#it's supposed to be 18 squares one of them left blank

[bakingmoomins]

zoned out so hard during class today I drafted a whole sweater vest

[rymndsmth]

kyoto (tangerine)

you catch the attention of a certain passenger. 

warnings: 18+

You lightly drummed the end of your pencil onto the blank page, following slightly off-key with the music that blasted through your earphones. Next stop, Kyoto. You hoped there was a life in the new city that made you forget all the mess in Tokyo. It wasn’t supposed to end up like this…

A shake of the head brought you back into the car, bright lights bouncing from the window your head leaned on. The scenery outside blurred by with how quickly that train was going, meshed into a kaleidoscope of muddy colors. It left you with nothing to draw on this stupid page, no inspiration at all. 

Though supposedly and hopefully sturdy, you felt that ground beneath your feet rumble to the tune of footsteps. Also, oddly, in time with your music. The thunderous vibrations rose, echoing in your chest, and throat as you peered up to see the source striding down the aisle. 

There were people who were good looking, and then there were people like him. Those who had to have grown annoyed a long time ago at the gaping they surely received daily. The kind of people who were so devastatingly gorgeous, others doubted if they were even people at all. 

Your fingers pinched your pencil. Inspiration found. 

The handsome and equally well-dressed man took a seat a few places up in your direct eye line. You wasted no time running the tip of lead across the paper, as if it were your fingers running along the chiseled edges of his jaw, the high rises of his cheekbones. His beautiful lips and straight nose. And lots, and lots of gorgeous dark hair that was slicked back. 

Blue eyes pierced into yours a few times, catching you in a near fugue state. The awkwardness at being discovered staring had disappeared long ago for you, hazards of the job and all that jazz you guessed. A small smirk appeared on his lips the third time it happened as he said something to his companion all the while looking at you. 

The picture you’d sketched was rough, but it was good. You were never going to get likeness that perfect on a page, but it was enough for you to be satisfied. Beneath your feet, the ground shook again and when you rose your head, he was sliding into the seat across from yours. You took your headphones off, intrigued. 

“Lovely evening isn’t it?” His voice was melodic, more playful than you imagined. 

“Yeah, I think so.” You nodded. 

“What-is that me?” Those icy eyes widened as they fell to the picture under your hand. 

A bit of bashfulness flooded through you. Getting caught staring was one thing, but having the subject see your drawing of them was another. You laughed lightly as you spun the sketchpad for him to see. You couldn’t help but drink in his ring covered hands. Long, thick fingers skimming the lines on the page. 

“I’m a bit embarrassed if I’m honest.” He smiled. 

“Oh, I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” You blurbed, panic blooming in your chest. 

“No, it’s not that!” One of his large hands came down on yours. “It’s just here I was thinkin’ you were staring at me because…”

You tilted your head, swallowing. “Because?”

“Because you thought I was attractive.” He bit his lip, and shook his head. “It’s silly, I know.”

“Not at all.” You responded a bit too quickly to be considered cool. 

That seemed to amuse him. It should’ve been apparent to you at that moment, but you still found yourself none the wiser that you had played right into his hand. He leaned back in his seat, exposed chest protruding even more from his shirt. The light sheen of sweat despite the cool air, the golden pendant swinging low. 

“Yeah, and why’s that?” His brow quirked.

“You are attractive. Very.” You squared your shoulders, deciding to own your confidence. 

“I know. Just wanted to hear you say it, love.” He flashed a brilliant smile. “Name’s Tangerine, by the way.” 

Obviously, that was not his god given name. But if that was what he wanted you to call him, you would. You would call him anything he asked you to. And it was at that moment, you fully realized. 

“Y/N.” You breathed. 

“Y/N, my little artist.” Tangerine rolled your name on his tongue as if he was tasting it. “What am I to do with you?”

A lot of thoughts crossed your mind, all of them jump scares for your parents. The one that screamed that loudest was that you were most definitely insane for even considering the rest. But then again, what was one last bit of chaos before your new life, right? It couldn’t hurt to go out with, well, a bang. 

You leaned forward onto your forearms, eyes raking shamelessly from his strong thighs all the way up to his face. His nostrils flared lightly and it stirred something in you. The man looked like he was ready to fly across the table and pounce on you, your ego was doing goddamn cartwheels. 

“You can do whatever you want.” The words left your lips without a second thought. 

Tangerine inhaled and nodded. He rose from the seat to his full height, towering over you as he stepped into the aisle. His blue eyes held yours for a moment when he paused, a hand placed on your shoulder.

He let it lazily slip off as he continued to walk. Your head craned, following his movements until he disappeared into one of the restrooms. There was literally never going to be another opportunity like this. You knew that, hell, the fucking Pope knew too. 

It didn’t wake much if any courage at all to get to your feet and follow the path he’d taken. You opened the door just wide enough for your body to slip in, and locked it shut behind you. Tangerine took a seat on the closed lid, his legs spread as wide as they could in the tight space. 

“Come here.” He beckoned you with two fingers.

An invisible thread pulled you, your feet moving without thinking. They carried you to his lap which you straddled in one fluid motion. His skin was hot beneath your hands as you slid them up his chest. His touch travelled over your stomach, exposed by your cropped sweater, and upwards. He ran a thumb over your bottom lip, cradling your face. 

And then he kissed you, just a peck. It was like the first spark of a stubborn lighter, making you shaky with the excitement to get your fix. Then came the second which was the long sweep of his lips over yours, a pull that left you chasing his mouth when it broke. Finally, there was fire. 

You opened your mouth to his tongue, a satisfied moan at the contact leaving you. Your hips bucked into his, grinding the erection in his pants to life. He grabbed them greedily, pressing you closer to his body as his hot mouth moved over yours. 

“I bet you’re already so wet for me.” Tangerine rasped. 

His words hit you in that molten pit that was forming in your lower stomach. He slipped a hand into the band of your pants and panties. Two digits slid into your folds, your eyes fluttering shut as he rolled your slick between them. 

“Fuckin’ hell…” He panted, moving down to suck your neck. 

You ran your hands through his hair, rutting yourself over his fingers. It was getting harder and harder to control the noises that left your mouth. Being in here like this with someone life him, it was unbelievable. You knew it was real, but it felt too good to be true. It was literally going to drive you over the edge. 

Your grip in his hair tightened as he began to circle your clit. The other hand you had free fell back to his knee, holding on for dear life as you felt heat rise in your body. It tickled your throat, mouth chanting yes yes yes until you were suddenly robbed of all contact. 

“Only way you’re gonna cum is on my cock.” He tutted at your annoyance. “Now lose the trousers and let me fuck you.” 

You were uncharacteristically obedient as you rose to your feet again to meet his demand. While you did that, he loosened his buckle and freed his cock. It was more considerable than you though it would be, causing you to swallow at the sight. Once you’d discarded your pants, you got back onto his lap.

Tangerine collected some of your wetness and used it to stroke himself before lining up with your entrance. You held onto his strong shoulders as you sank down, mouth parting with the burning stretch of your walls taking him in. He groaned, twitching inside you. 

“It’s so fucking deep.” You gasped, eyes rolling back on their own. 

“You’re gonna take me so good, aren’t you love?” He kissed you.

You nodded, dropping your forehead to his. Tangerine’s arms looped around your thighs, holding your hips so that he could help you move up and down his length. Your fingers dug into his upper back as you took more and more of him until you rested flush against him.

When he raised you almost to the tip again, you arched your back. On your own, you began to ride him, finding a good rhythm that had you picking up where you left off. You felt that fire as you bounced on his cock, breaths leaving in pants the more it burned. 

“I’m gonna-I’m-“ You choked out.

“That’s it, baby.” He thrusted upwards. “Cum for me.”

You growled out a cry, upper body collapsing onto his as you chased and finally hit your peak. Your hips stuttered over his, your mouth pressed into his jacket to muffle the whimpers that came with each wave. 

Tangerine suddenly stood up. You instantly wrapped your legs and arms around him, his mouth warm and needy on yours as he pressed you to the wall. His hips snapped forward powerfully, rocking you into the surface and knocking the air from your lungs. 

“So tight around me, look at you.” He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth before dropping his eyes.

You followed them and moaned. The sight of your walls gripping him, coating his cock in your juices as he slid in and out of your soaking pussy was insanely erotic. He wrapped his arms around your knees, opening you up even more and penetrating deeper than before.

“Shit! Yes, please…” You writhed. 

“Please what?” Tangerine grunted.

“Please keep fucking me like that.” You found yourself smiling, in a state of delirium as he hit your sweet spot over and over.

“Wanna be fucked like this, huh?” He chuckled, fingers tightening around your thighs. 

“Yes, don’t stop!” Your breath hitched.

Tangerine picked up his pace, your bodies banging into the wall thump thump thump louder and louder each time. It hit you rather belatedly that you were probably supposed be to keeping it down. How could you though? Not when a man who was basically a demigod was fucking your brains out beyond your wildest fantasies. 

Your lips met his neck, sucking the soft salty skin. You ran your tongue along the metal of his chain, the bitterness hitting with a pang as you collected it in your mouth until the pendant lay flat against the muscle.

His hooded blue eyes looked down into your own, fluttering at the sight of you like this all for him. For the first time there was a falter in his thrusts. He fought his way through your tightening walls, pelvis snapping with bruising force into yours as you came again.

Tangerine had three strokes left before he pulled out, spilling his hot cum across your stomach. You ran your fingers through his brown locks as he kissed you like he was still trying to devour you while he eased your feet to the ground. 

“Where’s your stop?” He asked as he wet a few paper towels and handed them to you.

“Kyoto.” You accepted them.

A hint of disappointment managed to creep into your bones despite the massive high you were on. As quickly as the moment came, it left. You wished you had more time with him. To at least be able to have him for a few more rounds. A hope that fully blossomed into anticipation when he replied: 

“I’ll see you there then.”

[firefly-in-darkness]

Separation, Connection - [1/2]

Pairing →Bucky Barnes x Reader

Characters → Marvel Characters

Summary → Your friendship with Bucky deterioates when you catch him in a compromising position with a fellow agent.

Word Count → 2.3k

SSB2021 Square Fill → “God I hate you” - @star-spangled-bingo

AFG Square Fill  → “What the fuck am I seeing?” @anyfandomgoesbingo

Warnings → 18+. Angst, Heartbreak, Jealousy, Swearing

Betas → @kalesrebellion // all mistakes are my own.

A/N → This one was sitting in my WIPs folder for ages, and after brainstorming with @writethelifeyouwant, this 2 parter was finished! Ps. I know I haven’t updated Worst Idea Ever in a while and I’m sorry - I’m just very stuck with it atm, the plot and majority of the story is planned out, I just can’t seem to fill in the blanks.

Firefly’s Masterlist

You and Bucky were close, and there was that little thin line between friendship and something more. Nothing had happened but, god, you had wanted it to. The secret crush you harboured for your teammate, your friend, had only grown over the years. Everyone thought you would be good together, commenting on how well you got along, that friendship was an important part of a relationship. Both of you rolling your eyes and laughing at their comments.

When you finally gathered the courage to tell him how you felt, you saw him with someone else. They were at the back of the training facility; the team were in a simulation of a terrorist attack on Paris and once the time on the training session was called, you stumbled across them.

They were just out of sight, hidden in a dark corner. And it wasn’t just a casual embrace. They were having sex, he was fucking her, hard, up against a wall. You froze at the sight of his bare bottom clenching with each thrust and the blissed-out look on her face. What the fuck am I seeing?! Heart shattered, you fled from the room without a sound, not wanting to disturb them or for anyone to see you crying.

It hurt too much to be as close to him after that, you consciously decided to withdraw from the friendship. Not going straight to him when entering a room or staying in bed instead of heading to the rooftop where you’d usually wander at five in the morning to talk with Bucky, putting the world to right.

