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irrelevantwriter · 4 years ago

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House Call

Pairing: Rio (Good Girls) x Female Reader/You

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Warnings: Language, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, mention of bodily fluids, reader being scared and horny, Rio’s BDE (y'all know what's up)

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: Part 1. Rio shows up unannounced to talk business. Among other things.

A/N: It’s here...it’s happening. It took me a whole 2.5 seconds to become obsessed with Rio once I started watching GG. Ya’ll know how I roll. Anyway, this is me just dipping my toe into the water. I didn't get too deep with a plot (spoiler alert: there isn't any). It’s essentially just reader-insert into the show’s current plot, but with some smut thrown in. For fun. I hope you guys like it. Feedback is that good shit. 💗

*Added a Part 2! Read it here.

*Give and Take series masterlist

*Masterlist in bio.

***********************

“You okay?”

The sound of your friend’s concerned voice filled the line, pulling you back to the moment and the conversation you’d been engaged in before you’d burnt yourself in the spray of hot water.

“Yeah, just washing dishes.” You explained, cradling your cell between your shoulder and cheek as you maneuvered dirty dishes under the spout of water.

“So the meeting with the principal? How’d it go?” Rachel asked, getting you back on track.

You sighed, beginning to scrub at a stubborn coffee stain left behind on one of your favorite mugs.

“Fine. The kids are still having a hard time with the divorce so it’s…” You paused, unsure of how to describe the child-like brooding your son and daughter had taken to participating in since you’d separated from their father.

“Tense? Difficult? Weird?” Rachel listed off helpfully.

“All of the above.” You deadpanned, still scrubbing.

“You take the rest of the day off?”

“Yeah, I’ve gotta figure out what I’m going to do with these kids. Paul said he’d come over later to talk it over.”

“How incredibly thoughtful of him.” Rachel replied, sarcasm and disdain dripping from her words.

“Well, it’s a start. And as much as I’d like to tell him to fuck off, I can’t. He’s still their dad.” You explained for the hundredth time, feeling the stress of your situation with your ex starting to creep into your body. Your shoulders felt stiff and your head began to throb with a dull ache. It was a familiar reaction these days. One you loathed.

You opened your mouth to steer the conversation elsewhere when the doorbell rang, chiming throughout the empty expanse of your home.

“Paul?” Rachel asked, obviously hearing the alert of someone’s company over the phone.

“I guess. Look, I’ll call you later.” You said with another sigh, this one more tired than annoyed. You gave up on the stained mug and moved onto drying it, shutting the water off as you did.

“Okay. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” You ended the call, aware that you were short with her, but unable to feel sorry for it. You had plenty of other things to worry about, none of which involved your shitty ex or his new girlfriend.

You placed your cell on the counter and turned to make your way to the entryway, mug still clutched in your hand. The ceramic cup dropped to the floor and shattered into pieces when you saw who was already in your kitchen. You gasped, clutching your chest and yelping at the familiar man in black, the dark ink splattered across his throat the first thing you noticed. Your heart leapt, your body going rigid at the unexpected visit. Pop-ups like this were never a good sign.

“I let myself in.” Rio supplied, voice low and thick with authority and charm. He wore a smirk, lips upturned at your surprised reaction. He always seemed amused by you. That fact only served to unsettle you further.

“What’re you doing here?” You managed to say between shaky breaths, fear making your own voice quiver.

“Just checking in, mama. Can’t I do that?” He challenged with his arms spread wide, daring you to say otherwise.

You didn’t.

You went to move around the large kitchen island but the shards of broken mug prevented you from getting far on bare feet. Rio took notice and strode towards you, all clean lines and hooded eyes. He had a swagger about him that radiated. It sent a clear message about the kind of man he was. Confident. Skilled. Smart. There was an ease in his movements, but a beast lay in wait inside, ready to strike when the need arose.

His piercing gaze took in your dress, uncaring of being discreet or polite. He appraised you from the tips of your painted toes to the top of your head. It was as unnerving as it was thrilling. He crowded your space. He always did. While the scent of him filled your nostrils. Something spicy, but pleasing. It sat in your nose, and you knew from previous experience that you’d smell it for hours after.

You swallowed, wanting to avoid his close proximity. You hastily bent down to gather what you could of the jagged pieces, moving around his sneaker-clad feet that stood before you. You tried to ignore his presence, tried to appear calm and composed. It was an uphill battle. The man always knew how to throw you off. He knew how to keep people on their toes. It was yet another facet of him that you both coveted and despised.

You hissed, feeling the edge of one of the shards dig into the tip of your finger. You stood and sucked the tip into your mouth, trying to clear the area of the blood that had started to surface. His eyes were on you, watching you with interest and a certain level of lust that you didn’t allow yourself to explore. You stiffened when he reached for your wrist and pulled your finger away from your lips. He inspected the cut, his flesh warm and soft against yours. It was a side of him that eclipsed the man you’d come to know over the last several months.

“It’s not bad. I’ll be fine.” You whispered, attempting to pull your hand free of his. It was futile.

“Band aid?”

“Uh...yeah. In that drawer. Next to the stove.” You pointed in the direction of the drawer, holding your breath as he retrieved the item. This time, you watched him. Watched as he unwrapped the bandage and tended to your finger with all the care of a parent with their child. He held the appendage steady as he got ready to wrap it, but he stopped himself. He locked eyes with you instead, making you shiver.

“I make you nervous.”

It was a statement. A very true statement. And yet you found yourself shaking your head; ironic because your voice felt too unsteady to use.

Your heart stopped when he placed a tender kiss to the cut. The air around you crackled with heat and tension. It was unlike any feeling you’d ever been subjected to before. It was danger mixed with primal fascination...attraction. And it called to you like a raft in a sea of treacherous waves.

He ignored your silent response and sealed the band aid over your finger, ensuring the ends were smooth against your skin. He didn’t let go of you.

“Don’t lie to me, okay? Trust is an important thing. And we’ve gotta have it if we wanna keep doing business together.”

His calm demeanor and gentle chastising made you a puddle of obedience. Your need to please wasn’t just born from fear. It was something you’d been unable to come to terms with until now. You saw it for what it truly was. You wanted to please him. In as many ways as he’d let you.

You nodded in response, agreeing to his statement.

“Let’s try it again then, yeah?” He started, eyes roaming your face. “I make you nervous, don’t I?”

“The constant threat of my life makes it difficult for me to be calm.” You said, choosing to still be untruthful.

You forced yourself not to fidget as his stare scorched your skin. His black eyes roamed across the open expanse of your collarbone and to the modest neckline of your wrap dress. He licked his lips as he focused on the measured breaths of your chest, your breasts rising with each pass.

“That’s not the only reason.” He retorted with a shake of his head. He leaned in close, noses almost touching as he spoke. “Don’t move.”

You said nothing as he bent down, continuing your failed task of picking up the broken bits of ceramic. You observed him dutifully gathering each piece, piling them into one large hand. His face looked pensive, as if he was trying to solve an equation in his head. You leaned against the island for support and bit your lip, unwilling to give into the lecherous thoughts that haunted you at night and managed to infiltrate your dreams.

“Nice dress.”

His compliment made you pause, looking down to meet that familiar smirk. He’d set what was left of the mug onto the counter, the floor relatively clear of large fragments. His fingers now played with the hem of said dress, the flowy material dancing in the air and away from your body.

“Thanks.”

Your voice was small. The apprehension so clear that you could both taste it. He found it funny. You found it humiliating.

He slowly straightened, taking the fabric with him as he gathered it to just above your knees.

“Color looks good on you.”

Again, the juvenile warmth of his praise sent you reeling further into anxiety’s waiting arms. Inwardly, you were responding to every lick of his lips and quirk of his eyebrow. Your thighs shifted restlessly against each other, waiting for that satiation that you hadn’t felt in forever. Outwardly though, you remained as skittish as a wild horse. You were as much on the edge of pleasure as you were on retreating.

“Thanks.” You said with a pleasant smile, wanting to conceal the yearning that bubbled just under the surface. You smoothed out the hunter-green fabric that rested against your abdomen, hoping to urge his hands away from you and the dress.

No such luck.

Instead, he ran his fingers up your skirt and along the outside of your thighs and hips, almost meeting the edge of your lace panties. Your traitorous body showed its hand, your nipples hardening in eagerness. Rio’s gaze predictably caught the action. And his face showed his approval.

“How long you been divorced?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion at his sudden curiosity. But the switch in topic had you alert again and somewhat clear of the fog he was so insistent on throwing you into.

“Why? What does that have to do with anything?” You questioned, stepping back from his body.

His hands fell away from you finally, but they didn’t stay idle for long. They skimmed over your hips, pressing your backside into the edge of the kitchen island.

“Answer me, mama.” He demanded, head craning down to meet your eyes. The intensity of his stare made you shift on your feet. He had an amazing poker face. A skill that left you envious.

“Two years.” You dutifully supplied, leaning backwards every inch that he moved in.

“It’s been that long then.” He commented with a nod, a finger tracing along the neckline of your dress, hovering just above your cleavage.

“That long for what?” You asked, taking note of the subtle ways in which his face changed. There was no trace of the teasing, light-hearted flirting that you’d become accustomed to seeing from him. He was serious. Almost as serious as the times he’d threatened your life. His touch was more insistent, telling you what he wanted rather than hinting. His mouth lowered to your ear, his nose brushing against your neck in a far too erotic manner. Your fingers itched to anchor yourself to him. You denied the request.

“Since someone stretched you out.”

A gasp caught in your throat, though you didn’t know if it was more from his words or his touch. He’d managed to slip a hand under your dress, tracing the crotch of your panties with a dexterous finger as he spoke.

“Wh-what do you mean?” You stammered, knuckles tightening against the edge of the counter you were currently gripping.

“I mean…” Rio started, lips brushing against the shell of your ear with each syllable. His finger barely teased your slit, but his voice more than compensated for the lack of physicality. “You haven’t had someone here,” He emphasized the word with a firm press of his finger against the soaked material that hid your clit from view. “In two years. Maybe more.”

You whimpered, biting your lip as he continued to manipulate your body. Your head screamed at you to stop, to pull away. But the sensation of his body pressed so firmly to yours was far too comforting to deny.

“You don’t know that.” You attempted, though the effort was obviously pointless. It was true. Since your separation and subsequent divorce from Paul, you’d barely been on a date, much less had sex. Your body was fiending for it...for him. And he knew it.

He scoffed, finding amusement in your words. He pressed his finger along the same dampened area, seeing your eyes roll into the back of your head. He licked his lips when your hand shot out to grasp at his wrist.

“Yeah, I do.” He affirmed with a nod, finger still teasing over your lace-covered slit. “He stepped out on you, didn’t he?” He continued, his eyes taking stock of the way you responded to his touch.

You had trouble focusing on the conversation he insisted on having while his hand was up your dress and practically in your underwear. You didn’t feel the need to supply an answer anyway. He already had all the information he needed.

“He didn’t deserve you.”

You were jolted back to reality by his words, straightening your spine and pushing his hand from between your legs.

“And what? You do?” You threw back, agitation seeping into your tone. You felt like he was patronizing you. He was always one step ahead. Always aware of the skeletons in your closet before you were.

“Never said that.” He said with a shake of his head, not stepping out of your space. His hands were off your body now, but the stains they’d left on you would remain there. They wouldn’t easily be erased. And you weren’t entirely sure that you wanted them to be.

“Why are you here?” You asked, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

“Business.”

“A simple call or text works for that.”

“Wanted to come in person.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders. He wore an expression of smugness, as if he knew something you didn’t, which was often the case.

“What do you want then?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” He retorted swiftly, lips pulled into a thin line.

The seriousness was back, his eyes nearly swallowing you as all humor became sucked from the room. The nerves in your stomach came back full force, the fear aiding them in their efforts. He was challenging you, apparently done with your lying.

“I…”

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to even begin. He was too intimidating. Just too much.

“I-I can’t.” You finished lamely, shaking your head and looking down at your feet.

He tilted your chin up, his mouth only centimeters from yours as he dared you to move.

“Just say the word.” He rasped against your lips, his free hand cradling your cheek.

You let yourself stare back, taking in his dark lashes and the angles of his face. He confused you on many levels, angered you beyond belief. He made your life a living hell. And yet, you wanted him more than anything. More than the money and the thrill of crime. And somehow he was privy to it all. And he wanted to give it to you.

So you were going to let him.

“Kiss me.” You breathed out, your hands finally coming to rest on his chest.

He needed no further encouragement. His mouth settled over yours in a tangle of lips and tongues. He tasted like mint, his lips much softer than they looked. The scratch of his facial hair only added to the moment as you pressed further into him, asking him to take more.

He did.

His hands were rough, but not unpleasant as they trailed along your body. They had the marks of healed scars. Not to mention the blood of those who chose to cross him. They were everywhere and all at once. Your breasts, your neck, your waist, your ass. He kneaded where he knew you yearned for more and tenderly stroked the areas in between. You struggled to keep up as his hips pushed into yours, his own yearning making its presence known.

“We shouldn’t do this.” You managed to say between heavy breaths, Rio’s mouth attaching to your neck and sucking near your throbbing pulse.

“Why not?” He mumbled into your skin, hands unwilling to slow down.

“Things will get complicated.”

He pulled himself away from the crook of your neck, his thumb running over your kiss-swollen pout.

“Yeah, they will.” He said with a chuckle, that devilish smirk staring back at you.

It was all a blur after that.

Limbs intertwined together as you worked on the buckle of his pants while he pushed your dress up and over your hips this time. He harshly pulled the lace away, the elastic snapping against your thighs as it got caught before making its way to the floor. Your mouths didn’t separate, not even when he lifted you onto the counter. He pulled one side of your dress away, exposing the matching bra you wore underneath. Your pebbled nipples called to him and he responded, massaging the flesh with expert precision. You moaned and writhed like a woman possessed. Like a woman that hadn’t been laid in two years.

“Feels good?”

The roughened gravel of his voice made your walls spasm, the hint of self-assuredness causing a wave of arousal to seep from within you. You could only nod, wordlessly pleading with him to continue on. His touch ventured south to your spread thighs. You widened them, allowing him access to the place you needed him the most. He didn’t disappoint.

His fingers were long and probing as they penetrated your sex, slipping easily in. You gasped at the fullness, the stretch around him making your eyes squeeze shut. He let your body guide him as he rubbed at your clit, his fingers curling against your walls.

“I’m...god...I’m gonna cum.” You confessed, only somewhat embarrassed by the suddenness of your climax.

He worked hard and faster. Your nails dug into his back, your mouth landing on his shoulder as you struggled to not cry out. You bit down when the euphoria of orgasm washed over you, trapping his hand within you. He could feel every tremor he brought forth as you shook in his arms. It felt like it lasted for hours, your body unwilling to let the feeling be a fleeting moment in time.

“You still with me?” He asked, lips pressed to your temple.

You nodded, hissing when he removed his fingers from the confines of your body. You watched, feeling as if you were in a daze. He shifted his pants and boxers down, revealing his length to your ravenous eyes. The hand that had been so deeply embedded in you now wrapped around himself. He was long and hard, as rigid as his hands. You felt like a moth to a flame, hand reaching out to feel if he was real. He was.

You swiped your finger over the tip of him and were overcome with wanton pride at feeling the moisture that sat there. His jaw clenched in a way that you’d only ever seen him do in anger. He didn’t allow you to continue. In an instant he was wedged between your thighs, his body already pushing into your waiting sex. Even with the climax from his fingers, he was a tight fit. You both expelled breaths, his a mumbled curse and yours a throaty moan. You shut your eyes as a new burst of pleasure radiated from your core and traveled up your spine. There was only a brief moment of intimacy as he sat unmoving within you, letting your body adjust to him.

It was short-lived.

“Fuck...” He cursed as he began to fuck you into the counter, hands holding your hips in place.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he lavished yours with kisses and bites, each thrust of his hips causing his teeth to graze your skin. The chill of the marble countertop beneath your bare ass cooled your overheated skin. You bit your lip so hard you could taste blood as he filled you over and over, each pass making your walls accept more of him. He was deep and hitting that gloriously elusive spot that sat within your womb.

He cupped your breasts while you scraped your nails down his back, hearing him growl in response. The sound made you yearn to hear more. So, you did something you’d always wanted to do...you licked the ink on his throat. You decorated his skin with tantalizing kisses, your tongue aiding your actions. He shivered against your lips, the reaction making your walls clench around him. He was, at least for the moment, a slave to your ministrations. And it was a high unlike any drug you’d ever encountered.

It was animalistic fucking at its finest. He hit every nerve, soothed every ache. The union of your bodies was enough to send you sailing off the proverbial cliff, but his touch kept you tethered to solid ground, longing for more. He rocked his hips mercilessly into you, making your back arch at an almost painful angle.

“Right there, huh?” He teased, feeling you squeeze around him in raw desire. “Yeah, that’s the spot.”

You whimpered and tensed when he savagely rubbed your swollen clit, forcing your legs to tighten around him. He laughed, the sound ominous in your ringing ears. You could only hold on as he delivered the sweetest torture you’d ever felt. You spread your thighs wider, trying to get him closer than humanly possible. You opened your neck up to him, letting him have access to your bare flesh. You wanted him all over you and leaving a scorching trail of hunger in his wake.

It was manic. It was frenzied. It was passionate. And it all combined into a seductive elixir that made fireworks burst from within.

“Shit...I’m cumming.” You warned, feeling him double his efforts. Every muscle went taut with blinding pleasure as that coil finally snapped. You felt weightless, and yet the firm body still driving into your depths made you feel sublimely solid. And whole. More whole than you’d felt in the entirety of your marriage.

It was on the tail-end of your climax that Rio found his. His hips stuttered as he grunted and groaned, releasing himself into you and painting your walls. His fingers dug into the flesh of your inner thighs while his face burrowed into your chest and neck. It was as uninhibited as you’d seen him. And you were addicted to the sight.

You both heaved with shallow breaths, the exertion of each of your climaxes literally taking the air from your lungs. The room smelled of sex and instant regret as you straightened in Rio’s arms. He separated from your body, eyeing you as he redressed. You shifted your dress back together to cover your bra, the mess between your thighs preventing you from closing them completely.

Before you could say anything, Rio reached up and cradled your cheek. He played with your bottom lip, his thumb once again finding the appendage. His eyes took in every part of you, as if he hadn’t fucked you senseless seconds before. He licked his lips in that dangerous way that let you know his thoughts were on more than just money.

“Business is good?” He asked, warm palm still pressed to your cheek.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Cool, cool.” He nonchalantly replied, hand leaving your face as he stepped back from your debauched body. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.�� You said with a nod, pushing your dress further down over your thighs, a lame effort to protect any modesty you might’ve still possessed. He smirked at the action.

“Might wanna clean up the mess.” He said with a cheeky upturn of his lips, hands gesturing to the remaining fragments of ceramic that still littered the floor but eyes locked solely to the spot between your legs. The place he knew he’d left a part of himself.

You bit your lip and nervously played with the hem of your dress, feeling his eyes bore into you. Despite still being fully dressed, you felt naked to him. Bare. Exposed. Vulnerable. You hated it.

He retreated, facing you as he walked backwards towards the front door. You watched him from over your shoulder, still unsure of what to make of the whole situation.

“And lock your door from now on. All kinds of madmen running around these streets.” He quipped, eyes lighting up at his own joke.

He was gone as fast as he’d arrived, causing havoc and then leaving without a second thought. The door closed with a crisp click at his exit, the house now feeling bare without his foreboding presence.

You didn’t move from your spot. You remained on the counter, Rio still leaking from your walls and your dress still disheveled despite your best efforts. Your mind raced with thoughts, each one riddled with panic. His unexpected visit left you with more questions than answers, all of which were tinged with fear. What did this development mean for you? Did it actually mean anything? Or was he simply taking what was so obviously laid out in front of him?

Did it matter?

No. It didn’t.

Because although he may have indulged your craving, your appetite was far from being fulfilled.

#rio good girls #rio #good girls rio #good girls nbc #nbc good girls #rio x reader #rio x you #rio imagine #rio fanfiction #rio fanfic

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cafeinthemoon · 4 years ago

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The Home I Crave - Chapter 14

Title: The Home I Crave

Genre: Fanfiction

Pairing: Tobirama Senju x reader

Rating: teen and up

Word count:

Chapter: 14/?

Symbols: ⭕ | ➕ | 💛 | ▶️▶️

Read the previous chapters here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Flood

You didn’t think the sounds of the storm outside were so loud inside that room until you turned out the lights and laid down to sleep, but now you were afraid they wouldn’t let you rest. Ironic, you thought; you’ve been wishing for this moment to come since you arrived at the tea house, dirty, soaked and tired as can be, and now that you were ready to have your well deserved night of sleep your eyes were there, open wide, going from one side to another in the darkness, as you wondered how long that roof above you would stand against the violence of the rain. From time to time, a flash of light would invade the tiny space between those four walls, followed by a thunder that would shake them and the windows.

If they were your only problem, you would be good, however. But there was also the fact that you couldn’t even move on that mattress: right beside you, at your left and with his pillow above yours, Tobirama seemed to be in his deepest sleep; he was lying on his back and had his right arm folded and hand under his head, while the left one was upon his stomach, and you had your back turned on him, barely folding your legs to not invade his space. You knew that if he had at least one clean sheet left, he would spread it on the wood floor and would sleep on it, but all of your things were in need of a good wash, so he had to do the same as you and be content with the futon. Now you were using the sheet that you found with it, but it was far from being enough for you two, so you avoided sudden movements as you could.

After minutes without seeing the slightest sign of sleep approach you, your body started aching from keeping the same position for a long time and you were forced to move. You turned to him and passed your arms around yourself but startled when your face touched his side. You moved away immediately, but he didn’t show any reaction. With a sigh of relief, you closed your eyes and waited to see if your body would be finally conquered by tiredness.

***

A thunder exploded in your ears and you startled on your place, holding back a scream. You opened your eyes, now burning, and looked around, but found the same shadows in which the room was already involved; outside the inn, the storm followed its pace. Only after that you understood you fell asleep, but you weren’t sure if you’ve been like this for hours or just a few minutes.

Perhaps the second case was the right one, for you noticed that Tobirama didn’t move beside you – instead, you moved closer to him, so that you had your face resting on his side, almost upon his chest, while your pillow was abandoned under your back. His skin was warm, so you felt the change of temperature when you moved away and adjusted your pillow on its original place. You laid your head on it and folded your legs a little, just enough to hide your feet back under the sheet. This time, there was a reaction from his part: still with his arm folded under his head, he turned to your side, and now you had his other arm over your shoulder, obstructing part of your sight if you looked at your surroundings, and his chest before you. You didn’t even have the time to move away; now, with the weight of his arm upon you, you’d have to find a way to sleep like this until he decided to change his position again. Which you didn’t think it was going to happen so soon.

You swallowed. After minutes like this, with your eyes closed, you found out you were no longer unfamiliar to that situation as you first imagined. You sensed your skin warming up as his body heat reached you; your nostrils didn’t recognize the strong smell they sensed right after he left the bath tub as they got used to it; even your breath, calming down after the fright with the thunder, was adjusting to the rhythm of his own, controlled, regular as everything he did while awake. You would have released a sigh of annoyance if you had more space between you: you were physically and emotionally tired, so your body was supplying both necessities by relaxing in his embrace; there was nothing you could do about this, and you didn’t like to be left without options.

You started to imagine how it would feel like if Tobirama didn’t come after you and you were there all by yourself, arranging everything while worrying about the storm outside, wondering when it would finally stop and how you would find the roads after it the next morning. You had to admit that if you were there alone, you would take longer to reach the tea house, which meant that you’d spend at least some hours in the storm before finding it, and with the mud that would certainly fill the path ahead, the rest of your journey would be even slower. Yes, you could use your Doton to soothe its sinuosity, but how you would preserve your chakra until you found your compound? How would you serve your family if you came to them exhausted, unable to perform any jutsu and possibly hurt?

You tightened your lips with anger. Leaving Konoha the way you did was indeed stupid – nothing that would count in your favor, as a woman, an advisor and a shinobi. Was it your fault? Yes. Was it Tobirama’s fault? Yes. Could you find a different way to fix the situation? Of course, yes: you could look for the Hokage’s advice; you three could sit down and talk openly about the letter and the discomfort it was causing both in your personal and political environment. But was it possible to act this rational when your beloved ones were involved and your intelligence and position were seen with disdain by someone who worked doing exactly the same as you?

And now he was sleeping as if nothing happened, as he didn’t do in days, or at least it seemed to be. How could he, when you were there unable to do the same?

How was it fair?

- Am I smothering you?

Those words, said so close you, made you startle in the dark. So, he was awake. You must have moved abruptly without noticing and thus you woke him up, or the shifts in your mood were sensed by him thanks to his sensory talents. You whispered a “no” back to him, but didn’t move from your place or made any effort to turn that into a conversation. Tobirama didn’t say anything after that as well. Or at least not immediately.

- Are you worried about how we will cross the road after this storm? – he asked after a minute or two, and you started to think that he was really able to read minds.

You sighed.

- There aren’t many trees on this part of the territory that we could use to travel. We will have to walk for most of the time. But the conditions of the soil will delay us in at least an entire day – a ray of light crossed the room from side to side and your eyes turned to the window’s direction, over his shoulder – Using Doton to make things easier for us is an option, but it’s not the smartest thing to waste chakra like that.

- You are right – was his reply – We will have to spend some time looking for the less damaged spots of the road, which will demand additional energy from us. You should try and take some rest now.

You knew he was right. As far as you knew, that was going to be your only chance to sleep under a proper roof until you arrived at your clan’s compound. Still, you were unable to close your eyes or to stop the voice inside your head, babbling in a competition against the noises of the storm.

- As if I could just sleep whenever I want – you moved away from him; after he took his arm off your shoulder you sat on the futon and folded your knees – My head is about to explode, you know?

You sensed a pressure on the mattress the moment he leaned on his right elbow, turned on your side. You heard his voice behind you, lower, free of the demanding tone you were used to notice in it.

- I apologize for this, y/n-san.

You turned to him at the same time you heard that, not hiding your surprise. Tobirama was really admitting his part of the responsibility in the situation you were in? After all you’ve seen since you met him and the incident with the letter, you never thought you would see this man apologizing for something one day. But there he was, speaking about his mistake in that clean and simple manner of his when you least expected. Was there something else in this world that could make you gasp?

- I have a tendency to underestimate the subjectivity of things when I am given enough space – he continued with the same calmness as before – Most of the times, I have my brother to stop this. But that was not the case when we argued because of the letter. Let me tell you that the peaceful circumstances in which our people have been living depended on our unconditional compliance as shinobi. Nothing would stand for too long without proper attachment to the rules. My mistake was ignoring the fact that, as someone who came from a different place, you might not see things the same way, which resulted in this situation. And I am sorry for that.

You observed him for a while before replying. You agreed with him on this: his attachment to laws and rules blinded his judgment to the subjective aspects involved and resulted in an argument that put an entire alliance in risk, and your response to this wasn’t even better. But how could you act differently? You both were what you were, after all.

- We the ... clan know the importance of respecting the laws as much as you do – you commented – But if I’m being honest with you, there are people in my clan, and even among my relatives, that are far better than me in this.

Something in his way told you that what you just said awakened his curiosity. Perhaps there were still many things he needed – and wanted – to know about you and your people. So you just continued to talk.

- My sister, the one who is sick, is the best example of compliance and order I can remember right now. She is two years younger than me, but she has surpassed me in more aspects that I’d like to tell you. Since we were kids, she was always more passionate about our studies than I ever was. She learned all the family jutsu before me and is a better Captain than I will ever be. When it was established that I would be sent to Konoha, she was supposed to occupy my position as our father’s advisor, sometimes working as his bodyguard too. I was more adapted to the diplomatic work, but she could do both with little difficulty.

You turned to Tobirama and leaned your left hand on the futon, upon the spot where you lying. You took time looking at his figure in the shadows, sometimes alternated with the lights of the rays from outside reflecting on his gray hair, turning it white, and inside the sharp line of his eyes, lighting a fire with their redness. Your face was entirely in heat with what you said next.

- I cannot help thinking that our father should have sent her to Konoha, and not me. She should have sealed the treaty and married you instead of me. She’s younger than me, but I am sure she would have achieved our clans’ goal by now. And if she would ever faced a problem like that one with the letter, she would have found a better solution than this – you shook your hand and your eyes passed upon your surroundings with despise.

You were dominated by tiredness and laid back on your place, but that was not the end of the conversation.

- Our younger sisters adore her because she always had more time for them than I’ve ever had. I wonder how difficult things are being for them right now…

No longer worrying about what he could think and tired of your own judgment, you brought your hands to your face, covering it the moment your eyes started to burn, full of tears. You tried to hold back a sob, but failed: you turned on your side, towards your husband, and passed your arms around yourself to avoid the trembles.

It was when the unexpected happened. In the dark, you felt him pulling back the sheet and lying back on your side, his arm passing around you again, but this time he brought you closer to him. Maybe his embrace was too tight, but that was not something you would care, not in those circumstances; maybe it would bring you the relief you needed, when you were there warmed up by his skin’s heat, breathing against his chest, not holding back your tears.

Moments passed, and the burning in your eyes started to diminish, your breath was coming back to normal, not alternated with sobs, and your body was not shaken by shivers under the sheets. It was as if the knot formed in your throat just came undone and the sleep was coming back to you. Even in that tight hug, you felt free.

When you noticed it, you had your right leg between his, but there was no impulse to pull yours back from his reach. All you wanted was to stay that way until the morning found you sharing a space that wasn’t supposed to be divided for two. You opened your eyes and moved back, just enough to look up to his face, and despite not seeing anything in that dark, you knew he was looking down at you. Both your breaths became heavy, as if a pressure established itself around you two, approaching you before you could react, first your faces, then your lips.

When the kiss happened, a little voice inside your head screamed that you should not let things to be this way, that you should not let him get away with everything just by offering you comfort – which was nothing more than his duty – that you should sleep and be prepared to the difficulties of the next day... but your body found a way to shut it up.

Your hands passed around him, reaching his hair, bringing him close; you almost smiled in the kiss when you noticed it was softer than its aspect suggested, just like his skin, smooth under the cold matter of his armor. Your fingers pressed it, still not confident enough to use your nails, but you knew that the strength applied was going to leave marks anyway. His hands were working on you as much as yours were doing to him: at some point, one of them left its place around your waist and traced a path with its fingertips through your thigh until it found the edges of your gown. They slipped under it, moving the fabric away…

A sequence of desperate punches on the room’s door, coming from the outside, woke you up and you couldn’t hold back a scream, but it was suffocated by the sound of the storm that now seemed to fall with even more violence. So you fell asleep and had one of those quick dreams that came to us when we wander between the sleep and the consciousness.

However you didn’t have time to think of it: when you sat and looked around to understand what was going on, you saw Tobirama walking toward the door and opening it.

The person behind it was another guest of the inn, a man you saw at one of the tea house’s tables when you arrived. You were still sleepy and the variations of light caused by the lightning and the shimmering flame of a candle on his hand could deceive your perception, but the man looked pale, horrified.

You left the futon and wrapped your robe around yourself before going to the door. You only caught half of the conversation, but it was enough for you to see that the guest’s agitation was justified.

- ...We need to leave and go as far as possible! Otherwise, the flood will kill us all!

#naruto fanfiction #tobirama #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju #tobirama senju x reader #tobirama fanfic

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forever-rogue · 4 years ago

Note

"don't worry, I'll protect you" with Javi OR "you are my home" with frankie 😌

I love both of these choices, but I had to go with Javi, because I am in a sassy(tm) Javi mood 😌

Javier Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

“What?” Javi’s voice was gruff as he rolled his eyes at you. You turned to him and offered an even more dramatic eye roll before turning back to the papers that had just been placed on your desk, “scared?”

“As if,” you didn’t look back up but stuck up your hand and flipped him off, “I’m not a little bitch, Javi, unlike you.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he pulled out another cigarette and made quick work of lighting it up and taking a long drag, “I’ll protect you.”

“Javier, sometimes I wonder if your head can get any further up your ass and then I realize no,” you scoffed before standing and gathering your papers, hastily shoving them into your purse. It was Friday, getting late, and you were more than overdue for a drink. You’d settled on grabbing a beer and sitting alone in a quiet bar, and going over the paperwork there. At least there would be some peace.

“Where are you going?” he asked as he watched you intently with those dark eyes. You didn’t say anything, but shrugged your shoulders, refusing to elaborate further.

“Have a...weekend, Javier,” you swung your bag over your shoulder and passed him. You weren’t immune to the fact hat his eyes were glued to your backside, as they often were as you headed out of the office, “have a good weekend, Stevie, tell Con I said hi.”

“Mhmm,” Steve gave you a dismissive wave, still pouring over his papers as you left. Javier wanted to make another smart remark or...something, but he found himself at a loss for words. That was something that didn’t happen often, but whether or not you noticed, it was you that tended to have that affect on him. Javier leaned back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his tired face, “you should just tell her instead of being such a jackass.”

“Tell her what?”

“That you’re in love with her,” Steve snorted with a small laughed as a tinge of pink rose up in Javier’s cheeks.

“I’m not...no,” Javier stumbled over his words as he tried to deny the true statement, “never. Nope.”

“Sure, Javi,” Steve met his eyes before raising his eyebrows, “whatever you say buddy.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

The bar was almost empty, dirty, dingy, and quiet. The perfect setting to enjoy a cheap beer and getting some alone time. You could have gone home, but that was just...too quiet. Sometimes the soft sounds of almost muted television, mixed with the humming of the fridge was too almost too much.

So here you were. Ready to kill some time and get your work done and ready for Monday so you relax over the weekend.

And you almost had some peace and alone time. Almost.

Before you could get to deeply invested in your reading, the bench seat across the you squeaked as a surprise visitor sat down.

"Hey pretty baby," before you could even say anything, the unwelcome intruder was leering at you, smirk on his face.

"Go away," you hissed under your breath, quickly turning back away again, hoping he would take the hint.

"All alone?" he asked. Of course he wouldn't make this easy. You ignored him, cursing yourself for the one time you neglected to get anything to defend yourself with.

"Go away," you repeated, your heart skipping a beat with nerves. You glanced around the desolate bar to see if someone would come to your rescue if needed, but unfortunately the few people that were there completely ignored you. Fuck.

"It isn't smart for a pretty thing like you to be alone," he leaned in as close as possible, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath. Soon enough you felt his hand on your leg, creeping up slowly. You tried to pull out of his grasp, but his grip was like iron, "not smart at all."

"Look you don't-"

"Hey querida," that familiar gruff voice quickly reached your ears as a wave of relief washed over you. You'd never been so happy to hear it before.

"Hi," you offered Javi your least panicked smile as you scooted over to make room for him.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as you nodded to play along, "is this man bothering you?"

"He was just leaving," you glared at him as Javi put his arm around your shoulders. The man scoffed and glared are the two of you, and for a moment you wondered if he would challenge Javier, but luckily he just left. You let out a long sigh of relief, "holy shit. That was close."

"Yeah," he agreed as he leaned back in the seat, "did he do anything?"

"Hand on my leg," you confessed as Javier stiffened, "I thought I was going to have do...something. You came just in time."

"Good," he said as he grabbed your beer and downed the rest of it, "and good thing I was in the mood for shitty beer in this place."

"Join the club-"

"What the hell were you thinking coming here by yourself?!"

"I...what?" you asked as you turned to look at him, "I just wanted a beer..."

"Go somewhere safe next time," he practically pleaded with you, "or let me come...Jesus, querida, if something happened to you..."

"I'm okay, Javier..." you said quickly as you felt a smile, a warm sensation welling up in your stomach, "I...umm...thank you."

