#i keep going back and forth on the neon blood in the water and the radial artery though. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snackhobi · 4 years ago

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pairing: jungkook x reader / word count: 7.4k / genre: pacific rim au with brief smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: there are no secrets in the drift. if jungkook were to see the mess inside your head and heart, laid utterly bare, he’d turn away from you.

warnings: sexually explicit content (briefly), unprotected sex (please be safe when you have sex) / reference to injuries but nothing graphic, giant robots powered by love punching big alien monsters

a/n: this is a birthday gift for the amazing @yeojaa. happy birthday, erin. this is completely self serving and is stuffed full with inside references that I hope you’ll enjoy. I wrote this in two days and it kicked my ass because I did so much reading and researching that turned out to not even come up in the story 👁👄👁 you know when I said I was studying? I lied. I was writing HAHAHAH ily I hope you like it hhhh (this is unbeta’ed so please forgive any mistakes it’s 1:30am as I’m scheduling this) (also summaries are so hard, I’m sorry)

Jeon Jungkook really is the perfect posterboy for a Jaeger pilot.

Broad across the shoulders and trim at the waist, all sharp punches and hard muscle, resilient and tough, with a face that’s the perfect balance of angles and softness; the cut of his jaw easing up and into his pretty mouth, the line of his brows subdued by his warm eyes—he’s a Goddamn vision, raw masculinity overlaid on rich veins of boyishness, glittering stratum that sparkle and shine even under the harsh lights of the Shatterdome.

He pouts when he thinks and his hair hangs a little in his big, big eyes and he has dimples that appear when he grins, teeth poking out onto his pretty pink lips, like someone took a rabbit and turned it into a man and packed on pounds of muscle alongside. Undeniably powerful and strong, but youthful and sweet, too.

Alongside Kim Taehyung—arresting and beautiful and somehow affable and approachable, all at the same time—they’re exactly what South Korea needs right now, propelling the country’s new look for their renewed assault against the kaiju. They’re the lucky new Rangers who’ve claimed ownership of the only Mark-5 that their homeland has produced, Bulletproof Striker, a fucking gorgeous Jaeger bristling with the latest and greatest technology that the world has produced.

But that doesn’t mean they’re the best that South Korea has to offer.

Cypher Zero is smaller, lighter, older, but she’s fierce. Just like her pilots. You and Yoongi might not be the burning beacons of hope that Jungkook and Taehyung are, polished and buffed to a squeaky shine, but you don’t need to be. You’re vicious and victorious and show no signs of stopping. The kaiju kills painted on your Mark-4’s shoulder are evidence enough of that, notches for each monster taken down, spray painted in one tiny corner of the huge swathe of burnished metal plating, the red edges of her midnight skin.

Bulletproof Striker is almost untouched, deployed just once since her recent launch, flawless exterior so at odds with Cypher Zero’s battered facade. Cypher’s beautiful, of course, but bears the history of your skirmishes, inside and out: scuffed paintwork, dented metal, rust dripping down from the ladder rungs dotted across her, melting into the obsidian of her hull.

Jungkook and Taehyung move in a way that’s practiced, disciplined motions of combat that their Jaeger echoes in turn. Her mechanical movements reflect those of the men inside her head, skilled and superb. Stunning. But you and Yoongi? You fight dirty, violent and rough; messy bar room brawls; shattered glass and clawing hands in beer soaked backrooms, tinged sulphur yellow under dirty lightbulbs; two kids who fought against a world that was against them.

(Two damaged people coming together in the Drift to make something even stronger than the sum of your parts.)

(Two damaged people who survived the rough hands of the Jaeger Academy, trying to take them, push them, shape them, break them.)

(Life isn’t kind. You’d learned that young, surrounded in the splintered remnants of your childhood home, the facade of family and happiness already gone, long long long ago, leaving you aching and lonely and cold. The prospect of fighting thousands of tons of alien hatred, lifting out of the depths of the uncaring, dark sea? At least you can see the kaiju coming. Broken households and loneliness? A little harder to lay your hands on.)

(But out of everything you lost, you’d gained one thing—Min Yoongi, another quiet, damaged thing, but with the biggest depths of warmth and love underneath that hard surface; your best friend, your brother-in-arms, growing alongside you, with you. Damaged kids turned bitter teenagers turned razor-edged adults, outcasts in solitude, but together. Not alone.)

(The deeper the bond, the better you fight. Falling into the Drift with Yoongi had been easy, years of tangled connection bleeding into the images that flashed across your brain. The same memories from different angles, overlaid with different emotions, undercurrents eddying under the surface that caught both of you and swept you up in its flow; the same mind, bridged by hundreds of tons of metal and technology and firepower underneath you, linked together in the silence of the Drift.)

There’s reverence, in the way these two new pilots look at you both, reverence and awe and respect alike: older Rangers, more experienced, history written across the worn edges of your Drivesuits, the paint flaking away from your battle armour, scuffs and scrapes on the once unblemished veneer; knowledge etched into the feline slant of Yoongi’s eyes, the turn of your shoulders and hips.

You know Jungkook’s track record. You know of the endless months of assessment and sparring and psych evals and Drift tests and simulation drops that every successful Ranger has to go through, and Jungkook had trumped them all, stood atop them like a conqueror surveying his hard-won lands—gifted, talented, some even said God-touched. And yet for all this indomitable talent and skill, there’s still humility at his core, a willingness to defer with respect.

That deference is obvious whenever he sees you. Jungkook’s dark eyes will touch your own, for a moment, dark and deep and bright—and then his gaze will skitter away, cockiness and bravado dissolving into something submissive, yielding. (Shy.) You’ve watched him orbit you, the younger ranger caught in your gravity, always nearby—the Shatterdome is only so big, for its magnitude and sprawling corridors—but never broaching that final gap, that little step, into Cypher Zero’s space, Yoongi’s space, your space. Keeping himself at arm’s length.

South Korea’s golden boy, less afraid of the Kaiju than he is of his sunbaenim.

Jungkook and Taehyung are both beautiful. But you and Yoongi are less so, unapproachable in ways that the younger pilots aren’t, private and prickly, like grasping a patch of stinging nettles with bare hands, stinging and burning.

As if Jungkook isn’t terrifying and gorgeous in his own ways. As if he doesn’t shine brighter than the sun himself. Taehyung moves through the world with a thoughtless, charismatic ease that Jungkook doesn’t share—but he’s still magnetic, bold and brilliant, monstrously skilled at everything he puts his mind to, training again and again and again to get it right, get it right, get it right.

To get it perfect.

But there’s no level of perfectionism that can surmount the twisted, unpredictable nature of the kaiju belched forth from the breach. No matter how good you are, how strong or fast, how smart or seasoned, sometimes you still get caught in that hurricane, even in a Jaeger.

It doesn’t matter how many engines are packed into each muscle strand. It doesn’t matter how fast the pistons and levers and gears shift and move. It doesn’t matter that the pilots in her cockpit are impeccable and incredible. Under the cloak of deepest night and pouring rain, blanketed in darkness and water from the heavens above and the sea below, movement is impossible to track—and when Steelbrute rises from the waves, no one sees the kaiju coming.

Bulletproof Striker takes the hit. Jungkook and Taehyung fight back but they’re blindsided and overwhelmed, and their Jaeger falls to her knees in the churn of the Pacific Ocean, salt water crashing over her in choppy waves as Steelbrute’s merciless maw gapes wide open.

Cypher Zero is 250ft tall and weighs 1410 tons. You and Yoongi are tiny specks of organic matter in a fearsome behemoth of titanium and tungsten and graphene and circuitry, commanders of a weapon that’s the same size as a skyscraper—and yet you wouldn’t think that for how fast you move. Zero hesitation. No verbal communication. Cypher’s legs cut through endless waves and gain momentum with each crashing step that slams into the seafloor before you leap forward in a flurry of motion and Drift powered fury.

Your motions in the Conn-Pod are ragged and incensed, your arms and legs moving in sync with Yoongi, with Cypher Zero, a snarl ripping out of your co-pilot’s usually quiet mouth as the kaiju lurches underneath you. The world narrows down to this: throwing yourself into the fray, jagged knuckles edged with plasma pummelled into Steelbrute’s skin in a scuffle that’s vicious, aggressive, until Bulletproof Striker regains her footing.

The sun is rising, grey and cold on the horizon when Steelbrute finally sinks into the sea, toxic blood flooding the water with neon blue. When you step out of the cockpit, Yoongi’s fringe is matted with sweat, and you can feel all the places the circuitry suit sticks to your skin—piloting a Jaeger is mentally and physically exhausting, every muscle and organ and bone working overtime for endless hours as you fight tooth and nail. Without the helmets in the way, there’s nothing stopping you bumping your foreheads together, heedless of the sweat slicked there; Yoongi’s hand rests at the back of your head, a familiar cradle.

“All good,” you say. Yoongi lets out a quiet bark of a laugh, rough and exhausted.

“I want a nap,” he says, like he always does, even if you’re a long way away from that, still fully suited and due to speak to the Marshalls. There are so, so many things separating you from the bliss of sleep.

One thing that’s not part of the normal routine, though, is the other pilots catching you, demanding your recognition, respectful (Taehyung) but insistent (Jungkook). You know that Yoongi doesn’t like attention or hero-worship, but there’s nothing except gratitude, here, bent heads and words of thanks. You’d saved their lives, after all. Saved their Jaeger from being torn apart, pain screaming through their own bodies of flesh and bone, connected to their metal monster. Of course they’re grateful.

You dismiss it with a hard cut of your hand.

“It’s nothing,” you say.

You’re speaking the words you know are in Yoongi’s head—years of friendship and shared Drifts leaving his thought processes wide open to you—although you know you’re sharper than he is, harsher than he is, even, for all that he looks like the cold one from the outside. Long lashes and silken hair don’t translate to something soft and feminine and pretty, and you’re all ragged edges and rough parts, bleeding into the delivery of your words. Yoongi rounds the words in his mouth and places them into the world with a rumble of quiet strength that belies his past, but you? Your tongue is cutting and terse and drips with distrust, even when you don’t mean it to, staring at these two boys, Jungkook’s eyes so brown and large when he stares back at you.

The truth is that you care about humanity, of course. You care about humanity and you care about the millions of people in the cities that line the coasts and further inland, and you care about your fellow pilots, skilled but soft-hearted as they are. You’re stronger. You have to be. That’s what Yoongi is, that’s what you are: fighters. You fight dirty because you fight to win, not to protect yourselves. You’ll fight and you’ll die for this, for them, even if there’s no friendship there. Not yet. You’re still too distant, for all that you’d thrown yourself in the line of fire to rip the kaiju from the younger Rangers.

And when Jungkook levels a look at you, there’s a flicker of something. A spark. All the glittering of his warm eyes comes together like the cascading sparks of molten fire that fall when metal is cut through— his eyes score through you, down down down, right to your core, underneath all the armour you’ve laid about yourself throughout your life. Your heart stutters. You’ve been watching Jeon Jungkook, and he’s all cocky Ranger bravado, or innocent brown eyes and shy, curving smiles, and yet.

And yet. You know he sees this soft part of you, somehow. Past the thorns and sharp leaves, past the hard husk, into the rich, bursting sweetness inside, oozing red gems of pomegranate that yield so easily to the fingers and mouth.

(He’s temerarious and modest and wickedly perceptive too, it seems.)

“That was our kill,” he says suddenly. Taehyung—the voice piece of the two, the one who’s been smiling and speaking, easy and slow—goes still at his side.

“What?” Yoongi’s eyes pierce through him, but Jungkook keeps his focus on you.

“Steelbrute. Our kill. It was a hit from our rockets that took him out,” Jungkook says, eyes still glinting with that sparkling shine. Slicing through you with an explosion of light. “Not your blades.”

Silence steals over you, for a breath. It’s never truly silent in the Shatterdome, an iron fortress that never sleeps, but for a second, there’s quiet. It wraps around you. Tight. Almost deafening.

But then you break that silence.

You laugh.

You laugh at the cheeky grin that pulls at Jungkook’s lips, the boyish lift to his face. You laugh at his shamelessness, the sudden 180 from his earlier fear. You laugh at the way he’s diluted this astonishing, formidable thing—humanity coming together to destroy alien predators that threaten the planet—into a competition.

“You’re a menace, Jeon Jungkook,” you say.

Stinging nettles you might be, but if you’re grabbed hard and fast by confident hands, you don’t wound. Jeon Jungkook defers to respect, avoids confrontation, bows his head and quiets his mouth, but he knows, now, that he can do this. That he can push you like this, and you’ll let him, sway against it, let yourself be pushed.

Yoongi slides you a glance out the corner of his eyes, a light touch, a tacit agreement to an unspoken question.

“You can have it. Steelbrute’s yours.” There’s the smallest curl to your lips as you speak for you both. There’s something weirdly easy and familiar to this, to this interaction, even if you’ve barely exchanged words before now, giving this triumph to the other pilots hand over fist.

(Giving it to Jungkook on a platter.)

You can see the flare of triumph in Jungkook’s eyes. You know it’s not for the notch of their first kill, one they can add to their Jaeger. It’s for something far harder to achieve, something far more ephemeral: digging down and past your cool veneer and lifting out a smile, spreading it across your lips like warm butter, liquid gold.

And he keeps making you smile.

Jeon Jungkook, you find, is a force of nature, relentless, an ocean. Sometimes he’s soft, loving waves of glittering blue that crash on pearly white beaches, playful and bright. Sometimes, he’s intense, the crashing waves of a storm tossed sea, powerful and unstoppable. Always, he’s striking, even when he’s not trying—even more so because of it, moving without thought or uncertainty, a silence settling over your thoughts whenever you see him like this. See him in this raw state, so unafraid where before he’d curbed his tongue and bent his head in front of you. Now, he’s just himself, without filter.

Taehyung is there too, of course. Both pilots join your small, fiercely private circle, not just a path from you to Yoongi any more. They become intertwining lines, a pattern that’s drawn between the four of you, pilots, friends. And you learn, that for all that you’d thought that Taehyung was the dominant one outside of their Jaeger, social and extroverted and unabashed, Jungkook isn’t quiet. Not when he’s comfortable.

(Not, now, when he’s with you.)

He’s a myriad of things, endlessly deep, so different from you, from Yoongi, but—the truth of it settles inside you, your joints, the marrow of your bones, the blood that pulses forth from your heart each time it beats in your chest, liquid life running through you.

Drift compatibility.

Not that it matters. You already have a partner. You’re never going to open yourself up to anyone that isn’t Yoongi, who’s seen every part of you already. There’d been no fear about letting Yoongi see inside your brain, your heart, the raw, bleeding parts of you—because he’d already known them. Just like you’d known his. Yoongi stands to your right, inside the Conn-Pod and out, a driving force, even in his silence.

But Jungkook is softer, sweeter, for all his raw power and skill, respect engraved into his every motion, even when he’s teasing and making you laugh. Even when he ignores the social guidelines that he should follow, does follow for others, everyone except you.

And you don’t mind. You don’t bite out insults at him when he slides into the quiet hollow you’ve scraped out, a small space with just enough room for the people you keep in your heart. You’re still barbed and spiked, warding away unwanted attention, but for Jungkook, the claws retract.

You’re still you, of course. Jungkook calls you mean, says that you bully him, even as he’s flopped across your bunk, eating your rations, shovelling coveted popcorn into his mouth. He might pout and sigh and cry oppression, but you’re soft on him and he knows it. That quiet hollow in your heart is a little larger, now, a little louder. Jungkook is brazen in his claim of this space, spreading each of his limbs wide as he fits himself into every part of it. He doesn’t know every piece of your past, and you don’t plan to let him see all the messy parts bundled in your chest, but. But he’s still there.

And you let him stay. You make a home for him inside you and let him take the key. He might tilt his head and goad you, might pretend there’s a genuine challenge in the set of his jaw, but you know it’s all tempered with admiration, veneration. Friendship.

(And where he clearly respects you, you admire him in turn. You’re reminded of your differences every second he moves and breathes and just exists in front of you, but you don’t have to be similar to someone to realise just how incredible they are.)

(But though you’re different, there are similarities. You’re not a mirrored image, a reflection, like you are with Yoongi. Instead, you’re a line drawn between two separate places, an isohel, sun lighting up your world for the same sweep of the clock even for how far apart you are. Sharing that same, tenuous thing, for all your contrasting parts.)

(This thing that’s growing, held in your hands. This soft, gentle thing, shimmering, frail, unfurling slowly but undeniably. Tinged with happiness, disbelief. Disbelief that you’ve found this, that you can see Jungkook across the echoing cavern of the Shatterdome’s main hall, so far in the distance, barely visible at the foot of his Jaeger—and something will settle in your chest. Featherlight, iridescent. Something comforting.)

When you fight the kaiju, now, it’s with a deeper reserve of desperation. Taehyung and Jungkook aren’t just fellow pilots, dongsaeng that you’re obliged to look after: they’re your friends, something more than that too, part of the rare handful of people in the world who understand, this overwhelming pressure to fight and win and protect the things you love. The people you love. They understand what it’s like to step into someone else’s head, to be connected to that person on a level that’s unfathomable, anchored in a depth of love that’s endless. You’re their aegis, now, their shield.

(Jungkook’s shield.)

Maybe that’s what’s to blame. Maybe that’s why you’re so sloppy, this time. Maybe that’s why you throw yourselves in the way of the blow that was meant for Bulletproof Striker. Maybe that’s why Ojousan shreds Cypher Zero’s chest apart, her head, why Yoongi is almost ripped from you, his fear and pain screaming through your neural connection. You feel everything he feels and more beside, your heart hammering in your throat as you scream, Jaeger’s arm swinging up and around in tandem with your own motions as you try to rip the kaiju away, anything to protect Yoongi, so scared of losing him, always always always, scared of being left alone.

But you’re not alone.

Bulletproof Striker lifts up like an avenging angel. Her horns roar a challenge, an echoing battle cry as the younger pilots move in. Heavier and stronger, keeping her balance even in the turbulence of a fight, she takes the hits, gives back her own, sends the kaiju down into the crashing waves, waits for it to rise. But the monster is crafty and quick and even as you’re lifting your left arm—Yoongi’s hurt, so hurt, you know this, feel this, but he moves with you to ready the plasma cannon buried in the mechanics of your Jaeger’s hand, even if he’s keening with pain—you watch as the other pilots, too, fall victim to the clawed tail of the kaiju, screeching through layers of alloys and across their Conn-Pod.

Terror strikes through every part of you and morphs into hate. You hate the kaiju, hate your own weakness, hate the pain that’s been saved from being written into your own body while Yoongi screams and sobs even though he still fights. Your motions are anguished and desperate as you battle to overcome this beast that’s almost taken away everything that matters to you—and Cypher Zero, Yoongi, as damaged and hurt as they are, come through. (Like they always do, for you, always.)

And somehow, despite everything, for all the self-hatred and pain and fear, you pull through. You pull through. Damaged and hurt but alive.

Barely.

Barely alive.

(One hand gives, the other takes away.)

It takes hours for them to pick Yoongi’s Drivesuit from his body, crumpled around him from Ojousan’s claws, cutting into the soft flesh of his body, body ruined further by the fighting he’d been forced into despite his injuries; so many of Taehyung’s bones are shattered, and when you finally see him awake and with his eyes open, there are burst blood vessels that cast red across the usually warm expression, his friendly eyes.

You should be grateful that they’re alive. You should be on your hands and knees, weeping, benedictions dripping from your graceless mouth as you thank whatever merciless God above decided to turn their gaze on you and grant you this leniency. So many pilots have died and will continue to die, you know this, but somehow your partners are still alive.

And you are grateful. You are. But there’s bitterness on your tongue, twisted across your palate, sour and acrid and filling you with its taste. You’d been foolish and reckless and you’d almost lost the things you cared about most, even if you’d destroyed the kaiju, torn it apart and left its fluorescent indigo blood to corrode the ocean.

That’s what’s important, isn’t it. Saving humanity. One person, two people, four people—you’re the tiniest cogs in a whirring engine of billions. Unimportant. Just a spinning part that keeps the machine going.

When you’re not with Yoongi or Taehyung, an unmoving presence from their hospital beds, a hovering gargoyle carved from stone, you’re with Jungkook. Always, always, always. Somehow you’d both escaped without the injuries inflicted on your partners—you’d manage to break your little finger, and Jungkook had a black eye and a twisted ankle, and the both of you had mottles of bruises cast across your skin, pulled muscles, an ache carved into your bones, but that was it. That was it. It was almost laughable, how unscathed you are.

You hate it.

(It should have been you.)

Your legs—unbroken, unharmed—hang over steel scaffolding, motionless as you watch the tiny specks of people scuttling across the catwalks that criss-cross Cypher Zero’s body. You can see under her skin, damage peeling back all the layers of metal that should be holding her together. Endless showers of sparks fall and scatter as she’s stitched back together. Your beautiful girl is so damaged, so disfigured.

(You’d caught Yoongi as he’d fallen from the harness, listened to the horrible noises that had torn out of his lips as he’d dripped blood and pain over your shaking hands.)

The bland food you’d scraped off your dinner tray settles fitfully in your stomach, still one second, nausea bubbling up your throat the next.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve been alone, since… since everything. You’ve been taking comfort in Jungkook’s presence, unwavering and understated, needing someone there when staring at Yoongi’s battered face proved too much. Even with his own upheaval Jungkook’s been there, at your side, always close. Eyes locked on you and taking everything in, the tired set to your face, the expression that tugs down your lips, and still, he stays.

But he’d disappeared after you’d eaten, a peculiar look on his face—you know him well enough now to recognise that look, that it means he’s got something in his head, some plan he means to unfold. It’s the first time you’ve seen it since Taehyung had been pulled out of the Conn-Pod. It’s some semblance of normality, an expression of something other than pale-faced dread and bone-shivering guilt.

(You feel it too, that survivor’s guilt. Taehyung and Yoongi will recover but it’ll take time and so much suffering and you wish you could take that from them, heft that burden onto your own shoulders.)

(You know Jungkook feels the same.)

(You see it written in the tense lines of his body. Hear it unspoken in the words he shares with you. The bruises on his skin melt from red to purple to blue to yellow, but even if his body heals, his brain and heart bear the scars of helplessness.)

Jungkook reappears, finds you at the heavy steel door that leads into your room, rusted and worn but silent as it swings open in front of you. His eyes are wide and he’s breathless, like he’s been running, chest heaving as he sucks in air through his parted lips, a flash of teeth and tongue as he smiles.

Despite everything, you smile back. Helpless for that smile, always, happier now for the sight of it, for how little you’ve seen it. You want to see that smile every day. You don’t want him to worry for anything. You want him to feel the same way you do, when you see him: that quiet, maybe selfish thought that things are okay.

Maybe he does. (His eyes are so warm.) He presses something into your hands, something soft and round like a well-practised secret, and then he’s gone. You can tell by the gait of his stride that he’s going back to Taehyung, giving you a moment of lonely reprieve to wash the grime and dirt off your useless body before you follow in his footsteps, stationed at Yoongi’s side.

The door swings shut behind you.

You lift your hand.

It’s an orange.

It’s a small, overripe thing, hard nub of the stem falling away from the skin with only the lightest brush of your fingers. You stare at the fruit, its brightness cutting through the muted sepia tones of your surroundings, a point of colour in an otherwise dull room.

You haven’t seen an orange in months. Rationing is tough on everyone, even Jaeger pilots. You’d mentioned in passing, so long ago, an old habit of yours. Before something else floated above it, more important and interesting, you’d made a fleeting statement that had flitted across the surface of the conversation: you liked eating oranges in the shower. Liked that nice, cool citrus sweetness in your mouth while the rest of your body was caught in the fall of warm water.

It’s such a small, tiny thing. Just the briefest lament—there are more important things than the fact you can’t have shower oranges any more, after all—and you’d forgotten you’d even mentioned it.

But Jungkook hadn’t.

It’s almost syrupy sweet, this orange. You savour each slice, pressing them between your teeth, feeling the rush of juice burst forth through the pith and skin, and it’s so good you could cry.

You do cry.

Your mouth is full of orange and your eyes are full of tears and your head is full of—of—something, something so all encompassing that it overwhelms you, water cascading down the aching planes of your body as you crumple inwards. Jungkook had protected you with the overwhelming power of Bulletproof Striker, and he’s protecting you now, soft and considerate and kind, vulnerable and human. Stripped of tons of metal and technology, Jungkook wears his beating heart on his sleeve and is none the weaker for it.

This seemingly small thing means so much, so so so much. You understand him, and he understands you too, knows that this gesture is indicative of support and care and nurturing, a tiny fragment of peace he can offer you in the tumult of everything out of your control.

A tiny fragment of peace that’s part of a greater whole, all the things that Jungkook gives to you.

When the Marshalls gather you and tell you the plan going forwards, you’re unsurprised.

It makes sense, of course. Four pilots down to two still leaves a pair, and Bulletproof Striker is nearly functional even if Cypher Zero will stay out of commission while she’s rebuilt. Simple maths. One Jaeger, two pilots. You and Jungkook.

You’re scared.

You know you’re Drift compatible. Every fight in the Kwoon Combat Room is evidence enough of that. A dialogue, each challenge is meant to be a dialogue to show physical compatibility, and it is: there’s perfect sync in how you each move to strike, even if your motions are so different, muscles burning and breaths coming faster each time you attack, parry, strike, block. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s a conversation, one that you and Jungkook fall into without thought.

And he would be the perfect partner. That much isn’t in doubt. Loyal and open and strong, honourable and brave and kind—and you know him, have grown to learn so much about this golden boy, this bright, brilliant boy. He’s fucking indomitable and anyone would be lucky to find themselves in the same Jaeger as Jeon Jungkook.

But there are no secrets in the Drift.

To let someone in, you have to trust them. And you do, you do trust Jungkook, probably far more than makes sense, some unspoken thing between you burning like a wildfire. But while you trust him, confident in his strength and his heart, you trust yourself less.

You’ll be flayed open, naked and defenceless. He’ll see right to the core of you, every dirty corner of your crumpled soul, every shameful part of your foundations, uneven brickwork layered into your shaky temperament; strong one second, weak the next. He’ll see that you’re hard inside, too, biting and acidic right down to your shrivelled heart. This nascent thing that you’ve been building with Jungkook, been keeping safe in the cradle of your careful hands, will sputter out and die.

“Baby.”

Yoongi’s voice is comforting, a familiar rumble that rolls through your ears as you rest your head in his lap.

“And I mean that you’re literally being a baby,” he continues, and you curl your lip back from your teeth in a small snarl, menacing.

Yoongi just continues to thread his hands through your hair.

You’ve Drifted with Yoongi often and long enough to know how every thread of thought unspools in that skull of his. You know he has every confidence in the unshakeable pillar of your soul. He’s a brother to you, a connection that thrums deep in your veins even without the intimacy of the Drift, and the love you hold for him is undying and true.

But whatever you have with Jungkook is so timorous in the face of that.

“It’s different.” Yoongi looks down at the twist of your face. You know his thoughts and he knows yours too, your face and heart an open book to him. “But different isn’t bad.”

You keep your mouth shut, keep the words swallowed down in your throat, shoved down to the pit of your stomach. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

“Baby,” he says again, softer, lower. This time, you know it’s an endearment.

At the end of the day, no matter what fear grips cold and endless at your insides, you’ll do it. You’ll Drift with Jungkook. You’ll throw everything you have into the pyre, watch it burn and turn to ash, if it means you can keep everyone safe. To save Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook—you’ll open yourself up to the mortifying ordeal of opening up, laying yourself bare. You have to.

It’s chaotic, anyway. The day that your practice Drift is scheduled is the day the next kaiju rises out of the breach, that dreaded rift between our world and theirs, because why would you be allowed to breathe, even for a second?

It’s a scramble into the cockpit. There’s no time for trial runs or test Drifts. You fly or you fall. Everyone’s in a state of orderly upheaval as you’re suited up and left to stride forwards into a Conn-Pod that isn’t yours, in a Jaeger that isn’t yours.

(Left to stride forwards to stand next to someone who isn’t yours.)

Your Drivesuit is grey. Jungkook’s is white. There’s a subtle hologramatic sheen laid across the planes of his armour, leaving him a multicoloured vision that shines out under the flicker of the cockpit’s endless tiny buttons and lights. Your own suit is a matte, gunmetal with accents of burning scarlet, far more battered and worn. Dark and wild in the face of Jungkook’s radiance. He’s the perfect answer to the kaiju invasion. You, though, feel like an interloper in a space that wasn’t designed for you, this circle room that’s been home to Jungkook and his true, real partner.

But he’s looking at you like there’s no one else he’d rather have by his side.

He doesn’t care that everything about this moment just cements how he’s too good for you in every conceivable way, elevated above you. Doesn’t care that you’re just a temporary stop gap. There’s trepidation, of course, skittering nerves that dance across his face for this first Drift, surrounded by all the commotion that’s swallowing the world up outside the cockpit. But there’s also that fire in his eyes, one you’ve learned to expect: Jungkook is a wildfire and will surmount any obstacle in a blaze of white-hot light.

And he wants you along for the ride.

(Burns bright for it.)

“You ready?” He asks, and the tiny tremor in his words takes you off guard even as it soothes a balm over the rash of apprehension that prickles across your skin.

(Because he’s nervous, too.)

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer, truly.

His eyes crinkle into a smile, crescents of happiness as his lip peels back from his teeth. It should be jarring, seeing his sweet bunny smile in the pit of a Jaeger, so at odds with the military polycarbonate that girds his body with protection, the masculine edges of his face—but it’s not. The world is just a backdrop to Jeon Jungkook, dropping away as you fall into his eyes, twinkling stars of brightness and warmth that hold you safe, even now.

Peace and contentment steals over you. You’re almost shocked by it, the way your own face softens into a smile, the rising beat of your heart. Every ragged messy edge in you is smoothed over by Jungkook’s presence and you glow for him.

When the Conn-Pod drops, there’s the familiar weightlessness, the sway of your body in the harness as you fall. Anticipation roils through you as Bulletproof Striker’s head locks into place, whirring mechanisms securing you to nearly 2000 tons of metal, so much heavier than your own Jaeger. You’ve taken Jungkook’s usual place and he’s taken Taehyung’s, the right hemisphere, the dominant pilot, familiar with this machine in a way you’re not.

Not yet, at least.

“We’ve got this.”

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the noise, the AI talking at you, a narration of events you’ve long grown used to. You turn your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you, intent and sincere. Like always.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, we have.”

There’s no point being afraid. In a few seconds, Jungkook will be in your head, washing over every part of you—and you’ll be in his, pressing your ethereal touch into every facet that comes together to make Jeon Jungkook who he is.

Seconds pass. There’s a little hitch in his breath, a stiffness to his limbs, and he shuts his eyes. You breathe in deep, deep, deep, sucking in a harsh breath into your greedy lungs—

—the timer hits zero—

—and then the Drift slams into you all at once, all encompassing and consuming, threading your minds together.

(Drifting with Yoongi is easy, the familiarity of coming home after so much time away.)

(But this?)

(This is throwing yourself into a cold lake on a hot summer’s day, bracing and refreshing and breath-stealing all at once, shocking life into every one of your limbs, so sharp and fast you’re scared you might drown before you breach the surface, water holding onto you and not letting you go. This is driving reckless and fast down empty roads, watching the world pass you in a blur, laughing in delight at the pleasure of it all. This is scaling a cliffside with nothing but your own hands and determination, digging your fingers into the unyielding rock, pulling yourself up-up-up, never letting yourself fall.)

(This is having Jungkook beside you. This is having Jungkook diving into the lake with all the grace of an Olympian before he rises to the surface, tosses his hair carelessly out of his face, and spits a mouthful of water at you with laughter in his eyes. This is having Jungkook behind the driver’s wheel, shifting gears without thought, looking away from the road to watch the way your hair dances in the wind. This is having Jungkook climbing beside you, waiting for you at the top, holding a hand out to pull you up and over so you can sprawl out beside him, exhausted and exuberant at the top of this mountain, basking in the sun with Jungkook just a hair’s breadth away from you.)