And of course, Bucky noticed. It had been a week since you had joined him for a midnight chat in the kitchen. He was missing his best friend. He wanted to share his life with her, and she was nowhere to be seen unless someone else was in the room. 

Bucky knew it was a bad sign when you chose to sit next to Wanda, not sandwiched between him and Nat, on movie night. He felt alone in a room full of friends, as they watched a film about a love triangle set in England. It was supposed to be funny, but Bucky didn’t hear the jokes, let alone the punchlines. 

Nat had realised something was wrong too. She saw the dark circles under your eyes when you drained the coffee from the cup in the morning and the puffy redness from crying in the middle of the day. She had detested the way you and Bucky were before, it was like a pair of magnets drawn together, a connected ribbon, a gravitational pull. But now? Well, you were repelling within a few meters of one another, and she hated that even more.

“What did you do, Barnes?” Nat whispered harshly, eyes still on the film.

“Nothing.” Bucky looked over to you, sleeping with your head resting on Wanda’s lap.

“So why is Wanda looking at you like that?” She raised an eyebrow.

Bucky lifted his gaze, saw the fiery red eyes staring back at him as she stroked your hair, a soft red mist falling over you. He frowned at the Sokovian and tried to talk telepathically but she shook her head and looked back at the television.

On autopilot, you ran from your room to his bedroom door, knocking until the screams died down. Long ago, you’d learnt to not enter the room until he’d settled down, had the bruises to your neck and dealt with the guilt-ridden expression on Bucky’s face for weeks.

Pressing your ear to the door, you could hear Bucky moving about and slowly pushed it open so as not to startle him. A soft glow from the lamp at his bedside welcomed you in, he'd stacked his pillows against the headboard with his knees drawn up and resting his head in his hands.

“Hi, Buck. It’s me.” You spoke softly, his head and eyes shot up to meet yours.

You walked over and sat at the end of the bed, averting your eyes to the floor and fingers fiddling with the edge of a blanket, waiting for him to respond.

“What did I do doll?” He croaked, fingers running through his hair, his knees dropping down.

Your heart raced and you were certain he could hear the harsh thumps, but your voice remained steady, “It's nothing, just need a little time to process some things.”

“You normally come to me. What's different?” His voice was strained, thick with distress.

Standing up, you walked towards the window, arms wrapped tightly around your torso. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you remained focused on the navy sky fading to blues and oranges with the sunrise.

“I can't this time Buck, I need space. I need space from you.” With each word, your heart fractured along the lines you’d attempted to piece together with being away from him.

“Get out then, just leave me alone.” His tone was now harsh, stronger than before.

“God, I hate you.” Without a final glance, you left the room. Your heart in tatters once more.

Once in the safety of your room, the sob heaved out of you. Bucky had disregarded you so easily, he let you go without a second thought. And you didn’t know what was worse; what you saw a week ago or what he just said.

Bucky finished his 76th lap when someone caught his eye. It was you. His best friend. The one he stupidly let go of. It had been three months since he'd told you to leave, and you hadn't gone back on his word.

Of course, Bucky was just as stubborn and hadn't approached you unless it was work-related. But there was something different about you. His eyes focused on the man you were standing with, and how you glowed, and Bucky just couldn't stand that you were feeling that way about a random recruit and not him.

“She used to look at you that way.” Wanda’s voice echoed in his head.

He scanned the field and found her figure leaning against a tree, shading herself from the summer sun and a book in hand. Bucky grabbed the small towel and wiped away the sweat, swigging his water bottle, then joined her on the grass.

“What are you talking about? She’s never looked at me like that.” He gestured towards you and the agent.

Wanda chuckled and shook her head, “You're not blind, or stupid, Bucky, she adored you. Still does, even though I wish she would get over you.”

His brow creased. “She wanted space, ended our friendship.” 

Wanda’s eyes flashed red, “And you broke her heart.” 

“Show me.” Bucky held out his hand, pleading with her, “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“I can’t Bucky. It's private, she would never forgive me.” Wanda shook her head and placed her book in her lap, “I've seen what she's done to you, I'm not going to lose her too.”

Bucky sprang to his feet and kicked at the grass. “Then just tell me what you know. Just something?” He turned to face you, hands on his hips as he tried to think of what he’d done.

“Paris terrorist simulation,” Wanda stated without emotion.

Bucky turned around, seeing nothing but a neutral expression on her face. The simulation had been a success, the whole team had done well but he hadn’t seen you at the debriefing. Steve said you were exhausted and needed to rest. 

“What about it?” asked Bucky.

“Don't deny it. I saw it, I felt it. She had no chance of blocking me from that pain.” Wanda stood up, eyes flickering red, “you and that agent. I thought you were better than that Bucky.”

“Shit.” 

Bucky knew exactly what Wanda had meant before she explained. Shame coursed through him; he'd broken your trust by not telling you about the agent he’d been hooking up with. Honestly, he didn't want you to know, didn't want you to judge him for the flings he had. Subconsciously, he knew that was what your distancing was about because he hadn't seen her again or hooked up with anyone since.

All he wanted was you back in his life; he was going to make it happen.

Wanda smirked, shaking her head before walking ahead of him, “Best get a move on Barnes, she’s not thinking of him in a platonic way.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched and he strutted towards you, determined to get you back.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and he could only hope you still felt the same way.

You couldn’t believe Bucky dared to pull rank on you in front of another agent. That he had the gall to do such a thing after he told you to leave him alone, how he betrayed your trust as a friend and unknowingly broke your heart.

You stormed down the blurry corridors as anger took the form of tears. Your whole body tense and determined to get away from the assassin on your tail. People parted like the sea as they saw your strut and scowl, you scoffed at their reaction and thought, this must be what it’s like to be Bucky on a mission. Using it to your advantage, you managed to pull someone by the arm and into the path of the Winter Soldier.

While you sprinted away, you glanced back and spotted Bucky helping the woman to her feet, apologising profusely and then realising it was the agent you had caught him with. Your blood boiled as you pushed through the door to the stairwell, it slammed against the wall and probably damaged it, but you didn’t care anymore.

It wasn’t until the breeze hit your face that you realised where you were. You’d come to the rooftop, the exact spot that you’d air all your worries with Bucky. It was the place you’d first bonded outside of the team. 

A hand dragged down your face and your shoulders slumped. You spun on your heel, ready to escape when you stopped short. There he was, blocking the doorway. You groaned, of course, he knew exactly where you’d go even before you did.

“I just want to talk.” Bucky quietly spoke, a hint of a question in his tone but a statement all the same.

“I’ll scale down the side of this building if I have to.” You stepped back towards the edge.

Bucky growled and walked towards you, “would you quit being so stubborn and dramatic for one second?”

“Just leave me alone.” You threw his own words back at him, stopping him in his tracks.

At that moment, you could see that Bucky realised how hurtful those words were, but you weren’t going to console him anytime soon. He should suffer for how he spoke to you and for never attempting to speak to you until now.

Bucky slowly circled you towards the edge, his eyes focused on you while you turned in tandem following his moves. He reached the railing then settled down into a seated position, legs hanging over the side, his chest against the metal pole.

“Are you going to join me?” Bucky’s gaze now on the horizon.

With a roll of your eyes, you sat beside him, but at least a metre apart, you couldn’t get that close to him. He was too intoxicating, and your emotions were incredibly high, even if they were full of anger and hurt, and you didn’t trust yourself not to succumb to his charm.

“Are you going to talk then?” You sassed back at him.

“I’m sorry for what you saw. You shouldn’t have seen that.” Bucky didn’t hold back, “I was going to tell you, I just thought you’d judge me.”

“I’d judge you. For sleeping with a colleague. In the middle of a training simulation?” You scoffed, “You didn’t tell me about her. Or anyone else for that matter. Natasha filled me in on all your little late night rendezvous when I was on missions.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Bucky knew he’d not win this conversation and scrambled to bring it back onto his side, “you were away, and I needed something, someone.”

“So, you used them and used me too?” You glared at him.

“That’s not what I said,” Bucky seethed, annoyed at the way you were twisting his words but not surprised with the pain you felt. 

You continued, ignoring his comment, unable to stop the words falling from your lips, “I gave you emotional support. Watched you cry yourself to sleep after a nightmare, held your hand when you had a panic attack during a mission.” You shook your head at him, “I just wasn’t good enough for the sex part.”

Bucky held your chin and pulled your face to look at him, “You mean more to me than that. I just didn’t know how you felt. If I’d had known-”

You jerked away from his touch, it felt too nice, it felt like home, but you weren’t ready to fall back into this friendship. He knew how you felt, and you weren’t ready for his rejection. You still needed your space.

Swiftly, you returned to your feet, brushing down your trousers and hands, “Thank you for your apology, but I can’t forgive you.”

Bucky stood up and watched you begin to leave, “I’ll do my best to make you see how much you mean to me.”

You paused in the doorway, but you had to be strong, to carry on walking away, you couldn’t let him hurt you again. It was time to move on.

Continue Here...

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[mydaroga]

Well I Can Find My Way

Fandom-Activity Posts:

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My (Beatles) Fanfic

(Listen) Do You Want to Hold a Penis - Baby’s first Beatles RPF! Inspired by Paul’s performance boner and a misunderstanding of statistics, Paul gets by with a little help from his friends.

Love Lies Bleeding - Reggie “Elton John” Dwight can see things John and Paul can’t. A rewriting of the Madison Square Garden concert, McLennon style.

If You’ll Shut Up About It, I Will -  Paul is asked point blank whether he’s had homosexual relations. What’s he supposed to say? The infamous LSD interview, but gay. Gayer.

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@dateinthelife, a very serious Beatles day-by-day blog with only the most important events mentioned. By which I mean none.

[otonymous]

Lessons (MLQC Shaw - NSFW)

Description: Let Shaw remind you of what a kiss is supposed to feel like.

Warnings:  NSFW/18+:  Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings: PDAs, lots of tongue LOL

Word Count: 1263 words (~6.5 mins of sexual tension)

Author’s Notes:  I had to write this because who wouldn't want to get hot and heavy with Shaw after he steps offstage? 😆

(This piece was originally posted on my Patreon page on March 17, 2021 as an Early Access benefit)

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

“What was that?”

The air hung heavy in the space between you, hazy still with summer heat though the sun had set hours ago.  And there, in the dark alleyway behind the Live House where Shaw had just stepped off-stage, even the moon’s silver slivers seemed hesitant to intrude on the pair of lovers merging in the shadows.

Gentle fingers pinch your chin, tilting your eyes until you slip into the amber gold of his — leaving you breathless, as always.

“I said, ‘what was that?’ ” Shaw repeats, so near now every detail stood out in the dark — those lips, faintly pink and soft, the line of his cupid’s bow so perfect it looked drawn to life.  “That wasn’t a kiss.”

Masculine hands fit to the curve of your hips, pulling you even closer.  You can feel the heat rolling off his body, permeating the V-neck tee that clung in parts to that lean, muscular physique; was drawn to the sweat-glazed skin stretched over the Adam’s apple bobbing along the length of his neck and you knew.

Knew he was getting impatient, impetuous…

…and right where you wanted him.

“I did kiss you.”  Your response is flippant despite the excitement rising in your chest.

“That was a peck.”

“Our lips touched.  That’s the definition of a kiss.”

“Not in my books.”

Feigning coyness, you turn your face away, wondering if he caught the smile crossing your lips before you promptly bit down on it.

“I thought I taught you better than that, didn’t I?” Shaw whispers, breath  warm and moist on the shell of your ear.  And if it had been any other man — let alone one younger than you — you would’ve rolled your eyes at the bravado.

But Shaw wore it well, cheek and worldliness sitting upon the square of his shoulders like a faded leather jacket, weathered and wise.  Even you couldn’t deny the gravitas that graced his countenance when the corners of those amber eyes weren’t crinkled in a teasing smirk, like an old soul trapped in the body of a young man.