"I told you," he said as he scooted closer to you, his arm still not moving, "I'll protect you."

"Yeah," you agreed with a small smile, relaxing into his touch, knowing exactly what he was saying without him needing to say it, "I know that. Even if you are a jackass sometimes."

"Your jackass, baby," he said softly, "always yours."

"Its about time," you said as you both snorted with laughter, "now go and get us some cheap shitty beers."

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena #narcos #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

Text

And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee fanfic

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ecrivant · 4 years ago

Text

under the yoke | porco galliard

(porco galliard x reader)

an exploration of porco’s life after the warriors leave for paradis, told through a collection of vignettes.

word count: 2.8k

He sat, crumpled, clutching a hand which bore bloodied and broken knuckles, unfeeling. His white clothes, once pristine and perpetually ironed and representative of honor and heroism and potential, were now marred by redness. Covered in the eviscerated gore and dermis which, from his forelimb, surged. The hole in his bedroom door, framed by splintered wood and dressed with remnants of that same sanguinary amalgam. The air, once tenanted by irate bellows and gesticulation, stood oppressively still. Occupied, now, only by his swallowed sobs. From the window: the muffled, revelatory sounds of the Warrior commemoration ceremony one street over; and he, in his room, washed in the quiet, aching aftermath of ebullition. Another roar, hoarse, abraded, a guttural eruption. He launched forward in an attempt to lash out, again—at the door, the wall, himself—but his legs buckled beneath him and his palms, outstretched by instinct to catch his exhausted form, scraped against the floor, leaving bloody trails in their wake. His corporeal pain, once numbed by rage, now crept along skin and burrowed into bone, and he cradled his own form, laid fetal, and wailed. A prolonged, cathartic cry which propagated another, and another, until his lungs burned, raw and void of breath, and head thrummed, and soreness and anguish within him suffused. From outside the window, a cheer; within, cries, spates of ‘why’s,’ directed at no one. The Armored Titan, squandered—his own failure from which he already imbibed such abject and indefinite nemesism. His mouth tore open in a disfigured cry; no sound emitted. A breathless, silent whine; vision blurred by tears.

Sight and sound dissolved as blood poured from his wounds, relentless. Numbness returned—he remarked from afar the peaceful exit from his own body. He was vaguely aware of his door slamming against the wall as it opened. His name, a hazy and distant vocalization, repeated, urgent. A violent shaking of his body. On his cheek, a soft touch. He maybe saw your face. Concerned, no, fearful eyes. His own voice, thick in his throat, pathetic and begging and desperate:

“Please just let me die.”

The tremors of footsteps on wood, of weak limbs. Then his brother, his mother. You. The vague feeling of being lifted to his feet, of being stripped of his clothes, of being laid on the bed. A cloth, cold on tender skin.

Marcel’s embrace.

Sleep so abnormally dreamless and pitch that he was sure he had died, pervaded by a feeling of absence.

He awoke in the darkness of night and felt he was not alone. Eyes adjusting, he saw one body in a chair next to him, another in his brother’s bed. His entirety complained, aching. A low groan escaped him. The one in the chair stirred at the sound and eyed him in the dark. He could all but see the scrutinizing gaze. A grip on his uninjured hand, squeezing. His brother’s whispered apology.

Marcel rose from his seat and roused the other, who groggily sat up and listened for a moment before rushing over to the bed. Another hand in his, this time soft and un-calloused, and timid. He, now acclimated to the dark of the room, saw your scrunched face and teary eyes and quivering lip. You bowed your head to hide them, instead bringing his hand to your forehead, still trembling. As if in mourning.

“Let him sleep.”

A gentle command, for your sake and not his. He wished for you to embrace him but could not bring himself to say it.

—

He woke to his mother’s insistence that they see Marcel off. He first thought of you.

“Mom, don’t make him go.”

He felt his brother approach his bed, slow, timid. A kiss on his temple. A whispered promise:

“I’ll be home soon.”

—

He staggered as he climbed out of bed. The bandages on his hand and forearm, the hole in the door—ugly reminders of his abortion. Weak fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Fresh blood seeped through the gauze around his knuckles, spreading over the fibrous surface like a creeping, infective redness.

He made it to the port just as the boat undocked and withdrew from the shore. He saw you in the crowd, hand excitedly waving in the air as if a flag enlivened by breeze.

He returned home and undressed himself and laid back in bed and closed his eyes just as his mother reentered the house and forthwith tended to her sleeping child’s wounds.

—

A knock at his door.

“Porco? It’s Pieck and Zeke.”

“Tell them I’m alright.”

His mother bit her lip before shutting his door again.

He did not wish to see them, though he thought of them each day. Becoming less like people and more like deformed effigies begotten from his own envious thoughts. Though a given, since the beginning, that Zeke would claim the Beast Titan, he considered that he could have inherited Cartman. A moment of clarity told him Pieck was more than deserving of her inheritance, and he flushed with guilt. The candidacy, Reiner, they had made him so spiteful.

Still, he did not wish to see them.

Another knock at the door. He repressed the annoyance that flared in his chest.

“Yes?”

He could not help the edge that slipped through.

His eyes widened when you stuck your head around the door. Eyes asking for permission to enter. He moved to make room for you on his bed, granting it. Mattress dipping as you sat. Your hands gently turned his injured arm in inspection—its gauzy covering now gone and replaced by a dusting of red-rimmed scabs and pale, white scars. The haphazard gash in his wrist nearly but a memory. The touch, gentle, nearly imperceptible. Again feeling guilty, as he had not thought of you in weeks, though you should have been the first to which he turned. Your non-affiliation with the Warriors was something he unknowingly craved. Soft fingers grazed his arm and the sillage of your scent hung in the air, calming him. He needed your touch, a same and even greater need than that night before the Warriors’ departure.

You did not speak and instead wrapped your hands around his. Heedful of his injuries. Even in the dim candlelight of the room, a ray of moonlight flooded through the window and struck his floor—an expansive stain of red, impossible to fully remove, illuminated. You gazed at him, sad, as if you pitied him. He wished he had not seen it, perhaps he was not meant to, and he asked you to leave before he could suppress his anger. He spurned your pity.

You were surprised but not hurt: instead, he was met with a melancholic look, one of understanding. As you walked out, shutting the door behind you, he wished you had been hurt—he envied your emotional control, your empathy. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and they blurred his view of you leaving the front stoop and walking down the street, swallowed by the night.

He grabbed his pillow and hurled it at the wall. It landed with a dull thump. If he was anything like you, he could have controlled his anger and kept you with him. Spent the night in your presence. He gritted his teeth and slammed back onto the mattress, taking notice of the missing cushion. He rolled to the side and slept without it.

—

He could not say when he finally rescinded the grudge he held against Pieck and Zeke. He began talking to them again, finally caving on his self-imposed strike after realizing he was lonely, but it felt more like a return out of necessity. He was not sure he truly missed their companionship; though dulled, the spite and anger and jealousy were all still present.

At the same time, he immersed himself further into Marley’s all-encompassing military-industrial complex. Endearing himself to Magrath. Continuing his training. Helping where he could. As if to fulfill some sick, vicarious fantasy where he was a Warrior, as well, only left behind with Pieck and Zeke. The schmoozing felt insincere, dirty, yet he continued, to what end? He was worse than Reiner—a fucking ass-kisser with no goal in sight. Subconsciously aware his constant exposure to Marleyan army affairs only exacerbated and prolonged the pain of his failure.

“Why still be involved?”

He frowned at your question—a large part of him assumed you would support him, regardless. At least support him based on the fact it was somehow comforting for him, a twisted form of self-actualization. He narrowed his eyes as you continued.

“Maybe it’s better this way. You—”

You cut yourself off, hesitant. He urged you to say your piece, an edge in his voice.

“If you’re not a Warrior, you can live a long life.” With me, the implicit addendum. He ignored it, quiet long enough that you felt emboldened to continue.

“Sometimes this war, it feels so pointless.”

Faced with futility. Your extrapolated silver lining. Something repressed urged him to give in, to agree. Whether flaccid will or a desire to live with you, he could not be sure. You had always felt so nice.

Though he could not, could never, bring himself to despise you, he convinced himself to despise the words you spoke.

“What are you, a fucking pacifist now?”

You shrunk away, the vitriol in his voice, a disarming blow. To serve Eldians was his life’s purpose, and you were meant to support him indefinitely, it being in your nature. You began to speak, but he ignored it. Anger flaring. The more he thought on it, the easier you became to hate. All the years he had known you, you were nothing but a backgrounded entity. His very antithesis. Your affinity for pacifism was no surprise to him—it was very much like you to sit to the side and wish for things to happen instead of taking it upon yourself to actualize them. You moved through life without purpose, a passive body with no real substance. It was a wonder he had ever liked you at all.

“You know it should have been me. I should have been the one to go to Paradis, not Reiner.”

The hurt in your eyes urged him forward, though, in hindsight, he wondered if it was your own hurt, or hurt for him, which shone in your gaze. A sadness, pity, that he could not let go of his apparent past transgression, could not overcome his own self-hatred. Were there truly many differences between you?

He lashed out once more, another jab. A sadistic self-projection.

“How can you live a life so devoid of purpose and meaning? Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. I was meant to be a Warrior for humanity, so that’s what I’ll do. And I don’t care how I get there.”

He flinched, less at the words and more at the way some form of the truth so willingly poured from his mouth. Quiet, eerily pervasive. A surge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Like bile. Your tears stung his throat.

“Never would humanity’s true savior be so selfish.”

You stood and turned at the heel and strode off, quickly wiping at your eyes. It was his turn to be winded by your words.

—

He slammed his fist against your front door, rapid and repeated like a heartrate. Your father answered and saw the raw desperation in his eyes and led him to your room. He opened the door and collapsed before he reached you. Spoken through choked sobs—the pain, cotton forced down his throat:

“Marcel is dead.”

Your arms were around him as if your last shared moment, at this point years ago, was not one of bitter vitriol. He, eviscerated by guilt and all but gutted on the floor before you. Your unrelenting sympathy, so willing to forgive his malignity—to think you had nothing but love to give in return for his spite. You held him unflinchingly as he disintegrated in your arms. Unafraid to shoulder the weight of his tangible unraveling. He thought of that moment years ago, alone in his room, bleeding out, a result of his own rage, and realized true pain was nothing like it. To be so utterly excavated by grief and pain that your own form has no choice but to erode into itself. His screams caught in your shirt. He bit down on the fabric, tasting blood.

He lied in your bed that night and felt nothing. Your touch, once so verily craved, was unaffecting. Still, you ran your hands along his sides and caressed the shapely variations of his form, and you pressed your lips to his neck and back, and he allowed you to straddle him and kiss his face and chest and arms and endeavor to extract his pain through your ghostly contact. He knew you felt nice, even if he himself could not tell. Your comfort reached him and dissolved on contact, yet he still indulged and met your touch with his own. Nevertheless unfeeling.

—

From you, he had never seen true anger. Though, when he told you he was to support Pieck in Paradis, he saw it—it was quiet, nothing like his violent, external fulminations. Instead, your stare held unprecedented intensity, some amalgam of rage and fear that made him instinctively flinch; and, for once, it did not seem like selfless emotion. He sadistically reveled in the way you finally felt fear for someone other than him.

He was leaving Marley with some naïve intention of returning, to be with you upon doing so. Yet, you both knew your shared life was a moot point after his inheritance of the Jaw Titan—he had betrayed you, and in some way, his own selfish wishes. He had not matured at all, forever and always a slave to his desires. To die for Marley, you informed him, and no matter how many times he countered with his ambition to save the Eldians and salvage the remnants of his past failures, he invariably, though subconsciously, acquiesced to your position. His ultimate objective: to die for a cause.

Your anger, short-lived, ephemeral, even. It gave way to such harrowing sorrow. He wondered, as he held you, if you finally allowed yourself to cry selfishly, to cry for the death of your own desires.

You kissed him, desperately. Long and sweetly brackish from tears. He laid you down his bed, the one in which years ago he lied as well, craving your embrace in the darkness, and touched fingertips to bare skin. His despairing memorization of your body. Your breathy murmurs, tearful; yourself, a numinous beauty he sought to worship. He could not elude his adoration for you, and as you made love that night, a shared intimacy so imbued with and pervaded by heartache, he knew he would die regretful. His pain and yours, fatefully pre-written. He had always been destined for stagnation, abjection, sorrow, loss—driven by some cruel divinity and jejune, self-sacrificial desire to fulfill his own doomed fate. The cruelty of fatalism.

“Come back to me,” you had whispered.

—

In his last moments, he thought of that night. He did not deserve a final thought so pleasant. He instead thought of you presently, home in Liberio, waiting for his promised return. Is this how Marcel felt, as he breathed his last breath? Did he think of his little brother to which he promised return? He all but laughed at the ironic cyclicality of life. Falco would inherit his thoughts, and his brother’s thoughts, and one day see the reality of anguish and broken promises and futile desire, perhaps on the evening of his own violent death.

—

Through his love, he also immortalized you—forcing you to live on as some perpetually degraded image and, eventually, simply an ephemeral feeling of comfort in those who would inherit his memories. He figured you would hate the thought. Part of him wished he could loose you from this eternal cycle, freeing you from his memory and thus the endless lineage of memory you would come to inhabit. Or maybe he wished for this selfishly, wanting you to be experienced by no other.

—

You would hate his last words, spoken at Reiner out of abject spite, selfish, though they were more of an assurance than anything. A closure for his younger self, whose apparent failures haunted him until this moment.

—

He wished you had not asked him to return; he wished he had not believed he would.

—

He was surprised by his own fear. As he allowed himself to be eaten, he only thought of dying. It would be too painful to think of anything else. Yet, you somehow slipped through, one final time.

—

hey, my first request! thank you @casualityrantfun for your porco suggestion! fleshing out porco’s history was honestly so much fun; exploring side characters’ arcs may be my new favorite thing. also, i’m sorry that this probably isn’t exactly what you wanted; you asked for fluff but i can’t seem to write anything that isn’t tinged with some kind of melancholia.

anyway, thank you all so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed the piece! i kind of fell in love with porco while i wrote this, so expect some more writing for him lol. feedback and constructive criticism are always appreciated!

also also, merry christmas to those who celebrate it! and regardless, i hope everyone has a great holiday weekend! xoxo <3

taglist: @flam3bird

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #attack on titan imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot imagines #aot x reader #porco galliard #galliard #porco galliard x reader #porco galliard x you #porco x reader #galliard x reader #porco galliard imagine #writing!

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pepperpills · 4 years ago

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The Harvest - RE8 Fanfic

The Harvest

A Resident Evil 8 fan fiction by Joana

Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader

Notes: heey, so here is Part III, hope you all enjoy it! i'm thinking of starting a new story soon, once this is ended, probably focusing more on world building and Karl and reader relationship hehe

Warning: NSFW content

Part I - Destiny (1) Part I - Destiny (2) Part II - The Lord

Part III – The Hunt

Getting to know the factory turned out to be a fantastic experience. You had never seem so many different paraphernalia in your live, the closer you had ever got to that was when you were a child poking around your dad’s storeroom, but there were only some tools, agriculture products and inherited ornaments from your cabin family – these last ones were your absolute favourite.

Heisenberg’s factory, on the other hand, was full of interesting things, some of them you had no idea what were used for. You even found a suspicious “torture” room, but couldn’t dig into it, once he was nearby. Still, you found his journals narrating his experiments, his audio reports and some guide books on mechanics that had you intrigued for a long time while reading them. He was a madman, you were convinced, but at the same time, that secluded part of you was growing a little each day you explored his life.

Lord Heisenberg was nicer and quieter than you would imagine. He basically lived in his various offices across the factory, mostly he would be trying new mechanisms on bodies and seeing how they reacted with the Cadou, the strange parasite the villagers mentioned only on rare and veiled conversations. As far as it wasn’t you, or your family, lying cold on one of the stretchers, you didn’t care. As a matter of fact, you felt tempted to try some things with the gears yourself as you deepen your studies in his books.

At your first days there, you got worried you would have to share the bed with him, which would be much more proximity than you had ever had with another person. The man had already seen your half naked and that was enough. However, he didn’t sleep there with you and you wondered why, once he so enthusiastically mocked you about it when you arrived. Actually, you started doubting he ever slept at all.

You were still a bit scared, though, never knowing if he would play a prank on you, so you were very careful to avoid him for a while - that didn’t endure –, believing you should give him space to get used to your presence after the mood he got into after your reception.

He was disturbed, indeed. His work was getting closer to a crucial point that involved Mother Miranda. He musted be discreet, but it was proving to be a real trial with Soldats activating and running around as lost beasts. Also, having you around actually gave him a new problem.

Lord Heisenberg would walk around the factory looking for material, testing the Soldats and cursing a lot, some of these swearwords you didn’t even know, but started liking how he used them, almost cartoonish. It was never directed to you, of course. He acted like you weren’t there most of the time, in others, when he was more chilled, with less work to do, he asked “how is the mess at the wing, buttercup?” laughing at you blushing at his indiscreet platonic flirts.

You had to find your way around the factory. That place was a labyrinth and a map would come handy, so you drew it on some clean papers you found lying around, loving not to get lost anymore. You hadn’t been face-to-face to one of his creations yet, just saw them on the production lines on the overview of the factory and on some specific rooms. You also avoided it due to fear.

He told you where the wing to be cleaned was and you found it after an hour. It was so incredibly packed with mechanical parts that you could barely come inside to take a look. Huffing, you thought that he could solve that without moving a muscle. It made you mad, but also made you wonder what you were doing there. You cleaned it anyway, as it was your duty and used that waste to build some minor projects.

At the end of your expedient, your hands were orange because of the rusty irons you were moving all day long and you had little cuts here and there, but nothing really bad. As it was going, it wouldn’t take long for you to finish cleaning and could even decorate it for him, making it feel more like home to you too.

You were liking it there. Of course, it was dusty, grey, sometimes rusty and hot all the time, but it was also very different from everything. Once you said goodbye to the cabins, then to the Village and maybe being away from Miranda’s dominance made you feel lighter.

You found some red fabric lying around somewhere, appearing to be forgotten, made some nature sketches on blank papers and put yellow lights on the bedroom and on Karl’s soon-to-be new working room. It looked cosy. You hoped he would appreciate it when he met the reformed wing, until then, you would keep quiet not to bother him.

Though, shortly after you finished decorating the bedroom, an event destroyed your plans of avoiding Heisenberg. On your daily route to what you would now call your wing, you crossed the kitchen and found an overcoat-less Karl trying to prepare a sandwich. He had any chef’s nightmare happening in that place. There were blunt knives flying around, a metal cup chasing the kettle spilling hot coffee all over the floor as he tried to open a bottle of whiskey and, finally, hot coffee hit Heisenberg’s chest and he screamed and cursed like a sore animal.

“FUCK!” He thundered, his word echoing in the corridor where you stood.

You couldn’t ignore that scene even if you tried. You were getting tired of not talking to him, you lived together now and all your few friends were slowly becoming distant memories. You would be happy to hear his voice, something else than gears rumble, even if it was cursing your predecessors.

As a powerful person, he would try to use his powers to do simple things and do a real mess instead. You felt compelled to give him some support, maybe it was a part of your mother’s care for others that lived in you too. You entered the kitchen headstrong, holding a laugh at his misery looks. Now he was stroking his shirt with a cloth and only noticed you when you were getting around the island.

You didn’t know, however, he never “never noticed” you. He felt your presence at the corridor before you saw him and he felt ashamed of you seeing him failing at a stupid task, and so forth his reaction was to be boorish.

“What?” He asked in a rude tone.

“Just let me help.” You offered, placing your hand in the air between you two. It wasn’t really an offer, you were just being polite, you would help him one way or another, you would have your small talk, but he wouldn’t give up so easily. “Please.” You asked, making the sweeter voice you could.

He huffed and threw the wet cloth on the sink. You took another cloth from one of the drawers – you were getting used to the utensils’ places –, wet it a little with water and looked at him, your head slightly tilted to the right.

“What is it, kitten?” Heisenberg questioned, roughly playful then.

“It is your shirt.” You pointed.

“Yes, it is dirty. Weren’t you trying to help?” He started to lose patience.

“Yeah, I am. It is just… You will have to take it off.” You let it out unpretentiously, although in your mind you were revengeful.

“Oh.” He understood and immediately took it off with so much easiness you wondered how many times he did that when you were so uncertain of it at your first day.

You had never seem him shirtless. To be quite sincere, you hadn’t seen many shirtless men in your life. The Village was a very cold town, once it was deep into a forest in the mountains, so even in the summer there wasn’t a hot weather, so people tended to keep their clothes on. Because of this, when he took it off you instantly blushed at his scarred chest.

He has what you would call a dad body. It isn’t really sinewy, although still very strong with thick arms and defined muscles. He has some belly, which means he isn’t a skinny person, but he isn’t fat also. And maybe you took too long looking at him like that and feeling weird feelings you would think about later that night.

“You’re almost drooling there, buttercup.” He teased you and when you quickly, but gently, started cleaning his chest with the cloth, so you wouldn’t have to answer, he gave up a deliciously loud laugh.

You laughed with him, making him laugh even harder. You didn’t want to admit it, but you liked it, this casual connection between you two. The laugh died a gradual death and you started moving you hand on his chest, feeling its warmth below the cloth. You could almost swear his breathing was getting faster and you saw he was biting his lips, maybe because you were taking too long. You didn’t want to finish, but you both know there wasn’t much coffee on him anyway.

You put the cloth with the other one in the sink and as you watered them, you saw him going to get his shirt that had been laying on the island.

“No, no, no.” You said, taking it from his hands kind brusquely, making him confused. “I need to wash these.”

“I see.” He said, raising his hands to show he wouldn’t try again, as a peace offer that made you grin.

“I can finish your sandwich for you, it will only take a minute.” You added, embarrassed to be so bossy with him.

“I will be at my office.” He told you and left without looking back.

You thought he got mad at you because of the shirt situation. It made you sad, you started having a nice approach. To compensate you made him a really good sandwich with the meat and vegetables you found in the refrigerator. Searching for food there you considered asking him to go see the Duke and buy supplies, maybe even hunt, because you didn’t have enough provisions. Anyway, you also prepared the coffee, poured a glass of cowboy whisky – sipped one, two or three times yourself – and cleaned what was there to be cleaned. It took more than one minute, but less than teen.

You were heading to his office when you heard a muffled noise. It sounded guttural and made you shiver. Electricity running through your body, making you feel hopelessly exposed, only that countered by the alcohol it felt good. You stepped carefully as you got closer to the door. You considered not knocking, but the noise made you knock.

“Just…” He gasped. “Leave it at the door, please.” Heisenberg was painting, but he asking “please” was what made up your mind, that politeness wasn’t usual, so you did what he requested.

You wanted to be around him on that day, but chose to respect his privacy. You didn’t imagine that his mind was blowing with you, he desperately wanted to continue the kitchen talk, but couldn’t give himself the chance once he was so close to perfecting the Soldats.

To ease your thoughts, as you were no longer requested at the factory, you tested your stealth skills and slipped to the forest behind it, caring your bow and arrows determinedly.

You were familiar with that area as you have hunted all around the Village, thus, you knew where to go to find good preys. It was by the lake were the deer stopped to drink water. It was far from the factory entrance, but again, you knew exactly what you were doing. When approaching the lake, you climbed a tree and waited.

It didn’t take long until a lonely deer appeared, unsuspicious. It leaned its head so it could reach the water level and started drinking it. You positioned one arrow, held your breath and did the physics magic. The arrow nailed its left eye. It didn’t scream, it was over very quickly.

You climbed the tree down, came closer to the body and tied it with the rope you brough from the factory. Your way back wasn’t effortless, you were slower due to the extra weight and the lycans sensed its blood, their sounds were all around you. They wouldn’t hurt your, though, somehow, they knew you were with Heisenberg.

It was past four in the afternoon when you reached the factory, panting with the effort of bringing the deer. Heisenberg was poking around for something in his front yard. He noticed you just as you appeared in his peripherical vision. He walked towards you, with an intrigued expression that transformed into an impressed one when he saw the deer.

“Some gifts you have there, kitten, ain’t gonna lie.” He commented, squatting to take a good look at the animal. “How did you do that?” It was clear he didn’t mean to offend, quite the opposite, he was genuinely curious.

“A girl has her secrets.” You answered, when you finally stop panting, shrugging when internally you are fulfilled someone knew about you hunting and didn’t seem mad at you.

He wasn’t even angry you left the factory without his permission, which made you happier. He stood below you with the animal for a few seconds more, than got up on his feed, laid his hands on your shoulders, well, on your skin hunting jacket, and said “You are really something, kitten.”

You fell for his words. You never wanted to feel that dependant on someone’s appreciation for you, but with him it was lighter. Karl took the weight of the world off your shoulders by bringing you there and kind off supporting you even though you had only spent little more than a month together.

“Thank you, my lord.” You spoke.

“Stop it. Call me Karl.” He said roughly, but good hearted. “Now, do you know how to clean this deer?” Heisenberg asked.

Usually, Duke would do it for you, although you knew the theory, you hadn’t much practice.

“I was hoping you could help me with it, Karl.” You suggested, toasting him a malicious smile.

“For fuck’s sake.” But he cursed laughing.

He cleaned this table at the garage and disposed the deer there. You helped him doing the messy job, learning with him what you only saw the Duke doing. It wasn’t pretty, but you were comforted by his presence and obstinacy. He probably did it often as it showed, but didn’t bother to take it slower so he could teach you.

Heisenberg enjoyed that night more than you could imagine. He didn’t care for the Soldats, they could wait, it was nice being around you for a change, not running away from your hair, your smile, your presence. For the first time in his life, he actually had someone who wanted to be around him.

Later your prepared venison, demi-glace, potatoes, a fresh arugula salad and both of your enjoyed dinner at the kitchen island with bottles of dark beer. He was funny, he was tripping over words a little, due to the alcohol, but his stories, oh man… He was a real brat. You told him about the cabins and the hunting. He listened carefully, never judging you and laughed at your silly manners, at your etiquette and, over all, loved your cook.

He slept in the bed with you, tired, amused and drunk, he sunk in his dreams. You stayed up a bit longer, resisting your lazy eyes temptations just to appreciate his scent, it would smell like burned wood.

#resident evil #re8 #karl heisenberg #re village #karl heisenberg x reader #resident evil 8 village #heisenberg #heisendaddy #heisenberg resident evil #resident evil viii #resident evil 8 fanfic #original post #resident evil village #re8 karl heisenberg #resident evil heisenberg #fanfic #re fanfic #the harvest

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bi-ressler · 3 years ago

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Coming Home [RessGale]

@skiesfallithurts requested "Coming home + RessGale" for this ask meme (still taking prompts if you want to send something in! Could take me some time though due to real life)

Title: Coming Home Relationship: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler Characters: Julian Gale, Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott (mentioned), Raymond Reddington (mentioned), others (mentioned) Words: 10.891 Setting: Post-Prescott-Arc AU Warnings: Abuse of prescription meds (aka Donnie is back on oxy and I'm not even remotely sorry), sexual assault (non-explicit, but it's being discussed), homophobia very briefly mentioned A/N: I've had this idea in my head for literal ages and thanks to the prompt I'm finally doing it! So thanks for indulging me :D Also, this got away from me (again) and turned out way (WAAAAAY) longer than it should have. Oops! - - - As always, English isn't my first language, this isn't beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Feedback is greatly appreciated :) (Also, tumblr keeps fucking up the formatting, so if the sentence breaks up in the middle of the paragraph, blame hellsite dot com.)

[Read HERE on ao3!]

__________________________________________

Falling back into old habits and unhealthy coping-mechanisms is far too easy, Donald finds. But when everything crumbles around him, and all the poorly concealed cracks and insufficiently closed gaps and holes in his armour, in his life, finally give out and leave nothing but rubble and guilt and dread, it's the only way he can think of not to fall into complete despair and drown himself in self-pity.

But maybe he's already past that point.

Maybe this is what drowning actually feels like, and there's definitely no lack of self-pity on his behalf.

So he downs the pills with a swig of beer, ignoring the fact that this feels far too familiar, far too much like coming home after a storm, soaking wet and shaking to lay down on the warm carpet and breathe for the first time.

It was all a mistake.

The last six years, it was all one big mistake and right now, he'd give everything to go back in time, erase Reddington from his mind, never join that damned taskforce that had him spiralling to this point from day one. Hell, he'd go even further, never become an agent in the first place - maybe open up a coffee shop in Detroid or become a banker or lawyer or anything at all, as long as it's as far away from Reddington and this whole mess as possible.

That way, he'd never meet Henry Prescott. He'd never murder Laurel Hitchin. He'd never let down everyone in his life, most of all himself, and Audrey would still be alive, and Julian would still be with the bureau ---

Julian.

The guilt comes back full force, because if anyone didn't deserve the fate they got, it would be Julian. Hard working, fierce, loving Julian.

He dry-swallows another pill for good measure, shoulders his go-bag and disappears down an empty alley, unseen by cameras and cops and anyone who might recognize him.

He's not sure if he can go on like this.

He's been on the run for nearly a week now; a week of hiding, paranoia, always looking over his shoulder and ducking into the shadows. Where he once felt safe when he heard the siren of a police car, he now starts running. It's exhausting and he cowers lower into the corner of the abandoned building he's staying in tonight.

Another pill. The shivers lessen. The bottle is almost empty.

He leans his head back against the cold concrete and curses his need for justice, his stupid-ass decision of accepting this life as punishment for his actions.

No, that's not right, he thinks.

If he really was after justice, he wouldn't have run. He would have faced the consequences like a man, faced jail-time and public humiliation.

Instead, he'd been crushed by his own guilt after Prescott's death, written his confession with a shakey hand and left it on his desk, before grabbing the go-bag from the trunk of his car and running.

By morning Cooper must have found it, and in the afternoon he'd seen his face on the news. He has no idea where to go from here.

He pops another pill and curses when he reminds himself to cut back and save what little of the drugs he still has left.

---

The thing about guilt is, Ressler thinks, that despite what everyone says, it doesn't lessen over the years. He still feels guilty about ruining his brother's chance of a career as a cop, and he still feels guilty about Hitchin and Wright and Prescott and every crime Reddington committed right in front of his eyes.

He still feels guilty about what happened to Julian - the first time, after that operation in Kabul went so horribly wrong and Julian took the blame for it, both of them knowing full well that Ressler had been in charge and made the decision to fire, but being stubborn enough to convince IA that it had been his fault, handing over his badge and service weapon with an unreadable look towards Don. Maybe he did it out of some twisted sense of obligation. Maybe they were just in love and compromised. But in the end Ressler's decision had cost Julian his job and a civilian his life.

And the second time, after the whole mess with Mr. Kaplan, effectively ending Julian's career as nothing more but collateral damage. He can still feel his heart crack at that look of betrayal in Julian's eyes as they stood over the remains of Mako Tanida.

---

The other thing about guilt is that Donald doesn't know how to make amends. He knows how to follow his instincts and get himself deeper into trouble, deeper into the pit of guilt, deeper into unescapable situations. Making more and more excuses, trying to cover up all of his messes with lies that lead to more excuses, more lies, more damage.

He knows it's good that he does feel guilt in the first place. But there's only so much he can take.

He thinks about everyone he has left - Reddington, Keen, Aram, Cooper, Navabi.

He could go and find Reddington, ask him to get him out of this mess he created, but he still has some dignity left (he almost laughs at that, sitting in the dirt, close, so close again to withdrawal that his chest tightens, burdened with the undignity of all the actions that led him here). So Reddington is out. He'd only get him into some deeper shit, anyway, and he can't deal with that right now.

The taskforce is out, too. They're obligated to arrest him on sight. And after doing what he did (all the dirty work for Prescott that makes him shudder and swallow back bile), he wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes. They'd know. Another thing he can't deal with.

He can't go to his family, either; getting to Detroid would be a feat in itself, but no doubt the feds are just waiting for him to make contact with his mom or brother. He doesn't want to think about them; if he just so much as imagines his mom crying over the news of her little boy's fuck-up of a life he would only break the last remains of his heart.

Sighing, he realizes he's on his own and he closes his eyes against tears that don't come. His eyes are far too dry, and yet he feels like crying; maybe he's become too numb, but not numb enough to not care. He swallows against his dry throat, his fingers flexing around the pill bottle. He's out at sea alone, the storm raging and waves threatening to bring him down, and in the darkness, there's no lighthouse in sight, not even a candle in the window of someone who might take pity on him. He's bound to drown.

---

The next day, he runs out of pills as well as luck. He hears the shouting before seeing what's going on, and he doesn't need to round the corner to know that the cops are arresting his dealer; he hears his name. They're not after the poor sod for his arsenal of prescription-meds, they're after him. He turns around and doesn't stop running until his lungs burn and his feet ache.

---

He finally collapses behind an old factory that's been out of use seemingly forever. He vaguely remembers it from a case so many years ago, when everything was still fine and he still had dreams and hopes and Reddington hadn't crossed his way yet, Julian already by his side, Prescott a name he had no business knowing.

He remembers some nondescript arms dealers hunched over their merchandise, duffels with a ton of dollar bills and a short shoot-out that ended with the perps in cuffs and a brilliant smile from Julian. Although he couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he knew the twinkle in them that told him everything he needed to know.

How the fuck could he fuck up something so good?

It doesn't matter now, though. He slides down the rough walls, and a shiver rips from his spine, rocking his entire body, until it gets stuck in his hands and they can't stop trembling. Every movement hurts deep in his bones, and the shaking only makes it worse until he feels sick to his stomach and feels the bile rise.

He closes his eyes, and now the tears come.

He lets all the shame and hurt and fucking guilt wash over him, drown him until he is gasping for air, remembering --- remembering all the roads he shouldn't have taken, remembering every time he allowed Prescott to shove his dick down Donald's throat, the blood of some stranger still on their hands and clothes, and Ressler can't keep it in anymore. His stomach convulses and forces its few contents out, spattering on the dirty ground, acid in his aching throat that still remembers Prescott's assaults.

He remembers Prescott's laugh and the grip of his hand leaving bruises on his arms. He remembers burying bodies of people he knew nothing about, for a man who could be his downfall with no more effort than twitching a finger.

Ironic, how that still happened and Ressler has just reached rock-bottom while still having done everything Prescott had demanded. A fucking lose-lose-situation. Ressler would like to laugh about the stupidity of it all (of himself), but it gets stuck somewhere between his chest and vocal chords. He can never go back.

He'd always thought it would be Reddington who'd ruin him. He was wrong.

---

With the onsetting darkness comes the cold; it's the end of summer and the days are warm enough, but the nights take all the warmth and replace it with cruel emptiness and too many thoughts.

He remembers all the times their hunt for Reddington had gone wrong; all the times they'd run into another dead end; all the times an informant ended up dead --- all the times he would crawl into Julian's bed or Julian in his and they'd hold each other, seek solace and comfort and hope and the strength to move on in each other's arms.

He remembers Julian's lips on his and how, for these few moments, he'd want nothing more and could forget the job. He remembers skin on heated skin, and whispered platitudes that in that moment felt like a lifeline, and falling asleep with limbs entangled, sheltering him from nightmares and fatalistic thoughts.

He misses it. Misses it more than anything else, and it's the first time he acknowledges this feeling. He'd missed Julian for years; and then he was back again, back in that ice rink, looking at him like nothing had happened, like he still didn't blame Donald for all the shit that had happened. Maybe he really didn't. Maybe the guilt for all of that had been for nothing.

And then Julian was gone again and this time it would be irreversible. Like a lost limb, he feels his absence.

Shivering, he stares at the darkness around him, and all he wants is those strong arms around him and the scent of leather and aftershave and the scratch of Julian's stubble against his own.

