maybe there’d be a pond out back, we could go fishing—!”

“Woah, woah, woah.” You placed a palm on his abdomen, pushing yourself up to look at him clearly. “Where’s this coming from? A house? A farm? What’s going on, Taehyung?”

Worry danced through his cerulean irises, an expression that you were none too fond of.

“I’m just…” he sighed, tugging you back down to lay beside him. You reluctantly complied, intertwining your fingers with his. “I dunno. Scared, I guess.”

Kim Taehyung didn’t get scared. No, it wasn’t in his nature. Hearing him admit this was such a brazen feat that it took several moments of shocked silence before you found the words to respond.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you mumbled, angling your face just slightly so your nose brushed against the nape of his neck, “I’m scared, too. For you, for Guk, for the country. War makes monsters out of us. Not only the Nazis. All of us. We’re reduced to primitive animals, marching along to a trumpet of death. It’s not natural… none of this is.”

Each time you spoke, Taehyung found himself more and more drawn in, a poetic melody that he wished to never cease. He wasn’t sure how you were able to spin words so eloquently on the spot, but what he was sure of, however, was that he never ever wanted to stop listening to you. Your voice was most probably his favorite thing to hear in the whole universe, in fact. His heart ached for you, begged to be set free because he belonged to you, and only you.

“We’ll be okay,” was all Taehyung said.

“I hope so.”

“I know so.” There was a firm tonality to his voice, a tenacious determination that you’ve always admired in him. You couldn’t tell if he was being hopelessly optimistic or plain stupid. Knowing him, it was probably a queer amalgamation of the two.

That very unwavering attitude of his was what pushed him to tell you; he needed you to know. He’s never needed anything more in his life, he reckoned. “Darlin’, I know this is out of the blue, and this is probably the worst timing a man could have, but… I’m in love with you. I think that’s why I was scared. Because now I have something to lose.”

A part of him thought it’d play out like a cheesy film. You’d leap up with a lovesick smile playing at your lips, yanking him towards you by the collar kissing him silly until the sun rose back up. There would even be fireworks and everything.

No, real life was a lot quieter than Taehyung’s imagination. And he didn’t mind that one bit.

The smallest of grins danced along your mouth as you tightened your hold on him ever so slightly. “I need to know that this isn’t the war talking,” you whispered out, wrinkling your nose at the thought.

“It isn’t. I think the war made me realize, yeah, but I’ve felt this way long before now.”

His heart leapt into his throat when you uttered, all hushed and gentle, like the soft pattering of rain during a spring afternoon. “Me too, Tae. I love you, too.”

It took him not another second to shuffle your positions and maneuver you with desperate touches, making up for all the lost time, all the time that he’ll be gone, away from you. He pushed the thoughts away because all that mattered right now was you, and only you.

Kissing Taehyung felt as if there were galaxies exploding within you; red hot crimson, the sweetest of purples, muted greens, flashing ambers, diaphanous blues. He was gentle with you, raw affection emanating from his every touch.

It was moments like this you wished to relive a million lifetimes.

A shame that you couldn’t even have him to yourself for just the one.

The next morning, you should’ve been happy to see Taehyung standing in front of your door. You would’ve kissed him over and over again, maybe told him about the new library that just opened up on the other side of Brooklyn that you’d like to visit.

Come to think of it, you never did get around to telling him that.

No, your mind was far too preoccupied with something else. That being the uniform that Taehyung donned, a dark olive hue, pressed and void of any wrinkles.

“You got your orders,” you whispered.

“I did! Great, isn’t it? I’m a sergeant now.”

A smile, a faux one that left your eyes untouched, graced your mouth and you drew him into a close embrace so he wouldn’t see the tears pricking your eyes. “So great, Tae.”

The Namjoon Expo was everything you ever dreamed of and more. To be frank, you were well aware that Jungkook and Taehyung could give half a rat’s ass for all the fancy technology and upcoming innovations. But they’d do anything for you, and the look of pure awe on your face was enough for the boys to hold in their complaints and follow along behind you. After all, this was Taehyung’s last day before being shipped out to England. You wanted to make the most of it with him.

It was ever so crowded, but you managed to maneuver through the throng of tightly-packed people to get a better view of Kim Namjoon on stage. You were moving so quickly that Taehyung would’ve lost you if not for your tight grip around his wrist. The touch left a smile tugging at his lips.

“Tell them to slow down, will you?” Jungkook panted. “Namjoon isn’t going anywhere.”

“I can hear you!” you said over your shoulder, unfazed by his less than pleasant disposition. “And he’s just about to start showcasing his anti-gravity technology! I actually read a paper about it just—! Oh!”

Your shoes skidded against the floor as you stopped abruptly, watching Namjoon kiss the bright grin off of one of his pretty assistants, before dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief he fished out of his pocket. Your nose wrinkled at the crude gesture and Taehyung chuckled at your reaction.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began with a flourish of his hands, gesturing to the sleek automobile situated behind him, “what if I told you that in just a few years, your car won’t even have to touch the ground at all? With Kim Gravitic Reversion Technology, you’ll be able to do just that.” While he spoke, his lovely assistants removed the tires from the car.

With the crank of a lever and the twist of a couple knobs, the vehicle slowly began ascending into the air, albeit only being a couple centimeters.

“Holy cow,” Taehyung mumbled beneath his breath from beside you.

Kim Namjoon wore a smirk of arrogance, but it was quick to falter when clementine sparks erupted from the car and it came crashing back down onto the stage. The quirk of his lips reappeared almost instantaneously as he crooned out into his microphone, “I did say a few years, didn’t I?”

The audience burst into raucous applause, you along with them. Taehyung clapped along as well, turning around to quip something to Jungkook. He blinked with confusion upon noticing that his best friend wasn’t there. Noticing his befuddlement, you swiveled your gaze about to look for him.

Ah, there it was. A recruitment poster stood just a little ways away from a display of a super suit that could make you invisible, directing your gaze out of the expo and towards the station for war recruitment.

War. A frown formed on your face at the unpleasant reminder. You were already losing Taehyung to the wretched fight, and it wasn’t exactly fun watching Jungkook’s desperation to leave as well.

“I think I know where he is,” you mumbled, tugging at Taehyung’s sleeve.

The two of you found him staring at a poster just outside the office, depicting rows upon rows of saluting soldiers, their expressions grimly stoic.

“Jungkook,” you called out with a hint of despondency lacing your tone. “Come on, we’re missing all the cool stuff Namjoon is presenting.”

“You two go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”

You and Taehyung caught onto the lie, plain as day.

“Don’t you pull that one again, Jeon,” Taehyung admonished. “You really gonna do this?

“I’ll try my luck.” The man across from you shrugged his shoulders, the battered jacket he wore ridiculously large over his shoulders. Finding men’s clothing his size had always been a pain.

Your palms found purchase on your hips as you raised a quizzical eyebrow. “As who, Jungkook from Ohio? They’ll catch you. Worse, they’ll actually take you!”

“Look—!”

“No, you look, Jungkook,” you gritted out, knowing full and well that you were unfairly taking out a lot of your pent-up frustration onto him, “this isn’t a back alley where you get punched once or twice. It’s war, for pete’s sake!”

The arm Taehyung had around your waist tightened.

“I know it’s a war,” came Jungkook’s defensive reply.

Taehyung also threw in his two cents; the idea of his tiny best friend having a gun shoved into his hands and pushed into a battlefield did nothing short of terrify him. “Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many other important things you could be doing!”

“Like what? Collecting scrap metal in my little red wagon? I’m not sitting in a factory, Taehyung, come on. There are men laying down their lives.”

This made you sharply inhale. Taehyung shot you a worried look.

“I have no right to do any less than them. That’s what you guys don’t understand. This isn’t about me!”

“Right. Because you definitely have nothing to prove.”

Over the course of your friendship with Jungkook, neither of you really ever got angry with the other. Annoyed, most definitely. Angry? No, you could never get angry at Jungkook.

But man, did he look livid right about now.

“Jungkook, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

He waved it away, but you could tell that your words had impacted him more than he would care to admit. “It’s alright. You can’t stop me from going in there, though.”

“I know. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to.”

“I’m going in there with you, Guk.”

Taehyung shook his head with a sigh, clasping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was a shame the night had to end here, but when push came to shove, he would have supported Jungkook through thick and thin, no matter how dangerous. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

A scoff fell out of Jungkook. “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

The ghost of a smile danced on Taehyung’s lips. They embraced each other warmly, Jungkook affectionately clapping your boyfriend on the back. War was a cruel thing, you thought as you watched two of your closest friends bid each other adieu.

“You’re a punk,” Taehyung whispered.

“Jerk,” Jungkook replied wispily. “Be careful. Don’t you win the war until I get there!”

After snorting at Taehyung’s mock salute, he nodded at you when you repeated that you’ll meet him inside, and turned to enter the station.

You were left alone with Taehyung, and you’ve never been more terrified of a goodbye in your life.

“Say, when I come back,” his words were sweet and cautious as he looped his arms around your waist once again, tugging you closer, “I was thinking we move out of the city. Get some real peace and quiet somewhere out in the country. We could get a cat.”

Gentle was your touch as you pulled him towards you, landing a feather-light kiss onto his lips. “Come back to me in one piece first. And I want two cats.”

“I’ll get you anything you want, darlin’.”

Loving somebody wasn’t supposed to hurt you so. Love was a beautiful thing; a rose amongst wintry weeds or, perhaps, a warm drink in front of a fireplace. Not the thorny brambles caging your heart, nor the sting of alcohol in the back of your throat. It ached knowing that he wouldn’t be here tomorrow.

His palm rose to your cheek, swiping away a stray tear that you hadn’t even noticed falling. Your gaze lifted to look into his, noting the glassy sheen that coated his mahogany irises.

“Come back to me, sergeant. You come back to me safe and sound, you hear?” you mumbled when he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. You had half the mind to cling to him tight and never let him go.

When Taehyung started crying, you knew you couldn’t hold yourself back. Your lips found his tear tracks as you kissed his sadness away. Of course, it was all temporary. He’d be sad tomorrow, and the day after that, and most probably the month after that too.

“I’ll come back to you. I promise. Wanna name our cat Alpine.”

The last kiss he slanted against you was earth-shatteringly desperate, all the time you knew you wouldn’t have with him compressed into this one singular moment.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“Love you more.”

“Doubt it, darlin’,” he hummed. With that, his warmth retracted, his touch left your skin, his scent faded away. The wink he tossed you almost had you crumbling into a fit of sobs.

Then… then he was gone. Off to fight, off to battle, off to war.

You stood stock still for a few moments, inhaling deeply to steel yourself. Blinking away the remaining tears, you rolled your shoulders back and pushed the doors open to find Jungkook.

“They know I faked the documents,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, which made your eyes flick away from the faded newspaper, observing him with curious eyes. The examining room was cramped, but you set the paper to the side and shuffled closer to him on the medical bed. “I can feel it.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Jungkook! Maybe just jitters.”

It most definitely wasn’t nothing, nor was it anywhere close to jitters.

The beige curtains parted to reveal an unfamiliar older man, dressed smartly with a dark coffee-hued suit and round glasses perched at the end of his crooked nose. This obviously wasn’t an enlistment officer.

“So,” he started with a slight grin playing in his mouth, “you want to go overseas and kill some Nazis, hm?” You recognized that he had a thick non-American accent, but couldn’t quite pinpoint where in Europe it originated. The file in his hand flicked open as he scanned Jungkook’s (false) information.

Your friend blinked in slight bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“Dr. Abraham Erskine,” he explained, stepping closer and sticking his hand out for a shake. “I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve.”

Standing up, Jungkook took the offered hand. “ JeonJungkook.”

The scientist then directed his gaze to you and you chewed at the inside of your cheek before hesitantly responding, “Y/N. I’m Jungkook’s friend.”

A salt-and-pepper eyebrow arched at your statement. “They don’t usually let friends into the examining quarters.”

“They’re stubborn,” Jungkook found himself chuckling out, and you nodded along, opting to stay quiet. What did this man want?

“I can see that.”

The niceties were making you antsy. “Where are you from?” you found yourself asking, narrowing your eyes.

“Queens. Seventy-third Street, Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany.”

Both you and Jungkook glanced at each other.

“This troubles you?”

You shook your head a firm no, and Jungkook followed suit.

“And where are you from, Mr. Rogers?” A heady exhale left your friend as the scientist rattled on. “Is it New Haven? Or Paramus? I have here five different exams in five different cities.”

A loose excuse fell out of Jungkook, but the scientist waved him off.

“No, it’s not the actual examinations I’m interested in. It’s the five tries.”

Gulping you crossed your arms and said in a quiet tone, “I was with him. All five times. Earlier he called me stubborn, but he’s a million times worse.”

A bony elbow found its way into your side but you ignored him.

Erskine obviously wasn’t looking to punish either of you, for a smile painted his face golden. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?”

Jungkook looked to the side, then leveled his gaze with the taller man again. “Is this a test?”

Yes, you thought.

“Yes,” the scientist said.

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” uttered Jungkook, confidence permeating every word. “I don’t like bullies. I don’t care where they come from.”

A queer sense of pride flourished within you. How’d you end up so fond of a scrawny, ninety-pound blonde that threw himself into every fight he possibly could?

“So many big men fighting this war,” Erskine hummed. “Maybe it’s time we bring in the little guy, hm?”

War may have taken away your best friend and the love of your life physically, but the both of them always managed to send you letters as often as they could. Jungkook detailed his campish stories with the brute men in the military, the challenges of constantly being the smallest and the weakest (but always the smartest, much to your delight), along with sprinklings of a mystery woman by the name of Bae Irene. If you didn’t know any better, you had an inkling that Jungkook had himself a little crush.

Taehyung, on the other hand, often skirted around the topic of war in his writings to you, opting to tell you about his plans in the future. Promises of taking you dancing once this was all over, ramblings of how he missed you, daydreams of what he wanted to name your future cats. Strange, you were almost certain that Taehyung was a dog man before he met you.

You missed both of them dearly.

So now, as you were strapped into the taxi besides Jungkook, you just couldn’t find it in yourself to wipe the jubilant grin off of your face. Granted, you had no idea what was going on (only that Jungkook had asked that you accompany him, and how could you say no to that?) other than the fact that it was official military business. Beside your friend sat Agent Bae Irene, a beautiful woman with mahogany curls framing her face just perfectly, lips tinted a sweet shade of carmine. You wholly understood what Jungkook saw in her.

“I got beat up in that alley,” he said while pointing out to the passing streets. It took everything in you not to scoff out loud. Way to play it cool, Jeon. “And that parking lot.” Another moment of stagnant silence passed, before he piped up once more, “And behind that diner.”

You stole a glance towards Irene, curious to see her reaction.

“Did you have something against running away?” Her voice, a mellifluous tone that rang clear and true throughout the car made Jungkook sit up straight.

Oh, he most certainly did.

He seemed to carefully consider his words before saying, “You start running, they’ll never let you stop.”

What Irene uttered next shocked you enough to stop slouching against the car door and turn to look at her fully. “I know a bit of what that’s like. To have every door shut in your face.”

“I just don’t understand why you’d want to join the army if you were a beautiful dame.”

Your elbow found its way into Jungkook’s ribs at the speed of lightning.

Coughing in slight embarrassment, you winced as he attempted backtracking. “Or a… a woman. An agent. Not a dame, er, I mean, you are beautiful but—!”

“Jungkook!” you hissed out, unable to bear the weight of the second-hand embarrassment any longer.

The slightest bit of amusement stained Irene’s intonation as she hummed, “You have no idea how to talk to women, do you?”

You scoffed out loud at that, waving Jungkook’s panicked glare that he shot your way.

“He can’t talk to women, much less anybody that isn’t me or Taehyung! Probably the longest he’s ever been able to hold a civil conversation with a stranger, to be honest. And, no, Guk, I know what you’re thinking. You were just as bad when we first met. Couldn’t properly look me in the eye for weeks!”

A smile graced her visage at the sight of Jungkook’s flustered expression.

“Women aren’t exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on,” Jungkook mumbled piteously.

You slanted your lips to the side and nudged him softly in silent reprimanding. You never did like it when he berated himself so.

“You must’ve danced,” Irene said, incredulous.

“Asking a woman to dance always seemed so terrifying. These past few years… it just didn’t seem to matter much. I figured I’d wait.”

“For what?” the gorgeous agent inquired. You were keen to know, as well.

One of his shoulders lifted up in a half-shrug. “For the right date.”

It wasn’t long until the taxi pulled up onto a damp curb, stopping right in front of a musty looking antiquities store. You swung the door open to step foot on the cobblestone sidewalk, taking a moment to soak in your surroundings.

“What are we doing here?” Your question was left unanswered, but the two of you followed Irene into the store nonetheless. The store you walked into was full of dusty shelves holding lamps of various sizes, ticking grandfather clocks, and fraying books that looked to be held together by a single thread. You had half a mind to ask to stay and peruse through their selection of old literature.

But you wanted to be there for Jungkook. The poor guy was practically trembling in his boots next to you.

“Come,” Irene called for you, and you snapped out of your stupor, pulling yourself away from all the book titles. The three of you filed into a secluded room hidden by maroon curtains, walls lined from floor to ceiling in more ancient collectibles. A low gasp emitted deep from your throat when the shelves cracked open and smoothly parted down the middle to open a secret passage for you.

The musty store gave way into a sleek military-style hallway, leading down into a large laboratory. You blinked in surprise, Jungkook mirroring your astonished gaping. Soldiers lined by the walls, and an inkling of nerves clutched at your abdomen.

When you walked through the final set of doors, two dozen pairs of eyes landed on you. Well, not you specifically, but the man that stood just a little to your right. Scientists in lab coats stared at Jungkook with something akin to a conglomeration of doubt and awe.

Just what on earth was going on?

Down the steps you went, finding yourself in the center of the lab. There was a large, strange contraption that you eyed suspiciously, completely unaware of the fact that Dr. Erskine was holding out an extended palm towards you, having just shook Jungkook’s hand silly.

“Nice to see you again, Y/N,” the scientist said in a humorous manner. “I’m glad you’re here. Jungkook will need all the moral support he’s going to get.”

This made your worry increase a thousand-fold.

“What does that mean? What are you doing to him?” You reluctantly shook his hand.

Before he had the chance to respond, the blinding flash of a camera went off, leaving blotches of faint colors dancing about your field of view in its wake, no doubt snapping a picture of you and Dr. Erskine.

“Please, not now!” An apologetic grimace made its way onto the Dr’s face and he turned to face you once more. “We’re turning your friend into a hero. You ready?” The last question was directed towards said man, and he nodded stoically in reply.

Utterly dumbfounded, you could only place all your trust in Jungkook; you didn’t necessarily need answers as of now, you just wanted to know if he’ll be okay.

“Good. Take off your shirt, hat and tie.”

He shot you a semi-reassuring look before shyly glancing at Irene just behind the pair of you. Slowly, he started shedding his attire and climbed up to the contraption to lay down.

“You okay, Guk?”

Squirming a bit, he managed to send you a meek grin before mumbling, “It’s a bit… big.”

Erskine barked out a laugh, nodding slightly. “Mr. Kim, how are your levels?”

Kim? Kim Namjoon was here? The Kim Namjoon? Your knees almost buckled when you whirled around to see the renowned billionaire stride up just beside you to observe Jungkook.

“Good. Levels at a hundred percent,” he said. “We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we are ready as we’ll ever be.”

Oh, you don’t think you’ve ever been more nervous in your life.

Dr. Erskine seemed to notice your jittery disposition, because he gestured to the overhead booth and told you, “Agent Bae, Y/N, don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in the booth?”

“Yes, of course,” Irene immediately made her way back up the steps, but you hesitated, laying a gentle hand on Jungkook’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Jungkook?”

Never have you ever seen him more determined in his life. “I’m sure.”

With a nod, you hopped off the platform and up the stairs. The booth was crowded, full of anticipating men, but you weasled your way through to stand next to Irene. She looked composed on the outside, yes, but you could tell that she was every bit as nervous as you were.

The PA system whined as Erskine tapped his finger onto the microphone. “Today we take not another step towards annihilation, but the first step on the path to peace. We begin with a series of microinjections into the subject’s major muscle groups. Serum infusion will cause immediate cellular change.” You watched anxiously as a nurse placed vials of electric blue liquid into the contraption. “To stimulate growth, the subject will then be saturated with Vita-Rays.”

Vita-Rays. You’ve done your fair share of research on that specific electromagnetic radiation; it had a certain wavelength that allowed for better stabilization. This seemed to calm you down somewhat, but you still couldn’t fathom just how Jungkook could handle that much energy stuffed into him.

“Serum infusion commencing in three…”

Your hands balled up into fists.

“Two…”

You bit down on your tongue.

“One.”

Immediately, the blue substance disappeared from the vials and into Jungkook’s scrawny arms. There was a pang in your chest upon seeing his face twist in pain.

“Now, Mr. Kim.”

You blinked as the contraption began moving upright, different compartments moving so it encased him in a large sort of pod.

With a crank of a knob and the twist of a wheel, Namjoon began the Vita-Ray saturation. You pressed yourself against the glass, squinting your eyes at the bright light emitting from the window of the pod.

At seventy percent, Jungkook started screaming. Your heart lurched at the sound, and you found yourself scrambling out of the booth, Irene following suit.

“Shut it down!” she shouted, leaning over the railing.

“Jungkook!” Your voice was hoarse, and you would’ve been embarrassed at the harsh crack of your tone if not for the situation at hand.

Erskine called out his name as well, banging on the pod to make sure he was alright. When no response came, he turned hurriedly. “Kill the reactor, Mr. Kim!”

Then… Jungkook surprised you for the millionth time that day.

“No!” he yelled. “Don’t! I can do this!”

Was that funny feeling in your stomach pride or more worry at his brash determination? Probably a queer amalgamation of both, come to think of it.

At his confirmation, the wheel was twisted all the up to a hundred percent. The light was so bright that you had to angle yourself away so as to not blind yourself. Sparks of electricity flew every which way at the overwhelming energy pouring into the contraption.

By the time you’ve come to, the light had dimmed down to blackness. The compartments slid apart to reveal… who the hell was that?

He had Jungkook’s face, but the body was… not the scrawny boy you knew so well. Bulging muscles shone with a thin film of sweat, body almost twice its original size. Erskine and Namjoon helped him down with saucers for eyes, shock painting their features red and blue. With not a second thought, you flung yourself down the remaining steps, hurrying to greet him.

“Jungkook!” you whispered, eyelids blown wide. “Oh, I…” At a loss for words, you just gestured to him vaguely, a bright smile appearing on your lips. Still a bit disoriented, he could only barely replicate your joy. You wondered what Taehyung would think of this.

Slightly breathless, Irene joined you and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Taller.”

You could only cackle at that, shoving at his (buff) shoulder. Irene handed him a thin shirt that just barely fit over his taut form. It was hard not to notice her flustered expression. You even caught sight of her fingers reaching forward, as if to brush against his swollen pecs, but she managed to draw herself back just in time.

Looks like Jungkook’s little crush wasn’t one-sided, after all.

It happened so suddenly.

You heard the explosion before you really felt it. Shattering glass and the stench of smoke overwhelmed your senses as you were blown forwards, careening to the ground with a groan. Crystal rain pelted you, cutting every inch of exposed skin.

Vaguely, you spotted a man grab at the last vial of superhuman serum and pull out his gun. Before you could even blink, gunshots rang out through the lab and the man was sprinting up the stairs. Irene shot at him, only managing to graze his shoulder before he was gone. Jungkook cast you a hurried glance to make sure you were alright, but hurried to Erskine, who, much to your horror, was the one who got shot.

There was a bitter taste that crawled up the back of your throat. No time to mourn, you thought just as you saw Irene dash up the stairs.

Seems like you’re just as recklessly stupid as Jungkook. You followed after her just in time to see the agent aiming a firearm in front of a fast-moving car going straight towards her. At this velocity, she’d get hit before she could properly shoot the assailant down. Acting upon pure adrenaline, you propelled yourself forward and shoved her to the side, falling onto the uneven road with a groan. Your skull rattled at the impact.

“I had him!” she shrieked angrily, springing back up immediately. You hadn’t the heart to tell her you just saved her life, preoccupied with watching Jungkook streak past the two of you, chasing after the car at an inhuman pace.

Blood trickled down the side of your temple. Maybe you’d lie down a little while longer.

The nurse told you that you had a minor concussion and to take it easy. You thanked her as she moved away to treat other wounded men. Jungkook sat beside you, nurses drawing the umpteenth vial of blood from him.

“Think you got enough?” he asked almost bitterly. You grimaced at his intonation, placing a hand onto his shoulder. It was still hard to get used to this new Jungkook.

Irene shook her head. “Any hope of replicating the serum is locked into your genetic code. Now without Dr. Erskine, it’ll take years.”

“He deserved better than this.” Sorrow played its hollow song in his voice.

With a final pat to his arm, you mumbled something about waiting outside so he could have some privacy with Irene. He looked like he wanted to protest, tell you to stay, but you were already striding away.

Just outside of the infirmary, Kim Namjoon was tinkering with parts of a fighter jet hoisted into the air by chains. In fact, dozens of jets were scattered across the room, and you marveled at the genius infrastructure. It felt like you were at the Kim Expo all over again, but better. Your heart clenched at the memory; that was your last night with Taehyung.

“Jungkook told me you’re a big fan of mine,” Namjoon called out, which made you practically jump out of your skin. He stood just behind you, wrench in hand and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “He also mentioned you’re wicked smart. Know a thing or two about jets?”

“Not much,” you replied after overcoming your initial shock. “Just that these could use a little greasing up, is all.”

A laugh escaped him, and he beckoned you forward to take a look at what he was doing. “I’m thinking of installing a thruster here. Get this baby moving faster than the speed of sound. What do you think?”

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you stepped forward, gently taking the wrench from his hand to point from where he had initially positioned the thruster to further down the sleek jet’s abdomen. “Here should be better. Less friction, better angle. If you really want to amp it up, you can change the thruster material to something lighter. I know of a special tool they’re developing that can slice metals into fractions of a micrometer and hold up its structural integrity.”

Kim Namjoon eyed you with something akin to amazement. “Jungkook wasn’t kidding, huh?”

You were about to chortle out a response, but military officials strode up to talk to him, effectively cutting your conversation short. He handed you a couple tools and gestured to the jet, as if to say ‘go crazy’ and you graciously took them with a grin.