(He takes one look at you. He takes one look at all the dark of your memories, the cascading mess of your insides, the hidden things that are open to him in the Drift, cut open and peeled back for his gaze—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He sees everything, past skin and muscle and bone and nerves, even deeper, right into your heart—)

(—all the torrents that eddy the deep waters of your soul—)

(—and he doesn’t look away.)

(He doesn’t look away.)

(Can’t look away.)

(Doesn’t want to.)

(Never wants to.)

(Jeon Jungkook takes one look at you, your whole being, and he knows you.)

(And he doesn’t want you any less.)

It’s just a second, a flicker, a breath, this first connection in this Drift, falling into each other. But it’s also a lifetime, two lifetimes, four lifetimes; your memories, Jungkook’s memories, Yoongi’s memories in yours, Taehyung’s memories in Jungkook’s. Layers and layers and years and years piled over one another, a tumbling sprawl—but it’s easy. It’s easy, so easy, Jungkook seeing you, you seeing him, everything he is, everything you are, everything you are to each other, with each other, for each other. The important things. The things you need to know to navigate this together, in sync even before now, reading each other to a level neither had even realised.

And when you’ve killed the kaiju. When you’ve walked Bulletproof Striker back to shore, brought her back to the Shatterdome, back home, it doesn’t end. You lift out of the Drift, step out of your Drivesuits, as different as they are (as different as you are), and it doesn’t end.

Jungkook’s eyes linger, as heavy as a physical touch, and even as congratulations for a successful drop are bandied about you, he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his hand against yours—not intertwined, but brushing, the curl of his fingers against your own. Touching. You’re not the protector here. He’s protecting you, in a way that doesn’t leave you feeling inferior or weak. You feel soft and warm and small and safe, pulled inexorably towards him, supported, buoyed up, and you don’t feel selfish for it.

Because he wants this.

He wants to be your comfort and your support.

He doesn’t want it to end.

(You don’t want it to end.)

And when you finally break away from those crowds, released from the shackles of responsibility and expectation—when you’re finally left alone, the two of you with each other, there’s no hesitation when you come together.

He lays you out beneath him and has you sobbing, back arching into the pleasure he draws out of your body, playing you like a maestro. Because he knows you, after all. He knows exactly how to trail his lips across your skin, your neck and stomach and thighs, painting marks across your body like it’s his personal canvas. He knows exactly how to have you twisting underneath him, how to pull those pretty sounds from your lips, fucking you with his fingers and his tongue until you’re a shaking mess. He kisses you sweet, merciless, letting you claw at his skin as you beg for more, more more more, wanting it, needing it, wanting him, needing him.

And you know he’ll give it to you. He’ll give himself to you, give you everything you ask for. You know how he wants to see you fall apart and you know how to move your body to have him gritting his teeth and staring in awe. You know how desperate he is to worship you, to show you his adoration and reverence, and you open up for him, unfurl like a flower, dripping nectar. When he finally presses into you, hot and long and thick, it’s so good you could cry. You draw him in-in-in, into your body and arms and heart, pressing your lips to the sweat at his brow, the taste of skin and salt and Jungkook bursting across your tongue.

There’s no Drift here, no curl of memories and unspoken thoughts between you. It’s physical and human, the crash of your bodies against each other, skin on skin, the thrust of his cock pressing into the dripping folds of your cunt. It’s the other half of that connection, the final piece, this thing you have with Jungkook, this perfect balance you have with him. It sears itself across your body and into your soul: it’s pleasure and passion and devotion carved into each touch of your lips and fingers, each roll of your hips, each time Jungkook makes you cum, gasping for him.

When he’s finally come apart inside you, spilling into your willing heat as you shake beneath him, arms and legs wrapped around his body as you pull him as close as you can, unwilling to let go—it still doesn’t end. You’re so wrapped up in Jungkook, in his arms, his heart, and you know he won’t let you go, either. He presses his lips against yours, chases those kisses, quiet and chaste to open-mouthed and dirty as the mood takes you, and then Jungkook rolls over you again, a spark in his eyes as he decides he’s still hungry for you.

You know, now, that all that time ago, when you carved that space for him into your chest, he’d done the same for you. He’d laid his heart at your feet and waited there, kneeling, for you to accept it, patient and willing. Staring at you with all the deep love you never thought you deserved, never thought you’d receive. But here he is. Here he is, love burning in his dark brown eyes. Eyes that have seen all the damaged, aching parts of you and love you anyway.

“I’m yours.”

Jungkook shines so bright at your words, a supernova of joy. His smile is so wide and his gaze is so soft, for you, for you, for you.

“Everything I am is for you,” he murmurs, letting the words curl into the air, settle across your skin, sink deep inside your chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel this touch of him inside you, wrapped around your heart.

And when you lift your hands, he comes so easily. He presses his cheek into the curve of your fingers, lets you hold him, lets you cup those lovely cheeks in your palms.

“I love you,” he says.

Right now, in this instant, there’s nothing but him. No kaiju, no Jaegers, no crumbling world, nothing. There’s only him, and you, together.

“I love you too,” you reply—and when you smile, gentle and tender, Jungkook falls in love all over again.

Burns bright for you.

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falling-pages · 4 years ago

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Oh no I'm late to the Bakugou party! (if you want to) I'll send a request of Bakugou using his quirk to light your cigarette. Perhaps you two are sitting outside a coffee shop, talking or rather bantering back and forth, and you pull out a cigarette to which he leans forward and sets the tip ablaze, all while keeping eye contact -

Sis 🥵 Thank you for this!! I deviated it a little bit to make it a hurt/comfort fic, so I hope that’s okay. It took me a minute to figure out, but in the end I’m happy with the result! I had fun with the banter and making their history. I also threw in a little bit of mutual pining to tug at the heartstrings.

Description: When Bakugou’s childhood best friend is injured in battle, he goes against all hero training to get them to a safe place and comfort them against the pain, realizing new feelings in the process.

Pro-Hero Katsuki Bakugou x Pro-Hero Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Fluff, Childhood Friends-to-Lovers

Warnings: Smoking, blood.

“Just give it to me!” you snarled, lashing your fingers at Bakugou as he dragged you along the sidewalk. Even as the rough concrete dragged against your back, grating against the sensitive skin exposed by the rips in your hero costume, all you could focus on was the aching need lodged in the back of your spine.

Bakugou listened to you whine, only rolling his eyes as he continued to haul you along the street. He wished he could carry you--it would be a lot faster, and it would put you in less pain--but with his left arm wounded by the same villain that took a bite out of your side, you’d have to be content with the bumpy ride.

It was the opposite of everything he’d ever learned in his hero training, but this was you, his best friend, and he couldn’t leave you vulnerable and hurt on the ground for the villains.

“No, dumbass,” he grunted. His right arm muscles strained from carrying you. “You need medics, not a cigarette.”

“Give me both then!” you demanded. “Baky, come on, you know I need one right now!”

“If you need a smoke that badly, I’ll explode in your face. Inhale that.”

“Not the same.”

Bakugou ignored your rant, only focused on finding a safe place. When he was a student he would have thought this cowardly, running away from a battle, but as soon as he saw you fall a few minutes ago all he could focus on was getting you away from the fight and hidden from villains. Despite the public oath he took upon graduation to protect the city and its citizens above all else, you were his best friend, and you came first.

His eyes searched the streets for any refuge. Despite the nice weather, no one was outside, a welcome relief. For once they actually listened to orders and stayed inside. He didn’t have to worry about you and some clueless civilian getting mixed up in a villain’s way.

But, if someone were here, maybe they could have helped.

Soon your complaints turned to pained whimpers, and Bakugou’s heart raced as he realized he had little time left. You needed a hiding spot and a doctor, and fast.

“Hang on, dumbass,” he said, tightening his hold on you. “You’re not dying on me. That’s extra behavior.”

“I’m not an extra,” you grumble.

“Hell no you’re not. So just stay with me.”

Despite the raging pain flowing through your body, you cracked a smile. He couldn’t see it, but it warmed your heart to know he cared. Even if he was awful about admitting it.

As he got more fatigued, your body got heavier. For both of your sakes, he needed to find a hiding spot fast.

Finally, he found a closed coffee shop with a broken lock and dragged you inside. He hid the two of you behind the counter, amid bags of coffee beans and pristine equipment. Though the lights were off, the windows were big enough to let him see just how badly you were injured.

Slightly delirious, you rested your head against a sack of flour to stop the world from spinning. Your injury was bad enough, but him dragging you across the city exacerbated the blood loss. The edges of your vision were fogging up.

You felt his hands on your stomach, hooking under the torn strips of cloth and ripping to expose your lower abdomen where the bite was. Too hurt to even be embarrassed, you let him examine you. The rush of air was cold against your burning skin.

Bakugou sucked in his breath. You had been attacked by some sort of poison villain, a new one. They had sunk their fangs into you and pumped toxins, causing the veins stretching across your stomach to turn a sickly neon blue as the poison spread. When they detached their fangs, they took a chunk with them, leaving an exposed wound down the side of your body.

If the poison were as dangerous as it looked, you would have died already. What he needed to focus on now was your blood pooling on the floor.

He crouched above you, instinctually shielding you in your weakened state. The villain had attacked him too, but he managed to rip them off before the toxins could paralyze him, only leaving a bloody wound in his bicep. In the heat of battle, he had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding…

“Hey, idiot,” he said, snapping his fingers. You slowly opened your eyes, watching him in paralytical annoyance. “I’m going to use my quirk to stop the bleeding, okay? Bite this.” He found a spare dish towel and strapped it in your mouth, both to protect your tongue and keep your screams quiet from anyone who may have followed the blood trail outside.

You accepted it, but your eyes betrayed the fear ricocheting through your body. Just as he lowered his good arm to your wound, a tear slid down your face, catching his attention. With the most comforting expression he could muster, he lifted his numb hand and wiped the tear away, letting it rest against your cheek for a few subtle moments.

“Hey,” he whispered, gruff voice lowered into a calming tone. “I know this is going to hurt. I’m sorry. But this is the only way to stop this type of bleeding, so you need to be brave for me, alright?”

A couple more tears escaped as you nodded. He dutifully wiped them off. He pushed your hair back from your eyes and made you look at him, showing you his blown-out pupils and just how scared he was, too.

“You are the bravest person I know, and that’s saying something, especially considering myself.” You smiled at his attempt at a compliment. “So I just need you to keep being brave.” In lost judgement, he leaned forward and kissed your forehead, feeling how hot your face was even beneath his lips. You shed another tear, not from pain, but from gratitude for not being alone.

As he kissed you, he activated his quirk, letting the heat consume your side. Fire licked at your skin as you mustered a scream, biting down on the dish towel in an attempt to lash out. Bakugou pressed his forehead against yours, pinning down your legs with his own to keep you still as you thrashed, muffled curse words mixing with your cries.

“Just a few more seconds,” he whispered, feeling your skin close beneath his hand. “Hang on.”

You grabbed his other hand and squeezed, needing something to anchor your consciousness. He let you, returning the affection even with the little feeling he had in the wound. Each scream pierced his heart.

Finally, he felt the wound close completely and released your side, waving away the smoke that scorched your skin. You panted and spit out the towel, eyes rolling back from the shockwaves of pain. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would have to do for now. At least the bleeding stopped; an antidote could come later.

“Baky…” you whined.

He knew what you needed, silently getting up and finding a mug to fill with water. You struggled to sit up, pain blinding every move, until you felt hands shift beneath your armpits and pull you into a sitting position. He moved your head to rest against the counter and brought the cup up to your lips.

“Drink.”

You did as you were told, gulping the liquid as quickly as you could. Bakugou yanked the cup away mid-sip, making you choke. Water dripped down your chin as you shot him a dirty look.

“Small sips.”

You grabbed the mug to hold it for yourself, though his hands still hovered lightly against you. His bright red eyes stayed trained on yours as you followed his instructions, draining the cup bit by bit, until it was empty and you were satisfied.

You held his gaze for a little while longer, daring him to do something, anything.

“Thank you,” you finally whispered, feeling the pressure of his strong hands overcome you, making you put the mug down on the floor. His hands covered yours, worn scars upon worn scars, warmth upon warmth.

He rocked on his heels and smirked. “You’re not dying on me, extra. You’re damn wrong if you think you can get out of opening an agency with me.”

“I’m not an extra,” you spat again, but he heard the mirth in your voice. The promise you made together in high school makes you feel warm, flooding your insides with nostalgia, filling your mouth with honey. Open your own agency together, be Heroes together or not at all.

Today, it was almost not at all.

“I want--”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bakugou read your mind. He reached into the hidden compartment of his gauntlet and presented your favorite pack of cigarettes, pulling out a long, slender stick and perching it on your lips. His hand lingered a second too long, brushing against your chin, but his eyes widened as they met yours.

A fleeting desire crossed your mind, like a comet streaking against the sky, but then the ache in your side sent you back to earth.

“Thanks.” You said, lifting your hand to push the cigarette further into your mouth.

“Tch. Those things will kill you,” Bakugou grumbled, but he leaned forward, not breaking eye contact, until he was close enough to almost taste the other end. His gaze dropped down to your mouth, back to your eyes, and then down again as he raised his hand.

With a tiny pop, his palm connected to the cigarette butt and produced an explosion just big enough to light up the end. The buzz filled your mouth and crawled down the back of your throat, scratching that sweet itch. As you inhaled, Bakugou shook his hand out to clear the smoke.

“Can’t be much worse than this poison villain.” You took a breath. “I’m bouncing back fine.”

Bakugou huffed, setting his sight on the blue veins on your abdomen. “You weren’t the one carrying a basically unconscious body.”

“First of all, I was conscious, and second of all, you were dragging me. There was no ‘carrying’ in this scenario.” You watched the guilt manifest in his eyes, that rare sight of remorse. “So if I get skidmarks on my back, that’s on you.”

“Would be a cool scar. You could match Dunceface’s lightning strikes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, watching as he inhaled the smoke. His eyes sparkled like rubies in the night sky. “Maybe. But at least I know you’ll save me again.”

“Tch. I have since we were kids, haven’t I? I will, forever.”

He wasn’t looking at you. Guilt settled in his stomach as he stared at the charred skin stretching between your ribs and hip, thinking about how much pain he must have caused you. You winced as you leaned forward to touch his shoulder, leveling eye to eye and just a few inches apart. The movement seemed to send an electric shock through him as he forced himself to meet your gaze.

He had been your partner, your protector, for as long as he could remember. And today, he let his guard down, and you got hurt. You almost died. And in saving your life, he had caused you more pain.

Your aching scream would fill his nightmares for the rest of his life.

“You didn’t do this to me, Katsuki.” His teeth rippled along his lower lip as you said his first name. The familiarity of your voice, your scent, your touch washed his heart in peace. You were here. You were with him. You were safe.

“I did. I exploded your side.” He wanted to shake you off, pay penance for his guilt with a broken heart, but your grip was like steel. “Some hero I am, doing this to--”

“You saved my life!” you screeched. “Katsuki, look--look at me!”

He turned his eyes to you, but he wasn’t looking at you, he was busy searching for any other explanation for how close you were now.

“If you hadn’t been watching me when that villain attacked me, I would be dead. If you hadn’t dropped everything and dragged me to safety, I would be dead. If you hadn’t used your quirk on me, I would be bleeding out in front of you.” You pant and grab his face, forcing him to look into your soul, into your heart, into the very depths of feelings you had for him. “You saved my life. You are a hero.”

He was puzzled. You were a pro-hero. He didn’t need to protect you anymore. So why was he insistent on watching?

Because he could never take his eyes off you.

He whispered your name as if it were a prayer, thanking everyone who cared to listen, as he leaned in and kissed you.

Your heart shattered, but in the best way, as if it had been puzzle assembled incorrectly and each piece was falling back into its perfect place.

As if he could control it, the pain lessened the longer Bakugou kissed you, gently grabbing your waist opposite your wound. The kiss was salty, and warm, and long, the product of years of pining and pent-up feelings. Every time you tried to pull away, he would bring you back in, as if he couldn’t believe this was actually happening and needed more proof. You, too, couldn’t believe how gently your angry blond friend held you. It was the opposite of everything you had ever known about him, but maybe you had a good influence on him.

Maybe, this was the start of something new.

#bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #my hero academia #midoriya izuku #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #bnha #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #bakugou fanfiction #bakugo mha #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #blood tw #smoking tw

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pynkhues · 3 years ago

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.... any succession fic recs? 👀

Yes!! I haven't read a lot for it yet, but some of the stuff I've read has been staggeringly good. I'm generally more into gen fic in this particular fandom, but have enjoyed some Stewy x Kendall, Gerri x Roman and Naomi x Tabitha too.

A few recs under the cut!

“I wanted to get out. From under all this. Take the money and run.”

Kendall tells Stewy even though he knows he’ll never get it, not like Naomi does. He’ll never understand the crush of it, the heart-stopping head-fucking fear of failing a tyrant. Kendall’s been ignoring the shape of it for a long time, putting pieces of it together in the back of his mind in total darkness like a blindfolded man. It doesn’t matter that one day his dad will die. It doesn’t matter about the money or the hostile takeover or the stolen files or any of it. There’s no running. Kendall’s Logan Roy lives inside his head.

Stewy laughs. Stewy laughs for a long time.

“There is no out, Ken, what the fuck are you talking about? You were born this and you’ll die this. You are what you are, and what you are is a fucking Roy.”

Kendall hates him, for a moment. Lightning-strike furious. What the fuck does he know about any of it, about his dad’s swinging dinner plate-sized hands, about getting 24% name recognition in reliable international polling, about puking every time you think about a car swerving off the road in the rain. About finding out that you can do something unthinkably, unimaginably terrible, and it doesn’t matter to anyone you know but you. There’s a scar on his arm that no one else who hasn’t already been told how it got there can ever know about, and he’s sick of it, and it’s not fair. He hates Stewy for a moment because Stewy’s right.

“I wanted to do the right thing, Stewy, for once in my fucking life.”

Stewy laughs again, more briefly, and the predator flash of his eyes in the neon of the motel sign is a torture all its own.

‘There is no right and wrong, Ken. How the fuck do you not know that yet? Not for people like you. Like us. There’s shit you get caught doing and there’s shit you don’t.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You really, really fucking don’t,” says Ken, and fuck, there it is. The road less travelled, that only he has ever driven on. The path he’s down where Stewy can’t follow. That place beyond Stewy Hosseini where he never thought he could go.

“You’re not telling me something, and when I find out what that is, and I will find out what it is, Kendall, don’t you think I won’t, so I am warning you that when I do find out I am going to be righteously fucking pissed,” says Stewy, and if Kendall thought those were a predator’s eyes before—

“Yeah, you will,” says Kendall, because he knows exactly how perceptive Stewy is. Exactly how weak he is. Exactly, precisely what both of them are.

And treat this night like it’ll happen again by postcardmystery. 8k words. Kendall x Stewy. Post s2. (CW: internalised homophobia, some homophobic language)

I tried to pick a shorter excerpt, but I literally couldn’t, this fic is so. good. The voices are pitch perfect, and it’s got this incredible build to it overall that goes back and forth between time and point of views and just rips your heart out. The premise itself is pretty simple – after the press conference at the end of 2.10, Kendall calls Stewy, and they drive through rural America while Kendall has a breakdown, and it’s just - - unspeakably good. I love it so so so much, I have no words.

r/roysucks Connor’s gf just posted on Instagram (instagram.com) submitted two months ago by webbedscrum_2279 23 comments share save hide report

[–] DM_ME_SAMESMAIL 40 points two months ago I too like to escape to my yacht in the Mediterranean when my family and I are on trial for covering up rape and murder. permalink embed save report reply

AITA for accusing my father of multiple crimes on his own news station? By amleth 3k words. Gen fic. Post s2.

And now for something completely different – epistolary fic which is just reddit news threads of the Roy family drama. I love an epistolary fic and this is just totally charming, and made me laugh a lot out loud.

“You’re quiet,” she observes. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah, well, the Turks beat it out of me. Gave you a run for their money.” He waggles his eyebrows. “So what is this? Whips and chains? Are we doing the whole boat-sex thing? I heard Shiv and Tom are looking for a third —“

Gerri finds what she’s looking for: a black leather binder. She drops it on the bed and begins paging through it, and Roman cranes his neck enough to recognize that it’s just full of documents, not like, dick pics. “I’ve given some thought to what you proposed a few weeks ago, and I agree that we should make things official in some way,” she says, and he blinks.

“Uh,” he says. “Which — what part of it?”

“Take a look.”

Gerri closes the folio and hands it over. It’s deceptively heavy, and the print on these pages is way too fucking fine, he thinks, paging through it. “Is this some kind of, like, Fifty Shades of Roy sex contract? Because it’s not that I’m not into it, but I think there’s a strong argument for going paperless —”

“Strictly speaking, this isn’t legally binding,” Gerri says. “Just something I threw together with regard to our business arrangement going forward. But with no respect to the family — the past few weeks have really illustrated that no one should take anyone at their word right now. Give me a little more than your word.”

Evacuation strategies for a yacht on fire by devourthemoon. 11k words. Gerri x Roman. Post s2. Explicit.

After the events of s2, Roman and Gerri fake being married as a professional alliance, only, y’know, maybe it’s not so fake. This fic is just so, so much fun, and messy in the best possible way. The author nails all the character voices, and the sex scenes are just the right amount of hot and ridiculous, and I just love it all a lot too.

Kendall estimates it will take an hour for the first articles to go up. Some rapid-fire blog without oversight—the New York Post, maybe, or wherever those Vaulter hippies have skulked off to—will slap a catchy headline on it and report his words verbatim. Give or take a gif of his face when he switches to script number two. New York Times, Washington Post, AP, those fuckers take longer. They like to bleed the story like Middle Ages plague doctors for its marrow, fact-check and add context and analysis and as many backlinks as their servers can handle. Still, a couple of hours, and his face will be plastered on every major news outlet. His voice will play over the nightly talk shows. He’ll trend on Twitter. A few more days, and he’ll be the star of analysis segments, podcasts, weekly briefings. Maybe, fuck it, maybe he’ll trend on Twitter again.

It’s been years since Kendall read Shakespeare. But that shit sticks with you, gets under your skin and emerges when you least expect it, like eczema or Keynesian economics. He knows how the media will spin this. Kendall Roy Attacks CEO Logan for Years of Corruption. Prodigal Son Disrupts Family Legacy to Restore Credibility. That’s how Hamlet ends, right? And Macbeth, Lear, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, even Titus fucking Andronicus. The spilled blood sinks into the ground, the seedlings sprout forth from the soil, and a new castle is built on the bones. Order out of chaos, or at least close enough an approximation that the tabloids will buy it.

Legacy for profit by owlinaminor Post-2.10. Kendall Roy. Kendall through Shakespeare analogies – just - - ooooof. It's a beautiful, lyrical character study that weaves through Roy family history and teases at a future none of them are even sure they want. It's gorgeous writing.

For the next few days Shiv would have to keep the pressure on Kira like an open wound because there were other women, victims that Nate’s people were going to find one by one as soon as that phone call disconnected. Mo was her father’s friend, good friend, for a long, long time. Nate and Gil, Sandy and Stewy, too many sharks in the water and the share price probably dipped to a new low but she would never check a stock ticker. Her husband’s nerves fraying at the edges on national television. She had promised a woman she’d never met before that she would kill roughly one third of the top male executives of her family’s company. Her company.

The last look Rhea gave her before she shut the car door was concern close to fear—no longer the same woman who heard their pitch in the safe room, who laughed with her at Argestes. Rhea had only looked into the abyss; she got cold feet and she didn’t even know what it’s like to grow up in it.

Her family’s company is hers, will be hers. Even from a whale fall, new life would spring.

Feed his flesh to wayward daughters by reogulus. 2k words. Shiv Roy. Set during 2.09.

This entire fic is set around Shiv bribing Kira not to testify, and god, it is so good. It’s bleak and rough, and really hones in on the complex ground Shiv walks as a character. It's another brilliant study of what it takes to be a Roy, and the way they make the awful choices in order to fulfill this legacy that they don't even know they want.

Kendall sets down his fork. “So. Tell me. Is it everything you wanted? Is it what you thought it would be?”

Roman stills. He never does that. He’s constantly a menace in motion, slouching and fidgeting, worse even than Kendall at his amphetamine peak. “What? The view from the tippy-tippy-top?”

“His regard.” Kendall wipes his mouth with the edge of the white cloth napkin. It comes away pink from the steak. “Dad. He’s all yours now.”

Roman still hasn’t moved. Finally, he lurches, like corroded machinery come uncertainly to life. “Yeah, man. It’s fucking tight as hell. I love every beautiful daddy and me moment I was a good enough little boy to earn.” He snorts. “Fuck you.” His face goes curiously slack then, like something Kendall’s own face would do. An intermission in the performance, an energy cut. Something genuine finding its way to the surface. “Why don’t you tell me. When you got everything you wanted, how the fuck did that make you feel?”

Nauseous, is the first word that springs to mind. Sick. Scared. I’ve never had everything I wanted, there’s that. I’ve never once had a single fucking thing I wanted. There’s that, too.

Interim leadership by arbitrarily 2k words. Roman + Kendall. Post s2.

I love Roman and Kendall scenes generally, but this one which features Kendall and Roman meeting for the first time a few months after the press conference in 2.10 is just a bit magic. The push pull dynamic that's just inherent to them mixed with the genuine affection and brotherly love is really special, and arbitrarily embraces both in equal measure. It's a great little fic.

There are lots more of course, and I'd also recommend checking out other works by these authors, but I hope this is a good place to start! :-)

#hbo succession #succession fic #fic recs #welcome to my ama #kendall x stewy #gerri x roman

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passedtense · 2 years ago

Text

He looked at her, flatly. From the outside, it was his mistress versus the world, fighting to the death to keep standing on the top brick of the pyramid. She was winning, of course. From his perspective, which was leaning just over her shoulder, it was the mistress versus herself, playing chicken in two neon sports cars. Ninety-hour work weeks, countless missed meals, decisions about high stakes deals and operations which thousands of families depended on just to get food on the table. Her heart, in tandem with Ryo, powered through it all to keep her upright, keep the blood running through her to deliver oxygen and nutrients where they needed to go. Just like everybody else, he was waiting for her to falter, watching her with the intensity of some small prey animal, scared every minute of every day that he was being hunted, that disaster would strike. He knew very intimately how close she could come. No one was that strong. But maybe his mistress was.

He would reschedule an appointment and get her into her favorite spa next week. And maybe call the doctor to stop by the office for a checkup too.

Ryo huffed, “Oh, cool, so I get to pick out dinner today. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, the tails of his tie fluttering off his torso as he spun on his heels and started out the door with his backpack. This was their dynamic; constantly yoyo-ing back and forth between appropriate and insubordinate, professional and intimate. It was the mark of an actually good assistant, Ryo decided. Walking through the parking garage, he thought up a quick to-do list and shot a can’t make it tonight sorry text to his friend.

Place food order

Stop at home

Feed Patrick

Shower

Grab clothes to wear tomorrow, a sheet mask for the mistress, replenish backpack

Fill up her car’s gas tank

Pick up food

If they did end up being able to leave the office tonight, he would just sleep in her guest room as he usually did. He also made a mental note that they would have to leave work earlier than his original plan tomorrow so she had plenty of time to get ready for the gala. Maybe she could take a nap while he did her makeup.

An hour and twelve minutes later, he was back, fresh faced, wearing sweatpants and holding takeout. He put his food on the coffee table and his backpack on the couch. With a practiced methodology, he grabbed a water bottle from the minifridge and walked over to her desk. To the side of her laptop and the stack of papers she was looking at, he cleared a spot and pulled her food out, setting the plasticware and napkin neatly side by side. Stepping away, he gestured to the food “Chicken Caesar, Miss Miyawaki.”

He collected his hair and put it in a bun using the hair-tie on his wrist so he could eat unbothered as he settled into his normal spot on the couch. His back to the door, he had a clear view of both his mistress and the city outside. He flipped through his Spanish notes with one hand as he ate his own salad with the other, being sure not to get any dressing on the pages. They were doing more and more business with manufacturers in Mexico, Colombia and Argentina and would likely be traveling there soon. Between bites he practiced his pronunciation under his breath, “Jornada completa. Com- ple- ta.”

When his salad was done, he tidied up after himself and put his notes away. The filing cabinet had needed a reorganization for weeks, might as well start before he got tired. As he reached up to grab a box from the top shelf, his t-shirt rode up, revealing a few inches of his stomach. He settled on the floor next to his mistress’ desk and began separating the files into different piles, some to keep, some to discard of. He came across one he wasn’t too sure of and looked up at her, clearing his throat apologetically, “Do you want to hold on to these sales reports from last quarter?”

Twin sighs; one audible, one suppressed; one belonging to Ryo, and one to Kiana – surely the last two people in the building, save the security guards.

Not for the first time, Kiana wondered why she chose to stay in this line of work. Digs deep within her, claws through parts of herself to grasp onto an unshakeable reason – and is head-to-head with some warped sense of duty, invisible bonds that tighten the more she struggles. The truth is that there is no intrinsic reason, only the shallow one of quite liking the view on the 44th floor. Then there was the undecipherable one, the scary one, which is that the seat she’s on is hers, and hence so are the endless duties that come with her position. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself if she didn’t have work and so she remains despite the heavy drawbacks.

The cowardly way, she muses to herself. Holding onto the position not for firm beliefs, but the fear of perceiving herself beyond work.

She blinks. The late night must be getting to her.

“Thank you, Ryo.” Kiana says, eyes curved in crescent moons, fingers slipping easily around the glass. Lets the liquid burn her throat, warm her – thinks, the interviewers will never find out. Her insides are hollow but they will see someone with a firm conviction in her company’s values, someone who has passion whereas the reality is –.

Slightly teary eyes – from exhaustion, she tells herself – regard her assistant. Ryo has been with her for a while now, and she has no idea what she’d do without him. She has no idea on the specifics of what he does – which is ideal, really, because if she needed to oversee her assistant’s tasks then that’d defeat the very purpose. She has no idea why he stays to drive her home every night, and is the first person she sees when she wakes up. All she knows is that he is every bit deserving of his hefty paycheque (and her only valid assistant thus far).

“Dinner is unnecessary,” she says with a wave of her hand. The rustling of papers fills the air as she resigns to her fate. “It will only delay the inevitable. As for home, I certainly hope to.” She laughs. “But I’m unsure if that’s possible. I still have the spare change of clothes you brought over from last time, so don’t worry about me. You should head home.” As if she hasn’t said this before a million times, as if the outcome isn’t always the same.

#patrick is his pet iguana #in the anime he unironically calls a woman 'milady' so #there's that

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ladyfloriographist · 4 years ago

Text

Prompt: 13. “Can we just make a decision? Please?”

Pairing: Adam (Only Lovers Left Alive) x femme!voluptuous!Reader

Warnings: night drives to a video store, fluff-ish stuff, flirting, cursing (because it’s Adam), and would vamps love the idea of temperature play? I think they would

XXXX

“Oh, my God. Adam, stop. Pull over.”

Adam glances out your window for the briefest moment. “What is it?” his vaguely interested baritone drones.

“Look!” It’s an old video store, a movie rental place, a relic from a time gone by. “Please please—oh! We’re past it.” You sigh and slump back in your seat, staring out the window as the next-to-deserted moon-lit city rolls by.

Slowing to a stop before a red light, Adam looks to you. “Really?” he says, with the faintest smile—like he could humour you, if you were sweet about it.

You put your hand on his where it rests on the gearshift. The chill of his flesh is comforting, somehow, and he feels the same about your warmth. You run your thumb over the exposed back of his hand. “I haven’t seen one of them in so long. I didn’t even know they still existed. Will you take me, baby? Can we go?”

Ever so subtly, the corners of his mouth tug upward, like he’s trying to hold back a smile.

“Five minutes,” you attempt to persuade him further, “that’s all. And we could have a movie night!”

His brows raise, and you shuffle a little closer to him in your seat.

You adjust yourself, pushing your chest out and pressing your arms together to exaggerate your ample cleavage. Then, you drop your voice and murmur huskily, “You could watch me eat a choc-top—”

The traffic lights turn green.