He can never have that again. He doesn't deserve it, and Julian sure as Hell won't forgive him. Not for ending his career and certainly not for working with Reddington and turning a blind eye to the crimes he committed under their watch. He wouldn't even want to touch him again with all the dirt and blood on his hands from working for Prescott; wouldn't want to kiss the same lips that suffered the abuse of a ruthless killer and had swallowed it like he deserved it.

Because the truth is, maybe that's what his life has become: an unescapable, unforgivable Hell, all the pictures of what he'd done burned into his brain, behind his eyelids, on his skin where the bruises have long since faded but the dirt still remains. And maybe that's exactly what he deserves.

He crumbles under his thoughts until he lies on the ground, a shivering, hurting mess that's overflowing with guilt and self-loathing.

Julian always used to kiss it away.

---

How, when and why Donald has decided to walk up that road into the woods is lost on him.

He used to know this road, been here a few times but not in several years; it seems unchanged exept for the sky that looks a bit duller. He never walked this path before, but he didn't want to steal a car. Wouldn't know where to dump it here anyway.

He knows it's probably a dumb idea, but he's out of options by this point.

Every step is hard work and his knees are about ready to give out, shaking under the strain of carrying him for miles and miles, and even in the chilly shadows of the surrounding trees he's sweating like it's a hundred degrees out. Another shiver runs through his body that feels like it's crushing every bone on its way, and he moans as he gasps for breath.

He knows though if he stops he'll never get up again. He'll never reach the old cabin in the woods by that small lake, and he'd die by the side of the small, muddy road. He's not ready for that, though.

---

It's late afternoon when he gets off the main road and takes the small footpath that leads to the cabin in a few hundred yards. The sun is much hotter now and although he can feel her warmth on his skin, he feels cold and clammy and miserable, fighting shiver after shiver and losing hard.

All he wants to do is curl up into a tight ball and die, but he's not gonna give up, not now, even though he knows that he's making a massive mistake here, but he doesn't care. It's like he's too far gone to acknowledge that fact and all his common sense has left him along with the contents of his stomach last night; he can't shove it back and, frankly, what does it matter? He can't fall any deeper.

So he stumbles on, struggling over rocks and branches, his feet numb except for the occasional flare of pain that still reaches his brain and he can't quite manage to shut out.

Then it comes into sight and he breathes out, a pained, wheezing sound that makes his head spin, and suddenly he feels sick because he knows he has made the wrong decision; he should go. He should turn around and collapse by the road and wither away like a fallen leaf.

The cabin is still like he remembers it from years ago; it belonged to Julian's father before he'd died, a nice little place far out in the woods that's perfect for a weekend-trip. Julian used to tell him stories of coming here with his dad to fish and hunt, back in the day before everything had turned to shit between them, before he came out as gay and his father stopped talking to him altogether.

He knows Julian is here; he's seen the old Ford parked by the road close to the small footpath. He also knows he's not welcome, just as he knows that he won't have anything left if Julian rejects him and throws him back onto the street he came from.

Feeling his knees wobble, he pushes on before he can give in to the seducing urge to let himself fall to the ground and curl up to die. He can still do that afterwards.

Another few steps and he's around the cabin where he can see the small lake, a pond really, with the wooden terrace right by the water; on it stands a deserted deck chair, but the bottle of beer that sits right next to it is still half-full, so Julian must be back any minute.

He leans heavily on the wall of the cabin and feels his strength bleed away. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead and along his nose as he lets his head fall, the strain in his neck too much for his muscles to hold it up anymore. Catching his breath is difficult when his lungs don't want to take in any much needed air and his chest feels too tight, like the collar of his dirty white t-shirt is strangling him, and he raises a violently shaking hand to his chest, ignoring the creaking of his joints as he does so.

Shit, this is worse than he'd thought. The hand that isn't clutching his shirt automatically wanders towards his pants pocket. It's empty. Of course it's empty. He's out of pills. He panicks at that because how in the world is he supposed to survive ---

when he hears a gun cock and forces himself to look up into Julian's face.

He looks good - always does - and his stubble is almost a beard now; his hair has grown too and Donald just wants to breathe it in. He wears sunglasses (of course, it's still bright outside and his eyes are just so damn sensitive), and his brow is deeply furrowed, his mouth a thin line that tells Donald just how welcome he is here.

"Don?", he asks, voice raspy like he hasn't spoken in a long time. Maybe he hasn't, but Ressler isn't naïve enough to blame any emotion for the roughness.

"Hey", he says, and he feels the world sway from the effort of holding himself up, so he grabs for the wall again, temporarily borrowing stability from the wooden structure. He doesn't even want to know how awful he must look, all sweaty and dirty and miserable, shaking and fighting just to keep standing.

"What do you want?", Julian asks, words hard and the gun still pointed at Ressler.

He looks at Julian, helpless to say anything, devoid of all words, and he realizes he doesn't know how to answer that question. He opens his mouth in the hopes of being able to bring out anything at all when a shudder runs through his body, leaving him breathless and on the ground. For a second all he knows is the pain of too much and too little at the same time that grinds his bones to dust and cuts through his muscles effortlessly. He thinks he groans in pain, but can't tell over the static in his ears.

"Fuck", he hears at the edge of his consciousness, "Don!"

And when he looks up, Julian is gone from where he stood before, instead there are arms steadying him from face-planting into the muddy ground. He leans heavily into those arms that promise comfort and solace and strength.

"Julian", Don rasps out, and he looks up to see Julian close, so close, worry visible even behind the sunglasses, and he has to close his eyes as a rush of emotion threatens to overcome him. This is it. This is all he wanted.

"Don't talk now, okay? I'm callin' an ambulance." And that's wrong. He can't do that, Ressler can't go to the hospital, not when he's on every wanted-list in the city ---

"Don't", he whispers and swallows against the bile. Julian looks at him like he's lost his mind, but there's still so much worry. "Don't", Donald repeats. He doesn't know how else to communicate this.

"Okay", Julian says flatly, still sceptical. "You mind tellin' me though why the fuck you're here?"

Ressler looks away, tries to ignore the black dots that creep into his vision.

"I'm sorry", he says, and he means it. Hopes that Julian understands, because Ressler doesn't know if he has the strength or the words to really explain himself here. "I didn't know where else to go."

Julian just nods, waiting for him to continue while Donald shivers in his arms and doesn't know how to go on.

"I fucked up", he finally says, and Julian laughs at that; a humorless, dry laugh that settles itself deep into what's left of Don's bones, a laugh that sends waves of guilt through his chest. He looks to the ground and tries not to break down under the weight of it.

"Yeah, you did", Julian says and there's an edge to his voice that's dangerous and hurt and speaks of everything Ressler has put him through. "And I'm really fucking close to tell you to go to Hell."

His eyes burn holes into Donald's skin until he's sure that Julian must be able to see his insides now, the rotten flesh and the dirt and the blood and all the shame and guilt he's never gonna be able to wash away.

"Not gonna do that though. Seems like you're already there."

Don lets his head fall and at this point he can't tell sweat from tears or blood or vomit or dirt; it's all there on his skin, whether remembered or real he doesn't know. All he knows is that it's disgusting, he's disgusting, he's dirty and has done unforgivable things and yet Julian is still holding him up, still touching him --- His head drops and he closes his eyes against the spinning world.

"C'mon", Julian says quietly, "let's get you cleaned up. You look like you could need a drink too, something to eat. And then you're gonna tell me what's going on before I change my mind. You alright with that?"

Donald just nods. At least he thinks he does.

He feels Julian's grip tighten, and together they manage to get Donald on his feet; he sways unsteadily, but Julian's hands are still there, grounding him against the nausea, keeping him from falling over as he clenches his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness and pain that rips through him.

"Hey, wait", he blurts out when Julian nudges him to move. "You don't - you don't have to do this, Julian. I won't blame you if -", he takes a deep breath, trying to organize his blurry thoughts, "- if you... y'know. Wanna throw me out on the street. Let me rot."

Julian looks at him long and hard, his face unreadable, and Donald wonders when that changed. He used to be able to read him flawlessly, back in the day.

"I know", he says eventually, "and believe me, I have every reason to, but... let's just get inside 'n' sort this out, yeah?"

He nods.

The inside of the cabin looks exactly the way he remembers it from the few times Julian has taken him here. Cozy and warm, soft light through the small windows, wooden table in the middle of the room - with all kinds of stuff on it, bottles and tools and newspapers - surrounded by self-made wooden chairs; it's only one room, and in the corner is still the old bed with the worn through mattress that he remembers very vividly (it's softer than it looks, the pillows under his hips fluffy, the scent of whiskey from Julian's lips and resin from all around him filling his senses ---) Julian drags him to the bed; Don is glad that Julian keeps his hands on his shoulders for a few more moments. He doesn't trust his body to sit on its own and not fall over. He takes a few deep breaths - the smell of whiskey and resin still lingers in the cabin and if he closes his eyes, he might be able to pretend nothing has happened and he's back to when all was good. He doesn't close his eyes. Needs the punishment of seeing an older version of Julian and that glimmer in his eyes that betrays the cold anger he tries to project. In here, it's easier reading him. The sunglasses have landed on the table in the mixture of things, and breathing is just that much easier now. Funny how brown eyes can have that effect on him. Or maybe it's just Julian's eyes. "You okay? Or are ya gonna topple over as soon as I let go?", Julian asks. His hands burn where they touch Ressler's shoulders - even through the shirt - and he feels like their heat is spreading all the way through his arms, mending his broken bones with a painful grip that makes him gasp. "It's alright", he says. His voice sounds strange, somehow distorted and raw, and when Julian lifts his hands it's like ice fills all the places that were on fire just seconds before, crushing him, burning even worse. He bites his lip. "'Kay", Julian murmurs, and then he turns around to get a bottle of water and --- and he opens up one of the cabinets and pulls out a small, brownish-yellow pill bottle --- his heart is beating so fast now he thinks he might throw up, and every fibre in his body screams Want! Want! Want! --- his muscles pulling on him, willing him to move, to get to the pills, down them all, swallow them, no regrets, make the trembling stop and the sweating and the shivers, undo the damage to his body, unbreak his bones, untear his sinews --- His mouth falls open. He can already feel it: the texture and the form of the little white pill against his tongue, the short moment when he swallows, the high he's chasing - no, no, it's not that anymore, it's never been that; it's always been about numbing the pain until it wasn't, until it was just about avoiding the come down. But right now he can feel the high, the anticipation, being so close to victory --- "Don?" And he wants to tell Julian to shut up, to just give him the pills, but he's the one who holds the bottle, he has the power in this moment and fuck, Ressler would do everything, anything, get on his knees or on all fours and just take it (flashes of Prescott assault his mind at that, and he gasps audibly because Julian is not Prescott, far from it, and he just wants his brain to shut the fuck up, to stop, knowing the pills will do that, they'll fucking save him from his own thoughts) --- "Hey, man - what's going on?" It's Julian's voice again, so much nearer now, burning hot hands holding him together as Donald crumbles. He collapses like a frail burning building, the last beams that were holding it together now nothing more than a pyre of grief and lost hope. He trembles against Julian's chest, his hands clinging to Julian's shirt, hurting from the exhaustion of cramping around the scratchy material but unable to let go, his head tucked under Julian's chin where he crouches in front of Donald on the floor. He wants to cry or to scream or to lash out, but all the energy he has left is unfocused, is mainly the never ending chant of Want! Want! Want! beneath his skin. "Fuck", he grinds out, and it's the hardest thing for him right

now, but he has Julian's arms around him and can feel his lips in his hair and smell leather and aftershave and --- Julian hasn't let him go yet. He hasn't pushed him away yet; is still touching him, unafraid, not yet disgusted. Then again, he doesn't know what Donald has done. "Hey, hey", Julian breathes against Ressler's temple, "it's okay, Don, it's - it's alright. It's gonna be alright..." Don shakes his head, takes a stuttering breath. "It's not, it's -", he starts, and his hands shake so hard now he's afraid of hurting Julian, "it's all gone to shit, okay? Nothing's alright, and - it's all my fault. It's all my fault, Julian, just ---" He doesn't know what he's saying, only that he needs to get it out. He needs to let Julian know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and do it all differently, how much he wants Gale to be happy. "Easy", Julian whispers, and now his hands are stroking up and down Don's spine and he feels like a child, but also safer than he has in a long time. This, right here, is his shelter in the storm, a place to wait out the worst of it before he can go home. Only that he doesn't know where home is anymore. Not that it matters. He has his self-imposed punishment to serve. They sit there for a while, until Ressler's breathing is less ragged and his body is limp with exhaustion and his hands uncramp around Julian's shirt. "You need to drink something", Julian says, his voice far too soft, and somewhere deep inside of him Ressler just wants Julian to yell at him, to beat him, to show him exactly how he's felt the last couple of years. Let out all the anger and frustration and disgust he must be feeling. Add his loathing to the pyre burning away at Donald's insides. Julian shuffles away, keeping one steadying hand on Ressler's shoulder, the other reaching for the glass of water he must have put on the ground besides him when Donald collapsed. "Here", he murmurs and holds the glass up to Don's lips. Donald doesn't even try to take it from him, his trembling hands trapped between his thighs. The water is refreshing and he's sure he could drink an entire river - his mouth and throat aren't longer as dry, his heaving stomach slowly settles, his over-heated skin seems to cool a little. When the glass is empty, Julian sets it aside and takes a hard look at Don. "Better?", he asks. Behind the hard, cold glare his gaze is so open, so vulnerable now that Don has to look away. "Yeah", he nods. "Thanks." He doesn't know where Julian has put the pill bottle, but it's probably back in the cabinet. There's no way Julian could have misinterpreted Donald's behaviour. "So." Donald looks up again. He can still feel the sweat on his forehead, on his neck, chest, everywhere, but now it's cooler, and if the temperature keeps dropping as quickly he will surely freeze to death. He doesn't know though if it's the change of seasons or his own body. "Guess I owe you an explanation", Donald murmurs. He's tired suddenly, so tired he can feel it in his bones. Like he's two hundred years old, an ancient tree about to die. "You bet your ass you do." With that Julian gets up off the ground, refills the glass, sets it on the table and sits down next to Donald on the bed. He sits further away than he used to, the gap between them like a fucking canyon that Don could throw himself in to to break every bone in his body yet again, for the last time. He won't though. He owes Julian that much. "So?", Julian asks when the silence stretches too long. But Donald doesn't know where to start, doesn't even know what to say except for I'm sorry and forgive me and I love you. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry again, his heartbeat picking up its pace, beating uncomfortably against his too tight ribcage. "I'm sorry", he begins, and when he looks at Julian, his face is impassive and schooled. He expects more. Of course he does, Donald thinks, and he deserves it, deserves more, deserves everything. He's just not sure he can give that. "I ruined your life", he says. Looks down at his hands and how

they shake where they're trapped between his knees. "Again", he adds and the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless attempt at a smile. "You should never have paid for what we - what I did. The whole Reddington-thing. I justified it with all the good we did, all the cases we solved, the criminals we put behind bars, but... you were right. The price was too high. It was doomed from the start... All the people who died, Julian, all those good people --- I don't know if it was worth it." He looks up into Julian's face. It's not as passive and unreadable as before; now there's a glint of pity, a tiny spark of anger, the smallest sign of resignation. "And - and to think I betrayed all my principles for that taskforce. All I ever stood for - wanted to stand for. Fuck, I'm... I just... I just wanna go back, Julian. I just wanna start over. Forget about - about Reddington and Prescott and Hitchin and - Audrey. Fuck, Audrey... I should have known then. I should have quit back then." He buries his face in his hands. There are no tears, but the shame that's crawling up his spine and spreading through every inch of his body is threatening to overwhelm him. "What happened to her?", Julian asks quietly, his voice impossibly soft. He knows about them. About their far too early engagement, about the stubbornness with which Donald had tried to love her just to get over the fact that Julian was gone from his life. About his need to prove that he was okay. "She's dead. She was killed. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for Reddington." "I'm sorry", Julian says after a moment of silence. He sounds genuine, even though Ressler knows how Julian feels about Audrey. Or used to feel, anyway. And now, Donald doesn't know what else to say. Knows there's so much, too much to talk about, but he doesn't know where to start. He wants to tell Julian about Hitchin and Prescott and those brief moments with Reddington - in the box and in a hotel room in Washington and the whole long flight from Munich back to the states. Donald takes a deep breath; it's not like that makes any difference because his lungs still seem incapable of taking in enough oxygen for him to survive. How he's still conscious, he doesn't know, but it's probably just his mind playing tricks with him. And all the while, Julian looks at him with patience that's bordering on resignation, and sadness he might be mistaking for grief about the people they could have been. The love they could have shared, the lives they could have lived. All those things Ressler never gave himself time to grieve for, but are returning with a vengeance now, cutting him up, sucking him dry, suffocating him in their thick reality. "I deserved it", he finally croaks, his voice strangled by everything he's lost, and he clears his throat. "Everything I got in the end, I deserved it." He stares at his hands that are trapped between his knees, feels them tremble, and when he looks back up at Julian, the other man is suddenly closer than he was before. The canyon between them is nothing more than a crack in the pavement now, their legs not yet touching, Julian's heat a welcome comfort against Don's clammy pale skin, and it still feels like it's not enough, like nothing he could do could ever be enough, and as much as he detests the thought that this might be the closest Julian will let himself get to Don, he also revels in the almost-touches and the dark gazes and the fact that this, too, is something he painfully deserves: the one person he never stopped loving to be entirely unreachable. He thinks back to the good times and how easy it was to just reach out and take any comfort he needed. The sleepless nights in those dingy motel rooms they spent staring out the window at the starry sky or at each other, the moments of warmth and solitude, bodies wrapped around each other like they're one, soft breath in his ear, dry lips on skin, rough fingers entangled, squeezing, comforting. Thinks back to that night in Manila, when Julian stood before Donald's door at three in the morning, dark bags under

his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his chest to prevent him from falling apart; later it would be Don's arms holding him together. Thinks back to that morning in New York that should have been entirely unpleasant with the stink and the broken heater in the middle of January and the noise even so early, but with Julian's sleeping form next to him - so peaceful and full of beauty -, he wished it could always be like this. He doesn't think back to the time they said goodbye, or the time Julian almost died from a bullet in his stomach, or the countless times they sat at each other's hospital beds. He doesn't think about the last time they kissed, the last time they made love, the last time they hugged, the last time there wasn't this edge to Julian's voice that tells Donald that things will never be the same. He certainly doesn't think about the future. "And what is it you got? What is it you think you deserve? 'Cause I see you sitting here like, like death warmed over and I can't imagine what the Hell you could've done to deserve... well, this." Julian's voice is rougher than usual; Donald doesn't know if it's because of the emotion he swallows so successfully or because he's smoking more than he used to or because this is the first time in a long time that he's speaking to somebody. Donald draws in another sharp breath. His lungs aren't exactly cooperating, but it doesn't matter as long as he can still explain. "I think I need some air", he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He sees Julian nod out of the corner of his eye, and together they manage to walk outside. It's weird, a little, how much better he feels and how much easier it is to talk, to move, to breathe, ever since arriving in the cabin. Just a few hours ago he was almost certain he'd be dying in a ditch right about now. It's gotten dark outside; the sun hasn't disappeared fully yet, but through the trees that surround the cabin and the pond it's impossible to make out. Julian sits him down in the deck chair Donald had noticed earlier, the opened bottle of beer that's still sitting beside it now forgotten. Don takes a deep breath. It's easier now, out here. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Julian setting up a second chair next to the one Donald is sitting on. They both lean forward, elbows on their knees, Ressler's head hanging, Gale watching him with sharp eyes. Donald shakes his head; to think how easily all this could have been avoided! If he hadn't taken the job with the taskforce, none of this would have happened. Or if he'd been honest sooner, if he'd talked to Julian when the whole Mr. Kaplan-mess started instead of betraying him --- "That, right there, what you just said, is why I love you." He can still hear those words loud and clear in his head, recalling that moment with absolute clarity even if most of his other thoughts and memories are blurry from exhaustion and pain. The way they just came over Julian's lips, so simple, so easy, like they were picking up from where they'd left, still sends goosebumps over his arms and back; he remembers the painful tightening of his chest back then, and his mind going completely blank, and deciding to overplay his nerves with a lame joke and getting back to work as quickly as possible. He remembers hope bubbling up in the back of his ribcage, and laying awake that night overthinking those words. Overthinking the whole situation while pushing away his guilt. He hated lying to Julian then, and he hates where it has gotten him. He remembers cursing Julian's mind, always so quick and clever, and he remembers cursing Reddington time and time again. He purposely doesn't remember all the times he thought about the Concierge instead of Julian when he was alone in his bed. It feels like another betrayal all over again. And he remembers being on the verge of asking how much truth lay behind Julian's words more than once but always pulling back at the last second. Maybe he'll never know, now. "Don?" He remembers that he needs to talk. His mind feels almost bruised by the

onslaught of memories ever since he's seen Julian for the first time in so long. "Yeah. Sorry." He takes another deep breath, now easier out here, and leans back in his chair, tired eyes focusing on the patches of darkening skies through the crowns of the trees. A sense of tranquility fills his whole body and the shivers cease to shake him. "You were right about Mako Tanida. His head. Reddington - Reddington gave it to me as a gift." He closes his eyes for a second and sees the severed head in the box as if it happened yesterday instead of almost six years ago. He shudders and opens his eyes again, back to watching the gentle breeze shifting through the leaves and branches. He doesn't look over at Julian. "Some sort of... sick compensation for Audrey's death." He pauses at that, thinking back at Audrey and how he barely remembers her face now even though he knows he should. It gives Julian time to piece it together. He doesn't say a word though, intent on letting Donald speak. "It makes me sick now. But that's Reddington, you know? He lulls you in and there's nothing you can do about it. -- Objectively, I knew what we were doing, and I was justifying it with all the high-profile arrests we did. But... I don't know, man, he was under my skin and I only realized it when it was too late. He's like this... spider. Sucks you dry as soon as you're caught in his net. And it doesn't stop until someone worse comes along and ---" He stops speaking then, dropping his head, unable to find the words to convey Prescott's cruelty, his depravity that became Donald's own. A hand on his shoulder makes him look up; Julian is watching him, his gaze a strange mix between a cold distance and warm empathy. "What happened?", he asks. As if his hand doesn't burn Don's flesh where it touches him over his shirt, as if he doesn't know the repercussions of this gesture, as if he can't even imagine what it means to Don that he's touching him out of his own accord, not yet fleeing, not yet disgusted, but full of love and comfort and everything Donald doesn't deserve. They stay quiet for a short while, Don watching how the cold distance transforms to something new, something like pity, but not exactly. Maybe curiosity with a touch of sadness. Like he wants to hear the answer and doesn't. Like he wants to know what made Don come here but doesn't want to hear it. Like he knows it could change everything between them, all the anger he's been carrying with him since the ice rink-case melting away, leaving only the torn pieces of his old love. "Laurel Hitchin", Donald says quietly. Another shiver runs through his body as he feels Julian's hand falling away. They're silent again; Don trying to figure out how to confess a murder and all the shit that followed it, and Julian thinking about how Hitchin might as well have fired him. She may have been an awful person, but she didn't deserve to die. In Don's experience, there's no one who deserves to die; at least that used to be his opinion. He's not so sure about it now. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but that's where they stay. He can't push them over the edge, can't make his vocal chords work and his lips form the vowels and consonants. He tries in vain, again and again, until Julian is looking at him again like he knows Donald's struggle. "She's dead", Julian says, tone neutral, and Don can't read from it how much Julian knows or at least suspects. He nods. Remembers her laying on her kitchen floor, pool of blood growing larger second by sickening second. "I didn't mean to ---", he stammers, and Julian's eyes grow wide like he didn't expect this confession. "Shit", he breathes and rubs a hand over his face. It stops over his mouth and chin and he looks straight ahead into the darkness that has settled around them like their own private bubble where there's room for confessions and guilt and maybe even forgiveness; room that the bright sun of the day doesn't allow. "That's why you're such a mess? Jesus, Don,

I ---" But he doesn't continue. Donald doesn't want to hear another I'm sorry from Julian, and he doesn't want to hear that he's fucked up either. He just wants to forget. "It gets worse", he says and Julian looks up, surprise and pain and dread lining his features, and he suddenly looks much older than he is. Still beautiful, and Don has to swallow against the sudden feeling of belonging that rises in his chest; like he's home, like this has been his home all along, and it will be until they're old and grey and dying of old age in each others' arms --- only that it's a fantasy, a feverish dream he's having. Before Don can continue though, Julian stands up and disappears inside the cabin without another word. He can't blame him. With a sigh he stays where he is, watching the sky again that's now completely dark, and he doesn't know if he isn't actually watching the invisible dance of the trees. His mind is completely blank now and it's a more than welcome change. Before he knows it, Julian is back with two bottles of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Wordlessly, he gives one of the already opened bottles to Don who takes it with only slightly shaking hands, then sits back down, takes a gulp of beer, puts it down on the ground beside his chair, and takes a cigarette out of the pack. He offers one to Don but he declines with a shake of his head. The small flame of the lighter makes Julian's face flicker orange and yellow, the shadows making the lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth dance and seem deeper than in the light of day. For the few seconds it lasts, he looks almost angelic in a rough, strange way. "I called the cleaner who used to work for her", he says before he can think about it. "His name's Henry Prescott." The smell of burnt tobacco lulls him in, like they're back in Julian's old apartment, in his bed after an evening of slow sex, bliss and heavy limbs and soft words forever interlinked with it. It almost makes the bile that's threatening to rise after the mention of Prescott's name stay down. Julian's eyes are on him again, calmer now, but also more distanced than before. Don can barely make them out through the dark of night, but from experience he knows Gale won't say any more. He needs all the facts, and Don's the only one who can provide those. He looks back to where the lake must be, now an invisible black hole between the equally black woods. He thinks it must be easy now that he's started, but the words won't come, his mind preoccupied with keeping the images at bay, the memories of dead bodies and blood and the smell of bleach and ammonia. He closes his eyes for a minute, the shivers returning, rocking his body against his will, and he's going to be sick if the stink of chemicals doesn't leave his nose soon --- He wishes Julian would touch him again, ground him somehow like he used to, but he doesn't. Don doesn't look up either. He needs to carry on. "He found out who I was", he says eventually, strangled, struggling to keep talking. "Blackmailed me into working for him." He rubs his free hand over his face, pressing down over his eyes to get rid of the images and the smell, and for a moment it's like Julian isn't even there, like he's not listening, like Don can say anything he wants to the dark emptiness he's surrounded by. He takes a few gulps of the beer but doesn't set it down. "Fuck, I --- the things I did. The shit I was forced to do and I, I didn't even fight it. I was too afraid to - I don't know, lose my job, my reputation, my friends", it breaks out of him now, and a laugh forces its way through his constricted throat at the irony of the words. He feels Julian shift next to him, reminding Don of his presence, but he doesn't turn to look at him. "I did every fucking thing he told me to. Drove around dead bodies in car trunks. Buried and unburied them. Scrubbed blood off walls and carpets and beds. --- How the fuck can anyone forgive me for that? How can you?" He takes another large sip of the beer, now risking a glance at

Julian. His cigarette has almost burnt down completely, leaving a tail of ash threatening to fall onto Julian's lap; he hasn't taken a drag since Don has started speaking. Instead he's looking at Donald, almost staring through him, and Don doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on Julian. "I should never have come", he says curtly because he can't face the silence now. "I'm sorry. I should never have -- I guess I know now that I deserved it." The calm that settles in his bones surprises him. He looks back up to the sky, clear and beautiful where it shines through the trees, and now he can make out tiny bright dots, stars spattered across it like the splashes of watercolor over paper when he was a kid. He can feel tears behind his eyes and he knows this is the last time he will be home. Knows it's the last time he gets to feel something other than guilt and dread. Maybe he should get up and leave now, having done enough damage as it is, but something inside him urges him to stay, to tell Julian the whole truth, make him understand. He needs Julian to tell him to fuck off; needs his rejection to be at peace and go home. Somewhere, anyway. "He didn't stop there", he says, and he knows it's his only chance to ever articulate it; if he doesn't say it now he'll be silent forever. Besides him, Julian tenses. He's been tense for the last couple of minutes, but now his back is straight in a way that it almost never is, but Donald needs to get those next few words out. He feels strangely detached from his body and mind and memories. "Sometimes he would force me on my knees, make me suck him off", he starts, and it's easier to say it out loud than it should be, "and sometimes he would bend me over the hood of the car or tie me to the bed post in whatever hotel he'd stay in. I took it every time. I thought I didn't have a choice." And he's smiling now, the weight on his shoulders, his lungs, his mind so much lighter, and he doesn't even mind the trembling of his hands, of his whole body. He just lets it happen. "Until my conscience finally made me put a stop to it. I arrested him. Wrote my confession. And left. But I'm still too much of a coward to face the consequences, instead I'm running from everything." He lets his head fall. This shouldn't be this easy, he tells himself, but then again, with Julian nothing is as it should be. "Swallowing one pill after the other, sleeping in the mud, always looking over my shoulder. That's no life. That's - that's Hell, Julian." Finally, he looks back at his old love, a flood of emotions racing through him like a tsunami, and he chokes out: "I deserve it. All of it. What Prescott did to me. I gotta live with it. I'm ---" But the words die on his lips as he feels Julian's arms around his neck, and hot breath against his ear, and fingers tangling in his hair. He stops breathing for a few seconds, brain catching up with the sensations, and Julian is embracing him like he knows it's the last time, or like he's sorry, or like his life depends on it. "Just so you know", Julian rasps against Don's cheek, "I really fucking want to punch you right now. I wanna - wanna throw you against the wall and just - punch you until I can't move my arm anymore. Okay? Got that?" Donald nods silently, still stunned by the sudden embrace. He didn't think Julian would ever want to touch him again, wouldn't even want to be near him again. "No one", Julian says, "No one - deserves shit like that." And then he stammers like he wants to say every word he knows at the same time while simultaneously not knowing what to say altogether, before giving up with a hissed "Fuck". Don knows this, knows that sometimes, Julian's brain is faster than his mouth, and then he stumbles over words like an excited child. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you, huh?", he asks quietly, still not letting go, and now Don puts the bottle down and returns the embrace. Carefully, very carefully, like he might freak Julian out, like he might realize then what he's doing and

drop Donald like a hot potato. Donald shakes his head no; doesn't want to be dropped, not now, not when he's this close to Julian; shakes his head because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now either. The idea that's been in the back of his head, whose existence he completely ignored until now, that's probably the reason he came here in the first place, creeps into his consciousness now, and his grip around Julian's ribs tightens. "I just--- wanted to apologize for everything I did to you. I ruined your career, your life. I lied to you, I betrayed you. And I'm so sorry, Julian, I'm - I'm so fucking sorry." He loosens his grip again so he can look at Julian who looks up. His eyes are wet and dark and so damn beautiful, and now they're only inches apart. He could kiss him now, ruin everything all over again for a short moment of bliss, but he doesn't. "Me too", Julian says quietly, and his voice is soft like torn velvet. "I wish you wouldn't have come here. Let me keep my anger. But I guess you have this way of making me forgive everything you do. You're impossible, Don, you know that and I, just, hate you so, so much right now, I fucking - I hate you so much ---" "I know", Don whispers against Julian's cheek as their faces are pressed together, stubble against stubble, words escaping them that neither of them hears, lips against skin, not exactly kissing, but mouthing apologies and curses that get lost in the night. "I was so angry for so long, thinking about you, and the shit you did, the - the way it had to end", Julian rasps, tension falling off his body, too tired to keep on shivering. "I kept asking myself why the fuck you'd work with him --- how you could stand looking Reddington in the eye day after day and not - not see all that he cost us. Except I realised you did see, and you just didn't care." "Julian, I ---", he interrupts, but Julian keeps talking. "And I took that as justification to curse you and to hate you, and I did, you know, I really did, but... then I realised it was Reddington and I -- I chalked you up as just another casualty, another person he ruined, because you - you might just as well have been dead, you know? I fucking buried you." Julian chokes a little at that, but his grip at the back of Don's head doesn't weaken. "I know him, Don, I, uh, I know how he is. How he will put you under his spell and pull you in and never let go. Just... Just tell me this." And he looks up again, eyes red rimmed even in the darkness, and Don wants nothing more than to kiss those tears away, but he can't. He owes Julian, and even though he doesn't know what he wants to ask, he knows he needs to give an honest answer. No more lies. No more. Julian's searching his face and seems to have found what he's been looking for when he finally speaks up again after long moments of silence. "Did you love him?" The question should surprise Donald. It doesn't. He looks down, unable to meet Julian's unrelenting gaze. Thinks back to the box and the hotel room in Washington and the flight from Munich back to the states. Slowly, without looking up, he nods. No more lies. Here it comes. "Yeah", he says quietly even though he knows Julian has seen his nod. "I did. But never like I loved you." The words just come, mindlessly spilling over his lips, and he means them; he still doesn't look up. Doesn't want to see the disgust and rejection in Julian's eyes. The moment stretches like someone stopped time, stopped the entire universe, and Donald doesn't mind one bit. If it means having this last moment with Julian, even if it's filled with uncertainty, he'll gladly spend eternity frozen in time like this. Julian's fingers are still in his hair, his gaze still focussed on Donald. He's still though, not moving, and if it wasn't for his heavy breath, Don would have thought Julian might really be frozen. Then the moment ends. "Okay", Julian says, simple but heavy, like this truth lifted some weight off of him that Donald didn't know Julian was carrying. He looks up now, unable to keep his

gaze away any longer, and he doesn't know what to make of Julian's expression. There's no disgust. There's no rejection. There's understanding and sadness locked away in the tears that are sticking to his eyelashes, shimmering in the pale light of the moon that's slowly beginning to shine through the trees. Donald doesn't understand it; Julian is supposed to be upset, angry, pushing him away, throwing him out on the street to rot --- not drawing soothing circles over the back of his head, not looking at him like that, like they can fix this, like Donald is finally home --- "I'm, uh... I'm going to the police. Tonight. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. My sad attempt to make things right." He has to look away again, Julian's focussed, open gaze too much for him. "Guess I couldn't... leave without having told you. And I'm - I'm not asking for forgiveness here. I know I can never have that. I just needed to see you. Make sure you're alright, so..." He clears his throat, realizing that they've only been talking about him and never once about Julian. Fuck, how egoistic can he be! "How're you doing?", he asks, and Julian is still clinging to him, just as he's clinging to Julian. "Oh, I'm fine", Julian laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Julian -", Donald starts. He doesn't need his bullshit now. "Really, Don, things couldn't be better. I've read that in my horoscope." He still smiles, a little crooked like he's holding something back, something big, and now Ressler's hand comes up to cup Julian's face. Again, the thought of just kissing him comes to mind, but they're so fragile, both of them, it would only leave them shattered for good. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke the thick stubble and he doesn't say a word. Julian closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and for a few precious moments, Donald can pretend they're happy. "Stay", Julian says and Donald freezes. Thinks he must have misheard Julian, who looks up now from where he kneels in front of Don's chair, his own hand leaving the blonde hair to rest at Don's jaw. "What?", he asks. It's more of a breath though, no sound escaping his lips. "I'm - yeah, I'm fucking pissed at you right now, but all of this... it - it doesn't change anything. Y'know, I still mean it." And they're so close still, and Donald has lost track of what's happening, and confused, he shakes his head. "What do you mean?", he asks. "Trondheim. Remember that?" He does. It was the beginning of March and so cold even the hotel room in New York with the broken heater seemed like a tropical vacation in comparison. It wasn't the first time they said I love you, but it was the first time they talked about the future. Before, they would stay in the moment, too afraid of letting go, of losing the other over naïve fantasies of a life together. That night though, they didn't need to be scared. "Whatever happens", Julian said, "I'll never walk away. How could I, huh? Guess I'm too far gone." He smiled, and so did Donald, pressing a kiss to Julian's collarbone. "Fifty years from now", Julian continued, "I'll still think of you. Every fucking day." That earned him a kiss on the lips, chaste and innocent and full of love like they've never experienced before. "Don't matter if you're still with me or not. You don't forget the love of your life, Donnie. I won't forget. Not us. Not this. Never. I could never let you go. Ever." But back then, Julian couldn't have imagined where they would end up one day. "It was different back then", Don says. Not because he doesn't want Julian's words to be true, but because he doesn't think himself worth them. "Yeah, it was", Julian answers, "but tell me you don't feel it still. Tell me, Donnie, and I'll let you go." Donald's answer is silence because, yes, of course he still feels it, that love that's deeper than any feeling he's ever known, deeper even than the shame and guilt and pain of the recent months, years, but doesn't Julian know that it's pointless? That Don's life is over? The silence stretches on and he can't hold

Julian's gaze. "I know", Julian says, "I know." And those words are enough to set him free, to liberate him from his cage of anger and self-pity and guilt and self-imposed punishment - he knows those won't go away anytime soon, but he still feels like breaking down, mercy too much to handle when he knows he's undeserving of forgiveness. He lets his head fall, knowing Julians hands are there to steady him. They do, cradling him like a newborn child, and in a way that might be true: maybe, somehow, this can be a new life, a new start for him; a clean slate. Maybe now, he can forget all of it, all the shit that happened, the person he was - the person he was forced to become --- maybe this is the one chance in life for rebirth. "I'm a mess", he says. "I know", Julian answers. "We can figure it out. Together." "You deserve better." "Shut it now, Donnie. I think I know best what I deserve, huh? I've given up everything for you, y'know, twice. You know what I think it is I deserve? Hm? What we deserve?" Donald looks up, feeling Julian's breath against his lips as much as the intensity of his gaze, those brown eyes so familiar in their depth it makes his heart ache. He wants to answer, say something, anything at all, but no words will leave his lips. He feels trapped there between Julian's closeness and the chair, but there's no place he'd rather be. He holds Julian's gaze for a few moments before shaking his head. "Peace, Donnie. I think we deserve peace after all this. Just a little, don't you think?" And that sounds good, far too good to be true, and he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him. "Yeah", he says finally, voice constricting, "I want that. I want that, Julian." A smile is still tugging at the corners of his mouth when Julian kisses him, slow and unsure and not at all like the many kisses they used to share; it's like a first kiss, a promise for an uncertain future, a vow to try. To give it time and let wounds heal - they're all they have, after all. "You're not going to the police", Julian says as they part. "We will figure this out. Get you clean. And in fifty years we'll still be here, okay, I won't lose you again, I couldn't, couldn't bury you again, I'll ---" And as Donald kisses the doubts and fears away, for the first time in years he has the feeling that everything might turn out okay; that he might be deserving of happiness after all. That finally, finally he's home. _______________________________________

#the blacklist #donald ressler #julian gale #tbl fanfiction #mine #coming home #long post #(under the cut)

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lovely-necromancy · 3 years ago

Text

A Cure for Insomnia CH.6

You wake up sometime around one. Not too late in the day given your morning. With a decent amount of sleep under your belt you roll over and start striping your bed of its sheets. Then you make your way across your room, picking up stray clothes as you go to your hamper and dump your collection of dirty linens and clothes into it. You carry the hamper to the bathroom where you load half into the washer. There's no real point in separating the clothes from colored items and pastels or whites. You're only twenty-four and don't have your life totally figured out yet. You can be a little lazy with laundry.