They spoke as you tinkered. It was only minutes later when Jungkook walked out of the infirmary with Irene. You stuck your head out of the jet just as the Colonel stated, “As of today, the SSR is being retasked. We’re taking the fight to Hydra. Pack your bags, Agent Bae. You, too, Namjoon. We’re flying to London tonight.”

“Sir? If you’re going after Schmidt, I want in.”

Fear struck at your chest. You knew that Jungkook was now some sort of crazy enhanced superhuman, but just the thought of having the two people you were closest to in Europe, in the heart of the war, rang alarm bells in your head.

“You’re an experiment. You’re going to Alamogordo.”

Jungkook glanced around incredulously. “The serum worked.”

Your jaw clenched at the colonel’s following words. “I asked for an army and all I got was you. You are not enough.”

At that, you stuck your head back into the jet. You were less than keen on listening to men beat down on your best friend all over again.

After the colonel left, taking Kim Namjoon along with him, you overheard another official offer a promotion to Jungkook. One that required a roadtrip across the country. A smile touched your lips upon hearing his acceptance.

He looked silly in the suit. Of course, the audience sure seemed to adore him. But you never let him hear otherwise; it looked downright ridiculous. You weren’t quite sure who to look at; Jungkook stuttering over his bond-selling speech or the gorgeous girls covered in stars and stripes dancing around him.

“Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun.”

It was hard not to roll your eyes to the heavens.

Life went on like this for a couple months. Jungkook performed on stages all over the country with that stupid star-spangled get up, took pictures with strangers, and the two of you traveled all over the country. You were really only there for moral support, but Jungkook always told you that this’d be all the worse if you weren’t there. So you stayed.

Never in your life had you imagined that you’d end up following Jungkook out of the city, much less out of the country. Much less out of the continent! You were in Italy, only five miles away from the warfront. Your mind was muddled with thoughts of Taehyung; it’d been a while since his last letter.

Here you were now, watching Jungkook ‘perform’ for the military in Italy. You crossed your arms, grimacing at the negative reaction of the audience.

“How many of you are ready to help me sock old Adolf on the jaw?” Jungkook spoke into the microphone.

Crickets. You deftly ran a palm over your face in second-hand embarrassment.

“Okay,” Jungkook choked out awkwardly. “Uh… I need a volunteer!”

Someone from the crowd proclaimed, “I already volunteered! How do you think I got here?” The crowd erupted into jeers at that.

“Bring back the girls!” Another man yelled. The rest of the men then erupted into pandemonium, demanding the women and for Jungkook to get off stage. You had half the mind to march up to each one of them and knee them where the sun didn’t shine.

“Come on, guys. We’re all on the same team here.”

Someone climbed onto a pile of crates to pull their pants down to show off their rear end to Jungkook. Disgusting, the lot of them. A couple started throwing rotten tomatoes and produce of all sorts, Jungkook managing to block all of them off with his striped shield.

“Nice boots, Tinkerbell!”

Oh, hell no! You were the only one that was allowed to make fun of Jungkook’s outfit. With a distasteful expression plastered over your features, you marched onto stage, much to the coordinator’s mislike, and yanked at Jungkook’s arm to pull him off, shooting a middle finger to the booing crowd.

“Don’t worry, Guk. They’ll warm up to you.” You patted his despondent shoulders as the two of you tread down the stage’s steps. He didn’t reply.

It started raining soon after, sweet droplets of rain morphing the packed dirt roads into sludge-like mud. You managed to find a shaded area to keep dry, sitting beside Jungkook, who had taken to silently sketching in a book you had given him for his last birthday.

“What’re you drawing?”

“Me,” came his stout reply.

You arched an eyebrow and peered over his shoulder to see that he was drawing a suited monkey dancing on a stage. A frown twisted your lips.

It was nice to spend time with Jungkook and just Jungkook alone. It reminded you of how things were before all this happened; when the two of you would draw or read together. You yearned for life to be as uncomplicated as it was back then.

“Do you miss him?” Jungkook queried as he erased a stray line on his drawing.

You shuffled so your head rested against Jungkook’s hunched form, shutting your eyes. As of recently, you haven’t been sleeping very well, worry eating away at your insides at night, leading to you staying up until the latest hours of the night with bloodshot eyes.

“Who?”

“Taehyung.”

Your heart lurched at the name. “All the time. Do you?”

“Like never before. I wish he was here.”

“Me too, Jungkook. I miss him so much. I hope he’s okay.”

“He’ll be alright. Taehyung’s strong.” You could only hope Jungkook’s wishful thinking led to fact. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”

“I’ll always be here for you.” Slowly, you lifted your hands to cradle his face, pulling his gaze from the drawing to you. You spoke seriously, with not a fraction of humor in your tone. “You know Taehyung’d be so proud of you, right? I’m proud of you, Guk.”

A dry chuckle left him, and your grip on his jaw loosened. “Taehyung never shuts up about you, you know. Sometimes he’d talk about the war in his letters, but mostly it’s just how much he misses you and home. Even mentioned something about a farm?”

Before you could formulate a coherent response (because, let’s face it, you were trying your darned hardest not to burst into tears), the sound of footsteps made the both of you straighten up like metal rods. It happened to be Irene, and you immediately pushed yourself onto your feet to give the two privacy, shooting Jungkook a wink.

You ran through the rain to make it back to your tent, shivering at the cold seeping into your bones. For the trip, you packed a light suitcase of few clothes and essentials, making sure to stuff all of Taehyung’s letters he had sent into the cramped space as well. You unfolded the most recent one, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes upon seeing his untidy scrawling. You missed him so much it hurt.

It seemed you'd reread the letter a million times before Jungkook thrust his head through the flaps of your tent (which made you squawk out an unattractive screech of surprise), and urgently ordered you to follow him. He gave you no time to question what was going on, because he was already dashing away to the heart of camp. You quickly put away Taehyung’s letter and hurried after him, ignoring the slight sting of frigid rain pelting you until you were practically drenched.

“Well, if it isn’t the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan,” the colonel drawled out as you, Irene, and Jungkook made it to the tent, dripping rainwater all over the place. “What’s your plan today?”

You glanced at Jungkook curiously. What was going on? You were getting tired of being kept in the unknown all the time.

“I need the casualty list from Azzano,” Jungkook said, a certain stiffness to his tone that you misliked.

Casualty list… a sick feeling melded its grimy hands over your heart.

“You don’t get to give me orders, son.”

“I just need one name. Sergeant Kim Taehyung from the 107th.”

A sickly terror—one like you’ve never felt before in your life—seized within your ribcage and your mouth dropped open to sputter out, “What? Jungkook, what’s going on? Is Taehyung okay?”

The colonel seemed to clearly ignore you, rounding a piercing glare on Irene. “You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won’t enjoy.”

Anger, white hot rage took over your soaked form and you slammed your palms on the table, leaning forward to growl out, “Tell me if he’s alive, or I swear to God—!”

Jungkook’s calming hand on your shoulder made you pause for a moment.

“Please, sir. It’s T-A-E—”

“I can spell!” the Colonel barked, still deathly calm. You swallowed down the urge to sock a punch to his nose. Reluctantly, the older man pushed himself out of his seat and turned to flick through files. “I’ve signed more of these condolence letters than I would care to count. But… the name does sound familiar. I’m sorry.”

“No,” you whispered, shuffling backwards. Your back hit Jungkook, but you shrugged off his attempt to hold you. Tar, as black as death itself, filled your lungs. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?”

A scoff left the Colonel. “Yeah, it’s called winning the war.”

“But if you know where they are, why not at least—”

“They’re thirty miles behind the lines,” the Colonel cut Jungkook off with a stern look, “through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We’d lose more men than we’d save. I don’t expect you to understand that because you’re just a chorus girl.”

It took all you had in you not to spit straight in his face.

“I think I understand just fine,” Jungkook said in a straight tone. A part of you marveled at how he managed to steel in his anger so well. Then again, he’s been dealing with people like him all his life.

“Well, understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters right, you have somewhere to be in thirty minutes.” The colonel finally had the gall to face the three of you once again, striding away with not a word more.

Between the three of you, Irene seemed to be the most distraught. Granted, you’ve had far more experience with Jungkook’s recklessness than she did. Then again, you paralleled his insane thick-headedness with your own stubborn disposition, if it weren’t already more of a force to reckon with.

“What do you plan to do? Walk to Austria?” Irene exclaimed as Jungkook threw his suit on and shoved his feet into boots. You helped him speed up the process by stuffing the rest of his gear into a knapsack. With a quick glance to her, you noted the damp tendrils of hair sticking to her head; she had run here without another thought to get to Jungkook.

“You heard the Colonel. Your friend is most likely dead.”

A part of you stiffened at her statement, and you rounded onto her with a sNamjoon expression. “You don’t know that.”

She pursed her lips. “Even so, they’re devising a strategy! If they detect—”

“By the time he’s done that, it could be too late,” Jungkook interjected while shrugging on a brown leather coat you tossed his way. The two of you hurried out of the tent, throwing his bag into the trunk. Irene called out your names in exasperation.

You clambered into the passenger seat while Jungkook paused to properly face the agent.

“You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?”

“Every word.”

“Then you gotta let me go.”

You almost snorted at how cheesy that sounded.

What Irene said next made your heart leap into your throat. “I can do more than that.”

“The Hydra camp is in Krausberg, tucked between these two mountain ranges, see?” You overheard Irene explain to Jungkook, pointing at a faded yellow map that creased between her firm hold. “It’s a factory of some kind!”

From beside you, Kim Namjoon said, “Should be able to drop you right on their doorstep.”

Thunder billowed through the clouds, rattling through the atmosphere. You could swear you felt the jet jostle with the grumbling sky. The window pane showed very little; obstructed by darkness and fog. Even this high up, the stars were invisible, as if they turned their faces away, unwilling to witness the downfall of mankind. A part of you wondered if this was a good idea; would things be different if you weren’t here in Italy? What would life be like if you were stuck back in Brooklyn?

Jungkook had told you not to come onto the plane with him. Begged, even. It was too dangerous, he had told you, face flushed with worry. You only leveled him with a steely gaze and softly asked him not to underestimate you just as people had him in the past. The guilty expression that momentarily crossed Jungkook’s features was almost enough to make you laugh.

“How do you know so much about this?” Namjoon asked curiously as you helped him navigate through the haze.

A smile graced your face. “I read books, Kim.”

The laugh that he barked out was cut off by Jungkook saying, “Just drop me off as close as you can! The three of you are gonna be in a lot of trouble when you land.”

You ignored the quivering of your hands and focused on scanning your surroundings for any potential landing sites for Jungkook.

“If we’re not in too much of a hurry,” Namjoon leaned closer over the dash with a slight smirk, “I thought we could stop off in Lucerne for some late-night fondue.”

You scowled, brows knitting together. It wasn’t unknown that Namjoon was a notorious playboy, but you didn’t think he’d be this forward with you. Rolling your eyes to the angry clouds, you responded, “I’m in love with another man, Mr. Kim. A man Jungkook’s going to go down and save.”

Noticing your foul demeanor, Namjoon quickly backtracked, “Sure, sure. Should’ve expected someone like you to be taken already.” Then, he twisted in his seat slightly to glance at Irene. “What about you, agent Bae? How does fondue in Switzerland sound?”

You almost chuckled at the palpable silence.

“Namjoon is the best civilian pilot I’ve ever seen. He’s mad enough to brave this airspace. We’re lucky to have him,” came Irene’s hasty explanation for a flabbergasted Jungkook.

“So, are you two… do you…” your friend stuttered to find his words. “Fondue?”

At this point, you didn’t bother holding in your cackles, only increasing in volume when Irene pointedly ignored him and pulled out a transponder. Man, Jungkook was in way too deep for this woman.

“Activate it when you’re ready, and the signal will lead us straight to you.”

It was your turn to twist in your seat as you called out to him, “You keep that thing safe, Jungkook! It’s the only way we can reach you.” When you righted yourself back up, you looked to Namjoon. “Maybe once we get back, I can show you how to build a transponder that isn’t so… clunky.”

The man beside you shook his head with a loose grin. “And people call me the cocky one.”

“You sure this thing works?” asked Jungkook.

“Tested more than you, pal!”

The words only barely left him before explosions clattered all around you, throwing you into the side of the plane as you clawed onto your seat. Panicked, you checked the radar with blown-wide pupils; there was nothing on the scanner! Hydra’s technology was far more advanced than you first anticipated.

Despite the extreme turbulence of the jet, you clambered out of the seat (almost falling flat on your face in the process), and made your way to Jungkook standing in front of an open door. Everything was so loud, happening too quickly. Irene was yelling at him to sit back down; that they’d take him all the way there.

You knew Jungkook wouldn’t listen, so you threw your arms around him in a tight hug, grasping him with a horrid desperation that curdled your insides. Who knows, it might be the last embrace you’d ever have with him.

“Good luck, Guk. Find Taehyung for me, will you?” you whispered into the smooth blue material of his suit. “Something tells me he’s still alive and kicking.”

He nodded grimly before offering you a slight smile. Then, he yelled out over the vibrating plane’s metals and resounding booms of explosions, “As soon as I’m clear, you turn this thing around and get the hell out of here!”

“You can’t give me orders!” Irene shrieked, panicked consternation weaving through her words.

“The hell I can’t!” Jungkook replied with a playful smirk. Who was he and what had he done with your best friend? “I’m a Captain!”

With one final salute, he pushed off the platform and streaked down, down, down. You watched with bated breath as he only barely evaded the grenades and bullets, parachute launching only seconds later.

The plane turned back not long after, and Jungkook plunged into the fog, disappearing from your view.

Cold chewed at your skin, settling frost into your blood, icing over your bones. The frigid temperature numbed the physical pain you felt from getting jostled about in the plane, but left your emotions untouched.

It was hard not to cry. You missed your family, you missed home, and you missed life before all the chaos. Most of all, you missed Taehyung. What you wouldn’t give to have him in your arms, his pretty brown eyes gazing at you with raw adoration.

His last letter you received was months ago, but you refused to believe he was gone. Jungkook was going to find him, and you’d see him again.

You have to.

The makeshift bed they had given you was not unsimilar to a medical stretcher. It was so narrow that your limbs dangled off the edge, but you couldn’t bring it in yourself to care. No tears leaked from your sore eyes, but dry sobs still rumbled away within your chest, a symphony of sorrow that was lost to the rain.

The sky cried for you instead, constant pattering against your tent that accompanied you the rest of the night. You weren’t quite sure at what time you drifted off to sleep, but you found yourself jolting awake when the sun painted the horizons golden and the rain dwindled down to meek drippings down the side of your tent.

You freshened yourself up, then pulled out Taehyung’s letter to give it another read. Before you could begin scanning the scrawls of ink, large thumps of footsteps thundered just outside your quarters. Hollers of excitement rang through the forest. Your heart leapt into your throat. Hurriedly, you stuffed the letter back into your bag and rushed out of your tent, eyes blown wide. Men streaked past you, chattering excitedly. You followed along with the ocean of military persons, weaving through the crowd and mumbling out quiet apologies when you accidentally tread on boot-clad toes.

And then… then everything went still.

Taehyung was there, in the flesh, a grin brightening his grimy features. He looked as if he’d seen hell and back, bright eyes accompanied by dark eye bags. His hair was mussed, clothes tattered to a fray, hands clutching so tightly onto a gun that his fingers turned pale.

Jungkook stood beside your boyfriend, looking just as banged up. He noticed you first, exclaiming your name and waving you over.

Suddenly, you choked out Taehyung’s name and you launched yourself forward, throwing yourself into his arms. The delight that painted itself sweetly so across his dirtied features wasn’t hard to replicate. You didn’t care at all that he smelled of gunpowder, neither did you care that men were ogling the two of you. You grasped at his jaw and yanked him towards you with a desperate ferocity, landing your lips against his. The cold metal of his dog tags grazed against the bare skin of your flushed neck.

When the two of you parted, it was slow and gentle and you felt whole again, after so, so long. He knocked his forehead against yours with a foolish smile that could’ve lit whole cities.

“Oh God, darlin’,” he whispered against your skin. “I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

A watery chuckle emitted from you. “Oh, I think I have an idea.”

From beside the two of you, Jungkook coughed into his fist. “I’m doing great, thanks for asking, Y/N!” You turned to him with a sheepish grin and threw an arm around his shoulder as well.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re okay!”

Laughing slightly, he patted your back affectionately. When your grip loosened, he turned to the Colonel that marched up to him.

“Some of these men need medical attention.”

Your concerned gaze ran over Taehyung’s form, looking for any major injuries. He shook his head gently with the fondest contemplation, pressing another delicate peck to your temple.

“I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action.”

The grip that you had on Taehyung’s bicep tightened. If they dared lay a hand on Jungkook—

“That won’t be necessary.”

You blinked in mild surprise.

A proud grin curled at Jungkook’s mouth as he mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

Irene stepped forward when the Colonel disappeared, eyeing Jungkook with an unreadable expression.

“You see those two?” you said whilst leaning closer to Taehyung. He hummed in acknowledgement. “They’re in love.”

Shooting you an amused look, he shook his head with a faint laugh. “About time Jungkook found someone.” Then, with a grand flourish that made your eyes roll to the side with an entertained scoff, he exclaimed over the clamor, “Hey! Let’s hear it for the Captain!”

The crowd erupted into cheers. You clapped with them, yelping out a distorted noise of shock when Taehyung tugged you close once again to slant his lips to yours, smiling all the way.

The dingy orange lights of the bar only barely illuminated your boyfriend’s handsome features, just enough so you could make out the sweet look he was casting your way.

“So you’re telling me Jungkook has been dancing with women on a stage the whole time I was gone?”

You snorted. “More or less.” Gentle was your touch as you laid your hand over his, lacing your fingers. “It was hard without you. I stayed up most nights worrying my head off. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. For a moment, I thought you were dead, Taehyung.”

Twisting in his seat so he could properly face you, his free knuckle found its way beneath your chin, affectionately nudging at your jaw. “I’m here now. Right in front of you, darlin’. Here, I wanna give you something.” He released you to reach up around his neck, pulling away one of his dog tags, glinting in all of its metallic glory under the clementine-hued luminescence. Watching with round eyes, any and all protests sat heavy on your tongue as he hooked a foot to your stool, dragging you closer by the seat. He looped the cold tags over your own decolletage, pressing his thumb against your sternum. Raw sentiment blurred his vision. He was so in love with you, he couldn’t think straight.

“I love you,” he found himself mumbling. When you smiled, he knew he’d rope down all those invisible stars for you, swim across tumultuous oceans, rip galaxies apart with his bare hands, anything to keep you smiling like that.

“Oh, I’ve got something to tell you!” You clapped your hands together, a playful expression clouding your once-flustered features. “Kim Namjoon—yeah, Tae—the Kim Namjoon offered me to work alongside him! Said he needs a fresh brain to pick. Granted, he did come onto me—”

“He what?!”

“Hush now, I’m telling you a story! Well, the military had a few gunked up tanks, and their vehicles were making strange noises, too. So I stepped in and fixed it all up for them; even expanded on that Kim Gravitic Reversion prototype we saw at the expo! Remember that?” Taehyung only stared at you with unabashed wonder. Taking his silence as a cue to move on, you continued, “Well, at first I was going to say no to Namjoon because I didn’t really want to help develop weapons, but I realized his technology can do so much good as well. I couldn’t say no to that, you know?”

Your boyfriend blinked, before leaning back in his seat whilst carding a hand through his hair. “Namjoon came onto you?”

You shook your head in mild amusement. “Out of all of what I said, that’s what you take away?” At Taehyung’s embarrassed demeanor, you nudged at his shoulder. “I told him I’m already in love with someone else.”

It almost shocked you how quickly his features morphed from shy to teasing. “Oh, you did? Who’s this ‘someone else’ you’re in love with? Anybody I should be worried about?”

“Oh, yes. Awful, awful man. Keeps running off into war with his dumb friend, too. Has eyes to die for, though. All warm and brown, like a good coffee in the morning.” You wrinkled your nose as he bent forward to lean his forehead against yours.

Somewhere further into the bar, someone was playing a jaunty tune on a rickety piano. It brought you back to all the times Taehyung would drag you and Jungkook along for a ‘dance’. With a whisper of his name, you tilted your head slightly to land a light kiss to his cheek, sitting back just in time to see Jungkook walking in with a dopey smile.

Usually, you’d be more than happy to see your best friend again. This time, however, you knew that he came with news of leaving. Again. There was a sharp ache to your ribcage, but you kept silent, opting to only knock your head back and down your beverage.

“See? I told you,” Taehyung hummed to him, picking up a shot of alcohol from the bar counter. “They’re all idiots.”

Wrinkling your nose, you quipped, “As if you aren’t.”

“You ready to follow the Captain into the jaws of death?” Jungkook asked as he took a seat beside you. His words made your stomach lurch uncomfortably. “Not you, Y/N. You’re staying here with Namjoon, aren’t you?”

“Did you know Namjoon came onto them? And you didn’t do anything about it? Some friend you are,” Taehyung mumbled with a ghost of a leer, though it lacked any true venom.

“I know Y/N can handle themself just fine,” quipped Jungkook with a roll of his eyes.

“Thank you, Guk.”

“Oh, so we’re ganging up on me, now is it? What a way to treat the man who just came back from war.”

You slapped at his hand when it reached up to pull at both you and Jungkook’s cheeks. “Stop being dramatic, jerk!”

“And, to answer your question, I’m not following a Captain,” Taehyung pointedly said. “That little city boy who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”

A comfortable silence settled over the three of you. You tried not to think about how this was most likely the last time you’d be together for a long while.

“You’re keeping the suit, right?” asked Taehyung in a suggestive tone.

You wheezed out a bark of a laugh. “It’s horrendous, I’m telling you. It looks like something you’d wear when you go swimming! Are you going swimming, Cap? Wouldn’t blame you, the beaches are lovely this time of year—!”

Both you and Taehyung dissolved into a fit of laughter, Jungkook watching along in humored exasperation.

“Oh, hardy har har. Make fun of it all you want, but I think it’s starting to grow on me.”

Suddenly, the ruckus from the other side of the bar dwindled away concerningly quickly, making the three of you crane your necks and glance towards the doorway. Irene Carter walked in, looking as if she were carved from pure angel’s light. She wore a dress of deep vermilion, matching the even hue of her lips. With rounded eyes, you jabbed Jungkook in the side, forcing him to his feet.

Oh, if you weren’t utterly smitten with Taehyung, Jungkook might’ve found himself some competition right about then.

“Namjoon has some equipment he wants you to try,” she said to him after giving you a nod of acknowledgement. “Tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good,” choked Jungkook.

Humming just slightly Irene remarked, “I see your top squad is prepping for duty.”

“You don’t like music?”

“I do, actually,” Irene murmured. It was like watching a romance film unfurl right in front of your own eyes. Your grip on Taehyung tightened in excitement. “I might, even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

Much to your surprise, it was the man you were holding that asked her, “There’s a jukebox right by the bar. What’s stopping you from doing so now?”

You watched as her teeth sank into her bottom lip, unbreaking her gaze from Jungkook’s flushed features. If what they had wasn’t love, you weren’t quite sure what was.

“The right partner,” she whispered.

You’ve never seen Jungkook smile so widely before.

“Emission signature is unusual. Alpha and beta are in neutral,” you said from beside Namjoon, nose twitching in slight amusement. “Doubt Jungkook picked up on that, though.”

The billionaire threw his head back and guffawed, but you were quick to placate him, urgently reminding him not to make any sudden movements. Who knows how dangerous this thing was.

“Seems harmless,” Namjoon said with a roll of his eyes. “Hard to see what all the fuss is about.”

That was the last time you took the word of stubborn, reckless men.

There was a sharp electric zap when the metal pincers grazed the glowing source, sending a pulsating wave of energy so strong that it completely shattered the glass barrier and sent both you and Namjoon hurtling backwards.

He was lucky enough to have landed on the floor uninjured, save for the small nicks littering his skin from stray glass pieces. His dark hair haphazardly stuck up in a disarray, which made him look not unsimilar to a mad scientist. To be fair, Kim Namjoon was probably the closest person you knew to a mad scientist.

“Y/N? You okay?” he wheezed, pushing himself to his haunches. His gaze swept over to you, slumped against the wall and clutching your side with a grimace.

“I’ll be fine,” you hissed out whilst patting away fragments of glimmering glass, catching the unnatural azure light of the source. “You better write that down so you don’t make that mistake again, Namjoon, or I’ll skin you alive.”

Yesterday, Jungkook was all rainbows and sunshine, grinning so wide his face almost split in half. You and Taehyung teased him until the sky turned golden with the rising of the sun.

Now, it was evident that he was feeling the exact opposite. Downtrodden, frowning, and ever so serious. He hadn’t even offered you a pity smile when you joked about his silly little suit (and how you’ve made some upgrades)!

“Fondue is just bread and cheese, my friend,” Namjoon postulated, clapping a hand to Jungkook’s back.

Oh. You put two and two together; something happened between him and Irene after you and Taehyung left the bar.

“Really? I thought—”

“Did you, though?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. “Have you ever considered that whatever is going on between you two, it’s not always her fault? She’s not responsible for your insecurities, Guk.”

Jungkook blinked at you. “Did something happen? Why’ve you got bandages on?”

Ah, you forgot about the little incident earlier today.

“Don’t change the subject.”

In no mood for a lecture, Jungkook turned to Namjoon with a sigh. Namjoon only looked around and shrugged with a twisted expression. “They’ve got a point, Jeon. The moment you think you know what’s going on in a woman’s head is the moment you know you’ve fudged things up. Now, as for me, I concentrate on work. Which at the moment entails me and Y/N making sure your men don’t get killed.”

The three of you walked through the lab, dozens of other scientists scrambling to fix, repair, build, and everything in between.

“You gonna show him the shields, Namjoon?” you asked as you squatted by the bike you had initially started working on before Jungkook arrived, noticing a few gears out of place. “I built up quite a few of those, so don’t listen to Namjoon when he says he did that all by himself.”

Said scientist rolled his eyes to the buzzing lamps above. “Nobody likes a know-it-all, Y/N.” With that, he whirled across a table, gesturing to all the different shields laid out. He pointed to a dull grey one. “Carbon polymer. Should withstand your average German bayonet. Though, Hydra’s not going to attack you with a pocket knife.”

After tweaking the metal parts back in their rightful positions, you smiled upon the brand new motorbike you fixed up, eyeing the glossy new additions you installed. Namjoon knocking his fist against another stars-and-stripes shield snapped you out of your state of admiration.