And what a body it was: hard and beautiful from above and below and in all the angles you had the chance to study him in when he wasn’t leaving you gasping for dear life.  It presses upon you now, molten heat running from your core to the tips of pebbling nipples when he steps his leg between your own, those ripped jeans burying beneath your skirt to dampen silk.

“I…I don’t remember.”

It was near impossible to formulate a reply let alone a witty one.  Your mind was already blanking at the touch of his hands running lightly up and down the sides of your body, leaving you frazzled with the promise of lust in this very public place.

“Looks like we need to brush up on our lessons then.”

The tip of his nose touches yours; you stop breathing.  Heart thundering in your chest, the rush of blood in your ears competes with the bass-heavy beat barely contained by the walls of the Live House.  Every now and then, the heavy steel door of the back exit swings open, idle chatter and laughter spilling out into the night as people came and went.  But there, caught in the shadows of your lover’s embrace, you couldn’t care less who saw.

In fact, you welcomed it.

Hoped that the next person to pass through the door would be one of those groupies who had watched Shaw perform with tears in their eyes, screaming his name while trying to pass scraps of paper with scribbled phone numbers to the bouncer who kept them from rushing the stage.  Just so they could see him now, with one hand on your cheek and the other moulding to the curve of your ass.

There would be no mistaking who was going home with him that night, no room to wonder about who it was that he wanted.

So you close your eyes, catch a sweet, spicy hint of cinnamon from the gum he habitually chewed.  His lips brush yours: top, bottom…warm silk dragging from corner to corner, touch barely there and pulling back right when they baited yours close.

Like the tease that he was.

You fight back the only way you knew how, hands combing through lavender hair until they lace together at the back of his neck, tracing the initials of your names with fingertips onto the skin at his nape just to feel his breath stop short on your lips.

The hand that falls at the small of your back pulls your bodies together until there is nowhere left to go.  And the heart beating in time with yours tells you that despite that cool exterior, Shaw was just as much of a mess on the inside as you were.

Because in the moment that handsome face angles to yours, pink tongue gliding over the swell of your lower lip before it is sucked into his mouth, hot and moist, you bloomed.

Flushed cheeks.  Weak knees.  The sweet drip of dew between petals that spread only for him.

It was disconcerting — the intensity you felt for someone you couldn’t quite grasp.  And though you had intended from the very start of your relationship to remain detached, matching him tease for tease, the enigma of this man had a way of keeping you honest.

Your body certainly was.

“C’mon, baby.  You know what to do,” Shaw breathes, amber eyes half-lidded and darkening with each passing second.

Drunk on the lulling buzz of his exhalation, the mask of inhibition slips and suddenly, you are ravenous.  He slips the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you welcome it, tasting him further with every swirling caress of yours until the man is irrevocably drawn in.

The hand in your hair tightens the way you like it when you pucker around his tongue, gently sucking it into your mouth until you release it just to hear him moan.  Shaw lays faint expletives at the seam of your lips before he dives back in for more, frantic kisses spreading to cheeks, chin and jaw before they warm the pulse throbbing along your neck.

A slight pinch of pain and you know the proof of your lover’s passion will be obvious to all in shades of vermillion and plum, but you could not stop, craved more of those lips on you, of the hands wandering your curves with all the authority of one imprinting his name onto your body.

He didn’t need to.

You already belonged to him.

“Oh my god!  Is that…oh shit, it is!  It’s Shaw!!  Who the hell is that girl?”

You stiffen at the shriek that echoes down the alleyway, the waves of hostility following on the heels of a cacophony of high-pitched screams and too many women speaking all at once.  But the arm around you holds tight, Shaw cupping your cheek to turn until you are facing the crowd head on.

“Shall we teach them a lesson?” he asks, amber eyes full of mischief as he winks so only you could see.

Before you could even process what was happening, those lips are on you again, full of passion as your eyes widen to take in the crestfallen expressions of groupies with broken hearts.

He really was a tease.  But he was yours.  And you were glad for each and every one of his lessons.

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

"Lessons" is copyright 2021 Otonymous, all rights reserved.

Hope you all enjoyed this piece and thanks so much for reading! 💕 You can find more of my work here and check out my newest and spiciest content exclusively on my Patreon page!

- XOXO, Otonymous 🥰

[dollystuartwrites]

7&ME - Chapter 8 - Wallet

Pairing: OT7 x F!Reader

Genre: fluff, smut, idol AU, straight, bisexual, gay, threesome

Wordcount: 1221

Chapters: [1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] [11] - [12] - [13] - [14] - [15] - [16] - [17] - [18] - [19] - [20]   [21] - [22] - [23] - [24] - [25] - [26] - [27] - [28] - [29] - [30] MASTERLIST Wanna read all the chapters right now? You can find the complete story for free on WATTPAD

Summary: Miracles do happen! Somehow you've finally managed to secure a job at a big company! Even though it'll be a 24/7 job, they promised you a fat paycheck, so you don't care what the job is... But what if the job is managing 7 grown men? Seven men who all have needs...

Warnings: swearing, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, fingering, size kink, oral (f&m receiving), dirty talk, gay sex, threesome sex, bisexual sex, implied masturbation, this is super vanilla compared to most of my stories, let me know what I missed.

Y O U R   P E R S P E C T I V E

When I had woken up this morning, determined to make up for last night's awkward dinner by cooking them breakfast, I was disappointed to see some of the boys already sitting at the dinner table.

'Good morning,' Jungkook waved at me. Taehyung looked up from his breakfast and smiled his square smile. 

'Good morning,' I bowed back at them. 'Where are the other Oppas?' I asked, looking a bit disappointed at the empty seats. 

'Namjoon and Jimin always work out first thing in the morning, and Jin and Hobi always have breakfast in some fancy nearby place,' Taehyung explained. 

'Right. And Yoongi?' I asked, noting that they left out one. 

'Dunno,' Jungkook shrugged. 'He left last night after dinner, something about inspiration or whatever. I gather he's gone to the studio or something, but I don't remember him coming back last night,' Jungkook said frowning.

'Wouldn't be surprised if he's still there,' Taehyung said shrugging. 'Wouldn't be the first time he'd pull an all-nighter. I don't know why he goes to the studio for it though, I mean, his room is basically a studio in itself. So is Joon's,' 

Jungkook nodded in agreement

'By the way,' Taehyung said looking up at me intensely. 'You're supposed to do anything we ask of you right?' 

Jungkook shifted nervously in his seat.

'Whatever you need I'm happy to help,' I bowed politely.

'Great,' Taehyung beamed. 'I have some junk in my room that needs to be cleaned up, but I can't seem to find the time for it,'

'Sure,' I nodded, happy to finally have something asked of me. 

'Could you do my room as well then,' Jungkook asked me eagerly.

'Of course,' I beamed at them. They grinned at each other. 

I wasn't quite sure who was happier with the situation. Them or me. 

The two youngest left shortly after and I insisted they'd leave their breakfast stuff at the table for me to clean up. 

I finally had a job to do, something they had asked of me. If there was one thing I hated, it was having nothing to do. I had some ideas of things I could do in the house and for the guys, but it was only enough to fill about a week's worth of work. If I were to run out of stuff to do already, that would be bad.

But now with these two requests, I could at least fill a day's worth of work. 

I was just done putting away the dishes and wanted to start on my next task when I realized something. 

I had no idea whose room was who's. Well, I knew Jin's and Jimin's room. But the others...

I stared at the blank doors. There were no name signs on it. Of course, they didn't need it. Damn. 

There was no other way of finding out which room was which, other than peeking inside and hoping it would give me any indication of who would be the owner. 

Hesitantly I opened a door. It was extremely dark inside, so I couldn't see anything. I felt around the doorpost but couldn't feel any light switch. As I had seen in Jimin's room, and only glimpsed in Jin's room, their rooms all had different layouts. 

I narrowed my eyes to try and see anything.

It seemed like there was a window at the opposite side of the room, underneath which was placed something large, probably a bed. 

It would probably be easiest to just open the blinds of the window instead of going inside and trying to find a light switch. 

I went inside and left the door behind me slightly open so I could see a little better. I could feel myself stepping on all kinds of things as I made my way across the room. 

It was probably likely that this was one of the two youngest rooms, it being so messy. 

Carefully I climbed onto the right side of the bed, trying to find a way to open the blinds.

There seemed to be a cord on the left of the window. I moved over and reached for it.

Just as I grabbed it I could feel my knee bumping into something. 

Something hard. 

Something alive!

I yelped and fell over, yanking open the blinds in my fall. 

The sudden light blinded me and I closed my eyes firmly as I felt myself fall onto something hard. 

In a split second, I heard a noise that sounded a lot like a loud "umpf" and then footsteps.

The thing I had fallen on moved underneath me. Something was thrown over me and a door slammed open.

'What's going on here?' I could hear Jungkook's voice say. Clearly, he had entered the room I was in. I opened my eyes. 

I was underneath a very fluffy white blanket. 

Just a few centimeters away from my face, I saw something dark and in a weird shape. 

'Jungkook, can you knock next time?' there was clearly a person underneath me as I could feel him speak. It sounded like Yoongi's voice.

'I thought I heard someone scream,' Jungkook sounded worried.

'Yeah, that was me,' Yoongi lied.

'It sounded like y/n,' Jungkook said hesitantly.

I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to get a clear image of what that dark thing was I was looking at.

'Nope, that was me,' Yoongi lied again.

'Why did you scream?' Jungkook inquired. I could clearly hear the disbelief in his voice.

'Because..,' Yoongi sighed. I could feel his body rise and fall and suddenly I realized what I was looking at as it moved. I stopped breathing.

'Because I was jerking off you idiot,' Yoongi sighed. 

My head was laying on Yoongi's lower belly and I was staring directly at his morning wood. 

'Right, sorry,' Jungkook said unusually casually as if Yoongi talking about jerking off to him was the most normal thing in the world.

'Well I would love to help you out, but I have to be at vocal practice in time and I can't find my wallet. Have you seen it?' Jungkook asked.

'You're starting to look more liked Joon. No, I haven't seen it, now get out,' Yoongi said blandly.

'Right, well I'll guess I'll ask y/n,' Jungkook said.

I inhaled sharply at the sound of my name. A warm and slightly musky scent entered my nostrils. A scent I had been very familiar with when I had still been in a relationship.

'She left,' Yoongi said quickly.

'No she didn't,' Jungkook said disbelievingly. 'If she would've, I would've passed her in the hallway. I was already on my way out when I found out I was missing my wallet so I came straight back here, so,' 

'I mean, I think I heard her say something about taking a shower,' Yoongi cut him off.

'Right,' Jungkook said. 

It was silent for a second. 

I could feel my heart beating fast in my chest. I could hear Yoongi's heartbeat as my right ear was laying on his lower stomach. His cloth-covered morning wood was still stiff as a plank. 

'I guess I don't need my wallet a vocal practice anyway,' Jungkook scoffed. 

The relieving sound of footsteps and a door closing entered my ears and the suffocating blanket was finally pulled off of me.

[an-annyeoing-writer]

vulnerability. – prologue

Story info:

Pair: Byun Baekhyun x Reader

Rating: +18 for mentions of s*x and violence (future chapters)

Genre: angst, smut

Chapter info:

Release date: 6th May 2021

Word count: 2 653

Warnings: dark thoughts, general angst (in this chapter, it gets lighter later)

Vulnerability Masterlist || Fanfiction Masterlist || Ko-Fi

Taglist:

@shesdreaminginoverdose @mybiasdashboard @marimsun @byuns-asscheeks @multi--kpop--fanfics @vunv @making-me-blush @skittlez-area512

Please, always comment on the newest chapter if you wish to be added to/removed from the taglist. I will be also checking the tags, so if you're shy – feel free to leave a note this way.