“—feel my mouth get all cold.”

Adam tears his gaze from yours and throws a u-turn, spinning his old Jaguar around and following the road back the way you’d come.

He smiles slyly at you out of the corner of his eye as the engine rumbles down the desolate street, and you grin at him. No more words need be said.

Adam pulls into the carpark, and an old neon ‘open late’ sign flickers and flashes in the large window.

“Wow,” you whisper, ripping off your seat belt and stepping out of the car. “I can’t believe this place is still here. I thought they all closed a few years ago.”

Adam huffs a shallow laugh as he shuts and locks his door. “Time in a lost place is a funny old thing.”

You whip around to face him, and find him glaring at the old building with thinly veiled disgust. The large windows are a little grimy, and two nearby rubbish bins overflow with garbage. Inside, one of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickers, and another one is cracked and broken, illuminating nothing beneath it.

“Fuck’s sake…” Adam murmurs quietly.

You stretch your arm out to him. “Come on, grumpy.”

Slowly his gaze lands on yours, looking every bit the part of a sullen teenager.

“For me,” you beckon him closer, offering your hand. “We won’t be here long.”

Begrudgingly, Adam stalks towards you and slips his gloved palm into yours. “They’d better sell that fucking ice cream here,” he growls, slipping on his Oakley shades.

“I’m sure they will, baby,” you croon, smiling back at him as you push open the large glass door.

It’s stale inside, the damp and dust only just kept at bay by whirring air conditioning that churns out crisp, cold, recycled air.

You shiver a little, and Adam finds it delightful.

The young clerk behind the counter looks up, slightly surprised but mostly disinterested. “We close in ten,” they grumble.

“Midnight?” Adam questions, and the clerk nods, going back to their phone. He squeezes your hand and says, “Make it quick,” – but your attention is already elsewhere.

“How much for a slurpee?” you call to the sales clerk eagerly.

They look at you with a blank stare.

“Sorry,” you gesture at the machine, rotating crushed, watery ice artificially coloured a deep pinkish-red. “For a slushie?”

“Two-fifty for a small, four bucks for a large.”

You glance at Adam, smiling sweetly. “It’ll make my tongue red,” you murmur breathily.

Adam regards you with an intense, lingering stare.

“I’ll taste a little sweeter,” you whisper.

He looks deep into your eyes, and when he glimpses your lips his nostrils flare very, very subtly—but enough for you to know, your whispered words are affecting him.

After pleading and paying you and Adam find yourselves strolling into the paranormal and supernatural section.

You break from his palm to grab at one of the selection, and hold it up to his face.

“This,” you say emphatically, “this was so popular, babe.”

Adam tilts his head to the side as he scrutinises the cover. “’True… Blood’?” he says slowly, turning over the concept in his mind.

You nod. “It’s what the vamps drink. This manufactured kind of…” you search for the word, “synthetic blood.”

“Hm.”

“Based on books.” You hand the Blue-Ray to him and he peruses it further. “And HBO made it, so,” you wrap your lips around the clear plastic straw and suck more of the icy treat into your mouth.

You keep your eyes locked with his as you do, and Adam watches from behind his black sunglasses, rapt. You swallow and finish your sentence. “So, it’s very sexy.”

Adam looks set to lunge for you and tackle you to the musty, un-vacuumed carpet.

You think quickly, having bitten off more than you can chew and needing to pump the brakes on your teasing. “Here,” you grab the first thing you see and hand it to him, “another option.”

Adam takes the DVD case and his features soften. Gently, he trails the tips of two fingers over the cover art. “Vlad,” he murmurs, and his mouth breaks into a small, wistful smile.

Your gaze flicks back and forth from Adam to ‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ in quick succession. “You know Gary Oldman?” you squeak, incredulity lacing your voice and your features.

Adam smiles. He places the DVD back on the shelf. “By another name.”

You stare, gobsmacked, as Adam picks up another movie—continuing on as if no revelations have been divulged. His smooth forehead creases as he inspects the DVD and he flips the case over in his hand.

“Handsome,” he says softly. “Was this popular too?”

“’Twilight’?” you raise your brows. “Very.”

The furrow creasing Adam’s brow deepens, and he slides the movie back into its place on the shelf.

After a few more minutes of browsing, the clerk calls out from behind the counter, announcing to the pair of you that the store is closing.

You spin on your heel to face Adam. He’d been getting lost in small moments of nostalgia, disdain, and melancholy. Perhaps bringing him here was a bad idea.

“Come on, baby,” you take his hand in yours, “they’re closing. Pick one and let’s go.”

Adam grumbles an inaudible growl of a word and looks up from the DVD he’d been holding. He stares at the shelves, and clenches his jaw.

This isn’t good. “Can we just make a decision? Please?”

“Is this what you thought of me and my kind before we met?” Adam says in the dull, drole tone of someone particularly unimpressed. “That I could, fucking, sparkle and glimmer in the sunlight?” Unceremoniously he drops the movie back onto the shelf, and his lip subtly curls in distaste. “How terrible for you to realise the truth. Fuck, you must be bitterly disappointed.”

You cock your head to the side. Though you couldn’t possibly have foreseen Adam confronting his own undead immortality at a Blockbuster in the middle of the night, this was definitely a bad idea. Adam was dipping his toes in the cold, dark, rippling pool of vampiric existentialism and no, you will not try this again, lest he fall in.

The clerk calls out to you again, impatient and tired.

You switch tacts, trying on something that all men fall prey to, living or undead. “Well, the truth is stranger than fiction, my love.” You step closer to Adam, and place your palm on his chest. You step up on your tip toes, and let your hot breath fan over his neck. “And far more… seductive.”

Like dropping a cube of ice into warm water, the press of your hand thaws his surly mood.

Adam gazes at your face. “Look at you,” he purrs, eyeing how the crushed, syrup-laden ice has changed the colour of your tongue. “You look like…” he licks at his bottom lip, “you’re just like… my little strawberry.”

You smile. “A strawberry, hm?”

“Yes,” he murmurs darkly, backing you against the shelves.

“Hey! Hey—excuse me. Look, I’m locking up and I really need y’all to leave,” says a voice off in the distance.

“Well, come on then, baby,” you murmur with a soft, breathy voice, “take me home and eat me.”

Adam’s almost never moved faster.

XXXX

Come and let me know if you have a prompt you’d like me to write! There are some lists on my blog, and at this stage I’m happy to write for the Enola Holmes versions of Sherlock and Mycroft, and any Tom Hiddleston character b/c I’m in love xx

#adam (only lovers left alive)#only lovers left alive #adam x you #adam x reader #tom hiddleston #g writes prompts #it is SO hard to tag this #adam (olla) x you #adam (olla) x reader #voluptuous!Reader

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eternaltm · 3 years ago

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he is kneeling, blood on his hands and his face, white shirt stained red. some of it is his; most is the hunter’s. ❛ i — had to. i needed to protect you. he was going to hurt you, and i … i couldn’t let that happen. ❜ bloody palms upturned like an offering. ❛ i did this for you. ❜

jupiter came for my entire ass and i have thought of nothing else sense. buckle in.

they have come for him BEFORE, suspicious. they have asked their questions. demanded explanations that he did NOT have. dangerous. the museum he owns is a neon sign to hunters and he’s known that for a while, has crossed that bridge again and again. the wood of it weakens each time, the stream beneath more and more angry with each pass --- waters dark. before he knew what he was, before lucifer came to him like a dream, colin FEARED those depths but now he knows that the murky black is not a threat to HIM but to those who make him a TARGET. one man, in particular, has proven to be very determined to snuff him out. a man in his late forties, now --- one who called himself FRIEND. that was before getting wind that colin wasn’t HUMAN. oh, how he’d turned. colin watched HATRED consume him like a CANCER. some hunters are like that. they believe that anything NOT HUMAN is therefore entirely EVIL. a service, a weight he chose to carry, ridding the world of things he can’t UNDERSTAND. their last encounter had been a bloody one and colin had expected it to be something FINAL. gone were conversations between them, gone were the slim chances of reason. each attempt was different but that last one had been CAREFULLY crafted, blade soaked in the oil made from the olive tree of vouves --- or so he proudly CLAIMED. that blade, silver and salted, had torn him open as if he were PAPER --- but the hunter looked at him with FEAR in his eyes when he did not wither or catch fire. colin allowed him to keep his life --- had believed, so naive, that he would LET IT GO and accept that some things cannot be KILLED. colin would not be the first immortal angrily written about in a hunter’s journal, nor would he be the last. days have passed with nothing, not even a whisper. the man ends up at the BACK of colin’s mind until LUCIFER HIMSELF appears before him, dripping in BLOOD. he knows, the moment that he sees him --- knows, somehow, without the devil uttering a word. william lucas is dead. the man so terrified of EVIL. made to meet his beloved maker by the very word’s poster-boy. hands turn up to him, RED. an offering. time CHOKES and SPUTTERS around them as colin moves closer, as he absorbs this image --- these words. THIS LOVE. the god becomes so FULL all at once that it is a wonder emotion, at its purest form, doesn’t solidify, doesn’t bubble and ooze from every opening. colin does not emit the light he feels, prismatic in nature --- he does not radiate anything when he stops, hazels unable to look AWAY from the scene before him. ADORATION replaces every cell he has, so much that his hands start to SHAKE. for a moment, he looks like he may be an ANGRY GOD --- like he may boom a COMMAND but when colin speaks, his voice is stained with INTIMACY unlike anything else.

“oh, 𝐌𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 --- what have you done?” he lowers himself down, hands finding bloody cheeks the moment his knees come in contact with the floor --- palms still trembling. he touches lucifer as though he were a fragile DOME of sugar, more breakable than even GLASS, like he may crack further under too strong of an exhale. “i know. i know.” words are cooed, a lighter whisper than even what the ghosts of the museum are capable of as his thumb caresses back and forth --- RED smearing like paint they now share. tainted. stained. emotion swells. he starts to raise, but not before hovering and placing a KISS against the DEVIL’S forehead. eyes close. colin lingers for a moment, his sigh cool against the blood on lucifer’s skin. hands move again --- this time to find BLOODY PALMS and hold them in his OWN. carefully, he guides the other to stand WITH him. the intention is to wash it all away, but colin stays --- steps into warmth again. hands together, slick with this GIFT. the god moves close, brow gently nudged against brow as he closes his eyes as if PAINED. it hurts, loving THIS deeply. it hurts, having nowhere to put it. OVERWHELMED. he feels RAW, exposed at the edges. “i forgive you.” spoken between them, against skin. “of course i forgive you --- look at you.” he can’t pull away, seems to FEAR the action itself. he noses against him, DOTES against BLOOD and ... UTTER PERFECTION. it takes him a moment. he needs this, to be close. touching. that bridge over darkened water catches fire. he tells himself, as a familiar pale face floats by under the surface, NEVER AGAIN. the heat is a comfort against his back as he turns, as he steps back away from lucifer and pulls him gently by his STAINED hands. “come with me, my love.” oh. there is something different in his eyes --- something like WORSHIP. “let me THANK YOU for this thing you have done. let me wash this away, not because it is a SIN, but because i want NONE OF HIM against your skin where i intend to be.”

#mcrningstar #*quietly stands up*#*unplugs my keyboard*#*walks outside*#*lays it against the curb*#*jumps on it and SPLITS IT IN HALF*

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hoodedwing · 4 years ago

Text

Inhisar

Summary: After an hour of waiting, Dick goes to hunt for Tiger who didn’t make an appearance. Tiger isn’t just fighting a migraine but something else he refuses to meet head-on with.

Characters: Tiger King of Kandahar, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd (mentions), Damian Wayne (mentions), Bruce Wayne - as Batman (mentions)

Warnings: Mentions of a knife but no blood, gore or anything.

Additional notes: 80% of the fics I see revolving Dick and Tiger are usually Tiger looking after Dick but because I’m a sucker for hurt characters who’ve been through hell and refuse to open his/her/their mouth, I swapped the roles and did something hurt/comf ish. I’m also setting up my ao3 where I’ll transfer my fics there too. Enjoy!

Word Count: 1,801words

inhisar - reliance

***

Dick waited at the rooftops for close to an hour already. He couldn’t shake the buzz from his body as he did a few backflips to shake the feeling off. He was supposed to meet Tiger here close to thirty minutes ago but he hadn’t shown up. It was strange of the usually punctual man who promised some vital information on Dick’s current case. The extremely resourceful man never ceased to amaze Dick although he came off rather cold sometimes.

No matter, he thinks as he shoots his grapple towards the neighboring skyscraper and swings with ease. Metal after metal building appeared in the backdrop of the neon Wayne Industries signage, a testament to Gotham’s cry of need. Dick snorts at the idea before heading over to Tiger’s small place in Gotham. His usual residence wasn’t here but Dick insisted he take one of his safehouses (to which Tiger begrudgingly agreed to). It was one of the smaller ones Tiger argued about since one man doesn't need too much space, idiot.

He nimbly sweeps down to the window and sees it’s dimly-lit, almost dark inside. Frowning at the fact that it was ajar, he pushes it and rolls in silently. He flashes out his escrima sticks, lightning blue and making the crackling sound he’s accustomed too and sneaked to the obvious occupant on the couch. He’s about to swing when he realizes-

-its Tiger.

Asleep?

Dick has to hold back laughter. His previous anxiety was ill-seated as he cheekily leans against the armrest of the sofa.

“Excuuuuse meee?”

He starts, in a fake and airy voice that’s loud but not enough to somehow wake Tiger up who just changes his position and curls deeper into the leather couch, pulling himself up in a small ball.

Dick’s eyes are up at him like a wolfhound. He knows that Tiger is indeed a very light sleeper and he should be awake right now and calling him an idiot and realize he’s the bigger idiot for missing their meeting. He lazily curls himself in a painful-looking position and waits on him.

Sensing the pressure change, Tiger suddenly opens one exhausted green eye and looks at a smiling Dick in civilian clothing. Blinking and clearing his sleep-ridden eyelids, he tosses a cushion at Dick who caught it easily.

“Idiot-”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you didn’t make to our meeting so as a friend-”

“We aren’t friends”

“-okay, okay whatever but hey I gotta make sure you didn’t die out there.”

“I’m not incapable, Agent-”

“-I’m in civvies! You can’t just Agent 37 me.”

Dick retorts, smiling widely. Tiger mutters something under his breath before swinging himself up but his vision spins before he falls back on the couch, angrily staring down at the floor. His head is pulsating again wildly. He only hears the roar of gushing blood in his ears.

Dick is still talking in the background, probably a lecture about something Tiger couldn’t care much about right now. He just needed to make sure he’s not about to kneel over and possibly embarrass himself.

“WIll you shut up for a minute?!”

He hisses, head in his hands, pressed tightly as he tries to filter out the remainder of the supposed light present. Dick is immediately silent before he asks, undisguised concern in his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Sit down,”

Tiger tests his limbs, and slowly gets up before half-stumbling to the small attached kitchen. Dick had worry etched all over his face as he tossed his jacket onto the vacated couch before switching on the television. He knew no matter how much he insisted, Tiger never told him what was wrong.

He chose to keep to himself, quiet and only spoke when needed. Dick was the one who added life, chatter and still kicked ass alongside the man. Don’t get him wrong, Tiger was a brilliant fighter but he was too quiet, more than usual. Dick was usually good at reading people, seeing the truth in their eyes and figuring out what’s wrong before they can.

Dick cannot say the same for Tiger. He remembered when he met him for the first time. Tiger was unreadable, almost neutral and it threw him off balance. The few things he figured out was his upbringing in war-torn Afghanistan, his love for really hot qehwa and Medjool dates as well as his preference for darker colors. Belatedly, that was it. The rest of it was shut behind cold, emerald eyes almost similar to Damian’s ones. Tiger was a man with calculation, precision and silence, that much Dick knew.

Speaking of silence, it had been ten minutes since Tiger left the couch for the kitchen. Dick decides to go there anyway, at worst a pan might hit his head. He enters the sparsely furnished kitchen and the first thing he registers is a man leaning against the counter, lost in space as he absentmindedly swung a paring knife and his trigger finger constantly twitching. Tiger hadn’t worn his shemagh so Dick can see the ebony hair and slight curls .

“Yes?”

Dick is now slightly afraid of the paring knife in Tiger’s hand so he makes sure he’s a safe zone away from him. Still absentmindedly flicking the knife, Tiger looks at Dick questioningly and with deadly ease, throws the knife at a poor apple sitting on the countertop.

“You didn’t answer me back there, Tig..”

“Hm?”

Hands in his pocket, Dick tries to start a conversation but Tiger pinching his nose bridge stops him from opening his mouth. He observes his silent friend lean a little more against the cold exterior of the marble countertop as the water boiled with lazy wisps of steam trailing near the surface.

Pity washes over Dick who lowers the blinds at the kitchen window and sees some tension from Tiger dissipating.

The water is whistling, bubbles frantically escaping and Dick steps forward to switch it off. Tiger looks up and Dick can see him clearly. Exhaustion, frustration and irritation all rolled up in one impressive eyebrow raise.

“Go back, I’ll finish this. I’m sure you trust me enough to fuck this up.”

He doesn’t bother with a jibe, just heads back to the couch and loses all track of time. Face buried in the leathery couch, everything was tilted off its axis. He vaguely registers throwing a warm jacket left there off the couch before sinking into the cold surface.

A strong smell of qehwa enters the room as Dick balances both cups at a ridiculous angle. Setting them down, he feels Dick sit beside him on the carpet, cross-legged and rocking back and forth.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“Minor inconveniences”

Is all he says as he buries his face deeper into the couch, blocking all light because it was making his head worse and then Dick had to come here and be an annoying prick. He woke up that morning with a dull pressure from his neck and decided to sleep it off since he had no urgent things to do, blessedly. However, he swore he did set an alarm two hours in advance before their meeting-

Oh no.

“I can give it now and you can be headed on your way.”

Dick stops rocking and narrows his eyes at the figure on the couch, wondering what Tiger meant before a slow grin starts appearing on his face.

“You can’t even walk straight to the kitchen so I’m staying. It’s like a sleepover and don't feel bad about missing our small reunion. It’s okay to feel like absolute shit sometimes.”

He helpfully suggests as he passes a cup of the hot beverage to the man whose face is still planted on the couch. Tiger points one finger at the small coffee table and shakes his head, the action making everything worse. He doesn’t understand why his stupid little... headache isn’t leaving him but he doesn’t care anymore.

Dick had been watching his actions the entire time, evaluated if his chances of dying were high and then gently but softly asked Tiger.

“Migraine? Seems pretty bad. I’ll be back.”

He gets up to hunt for some Imitrex and grabs a cold compress before turning off the lights completely on the way back to the lofty living room where Tiger had already fallen asleep in a very still position.

He has no heart to wake him up because he knows he gets only so much sleep. Gently tapping his shoulder and shaking out a tablet, he probes him again.

“Sit up, I got you some meds. It should help.”

A small groan comes from the couch and then a reluctant turnover as he faces Dick blankly, eyes squinted and Dick instantly feels terrible for waking him up.

“Tell me about one of your inane adventures.”

Tiger asks quietly from where he’s still laying with Dick hovering over him, pill in hand. Confusion momentarily graces his face before he launches into some story about a mission with Damian.

Dick is animatedly whispering about the entire thing as his unconscious hand reaches out to ruffle Tiger’s thick hair. The heavenly head scratches surprisingly comforted Tiger who leans ever so slightly to the touch. It felt nice to be treated like this for once.

Don't get sentimental.

He faintly ignores that voice and reaches out to his primary need of relief and comfort. Dick had gone on to his second story about Jason and how he loved reading. He joked about how he’d spit lines from plays and shoot with equal jest. There was a wistfulness in his tone and a small part of Tiger hated himself so much for being so soft and vulnerable and letting Dick comfort him but it felt normal and everything else considered. He’s unnerved by this unfamiliar experience and he has to get it to stop before he’s caving in and dependent.

He can’t do that.

It’s incredibly stupid and dangerous in his line of work.

What if one day he’s gone?

What would he do?

“Are you feeling any better?”

Dick asks kindly, softly smiling at Tiger who’s trying to suppress all the new emotions Dick stirred up and it somehow warmed him a little but he doesn’t show it.

“Thank..you?”

He fumbles slightly, awkward and the usual firm line on his face was replaced with one slightly curved at the ends. Dick is grinning wildly.

“Did I make the great King smile?!”

Tiger is trying to hide his face before Dick lets out an ecstatic yell.

“You’re smiling! I didn’t know your facial muscles allowed for that action!”

Another cushion was thrown at Dick who’s caught it again before sticking his tongue out at Tiger.

“Agent 37, still childish as ever.”

Tiger doesn’t mind, he really didn’t mind, even if his qehwa turned cold.

23 notes · View notes

threeletterslife · 4 years ago

Text

The Exam

→ [1/7] of the Society Series

→ summary: Three societies. Two dead lovers. One test. In a world that prioritizes intelligence and the ability to regurgitate textbook information, will you choose love and poverty or splendor and solitude?

→ pairing/rating: taehyung x reader | PG-15

→ genre: 99.9% angst, 0.1% fluff (if you squint) | dystopian!au & utopian!au

→ warnings: profanity, death, mentions of tuberculosis and leptospirosis, blood, extreme poverty, extremely brief mention of cannibalism and overdosing, undiagnosed depression and mild anxiety, brief mentions of the afterlife and physical violence, this shit ain’t happy pple

→ wordcount: 21.4k

There's a strange stench that permeates the air in the city of Dystopia.

It is the odor of death. The dark, muddy soil reeks of decaying bodies, of rotting rats and excretions. Deteriorating child flesh even has its own distinct smell, but you've become so used to it, you don't really mind it as much anymore.

Every day is a festival for the unusually large rats that inhabit the city. With their matted-fur and worm-tails, the rodents feast on decomposing human bodies, ripping apart the dark, putrid meat and leaving dried blood splattered on the barely-paved streets.

Bodies are everywhere.

Sometimes it's hard to tell if a fallen child is dead or asleep in the towering masses of waste. There are too many orphans wandering lost on the streets with no bed or home to conceal them in warmth. There are too many people who never know when their next meal will be, or if there will be clean water to drink for the day. Hell, most of the huts in the dystopian city are on the very verge of crumbling down.

You're lucky.

Your home has semi-working electricity and plumbing. But every now and then, the lights will refuse to turn on and the pipes will leak—or even burst if it was a bad day.

Most citizens of Dystopia, however, roam the streets, homeless, until death finally whisks them away. Nobody knows what happens after death. But everybody knows it is better than Dystopia.

This place, this Dystopia, was home for your childhood memories. Shamefully enough, it was also your birthplace. But you don't live there anymore, thank goodness. You live in Purgatory now, a smaller city with slightly more opportunities and fewer rats.

But Purgatory isn't that much different from Dystopia either. Death still hangs over the heads of the weak, ready to take their hands and lead them away when the time comes. Purgatory is a wild place full of children and teenagers from ages ten to eighteen. They're there for one sole purpose: education. Rigorous education that may come with the price of death.

It's how the whole damn system works.

Every Dystopian-born must suffer ten years of life in that hellhole; if they are still alive by then, they are relocated to Purgatory where "equal opportunities" are given to all with mercy. At least, that's what the authority claims. Really, you see it more as a ruthless competition. It's not "equal opportunities" or whatever bullcrap the government was trying to sell to the people. You see it as a game of sharks and minnows—a game of exceptionally robust predators and abnormally frail prey.

Annually, every student who is eighteen in Purgatory is required to take an exam. An exam that determines their entire future.

Every year, the highest-scoring students—or student—are whisked away by the government with silk draped around their hunched shoulders, layers of soft mink coats keeping their frayed bodies warm and their dirty tresses bathed with the richest, fragrance oils. Then they are granted access to Utopia.

Utopia, the city of the rich. They breathe expensive air there, bathe in priceless tea and wear extortionate silks and furs. They deserve it. Because they're the most intelligent people in all three cities of Atna. At least, that's what the government says.

It is merciless when they throw every other eighteen-year-old who 'failed' the Exam in the city of Dystopia. You'd think they'd spare their precious Utopian-borns—the children of the men and women who proved their intelligence by reigning over every other student in Purgatory. But they don't. The Utopian-borns are dumped into Dystopia as well. Into a foreign place where the air is dead, baths are infrequent and clothing is for the greatly fortunate.

Yet that's rare. Most often, Utopian students always tie for the highest-score and are taken back to their luxurious birthplace. It's too advantageous for them. It's unfair. Unreasonable. They train from their birth until the last second before they leave the warmth of their Utopian homes for the Exam. Of course, they would score the highest.

One year, out of the hundreds of eighteen-year-olds who took the Exam, twenty-three of them made it back to Utopia. All Utopian-borns.

Still, a handful of Utopians are tossed into the slums—they are a disgrace to all of Atna for they had the advantage and didn't take it.

You've seen those sad individuals your whole childhood. They were the ones who weren't used to horrifying conditions. Consequently, they were always the last to eat and first to die.

When you were the adventurous age of nine, you and your best friend Jimin would sit outside the shabby, repulsive place that you called home and would watch the Utopian-borns straggling across the streets.

They wailed and begged as their eyes reflected one sole emotion: fear.

"I bet she's Utopian-born," Jimin huffs as he points at a girl frantically cramming her mouth full of scraggly weeds that had somehow sprouted from the fetid grounds. Both of you silently watch as her bloody fingernails pierce madly through the mud, uprooting the plants with surprising success. "Doesn't she know those are poisonous?"

You shrug, staring blankly at the girl. "No, she's not Utopian-born. Doesn't look over eighteen. Maybe she doesn't want to take the Exam." Taking Jimin's hand into yours, you sigh, "I bet he's Utopian-born, though." Your small finger points at a young man huddled up against a pile of rubbish, completely naked and rocking back and forth, as if that action would save him from the wraths of Dystopia. He had stripped off his tattered clothes and had unskillfully attempted to wrap them around himself to combat the harsh weather. A simple but deadly mistake.

A Dystopian-born would know better.

"He's going to die," Jimin says, cocking his head. "Let's go help him." He starts to tug you towards the unclothed man but you forcefully pull your friend back, eyebrows twisting downwards into a deep frown.

"Leave him." Your cold eyes stare right past the Utopian-born, gazing at the bright neon poster behind him. It reads Utopia, a wondrous place for deserving people.

And below is an image of a gorgeous, healthily plump woman in a spotless, white bikini, skin sparkling and well-tanned and her hands immaculately manicured. Her hair is loose, glossy and looks like it smells of flowering spring roses. She's holding a gleaming bottle of fizzing golden liquid in one hand and a handsome man's hand in the other. The man smiles brightly, revealing a row of pearlescent teeth as he boasts shiny, black sunglasses and wears a watch made of dazzling rubies and diamonds.

Behind the couple is a house—actually, a mansion made of polished glass with luscious trees decorating the purlieu and the pool filled with glimmering water tinted a light shade of azure. The sky is cerulean blue, and the clouds resemble cotton candy.

Everything speaks perfection.

These identical posters are littered everywhere across Dystopia. It is a painful reminder for the Atnatians who have failed the Exam—even more so agonizing for the Utopians who had been banished from their previous home.

The propaganda posters are the only clean, resplendent objects in the slums. But personally, you think they're revolting.

Your unsympathetic eyes trail back to the naked man. You take another glance at the stupid government propaganda poster behind him before you squeeze Jimin's hand. "Yeah, let's leave him," you repeat.

The pick-the-Utopian-born-from-the-crowd game abruptly halts soon after when Jimin comes over to your small hut one day, crying profusely, his tears leaving clean streaks on his dirt-covered face.

"He's dead!" he cries, fat droplets of tears dribbling down to his chin.

You frown in confusion, eyebrows knitting into a small frown. With the mortality rate of Dystopia, your best friend could either be talking about your neighbor from the next hut over or the other fifty bodies left dead and abandoned on the streets. "Who's dead, Jiminie?"

"T-That Utopian-born," Jimin whimpers, dirty hand reaching up to wipe away the tears obscuring his vision. Although there were many Utopian-borns roaming around Dystopia, you had a clear idea of who he was talking about. "The rats... they—"

You grab his filthy hand before it reaches his eyes. "Don't rub your eyes, remember?"

Jimin nods dejectedly, his head dropping low as his tears dripped to the floor, leaving wet puddles of brown dirt. "Sorry, Y/N, I forgot..." He sniffles, which didn't help the snot that was leaking out of his soot-covered nose. "But the rats..." he trails off, hand reaching up again to wipe away his tears. But he pauses, thinks better of it and tries to blink them away instead.

You nod, knowingly. "And it's not the first time you've seen that happen, Jiminie. Don't cry..."

Your friend whimpers, kicking the wet dirt beneath his feet. "But if we had helped him... The rats wouldn't have eaten right through his guts! They wouldn't have bitten him to pieces or drunk his blood!" he wails. You are silent, never great at solacing. "If we had helped him..."

Time is running out for both of you. You'd soon be relocated to Purgatory and you know Jimin is starting to get anxious for the both of you. He would cry in fear and grief for every dead corpse on the street, bite his nails hard enough to draw blood even though you would tell him not to, and try to help all the suffering Utopian-borns, despite your avid protests.

Jimin had always been too soft-minded, too kind. Death frightened him.

But you weren't afraid of death. Never have been. Never will be.

You are fucking terrified of death. It is the only occurrence that will keep you from scoring the highest, and as a seventeen-year-old, the Exam was looming closer than ever. You couldn't die now. Not after all the years of rigorous studying. You'd skipped nights of sleep, countless meals to get to this position.

To you, Purgatory would always be a second Utopia; for one, the conditions are immensely better than that of Dystopia, maggots no longer crawling in your food and clothes not as battered and ravaged by irritable rats or insects. This city is your one chance where you can prove yourself deserving to live in Utopia—to confirm that you can outlast, out-study and outsmart everyone in your year.

You eat, sleep and breathe your studies, something only a few students can manage to do. One of the only things that keep you motivated to wake up at the crack of dawn and open up a dusty book is the fact that no one's ever secured a perfect score on the Exam.

But you know you'll be the first.

You'll be the first and only person to obtain a perfect score. And thus you will be the only eighteen-year-old going to Utopia in your year.

It is a fantasy. A dream. A goal. But you thirst to achieve it.

In fact, you haven't left the library in weeks. You've practically been glued onto the same hard, wooden chair for what seemed like days now. You have also never ceased to flip the pages of your colossal textbooks. You're quite happy to say that the other students aren't studying as hard as you—most of them have given up by now.

Logically, it makes sense to surrender to the Exam.

Although you're given eight whole years to study in Purgatory, most students use that time to stuff themselves full of savory victuals, sleep in cots instead of in fetid mud and live without the shadow of death appended to their feet. Obviously, the conditions aren't as astounding as Utopia, but anything's better than the slums of Atna. It isn't worth it, they say. It isn't worth the eight years of miserable studying, only to be beaten by someone better (there's always someone better) and thrown into Dystopia without ever being able to live. But 'surrender' isn't in your vast vocabulary.

As much as you hate cheesy platitudes, you're in it (ahem, forcibly) to win it. Besides, your competition is dropping like flies on a scorching hot day. You suspect it's from that nasty tuberculosis that's been going around for a while.

There's only a year left before the Exam now. It's such little time for you to finish reading everything in that library, and such little time alike for the other students to live their last year to the very fullest in Purgatory, the downgrade of Utopia but the upgrade of Dystopia.

But especially for you, a year definitely isn't enough. You're just a tad bit off schedule—you were supposed to finish reading and memorizing everything in the library last year so you'd have two good years to review. Now you only have one.

It adds on to the multitudes of problems that no one truly knows what's on the Exam. They say anything in the grand library is fair game, but besides that, you don't know much. And because of that, you and what's left of your competitors have been reading everything in the library from novels to textbooks to published theses.

As a matter of fact, you're just one book and a page shy from reading everything in the damned library. Your eyes bore into the paper overlaid with equations and one too many graphs, forcing your brain to memorize every detail, every print and word. You know you shouldn't frown when you study. Someone you'd once loved had told you an unpretty, permanent crease would be etched on your forehead—but now you can't help it—frowning helps you concentrate.