“I hear you’re attached,” Namjoon commented, sending you a meaningful look.

Jungkook seemed to stand up straighter, defensive. “It’s handier than you may think.”

A grimace etched itself into your lips at that. You came to stand beside him, looking down at the shields with grease-slickened fists propped up on your hips. “I know you liked the original, but it’s a lousy shield, Jungkook. The shape is awful, the material is easy to break, and not to mention the design.” You faked a shiver crawling up your spine, which only made him grin a little bit before it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

“Y/N wouldn’t stop complaining, so I took the liberty of coming up with some options,” said Namjoon.

“We came up with options. Namjoon just scrapped most of mine, the bastard.” You shot him a mock glare, before turning back to your friend and sweeping your arms out, gesturing to the multitude of shields displayed on the table. “Oh, this one has built-in flamethrowers, you can give the Nazis a good face-barbecue with the push of a button. I also made one for you that can turn invisible when you—!”

Much to your dismay, Jungkook seemed not to be listening to your words at all, instead bending down to pick up a shield below the table that was covered by a sheet of cloth.

“What about this one?”

“No, no, that’s just a prototype.” Namjoon grimaced when Jungkook completely disregarded his precautionary words.

The round slate of lustrous metal gleamed beneath his touch. “What’s it made of?”

“Vibranium,” you replied, watching curiously as Jungkook spun it in his grasp. “Far stronger than steel and a third of its weight. Completely absorbs any and all vibrations.”

“How come it’s not standard issue?”

One of your shoulders lifted in a piteous shrug. “Rarest metal on Earth, Guk. What you’ve got there is all we have.”

“That being said,” Namjoon leaned against the wooden work surface, “you sure you don’t wanna take another look at all these other shields? Y/N spent a lot of time on this one; it’s curved just right so it comes straight back to you when you throw it away!”

Before you could pipe up about how that one was yet to be tested, Irene strode into the lab, expression sNamjoon. “Are the two of you quite finished? I’m sure the captain has some unfinished business.”

Jungkook whirled around with a sheepish grin to his face, holding up the vibranium shield with a puffed chest. “What do you think?”

With not a word, Irene turned to pluck a gun from the desk beside her, raising her arm and shooting off four bullets at Jungkook, giving him just enough time to raise the shield with a startled expression painting his visage. They rang clear and true against the shield, bouncing off the metal with not even a dent. Namjoon had taken to using you as a human shield, peeking his eyes from over your shoulder when the shots stopped.

“Yes, I think it works,” she uttered with an ever-stoic demeanor, before marching away, heels echoing in her absence.

Someone started laughing. Delighted peals of unrestrained laughter resounded within the lab. It took you a second to recall that the sound was, indeed, coming from you. You wheezed out incoherent rambles of how hilarious that was, slapping at a concerned Namjoon’s back in amusement.

“I don’t know what happened,” you choked out once you got a grasp of your own breathing again, “but I know damn well that you best apologize to her soon, Jungkook.”

An amused frown danced across his lips; he was upset that the woman he had a crush on almost left bullets within his intestines, yes, but the pure happiness that you displayed was infectious.

“I had some ideas about the outfit.” He fished out a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

Namjoon, still stiff at the startling show Irene put on, plucked the sketch from Jungkook’s fingers. “Whatever you want, pal. Whatever you want.”

“Watch over Jungkook, okay? He has a tendency to run head-first into trouble.” The crown of your head was lodged in the junction between his chest and his chin, lips pressing sweetly slow on his pulse point, along his grizzled jaw, and over his throat. You particularly enjoyed when he spoke, the vibrations of his voice soothing against your skin. This was the first moment of privacy the two of you have had in a while; despite the only barrier between you two and a hundred dozen men being a flimsy tent flap.

When he chuckled, all gentle and honey-like, you practically melted in his hold, clutching onto him all the tighter.

It felt like deja vu. You’ve done this before, sure, but the hollow pain had only amplified with time, plucking a song of sorrow with your heartstrings.

“I’ll watch over him as long as you promise not to accidentally burn, cut, or lose any of your limbs while I’m gone, okay? I know you’re a genius and you like tinkering but I get worried for you. Remember that time you fractured a rib because of Namjoon’s recklessness with that glowy blue thing?”

You rolled your eyes to the side, pulling away from his neck to tug at the collars of his jacket. “That was one time. I’ve come nowhere near close to breaking any bones. Except that one time I—”

“Darlin’,” Taehyung groaned, “you’re killing me, come on.”

With nimble fingers, you threaded them towards the back of his neck and affectionately scratched at his head. “I’m gonna miss you, sarge. Come back to me properly this time. I don’t want to hear any nonsense about Jungkook having to go back and save you.”

“I love you, darlin’. More than anything in the whole world.”

“I love you, too,” you slanted yourself forward to land a swift kiss to his lips. He obviously wanted to hold you for longer, but dramatically pouted when you pushed him away with a mischievous grin. “They’re waiting for you, Taehyung, you have to go! Jungkook’ll have my head!”

Scoffing out a curse word, he gathered you in his arms despite your meek protests, freckling kisses over the dip of your nose bridge, up to your eyes, his lips warm against your forehead.

“Bye, darlin’. I’ll see if I can bring back a souvenir for you.”

The tent flap lifted as he sent you a wink. Then he clambered out, jogging to catch up with the rest of the Howling Commandos.

He was gone. And now everything was cold.

It’s been a whole fortnight. Time slipped past your fingers like water through the cracks of cupped palms. Taehyung and Jungkook came and went at the speed of lightning, destroying Hydra bases left and right. You’ve never been prouder, and more terrified, in your life.

The only thing that really took your mind off of the tense situation was burying yourself with new projects. Even Namjoon told you to slow down, but you never paid him any mind, tinkering from before the sun rose to hours after the sky bled dark ink. Making things helped relieve your tension. Solving problems made you feel a sliver of what life was like before the war.

“Good as new,” you mumbled tiredly, swiping a patch of grease from your cheek.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You installed three fire boosters and a voice recognition system. Not to mention you were able to program the jet to fold itself into half? That wasn’t fixing, that was… Y/N, what are you doing?”

There was a lump in your throat. You weren’t going to cry, were you?

Frustrated, you threw down your tools and shrugged off your work coat. “My job.”

“Your job is to help protect these men, which you are, but I don’t think self-folding jets are going to stop Hitler from shooting at us.”

When you finally turned to look him properly in the eye, Namjoon could only shake his head. You looked to be a complete mess. Glistening eyes were practically sunken in from lack of sleep, darkened rings adorning your skin, and bruises from physical overexertion littered up and down your arms. You shrunk under his gaze, stepping backwards.

“When was the last time you got sleep?”

“You don’t get to ask me that.” Your brows furrowed, as if taken aback. “You rarely ever leave the lab, much less get proper shut eye!”

“Seems I’m being a bad influence then!” His voice raised just slightly, and you wrinkled your nose. You hated when people got louder than necessary.

With a discontented sigh, you shot him a pointed look and shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Before Namjoon could protest any further, Jungkook wandered into the lab, fresh grime marring his handsome features, a frown creasing his lips. You blinked in surprise; you hadn’t expected him and Taehyung to be home for another day or so.

“Jungkook!” you exclaimed with a bright smile, skirting around a confused Namjoon to jog to your best friend. “I’m glad you’re back! How was the mission?”

You should’ve noticed something was off the moment he didn’t reply. You should’ve known just from the way tears laced the lower half of his eyes, glistening white from the lamp, like snow atop a wintry tree branch. You should’ve been able to see when his grimace only deepened.

“Guk…” you mumbled, reaching out so that your fingers gently touched his arm. “Where’s Taehyung?”

Whilst Taehyung always seemed to like silent moments with you, savoring the sweet taste of quiet, Jungkook was the exact opposite. He enjoyed idle chit chat with you; it was a nice change in comparison to constantly being surrounded by thick-headed oafs. Remaining in the shroud of muteness seemed to be a waste to him.

Now, however, Jungkook found himself voiceless to you.

There was a sickly beat of silence that hung between the two of you; palpable, irreversible, flagrant in nature. At that moment, you were reduced to raw blackness, waiting in the shadows for words to fall upon deaf ears. You stared at Jungkook like a wounded animal would a hunter, and it just about broke him to be the one to tell you.

But you knew. Oh, you could tell just by the look on his face.

He didn’t speak, no. Instead, he shook his head as a tear slipped from the built-up moisture of his despaired gaze. His arms raised, to pull you into an embrace. Warm, very warm, then all of a sudden, bone-chilling frigidity.

You shivered violently in his hold as a tremor spidered up your spine.

A piercing wail warbled throughout the lab, dripping with raw pain like you’ve never heard before. It took you a moment to register that the horrid noise was one that you were eliciting, tearing apart your lungs and throats with a ferocity of a cruel beast greedy for your heart.

Your head found itself buried into Jungkook’s chest. The coarse material of his suit, rough Taeles and harsh leather rubbed your skin raw, painfully digging at your cheek as you sobbed empty cries. But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care much.

Jungkook kissed the top of your head. You barely registered his voice, a frail and broken thing that was whispered into your hair. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry. Shh, I know.” Although he wasn’t sure if it was any comfort to you, Jungkook found himself mumbling out with a newfound determination surging through his veins, “I’m not gonna stop until all of Hydra is dead or captured. I’m going after Schmidt.”

He held you for a little longer, waiting patiently until your cries died down to gentle hiccups and labored breathing.

“I’m going with you,” you croaked out, twisting your face uncomfortably from your raw throat. You didn’t give him any time to protest, because you pulled away and stared him dead in the eyes, brows furrowed. “And I don’t care if there’s a million soldiers out there trying to stop me.”

You misliked all the pitying looks people were throwing your way. All pursed lips, drawn brows, and warbling glances. You were sick of it.

This was a professional meeting, not a funeral! Read the room, people, you thought bitterly as you leaned forward on the table. Namjoon sat beside you, noting your bristly demeanor and affectionately patting your shoulder.

“Schmidt’s working with powers beyond our capabilities,” he said.

With a nod, you added on, “If he gets across the Atlantic, then he’ll wipe out the entire Eastern Seaboard in an hour. Namjoon and I have run tests on the power source; it has the potential to end humanity as we know it.”

“Hydra’s base is here, in the Alps. Five hundred feet below the surface.” The Colonel pointed to the map unfurled over the large meeting table.

“What are we supposed to do?” a sergeant asked. Your eyes flickered upwards to look at him, spotting the way he clutched at his dog tags. It reminded you of the cold metal around your own neck, and the dead man they originally belonged to. You swallowed down the newfound urge to cry.

Irene, who had been studying the map terrain, finally spoke up, “Well, we can’t just walk up to their front doors and knock, could we?”

At the head of the table, Jungkook’s voice resonated throughout the room. “Why not?”

Though your heart had shriveled and froze over the few hours of grief you were supplied with, that familiar stubborn idiocy that Jungkook radiated was nostalgic. You let yourself flash him a meek quirk of your lips.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

You marveled at how well Jungkook was handling the loss. After all, he had just lost his closest friend. He was certainly doing better than you. You weren’t quite sure how you felt about that. The rest of the meeting eventually blurred into one long ringing tone in your ears until you grew fed up, excusing yourself gently whilst rushing out of the room. You could feel the burning of Namjoon’s curious eyes in the back of your neck.

“Ran out on me there,” he said, his words reverberating throughout the empty lab. A frown lined your mouth and you rolled yourself out from beneath the car. “Missed half of the briefing.”

With a sigh, you grabbed a handkerchief from the table and wiped your hands clear of oily gunk. “Oh, please. Jungkook already ran me through everything ten times over before the meeting. I’m well aware of what’s going to happen.”

“Look at you,” Namjoon muttered, ambling forward, to which you cocked an eyebrow. “One moment, you’re a lost soul in Brooklyn, and the next you’re in a different continent inventing gadgets people decades in the future still won’t be able to do.”

That was strange. Kim Namjoon, complimenting you without a motive?

“I have something for you.”

Ah, there it was.

“I know you’ve got plenty of your own little gizmos and trinkets to help you fight, but… er, Taehyung mentioned you’d like this.”

The air in your lungs froze. Your mind wailed crimson, sobbed cerulean, mourned ebony at the sound of his name.

Namjoon spoke slowly, as if consoling a deer in headlights. “Now, I don’t quite know if you remember, but I first presented it at the expo. Been working on it ever since.” The scientist brandished a sleek metal device, as small as his pinky but just by one glance you could see how complicated the new technology was.

“Kim Gravitic Reversion Technology,” you said, the ghost of a nostalgic grin almost curving your lips upward. Nodding, he tossed it towards you, and you fumbled forwards to trap the small thing in your hand before it could shatter on the floor. “You spend weeks working on your project and you throw it around like it’s a playtoy!” you scolded with a glare. The man across from you only shrugged.

“It’s yours now. I want you to wear it while you fight. Gives me some peace of mind.” Hesitant, he added on, “Though, it’s still a prototype. Don’t you try to float for longer than ten minutes, it might overheat—”

What he was saying immediately died on his tongue as you shoved the device into your trouser pocket and surged forwards, wrapping him into a gentle embrace. You knew that this was unprofessional in several different ways, but you didn’t quite care.

Kim Namjoon might’ve been your superior at first, but now… now he’s a friend.

His hand came up to awkwardly pat your back. Sure, he was used to flirting around, but he’s become accustomed to your distance that it was a shock to have you so close so suddenly. “When this is all over and we go back to America… maybe we can start working on real projects together. Kim and L/N partnership. How does that sound?”

Pulling away from him, you gave him the best wobbly grin you could muster, given the circumstances. “L/N and Kim partnership. I’m looking forward to that, Namjoon.”

The motorcycle you had fixed up and upgraded just a week prior purred to life beneath Jungkook’s grip. You climbed on behind him, straddling the seat backwards so your back pressed against his.

“You sure about this?” Jungkook asked, genuine concern lacing his words.

You responded with a gruff, “Just drive, Guk. You trust me, don’t you? I’m ready.”

Before you knew it, the two of you were streaking down a pathway through the forest at a speed that made your heart rate spike, emerald greens and muted brown of the trees blended into long streaks of color. Just as you expected, the growling of Hydra pursuers rang throughout the woods. They came into view only seconds later; a dozen or so of them hot on your tail.

“I got this!” you barked at Jungkook. “Keep driving!”

With nimble fingers, you pulled out a dual-roped grappling hook contraption that you had made, pressing a button so that tensile strings shot out and embedded themselves into the trees. You watched with a sick satisfaction as the first two got caught, falling off their vehicles with choked noises of surprise.

Much to your dismay, the rest of them caught on and ducked the rope just in time.

“It’s gonna get a little hot, Jungkook!” you yelled just as you uncapped a lighter with your teeth.

“Be careful!” he shrieked when you leaned further down the bike and manually lit the flame thrower. Orange fire billowed out in an instant, almost singing your eyebrows straight off. With a smooth exhale, you watched as it took out more of the Hydra pursuers.

Your breath caught in your throat as Jungkook suddenly swerved, and you clutched at the seat with a deathly grip. “Two on your right, Y/N!”

While Jungkook found himself caught up with dodging bullets, you slid out three daggers from their designated scabbards on your hip Taeles and threw them in quick succession at the chasers. One struck the tire dead and true, sending the motorcycle flipping up into the air. Another grazed the man’s shoulder just slightly, but was enough to send his pain-ridden form careening into a tree trunk. The last blade skidded against the metal of the wheel spokes. No matter, it was going to explode anyway.

“We’re going up!” yelled Jungkook.

“What? Oh!” A startled yelp fell out of your lungs at the sudden change in angle as he accelerated up the ramp; which you presumed to be Hydra’s barrier for their base. Time for phase two of the plan.

“Good luck!” You patted Jungkook’s shoulder before pushing yourself up and launching yourself off the motorcycle just as it flew off the ramp. The strange feeling of floating encompassed your form and you blew out a sigh of relief. Seemed like Kim Gravitic Reversion Technology didn’t need a couple years to work, after all. Suspended in the air, you hurried to press the button on your bodysuit, effectively turning on the reflective panels to conjure the illusion of invisibility. You turned off the anti-gravity devices and descended to the floor with naught a sound thanks to your silent shoes.

You made quick work of the men shooting at Jungkook; after all, it was hard fighting a ghost.

Rolling beneath a tank when someone started shooting your direction, you stuck an explosive beneath the large vehicle and shuffled out just in time before it blew up into smithereens, finding yourself beside Jungkook. You turned off the invisibility, which made your old friend gratefully clap at your shoulder, a nonverbal way of asking if you were alright. So far so good, Guk. Hurriedly handing you the vibranium shield and cupping his hands, Jungkook hoisted you up into the air to curve the metal disc across the grounds, effectively disarming two Hydra personnel and most likely breaking the noses of two others. A smile creased your features when it came zipping back in an instant.

All of a sudden, there was fire everywhere. Tangerine flames licked at the air greedily, and you hastily scrambled backwards, yanked into Jungkook’s side as he pulled you from harm’s way. Strings of curses danced its way out of your mouth.

You could only pretend to look disappointed when around a hundred Hydra men surrounded the two of you with ten dozen gun nozzles aimed straight at your foreheads.

Time for phase three.

The Red Skull was exactly what his name entailed. You growled out obscenities when he landed blows to Jungkook, forcing him to his knees. The men holding you shoved you to the ground as well, being none too gentle with their touch.

“I can do this all day,” Jungkook panted out from beside you, blood dripping from the corner of his lip.

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” the Red Skull sneered with contempt dripping off his words. “But, unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule.” He pulled out a glowing gun and pointed it at Jungkook’s temple.

Anytime now, you thought in agitation, fidgeting on the spot.

The thudding of grappling hooks against stone walls rumbled throughout the room. Ah, there they were.

You grinned a sharp, cunning thing. “So are we.”

With that, both you and Jungkook broke into action; he punched at the guards holding the two of you and you turned invisible, pressing a taser gun up to the backs of Hydra personnel. The Howling Commandos broke through the windows, raining shards of glass everywhere. Bullets fell quicker than breaths. You caught sight of Red Skull managing to scurry away, so you picked up the fallen shield and tossed it in Jungkook’s direction, scoffing at his bewildered expression. You forgot you were still invisible to the naked eye.

For somebody who loathed war, you surprised yourself with how easy it was to fight these men. They took everything from you. They took your normal life away, your home, the love of your life. They took Taehyung from you.

All these gadgets you spent time tinkering were all worth it in the end. You were barely getting hurt or detected; praise whatever lord was out there for making you take the meticulous time to build a bullet-repulsion suit. And you supposed a thanks was in order for Namjoon—the anti-gravity device proved to be useful. Definitely so when you dropped from the suspension, using the momentum to kick two Hydra agents in the skull.

Explosions. Fire. Screams. Past you would’ve been horrified at the sight. Now… now this was your reality.

You eventually found Irene and the Colonel in a car, and so you blasted over, turning off all your gadgets and dropping into the backseat beside Irene with a pained grunt. Alright, so the bullet-repulsion suit maybe needed more tweaking. They barely seemed surprised at your presence, and Irene rotated in her seat to tell you that Red Skull was in a jet about to take off.

No, you thought. No, he can’t get away.

The automobile came to a sudden halt by a panting, bloody-blue Jungkook.

“Quick, get in!”

Wind whistled in your ears. The jet was so close, right there. The sky bled a harsh golden with the rising of the sun, cascading honey-amber light over the snowy mountains. It would’ve been a beautiful sight to behold if not for the situation at hand.

Clambering, Jungkook stood up on the seat to leap onto the plane just when the car grew closer. Much to your untimely delight, Irene yanked him down for a kiss and you averted your gaze with a snort.

“Go get him,” she said with a smile.

“I’m not kissing you!” The Colonel barked when Jungkook hesitated for a millisecond longer.

“Neither am I,” you quipped, but pushed yourself up nonetheless.

The three of them were concerningly bewildered at your actions. “Y/N, what are you doing?” Jungkook asked with a hint of urgency.

“I’m going in there with you, Guk,” you said, swiping away at a trickle of blood running down your nose. In a way, this was just like olden times. Back when Jungkook was still scrawny and you were adamant on going with him on every recruitment examination. “Taehyung told me to make sure you don’t do anything stupid!”

His expression softened, and he nodded once. He trusted you with his life.

With those damned superhuman abilities of his, he managed to jump from the car to the jet with mild ease. You wobbled at the sheer velocity of the car, but pushed yourself up with the Anti-gravity thrusters, propelling yourself forward and grappled at the large tires with a yell. Jungkook offered his hand, and pulled you up into the plane. There were a couple men that greeted you with guns to your faces, but you quickly pulled the magic invisibility trick once more while Jungkook took care of the rest.

You were busy for just two damn seconds, and Jungkook managed to fall out of the plane, attached to a smaller drop jet. You raised an eyebrow, watching them from a dirtied window before ducking the round of bullets that the Hydra fighters blindly shot. With an annoyed snarl, you launched yourself forward and threw a punch to his nose, using the butt of the soldier’s gun to slam against his jaw, dislocating it in the process. He fell down in a mess of snot and whimpers. You grimaced at the ugly image of his loose-hanging mouth.

Relieved to see Jungkook clamber into the jet after ejecting the original flier, it quickly morphed to panic when he redirected its path of flight straight towards where you stood. You dove out of the way just in time, flying metal shrapnel bouncing off of your suit, leaving you relatively harmless. You shot Jungkook a half-hearted glare when he clambered out.

“Could’ve crashed literally anywhere else, Jungkook,” you hissed while nodding at the last few remaining men. “Go after Red Skull. I’ll take care of the last of them.”

It was a quick job done, as it turned out. One of them even surrendered, dropping his gun just as you were about to throw another electrifying blade. Then, the plane started sharply descending, and you found yourself thrown to the ceiling before you could stop it from happening, back slamming into a metal column. You slid down with a groan just as the plane righted itself horizontally, shutting your eyes tight from the searing pain flowering up your spine. What the hell was Jungkook doing in there? Gulping, you limped to the cockpit where Red Skull and Jungkook were, ambling in just in time to see Jungkook throw his shield hard enough to send the monster of a man careening backwards, breaking the infrastructure of the energy source.

Blue sparks flew everywhere, and for a moment you could’ve sworn you saw a galaxy materialize right in front of your eyes.

“What have you done? No!” the man of crimson bellowed, staggering up to grasp the cuboid of raw blue energy in his hand.

Bad idea. Awful idea, in fact.

Flashes of blue lightning shot every which way, rivulets of cobalt streaking around him like the Northern Lights in wintry lands. With a brilliant ribbon of luminescence, a universe of stars and planets materialized just in front of him. You stared with wide eyes, meeting Jungkook’s equally stunned gaze, before turning to watch with agape lips.

The energy source glowed brighter in his hands. It grew and grew in luminosity, swallowing him whole and streaking up into the galaxy as he caterwauled in agony. Then… then Red Skull was gone.

As if it never happened, the portal to outer space closed in on itself and the cube dropped to the floor. It melted through the metal of the plane’s grating almost immediately. You could only helplessly watch as it burned a hole in the ground and plunged into the ocean, far, far away from anybody’s reach.

You released a bated breath, shutting your eyes and slumping against the wall.

Oh, you hadn’t realized just how tired you were.

Jungkook was by your side in an instant, scanning you for any immediate injuries.

“The plane, Jungkook!” You shoved at his shoulder. “I’ll be fine, I promise. We have to contact Namjoon or Irene.”

He helped you up, and the two of you made your way to the dashboard together. Thank your lucky stars you knew how to fly a plane. Jungkook unclipped his helmet and flung it off to the side. Strands of his blonde hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, grime, blood, and everything in between. The both of you squeezed onto the same chair—he started working at the radio while you triangulated your exact coordinates.

“Come in. This is Captain Jeon. Do you read me?”

It was Irene who answered, her voice crackling with feedback. “Jungkook, is that you?”

“Irene!” he exclaimed, relief in his tone. “Schmidt is dead.”

“What about the plane?”

You grimaced. “That’s a little bit more complicated,” you replied before Jungkook could, motioning to the map. The plane was heading straight for New York.

“Give me your coordinates. I’ll find you a safe landing site.”

Horror curled at your gut when you pulled up the vitals of the large vehicle. “I may be able to fly, but there’s no way we can get this thing down safely.” Jungkook’s brow furrowed from beside you. Sick to the bone, you shook your head and softly uttered, “We have to force it down.”

“I’ll get Namjoon on the line! He’ll know what to do!”

Oh, you wished Namjoon was here. Maybe you’d tell him that his anti-gravity gadget worked like a charm. On second thought, that’d just give him a big head. Lord knows that was the last thing that man needed.

“There’s not enough time!” said Jungkook. His voice broke, and your heart shattered into infinitesimal pieces along with it.

You hadn’t even noticed the trembling of your hands until Jungkook laced one of his with yours. This was it. This was acceptance. No amount of tinkering or inventing in that dingy war lab would’ve been able to prepare you for a situation like this.

“I gotta put her in the water.” Jungkook exhaled a slow, painful thing.

“Please, don’t do this. We have time. We’ll work it out!”

A tear trickled its merry way over your blood-crusted cheek as you shook your head. “Right now, we’re in the middle of nowhere. If we wait any longer…” You paused to furiously wipe at your blurry eyes. “A lot of people are going to die.”

With that, you pushed away from the console, letting Jungkook take over. You heard him speak to Irene, something about a dance, but it faded into background noise.

He set a compass against the dashboard, one that held a photo of Irene smiling, radiant in nature.

Death stared at you in the form of ice; creeping closer and closer at a rapid speed. You didn’t have any photos of Taehyung. All his letters were safely tucked in your suitcase, back in the military camp. And so, with nothing left, you found your hand wrapped tightly around Taehyung’s dog tags, frigid in your palm to the point where it felt scalding. You shut your eyes as more saltified emotions leaked from your tear ducts, a feeble melody of tentative anguish playing hollow within your chest.

Then… then it all went blue.

Strange, you always thought death would come black, shadows and darkness its trademark. No, that wasn’t it at all. Death came blue like the ocean and the sky. Like Taehyung’s laugh, his wide smile, his favorite pair of jeans. Yes, that explained why.

It was blue because you were thinking of Taehyung.

The man with the cool eyepatch was someone you were supposed to respect out of fear. He was tall in stature, grizzled in demeanor, and his tongue was sharper than both yours and Namjoon’s combined which said quite a lot. And he had an eyepatch, for crying out loud!