Prologue

“What do you need?”

Another question to which, despite your sincere effort, you are unable to find an answer; spoken in a cool, collected tone that makes it no easier to adjust to. You stare blankly at your hands, folded in your lap in a position that was supposed to be modest, but right now – betrays insecurity and uncertainty.

“Do I have to answer?” you ask quietly, struggling to find the right thing to say; your mind gets as blank as your stare, the stress deeming you unable to create a reply.

“Do you want to waste my time? If I ask a question, I expect an answer.” The man taps the surface of the close-by table, a clear message goes through – don’t test my patience. The notebook that he holds on his lap, with his other hand over it, hasn’t been written in for the past few minutes. The two of you are sitting on tall bar chairs, facing each other. You wish the tall table on the side, imitating the bar counter, was actually in between the two of you – maybe you’d feel a bit more secure with this form of a barrier.

You don’t want to waste his time, but you feel like you’re wasting yours right now. It’s as if you were at a job interview that completely didn’t align with what you had expected it to be like. It’s the moment you feel like the interviewer is only asking the questions out of politeness but does not pay much attention to your answers, and you know your case is a lost one. That’s exactly the way you feel right now – as if he’s at this point only tormenting you for the mere fun of it, although it doesn’t look like he has any fun in this at all; his face is stern and ridden of emotions. Terrifying.

“I think I need stability, and safety…” you try to utter something sensible. “But not boredom…”

You feel silly as soon as these words leave you, and, as you expect, they earn no reaction from the man. You soon realize he must have heard such things dozens of times before you – it’s a textbook answer.

“Some of your replies contradict each other” the man suddenly states.

“I didn’t lie” you argue back.

“Maybe not, but I’d recommend therapy.”

You only continue to stare blankly. Such words don’t faze you anymore – partly because you started to grow indifferent to whatever is spoken in this conversation, and partly because you’ve heard these words enough of times, spoken by your family, friends, even classmates or strangers. It’s embarrassing, but you’ve learned to push such thoughts away every time they surfaced; and this time, as well, you knew you wouldn’t think about them anymore as soon as the topic changed.

“Yeah, I know” you mutter, only for the sake of having an answer. You feel bitter; the case is lost for sure, you can tell – what he keeps you here for anymore, you don’t know.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“Uh… No, not really.”

“Is there anything you want to ask me?”

Of course. So many things, so many thoughts that appeared in the anticipation for this meeting. Excitement that slowly died down; you remember the questions you wanted to ask, as well as the ones that emerged during the conversation itself. Yet, you don’t think that any of them are worth being spoken aloud anymore.

“I don’t think so.”

“I see.”

The man reaches for his notebook and writes a word or two inside, then tears the page out; you flinch at that. You can’t tell what’s written on it as he places the piece of paper on the table between the two of you, the clear side upwards, while the text is underneath. You stare at it with new-found curiosity.

“I need to leave for a few minutes. Write your number there, or e-mail address, whichever you prefer. I’ll be back.”

He stands up without asking for your reply and heads towards the bathroom; you only follow him with your stare as he disappears in the crowd – it’s Friday evening, and the bar, The Queen of Spades, is as full as on any typical Friday evening, except there’s an aura of loneliness surrounding you. You’re a bit uncomfortable in the bar chair – you’d rather sit in the leather sofa that’s behind you.

The leather sofa on which you saw Byun Baekhyun for the first time.

* * *

The Queen of Spades was a quite spacious, but not too well known bar that your friend had been promising to take you to thousands of times before a good occasion actually came up – the end of your winter exam session, all exams passed by a miracle. The bar was just fifteen minutes from your house, and you were astonished the moment you entered through the glass doors, feeling as though you went back in time by a few decades. Wooden furniture, warm lights, soft tunes of jazz and RnB – not your vibe, but one that made you fall in love with this place at the first sight.

However, as much as the interiors were dazzling, there was one more thing that caught your attention the most – the man sitting in the corner of the bar, on a leather couch with only the tall counter-like table on the side, probably too tall to reach to, but he wasn’t drinking anyway. He sat with a middle-aged woman, leaning gently into his side, casually and trustfully. The leather collar on her neck did not match her age-accurate attire, and that was exactly what caught your attention in her whole visage.

Whether the pair knew that they’re observed or not, you couldn’t tell – and, in fact, it seemed as though they don’t necessarily care. When the man’s hand found itself on the woman’s leather collar and pulled it backwards tightly, a small scowl on his face, you freaked out; at least until you saw her smile softly, no attempt to struggle, no worry, as her face reddened with the restraint of blood flow that the motion must have caused. Their eyes met. The man’s gaze softened. He released the collar and held her chin in his hands, and soon, they were resting again.

You stared at the scene, mesmerized. But it would be inappropriate to pay it any more attention; yet, you felt intrigued. You wondered what else would you see if you came back to the bar another time.

And, in fact, he was there the second time as well, just as you were with your classmate, trying to listen to her personal stories, but with your glance drifting off to the man’s direction.

He was with a woman, again, but one that could have been around your own age. It confused you, but, without any other cues, you did not want to judge. This one, also, had a collar on her neck – or more like a necklace, made of chain with pearls tied into it, a dainty and girly piece. The man patted her head gently as she rested with her eyes closed, maybe even sleeping. Nothing else happened.

And the third time you went there, alone this time, after a particularly long day at work, hoping to get some of the stress off your shoulders, you sat by the bar alone, and therefore, did not need to worry about annoying the person you were with – you could stare to your heart’s content; at least until someone would notice and find you weird or creepy.

It was a Friday evening again, so you concluded he comes here regularly. Although the bar was quite crowded, no one sat by the table next to the leather couch, probably not wanting to disrupt the pair – two men sitting together now. It did catch you by surprise. This one’s collar was made of silver squares linked together. It looked simple, but elegant. With a little bit of tequila, for once you felt bold enough to shoot the bartender your question.

“Yeah, oh, him? Baekhyun, he’s local. Why? You’re interested? Well, if you really are, he’s not into one night stands.”

Neither were you; you didn’t want to jump into such things abruptly, not at all. You wanted to know more first.

“He’s not into relationships, from what I know. Or more like, his relationships aren’t what they may be to you. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then just leave it, there’s other fish in this sea, just look around you.”

But you weren’t interested in other fish; this one spiked your interest and you just needed to know more. Your motive was obvious, and so, the bartender kept talking, taking pleasure in enlightening the silly kid that you were in his eyes.

“Ever heard of BDSM? If yes, then you’ll understand. If no, then leave it be.”

Your first impression, the thought you had in the first moment, was finally confirmed – it was like opening a cake you’ve only seen in the packaging and finding out it looks exactly as the packaging’s shape hinted. You chose this cake because of the shape, and now you feel even more excited about seeing how it tastes. And you did, in fact, truly want to devour it.

“So, you want to get on with him?”

You knew you did. There was no doubt in that. The bartender, who initially seemed persistent in discouraging you, suddenly seemed to enjoy the role of a sort of broker.

“I can set you two up.”

* * *

That’s how your story led you to this particular point; to the dark, old-styled walls of The Queen of Spadesthat you’ve started to memorize well by now, to the table you’ve only observed from afar, to the man whom you also could only look at, until today.

And you feel like the figurative cake is now made of nasty, bitter chocolate, and empty inside.

You glance once again in the direction in which the man disappeared – the bathroom. You probably have a few more minutes to relax. Your gaze lands on the torn piece of paper.

It shouldn’t be an issue if you decided to have a look – right? He left it in front of you, maybe even for this particular reason, for you to check if he hasn’t written anything wrong about you. Whatever is written in there… You can’t think anymore as you whip the paper to the other side.

[F/n], 24, fem. & stud. available weekends mentally unstable, possible childhood trauma sensitive

No lies are detected.

Moreover, you feel as though each statement is awfully accurate; you are sensitive, and the words hurt. You feel reduced to these few random phrases, as if your whole personality consists just of these traits.

Mentally unstable.

Childhood trauma.

Sensitive.

You angrily turn the sheet back over and make sure the number you just wrote is correct, although you’re not so sure if you wantit to be correct. You consider changing it to a wrong one. Or standing up and leaving. You’re angry and frustrated, and lost. Your desperate need for this deal to work out collides with your desperate need to go back to your safe zone; the one in which you can rely on fiction and your own imagination, and where no other person can hurt you. You could just stand up and leave, for sure; who would try to stop you? Do you even have the guts to stay? You feel disrespected; you wish to disappear.

Yet, you don’t find yourself doing any of these things. You sit in your place, staring at the sheet blankly, until familiar steps echo nearby and the man takes his place again. The time for making decision has run out. Byun Baekhyun sits in front of you again, staring at you intensely.

“Did you look?” His tone is accusatory, and a bit angry. Were you not supposed to look, after all…?

“N-no” you instantly reply. Your voice falters, you know you’re not a good liar. But he can’t blame you for something you won’t admit; you’ll leave, and you’ll be safe, he won’t be able to say anything more hurtful anymore.

“I see.”

The lie eats at you; you fiddle nervously as he takes the paper and slowly puts it back in his notebook. He doesn’t look at you while doing so, but you watch him full of nerves. You can’t lie, you never could.

“I-I did” you utter after a moment of silence.

He freezes in spot and you start fearing again; his eyes raise to meet yours, and you don’t dare to reciprocate the gaze. However, you can tell he’s not angry – whether it’s pure disdain or disappointment, you don’t know. But, at the very least, you can tell you won’t be yelled at, and it’s enough to be a relief.

“I’m sorry” you add in a mumble filled with shame. Your gaze lowers even further.

Byun Baekhyun doesn’t say anything about it. He observes you in silence for a while, as if deep in thought, and you don’t know if you’re being judged or analyzed, you do your best not to let your mind drift towards the areas of insecurity and fear.

He puts his things back in the leather bag he carries – the notebook, phone, leather gloves. Seems that the meeting is coming to an end. It’s not even 8 PM.

“Will you find your way home? You need a drive?”

“I live nearby, I’ll be okay.”

“Can I walk you, then?”

“Sure…”

It’s slowly getting dark and you don’t find it in yourself to oppose the offer. More than to run away, you feel an urge to just give in, and you’d rather he yells at you for lying than asks you anymore questions; you’re worn out, both mentally and physically – with your muscles cramping for keeping them tense for so long.

No more words are said, though, there’s no yelling and no accusations. He acts professionally the moment you leave the bar, letting you lead the way and only staying by your side, not too close even, no touch and no words – as if he’s following you rather than accompanying.

Throughout your whole conversation, you didn’t see him smile even once. It pains you. But you slowly come to the conclusion that you haven’t necessarily done anything wrong, and it’s just the way it is.

“Thank you for today” you utter politely. You want to run back into your apartment and be safe again. “And thank you for walking me.” Sorry for wasting your time, too, you also wish to add, but you don’t want to victimize yourself; you don’t want to believe that you’re at fault for it, either – apologizing would be like taking the whole blame upon yourself, and you don’t want to accept that.

“No problem. Thank you for your time. Sleep well.”

He opens the door for you but doesn’t look at you or say anything more. You utter one more small “thank you” and “goodnight” before entering your small apartment again.

The day finally comes to an end and you want nothing more than to rest it off in the bunk bed of your bedroom – the sweet and safe comfort zone that never betrays you, never plays with your feelings, and always welcomes you with its warmth.

* * *

Please, reblog if you enjoyed, it'll help me a bunch!

Author's note: I know it feels a bit sad thus far, but bear with me, it will get better soon!

Next (Chapter 1.)