Especially now. The library is usually dead silent except for the soft crinkles of paper as students flip the pages of their reading materials, yet you swear at least half of the students in the room have tuberculosis. There's heavy coughing every ten seconds, the infected splattering crimson blood on the thin, worn-out pages of the textbooks. And that's how the disease has been spreading.

They're going to die before the Exam. You swear they are—how pathetic of them to spend the last days of their lives cramming study material in their heads.

You don't care much for the infected, as long as they keep their distance from you. You don't know what you'll do if you catch the disease as well. But in your mind, nothing is worse than the mortality rates of Dystopia. At least no one in Purgatory dies from famine.

Still, there are never adequate treatments or vaccines and you can recall at least ten people who you haven't seen since tuberculosis first broke out. Not that you care, though. In the end, you're just glad you're not one of the diseased. You've always had a strong immune system, anyway.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling the urge to rub your dry, tiresome eyes but thinking better of it. Shutting the heavy textbook with a gentle thud, you place both hands on the wooden table, steadying yourself. You slowly close your eyes, relishing in the comfort of the darkness—you haven't slept in nearly three days, haven't left your seat to eat either. Your empty water canteen stares back at you, begging for it to be refilled. You swallow, your throat feeling unbearably scratchy, but you don't succumb to its desperate demand.

Now you only have one more book to read. Just one more and you'll be done. You'll treat yourself to an actual meal and a few hours of sleep (not too much because you still need time for review). With the Exam inching closer every minute, every second, you really don't have time to waste.

Water will have to wait for later.

Besides, you know for a fact that the last book you have to read isn't too long—just a hundred pages or so. You slowly open your eyes, vision slightly blurry as you force yourself to stand. Immediately, your legs threaten to give out and you have to stagger forward to use the dated bookshelves to steady yourself.

Step by step, you carry your barely responsive body to the special corner in the library that you haven't touched in the seven years you've lived in Purgatory. The unfamiliar, gray, tattered book catches your eye and you continue to wobble closer and closer to it. Family Studies, it should say.

Quite the ironic book to read about in a world where families are ripped apart by the government and their indecent tactics. But it's not like you have a choice. You need to get to Utopia—you've made promises...

You may be broken on the inside and out, but you won't let yourself break a promise.

Wearily, you force yourself to lift up your shaking arm to touch the book's spine. But you gasp, nearly jumping back with the little energy you have as your cold hand comes in contact with something warm.

Flesh, you finally register in your head. I've touched flesh.

Your head jerks up rather painfully, leaving your eyes struggling to adjust to the sight in front of you. A boy. A tall boy. His figure towers over you, and he frowns deeply, eyes bloodshot as he looks you up and down. In one hand he clutches a frayed brown blanket draped comfortably over his shoulders and the other stubbornly grasps the book—your book.

But you don't acquiesce, glaring at him as you tug the book closer to you. The boy glances your way tiredly, no emotion displayed on his malnourished, sculpted face. "Excuse me," he croaks, tugging the book closer to himself.

"Excuse you." Your voice comes out much raspier than you had expected, making you instantly regret opening your mouth to speak. But the desire to have the last book in your hands is far greater: "I need that." You pull the book back.

The boy scoffs—even that comes out as a dry cough that makes you flinch back just a bit. "I need it too."

You hate the parched feeling tickling the back of your throat, and you let out a little scream of frustration before instinct gets the better of you. You quickly slap the boy's hand, taking advantage of his surprise as an opportunity to snatch the book from the shelf. Once the book is safely cradled in your arms, you turn to the boy and give him the side-eye. "Well, I need it more."

With that, you attempt to hobble away with the best of your ability, but you fail when the boy grabs the back of your threadbare shirt, stopping you from moving any further. "Please."

He sounds so desperate, voice dripping with misery—something you were once so familiar with. His hands shake, grasping the fabric... You hate yourself for turning around to see his forlorn face. His eyes are full of suffering, of so much pain—that too is so familiar to you."Please..." he whispers again as his grip loosens on your shirt.

You're silent. It hurts. It physically pains you that the only human interaction you've had in months, maybe years, reminds you so much of him.

"Pleaseeee!!" Jimin drags out, a burst of giggles leaving his throat as he tugs excitedly at your arm. "Please! Let's go, let's go!"

You grumble, begrudgingly dragging your feet as Jimin pulls you towards unfamiliar territory. "I'm not hungry," you whine. "Can we just stay in the dorms?"

"We've got eight years to stay in the dorms, Y/N. Eight! Please? Just a few minutes in the cafeteria? I heard they serve actual food! Maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to snag some snacks!" Jimin exclaims, his cheeks tinged pink with elation.

"Where did you hear that from?" you mumble in protest before giving in to Jimin's persistence.

"The ones who failed," he answers lightheartedly. "I've been asking around."

"Oh."

You can't really say much more. There's nothing more to say.

The cafeteria is larger than at least ten Dystopian huts combined; there are rows and rows of rusty lunch tables and a long, metal countertop with a few baskets of bread on top. You and Jimin manage to salvage some before the rats get to it. You force yourself to ignore the angry squeaking and chattering around your bare feet.

The slices of white bread are only slightly moldy, which already makes it better than anything one can forage from your birthplace. You take each bite slowly, chewing steadily to keep the flavor on your tongue just a little while longer. But all too soon, it's gone. Though you'd denied it earlier, you are definitely hungry. Maybe even starving.

You look up to see Jimin swinging his feet back and forth, his hands grasping the side of the old bench, keeping his body balanced. He notices your eyes on him and looks at you, giving you a small smile. You smile back.

"This is already better than Dystopia, isn't it?" he says, small hand tentatively moving towards yours to encompass it. You nod your head in agreement. "We have eight years..." You nod again. "Then we'll be able to go back home."

You don't hesitate, a faint smile appearing on your lips. "Of course."

"Not dead, yet, huh?" you sigh, facing the boy next to you, scrutinizing his every movement. When he doesn't answer right away, you slam the textbook down in the middle of the table to get his attention—and to spite him, of course.

The boy scoffs as he glares at you through the tired slits of his eyes. Any sense of the weakness he had shown from practically begging you to share the book with him yesterday is gone. The feebleness might've been just an act—a sly trick to get you to help him. "Sorry but I plan on going to Utopia as well. That, we have in common," the boy bites right back. "Our only difference is that I'll actually make it there."

You blow air through your nose, prying open the previous book titled Family Studies and muttering death threats under your breath. You clear your throat before you speak again. "Yeah, right. Please shut up before I regret sharing my textbook with you."

"For your information, that's not exactly yours," the boy snorts. "It's the government's. And you've seen the shit that happens when you mess with them."

There's a sadder undertone to his voice that you pick up immediately. He sounds cocky but ruined at the same time—you would know because that's the façade that you had put up for yourself for years now. You can't stop yourself from asking the question that falls from your lips quite easily: "Why? Someone you know messed with them?"

The boy averts his eyes from you, looking down at his feet covered up in tattered shoes. "More like someone I knew." He shrugs, turning his head up so that his dark eyes pierce through yours. "But it doesn't really matter anymore."

Something stings inside. You wish you could say the same.

"It's only been a week," you giggle, watching Jimin stuff his face full of soup made of mystery miscellaneous ingredients. "Shouldn't you have gotten used to having enough food by now?"

Jimin pauses his vehement eating to give you a 'duh' look. "Silly, I'm going to store all the food now when I can. You know, before we have to go back. When's the last time Dystopia had meal times, anyway?"

"Never, of course," you laugh. The rats or some other pesky rodents chatter right along with you. But they only sound as if they are wryly laughing with you and Jimin. A bit embittered, you kick your feet in an attempt to shoo the rats away—or at least shut them up. "Too bad this place still has rats."

Jimin nods. "I've seen some of them around our food too." He makes a disgusted face. "Think about it. What if this mystery soup is made of rat droppings and piss?"

"Oh shut up. Don't be like that," you sniffle, turning up your nose in complete distaste. "That's disgusting."

"I'm only joking," Jimin chuckles, taking another spoonful of his soup, exaggerating the action and making you mock-gag in repugnance.

As annoying as he sometimes is, having Jimin around is something you always have been thankful for. It was everything to have a friend be by your side. You've seen what happens when people are left alone for too long. They go bat-shit crazy. Completely bonkers.

Being tossed back to Dystopia is inevitable; neither of you was going to stop it. Yet even just your best friend's presence is your very own incentive to wake up the next day with a hopeful smile on your lips. He matters so much to you.

"Let's have the time of our lives in Purgatory," he'd told you over and over again. So much so that you can still hear his voice today, tainted with hope and faith. "Then we can go back to Dystopia together."

You grit your teeth, catching your lip between them and biting so hard you taste blood. The strong taste of iron drives you to focus. You furrow your brows, staring at the pages of the textbook and reading thoroughly, mulling over every word in your head with careful precision. When your eyes reach the end of the page, you're just about to look up and ask the boy if he's done reading, but he's one step ahead of you.

The boy flips the page over and smiles at you smugly. You frown at him disdainfully, but without another word, you concentrate on the content once more. Until—

"Taehyung."

You sigh, reluctantly looking up at the boy. "What?"

"Taehyung. My name's Taehyung," he says. "Just thought you ought to know. There are 98 pages left in this book, so I just thought it'd be better to introduce ourselves. We'll be sitting together for a while."

You squint your eyes at him, pondering over his words. But he does make quite a good point. You suppose you and the boy—Taehyung—had gotten off on the wrong foot. Although he was kind of a cocky asshole, you guess it wouldn't hurt to at least tell him your name.

"Fine," you say, upturning your nose. "I'm Y/N."

"Cool." Taehyung grins. For a guy who's been living in unkempt conditions for several years, his teeth look pretty near to goddamn perfection. It's a little irritating if you do say so for yourself.

You're about to pick up where you last left off in the textbook when Taehyung scoots closer to you. You lean away, frowning at him as you shoot him a 'what the fuck are you doing' look.

He seems oblivious to your stone-cold glare. "Sooo, Y/N," he says. "What's making you study this hard?" he asks. "I thought I was the only crazy one here." He laughs wryly. When he sees that you're ignoring him and still reading from the damned book, he huffs and slams it shut.

"What the fuck, Taehyung," you spit out, jerking your head towards him. "Can't I study in peace?"

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to ignore?" he counters.

"Give me the book back."

"No." He grins, pushing the book away from you as he crosses his legs confidently, leaning back in his chair. "Answer the question. Please," he adds hastily. "C'mon. If we stay cooped up reading all day, we'll die before even getting to live in Utopia."

You let out a frustrated groan, but he's right in a way. You should take study breaks now and then—possibly to keep your sanity. "What's making me study so hard? Fine," you huff. "We all have our mad-person reasons. Happy?" But upon Taehyung's disappointed look at your vague answer, you let out a deep sigh. "And I made promises I don't want to break," you elaborate reluctantly.

"Promises?" Taehyung says. "Interesting... You look like you've been through some rough shit."

You scoff. "Me? Says you. You're Dystopian-born too, right?"

"I'm that obvious, am I?" He grins. "It's true though. I've seen bad shit in Dystopia."

"Yeah, well, I've seen the worst shit right here in Purgatory," you mutter. "So I think I win."

"Oh?"

You ignore him. "Give me back my book," you demand.

"First of all, it's not your book," Taehyung laughs. "And secondly, worst shit in Purgatory? Must be an interesting story behind that. Do tell."

"No."

Taehyung huffs as he leans back even further in his chair. "So you've lost someone you love, then."

You freeze. How did he—

Biting your lip again, you contemplate whether to answer. Finally, you let out a small, "Yeah. Two, actually."

"Damn, two?" Taehyung gawks. "Wow. Um, I'm sorry. You weren't kidding about the bad shit you've seen here."

"I really wasn't." Now you're definitely not in the mood to study. Not when Taehyung, single-handedly, in just a few minutes, reminded you of them. "It's dumb, but I use them and the promises we made together as an incentive to study. That's my mad-person reason," you confess.

Why does it feel better to tell someone else about yourself?

"That's not dumb," Taehyung offers, his eyes mirroring your own sadness in them. "It's good to have someone you love to be your incentive." He pushes the textbook back towards you. "Sorry for pestering you. You can study now if you want."

You nod curtly as you quickly open the book to the page you had left off. It seems that Taehyung does have the smallest bit of sympathy in him. You suppose he's not a completely horrible person (as you had thought before).

Sighing, you try to read through the sentences on the page, but you find yourself reading the same phrase over and over again. Damn. Your stomach flips and you begin to feel a little queasy as melancholy washes over your head. Shit. Now you really can't concentrate.

"You're, okay, right, Jiminie?" you beg, frown lines appearing on your forehead as you take both of the sick boy's hands in yours, watching his tense face relax ever-so-slightly from your soft touch.

"It's probably just something I ate. I'll be fine!" he manages to answer enthusiastically. "I'll throw it all up by tomorrow and you'll see me stronger than ever!"

He was wrong.

As the long days rolled by, he got sicker and sicker. Most of your week was spent in Jimin's room. It became a daily routine to watch him throw up whatever you suggested he eat. It became a reoccurring attempt for you to try to calm his sweltering fever. Every day you were more exhausted than the last. And so was he.

You were losing hope, but you tried not to show it. You knew he was dying, but neither of you mentioned it. You were losing your best friend and you couldn't do anything about it.

No one cared either. Everybody turned a blind eye to the ten-year-old boy suffering in overwhelming pain. They either had been preoccupied with studying or didn't want to catch whatever Jimin had. To them, Jimin, your light and life source was nothing but another body to be tossed in the graveyard at the end of the day.

And just like that, he passed away.

You can still recall the misery reflecting in his eyes, his quiet whimpers, his delusional words. You can still remember him. Quite clearly, too. He didn't know who you were the last few minutes before he blinked half-way and never woke up again. The moment you knew he was dead, you'd cried, clinging to his body and letting out the sorrow, the weakness, that you had hidden from him when he was alive.

To the ten-year-old you, his death was a mystery.

But it was leptospirosis. You know that now, after years of flipping the pages of those medical textbooks. It was a rare disease from animals, but mostly rats. Those damn rats. You wish you can kill them all.

"Those fucking rats!" Taehyung slams his fist hard on the wooden table, immediately stopping the persistent chattering of the damned rodents. "I swear to god, they're one of the worst things about Purgatory, other than the goddamn Exam itself!"

You nod in silent agreement, sighing as you play with the leftover crumbs of your breakfast. "I'd even argue that they're the worst things to ever exist. Besides the Exam."

No matter how annoyingly vocal Taehyung is about his pure hatred for rats, it feels good to have someone to talk to while eating your breakfast. You haven't had company in years.

Taehyung lets a smile loose, a boxy grin that has some sort of weird way of making you feel calm. It's impossible to believe that he's supposed to be your competition when both of you have developed a friendship over the past several days. It wasn't easy for Taehyung to befriend you—especially since you've shut out every other person in your life since... since Yoongi. But he was persistent, and you admired that about him. So slowly, very slowly, you began to open up to the boy.

You told him about Jimin, and you have to admit, it felt fucking fantastic to have someone else mourn for Jimin—to have someone else besides you who didn't ignore his death. And now you're just beginning to tell him about Yoongi upon his stubborn urging.

"You should continue," Taehyung says. "You were telling me about your preteen boyfriend?" he asks with his mouth full of bread—his words are just barely discernible and you crinkle your nose in disgust.

"Gross. Haven't you read those etiquette books? Thought they would've taught you a thing or two about not talking with your mouth full," you huff. "And don't call him my preteen boyfriend. That sounds wrong. Not to mention... it takes away so much of the meaning of my relationship with him."

"Okay, okay, sorry," Taehyung says, but chewed up bread crumbs escape his mouth and land on the metal lunch table. You make a face. "But," Taehyung continues, paying no mind to your disgust, "at the end of the day, I just wanna know if all Utopian-borns are bastards or not."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, c'mon. Do you really think I'd love a bastard?"

"Well, you're quite unpredictable, dear," Taehyung swallows his food (thankfully) before he laughs. "You thought you were going to study alone for the rest of your time here. But look at you, with me, sharing a textbook."

"You better not tell me shit like 'you didn't know love when you were ten,' Taehyung," you say as menacingly as you can. "I'm not gonna tolerate shit talk. And besides, Yoongi was definitely not a bastard. He—" you pause abruptly. "Ah, shit," you say, trying to blink away the tears that had suddenly sprung upon your eyes. Your fingers grip the hem of your shirt and you clear your throat before you continue. "He died so he didn't have to deal with bastards."

"Oh, shit," Taehyung breathes when he realizes you're close to crying. "I'm sorry... You don't have to tell me about him if it's gonna make you feel bad. I was joking about the whole Utopian-born-bastard thing anyway."

"No, I want to tell you," you say. "I need to tell someone. I can't just pent these things up inside of me, Taehyung. Don't you know? I'm using you as my personal rant-listener." You grin at him, though your tears roll down your cheeks.

Taehyung looks confused at your juxtaposition of tears and happy grin. "Okay then," he says. "If you're really sure." He frowns, tilting his head. "I just don't get the part when you said he died so he didn't have to deal with bastards. He can't choose when he dies or not—"

"Oh, yes he can," you cut him off. "Think about it," you say as more tears trip down your face. Taehyung gives you a perplexed look, his confused eyes meeting your sad ones. You sigh. "You can choose when you want to die sometimes," you whisper in a shaky voice. "Intentional death."

You've lost your appetite ever since Jimin passed away. But you come to the cafeteria every day to pay tribute to your best friend, who had announced one too many times when he was alive that the cafeteria was his favorite place in the whole world. So you sit down by yourself on the lunch tables, staring at the bread but never reaching out to take it.

Without Jimin, your world is drained of color. Life loses its meaning. There is no point. You were supposed to go back to Dystopia as adults—together. That had been your one wish. Your only wish. And now it couldn't happen. Not when Jimin's not with you anymore.

Large men in spotless white suits had dragged his limp body off of the small cot as you were begging, wailing on the side. You asked them to bury him, to give him a proper memorial. But they ignored you, pushed you away to the side. They didn't even have the decency to respect him, to cover him up with a blanket or sheet. You had to watch his clothes collect dirt and his face drag in the mud as they pulled him by the legs.

Even after they'd yelled at you, you'd watched, followed them as they flung his body into a deep pit reeking of death.

They burn the bodies in the pit every Sunday; then the week starts fresh with an empty abyss for the dead.

You want to jump in the pit after Jimin. Maybe you can conveniently dump your body in the hole a few minutes before they set fire to it—maybe you can be with Jimin that way.

It feels like a knife in your heart when you think about his last few delusional words. He'd told you fitfully, in a full sweat, that he was in so much pain, but he'd rather be in pain than die. He was afraid of death.

You aren't. You are in so much pain, you want to die, unlike him. Ten years of life is enough, you decide. Whatever is waiting for you after death has to be better than what you are living in right now.

So you plan it out. You wait until Sunday, until five minutes before they're supposed to come to burn the pit of bodies. You're going to jump in. Find Jimin. Burn to death with him. Simple.

Not so simple.

You stand exactly three feet from the pit (you measured it yourself, with your own feet), thinking it would be better to have a running start of some sort. But your feet are frozen as well as your mind is. You just can't seem to get yourself to move. You've pictured yourself jumping into the pit at least a hundred times before, so you can't help to wonder why you can't seem to do it now.

It frustrates you. Your mind tells you to run, to jump, but your legs are glued to the ground.

"Gonna jump?"

You nearly lose your balance at the sudden voice that comes from behind you. You quickly whirl around to see a lanky boy with tousled black hair. He's leaning against the exterior of the common building, staring at you with cold, judgmental eyes. He's taller, bigger than you, so you discern that he must be one of those older kids. You scowl at him. "And what if I did jump?" you retort.

"Wouldn't recommend it, kid," the boy says. He laughs coldly. "First of all, they're not going to burn that shit for several hours. Do you really want to lay around rotting bodies before you die?"

"What if I don't care?" you answer defiantly, crossing your arms.

"What are you? Dumb?" The boy scoffs, leaving his place against the wall and starting to walk towards you as he casually stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. "Get out of here," he says menacingly, eyes narrowing and mouth set stern. "And don't come back."

You admit you're slightly scared, but you don't back down. "No." You glare. "I don't want to."

The boy laughs, shrugging. "It's always the dumb Dystopian-borns. You can't be more than ten-years-old. What's got you so suicidal, huh?"

You narrow your eyes. "I'm not dumb!"

"Hm... Prove it... idiot."

You fume, face turning bright red as you stomp your feet. "Shut up! Leave me alone!"

The boy laughs. "I will if you get out of my sight."

Angry tears slip from your eyes as you grip your fists tight. "I don't want to! I-I want to die! My best friend's down there. And I'm going to be with him!" you yell as snot runs down your nose and your cheeks are wet with hot tears. You feel pathetic. But you need to get your point across to this mean, older boy who isn't leaving you alone. "You can't make me leave!"

There's an uncomfortable silence that follows, yet you stand your ground and glare at him. But to your surprise, the boy lets out a small sigh and begins to walk up to you. He crouches down to your level and he wipes your tears (and embarrassingly a bit of your snot) with the sleeve of his frayed (but obviously high-end) sweater. "It's okay kid," he says. Before you know it, he's pulling you into a tight hug. "Stop crying, hm? It'll be all right, kid."

Nobody's ever hugged you like that before. Not even Jimin—because he knows how much you don't like physical affection. But you needed his hug; it was long overdue.

You hiccup, crying out the rest of your tears as the boy holds you into his arms. It takes you a few minutes to calm down, and when you finally pull away from the boy, you notice that your shirt is slightly wet as well. And not from your tears, but from his. You look up to see the boy's back turned on you, hiding his face from your view.

"Let's go get something to eat, kid," he says, and you can hear just the hint of tears behind his voice. And when he sniffles, it confirms everything.

Cocking your head in curiosity, you begin to follow him—

"Wait, wait!" Taehyung interrupts. "Before you go on any further, you need to address the elephant in the room, Y/N. Why the fuck is he crying?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't know then either," you say. "It's complicated. I mean, I only found out the reason way later. If you'd just let me continue—"

"Oh, sorry. Continue, then."

"Yes, thank you—"

"Wait, lemme interrupt just one more time," Taehyung interjects again. "Just one last question." You groan, but you nod, telling him you're all ears. "Exactly how much older is he than you?"

You sigh. "He was three years older."

Taehyung sucks in a deep breath. "Right... He's, uh, dead. But damn. You were into a Utopian-born that was older? You really broke all the boundaries."

You shrug. "I guess I always didn't really give a fuck about societal norms or whatever the shit people call it."

"And yet you're conforming to the largest societal norm in Atna by studying for the Exam," Taehyung points out. "Times have changed."

You smile sadly, shaking your head. "I'm only doing this for Yoongi. He made me promise... So, here I am, trying to fulfill his wishes. Will you let me continue now?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Anyways..."

Yoongi watches you devour the bread, but you're too hungry to care about his incessant staring.

"You should slow down," he says. "We don't want you to choke to death or anything—" he pauses, eyes turning wide before he mutters a "Shit, I gave her a fucking idea."

"I heard that," you say.

Yoongi visibly pales.

"It's okay," you assure him, setting down a loaf of bread to stare right back at the boy. "I feel better now. I don't think I've eaten for days."

"Damn," Yoongi mutters under his breath. "What kind of best friend was he for you to be this distraught over his death?"

"Distraught?" you say, blinking blankly at him.

He sighs, "Right, right, you're only ten. Distraught means sad. Upset. Depressed. All those fun words."

"Oh," you murmur. "Jimin was everything to me," you say shyly. "He promised me that we were going to go back to Dystopia! Then we could share a house and live together as adults..." you trail off, losing yourself in the figments of your wildest imaginations. "We were supposed to have so much fun in Purgatory..."

Yoongi cocks his head. "Kid, I think you liked him."

You frown at this strange comment, crinkling your nose. "Of course I liked him, he was my best friend."

"No, kid. You like liked him. Maybe you loved him. I don't know," Yoongi says, shrugging. "Think about it. Wait no, don't. Forget about him. Don't make yourself sad. Talk to me. What do you wanna do? Wanna go to my room? I have some stuff back from home there. You can play with them if you want."

You squint your eyes at the boy, staring at him suspiciously. "Why are you trying to be nice...?"

"Nice?" Yoongi scoffs. "I'm just, uh, I'm just trying to get rid of stuff that I don't need anymore. I'm definitely not being nice. So you better follow me 'cause I don't want a lot of things."

You don't buy his lie, but maybe that's a good thing. In your eyes, this boy is, indeed, nice and he's trying to help you take your mind off of Jimin. He even prevented you from leaping off the ledge and falling to your own death. You hope he sticks around.

And stick around he did.

Yoongi is bossy, straight-forward and frankly rude sometimes, things that Jimin totally wasn't. But he is also generous, thoughtful and emotional (on a good day), and that's all you needed to stick by his side.

He is so generous that in the first week that you met him, he gave you nearly a closet-worth's supply of thick sweaters and jackets for the upcoming winter. In that same way, he is thoughtful. You took the clothes gratefully, never once having held such expensive material before in your life.

On late nights when you slept over in his room, he always asked if you could tell him stories of your childhood. And you'd gladly oblige. That's when he got emotional. Though you never see him cry, you always hear it when you tell your stories. Yoongi tries to hide his emotions to the best of his ability, but frankly, he's a loud crier, so you hear him every time. But you let him think he's good at hiding his tears for the sake that he's your friend.

One day, though, you come down with some sort of throat sickness, and Yoongi practically orders you not to speak for the next 24 hours. He had his own medicine cabinet in which his rich parents gifted him before their only son was shipped off to Purgatory from their grand mansion. So you were getting the best treatment anyone in Purgatory could get.

Yoongi even offered to tell you stories that night. To repay you for being an amazing storyteller.

"I've always wanted to hear about Utopia," you croak despite having a painful burn in your throat. "I hate that place. But I want to know more about it."

"Stop talking so much," Yoongi sighs. "Do you want to get better or not?" When you're silent, (having passed his rhetorical question test in which the correct answer was to stay quiet) he smiles to himself and continues. "I hate Utopia too. It's not as great as it seems. You know that every Utopian-born is a slave to education? I think the moment I was born, I got tossed in tutoring. From six in the morning to eleven at night I was tutored. Seven days a week, no breaks. It's probably illegal, but my parents had a lot of copies of the books in the library in Purgatory. They made me get a head start on everything. After a while, you start to think about what the whole point of education is...

"My parents always told me that I was only suffering in my younger years—that I'd only have to suffer until I'm eighteen and if I scored well on the Exam, I'd be able to come back home safely and have the time of my life in Utopia. But I just didn't want to become a slave to education," Yoongi says. "I was sick of it. Sure, I'm privileged. Sure, I had everything I wanted growing up, but I didn't have one thing you Dystopians have—freedom.

"When you're studying all day every day, you don't get a lot of chances to make friends," Yoongi says. "I grew up with adults breathing down my neck and telling me to memorize useless facts. That was the closest thing to friends I ever got. I'm not sure if every Utopian-born is forced to live like this, but I can damn well infer it. Anyways, my parents aren't here now, so I can do whatever the fuck I want."

You laugh. "You don't want to go back home?" you say in your sick, gravelly voice

"I'm just tired, Y/N. I'm tired of everything," Yoongi exhales. "You'll understand when you're older."

"You're only three years older than me, though," you pout. "Do three years change that much?"

"Yes," Yoongi replies as a matter-of-fact-way. "I don't even want to take this stupid fucking test. But I also don't want to rot in Dystopia—no offense. I know I won't last there."

"Yeah, you won't last," you tell him with a giggle.

He huffs. "That's real comforting, Y/N."

"I know," you rasp. "Please tell me about Utopia, now. Are the skies really that blue? And does everyone have a pool? What do you eat there? Do you get your own room??" The last question throws you in a coughing fit, and Yoongi looks at you worriedly. He waits until you stop before he continues.

"It was always blue outside, yeah," he says, slowly, carefully as if he was taking his time to form his words to match his visualizations. "Sometimes we had scheduled rainy days for the private gardens and stuff," he says nostalgically. "I think I had about three pools in my home in Utopia, but I’m not sure if other families had them too. You know, I didn't get around much. Always stuck inside and studying." He sighs. "At least the food there was good. Way better than the crap we're forced to eat here. Barbecue ribs with generous amounts of sauce, slow-cooked potatoes in a bonfire, roasted lamb chops, fresh fruits and vegetables picked up from the nearby food-growing facilities... Caviar, licorice, cotton candy, chocolate, cakes, pudding... And if I ever ate bread, it was with fresh strawberry jam and smooth almond butter."

You don't understand half of the stuff he's saying, but whatever it is, it sounds delicious.

"I could talk about the great food there forever," Yoongi says. "The only thing I miss about Utopia is the food... It's really lonely there. I had my sleeping chamber, my pool room and my study room, but I was always in there alone. Whatever. Do you want to hear more?"

You nod. "Yoongi?"

"Yeah?"

"You cried when I first met you. Why?"

Yoongi visibly stiffens. Knowing him you expect Yoongi to wave off your question or ignore you altogether, but to your surprise, he doesn't.

"You made me feel bad," he confesses bluntly.

"Me??"

"It was just so strange for me to see someone else get upset over a friend..." he trails off. "You were going to die for him. You were going to leap into a pit because you loved your friend that much. You couldn't bear to think of a life without him. So you were going to die with him. And that just..."

"It was stupid, I know," you pout. "You don't have to say it again."

"It was stupid, yeah," Yoongi agrees. "And I'm saying it again because I can. But at the same time, it hurt me. You know, I made up my mind to jump that day too."

"You did??"

"Yeah and imagine my surprise and annoyance when I see some ten-year-old Dystopian-born in my way," Yoongi sniffles. "Pissed me off."

You huff. "Well—"

"And I was still pissed off at you until you told me you were going to do it to be with your friend," Yoongi says. "Do you know why I was going to do it?" You shake your head no. "Because I'm selfish and I didn't like my life and I didn't want to continue living in this hellhole by myself. Because I wanted to give up. And also because I didn't have a purpose to wake up to another day, but that's just one part of a plethora of other reasons. They were all selfish. It made me just... feel something when I saw you. And you were just willing to die for someone who wasn't yourself. Even though that's fucking stupid, it made me realize how I've never really lived before. And maybe you were the key to my first friendship? I don't know."

"Wow," you mutter.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes, well, no? My throat's hurting again, Yoongi," you whine. "You told me to stop talking minutes ago."

"Oh, well, in that case, just go to sleep," he says. "You'll feel better in the morning."

"Thanks," you whisper against your cotton pillow. You snuggle in your cot below Yoongi's bed and let out a small sigh. "You're not that selfish, Yoongi," you say.

And you mean it. Yoongi's shown you nothing but generosity. He's shown you that he's caring when he tries to be. Even though he's unbelievably bossy sometimes, he does it for your own good. His quiet demeanor is a façade to the overwhelming emotions inside, and you can see right through it.

Yoongi doesn't answer for the longest time, so you wrap your arms arm yourself to preserve warmth and fall asleep. You wake up the next morning with an extra layer of blanket on top of you.

Taehyung begins to tap his feet on the ground restlessly, consequently making your chair shake underneath you. You try to ignore it for minutes, but the constant shaking is making it hard for you to concentrate on the textbook sitting between the two of you.

"Taehyung," you say.

"Hm?" he asks, his eyes boring into the pages of the book. "What?"

"Can you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"You're shaking my chair."

"Oh," Taehyung says. He finally looks up from his reading and makes eye contact with you. "Sorry," he apologizes hastily. "I didn't mean to do it... I just got nervous. This book is just... It's weird. I mean, when was the last time we put emphasis on family?"

"Never, of course," you say. "I barely even remember what my parents look like."

"Really?" Taehyung's eyes are large as he stares you down with curiosity mixed with just the slightest bit of pity. "Do you miss them?"

"No."

"What? Really?" Taehyung gasps. "You really don't care at all?"