But for the life of you, you just couldn’t find it in yourself to be scared of him.

He approached you with a scowl on his lips. Most people would’ve panicked, trembled, bolted for the door. Thankfully, you weren’t most people. You didn’t cower, no, but merely arched an eyebrow his way. For the short time (a week at most) you’ve been awake in this strange new world, Min Yoongi had only come to you once before, and that was to get you situated with SHIELD (which you were still slightly lost on, but to be fair, you were catching up on decades worth of information). So now that he was back, sitting down across from you in the quaint cafe while you sipped at your cup of tea, you almost snorted at how out of place he looked.

It took only four words to get you bolting out of your seat.

“Your friend is awake.”

The drive was a short one to the center of the busy city. There were already several cars there, forming a circle around the subject, dark skid marks indicating their paralleled rush.

You and Min Yoongi pushed through the crowd.

“At ease, soldier!” Yoongi ordered.

You crumbled into utter relief upon seeing Jungkook, as lost as ever, in the center of the circle. His chest heaved as if he’d been sprinting a marathon, obscured only by a thin t-shirt and dark cargo pants. Your eyes widened when you saw that he was barefoot.

With a shout of his name, you ran forward and enveloped him into a tight embrace. There was so much you wanted to say, but your tongue was heavier than lead in your mouth, so you kept quiet and clutched onto him tighter. It took him a moment of genuine shock before he reluctantly returned your hold.

Director Min strode forward, features set grim. “Look, I’m sorry about that little show we put on back there. We thought it best to break it to you slowly.”

You grimaced at that. Waking up to a completely different world with only a baseball game to soften the blow definitely didn’t help whatsoever. You had panicked upon startling into consciousness, ignoring the throbbing of your head and aches of your muscles and ripping your bedsheets to shreds, tying up loose ends to form a rope; or, to you, a makeshift weapon.

The strange look on Jungkook’s face contorted. “Break what?”

As gently as you possibly could, you raised your arms to graze the pads of your fingers over his tense face. You did it to console him, yes, but a selfish part of you just needed to feel him—make sure he was real. This all still felt like a dream to you. One where you’d wake up back in the forties in a small apartment in Brooklyn, nestled in bed with Taehyung’s arms draped over your figure, enjoying the delicate silence that laid dormant over the two of you.

No, turns out it wasn’t a dream. Taehyung was gone and you were here seventy years in the future.

You shook your head, blinking back the stinging prick of tears. You were well aware of the bustling city around you, the SHIELD agents pointing their guns at him as if he were a threat, Min Yoongi’s one good eye glaring a hole at the pair of you, but you focused on Jungkook. Under that confident facade of his, you knew he was scared out of wit’s mind.

“Guk,” you began in a hoarse voice, just loud enough so he could hear over the overwhelming bustle of the city, “we’ve been asleep… for almost seventy years.”

[charlizekkelly]

bikes & blood; chapter IX

{poly!lost boys x oc}

word count: 2263 rating: explicit chapter warnings: mentions of death, dead bodies (again, I'm sorry if the warnings are shitty but this fic IS DARK!!) bikes & blood masterlist

tag list(feel free to leave a comment if you want to be added to the list <3) : @henhouse-horrors @dickspaghettii

" '𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝' 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞."

---

Puddles of water dotted the boardwalk, alcoves and drain pipes drying beneath the beaming rays of the sun—a stark but welcomed change from the previous day's dreary weather. Curiosity and intrigue had driven Amara down to the boardwalk during the normal waking hours of the day and for a moment, she worried that her black vans, khaki-green plaid pants and black t-shirt would be out of place amongst the patrons of Santa Carla.

That worry fled her chest the moment Amara stepped upon the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Her curls tied into a high half-up, half-down ponytail with a few pieces of hair left down to frame her face; the hairstyle intended to keep most of Amara's waist-length hair in check. Smoke hung around the boardwalk, clogging her nose with a stench so unsettling that it gnawed at her senses with malice.

Unease drifted across Amara's skin, her mind churning as it tried to place the foreign smell that filled the air. Her nose screwed up with displeasure the further Amara walked into the bustling boardwalk, tourists and locals alike enjoying the warm summer's day—the summer storm of yesterday nowhere to be seen. Children's screams and people's laughter wove together with the cheerful and yet haughty sounds of the boardwalk, light and dark crossing paths without so much as a thought.

Amara paused in her observations of the sunlit boardwalk, head lifting to peer up at the neon sign of the comic book store as she weighed up her options. Laddie came to mind as Amara nibbled on the flesh of her bottom lip. The brown-haired boy's smile filling her mind as Amara's feet led her into the store. The U-shaped layout to the store hadn't changed, its tiered tables lined with comics in neat rows, comics pegged to the wire above the sage-green tables.

Amara's eyes darted from comic book to comic book, racking her mind for the comic book Laddie had been looking for back in Phoenix. Half of Amara was sure it was a Marvel comic, while the other didn't have the faintest clue to what she was looking for. The latter reigning supreme as Amara browsed the extensive collection of comics, fingertips ghosting across the glossy covers.

Eyes seared into the back of her head as Amara's fingers ghosted over the cover of a Spiderman comic, the edition of which was lost on her mind. Amara turned her head slowly towards the front of the store. The mousy-brown haired twin's eyes locked upon her as Amara turned to face the duo. An eyebrow arching in an unspoken question, imploring the two to quit their lurking and speak whatever was on their minds.

The taller twin wore a set of camouflage pants, combat boots, and a black t-shirt. His arms folded across his chest as his hazel-brown eyes scrutinised Amara from his place beside the front counter. The shorter twin by a few inches leant against the counter lazily, his dark-washed jeans, jasper-grey shirt and boots oddly fit within the comic store's aesthetic. And much like his brother, his dirt-brown eyes analysed Amara like one would analyse a science project.

The hazel-eyed twin spared his brother a glance as he made his way over to where Amara stood beside the collection of Spiderman comics. His brows furrowed as he stopped in front of Amara, eyes searching her face as though he knew who Amara was, but wasn't entirely sure himself. Amara's lips twitched as she fought the urge to smile.

The boy in front of her had grown since the last time she'd seen him all those years ago and yet, Amara knew exactly which twin stood in front of her as she spoke. "Alexander."

A crease marred Alexander's face as he racked his brain for the recognition within the depths of his eyes. A breath of annoyance spilled from his lips, a pleading look thrown over his shoulder to his brother before he turned back to face Amara. The grin across her face impossible to hide as Amara enjoyed how he fidgeted uneasily beneath her gaze.

"You're Amara. Sam Emerson's niece, right?" The shorter, dirt-brown eyed twin, Tobias, questioned as he strode to his brother's side.

"And you're Edgar Frog's sons, right?"

The two shared a look before Alexander nodded his head in confirmation. The Cheshire-like grin etched so firmly into Amara's face that her cheeks had begun to ache, brown irises dancing with regalement. Memories of the trio wreaking havoc on the boardwalk as kids filled her mind—a trio Amara's uncle had regretted bringing together the moment he realised how much trouble they were together.

Tobias's gaze was drawn to the comics Amara had been browsing through, a curious gleam to his eyes, brows lifting as a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Looking for something in particular?"

Amara pursed her lips, bristling with annoyance at her mind's failed attempts at recalling the name of the comic Laddie never shut up about. "I would be if I could remember the comic's damn name."

Alexander chuckled at Amara's expense. Amused by her frustration—the notion reminding him of how easily Amara grew annoyed when she couldn't find them in a game of hide and seek as kids. Alexander leant over her shoulder and plucked a turquoise-blue comic from atop the tiered table, extending the glossy book towards her so that Amara could see the startling-red title. 'Vampires Everywhere' was scrawled across the cover in a grotesque font. A depiction of vampires tearing people to pieces, bats and a cloaked man clutching a bloody stake in his hand spread across the cover.

Amara arched an unimpressed brow, eyeing the two like they'd both just grown another head. "Laddie doesn't read horror comics."

"Take it, Amara. It's only a comic." Tobias urged, a taunting smirk across his face as he dared Amara to take the comic from his brother.

"Give it a read and if you don't think Laddie will like it, bring it back tomorrow," Alexander said, waving the comic in a way that showcased his need for her to take it from his outstretched hand.

Amara sighed with feigned annoyance, taking the comic from the hazel-eyed twin and flicking through the glossy pages with surface-deep interest. "Happy now?"

Tobias grinned. "Extremely. Time to go now, Amara." He said, ushering her out of the store with a playful salute before the mousy-brown haired twins disappeared back into the renovated comic book store.

Amara stared at the open doorway of the store; lips parted in shock as people brushed past her stunned form—the more disgruntled boardwalk-goers throwing displeased sneers her way. Amara blinked several times, huffing with annoyance as she clutched the turquoise-green comic closer to her chest and began weaving her way through the packed boardwalk. The warm rays from the sun cast shadows across the wooden planks as children and adults alike delighted in the boardwalk; a blissful smile spreading across her face as Amara made her way to her bike.

Amara's gaze strayed from the faded-red Honda long enough to glimpse the blackened remains of a car across the lot. Curiosity brimmed within her gut as Amara meandered across the bitumen. That same horrid stench filling her nose the closer Amara got to the burnt car. Blood stained the stones of the bitumen a sickening faded red, a small puddle beside the front door as Amara mustered up the courage to peer through the shattered windows.

A disfigured scream tore from her throat as her gaze landed on the charred and blackened outline of a body. Her steps hurried and rushed as Amara turned away from the burnt car, pressing her hand firmly against her mouth with wide and panic-filled eyes. Amara staggered away from the blackened remains of the car, crossing the car park and starting her bike—horror filling her stomach as Amara tore off and out of the car park with a churning stomach.

The crimson-red letters painted on the back of Santa Carla's welcome sign thrown to the forefront of her mind.

'Murder Capital of the World' ringing true to its name.

***

Stars painted the sky, peeking through the gap between the wall and the window where the curtains didn't reach. The soft sheets of Amara's bed wrapped around her snugly, as though it'd rid her mind of the charred and rancid body. Amara's stomach churned with unease at the mere thought, shaking her head as though it'd be enough to rid her mind of the body within the back of the car.

Her father's worried voice still echoed in her head even now. His slate-grey eyes had looked Amara over frantically, worry leeching into his irises as he'd asked her what was wrong. Amara had only managed a shaky breath of air, eyes brimming with unshed tears as her gaze darted around the room in search of some way to explain her hysteria.

She had swallowed thickly, wringing her hands anxiously in front of herself as she'd spoken; telling her father what she'd seen down at the boardwalk in a rush. He'd stared at Amara in shock, unblinking, before he abruptly snapped himself out of his daze and rushed into the kitchen. The police had arrived half an hour later and asked a series of questions about the body within the car before they left with soft mutters of parting.

Amara's father had watched her leave the kitchen, eyes wanting to say more, but his mind urging him to let it go. He'd given Amara space over the hours that'd passed, only coming into her room to bring her food that she'd half-heartedly eaten. Since then, Amara had stayed within the safety of her room—engrossing herself within the pages of Inkheart.

The bedside lamp was the only source of light within the darkness of Amara's room. Inkheart laid face down on her bedside table as Amara grew enthralled by the turquoise-blue comic. She mentally thanked the two twins that'd urged her to take the comic; the detailed drawings and text sucking her further into the vampiric horror comic.

A startled scream spilled from Amara's lips as the door to her bedroom swung open on silent hinges, hand flying to her chest as her heart pounded beneath her palm. Her father's sheepishly amused eyes studied Amara from the doorway, a look of concern etched into his irises as clearly as a cloudless sky.

"You scared the crap out of me." Amara breathed out with an amused tilt to her lips, gaze locked on her father's as her hand left her chest.

Her father chuckled, shaking his head with mirth as his eyes came to rest on the comic clutched in her hands. "What do you think of it?" He asked, gesturing to the bold-red 'Vampires Everywhere' sprawled across the cover.

Amara shrugged, underplaying the enthrallment of the comic. "It's good. Better than I'd thought it'd be when Tobias and Alexander practically forced me to take it."

"Edgar's sons?"

Amara hummed in acknowledgement, gaze straying from the dark soil-brown haired man and back towards the glossy sheen of the comic book's pages. Her father watched Amara for several seconds from the doorway, weighing up the need to ask her if she was okay after the events of today or if he should let it go for now. Her father sighed, raking his fingers through his hair as Amara's attention lifted from the detailed and equally grotesque drawings of the comic, and to his face.

"Night, Mars. Don't stay up too late." He urged softly, turning to leave the room with his hand resting on the doorknob.

"Night." Amara breathed out softly in response, the door closing behind her father with a soft snitching sound.

Stars glinted within the sky as Amara dared a glance towards the gap of her blinds. The cloudless sky filled with hundreds of twinkling stars. The moon shining down upon Santa Carla as the night drew on. Amara tore her gaze away from the gap within her curtains and back towards the glossy pages of the horror comic—delving deeper into the comic the further she read.

All thoughts of the four bikers that waited for her on the boardwalk tucked to the depths of her mind; the promise she'd made to the Atlantic-blue eyed biker broken and unfulfilled. Left to shatter like that of the windows of the fire-riddled car as the dirty blonde's gaze darted from person to person; a foreign feeling of worry swirling within the biker's gut.

Worry that he shoved to the back of his mind as he turned back to the group of four and gestured towards the beach. They wasted no time as they raced down the steps of the boardwalk and down to the beach; disappearing into the night as quickly as they had appeared.

Lost in the shadows of the night as their hollers of joy filled the night and echoed across the sky of Santa Carla.

--

<previous chapter next chapter>

[curly-bangtan]

A Drop of Heaven I: Sir(e)  (M)

[Series Masterlist]

Pairing: ot7 x reader // this chapter: Namjoon x reader, some Jimin x reader

Series summary: Seven vampires have secretly been roaming the darks of your world for millennia. Each brother selects a Feed who becomes supernaturally bound to him, whose blood will be fed on until their inevitable mortal death. They have spent their eternity hunting for the exorbitant rarity that is angel blood - the most heavenly of food for vampires that fuel them with desire, lust and satiety. So what happens when they all find you, the first angel-blooded being they’ve encountered in two centuries?

Genre: vampire au, poly au, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (e2l)

Warnings in this chapter: non-consensual blood drinking, mentions of death and abuse, obv blood and gore, very light smut, dry humping, ass grinding, dom!Namjoon is an ass man wbk, almost everyone being a prick, oc and Namjoon hating each other but then get confused

Word count: 9.6k

!Disclaimer!: As I’ve said before, I am not glorifying any type of objectification or abuse, and this has nothing to do with gender at all. This is meant to depict a fictional dynamic between vampire and Feed which obviously does not apply to a non-supernatural context in which case this would be considered abuse and toxic. I really hope this doesn’t offend/trigger anyone!! If you get confused, feel free to ask questions.

[prelude, i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, epilogue]

❦

Death feels…

Alive.

The hum of classical music and hushed low voices permeate your ears as your senses gradually seep back to you. Faint darkness cloaks your vision. Your chest rises and falls in a soft slow rhythm. You’re breathing. Your heart is beating. You feel alleviated from the pain you’re so accustomed to. You feel revitalised.

You feel alive.

So this is the so-called Afterlife philosophers spend decades pondering and debating. How peculiar.

You try to lift your finger and find it moving at your will, the action feeling oddly smooth and effortless. Fabric brushes your skin, and in fact, a silk material envelops your body. Are you on a bed?

When your eyelids begin to flutter in attempt to open, the voices around you silence eerily in unison. You see a red-gold light at first, illuminating the dark room you find yourself in, the ceiling of which void-black. In your periphery, dim candles are flickering on your two sides, the warm glow of which spilling onto the lavish satin bed you lay atop, its size worthy for kings to sleep in.

Then something violently strong snaps within you, a string, a cord, of sorts. The sensation is not physical, it’s beyond that; it feels as though something has tied itself around your soul and is tugging at you towards it. This intensity is overwhelming, eating at your mind and core, urging you to follow this nexus that tightens its hold around you.

You sit up, gasping.

And face seven men.

Each the epitome of beauty in their own right. Each an ethereal glaze washing over them. Each staring at you with the most curious glint in their eyes.

No, not curious. Hungry.

“I…” Your brain is scattered from its sense. Where are you? Who are they? Are you dead or alive or both? “What…?” Coherent thoughts fail to form in your head and at your lips, the question dangles in the air like a weak sigh.

Processing as much as you can, you take a moment to examine the seven standing around the bed in front of you.

The one directly in front of you regards you with crossed arms, dressed in a suit of all black, mousy grey-brown hair swept neatly. When you meet his eyes, a chill shoots down your back for his irises have the faintest crimson glow to them. But what is more terrifying is not the strange hue of his eyes, but the way they are pinned at you as if he could stare into your soul and read your every single secret. There is an air of power and superiority that exudes from his tall stance. You’re beginning to think that this definitely isn’t heaven and he definitely isn’t an angel.

On his left is a pink-haired man, delicate to look at, soft features painting his handsome face. His eyes are kind but unreadable, juxtaposing the harshness of the one beside him. His shoulders are board, though he possesses no intimidation towards you. Something about him is so aesthetically soothing, magical to look at.

On the other side of the stranger in the middle slouches a smaller man, a bored expression worn on his face with his cheek bitten inside his mouth. His spiky head of hair so dark you can almost hear it whisper lullabies of the devil. When he looks at you, you feel him emanate a dangerous fury; it’s an ancient deep-rooted type of evil. Now, a flood of fear finally dawns on you.

Next to him, a dimpled grin greets you. Immediately you sense a rush of security at his warm expression, though you can’t help but think it’s a deceiving facade to lull you into his snare. There is a darkness lurking behind his crescent eyes that you don’t completely trust. He ruffles his hand through his wine red tufts, smile not once faltering in the most uncanny manner.

Standing opposite the bed from him is a devilishly handsome blonde boy, though you’re not sure if ‘boy’ is quite the right word when his lips quirk up at you mysteriously. He’s dressed luxuriously, like he’s some foreign prince, standing tall and proud yet undecipherable. An unknown force draws you to him, his beauty beckoning you like a lasso. When he brushes his thumb under his lip, you shudder.

Another boy approaches you, this one so stunning you jump back at his advance. “How are you feeling? Better?” As he perches on the side of the bed a hand’s reach away from you, you pause to take in this face wholly. Waves of silver sprouting from his head, mesmerisingly angular eyes staring intently into yours, a small button nose and plump red lips. It’s a frightening type of beauty.

Gulping as you find yourself out of air from the overwhelmingly powerful presence in the room, you force yourself to nod. You only realise now that you are changed into a clean cream cotton dress.

In the dark far corner, the last man leans against the wall, observing with a guarded, austere demeanour. You can’t see him well in the shadow, but you see the gloss of his long black curls flowing around his clenched jaw. He does not say anything, does not appear to have the intention of joining the others gathered around you. Just silently watching.

These seven men… No, not men.

Phantasmal unearthly creatures.

Because there is no way that these towering bodies and other-worldly faces are mere mortals.

“Who are you?” Your voice is a croaky whisper courtesy to your chokingly dry throat.

“The answer to that is worth an eternity, love.” The boy sat beside you smirks, brushing his silver locks to one side. “I’m afraid you don’t want to find out.”

Your mind is whizzing, trying to piece together your surroundings, these strangers leering at you almost lasciviously as if you’re some zoo animal. Trying to grasp at your last memories, you remember the scenes in flashes. His fist, her cries, blooming agony, then darkness.

A blood-curdling realisation hits you.

You’re not dead.

You can’t be dead. You’re breathing, blinking, moving. You’re very much alive. And tragically so.

“Where is she?” You make the move to get off this bed but is blocked by the gorgeous blonde. A wolf wearing sheepskin, you wager.

Silence dangles in the air like a man hanging from a noose, the familiar gnaw of fear clenching your chest so tightly you don’t think you’re breathing. Then, “She’s dead.”

Those words are flung at you like a piece of rag but hit you like an arrow through the heart. Spoken by none other than the frowning man in the middle, arms crossed and eyeing you with callous indifference as if he hadn’t just announced the death of your younger sister.

You expect tears to erupt from your eyes but they don’t, you want to scream your devastation and anger at the world but you don’t. Everything goes still, calm, inert. Almost as if you can’t feel anything. The pain in your heart spreads like cracking glass torturously slowly, infecting your every fibre with a bleak shadow.

The mattress dips as Silver clambers closer to you and strokes your cheek gently. His touch ice cold, yet nothing compared to the numbness of your mind, empty, devoid of all feeling.

“I’m sorry, don’t be sad.”

Don’t be sad.

You let out a breath that would’ve been a laugh if you currently had the capacity for emotion.

“Enough of this shit, just cut to the chase and tell her everything she needs to know so we can get on with it, Namjoon.” Impatient and hostile, the one with black hair and a permanent scowl scoffs.

Namjoon, standing out amongst the seven not in looks but in confidence and stature, is their leader, you suppose. When he speaks again, you’re not surprised that he is. His tone is authoritative, articulate, a severe presence that demands attention. Almost enough to make you forget about the grief you’re bottling up for one second.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Y/N.”

“Y/N, listen to me very closely as I won’t repeat myself. We seven brothers hereby are siring you as our Feed, all seven of us. You will now be bound to us until death shows you mercy and lifts your curse that tethers you to us eternally. Forget your past life because you shall reside here in our manor for the rest of your mortal life for us to drink your blood.

“Under normal circumstances, each of us possesses one Feed each, but in your case, we shall distribute you equally amongst ourselves. There are seven days in a week which falls perfectly align with our arrangement. On Monday, you shall be my Feed, Tuesday, Seokjin, Wednesday, Yoongi, Thursday, Hoseok, Friday, Jimin, Saturday, Taehyung and finally Sunday, Jungkook. You shall be completely obedient to your sire of the day and your sire only, and in return we shall feed on you only on the day of which you belong to us. Due to the vigorous frequency at which you are being fed on, we have agreed to feed as lightly as possible to sustain you. If need be, you will be healed with our blood.

“You shall refer to me as Sir and only Sir; the others will decide the dynamic they wish to share with you. Do not for a second forget that you are our subjugate, our inferior and our prey. The magic that yields you to us is powerful, thus you have no choice in this matter. Many before you have tried to defy during their early days as a Feed only to quickly fail and fall to submission as they should. Heed this as your only warning.

“Do you or do you not understand, Y/N?” When he finishes, he juts his chin high at you and sucks in the meat of his cheeks between his jaws.

The fire poker that is his glare sears into you, sizzling its mark into your pit of dread. None of what he just said makes an ounce of sense to you, and it’s definitely not because of your dazed state from your newly-regained consciousness.

Just who does this man think he is? And what in ten Hells is he going on about?

“No. I don’t fucking understand.”

Shock registers in all their eyes when you spit your bitter dispute at Namjoon. You swear there’s a glint of twisted excitement sparking from the redhead.

“I’m afraid you will have to repeat yourself. Sir.” You continue when none of them utters a syllable. “First, you tell me my sister is dead. I believe you. Then you’re spouting some speech about how I’m ‘sired’ to you all and you’re going to drink my blood every day of the week because I belong to you? Is this some sort of cult or is this Hell?” Looking around at them, they all seem taken aback by your outburst, stunned.

“Oh my… This one is going to be fun.” The blonde boy mirths at you, tongue gliding over his row of pearly teeth. It is now that you notice the sharp point of his fangs in place of his canines. You freeze.

“Isn’t she? I’m going to go mad waiting until Thursday. Can I have a bite right now? Just a drop so I know her taste?” He is bouncing on his toes, thrilled by the anticipation.

“Hoseok, hush.” Namjoon silences the boy’s fervour before turning to you. “Y/N, if you insist on defiance, I promise you endless suffering. Let me clear your confusion. We are vampires that rely on blood as our food. You are our chosen victim, our Feed. The supernatural sire bond will eventually click into place between you and each one of us, forcing a mutual loyalty between Vampire and Feed. This will be clearer as the days go on. I suggest you-”

“Right, vampires.” You interrupt before he can continue his nonsense. How did you end up in some vampire-worshipping cult? “If you guys are vampires, then I’m a freaking angel. You are all insane. I’m leaving, goodbye.”

Frantically crawling off the bed, you head in the direction of the door. If your sister is really dead, then what happened to your uncle? You hope he’s dead too. Either way, you have no home to return to, but still you need to escape these men for your own sake. You can’t escape one lunatic only to end up in the lair of seven more.

But before you could even step your bare foot off the bed onto the wooden floor, frozen fingers snake around your wrist like a venomous serpent and lock you in its clasp.

“You are an angel, kind of.” Hoseok chuckles and tugs you back onto the bed, you’re unduly aware of how close he is hovering over you.

“You’re also dumb as fuck if you think you can leave, did you not hear everything he just said?” The sourpuss beside him shoves at your shoulder not at all lightly until you sink onto the mattress on your back. “You couldn’t leave us even if you tried.”

“No need to be so rough on her, Yoongi, she’s confused.” Brows pinched in disapproval, the pink-haired man chastises softly, and to your surprise, this Yoongi just scowls but dips his head.

Pink seems to be kind, the only one here that appeals to your plight apparently, so you scramble on your knees over to his side for your second attempt to escape. But his gentle hand reaches out to stop you, hand raised inches away from your chest, preventing you from moving forward and slipping past him. There’s a guilt in his eyes that you cannot comprehend. Why can’t he let you leave if he is sympathetic towards you?

“She still doesn’t get it, hyung.” The beautiful blonde boy on your other side shakes his head with a pernicious smile. “We need to show her.” His appearance is a trap, you know that with absolute certainty as you look into the renaissance painting that is his face. Yet you cannot help the attraction that sings you towards him as he draws his finger under your chin, guiding you closer into him.

He looks over to Namjoon as if for approval, who only stares at the scene of him luring you into his grasp with an unreadable expression. At the lack of disagreement from others, his finger now traces down to your neck, wandering over your heavy pulse. You gulp.

“Taehyung…” Someone warns, yet the delirious state you’re in at the hands of this boy’s enchantment does not allow you to recognise who.

His eyes are the palest of blues, a cloudless summer day with a soft seaside breeze. Your gaze follows his tongue wetting his lips, then trailing his sharp teeth. How do his fangs look so real? They oddly suit him, painting a wild beastly image of him that is concealed by his soft innocent features until he opens his mouth to flash his whites. You’ve never seen someone as good looking as him. As all of them.