[velvetsehun]

Born to Die| OSH | 07

pairing: Oh Sehun x Reader genre: Mafia!Sehun rating: 18+ warnings: violence, gun use, mature language, smut (in future chapters), slow burn. words: 14k summary: a collusions of worlds is supposed to kill, but what if it can do something else? A/N: omg chapter 7? we’ve made it this far? I’m so proud we’re on this journey together! I don’t have much to stay other than, thank you for sticking around and that i hope you enjoy the chapter, remember feedback is important so drop into my askbox once you’re done, lets chat ;)

TW// Warning this part contains some material that might be sensitive to readers as it depicts scenes of blood, mentions of medical procedures and violence, readers discretion is advised.

Masterlist | Next

The night was a swirling mixture of crisp air and the sharpness that came with living in the city; the residue of the day's smog coating the sky to the point the stars were blocked of their life and you were left with a fuzz of light on the horizon; buildings too far away to think about casting their lights onto the blank polluted canvas but regardless, he found himself standing there, shadowed by the darkness and the distance, watching the scene in front of him unfold. The scene of a tragic love story, the story of an ill-matched pair trying to survive in the grasp of the times.  

“If you want to get him shouldn’t you do it now?” One of his men behind him probed, watching his breath curl in the air next to his head, “I mean he’s right there…” And he was right, Sehun was right there, in the sleek car that was highly out of place with its surroundings.

“Where is the fun in that?” The silver-haired man asked amused, the soft wind fluttering his bangs across his forehead; he probably looked like an angel in the night to the right person but right now, he was only shrouded by the darkness, “All the cards aren’t in my hands yet,” He hummed.

“But boss…” The man in question merely raised his hand shushing his counterpart, their eyes watching the girl exit the car; eyes intently staring at the vehicle that began is descent from her.

“Speak when spoken to.” The silver-haired man snapped softly, passing a look over his shoulder to his comrade, “And remember your place.”

His eyes were intense like he was trying to rip you apart with his pupils, a small part of him smirked as he watched your feeble form stumble further into the empty parking lot; walking closer to him like you were drawn to whatever was lurking. It was like watching a deer in a headlight he mused to himself as your eyes flickered around the area, your eyes meeting his in the darkness for a second unknowingly.

“Hello…” Your voice softly fluttered through the empty lot, “Is anyone there?” He could feel a smirk crawl upon his mouth; his teeth making their appearance as he watched you jump at the ring of your phone screeching into the empty lot with you, filling the space he could have used to answer your call.

“O, little dove, I’m right here…”

“Don’t worry Yoora, I’ll be okay…”

A confused grunt passed your lips as Chanyeol’s full weight collapsed onto you, your body struggling to hold the man up from slipping off the counter as you smacked his arm. The fluttering of his breath hitting your neck and the situation causing shivers to slither down your spine. You had no time to think about whoever he was talking about at that moment, your heart clenching slightly as you tried to talk to the man.

“Chanyeol,” You snapped, eyebrows furrow as you heard no response from the man, “For god’s sake, Chanyeol!” You snapped louder, your voice cracking with the intensity of your words.

Silence.

“No no no no…” You panicked slightly before using your full strength to heave him back against the mirror at sat on the wall behind him; his body slamming against it with a dull thud. “Chanyeol come on…” Your voice cracked again, your hand vibrating softly as that reached for his neck, your other hand smacking his cheek slightly.

He looked abysmal, his normally soft tanned skin had blanched itself out into a sickly grey that was stained with the deep red of his blood and littered with already purpling bruises; his breathing shallow and the stab wound on his stomach trickling out said blood steadily. He looked completely worse for wear, and you felt the depth of the situation settle into your bones as your fingers connected with his neck, the slow thud of his pulse quivering against your fingers.

“What the fuck do I do.” You spoke to yourself, pressing the rag from before onto his stomach to try and clot his wound; your stomach turning slightly at the blood staining your hands. “Chanyeol.” You used your free hand to shake him again, in a last-ditch effort that he might respond.

“Fuck…” You breathed at his unyielding silence, your free hand dropping onto the counter to try and steady yourself as your put your best pressure wound; his pockets looked empty so your chance of being able to call one of his brothers was slim to none.

Looking at his face, your remembered Chanyeol’s past haste at being introduced to someone he didn’t know; the vision of him speeding out of your apartment last time filing your head, but as he bled out on your counter you found no choice in the matter, your free hand already fumbling to get your phone before shakily clicking onto your contacts; the tinny ring thrumming in your ear not too long after.

“Come on…” You whispered into the receiver, “Please pick up…” You begged to no one.

“Hello…” The person on the other end started but you quickly cut them off.

“Jeonghan!” You cried softly, your voice crackling with emotion, “Please tell me you’re not working.” You begged softly.

“No, I’m not working,” He sounded concerned, immediately jumping into that tone he used to use with you all the time, “Why is everything okay?” He added quickly, the sound of his mouth pulling down nearly hearable in the receiver.

“Listen Hannie…” Your voice was shaky as you breathed deeply looking at Chanyeol, “I need you to my place immediately, bring your medkit, and tell no one you’re coming” You whispered like someone who might be listening in could hear you.

“What’s going on? Are you alright?” He stuttered softly but you quickly cut him off again.

“Jeonghan, please.” You snapped at the man, your temper wearing thin, “Just do it.”

“Okay,” He shushed you softly in his usual tone of voice; trying to calm you down, “I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?” You felt tears splinter your eyes at his words, you nose sniffling slightly.

“Please just hurry…”

With an aching body and a pounding headache, Baekhyun found himself stumbling through the dense heat of an old building, flames licking the walls as his jacket covered his mouth to filter some smoke out; the heaving of his lungs telling him that this was a mission gone wrong. At first, it seemed like a simple recon mission, a small tip-off that Jongin had got earlier in the week about a potential lead in their current predicament; a quick job like they were used to. But to Baekhyun and Chanyeol, the desolate old building held nothing more than empty rooms and dust, or so it seemed, about an hour into the search it all went wrong. Baekhyun was trying to catch his bearings, the smoke flowing through his airwaves and causing a haziness to blur out his vision.

They had agreed to split up the building’s 8 floors, Baekhyun top four and Chanyeol bottom four; the objective was to see what was lurking around and recon back in the foyer before they checked the basement, due to the ominous nature to Jongin’s tip-off they weren’t exactly sure what they were looking for but remembers Jongin’s words had another fire burning with  Baekhyun, beside the one he was already in.

“What the…” Baekhyun frowned slightly, while pushing open one of the ajar doors on the 6th floor, there as the briefest once of light filtering through the bottom of the old wood, the only sign so far that someone other than himself and Chanyeol was here.

The room was a ruin of what was probably once a nice apartment, the dense smell of mildew and rot in the air as Baekhyun took in the scenery; tattered furniture littered the room, the last tenants clearly in a rush to leave. It wasn’t much, an old couch in the centre of the decaying floor and an old dining table tucked in the corner; but what interested him was the blinking red light fluttering from under the couch, a small pain in his chest at what it could be. Baekhyun was still stationed at the door with a frown etched on his face when he decided to crouch on one knee to try to get a better look at what he was looking at, but when the light was just out of eye-line, Baekhyun decided to walk further into the apartment.

His gun was warm in his hand and tucked slightly down to allow him room to use his flashlight as he moved further into the apartment, his boots disrupting the dust that sheeted itself on the floor with each clicking step; he had to admit the place was unnerving, deathly silence coated every inch of the place and the idea of checking out the light wasn’t helping either.

Squaring his shoulder slightly, Baekhyun’s fluttered around the main room of the apartment one last time before he began to crouch again; the gentle thud of him placing down his flashlight on the ground filling his ears and one of his hands braced him to further lower himself down. The dust was a weird texture under his slightly clammy palms, his nose turning up already at the sticking sensation, but he shook himself out of it, opting to angle the flashlight on the floor under the couch instead.

It was still a bit hard to see under the couch but with a squint of his eyes, Baekhyun managed to see what was causing the soft red light; he eyes narrowing into slits before the dilated in size in shock.

The soft red light? Was the countdown on a small explosive, one which only had 3:40 left on the clock.

“Fuck.” Baekhyun swore loudly, pushing himself up quickly to get his phone out his pocket but he froze again when something thudded at the back of his head.

“Stay down.” A warped voice filled Baekhyun’s ears, the cold barrel of a gun pressing into his head, keeping him down. “Or I’ll shoot.” Baekhyun’s teeth ground together; he didn’t have time for this.

“Why don’t you face me then,” Baekhyun ground out, “We can settle this like adults.”

“Stay down.” The voice reiterated.

“Who are you.” Baekhyun tensed out.

“I think you know, don’t you Mr Byun?” Baekhyun frowned at that, the warped voice sounding like it was smirking, “Or can I call you Baekhyun.”

“I’ll ask you again.” Baekhyun spat softly, “Why don’t you face me.” The voice scoffed.

“Because I don’t have a death wish,” They answered.

“I think you do,” Baekhyun tutted softly, his grip tightening on his gun.

Baekhyun didn’t give the voice time to respond before he spun around, avoiding the gun pressed to his head and shoving the assailants hand up to the air; the boom of his shot going off, embedding itself in the ceiling. If felt like there wasn’t even time to take a breath in to react before Baekhyun was standing again; the sole of his boot planting in the stomach of what he could now see was a masked figure – watching them tumble to the ground winded.

He never stopped to survey the room as the beeping from the couch got louder – his hand instantly working to fire his shot off at another man he’d barely seen who was poised at the other end of the room. That didn’t stop anyone though, while the second man was recovering from the shot to his shoulder, the first one who was on the floor jumped up; barrelling towards Baekhyun at an impressive speed. Baekhyun had just enough time to dodge before a punch tumbled into his face; one of his arms coming up in defence to try to knock the man back quickly. The one he shot in the shoulder didn’t stay down too long either and before he knew it, he was fending off a barrage of attacks; the black blurs of their clothing moving with him.

They were sloppy fighters, but they did manage to land a few hits on Baekhyun; the butt of one of their gun’s slamming into his cheek painfully – normally Baekhyun would shoot them down but the way they were piling on him left his trigger hand unavailable to shoot; he spent most of the time deflecting their attacks. When he saw the glint of a blade, that’s when Baekhyun decided enough was enough – the explosive wasn’t going to hold off for him to finish up.

With a yell, Baekhyun managed to get the two men a far distance from him; getting a proper look at them while he did. They both wore black masks on the bottom halves of their face, a small decide attached that was modulating their voices, and what looked like a sheer scarf covering their eyes; this was a planned attack.

Baekhyun, as always, felt no remorse as he pulled his trigger; a violent hum pumping through his veins as he watched the head of the first man ricochet back with a sickening crack, splattering his partner with his brain matter in the process. The second shot was as swiftly as the first, no sarcastic remarks on Baekhyun’s end, just sheer violence as a small grin crept up his face at his carnage. There were no thoughts in Baekhyun’s head, other than a small sense of satisfaction over the killing of those two lackeys.

He couldn’t even find it in himself to ponder over the blood on his hands again, something most of his brothers did after the deed; the beeping in the room increasing with each breath. Taking off into a sprint, Baekhyun only managed to make it past the threshold before a circle of hell decided to open itself up in the place; his body getting flung like a rag doll into the wall opposite the door and with a disgusting thud - Baekhyun it the wall.  

The ringing in his ears didn’t privy him to not hearing the 7 other bang’s that resonated throughout the old building, but the aching of his body and the pounding of his head stopped his instinctual movement. He laid on a heap on the floor, the minutes feeling like hours and before he knew it the building around him was up in flames, only the brief mention of his partner's name gracing his lips and he tried to find himself again.

“Maybe we should have listened,” Baekhyun grunted softly to himself while stumbling down one of the higher floors of the building, everything was a mess; most of the floor was missing as it was and the constant fire that kissed the walls and his skin with the sheer heat of it all didn’t exactly help the situation, he needed to find Chanyeol and get out; fast.