Once your first load of laundry is being washed you go to do your weekly tidy of your home. The one good thing that came from the paranoia of your car's break in was you rearranged all the furniture of the home, thus cleaning as you went. So that means it's more of a quick wipe down of counters and sweeping today. Maybe you'd organize your art supplies while doing your laundry. It's an activity that wouldn't distract you too much and make you forget you had laundry in the wash.

You finish washing the dishes from this morning you begin wiping the counters and tabletop when you notice your fidget cube is still on the table where Toby left it earlier.

'Don't want to lose this. Back to the bookshelf where you belong.' When you get to the living room's bookshelf you notice one of your book's is missing. Ironically it's The Book Thief.

'Tobias probably picked it up and put it down somewhere.' you'd keep your eyes peeled for the book while you cleaned.

After wiping down bookshelves, tables, counters, even the mantel over the fire place you still hadn't found your missing book. You probably picked it right up and placed it right back down without even realizing. You'll just keep an eye out until you find it. You don't even reread books, you really just kept a copy to lend out to people when they ask what your favorite books are. It isn't a real big deal if you can't find it, plus there's bound to be a copy floating somewhere in a thrift shop or yard sale.

The washer chimes right as you grab the broom to sweep. Pausing this task to go retrieve your laundry and do the rest. You empty the dirty clothes left in the basket onto the floor and place the clean wet ones inside the basket. After starting the final load you carry the basket out back. As nice as this home is its still small and doesn't have a dryer, which early summer is fine but come fall and winter might be more cumbersome. Seeing as you have to hang the laundry out to dry outside. Maybe when it gets cold you'll just do smaller loads and hang them up in the bathroom or over the fire place. But that's a thought for future you. Right now current you is struggling yet again to get a fitted sheet to sit on the line. Fitted sheets are probably Satan himself in disguise.

When you finish stringing all the laundry up you take a moment to just enjoy the quiet and the peace that comes with the outside. It's nice out here, maybe after you finish the last few chores today you can come out and just draw, it'd be a good way to also keep an eye on this weather in case it turns. While it hasn't happened yet you're very aware of the risks you take by ignoring the existence of meteorologists. And by that you mean just not bothering to look up the weather for the day.

Heading back inside you restart your task of sweeping. Like you thought you've finished before the washer has even completed it's first cycle. The house isn't too big so it's easy to clean it from top to bottom within a day normally, but today you had even less to do thanks to this week's rearranging. So you move on to organizing your art supplies and separating all materials by medium.

Of course arranging materials is never easy, after all you end up staring at all your horded empty sketch books and note how your thumbnail notebooks are just covered in doodles and random scribbles but no real art or ideas. Maybe it's time to start kicking yourself into gear. You ran into a major period of burnout before moving and now with this fresh start you might be able to focus on progressing with art, even if you don't pursue it as a career. You've always loved the ability to draw and create images that make others happy. But right in this moment you just want to make yourself happy. Maybe you could start small just a few still lifes and see how you feel after that.

Hearing the chime of the washer you hurry to finish putting away the supplies in their newly assigned places. Just as before you transfer the wet and clean clothes into the awaiting basket and take them out to be hung to dry. You don't have another fitted sheet this go round so it goes by much faster than it previously had. Now with all of your washing for today hung you head back inside to grab a fresh sketchbook.

Having never been one for scenery, more of a portrait artist, you start off with small things. A few stills of a flower under the window, the old tire swing on the tree, and even the blue jay that dove for dinner right in front of you. Of course all of these were warm ups done in a few minutes, though you really wish you had more time on the blue jay one. You really need practice with things that aren't people.

The warm ups of course don't look very good, but you can still see what you'd been going for. The hatching and smudging you'd done, to increase depth and give the quick drawing more life, did help a little but it was clear this was an area where you weren't skilled. But that didn't deter you, after all you needed more practice and wouldn't be getting better without it.

Deciding to draw the scene before you, a small open meadow surrounded by trees, in other words your backyard with your drying laundry. You start off slow and make sure to actually look and take in the yard in front of you, doing your best to not just make up the trees and their shapes as you go. Soon you are lost in the meditative muscle memory of drawing. The scratching of pencil scrapping across paper further lulling you into a trance like state as you etch out the scenery.

A harsh breeze blows through and the loud flapping of sheet hitting sheet knocks you loose from your trance. Checking to make sure none of your laundry was flying off, it hadn't the laundry was still secured to the line. Smiling you glance down to actually see what you've sketched out so far. It isn't too bad, though you aren't sure how long you've been working on it, the trees all have a distinct shape rather than your typical cartoon one size fits all attempts. Scanning the page your eyes catch onto something off, out in the tree line it looks like you'd drawn a figure hiding behind a tree.

Hearing the beating of your heart that's currently hammering against your chest you look around. Did your mind do that as a joke or had someone genuinely been watching you draw? Your mouth is dry as your eyes scan the tree line for any sign of what could've been mistaken for a person, but you saw nothing. No one was there. Had anyone ever really been there? Why would you draw that? Why wouldn't you remember doing it? You don't feel safe out here anymore. There are eyes watching you you can feel it. They may not physically be there but the phantom eyes that surround you and cause your skin to crawl make sure you know of their presence. You take that as a sign to head inside for the evening, one that doesn't need to be repeated.

You lock the door immediately behind you and check your phone. It's seven, and you have an email notification. Thanking whatever power for the distraction you slide down your back door and open the notification. It's from Hollis!

YN r u coming to SND? It's that teen beach zombie movie u love. Y;know the awful D list one Blk and wht with the 50yos playing teenagers

Lemme know I'll save your seat.

Sent 6:47 P.M.

They're so sweet to remember you loved this awful D list zombie movie. Horrible subplots and main plot and all. But you're a little spooked right now and watching even that joke of a horror movie is probably too much for you. You doubt you'd feel better by the time ten rolls around to watch it. Not to mention your battery's still drained from Toby this morning. And knowing for a fact you'd probably stay late to talk till morning with Hollis, Jake, and Kirby you decide it's best to skip this week. Just not having the energy to handle Saturday Night Dead.

Nah, sorry man. Battery's dead from being social earlier. Thanks tho, I do appreciate you! ….....,.... lemme know what next week's movie is!

Sent 7:10 P.M.

It'd probably be a good time to make something for dinner, there's a box of mac n cheese in the pantry. Simple but always beloved. As you wait for Hollis to respond you start on boiling water. But you didn't have to wait too long since they'd answered near instantly.

Chill, don worry we'll catch ya next week

…..oooop

ot not...Kirb's said it's the start of watching the entire warren file collection

starting from the beginning

...well the first movie released, Insidious. LOL we probs won't ever see you again.

Sent 7:12 P.M.

How dare Kirby betray you like this. First off those movies are awful, and like not cheesy awful just awful awful. Not to mention he knows how you feel about the Warrens and their cases. You have a power point presentation ready for that dick the next time you see him. ...well not literally but you'd make one to prove a point!

Where's Kirby now? I just wanna talk, I just wanna talk is all.

Sent 7:18 P.M.

Already ran off toy vermont probably

will we get blessed with a ted talk nxt week?

Sent 7:20 P.M.

I can't tell if you're joking or not. If you aren't then yea I can make a power point and we'll play that instead of the movies. Every week until this town understands the severity of this.

Sent 7:21 P.M.

Ya just jkin.

Your passionate hate is funny tho, so could be good to do something mid warren marathon.

Sent 7:23 P.M.

Guess the dissertation on how horrendous the “exorcisms” were will have to wait. They'd just been joking. This is probably a good ending of the conversation anyway, it's hard to tell sometimes but you feel you'll just run in circles with the current topic or worse fall into a rant that they won't read all the way through because they'll have left with the rest of the stunt gang to get dinner before heading over to the Cryptonomica for Saturday Night Dead. Hollis is typically a real good sport about this kinda thing but you'd rather not bog down their night with your hate boner for the Warrens.

'I'll let them know later that I'll still come to Saturday Night Dead next week.' you think as you dump the pasta into the water that finally came to a boil. It's quiet as you cook your macaroni dinner. You'd normally not notice the lack of sound or life in your home before, but maybe having Connor and Toby over put things into perspective. Guests aren't really a thing you've ever had, you always feel rude if your social battery runs out before someone's stay is over. But maybe you're lonely, and it's put you on edge.

Though this week would've put anyone on edge, you have still been alone in this house for two months. That can't be healthy for your mental well being, humans are social creatures by nature after all. Maybe you could get a pet, something that'd make it's fair share of noise and give the home a bit more life than your normally hollow shell wondering the halls. Are you even sure you want a pet? Do you have time for one? You have the standard nine to five, but what about when you're off on a nightly trip because of your sleeplessness? What if you forgot about them? Hell your brain's been so foggy these last few months, it wouldn't be surprising.

Like a sign from the divine themselves, the pot of water boils over. Steam is rising as the sizzling is heard. Your head snaps twice to the right as you scramble to lower the heat and raise the pot off the eye. Putting it down on an unused eye you give it a quick stir and thankfully no pasta got burned to the bottom of the pan....this time. The pasta seems a little crunchy but a texture you'll eat so you kill the hot eye and start on the cheese portion of your mac n cheese.

As you eat you continue your original debate about getting a pet. Ultimately deciding that you just aren't ready for that kind of responsibility right now. Sure you'd had tons of pets in your parents' home but that was with a financial safety net and back when your mental health wasn't all over the place. Not to mention the pets were family pets and responsibility was split three ways.

There isn't much room in your home for you to have a roommate, and that presents a whole nother set of challenges. You could try to make friends through online forums again! It's hard to talk to people in general but you always get scared off before replying to a comment or post. Or overshare to the point people infantize you. Even better trying therapy out could help with your loneliness. Hah ok good one, even if you had money for it consistently you don't think you could trust someone knowing all your secrets but not knowing any of theirs. And while that in and of it self is an example of why you need it, you're rational enough to realize you aren't ready for that either.

After finishing your meal you put away the left overs and clean the dishes. You'll be happier tomorrow knowing they aren't your problem to deal with. You start to make your way to your bedroom but freeze just before the hall.

'You shouldn't stay here...you need to leave.'

A glance at the time tells you it's eight thirty-nine, if you left right now you could make it to Saturday Night Dead with time to spare. You don't need to fill the loneliness with new friends, just spend time with the ones you already have. Duh. Turning you grab your keys off the bookshelf and take one of the masks hanging from a hook by the door.

Checking your door was locked and locking your car once you were in, you're ready to drive. Knowing you're still overstimulated you forgo the music on this drive, hoping it will calm you down enough to enjoy the movie and some down time with friends. And that would help put a pin in your self isolating habits. It'd really be nice if you brought movie snacks over to surprise the gang. You're pretty sure the mini mart carries everything you need. Jake likes swedish fish, Hollis is addicted to those extreme sour airhead ropes, and Kirby's a weirdo with his love of red vines and surge. Hahaha that man will die before he's thirty-eight.

Still having the extra time you deiced to stop by the mini mart and grab the candy. What's the worse that can happen you have another panic attack in front of strangers. Plus you hadn't seen Magnolia the last few times and you'd hate for her to think you'd been ignoring her. Pulling into the empty mini mart parking lot you take a breath to steel your resolve before leaving your car.

Tim looks at the door when he hears the chime and stiffens when he sees you. Fuck you did have a panic attack in front of this guy last night, plus you really haven't formally met. But didn't Toby say his roommate was named Tim? And he and Brian were both here talking with Tim last night before you came in. That can't be coincidence.

“uh...hi?” you say awkwardly standing in the doorway, door closed behind you.

“um, hi?” perfect he's just as awkward in this situation as you are. You can work with this.

Moving through the first two isles you keep your eyes peeled for Magnolia, even though you can make this an in and out trip for candy, you do miss the little bodega cat.

“Wh- hey are you, are you even ok to be here?” Tim calls as he rounds the counter and makes his way to you.

“Huh? Oh...oh yea. I'm chill now.” you hear the bell before you see her. The little ting tin ting of her bell that comes with the grace only fluffy cats have.

“You literally collapsed on the floor last night after blacking out while driving.” his tone is very stern. He and Nate would probably get on like a house on fire. The grumpy old men who secretly care a lot duo.

“I don't remember collapsing...but I know I didn't drive.” well you don't know that but you do firmly believe that.

The man is just turning into the isle when you spot the floof sauntering just behind him. Magnolia didn't spare either of you a glance as she made her way to the counter. Probably going to her bed, an old shipping box for apples, you'd just meet her over there then. With no warning to the man you squeeze past him and and follow the cat. Agitated footsteps following after you in your quest to pet the cat.

Magnolia perks up upon seeing you, the flicking of her tail letting you know she's anticipating her pets. The huffing Tim hovering behind you isn't as pleased with your actions as the cat is. The man is radiating negativity, annoyance maybe or is it concern that breeds frustrated anger? The second he starts to clear his throat, as if to remind you of his hovering, you roll your eyes.

Looking back at him over your shoulder you see him in all his grumpy man glory. His brow was furrowed so hard his thick eyebrows nearly covered his eyes. But with the way his lips emoted the man before you looked more like a pouting muppet. It would be funny if it weren't for the foreboding feeling of the moments before being reprimanded by a teacher.

When you straighten up you take note that your eyes meet perfectly. He's the same height as you that's surprising, you thought he'd be taller than 5'7. His eyes widen slightly at seeing your full height, it must've thrown him off since the first time he saw you, you'd actively been trying, and had succeeded at looking smaller.

“What are you doing here?” well he doesn't get thrown off for long.

Running a hand through Magnolia's fur a few more times as you respond, “Petting Magnolia.” you really are a little shit sometimes.

“No...no, why are you out? Toby had to take you home last night, you shouldn't just be waltzing around town after that.” maybe it was frustrated concern.

“Oh I'm fine now.”

Magnolia at this point has jumped up on the counter and is headbutting you for more attention. Chuckling you turn your attention back to her. Meanwhile Tim behind you is at a loss for words.

“Fine?? You don't just...bounce back from a panic attack.”there's personal experience behind those words.

“I just rationalize things fast.” Hearing the trill of the clock on the wall reminds you that you need to grab those snacks and head over to the Cryptonomica for movie night.

Going to the candy isle you grab one of each of the gang's favorites, you snag a bag of white cheddar popcorn on the way to the counter and place your items there. Tim doesn't get a word out before you rush off to the cooler near the back that is in all honesty pretty sketch. Like who even makes Fruitopia anymore? That stuff got discontinued in the early 2000s. The cooler even has Hi-C Ecto Coolers...you might actually check if they're in date and grab a few.

Rummaging around the cooler you finally spot the weird tech green and black splattered can proudly stating SURGE. It has no date...questionable at best. But hey it's only Kirby drinking it, and it's been well established that man will die well before middle age. Grabbing a can to check the Ecto Coolers, luck is on your side! These cans are from the re-release that happened as a promotion for the Ghostbusters revival a few years back, they'll be good for another two years! For now you'll just take one so you won't have to worry about lugging cans around for the movie.

Once your new items are placed on the counter the expression on Tim's face cannot even be described. The questions of the surge are probably the ones easiest to read...or they're just the most predictable.

“Kirby likes red vines and surge, sickening right?” Maybe a little joke will break the ice.

“...Like that little round pink...thing?” What?

The laughter is coming out before you can stop it, the image of said pink Kirby consuming red vines and surge only to accessorize as your friend comes to mind. It's adorable and cursed at the same time. Adorably cursed. You'll have to draw that and print a few copies to hang around the Cryptonomica.

“No,” you're choking on giggles at this point, “Kirby, the owner of the Cryptonomica.” catching your breath and regaining your composure, “It's that tourist trap just across from the RV park.”

“Oh.” normally such a short cold reply would make you shut down the conversation. But This is Toby's roommate, and if you want to be friends with Toby, you'll probably run into him a lot more. Plus if he's a new night shift cashier it wouldn't hurt to be on good terms with him for when you're out on adventures.

“Yea, hey Toby mentioned you three just came to town, so you might not have known but the Cryptonomica does a weekly movie night on Saturdays. Saturday Night Dead. Normally it's awful old horror movies but next week they're starting a Warren Case files “arch”.” Tim doesn't take the conversation bait at the pause.

“It's a great way to meet other locals, you guys should check it out if you get the chance. It starts at ten and runs till one or so on most weeks.” Olive branch has been extended.

Tim relaxes for the first time since you got here tonight. The sheepish look on his face and twitchy pupils give the impression he's thinking it over. He sighs and nods before saying, “Yea, that sounds...nice.”

Olive branch skeptically taken! You'll count this one as a win in your book. With the mood lightened Tim breaks the ice a bit further.

“Surge and red vines can not be good for you.”

“Right! If living off mountain dew and pizza rolls doesn't kill him, this for sure will.” you both have a small laugh at that. It's nice to finally have cleared up the mix up from the beginning of the week. Which reminds you.

“Oh...um...I'm YN by the way. It's nice to meet you...sorry for the two,” your neck tics to the side, “previous nights.” you finish.

“Tim...and it,uh happens sometimes...'s fine.” Score awkward acknowledgment of previous meetings and you can now erase those from your nightly anxieties.

Tim finishes ringing and bagging your items and you pay. Giving another pet to the curled up kitty on the counter you nod farewell to Tim.

A trill rings out from the clock on the wall. It's ten.

Two heads snap to look at the wall. You take a second glance at your phone while Tim checks his watch. Both say the clock on the wall is correct. But it just turned nine not even ten minutes ago. Right? You can brush off yourself loosing track of time but when you involve another person that just doesn't make sense. Tim looks just as concerned as you. Only Magnolia lays unaffected by the lost fifty minutes.

“I should go.” Tim nods numbly to you as you exit the store.

You won't be able to make it to the movie, well you could but you'd disturb someone if you walked in mid movie. Choosing to go home instead you drive, once again without music. Entering your home you hang your mask back on the hook. Putting away the drinks and snacks for next weekend, you make your way to your bedroom. Once again freezing just before the hallway. Turning to your living room you can see a book in the middle of your coffee table. You definitely don't remember the book being there, and doubt you'd miss it out in the open. But as you got closer you could confirm, even in the dark, that it was The Book Thief.

#ticci tobyx reader #ticci toby #ticcitoby #reader insert #timothy wright x reader #timothy wright #timothy wright x brian thomas #brian thomas x reader #brian thomas #masky x reader #masky x hoodie #creepypasta fanfic #A cure for insomnia

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for-a-muse-of-fire · 5 years ago

Text

imagine being loved by me

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!poc reader

Summary: You clock him as a witcher the moment he steps into your tavern - his kind never scared you the way the did the rest of the village. So he kills things for money? What’s the alternative - being overrun and eaten alive by things that go “bump” in the night? Given your complete and utter lack of shame, you proceed to flirt mercilessly with the White Wolf, and the night just gets more interesting from there.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY I STG, GET OFF MY LAWN DAMN KIDS. Smutty smut smut, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, I’d say some dom!Geralt if you squint a bit, plus some standard violence and swearing. Geralt and reader both say fuck a bunch.

A/N: Inspired by my current obsession with Hozier’s song, “Talk”. Y’all, I think this is the first legit thing that I’ve written in several years. Like, at least 5. Maybe more. It’s not perfect, but I still did the damn thing, and that feels pretty rad. Some of you lovely people requested tags - like a dingus, I did not keep track, so this is me doing by best. I honestly don’t think I have to fortitude to keep up a taglist, so I’ll do my absolute best to tag everything under #tutu scribbles so it’s easy to find.

I'd be the sweet feeling of release Mankind now dreams of That's found in the last witness Before the wave hits, marveling at God

He appears in the doorway towards the end of the night. Most of your patrons have stumbled home, save for one small table that has been carousing with a mission. You’re ready to read them the riot act when the stranger steps into the tavern, ushered by a blast of sharp winter air. You notice him right away, mostly because he might be the largest man you have ever seen. He’s tall, and so broad-shouldered that he brushes the door frame on his way in. You momentarily forget what you’re doing in favor of gawking a bit, bar rag paused mid-swipe when he pulls back the hood of his heavy cloak.

Gods on high, he’s handsome. Almost pretty.

Features that belong on a marble statue and a soft looking mouth that you can’t help but focus on.

He takes a cautious glance around the room and catches you staring. Given that you don’t know the meaning of the word “shame”, you don’t bother to duck your head, though you have enough sense to not grin out-right like a loon. It’s difficult, though.

White hair. Honey-gold eyes.

What really gives him away is the silver medallion that swings out from under his cloak. The size of a large coin, it shows a snarling wolf’s head in profile.

A Witcher.

He holds your gaze and something shivers its way down your spine. His boots carrying him silently across the worn floorboards and you find yourself trying to fluff your hair, make the riotous curls behave for once. You move to meet him when he sits at the end of your bar – even seated, you’re nearly eye-to-eye with him. The smile you offer is a crooked one, bordering on coy.

No harm in a little fun.

“Just in time, friend,” you rib him gently. “I was getting ready to close down and call it a night.”

“Lucky me,” the witcher rumbles. Rumbles - you’re not sure what else to call it. His voice sounds like gravel and thunder. His golden eyes take in your face, and you feel warm, in spite of the drafty space. Something in the vicinity of your stomach starts to flutter excitedly.

Testing the waters, you lean against the bar top with crossed arms. His eyes dip to the swell of your breasts at the top of your bodice.

You grin. “What’s your pleasure, Witcher?”

Gold eyes snap up to meet your darker ones and there is heat in that gaze. The witcher lets out a low kind of a sound, that soft mouth of his turning up at one corner.

The fluttering thing in your belly turns liquid – molten.

“Ale,” he says, handing over a few crowns. “Please… miss.”

“Right away.”

You pull a clean tankard from it’s spot and you turn your back to fill it. Being under his gaze isn’t unlike standing in direct sunlight – you can feel it press warmly against your back and shoulders. You try to focus on pouring a decent pint, but all you can think about is the fact that it’s cold out, and it’s been far too long since you’ve had someone warm and vital in your bed. The golden-eyed man behind you certainly seems vital.

Mind made up, you turn to present him with his ale and lean into the bar again. His eyes dip down the line of your neck, a little farther, and then up to find you grinning.

“Enjoy,” you tell him “Get comfortable, Witcher. I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

He “hmms” at you, very nearly grinning himself. Teeth caught against your bottom lip, you pull yourself away and begin your end-of-night duties – gathering empty bowls, cups, dirty utensils – to bring them through to the kitchen. You find yourself stealing one last glance at the witcher as you bump the kitchen door with your hip and slip away. A song, some manner of bawdy barroom ballad, comes to mind unbidden and you find yourself humming tunelessly to yourself as you start the washing.

You swear, you’re barely gone a few moments when you hear the racket begin. Raised voices, drunk voices – damn, you’d forgotten the table of stragglers – and the low rumble of the witcher. An irritated sigh huffs up from your chest and you dry your damn hands on your apron, leaving the rest of the washing in the basin.

The loud voices of drunk men become more clear as you step up to the door separating the kitchen from the tavern: “We don’t want you here, fucking mutant.”

There’s a crash, then the thud of fist hitting flesh. Dammit. So much for your fun tonight.

You swear under your breath and reach for your only real weapon – the heavy wooden baton has a place of honor beside the kitchen door. Slowly, quietly, you easy your way back into the main room. With the layout of the tavern, you’ve appeared behind the drunks – the witcher can see your movements from where he stands, the idiots can’t. The witcher’s mug of ale has been shattered on the floor. He’s surrounded, three drunks around him and the bar top at his back. The red mark high on his cheekbone gives you a hint as to who swung the first punch.

Golden eyes meet yours. You see his jaw tense, and he gives a short jerk of his head; ‘stay back,’ the motion says. It’s almost enough to make you take pause, until you see the glint of a blade; the witcher is focused on you, not on the knife that one of the drunks just pulled. Adrenaline zips through your system and you lunge without thinking, wielding language most unbecoming of a lady. How you manage to keep from tripping on your skirts is beyond you. The would-be knife fighter gets three bone-rattling strikes – knee, diaphragm, nose – and drops, clutching his face with some creative profanity.

His drunk cohorts gawp stupidly at you. You glare daggers in return.

“You are no longer welcome here,” you snap. “Get the fuck out, or it’ll be you on the ground next.”

They considering their bleeding, whimpering friend on the floor and decide not to chance it. You keep your club at the ready, watching as the morons pick up their wounded friend and usher him out the door. The breath that you didn’t remember holding comes whooshing out, and then you turn to your last guest. He’s tense as a wire, fists still clenched – your voice seems to snap him out of it:

“All right, Witcher?”

He exhales, pulling his focus from the door and back to you. “Yeah… yes,” he replies. You watch him flounder a moment, as if he’s just realizing what happened. “Thank you. That was… thanks.”

“Any time.”

That’s apparently not a response he’s heard before – it shows on his face for the briefest of second, and then you can see the barrier drop behind his pretty gold eyes. He seems cold as the winter outside when he speaks again, “I’m sorry for the trouble, miss. Thank you for the ale.”

A few more crowns appear from the folds of his cloak – he leaves them on the bar, and you can’t help but blink at him as he starts to make his way to the door. It’s entirely possible that you should leave him be, but you still find yourself calling out:

“Hold on, Witcher!”

He almost ignores you, leather-gloved hand on the heavy iron handle of the tavern door. You can’t help it – he starts to curse under his breath, and you find yourself grinning about it. He’s still grumbling when he finally turns and those honey-colored eyes find your face again. You tilt your head, curls akimbo across your shoulder, and offer up a soft smile.

Some of the ice behind the witcher’s eyes starts to melt and you could swear he’s trying not to smile back. “… Geralt,” he rumbles at you. “My name is Geralt. Of Rivia.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” you murmur, and offer your name in return. “Please, Geralt. You’re nearly knifed in my establishment and I think courtesy dictates I offer you something by way of apology. Besides… when was the last time you had a hot meal?”

That perks him up. He may not be fully human, but he’s still male.

You exhale, a breathless chuckle of sorts, and move closer. If there’s an extra sway in your hips, well, you can’t help that and he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s momentarily distracted by the cut of your bodice again and you preen internally. You offer him the hand not holding your club and smile up into his face.

“Come and sit with me, Geralt of Rivia.”

___

After the broken tankard is swept up and the spilled ale dried, you disappear into the kitchen and return with a plate for your guest – the night’s dinner special. Braised beef, potatoes with garlic and butter, and roasted winter vegetables from your garden out back. Geralt, finally stripped of his cloak and gloves, tucks in with the ravenous hunger of a tired traveler. He shovels a mouthful down, then stops, blinking down at the plate.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, frowning.

He very nearly speaks with his mouth full, thinks better of it, and swallows. “This is fucking delicious,” he says, deadly serious. You laugh.

“Thank you.” Pride swells in your chest; you’ve always been proud of your cooking. “Most of it came from my own garden.”

Geralt hums. His next bite is smaller, and he takes his time chewing it. The sight of him enjoying his meal makes you feel contented. He eats, and you go about your work. The fire in the hearth has burnt down some, but it’s enough for you to be able to finish the night’s cleaning. When you slip back behind the bar, Geralt’s plate is empty – he may have actually licked it clean. He seems almost content himself as he finishes his ale.

“Still hungry?” you tease. He squints at you for a moment, but the corner of his mouth ticks up.

“No, thank you. I may not need to eat again for a few days.”

You laugh at that, “Good, that’s what I like to hear. Stay put, all right?” You nod at the bruise that’s started to bloom on his cheek. “I think I have something for that…”

The empty plate is cleared and you grab a small basket from the kitchen. After filling Geralt’s mug one last time, you pour a small goblet of wine for yourself and come to sit next to him at the bar. He watches you as you open your small kit. “A cook, a fighter, and a healer?” he muses. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Can’t sing for shit,” you shoot back. “And a cook, yes, but you’re very generous, calling me a fighter, or a healer. Really, I think I just know enough about either to be dangerous…”

Geralt snorts indecorously. “I think our friend with the broken nose might beg to differ.”

“Doesn’t take much skill to break a nose – long as you swing hard enough. Hah!” You’ve found it – the little salve jar at the bottom of your kit. You turn to Geralt with a grin and hold out the jar for his inspection. “I hear your lot are the expert on this kind of thing. What do you think?”

He “hmms” again – you rather like that sound – and twists open the top of the jar. You watch him give a careful sniff before he peers in to look at the contents itself. “Frankincense,” he mutters. “Honey… mugwort? Good mix.”

You grin. “Thank you. Does the trick for black eyes and stove burns. Gimme that – “ Taking the jar back, you take a sip of your wine before tapping the big witcher on the knee. “Turn this way, please.”

He cocks an eyebrow, but obeys, and you move to stand between his splayed legs. Gods, but he’s warm. Heat rolls off of his body like the warmth of your tavern fire and it’s all you can do to keep from leaning into him. By the way he’s eyeing you, you’re not sure if he’d mind. You tap a little of your healing salve onto the pad of your ring finger and place the jar back on the counter – when you meet his gaze, he nods in silent consent. Gently, you take his chin in your hand and turn his bruised cheek towards you.

“You heal faster than most, I’ve heard,” you murmur, gently pressing the salve into his skin. “But I can’t imagine getting hit in the face feels good.”

Geralt snorts again. “No, it doesn’t. Not something you really get used to, either.”

“… Geralt, how many times have you gotten punched?”

“This week, or…?”

You blink at him. When he smirks back, you realize that he is, in fact, pulling your leg. “Oh, you’re the funny one, are you?” you say drily.

He continues to smirk as you grumble, tugging his chin so you can finish applying your salve. Both of you go quiet. The silence isn’t strange – it’s almost comforting. You hear the last intact log on the fire pop. Outside, the wind has picked up. It whistles past the windows, makes what’s left of the fire gutter in the hearth. It’s going to be wickedly cold tonight. You consider your room upstairs, that empty bed…

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

You chuckle. Your hand drops from his chin and he uses the opportunity to meet your gaze again. It’s at that moment that you realize just how close you are, and perhaps he notices too. Golden eyes scan your face lazily – heat blooms in your chest when his gaze drops to your mouth. He can probably hear the way your pulse kicks up, what with those heightened senses of his.

Maybe the night wouldn’t be a wash after all.

“I have a hunch,” you mumble. “Don’t be alarmed.”

You kiss him. His lips are dry, but smooth. He lets you lean into him, hands braced on his powerful thighs. His palm is so warm against your hip that you can feel it through your skirts; the sensation makes you shudder against him and sigh into his mouth.

Geralt growls, and you feel a desperate, aching heat settle between your legs.

The hand at your hip presses into your lower back and you stumble into him. You taste the ale on his tongue, try to lick the bittersweet flavor from your mouth as his other hand joins in to squeeze at your ass. He crushes you closer – even through the sturdy material of his trousers, you feel the hard line of him straining against your belly. A whine cracks its way up from your throat, and you want…

You want.

“Stay with me,” you gasp, pulling back for air.

Geralt’s eyes are hooded, his lips slick and kiss-swollen and it takes every ounce of your willpower to keep from lunging in to bite at him. You run your tongue along your own bottom lip and he tracks the motion hungrily.

“Stay with me,” you say again. Your arms wind around his neck. “Keep me warm tonight, Geralt of Rivia.”

He grins slow, pulls you back to him – the tip of his nose is cold when it traces up the line of your neck. “I think I’d like that…”

Teeth and tongue and lips map the curve of your neck. Your fingers tangle their way into the witcher’s hair and tug when he sucks a bruise onto your pulse point. He rewards you with a low sound, breathless and hot on your skin. Oh, he likes that.

“Keep that up,” he growls. “And I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

You tug again.

The dam breaks.

You’re not sure how, but his hands feel like they’re everywhere; pushing through your curls, squeezing at your hips, groping at your waist. It’s like he’s trying to break you apart, piece by piece. Strip you open until you’re nothing but bared nerve endings and gasping breath.

Somehow, you make it upstairs and into your room. It’s a miracle that the only clothing left behind in the tavern is his cloak and gloves. Everything else is strewn this way and that through your room – your bodice ends up thrown over a chair and Geralt’s shirt nearly gets stuck on a rafter. One of his boots ends up by the cold fireplace and he kicks the other one off as he whips your chemise over your head. He crowds close, pushes you back until he has you laid out naked across the bed.