Seductively, Taehyung leans into your neck and buries his nose in your scent. When he sucks in sharply, you sense his craving, his arousal. You’re frozen in his clutch as his hand circles behind you so delicately, unsure of what to do with yourself, unsure of what he’ll do with you. Lips tenderly caressing your jugular, you shut your eyes, intoxicated by his touch.

“Left neck is mine.” He growls, the aggressiveness of which surprises you so much so that the words he speaks don’t manifest its meaning to you at first.

Then a scorching hot pain explodes in your neck, so violent that you shriek out and try to twist away. But something is latched onto you like a hook, two hooks in fact. When your open your eyes, you realise that it’s his teeth that are sunken inch deep into your neck, penetrating a dizzying agony into your whole body. After a still second, you begin to feel a pressure pulling out your blood like a vacuum. A tear trickles out the corner of your eye at the burning sensation.

What the fuck?

He is… drinking your blood.

You try to push him off but a strange force like phantom hands bind your muscles and prevent you from acting on your will.

The magic that yields you to us is powerful, you have no choice in this matter.

Holy shit, Namjoon was completely serious. These people aren’t a brainwashed cult, they’re actually vampires.

Years of abuse, all the wounds you’ve endured, are nothing compared to the agony embedded deep in your neck right now. Absolutely nothing. Streams of scarlet flow down your garment like a spillage of wine, dark and thick and an indulgence to the tongue. You’re helplessly grappling on Taehyung’s shirt, tugging him towards you rather than shoving him away. This supernatural spell, or whatever the fuck it is, is overriding and going against your every intention to escape.

Vision hazy, you vaguely make out the other faces watching you struggle under Taehyung’s fangs. And when you think this nightmare could not get more harrowing, you notice a change in their eyes. By that, you do not mean a shift in expression, a frown or a squint. It is an actual physical transformation: the black of their pupils incrementally diffusing into their irises like a drop of watercolour, then the darkness spills over to the whites of their eyes until they are wholly onyx clouds.

“Taehyung.” Namjoon demands, and a sigh of relief escapes you as the sucking in your vein ceases. But rather than telling him to stop, he simply orders, “Share.”

Share? Share your blood?

Then the rest of the five prowl to gather around you, and despite your vertigo, you will never forget how monstrous they look. Eyes black as void, ivory fangs elongating like unsheathing claws, nostrils flaring at the scent of your blood, their food. Chest heaving as if struggling to hold back from ripping you into strips of meat.

“Bon appetit.” Is that Hoseok who’s leaping at your collarbone?

When his teeth sink in, you no longer have it in you to cry out. And then another on your right neck. Your head feels as if it’ll roll off your neck, only held onto the rest of your body by a ligament and Taehyung’s palm. A strong hand yanks your arm up and places your wrist in his mouth. This one hurts even more than your neck as you feel his fangs scrape carelessly against your bone. A soundless sob leaves your trembling lips. Then someone is gently pushing your legs apart, sniffing up the inside of your thigh. You try to kick him yet instead your leg wraps around his back and draw him closer. His purring resonates into your core as he licks his ravishing mark before piercing your skin once more. Blood seeps out the corner of his mouth and run down your calf like the tears you release in vain.

“Oh Hell, I haven’t tasted angel blood in centuries. I’ve forgotten how irreplaceably magnificent this is.” Someone throws their head back for a breath, sighing their satisfaction at your opulence.

No matter how much you thrash against the force that holds you in their submission, nothing budges. Like skyscraping obsidian walls surrounding your every side. Shadow scions twisting around your limbs into a lock.

Y/N, if you insist on defiance, I promise you endless suffering.

His voice echoes in the rubble of your brain like a bell, clanging its nauseating truth into you. Your consciousness is sand falling between your fingers, you try to hold on but the grains are ungraspable.

Then finally, the one with pink hair comes near you. A pitiful expression worn that makes you wonder how absolute the evil that lurks in them actually is, or whether it’s tainted with humanity.

He stops, brushes your tear away. “Sorry.” Trickery of your ears would not be surprising, considering the irony of his apology as he hesitantly lifts your other wrist to his fangs.

You last one second after his bite before fainting, body going slump but held upright by the six vampires feeding on you. Your last thought being: how terrifying the devils of Hell live in such beautiful deceiving skins.

And also that you hope you fucking die this time.

In the dim corner of the room, the last vampire watches, taciturn, as his brothers devour every last drop of crimson liquid that misses their tongues. Eyes narrowing at their wolfish hunger and your fainted state. Then slips away without as much as a word.

.

You wake up painless. Skin unmarred and unbroken. In the same room, on the same bed. Yet your red stained night dress tells you that it wasn’t a nightmare. It was all real.

Everything is silent though the clockwork in your head ticks loud. You try to process how you’ve been captured by a brotherhood of vampires, blood-sucking vampires, who have chosen you to be their personal blood bag. Their ‘Feed’. And you’re now magically bound to them, a force locking you in place and unable to resist every time you try.

What the actual fuck?

How has your life thrown you from torture to torture?

None of this seems possible. Vampires are a mythical creature, a fable. You have to be going insane. Or perhaps you actually are dead and this is your personal Hell designed to torment you for the rest of your afterlife. Not that you know what you did to deserve all this.

But it had felt so real.

You touch the spot on your neck where you were bitten, goosebumps raising when you recall Taehyung’s fangs first puncturing through you as if you were no more than a peach. That pain, that shock, bathes in its immortality in your memory.

Namjoon, their leader. His dictation of the rules that they are enforcing on you, his vexingly arrogant tone, the way his eyes squint down at you. What is wrong with him?

Then there is your sister. Her death. The initial heartbreak launched into you like a missile, but then somehow fizzled away into a bittersweetness that sours your throat. You won’t cry. Death was a mercy for her, it’s surely better than your predicament right now. She was innocent, she was sinless, she was pure. She deserves death when living was a worse fate.

There’s no point grieving her loss, right?

There’s no point, you convince yourself. And so you lock her sugar sweet scent and toothy smile away in your heart-shaped box and toss the key into the ocean of your emotions.

You wonder how your uncle fares. The cause of your misery and suffering all these years. The one who showed you that you’re capable of the ugly emotion that is hate. You don’t want to think about him, your fists already clenching in anger at the reminder of his alcohol-ridden breath. You hope he’s somewhere captured in this place too, experiencing worse than what he put you and her through.

If you ever see him, you would kill him yourself. Not a single doubt about that.

All this misfortune in you and your sister’s lives stemmed from one accident that resulted in the death of your parents. Your life before, a distant reverie. You had been happy once, scarless and untraumatized. Now you’re damaged.

About to be even more damaged.

Your coping mechanism has always fluctuated between two polarities. Either you are a shell of a living being, detached and numb to all the blows, merely rotting to your expiration, or some days you are so full of anger at the unfairness of this universe, so much resentment at yourself, your uncle, and even your parents for leaving you behind.

Right now, you’re the former. Hit by a wave of anaesthesia, and you’re grateful for it because you know the alternative is the manic loss of your sanity.

Sitting up, you regard this room. It is dark and sleek in nature, use of deep metal and glass for surfaces rather than the wood you’re used to at home. No, not home. That wasn’t your home. The palette is monochrome, primarily blacks and greys, devoid of any colour, reflecting the bleakness of your mental state. The room is lit by candles beside the bed, though a multi-bulbed light hangs from the middle of the ceiling, switched off. Curtains drawn shut, you have no idea what time of day it currently is, nor the passage of time. Furniture is lacking, only a marble chest of drawers, a cushion-barren loveseat, a pot of fern which you presume is fake because what plant can grow in such dull setting, and a double shelf of books.

There are three doors, one agape that opens up to what looks like an ensuite bathroom, the other two in adjacent corners, ominously calling for you to explore. Whatever lurks behind them, you can sense it won’t be the Garden of Eden. Either way, you need to find a way out of this place.

You’re about to leave the bed and scuttle to listen at the walls when you hear two soft knocks before the closer of the two doors opens. To reveal an angelic face that you now know is nothing more than a lie, his silver hair glinting from the candle flames.

“Can I come in?” His voice is smooth, saccharine, higher pitched than you expected. Though this is your second encounter with him, you don’t remember your first too well due to the overwhelm.

Clearing your throat, you reply, “yes.” Why has he even asked for permission when he didn’t need it? It’s not like you have a choice in the matter, or any matter in here apparently.

The way he strolls in exudes a swaggering confidence, a charm that you would buy into if you hadn’t witness him transform into a black-eyed demon and feel his fangs enter your flesh. When he sits on the bed, crinkling the satin covers, you fight the urge to recoil away from his proximity. He is dressed in a royal blue velvet suit that flaunts his collarbones, and tied around his neck is a red choker, the colour of which flashes a reminder of your own choker of your own blood sewn around your neck.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself before, I’m Jimin.” At his outreached hand, you blink. So these creatures are capable of etiquette and decency.

Hesitantly, like a cat sniffing a stranger’s inquiring finger, you place your hand atop his. Almost jumping at its iciness. When he lifts it up to plant a dry delicate kiss, you yelp and withdraw harshly, not caring that your knuckles hit his nose.

“You’re a shy one.” Jimin chuckles at your reaction to hide his hurt.

“No, not shy. Just not easy and willing like you want me to be.” The venom is harbouring in your chest now, melting away your numbness into an acidic puddle.

“You have a bite to you.” He muses, more to himself than you.

“So do you.” All your hatred, for your uncle, for your life, for these vampires, you’re channeling towards him at this moment. You know it might not be completely justified, he’s not the worst one out of them. But do you need a reason not to be sour towards your captor?

His face softens, though it was soft to begin with. He doesn’t look at you like his prey, and it confuses you because that’s what you are to him. “I… am sorry. I hope you understand that I didn’t choose to be like this.”

It dawns on you right now, as you for the first time consider his point of view. He didn’t choose to be like this. He really didn’t… You have no choice but to be bound to them. But they also have no choice but to need to feed on you. A lion does not choose to be cruel to the zebra, it simply has to in order to survive.

A tiny fragment of your firepit of anger smokes into nothing.

When you don’t say anything, a hint of worry appears in his eyes. “How are you feeling though?”

Alright, you almost say. Because that’s everyone’s default answer to this question even when they don’t mean in, even when they’re on the brink of a mental breakdown bubbling beneath their skin.

“Weird. Confused.”

“That’s usual for every Feed at first. But trust me, you’ll get used to it.” His hand is smoothing the soft sheets and you can’t help the feeling that they’re longing to touch you.

“Every Feed… How many have there been before me?” The thought is chilling, to think that this is some cycle of ritual.

“Y/N, you have to understand, we are ancient beings, we have been around for millennia…” Jimin glances at you fleetingly, as if worried about your reaction.

Millennia…

You don’t know what you expected, but certainly not this. That truth is truly horrifying. Vampires have plagued this very earth you inhabit for not decades, not centuries, but millennia.

“I don’t want to confuse you with more information, I think this much is enough so I’ll leave our story for another time perhaps.” His consideration is jarring. How can he act this caring right now as if he hadn’t just fed off your blood? And may do so any second now?

“Okay.”

A silence follows your reply that you intended to be the end of the conversation. There isn’t much one can respond to okay.

You’re keenly aware of how his eyes explore you, searching your face as if it were a map to the treasure he has exhausted himself with hunting for. His desire, a thing that scares you, radiates despite him not doing much. Doubt is planted in your head, you’re unsure of how to feel as you toy with the lining of the bedding. Namjoon was so blunt, so disrespectful with his superiority complex, insisting you to submit to him. But Jimin acts as though he wishes to befriend you.

Or maybe it’s to instill a false sense of security in you, so easier to lure you into his den.

“We’ve never done this before.” Jimin speaks again. “Sharing a Feed. All of us at least. Taehyung and I have shared before, but this… I don’t know how it will work.” He scratches his temple.

“Namjoon said only one of you would feed on me a day but then…” The feeling of six pairs of fangs biting into you gives you goosebumps. You hate the weak whisper that is your voice. You sound pathetic. But when you see his guilt and pity-stricken eyes, you feel an odd satisfaction.

“Sorry… I think we all just got too excited. We haven’t tasted angel blood in almost two centuries.” When he notices your alarm, he quickly explains, “Right, you don’t know you have angel blood. Humans that possess the sacred touch of those celestials are extraordinarily rare, every creature of the night wishes to vanquish them for the fortune they bring. To us vampires, your blood is like… like ambrosia - food of the gods. The taste so euphoric that it drives us to the edge of madness with desire and greed with just one drop.”

Angel blood.

A girl as mundane and peasant as you has fucking angel blood coursing through her system.

You want to laugh. What good does this stupid ‘sacred touch of the celestials’ if it not once protected you from the evil and adversities in your life? ‘Brings good fortune?’ Where the fuck has your good fortune been hiding then?

“I think I’m the one being driven to the brink of madness here,” is what you say instead of lashing out at him. “There’s no way. Why didn’t you get my uncle then? If I have angel blood then so should he.”

Your uncle with angel blood? The biggest joke this universe has played on you yet.

“No, it doesn’t work like that. The angels choose the selected few, born with a holy purity that makes them weep.” There’s a mockery in his tone when he describes those beings, as if they’re his archnemesis. “It requires the Heaven’s approval to imbue angel blood into an earthly being.”

You force a swallow. If the angels really chose you to carry their essence, where had they been when you needed them the most? What use is the angels’ good faith when they’re not there to guard you? You have so many questions, but you don’t know whether to trust his answers.

“Where are the other people with angel blood?” Why does it have to be you, you mean. Why always you?

“We’ve sought your kind our whole existence. You have to understand that your blood is like a drug to us, it’s a compulsion drawing us to find you. In our lifetime, we have sired a lot of the angel-blooded, probably hunted you so much that the angels are angry and decided to gradually relinquish this rite. We thought you were extinct, actually. Until we picked up on your scent and found you.”

Jimin finally gives into his inhibitions and holds your hand in his. This time you don’t flinch away, yet you’re unsure why. When his thumb caresses your knuckles, something in you jolts. His touch is so gentle, so unlike what you’re used to, and so unlike how he dug into your veins. You kind of want to cry. Because it’s been so long since anyone has shown this tenderness towards you.

Clearing your throat, you say, “And now I’m yours forever.” Until you suck me dry.

He senses the bitterness in your tone, your reluctance to belong to them. He seems hurt. It sends you down a whirlpool of confusion because he shouldn’t care.

“Y/N, I just want you to know that…” At the sincerity of Jimin’s voice, you lock eyes with him. “I can’t speak for my brothers, but me personally, I will never intentionally cause you unnecessary harm. My Feeds… mean a lot to me, I view you as more than food. I value and respect you, and though you may not for a long time, I wish for you to value and respect me too, one day.”

Resentment is a tiring emotion, it is a poison to your soul more than anyone else’s. You don’t want to hate him, or any of them. His words move you in a way that makes you almost believe that he isn’t a monster. Maybe he isn’t. It’s not their fault they were born like this.

And so you take your first step towards acceptance. Perhaps this is your future now. You hate everything about it, the pain, the submission, the restraint. But what other life have you got? There is nothing for you to go back to.

All of a sudden, Jimin twists his head to the side and freezes. You study his stunning profile, how he seems to be listening intently at what sounds like silence to your ears. Then the third door to the room swings open. Namjoon’s entrance is one like a villain’s in a horror film, with church organs playing in the background and a sinister flash of lighting. He looks taken aback at the sight of Jimin but recovers quickly as he frowns in disapproval.

You take the chance while his attention isn’t on you to assess him entirely. He’s dressed in the same all-black suit, albeit shed the blazer, and you wonder why they are all dressed like they’re ready for a banquet in their own home. Or maybe this isn’t their home and you’ve just made an assumption. His hair is less neat than before, spiking up on the sides as if he has been running his hands through it in exasperation. Stern expression seeming to be permanently worn on his face, he enters the room without asking. The discrepancy of him and Jimin does not surprise you.

“What are you doing here?” Namjoon demands. So it appears that his rigid tone is used not only on you, but also his brother. It’s insufferable. You almost take a step back to square one, forgetting Jimin’s offering of peace.

When his eyes narrow at your hand in Jimin’s, the smaller male quickly release you. “Hyung, I was just checking up on her. No need to get so possessive already.” Jimin is pouting almost exaggeratedly, his previous sincerity towards you quickly dissipating into a rather comical persona. You wonder which one is a facade, which one is really him.

“Possessive?” Namjoon scoffs and stops in front of him, his height towering over the both of you. “You’re the one to talk when you have to worst temper out of all of us. If roles were reversed, and I was visiting our Feed on your day, I think you’d come for my throat.”

Jimin glances over at you at Namjoon’s exposing words. After your exchange, you can’t really imagine him with a temper at all, let alone the worst one. But these vampires have shown to be masters of disguise afterall, why should it shock you? You feel a part of the bridge Jimin was building between you crumble away. You shouldn’t have trusted him so quickly.

“I’ll leave then.” He doesn’t argue, which you guess proves that Namjoon’s point rings true. Jimin spares you one last weighty look, trying to convey to you that he had meant what he said, before leaving you alone in this dark room with the tall vampire.

Namjoon is quiet, assessing you with that dagger-like stare of his as if you’re a child who’s just doodled all over the wall with your crayons. It almost makes you shrink away, but your defiance grows bold with him, more than anyone else. You meet his eye with the same harshness he doles.

“It’s Monday today.” He says. It’s an ordinary sentence otherwise, but now it holds a meaning. You’re his Feed today.

You don’t know who out of these vampires you prefer, but it is definitely not Namjoon. He doesn’t have to say it, but you can tell by the disdain in his eyes that he does not see you as more than his next meal. Even if Jimin was pretending, at least he spoke to you with decency.

“For future reference, I would rather you not associate with anybody else but me on the days where you are mine.” The way he articulate certain words accentuates his snobbish attitude that you want to punch out of him.

And I would rather you not suck my blood or magically link my life to you until my death, you want to say. Your rage is returning at an accelerating rate.

“It wasn’t my fault he came into my room.” His brows draw at your snark.

“He won’t be doing so again. Also, refrain from using that tone with me.”

“What tone?”

You’re being especially difficult, and you pride in the way his mouth twitches in annoyance. A man of his character is easy to tick off. He moves his hand towards you and you flinch abruptly, the memory of your uncle’s raised fist fresh in your mind, in an instant reducing you to the scared girl you have been for so long. His hand ceases its motion midair.

When you meet his eyes, they are wide in alarm, as if he hadn’t expected such a reaction from you.

“I- wasn’t going to hit you.” His voice low, he lets his arm drop to his side.

His words perplex you, his softer tone even more. If you didn’t know better, you would say he looks slightly abashed. Guilty even.

Namjoon clears his throat at your silence, glare hardening once again.

“You have a sharp tongue, girl.” Tutting, he walks over to the bookshelves with his hands held behind his back like some professor.

“You have sharper teeth.”

His head whips back at your retort, then in a blinding speed you thought not humanly possible, he closes the distance he had walked from you, appearing a finger-length away in front of you. You stagger back on the bed.

“Don’t make your life difficult for yourself. As I’ve said, address me by Sir when you speak to me, and speak to me with respect, as you would to authority. Those are simple rule to abide, but if you knowingly continue to choose to break them, I have the capability to make your stay with us a living nightmare.” There is not the slightest humour in his eyes.

His threat would instill fear in anyone, except you have heard it all before and so it brushes past you like an autumn breeze. Brazen, you stand up on the mattress, the leverage allowing your height to surpass his as you look down at him.

“My life already is a living nightmare, Namjoon. It has been for a while now so your threat means nothing to me. You want me to speak to you with respect, but why the fuck should I? Your brother Jimin at least looks at me like I’m a human being. You talk to me like I’m no more than your dinner served in a dress. You want to hurt me? Go fucking ahead. Kick me, slap me, strangle me, burn me. I’ve had it all before.” Words tumble out of your mouth on their own accord, driven furious by his contempt. “You think you can command me to be your little bitch? Think again, because I will never,” you take one step closer to him, “ever respect a self-important cunt like you as long as you look down on me like that.”

The fury in his crimson irises brews quietly. Namjoon’s jaw is clenched so tightly his cheeks hollow inwards.

At the back of your mind, a small ounce of regret and fright registers. You have just yelled your wrath at the face of a millenia-old vampire, one who’s supernatural abilities you have not a single clue about yet. He could kill you right now, but you know he won’t. Many things are worse than death. He needs you alive, but only barely, enough to be his blood bag.

Still, you don’t cower as he pulls you by the wrist towards him, so hard that your foot missteps and you fall onto him as your knee gives way, inherently grabbing onto his shoulder for balance. Your faces are inches apart, closer than you would ever want to get to this monster. But what terrifies you more than your ill fate is how handsome he looks this close. His strong features carve into your core and you hate it. His musk fills your nose; he smells clean like cotton.

Your upheavance seems to have unleashed a cold storm from him. His silence is more frightening than when he speaks. But now that you are set on this path of defiance against Namjoon, you must commit to it. Can’t back down right now.

Then he brings your wrist to his mouth, grip not painful but tight enough, his eyes never leaving yours just as yours are locked on his, in a quiet battle between his dominance and your rebellion. If you look away, you let him win, you let him know that he has a hold on you.

So you watch as his sinks his sharp teeth into your pulsing vein without so much of a blink. The agony is a motherfucker, so intense your head dizzies immediately and your hand clenches spastically. Yet still, your eyes remain on him, even when your throat is itching to whimper at the pain. Does it hurt less the second time around? You would have hoped so but it doesn’t. If anything, because of the anticipation, it hurts more.

Namjoon doesn’t feed for long though. He doesn’t need to, this is no more than a show of his power. When he releases your wrist, blood oozes out of the two holes down your arm, dripping off your elbow onto the sheets.

You notice that his chest is rising particularly hard. He is trying hard to control his thirst. From Jimin’s description earlier, you gather that it isn’t easy for vampires when it comes to angel blood. It must be driving him insane right now. You don’t know how to feel. Perhaps empowered, but also afraid.

The black of his pupils is beginning to spread like the had done when they had all transformed earlier. He quickly turns away and take several steps back. Faced with his back, you slump down onto your knees in the mattress, trying to stop your bleeding wrist in your clutch.

“Fuck you.” You spit, though it comes out less harsh than inteded as a hesitancy holding you back. Provoking him is not a good idea right now.

His shoulders are rising and falling heavily as his breathing deepens. The sound of blood splattering from his chin onto the wooden floor fills the air. Right now you’re filled with uncertainty, of what is going to happen and what you should do. Is he vulnerable right now? Or is he more powerful after feeding on you? Do you make a run for it? Or do you keep your mouth shut and stay here?

“When will you listen, girl.” The deepness of his grumble stirs a wild hot sensation in you that you don’t understand. He is still facing away from you, heaving. You watch his closed fists clench tighter.

“I told you. Never.”

“How can you expect me not to lose my head when you oppose every single word I say?” His head hangs low, shoulder blades poking out at his black shirt.

“How can you expect me to willingly let you drink my blood for the rest of my life? Especially when you talk to me like that?” You train your voice to be more reasonable, less attacking, because you feel the danger lurking beneath his skin that he is trying to control.

“Just obey. Make it easier for yourself.” Watching your blood continuously flow out of your fresh wound makes your head light. You will bleed to your death if he doesn’t heal you, however he does that.

Still, you consider his suggestion. You could just obey, accept this as your life now - a Feed for seven vampires to take their turn with you. You thought your uncle had beaten all the self love out of you, but maybe after all, you still value your own worth. Submission has a disgusting taste. Or maybe it’s just that you want to anger one of them so much that they in the heat of the moment kill you, so you can finally meet your long-awaited death.

“I won’t.”

Everything is still for an ominous pause following your refusal. Cautious, you watch his strong back, unsure of his next response. Though there are no open windows or doors to the room, you feel a gust of cold air breeze past you, sending a flare of chills on the sides of your neck.

When Namjoon slowly turns to face you again, black wholly consuming his eyes, fangs protruding from his gaping mouth, still dripping with the red you paint, you know to be scared. You don’t have time to scuffle away when he whizzes to you with that impossible speed of his again. And in a blink of an eye, he is before you, knees hitting the edge of the bed. Panting, growling, yanking your throbbing arm up.

Namjoon before shifting is an insufferable prick. Namjoon after shifting is an unrecognisable beast. Well-spoken manner, pristine appearance, air of arrogance, all gone.

As he bites into your wrist again, you can’t hold in your shriek this time, not when the wounds he had pierced are still burning and bleeding profusely. You almost cry for help in your desperation, but remember that there’s no one to help you here. In this house are seven vampires, and you.

But then something feels different.

There’s a tingling in your chest, not quite enjoyable but also not unpleasant. Before you can grow accustomed to it, it accelerates like the heart-lurching pull of gravity, and squeeze your whole body into a tight compression. You feel as though you’re racing through space, yet your body is unmoving, slouched against his form.

Then, tug.

Something is pulling you. Someone is pulling you.

You look around through your half shut lids from exhaustion but see no one except the two of you.

Another tug. And you realise it’s not physical. There is a knot tying in your chest right now, and you faintly recall an uncannily similar experience when you had first woken up here. Like a cord, a rope violently pulling on your soul.

Is this… the so-called Sire Bond they spoke of that permanently fixes you to a vampire?

Glancing up gives you the answer you seek. Though his eyes are pitch dark, there is an indecipherable difference in them, something so minute yet so significant in the way he is staring back at you.

Namjoon stops feeding.

And inhales.

Exhales.

You tremble because you feel the animal that is his desire embrace you like a mist. During your encounter with him, both times when he had fed on you before, not once did he express desire even remotely unlike his brothers. Yet now…

His fingers around your wrist suddenly feel gentler. Stunned, you glare at each other, studying the other’s response at the tether binding your souls. Both your angers seem to fritter away into smoke.

Why do you feel… a hunger? A yearning for his touch?

Without realising what you’re doing, you wipe the back of your hand across his wet chin, your blood smearing into sangria stains. He lets you. You study his face, he studies yours. He is so infuriatingly handsome, you notice. You almost want to…

No, you do want to.

But why? What is wrong with you? Why are you wondering how his lips feel when they are red with your blood that he’s forcefully drinking?

You shudder because you see him glancing down at your lips too. You see the turmoil in his brain, the confusion from the twitch of his brow.