It was an old apartment building tucked away near the docks, empty and unused since the inside had rotted beyond repair and teeming with hidden life. If Chanyeol and Baekhyun had been easy to scare, the sheer fact there were various messages written across the walls telling anyone who dare enter to run would have sent them with their tails between their legs, but they weren’t easy to scare, and the look that crossed Baekhyun’s face as he shone his flashlight on the writing was proof. Baekhyun wasn’t quite sure how this all started truthfully, both himself and Chanyeol had no issue getting into the building; the door practically falling off its hinges with rust, and from the get-go, it did seem like the building was truly empty.

Even though he was in imminent danger of the building collapsing in on himself and anyone that was left at any second, Baekhyun still found the energy to yell in a last attempt to find his comrade.

“CHANYEOL,” Baekhyun found himself screaming down one of the empty hallways, his words dissolving into a cough at the smoke that tickled his lungs, spluttering violently into the fabric of his jacket to hack it back up. “COME ON MAN, WHERE ARE YOU?” He hacked again.

The fire was louder than any life in the building, the crackling and whipping sounds of its destruction filling Baekhyun’s ears like hellish white noise, but not even the sound of a response cut through it; it was silence on Chanyeol’s end.

Beads of sweat from the heat hastily dripped down Baekhyun’s face soot and blood-covered face; stinging the cuts that were left on his face from his earlier scrummage. The need to take his jacket off growing more and more with every second he spent in the belly of this beast, but he kept going on, even if the smoke was kicking in, his legs barely stumbling to down the hall to one of the last places Chanyeol could have been.

“Nostromo apartments?” Baekhyun scrunched his nose up at the man standing at Sehun’s desk, “You want me to scope out that shithole? Why?”

“Because of this,” Jongin sighed, plucking a piece of paper from his pocket while their boss looked tensely at his computer screen, “One of our men was slipped it at Yixing’s casino,”

“And what does it say?” Baekhyun pressed with a slight glare, “And better yet, why am I going.”

“It’s just an address,” Jongin shrugged, “Nothing else, just an address.”

“You’re going because it’s your job,” Sehun cut in but not bothering to glance at the man while he typed, “And because nearly everyone else is busy.”

“But-,” Baekhyun began childishly, a scowl on his face.

“No buts.” Sehun refrained from snapping, “And Jesus, take Chanyeol with you, I’m tired of him moping around the damn place.” Sehun bothered to look at him this time, a glare etched into his eyes.

Baekhyun now wished that he’d argued for Sehun to let him go alone, his body barely able to stay upright as he stumbled down the hall to the main stairwell; his face pulling taught as the peaked down, the flames consuming most of the bottom floors and stairs, meaning the only way was up.

“CHANYEOL,” Baekhyun tried yelling again, but he felt his face harden when he was met with more silence; a dark look passing by his face as he remembered one of Sehun’s rules.

“You get separated?” Sehun stated, pointing at his men, “You leave them behind, two of you is more valuable than one to someone else, we can’t have that.”

He wanted to directly oppose Sehun’s rule at that moment, but with the smoke-belching into his lungs, Baekhyun was finding it harder and harder to breathe; his heart gripped in a way he wasn’t comfortable as he moved away from the stairs that led down, his eyes burning with more than the smoke as he stumbled to the stairs that lead up. Moments were blurring together as the smoke inhalation started playing with Baekhyun’s brain, his lungs burning with such an intensity that he thought that maybe he was gonna die on the stairs to the roof, the colours of the fire and the walls melding together, he had finally found himself in hell.

By the time he’d made it to the last stairway up, Baekhyun was grabbing his throat like he was ready to strangle himself – the fire in the building had him breathing in all sorts of nasty chemicals and the blow had knocked another concussion into his fragile skull, he was a mess and a bigger mess at the thought that he’d let one of his best friends go. When Baekhyun found himself shouldering open the roof door with the last of his energy, he wasn’t sure what to do; the soft caresses of clean air feeling like heaven on his heavy chest to the point he felt content with just laying there and waiting for the building to fully collapse, but he knew deep down that it wasn’t an option.

His dirty hands wiped the moisture and soot from his eyes as Baekhyun finally staggered to full height; the burning in his torso a distant thought as he looked around at what he could do. Limping towards the edge of the building, he grimaced slightly, he could make the jump to the next roof but probably barely, the building next to him was slightly smaller and a tad out of reach. But as the building gave a horrific grumble, it prompted Baekhyun to make up his mind quickly; the distant sounds of police and firemen on their way not helping either.

Stumbling back a few paces, Baekhyun tenses his shoulders slightly before he took off into a sprint towards the edge of the building; his boot planting firmly on the ledge to boost himself up before he was lifted up and over the side of the building – the world rushing past him in a haze, his body tipping forward slightly as he saw the other building nearing closer and closer. Baekhyun barely managed to roll to catch himself before he found himself sprawled out starfish on the ground, a wheeze pushing itself out his lungs at the impact of landing on the roof, his head still up in the clouds.

“I knew this was a bad idea.”

With every second that passed, you felt like your heart was about to burst out of your chest; Chanyeol’s body slumped against you was going a horrible cold temperature, your hands were stained with so much blood that you felt gagging in your throat that reminded you too much of your excursion to the compound to feel comfortable, and the fate of the man in your arms depended on if your ex-boyfriend could get here quick enough. A cardiac arrest might have sounded closer to how you were feeling right now.

At first, you had stood with your hands holding the rag to Chanyeol’s wound as tight as you could muster, but as the blood flow slowed down one of your hands strayed; that hand was tangled softly in Chanyeol’s vibrant red locks, your voice trying its best to stay calm as you tried to keep speaking to him softly in the hopes that he might wake up. It was an odd situation but you felt like you owed it to him, regardless of how the two of you met, Chanyeol had treated you fairly in a situation that called for him to be; he worth at least this amount of kindness, even if he wasn’t regarded as a saint.

The apartment was so quiet, the only thing filling your ears being Chanyeol’s gentle breath, that when you heard the sound of your front door being busted down, you almost felt yourself drop the man in your arms; the image of Jeonghan’s shocked face filling the doorway a few seconds later in what you could only describe as sheer horror.

“Y/n…” Jeonghan started confusedly, but you quickly interrupted him.

“He’s been stabbed, Jeonghan, can we save the questions for when he isn’t bleeding out over me?” You quickly snipped at him.

It was magical to watch Jeonghan’s switch from a normal person to a doctor, his face hardening slightly as he dropped the kit he was holding to rush over; His hand pushing Chanyeol back onto the counter and off you in seconds. It was like watching a wizard work and he produced a small flashlight from his pocket and quickly pried Chanyeol’s eyes open.

“How long has he been out,” Jeonghan asked quickly in a resilient voice, flicking the small light in and out of his eyes before pocketing it again, quickly checking his pulse.

“About 15 minutes,” You stuttered softly, “He was just out when I called, you were the only person I thought could-,” This time it was Jeonghan cutting you off.

“He’s not in shock, not yet anyway,” Jeonghan quickly said, rushing over to his kit to grab a pair of gloves, “We’ll discuss this after I do this okay?” His eyes quickly fluttered to you before he was back to work. With a meek nod, you watched him go.

It seemed all the years of schooling paid off for him, your eyes watching in slight amazement as Jeonghan jumped between jobs; after doing a check for breaks on his ribcage and checking his heart/breathing, the tended to the wound that was glaringly obvious on the bottom of his torso, his fingers gentle as he pried it open to get a proper look.

“Whoever did this wasn’t intending to kill,” Jeonghan mumbled, quickly grabbing a cotton pad stack and rubbing alcohol, “It’s deep not it’s not surgery deep, but he’s lost a lot of blood”

“But no signs of hypovolemic shock,” He hummed much to your confusion, “He’s lost enough to pass out but not enough to kill him,” He explained to you in simpler terms.

“Will he be okay?” You felt a small resemblance of relief.

“I’ll need to stitch his wound,” Jeonghan stated trying to clean as much of the blood up as he could, “You’re typically not supposed to take a knife out of a stab wound, that’s how you bleed out, but you did the right thing clotting the wound,” He glanced at you with a softness in his eyes, some wisps of his blond hair falling into his face from where it was tied back.

“Right now, we need to make sure he doesn’t go into shock, okay?” Jeonghan said gently to you, “That mean’s I need to suture his wound as fast as possible and you’re gonna have to help me move him so I can, can you do that?”

It was then you realised that Jeonghan was talking softer to you because he could see how tense you were and as a way not to freak you out, your heart-melting slightly at his attitude.

“I can try,” You nodded, “But he’s heavy.” Jeonghan hummed.

“Built like that you would be,” He nodded to the fact that Chanyeol was all smooth skin and hard muscle.

“On the count of three okay?” Jeonghan explained, “We’ll move him to the couch, I need him reclined to do his stitches.”

The two of you only glanced at each other once before you both grabbed one of Chanyeol’s arms; fitting them around both of your shoulders and with a deep breath you nodded again, even though he couldn’t see you. Jeonghan wasted no time in counted and before you knew it, the two of you were grunting as you lifted the man that was taller than the two of you.

The walk to your couch felt like a marathon as the two of you barely made it in time to drop the man on the sofa cushions of your couch; Jeonghan instantly taking over the work to lay his patient, lifting his legs onto the couch before making sure his head was properly supported on the other end. Jeonghan didn’t even need to ask before you were scuttling to the bathroom to grab his kit again, making sure you had everything before you ran and passed it to him; watching the doctor in training change his gloves and quickly sanitise his hands for the new pair.

“I need you to get some blankets and a hot water bottle,” He wasted no time in quickly set everything up to stitch the wound close, “His internal body tempt is down due to blood loss so we need to sustain it before his body starts panicking.” You were about to open your mouth to argue with him about something before he passed you a look that would make even a parent scared.

“You don’t need to watch me suture him, don’t do that to yourself; get the stuff please.” He asked you again, “He’s going to be okay.” You merely shook your head before you darted off to the kitchen, boiling the kettle quicker than light.

You felt like a terrified mother as you made haste around the kitchen and apartment, trying to avoid looking at Jeonghan working; the man only carrying a calm look, this was a normal part of his job. The respect you held for him was always unimaginable but at that moment you felt something akin to pride as you peaked at him working, the grace he held as a doctor proved to you that everything that had happened between the two of you might have been worth it to him. This was truly his calling.

Soon enough you were dumping the stuff he requested down next to him; your nose turning up as he finished bandaging around his wound, the smell of antibiotic cream hitting your senses unpleasantly.

“You owe me a lot of answers,” Jeonghan was tense as his eyes skirted to you, watching you gnaw on your anxiously, “So get talking.”

“Jeonghan…” You said softly while tucking the hot water bottle under one of Chanyeol’s arms, trying to avoid it for as long as possible, “Please, can’t it wait till morning.”

“No.” Jeonghan snapped at you, a first for him in a while, “It can’t wait till morning.” He stood up as you placed the blankets over Chanyeol, waiting for you before he grabbed your arm and dragged you back into the bathroom; away from the sleeping man.

The bathroom still had streaks of blood over the counter, with the rag you used thrown in the sink to be out of sight – there was a vague metallic smell in the place as well that was being fought by your air freshener; it looked like a crime scene in here, and maybe there was some truth in that. Mentally you acknowledged that you were observing the room to avoid talking to Jeonghan, but you couldn’t help yourself, the door clicked softly behind you reminding you of that.

“I don’t ask for much,” Jeonghan started with a puff of his chest, looking around the bathroom at the butchery as well, “But I at least ask for the barest amount of honesty from you.” His eyes were drilling into you as you refused to meet them.

“Listen Jeonghan, he’s…” You were slightly at a loss of words on what to call the man on your couch; was he a friend? Was he a foe? He hadn’t done more than lie to you, you knew that much, “He needed help.” You affirmed instead, glancing at him briefly.