Geralt’s grin is lopsided – wolf-like – as his golden eyes take in your bare skin. Your breath stutters when he lowers himself, lips hot and smooth on the skin of your neck. He nips and bites his way down your torso, pausing only to lave his tongue over the dark peak of one breast, then the other. Fire shoots through you and your eyes slam shut – you gasp his name, make him chuckle into your flesh. Strong hands ease your legs apart and you jump when he bites at the softness of your belly, just below your navel. You can feel his low laugh more than you can hear it.

“Easy, little rabbit,” Geralt murmurs. You breathe out a shaky chuckle and prop up onto your elbows, just in time to watch the witcher reach up to tie his shock-white hair away from his face.

Your mouth goes dry. That wolfish grin is back.

His breath is hot on the crease of your thigh. “I’m just getting started,” he rumbles.

Then Geralt swipes his tongue up the slit of your sex and you wonder for a moment if this is what being struck by lightning feels like. His tongue finds your clit and it is suddenly very hard to think anymore. Your back bows up from the bed as you groan brokenly. One hand shoots down, fingers reaching for something to keep you from flying through the roof, and you grip at the witcher’s hair again. The growl he lets out buzzes against your core and it all goes fuzzy after that.

You feel him grip bruises onto your thighs. You feel the rasp of his stubble. Then, pressure, followed by delicious fullness a Geralt pushes one finger, then another into your slick heat. He stretches you, twisting and thrusting his fingers in time with the flicker of his tongue. You gasp for breath, hips lifting to meet Geralt’s mouth. He seems to be enjoying himself as much as you are – he growls against you, and the hand on your thigh jerks you closer. The sound his mouth and his fingers on you is utterly depraved, wet and sloppy.

Geralt’s fingers curl inside of you, pressing up towards your navel. You come, hard and fast, crying his name.

Over the thunder of your heart, you hear him growl against your thigh, “Fucking beautiful…”

He lays a few biting kisses to your inner thigh before he stands and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. You stare up at him with outright hunger as he strips off his trousers. He’s solid muscle, battle-scarred and gorgeous, thick cock curving up towards his belly. He smirks, but doesn’t move, seemingly content to let you feast your eyes.

Once you’ve had your fill, you meet Geralt’s hooded gaze and push yourself back on the mattress. With a little extra arch in your back, you crook a finger. Geralt crouches and crawls up the bed to you. His hips settle between your parted thighs, hands braced on either side of your head. Those eyes of his scan your face hungrily before he lunges in for a kiss.

You lick the tang of your cunt from his tongue. The underside of his cock slides against your clit, making you arch into him with a whine, “Geralt…”

He hums low in his chest, shifts his weight to bring one hand up to cup your cheek. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he rasps. His thumb strokes slowly over your cheekbone. “Look at me – want to see your face – “

Geralt shifts back and thrusts home, hard – the blinding pleasure punches the air from your lungs in a shout. Your hands fly up to grip his back. “There it is,” he groans. “Good girl…”

All you can do is mewl in response, trembling. The thumb brushing at your cheek moves to your mouth, pressing and stroking at your bottom lip. You meet Geralt’s gaze with lust-glazed eyes and suck the tip of his thumb into your mouth.

“Fuck”, he hisses.

He drags a slow thrust out, and pushes back in to the hilt over and over. Each heavy thrust of his hips drives you into the mattress and you meet him eagerly, pitched cries muffled by his thumb. Geralt curls himself over you. His thumb pulls from your mouth with a wet sound so he can grip your chin instead, force you to meet the heat of his eyes. It’s skin and sweat and heated, desperate pleas. Your hands grip at his shoulders, his back, nails leaving lines of red that only spur him on. The witcher pushes at your chin, baring your neck to him so he can scrap his teeth against your sweat-slick skin. You clench around him with a low cry.

His lips press against your ear and he starts talking, rumbling, low and filthy. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head.

Fuck, the mouth on him. He tells you how fucking good you feel around his cock, how wet you are for him; it’s a litany of debased promises and you can only gasp in return. The rumble of his voice, the drag of his cock pushes you higher and higher, tightens the coiled lightning in your belly. You are unconcerned with keeping quiet.

Geralt slips a hand between your bodies. The pad of his thumb pulls across your clit and you are gone, your orgasm fierce and relentless. You keen, whole body curling up into Geralt’s chest; your teeth catch his shoulder and you bite down hard enough to bruise.

The witcher gives a ragged shout into the side of your neck. He pulses into your clutching heat, hot and steady.

Neither of you move for what seems like an age. You feel sticky, and sore, and it feels good. Geralt shifts at last, carefully slipping out of you – you both shudder with the last aftershocks. “Fuck,” he grunts.

“Pretty sure we just did, love,” is your slightly slurred response.

Geralt squints down at you, but you just smile sleepily back, and it’s enough to make him laugh. Like a good gentleman, he makes certain to roll off of you before he collapses on his stomach with grumble. He pulls you into his side; you hum contentedly. The blistering heat beneath your skin has begun to cool, and you feel wonderfully boneless.

The witcher can barely keep his eyes open, but he tries to focus on your face. “All right?” he mumbles into a pillow.

“More than,” you murmur back.

“S’good…” And he’s out cold.

You follow soon enough.

_____

You don’t wake until the next morning, sore, but very pleased with yourself. Winter sunlight, bleached and cold, pours in from the casement. There is a brief pang of disappointment when you reach for Geralt and find him gone, but then you hear the crackle of a fire and turn over. It’s a lovely sight. The witcher stands from his crouched position in front of your now-lit fireplace, and you take a moment to admire the well-sculpted curve of his backside as he pulls his shirt on. He’s found his trousers and boots, as well – pity.

“Thank you,” you mumble, sleepily. He turns to you as you sit up, bedsheet clutched over your nakedness.

“Don’t mention it.”

You study his handsome face for a moment. His expression is unreadable, but his golden eyes are warm. “Leaving?” you ask.

“Have to,” he tells you. “Unless your town has a noonwraith that needs destroying.”

“No, thank fuck.” You stand and stretch with a groan, tying the bedsheet over your breasts. “Well, come on, then.”

Geralt chuckles, but follows you downstairs and to the kitchen. Into a kerchief you tie a loaf of bread, some good cheese, salted pork, and dried fruit. The witcher looks at you with something akin to surprise when you hand him his provisions. You simply smile back and step into him. He allows you to wind your arms around his neck, meeting you halfway in a kiss that makes your heart skip a beat. You don’t want to let go, but you force yourself to step back after a few breathless moments.

“Goodbye, Geralt of Rivia,” you murmur. You consider more, almost don’t, and then, “If, ah… if you ever find yourself out this way again – “

“I will. I’ll have to.” He gives you a crooked grin. “Only place I can get good meal around here.”

You laugh outright, and it seems to make Geralt’s grin widen. Following him back into the main tavern, you insure he has his effects and provisions before you watch him take his leave. With a shiver, you recall the newly lit fire in your bedroom and find yourself taken the steps two at a time to get there. Between the cold, bleached sunlight shining in from the window and the warmth of the fire in the hearth, it doesn’t take much to convince yourself that a lie-in is just what you need.

Your pillow still smells like him.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x poc!reader #geralt x reader #geralt x you #the witcher #the witcher netflix #all aboard the smut bus #poc reader #fanfic #fanfiction #geralt smut #tutu scribbles #the wench and the witcher

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thekidultlife · 4 years ago

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The Most Convenient Escape | Jihoon Soulmate!AU (6)

�� Pairing: Jihoon x fem!reader

⍟ AU: Fantasy/ Soulmate AU

⍟ Genre: ANGST, SLOW BURN, fluff

⍟ Warnings: mentions of abuse, drinking, and sex

⍟ Word Count: 6.7k

⍟ Synopsis: For all your life, you have a deep disdain towards Soulmate Bonds, so much so that you are able to write opinions about it in a local newspaper. However, as life would have it, you wake up one day bonded to a person you hardly knew. Throwing in an investigation, annoying roommates, and a revolution looming just beneath the surface, you had to seek for the most convenient escape.

⍟ A/N: It’s been a while since I updated TMCE skskks sorry;;; i missed my drawing tablet so much, I just drew this whole time lmaooo but here you go~ something like a transition chapter!! hope you enjoy? :DD

⍟ Taglist: To those who commented on the previous chapter ;;w;; thank you so much!!! @minkwans, @ialamityo-o, @oprandomfeels, @haotheheckk, and @svt13roses!!! I always say this, but your comments and reactions really keep me going on;;;

HALF A MILLION MURMURS by Alex Fireflower

The Porta Persa Edition, November 2nd

To those divinely ordained by the people and the coin with Power and Authority:

Surely, in some way or another, it had not escaped any person of good conscience and fair moral character the plight which has befallen our fellow men—the Cilvekans—despite differences in and not limited to nationality and/or race; more so and I surely hope so, that it had not escaped the attentions of persons with great abundance in wealth and power such as yourselves.

Surely, in some way or another, you are not deaf to their pleas—gagged and maimed by a bill, now law, which was carefully crafted to entrap more than half a million people for whatever reason the Parliament has in its defense. These people who had a hand in making our trades grow, making our lives a little bit easier, making this nation prosper to its opulent glory of today—how easy, how convenient it is to leave them to the dust, to fend off on their own all the evils of Porta Persa. Certainly, it had touched your benevolent hearts that the very same people who sweep your marble floors, who wash your dirty ball gowns, who polish your diamond rings, are in need of your help—the very same people who had helped you in your daily lives. Yet even if they had not become a part of your lives in some way or another, surely, maybe, that the fact that Cilvekans are fellow human beings who move and act just like us would convince you that what had been brought unto them was a violation of their rights as human beings, rights which are rightfully bestowed to everyone on this Earth—Cilvekan, Porta Persan or whatnot.

Surely, in some way or another, you have come to an understanding that the creators of this bill had intentions way beyond the national security of this nation. Surely, it is indisputable, with all the abuse of power and discriminate arrests which happened in the course of a few days, that there is no way Porta Persa would attain national security in this manner; but rather, had only caused chaos and anger among the population. How can one, who had held himself with high regard in the face of god and the heavens, be so blissfully ignorant to these people who had been abused and indiscriminately arrested in the middle of the night for various reasons the Royal Guard had come up with as they spin their wee little roulette of crimes and violations? How can we, as human beings, rationalize our inaction and ignorance of this issue with a mentality that “if this does not happen to us in front of our very eyes, therefore, it does not exist”? Of course there is no reason for it to happen on your graciously manicured courtyard because the gold coin had given you the privilege to grab the laws of this land by the neck and turn it to your favor.

Surely, surely, and I do hope so that beyond the loud voices in your head screaming at you that there is no need to help, that the problem is simply perceived by the victims, that this issue does not affect you in any way possible—I hope that you are able to hear the half million murmurs of Cilvekan voices stranded in our ports and stations, banished from their jobs and separated from their families. I hope that you are all able to hear whispers calling out to the warm compassion that is hopefully still inside of your hearts.

As more than half a million Cilvekans congest our ports and stations—sent back to an ironically unfamiliar country with almost no possessions; inside our jails and police stations, tortured to admit a sin they had never committed—let us not ignore their cries of help. Whether or not they had aided us in our lives before, they are still human beings just like us, who need the same rights as we do. Let’s listen to the murmurs of half a million…

◇

“Your girlfriend sure is livid.”

Yoon Jeonghan, in his platinum blond hair and rather sleepy eyes, said as he tossed the newspaper on the marble garden table. The Minister for the Culture and the Arts was finally present in the meeting, though still in Joshua Hong’s grey pavilion in the middle of his rose garden and still drinking freshly brewed coffee.

“She’s not my girlfriend, and I am very much assured that she is unaware of our soulmate bond,” Jihoon groaned as he massaged his temples, the hangover gradually diminishing with the help of a hangover potion you had forced him to bring along. “How many times do I have to reiterate this?”

“Someone sure is a rainy cloud today, what do you reckon, Minister of Foreign Affairs?” Jeonghan remarked as he received a cup of coffee from Joshua, who had only laughed at his friend’s comment.

“It’s your fault for not coming by lately. You missed out a lot.”

“Did I?” The other smirked, and then looked around, “Oh? It seems our adorable general isn’t here yet?”

“Seungcheol told me he wouldn’t be joining us today,” Joshua informed him primly as he finally sat on his own seat with a cup on his hands. “And for reasons you all already know, unfortunately.”

“What about you though? Aren’t you having a terribly marvelous time trying to deport all these people?” Jihoon asked, his eyes cold and a tad bit exhausted.

“That’s the immigration’s responsibility, not ours. Though drafting an explanation to the Cilvekan government as to why there are half a million people to be deported back to their country isn’t a walk in the park either.”

Jihoon grunted, to which Jeonghan only smiled.

“I’m having trouble with this as well. Several valuable artists living in Porta Persa are in danger of being deported which isn’t in any way favorable in my position. I wouldn’t want to lose Wen Junhui and Xu Minghao in the middle of their own respective careers,” Jeonghan added in a playful tone despite the severity of his situation.

“And just when I was finally able to acquire some tickets to Wen Junhui’s play!” Joshua remarked with a slight scowl, annoyed that his tickets would probably become mere pieces of worthless colored paper.

“Tough luck for all of us, huh?” Jihoon remarked as he pressed down the bridge of his nose, the smell of the decaying rose petals around him was making him nauseous.

As the wind blew across the wide rose garden, a companionable silence enveloped the three of them. While they seemed to be so lighthearted, they all knew the situation was a lot worse than they had feared.

“Is there any way we could reverse this decision?” Jeonghan finally asked.

“If there was, I would’ve done it already. Not to mention how much political power I’ve lost because of this,” Jihoon replied, thumbing on the cork of the potion he was holding. "If not for the laws of this land, I would've wrung Kang's neck by now."

“Seems like your plans on running for Prime Minister is thrown out of the window,” Jeonghan continued to which Jihoon only gave him a cynical look.

“I would continue if I was crazy enough,” he answered with a snort. “Look, there’s really not much I could do as of the moment. The Conservatives are probably holding the biggest victory party of their lives at the seaports, herding off Cilvekans inside cargo ships like cattle, and it’s so frustrating how I could only watch them do what they want.”

“What about going to your grandfather then?” Joshua suggested and Jihoon stilled for a moment before aggressively shaking his head.

“No, no, no. Absolutely not,” he replied with a hint of panic in his eyes. “Not in a million years.”

“Why not?” Jeonghan asked. “He’s still a powerful man after retiring as Prime Minister years ago. Who knows, maybe he has some useful connections.”

“You guys already know why not,” Jihoon responded with a snarl. “There is certainly no way I would return to Santaragossa considering the state of my soulmate bond.”

“Ah, that,” the two men eventually nodded in understanding as they remembered why Jihoon was hesitant to go.

“But maybe this is the right time to tell Y/N that your soulmates,” Joshua was the first one who remarked. “You could bring her along and tell her the truth.”

To that comment, Jihoon only gave an incredulous look. “Please don’t give me any more of these suicidal suggestions, Joshua. You already know that’s not going to work.”

“But you could at least try?” Jeonghan offered. “I mean, Porta Persa is only an inch short of imploding, and we could be headless in a month's time if this escalates rapidly, so what does a lover's quarrel mean in the face of a civil war?”

As soon as he had heard Jeonghan’s words, the dark haired male simply sighed and leaned against the chair he was sitting on. He just can’t believe he was considering this. Returning to Santaragossa could be another mess he wished he had never signed up for, much like the current situation with the Cilvekans. But he knew that if he really wanted to act on the benefit of the greater good, a worthy sacrifice is already a given. What even is a falling out with his soulmate to a half a million people who are more or less starving and afraid?

Jihoon sighed again. Things are spiraling out of control.

“I’ll think about it.”

◇

A few weeks later. November 25th

“Oh god, I almost strangled the bastard if you guys weren’t there!”

It was already late in the morning when the three of you entered Wonwoo’s dorm room in a weirdly tense mood; a mood that was emphasized by the fact that the political atmosphere in Porta Persa was rigidly discordant all throughout the past few weeks. As active journalists, it had of course affected you three.

“I might have bitten his head off twice too,” you were fuming as much as Soonyoung was, tossing your heavy leather bag on the bed which you sat on as well with an exhausted huff.

The only calming force in the room was Jeon Wonwoo, who simply sighed and dropped most of his things on a wooden desk carpeted with heavy tomes of Magical Law. Yet despite is fair countenance, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t exasperated by everything that was happening.

Today, the three of you were scheduled to interview a staunch advocate of the recently passed travel restrictions and border control measures, and to say the least, it did go well, yet at the expense of everyone’s tempers.

“Just—how can someone be so ignorant of this situation?!” you exclaimed as you let yourself fall on the bed, your arms held high in the air. “I-I mean, the ports where Cilvekans had been crowding for days now is just a five-minute walk from his stupidly large mansion! Can’t they see anything?!”

“Not only that! Not only that, goddamn it!” Soonyoung added, furiously pacing around the room. “He even has the gall to question why Y/N was there! Y/N! One of Porta Persa’s best editors! What kind of question is that? Are girls not allowed to do anything anymore? I just wanted to punch that guy’s beer belly!”

“That was really insulting,” you remarked, your voice much quieter now.

Soonyoung groaned-screamed, pushing Wonwoo’s wooden chair before stalking towards the wall and punching it hard. The wall was of course rock solid but Soonyoung’s knuckles were now red and in pain, yet it didn’t really matter. If he hasn’t done anything, chances are he might explode in his place then and there.

Wonwoo only watched, leaning against his desk, as the two of you blew off steam by ranting and just being generally loud, yet in his mind, wheels were turning.

“You know what else is concerning?” Wonwoo spoke, his voice as soft as a mutter yet it was enough to get the attention of everyone. “It’s not only the wealthy who are fine with this as what we might’ve expected, but also some of the upper and lower middle class people.”

You and Soonyoung immediately exchange glances, their eyes glinting with curiosity. So Wonwoo continued on.

“I’ve checked all the interviews we conducted since last week and though they differ in motives, they generally have no problem with this law. The rich are basically ignorant and indifferent. To them, this law is just like all the other laws of Porta Persa. For the middle class citizens however, they saw Cilvekans as an adversary—someone who would steal their jobs and opportunities.”

“Like, ‘why are these people getting rich while I, a true blooded Porta Persan is struggling to get a job?’” you asked, to which Wonwoo nodded.

“So a ‘good riddance’ thing, huh?” Soonyoung bobbed his head up and down in realization, his anger already half abated.

“Precisely. This is why this whole situation is largely divisive. There are people who care about it, but there are also a lot of people who are more than happy that this happened,” the bespectacled boy replied, adjusting his glasses.

“Ain’t that depressing,” Soonyoung grumbled, finally plopping on the plush armchair by the fireplace. “Has anybody started a petition yet?”

“Lee Jihoon already beat you to the chase,” you commented casually. “He’s been busy gathering signatures from prominent people to junk the law, but so far I think he hasn’t really filled his quota yet, right Wonwoo?”

“Yes, I reckon he needs even more powerful people, like someone closely connected to the monarchy or someone with a really huge reputation,” Wonwoo replied, folding his arms over his chest.

“Who else is even more powerful than Lee Jihoon? Even he can’t stop that bill from becoming law,” Soonyoung inserted, now much more cynical because of all the frustration that had built up.

You only shrugged. “We don’t know. At any case, we must continue this responsibility we imposed upon ourselves. Let justice be done though the heavens fall.”

“Indeed,” Wonwoo replied before straightening himself up. “In that case, I suppose it’s time we inspect those documents we found a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot about them!” Soonyoung remarked, turning as he watched Wonwoo walk pass him and to a hidden safe behind the bookcase where he kept it secure. “We were so preoccupied with all the interviews that we didn’t have time to look at them.”

“I do hope we get something out of those,” you said, standing up from your place on the bed and walked to the round wooden table where Wonwoo had placed the documents.

Gathering round and seated comfortably, the three of you began to carefully examine the documents like an efficient production line.

Wonwoo was assigned to the actual semantics of the documents, inspecting everything word per word and whether or not they mean something else other than what was thought at first glance. Soonyoung on the other hand was in charge of looking into those which contained shipping and trading information—he may not be the brightest of you three but he has trading experience all throughout his life which was more than what you and Wonwoo could do. Finally, you had the task of doing the final inspection, to see if the Soonyoung and Wonwoo had missed anything.

Yet despite all these efforts, even after five hours of perusing the said documents, in the end they all turned out to be rather boring pieces of yellowed paper.

“And here I thought we were going to find something phenomenal…”

Soonyoung was pouting, now more than exhausted as he slumped sulkily on his chair. You and Wonwoo were no different, as you sat silently on your places around the table with long faces.

“I guess we effectively wasted most of our afternoon,” you remarked, standing up to stretch your stiff muscles.

“I couldn’t agree enough,” Wonwoo snorted, “That novelty shop was phony from the beginning.”

“Well, what’s done is done,” Soonyoung exclaimed, also standing up to walk around the room. “And oh, speaking of that shop, the fortune teller asked us to give something to you, Y/N. Wait here for a moment while I run to my room!”

Without waiting for you to reply, Soonyoung already dashed out of the door and to the hallway, leaving both you and Wonwoo to exchange curious glances.

“You know something about that?” You asked him.

Your friend shrugged, “You left so suddenly that day and then everything was so hectic right after that we forgot to tell you about it.”

Understanding the situation, you simply sighed and waited for Soonyoung to return, which wasn’t that long since he was already back before you could even form any thoughts on what Madam Adora had left for you.

“I’m back!” he exclaimed, on his hands a small black box that seemed to resemble a box for a ring. “Here you go, Y/N!”

With that said, Soonyoung placed it on top of the table which you walked towards to see what it was inside. You turned it over and heard a small dull thud, giving the impression that there was a small object inside.

“Did you peek?” You asked him, seating back on your chair and taking a closer inspection at the object.

“What? Of course not!” He denied, which you deemed was true, considering that the seal on the opening was still intact. You smirked at him, revealing the fact that you were only kidding around.

“Well, let’s see what this is.”

Breaking the seal, you opened the box while the two onlookers peered curiously behind you. The climactic tension in the air rose dramatically as the three of you became increasingly intrigued by the contents of the box.

“It’s…” Soonyoung narrated, his eyes glistening at first but then faltered after realizing what it was, “It’s just a coin.”

Inside the box, nestled on maroon red velvet was a mere gold coin—one which Porta Persa uses as currency—the Dossimer.

You held it up between your fingers, studying it as closely as you could with eyes filled with bewilderment. Eventually, you made a nod.

“Yes, it’s just dossimer.”

Wonwoo sighed. “This day seems to be filled with anticlimaxes.”

“I guess that’s life for you,” you replied, shrugging. “Though I’m not that sure why she would give this to me. It’s not like I lack money or anything.”

“I’m as bewildered as you,” Wonwoo remarked, again adjusting his slipping glasses.

Huffing, you placed the coin on the table harshly, cluttering loudly across Wonwoo’s room. “Fate sure is playing tricks with us, and I’m not liking it.”

“Yet what else can we do?” Soonyoung asked. “We’re at a stalemate now. The investigation is going nowhere, the Cilvekan situation is worsening, and we might be persecuted by the monarchy at any time.”

Wonwoo simply sighed. “Indeed, nothing seems to be moving right now, but we still have to do something, no matter how little they are. It will have a rippling effect all over Porta Persa.”

While the two were bickering, you had unintentionally blocked them out, focusing only on the gold coin on the table, atop the documents you had inspected, wondering over and over again why it was on your hands.

“Are you suggesting we run away then? Run to the mountains of god knows where—“

Wonwoo had raised his voice already, further proof that the argument was getting heated, yet despite that, you paid no heed. Instead, you continued to stare at the coin, still tossing and turning ideas in your head.

The more you gazed at it, the more you felt like you were beginning to imagine things. The coin was glowing with a golden light around it, and while magic isn’t something odd, the fact that the coin was shimmering was definitely out of the ordinary.

Blinking several times, you tried to shook the hallucinations away yet the glowing continued and had now spread over the papers underneath it. You were sure you hadn’t drunk anything weird that day, or maybe it was the fatigue—but fatigue doesn’t really make things glow in front of your very eyes.

Funnily enough, it took you a moment to realize that none of what you had thought of was the truth, and strangely enough, the coin was actually and most definitely glowing.

“Um…guys…” you muttered, pulling on their sleeves as they were already about to pounce on each other. “I’m not imagining that the coin is glowing, right?”

Your words immediately stopped the two of them from their tracks and immediately turn their attentions to the coin on the table. Astonished as you were, they only gazed at it in confusion.

“It’s really…glowing,” Soonyoung remarked, his hands about to touch it.

“Wait—! Don’t go near, Soonyoung,” Wonwoo warned as he fetched a fountain pen on his desk to poke the coin with.

“Isn’t that as dangerous as well?” you asked him, wanting him to reconsider his course of action.

“It’s fine, I’m not directly touching it.”

With a sigh of forfeit, you only watched as Wonwoo moved the coin with nothing much of a reaction other than the bright white glowing.

“It seems to be making the papers glow as well,” he observed, moving his body around it to see all sides.

“Not all the papers. Just that one,” you corrected him since you were seated next to it on the table and had a better viewpoint. “Could you guys get that?”

Without anyone prompting him, Soonyoung snatched the paper from the table and looked at it with a rather confused look on his face.

“What is it?” you asked, turning to him with an expectant look.

“Not to add on our several disappointments today but these are just some shipping routes. I checked this earlier, you checked it again after, and we found nothing. And oh, it stopped glowing.”

“Wait! Why don’t we place the coin over it and see if it glows again?” Wonwoo this time suggested, pocketing his fountain pen, and then continued speaking after seeing the look of hesitance on your expressions. “And the coin is clearly safe, other than the fact that it’s, you know…glowing.”

“You pick it up then,” you instructed as Sonyoung returned the map of the shipping routes on table and laid it there flat.

“Fine,” he conceded sulkily and took the coin from where it sat and placed it over the parchment.

Amazingly, the paper did start glowing again, making the map invisible and then forming scribbles of white glow on the paper. The three of you crowded in front of it, trying to assess what you had discovered.

Soonyoung sighed. “I still don’t know what it is.”

“I’m as clueless too,” you added before stepping away.

“That’s a geass.”

The both of you turned to Wonwoo who was still scrutinizing it with meticulousness.

“I hope you’d care to explain?” you asked, walking to the place beside him.

Wonwoo closed his eyes and adjusted his glasses.

“It’s actually pretty rare. But basically, a geass is an agreement. However, it’s a thousand times more powerful than your ordinary paper and ink contract. It binds parties through magic which makes it unbreakable. If anyone attempts to do so, they will be met by a horrific death.”

“That’s nasty,” Soonyoung remarked with a scrunch on the nose.

“Indeed it is. Which is why nobody really attempts to seal agreements using geasses anymore because it binds for life. You only reserve it for incredibly important things. You could consider the soulmate bond as a form of geass made between two people.”

“Two unconsenting people, you mean?” You added, making a terse glanced at Wonwoo.

“Yes, right. So in this case,” Wonwoo continued, picking up the paper but making sure the coin is still in contact with it. “What we have here is a geass made between the Gestalts and…one Gustav Lemaire.”

“Hey, isn’t that the same judge?” Soonyoung called out, his brows knitting with intrigue. “You know, the one who dismissed the tax evasion case of Luce Trading? His name really fits the corrupt judge image so it stuck with me.”

“That’s novel,” you remarked with playful snide. “But anyway, if it’s between the Gestalts and the judge, then is this some kind of settlement?”

“It kind of is,” Wonwoo replied, as he read the script with narrowed eyes. “It says here…”

“It says what?” you asked, impatient.

“Give me a moment. It’s written in archaic script and I haven’t really mastered it yet,” Wonwoo said, still hunched over the document. “So, it says here that in exchange for the dismissal of the case as well as increased support for Luce Trading, the Gestalts agreed to…to illegally smuggle in Cilvekans into Porta Persa…”

Wonwoo turned his gaze back at you and Soonyoung as if he had realized something. His eyes were blank and his lips ajar as he uttered the same last words he had said like a whispered chant—clearly, it was a huge epiphany.

“I think we might’ve ran into something much bigger than we had expected.”

◇

Dusk was already settling on the horizon when you were able to return to your gaudy dorm room; painting the marble white walls in a gradient of pink skies and sunset orange. You hesitated before turning the doorknob which usually led to the common room—wondering if Lee Jihoon went back earlier than usual, and what you were going to do about it considering what had happened a few weeks ago.

There was really nothing left to say.

You shook those thoughts away and just braced yourself for the unforeseen. It made no sense to overthink situations which happened weeks ago. Lee Jihoon’s presence in the dorm was pretty much lacking ever since the whole Cilvekan issue had blown up. He might’ve forgotten it already and it made you look ridiculous being so hung up over it.

Unsurprisingly, the common room was empty and you only sighed at your dramatics. You thought something had changed between you and Jihoon that night, but it seemed like it was only your imagination. The dorm was as empty as when you had first arrived a few months ago.

With an innocuous shrug, you stepped away from the doorway and went for the dinner table. The suppressant you had drank from last night was wearing off and you needed another dose before that invasive voice in your head starts speaking again. You were glad that your body had finally developed a tolerance to the painful side effects of the suppressants, or else, people would’ve easily noticed how much pain you were trying to conceal.

Opening your pack of alchemical compounds and ingredients, you took a transparent olive green bottle and swirled it around to agitate the particles that had settled to the bottom. Removing the cork, you took a whiff of the godawful scent and simply prepared yourself for the equally rancid taste. Before you could though, you…hesitated.

Hm?

You looked down on the bottle you were holding, the solution inside swirling as much as your mind was. Why were you hesitating? What was stopping you from taking another dose from the same suppressant you had been drinking for the past month? It was strange. Truly strange that you were making a decision over such a simple task that you had done over and over again for the past few months.

Didn’t you want to block that voice? Didn’t you want to prevent yourself from hurting that’s why you’re doing this? Then why are you hesitating? What’s stopping you from drinking?

“I feel heavy…”

You muttered softly as if any more weight in your voice could make it more unbearable. It was indeed strange—every time you decided to drink it, the heavier your heart becomes as if some parts of it were slowly turning into ice. You felt guilty for something; felt sorry for something you had no idea of. Could it be that you were actually feeling remorseful for the things you’ve done to your soulmate?

Gazing at the bottle one more time, you only felt more sick and grossed out; your stomach belching. It was like the dark liquid inside was a direct representation of all the hate and cold heartedness brewing inside your heart, and you didn’t like how it looked. It felt like some kind of cruel karma finally hitting you back.

Please don’t leave me…

A voice echoed in your head. You instantly panicked, afraid that it was really your soulmate, but it wasn’t. It was Jihoon’s voice. Jihoon wasn’t your soulmate.

Please don’t reject me. I’m sorry…

You didn’t know how to describe the pressure, the pain wringing your heart. It was excruciating. You felt sick. The look on Jihoon’s face that night was all your mind’s eye could see; the way he pleaded for you to stay by his side; the way he held you tightly between his arms as if you were going to slip away at any second. It was like you had caused him direct pain even if you didn’t know how or why.

“Jihoon…”

Your eyes wandered to the bottle in your hands again, but this time you stuck the cork back in, sealing it away for now. Whether or not you’ll stop taking them was a decision you weren’t ready to make. For now, it was best not to tempt karma.

Before you could utter another word however, you heard the main door open and you hurriedly cleaned up your mess on the table. You placed the green bottle in its usual place, glancing at it with thoughts in your head, before dismissing them altogether.

“Y/N? I didn’t know you’d be here,” a familiar voice echoed across the room, making you turn in an instant.

Jihoon was still clad in his formal attire—an all-black suit that made him look like he was going to a funeral. He had been busy running around gathering support for the petition he was championing and it had truly been an exhausting day. He had just finished hanging his coat over the sofa when you averted your attention to him.

“I—well, this is also my dorm so…” you awkwardly replied, your hands gesturing wildly.

“Ah, right, right. Sorry,” Jihoon replied, now a bit embarrassed of his rather obvious observation before he decided to walk away from you.

Considering his usual attitude, you assumed that he would immediately march his way towards his room and lock himself away from the outside world. However, the fact that he was still in the common room, pacing back and forth like some anxious teenager, debating internally if he wanted this or that remain, hinting that he was not done yet.

“Jihoon…?” You asked, slightly worried about him.

“I—“ he began, then wavered, his mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish. It was embarrassing, but he just couldn’t find the courage to say what he wanted to say. Not after the fact that he had cried in front of you that night.

“Are…are you ok?” Your brows were furrowed, now wondering what was the matter with him. “I can make some basic potions—“

“No! No, I’m fine. I’m fine,” Jihoon interrupted and then pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “It’s just, well…you remember a few weeks ago when I got drunk? I realized I haven’t thanked you yet and I just wanted to make it up to you and well…”

Upon hearing his words, you immediately raised your brows in surprise. This was definitely not what you had expected.

“No, it’s ok! You don’t have to thank me!” you replied, now a tad bit embarrassed as well, as you gave him a small smile.

“But I want to,” he said with the usual firmness in his voice, glad that it was back. “And despite being roommates, we never had the chance to get to know each other better.”

“Oh,” was the only thing you could say at that time. He had a point though—you both were partners back in that stupid ball, plus he had seen your breakdown before and you had already seen him crying. You both should just call it quits and end the not-so ‘indifferent’ relationship you had between the two of you.

“Maybe we could have dinner together…?” Jihoon asked tentatively as he checked his pocket watch. “I know a place you might like.”

“Out-outside?” You asked, wholly astonished by how fast things had turned out. “I-uh…”

Honestly, there was no harm in having dinner with your roommate. You already live virtually together, so what’s a small dinner to the both of you anyway? And for some deeper reason, you wanted to indulge him. Maybe because you felt sorry for him that night, maybe you had grown fond of him over time, you don’t know. You weren’t sure. Maybe something did change that night.

“Only if you want to, of course. We can eat here as well—“

“It’s fine, Jihoon,” you interrupted, fiddling with your fingers because you couldn’t bear to look at him, especially with how fast your heart was racing. “Let’s have dinner together.”

◇

It was a rather lovely night outside.

The skies were dark and the moon and stars were twinkling brightly underneath you. Yet what caught your attention the most was where Jihoon had taken you for dinner.

Lanterns of various colors lit up above you, hanging on string and bathing the whole area in a warm and vibrant glow. There was live music as bands strum their mandolins and played their fiddles, creating an ambiance of celebration and vivid colors.

A lot of people had gathered in the area, raucous laughter and loud chatting could be heard from everywhere. All of these placed next to a cliff side which had the best view of Porta Persa at night; the lights from houses and street lamps shimmering against the dark backdrop of the port city like distant stars high above the night sky. It was truly a sight to behold, especially when things had gotten tense and gloomy lately.

“It’s a night market,” Jihoon explained, still clad in his all black attire though he had removed his tie and unbuttoned the first two on his shirt. “Since the ports are where most tourists enter Porta Persa, we coordinated with all the local governments in the country and established a night market to boast the different cuisines found in Porta Persa.”

Your eyes were still filled by the sights while Jihoon began talking, yet despite that, you were listening to him intently, and his explanation just made you explode with amazement.

“Oh wow! Really? That’s actually quite ingenious!” You exclaimed with a bright smile, turning to him as you both walked around to check the stalls. “We should definitely feature this in the Edition! Look at what most people are missing out!”

Jihoon made a small smile at your comment, watching as you checked every single food stall for something you haven’t seen yet. He liked it when you were just having fun, unbothered by the problems of the world—just genuinely at the moment, smiling and laughing in front of him. If you could stay like that, he felt like he was at peace.

“Look Jihoon!” you called out to him excitedly, on your hands was a grilled fish on a stick. “This is a delicacy from the Oihe region! They would soak the fish for a month in Rejhu juice, which is a fruit only found there that has impressive preservation properties, and then grill it! It could go on for several months which is perfect for the region’s harsh cold climate. That’s what the lady told me though.”