Then he firmly places his hand on your waist and bring your body to his. Though his touch is ice through the fabric of your garment, your skin feels warm. Scathing, in fact. This time when he sucks on your bleeding wrist again, it feels less aggressive. More… Intimate. You watch Namjoon’s eyes shut slowly in a state of euphoria, entranced by your taste. It doesn’t really hurt anymore; the sting is ever present, but now it is accompanied by a pulsating pleasure entering up your arm and running into your every fibre. His hand snakes around your back until you’re completely pressed onto his chest. Your own hand reaches his sternum to create space between you out of instinct but you find it stopping at his pectoral, your fingers curling over the firm muscle.

He leans into your touch, and you grapple onto his chest because your head is spinning, both from the supernatural bond coiling around you and the continuous loss of your blood.

After one last gulp, he releases your wrist from his mouth, but doesn’t let it fall to your side, instead carefully guiding it to his shoulder, urging you to circle your arm around him. Though his eyes are still obsidian and he’s still in his shifted beastly state, vulnerability is splattered across his face. This isn’t Namjoon from before. This is an entirely different being whom you don’t recognise.

Lifting his arm to his teeth, he rips into his own wrist, the puncture of his skin almost like a crunch of an apple. Your gasp is muffled when he places it against your lips, offering his blood for you to drink. To heal you.

The metallic taste you expect is absent. In its place is the juice of a fruit so fresh its sweetness cures your thirst and ailments. You don’t hesitate to swallow the fluid pouring onto your tongue. So now you know how you must taste to them.

Simply divine. Like drops of Heaven.

Though it must be magnified by miles for them. You are not even a vampire.

You watch him watch you drink his blood like it is some erotic ribald scene, the intensity of his glare shooting a flame to your core. And when your tongue licks at his skin to lap up the spilled droplets, he lets out a grunt and leans into the crown of your head. With his fangs still extended, his nose roams your hair, breathing in your scent that he is craving, but in a different way from thirst.

As Namjoon removes his arm from you, depriving you of his blood once more, you feel your bite wounds itch ferociously. When you look down at them, you see that your skin is sewing itself back together. Until it is once more porcelain-smooth. Not a single mark save for the crusts of your drying blood.

Unbelievable.

You are too shocked to even make a sound.

But that is quickly overruled by a different sensation - Namjoon’s lips brushing the tip of your ear. Your sharp inhale arouses him, you feel it stiffening at your hip. Holding your jaw firmly, he pulls away to look at you. And what an unholy sight you are: an angel-anointed girl with the blood of a vampire slathered across her snout.

There is a carnal glint in his onyx pools, you catch it the very moment before he kisses you. Hard and fast. Full of a desperation that has the bond between you winding you closer to him. You taste your own blood in his mouth, and it is bland and regular compared to his, but somehow the idea of your bloods mixing on each other’s tongues excite you. There is a hint of a voice in your head screaming at you to stop but you banish it. You have never felt a stronger desire than right now, in the arms of a man you hate.

Falling back onto the bed with his frame hovering over you, you allow him to guide your lips, wield you, mould you. When your hand reaches to cradle his cheek, he grips both your wrists and pins them above your head, holding them in place with a single hand big enough to encircle them both. Even in this monstrous inhuman state, his need for dominance eclipses the rest of his character.

You feel beside yourself under his kiss. So sensual, driven by lust. This isn’t you, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything other than how much you crave Namjoon this very moment. When he grabs onto the flesh of your ass, you forget how much you had wanted to hurt him just minutes ago. And when you feel the tip of his fangs scrape gently against your tongue, you forget yourself altogether.

With a growl, he pulls away from the kiss and flips you over onto your front as if you weigh no more than a feather. Swiping your hair to one side, he grazes his teeth along your neck. It tickles more with the thrill of knowing that the could bite down anytime. You think you want him to. His hands ride up the flimsy material of your dress, it’s bumpy calluses exciting you. Then he puts his weight onto your ass, grinding his hard member into your crack with only mere layers of fabric separating you from his meat.

“Sir...” The word tumbles out at the peak of your moan mindlessly. You are truly not yourself.

At that, you feel his hefty cock pulse on your rear. Namjoon’s body falls onto you in defeat at your name for him as if that one syllable alone had slain him. His fingers wrap around your wrists again as he continues to grind furiously into you. The strap of your dress has slipped off your shoulder, and he takes your skin between his lips, brushed by his hot velvet tongue.

A familiar warm slick is pouring out of your cunt, wetting your panties and the crotch of his trousers. You need him so badly you want to sob. Your core is twisting and throbbing for him, aching to be stretched out. This isn’t enough. His cock sliding between the cheeks of your ass isn’t enough. You need him thrusting into you like this from behind.

“Fuck me, please!” You know his self control is ebbing away into oblivion like yours. You can’t wait any longer.

But then he sits up, so abruptly that the bed creaks loudly. Your whole back feels barren without his contact. You quickly twist to look at him, in time to see the black of his eyes slowly retreating to reveal white, then waning back to their normal crimson-tinted irises in a blink.

Instantly they are enshrouded in confusion. Disbelief.

Namjoon has shifted back to himself in an instant. No longer the demonic desire-driven vampire who was just pushing his stiff member between your ass.

“I-” He chokes.

Your high gradually rides down its hill as well as clarity begins to fill your cup once again, clearing away the fog of your vertigo. Your senses, your own self creeps back into your body as you register what was going on. Breathing heavily the both of you, for a dreaded second, all you do is look at each other.

Then without another word, he speeds out of the room like lightning, the echo of the door slamming shut after him startling you.

You blink and he is gone.

Leaving you wondering what the fuck had just happened.

And what the fuck had you done to each other.

❦

@serendipity-secrets @killcomet @askingtheimportantthingshere@blackpanther4550 @comingjimin @unatempesta-dipensieri @dapppphhhhh

❦

03/10/2019

© Copyright 2019

[scrawler-jay]

of mice and artblock

So, midterms happened and I abandoned this blog for a while. But now I’m back, and I come bearing mice.

*

I’ve been really struggling with finding subjects I like to draw. I’m happy to work on skeleton studies until Judgment Day to better understand anatomy, but I know I need to balance “homework” art with “for fun” art, or else risk losing motivation for learning to draw -- and I’m so used to writing fiction at this point that no subject really appeals to me artistically unless it’s got 5,000+ words of story attached (or at least some narrative/character ideas, yanno -- something for my brain to pick at). The obvious solution is to draw concept art and characters from my written stories, but I feel really intimidated by that because I’m such a beginner artist that nothing I create now will do justice to the vision I have in my head.

I need art OCs and concepts – things that I will only draw art of, and have never written a story about. Stuff that doesn’t have to match a previously established, written story, and that I can change as I learn more and my skills improve.

I ended up drawing a bunch of mice.

This was initially just a whim. Human anatomy requires a lot of skill to pull off, especially faces and hands, but mice felt more beginner-friendly to me. Admittedly, I was going for a more cartoony style as opposed to photorealism, so if you’re looking at this from a realism perspective then these are pretty poor mice. However, I don’t feel ashamed of them, which I am taking as a good sign.

I kept drawing one mouse over and over. I ended up calling him Leo just because it was funny – “leo” refers to lions, but here Leo is just a little mouse. But of course, giving him a name (and a gender, incidentally) is the start of a story. Via a flight of fancy, I got it into my head that I wanted to do a painting of Leo trying to catch a big snowflake. I made some thumbnails of what I wanted the scene to look like, and then cut out a roughly 7 inch x 7 inch piece of watercolor paper from a big sheet that I had under my bed, sketched the scene in pencil, and then finished with watercolor pencils (and a white gel pen for the snowflakes). The process probably took 2.5 to 3 hours.

So, now the lore is that Leo is a mouse living in a little house in an old tree at the edge of the woods, and he wears a red scarf. I did not like this painting. It seemed over-saturated and the colors didn’t quite work the way I wanted them to. I ended up watching a tutorial on color theory, and decided to redo the painting using my newfound knowledge of color schemes. I used this color palette tool to get an idea of what kinds of colors would look good together, and settled on a complementary scheme with bluish green and brownish red.

And then, everything went wrong.

I tried to redo the painting, still working traditionally. I rushed the sketch because I was so eager to get right into working with color. This time, to avoid over-saturation, I used watercolors out of a pan rather than in pencil form. Mixing the colors in the lid of the pan took a really long time because I was so picky about shades, and because I continued rushing I didn’t allow the layers enough time to dry. Leo’s scarf (now green instead of red) bled into his russet fur, and the mailbox was the wrong shape, and I tried to erase a pencil line and created a dark blotch over an area that was supposed to be white with snow – and then I gave up.

I had downloaded Krita, a piece of digital drawing/painting software, a while ago, but hadn’t had any success using it because my desk isn’t big enough to accommodate both a laptop and my small tablet. Using my lap to hold the tablet was an exercise in frustration, and I knew so little about how digital art works that I just felt really overwhelmed and lost whenever I opened the program.

However, Krita (like most digital art software) has an undo button that I find very alluring, so I decided to try it again, now on a shiny new desk from Ikea that is actually big enough to support tablet and laptop together. I think just the space on the desk really made all the difference, but also I was determined to get this artwork of a mouse to a place where I felt satisfied with it.

I spent a solid 5 hours working on what ended up being a very simple colored drawing of a mouse catching a snowflake outside his little house. I barely blended anything at all, and there’s no light source that required me to shade anything – it’s just flat color. However, I really like these colors, and I think I did well (for an absolute beginner). I want to go back and add textures/shading to give an impression of depth, but I'm not sure how.

Leo – like all of my figures – feels really stiff, so I also want to work on gestures/studies of mice doing things. And, thanks to the popularity of mice as lab animals and pets, there are way more reference photos of mice than I expected! Most refs depict the house mouse, Mus musculus, but I did find the work of a wildlife photographer named Dean Mason who spent 15 years photographing harvest mice (micromys minutus).

Unfortunately, all of the prior artwork in this post I had drawn almost purely from imagination, and I think it shows. I studied two mice from photos in pencil, then erased the lines until they were barely visible and tried to do the fur texture in ink (with a dip pen, so there is some unevenness when the pen was extra inky).

Left is my first attempt doing the fur texture. I was more cautious with layering pen strokes, so you can see the lines of strokes fairly evenly. Right is my 2nd attempt, where I was bolder with the pen. I like these mice more than the one I created in the digital painting; these ones (especially the right) feel more Beatrix Potter-ish, which is a vibe I like.

Do I want to go back and fix the anatomy in my digital art of Leo? Yes. I also want to take another stab at doing this piece traditionally, but this time, I'd go monochrome and try to do everything in brown. However, part of me is exhausted from drawing ten million snowflakes and does not want to relive that experience with a gel pen -- I've already done it once with a tablet pen, and that was enough.

I have a hazy, far-off goal of creating a comic of Leo having adventures with another mousy friend, but that’s so far in the future that it’s not worth spending time considering right now. In the nearer future, however, Leo’s friend might become a reality – I know he’s an albino mouse (name TBD) who either escaped from a drug-testing facility (I loved The Secret of NIMH movie as a kid) or else is a pet who was dumped into the wild by a human owner who no longer wanted him. Leo is outgoing and adventurous, and this friend is shy and cautious.

[theteenygemthief]

The Things That Weigh On You: Prologue & Ch. 1

Rating: Explicit   |   Word Count: 2.56K  |  My Hero Academia | HawksxOCxDabi

It’s just as easy to justify being a hero when everyone excuses your actions with the amount of glamour and power that comes with it. The media covers all of your triumphs and failures. You get endorsements. It’s almost second to being an A-List celebrity. But what happens when hero’s fall and suddenly, the justification leaves? What happens when ones own inflated ego gets the better of them and how do they bounce back from the rubble?

___________________________________________________________

Prologue:

Was it always this quiet?

She pondered this as she stared quietly into the abyss of her grandmothers home. A note telling of her sisters leaving was pinched tightly between her index and forefinger as she wondered, why? Why did everyone have to leave? What was it about her that was so wrong? Were things not as perfect as she had believed them to be?

   I left to go and live with my dad.

   I need to be around someone I    can depend on for a while.

                            -Daphne

The words were read almost a thousand times. And now that the house was empty, what was there for her to protect?

She recalled another time when someone else had been leaving. Only, he hadn't written an elaborate note. He didn't bother leaving a forwarding address or a number to reach him. He didn't even say goodbye. He just left an empty room with an empty bed and a bunch of photographs from when they grew up together. Now, she occasionally spotted him on the news with his striking gold eyes and deep crimson wings as he worked alongside his hero. And all she could do was beam with pride, knowing that this person who had once been like a younger brother to her had flown the coupe. Her little sister used to sit beside her and help her cheer him on.

They were both heroes now, right?

Maybe their paths could cross again, eventually.

Chapter 1:

    The taste of copper and sugar flooded into her mouth as the feeling of raw power surged throughout her body. A good friend of hers had come to town and promised to help her with a jewel heist, and had been willing to lend her some of his power. Her body warmed up with near immense heat, as though she had taken an aphrodisiac with a cup of hot chocolate. She had learned with time that blood with certain quirks had a very distinct taste to it. Almost like spice or flavoring in a cocktail. And this particular friend, despite his calm, stoic demeanor, somehow had the sweet tinge of spicy hot chocolate and nutmeg to his. She wouldn't lie, that when she met him, they had a certain chemistry. Occasionally they would get together for a drink at a local villains club in Shibuya for an evening and spend the night away with their own kind of trouble.

Trouble.

She chuckled to herself and imagined how the goodie two shoes she used to be would stand aghast at the very idea of trouble out of wedlock. Especially with a villain on casual terms. That mousy little thing would have lost sleep over engaging in any sort of activity with a man who wreaked of danger. And she guessed that it was a good thing that the little mouse died after her sister left to go live with her father.

   “While this is sexy as hell,” Dabi said with a low hum. “And I would love to see where else your bite will lead, we need to focus at the task at hand.”

A sure sign that the mouse had been dead, was the comfort with sexuality. Something that a younger version of herself would not be comfortable with.

She pressed closer to the taller of the two and drew her tongue along the bite wound she had recently inflicted at the base of his neck. She could feel him harden against her as his hand settled on her waist and pulled her closer to him, using his other hand to force her to look into a pair of piercing blue eyes. His body had been covered in scars, and that had made him all the more appealing as the idea that she would be playing with fire is what drew her to him. And sure at first, she had approached on a whim, not giving a damn whether she lived or died in trying to flirt. She was so drunk on her vices that if she were to leave an empty house in Fukuoka, then so be it. And hell, if she was honest, she wanted to die that night.

What good was a hero with no one to protect?

   “I thought villains paid more attention to their surroundings.” sneered a voice.

She looked up with a scowl as her eyes danced with the intent to kill. Three men in suits had entered the alley, one without a quirk yet somehow ballsy enough to keep a switchblade at his side, and another with what looked to be an octopus face. A low chuckle escaped her lips as she then proceeded to ignite a small flame within her palm. She had been craving calamari.

   “I thought security guards knew their place.” She replied.

One of the men in the back had been eyeing her intently, watching as she stepped forward and observing her movements. There had been something about him that seemed familiar, though she couldn't quite place her finger on it. He had just been standing there, watching, waiting as she stepped forward and set the entire alley on fire, putting enough attention on it from the public that she and her companion could make their grand escape.

Two out of the three men panicked as she and Dabi darted forward, evading them all together. The man who had been watching her merely stepped out of the way as wind swept along his black hair. Piercing flects of gold had shown behind a pair of green contacts and his trench coat seemed a bit too big for his build. If she hadn't known any better, she would've assumed that she would be seeing a blast from the past.

Oh well.

“Hey Dabi,” She called as soon as the duo had made it several streets down and far enough out of earshot. “Lets go pick up our parcel and grab a drink, yeah?”

   “Not tonight.”

   “No fun,” She whined playfully. “But some other time then.”

She should have probably been paying attention to the sudden change in his demeanor.

    The return to her home took little to no time at all as she had turned a few corners. She had made sure to pass by the house a couple of times before sneaking in through the back to avoid watchful eyes and went as far as to move through the dark and change into regular clothing before slipping out again in her civilian attire. She had to avoid any kind of suspicion. And in doing so, donned a brown styled wig and avoided putting on any makeup. No one would know that she was the fallen hero Susanoo. She crept her way through the dark house again and slowly made her way to the back. Staying silent, avoiding even the smallest of sounds and remaining light on her feet.

Suddenly a hand came out of nowhere and spun her around, pinning her back to the wall behind her. Her mind began to race to several conclusions as she reached for an old dollar store vase that sat at the edge of her grandmothers bookshelf, bringing it down and crashing it upon her assailants head. A low grunt could be heard, and while the voice sounded familiar she had to attack while they were distracted. She soon ducked out of their hold and pinned them against the wall, only to be backed against the corner and knocked from their feet.

At this point, she was certain that she was going to die if she didn't act soon.

She looked up at an end table where she hid a tactical blade and reached for it as her assailant straddled her hips, swiftly pinning both of her arms above her head. It had already been thirty minutes since she had used Dabi's power. She would be taking a huge risk if she took on another quirk twice in one night.

“Go ahead, bite me.” The intruder taunted. “You'll be stuck in here for weeks if you do.”

A pause came over her. The voice that she heard had sounded all too familiar and she had been certain that it's owner wouldn't bother looking back. The person fighting her couldn't possibly have been who she thought it was until she looked up in the dim light. Green eyes stared down at her as strands of blond hair had slipped from beneath a black wig. A too large trench coat had cascaded over her and her assailant and she was finally able to recognize the man from earlier based on the markings on his eyes.

“Green really isn't your color, Keigo.” She said coolly, scowling up at him.

“And brown is yours?” He jeered back with a smile.

His smile wasn't at all like the one she remembered from when he was a kid. In fact, it was much colder, more calculated and well practiced as opposed to sad or carefree. The boy she knew was gone. And the irony of the situation left a bitter taste at the tip of her tongue.

“So what?” She mocked. “Are you going to take me in? Tell me I've been a bad girl and spank me on my way to jail?”

Her words shook him. There was a pained expression as he tried to find a response to her taunts. Her mocking tone and venomous tongue. And she knew he had been caught off guard before she turned the tables, pinning him beneath her.

She learned the hard way how heroes were hypocrites, and how having a false sense of honor and nobility is what somehow kept them going. It was why she so readily tarnished her name after everyone left. It's why she gave it all up. Hell, she even stopped watching the asshole beneath her on t.v., refusing to cheer him on for the false justice he brought about. And she learned first hand the type of man his hero was. Endeavor. The bastard who paid for his quirk marriage and tortured his own wife to a point where she mutilated her own son.

She refused to fall in league with those assholes.

   “So why the fuck did you really show your mug around here, Takami?” she hissed.

   “I was in the neighborhood and saw that an old friend of mine had become a villain.” He said coolly. “I figured I could stop by and say hello.”

Bullshit.

   “I'll bite.” She sighed. “Hello.”

He smiled up at her, a warm smile this time before she rolled her eyes and stood. She stepped away from him and continued to move toward the door.

   “Hello, Edith.”

His voice was like a whisper in her ear as his arms wrapped around her, holding her still. She wondered what he was doing and if he was biding time for reinforcements.

   “You said your hello's, Hawks.” she warned. “You got what you wanted, now leave.”

His arms were too warm. Warmer than she was accustomed to. She needed empty affection to stick to her convictions. Familiarity or not. And besides, it wasn't as if she missed some dumb kid who walked out without a word. He made that choice, not her. And if he continued to hold her the way he had been, she would begin to assume that there were some sort of ulterior motive behind it.

   “Your voice is shaking.” He pointed. “Do you really want me gone?”

Edith looked at Keigo's reflection in the doorknob as he hovered over her like an old lover. His contacts dimmed the piercing gold of his eyes, taking away the striking effect that they'd had on her.

   “You left this house seven years ago.” She growled. “What difference does it make that you leave now?”

   “I grew up.”

   “Get out.”

   He was right, her voice was shaking. There were so many emotions that she had been holding back in that instant. And she hated that he now had the ability to taunt and mock her in her own home. He had the ability to remind her where she had failed.

   “You didn't answer my question.”

   “Get the hell out, or I will fucking kill you.”

   “Then do it.”

She'd been spun around quickly enough to a point where she couldn't blink. His hands removed from her as he stepped back and held them out to show that he was ready for whatever she may deliver unto him.

   “Kill me.”

Shock and disbelief had been the correct words for the situation at hand. And he had been calling her bluff right then and there. Everything she had done up until this point, had been muted and she tried to recall when someone besides a certain friend with benefits had directly challenged her this way. She backed into the door and stared in awe at the man before her. How dare he? How dare he just waltz into her home like this and just present himself for a kill. She grit her teeth and curled her fingers behind her back. The only time she had found herself in a situation where she absolutely had to kill someone had been when she was a superhero...and back then, she knew that if she didn't kill the person in question, she in turn would be obliterated.

   “I...” She hesitated.

   “You're a villain.” He reassured. “Killing heroes should come easily to you, shouldn't it?”

   “Please leave.” She whimpered, finally.

A soft laugh came from the superhero as Edith fought to catch her breath. This time, she knew for sure that he had been mocking her. Teasing her very existence as a villain and silently berating her for hesitating on a simple kill when it presented itself.

   “You have a lot to learn, kid.”

Her eyes darted up to the man before her as he stepped closer, claiming her lips before opening the door behind her.

   “Expect to see more of me.”

And like that, he was gone.

He...

He just took off like it was nothing.

She moved to touch her lips, questioning the situation entirely. Yet, like many things, she tucked the thoughts away. Never bothering with them for the rest of the evening. Takami Keigo had left. And she was going to leave it at that.

     “Let me get this straight.” Dabi crooned as he laid beside her, pulling her closer as he tucked his arm beneath a pillow. “Your former childhood friend who walked out on you suddenly appeared out of nowhere and kissed you?”

   “If that is the best way to summarize it, then yes.”

   “Did you kill him?”

   “No.”

Edith could tell from the blank expression on the other villains face that he had much to say to her regarding the matter. His messy black hair had stuck out and about on all odds and ends as a result of an earlier coupling that the two had shared, and yet his eyes remained focused. A thing she both loved and hated about his eyes was that they were unreadable. She loved it, because it meant no attachment...she hated it because it meant that attachment couldn't be made.

Not that she was complaining.

It just meant fewer chances at a broken heart.

____________________________________________________________

Note from the author: Thank you for taking the time to read my fanfiction pilot for “The Things That Weigh On You”. I understand that the title is long, and a sure fire angst warning, but hey, this is tumblr. And we all love our soapbox.We all love erotic soapboxes, especially!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Table of Contents:

P-1, CH2 , CH3

[writingkeepsmewhole]

You Don’t Know Me

This is part 3 of Rocky Start It’s also day 16 of my 365 days of fics.

This part is kinda filler I don’t really have a summary of it. Sorry it’s short.

Thor Odinson x OC Alva

Warnings: None?

Let me know if you wanna be tagged.

Part 1  Part 2

The next morning when I woke up I was pulled into and rushed to the kitchen. Someone not showing up so we were trying to get everything ready in time. It made me feel bad for not coming to work for three days. I couldn’t imagine three days of this. Since I slept at the castle I got an earlier start so I was able to help other people. “Alva.” The cook says pulling me from my task. “Yes?” I ask looking up at him. “I need you to help Hilda with the cleaning.” “Oh yes of course.” I say looking at the girl next to him. She had a mousy face and dark eyes. She seemed overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. I dust my hands off on my apron and walked over to her. “Follow me.” She says smiling at me and leading me out of the kitchen. “So the kitchen is understated as well?” “Yes, is something going on?” “The games are coming up.” “Oh right.” I say knowing she is talking about the end of the harvest games. It a three day festival of nothing but eating, drinking and trying your best to slack off. There were a tournament each day at noon. Each year was a bit different but they pretty much stayed the same. Enter your best cow or pig or bring an offering for the royal family. Who ever won got whatever prize was on the line. A year's worth of corn, or moving up in title, getting land, getting livestock. It was all whatever Odin felt like giving away. It was normally a lot of fun even if I didn’t participate in anything. “So what are they doing this year?” I ask as we start climbing a set of stairs. “I’m not sure, but my brother said that the Princes are planing it.” “Oh?” I say it the first year Odin aloud that to happen. “Yes I’m curious to see how they work together.” “I thought they got along?” I ask at her worried tone. “They did as children but not much anymore.” She says as we come into a hallway. “I need your help setting up the feasting hall.” She says walking up to the large wooden doors. “Just tell me what to do.” I say her smiling at me then pushing the door open. It opening up into a very large room, a long wooden table in the middle practically going from end to end. The room smelt stuff from not being used for a while but everything was clean of dust. “Ah there you are.” Says a smooth voice making me look at the end of the room Loki standing there a paper in his hand. I bow my head along with Hilda. “Come in and over here.” He says waving us over with his hand. I walk over to him ready to listen to what he has to say but he doesn't get to say anything. A booming voice filling the space instead. “Brother! There you are!” Thor says coming into the room. I feel myself tense up as he walks past me. “I wanted to talk to you about the tournaments.” Thor says a smile on his face. “I told you I didn’t care about whatever you chose.” “Yes, but father wants us to work together.” I watch Loki clench his jaw as if he was annoyed but I couldn't understand why. “I’ll think of some games and tell you my ideas.” “Very well, I will let you be then, as long as you let me steal one of the servants from you.” Loki  waves at us as if he didn’t care what Thor did with us, which was normal for a royal. “Good day brother.” Thor says him then turning towards us. I keep my head down hoping he doesn't notice me. But once again it seems that the fates had other plans. “Come with me.” He says slowly reaching out to touch my elbow. “Yes my lord.” I say nodding my head then following him out of the room. When we reach the hall way he keeps walking until we are a fair distance away from where we were. “I need to ask you something.” He says surprising me. I lift my head so he knows I’m listening but my eyes look past him. Even though I felt no fear being closed to him his eyes always seemed to bring me back to that night. “Your father is of clear mind what would you like me to do with him?” “Let him go.” I say without having to think about it. “Is that wise?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” “I saw what he did to you.” “He’s not normally like that. He is under a lot of pressure.” “I could help you with that Lady Alva.” “Don’t call me that.” I say blushing. “But it pleases me.” “But I’m not a Lady.” I say looking at the floor. “I’m just a servant that was born in a barn next swine.” “You shouldn’t think of yourself that way.” “Why not?” “Because you-.” “Forgive me but you don’t know what or who I am. I’m not worth your time. I think I liked it better when you didn’t know who I was.” “Is that what you wish?” I nod my head, not knowing how to deal with the attention he was giving me all the time. “Very well, I will release your father and leave you be. Farwell Alva.” he says almost sounding like there was sadness in his voice. But I knew that couldn’t be it. Thor didn’t care about me. Like I said he didn’t even know me. I hear his footsteps as he turns and walks away from me, leaving me alone.