“I could see that,” Jeonghan said sarcastically, “But explain to me why he didn’t go to, you know, a hospital?” He did say it so simply, that if you didn’t know Chanyeol like that you would have asked the same thing. “He couldn’t,” You tried to reason with him, but he cut you off.

“He couldn’t? You couldn’t call or?” Jeonghan was aggravated, his complexion had a ting of red to coat it.

“He just couldn’t,” You snapped back, your lip wobbling slightly, “He’s not like you or me,” Your voice took a juxtaposition, as you spoke quietly.

Upon seeing you were getting upset, Jeonghan placed his hands on your shoulders, looking you dead in the eyes with a soft look – one of his hands coming up to touch your face slightly with concern.

“Hey, it’s okay…” He frowned, swiping a small tear away from your face, “What’s going on…”

Pouting your mouth softly, your mind ran through the last week and a half; from the shooting to the compound and everything that following that – your life had been tipped upside down in unimaginable ways and it was no secret that you were keeping a tight lid on how you felt about things. No one sprung to mind when it came to talking about the things that you had seen and witnessed, your jaw starting to tremble as you remembered the start of it all – watching someone that in some way you could call a friend lying next to you on the ground, the only sign that he was there were his pooling blood and dead eyes. It had a snowball effect on you more than you realised; from the constant threats against your life, the guns, the warehouse, the fact that these men had swept into your life and taken over aspects of it like nothing was wrong.

It’s not that you weren’t fond of the Chanyeol, or at times even that slimy guy that Baekhyun could be, but the issue was it that you weren’t supposed to be even remotely fond of any of them. The two of them having a hand in the way that you can’t sleep well at night anymore, or why you constantly had to check behind you in the small case that someone was following – you were adapting to the life they had placed you in, but you knew that at the heart of it all, this was just another day on the job for them.

Standing in front of Jeonghan now, felt like a twisted reminder of what life was supposed to be like – you were supposed to feel angry at the fact that a known criminal had welcomed himself into your house with his destruction without a thought of the person on the other end, you were supposed to question things. But as of lately, you’ve been accepting everything that was handed to you.

“Comply, comply, comply…” You remember Chanyeol saying to you, a distant enough memory now.

Had you found comfort in compliancy? Were you no better than the men that Sehun commanded around? An ashen taste filling your mouth at the fact you worked at one of his clubs now.

“Were you as bad as them?” You thought, they were criminals after all, and you knew this… Glancing back at Jeonghan you registered the worry on his face, his eyes flickering around your face like the ever-concerned human he was.

Your companion jumped slightly when you flung yourself at him, wrapping around him desperately; he was a semblance of normality and how you craved that at that moment, he wasted no time wrapping his arms around you too, listening as you quietly sniffled at him

“I have so much I need to tell you about…”

Midnight; tucked away down a side-ally and hidden to the naked eye, dubbed to some as the pinnacle of indulgence and dulce company, but to most, it was known for its exotic nightlife and less than saintly company or at least that’s what Yixing thought as his feline eyes fluttered around the establishment. Yixing knew the owners spared on cost on the place, the modern take on baroque lining every part of the room; gold accents replaced silver and delicate beige and cream licked the walls in their demure but tasteful way. He was no inexpensive man, none of his brothers were, but even Yixing knew that most of the time he carried himself with a certain grace that made getting through crowds a lot easier; a modern Moses if the biblical man carried a loaded gun and a silver tongue.

Yixing wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t of importance to himself or his brothers, with the gaudy smell of burning incense was enough reason to drive him home, but as he casually strolled through the place; he soon caught wind of the only reason he was there. Nestled at the grand bar, tucked away under the droplets of crystal that hung from above; Park Jeonghwa.

“Miss Park,” Yixing was ever the gentleman, approaching the bar with grace next to her, “Long time no see.” But the woman in question didn’t look to have the same energy for him.

While Yixing was a few years older than her, he’d known her (like Sehun), for as long as he could remember; and to the trained eye there would be nothing wrong with the young woman, but Yixing – he could see the fraying of her character with one glance. There was an edge to her eye’s that wasn’t here before their last meeting.

“Yixing.” Jeonghwa grumbled back too occupied playing with the olive of her martini to give any energy back, “What brings you here.” She sighed slightly, glancing at him.

Jeonghwa always was the picture of perfection; right down to the last atom. She held a grace that most women could only dream of having, while at the same time having a mouth that could talk her way out of anything – she was all bark and no bite, but her skills did lie elsewhere.

“Felt like gambling my life away,” Yixing’s mouth tilted softly in a rare smirk, “Where better to do it then as the ever so grand Midnight Casino and Bar.” A playful tone edging into his voice, but regardless at his small form of a joke; the every stony Jeonghwa did not crack.

“Yes, well enjoy,” She scoffed softly, reaching to down her drink in one as Yixing’s brow raised.

“You’re a hard woman to track, you know?” He spoke carefully, watching closely at her reactions, her tired eyes flicking to his at his statement.

“Tell your boss, I don’t want to be found.” Her eye’s hardened slightly as she forwent mentioning his name.

“So, Sehun’s the one that rattled your cage,” He noted softly, watching a small village ending fire dance in her eyes, “I should have guessed as much.”

“I hate him, Yixing.” She mumbled almost childishly, turning back away from him, “I hate everything about that man, he’s decayed right down to his pathetic little core.”

“No, you don’t,” Yixing tsk-ed softly, “If you felt that way, you wouldn’t have such impassioned words to say about him.” She merely huffed.

“Did he send you here,” She changed the subject quickly.

“No,” Yixing hummed, tapping his fingers on the bar softly, “I’m here on my own accord,” Her eyes flicked to him in a glare.

“Don’t lie to me.” She snapped slightly, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Junmyeon called, you didn’t pick up and so I’m here,” Yixing explained, trying to keep her temper at bay, but Jeonghwa only shook her head with an eye-roll.

“Whatever he wants, you can tell him that I don’t care,” She scoffed, flagging down the bartender for another drink, “I’m tired of everyone in that stupid place,” Yixing looked at the woman before sighing internally, letting the bartender tend to her before he tried talking anymore.

“I’m not aware of what happened between you and Sehun,” Yixing said honestly, “But whatever is it, I can clearly see it’s affecting you.”

“Ever the observant,” Jeonghwa mumbled back, “Yes, I am upset and rightly so.” Yixing raised his brow at her.

“I always keep his best interests at heart, even if it doesn’t seem like it,” She griped, a distant look in her eye, “All I asked in return is that he considered one thing and he couldn’t even grant me that, Yixing,” She looked at him with pain in her eyes.

“I feel used, and I have done for a while.” Jeonghwa spat as her mouth pursed; Yixing held for a second before he decided to speak.

“I think we’re all aware of yours and Sehun’s relationship,” Yixing cleared his throat softly, “And I think you’re more aware of the truth behind it than you left on…” His brow raised softly, watching the women tense up.

“You can’t tie him down, Jeonghwa,” Yixing stated softly, “No one can.”

“I can try,” Jeonghwa said softly in a rare sign of vulnerability.

“Forcing him into marrying you won’t make him love you, Jeonghwa” Yixing told her gently.

She looked like she was having an inner battle with herself before she grumbled again, tensing back up into her shell before Yixing could fully pry it open.

“He could learn.” She huffed again, looking at bitter as before. Yixing knew that Sehun probably could learn how to love someone, but that someone wasn’t her.

“Is that why you agreed to help him,” Yixing asked plainly, “To soften him up?” But when Yixing was met with silence, he raised his brow.

“Jeonghwa,” Yixing demanded slightly, but the woman refused to face him.

“I told him what I knew, that was it.” She snapped softly, choosing to stare at her glass.

Pursing his lips slightly, Yixing knew he had to tread carefully – opting to reach into his jacket pocket instead of answering straight away. His fingers brushed a soft cream envelope, pulling it out gently to hold in front of Jeonghwa – the latter’s eyes glancing curiously at it.  

“What’s that?” She asked, confused at why he was holding it out to her – her perfectly manicured hand reaching out for it, but she jumped slightly with it was moved slightly out of reach, Yixing a lot closer than he was before.

“You know I will find out,” He said quietly while staring her down, “I’ll give you one shot to be truthful, Jeonghwa, it doesn’t have to be right now – but whatever you’re hiding, I will know.”

“You should save your interrogation skills for the real felons,” Her eyebrow raised slightly, “I’ve said it to your boss, and I’ll say it to you – I told you what I know, that’s it.”

“Jeonghwa,” Yixing’s voice was dangerous quietly, “This isn’t a game, you’re going to win – there’s no prize.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m playing any game,” Jeonghwa scoffed back, tilted her head ever so slightly to stare Yixing down.

Yixing merely hummed, his eyes flickering over her face for second before he presented the envelope to her again.

“Next Friday; 8:30pm, tell no one,” He explained quietly under his breath, “A party for members, assure you and your father turn up.” Jeonghwa stanched the paper out of his hands before he could retract it again.

“Haven’t been to one of these in a while,” She mused, “The occasion?”

“Something you’ll find out when you’re there,” Yixing kept a stony face, “You’re expected to be there, don’t let pettiness ruin that – we’re all on thin ice.”

“You could have delivered this to my father,” Jeonghwa noted with a raised brow.

“I could have,” Yixing admitted, “But I don’t think it would have the same effect.” He glanced at her with a look that she couldn’t read properly.

“Dress sharply Jeonghwa, Sehun will want to see you.”

There was an awful lurch in Chanyeol’s stomach as he started to come back to life, the acid gripping his oesophagus in a chokehold causing his throat to constrict was enough to stir him from his slumber, but barely. He had no recollection of where he was, the only feeling in his body aside the overwhelming want to vomit was the softness under his spine and a warm coating his body. It was concerning; not even the bed’s in the medical bay of the compound felt like welcoming. Chanyeol could feel the dryness coating his mouth and lips like someone had sucked any life that was left in him out, his lids like sandpaper across the skin; he hadn’t felt this rough in a while.

Chanyeol wanted to fully wake up, to sit up and wonder where the hell he was, but the best he could manage was the slow blinking of his eyes opening; the early morning hues of the day settling into a place that looked vaguely familiar to him.

“He was in an apartment,” He thought dully, his head giving a painful throb at the changing of lights – It was still winter in the city, so the streaking orange that covered the ceiling at least told the aching man that it was around 8am. He couldn’t place where he’d seen this place before, his blurry eyes racking around everywhere he could look to try and get a recollection, but it wasn’t coming to him instantly.

“I see you’re awake,” A voice sounded out to his left. If Chanyeol had the energy to be scared by him he was sure he would be, but he barely had the energy to turn his head the fraction it needs to see who it was.

Standing in the door of the kitchen was a blonde man, his body leaning against the door with a cup of what looked like coffee; he’d seen this man before in Y/N’s apartment, his mind suddenly clicking where he was. He hadn’t looked at the place much during his last visit.

“Any pain’s?” The man hummed as he walked into the living space, making his way to the armchair not far from Chanyeol. He barely had the energy to follow him with his eyes, but he managed, keeping an eye on his closely, he didn’t trust him.

Chanyeol couldn’t see he came into much contact with “normal people”, his job didn’t really require it; but looking at the blonde man who looked beyond tired irked him, something didn’t settle well with him. “Nothing to say?” The blonde raised an eyebrow while perched in his chair, “Shame, here was me thinking that you’d tell me more about yourself, Chanyeol…” There was a vague sense of amusement dancing in his eyes as Chanyeol’s widened slightly.

He remembered telling you not to tell the man in front of him his name; the words of the persons barely on his tongue as he tried to remember it.

“Don’t fret,” He smirked, “I’m no danger to you,” At that Chanyeol tried to sit up, but yelped slightly as he felt a slight pulling at the bottom of his stomach.