"They're not prominent figures in my life," you say. "It was always Jimin. And then when Jimin died, it was Yoongi..." you trail off. "I do regret not being close to my family. I don't think I said goodbye when I had to leave to Purgatory."

"God, well, that's harsh."

"I know. What about you? Were you close with your family?"

"Oh, very," Taehyung replies. "I had three older brothers and one younger sister. My sister and two brothers didn't make it out in the world. So in theory I only had one older sibling."

"I'm sorry," you say.

"It's fine. It was in Dystopia. Too many people die so the deaths start to become irrelevant," Taehyung shrugs. "I miss them, though. My brother's dead now, but I miss my parents."

"Dead?"

"He tried to start a revolt in Purgatory eleven years ago," Taehyung says. He frowns, shaking his head in disbelief. "I didn't think he was that dumb to actually go through with the rebellion. It was a man-slaughter, by the way. Everyone in his year was killed."

"Everyone?" you say. "Even to me, that sounds severe."

"Yeah, well, it was easier for them. Assumed that everyone in that year was a rebel. And rebels deserve to die, apparently," Taehyung says. He grits his teeth, fisting his hands in slow-coming anger. "You do know why they have the fucking Exam, right?"

"To choose which people are worthy of being in Utopia?"

"That's part of the reason," Taehyung says. He leans into you so suddenly that you gasp quietly. "The government does it to weed out the feeble-minded ones. Haven't you heard rumors? In a few years, they might just exterminate Dystopia and Purgatory altogether. There aren't enough resources to keep everyone alive," he whispers with urgency, and you can feel his hot breath on your cheeks. "So they're trying to grow a stable society with highly intelligent individuals. They want to get rid of the excess. The unworthy. They do it by hosting the Exam."

He looks satisfied at your rather shocked face and decides to give you some space, leaning away and taking away the warmth on your face.

"They're going to get rid of Dystopia?" you whisper. "And Purgatory? That's not fair to the people living there. They're gonna close off Utopia forever? That's bullshit."

"It's rumored." Taehyung shrugs.

"Is that why you're studying so hard to go?" you say, cocking a curious brow at him. "To avenge your brother?"

"Maybe," Taehyung grins. "I mean, I'll see what I can do."

"You shouldn't," you tell him with a frown. "They're gonna kill our whole year because of you."

Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you. "You know what they're doing is wrong," he says. "Don't you want to right the wrong?"

"No," you say. "I don't. I'm not going to risk my life or any other lives to fix this stupid system. The only fool-proof way to beat them is to beat the Exam—by that, I mean get a perfect score. Think about it. It's a huge middle finger to the government. Imagine if only one person out of hundreds gets to go to Utopia for scoring the highest, and, you know, assuming that only one person gets a perfect score because it's that unheard of. If that keeps up year after year, Utopia will die. They'll be underpopulated. The government will realize the system is flawed with time."

"That would take years and years. And a lot of assumptions to make," Taehyung scoffs. "You're talking about one person from every fucking year having the will and intelligence to score perfectly. Statistically impossible."

"So what?" you say. "You think a bloody revolution will solve everything?"

"A bloody revolution would obviously take less time than what you're thinking of," Taehyung says. "There are people fucking dying out there. There are people eating dead bodies. One bloody revolt can do a lot for the future."

"It won't do a lot for the present, though," you argue.

Taehyung sighs. "You know what? I'm sorry we even fucking got into this damned conversation. Whatever. Let's just finish up the book."

You clench your teeth but you don't say anything, merely nodding to show your agreement.

For the next thirteen hours, it is completely silent. After the small argument, neither you nor Taehyung feels the need to speak to the other. There is obvious tension and awkwardness between the two of you—like it had been in the beginning. You try to ignore it, immersing yourself into the contents of family studies, no matter how tedious you found it. Night rolls around and both of you end up skipping dinner.

Breakfast the next day is skipped as well.

By the time lunch comes, you and Taehyung have finished reading and reviewing the last book in the whole library. He slams the textbook shut and slides it across the table. The sound isn't as jarring as you expect it to be. So you just blink your dry eyes and try to steady yourself to prepare to stand up from your seat. Maybe you should leave Taehyung alone for a while... Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you anymore. And maybe you shouldn't hang around him... He could get you killed. He could rope you around in his master plan that his older brother had left with loose ends. You don't want to die; you don't even want to think of the possibility of death.

The only way you can beat the goddamn Exam is to be the only person to score 100 percent. And you're going to accomplish that. For years you've set your mind on this one single goal. Sacrificed food, water and sleep for it. You're not going to let it slip from your hands this easily—not when you're this close to it.

You wobble away from the chair, never looking back at Taehyung as you try to walk away from the table.

"Wait."

His tired voice echoes in the nearly empty library and it rings in your ears. You stop walking but you don't turn around.

"What, Taehyung?" you say through gritted teeth. Though you try to hide the slight waver in your voice that would indicate your exhaustiveness, it shows quite obviously.

"Let's grab lunch together. Please," he says—no, pleads.

God, he must know how much that word affects me. He knows about Jimin, so it probably wasn't so hard to use that knowledge to his own advantage.

After contemplating for what seemed like minutes, you finally turn around to face Taehyung. It surprises you when you meet his eyes almost immediately.

"You didn't finish telling me about Yoongi," he says. "I hate cliffhangers."

It occurs to you that both of you are too proud to apologize over an argument; in fact, this was Taehyung's way of apologizing to you without uttering the words, 'I'm sorry.' Your apology would be something similar.

You nod. "C'mon," you say. "Let's go to the cafeteria."

For two whole years, you were the happiest you've ever been with Yoongi. He made you almost forget about Jimin, but you made sure you honored your dead best friend by visiting the pit every now and then. It had been the last place you'd seen him.

Yoongi likes to come with you when you go to the pit. He's been getting anxious these days when you're not by his side.

Actually, you notice that he's been acting a bit strange. In the past few months, he began lecturing you about famous inventors and world leaders. He taught you the locations and capitals of countries you didn't know existed. He's been telling you the events of history as if he'd lived through them himself. The most annoying part was when he tried to make a damn math problem out of everything.

You only assumed that the pent-up knowledge inside his head was finally getting to him and he had to let it out to someone before he exploded. So you went along with it. And you suppose that sometimes, the lessons Yoongi taught you were enjoyable.

Until it got to the point that he began to quiz you on the material you learned from him.

You groan, eyes fluttering open to greet the morning sunlight that floods through the faded curtains in Yoongi's room. You had a rough night with a bad dream. You've never been this glad to finally wake up from your sleep.

Aside from the sunlight, you're also greeted by Yoongi's loud voice the moment he catches you awake. "Capital of Senegal?" he demands, pointing at you as if you had just committed a crime.

You squint your eyes at him, frowning as you stifle a yawn. You're still cranky from having a bad dream (that you can't remember now that you've woken up), so without so much of the slightest blink of an eye, you tell him to "Please, stop."

Yoongi snorts. "No, seriously," he says. "What's the capital of Senegal?"

"I dunno," you lie even though there's no way in hell that you don't know at this point in time because Yoongi's been making you memorize the world capitals for weeks now. But frustration starts to bubble up inside of you. You thought Yoongi would know a thing or two about maintaining personal space. Making you answer stupid geography questions the moment you wake up for six days in a row was downright mean and he deserves to hear a mouthful from you. "Yoongi what the hell is up with you?" you huff. "What does the capital of Senegal have to do with anything??"

"It's Dakar!" Yoongi yells, throwing up his hands. "Fucking Dakar, Y/N! Is that so hard to remember?"

"Why does it even matter?!" you yell back at him.

"I'm trying to help you!" Yoongi shouts. "I'm helping you learn, goddammit!"

"Why would I have to learn??" you say absolutely confused out of your mind. "You know how much you hated being stuck in tutoring. Well, I hate it too!"

"Oh, shit," Yoongi curses, collapsing on his bed with his hands buried in his face. He realizes that you'd just made an extremely valid point, and it puts him to shame. "I was just trying to help..."

"What? Help me pass the Exam?" you snort half-jokingly. "Yoongi, I want to go back to my home, Dystopia, with you."

"No, Y/N," Yoongi says. "I'm not going to Dystopia."

"Then wha—"

"I've been thinking, Y/N," Yoongi cuts you off, patting the spot next to him for you to sit. You do, rubbing your eyes and trying to tame your bed hair as you wait for him to continue. "I've been thinking a lot..." Yoongi says, "about the future. I've thought about every scenario in my head, and I don't think I'll ever be content."

"Aren't you happy with me, here?" you say. "I thought we were having fun..."

"Sooner or later, Y/N, I'll have to take the Exam," Yoongi says. "I'll fail, as expected. I'll be tossed into Dystopia and I'll have to wait until you come back home. But I'll most likely die in less than a year so you'll never actually get to see me again."

"Don't say that!" you shriek. "Don't even—"

"I'm obviously not going to make it in Dystopia. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and waking up in this dingy room in Purgatory every day disgusts me. Think about how horrible it'd be for me in Dystopia when I can't even stand it here. Then the only solution left is for me to go back to Utopia," Yoongi explains. "And that's not going to happen because I don't intend on learning new material anymore. I'm not a scholar. Was forced to be, but never wanted to be. I give up."

"You're giving up??"

"I'm giving up."

"But Yoongi..." you breathe but no further words come out of your mouth. You don't want to put words in his mouth, but you're scared of what he's thinking of doing to himself in the future. Yet you don't have the guts to ask him about his plan out loud.

"I know, Y/N," Yoongi sighs. "But I'm not bringing you down with me."

"What??"

"You're going to Utopia, Y/N," Yoongi says. He's so nonchalant with an atrocious statement that you wonder if he has a concussion. But when he's staring at you so intently, you realize with a heavy heart that he's dead serious.

"It's too late, Yoongi," you protest. "I would never beat the Utopian-borns... I'm already two years behind the game, and if you factor in the time the Utopian-borns have studied, I'm twelve years behind!"

"It's not too late," he argues. "Think about it. Utopian-borns like me—unless they're batshit crazy—aren't trying as hard anymore. Their parents aren't there to supervise them, and they're probably insanely cocky about how much they already know."

"What's your point?"

"You can easily beat them with willpower," Yoongi says. "And I already tried teaching you some stuff that I remembered too—whether you were paying attention is solely on you, though."

You huff. "I was paying attention," you say. "And that's impossible. I'm not a genius, Yoongi. Intelligence is genetic. You told me so yourself."

"I did," Yoongi admits, "but it doesn't matter how innately intelligent you are. What really matters is willpower. And I have none. But you have a lot. I'm just saying, Y/N. Utopia... it's not really a life for me. I don't really give a shit about education and being intelligent. I don't really give a shit about anything. But I think Utopia is a life for you. It's a life you deserve."

"I can't just accept what you're telling me, Yoongi," you say.

"Yes you can," he says. "I want to leave soon, you know. I don't want to distract you from your studies... And besides, Purgatory's food fucking sucks. I bet they have better food in the afterlife."

The afterlife. It's then when it truly dawns on you of the atrocity that your friend would commit to himself.

"You can't just kill yourself," you scoff, twisting your body towards Yoongi in complete bewilderment. "What about me? I never agreed to any of this!"

"You've wanted to go to Utopia the moment I started to tell you about it," Yoongi says. "You think I wouldn't know? I'm helping you get there."

"But I don't want to be alone!" You sniffle, chin pointing to the ceiling so the tears that are starting to well in your eyes dry away. But it's no use. The more you think about being abandoned again, another person you genuinely cared for leaving you into the afterlife... it makes you feel broken.

"Well, I don't really want to live," Yoongi says. "We're all selfish. It's human nature."

"I thought you cared about me!" Your voice rises two octaves. "We were supposed to spend the rest of your time in Purgatory together! You can't just leave early because you feel like it! What am I going to do without you??" You're sobbing now, the tears running down your face in fat droplets that blur your vision.

"Hey..." Yoongi murmurs. "Y/N..." He gives you some space to cry, to let out the worst of your emotions. Then he encompasses you in a warm hug in which your face is up against the soft material of his sweater and he pats your back comfortably. "You'll get over me."

"I won't," you whimper. "That's a promise."

"C'mon don't waste a precious promise on that," he whispers.

"I will so waste a stupid precious promise on that," you whisper back. You hate him for doing this to you. For telling you that he was going to leave you so you knew what was coming—now you were dreading the moment he was going to abandon you instead of relishing in his presence, his embrace, his warmth.

For hours, the two of you bask in complete silence. You've calmed yourself down to the point that the tears roll down your face sporadically, but not in steady streams anymore. Yoongi runs his fingers through your hair, an act that he only does to ensure you that everything will be all right. It's rare that the two of you are ever this close in proximity, and you want to cherish this moment before he's gone. But curiosity pulls at the strings inside you and you just have to ask—

"W-When are you going to do it?"

"Hm?"

"When are you going to commit suicide?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

You pull away from Yoongi, scowling at him. "Why not?"

"You'll try to put a stop to it," he says. "I need to get through with this, Y/N. You can't change my mind."

"I want to say I hate you, but now I feel like I need to be nice to you," you confess, running a hand through your hair in confusion.

Yoongi smiles, shaking his head. "Act normally." He hesitantly reaches out for your hand, and when you give it to him, he holds it perfectly—not too tightly nor not too loosely. "Just promise me one thing." When you don't answer, he turns to you, squeezing your intertwined hands for emphasis. "Get to the top for me, will you?"

"I can't promise tha—"

"And please don't frown when you study. You're gonna get a permanent crease on your forehead."

"Fuck, Y/N," Taehyung chokes, blinking away a tear that was starting to become too heavy for his eyes. "That's it? You let him just... leave you like that?"

"I feel like I should've put up a bigger fight too," you admit, playing with what's left of the bread crumbs on the lunch table. "I should've helped him. Nursed him back into a healthy mental state. But what did I know? I was fucking twelve then. I didn't know shit about mental health or psychology."

"You know now at least," Taehyung offers.

"I'd rather not know," you say. "Now that I know that I could've helped him... it just feels worse." You let out a deep sigh that takes the heavy weight off of your chest. "He overdosed about four days later. They found him before I did... And since then, I've been alone, studying my ass off."

"I can't help but admire your determination," Taehyung says. "You honestly can't beat human willpower. Yoongi's right."

You smile, shrugging nonchalantly. "I just want to keep my promise with him... And maybe I want to live in glory for the rest of my life, but who am I to blame? Everybody wants that life."

"Everybody deserves that life," Taehyung says. "No one should have to go through near-death experiences to get to it."

"Life's never fair," you say. "Deal with it."

Taehyung snorts. "I know. I'm trying." He pauses, placing a pensive hand on his chin and looking off into the distance as if he were thinking hard about something. "Hey, you know, the best way to retain information is to repeat it out loud or teach it to others."

"That's exactly what Yoongi made me do," you say. "All those random quiz questions throughout the day... I didn't appreciate it then, but I'd sure appreciate it now."

"Then we can be study buddies," Taehyung declares. "We'll quiz each other. We have about a year left before the Exam. We'll review every concept in the whole damn library together. Two heads work better than one!"

"Aren't we supposed to be competitors?" you say. "I'm looking to get a perfect score, Taehyung," you grin. "If you can't keep up with my rigorous schedule, you shouldn't even be proposing this plan to me."

"Oh yeah?" Taehyung cocks an eyebrow as he grins right back at you, revealing his perfect teeth and boxy smile. "Bring it on, Y/N."

Bring it on? Oh, you'll bring it on, all right. Taehyung won't even know what hit him.

Having someone else to study with you doubles your competitiveness, which is a feat in it of itself because you are definitely more competitive than at least one hundred of your peers combined.

Every day, you've been trying to wake up earlier than Taehyung to get to the library first. The only problem is, he's been doing the same as well. You thought you had him beat when you sauntered into the library at 4 a.m. feeling quite refreshed after an hour night's sleep, but it turned out that Taehyung never even left the library. He'd grinned at you, practically staring into your soul with bloodshot eyes and croaking, "I win!" so victoriously that you really had to accept his triumph over you.

But when the two of you start to play a little game of who-can-stay-awake-for-longer, Taehyung has to put a stop to the madness when you start to mumble jumbled sentences in Latin after he asks if you need some water.

You and Taehyung look out for each other almost by habit at this point. It's become a routine for you to wake the other up if you were the first to awake. Now morning trips to the library are done together, and you have to admit it feels much better to be able to walk side by side next to someone who is willing to babble his head off to wake you up a bit more.

Dinner is skipped Mondays through Fridays to make extra time for review. On Saturdays, you and Taehyung indulge in the full three meals that Purgatory has to offer while also finishing up your studies. But Sunday, Sunday is the holy grail of the week. No studying, no library, just you and Taehyung taking some time off (for once).

Surprisingly, you'd come up with Special Sundays, after Taehyung had a huge mental breakdown over plumb-forgetting how to graph polar curves on one typical Saturday night. And the special day has stayed since. Neither of you wants to get rid of something that is the only non-study related activity of the week.

Most Special Sundays are spent in either Taehyung's room or your room. Taehyung prefers your room because you have extra blankets that Yoongi left for you, and as winter comes by, any additional coverage is very much appreciated.

This Sunday, however, you managed to convince Taehyung to hang out in his room—only because his mattress is softer than yours and you've been getting bad back and neck pains these days.

"By the time I'm twenty, I'll be suffering from a fucking herniated disc," you tell Taehyung as you groan, shifting your position on his bed for what seems like the hundredth time. "I feel so fucking stuffy. Like I need to crack my back but I can't. Don't even get me started on my fucking neck."

"By the time you're twenty, you'll be in Utopia and the special doctors will be all over you to treat Atna's very own princess," Taehyung snorts. "They'd do anything to keep the perfect scoring girl alive and well."

"Princess my ass," you laugh. "I'd like to wish. How's the cot, by the way? Kinda feel bad about making you sleep there while I take your bed."

Taehyung shrugs. "I don't mind. I honestly don't even feel a difference," he says without skipping a beat. "And we don't want your back messing up your chances. On the day of the Exam, it'd be worse to have your body betray you than your mind."

"I'd literally fucking cry if my stupid back is still like this before the Exam, Taehyung," you say. "All these years I spent with my nose buried in a book... Only to fail because my body couldn't handle it."

"That's the worst," Taehyung sighs. "But if you stretch every day, it might get better. Honestly, we need to start taking care of ourselves better. We need to reserve time to rest... to take our minds off of studying. Even if it's only one day per week."

"Yeah," you agree. "You know what's fucking sad though? We're still talking about the stupid Exam even now. It never escapes our heads."

"We're slaves to the system," Taehyung bitterly murmurs. "What do you expect?"

"That's true," you say, wincing as you try to shift your position on the bed again. "I don't expect much at this point. Not from the people who've turned the library into a battlefield and the students into soldiers."

"The Exam is the war," Taehyung says. "Losing the war means death, mostly. I see no difference."

"We are so depressing," you sigh. "But it's all true."

"I know," Taehyung says. He turns over on his side to look up at you on his bed. "You ever think about the worst-case scenario?"

"You mean like... we don't make it to Utopia?"

"We?" Taehyung smiles. "So you think we'd get perfect scores together? What happened to being competitors?"

"Oh, shut up," you snort. "We're a team. I thought it was obvious. And I am not talking about not making it to Utopia. We are not going to self-sabotage months before the fucking Exam."

"You're just going to ignore the chances? You're going to ignore the chance of failure?"

"Yes!" you say, turning on your side to face Taehyung. "Of course I am. Do you really want to lie here talking about failure? We shouldn't even plant the thought of that in our heads right now. It's all about victory. We're the smartest, most capable people in our year, so if we don't get to Utopia, no one will. Understand?"

Taehyung belts out a laugh that has you frowning. "Your confidence deserves a gold medal sometimes," he says. "I do understand you..." he continues, "but only to a certain extent."

You scoff, "Oh, come on, Taehyung. What happened to the cocky bastard I met months ago??"

"That was such a mask behind the real me, Y/N," Taehyung laughs. "I thought you knew that by now. I'm fucking terrified of failure and even the slightest thought about failing makes me want to crawl in a hole and just... vanish."

"I swear to god, Tae, if you talk about vanishing like that again, I'll seriously make you want to vanish," you threaten him with the most menacing voice you can muster up. "We're already victors to this stupid game, winners of the war. Don't you dare think otherwise."

Taehyung smiles, eyes twinkling when he realizes you'd called him by his special nickname (that he kept trying to get you to call him) for the first time. "I'll try not to," he says. "But I'm not making any promises."

"Well, that's still good enough for me."

Four months until the Exam.

You're both physically (your back pains are gone) and mentally (you've always been) ready. But your friend is another story. As more days pass, the more anxious Taehyung begins to feel. He's never able to sleep, so he steals a couple of library books back to his room every night to read while everyone else is salvaging every hour of shut-eye they can get.

His insecurities are catching up to him. And you've always been quite loud-mouthed and confident, so you don't understand him very well. Yet, you're a team, and you do not leave team members stranded.

Motivational pep talks are not really your thing, but they have become your thing these past few days. You walk Taehyung to his room from the library every night, telling him that he had nothing to worry about—that he was going to do superbly well on the Exam. Sometimes, you feel like you're repeating the same phrase over and over again to him, but Taehyung reassures you that whatever you say helps him calm down.

But the mental breakdowns are becoming more and more frequent. Taehyung can't seem to sit still for ten minutes without starting to shake his leg and vibrate the whole table. He has to stop reviewing the Exam material to catch his breath, wipe away his tears and relax the tensed muscles on his face.

You let him take his time. You're always there for him to lean on, to help him catch up on the study time that he missed. And he's forever grateful to you.

"I don't think anyone's been this understanding of me," Taehyung sniffles as you pat his back comfortingly as he blows his nose on a scratchy napkin you handed him before. "Back home, my brother used to tell me to man up when I started to have my panic attacks. He was always the mentally stronger one of us."

"That wasn't very nice of him to say that," you remark. "It's normal to feel uneasy, especially at a time like this. The Exam is four months away... Not too close but not too far either..."

"God. I wish I wasn't so anxious all the time," Taehyung sighs, crumpling up his tissue and pocketing it. "I wish I was like you. Not afraid of losing... Not afraid of failing... Just so confident all the time."

"You can be like me," you say. "Just stop worrying so much."

"Easier said than done," Taehyung scoffs. "You're going to Utopia for sure. There's literally no doubt, Y/N."

"You're coming with me," you argue. "Not to avenge your brother's death or whatever. But just to enjoy the wealthy living since we both deserve it at this point."

"I'm not a charismatic leader," Taehyung shrugs. "I would've never been able to help start a revolt like him. I'd really like to go with you to Utopia... If we both got in, do you think we'd keep in touch?"

"Of course!" you exclaim. "We kept each other company in the loneliest of times. Have you seen anyone else in our year who's serious about taking the Exam making friends now? Everyone's too busy thinking about competition."

"What did I say?" Taehyung grins. "Teamwork works, and two heads are definitely better than one."

"Very true," you smile. "Remember when we fought for that book? The very first time we met?"

"How could I forget?" Taehyung laughs. "I thought you were going to murder me with that look of yours, honestly."

"Oh, wow. I'm not that scary, am I?"

"Oh, yes you are," Taehyung argues. "Do you know how hard it was for me to literally act tough in front of you in the beginning? So you wouldn't take me as some kind of wimp?"

"You acted tough for me?" you giggle, resting your hand on your cheek as your elbow sits on the table. You stare at Taehyung with an amused look on your face. "So you're just actually a big ol' softie?"

"W-Well, I wouldn't call myself a softie per se," Taehyung blushes. "I'm just uh..." he trails off. "Damn, Y/N. You put me under the spotlight."

You shrug, grinning as you watch Taehyung squirm under your intense gaze. Maybe you're a little mean, but making him blush is pretty funny. Teasing him is even funnier.

"It wouldn't be the first time. And definitely not the last," you say with a mischievous grin playing on your lips. Taehyung huffs, but his face looks much more relaxed than it had been several minutes ago—even the redness of his eyes are slowly fading away. He looks much better. He looks ready. "Hey, wanna go back to where we left off now?" you say. "If you're feeling better?"

"Yeah, sure," Taehyung smiles. "Thanks."

Goddamn. His smile is insanely contagious. It must be those perfect teeth and that boxy smile.

"No problem," you manage to murmur, feeling yourself start to blush thinking of Taehyung's immaculate smile. "Um," you hesitate, "yeah, so as I was saying before about Einstein's theory of relativity..."

Three months.

Something fishy is going on here. The closer the Exam looms over your head, the more you expected yourself to become miserable—stressed about the last-minute study material you could've forgotten over the years. Yet you find yourself rather relaxed.

It occurs to you, however, that you're only this relaxed because you have to be—for Taehyung. One of the two of you has to show strength to help the other. Pretending to be so strong-headed and confident (even when you fell into the familiar pit of self-doubt), helped you actually become confident in your knowledge and predestined success. There's really nothing to worry about, you tell yourself and Taehyung. If it's not the two of us, then it can't be anyone else.

The more you comfort Taehyung, the more he opens up to you, and the more you open up to him. Your friendships in the past have always been a little lopsided—with Jimin, you constantly comforted him, cared for him, and with Yoongi, he had been the one to take care of you. For once in your life, you had a relationship in which you both gave and took; Taehyung is your balance. The in-between of Jimin and Yoongi.

The platonic relationship with Jimin is mirrored in your relationship with Taehyung, but sometimes blush creeps up your cheeks when Taehyung teases you back or when your hands graze each other. So maybe you're not completely platonic with him.

And maybe you're just missing someone to love.

"Do you think we'd be happier if we just... never studied for the Exam?" Taehyung whispers to you as you lie side by side on your bed. The midnight moon is bright enough to illuminate just a sliver of Taehyung's face as he stares at the ceiling of your room pensively. "We would be hanging out... never going to the library... Making friends..."

You hum thoughtfully. "I don't know," you say. "I guess maybe we would be happier—just for the eight years we're in Purgatory, anyway."

"That's right," Taehyung says. "That's a good point, actually. I feel like what we're doing right now is right. We're suffering now to make gains later. And..." he trails off. "And... um, if we don't make it, at least we'll know that we tried."

You nod. "Yeah, I guess. It would be better than being tossed back into Dystopia and wondering for the rest of our lives what would've happened if we did study for the Exam."

"Exactly," Taehyung says. "I think it's crazy that we only have three months left," Taehyung says. "But weirdly... I feel less stressed than before. Maybe your optimistic preachings are getting to my head," he laughs quietly, nudging your shoulder playfully.

"Me? Optimistic?" you snort. "That's the first."

"It's true," Taehyung muses. "My anxiety isn't as bad as before, and I'm pretty sure you had a part to play in that."

"In three months, you won't have any anxiety ever again," you reassure him. "You won't even need to hear me babble on about optimism and self-confidence."

"And we'll be having the time of our lives in Utopia," Taehyung breathes.

You smile to yourself, nodding silently. The two of you let the silence consume you, letting Taehyung's last words echo in your head; it's a good way to end the conversation—on a positive note. A lasting note of hope and faith.

It's then when you feel something warm on your hand. It takes you a moment to realize it's flesh. It takes another moment for you to realize it's Taehyung's hand. When you don't flinch away, he quietly almost hesitantly encompasses your hand in his. Delicately, your fingers intertwine and lock perfectly together.

Immediately, your cheeks heat up but you refuse to speak about it. Reassurance floods through you as the two of you lay side by side in the comforting darkness of your room with your hands held tightly together.

And neither of you speak until the sun peeks out from the horizon to paint the skies with another morning, another day. You don't need to talk to Taehyung to know he's thinking the same thing as you.

We'll have the time of our lives in Utopia.

Two months.

The last-minute crammers crowd the library so much that there is a line to enter it. You and Taehyung found a very effective way to battle the sudden influx of students, though. Every day, the two of you enter the library as early as three in the morning (to ensure that little to nobody was there) and take six to seven books with you, hiding them under your jackets and sweaters.

Studying in your rooms is much better.

There are less judgmental eyes, fewer chances of catching a stupid cold that's been making its way through the younger kids in Purgatory and you and Taehyung can lounge on the beds when you get tired of sitting straight.

Two months to the Exam is shockingly close, so close that your back pains have been plaguing you once more. Taehyung tells you to stop slouching when you sit, but you find it hard to sit straight and read the tiny text of the textbooks. So you end up ignoring him.

But on some days, it hurts for you to turn your body, your back aching to the extremity that you started believing one uncalculated movement could leave you paralyzed for the rest of your life. It's on those days that you wish you listened to Taehyung earlier. You push on though, too stubborn to admit to Taehyung that he's right and too impatient to try to fix your pain at such an urgent time.

Except you're not too good at hiding your discomfort and Taehyung catches onto you.

"We should take a break," he says, closing an astrophysics textbook and practically tossing it over his head.

When you hear the loud thump of it hitting against the wall, you gasp. "Tae! You can't just throw the fucking book. We're not even supposed to have these in our rooms!"

"Maybe that was a bad idea," Taehyung says, fidgeting his hands. "A little too late now, though, isn't it?" He shrugs. "We need a break."

"I'm fine! I swear!" you say. "We'll study for a few more hours."

"Your back's killing you, isn't it?"

You scoff. "N-No!"

"You stuttered."

You groan, wincing quietly as you try to sit up straight. "I'm not gonna die because of this. I think I can keep going."

"If you don't fix that now, you probably won't be able to sit down for four hours to take the Exam," Taehyung tells you. He takes your book and throws it over his head, making you grimace when it thuds against the wall. "I'm gonna loosen your back muscles!" he declares.

"What are you gonna do? Step on my back and make it crack?" you snort. When you see that Taehyung actually looks like he's contemplating it, you quickly say, "Please don't."

"Don't worry. I'll try not to make it hurt," Taehyung grins. You look at him so threateningly that he has to raise both of his hands defensively. "Oh, c'mon! I'm trying to help."

You give him a nervous look. "So what? You're gonna give me a massage?"

"It'll help!" Taehyung says. "Just get all comfy and lay flat on the bed. Stomach on the covers, please."

The mere thought of his hands roaming on your back makes your face heat up. God, this is going to be intimate. Maybe that's why Taehyung suggested it... and maybe that's why you're actually complying with him.

Hesitantly, you situate yourself on the bed, laying your face on your arms. "Just my back," you tell him.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "I have credentials, technically."

"Oh?"

"I found a magazine about it," Taehyung says. "So I'm very much qualified."

"Oh god."

You hear Taehyung rustle behind you and you try to twist your body to see what he's doing but your back prevents you from moving. In frustration, you ask, "What are you doing?"

"Rolling up my sleeves and staring at your back. Why?"

"Why the fuck are you staring at my back?"

"I was trying to figure out where it hurts," he answers, "but I guess I could've just asked you instead."

You snort. "God, Tae. It honestly hurts everywhere. But especially around the shoulder blade area."

You can just imagine Taehyung nodding professionally, with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slicked back to prevent stray strands from poking at his eyes.

"Okay, I'm gonna put pressure there," he says. "Deep breath out..."

You obey him, closing your eyes and blowing air out of your lips, simultaneously relaxing your body. The moment you feel his hands on your back, goosebumps checker your arms. No one's ever been this close to you; no one's bothered to be this intimate with you.

"Feel good?" Taehyung asks.

He sounds closer to you than you expected him to be, and your breath hitches quietly. "Y-Yeah," you stutter. "A little lower."

Taehyung listens, rubbing your sore back with such care and calculated pressure that you have to bite your lip from letting rather embarrassing sounds from escaping your mouth. You don't realize how tense your body was until Taehyung calls you out. "You're so tense, Y/N," he remarks, his hands dealing with the clumped muscles on your back. "Try to relax."

You're red-faced, unable to admit to him that if you do as he says, you might just let out a moan and it'll really be game over then. You are not going to embarrass yourself in front of him because Taehyung would never let you live that down. And if you're really going to spend your days in Utopia with him, you'd rather not let him have any memories he can use to tease you.

"I am relaxing," you lie through your teeth. But when Taehyung gets to a particularly sensitive part on your back, you hiss through your teeth. "Ow..."