“I haven’t tried that yet,” he remarked, and then smirked, “Maybe I’ll take some from your share.”

“Eh…but this is mine,” you pursed your lips and turned your head. “You go buy your own.”

Acting like a petulant child, Jihoon couldn’t help but chuckle at your antics, much to your chagrin. With an irate expression, you looked at him, who was covering half of his face with his hand as he laughed—you didn’t really appreciate being laughed at.

“What’s the matter?” you asked with your eyebrows knitting, your hands on your waist.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” he replied, still in his laughing fit which eventually subsided into a smirk in a few moments. “I just—I never expected you to act like this at all.”

“Act?” you leaned your head to the side in bewilderment. “But I’m always like this.”

“I always thought you were the serious type, you know,” Jihoon explained, his lips curving; his eyes glistening against the vivid golden lights up above you. “I just never anticipated you could be so adorably childish as well.”

“Adorably childish?!” you repeated, now a bit flustered that you had been acting that way the whole time. “That—that was never my intention!”

Jihoon only smiled at you and patted your head gently. “It’s okay. I like it.”

You couldn’t muster a reply to that comment because of how heated your face had become. No one really complimented you like that, and above all, it was Lee Jihoon who did it—the same person you were rather indifferent four months ago.

“Come on, let’s go have some dinner,” he simply said without further ado. Taking in your silence, Jihoon decided to move on and walk around the market, leaving you in your thoughts.

In the end, both you found yourselves sitting on a table with a clear view of the Porta Persa skyline, giving the situation a rather romantic ambiance which you never really had planned on. Before you, warm food of various origins were placed neatly on the table, waiting to be eaten and fill your hungry stomachs.

“You have…. rather interesting choices,” you remarked upon seeing Jihoon’s meal of choice while you carefully dissected your fish from before.

“Hm?” Jihoon looked up to you with a questioning look, a fork and a knife on his hands. “Oh, these are from Santaragossa. They might be a bit spicy, but I do miss them from time to time.”

“Ah, you were from Santaragossa? I always thought you were born and raised in the capital,” you replied, taking a sip from a citrus fruit blend you found rather interesting.

“Why so?” he asked, downing a piece of braised meat. “I assumed I gave an impression of someone from the provinces.”

“Not at all,” you gave him an austere look. “You seem like you run the place.”

“Do I now?” Jihoon asked, his lips again curving into a tiny smirk. “I never realized you thought of me that way. I appreciate your sentiments though.”

“But what is it like?” you suddenly asked. “I mean, living in Santaragossa?”

Jihoon leaned his head to the side, wondering why you were asking him this so suddenly.

“That place was my childhood. The summers were cool and the winters were not too cold. Most of the land are large vineyards and olive groves so I would run around a lot and play with the animals and so on. There is also a large lake near the house which is a great place to swim in during summer months. I do have private tutors, so please don’t get the wrong idea that I wasn’t in school.”

As you watched him talk about his hometown, you noticed how Jihoon had brightened up, rekindling fond memories from his childhood. He seemed to be at peace and less troubled than he was a few hours before, and it gave you a sense of serenity as well, gazing at him like what you were doing at that moment.

“Just by looking at you, I could already tell that it’s such a great place,” you remarked, grinning. “I’ve never really left the capital before, that’s why I always wanted to go to one of the provinces. Since you definitely sold me the idea, I might want to go to Santaragossa someday, given the opportunity.”

A thought struck Jihoon in an instant.

“Hypothetically speaking, if I’d invite you to come with me to Santaragossa next week, would you go?”

At that very moment, in the middle of a night market, you were stunned to silence.

#seventeen #caratwritersclub #svtcreations #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfics #seventeen woozi #lee jihoon #the most convenient escape #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff

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fluffykitty1999-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Burned Chapter 20

The static in his head overwhelmed everything. His throat was raw and burning, as though he'd gargled nails. His chest was heavy, as though there was an elephant sitting on him. He was just a disembodied torso, floating on a wave of heat in the ocean. The water supported him, and he floated on his back and stared up at a totally black sky.

Above the static, he could hear soft crying.

"Big brother..."

But the voice receded behind the static. Water lapped at his cheeks, raindrops he couldn't see landed on his face, and he frowned, squirming.

He could feel small hands grabbing his flesh arm, and he looked down into the water and panicked, terrified it'd be those tiny black hands of truth pulling him through the gate again...

But as he thrashed, the hands receded, and he was back to floating on a sea of black water and staring up at the dark sky. He frowned, suddenly aware of the dull aching in all of his limbs.

He stifled a moan- his arms and legs felt as though they were full of pins and needles.

There was that voice again, pushing the static aside.

"Please open your eyes!"

He groaned and turned away, trying to push the voice away and gather the static back up. It wasn't pleasant, but it was something to dull the throbbing in his head...

"I'm scared!"

There was so much fear in that voice, he froze for a moment, before he was letting go of the static in his hands and swallowing, taking a deep breath and fighting through the pain, hurrying to get to that voice... Someone needed his help.

He opened his eyes and gasped, breaking out in a fit of coughing that left his eyes watering and already sore chest burning.

"Big brother!"

Elicia was still clinging to him, and he struggled to sit up to he could cough up a mouthful of black ashes from his mouth.

Slowly, recollection came trickling back to him.

Babysitting. The fire. The bathtub, the crawl space- the darkness all around them. They were still in his little dirt igloo, and the house was probably still burning. It was still hot. Or was it? He didn't know, he was dizzy.

"Elicia-" he was surprised by how raspy his voice sounded. "Are you alright?"

Elicia nodded, though she was still crying and sniffling, her teary eyes wide. "I thought you died! I thought I was stuck in this cave and I was gonna die too!"

Ed had no idea what to say to that, so he simply pulled the girl into a hug. It's what Mustang would've done for him.

Elicia dissolved into small, hiccuping sobs.

His soot covered hand came up to rub small circles on her back.

"I know, Elicia, It's been a bad night. I know." he soothed. "But you've been really brave- your dad would be proud..."

"Really?" Elicia looked up at him with watery eyes. She was close enough that he could see the tracks of soot-free skin from her tears.

"Yeah, really. We're almost home free. We just have to wait until the fire gets put out- then our dads will come get us..."

"Mustang is your daddy?" Elicia asked, looking surprised.

Maybe he was delirious from the exhaustion. Yeah. That was it. "Yeah. He is. And he's looking for me. Bastard." he couldn't help but smile at the last word, though he could feel the static starting to creep into his head again. He pushed it back.

"Elicia- can you help me sit up?"

Small hands- Elicia's hands, not the tiny black hands of the gate that showed him heaven and hell, eternity and nothing- Elicia, dammit- helped him sit up. The action left him more than a little winded, and he tried to calm his trembling and sweating. His chest burned- every breath was like sandpaper in his lungs. He tried to ignore the wave of nausea that washed over him. But clearly something wasn't right with his body- he was too exhausted to even consider tunneling out of this mess with his alchemy.

Even if the energy it took to perform the transmutation didn't leave him unconscious, he doubted he'd be able to make a stable tunnel with his head throbbing the way it was. That would be ironic- surviving the fire only to die buried in his own tunnel.

No, it was best to just sit and wait here.

Elicia had her sooty fingers in her mouth and was chewing on them- she was nervous.

"Come here, Elicia. Sit on my lap for a little while." he could at least distract the girl.

"It's dark here. I don't like it." Elicia did as he said, climbing into his lap. Ed swallowed down a groan of pain as she jostled his sore body. His legs hurt, but mostly his back was on fire... Still, she didn't need to know that.

"Yeah. It is dark. But if you just close your eyes, then it's not so bad, because its your dark." he was too tired to make sense now.

But Elicia closed her eyes anyways. Her fingers had fallen out of her mouth, and she rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

"Just be still for a little while, Elicia. Maybe when you wake up, your dad will be here."

"Mmmhmmm." Elicia nodded eagerly at the idea, though her eyes were still closed.

Ed listened in the darkness until her breathing evened out and she was asleep, before he coughed as quietly as he possibly could, wincing at the pain it caused.

This was odd. Sitting in the darkness, calmly. He wasn't one to sit and wait for help. But he was in no state to do anything to get himself out, and he trusted his family would be here for them soon.

In the back of his mind, the normal Edward- irrational, impatient, scared, having to do it all alone- shouted. Do something! Get out of here! They won't come for you You have to do it yourself, nobody is gonna come save you! Get up! Fight! Don't give up!

He wasn't giving up. He wasn't. But he'd realized- at some point, when he'd woken up in his room to find Roy asleep in a chair beside his bed at the Colonel's house- that he was no longer alone. He didn't have to do this on his own. He wasn't strong enough to save himself right now- but he didn't have to be. Because they would.

Roy Mustang hated rubble. He hated it. Despised going through charred beams- normally even seeing the remains of a house fire or arson scene was enough to set him into a week of sleepless nights, with ashes he couldn't wash off his hands no matter how hard he scrubbed and the smell of burnt hair that never left his nose.

But tonight- well, he went through wreckage like a fish in the sea, not caring how it stained him, dirtied him- Ed was in there somewhere. He had no time to be afraid.

If Ed had been on the first floor, he'd have most likely been able to get out of the home. Which meant that since he gotten out- they'd most likely been trapped somewhere on the second floor.

Roy forced himself to breathe- he ignored the smell of burnt wood and fabric, simply realizing that he was breathing and appreciating that, even though at the moment it didn't feel like it- he WAS in fact breathing, and so that hammering of his heart in his chest and feeling of not being able to breathe was his head lying to him. He had no time for this. Ed needed him.

He closed his eyes and envisioned the floor plan of the Hughes' home in his mind. He'd rarely been upstairs, but he'd helped Hughes move a bed up there when they'd moved in, so he knew the rough layout of the bedrooms and the one bathroom upstairs.

Ed had probably been in Elicia's bedroom, putting her to bed.

Roy moved through the wreckage, which was over his knees at some points, and stood below where Elicia's bedroom would've been- had been- two hours before. Something caught his eye, and he knelt down, sifting through the burned wood and tiles, pulling out a partially burned piece of cardboard. It was half charred beyond recognition, but on the unburned part, Roy could make out half of a 'Chutes and Ladders' game boards.

Roy's heart started to beat faster, if that was possible. He cast the gameboard aside, continuing to dig through the rubble. But there was nothing- no burnt hair, no burnt flesh...

Even if they'd been burned, Ed's automail probably would have remained- or at leas thte metal would have melted. But there was nothing. They had been in this bedroom, but they'd fled- probably when they'd realized there was a fire.

You couldn't make it downstairs, it was an inferno. The second floor was being burnt... where did you go?

Roy strode to where he'd seen the hallway. There weren't many options- a small closet, Hughes and Gracia's room, an office... Or the bathroom.

Roy scanned the rubble critically. It was up to his knees at most points- the burnt metal skeleton of springs that had once been the couch laid twisted at one point, but towards where the bathroom had been, the wreckage was higher, nearly piled up to his waist...

Did you hide in there? Turn on the water and try to buy yourself some time?

He was scaling the pile of wreckage now, pawing through it carefully until he stood on top of it. Over most of it, he caught a hint of white- a clawfooted bathtub? It'd fallen down from the second floor.

And there was water in it.

Roy tripped on something and stumbled, nearly falling. He looked behind him, brushing aside the pieces of burnt wood and plaster to see what looked to be hardened dirt... that was covered in transmutation marks. There was a hole in the floor- or what remained of it, anyways. And from beneath it, the crawl space, there was a small dome of dirt projecting upward- like someone had made a little cave to try and keep the rubble and heat off of themselves.

"Ed! Can you hear me!?" He was filled with strength he didn't know he had, picking up a heavy beam of wood and casting it aside. Hughes and Alphonse had heard him, and they raced over as well to help.

"He's in there! I can see the transmutation marks! ED! Ed, are you there!" They'd nearly uncovered the top of the dome, now, and Roy looked around. "I need some chalk."

"ED! Ed, can you hear me!?"

"Elicia! Daddy's here!"

"Brother! Are you in there!?"

"They're here big brother!" Elicia shook him, and Ed grunted, gasping in pain, before he looked up. He could hear the muffled voices of Roy, Hughes, and his brother outside.

He allowed himself a small smile.

"We're here!" he tried to call, but his voice was hoarse and weak.

Elicia looked at him with concern.

"Go over and yell. They'll get through soon."

"DADDY! DADDY I'M HERE!"

"Daddy! Daddy I'm here!"

Hughes legs gave out from under him, and he fell to his knees in the rubble, hearing the small voice. "Elicia! We're coming to get you, Daddy is, I promise..."

Roy hurriedly finished sketching the freehand array on top of the dome with chalk. He was no geological alchemist, but he'd studied it vaguely years ago... He slammed his hands on the array, and in a flash of blue light, the hardened dirt crumbled to dust, giving a view of the small cave within... And a small, soot covered Elicia.

"Daddy!"

Roy reached in and grabbed the girl beneath the arms, pulling her out and handing her over to a waiting Hughes, who smothered her in kisses.

"Ed? Are you in there?"

Ed had managed to get to his feet- the dome he'd created wasn't very big, and he had to walk hunched over, but he made it to the hole in the wall and looked up at Roy expectantly. The only part of the boy's face that wasn't covered in soot was his golden eyes, and even they were dull with exhaustion. Still, Ed cracked a small smile at the sight of him, his white teeth looking unnaturally bright in contrast with his sooty skin. "Took you long enough, Bastard." he said hoarsely.

Roy offered his hand and the boy gratefully took it, and Roy pulled him up from the hole onto solid ground.

Ed stumbled for a moment once he was out, but regained his balance, though Roy regarded him with concern.

"And then big brother made us get in the tub, an' he broke the toilet, and the tub fell through the floor and made a big splash!" Elicia was regaling Hughes, who'd handed her off to Gracia and was wiping his eyes.

"Are you alright, brother?" Al asked, soulfire eyes gazing at Ed carefully.

"Yeah Al, I'm-" Ed paused, doubling over as a hacking cough shook his frame. He spat a mouthful of black soot onto the ground and wheezed for a second, before straightening up and giving his brother a shaky smile "Fine."

"We're going to the hospital." Roy said, no room in his voice for argument.

"No!" Ed protested hoarsely.

"You can hardly stand." Roy said, onyx eyes looking at the boy critically.

"I can hardly stand for this bullshit any longer, you mean." Ed said, wiping his chapped lips. "Do you guys have any water? I'm thirsty."

"No, but we'll get you some- at the hospital." Roy said firmly.

"I'm fine!" Ed protested.

"Then walk to the car." Roy pointed.

"Okay, fine you grumpy bastard..."

Ed took two steps before his legs gave out.

"Brother!"

"Ed!"

Roy said nothing, simply catching the boy as he fell and nodding. "That's what I thought. How 'fine' are you again?"

"I don't wanna stay at the hospital!" Ed's voice bordered on whining, proof of just how tired the boy was. He looked up at Roy desperately "I want to go home!".

"I didn't say we'd stay, Ed." Roy said, expression softening. "But we at least need to get you looked at. Then we can go home."

"We should probably go as well, with Elicia." Mrs. Hughes pointed out.

Ed realized, for the first time, that the Hughes were here.

"Oh shit."

Everyone paused.

"Hughes- I, uh... I'm really sorry about the house. I mean, it burned down, but I didn't burn it down, but you guys left me babysitting for one night and your house burned down... I'm sorry." Ed lowered his eyes as though he were ashamed.

Hughes burst out laughing.

Ed looked up, surprised at the outburst, and Hughes stepped over, placing one hand on a seated Ed's shoulder while the other was wrapped around Gracia and Elicia.

"Ed- I don't give a damn about the house. Everything that's important to me is right here."

As always, coffee is appreciated! https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12

#fma fanfiction #FMA #burned #burns #injury #accident #Edwhumph #edward elric whumph #parentalroy #parental roy #roy mustang #ed whump #whumph #whump #angst #hurt ed #comfort #hurt #hurt/comfort

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sombreboy · 5 years ago

Text

Love Maze »12

Previous » Next Series Masterlist ▎ 18+ ▎ pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook ▎ genre: School AU, crack humor, smut, angst, ETL, slow burn, fluff. ▎ word count: 14.4k ▎ ch.warnings: cursing, just two boys that are dumb for and to each other, fluffy fluff, jealousy, dom!tae, sub!jk, fingering, anal, car sex.

Co-writer: @velvetwicebang ♡♡♡

When the next morning arrived, everyone could sense the new grown tension between Jungkook and Taehyung.

It wasn’t like before, where they’d shoot dirty looks at each other from across the room just for the hell of it, adding on to their small feud.

Tae couldn’t even face Jungkook’s direction, much less glare at him for yesterday’s events.

He knew he had some fault in the matter..

But still, Taehyung was one stubborn guy. Part of him was hoping that Kook would reach out to him first.

Of course, that didn’t happen.

The elder sat with Haechan and the others during breakfast, picking out the sugary marshmallows from his cereal, curious eyes occasionally wandering over to his usual table.

Jungkook was just as stubborn, still upset over the words Tae had thrown at him during last night’s argument. It was not something Kook would easily forget... But, a part of him wondered why Taehyung even chose to say it in the first place? He stormed out, and no apology was ever received. It was fucked up.

School sucked, he missed having the elder around. Now, instead, he was back to either lingering among his hyungs, or being all by himself.

Honestly, he just wanted to be left alone for a bit, and after a long struggle with his team they finally gave in to giving the younger space.

Jungkook grabbed his tray as he walked across the dining hall, his eyes quickly found Taehyung sitting with his other friends. The friends that apparently had called him slurs…

Before he'd let Tae notice that he was looking, he sauntered over to his usual table, not bothered by the fact that people definitely were looking at him

One, some simply stared because they knew he's gay.

Two, others stared because usually, he doesn't sit by himself.

Three, because now somebody suddenly thumped down on their ass across from Jungkook, and it was probably the last person Jungkook wanted, or expected to see. Even Taehyung would've been a preferred face than this one.

''Hey, Jungkookie.'' Ash rested his chin on top of his palm, elbow firmly pressing into the table. A small smile creeped on his face, a scar adorning his lower lip as a trophy from Taehyung's fist.

Taehyung was one of the people who was definitely looking at him, furrowed eyes following Jungkook’s every move as if everyone else in the cafeteria was just a speck of dust— irrelevant and unimportant.

The elder brought the small milk carton up to his lips, still keeping an eye on Kook over Kai’s shoulder, wondering why the younger was sitting on his own.

However, because of someone, Tae didn’t wonder about that for long.

As soon as he saw Ash approach Jungkook, the carton in Taehyung’s hand became his enemy.

The boy’s grip tightened around it, and if it wasn’t for Haechan who called him out on his weird behavior, strawberry milk would’ve most likely exploded everywhere.

What the hell was Ash doing?

It was killing Taehyung, not knowing.

Jungkook's eyes met Ash's, the knot of anxiety in the younger's gut was suddenly so tight that his appetite was nonexistent.

''What do you want?''

Ash leaned back against his chair with his arms crossed,gaze roaming the younger, falling on the bandaged hand.

''What happened?'' Completely ignoring Jungkook’s question, he seemed concerned.

''Why do you care?'' Jungkook scoffs, now seemingly annoyed. However, he was more uncomfortable and anxious than anything. Just the fact that there's people around was the one thing soothing his nerves.

''Of course I care, Kook...'' Ash sighs, ''You sat here all by yourself, so I wanted to check on you. Where's that.. Taehyung guy, hm? Finally got rid of him?''

Jungkook's tongue prodded his cheek, slamming his fist against the table-- startling nearby people. But not Ash, he expected this reaction.

''I suppose I was right.'' Ash shrugged, ''I'm still down if you need to.. relieve some tension.''

''You're sick.'' Kook growled lowly, not bothering to grab his tray before getting up and storming out of there, leaving an amused Ash still seated.

The latters eyes found Taehyung's, a small nod in acknowledgement followed before his wolfish grin grew. Ash was a predator, slowly getting back into the life of its prey. One way or the other, he loved the struggle of getting there.

But they didn't know that.

When Taehyung’s sour gaze clashed with Ash’s devilish stare from across the room, his lips twisted up in the form of a small snarl, wanting nothing more than to punch that unsettling grin off his face.

Whatever it was that Ash said to Jungkook, Tae didn’t like it one bit. And apparently Kook thought the same thing, walking out of the dining hall to god knows where.

Taehyung wanted to go after him, to check in.. but stubborn was his middle name, so he stayed put.

The rest of the day was shit, it consisted of Tae contemplating whether or not to shoot Kook a message. What would it say? He had no fucking clue.

Along with constantly contemplating, Taehyung spent most of his classes just.. thinking. Thinking about what happened, Jungkook’s condition, and what the hell his next move was going to be.

It scared Tae— that their relationship could be over without him even knowing. For all he knew, Kook might’ve already made up his mind.

When it was finally time to get out of there, Taehyung didn’t bother waiting for the younger in the common area, roughly pushing on the busy doors and walking out to the parking lot, squinting his eyes from the bright sun.

He had to admit, the passenger seat felt a little empty without Jungkook’s butt on it.

It was a bright day, but Tae wasn’t.

Jungkook's mind was flooded as he was walking down the hallway towards the exit. As he reached the common area, he automatically searched for Taehyung's form by the doors, and a piece of him felt his stomach twist when he was nowhere to be seen.

Not that he would've gone with him anyway. Why would he?...

He still wasn't sure what was going on, but this must mean that Taehyung surely meant to leave everything as it was, his last words still sore in Kook's heart.

Now, on top of this entire mess, Ash had resurfaced to bother his mind. What the fuck does he mean, 'relieve some tension' ? He pops up as soon as Jungkook is alone and assumes he's free to fuck?

Psycho.

Jungkook pushed through the doors with his backpack tightly strapped against his shoulder, the bright sun hitting his eyes.

''Ah..'' It was nice. Perfect running weather, honestly. And what better way to give his mind a break than exercise. He took advantage of the moment, putting the backpack on properly as he started to walk, gradually speeding up into a jog.

Maybe he'd give Jisoo-noona a knock.

“Yuna.. please? For mommy?”

Jisoo was in the middle of trying to feed the iron-willed girl, attempting to airplane the spoonful of baby food into the sobbing girl’s mouth.

She even added sound effects— knowing how much her daughter loved them— but it was no use.

On any other day, carrots were her favorite. But today, Yuna needed Froot Loops, completely disregarding any other kind of food until she got what she wanted.

“What kind of mom would I be if I just let you eat unhealthy things?”

Jisoo sighed, pulling a handful of her hair away from Yuna’s determined fist.

A second later, and the knocking on her door gave her an excuse to shift her attention from the loud crying, running her fingers through her bird nest of hair before unlocking the door, not looking to see who was on the other side.

“What do— Jungkook?”

Shit. Her worn out expression flushed with color, embarrassed that the younger had to see her like this— baby food adorning her oversized shirt, eye bags under her eyes, hair looking like it hasn’t been combed in years, ‘’Oh, uhm.. come— come in! Sorry, about this.”

Jisoo signaled over her appearance with an exhausted exhale, Yuna’s crying ringing in the background, “It’s been a rough day.” She forced out a chuckle, rubbing at her arm.

“Anyways! How was school?”

The woman walked over to where her daughter was, trying to calm her down.

Jungkook's eyes widen momentarily at her messy state, stepping inside as he shrugs.

''It was, uh, a day. Okay I guess.''

As he makes his way inside, he follows Jisoo towards the sound of the crying child, approaching the little one with a smile, ''Oh, somebody's grumpy!''

Jungkook felt his past worries wash away for a moment when he sees Yuna's expression morph from her stubborn cries to wide doe eyes, a small coo at the sight of Kook.

She was so cute, and feeling that her pure joy was immediate from seeing him, he felt excited too, his childlike bunny-smile evident as he reaches out to ruffle her soft hair,

''Mood swings at this age, huh?''

“You can say that again..” Jisoo tiredly mumbled, sitting down on the floor cross-legged.

While she stirred the small jar of food, she spared the newcomer a quick glance.

“Just okay? Did you and Taehyung talk? Say aah..” The woman guided the spoon into Yuna’s mouth, who happily obliged this time around, big eyes still glued on the guy whom she’s gotten used to seeing. The shift didn’t go unnoticed by Jisoo, who suddenly wished that Jungkook would come over everyday if it meant that her daughter would be less fussy.

Also.. he was nice to talk to.

Jungkook slumped down on the floor next to Jisoo, making small faces at Yuna to keep her happy as she mindlessly accepted every spoonful from her mother at this point.

He glances over at Jisoo, a shake of his head accompanying his response.

''He didn't even look at me, so I.. I didn't either.''

He sighs quietly, but then he shrugs, ''It's whatever, right? How are you?'' His eyes observe her, she looks really tired, ''Are you getting enough rest? I could help with Yuna ..'' He offered without hesitation, a little surprised himself. But in all honesty, he really did enjoy it here-- even if he barely knew either of the girls. It just felt very homey. Caring. And since last night, noona felt like somebody he could lean on, so he wanted to be the same for her.

The woman’s face morphed from serious to surprised.

Serious, because she felt a little bad about the fall out of both boys’ relationship. The understanding part of her wanted them to resolve their conflicts, communicate.

After the short pizza gathering the other day, Jisoo felt like she earned herself some new friends. Even though she only knew them for a short period of time, the woman felt like they were genuine people.

And genuine people belong together, no?

However... She also enjoyed spending alone time with Jungkook, which is why her weary eyes widened after making out the latter’s unexpected offer.

Help with Yuna..?

No guy has ever volunteered to help, all of them would scram the moment they knew she had a daughter. But Jungkook, he was different.

Jisoo’s gaze softened, a sincere smile tugging at her lips.

She momentarily stopped feeding the baby, resting one hand on Jungkook’s thigh.

He’s a sweetheart..

“Don’t worry about me, okay? And don’t be silly. You need to focus on your studies!”

Afterwards, Yuna let out a high-pitched squeal, as if she was agreeing with Jisoo.

Jungkook barely noticed nor put any thought to the hand on his thighs, simply shrugging once more with a smile.

''I have great grades. Besides, it's really not a big deal to me-- if you need some help..'' His eyes find Yuna, his infectious smile appearing again, ''Don't be afraid to ask. You need to take care of yourself too.''

He reaches to gently grab the baby food and spoon from Jisoo's hands, wanting to try it out himself as he scoops a small spoon of food to guide it to the little one's mouth, his own mouth opening wide as he speaks, ''Aaaahh~''

Yuna mimics his movements, happily eating as she giggles at his shenanigans.

He really was good with babies.

Jisoo didn’t say anything else after that, and instead just gazed at the side of Kook’s face as he fed Yuna.

Her heart was beating really fast, this wasn’t good..

With a fond smile, the woman flicked her attention back on her daughter. Her hand had yet to scurry away from Jungkook’s thigh, thumb caressing over the fabric of the boy’s jeans.

“Why is it that she seems to like you more than me?”

Jisoo pouted, leaning her body weight against the other’s shoulder, huffing out of jealousy.

Jungkook stiffened slightly, suddenly hyper aware of the way she leaned against him. It felt different-- one, it wasn't Taehyung.. Two, it wasn't terrible. It was nice in a way. He felt like Jisoo finally felt comfortable with him, kooks innocent mind only taking it as a friendly touch.

"I doubt that... maybe because I havent had to tell her no yet" he chuckles, shoulders shaking lightly with it as he feeds Yuna the remaining food before he's finished, "You ate it all! Good job!" He grins, clapping his hands in joy, which brings yuna to mimic the movements with a small squee, "Noona, did you have dinner yet? I'm hungry too."

The woman now sat up a little straighter, eyes crinkled as she clapped along with Jungkook, enjoying the sweet feel of it all.

She didn’t think further into it for long, knowing Kook was still caught up on Taehyung— a guy.

In that moment, Jisoo found herself wondering about the boy’s sexuality..

Not that it was any of her business, but, was there a possibility that he was bisexual? You know.. into women?

Kook’s words pulled her out of it, though; her vision coming back to focus.

Jisoo felt awful for even thinking of that. After all, she promised herself no dating.

Caring for Yuna was her top priority.

“I didn’t yet.. would you like me to make you something?” The woman asked, walking into her kitchen only to rummage through her pantry, tiptoeing to reach a packet of noodles.

“How does veggie noodle soup sound? I’ve been told that’s my specialty!”

Jisoo wiggled her eyebrows, waiting for an answer when more knocks made her whip her head in the direction of her front door.

Who else could it be?

Sparing Kook a questioning glance, she hesitantly walked over to the door, peeking through the peephole.

“It’s your friend, Namjoon.” Jisoo looked back at Jungkook, just as equally confused to see him here.

Meanwhile, on the other side, Joon felt like he was about to pee his pants from the nerves.

He wanted to check in on Jungkook, that was all. Nothing more.

He’d already talked to Taehyung during school today, and it didn’t hurt to see how Kook was doing as well..

The boy tried to convince himself that was the reason— and part of it was— but the truth is, he wanted to see her, Jisoo.

God, he felt like such an idiot..

''Veggie soup sounds good, next time I could--'' Jungkook was interrupted by the knocking, watching Jisoo exchange a just as confused look as he did, waiting for her to check who it is.

Namjoon? What is he doing here?

Well, the obvious, checking on Kook... But he already did yesterday, and today. Namjoon surely is a worried father figure in Jungkook's life.

Namjoon shifted the weight on his feet, anxiously waiting for the door to open, and when it did, he was kind of disappointed to see that it was Jungkook who opened it and not Jisoo.

''Hyung, I'm okay, don't worry too much about me.'' Jungkook attempted a smile to soothe the elders' nerves.

''Ah, well, I had to check... You know me,'' He chuckled awkwardly, rubbing his nape as he cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of Jisoo in the back.

''How's your, uh.. Friend?''

Internally. smacking. himself.

He really was a sneaky fox when it came to everything; except women.

Jungkook's eyebrows raised in mild surprise, glancing over his shoulder at his noona. He turns back to Joon, leaning in to whisper his next words.

''She's really exhausted, so I'm helping out.''

Joon nods, a tightness of worry in his gut at the words. He wanted to help too,

''Well....'' Should he offer it? No, it's too weird, isn't it, ''You're kind, Kook. I'm glad you're well.''

Namjoon left it at that, trying to conceal his inner dissatisfaction as he flashed Jungkook a dimpled smile. Nonetheless, he was happy to see the younger less.. out of it. At least something good flourished from his last minute visit.

Joon shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans before walking out of the apartment building; still not knowing a thing about the woman who caught his eye.

“This was so stupid..” He sourly mumbled to himself, ruffling his own hair out of frustration.

Why must he have a crush?

Namjoon knew that was only a recipe for embarrassment, a lot of stuttering, and a reckless heart.

Joon couldn’t afford to take in all of that, not when there was a big game near.

But.. maybe afterwards, he’ll ask Jisoo out.

The boy nodded to himself, feeling more confident compared to a few seconds ago.

Yeah, that’s what he was going to do.

For now, though, he had to worry about what he’d include in tomorrow’s practice. Namjoon wanted to make sure that all of his guys were confident; him included.

The following day, Taehyung strolled into the locker room a little later than everyone else, exhausted.

The boy barely got any sleep last night, and it seemed like every time he’d try to close his eyes, an electric rush of guilt would stream through his veins.

Tae knew he couldn’t sleep it off, confrontation appeared to be the remedy he’s been needing.

His favorite.

Safe to say, Taehyung wasn’t looking forward to speaking to Jungkook today..

For all he knew, Kook would ignore him; disregard the speech he’s practiced in head over and over again— and for a valid reason.

Tae knew he acted like an ass.

The elder anxiously waited until everyone else evacuated the locker room, stealing quick glances at Jungkook before his fingers wrapped around the latter’s wrist, stopping him from leaving like the others.

“Hey..”

His voice came out weaker than he would’ve liked, causing Taehyung to visibly gulp as he shifted his attention from Kook’s bandaged hand to his doe eyes, gaze serious.

“Can we, uh, talk?” Tae added a soft, “please?”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows, a bit surprised. Taehyung hadn't said a single word, not even spared him a look since their argument. Well, that kook knew of..

But he stopped, turning his body towards the elder as he kept his gaze fixed on Tae.

He looked anxious.

But Jungkook did want to hear what he had to say, he would be lying if he claimed anything else.

"Hm..." His eyes flickered over to the way Tae didn't let go of his wrist, "Okay." He nods, anxious for what he'd have to say.

An apology? Or an excuse? Would he officially break up? Kook felt his mind swirl with every possible scenario, he had to sit down.

Taehyung refused to let go of Jungkook’s wrist, the contact easing his stress somewhat.

He took a seat beside Kook on the nearby bench, his grip around Kook loosening along with his stiff shoulders.

“So..”

He looked down at the younger’s hand on his lap, eyes scanning around the bandage as he gathered his messy thoughts, trying to seem less nervous than he actually was.

“About what happened— the fight. I’m.. I’m sorry.”

Taehyung’s jaw clenched down, angry at himself for the hurtful words he mindlessly threw out at Jungkook.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I-I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you, and I know I should work on not giving a fuck about what people think..”

With a heavy sigh, Tae looked up at Jungkook, afraid of his reaction even though he’d just started. He wanted to make sure he was doing this right.

“I said some really fucked up things, Kook, and.. I just, I just need you to understand that not a single ounce of me meant any of it. About your parents... I never should’ve brought that up. I know you don’t blame me for that, I'm just— I’m an asshole, that’s it.”

Taehyung scoffed, taking a moment to blame himself some more.

“What we have, or had.. it’s normal. Our relationship, it’s normal. When we kiss each other, that’s normal! When we hug, fuck— all of it! That was normal.”

The elder let out a shaky breath, squeezing tighter onto Jungkook’s wrist, afraid that it would be the last time.

“I’m fucking sorry. If.. if you want to break up, I-I understand but just know that I regret everything I said.”

Jungkook sat in silence, his gaze fixated on the locker across from him. He stared, blankly as he listened to every single word coming out of Taehyung's mouth.

Slowly, he processed it all, the seconds of silence felt like an eternity for the two of them-- Most likely tortuous for Taehyung.

As the words hit Jungkook, he felt his heart stuck in his throat, this uncomfortable feeling of his emotions crashing on him like a wave once more.

Fuck, he had to be this emotional, didn't he?

''Tae...'' His voice broke when he uttered his name, eyes glazing over with a layer of tears as he turned his gaze to fall on Taehyung, ''I don't want to break up with you... But I don't want to be a secret...''

Kook moved his arm, replacing the grip on his wrist with his own hand, intertwining their fingers. He sighed softly at the familiar feeling, it felt good.

''I don't expect you to... kiss me in front of everyone, or yell out that you're with me, but... I want to be able to just feel normal with you.. Hug you, hold your hand. Talk to you-- without you feeling like you have to step away from me every time somebody looks at us.''

Taehyung’s breath hitched in his throat; eyes looking into Jungkook’s glistening ones, his ears intently listening to what the latter had to say.

His heart? It was no longer drumming against his rib cage. Tae was thankful that Jungkook still wanted to be with him despite everything that went down..

Truth be told, that was what scared him the most— breaking up.

Taehyung kept quiet, gaze glued on their hands, fingers busied as they played with Kook’s smaller ones.

He took everything that the younger said into consideration, and honestly, most of it scared the shit out of him.

Holding hands.. It was so simple yet frightening. Anyone could tell Jungkook was braver than he was.

His boyfriend was fearless, and Tae admired that.

“Okay.” Was all he mustered up the courage to say, “I’ll.. I’ll try, for you.”

He smiled, truly wanting to improve for Kook. It was a relationship, Taehyung needed to remember that it wasn’t all about him. He needed to make sacrifices, and that’s what he was planning on doing.