Thor was true to his word, he left me alone. I no longer felt his gaze on me whenever I entered a room with him in it. He didn’t seem to be there to catch me when I fell. I no longer felt his presence whenever I walked home. He gave me exactly what I asked for, but I quickly learned it wasn’t what I wanted.

I walked into my home to see my father passed out in front of the fireplace, him drinking more and more. “Evening Mother.” I say greeting her. She was standing in front of the kitchen her belly now showing she was with child. My younger siblings ran around the house filling it with laughter and life. “Hello Alva, how was your day.” “It was well.” I say setting the basket I was carrying on the table. A few loaves of bread inside it. “Bread again?” Fay asks her looking into the basket. “Yes.” I say knowing she was young and didn’t understand why we couldn’t just bring home whatever she wanted. “Why don’t you get cheese or grapes anymore? I love grapes.” She says pouting. “Well it’s getting colder grapes don’t grow in the cold.” “Neither dose wheat so how will we have anything to eat when the snow falls?” “That is a good question.” I say sighing. I meet my mothers tired worried eyes her most likely thinking the same thing. “Mother can we go to the festival tomorrow?” Fay asks. “I don’t know sweetie both me and your sister has to work.” “Can we go after? It’s the first day the first and last day is when all the fun happens.” “It’s only three days how can you leave out the middle day?” I ask as I slice the bread. “Because nothing good ever happens. The prize for the tournament is always the same the first and the last day are different each year.” “Well a year's worth of grain don’t see very boring.” I say talking about the middle days prize. She huffs and crosses her arms making me roll my eyes. “I am going to sleep now.” “But you haven't eaten?” Mother says as I move to climb up to my bed. “I’m not hungry, goodnight.” I say as I get into my bed hoping to fall asleep before one of my siblings joined me.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― II.iii. The Beginning of the End

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Trinity’s enemies grow in number.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Three nights before…

Old wood and old metal and bones older still take refuge from the bitter night rain.

In the shadows Cynbel waits, watches. The smith brings down his hammer against white-hot metal clang. clang. clang. Hunting like a different kind of predator and oh he has been so many that this… this he barely feels in the shift of his skin.

Steam erupts into the air, filled with the foul smell of a burning port where the worker submerges his latest creation beneath the water’s surface. Ignorant; blissfully ignorant.

“One would think after a long day’s toiling away, any opportunity for respite would be welcomed.”

Surprise catches in the mortal’s bones. Makes him release his work from the grasp of rusted tongs. He spins around, looks this way and that, but is no better than a blind man in his efforts.

“Who goes there?” Then, once the young man catches himself, “We are closed for the night. Please, return tomorrow at dawn.”

Does he think he plays at manhood? But this new age of innovation demands it of such boys, does it not. He might feel pity for them — if he could.

“Alas,” and when he replies his voice wraps around the small hovel; an embrace from Winter herself, “I cannot.”

Still the boy persists. “I insist, monsieur.”

“Who are you to insist of me?”

It’s advantageous; the hesitation that follows. Gives Cynbel a chance to emerge from his not-so-hidden refuge beside a basket of ores. He A shine catches his eye and he plucks it from the dark and misshapen pile, raises it against the light of the furnace to marvel at the gemstone’s glossy sheen.

He pockets it with little thought. A token of affection for his darling girl — so recently bored of diadems and jewelry and smitten with such… imperfections.

“Hey, that doesn’t bel—”

“Sssh…” The vampire presses a finger to his lips and the human goes quiet. Good, he likes them obedient.

This part of the workshop, back and away from the street where the front room displays the prides of masters and apprentices alike, requires a bit of meandering. But he’s an opportunistic man and takes what is offered for his own uses. Sways his hips with every movement slow, seductive.

Every good hunter knows his prey.

And indeed — when Cynbel comes to tower over the young man’s figure he can see each bead of sweat that rolls down his temples. Not just from the room’s stifling heat. Watches one bead along a shaven chin and glisten over the lump in his throat.

Here, and now in the light, things are different. Aren’t they?

Here every pump of the mortal’s racing heart threatens to deafen him in the best of ways. Here he is illuminated in fire’s heavenly glow; and recognized.

Cynbel lets his finger fall in unspoken permission. Watches as he’s taken in rapturously and in ways he has only seen between the pious and their places of worship… in ways he, too, has found rapture from his own religion.

When the human finally speaks it is rushed; exhaled, “I-worried-you-would-not-come…”

“For you,” and he weaves his fingers through locks of mousy hair, uses it as a master to his hound to pull him forward; breathes his honey-drenched words against peeling lips, “always.”

Their kiss is desperate, fervent with inevitability. Smoke-stained hands smeared over his jaw and Cynbel resists the urge to bite out his inexperienced tongue as a second gift for his beloved. Lets himself be defiled with the touches of a young man craven for affection and so so alone… unable to give it.

He would call this creature pitiful but even that would be too kind. That the mortal is too obsessed with his own gratification to realize every drop of passion is entirely from his own cup, that Cynbel’s cup could not be more barren in his presence, is nothing short of pathetic.

He pulls back as he always does. Stops those dirty wandering fingers as he always does. Kisses the day’s work from trembling knuckles as he always does.

“What kept you away?” The mortal whimpers.

And as he always does Cynbel lies through his teeth. “It matters not — that you stand before me now is more than enough.”

The mortal beams with pride. Though that is not the only vice Cynbel has been able to impart on him.

Everything in the smithy is exactly the same as he had left it a fortnight ago — well, almost.

He doesn’t have to pretend in this. The way he (none too) gently urges the wayward man aside to cross the room in several strides. Among the hammers and horseshoes the work done here is for the meager rank and file of Paris. Nothing as flashy as settings for gems or swords for battle. Cynbel knows this because his time has been well-spent these last months. Because the thing that separates the hunters who fail from the ones who survive is found in the little things.

Surveying the prey. Entering its nest. Staking its claim over the carcass before it has even been devoured.

Knowing all that he does — it begs the question of the mannequin—freshly carved—and the armor—freshly polished—settled snug upon it.

“Is this your work?”

He looks back and hears the skip in the mortal’s heart as he nods. “Indeed. Are you taken with it?”

“As taken as I am with you,” he croons in response; and knows the flush in living cheeks is not from the heat.

“That is why I am still here, actually,” he remembers his work then, and plucks the now solid metal from the bucket to wipe it dry with his sleeve. Small, in comparison to the rest of the pieces, but Cynbel takes it when it is offered; lets their touch linger in a promise he does not intend to keep.

The fastening is crude; its finer points interrupted by Cynbel’s arrival. But the sigil would be difficult not to recognize — especially for his kind. The halo around the center meant to be the sun. The fleur de lis enshrined within it in need of a little more dedication to be perfect.

More likely than not his little apprentice smith knows not what he is being asked to make. The holy war he is urging forward in his own way. A suspicion confirmed as Cynbel offers the work back and allows the mortal to continue to hold his hand.

“This is the only thing left. The master had just arranged contract with the Duke who ordered it when he fell ill,” —he explains this like Cynbel doesn’t know, like he didn’t ensure it— “and as his eldest apprentice the duty fell to me. I don’t know what overcame me, my love… it was as though the muses of old inspired my every movement.

“I missed you terribly, Claude, but I was fortunate there was this work to help me pass the time.”

Should he never hear the false name given for this ruse again it would be too soon.

Cynbel gestures to the armor, a “may I?” whispered reverent on his lips. With the human’s permission he steps closer, ghosts his touch over the refined metal. Imagines all the ways he will go about tearing it from whatever unfortunate soul it is given to limb from bloody, gory limb.

“You have outdone yourself.”

“Truly?”

Is the first of his praises not enough? Disgusting whelp. “Truly and more. I dare say whomever commissioned this will command any battlefield.”

Warm arms encircle his waist. The tack of the human’s sweating forehead presses against his doublet and already Cynbel begins practicing the apologies he will give to his beloveds upon his return. No doubt his Lord and Love will banish him from the apartment for the stench.

It is torture, pure and simple.

“May I confess something to you, Claude?”

Cynbel swallows back his bile. “Anything, always.” And he doesn’t need to see the human’s face to hear his pathetic ‘secret.’

“The Duke has sent word he will arrive in Paris tomorrow — and he hopes to see how the piece is coming along. I hope to convince him of my skill… perhaps even take some of the spoils for myself.”

Greed. One of the few things that make his presence bearable against all his shortcomings.

Cynbel turns in his arms; feigns as though he could never imagine such a scandal. “And what of your master? Will he not cast you out for the gall of it?”

“Perhaps he may not be around long enough to do such.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful.”

“Why not, when you inspire in me such a wonderful hope?”

Their second kiss is far more chaste, entirely so on part of the vampire. The disappointment on the other’s face is impossible to miss.

“Something the matter?”

“I would not have your well-earned pride ruined for it. Pay me no mind.”

“Claude,” Cynbel’s cheeks are taken in grimy mortal hands and he shivers, lets him take it as he wishes, “there is no joy I can bask in without you. Let me ease the weight on your chest. Please.”

Let it be known that he does not give in to the mortal’s whims. But with demons of the night leaping from shadow to shadow among the rafters, with every horrendous and degrading sentiment forced through his teeth; then and there Cynbel has had enough. Enough pretending, enough disgust.

Enough with feeling somehow unworthy of the love bestowed upon him when he returns to the arms of the ones with whom he truly belongs. Oh they placate him dutifully but he sees the twitch of a sensitive nose — a touch moved elsewhere at the last moment. These things are their prey; no better than chattel.

He was amusing at first. But…

“You have simply outlived your usefulness to me.” With no risk comes no reward they say but there is no risk here. He might be inclined to entertain it further if there was.

And like a child the human seems only to hear the kindly things. Continues to hold him, to adore him. To sicken him.

So he continues. “There is no risk, here. Only the continued debasement of the Golden Son, of the first of Valdemaras’ blood. If, when all the ages wither, I find in my soul no love of self then I must at least continue to love the part of me that is my God. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sure enough that rouses him. As if from a slumber. The masquerade finally coming to a close.

“I don’t understand.”

“Was I not speaking French?” Which could have been a possibility. As it is his muscles tense, predatory, in preparation of the first violent act that comes to mind.

“Yes, Claude, but — what you are saying makes little sense.”

So simpering, so pitiful that Cynbel actually stomachs the will to kiss him again. If only to whisper the insult to his lips; “I would expect nothing less of such a feeble mind.”

He’s seen heartbreak before. This is not it. This is a pantomime—what the inexperienced whelp believes heartbreak to be. Tries, so fleetingly, to wrench himself from Cynbel’s grasp but the charade is finally over. And with it the need to disguise his true strength.

“I had hoped you would have completed all of the armor in time, and maybe had I a stronger constitution one more night would have done the trick.” He looks back to the suit with true critique in his newfound eyes. Such a waste — talent like that in the hands of a worm. “But their sigil is clear enough that any member would recognize it as their own. I suppose there’s a poetic drama to the incomplete set.

“Isseya would know of such things better than I. She’s quite taken with the stage. She is the voice behind my tender affections towards you in fact.”

All the while the human tries to free himself to no avail. His workman’s hands are used to shaping manacles but have never been imprisoned by them after all.

Finally some sense comes about the man. All the telltale signs of a scream; flared nostrils, flushed pallor, the sour odor of fear near his knocking knees. Too late.

“HE—!”

Valdas would be proud how he silences any cry and practices for the upcoming ball in one swift movement. Pulling so hard he feels the joint come loose in a feeble shoulder and presses them close as lovers, back to front; molded against every vibrating measure of him and a hand tight over his lips.

“Ah ah ah…” He turns them both to face his work. Will give him that final gift of his life’s work burned behind his eyelids in the moments before death. “Don’t you want to know, my love? To understand?”

The fussy little fucker actually shakes his head. As though that will save him. As if he is held captive only until Cynbel has given him light where there was previously only darkness.

But that light is not for him. It belongs to them.

He belongs to them.

“If that is what you wish, fine. Throw away my gift, and your life with it.”

“Mmmph!”

“No no taking it back now. My mind is made up.”

“MMmnpm…” A needling heat pierces his skin. The sight of it makes the vampire laugh.

“A tear, really? And here I thought it was quite impossible for me to think less of you.”

He wrestles the human’s head to position; nearly breaks his neck several times in the process. Forces him to take in the splendor that will soon serve as a crafted casket for whatever heathen is suffered to wear it.

Unsympathetic, Cynbel places a final kiss to his temple. “Everything is in place now darling. I want you to know I could not have done it without you. Well—no—I just cannot help myself but lie to you it seems.” Another wave of muffled whimpers drowned in his laughter. “But you have made it easier on me. The Knights will collect your work and your corpse with it. One little life — that’s all it will take to earn their ire. Clever little hellions that they are… they’ll follow every crumb I’ve left. All. the way. to me.

“If my beloved is correct—if the Godmaker graces the evening with his vile presence—then I may finally have the opportunity to rid the world of two evils. Can you imagine? No longer looking over our shoulders… no longer fearing unholy wrath…” The very thought has him in near ecstasy. Actually—quite close to the real thing.

But thoughts of a life free of the Knights draw him, as they inevitably do, to a darker place.

To the cursed memories of Isseya prone, neck bare… to the taste of steel on his tongue and the delicious smell of roasted game—but he was the meal of bubbling blistering flesh and every tear he shed—she shed a fresh wave of agon—

“The events that will unfold will ensure their safety. No one will dare to take them from me ever again…” Cynbel surprises them both in that his voice breaks with unbridled fury, with withheld anguish.

“Lest they remember what befell the last to even try.”

Countless hours spend seducing the young smith who surely had a name that he hadn’t bothered to remember go to waste, then. Such a fragile neck in his grasp — the way it sounds when it snaps is like the first notes of a sonnet.

But there’s still one crucial crumb that needs leaving. One that will ensure the Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn know exactly who has courted them such.

One that will ensure they amass their armies beneath Paris in droves.

One fallen innocent is a message.

A slaughtered horde—that’s a warning.

He takes his leave of the workshop in much the same way as he entered; undetected by any soul living or dead. The mortal’s blood is tacky on his soaked hands the long walk back to their lodgings. He wants his lovers to taste of the wretched little cur so they know; so they understand.

Their sigil—the Brand of the Made-God Valdemaras—left to dry red on the breastplate. The unfinished clasp fastened neatly in the middle.

It was not unheard of for the vampires of Paris to think themselves important. Far more relevant than they actually are. Cynbel had gazed upon the half-masque of Serafine Dupont in the halls below and assumed her prestige nothing more than vanity; the hostess putting on airs for her guests.

But he’s a big enough man to admit when he’s wrong.

It takes a skill honed from centuries for the discipline she shows now. All of her remaining strength fixated on her injuries, on the effort to stand and set the bone to heal. A wound that would cripple a mortal—and even a younger vampire—rendered fruitless as muscle and flesh knit together in the tapestry of her dedication.

They watch the show of her impressed — but never intimidated. They will give credit where it is due.

With a vengeful cry she lunges forward and all credit is lost when her open palm meets his face.

Cynbel reaches up, feels the heat of the sting on his cheek with a shiver down his spine. Like all pain it fades too fast — but while there may be no more Knights in vain attempts to slay him Serafine still stands there and she looks positively craven for the excuse to strike again.

A look seen by more than just him. One that lands her pinned to a building exterior with splayed limbs and Valdas’ hand around her throat.

“Apologize.”

Yet even as his darling’s softer hands skirt feather-light touches over his healed skin Cynbel laughs. Laughs and laughs and adjusts his hair where the whore had sent it askew.

“No no, let her come for me. The Knights proved no real contest, maybe she’ll last a moment or two longer than they.”

“How dare you mock them,” seethes the woman with labored breaths; and because it isn’t the apology he asked for Valdas only tightens his grip, only strains her further in a wraithish rasp, “have you no grief for our brothers, our sisters who were slaughtered?!”

“They are no kin of ours.” Isseya answers for him. He snakes an arm around her waist and squeezes.

“Forgive her, my God,” he croons, would rather keep his lovers close than risk their already fractured good luck, “the poor thing seems to be under the impression we are on some equal standing.”

And he does, eventually, let her go. But only when it takes longer than a passing moment for the carvings of his nails at her neck to heal.

“A mistake she would do well not to make again.”

Serafine’s eyes are wild; a frightened animal that takes them in all at once. The way they were meant to be understood — the way they had always been understood. Her voiceless words aren’t worth the effort it would take to even try to comprehend her.

“The same blood runs through your veins that does mine, le tueur.” She snarls.

Isseya’s eyes narrow. “Not for long. Not with that foul tongue.”

“Now now, Iss’, let the little thing mourn.” Cynbel attempts to placate her with long, slow pets to her hair.

“She dare call you the killer when those sycophants live?”

She turns her face away from their accuser, tucked into the ridge of his shoulder and Cynbel holds her tighter for it. Knows that she, too, is plagued with memory. That if he coaxed her face up he would see the shine of unshed tears in her beautiful eyes.

“Less of them now,” he whispers, “thanks to us.” For now it is all he can offer her. And for now it is enough. They only have this thorn to deal with before he can comfort Isseya—both of his lovers—properly and as they deserve.

“And while the Knights posed an entertaining foe, I’ll admit there were far more of our kind in attendance tonight than I thought there would be. The cost should have dwarfed the rewards.”

“What rewards? What reward could there possibly be for the senseless murder of our kind?!”

“Victory over the Knights of course.”

The noise she makes; strangled and not quite fully alive before it died in her throat, only amuses the woman on his arm. Has her reaching out for their God like she wants to mock Serafine. And that may very well be the case.

Here is my salvation. Where is yours?

“How was this to be a victory? You speak like —”

“Like he tipped the scales of this war with a battlefield of his own choosing?” offers Valdas -- now comfortable against his surviving lovers. “A soldier ‘til the end, my golden boy.”

Here he thought the deaths of the Knights would not be the only victory this night — the next to come much later and wrapped in sheets of the finest imported silk. But here stands another much to his surprise, crept up out of the gutters like vermin.

It is with utter delight that Cynbel watches Serafine come to understand the truth of the matter; watches the horror and disgust twist upon her beautiful features somehow made better by all-consuming sorrow.

Fills him with an arousal usually reserved for carnage and lovemaking; but this works too.

“You— You… brought the Knights of the Dawn to the crypts?”

“I didn’t hold their hands, no, though I almost needed to. Fucking simpletons.”

The woman’s voice catches. “How?”

“The righteous are terribly predictable. A few bodies here, a few whispers there. If they think their cause to be one of justice they’re akin to a persistent plague.”

Serafine is less an annoyance now; more a festering wound. Really, must she take the fun out of it? As it is he has to reconcile with the Godmaker surviving — no doubt leagues from Paris by now with his Bloodqueen in tow. Can he not just have this?

“You orchestrated this… this culling?”

“Those who died did so because of their own weakness.”

“You willingly led our enemies straight to us!”

“And now they are an army fewer in number.”

The look he gives her — disinterest, boredom. If you seek to make me remorseful you seek in vain.

“Monsters,” Serafine finally chokes out; said to them all but Cynbel takes it just a tad personally, “monsters… the three of you. Les Trois Amants no more than old, cruel, mindless creatures of bloodshed.”

“Not quite,” Cynbel’s hand stays his Maker from attacking her, allows him to meet her gaze level and calm with a lover on each arm. United; permanent.

“Where they seek justice I gave vengeance. That I was able to lead them to us at all says all the things you wish to ignore—to put as blame upon my shoulders. The Knights would have eventually discovered the catacombs our refuge. If not tonight then tomorrow, or a fortnight from now. Would you rather that, mademoiselle? Would you rather they have had the time to plan, to cut off completely all means of escape?

“You should be thanking me that the living outnumber the dead. And that you may count yourself among them.” And with his victory inevitably wilted Cynbel has had enough of her accusations. “But yes — I would watch every vampire alive burn at the hands of the Knights themselves so long as my beloveds are by my side.”

With the last of her strength the vampiress snarls with fangs bared. Such a pitiful portrait she paints of herself; he knows it, all three of them do. It doesn’t even warrant Valdas’ reaction and isn’t that saying something.

“You will see justice at the hands of your enemies.”

“Four centuries and the bastards have yet to do any lasting damage.” An amusing thought, too.

“The Holy Knights are not your only enemy today.”

He can see it, too. A hotter, blinding flame burning inside of her far stronger than the ones that ravage underneath their feet. Give it a century or two, he thinks, and it will be snuffed out with the rest.

Two sets of hands try to keep him close but he gently coaxes them aside. Approaches the tempest before him with her wild eyes and wild hair and finds satisfaction in the flinch of her when his fingertips graze her silken chin.

“My victory is—has always been—inevitable, ma chérie. And I look forward to the prestige it will bring.”

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 17

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

-------------------------------------

The excitement over lighting the bulb was short-lived. After the first lightbulb, Rhonda had gotten ambitious and stole a few bulbs of various sizes from a supply closet. In her practice room, she laid them in a circle on the floor and stood in the middle. She had worked at it for nearly an hour, and though maybe she should have been glad she could now get them to flicker without touching them, she was frustrated with being hard-pressed to do more than flicker.

She stepped out of her circle of bulbs and paused the top 40 pop song playing on her phone. “Sia,” she muttered with annoyance, “Thinks she’s an artsy Rihanna or some shit.” She huffed and started searching on her music app, “I need something I know.”

Rhonda’s taste in music was all over the place, but mostly gravitated to two moods: Marilyn Manson, System of a Down, and Rammstein, or Missy Elliot, Christina Aguilera, and Destiny’s Child. She found a playlist fitting that second mood and started nodding her head to a bass beat that would have some good thump on better speakers. Without thinking about it, her feet started moving and her hips winding. Her old, worn dance hoodie found its way off her body, tossed carelessly on the slightly dusty hardwood floor. The familiarity of the beat and the sexy, unapologetic lyrics had Rhonda turning and stepping all over the room, whipping her hair and sweeping her arms in powerful arcs. She smiled, and sparks lit from her cheeks and fingers. The bulbs didn’t light, but she wasn’t even thinking about those anymore except to step around them. Movement, and the freedom it gave her, dissipated all her frustrations as long as she could feel the floor under her feet. Song by song, she felt better, until--

“We should find you some twerk tutorials,” someone said flatly from the doorway.

Startled, Rhonda’s rhythm broke and she ducked into a low fighting stance. 

Ellie was leaning against the door frame. Her smile faded when she realized why there was a rule about not startling Rhonda. “Sorry, um,” Ellie edged into the room. “I know I should knock or something--”

“How long were you standing there?” Rhonda’s heart was racing, and she tried to breathe slowly, force herself to calm down, and not let on how scared she was for that split second.

The teen raised her shoulders and answered, “Just...two and a half songs? I forgot how cool it is to watch you go.”

Rhonda paused the music. She wanted to fuss at Ellie, but couldn’t make herself do it. Instead, she asked curtly, “What’s up?” Acutely conscious that her arms were bare, Rhonda snatched her hoodie off the floor and quickly pulled it back over her head.

For someone who kept a stony face so often, Ellie had an absolutely darling smile. When she grinned, Rhonda saw the little girl who used to play with black nail polish and liked trying on Rhonda’s X-Men boots. “Colossus said to come get you, lunch’ll be ready soon.”

Rhonda couldn’t resist smiling a little herself. “All right. Give me a minute to put the tripping hazards away.”

Ellie helped her box up the dozen or so new lightbulbs. “So? Who are you liking on that playlist we made?”

She snickered more than she meant to, “Well, not Sia.”

Scrunching her nose, Ellie shook her head, “She’s overplayed.”

“Panic! At the Disco is fun, though,” Rhonda stacked the boxed lightulbs neatly on the floor by the wall. “I dunno why I wasn’t always into them, they’re great.”

Ellie beamed, “They did get better, though.”

They finished the bulbs and headed down the hall toward the stairs. “I’m not wild about the new Metallica album,” Rhonda admitted glumly, “Nothing tops their old stuff, I guess.”

The younger woman carefully rubbed her eye without smudging her eyeliner. “Nah, but it’s better than St. Anger.”

Scoffing, Rhonda muttered, “Anything’s better than that shitstack.”

“Have you listened to Hozier yet?”

“Who?”

“Ho--” Ellie stopped and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Hozier. Yukio would give me a ton of shit for this, because I tell her I don’t like him, but,” she grabbed Rhonda’s shoulder and stared her hard in the eyes. “He’s objectively good. You gotta try him. The whole album.”

“Okay,” Rhonda chuckled, “It’ll be the next thing I listen to.” She gave a sidelong glance, “Why did you tell Yukio you don’t like him?”

Ellie rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn’t knock herself unconscious. “When ‘Take Me to Church’ first dropped, it was super overplayed and everyone and their mom was obsessed with it. It is pretty good, though.”

They started walking again. Ellie said under her breath, “And if he does a show anywhere near here, we’re going.” When Rhonda gave her a sidelong glance, she added, “For Yukio.”

“You two seem really good together,” Rhonda hooked her arm through Ellie’s.

Let the record show: young badass Negasonic Teenage Warhead was blushing. She said through gritted teeth, “She’s the best and I would kill for her.”

Rhonda thought she might rupture a sinus from how hard she was trying not to laugh. “Yeah?”

“Also?” Ellie slowed her walk.

“Hm?”

“She wanted me to ask you if, uh, if you’d let her,” Ellie winced, “Fix your hair?”

Tugging a strand of frizzy, mousy colored hair, Rhonda scrunched her mouth to one side, “It’s pretty crusty, huh? I dunno how all this grey got here.”

Ellie playfully shoved her with her shoulder, loosening their linked arms as they went down the stairs. “You used to tell me you started going grey at fourteen and that’s why you dyed your hair every color you could find!”

“You remember that?” Rhonda’s jaw dropped. “That was a secret!”

“I never told anyone,” she giggled.

“You told me just now!” Rhonda was laughing too.

Ellie laughed harder, “You--but? You’re the one who told me!”

On the first floor, they passed a parlor that was used as an office now. The door was open and Rhonda saw a familiar form. “Hey, Ellie?” Rhonda pulled away. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen, ok? Tell Piotr I’ll just be a minute.” With a nod, Ellie broke away and walked off.