Taehyung immediately stops his ministrations. "Do you want me to stop for a second?" he asks with so much worry laced into his voice that you almost feel guilty for making him question himself.

"No!" you exclaim. "I mean, no. I'm fine. I guess my back was much worse than I thought..."

Taehyung laughs. "Well, if I do this for you occasionally and you stretch every day, you'll be in good condition again."

"Thanks," you mutter. "Really, Tae, I mean it."

You can just imagine the boy grinning ear to ear behind you. Though you expected him to say something cocky or silly, you received silence in response. "Tae?" Gritting your teeth, you try turning over on your back, which was easier than expected—Taehyung's massage had already done wonders.

With a little oof, you flip over to finally get a good look at Taehyung. "Cat got your tongue??" you tease him, raising an eyebrow and gazing at his rather blank face.

"No... no," he answers right away. "For a second I thought..." he trails off. His handsome face morphs into a look of worry, of nervousness.

"You thought...?"

"I thought I..." he trails off again, much to your impatience.

"Oh, come on, Tae," you sigh. "Spit it out!"

The boy grins, shaking his head. "For a second, I thought I heard you moan, Y/N. Enjoying yourself a little too much, aren't we?"

Okay, you had not expected that. The color quickly drains from your face and your mouth drops open rather unflatteringly. You sputter to think of an excuse, any excuse that would whisk you away from the embarrassment consuming you at this moment.

"I'm just kidding," Taehyung says as he nearly falls over in a fit of laughter. "You should see your face!"

"That's not funny!" you yell, sitting up on your elbows and glaring at the laughing boy.

"No, it was definitely funny," he says, grabbing your hand and helping you sit up. The action brings heat to your cheeks and you have to look away. "Oh, c'mon," Taehyung whines, "learn some humor, Y/N."

He must mistake your embarrassment as anger. You'll play along.

"You can literally shut up," you huff.

"Damn, you're not very scary when you pretend you're mad," Taehyung says, grinning mischievously at you.

"I am not pretending!"

"You're still holding my hand, Y/N," he teases.

Oh shit. He's right. That's the second time that's happened in one month. Is it strange to seek physical comfort? Or is it strange to feel so comfortable with Taehyung? "I-I," you stutter embarrassingly, unsure if you can even finish your own sentence when Taehyung interrupts you.

"It's okay, Y/N," he says. "I don't mind holding your hand."

You gape at him in shock—so much so that you're sure you don't look too attractive at the moment with your mouth hanging open and your eyes bulging.

Taehyung tightens his grip on your hand as he tugs you closer to him. His eyes sparkle with something you recognize as mirth, which is funny to see in a student's eyes just two months before the Exam.

Hm. You like the way his warm hand encompasses yours, and you adore the way he stares into your eyes as if he knows you and cares for you.

Before you know it, you're breathing out a rapid, "I don't mind holding your hand either."

You didn't know it was possible for Taehyung to grin even wider but sometimes even you're wrong.

One month.

This is the official crunch time. The time when existing contenders of the Exam become vicious and violent to ward off competition. The time when those who never cared for the Exam begin to host parties to live their best and lasting moments in glee. The time when some cocky Utopians begin to study—they think they're so above everyone else that they only need one month to prepare.

But you and Taehyung relish together in the time left in Purgatory together. You'll see him again in Utopia, but Purgatory is the place where you met him and got to know him. It's special, no matter how much you hate the dingy library and cramped dorms. It's special because, without the given situations, you would've never even met Taehyung. You would've spent the last year in Purgatory alone, haunted by the thoughts of Jimin and Yoongi. You couldn't have survived. Or maybe you could've. But Taehyung's helping you survive with a huge smile on your face. And happiness has never been so close to your fingertips.

Your hands are intertwined with his larger ones as the two of you stand against the wall of the building, staring into the empty pit of the dark abyss.

At this point, you're not quite sure where you stand with Taehyung, but you don't care as long as he's here to comfort you every day and you're there to hold his hand.

The cozy wool of Yoongi's sweater keeps you warm in the brisk night air as does Taehyung's presence right next to you. You look out at the pit, and for once, your stomach does not sink with misery. Paying your respects to the dead loved ones has never been this peaceful before.

"Do you think they're watching over you?" Taehyung whispers, judging you softly as he gazes up at the sky dotted with nighttime stars. "Maybe they're wishing you the best on the Exam."

"I actually have no idea..." you say, looking up at the sky with Taehyung and squeezing his hands. "But I miss them."

"You'll reunite with them one day," Taehyung tells you.

"Yeah," you say, "I definitely will."

"In the meantime, I bet Jimin's having the best time eating good meals and getting good sleep on a comfy bed..." Taehyung trails off as he looks at you. "And I hope Yoongi found his happiness by now."

You nod to yourself. "Me too, Tae."

"Only a month left, Y/N," he answers. "And strangely, this is the most peaceful I've been in my whole life."

When you look up, you find that Taehyung's already staring right back at you. A small smile stretches across your cracked lips. "Trust me, it'll be even more peaceful on the day that we're finally admitted into Utopia. We're in this together, right?"

"Definitely," Taehyung says. "I'm not nervous anymore. Not since you convinced me that I don't have to be afraid."

"Still gonna start a violent revolution?" you whisper. "Follow in your brother's footsteps?"

"Not now, not ever," he answers. "The system works. Why would I bother changing it when the people who truly deserve it are going to Utopia? I'm not brave enough to revolt... And I'm not putting you at risk for my dead brother."

"Thank you... Tae, that means a lot," you say. "Do you ever think there will be another revolution, though?"

"There are always revolutions," he replies. "There will always be more revolutions. Not everyone can always be completely satisfied with the authority's actions. It is what it is. Even if I have to take the brunt of it."

"You won't," you tell him. "We'll be long gone in Utopia before that happens."

"Y/N..." Taehyung mutters. He turns you around to face him, studying your features before pulling you in for an embrace. "I know you don't like it when I talk about this... but," he pauses, unsure. Yet he takes your silence as the cue to continue on. "In the case that we are separated after the Exam... In the case that something goes wrong... we... we should just continue on with our lives."

"And ignore whatever separated us?" you murmur against his shoulder. "We won't have to worry about that though. I told you not to worry. We're going to Utopia."

"I'm saying, just in case," Taehyung whispers. His hands run through your hair as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "But I'm sure you're right. We'll be in Utopia in no time."

You hum, basking in the warmth of Taehyung's arms. "Of course."

One week.

The library is swarming with teenagers in your year, desperately fighting over books and arguing over facts. It's funny only because you and Taehyung had once been in that state of animosity. It seems such a long time ago, though.

You and Taehyung lounge about in your room, reiterating textbook information out loud to each other over and over again so the material is ingrained in your memories. After a while, it occurs to both of you that you know too well about every book in the whole library. It's no use regurgitating the same information repeatedly when you already know it. So the two of you spend more and more time talking about your futures.

"Do you think they'll let me work as a family counselor when we get to Utopia?" Taehyung asks as he tosses another textbook against the door to your room.

You laugh when he hits the target on the door and shrug. "I don't know, honestly. Do you think they even have family counseling there?"

"You're right," Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head. "We know so little about the place we want to be in so badly."

"Maybe the more we know of it, the less we'll want to be in it," you say. "It's like that thing... that saying..."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"Yeah, that," you say. "I'm sure we'll have good things to do in Utopia, though. Whether there is a family counselor position or not."

"But I guess we'll have to find out in a week."

One day.

You feel sudden unrest in the air. People are biting their fingernails so hard, they bleed. Others are pulling out their hairs. Some are picking at their scabs.

You and Taehyung hold each other the whole day, whispering little facts here and there to ensure complete memorization. You would be lying if you said you weren't the slightest bit nervous. Yes, you're intelligent, yes, you deserve to be in Utopia and yes, you've been diligent for years... but Taehyung's right. There are some scenarios that might just happen.

Maybe you and Taehyung earn perfect scores along with six others. Or maybe you and Taehyung earn the same scores as fifteen others. Or maybe you and Taehyung don't earn the same scores at all, leaving you separated forever.

You try not to dwell on the negativities too much. After all, it's no use to think of such thoughts anyways, they'll only distract you while taking the most important test of all time. Positive thoughts, only.

Tomorrow will be the very last day in Purgatory. For four hours, you and the hundreds of other students in your year will take a life-changing test. The Exam results will be kept confidential for a painstaking two hours after the final student finishes the Exam. Then men in white suits will whisk away the highest-scoring ones without another word. You will know when you didn't score the highest. Because the men in white will not give you a second look. They will walk past you like you are the scum of the earth. You've seen it happen; you've seen how much that can break someone.

You swear that you will not be broken. You will be the victor who is escorted out with the men in white. You will be accepted into a wealthy society. You promised Yoongi. And Jimin would've wanted to see you like this.

Most of all, you and Taehyung are in this together.

You visit the pit with him in the dead of the night one last time. There are already a few dead bodies piled up in the dark abyss and the stench of death protrudes up your nose quite uncomfortably, but you manage to ignore it. This will be the last time that you will see the last place you saw Jimin and Yoongi. If it weren't for them, you wouldn't be here, so confident about acing the Exam with another man you see your future with.

When you close your eyes, you can imagine your ten-year-old self standing at the edge of the pit, contemplating jumping to be with Jimin. You can see Yoongi scoffing at your stupidity before taking you into his arms and reassuring you. You can see your ten-year-old self crying. You can see a younger version of Yoongi crying. And every year after Yoongi's death, you've visited the pit by yourself. Until this year. Until you met Taehyung. And now you're not so alone anymore.

"Are you tired?" Taehyung asks, placing a warm hand on your cheek.

Your eyes flutter open immediately and you shake your head. "No, I was just thinking. I don't think I'm going to miss this place, but I'm going to miss the memories I made here." You fist the fabric of your sweater—Yoongi's old sweater, which is surprisingly still pretty large around your frail, petite frame. "It's too bad I don't really have a token of remembrance with Jimin..."

"He was all of your childhood," Taehyung soothes you. "I'm pretty sure you don't forget your childhood best friends."

"That's true..." you sigh. "God, I really don't want to forget anything that happened in my life. I need to remember all of this," you gesture towards you and Taehyung. "So we can recall it in the future."

"You'll remember us for sure," he says. "How can you forget? When you'll see me every day, pestering you for the rest of your life?" Taehyung teases, poking at your cheek playfully.

You roll your eyes. "Fun."

"Damn right," he coos, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "We deserve the fun."

"I know," you say, smiling at his unfiltered flirtiness. "C'mon," you tell him, grabbing his hand and dragging him into the building, "we should sleep early today."

"Good idea," Taehyung giggles. "To getting perfect scores tomorrow!" he yells to the sky, his eyes squeezed shut as he dwells in the last few euphoric moments of being in the fresh, night air before being tugged into the dorms by you.

Your heart flutters when he grins widely at you, revealing his row of pearly whites. Damn. You used to hate those too-perfect teeth, but now you love them as much as you... god, as much as you might love him.

To getting perfect scores tomorrow indeed.

One hour.

One hour before the Exam, everyone is lined up to enter their own private room, which is barely a room at all from what you've heard. The space is hardly enough to fit a desk, but it's decorated with bright fluorescent lights and spotlessly white walls. Apparently, it looks more like a mental asylum than an Exam room.

Some may be sensitive to such a small, suffocating place, but you don't really mind. As long as the information is in your head and you don't come down with amnesia in the middle of the Exam, you're fine. You're more than fine. You're going to win this thing—with Taehyung of course.

You and Taehyung hold each other's hands, strangely not as nervous as the jittery teens around you. It's strange for the two of you to be in silence for so long, but it seems fitting in such a loud environment. You probably couldn't hear each other even if you did speak.

There are peers who are already crying. Those who are missing because they jumped into the pit the night before. Those who are physically unwell and have failed to take care of their bodies. Those who look confident on the outside but their eyes brim with fear and uncertainty. And then there is you and Taehyung—radiating confidence.

Taehyung squeezes your hand when the men in white come into the halls, starting to drag the students away by random to shove them into the private Exam rooms. The process takes forever, according to the others, given that there are hundreds of students and hundreds of small rooms.

"It's hilarious how they haven't come up with a more efficient system," you whisper to Taehyung, shaking your head in disdain. "You'd think after taking away the smartest people in Atna that they'd somehow make this process less time-consuming. But they didn't."

"What?" Taehyung whispers back, looking confused as he sees you talking but he can't hear a single word.

"It's hilarious how—" you stop yourself, "NEVER MIND," you say, raising your voice. He wouldn't be able to hear you even if you did yell. And you weren't going to risk a sore throat before the Exam.

Taehyung nods at you, squeezing your hand. The two of you are reduced back into a state of silence as you watch your peers being taken away before you. The men in white are getting closer and closer, and for the first time, you're nervous. You've waited six years for this moment. Four hours are going to decide your future.

Taehyung must sense the tenseness building up in your shoulders because he places his hands on them, wordlessly telling you to relax. You thought in the last moments, you'd be comforting him, but you suppose it's the other way around.

The tables have turned.

The two of you are closer to the men in white than ever. Both of you are going to be whisked away any second now. Taehyung turns you to face him and hands you a tiny ball of paper, grinning.

He mouths something that you do not hear over the incessant roar of students, but you can make out exactly what he says. 'I'll see you in Utopia.'

The small amount of pressure on your shoulders is immediately lifted. 'I'll see you in Utopia,' you mouth back, tightly clenching your fist around the tiny ball of paper he had given you. He gives you a bright, reassuring smile before a man in white takes him away. You watch him leave, mirroring his smile and letting out a deep breath.

When a man in white finally whisks you away into your cramped Exam room, you can't help but feel reinvigorated. Even if your desk is shaky and your chair squeaks when you shift in it, you're absolutely hung up on the fact that you need to finish the Exam as quickly and carefully as possible to read whatever Taehyung had written on the small piece of paper.

The countdown commences, the camera in the room zooms in and out to check if you were keeping your integrity... the Exam booklet sits in front of you.

God, you're so ready.

Confidence surges through your body. You're going to make it out alive. You're sure of it.

Well, that wasn't so bad at all.

You don't want to brag, but the Exam was a piece of cake. The questions were never about understanding the material—instead, they focused on the specifics. The stuff you couldn't common-sense your way out of. The stuff that you either knew or didn't know. But you're a strong memorizer so the questions—even the oddly specific ones—were easy.

The men in white already took your Exam booklet away to score it. Now you're forbidden to leave the testing room for two hours while they grade it. But it's boring in here.

Your neck is a bit sore from looking down at the paper and your fingers ache from gripping your pencil. Maybe once you get to Utopia, Taehyung can give you one of his insanely therapeutic massages?

There's nothing really to do in the room except stare at the camera that's still watching you or counting the number of cracks on your desk. You contemplate for a short while whether to open the note Taehyung had handed you, but you don't want to risk an accusation of dishonesty.

If you're accused, you're likely to never be seen again.

So you make use of your time and doze off. After taking the Exam, you realize that there's no doubt you scored extremely well (you might've even gotten a perfect score!) and all the nervousness you had over the past several years (which wasn't that much) have vanished into thin air. You're confident enough to sleep.

In your dreams, you see Jimin, Yoongi and Taehyung. The four of you are best friends in a world that looks like Utopia but isn't. There is no Exam that determines your whole future. There is no Purgatory, no Dystopia... No horrible education system. No rats... No pit... It's a utopian world that's better than the Utopia that you know today.

And you're only woken from your heavenly dream when there's a knock on your door. It opens before you can stay anything and a man in white gestures for you to walk out of the room. Rubbing your eyes and shaking away your drowsiness, you obey him. The man closes the door once you are out of the room.

Left and right of you, there are hundreds of students standing outside of their rooms. The tension, the nervousness in the long hallway could be sliced with a knife. But you don't contribute to the sea of worries. You lean against the door, waiting for you to be whisked away, waiting to meet Taehyung at the end of the hallway. Waiting to be driven away in some grandeur vehicle.

You wait for only two people to be taken away. Or maybe there are others who scored a perfect score? No matter. At this point, you only care if you and Taehyung made it.

Everyone holds their breaths as the men in white start to walk through the halls. You see Taehyung ahead of you, already giving you a silly look and smiling confidently at you. You breathe a huge sigh of relief before turning your head to watch the men in white.

So far, they haven't taken anyone from their stance in front of their Exam rooms. Your heart beats loudly in your chest when they come closer and closer to you. God, they must've passed at least two hundred people to get to me. And still no high-scorer.

You and Taehyung have an enormous chance now.

You hold your breath as the men in white come closer and closer.

Any minute now...

You grit your teeth, tensing your shoulders when they're so nearby, if you reached out to them, you could touch their white suits. Your ears ring, drowning out the cries of the students who were standing behind you and were left stranded by the men in white.

Closer and closer and closer...

Your nails dig into your skin.

Closer...

You nearly scream in victory when a man in white stops straight in front of you. He nods in your direction and then places a hand on the small of your back to escort you away.

You can feel the burning eyes of jealousy digging daggers on your back as you begin to walk. But you can't help feeling like royalty. This is the moment you've been waiting for. You've been selected. You've scored the highest. You're going to be Utopian.

Taehyung catches your eye and gives you a huge thumbs up from afar. You're grinning from ear to ear as you begin to approach him. As soon as a man in white officially deems that he is coming with you, you're going to proudly hold his hand and walk through the hallway like you owned all of Purgatory. You're going to spend the proudest moment of your life with him by your side. Knowing that you made it through with him. And then you're going to read his note in the vehicle, on the way to Utopia. You have it all planned out in your head. It's going to be wonderf—

Wait.

The man in white who is escorting you is not slowing down, and the other men around you aren't looking to stop either. Wait.

You're going to pass Taehyung at this rate. Wait a fucking minute.

You suddenly break out in cold sweat as you and the men come closer and closer to Taehyung.

There's no way.

He had to have done extremely well. He has to come with me.

Taehyung looks a bit taken aback as well. His eyes reflect fear and the worry lines pressed on his forehead indicate no less than that.

You don't lose eye contact with him as the men continue to escort you down the hallway.

"Taehyung," you murmur when you're directly next to him. "Taehyung!" you yell. Your voice echoes eerily across the corridor.

"Y/N!" Taehyung yells back.

He's behind you now. The men won't let you stop walking.

"Taehyung!" you scream again, trying to turn around to look at him. "Tae!"

"Don't turn around, miss," the man escorting you speaks gruffly.

"There's been a mistake!" you cry. "Tae-Taehyung is supposed to be with me! Taehyung!"

"Don't make this difficult," the man answered. The hand on your back suddenly seems threatening.

"Y/N!!" Taehyung shouts again. His eyes brim with tears and he sinks to his knees.

"Get up!" someone yells at him. "Stand up, boy!"

"Y/N!" He ignores the command, sobbing with his hands reaching out for you and eyes pleading for safety, for your comfort.

You twist your body around, shaking off the grasps of your escort as you yell his name so loudly that your voice echoes across the vast expanse of the hallway.

"Behave," your escort grunts with gritted teeth as he tugs you away, gesturing the other men in white to block your view from Taehyung.

Tears stream down your face as you beg the men in white to let you see Taehyung one last time. They don't budge. It's not until you hear the beatings and Taehyung's agonizing screams that you try to kick the men's shins and escape. But they catch you, hoist you up and carry you away.

You thrash, scream, "Please don't hurt him!" but the screams, grunts and kicks never stop. You always thought your walk down this hallway would be glorious—the glory only lasted for a few minutes. You were supposed to walk down here hand in hand with Taehyung. Now Taehyung might be dead for disobeying orders.

You were supposed to be draped in silk and mink coats. You were supposed to be spritzed with sweet fragrances and treated like a princess. But everyone—even your peers—look at you with what you recognize as pity. Or maybe even disgust.

They must think you're crazy for not being thankful for being a high-scorer on the Exam. Some would kill to be in your place right now.

You hadn't expected—after your eight years in Purgatory—for your journey here to end like this. You're embarrassingly carried across the shoulder of the man in white, forced to dangle over him like a dead animal. You can feel the scrutinizing gazes of your peers. The ones who didn't get chosen.

It strikes you that you're alone now.

No more Jimin. No more Yoongi... And no more Taehyung.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying for another person who scored the same as you. Maybe you'll find a new friend? Maybe you won't be alone again.

But the hallway ends and opens up to a door and you're still the only person the men in white have escorted. Your heart sinks. You're alone.

They shove you in a shiny black vehicle where the inside is air-conditioned and smells of roses. There are unfamiliar snacks in elaborate wrappings and ice-cold fizzy drinks around you—all for you—but you aren't hungry. The tears won't stop.

Were the riches and wealth worth the loneliness that will consume you for years to come?

You are a legend. A model figure. A genius.

The first to ever score 100% on the Exam. You're dragged from here to there, paid by the richest of Utopians to tutor their young children before they're sent off to Purgatory.

Frankly, you're upset at the lavishness of Utopia. There is always more to eat—so much so that one-fourths of every meal goes into the trash. The people here put ice cubes in their water to cool it. In Dystopia, there was never enough to eat and water was scarce. Purgatory never had a diverse array of food, and water was always lukewarm.

You're not sure if you belong here.

You miss Taehyung more than ever these days. Your new home is far too large for one person. You feel empty, cold inside. Even basking in the sunlight shining through your gold-rimmed window isn't enough to warm you. You tug the sleeves of Yoongi's sweater over your hands. Even after all these years in Utopia, you can't get accustomed to the fancy, frilly clothes here. You like Yoongi's old, frayed sweaters much better. And it's your only token of remembrance of him. You feel like you did him well because after all, you kept your promise. But Yoongi was wrong about one thing: the life of a Utopian did not suit you.

You can't help but think back to the days of Dystopia—of you and Jimin. Taehyung's right, you never really forget your childhood best friend. You've written down all of your memories about Jimin in a black leather-bound journal, which you keep out in the open by the window sill. On harder days, you like to read through the entries to refresh your memories and recall the stories that make you laugh or tear up with nostalgia.

The magnificent garden outside your home looks empty despite the plethora of flowers and colorful vines that sprout and bloom across the expanse of the healthy, verdant grass. Sighing, you clutch the silver locket resting between your collarbones. You've been wearing the necklace ever since the day you were first admitted into Utopia.

Inside the locket is a neatly folded up note. The piece of paper is old and crinkled and it has obviously been ripped out from a textbook called Family Studies. Taehyung's writing is etched onto it in black ink. You've read over the note so many times that you know exactly what it says by heart.

Y/N,

I was saving this to tell you in Utopia, but I can't wait for that day, even if it's tomorrow. I need to tell you now that I love you. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for dealing with me. Thank you for calming me down.

You're welcome for those back massages. You're welcome for listening to your stories about Jimin and Yoongi. You're welcome for being by your side. I do it so much because I hate seeing you lonely.

Utopia will be great, Y/N. I think we'll live a great life there, don't you think?

I just want to say that if anything happens, we need to continue on with our lives. Because whatever the Exam decides, we deserve the results.

Nevertheless, I'll see you in Utopia, Y/N~

You tear up every time you open up your locket and study Taehyung's handwriting and his last words to you. Of course, you love him too. And it kills you that you don’t even know whether he's alive.

How cruel it is to live in such a wealthy place but feel worse than you had been in Dystopia and Purgatory.

The Exam is a curse. There is no way you could've beaten it, but you'd very much rather be hauled back into Dystopia with someone you care about than being stuck in this fast-paced, artificial world with no one but yourself.

It dawns on you horrifyingly. You did not beat the Exam. You did not win. You survived it.

And for the rest of your life, you must suffer the casualties.

—masterpost

—masterlist

#ficswithluv #btswritersnet #btswriterscollective #bangtanfairygarden #bangtanidx #tae #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung imagine #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fanfiction #bts #bts fanfiction #the exam #this story kinda hurts lmao #i was reading it over yesterday and damn it hurts yikes #some of the details are important to remember for the secOnd part of the series (:

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slippinmickeys · 4 years ago

Text

Five Seconds (7/8)

If you’d like to read on AO3, you may do so here.

October 23, 2018

Scully was in labor. At least, she thought she might be. She hadn’t been sure, but in the last hour she was now more certain, though her contractions were eons apart. The timing was obviously less than ideal. She was two weeks short of her due date, and when they had pulled off the state highway to the road that led to the cabin, she began hoping for a miracle -- what kind of miracle, she wasn't sure -- that the cabin was spacious and clean and up to date with a fully staffed Labor and Delivery wing? That someone would come and whisk them away to safety? She worried about preeclampsia, prolonged labor. She worried she might need a C-section. She worried she wouldn’t be able to do it.

In Virginia, the mid-morning sun would light up their bedroom like a hot set, dust motes floating through the spotlight of the shine and even the greys that now peppered Mulder’s temples would be lost in the chocolate ganache luster of his hair as he laid in their bed. That was where she wanted to be, laboring to bring this new child into the world -- in the bright, soft light of their bedroom, with Mulder kneading the labor pain out of her back as she kneeled on all fours in the rumple of their king-sized bed. Not here. Not amongst the pines and the cawing of crows. Not in a little bed in a musty-smelling shack with the pictures of people on the wall that were unfamiliar and long dead. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen at all.

William was again fiddling with his improvised hockey stick; he always fiddled with something when he was anxious, a nervous tick picked up when he was little. She remembered him crawling into bed with them when he was five, a thunderstorm outside or a bad dream. He would tuck himself into Scully's side, and she'd tilt her head until her cheek rested against the hard round of his skull, breathing in the inky smell of his wiry hair, his compact little body tight against her. He had Mulder's long, elegant feet and piano playing fingers, and he would play with the buttons on her pajamas and suck his thumb and rub his face into Moo, the stuffed cow, the fur of which was worn and well-loved and smelled like his sleepy breath. How she'd longed for those days as the kids had gotten older. How she worried for this new little one coming into this particular world.

Evening was falling outside, the long light through the pines running shadows through the small windows of the cabin.

"Will, can you throw another log in the stove?" she asked. The cabin was cooling quickly and Mulder and Lily would be back at any time and probably chilled right through.

"Sure, Mom," said Will, setting down his stick and moving to the potbellied stove, slipping on the worn and singed oven mitt that one needed to wear to grab the handle to open the small door. He threw in a couple pieces of wood until the flame began to roar, licking up the black sides of the feed chamber. He closed it and gave her a smile, looking at her kindly. "Are you okay, Mom?"

She could feel what she took to be a contraction coming on slowly; they were still pretty far apart and not yet at the stage where she would disappear inside of herself to get through the pain.

"I'm-"

The door to the cabin opened then, and Mulder and Lily stumbled in, rubbing their hands together and griping about the cold.

Mulder came over to her and kissed her forehead gently, his lips cool from being outside. He smelled of fresh air and woodsmoke and rubbed his hands up and down her arms once.

"How'd it go?" she asked, ignoring the growing pressure on her womb.

"Okay," Mulder gave her a clipped smile. "I got in touch with the guys, but the connection was terrible. Looks like Darlene will be okay. Otherwise, not much information was relayed one way or the other. We'll try again tomorrow."

She nodded at him. By tomorrow they would likely need to request some kind of medical help. Not sure who they could contact or who they could trust, she tried her best not to despair. She thought of her first labor, with Lily, how Mulder had stayed up with her all night. The drive to the hospital in the dark hours -- the forgotten sandwich on their dashboard, his face and how it looked each time a streetlight flashed upon it.

William's labor had been long and scary -- full of complications and made worse by the fact that Mulder wasn't with her. But she remembered when they placed the baby on her chest, the warm little bundle of him so much heavier than he looked. She remembered how his skin was still purple and mottled. She remembered his serious little eyes and his sweet grasping hand, the damp curled wisp of his marigold hair.

She had gotten through that. She could get through this. With Mulder beside her, sometimes she felt as if she could do anything.

"I'm going to heat up some water," Mulder said, and she could hear him trying to infuse his voice with optimism, "make some soup."

She smiled at him. Nodded. She knew she should eat something and try to get some rest. There was still time, she told herself, there was still time.

XxX

She had actually fallen asleep. After eating a bit of the soup, she'd lain down and closed her eyes and when she opened them, she was met with nearly absolute darkness. Only the glow from the small window of the feeder door on the stove issued forth any light, but it was paltry and she could still barely see her hand in front of her face.

She was alone in the small bed and could hear the heavy breathing of Mulder and their children from the bunk room. He must have decided to leave her be when she'd fallen asleep, and she was grateful. The tightening pain around her middle had awoken her and it squeezed until she gasped. It took her by such surprise that she almost didn't hear the scraping at the door of the cabin, the thump that followed.

She looked up just as the door to the cabin burst inward and she was blinded by a flash of light. She heard the action of a pistol cocking back.

“Do not move,” said an accented voice laced with venom.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Lily didn’t know what was happening.

She awoke in darkness and chaos -- to the scraping of furniture in the beam of a flashlight, her father's harsh swearing and the smell of apocrine sweat.

"Dad?!" called Will, and Lily heard the harsh sound of a blow to a body followed by a grunt. More scraping, the sound of a struggle and then a gunshot rang out. Lily jumped so high, she found herself standing.

“Mulder!” her mother cried.

“Everyone okay?!” from their father.

"Shut UP," hissed a voice thick with accent, and everything stopped. The beam of light finally stopped swaying and fell on her father, who was wincing and touching a hand to his lip, which he pulled away to look at -- the crimson smear of blood like neon in the light.

The generator hummed on the other side of the wall, the only sound in the silence that followed. And then Lily heard a scrape and the overhead light was switched on, blinding her momentarily. When she pried her eyes open again, she took everything in; a grizzled man with a long nose and close-set eyes stood in the open doorway of the cabin, his cheek red and swollen, pointing a gun at her father, her mother just behind him, sitting on the cot near the stove. Her brother was standing just beside where she stood in the bunk room, his eyes wide in shock.

The gunman turned to look in her direction, then nodded his head at her parents.

"Both of you," he said, "in here, now."

She and Will, both a bit dazed, made their way silently to their parents, where their father reached an arm out and pushed them behind himself.

“You guys okay?” he whispered.

"Weapons," the gunman said. Their parents traded a look, and Mulder moved the few steps to the kitchen, where Scully's Sig was sitting on the kitchen counter. The gunman took a step closer to them all and aimed his gun directly at Will, who inhaled sharply.

"Easy," her father said, and ejected the clip from Scully's gun and handed them both to the man, who examined the pistol closely before shoving the gun and clip into a pocket in the back of his pants.

"Where's the other one?" the man asked.

"Left it downstate," Mulder said, raising both hands. "That's all we have."

“Lift up your shirt,” the man said, and Mulder did as he asked, turning around to show he wasn’t armed.

The man narrowed his eyes and then looked about the room, his gaze coming to rest on the rifle that was perched on the deer rack on the far wall.

"Get that down," the man said, "bring it over here."

Mulder, moving slowly, carefully and purposefully pulled one of the old chairs from the small dining table over to the deer head and attempted to lift the rifle from where it rested. It wouldn't move. He pulled harder.

"It's wired on," he said, "it won't budge."

The gunman took a moment and moved his jaw around, assessing.

"Then leave it," he finally said, "that thing hasn't fired in twenty years."

Mulder stepped down off the chair and moved back, putting himself, once again, between his family and the gunman, who glanced at his watch. Then, keeping his eyes on the Mulder family, reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. He fiddled with it for a moment and then swore.

Her father, in his most soothing voice, said, "There's no signal here."

The man shoved the phone back in his pocket. "Doesn't matter," he said, checking his watch again. Then, he pointed the barrel of the gun briefly at the dining table. "You three, sit there."

Mulder didn't move, and Lily and her brother both looked to him. Lily didn't want to do anything without his okay, and the moment was tense as a piano string.

"Mulder," her mother finally said shakily. Her father looked to his wife and she looked back. Finally, Mulder moved to sit at the dining table, and Will and Lily followed, gingerly sitting down.

The gunman took a step toward Scully and Lily felt her father tense next to her.

"So," the man said, pointing at her pregnant belly, "the miracle child." He pronounced it like meericle . "You have been a hard woman to find."

Scully said nothing.