“I missed you, you know.” The elder leaned in, eyeing Jungkook’s pretty eyes, and then his lips.

“Can I kiss you..?”

Jungkook couldn't help but smile, his lips pulling up in a toothy grin that causes his nose to scrunch up in his own cutesy way.

Taehyung would try, and that was enough. More than enough... For now.

"I missed you too," he leans in to close the small distance between their lips, feeling the warm and familiar taste of him was one of the things he missed more than anything.

And just like that, he knew that his feelings wouldn't just go away. They never did, and at this point, he doesn't think they ever will.

"I really missed you.." he repeated when he momentarily withdrew, only to lean in for another, and another...

It was addicting.

Kook’s hands reached up to cup the elders face, holding him in place to make sure this was real as he wanted nothing else than to just keep feeling Taehyung in soft, slow, and most of all-- needy kisses.

Taehyung beamed in between each messy kiss, sinking further into the younger’s yearning touch on his skin, not minding that Kook was practically squishing his face, causing his lips to jut out. On the spur of the moment, Tae shifted from his spot on the bench, lips still attached to Jungkook’s as he straddled the latter’s lap. There was no trace of lust behind it, Taehyung just.. missed him.

The elder was so into it that he failed to hear the sound of the door opening up, in coming Jimin who was sent to fetch them.

“Taehyung? Jungk— woah, uh..”

The smaller boy was sent into a shock, but not really.

It was weird, because part of Jimin wasn’t surprised by the sight, yet the other half was..

Tae’s eyes widened for that initial second, feeling himself wanting to shrink up from embarrassment. But, he still didn’t budge from his boyfriend’s lap.

“Well.. Joon wanted to know what was taking you guys so long. What— what were you two doing?” Jimin teasingly raised a brow, holding back a little smile.

Taehyung— who wanted to groan at the look his hyung was giving him— let out a soft sigh.

He nervously nibbled on the insides of his cheeks, glancing at Jungkook and then Jimin.

“I was kissing my boyfriend.”

He guessed that was a good start..

Jimin nods as he lightly shrugs, as if it was indeed an acceptable answer.

"Okay, but don't take too long!" His smile was permanently engraved at this point, taking in the sight of the two of them before turning on his heels to leave.

Jungkook purses his lips and wraps his hands around taes smaller waist to pull his body closer as soon as Jimin leaves. He cranes his neck to reach Taes lips, whining a little when he just needed the elder to bend down just a smidge.

"Remember when I told you that you've grown a lot?" Kook tightens his grasp around Taehyungs waist, fuck, did he miss feeling him underneath his fingertips.

"You did it again. A boyfriend level up~" He grins at the game reference.

Tae shook his head in utter amusement, a lopsided smile begging to be seen by the beautiful boy beneath him.

The elder opted for throwing his arms around Jungkook’s neck, hiding his warm face in the crook of the skin.

“I’m shy..” Taehyung quietly mumbled, scooting up a bit on his boyfriend’s lap so that he could hug him tighter; so that he could feel their chests move against one another with every breath they took.

Gaining the courage to look into Jungkook’s doe eyes, Tae withdrew his embrace.

“You know, it means a lot— to just.. to hear you say how much I’ve grown?”

The boy smiled, tucking one of Kook’s loose strands of hair behind his ear.

“It makes me feel good, really good.” Taehyung nodded, running his fingers through his boyfriend’s head of fluff, trying to smooth down certain parts.

“Is it just me or is your hair, like, growing. A lot.”

Taehyung leaned back a bit so as to make sure he was seeing it right.

“I like it.”

''Kim Taehyung is shy...'' Kook giggled, his chest shaking lightly as he does so,

''Ah, you think so...'' He questions, moving his head from side to side to show his overgrown locks off, shaking them lightly until the loose strands fall back on his face.

''I kind of like it too, so I guess I'll keep it growing..''

Jungkook straightens up his posture, keeping his arms wrapped around the elders waist, not ready to let go just yet, craning his neck up to stare up at his boyfriend with doe eyes.

''Doesn't it make me look kind of like a bad boy?'' Another grin pulls on his lips, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Hmm.. kinda.” Taehyung chuckled, fingers once again traveling upwards to swim through Jungkook’s curly locks, brushing the stray strands away from his eyes.

“But you’re the furthest thing from a bad boy.” The elder quickly pecked the little scar on the side of his boyfriend’s cheek, patting Kook’s chest before standing on his feet.

His Jersey slightly rose up as Taehyung outstretched his arms over his head, trying to make up for the stretches he’d most likely missed.

“Come on, before Joon sends anyone else looking after us.” Tae jokes, extending out a hand for Kook to take.

For what felt like the longest time, but in reality wasn't more than a couple days, Jungkook felt like he could genuinely smile again, grabbing Taehyung's hand without any hesitation whatsoever to pull himself up on his feet.

''He really needs a girlfriend,'' Kook whispered with a chuckle, walking up the stairs together with Tae, ''Or whatever.'' Insinuating that he really doesn't know what Joon would be into, shrugging as they make it to the court, greeted by their team that are rocking a mix of confused, excited and surprised looks.

Namjoon was a mix of all three, his hands firmly placed on his hips as he watched the two men walk together as if the previous tension from the past few days never even happened. It warmed his heart, honestly..

''Alright, everyone's here,'' Namjoon claps his hands together.

''We're getting close to the big game now, this is it-- no time to slack around! Let's do warm up, then half of the team will simulate the opponent in a match! Go!'' Joon announces, watching as everyone obliged to his orders, running his hand through his hair with a soft sigh.

The game was so close, it caused him anxiety. But... Now that things were good between his two best players, they had a shot.

By the time practice was over, Taehyung had made up his mind.

He wanted to let their friends know about their relationship, figuring that would be a better start than none.

Slowly, he’d let other people know— people whom he felt comfortable with. Which, now that Tae thought about it.. that bunch was very compact.

The big picture was, Taehyung was determined to work through his internal fears. And slowly but surely, he’d get there.

“So, uh.. guys?” The elder cleared his throat, pausing picking out the marshmallows from his cereal, instead now focused on trying to pick apart the right words.

“I have something to admit.”

Taehyung’s deep voice sounded so serious that by the time he looked up from his tray, his hyungs were staring right back at him. Somehow, that made him more anxious.

“Jungkook and I are dating.”

Silence.

Then more silence..

Jin was the first one to break the streak.

“That’s it?”

Curious as to what he meant, Tae furrowed his brows.

“Yeah..?”

“I thought we already knew this.” Hoseok awkwardly chuckled, looking around the table to see if anyone else agreed with him.

“Yeah. Shit, if that’s big news, then my name isn’t Min Yoongi.” The mint-haired boy munched on his toast, unaffected by what was just revealed.

Taehyung, on the other hand, was shocked. They were.. Fine with it?

“If that’s big news, then I wouldn’t have the biggest dick out of everyone here.” Jin joined in, smirking.

“If that’s big news, then that means I didn’t feed my brother’s fish to my cat.” Jimin shrugged.

“Okay, first of all— that’s fucked up.” Hoseok eyed the shorter boy with a grimace. “But if that’s big news, then that means Joon would’ve already had a girlfriend—“

“Alright, cut it out!” Namjoon childishly pleaded, “I had a girlfriend, for your information. She just— why am I telling you this..”

Taehyung blinked, clueless about what he’d just heard.

“So.. you guys are cool with it?”

Had he been worrying over nothing..?

"Of course we are!" Jimin sang out, his smile genuine as he glances over the group, who nods and smiles in agreement.

"Honestly, it took you long enough to tell us, but it was obvious," Yoongi shrugged.

Jungkooks grin grew with every supportive word from his hyungs, happily sipping on his milk as he leaned in a little closer to Taehtung, nudging their shoulders together in a way that would tell Tae 'See?'

"Thanks guys. It means a lot." Kook felt so relieved, his entire being vibrating with joy because he felt like Taehyung was finally admitting something this big. That they were dating.

Together.

In a relationship!

And he wasn't a secret anymore.

He felt important, and it meant the world to Kook.

"You guys are cute together," Jimin continued, leaning his chin against the palm of his hand, a soft sigh escaping his lips while gazing at the two boys in awe.

They really were adorable together, Jungkook was beaming-- and Taehyung looked almost flustered at the support he was given. He must've expected the worst.

In the past, Taehyung was sure those words would’ve made him shrivel up and cringe in his spot, but now that he was experiencing it; that wasn’t how he felt at all. Instead, the elder felt a blanket of ‘pride’ engulf him; ensuring him that there was nothing to regret.

Their friends were very accepting, the deafening worrying was a waste of his time.

Tae perceived the faintest of blushes creeping up his neck, Jimin’s comment looping around in his head.

They were cute together— possibly the cutest.

Taehyung gave Kook the pile of marshmallows he was specifically picking out for him, knowing how much his boyfriend liked them.

At the thoughtful sight, Hoseok swooned even more.

“So, tell me. Who asked who out? Were there fireworks? A bouquet of roses?!”

Jungkook shot a smile towards Taehyung, a silent thank you for his favourite thing to eat; sweets.

Happily indulging, he picks piece by piece between his delicate fingertips to eat them, filling his cheeks up as he chews, the sugar melting in his mouth.

It was almost as sweet as Taehyung was today.

The wave of questions hurling at them had Jungkook chewing faster, swallowing before opening his mouth to answer.

''It's a secret.'' The shit-eating grin on Jungkook's face grew when his hyungs groaned in disappointment, eager for more information.

''Come ooon! Give us something!'' Hoseok whined.

''I bet it was Jungkook,'' Yoongi adds with a shrug, chewing his food.

''I'm sure it must've been Taehyung, he is full of surprises these days,'' Jin snorts, pointing his fork at the two boys.

''You guys know enough, but-- I wouldn't mind some flowers,'' Jungkook smiled. It might be surprising to some, but he really does love flowers. He even has a secret plan of tattooing his birth flower on his arm, whenever his bank account would allow it.

Just like Jungkook, Taehyung was having a lot of fun messing with his hyungs’ sudden interest about their relationship— especially Hoseok, who seemed like he would combust at any given second.

Of course, Tae knew the answer, evident by the way he blushed whenever he glanced at the younger. He doesn’t think he’d ever forget about that night..

It’s gotten to a point where whenever Taehyung drives by that McDonald’s parking lot, he’s reminded of the little details.

His limp, the twinkling stars, strawberry milkshakes, Kook’s doe eyes glistening under the moonlight..

It’s an image that’s forever embedded in his brain.

“Come on, Tae! Tell us!” Jimin whined, sulking even more when Taehyung responded with a firm shake of his head.

“Nope. That’s only for us to know.” The boy smirked, shrugging his shoulders before dumping his milk into his marshmallow-free cereal, happily bringing a spoonful up to his mouth.

He crunched on the mouthful, slyly listening in to Jungkook’s side comment about flowers; making sure to jot it down on a mental list.

The day went by smoother than normal, Jungkook happily got through his classes that were separate from his boyfriends, but not once did the latter leave his giddy mind.

He couldn't wait to see him, anxiously bouncing his leg underneath the table for the bell to ring.

Chewing on the pencil in his hand, he counted down the seconds…

As soon as the bell rang, Jungkook sprung up on his feet to jog towards the common area, eyes searching for the one face he was looking for, and a wide grin adorned his face seeing Taehyung waiting by the entrance.

Everything was back to normal, and Jungkook had never been this excited to get into the crappy car that he grew fond of.

''Tae!'' he cooed, snaking his hand around the bicep of the elder.

“Hey, you seem excited to see me.” Tae gently nudged Jungkook’s shoulder with his, ruffling his boyfriend’s soft mop of hair before pushing on the doors, stepping out into another sea of students. With the way Kook had his arm wrapped around his, others’ invasive stares didn’t overlooked by Taehyung; who simply picked up his pace, kept his head down, and tried not to let people’s gazes get to him.

Truthfully, Tae was aching to withdraw himself from Jungkook’s hold, but that only resulted in internal guilt.

The elder was going to tackle this fear day by day; that was a promise.

Once they got in his car, Tae sighed and threw his head back against the headrest, hating having to wait for the string of cars already in line to merely get out of the parking lot.

He should’ve known better— just a minute after the bell and it was packed.

It was expected, school was exhausting as fuck; everyone walked around half-dead.

However, Taehyung didn’t have it that bad.

The view at his side surely kept him entertained.

“You look pretty— well, prettier than usual.” A hand snuck down to Jungkook’s thigh, giving it a playful squeeze.

His sharp eyes fell on his boyfriend’s doe ones, which were now a shade lighter from the sunlight bouncing off of them.

Fuck.. it was during moments like these where Tae wanted to kiss him.

“I missed you, a lot.”

He repeated himself, a needy sigh leaving his parted lips.

It was also during moments like these— when Jungkook’s beauty compared to no one else’s— that Taehyung wanted to paint the latter’s neck a shade of purple..

The elder’s bigger hand traveled further up, close to his boyfriend’s crotch as he spoke.

“Guess who got a ninety-percent on his Geometry test?”

He asked, gaze flickering up to Kook’s face.

“Me. Your boyfriend. Don’t you think he deserves a special reward for his hard work..?”

Jungkooks breath hitched underneath Taehyung's touch, doe eyes growing larger as their eyes met.

They've done so many things to each other at this point, and somehow it always feels like the first time, in some weird way...

"Yeah? I think he does..." Kook plays along, enjoying this much more than he thought, the initial surprise and shyness washing away as soon as he felt Tae's hand inching up his thigh.

Fuck, Taehyung was so hot when he spoke that way...

Kook's own hand would greedily move to squeeze Taehyung's thigh, the soft yet incredibly firm flesh felt amazing between his fingers. He squeezed harder, the veins underneath his skin prominent as he did so.

"What kind of reward would he like?"

An airy chuckle snuck past Taehyung’s moistened lips, who was more than pleased to find out Jungkook was down for fulfilling his lustful thirst.

Just one day without his boyfriend and Tae turned into a horn dog— he couldn’t help it. Not when the younger one looked so delicious..

His hand crept closer to Jungkook’s bulge, “Shit, there’s a lot of rewards he’d like..”

The elder’s tongue swiped over his lips, massaging at the space close to his boyfriend’s crotch.

“But, there is one that stands out to him..”

Taehyung reached for the younger’s hand, placing it on his clothed cock. Not once did he divert his strong gaze from Jungkook’s face.

“One that makes him really fuckin’ hard.”

Taehyung forcefully pressed down on his boyfriend’s hand, silently urging Jungkook to cup him with all his might— harder, just the way he liked it.

As a response, the elder felt himself begin to harden in the other’s grip.

“You.” He heavily breathed out, black fringe streaming over his eyes.

“You in this car, on your back.. all spread out ‘n pretty for him. His fat cock stuffed so deep inside of you..”

A small grunt emitted from the back of Taehyung’s throat at the mere thought.

“He’d fuck your insides until all you’re able to see is stars, baby. Until slobber is running down your chin— ah fuck..”

The elder wanted to take him right here, right now.

“Shit, that’s what he wants— that’s what he wants and more.”

Taehyung’s teeth clamped down on his bottom lip.

“So what do you say, pretty? Does that reward sound good enough for you?”

Jungkook allowed a quiet groan of his own to escape his lips at Tae’s words, nibbling on his lower lip at the mere thought of being fucked in his car.

He remembers exactly how fucking good it felt to have Taehyungs cock inside of him... shit, did he need it.

"Please..." is all he could muster to say, his eyes glazed over with the pure lust overtaking his senses, his hand cupping and massaging Taes bulge, feeling it grow harder underneath his palm.

"I want you so bad..." his voice grew needier, letting his lips part to allow another heavy breath push through. He felt greed overcome him, not hesitating to fumble with the button of his boyfriend's pants to grant him access to the one thing he wanted the most at this moment.

Normally, Jungkook would be one to tease... but not today. He missed this too much, undoing the zipper of taes pants to instead snake his hand underneath the fabrics to pull Taehyung's cock out, mouth watering at the mere sight as his gaze broke from the elders to admire the view.

Taehyung was breathy, filled with primal lust just for him. A sense of pride hits kook at the way he was also able to affect his boyfriend just as much as he affected the younger.

Taehyung’s eyebrow twitched, hands gripping at the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. With his mouth slightly agape, Taehyung felt himself quiver in Jungkook’s hand.

His rock hard dick was throbbing and lacking the proper attention it needed— which was the worst possible combination.

“Fuck.” Tae whipped his head around, looking to see if the line of cars had gone down.

He didn’t know just how much longer he could take it..

“Touch it, pretty.”

The elder instructed, hungry for even the smallest of friction.

It was better than nothing until he could drive away to somewhere a little more.. private.

“Get a feel of what your plump ass has been missing,” Taehyung’s head fell against the headrest, trying to seem unbothered as a group of students walked by his car, clueless as to what was happening just a few glances down.

Jungkook pressed his back against the cushion of his backrest, head turned towards Taehyung with a gaze fixed at the elders heaving chest, his face-- his everything.

''I've missed your cock, Tae..shit..'' He whispers with a low voice, bringing his hand to his mouth to let spit drip into his palm before bringing it back to spread the wetness across the elders tip, slowly bringing it down his length. The way the smooth skin glistened from Kook's spit was a gorgeous sight.

''Good?'' He asks with a crooked smile, now providing the friction Taehyung so desperately needed, fingers firmly wrapped around his fat cock as he uses his fully palmed grasp to stroke the entirety of it.

“Mhm..” Taehyung’s face scrunched up into one of pleasure, visibly a mess under the other’s touch as his own hands gripped tighter onto the steering wheel; imagining it were his boyfriend’s hips. His toes curled in his shoes, heavy breaths evident by the way his broad chest heaved up and down.

“Just like that,” he praised, slowly grinding into Jungkook’s busied hand, unable to stay still for a second longer— not when Kook was jerking him off so wonderfully..

“Fuck..!” Taehyung huffed, looking over his shoulder once more, his frown morphing into a smirk when he saw there weren't as many people blocking the exit.

Shit, he’s been waiting for this moment.

With one hand on the steering wheel, the elder backed out of his spot. He glanced at Jungkook with a look that read, ‘get ready’ before he sped out of there, trying so hard to focus on his driving and not the way his boyfriend’s hand was working on him.

Taehyung drove around until he found a secluded area close to a forest trail, noticing there weren’t any cars or people around to disrupt them.

It was perfect.

He turned off the engine, unbuckling himself before he reached over for Jungkook’s face, pressing their lips together into a needy, messy kiss.

As if on cue, the second Taehyung turned the engine off Kook had already snapped his belt off, meeting the elder halfway in a kiss. His hand never faltered, continuously pumping Taehyung with one ad the other settles on his knee in a tight grasp,

''I..missed...you'' He mumbled between the kisses, giving up on trying to speak at all-- instead indulging in tasting Tae's tongue with his own, small whines caught in the younger's throat.

If the definition of needy had a face, it would definitely be in the form of Jungkook.

Taehyung kissed Jungkook back with just as much passion— just as much want. The warmth of their tongues gliding again one another was almost enough to throw Taehyung over the edge; not to mention, the way his boyfriend’s fingers wrapped so smugly around his cock had a deep moan yearning to be acknowledged.

However, it was muffled against Kook’s lips.

“I fucking missed you too..” The elder pulled away, staring at Jungkook through his eyelashes.

In a desperate manner, Tae shimmied out of his jeans and boxers, letting them pool at his ankles before tugging at the fabrics attached to Kook’s skin.

In a way, he was jealous of them.

Taehyung was jealous that they got to feel Jungkook before he did.

The elder pulled his shirt over his head, kicking off his shoes and everything else that was stopping him from showing off his naked body.

“Come on, baby.”

Taehyung led the both of them to the backseats. He hovered over Jungkook, not wasting any time before splashing his neck with some color, sucking and nipping at the skin.

Jungkook allowed himself to be guided, relishing in the fact that he barely had to think, simply just feel the elder lead his own needs for the younger.

Kook had done an awful lot of thinking lately, and being nothing but in this very moment was everything he could focus on.

He had tunnel vision for the man above him, doe eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

''Fuck, yes...'' His voice was whiny, a tone he hadn't used in quite a while..

Kook spread his legs, giving Taehyung enough space to position himself between the youngers legs as he hovered above him, JK snaking his hands around Tae's torso to smooth his palms over the skin of his back, feeling the muscles flex and tense-- a guilty pleasure of Kook's.

This time, Kook had no care in the world about having his skin covered in purple, this time, he didn't have to care about who would see it.

Taehyung’s lips dragged themselves down to the younger’s chest, the tip of his nose faintly grazing against the naked skin as heavy puffs of air clashed against it.

As he tackled Jungkook’s pants, trying to undo the zipper; the elder’s mouth latched on to a spot near the boy’s collarbones, looking up at Kook through his fringe whilst he sucked on the skin, gently tugging at it with his teeth.

Once Taehyung was pleased with the way it looked, he switched over to a new spot— thinking of it as a free canvas, until he came along and claimed it as his.

By now, Jungkook’s lower clothing was tossed to the side, and Tae’s bigger hand was stuck massaging the younger’s milky thighs.

“So beautiful..” Another splash of color.

“The prettiest baby..” And another, until most of Jungkook’s chest and neck were littered with fresh hickeys.

Serves him right. Whoever tried hitting on his boyfriend would be reminded of who he belonged to, Kim Taehyung.

He no longer hovered over him, instead he let his body rest by Kook’s side, an elbow propping him up so he could take a proper look at his boyfriend’s face.

Tae’s free hand snaked down Jungkook’s body, stopping at his needy entrance.

“Gonna push it in, okay?”

He bit down on his lip as a response to feeling the younger’s warm insides, still keeping a sharp eye on Kook’s expressions.

“Baby, think you can take in all five~?”

Taehyung leaned down to lowly whisper in the boy’s ear, his middle and index fingers making scissoring motions, trying to stretch Jungkook to his full potential.

Seconds later, and the elder squeezed in another finger until it was knuckle deep.

“Want another one?” He breathed out, his own erection pressing against his boyfriend’s hip.

Jungkook loved this part almost as much as the actual fucking. Feeling Taehyungs long, strong fingers stretching his ass has him a whimpering mess already-- holy fuck did that guy know how to use his hands.

His chest heaved up and down as he was focusing on his heavy breathing, a series of cries and gasps in pleasure rolling off his lips.

"Please," his eyes quiver as they find Taehyungs, "More-- shit.... a-another one, /please/!"

“So desperate..” Taehyung amusingly breathed out through his nose, nonetheless following through with the boy’s consistent pleads. He pushed in another finger past the initial tight ring of muscle, his thumb the only one left to get wet.

From the way Jungkook seemed to be behaving, Tae knew he enjoyed it just as much.

“Still so tight. Just for me, huh?”

With the leg closest to his boyfriend’s, Tae’s knee nudged at the space in between the younger’s calf and back of his thigh, urging him to raise it up a bit so he had more access to his hole.

The elder’s set of slender fingers slammed in and out of him, the squelching noises taking over Taehyung’s senses, who wanted nothing more than to stuff Jungkook with his hand.

“Ready for the last one?”

Jungkooks head snapped from side to side, it was already an overwhelming feeling-- his body ever so responsive to the elders fingers. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he did the one thing he could to keep himself somewhat grounded; staring up at Taehyung.

Kooks doe eyes were glazed over with a layer of tears, pupils so dilated in lust that they were almost entirely blackened out.

Seeing Taehyung this focused on making the younger feel this good... it amplified the feeling by a tenfold.

Jungkook got greedy, he wanted everything that Tae could give, nodding desperately as his body twitched when the elders fingers slammed his most sensitive spot, drawing out louder moans and a series of breathy 'yes's from kook.

With a small smirk lingering on his lips, Taehyung stared down at Jungkook, meeting the younger’s gaze as he worked his fingers inside of him.

The elder swiftly leaned down to catch Kook’s lips with his own, attempting to shush the cries of initial pain as he pushed in his last finger— shoving them in until almost all of his knuckles were engulfed by his boyfriend’s tight entrance.

Jungkook's muffled moans vibrated in his throat, eyes screwing shut from the slight pain of having all of Taehyung's fingers knuckle deep inside of him.

His body was squirming underneath the elder, skin burning with lust, just like his entire being felt like he would melt any second. He felt so full...

But not as full as he could be...Would be.

Taehyung’s mouth watered at the sinful sight from under him, his throbbing cock only awakening furthermore from the way Jungkook’s body couldn’t seem to sit still.

“Fuck.. you’re taking them in so well,” He leaned down to whisper against the younger’s mouth, his lips grazing against Jungkook’s softer ones as his fingers sank in deeper, harder.

The elder continued to pump his dripping digits inside of his boyfriend, repeatedly rubbing at the sweet spot he’d become so familiar with; his hand digging in just past his knuckles.

When Taehyung felt that was enough, he pulled his fingers out; the warmth no longer squeezing around them.

“Shit..” The boy licked over his lips, bringing his veiny hand up to his face for closer inspection.

It was drenched in Jungkook’s juices, a thick layer of clear liquid catching the light.

A proud, crooked smile appeared on Taehyung’s face, who showed it off to the younger like it was some sort of trophy.

Damn, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Sitting up, the elder used the same hand to thoroughly spread Kook’s juices along his length, the middle of his brows scrunched up in concentration.

In one quick motion, he flipped Jungkook’s body around so that the latter’s stomach laid against the backseat, his perky ass facing Tae as he spread the younger’s reddened cheeks, using one hand to guide his cock into his hole.

“F-fuck..”

The elder’s body collapsed on top of Jungkook’s, gradually pushing his dick into him until his sweaty chest met the younger’s back.

With his pelvis pressed up against his boyfriend’s ass, Taehyung began moving his hips, soulfully grinding against Jungkook as he breathed out into the boy’s nape, one hand tightly gripping at his hip while the other rested by Kook’s head.

A drawn out, breathy moan pushed through Jungkook’s lips when he finally felt Taehyung's cock sink into him,

''Oh--'' He couldn't hold himself up, the weight of the elder forcing his chest to press flat against the carseat, hands seeking leverage against the door, muscles dancing underneath his skin on his arms and back, ''G-god...your cock feels so good.. I fucking missed i-it.'' His voice broke into a whimper when Taehyung moved his hips, Kook's teeth gnashing together-- shit, it felt amazing.

Jungkook's ring of muscle automatically tightened around Tae's length, his own cock throbbing and desperately seeking friction-- and getting a slight feel of it through every small movement of his body grinding against the carseat due to Taehyung's thrusts.

Taehyung didn’t waste any time in increasing his rhythm; initially pulling out until only his mushroom tip stayed inside of Jungkook before slamming his wet cock into him once again.

He repeated the same movements a few more times— pace slow but harsh, his pelvis roughly clashing into Kook’s ass; feeling the boy’s cheeks slightly bounce from the contact.

“A-ah yeah?” He breathed out, trailing some open-mouthed kisses along Jungkook’s shoulder.

“Well your ass feels so fucking good— fuck..”

Taehyung felt himself twitch inside of the younger, the sudden tightness catching him off guard.

The elder’s upper body sank into the dip of Kook’s back, face nuzzled into the latter’s neck as he began to thrust into him at a greater speed; grunts and groans pouring out of his mouth.

Afraid that his boyfriend would hit his head against the door, Taehyung gripped harder at his hip, nails sinking into the flesh as he allowed himself to lose control.

Whoever passed by would think that his car was possessed; it moved along with every push and pull of Tae’s hips.

The vague squeaking of the car seats went unnoticed by the younger, broken cries in pleasure continuously escaping his throat.

As if his entire being had tunnel vision, all he could think about was how much he loved this, how much he loved feeling, and hearing him. No, he couldn't even think, just indulging in the moment completely, his own hips desperately trying to meet the elders thrusts to no avail, his body was completely under Tae's control,

''H-harder...please..''

Being ever the masochist for Taehyung's cock, he always pleaded for more, for it to be harder, faster.. He knows his boyfriend could let himself lose control, his strength one of the things Jungkook absolutely adores about him. He craved to feel him, hear the aggressive thrusts of the man on top of him, his body jolting, however held tightly in place by the elder.

Kook felt his cock rub against the fabrics of the carseat, providing friction that amplified his satisfaction, the greed to chase his high rising,

''F-fuck me harder!''

The elder only growled as a response, fucking into Jungkook like his life depended on it.

The sound of sticky skin whipping against one another filled the inside of Taehyung’s car; the windows lightly fogged up from the bundle of breathy moans that emitted from both boys’ throat.

“A-ahh, fuuuck!” He yelled out, panting whilst drilling his cock deeper into Jungkook’s ass, never once stopping to catch his breath although the mere thought of it was tempting.

“You. Are. Mine.” With every pause in between each airy word, Taehyung’s dick slammed into his boyfriend’s prostate.

The squeaking of the car seats became more noticeable, as well as the rocking of the elder’s car with every aggressive hump from Taehyung.

“Shit— I-I’m gonna cum, baby..!”

The elder’s clammy forehead fell on top of Jungkook’s shoulder, switching between jagged thrusting and gyrating his hips, each one just as fast.

“A-are you close?”

Jungkook attempted to nod, but the way his body was rocking back and forth made it impossible to point out, so he opted to attempt at using his hoarse voice.

"Yes!" He cried out in a high pitched, breathy tone, "So close, so close-- don't stop!" He begged, letting his sweaty cheek press against the carseat, the skin rubbing on it with every thrust, just like his cock-- pathetically rubbing against the surface below him.. god, he was about to explode and make a mess beneath him, all he needed was that last push over the edge, to feel Taehyung's cock grow harder inside of him and fill him up with his cum.

"I'm gonna c-cum..fuck fuck f-fuck!" Jungkook’s voice breaks into a loud moan, his breath caught in his throat as he tightly shuts his eyes, toes curling up.

Kook's body reacted before he even could, tensing up and muscles flexing as he felt his orgasm hit him like a wave of white pleasure, a feeling that had his eyes roll back into his skull. As Jungkook came harder than he's ever done before, his ass tightly squeezed Taehyung's cock, desperate for the elder to cum with him-- the feeling becoming too overwhelming.

From the way Jungkook’s walls seemed to grasp around his volcanic cock, a stream of Taehyung’s cum squirted into the boy’s loose insides; his body stiffening up in the midst of it.

“Fuck!” The elder cursed out loud, throwing his head back with a shout, his grip on Jungkook’s hip tightening for a mere moment before his fingers relaxed.

He panted from the loss of breath, beads of sweat seem trickling down his chest and onto his boyfriend’s back.

Taehyung found the sight in front of him breathtaking...

After a few tranquil seconds of making sure that he’d spilled all he had to offer into Jungkook, that’s when Tae pulled out, falling limp at the younger boy’s side.

One hand patted Kook’s butt, massaging at the skin whilst the other rested behind his head, a lazy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He peeked one eye open, coming face to face with a worn out Jungkook.

“Ready for round two?” Taehyung joked, playfully pinching his ass before swinging an arm across his boyfriend’s back, pulling him closer.

“This was the best reward, ever.” He chuckled breathlessly, pressing a chaste kiss to Jungkook’s rosy cheek.

“I would’ve actually tried on all my other tests if I knew this was the outcome..”

Jungkook smiled through his heavy breathing at the joke, letting Tae pull his exhausted body closer.

"Don't get too smart on me now, my ass is gonna be permanently damaged." He wraps an arm over Taes body, a small whine escaping him as he feels the mixture of the elders cum & his own juices leaking.

"Fuck... that was so good though.. actually, keep getting good grades, permanent ass damage sounds worth it." He joked, placing a few kisses alongside Taehyung's jawline until they finally landed on his lips.

Kook's eyes admire Taehyung so much at this very moment...

He wants to say it.. the three words that continuously linger on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, yeah?” A cheeky grin formed on Taehyung’s face, who deliberately gave himself up to his boyfriend’s kisses; humming in pure content once Jungkook’s lips fell on his.

“Just for the record,” Tae shifted on to his side, his arm propping him up. “I’d still love your ass— permanently damaged or not.”

Right after the words left his mouth, the elder’s back dropped back down to the carseat with an embarrassed groan, ruffling his sweaty hair so that his outgrown fringe fell over his eyes.

Taehyung had a loose tongue whenever he was around Jungkook; he couldn’t help it.

Once he’d gotten the balls to gaze into his boyfriend’s doe eyes once again, Tae pushed his sweaty fringe back, prominent brows furrowing at the look Jungkook was showering him with.

“What.” His eyes had seemed to crinkle up, the corners of his lips curling upwards into a boxy smile.

“I know, it was stupid.”

Taehyung ran a hand down his face, thinking Kook was secretly judging him for the ass comment.

Taehyung would love his ass....

What about... simply love Jungkook? Was that really too hard, or too much? Surely by now, they've been through enough to comfortably say it, right?

Jungkooks even said it before.

But the reaction he got last time was nothing short of unsatisfying, and it did make him a bit more nervous about using the words.

So Kook didn't.. he let his affectionate stare do the work, his eyes quivering with the love he felt for this man-- and finally just taking another moment to truly take in his features.

'I love you', he kept repeating the words in his mind, his lips almost mimicking the movements-- but never uttering a sound.

"You're not stupid, you got a ninety percent on your test..." Jungkook smiles, trying to avert the attention from his long stare just seconds earlier, reaching out to run his hand through taes hair, "Next time... let me do the same to you."

A small smirk pulled on his lips, a crooked eyebrow following. He'd love to see how many fingers the elder could take as well.

Taehyung’s previously dimmed gaze lit up at the unexpected invite, now staring into Jungkook’s daring eyes as the latter’s hand soothingly smoothed over his hair.

“Kook, that’s gonna hurt!” The elder whined, “also, you’re fucking smart. You’re gonna get good grades on everything!” Tae childishly exclaimed, internally worried about the future conditions of his ass once his buff boyfriend got his strong hands on it— or in it.

He was also incredibly turned on, but the snippet of fear overruled that.

''Hey, don't you trust my abilities? I'd never hurt you..'' Jungkook smile was wide, tone of his voice playful, ''And yes, I would have perfect grades-- deserving of rewards.'' He presses his lips together to kill the smile on his lips, but to no avail.

He relaxed his body, leaning his cheek against Taehyung with a soft sigh.

''Alright....I'm tired... Wanna come back to my place?''

After a few lingering seconds of Taehyung’s figure spread out across the backseats; contemplating whether or not it was even worth it to move, he managed to give in to Jungkook’s words, mumbling a low, “If I must..”

The elder slowly sat up in his spot, stretching his aching muscles before reaching for their discarded clothing, slipping his shirt on.

Tae visibly grimaced at the bitter odor coming from his armpits, and in that moment he knew, he was in need of some deep cleaning. By the looks of it, so did his crappy car..

The seats were covered in cum, and it reeked of sex.

Taehyung shrugged it off, though. It wasn’t like anyone else other than Jungkook got rides from him. He’d take care of it later.

Once they’d finally parked out front of Kook’s building, Taehyung took some time to just.. Gaze.

One day.

Who would’ve thought that one day could feel like an eternity?

Definitely not the elder, but as he stood there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, he found himself smiling. He was glad to be back to the one place he considered ‘home’.

“Can you still walk, Kook?” Taehyung giggled as he teased his boyfriend, not even passing Jisoo’s apartment when the door busted open, revealing a grinning woman.

“Jungkook-ah! How was school? I made this for— oh..”

Her smile twitched at the sight of Taehyung, but she was quick to pick it back up.

“Taehyung.. you’re back!” Jisoo beamed, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Tae could only nod, rubbing at his nape whilst he stared at Yuna, who was in a carrier attached to her mother’s chest. Then, his gaze fell on the plastic container in Jisoo’s hands.

Awkwardly shifting on her feet, the older woman looked back at Jungkook, chest slightly tightening at the hickeys that ran along his skin.