Nerves making her chest tight, Rhonda hesitated by the door, debating whether she should enter at all.

Michelle sighed and without looking up from her work at the desk, said, “Either come in, or keep walking, Rhonda.”

Taking a deep breath, Rhonda forced herself to walk calmly into the room. She cleared her throat and nodded, “Michelle?”

“So you do know my name,” Michelle turned and stood--and looked down at Rhonda with a chilled glare.

Finally giving her a good look, Rhonda realized Michelle was tall. She had to be about six feet tall, built like a mythical queen with long, willowy limbs and a perfect bunch of thick, dark curls bouncing just past her shoulders. Her skin was such a warm, glowing sepia brown, Rhonda guessed she would shine like a human chunk of tiger’s eye if she stepped in the sun. She was gorgeous. It was no surprise she’d caught Piotr’s eye--she looked like an exquisite sculpture in a museum.

Rhonda, by comparison, was shorter, stockier, and though she was looking much better than a few weeks ago, would still compare herself to a pile of dry leaves. 

Michelle impatiently drummed her fingers on the edge of her desk, “Is there something you want?”

“I am...I’m sorry...about before.” Rhonda looked like she was going to choke from trying so hard to swallow her pride. “I should have said thank you.” She stole a glance at Michelle’s face, then looked down to fidget with the hem of her hoodie. “You made Piotr happy at a time when...that probably wasn’t easy. And he, um, ha,” she forced a light laugh, “He deserves every ounce of happiness he can get, right?” She was nervous and uncomfortable under Michelle’s gaze. She sighed and looked up at her again, “You took care of him. Thank you. I dunno if we’ll ever be friends, but...I don’t want to be enemies.”

Michelle gave her a stern up-and-down glance with her golden hazel eyes. “He really believes you’re still some kind of sweetheart. This is the first time I’m tempted to believe that.” 

She moved suddenly, and Rhonda instinctively took a quick step back. Michelle rifled through a few papers on her desk before grabbing a business card, holding it up, but not extending it to Rhonda just yet. “You still haven’t been to see Charles.”

Rhonda’s jaw worked, “Not yet.” She realized Michelle was tense too.

The taller woman shrugged with one shoulder, conceding, “Look, I get it. If you’d rather talk to someone else, this is a colleague of mine.” Finally, she held out the business card for Rhonda.

Both were careful not to let their fingers touch as Rhonda took the card. She fidgeted with the corners with her fingernails, looking at the name and phone number for a therapist who specialized in mutants. “He’s not a telepath?”

Michelle huffed and rolled her eyes, “He’s not, but what do you have against us?”

To retort, Rhonda raised her eyebrows and tossed her head, over-enunciating for sassy effect, “If I wanted to talk about it, I’d say so, out loud, with my noisy face hole.”

“Whatever,” she adjusted back to her seat and got back to work. “I just better not hear about you stabbing anyone else.”

As she edged out of the office, Rhonda grumbled under her breath, “Like you’ve never wanted to stab Kurt. Have you met him?” By the time she reached the kitchen, she'd stashed the card in her hoodie pocket.

[varietywritings]

PROTEGO

Sirius Black x OC!Arden Walker 

CHAPTER ONE: BEGIN AGAIN

September 1, 1976

CRACK! A burst of crimson deflected off an invisible force field. The girl inside had a white-knuckle grip on her wand. She stood rigidly as her chest heaved with quick breaths. Her hands shook. The rush of her own blood sounded loudly in her ears. The mass of faceless witches and wizards closed in on her. She could not let them get to her. 

The girl flung every jinx and hex that she could think of at her adversaries, but nothing slowed them. Something pierced the translucent shield she had conjured, making it dissolve. She was vulnerable. A wave of curses crashed down on her. The girl flung herself over something, but not before a flash of emerald light covered her eyes.

✧✧✧

“Arden!” 

Arden Walker rapidly blinked her eyes, coming back to her senses. The bustling of Hogwarts students and their families filled the air with tearful goodbyes and grumbling teenagers. Arden shook her head. All thoughts about the dream she had last night were pushed to the back of her mind as she regarded her mother.

“Are you alright?” Gwyneth, her mother, looked at her warily. Arden smiled tightly. She could still hear the cracks of curses in her head. 

“I’m fine, mom,” she laughed, “You worry too much, you know?” 

“I have to.”

“Not really.”

“Arden May!”

Arden snickered to herself. Gwyneth attempted to give her an appraising look, but couldn’t help herself from smirking. 

“Torian would not approve of your snark.” she half-teased and all humor was snatched from Arden’s demeanor. The mention of her stepfather made her want to hex herself.

“He doesn’t approve of anything, mama,” she grumbled, tucking her caramel hair behind her ear, “You and I both know that.” 

“I know.” Her mother admitted quietly. “He’s not Ray—” Arden visibly tensed; she hated talking about her real father. “—but he’s also not the worst, either.” She knew her mother was trying to make light of the situation (a trait she did not inherit from her), so she suppressed any and all comments she had formulated about his too-handsome face or his absurdly expensive dress robes. 

“Of course, mom. I’m sorry.” Arden apologized. Her mother smiled sadly at her daughter, who was a near-spitting image of her father. Not including the slightly hooked nose and sea green eyes, those were Gwyneth’s. 

Gwyneth smoothed out the line that had creased between Arden’s eyebrows. She tilted her head upwards to give a swift kiss to her forehead as Arden hunched over a bit.

“Now, don’t grow on me even more while you’re gone, Arden.” Gwyneth playfully scolded, causing Arden’s lips to quirk up into a smile.

“Yes, ma’am.” Arden gave her mother a one-armed hug, the shorter woman only coming up to brush under Arden’s nose. She began to trudge away to the Hogwarts Express. 

“Don’t forget to write! I know you have enough ink and quills to spare.” Gwyneth playfully scolded. Arden chuckled to herself. She gave a half-hearted wave over her shoulder and stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. 

Arden briskly walked down the narrow corridor of the train car. She pushed past students idly standing, slipping her jet black robes over her t-shirt and jeans. She made sure her prefect badge was pinned directly above the Ravenclaw crest. Looking in the reflection of a compartment window, she straightened out her robes and ran a quick hand through her hair, making sure the shoulder-length strands weren’t too askew. Giving herself a half smile, Arden entered the almost-full prefects’ train car. 

“How nice of you to join us!” Lily quipped, snapping the book she was reading shut. “You’re late.” Arden closed the door behind her, giving Lily a sickly sweet smile. 

“I’m right on time.” Arden tapped the knicked face of her watch and plopped down next to Lily. “And that’s no way to greet the best friend you haven’t seen in—what—three months?” 

“Oh, shove it.” Lily murmured. Arden snickered but quieted down as soon as the Head Boy started the same prefect speech that was given last year. The gist of it to Arden was, “Don’t let anyone hurt each other and don’t get hurt in the process.” She thought she succeeded at being a prefect last year. How hard could it be this year?

✧✧✧

Much to Arden’s delight, things were running immensely smooth on the train car she was monitoring. No fights had broken out. Most compartments were at a manageable noise level. The hardest thing she’s encountered so far was a nervous first-year. 

“But what if I get lost?” The glassy eyes of the first-year boy made Arden feel sorry for him. 

“Then ask for directions. The professors are willing to help each student get to where they need to go.” She tried reasoning, but the poor kid still fiddled nervously with the hem of his pristine robes.

“What if I don’t fit in, though?” The boy squeaked out. Sitting down across from him, Arden smiled fondly at him. 

“What’s your name?”

“Michael.” 

“Well, Michael, that’s exactly what I thought when I transferred from Ilvermorny the beginning of my third year.” She crossed her legs at the ankle. “Turns out I worried for nothing; I met my best friend on the train ride to Hogwarts and Ravenclaw welcomed me with open arms.” 

“Really?” Michael looked at Arden hopefully. 

“Of course! You have nothing to worry about.” 

BOOM!

A sudden explosion rattled the train car. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Arden heaved a great sigh.

“What was that?” He asked frantically. 

“It seems your fellow students are really excited about testing their luck with me again.” Sarcasm coated Arden’s words. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

She stepped out into the hallway, the smell of smoke immediately assaulting her senses. Coughing into her elbow, she maneuvered her way past the heads of students peeking out to see what all the commotion was about. “Everybody back in your compartments! Nothing to worry about here.” She shouted. The students grumbled as she made her way to the compartment that was clearly the source of the ruckus; wisps of smoke were easing their way out of the cracked door. “Merlin, give me strength.” Arden pleaded. She composed herself and slid open the door. 

James Potter and Sirius Black were stood at the windows, desperately trying to waft the smoke out of the compartment as Peter Pettigrew wildly pat himself down to smolder the embers on his clothes. With his mousy brown hair sticking up in all different directions and his eyebrows smoking slightly, Peter looked like he had poked a dragon one too many times. Arden crossed her arms and steeled her expressions. She cleared her throat. All three boys’ heads snapped in her direction. 

“It’s kind of hard to convince a nervous first-year that everything’s going to be fine when an actual explosion happens on the train.” She looked at each boy pointedly. 

“Jus’ a bit of Exploding Snap, Walker. Nothing to get your robes in a twist over.” Sirius said, shutting the window behind him. He gave Arden the most charming smirk he could muster, but that only made her jaw tick. 

“Exploding Snap shouldn’t shake the entire train car.” 

“So, we modified the deck a little bit.” James shrugged her comment off, cleaning his glasses with his shirt. “No harm was done.”

“Then why does Peter look like he lost a fight with a fireball?” Arden jerked her head in Peter’s direction, who was now trying to make himself the least bit presentable. 

“He’s fine! Right?” Sirius nudged Peter with his elbow. Peter nodded aggressively. He patted out another ember that appeared on his shoulder. 

If Arden was being truthful with herself, she felt bad for Peter. He seemed to follow James and Sirius around like a lost dog, but she couldn’t judge; she bet that’s how she looked with Lily. 

“Just, please don’t cause any more trouble, at least until we get to Hogwarts,” Arden asked as nice as she could. 

“Yes, Professor Walker.” James mocked. She bit her cheek to keep her from saying anything too rude. She didn’t want to feel the wrath of her mother across the UK.

Arden shut the Marauders’ door, not before silently performing the Mending Charm on Peter’s clothes. She checked in on everybody else and resumed her position across from Michael. 

✧✧✧

The Hogwarts Express screeched to a halt. The dark brick and mortar of Hogsmeade Station basked in the evening sunset, the ivory base of the station’s sign tinted a pale tangerine. Closing her eyes, Arden inhaled a deep breath. The crisp scent of pine and the chatter of the students embraced her. She was home. 

An easy smile bloomed on her face, the dimple on her left cheek becoming noticeable; she really hated that thing. Begrudgingly, she pulled herself back to reality to make sure all the first-years made their way to the prefects escorting them to the Great Lake. Making one more pass through the train car she had been monitoring, Arden stepped off the train. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her uniform pants and made her way to the carriages. Looking up she noticed the tall, lanky form of Remus Lupin a couple of paces ahead of her. 

“I would ask if you knew who caused that deafening explosion on my train car, but I think you’ve already got a good idea.” She called after him. He stopped in his tracks, waiting for her to catch up to him. 

“You should know by now that they’re never one for subtlety.” Remus lightly defended his friends, looking more than slightly amused by their antics. 

“Yeah, but making an already pretty high stakes game even higher stakes? That’s just asking for somebody to get hurt.” Arden justified. Remus nodded along. “I mean, c’mon, who’s idea was it?” 

“Oh, that was all James—” 

“Should’ve known.”

“—but I helped—” Remus hummed in thought, searching for the right word, “—enhance the deck.” Arden looked at him incredulously. 

“Why? That could’ve done some serious damage!” Arden gestured wildly with her hands. 

“But did it?” Remus proposed and Arden grew quiet.

“Well . . . no.” She mumbled. Remus chuckled. 

“I’ll still talk to them about pulling pranks like that if you want me to. Dunno how much it’ll help if I’m being honest.” He offered, but she waved off his offer.

“Thanks, but I think it will make them want to cause more trouble, not deter them from doing so.” Arden tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Arden, let’s go! You move slower than Marlene in the morning!” Lily shouted to Arden from her seat on the carriage. 

“Hey!” Marlene exclaimed, shoving a giggling Lily. 

“See you around, Lupin.” Arden bid him goodbye. “And tell Potter to stop staring at my best friend like that; it’s weird.” She heard Remus bite back a laugh from behind her.

“I think Sirius has that covered for me.” Arden looked over at the trio waiting for Remus. 

“Honestly, Prongs, you look like the Giant Squid. You aren’t gonna win Evans over if you look like a big fish all the time.” Sirius lectured James frankly. Arden huffed a laugh out her nose and shook her head as James mussed up Sirius’ hair for the comment he just made. 

She climbed onto the horseless carriage, gaining a “Finally” from Lily. The carriage jolted forward, bringing the girls to the doors of Hogwarts. Jumping out, Lily and Arden walked swiftly to the Great Hall, ready to fill their grumbling stomachs. Arden made her way to the Ravenclaw table and sat down beside a couple of her quidditch teammates from last year. They greeted her and made polite conversation as the hoard of first-years filed in behind Professor McGonagall. 

The Sorting Ceremony breezed by pretty uneventfully. Each house gained a decent amount of new members and the boy that Arden had comforted on the train got sorted into Gryffindor. The excited chatter at each of the house tables ceased as Professor Dumbledore took his place at the golden podium. 

“Students, new and returning! Welcome to Hogwarts. I’m sure you all are pretty famished, but before we begin the Feast, I would like to first introduce your new Charms Master, Professor Filius Flitwick.” Professor Dumbledore gestured behind him, his half-moon glasses glinting in the light. At the table where all the professors resided, a dwarfish man stood up in his seat. His eyes crinkled behind his circular glasses as he smiled, a large mustache taking up residence on his upper lip. Professor Flitwick nodded courteously to the hall filled with students. He sat back down, taking his place between Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. 

“I would also like to welcome Professor Bernard Janus, who will be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” A tall man stood up at the Professors’ table, clasping his hands in front of him. His chocolate brown hair was expertly coiffed and his navy blue waistcoat was tailored perfectly to his broad chest. With a sharp jawline, Grecian nose, and well-defined cheekbones, he captured the attention of everybody in the room. Professor Janus surveyed the Great Hall, as Arden took him in. He was handsome, that much she knew for sure, but she couldn’t help the sinking feeling that plagued her stomach. Their eyes met. His eyes were heterochromatic; one the color of nickels and the other resembling tree bark. The hair stood up on the back of her neck as he held her gaze for a couple more seconds and then moved on. 

“Good luck to you both, Professor Flitwick and Professor Janus,” Dumbledore said, earning the applause of the students and professors. “Now, dig in!”

Arden eagerly filled her plate with mashed potatoes, roast chicken, peas, and carrots. She dowsed her mashed potatoes in gravy and dug in, momentarily forgetting all the table manners her mother drilled into her and pushing the uneasy feeling to the back of her mind. She would worry about Professor Janus later. Now, she had a wonderful banquet to devour. 

✧✧✧

Arden trudged up the spiral staircase towards her dorm. Her hair dripped excess water from her shower onto her gray sleep shirt, but she couldn’t care less. All she wanted right now was to go to sleep. 

The Ravenclaw first-years, while rather endearing, were also tiresome. Arden had never encountered such a curious bunch before. They bombarded her with questions and part of her admired their inquisitiveness, however, the other, sleep-deprived part of her wanted them to direct their questions to the paintings that covered the stone walls. 

Rubbing her eyes, Arden crawled into bed. The soft navy sheets blanketed her in warmth. As she hunkered down into her covers, the clinking of the dog tags around her neck caught Arden’s attention. She lifted them up and read the debossed lettering for what seemed like the trillionth time: 

WALKER

RAY N,

113-07-2360

A POS

BAPTIST

Arden smiled sadly, her father’s name glinting in the moonlight. Her father passed away four years earlier, but to her, it only felt like four days. With a heavy heart, she tucked the dog tags back under her shirt. She always kept them hidden to stop any unwanted questions. 

✧✧✧

TAGS

@virgiill @yourfriendly-neighborhoodfuckup

A/N: Don’t be afraid to ask to be tagged!!

-Red

[bluesakura007]

Undeniable - Chapter 5: The Father of the Moth Woman - Khan Noonien Singh x OC

Summary: A conversation with her parents causes Zin to reveal to them the full explanation of how much Khan means to her and why she’s defending him. 

Warning: This chapter is touching up on a little bit of angst again. 

The afternoon arrived and kicked into action some hours on from Khan’s revelation of his origins and his childhood, with which Zinalya had been spending the last few minutes ambling aimlessly around the San Francisco harbour, taking this time after the aforementioned heart to heart that he’d shared with her to clear her mind, both from her mostly latent concerns about the current situation as a whole and from the tears she had shed during their conversation. 

She had her hands on a metallic railing lining the edge of the pavement where she was standing, this edge being the one that was nearest to the smooth, visually calming surface of the waters taking up the harbour; the railing's own surface was cold to the touch right now, but this was another thing in her environment that felt calming.

Off in the distance, standing by a set of buildings as a group, were Jim, Spock and Nyota, who were all watching as Zinalya took her hands off of the railing after a few seconds and began walking again, down the pavement. She was hardly difficult to see in the crowd, thanks to her burgundy hair colour.

"It kinda makes you think..." Uhura pondered out loud.

Spock turned his head to look at her. "About what?"

"About all this she's doing: she's willing to leave behind all she's ever known, her family, her job, everything, so that she can be with the man she loves." Answered the communications officer. "It makes you think about how much it means she loves Khan."

"She also might be making a mistake driven by allowing her passionate emotions to get the better of her."

"Way to kill the mood, Spock." Kirk remarked with a small laugh.

"People can make decisions regarding feelings of love without logical or rational thought of any kind." The half Vulcan hybrid responded, sticking to the point he was trying to put across as he continued to watch Zinalya gradually walk away, off into the part of the harbour’s crowd too far away to be seen, with the other two next to him still also observing her vanish. "I am aware that, in some cases, choices made in the name of romance can be for the greater good of both people involved, but in the other instances, their feelings can impair their judgement and therefore lead them into making harmful decisions."

"I’ve got a hell of a lot of my own doubts about her going away with him too, but it’s not our business to separate them knowingly." Responded the captain. "It’s like what we all heard Zin herself say to Bones earlier: we can’t dictate who she’s allowed to have the feelings for, so that means we can’t try to keep them apart."

"And we all saw what she’ll do to anybody that tries." Commented lieutenant Uhura jokingly.

"What additionally concerns me, however, is the possibility of Khan’s way of thinking and his ideals and mindsets being transferred to her." Said Spock.

"You’re worried about him being a bad influence on Zinalya?" Queried his girlfriend, for confirmation on whether what she thought she just heard was true.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Now you’re starting to sound like you’re her father." Opined Jim, in the same manner as his remark a few moments ago.

"But the thing is it's like Romeo and Juliet: I'm not saying we have to be in full support of what she wants to do either, but Romeo and Juliet were two lovers who were forbidden from being together by almost everybody they knew, and in the end it caused them both to commit suicide." Nyota added. "So if we try to get involved and stop those two from being together then we could basically just end up making it worse."

"As I recall, the ultimate fate of Romeo and Juliet was additionally implied to be because of their over-eagerness in progressing their relationship and not wanting to wait to find a more suitable and less dangerous environment before commencing marriage to each other."

"Spock, remind me never to let you start writing literature." Jim put in another of his remarks to his friend.

Almost another half hour on from that moment, the half Trill in question had made it back to her apartment, where upon entering she promptly sat down in one of the armchairs that she’d made use of last night when she was still pondering on whether or not to put her plan into action. Before she did indeed obey her impulses and set everything that had taken place that day into motion. However, this time she was in an at least somewhat better mood due to her feelings of closure at having gotten it off her chest and not having to hide it anymore like she'd been doing for the last several days before this one.

Suddenly, her attention was grabbed as her communicator in her pocket chirped, which she flipped open. "Go ahead."

"It's me." There came the sound of Sulu's voice on the other end of the line. "I called to tell you that your parents have just started trying to give you a call, ma'am."

"Okay. Thanks for letting me know, I'll talk to you later." Zinalya acknowledged before then closing the device again and, begrudgingly, got up and walked into her bedroom, where there was a wall-mounted screen on which her video calls could be held. She already had the words “Oh god...” running through her head - if the opinions and controversy she'd faced from her crewmates regarding her feelings for Khan so far were bad, that of her family was bound to be a whole lot worse.

She psyched herself up for a moment and then pressed the button on the controller pad nearby which would open up the incoming video call, and there they were. Her parents. Mason Hamilton was a human who used to work as a Starfleet adjutant, with Zinalya's hazel-green eyes and short, mousy brown hair, and her mother, Siazru Tebal, was a joined Trill and the fourth host of the Tebal symbiont working as an architect's executive on Earth, and was so far the first, and only female one, out of the Tebal hosts. She had shoulder length dark dark grey hair with a burgundy tint, entirely brown eyes and, due to being fully Trill, she had a lot more of this race's distinctive spots compared to Zin.

"Hello Zinalya." Siazru greeted.

"Hi you two." She responded. Here it comes...

"We’ve heard about what you said this morning in the Khan Noonien Singh trial." Mason said after a second of working out what to say next. ...And there it is.

Their hybrid daughter allowed herself a small chuckle. "News obviously travels from pretty quickly."

Her father nodded his head, his expression turning serious and steely. "It does." He continued, "Now, my million dollar question is: what the hell were you thinking?"

"Mason." His wife hissed to him, attempting to do this discretely.

Zinalya slowly crossed her arms. "How do you mean?"

"What was going through your brain when you said that? When you decided that you were in love with a terrorist?" He spat back.

"I thought you agreed you were going to be casual and cautious about this." Siazru did a mental facepalm.

"I didn’t just decide, dad." Replied Zin. "I didn’t think about it or pre-plan how I feel, I just spoke out what was in my heart. I went with what my gut was telling me."

"You didn’t think about it? That’s even worse!" Exclaimed Mason. "So you’re willy-nilly becoming the girlfriend of a criminal?"

"I’m not going to say anything cliché like ‘the heart wants what it wants’, but I just like him, simple as that. It’s something I can’t even put in words."

"And she said she wasn’t gonna say any clichés." He snorted derisively to himself.

"This is the reason why I was hesitant to answer your call - I just knew you were going to be like this." Zinalya snapped. "I was beginning to understand a little about why some of my crewmates might be sceptical, but you not supporting my decision is a whole different ball game!"

"I don’t mind what you do in life as long as it means you’re safe and happy!" Her father yelled back. "And going off on an exile with a killer is not what qualifies as safe!"

"Oh so you’re okay with me being safe but not being happy. In fact, you know what? If the man I like is such a big problem to you then why don’t you just disown me, dad?"

"I don’t want to disown you Zinalya, I just want you to make choices that are best for your own good! You’re our daughter, which means we love you and we don’t want you to throw away your future like this!" Shouted Mason.

"I’m not throwing anything away, I’m just exchanging one future for another." She gripped the bridge of her nose with her right hand.

"For a future where you spend it all with a murderer!" He retorted, at his highest volume yet during the conversation. "Whether you like it or not, I have to get this point into your head so that I can damn well help you!"

"YOU’RE NOT HELPING ME! SCOTTY AND PAVEL ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO’VE ACTUALLY LISTENED TO ME AND ARE SUPPORTING ME IN THIS AND THEY’RE NOT MY FAMILY!" Her building anger having finally reached its ultimate boiling point, Zinalya blew up at her father without any warning, silencing him immediately and releasing her pent-up frustrations about the matter. "YOU'RE SAYING IT'S FOR THE BEST BUT IT'S NOT! APART FROM PAVEL AND SCOTTY NONE OF YOU REALLY DO CARE ABOUT HOW I FEEL! IF YOU DID THEN YOU'D UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO! I WANT TO BE WITH KHAN!"

Once she had finished screaming, she stopped to take a deep breath to at least calm herself down to a small degree, facing away from the image of her stunned-into-silence father and equally surprised mother as tiny tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. There was still a hint of his own annoyance at the situation on his face but for the most part, Mason was visibly regretful that he'd caused this reaction from his daughter.

Siazru gently asked another moment on, "What do you like about him, if there is anything particular? Is there anything specific that caused these feelings for him in the first place?"

Zinalya blinked several times, before turning back around again to face them and giving her answer. "He's not just some cold-blooded murderer. He has feelings of longing, and regret, and sadness, like the rest of us." She sniffed. "He said he basically only ever had a normal, happy childhood during the first four years of his life, and then after that he was treated as a lab rat for most of the rest of it. As some kind of ongoing project that needed to be improved on and tested and controlled. And when he was woken up last year, he and his friends had ran so far and so fast from the threat of being wiped out altogether, and he was manipulated by the threat of every one of them being killed for the purpose of an admiral starting a war and getting personal glory for himself. An admiral who'd forgotten what the Federation stands for and managed to manipulate Khan into believing that everybody he had left in his life had been killed. He was scared, and people lash out when they get scared enough."

"I see." Siazru nodded in understanding, while her husband bit his lip slightly in his still fresh remorse.

"When I first started having my feelings for him on the Enterprise, I was doubtful too; I was worried about what it meant for me to feel that way about a man deemed as a criminal." The youngest of their three children continued. "But then I started to find out that he's not how he seems. I've also got a theory that it's the work of destiny, and that we don't really need to understand why we like each other and the only thing we do need is to be grateful for it. In fact, let me explain this in a different way: let's say, just for argument's sake, that Khan was a moth. As in like some kind of humanoid moth-like creature called the Moth Man." Her parents both nodded, wondering where she was going with this metaphor, as she then directly addressed Mason, "Well, the thing is, dad, you're the father of the Moth Woman. What I'm trying to say is, I don't know how it happened but me and him are made for each other." A beat passed, and then she finished with, "He's gentle underneath all that stuff on the surface, and I am still very open and comfortable with Scotty and Pavel because they are still my friends, but when I'm with him I feel even more like that. Being with him sometimes makes me feel like I wanna dance or burst into song, and the way he looks at me... it's like he's looking deep into me and realising that he can trust me. He only shows it on the outside a little bit, but when Khan sees me, his eyes light up, too, like he's trying to be welcoming. So now I can either try to save him, so that we can be together somewhere, or just let him be put back into stasis forever. It's a simple question of do I dare to try or don't I, and I've decided that I do."