"What's your name?" Mulder asked from the table, drawing the gunman's attention.

The man stood for a moment, his eyes blank. Finally, he said, "Luis."

“Luis, what are your intentions for my family?”

The man looked at him. “For now, nothing. For now, we wait.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

The wind picked up as the day wore on, rattling the windows and pushing at the outside of the cabin in a dull roar. She had not had a contraction for an hour, and the last few had been dull. Perhaps it was Braxton Hicks after all.

She thought how fitting it was to be at a hunting camp when, for the last nine months, she’d felt like prey. Every day the fear would work at her, wending its way through her veins like ichor.

The man who held them, Luis, didn’t talk much. He sat by the door, silent and grave, with one hand wrapped around the handle of his Glock. He would check his watch occasionally and scowl. Every now and then he would pace. Eventually he let the kids go into the bunk room, obviously not thinking them much of a threat. He was waiting for backup of some sort, and the only thing Scully thought was at least it was buying them time. Time for what, she wasn’t sure.

Scully looked at her children through the room’s doorway, sitting next to each other on a bunk and was reminded of the old adage: “to have a child is to give fate a hostage.”

"Luis, do you have children?" Scully asked the man before her, her voice like a bell peeling through the silence of the cabin. She could tell she had surprised him. He looked at her for a long moment but did not answer. He looked away.

She thought perhaps if she connected with him he might be reasoned with, but he was cold, his mood foul.

Scully reached for Mulder’s hand and held on tight.

XxXxXxXxXxX

The intense heat coming off the wood burning stove in the main area of the cabin did little to heat the bunk room. Lily and William sat together on one of the lower bunks, taking solace in both proximity and shared warmth.

The man, Luis, stood in the center of the room. His nose was bleeding less now, but his face was swollen and red, and he seemed to get angrier with every passing minute.

Their mother was standing, leaning against the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She looked miserable. Their father was sitting in one of the other kitchen chairs, eyes swinging perpetually back and forth between the gunman and his wife. He was as tense as a coiled spring, and Lily worried he would make a move that would get him shot. Luis still had the gun trained on him.

In the tumult of the attack at Darlene's house and their ensuing escape north, Lily had forgotten about the cell phone that Darlene had given her. When she found it later, she left it off and shoved it deep into her go-bag.

“I have a phone in my backpack,” Lily finally said to her brother in a whisper.

He turned his head sharply to look at her.

“What?” he kept his voice low, “I thought Dad left them all out in the car.”

Lily’s eyes remained on the mercenary and her parents, but none of them turned toward where the kids sat in the bunk room. Lily suspected that they couldn’t hear them over the roaring, crackling fire in the stove and the wind pushing at the cabin from outside.

“He did,” she said, “I have another. Darlene gave it to me.”

“You have a burner?” Will said earnestly, his eyes round and his look impressed.

Will’s eyes suddenly took on disappointment.

“There’s no way we’re getting a signal. Dad had to go all the way out to the road and even then he said service was shoddy.”

“So we go to the road,” Lily said, shooting looks into the other room.

“How?” Will hissed, his nerves finally catching up to him. “Just stroll past the pissed off merc with a gun?”

Lily shook her head and pointed toward the far corner of the bunk room, to where a few bits of leaves had blown in from outside.

“We wait until Mom has to pee again and then we go through the wall,” she whispered. The man had been letting their heavily pregnant mother use the outhouse, but he always took their father with them and held the gun on him outside while she used the facilities. He padlocked the kids in the cabin when he did so. Lily could see the fading autumn light coming through a crack in the far corner. The wall was weak with age and weather.

“You have some Hulk powers I don’t know about?” Will said.

“Look Will, the sun is shining through it. I’m betting money the wood is totally rotted out,” she said, “we move two boards and we could both fit through there.”

Will looked skeptical.

“I don’t want to leave Mom,” he said.

Lily reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Listen,” she said, “if we take ourselves out of the equation, Dad has a much better chance of protecting her. If he doesn’t have to worry about us, maybe he can do something.”

Will bit his lip, thinking.

“You think?” he said.

“Yes,” Lily hissed, sensing him coming around to her way of thinking. “Go put on another sweatshirt and whatever else you have in your bag. We can hike out to the road and get a signal. Call for help. But it’s going to be cold.”

The cold was already pushing at them from the outside walls of the bunk room.

She slipped off the bed and over to her bag, quietly pulling out the winter hat that she’d had wrapped around the phone. It was a cheap little Nokia -- old and barely capable of texting -- but Darlene had given it to her for a reason. Hopefully it had held a charge well; she’d kept it switched off. She wouldn’t turn it on until they were out by the road. She hoped like hell the archaic little thing could pick up a signal.

She threw on another sweatshirt and the knit hat and once again glanced at the door to the main room. The man Luis kept glancing at his watch. He didn’t seem the least bit interested or worried about the two teenagers in the bunk room -- Lily hoped he would continue to underestimate them.

She glanced over at her brother who was pulling on a fleece jacket and shoving a pair of wool socks into his pockets, and then moved surreptitiously to the far side of the room, pushing experimentally at the wooden wall of the cabin where the crack of weak sun shone through. It gave, easily.

She nodded at her brother. They could do this. They just needed to wait for the right opportunity, which came about twenty minutes later when Lily heard the low words of her mother asking to once again use the restroom.

Once they heard the click of the padlock on the front door, she dropped to her knees and pushed on the wall in earnest, the old construction tack paper disintegrating in her hands. The outhouse was on the opposite side of the cabin -- they had to be fast. The boards on the outside of the cabin were so rotted and moist that she met little resistance when she pushed again, and a small part of the board popped off with barely a sound and thunked to the leaves outside. If they were careful, they could get out without anyone noticing they were gone until they were well away and into the surrounding woods. Will dropped to his knees next to her, eying the small hole in the wall.

“Whoa,” he said.

“Help me,” Lily whispered, and she began pushing at the boards with more desperation.

Will grabbed the edge of the hole and started pulling it in, and after a moment it snapped off with a crack which sent him sprawling backwards onto his butt, a piece of the board still in his hands. Wind started coming in through the hole, blowing in leaves and other debris.

Lily looked to the doorway of the bunk room, ears tuned to listen for the scrape of the padlock on the cabin’s door. The hole in front of them was probably about two feet by one foot. One more chunk of board coming off and they could probably scramble through. They pried at the next piece in earnest, but it was drier and much stronger than the first piece had been. Her heart was hammering in her chest -- they were running out of time.

“Here,” she said, shoving the cell phone into Will’s hands, “take this. You’re smaller than me. If I can get one more piece off, get through the hole and run like hell.”

“Lil-” he said, leaning back as though he were about to argue with her.

“Do it,” she hissed at him, once again looking to the doorway, “I’ll be right behind you.” She heard a thump from the cabin’s door.

William shoved the phone into his jeans pocket and looked at her, his face pale. Lily reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“For Mom,” she said, and he nodded.

She assessed the board in front of her and pushed hard with her legs. It cracked under the pressure, the sound of each splintering seeming to ring out like a gunshot. Will glanced nervously at the door, and she reared back and gave the board one more sharp kick, sending it flying outside with a loud clatter.

She heard a sound of alarm from the main room as the cabin door burst in and Will dove easily through the hole, shimmying outside quickly. She heard the clumping of boots coming toward the room, and dove headfirst through the hole, the sharp edges of the remaining boards catching on her sweatshirt and holding her fast. Her hands clawed into the mulchy substrate of the forest floor, giving her nothing to push or pull against.

A shout rang out behind her, followed by two gunshots. She kicked out with her feet, the boards scraping her lower back raw and then she was through and free. She scrambled up from hands and knees and took off in the direction of the county road, running as fast as she could -- the wind whipping fiercely at her face, the skin of her back on fire.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Fuck!” Luis hissed, stumbling back into the room, smoke from the nose of the gun still leaking out of it.

Mulder’s gut was still in his shoes, blood thrumming in his ears, bowel-loosening fear for his kids running roughshod through his heart.

Scully’s eyes were wide with terror as she looked between Luis and Mulder, her mouth open in a round O.

“Your fucking kids are gone,” Luis said, his accent getting thicker with the force of his fury. He was bouncing the Glock angrily against the side of his leg.

Mulder felt a wild rush of relief and had to stop himself from outright grinning.

“Good luck to them,” Luis then said after a moment, his voice returning to the oily slickness of a man used to getting what he wanted. “They’ll probably freeze to death or get mauled by a bear. I still have what I need.”

At that he looked to Scully and smiled smugly, and Mulder’s relief turned back to worry.

The mercenary appeared to be waiting for something or someone, most likely transportation to whisk Scully off to God knows where to do God knows what with her and the baby. Mulder thanked whatever entity was responsible for getting his other kids out of harm’s way. He now only had Scully and the baby to worry about -- he was more than confident that Lily and Will could take care of themselves, so long as they stayed out of the way of whoever was coming to assist Luis.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Lily tore through the forest, expecting at any moment to hear more gunshots or the sound of the mercenary pursuing them, but she heard nothing but the sound of her feet churning through the duff and her own breath and heartbeat, pounding in her ears. She avoided the overgrown path that led to the cabin, instead running through the forest alongside it. When she felt she could run no more, she slowed and stopped, leaning her hands on her knees to catch her breath. She had not run since completing varsity cross country the fall before, and her lungs burned from the effort. Will, who had been consistently playing hockey or some variation thereof pretty much since he turned 10, was hopefully far ahead of her.

Keeping the path to her left, she knew she was headed toward the road, though the daylight was waning. There would be no one on the seasonal road that hit the path from the cabin -- they would have to hike all the way out to the county road -- and even then she worried that there might not be a car for hours -- even days -- it was as remote a place as she had ever been.

The skin of her back had begun to hurt less, though it occasionally stung when brushed with the tee shirt she wore under her baggy sweatshirt. Her mouth was dry and she had a headache from the adrenaline surge -- and, she suspected -- dehydration.

Eventually she passed the CR-V off to her left through the trees, parked where they had left it in the middle of the forest, inert and dark, a membrane of dirt and leaf detritus built up on its wiper blades.

The forest around her seemed a darker shade of brown, as if she were in a horror movie and the director had swapped out a gel to give everything a more sinister feel. Tree branches creaked as wind blew through the upper branches and the only other sound was the hollow rat-a-tat of a woodpecker doing its duty somewhere far away. Lily pulled the loose sweatshirt tighter around herself and trudged on with her head down.

She heard a branch or twig snap from ahead of her and froze, eyes and ears attuned to any sign of movement. Another broken twig and then she heard the whisper-shout "Lily!"

"Will!" she called out, trying not to do it too loudly.

Then it was all crashing twigs and shuffling leaves and her brother broke through a line of bracken to her right and practically tackled her with a hug.

"Oh my God, Lily," he said, breathing hard, "I didn't think we were going to make it."

She pushed him away from her so she could catch his eye and said, "I did. I knew we'd make it. We've got more to do, though, come on."

With that they kept trudging through the woods in silence, until finally they spilled out onto the seasonal road that was really no bigger than a two track.

"Give me the phone," she said, turning to her brother.

He reached down into his pocket and pulled it out.

"I haven't been able to get a signal yet. I've been trying."

Lily looked down at the display. The old Nokia screen read "No Service" and showed barely half a battery's worth of charge.

"Okay," she said, "I'm turning it off. We need to save the battery until we get to the main road." She pushed the phone into the kangaroo pouch on the front of her sweatshirt -- it was a Michigan State hoodie that she'd borrowed from Travis. If she stuck her nose into the collar and huffed, it still smelled like him.

She took a deep breath and tried to center herself. "Come on," she said after a moment, "let's go."

XxX

Darkness had fallen by the time they hit the pavement of the county road. The moon was half full and the little light that it provided turned the shadows menacing, each dark space a void of whispered threat. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and they could see their breath in front of themselves, standing on the side of the road. Will's shoulders were hunched and he had his hands crammed deep into his pockets for warmth. He'd been sweating when she found him, which was now coming back to bite him.

Lily was holding the phone up above her head, walking up and down the pavement, trying to get a signal.

"Anything?" Will said hopefully.

"No," she sighed, dropping her arm. She once again flicked off the power button and pocketed the phone. They were now down to about a quarter's worth of battery power.

She reached back to flip the hood over her head and pulled the strings tight. Will appeared to shiver, once.

"We should probably hunker down. Close to the road, in case a car comes," she said. Her brother nodded his head miserably.

The embankment next to the road wasn't deep, but it was wet, so they had to hop across it. Lily slid down the trunk of the first big tree they came to and Will sat next to her, leaning into her side for warmth. She put her arm around her brother and squeezed his shoulder.

"My sweatshirt is pretty big if you want to try to share it," she said kindly.

"You mean like our Get Along Shirt?" he chuckled.

Their father had once, when they were much smaller and fighting almost constantly, taken one of his old grey tee shirts and put both kids inside of it side-by-side, each with an arm out one hole. They'd had to wear it for twenty minutes, and while they had stopped physically fighting (it had been admittedly difficult to do so with only one free hand), they had instead complained so loudly and vociferously (the teamwork their father had been ironically pulling for) that he whipped it off their heads after ten minutes and never forced them to wear it again. Their mother, bemused and watching from the kitchen, had never said a word.

Lily laughed out loud. "Something like that," she said.

"Nah," he said, "I'm okay." He shivered once in counterpoint and pushed himself a little further into her side.

XxX

When the grey dawn broke, they both stood and stamped feeling into tired, cold feet. They hadn’t slept much and had yet to see a car. They were hungry, thirsty and each a bundled coil of nerves.

"Do you think we should hike out? Down the road? See if we can get a signal?" Will asked. His wiry copper locks were plastered to his head on one side where he'd been laying against her.

It was then that Lily heard a distant hum. She and Will moved to the edge of the trees, and she leaned slightly out to try to get a look at the approaching vehicle. It was a grey van, pulling a trailer that had two ATV four-wheelers strapped to it.

"What do you think?" she asked her brother. The van was coming on fast and if they were to try to flag it down for help, they'd need to do so in the next few seconds.

Will nodded at her, and they both darted out of the tree line simultaneously, waving their arms in the air. The van slowed as it approached and Lily saw the driver's side window come down. It rolled to a stop about ten feet away from them and a man leaned out and gave them both an assessing look.

"You guys okay?" he asked.

"We're-" Lily started and then stopped herself. "We have someone at our camp who requires medical attention. Can you call 911?"

"Sure, I can do that," the man said, and then pulled out a phone. He leaned it away from his ear and waved them closer to his vehicle. When the call appeared to connect, he leaned back into it and said, "Hi yes, I've got a medical emergency here at... Christ, where are we? Uh, M-95 about ten miles north of Felch Mountain... Yeah... I'm not exactly sure, I got some kids on the side of the highway here... Uh-huh... Okay... You bet."

He disconnected the call and lowered the phone. "The dispatcher wants y'all to wait here until they can get the Sheriff and ambulance out here. You guys want to wait in the van? It’s cold and I got some water and snacks..."

Lily was about to refuse when she heard Will's stomach growl loudly.

"Yeah," she said, "okay, thanks."

The man leaned over and unlocked the passenger door as they approached and rolled down that window as well.

"Sorry," he said, "got the back full of hunting crap. Hop on in."

With a hand on the door, she thought about just asking the man to hand them a bit of food and water, but Will looked so cold and miserable that she opened the door and swung herself up and into the seat. Will followed her, and they sat cramped together in the passenger seat, which was at least fairly substantial in size.

The man handed them each a bottle of water and a Slim Jim from a cooler just behind his seat and nodded at the door.

"Can you close that behind you? I want to pull us off the road."

Will did as the man asked, guzzling the water and ripping into the meat stick, chewing loudly. The man nudged the van forward, but instead of immediately pulling off the road, he drove a ways down it, though not fast.

"Hey, mister," Lily started to say, studying him. He was roughly their parents’ age, with dark thick hair and an almost feminine nose. He wore black tactical pants and a black jacket, and emerging from just below it, Lily recognized the bottom of a holster. It was the same model as the one her mother carried. When she looked back up to find the man's eyes, he was holding a gun aimed right at her face. Will had yet to notice, busy as he was stuffing his face, and he only looked up when the driver pulled into the entrance of the two-track that led to Camp Hi-Early. Will's face went ashen.

Lily, her guts gone liquid, cleared her throat. "You didn't call 911, did you?" she asked, and the man's face pulled into a slow menacing smile.

"No," he said, "I didn't."

#MSR #AU #Sequel #Of the Eight Winds #XF #Fanfic #My fic

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twiceblackvelvet · 4 years ago

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Last Orders

requested.

A/N; sorry, i once again have lost the request for this among everything else, forgive me anon but it was something along the lines of taking care of drunk irene. but here you go, i decided to switch this up a little since it’s a pretty common request and i felt it needed a little extra something, i hope you enjoy!

How did things end up here? Just a few hours ago there was an atmosphere around you both that any of the onlookers inside of the bar would describe as peaceful, or happy. Only a few drinks had been consumed, nothing too heavy that would warrant either of you to be stumbling over your own two feet, and yet, that is exactly what the girl now clutching onto your side is doing, barely.

Sitting around a small table with a bunch of your friends, sharing anecdotes about memories, or the latest happenings in each other’s lives. To now, barely being able to comprehend the words slurring out of Joohyun’s mouth. You’ve grown used to this sight whenever someone decides to shout the word “shots”, she’s always somehow the first to agree to buy the first round.

The funny thing is that neither of you even wanted to attend the little get together in the first place. Celebrating someone else’s anniversary with them just feels bizarre frankly, and you’re certain they’d much rather spend time alone, but once one person gets an idea into their head to organize a surprise party, it’s hard to slow that train down never mind bring it to a complete halt.

If it wasn’t for the fact that the two of you had been particularly stressed lately, you’d have skipped it. But winding down and letting loose was just too good of an opportunity to forget about your worries even just for five minutes.

Except now you’re stuck with a very human-sized issue who is currently trying her best to see the various street signs to guide you both home, insisting that she is the soberer of the two of you. She is not. But it’s best to let her believe it than try to argue with a very drunk Joohyun.

“Come on... it’s this way... maybe.” She slurs with absolutely no conviction whatsoever, however, she’s correct in her direction giving surprisingly.

A crack in the pavement which means that a piece of it is lifted higher than the other half almost causes Joohyun to twist her ankle, but, she catches herself as steadily as humanly possible in her condition and begins laughing as if she didn’t just almost cause serious harm to herself.

“Who put that there? Be careful you don’t fall Y/N, someone broke the floor.”

She sways back and forth a few more steps ahead, her feet unsteady the entire time whilst she holds her arms out to attempt to keep her balance. It looks more like she’s walking the plank in a pirate movie but it surprisingly seems to be working as she manages to steady herself a little better than before.

“We should go there!” Her right-hand flies up almost hitting you in the face to point across the street toward a bar with a neon sign way too big for the wall it is placed on. The word Rustys flashing in bright red with a pair of lips clinging to the end of it.

“I think you’ve had enough for one night, don’t you?” You ask but receive no response other than low grumbling and a few muttered noises.

The cold night air causes Joohyun to shiver beside you, her teeth chattering whenever a strong gust of wind blows past you both. She decided upon a dress for this evening and didn’t pick up a jacket from the hanger before you both left. You knew she would regret this decision thus brought along your own for this very moment.

Removing your arms from the sleeves hurriedly and gently draping it over her shoulders, she looks up at you with a confused expression, eyebrows tightly knitted together

“You’re gonna get cold.” Her voice cracking slightly.

“I’m fine, it’s you I’m worried about.” You chuckle softly back to her.

“What are you talking about? I’m fine” A hiccup interrupts her words as her eyebrows raise and a pout that threatens to melt you right there on the spot graces her lips. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you.”

You’d be lying if you said that her words didn’t sting but the fact that she’s far beyond her usual limitations when it comes to alcohol, you decide to let it go. That is until she decided to continue throwing darts at your heart without a single hint of guilt in her voice.

“You think I need you to look after me? I don’t need anyone.”

There’s a tightening feeling in your chest as she mumbles for a further few minutes about wanting to be left alone. However, with the condition she’s in there’s no way you’re going to be able to just leave her out in a random street like this where anything could happen to her.

Your feet move on their own back toward the home the two of you share. Your head unable to guide your body and relying solely on instinct as her words swirl around repeatedly with no remorse for your heart trying it’s best not to crack in half.

“She doesn’t mean it. She’s just drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” you repeat over and over, hoping that just once you’ll be able to believe it, but it’s useless. The extra shots of tequila don’t help your clouded mind and make it difficult for you to focus on one clear and positive thought.

Joohyun trails behind you, humming along to a song now and then or talking to some of the street signs or herself along the way. Her arms wrap around one of yours at some point but you’re numb to the feeling of her touching you both with the cold and the inability to let her words go. It’s only when you look to the side to cross the road do you realize she’s even there at all.

Once the two of you finally reach the front door, she almost falls face-first through it, completely missing the step that she knows has always been there and even made a huge deal of pointing it out to you when you had first moved in with her. She drags herself to her feet and looks back toward it.

“There’s a step there.” She says through laughter but with anger in her tone as she steps into the living room, you assume it’s toward the step and not you. “I need to get these off.” Joohyun tries her best to reach down towards her feet to remove her shoes but it’s no use as her body just collapses into a heap onto the sofa in the corner of the room.

You leave her to lay there alone and head toward the kitchen to get a glass of water, your mouth dry and threatening to swallow your own tongue without hydration.

A few minutes pass by before you can hear her softly snoring. Though, your ears are filled with the rush of blood shocking your system back to some form of normality that is telling you that she’s going to be uncomfortable if she sleeps in that position all night.

With the very little strength left within you, you manage to just say pick up her limp body and carry her to the bedroom you both share. Placing her down into the bed as gently as possible still manages to wake her up as she clutches her arms around your neck to pull you down towards her.

“I love you.” She whispers, offering a small kiss to your forehead before immediately returning to her sleeping form, face flushed red but still as beautiful as ever, even if her mouth has revealed twisted words tonight.

Whilst the three words have previously been a source of great relief and a feeling of happiness. At this very moment, you’re not quite sure whether to believe it or not looking down at her with confusion.

The space in the bed beside Joohyun is tempting but whilst you know you will regret it, you figure that the place she previously rested downstairs would be a better place to try and drown out some of your doubts instead of beside the very reason they currently exist even if that means you’re now going to be the uncomfortable one. You highly doubt much sleep will be had anyway.

It’s a long, cold night alone with only your thoughts as company. Tossing and turning for hours on end with everything circling in your brain refusing to let you switch off for even a moment.

They say a drunk mind speaks a sober heart but she’ll regret it in the morning, or at least that is what you hope will happen.

#red velvet #bae joohyun #irene #red velvet irene #red velvet scenarios #kpop scenarios #kpop #girl group scenarios #red velvet imagines #girl group imagines #angst #kpop imagines #irene x reader

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valwrite · 4 years ago

Text

hopscotch; daveed diggs

masterlist.

summary: daveed diggs can’t keep his feet on the ground. (a sequel to leap frog, a prequel to hide & seek)

warnings: fluff, two nervous idiots, rafael casal almost getting murdered again.

fic type: drabble

word count: 2907

author’s note: i’ve decided to turn this into a mini-series. this is the second out of three parts. the last one will be released within the next few days. all feedback is appreciated! it’s 5:52 am and i’m too tired to check for any spelling errors again.

It was official. Daveed Diggs was going to murder Rafael Casal.

Sure, he had a lot to thank the man for because, truthfully, if he hadn't spilled the beans on Y/N's crush, Daveed never would have made his move. That was where Rafa's helpfulness ended, however, as he'd somehow managed to reduce Daveed into a panicking mess. He was pacing back and forth within the other man's apartment, every so often wiping his hands against his trouser clad thighs to get rid of his own nervous sweat.

He'd been completely calm and confident no less than five minutes ago, before he'd stepped into Rafa's home. But Rafael just had to open up his big, loud mouth and ruin that, didn't he?

“Did she even actually say yes to your date?”

No, no she had not. And, as much as he thought he'd been feeling prepared to take her out, was he really? What if the date shattered whatever image of him she'd created and she suddenly didn't feel the same way? Or, worse, what if it ruined their friendship? That was if she even agreed to their date.

“Daveed?”

“What?” His question had come off more harsh than he'd expected, the act of being pulled away from his own thoughts shaking him slightly.

“It's seven, dude.” From his spot on the sofa, where he'd sat and watched a pacing, panicking Daveed for just over ten minutes, Rafa flashed his phone screen where, sure enough, it read 19:00. “Go get your girl.”

One door slam, two deep breaths, three steps, four knocks later and Y/N was stood in front of him. The first thing he noticed were her eyes- they'd held him captive since the moment he'd first met her -, the second being her smile and, lastly, the shoes on her feet and the purse hanging from her shoulder. Surely, he figured, that must mean the date was happening.

Okay Diggs, now would be a good time to say something smooth, try charm her.

“My hands are really sweaty.” Are you kidding me?

“Are they, now?” Y/N- whether out of pity or discomfort, he couldn't quite tell - let out an airy laugh. She stepped out into the hallway, closing her door behind her. As she turned to lock it, he caught a scent of her perfume and felt the blood rush to his head, a lightheaded feeling taking control of him.

“I,” He paused, waiting for her to turn back around and, when she did, he found himself fixated by the way she was gazing up at him, amusement dancing on her lips and kindness lighting up her eyes. She truly was the most intoxicating drug he'd ever gotten addicted to. “did not mean to say that, shit. Sorry. What I meant to say was hello, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She very noticeably ran her eyes up and down his body, forcing Daveed to try straighten out his posture. He was already ruining this date and they hadn't even left for the destination of the evening. “Eh, I've seen you look better. Bold of you to go with the whole hair-tied-back look.”

“Say the word and the hair tie will be dumped.” His hand shot up to grab at the small bun his curls had been forced into.

“I'm only messing with you, D! You look handsome, as always.” As she spoke, she readjusted the strap of her handbag. “For the record, my hands are sweaty too. Wanna mix sweat?”

It took him a moment to realize what she meant, to notice her hand was outstretched and just waiting to be captured by him. As his hand took hold of her's and fingers threaded together perfectly, even with the contrast between his larger hand and hers smaller one, Daveed felt the nerves evaporate from within him. He'd been drifting off into his own paranoia, so concerned that something would go awry, and she'd grabbed a hold of him, anchoring him back down in the reality where he remembered he didn't need to worry because this was Y/N. This was the girl he'd watched eat her weight in nachos; who he'd witnessed get chased by a bee; the girl who's hair he'd held out of her face as she emptied the contents of her stomach into a toilet bowl no less than a month ago.

This was Y/N and, no matter how much his brain tried to tell him otherwise, Daveed knew that things were just easy with her, life made a little more sense when she was around.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Y/N sat on the wooden bench directly in front of him, one leg pulled up as she tightened the laces on her shoes. “You can't rollerskate, and neither can I, so you thought bringing us to a roller rink would be a good date plan? That somehow seemed like a good idea to you?”

“Listen,” With his right skate safely tightened and tied, Daveed began working at the left one. “learning a new skill together is a great bonding experience!”

“Mhm. Bet you say that to all the girls, don't you?”

“Yeah, I call it the Diggs Deluxe Package.” The two had now tied both their skates and, hands gripping on to anything in sight, they both rose from the benches. She wobbled and panic shot through Daveed only for it to subside once she was standing straight and cautiously moving over to his side. He caught a hold of one of her arms, gently tugging her over till she was safely gripping on to something. “Just be glad you weren't my last date, I took that one skydiving.”

“At least buy me dinner first before you start telling me about your package, D.” Laughing, Y/N bumped her shoulder against his own, only for them to both loose their balance momentarily and grab on to one another.

“Here, you hold me and I'll hold you, okay?”

“Won't that just lead to us both falling over?”

“Yes, but at least we'll fall together.”

“It's a good thing you're cute, Diggs, because your flirting game is pretty morbid.”

Laughter on both their tongues, united they stepped into the roller rink and prepared to face whatever challenge lay ahead. Surrounding them were people of all ages- children, teens, adults - and all levels of skill; some people were zooming around the rink at an unmatched speed, others were gliding effortlessly while others were gripping on to the barriers and very slowly making their way around the arena. A disco ball was spinning from the ceiling and, paired with the dimmed lights, the neon accents and the old disco tracks playing through the speakers, it created a nostalgic feeling for a time in history neither of the two had experienced.

Y/N was the first one to fall.

They'd done a few loops with the safety of the barrier at their side, having deep discussions about whether or not water had a flavor and if there was a chance aliens were on earth, but it was time for the two to venture out into the actual rink, no more safety net to keep them afloat. If anyone had been counting, they'd have noticed how her feet slipped from under her and she fell on her ass within a matter of four seconds after letting go of the wall.

“Help me up, Diggs, or I'll tell Rafa about the time you let me paint your toe nails.” Through fits of laughter, Daveed helped her back onto her feet and nearly fell back himself in the process. “Stop laughing, you big bully! That really hurt my ass.”

“Aww, need me to kiss it better for you?”

“In your dreams, D.”

From there onward, much to Daveed's own shame, Y/N had gotten a hell of a lot more steady and comfortable on her skates whilst he'd wound up returning back to the safety of the wall after falling a sixth time.

“Oh god, I wish someone had been filming that!” She said, clutching at her sides as she laughed. “You kept hopping from foot to foot like you were playing hopscotch. And then you just fell!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, L/N.” Even if Daveed tried to act irritated with his eye roll and crossed arms, he couldn't bite back the smile tugging at his mouth. If it had to be at his own expense, he didn't care, he just liked to hear her laugh.

“Oh, I used to love this song!” She suddenly perked up, eyes widened in excitement as she looked over at him. She skated a little closer to him, stopping and taking a hold of both his hands. Giving up control, he watched as she turned her back to him and lay his hands to rest on her hips. “Hold on and I'll pull you along!”

With that, she glided back out into the mass of people and Daveed allowed himself to be dragged behind her. He was enjoying the feel of her hips in his hands, the smell of her shampoo, the soft humming along to the song leaving her. He probably looked like a mad man to any on lookers from the size of his grin.

At some point, they'd both lost count of how many songs they'd skated to like this. Daveed had managed to get a little more comfortable working the skates yet he made sure to keep one hand holding on to his anchor at all times. Whether it was his hands on her hips or a hand on her shoulder or their hands intertwined, it made no real difference to the fact he just wanted to hold her. She gained more skill and had began even skating backwards, allowing Daveed the chance to watch how her face lit up in joy.

“There we go!” Y/N cheered him on gently. She'd convinced him to let go of her and test out skating by himself. She'd started out close enough for him to still grab on if needed but, after a few minutes of him safely moving, she'd skated a little further away from him. Her eyes had yet to leave him though, which pulled a blanket of comfort over him. “See? I told you you could do it!”

And as he continued moving his own feet, he was fixated by the way Y/N was gliding ahead of him, her back facing him. “Yeah,” He agreed, enjoying the praise she was giving. “I actually think I'm starting to-”

Crash!

“Daveed?” Confused, Y/N spun back around only to see Daveed hunched over on the floor, a group of younger kids moving around him and laughing at the fact he'd fallen over. She joined in on the laughter but not for long because Daveed was not attempting to stand up and, as she approached his side, she could hear the hisses of pain coming from him.

Sat with his legs spread out in front of him, Daveed was clutching his right arm to his chest and willing himself to get over the pain and just stand up. He was finally on a date with Y/N, goddammit, there was no way he was going to allow one pain in his wrist stop him from enjoying it.

That's at least what he thought, but he was wrong.

“Oh my god, D, I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have taken my eyes off you-”

“I do like it when my girl only has eyes for me.”

“This is not the time for your awful flirting, Diggs!” She scolded him but he saw right through her, amusement hidden in way her lips twitched slightly and her cheeks flushed a light shade of red.

When the two had tried, and failed, to stand him back on his feet, a helpful stranger had offered to assist Y/N with getting Daveed back up off the floor, one of his arms flung over each of their shoulders. The man only left after Y/N reassured him she could handle Daveed from there, which translated into her tightly holding on to his left hand and, with extreme caution, dragging him over to the exit of the rink and back to the locker area.