“I made you some more of the veggie noodle soup? I know how much you liked it last time, so..”

Jisoo forced out a small chuckle, extending out the container for Kook to take, refusing to let her eyes travel down to his neck.

God, she despised herself for feeling jealous..

She should be happy.

As if Yuna could sense her mother’s discomfort, she cooed at Jungkook, immediately enlightening the situation.

Jungkook froze on the spot, startled by Jisoo's sudden appearance. His eyes travel from her face, to Yuna, to the container in her hands...

She made him food?

''Ah, noona!'' He smiled, unaware of her sudden drop in mood, hiding it just well enough from the oblivious boy, ''You made this for me?''

He stepped closer, reaching out to take it from her hands with one of his, using the other to poke Yuna on her cheek, drawing another giggle from the baby.

Jungkook's eyes travel back up to his noona, his smile softer, ''Thank you.. uh, school's been good!''

Suddenly he felt oddly aware of the hickeys on his neck. Why-- he wasn't sure why it mattered, but his hand awkwardly reached up to rub his neck, an attempt to possibly hide them from her, knowing it was of no use.

''Ah, uh, yeah.. Taehyung's back!'' Jungkook genuinely smiled this time, stepping back to stand next to his boyfriend.

“That’s..” She quickly tried rummaging around in her brain for the right words, “That’s great! And you’re welcome, I know it can be hard— living alone and not having enough money for food. So I thought, ah! Better make Jungkookie something to eat..”

Jisoo drifted off by clearing her throat, noticing she was up and rambling about useless things no one ever wanted to hear.

Taehyung— who was just as clueless— flashed her a simple smile, thanking her for taking care of Kook when shit hit the fan.

“But, anyways, we’re good now.” He concluded, turning his head to look at his boyfriend as his hand discretely caressed his lower back, feeling like things were finally back to normal.

Jisoo glued on a smile at the sight, sad eyes flickering between the two. With a soft exhale past her tinted lips, the older woman forced herself together, shoving the sour feelings to the side.

“Well, Jungkook,” she treaded carefully, “I was going to ask you if you wanted to help me move some things..?”

Jisoo glanced down at Yuna, running her delicate fingers over her daughter’s fluff of hair.

“I was going to drop off the little one at my sister’s place, then go back to my old apartment to get the rest of my things. I mean, my car isn’t the biggest but after a few trips we’ll be good!”

She reassured, patiently waiting for what the younger boy had to say.

Taehyung was the one who opened his mouth, however, hesitant about whether to intervene or not.

“Noona.. If you’d like, I can call one of my friends? He has a truck, so. His name’s Joon, and all he does is study, so he shouldn’t be busy.”

Tae deliberately threw that out there, shrugging his shoulders.

Jisoo, who thought about it for a few seconds, answered Taehyung with a nod of her head.

Why the hell not? It’ll definitely make things easier on her end.

He pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his pants, tapping on Namjoon’s contact before ringing him up.

To Joon: Hyung, you busy? Kook’s neighbor needs help moving in some things.

Namjoon reached over for his phone, chewing a mouthful of snacks as he tapped the screen to open the conversation. As he read the text, he almost choked.

Kook's neighbour?!

J-jisoo?!

Abruptly, he tapped away to send his reply;

To Tae: Not busy, I'll be on my way.

Namjoon was nervous, yet excited. It was as if the gods had blessed him with a chance to see the girl once more. Without any second thought, he tripped over his shoes to grab his jacket and head over.

Jungkook mimicked Taehyung's shrug, a small smile on his lips. He wouldn't have had any issue with helping his noona, but honestly... He just wanted to spend the evening with his boyfriend-- he'd missed him so much.

“I’m here! I’m— shit..!” Namjoon made his grand entrance by nearly tripping over his undone shoelaces, startling Taehyung and the others. Yuna’s doe eyes went wide from the sudden intrusion, small fists clinging onto Jisoo’s shirt as she gawked at the newcomer.

Tae thought it would be weird if they’d just left Jisoo with a guy she’d never met.

The least he could do is introduce them to one another and reassure her that Namjoon wasn’t a serial killer before disappearing into Jungkook’s apartment, probably off to cuddle or, firstly, take a much needed shower. He smelled like old socks.

“Uh, okay well.. Joon, this is Jisoo. Jisoo noona, this is Joon.”

Taehyung kept it brief, shoving his hands into the warmth of his pockets before his eyes awkwardly bounced between the pair, not knowing what else to say.

“We’ve met!” The both of them chimed at the same time, turning Namjoon into a flustered mess.

Tae cocked a brow, noticing how his hyung was acting more lame than usual. He didn’t question it, Namjoon was Namjoon.

“Your uhm.. your baby sister is cute!”

The eldest boy said, gaze drawn to Yuna, unaware of the pleading look Jisoo was flashing at Taehyung and Jungkook.

Jisoo smiled awkwardly, her thumbs caught in Yuna's smaller hands as she plays with them,

''Actually, it's my daughter!''

Namjoon's eyes widen, the heated blush of embarrassment and guilt showering over him as he bows deeply.

''I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean.. I mean, youre just so young and-- it's completely normal to be a young mother-- ah..'' he facepalmed, noting that he should just shut the fuck up instead.

Jisoo laughs, a bright smile instead adorning her face, ''No, no, its okay!''

What a dork. As expected from a friend of Jungkook's, in all honesty. She sees why the younger likes him so much.

Jungkook smiles, rubbing his nape as he nudges at Taehyung.

''Then, we will leave you guys to it... We uh, we'll see you guys tomorrow.''

With one last look at Namjoon and Jisoo’s direction, the elder followed Kook into the apartment, shutting the door behind him before kicking off his shoes and jumping onto the couch.

“Think Joon will talk her to death?” Taehyung mumbled with his face planted on the cushion, a wave of exhaustion washing over him.

As pleasurable as car sex was, it was also tiring. They had little to no space to.. explore each other’s bodies to their full potential.

Also, there were only so many positions they could do.

“Actually, I think he already talked her to death.”

But despite the difficulties that came with having car sex, Tae craved for more.

The obvious answer was, if it was sex with Jungkook, he wouldn’t mind if they fucked on top of a mountain— actually, that thought intrigued Taehyung.

He’ll have to bring it up sometime.

Tae slowly sat up, his hands rubbing at his eyes.

“A shower sounds really good right now, you in?”

''Unless she did it first, they both are blabbermouths,'' Jungkook chuckles, walking over to stand by Taehyung's side next to the couch.

''And yes, a shower would be amazing. I'll go heat up the water.'' He bends down to place a soft, affectionate kiss on Tae's forehead before he turns to stroll towards the bathroom, turning the shower on as he prepared two towels hanging on the wall. He started to take his clothes off, pulling the shirt over his head, ''Shower's readyyyyyyy!''

Taehyung practically leaped onto his feet the second he heard Jungkook’s voice, already disregarding his shirt on his way to the bathroom, letting it drop down to the tiled floor along with his underwear and jeans.

“Ah.. I really needed this.”

He hummed in pure content, allowing the warm water to cleanse him free of the sweat from before, a relaxing stream trickling down his hair and back.

Tae turned around to face Kook, smiling at the boy.

“You think Joon likes Jisoo? He was acting really weird— well, weirder than usual.”

The elder’s lips came together into a thin line, brows crunching up in thought.

“Kook, I feel like a dad that just sent his son on his first date.”

Date..

At the sound of the word, Tae now glanced over at his boyfriend.

Now that he thought about it.. they’ve never had a proper date themselves.

Shit, should Taehyung ask Jungkook out on a date?

If he says yes, what should he wear? Where would he take him?

''I think Joon is absolutely a dork for noona,'' Jungkook hums, his hands reaching out to move tae's wet hair away from his face.

''It is weird, isn't it?'' Regarding Joon and Jisoo, in his own mind, ''They are kind of cute together.''

Jungkook stepped closer to get some of the water to hit him as well, feeling the soreness in his behind as he clenched his jaw.

Now that he thought of it, he also wanted to go on a date.... With his boyfriend.

A proper one.

Would Taehyung find it too cheesy?

“Yeah..” The muscles underneath Taehyung’s neck bobbed after the visible gulp he’d taken, swallowing down an uncomfortable lump in his throat as his gaze flickered down to the colorful hickeys on Jungkook’s upper chest, index finger carefully tracing over them.

A burning question hung on for dear life at the tip of his tongue, wanting to be heard— to finally be addressed, because God knows how long the words have been itching to drop.

“Kook?”

Taehyung bit down on his lip, arms snaking around the other boy’s waist. The other boy whom he was sure he wanted to take out on a date, “Let me take you out.”

It sounded far from a question, but the elder hoped Jungkook got the memo.

''Hm? What?'' Jungkook didn't fully process the words coming out of Taehyung's mouth, pressing his body close to his.

Slowly, the words sank in.

'Let me take you out.'

It wasn't a question per se, but coming from his boyfriend's mouth, it would be weird if it came out any other way.

He wanted to... take him out? On a date?

Kook's doe eyes lifted to look Tae in the eye, finding the elder so adorable..

''Are you asking me out?'' He raises an eyebrow, a pouty smile on his lips, ''Because I'll say yes.''

“Yes, I’m asking you out!” Taehyung laughed, embarrassed about the situation he found himself tangled in.

Nevertheless, he was just as happy.

Jungkook agreed to go out with him, for fucks sake! If this wasn’t something to internally celebrate, then he didn’t know what was.

“Cool.” The elder tried to seem unfazed, but the way the corners of his lips moved up on their own was a big give away.

Tae leaned in to press a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s neck, meeting the same eyes that caught his attention.

“So.. tomorrow? After school. You and me.”

By now, Taehyung doubted he possessed the common ability to form sentences longer than three words. But that was the ‘Jungkook effect’, and he’d fallen victim to it a long time ago.

“Leave it up to me, alright? I’ll get everything ready.”

Jungkook tilted his head to the side.

''Surprise date?'' He felt giddy, and didn't even attempt to hide it, a toothy bunny grin on his lips, wrinkles in the corners of his eyes appearing. His body almost vibrated in excitement,

''I wanna know, tell me!'' He held his hand up, ''Actually, no, don't tell me! It's a surprise...aahh''

Kook finished off washing his hair, deeming himself clean enough as he stepped out to dry himself with the towel. He was excited now. Last time--and the only time he's ever been on a date was with Ash... and that memory clearly needed to be replaced.

Tae parted his lips, about to recite to his boyfriend what the meaning of a surprise was in a smart-ass tone when Jungkook caught himself, only appearing all the more adorable in Taehyung’s eyes.

“It’s kinda last minute, though.” The elder sheepishly reminded, ruffling at his wet hair with the towel, wishing he could’ve put more time into planning out their date.

“I probably won’t be able to get us any fancy dinner reservations..” Tae sighed, knowing he was horrible at taking the lead— in some aspects.

Maybe he’d force a suggestion or two out of Jimin. He knew how much the elder drooled over romance; further highlighting his title of a hopeless romantic.

Plus, last Tae remembered, Jimin watched the Twilight franchise five times. If that didn’t speak ultimate hopeless romantic level, then Taehyung didn’t know what did.

“But honestly, anywhere with you is okay.”

The boy playfully scrunched up his nose, tugging Jungkook close by the waist, not caring that he’d get his boyfriend wet, “More than okay, actually.”

"Ahh, you've been such a sweet talker lately..." Jungkook mirrors the nose scrunch, grimacing at the fact that Tae wasn't dry, but easily gave in to be held close,

"I like it... I like you." Kook gave the elder a pouty smile as he cupped Taehyung's face, drawing him in to guide their lips together in a sweet kiss.

He took a moment to just.. feel Taehyung. Softly kissing his lips again, and again, a little hum of satisfaction rumbling in Kooks chest.

“You like me? Well that’s a relief..” Taehyung playfully added in between their kisses, pecking his boyfriend’s needy lips one last time before putting the towel in his grip to work, afterwards slipping on his briefs as well as the rest of his clothing.

He was excited, a little nervous. But most of all excited to take his boyfriend out on a proper date.

Finally, Jungkook’s words seemed to make a little more sense.

Taehyung could see it; he has matured.

“What do you say we finish that anime? I forgot what it’s called.”

Jungkook followed, getting dressed in sweatpants and a baggy t shirt as he headed towards the living room with his boyfriend, instantly sprinting to crouch by the tv to find the exact movie he was talking about.

''Spirited away! Only the best movie ever...'' He glanced over at Taehyung as he put the movie on, hurriedly making his way over to jump into the couch, beckoning for Taehyung to come sit next to him, ''I swear I will cry though. So you better be prepared to hold me.''

The elder outstretched his arms along the backrest of the couch, one of them circling around Jungkook’s shoulders as he pulled the younger boy closer to his chest, getting ready for what’s to come.

“Ah, really?” Taehyung’s shoulders vibrated as he laughed quietly, “I’m already holding you, so feel free to cry whenever you want~”

He teasingly sang, nevertheless craning his neck to press a quick kiss to the crown of Kook’s head, “I doubt it’s gonna be that sad, though.”

By the time the credits came around, Taehyung’s sharp eyes burned with tears. He tried blinking them away, but it was no use.

“It— It’s just allergies!”

The elder initially tried to reason with Jungkook; all the while he rocked a pink nose, glassy eyes, and obvious proof that it was definitely not due to allergies.

Taehyung silently cursed out that one scene.

Jungkook was snuggled up against Taehyung's side, pressing his cheek against his warm, firm chest, one arm clinging to the elder in a hug.

Kook was a crybaby when it came to anime, and he did nothing to hold back his tears as they soaked tae's shirt,

"Gooooddd, I've seen it a hundred times and it's just as heart wrenching every time!" He whined, withdrawing when the ending credits rolled to look up at his boyfriend.

"Sure. Allergies." He scrunched his nose, leaning in to place kisses over the elders cheek. It wasn't even pollen season.

Jungkook leaned back in the couch, satisfied with his day, a long drawn out sigh pushing through his lips, "Aah, my heart...."

His heart was full with all kinds of emotions. The pain from the movie--- his favorite kind of pain. And with love, for the man next to him, "Are you tired?"

Taehyung hadn’t even realized the day’s own credits had also rolled around in the form of darkness until his boyfriend asked him if he was tired.

He picked up his phone from his lap, brows quirking at the time.

It was definitely time to get some sleep, and if Taehyung wanted their date to be far from excruciatingly bad, he’d need some rest.

The elder already had a blurry vision of where he was planning to take Jungkook. Also, what he was going to surprise him with at his doorstep.

Although Taehyung was feeling pretty confident in himself, he wouldn’t be able to truly relax until he knew what Kook thought of it.

“Yeah, I’m tired..” He spoke in the midst of a loud yawn, stretching his arms over his head.

Pushing himself from up the couch, Tae followed his boyfriend into his room, slipping off the shirt that was stained with Jungkook’s tears before snuggling up to the younger.

Now that he laid in bed.. sleep seemed unreachable.

Taehyung was much too giddy about tomorrow’s events, and he hoped that Jungkook was just as excited. Hell, he hoped it met his boyfriend’s expectations.

The moment he closed his eyes, Tae’s phone chimed from the bedside table, it was a text from Namjoon.

“Joon just texted me,” The elder said in confusion, showing the long text to his boyfriend.

From Joon: Heyy guysss! I’m sending this to Tae but Kook I know you’re with him so that’s why I said hey guys.. i told jisoo how i felt today adn it was like a big huge rock was lifteed of my chest??

“Is he drunk?” Taehyung chuckled, flashing Jungkook an amused glance.

From Joon: she didn’t seem too scared, so that’s good :()))) you know I’m just kinda wingin it these days and im tryng to be more honest with myself anf honestly, you guys should too!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i wanted to send more exclmation marks but my fingers got tirred. anyways, el fin, that’s the end in spanish. just...... live your life to the fullest and stop douting yourself fbecayde that’s what i did today and it felt good. night

“Did you understand any of that?” Tae raised a brow, putting his phone to the side.

As silly as it all was.. the elder was going to listen to Namjoon and stop doubting himself.

Who knows, perhaps tomorrow’s date was going to be far better than he expected.

''Kinda winging it?... Kim Namjoon was winging it?'' Jungkook snorted, crawling into bed after getting undressed, laying on his back as he stretched out his body, joints popping as he does so, ''Sounds like he really likes noona, don't you think?''

Kook shrugs at his own question as he glances over at Taehyung, hands behind his head.

He was still amazed by the fact that they had been away from eachother for one fucking day, and somehow it felt like they were separated for..well, weeks?

At least.

But now, with his boyfriend next to him in bed, he felt content. How was he ever able to get through every other year of his life without him? Sleeping alone would feel weird at this point.

''I'm excited for tomorrow...'' Jungkook rolls over to his side, pulling Tae closer to press their bodies together, ''But don't stress too much about it, okay? I promise you I will love it.''

“Me too..” A relaxed smile took over Taehyung’s lips, who was more calm now with Jungkook’s reassurance, paired with the latter’s warmth radiating off his skin.

Yeah, by now he was sure that tomorrow was going to be special.

He was going to make sure of it.

#fic: Love maze #Taekook fic #Taekook smut #Taehyung x Jungkook #Vkook smut #Jungkook smut #Taehyung smut #BTS series #Taekook series #BTS smut #sombreboy

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zertzertzhang · 4 years ago

Text

Stand and Deliver: My Life Turned Upside Down CH.2

A/N: This is my first time writing on Tumblr, so please bear with me! I am usually active on FFNet and AO3, but since this fandom is basically nonexistent except for here, I thought maybe I could post my works for this movie here. The story is a fanfic based on the 1988 movie ‘Stand and Deliver’ starring Edward James Olmos, and taking a deeper look into the lives of the impoverished students in East LA.

Eventual Angel/OC, and warnings of racial slurs with some physical violence.

First chapter link here > https://zertzertzhang.tumblr.com/post/627185848305270784/stand-and-deliver-my-life-turned-upside-down

Chapter Two: Circus

The second Vianne stepped out of the car, she realized her mistake. The school wasn’t what she expected at all. Garfield High broke the scale...in a bad way. Chipped walls decorated the main hall, flooded with overflowing trash bins and rusty pipelines. It had to have been decades since the last renovation, with the building looking like something she saw from abandoned prefectures.

Like all other complexes she’d seen around there, the place was standing on its last two feet. This was supposed to be the best building around.

Her white Giuseppe sneakers stepped on something sticky, and it was a challenge to hold in a disgusted snort. There was dried gum everywhere on the sidewalk, making Vianne wonder why they even bothered with trash cans in the first place. She winced when it was clear that her shoes would be torn to shreds by the end of the day.

Then came the worst part of her arrival; people stared. And it wasn’t some half-assed look you gave to a passersby on the streets. Students were either throwing her a look-over or straight on gaping. It could’ve been the way she was dressed, or the fact that she was probably the only Asian mingling in the midst of Latinos and very few Caucasians. Most likely both.

Ironed blouses and slim denim were not in fashion around here. Among the rest of the population with oversized shirts and baggy mom jeans, Vianne was the runt of the litter. She wanted to jump back into the car, go home, and put on an invisibility coat. The dirty look she saw from some of the girls did nothing to calm the queasy storm in her stomach.

“-That fresh meat?”

“It’s a fuckin’ chink. What’re they doin’ here?”

“Heh, looks like a lost puppy.”

The boys were doing a terrible job at whispering. Vianne wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at passive aggression or just plain stupidity. She glared in their direction, lips pulled into a slight frown as she entered the building. A cold sweat broke through her back, stretching its spindly fingers around her body in a tight cocoon.

Ignore them and get on with it.

Her mind screamed at her to keep walking, and she obliged. Repeating the mental mantra, Vianne soon found her way into the main office with her slip in hand. A handful of police officers crowded in one tiny space, speaking in rapid Spanish. Order did not exist in this school; the secretary was talking to five people at once, without the time to think about the things she said. Voices filled with agitation hung in the air.

Vianne was this close to thinking she had entered the wrong room when a small figure spotted her from behind.

“Miss? Can I help you?” A small tap on her shoulders sent her whirling around in alarm. Her little outburst startled the short woman behind her as well. When Vienne finally registered the lack of threat in front of her, her cheeks flushed bright red.

“Sorry! I’m looking for Racquel Ortega. It’s my first day and I was told to come here to get my finalized schedule.” The young woman spoke so fast she swore her lips would fall off.

The curly-haired woman in the maxi dress looked surprised. “Ah, that would be me. Are you Vianne Yang.”

Vianne nodded. “I was supposed to meet my TA instructor for math. It’s my first period.”

Ortega smiled warmly. “Yes. Welcome to Garfield High. Please follow me.” She held out a hand, and Vianne shook them without hesitation.

The duo weaved back and forth in the crowds, desperate to dodge the flying paper balls. Ortega would yell once in a while at a group of boys before pointing to the office behind her. The way her docile demeanor went from zero to a hundred freaked the young woman a bit. But Vianne couldn’t blame her. Had she been in her shoes, she would’ve quit before she even started.

As it turned out, her instructor was a retired engineer. Of all places, Vianne didn’t expect that to come from a high school teacher, particularly in this neighborhood. Ortega did an excellent job at filling in the details. It would seem that Jaime Escalante needed a breath of fresh air from the corporate environment.

Vianne almost felt sorry for him. There was no relaxation here; she’d be surprised if the teachers weren’t dropping dead from exhaustion because of the students. Garfield, from what she’d seen so far, could drive a devout nun to insanity.

The increasing voices of everyone around spiked her anxiety to new levels. She was doing her utmost best to not break down and cling onto the older woman for dear life. The mass of bodies was like an unforgiving current, threatening to wash her away if she slipped up.

They reached a door with the sign ‘Math 1A’ scribbled on the whiteboard next to it. Someone had decided that a drawing of a dick was appropriate to be placed right under the description. The person even added a smiley face onto the artwork, showcasing their enthusiasm. Real classy.

“Racquel please come to the front desk. Racquel please come to the front desk.” Ortega’s walkie-talkie crinkled pitifully, before choking out a command. The math advisor sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She nudged Vianne closer to the door.

“Here’s the classroom. Mr. Escalante should be there already. Good luck with your school year.” A tight smile appeared on Ortega’s face, and within seconds, she was making a mad dash back to the main hall. All alone, Vianne was left standing there feeling like a complete fool. She blinked at where Ortega was previously, and the sense of dread overwhelmed her. On cue, the bell rang its warning. Everyone groaned in unison like a chorus before the wave of students began flowing into the classrooms.

Lucky for her, she had no need to run to class. Grabbing the nob with renewed strength, Vianne pulled herself into the room. There was one person at the front desk; a middle-aged man nearing his sixties stood near the chalkboard, hand moving furiously as he wrote down an equation. She prayed that this was going to be the right person.

“Mr. Escalante?” Vianne cringed at her pronunciation of his name. She herself knew what it was like when people screwed up hers in the past. But this man had an entirely different level of difficulty. Ortega’s way of saying it felt so natural compared to hers, which sounded like an insecure toddler butchering their first word.

The man turned his head to face Vianne, eyes widening a fraction. His oversized glasses gave him a sage-like appearance despite the head, or half-head, of dark hair. The bald spot in addition to his very casual attire made her think of a grandpa who was likely to yell at the kids across the lawn.

At the sight of her dumbstruck state, he quirked his lips. “Yes, how may I help you?”

The slight South American accent trailed after his speech, giving away his ethnicity. Vianne felt her mouth open and close, but the nervousness took the words from her mouth. She stuck out her hand that held the transfer letter. Escalante better have known about this, or she’ll flip a lid.

“I’m Vianne,” she explained. “Your TA. I think Mrs. Ortega already told you about me?”

Escalante’s brows rose to new heights, his amused smile broadening. “Yes! Miss Yang, is it? Welcome to my class!” The elongated hiss in his way of speech, coupled with the wild gesture of his arms painted the picture of a mad scientist in her head. It was nearly endearing.

“I’m afraid there’s not enough chairs for an extra student,” Escalante said. “Please stand here and wait for everyone to arrive so I can take a headcount for the others.”

Vianne obeyed without a word and flattened herself against the wall next to him. In response, the door was barged open, and the group of students flooded the room like a swarm of wasps entering their hive. Restless chatter buzzed her ears as she took note of everyone that rounded the class. It was hard to catch what most of them were saying; Spanish wasn’t the language requirement she took back in Napa.

Knowing French wasn’t the best course to help her in this situation. And even then, she only took it up to level two. The people before her all wore the same dazed expression, jeering in loud volumes and hooting on the sides.

Someone shot a rubber band across the room, hitting one of the boys square in the face. Angry shouts erupted from both sides as the rest of them began to laugh at the brawling duo. More paper balls were thrown, and Vianne could hear some of them yelling ‘bitch’ to one another.

It was a fucking joke. The whole class was a joke––scratch that––the whole school was a joke. And Vianne was the poor audience that bought the overpriced ticket to the hellhole circus. There was not a word that could describe the boiling feeling in her gut. She couldn’t believe it; this was the place she had to deal with for another year.

There was no way the teachers here could’ve survived each day without going into a catatonic state before school ended. Vianne drummed her fingers against her books without mercy. A panic attack was just inches away from happening if the class refused to settle down. And from the look on Escalante’s face, it would appear that they shared the same sentiment.

A scowl donned his face, creasing the heavy lines on his forehead. If it weren’t for Vianne’s distracted state, she would’ve been frightened by those narrowed eyes.

“Come now!” Escalante’s voice boomed throughout the small room. “You don’t want no mama’s chancla when you get home, no? I’d love to see you fight with your parents around.”

The overt threat was not lost among the students, with some of them slinking away in defeat. Others ‘booed’ at the command, but made no extra attempts to disrupt the already late start of the lecture. It took about five minutes to get their total attention to the board, and that alone fried Vianne’s brain.

“Orale!” Escalante’s mood quickly brightened at the cooperating mass, his smile twinkling with interest. “Allow me to introduce my new TA. She will be your lovely assistant for the rest of the school year. Any extra questions, she will answer for you.”

His hands gestured to her like a magician preparing his new subject for a spin. But only in this state, nothing was magical. It became clear that Escalante was waiting for her to present herself; the man eyed her expectantly, his grin not budging an inch.

Vianne felt her cheeks flush so hot that it put the musty LA weather to shame. Clearing her throat, she stepped forward. “Hi, uh, I’m Vianne. It’s a pleasure to meet you all...uh, hope I could be of some help.”

An urge to facepalm was strong. Had her grades been irrelevant to her stay in Math 1A, she would’ve made a beeline for the door. The reception after her introduction was a nightmare, because everyone began jabbering all at once.

“The fuck?!” A young man with a messy afro glared at her. His buddies around him sniggered in agreement.

In the front, a chubby male with curly hair snorted. “Booooring!” His female friends rolled their eyes and swatted him on the shoulders. But their giggles weren’t held in for long.

Vianne wanted to find the nearest cliff and throw herself from it. If she converted to Buddihsm now, maybe she’ll even have a decent shot at getting a nice reincarnation.

“First you, now the chink?! This is messed up man!” A few more hostile tones rose from the back.

Her eyes flared. Vianne changed her mind; she didn’t want to throw herself off a cliff anymore, she wanted to throw them. Her body trembled with brewing rage under her skin. The nerve of the scoundrels! As if she wanted to be here! If it were up to her, she wouldn’t even spare them the time of day. Like an uncontrollable tick, her temper fired in sparks. A snide retort was about to make its way to the public when Escalante’s hands came up in a flash.

“Silence!” The tone of his command left no room for arguments. “Another remark as such, and all of you will be spending Saturday school for a month!”

The teacher was practically bristling from head to toe. His friendly disposition came and went at a dizzying speed, tugging Vianne onto an emotional roller-coaster. However, she was nonetheless grateful for the save. One thing was for sure, skin color was not up for debate in his classroom. At least she found an ally in desperate times.

At his outcry, the students grumbled amongst themselves and quieted down. She still received dirty looks from the girls, but they were mostly silent. One youngster in the front row with earrings gave her a lopsided grin and tutted with refined casualness.

“Yo ese! Does that mean if you assign sex homework I can ask her number?”

A few other boys cheered from the back, throwing their thumbs up as if they heard the best joke in record time. The girls cringed and sent disgusted scowls their way, with one of them commenting about how horny the bastards were. Only one person in the audience didn’t react. The girl with short, curly hair looked at Vianne, a pitying stare adorned her guise.

Humiliation wasn’t something Vianne dealt with on a daily basis. And the sudden onslaught nearly had her burst into a tearful temper tantrum. Glancing over to Escalante, she could see the patience waning from him as well. The class was saved from another wrath from either of them when the bell rang again.

Without a second thought, everyone except for the girl with short hair bolted for the door. The insult Vianne had prepared was lodged in her throat, unable to make their move. Was this a mistake? She was sure that it wasn’t even halfway through the first period, they still had more than an hour left. Time was a foreign concept to her in this town, and she figured her mind must’ve been playing tricks on her.

“Um, is class over?” It was a rhetorical question. But what answered her caught her off guard.

“Give it a minute,” the girl said. Her pencil tapped with a delicate rhythm against the desk as she wore a tired expression. Vianne stared at her with disbelief before turning her head to the instructor. Like the girl, Escalante showed no interest in leaving, instead opting to go towards the window.

Curiosity got the best of her, and she soon joined him by the blinds. “What’s going on?”

“They rigged the bell again.” From Escalante’s frown, she reckoned that this was a common occurrence. Following his gaze, her eyes landed on a group of young men congregated before the main school alarm. All of them were donned in dark clothing, wearing baggy jeans and beanies. The distance made it hard to see their faces, but Vianne thought she caught sight of a tall figure moving amongst them. He was laughing obnoxiously, while engaging in a bro-shake with a shorter male.

None of that was relevant, though, because the bell rang again, this time from the superintendent. His red face deepened to a shade of purple as he and the principal began their rounding of the rioting teens. The mob of students were herded back to their respective classrooms, all groaning and whining at the ‘unfair treatment’ of their lunch break.

“Lunch isn’t for another two periods!” Principal Molina shouted. “Get back to class!” His finger pointed to the doors, and his eyes bulged like an angry bull’s.

“Shut the fuck up!” A few students jeered. More paper balls were thrown, but there wasn’t anything Molina could do about it.

All the while, Vianne and the girl sat dumbstruck as they stared at the whirlwind of people coming back to their seats. Vianne swore that if this was how it was going to be for the rest of the day, then she’ll gladly accept them leaving on their own accord.

After another ten minutes wasted on trying to get her classmates to settle down, Escalante wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The toll of the students had taken its effect on him as well. But the sly grin never left his face, unbreakable like hardtack.

“I told you it was futile to escape,” he taunted softly. “There’s always a bigger fish in the pond.”

Vianne sent him a disbelieving look. Was the man not afraid of backlash? But the rest of the class only ignored him and glared, defeated. The class TA let out a breath of relief, for a moment she feared that it’ll lead to another brawl, this time at the instructor.

“Turn to page fifteen! And I want all of your homework turned in to Vianne right here. Once you’ve done that, work on problems one through ten on the multiplication of fractions.” The command was calm and precise, not a word stuttered. Escalante corrected the glasses on his nose and squinted at the chalkboard, not giving a fuck about the moaning teens.

It was Vianne’s cue to get to work. She didn’t hesitate, and began roaming around the room collecting wrinkled papers. With time, she learned that the girl who stayed behind was Ana, the frizzy-haired girl behind her was Claudia, and next to Claudia was the redheaded Lupe. Neither of the two gave Vianne much of a glance, preferring to ignore her existence as she took their homework.

Not bothering to tell them about the mutual disdain, Vianne clicked away happily. She soon found out that the man who kept asking for sex was Tito, his lopsided smile broadening when she came to take his paper.

“How ‘bout we do a trade,” Tito suggested, licking his lips. “My work for your number.”

Vianne wished very much to flip him off and top it with a whack on his head. But she chose to snatch the homework from his hands without a word. A snort escaped her as she turned around.

The boy next to him, Frank ‘Pancho’ Garcia, hooted. “Rejected!”

Tito scoffed. “Tsk, tsk. Playin’ hard to get I see.” He waved a casual hand and went back to his workbook. “It’s her loss.”

That’s what every virgin says. Vianne rolled her eyes at the added comment. The stack of writings were presented to Escalante, who took it with a gracious ‘thank you’. His lack of reaction to the jeers made her question just how much he was going to take because of his job. The probability of him being numb to the antics was high.

Just when Vianne thought her task was done for the time being, the door creaked open. She raised a brow; there were three more seats left in the corner, so it made sense that there were more people coming in. Facing the entrance, Vianne tried to get a better look than using the corners of her eyes.

Her stomach lurched at the sight, and she had to bite her lips to keep from hyperventilating. If her memory served her right, then those were the exact same boys she saw loitering around the alarm. The shortest one with a bandana stalked up to the front, head bobbing with self-assured arrogance. His hollow eyes stared at her with mild interest before they hardened when Escalante came into his view.

“Kimo,” he drawled. “Who’s the freshie?” The languid demeanor gave away his stoned state. Vianne made a subconscious step away from him and his pals, eyeing them warily through her glasses. He smirked, showing off a row of white teeth, seemingly glad at her reaction.

“You’re late, Chuco.” To her side, Escalante came into the conversation. “Vianne’s your new TA and I need you to sit your ass on a seat.”

Chuco gave a slighted look her way before he sauntered past her to the back, followed by his buddies. Vianne didn’t realize how tall the teen she saw through the window was until she was mere inches away from him. Dressed in an oversized bomber jacket and jeans too big for his waist, the towering youth could easily pass as a man in his twenties. A good feet taller than her would be a low estimation.

What on earth are his parents feeding him?!

Vianne stared straight on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing her discomfort. Like Chuco, he also paid her no attention as he strolled next to the ‘leader’, plopping down on the desk in a bored manner.

It made sense that Escalante would want their homework as well, so she made a begrudging advance in their direction. Her feet padded across the room, drilling needles of dread into her legs with each stride.

“I need your homework, please.” Vianne tried to sound as polite as possible. But the grinding of teeth made it hard to sound sweet.

Chuco leered. “Ain’t got no homework, chica. Do the problems in ma head.”

One didn’t need a degree in astrophysics to know he was messing with her. Vianne grinned a little too forcefully and sighed. “Fine. Please turn to page fifteen and work on problems one through ten.”

She walked over to his tall companion, prepared for another unpleasant conversation. “Homework, please.”

The young man proceeded to pull his beanie lower over his ears. At that, Vianne was millimeters away from flipping her shit. Did the blockhead not comprehend? Or was he messing with her, too? Her father did say that certain people around the area couldn’t speak English, so she tried to push the excuse in a better light. Maybe he really didn’t understand her.

“Give me your tarea, por favor?” She tried to remember the basic Spanish from her previous encounters. But her knowledge decided to ditch her last minute. “Uh, Speak Ingles?”

He looked at her, eyes wide with what she hoped was understanding, and his lips twitched. Then his brows joined in, before he busted out laughing. Chuco howled along with him, slapping him on the shoulders with glee.

“Sometimes,” the tall youth answered. He smirked, tilting his head in her direction. Vianne balled her hands into fists as she watched on. The tips of her ears burned with a passion.

“Orale Angel!” Chuco high-fived him hard. “Nice one!” The duo continued their chorus of laughter, completely oblivious to the subject of their jest.

Vianne wished that turning invisible was a possible feat. It was adamantly clear that this was going to be a long year. The storm inside her grew, barely holding the thunders at bay.

A/N: As per usual, shoutout to @classic80sand90smovieloves2 for encouraging and helping me get over writers block and whatnot ;)

#stand and deliver #angel guzman #angel guzman imagine #80s movies #fanfiction #fanfic #80s movie imagines #lou diamond phillips #edward james olmos #jaime escalante #stand and deliver headcanon

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