It was only once she'd removed her skates and gotten her trainers back on that she noticed Daveed was struggling to get even one skate off. There was already some purple bruising forming on his wrist and, each time he so much as moved it, a hiss flew out of him. After having to remove his skates for him, Y/N more or less informed him they'd be going to the hospital, whether he liked it or not. She had driven and he had sulked over the fact that the date was very much over at this point.

Hours later, Daveed found himself laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV drip and with some outstanding pain killers coursing through his bloodstream. Meanwhile, sat just outside his room on the uncomfortable plastic chairs, were Y/N and Rafa. She'd called him mostly out of concern for Daveed but partly out of the boredom of waiting in the hall by herself, slowly getting high on the potent smell of fresh bleach.

“Excuse me.” The duo had bolted up straight in their respective seats at the sound of a woman's voice, no longer relaxing against each other as she dozed in and out of sleep and he scrolled through his phone. “Are you guys here for Mr. Diggs?”

“Yes.” Rafael answered as Y/N nodded her head, rubbing at her eyes and suppressing the yawn that was begging to be freed.

“He's ready for visitors.” At that, Y/N was suddenly wide awake and ready to stand up. “But, he just got out of surgery and might be feeling a bit lightheaded. I just thought I should warn you.”

Y/N had stood up and been well on her way to entering his room but stopped mid-step and turned back to Rafa. Verbal communication didn't seem necessary as Rafa signaled for her to go ahead without him. If she wasn't so desperate to see Daveed, she would have said thank you.

When she finally arrived at his room number, she found it with the door laying wide open and Daveed, sat up in his bed with the softest looking pillow against his back, a cast wrapped around his right arm and a pudding cup in his left hand. As he struggled to open it with his mouth, Y/N couldn't stop herself from giggling and made her presence known.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” His question was innocent, like the smile he wore.

“We never got to finish our date, I couldn't just leave.” Making her way over to his bedside, she gently stole the pudding from his hand and opened it in one go. When she spotted the plastic spoon left on his bed tray, she picked it up, dipped it into the pudding and brought it up to his mouth. “Open up, buttercup.”

“Nothing says date like a romantic, spoon fed dinner in a hospital.” Despite his verbal complaint, he still welcomed the pudding in happily and opened his mouth for more.

“So,” Y/N said, stealing a spoonful of pudding. “is it too soon to say I told you so?”

“Your lover is mortally wounded and that's all you can think of?”

“You're such a drama queen.” One more spoonful found it's way to his waiting mouth. “And since when are you my lover? You've yet to woo me on this date.”

“Don't need to woo you, you've been whipped for me since we met.” He was smug; and annoying; and arrogant; and, obviously, correct. “Don't forget, babe, Rafa filled me in on all your raging hormones and mushy feelings you've been hiding from me.”

“I do not have raging hormones for you!” She playfully shoved his good arm and he caught a hold of hers, pulling her closer to him. The angle wasn't the best, with her having to awkwardly hover over his hospital bed and him tilting his head up at her but neither of them attempted to move away.

“That's a shame, 'cause I have plenty for you.”

She wasn't given the chance to reply as Daveed had already closed the space between the two of them. She'd always imagined his lips to be soft, pillowy and, most of all, nice feeling against her own. All of that was an underestimation to reality. Shifting himself further up the bed, he wrapped his left arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him, nothing but her clothes and his hospital gown between them. When he was sure she wasn't going to pull away, or turn out to be some figment of his imagination, he deepened their kiss as she placed a hand on his cheek, her other resting on the bed behind him.

It was pure bliss, like a dehydrated man finally getting a glass of water or a tired woman at last getting some sleep. They'd both been needing, wanting, waiting so long for it to happen that, with the time now come, neither of them wanted to pull back and end the kiss. Luckily enough, neither she nor he would have to worry about doing that.

“That is for sure violating some kind of health code.”

Y/N could only laugh as Daveed through his pillow right at Rafael Casal.

#daveed x reader #daveed diggs #daveed diggs x reader #daveed diggs drabble #daveed diggs fanfiction #daveed diggs oneshot #daveed diggs imagine #daveed diggs scenario #daveed diggs fluff #daveed diggs hamilton #daveed diggs clipping.#valwrite #daveed diggs x y/n

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what-the--curtains · 4 years ago

Text

Alliance

Chapter 5 – The Outsiders

(Mando x f!reader)

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Summary: A new lead brings you to a new planet where you search for any trace of the child. Unable to locate him the two of you stop in at a Cantina and when a fight brings the two of you to a hotel new information comes to light, and not just about the childs whereabouts

Notes:Happy new year! Hope your all treating yourself and others with kindness! As always thank you for the likes and shares❤️❤️

TW:swearing, drinking, mentions of drug use/abuse

Tagged: @crazycookiecrumbles

Word count: 6.3K

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Nar Shaddaa, Hutt Space, S-12

Exiting the ship you take in your new surroundings. The city was highly technological; filled with high speed trains, sky scrapers, constant noise and the richest and poorest members of the galaxy. It was a true Ecumenopolis and there’s no mistaking that you’re out of your element in it.

“You’re right.” You remark, causing Din to look over to you “I do hate it.”

“Here” he says, handing you a set of knives to go with the blaster he’d previously gifted you. “Bow and arrow would stand out and it’s best we blend in.” You take them, concealing the blades in the sleeves of your cloak.

“Anya, stay close” you whisper, pulling up the hood so as to shield the majority of your face from any passersby. The likelihood of you being recognized was exponentially higher than it had been during previous visits and anonymity was something that needed to be taken seriously here. Anya sniffs at the polluted air, miraculously picking up the child's scent in minutes.

The two of you pursue her with heads down, maneuvering through the crowded sidewalk lining the busy highway where speeders rip up and down the tarmac towards their destinations. She leads you off the main road and down a side street backlit by the various neon hues radiating off the signs attached to the strip of cantinas and clubs. Anya sits down and you and the Mandalorian exchange a look of confusion.

“There's no way the kid’s in a strip club,” he states.

“Ya I figured,” you snap back, the unintended harshness catching you off guard, “the water must have washed off some of the scent”

“What does that mean for our plans?” he queries.

“It means they just got more difficult.” You reach out through the force hoping the child may have caused a ripple in it recently, you can feel he’s one the planet, but there’s nothing to suggest his whereabouts. The situation wasn't being helped by the intermittent noise coming from the groups of intoxicated people moving between bars. You let out a groan of frustration causing a few nearby garbage cans to rattle and fall over subsequently startling a couple who were making out near them.

“C’mon, let’s find a cantina, cool off, maybe someone’s seen the scavengers that ambushed the base.” he offers, not wanting any more attention drawn to the two of you.

“Best idea you’ve ever had Mando.” You say, slapping him on the shoulder as he escorts you into one of the many cantinas lining the streets of the city.

The club was packed full of creatures from all across the galaxy. You’d seen places like this before, having even been inside them on more than one occasion. Sometimes clients wanted to take the gladiators out to show them off as a demonstration of power and wealth. The clubs were usually loud with dark corners, expensive drinks, illicit drugs and company you could pay for.

This place was no exception and honestly you’re surprised the Mandalorian had set foot in the cantina, you thought this would have quantified a den of sin to him and his creed. You push through the crowded dance floor taking a booth in a far corner in an attempt to disappear into the background. This task was helped by the dim lighting, loud music and general drunkenness of the patrons.

“What do you want?” you ask, pulling your hood down, feeling confident no one would recognize you.

“I don’t drink in public,” he explains taking a seat.

“And I don’t drink alone” you state, staring down at him.

“When was the last time you had to drink alone?” he asks. If it wasn't for everything you knew about his personality you would have thought that was some kind of line. Unfortunately, you must have been speaking too loud as your statement had drawn the attention of a nearby Balosar.

“Well I can make sure that doesn’t happen” the Balosar slurs clumsily placing a hand on your hip and moving his groin too close to your ass for your, or Dins liking.

“I wasn’t talking to you leave” you state calmly, and the man releases you walking off as if nothing happened, before the Mandalorian could even formulate his next move.

“Here’s the deal, I'll drink if you tell me about that trick of yours” he offers, watching the Balosar disappear back into the crowd.

“Deal” you say, turning to the bar. You make your way over through the mass of what we’re likely criminals or the ultra-rich, though oftentimes they fall hand in hand. This club didn’t smell like the lowbrow places you’d been to early on in your career, no it had that perfumed soaked scent of a millionaires mansion trying to masquerade the smell of fraud and blood that built it.

“Hey can I get two retsas, one with a long straw” you shout over the synthetic music blaring throughout the club to the Togruta bartender. You rest your elbows on the counter leaning forward, biting gently on your thumb as you turn your head, gazing over the crowd to where the Mandalorian was sat, absentmindedly stroking Anya’s head.

“Here ya are love” the bartender says, you turn back around to face her smiling as you hand her the credits and take the drinks back to the table.

“What’s this?” Din asks, picking up the straw slightly.

“Straw.” You say as if it’s obvious, taking a sip of your own beverage as you pull back into the booth “you can stick it up under your helmet. Then no one has to see your face”

“So how do you do that.” He asks referring to your ability to seemingly send people away.

“Do what?” you ask innocently, causing him to push the drink away,

“Fine.” you say, and he pulls it back towards him “the truth is I don’t really know how it works. Just does”

“Like magic” he states, maneuvering the straw under the helmet.

“Not a witch” you return, watching some of the liquid drain from his glass.

“The kid can heal can you?”

“No, I never learnt, I think only certain Jedis can. My specialities lie elsewhere.”

“Like the mind tricks.”

“Amongst other things but mind tricks are the simplest. Heads are easily influenced afterall.”

“Jedis'' he laughs audibly. It was the first time you’d heard him do so and you were taken aback by how pleasant it was. Sometimes it was easy to forget a human being was underneath all the metal.

“Why are you laughing? They exist.” you say smiling, still caught up in his laugh.

“I know I’ve met three now. I just think it’s funny that the kid is more qualified than you” He jokes. Your mouth opens, somehow feeling both admired and insulted by the man sat across from you.

“Say aren’t you a Mandalorian” a passerby interrupts

“No he’s not.” You say, sending him on his way with a flick of your wrist.

“You have to teach me how to do that.”

“You just have to put your mind between a state of complete serenity and complete control. Once you tap in, it’s easy enough to use, but you have to keep at it, it’s a skill and it's remarkably easy to lose.” You say gesturing for him to continue drinking. “Well that and a genetic predisposition for force-sensitivity.”

“Oh seems very easy,” he says.

“Well if it’s easy enough for a child to do.” You return.

“Did you use it to get the upper hand on me when we first met?”

“Maybe.” you respond finishing the last of your drink, only just noticing how lightheaded you were. It has been a while since you’d had a proper drink, but even so being this much of a lightweight wasn’t something you wanted the Mandalorian to know about.

“But you don’t use it all the time?” he prompts.

“No, not always safe. That why I was kept on Vryssa. Guess the empire, or ex-empire or whatever the hell they’re calling themselves these days, were hunting down any remaining Jedi” you explain, lightly tapping your fingernails along the empty glass.

“Can you choke people?” he asks, causing you your eyebrows to raise involuntarily.

“Only if they buy me dinner first,” you quip, watching as he finishes the last of his drink evidently not bothered by what you had just said “ but yes, I try not too unless absolutely necessary.”

“The kid tried it on Cara once.” he says laughing for the second time that evening.

“Fuck,” you snort, partially coughing up your drink “what’d she do?”

“She was beating me in an arm wrestling match.” he chuckles, more so at the sound you had just emitted than anything else.

“So you also need a kid to help you win an arm wrestling match?” you tease.

“Don’t start with me, I’d snap your arm like a twig if we went at it.” Did he know how what he was saying sounded? If so, what was he hoping to achieve by it? He’s about to ask another question when you put a finger up “More drinks” you say scooting out of the seat and making your way back over to the bar.

“Back so soon?” the bartender asks

“Drinking’s a specialty of mine” you say with a smile “Same as before please”

“Of course” she wipes her hands on a towel before heading back to make the order. You rock back and forth on your heels until she returns, but not with the drinks.

“If you’re looking for something stronger” she offers, pulling out a packet of what you recognize as spice. You’d done your fair share of it in the early days of the arenas. Trainers used it to control their more unruly fighters, and you found yourself falling under that classification more often than not. It had also come in handy when you had to deal with some of the less pleasing clients who were paying for your services. After you made it to the big times you were weaned off it by San who couldn’t have you overdosing and losing him money. Your hand reaches out for it but you stop yourself, knowing if you took it the Mandalorian would find out and you’d lose his trust. Something which you hadn’t realized mattered so much to you.

“I’m good for now, thanks though” she nods putting it back and returning with your drinks “If you change your mind, names Ynre come find me” you smile grabbing the drinks and moving back through the crowd. Sitting down you decide it's your turn to ask a question.

“How did you know I was a tracker?” you slide the drink towards him and he catches it with ease.

“ A bartender told me you’d helped him find his daughter, I thought you were isolated from the rest of the world.”

“Living has its cost even if you're off the grid” you begin “we needed credits as well, we offered our services to find those who had been taken, most of the time, all memory would be removed before they returned to the real world.”

“Why did you let him remember.”

“Somethings need to remembered, so they don’t happen again” you say, absentmindedly moving your index finger around the rim of the glass

“What’s it like.” He asks “Being one with the galaxy.”

“Pretty uneventful until you showed up in my life.” you say pointing a finger at him as you take another swig.

“Well I can’t imagine anything much happening on Vryssa. Is there anything on that planet except for mud and trees.”

“Some people like the mud and trees, it’s the poverty that stops most people from staying long. Mining isn’t the industry it once was.”

“So that’s what the planet is known for fuel?”

“That and the most hangings during the war, tall trees make for excellent gallows.” Having finished another round of drinks you go to stand up again, hoping when you went back you wouldn’t be offered the spice again. You weren’t sure you’d be able to deny it a second time.

“I’ll get the next ones'' he says standing up. You sit back down, breathing out a sigh of relief as you watch him walk over to the bar. As he reaches the counter you watch him order placing his hand on the bar turning to talk to a Twi’lek, Arkanian and human who had appeared around him. You take note of the body language, it’s plain to see what their intentions were.

Whether it was for the armour or something else you weren’t sure, but there was no denying the Mandalorian had something about him that made him undeniably attractive, even if his face was hidden. He allows a few of them to trace their hands over his armor, the helmet disabling you from gauging what he was thinking. As you watch the scene unfold you smile to yourself finding it somewhat amusing, but at the same time you feel a knot form in your stomach. You brush it off as you see him returning back to your table.

“Armour kinks really a thing then?” you ask nodding your head to the women who were still staring at him from the bar, as he hands you a drink.

“You have no idea,” he says,sitting back down. So he was experienced, you hadn’t been sure what his creed had said about sex. Your mind drifts back to the cave, causing you to wonder what else was going on under that armour. It was hard to say you wouldn’t if the opportunity presented itself, not that it ever would, most days you were unsure if he was even indifferent towards you and vice versa.

“Any more questions” you ask, freeing yourself from your thoughts, which you chalked up to the alcohol, not enough sleep and too much time alone.

“Are you sleeping?” you're taken aback by this question, why had he asked that. Noticing your concern he continues “When you fall asleep in front of me it’s hard not to notice the night terrors. You ask for me in your sleep. Do you know that? ” You did, but the nightmares were none of his business.

“Well if it’s your name I’m saying it really must be a nightmare, either way I couldn't tell you about them if I wanted to” you lie, hoping your smile would snuff out any suspicions.

“Are they about the fighting rings?” he asks, a sense of guilt hanging in the air.

“No, those stopped a few weeks in” You mumure, refusing to make eye contact with the helmet. He’s about to press for more information when a group of Zabrak walk in. You hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten and trouble usually starts after 1am.

“We should leave, gangsters and you’re too drunk to be of any use.”

“Shut up” you say, downing the last of your drink and cocking your head as if you had just proven some kind of point before pulling your hood back up. As you stand your foot gets caught in your cloak and you stumble. With one strong arm he stops you yet again from plummeting forward, catching your waist just in time.

“I’m not drunk, I just tripped!” you exclaim, trying and failing at hiding a smile as you stare up at him. If it wasn’t for the helmet you’d have seen the grin that had been plastered on Dins face for most of the evening as well. The two of you are almost out the door when you feel someone pull your hood down. The culprit, a tall, handsome man, has moved in front of you, blocking your exit.

“The huntress, you got out,” he exclaims moving towards you causing you to take a step back.

“You have the wrong person” you lie, trying to move past him but he steps in front of you again.

“I wouldn’t forget you, not after what we did,” he looks from you up to the Mandalorian “She’s worth every penny you spent Mando, the best,”

“She says she doesn’t know you. Now move.” Din interjects, succinctly cutting him off. You try again to move towards the door but once again the man steps in front of you.

“C’mon for old times’ sake.” He goes to pull you into him. Tiring of the interaction you drop down one of the knives with an aim of shanking him. Before you can, you hear the distinct sound of metal against skin as Dins fist connects with the man's face, knocking him out.

“Let’s go” he says, pulling your hood back up and ushering you quickly out the door, having now gained the attention of the group at the bar.

“Someone’s following us” you whisper, as Anya begins to emit a low growl. “bounty hunters. Five of them, I can take two if you get the rest.” Without looking at each other the two of you turn, in sync, to face your stalkers.

“Quite a bounty on you two.” One shouts, spitting out chew onto the street, “between the underground, the empire and the gladiators you’re the galaxy’s most wanted duo.”

“Walk away. While, you still can.” the modulated voice says as Din moves his cloak back, revealing the blaster at his side.

“Five versus a drunk Mandalorian and a girl. I like our odds. You don’t mind sharing do you Mando, we like to try the merchandise before we” The lead Zabrak drops to the ground before he can finish his sentence. One of your knives embedded deep in his throat you maintain eye contact with the other four Zabrak as their leader sputters out the last of his breaths. They draw their weapons and an array of blaster shots sound throughout the alleyway until only two of you remain standing,

“You okay?” The Mandalorian asks, giving you a once over.

“Ya, but you’re not.” You say gesturing to the knife currently lodged deep in his side. He reaches up to pull it out.

“Don’t,” you exclaim, grabbing his hand in yours, causing him to look down at you. You quickly release it, worried you may have just crossed a personal boundary. “ It needs to be removed carefully, it’s close to a vein. If you take it out you could bleed to death before we can patch it up.” you explain quickly. “C’mon there’s got to be a place around here somewhere.” The good news was there was a hotel in sight as you turned the corner, but the bad news was that it was upscale. Security would be increased and the knife currently embedded in the Mandalorian would stick out like a sore thumb.

Noting Din’s slowing pace, and aware of the knife's close proximity to a vein and how more movement could dislodge it, you opt to head into the hotel. You enter through the high reaching, stained glass doors depicting what appeared to be a ball of sorts. You sit the Mandalorian down in an armchair near one of the romanesque pillars lining the foyer, hoping to obscure him from the front desk.

Leaving Anya with him you make your way towards the desk, fortunately, due to the late hour late the lobby was essentially vacated. You look up, making eye contact with the concierge as you do, you pull down your hood hoping it would make you appear less threatening. You realize your error when you see a look of panic plastered on his face, likely caused by the flecks of blood marking your hands, neck and face. You see his hand reach for the phone. You make it to him as he's dialing, placing a finger on the hook switch ending the call before it starts.

“Please, we were ambushed on our way back from town, I’m here on a trip for my father. He's an ambassador, the Mandalorian is my bodyguard. We need a room, we can pay any price.” You plead apparently convincingly enough for him to place the phone back down on its receiver as he begins the process of checking you in.

“Seperate rooms I assume.” He says inputting the information

“No ones fine” you say. Noticing the look of judgment coming from the concierge, you continue “He doesn't sleep.”

“Don’t worry, everything here is kept very secret even from your father.”

“No... we… we’re not..” you decide to quit while you're ahead. He ends up offering you a cheaper rate for the room, you being an ambassador's relative and all.

“Thank you” you say sincerely as he hands you the key.

“How’d you manage that?” Din asks upon your arrival

“What can I say I’m an impressive negotiator” Helping him slowly to the elevator, looking back to the concierge offering him a look of thanks once again.

“You sure are.” he says as the elevator doors close, reopening again on the 21st floor.

“Not bad,” you murmur, taking in the room as you sit him down on the king size bed. “I’m going to get some medical supplies, don’t take that knife out until I’m back, and try not to die.” you say, tossing him one of two room cards before exiting the room, descending in the elevator to the main floor and exiting back into the street with Anya at your side.

The two of you dart through the alleys the street lamps illuminate the puddles forming on the pavement beneath your feet. You turn into the first pharmacy with an open sign and begin gathering the necessary supplies from its shelves. One of the benefits of being on a planet run by crime lords was the availability of cheap, illegal and oftentimes more efficient medicines. You’re reaching for a bottle of Shesharile Vodka to use as an antiseptic when you feel something watching you. You turn just in time to see a black cloak disappear into the adjacent aisle.

You follow it over to the next aisle but it moves just out of your view. You carry on into the next aisle, then the next, following the shadow frantically until you reach the cashier who gives you a side eye suggesting to you that there was definitely no one else in the store. You pay for the supplies and make your way back out into the rain which hits against your hood lightly. The soft padding helped to drown out the sense of foreboding that had been with you since you left the hotel. A nearby rib cat runs into a garbage can, making you jump. Startled, you look behind you, but there’s no one there. You shake your head, what was going on with you. It must just be the drink, or the lack of sleep.

You continue to tell yourself it’s just your imagination even when you hear your name whispered into your ear as you re-enter the hotel. Making a bee-line for the elevator you manically press the close door button, the elevator opens once you reach your floor and you swipe the key card. You rip the door open at the sound of the beep, briskly closing it behind you, chest heaving. Your panic worsens when you look to the bed and notice the Mandalorian was not where you had left him. Your eyes scan the room uncontrollably until you hear a faint buzzing coming from the bathroom. You swing the door open and look down to the floor where you see Din sitting. The knife lays next to him as he works at cauterizing his abdomen's broken skin back together. You bend over slapping his hand hard enough for it to retreat away from the wound.

“I said to leave the knife in.” You chastise stepping over him and squatting down to get a better angle of the gash.

“It’s fine, I've done this a hundred times,” he says nonchalantly, once again picking up the pen. After a few minutes of playing tug-of-war you manage to wrangle the cauterizer out of his hand taking it with you as you make your way back to supplies you’d bought. You pull the vodka and return to his side pulling the cork out with your teeth before applying a small amount of it to a towel.

“This might sting” you say as you wipe it against the lesion with gentle strokes. As you do he remains stoic, there’s not even a flinch. A notable sign of someone who was used to being in pain.

“I” he says, but you cut him off, preventing him from making a case for cauterization.

“Shut it, it could get infected, we have no idea where that knife has been. Plus stitches heal better than burns.” You state matter-of-factly, fetching the needle and thread from the supply bag.

Mandos POV

He can’t stop looking at your face as you stitch him back up, you were focused, but there was no sign of stress. You were calm, relaxed as if it was a second nature to you, something that was to be done absentmindedly. You must have done this before, maybe in the early days of fighting. Low brow gladiatorial battles were often messy and crude, you must have had your fair share of wounds when you were just starting off. His mind wanders to the comment you made about burnt wounds healing poorly. Had you seen the many that covered his body that night in the cave? Did you think he was hideous? Why did he care so much, seemingly all of a sudden?

“There. All done” you say, biting the string and applying some bacta to the now closed skin. As you stand up he notices a dark stain glistening through the back of your shirt.

“Wait,” he says quickly, trying to get your attention.

“What?” you ask, turning to face him still wiping his blood off your hands. He’s shocked you hadn’t noticed, based on the amount of blood the laceration was deep.

“You’re bleeding” he says, watching as you casually turn to look at your back.

“Come here” he says, taking another step towards you, concerned you don’t seem bothered by the news that you were bleeding profusely.

“I’m fine, it’s just a reopened old wound. I’ve had worse in the arena.” You say. Every time you brought up the arena, a twinge of guilt came over him. He wouldn’t let any harm come to you again, not while you were with him.

“Stop being stubborn.” He says. He’s about to grab you and force you down, but he rethinks his approach. Instead he places a leathered hand gently on your shoulder, turning you to face him.

“Let me help. Please.” This does the trick and he looks away as you remove your shirt which was now soaked through with blood. As you make your way over to the bed he sees the large open wound going up your back, it was red, swollen and bleeding. He puts some towels down on the bed and you lay down on your stomach. Upon closer inspection he notices the markings going up your spine. They were still prominent even amongst the healed over scars. His hand hover over the ancient scripture which matched up with those on your arms and face.

“Is it bad?” you ask, pulling him out of his trance and stopping him from tracing his fingers over your skin.

“Yes, it’s reopened a few times by the looks of it, did this ever heal?”

“Don’t know can’t reach back there” you mutter.

“It’s infected, it needs to be cleaned, and closed, it’s not deep but it’s too wide for stitches so it’ll have to be cauterized.”

“Just leave it. It’ll heal” you say pushing yourself up onto your elbows. He places a firm hand on your shoulder stopping you from fully extending upwards.

“Or it won’t and you’ll die and I’ll be back to square one.” He says, hoping it's enough to convince you to let him help you. He sighs a breath of relief when you lower yourself back down onto the towels. He positions himself over you, pouring some of the opened vodka into the lesion to cleanse it, noticing your back arch slightly as it does. He takes off one of his gloves, offering it to you.

“Bite down on this”

“This some kind of thing for you.” you ask, taking it from him.

“Or don’t cauterizing isn’t a walk in the park.” he says watching as you reluctantly place it in your mouth before turning your head back to face out the window overlooking the city below. Apparently it was a thing for him, but he shakes his head of any kind of desire in order to focus on the task at hand.

“This will hurt.”

Your POV

You feel the flame hit your skin, but you refuse to flinch, not wanting to appear weak in front of the Mandalorian. You remain still as he cauterizes your skin back together as the smell of burnt flesh fills the air around you. You find yourself wondering how high his tolerance for pain was, if he could essentially melt his skin back together without so much as a twinge. You found yourself exceedingly grateful for the leather which was likely stopping any noises being emitting unwillingly. He closes it up and you feel his hand go to your neck.

“I’m not dead” you say unmoving, your body was still in shock.

“You hadn’t moved in a while, I just wanted to make sure.” He says reaching for the salve,

“Leave it we may need it later.” You protest, but he ignores you, putting it over the wound, evidently not in the mood to argue with you. After a while you stand up and make your way to the mirror to check out his handiwork, not too shabby you think.

“Well now you’re not going to bleed out, you should get some rest” you say, throwing him his glove back before picking up your shirt and rinsing it out in the sink. You lay it out to dry over the radiator in the bathroom.

“You rest i'll take first watch” he says

“Seriously” you say emerging from the doorway “you lost a lot of blood.”

“I won’t be able to rest until the kid’s found.”

“No use to it if you're half asleep, off your game and get shot down one parsec in.” you retort. With that he accepts defeat and gets on top of the bed spreading out his legs and placing his hands behind his head. Careful not to disrupt Anya who was curled up on the bed's corner. You pour yourself a glass of the leftover vodka, swirling it around as you gaze out the window of the 21st floor. The city lights illuminate the sky as if it was daytime, you couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to live in such a place.

You gaze over to the Mandalorian, was he really asleep? He looked like he was, you’d never seen him splayed out like this before. Must be the only comfortable way of sleeping in all that clunky armour. You still couldn't wrap your head around how he kept it on all the time. Staring back out the window you imagine what life will be like once you’ve gotten the child back and you're free to lead a calmer life. After a few hours you hear the rustle of bed sheets. Turning your head you watch as the Mandalorian maneuvers off the bed with ease.

“Batteries recharged?” you joke, finishing the last of the vodka.

“I'm not an android” he replies, not having caught that it had been a joke. You make your way to the bed and get under the covers which were still warm from where he had been sitting a few moments ago. You rest your head back onto the pillows and shift to your side pulling the covers over your head to block out the lights of the city.

“What are you doing?” he ask

“I’m trying to get it dark enough to sleep.”

“I can close the curtains”

“And you'd just sit in a chair in the dark like some kind of weirdo?” he doesn’t respond after that and you doze off before another conversation can be started.

You wake up with the sun in your eyes, you must have de-cocooned yourself sometime during the night. Shit, you’d slept through the night. Not something you’d usually be upset at but you felt guilty for making Din take the majority of the watch.

“You should have woken me up, I would have taken another watch” you say sitting up in the bed and stretching your arms up to the sky, the tightness of the closed wound pulling slightly as you do.

“It seemed like a restful sleep. I figured you needed it.” You hop out of the bed and go to the bathroom pulling your blood stained shirt back on, muttering out a gross. The heat from the radiator had crusted the residue into the fabric.

“I’m gonna go get some towels from the front desk do you need anything” you ask scratching Anya’s ears and grabbing a room key. He shakes his helmet no.

You make your way to the desk, taking note of the assortment of well-dressed creatures moving throughout the lobby in the light of day. They stare as you pass through the lobby either disgusted by your bloodied appearance or suspicious of your intent.

“Must be a bounty hunter. I wonder if she has any idea what’s being auctioned off tonight. Should I ask” You overhear a woman ask as you pass by

“Good morning” a new concierge says.

“Morning, can I get some towels.” You ask, nonchalantly rifling through one of the many pamphlets littering the desk.

“Of course anything else madam?”

“ No, that's all thanks” you say, taking the towels. “actually yes this auction what’s that all about.”

“Oh yes the collector, he's having one tonight. Its location has been kept top secret. It changes each year to add to the excitement.” they explain.

“How would one go about getting an invite?” you implore, placing the towels back down on the counter.

“They usually find you. If you're rich, important or dangerous enough that is.” They say offering you a smile.

“Thanks” you say, formulating a plan the second you start your walk back to the elevator.

“I’m, so sorry” you say bumping into a woman who had been flashing around an invite when you had first entered the lobby. Slipping your hand into her shawl you grab the thin piece of paper pocketing it as she exclaims something along the line of how they're just letting anyone in these days.

As you re-enter the room you hear the shower turning off.

“You shower in that thing” you ask when the door opens.

“Not the towel.” He says “where are the clean ones?” he asks, tossing the bloodied fabric onto the floor.

“Got something better. A lead” you say throwing the invite on the table.

“We won’t get past the door, looking like this” he says. You hold up a finger and dial the front desk putting on the voice of the woman in the lobby.

“Hi it’s Mal Ytha” you say looking at the card, “the dress for tonight should be delivered to room 2108, yes its changed, thank you” you say hanging up the phone.

“How do you know it’ll fit?” he asks.

“She looked about my size.”

“If you’re planning on going in alone to get the kid, think again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, invites got a plus one which means you get to be my bodyguard.” This gets a laugh.

“What” you say, his laugh still taking you by surprise, its sound not quite matching up with the gruff Mandalorian you knew.

“ It’s just a funny thought, you needing a bodyguard.” He says as you open the knock at the door.

“Thank you”, you say, taking the towels and garment that had just been delivered by a member of the hotel staff.

“Shine up your armour princess, the event starts in an hour and its inner city, so we should probably drop our stuff back off at the ship before we head in ” He nods in agreement.

You get back to the ship and drop Anya off with the rest of your stuff, not willing to risk bringing her into another auction room. You change in the cockpit, the bathroom was too small and you didn’t want to devalue the constitution of the dress, afraid it may cause you to stand out. If the rich could spot anything it was someone masquerading as one of them. Fortunately your ability to guess proportions were right and the dress fit almost perfectly. Dins rearranging the armoury as you lower yourself down his helmet doing a double take when you enter into his line of sight.

“Don’t worry I can still run and fight in this thing if needed.” you say, assuming that’s why he had been staring for so long. Little did you know he was staring because he’d never seen something so beautiful in the entire galaxy. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“I’m not worried.” He says clearing his throat, trying to get a hold of himself.

“Good”, you say slipping the knives into the pants concealed beneath your dress.

“Shall we” you say, gesturing to the door in front of you.

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