“Who are you,” Chanyeol finally managed to grit out, registering that he was bundled in blankets, but the man in question merely laughed.

“I was that forgettable, huh?” He laughed but it was with amusement, “If you must know, I’m Jeonghan, the man that helped stopped you from bleeding out.” That left a bad taste in Chanyeol’s mouth.

“What, do you want my thanks?” He lay back down with a grunt, his head starting to throb painfully.

“You’re up a lot earlier than I expected you to be,” Jeonghan ignored him, placing his coffee on a side table to stand up, he rather slender body making his way over to him.

But Chanyeol felt like biting the man when he grabbed his head, tilting it towards him to shine a light into his pupils; the sharpness of the white light burning his retina as it flicked in and out of them

“No concussion,” Jeonghan hummed furrowing his brow at the man, “Temperature seems fine.”

“Get away from me,” Chanyeol growled slightly, trying to push the man away but the aching in his body stopped him from moving, “What did you do to me?” He growled again.

“You were stabbed,” Jeonghan rolled his eyes, swatting the hand that attempted to move him, “I stitched you back up, are you following?” Jeonghan’s sarcasm had Chanyeol edging to hit him, more so than just being in his presence wanted that.

“You’ve got a sprained arm and swelling around the stomach as well,” He noted off, still looking down at him, “I suspect a cracked rib but only barely and some swelling around the jaw and neck – you did get yourself in quite the scuffle didn’t you?”

“Where’s Baekhyun?” Chanyeol opted to ignore him this time, gruntled softly as he rubbed a hand down his face, the exhaustion heavy in his body.

“Not here,” Jeonghan spoke to him plainly, “You came alone, and I’m hoping you could tell me how,” Chanyeol merely grumbled shutting his eyes so he didn’t have to look at him.

“What are you a cop or something,” He hissed softly trying to move again on the couch.

“A doctor,” Jeonghan corrected and frowned watching the man move, “A training one at least.”

“Will you stop that,” Jeonghan proceeded to snap at his patient, forcing his shoulder down back on the couch “Keep moving and you’re gonna tear your stitches, and I don’t feel as welcoming to stitch you back up this time.” He jeered at the man.

Opening his eyes back up to stare down the man, Chanyeol started taking a profile of him; he wasn’t a natural blonde, the small amount of brown peeking out of his skull telling him that, he was also a bit on the thinner side, Chanyeol having no doubt he could take the man even in his state. But there was a tiny bit of muscle to his form, probably from his line of work, the slight definition in his arms and shoulders told Chanyeol that he could probably throw a punch.

“It’s cute you’re trying to scare me,” Chanyeol said, “But it won’t work.” Jeonghan merely smiled at that.

“Scare you?” He repeated, “I have no reason to do that,” Chanyeol gave him a curious look.

“But I will tell you one thing,” His voice dropped as he crouched down to be closer to Chanyeol, “I may be a doctor, but I’m not a forgiving man.” Chanyeol frowned at that.

“She told me everything,” Jeonghan smirked slightly, “And you are very lucky she waited till after I fixed you up, because otherwise…” He said darkly

“I don’t think I would have bothered,” Chanyeol’s eyes hardened at that, but the doctor didn’t stop.

“You’re on thin ice with both me and her,” Jeonghan glowered at him, “Even a finger out of line and you’ll regret it, do I make myself clear?” Chanyeol scoffed at him.

“Am I supposed to be scared?” He spat out, but the man merely leered in response.

“I don’t think you have an idea of what I can do,” Jeonghan said simply standing back up as Chanyeol’s eyes trailed him.

The blonde merely took his seat back on the armchair, picking up a discarded book that was near his coffee while Chanyeol stared at him. Jeonghan played him no mind anymore, not even bothered to glance at him as he spoke.

“Get some more rest, Chanyeol – you’re going to need it.”

Going to bed was supposed to be the place you felt most comfortable, bathed in warm and welcoming – but for some reason, sleep had been evading you much like you had been evading the reason that was causing it. The process of coming to terms with things was never simple, you knew that; you had come to terms with many things in your short life, all them carrying their pain but how do you come to terms with things that were still going on? Can you move past the present? These were all thoughts that plagued your mind, more so after the night that you had.

After the fiasco in the bathroom, Jeonghan had gently coerced you into laying in your room; away from the problem on the couch and into something that you could find comfort in, or what you were supposed to find comfort in. With him being ever the gentleman as he made himself accustomed to your space and going out of his way to clean you up, he tried to make it as nice as an environment as possible so that when you did unleash the skeletons in your closet, you weren’t alone.

Jeonghan wasn’t a cruel guy, more often than not he was the loveliest person you’d meet; being a doctor bought out all the caring qualities in him, and while he never lost that sarcastic edge, he never used it in a way to hurt anyone – or more specifically, you. So, to see the way his face darkened as you told him everything that had happened had broken you slightly, he was someone you never wanted to see upset; and the way his body language changed was scary. You had spent what felt like hours explaining everything to him, his hesitance to the man on the couch outside the door growing with each word, to the point that you had to stop him several times from going out there. The two of you talked until you felt the exhaustion kissing your lids like a lover, your grasp on reality shrinking – you had assumed that Jeonghan would stay with you, but you couldn’t even fight him as he gave you a brief kiss on the forehead, telling you he’d watch over the guest while you slept, his mind too chaotic to do anything else.

It was hours later that you eventually found yourself in the most uncomfortable setting in your life; after starting your morning far earlier than you had hoped to, you hadn’t expected both Jeonghan and Chanyeol to be in the living room when you eventually decided to go out. The latter of which, still asleep on the couch – his face riddled with cuts and bruises.

“He’s got no phone on him,” Jeonghan whispered as he led you to the kitchen, “Checked his pockets, just a weapon and blood-stained keys.” You frowned softly.

“We’re gonna have to drive him back,” You whispered back, “I don’t have any way to contact them, but I have a rough idea of where they stay…”

“Are you crazy?” Jeonghan’s eyes were wide, “You want to go back there?”

“What choice do we have?” You quizzed back, “He can’t drive, and he can’t exactly get a cab back, can he?” You watched as Jeonghan’s chest expanded in stress.

“I’m not driving him back, no I refuse to go near that place,” Jeonghan’s eyes were hard, but you gave him a stressed look.

“Then give me your keys,” You held your hand out to him, “I’ll drive him.” His eye’s widening.

“You’re not going yourself,” He snapped softly, but you only made a frustrated noise at him.

“He can’t stay here, Jeonghan” You raised your voice an octave, “His boss is going to be looking for him.”

“Listen,” You tried to reason with him as a look crossed his face, “We take him back, we give him to Baekhyun or whoever and we leave – it’ll take 20 minutes tops, whatever he’s involved in has nothing to do with us.”

“I swear to god if he-,” Jeonghan started but was cut off when another voice cut into the conversation.

“He can hear you,” Chanyeol had managed to pull himself up and was now leaning against the door on the kitchen; grabbing his bare torso in pain, the blankets long forgotten, “The two of you need to work on whispering.”

“Chanyeol!” You yelped, as he winced, your voice too loud for his head, “You’re alive, thank god” You tried to smile but his eyes settled on you, it became strained.

“No thanks to you,” He hummed, limping further into the kitchen to sit at the table, his face pulling taught as he eased himself into a sitting position.

Jeonghan was glowering next you as the two of you looked at the man, he looked worse for wear, but he at least looked better than he did last night.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Jeonghan told him, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, the two men staring each other down.

“I’ll survive, doc,” Chanyeol told him sarcastically, but his face softened up when you placed a glass of water in front of him – you hand warm, as it placed on the skin of his shoulder.

“Chanyeol, what happened?” Your face was pinched with worry, but he merely sighed – moving away from your warmth and taking a sip of his water.

“Nothing to worry yourself about,” He grumbled, shaking his head but you weren’t having that.

“You came to my home bleeding and disorientated, I think you owe me some explanation.” Your voice was hard, and the surprise at this registered on his face.  

“Mission went wrong,” He said simply, “That’s all you need to know and that’s all I can tell you.” You vaguely heard Jeonghan scoff from behind you.

“Chanyeol.” You warned, giving him a hard look.

“I don’t fancy getting shot,” Chanyeol snapped, staring you dead in the eye, “There are some things that you don’t need to know, even if you’re pushy about it.” You flinched slightly at that but took a step back with a look.

“Whatever,” You shook your head at him, jaw set, “We’re taking you home.” His brow furrowed.

“I’ll make my own way home, thanks.” He stated, not bothering to look at you.

This time Jeonghan cut into the conversation, and he didn’t look happy.

“Listen, take the help,” His voice was hard, “You’re in no fit condition to drive and wherever you and your “brothers” reside isn’t walking distance, so suck it up.” You flinched slightly at him.

“Jeonghan,” You warned but Chanyeol cut in.

“Get your boytoy on a leash,” Chanyeol retorted, sitting a bit straighter “I never asked for his help.”

“The two of you please,” You begged slightly, looking between the two of them before directing yourself at Chanyeol.

“You’re getting a shirt on and you’re getting in that car, Chanyeol.” You snapped softly giving him a tense look, “I don’t care if you don’t want the help, you’re stranded here otherwise.” His jaw was set into a hard line.

“I said…” Chanyeol tried to reason with you but you weren’t having it.

“I don’t give a shit what you said.” You raised your voice, he had a vague amount of surprise in his eyes, “You’ll do it and that’s final.”

Glaring at him one last time, you moved to get out of the kitchen, the stress and hurt radiating off you in waves at the situation but you tried to suck it up, tossing over your shoulder as you got out the room.

“Get ready to leave.”  

If you had to talk to someone about the world’s most horrific road trip, you imagined the look on someone’s face as you talked about the time you were stuck in a car with a trainee doctor and a wanted gang member; the spectacle on their face as their heard about how awkward the silence was and how badly you wished to throw yourself out the car door.

As much as you wanted someone to listen to you complain, you were far too busy living the awkward road trip, the three of you a sight for sore eyes as you sped down the highway. Chanyeol had been relegated to the back of Jeonghan’s car out of fear for the man’s safety and for the fact he could keep laying down on the seats – but it was a bit funny it to watch his long-form struggle to fit.

The trip to the compound was brief, Jeonghan basically speeding there and yourself too busy looking out the window to fully pay attention to what was going on; no one bothered to speak other than the brief directions you’d give every so often and the occasional grunt from Chanyeol as the car hurdled over a speed bump. It wasn’t peaceful in the slightest, you wanted nothing more to be at home since you were working tonight but you still found yourself there, a thread filling your stomach as the city melded from buildings to vast expanses of trees, you could practically taste the fear the closer you got.

Even though you had offered to drive, you don’t think you could have had the nerve to pull up to the massive house like Jeonghan did – speeding through the gates and into the courtyard that you hadn’t seen properly since that night.

You weren’t sure what reaction you expected pulling up through the open gates, but the three seconds it took for gunmen to fill the space had Jeonghan stopping the car with a screech; Chanyeol yelping as he was flung forward from where he was laying down. Vaguely you could see some familiar faces among the barrels of guns pointed towards you but a loud voice cutting through had the two of your tumbling out the car like you were on fire, someone appearing on your side of the car to tap on the window.

“Get out, hands where we can see them.” A face you didn’t recognise demanded, not seeing Chanyeol in the back, but you meekly nodded.

Glancing at Jeonghan the two of you nodded at each other before stepping out the car, a chill running through you as numerous guns clocked in case you tried to pull something.

“What’s your business here,” The man in front of you stated, his eyes hard as he looked you up and down; Jeonghan on the other side no doubt getting the same treatment.

“Well…” You stuttered, surprised no one recognised you but that didn’t last long, the car door beside the two-tumbling open as your third passenger tumbled to his feet with a grunt, surprising everyone in the area.

“Put the damn guns down, idiot,” Chanyeol swore at them as he stood to his full height, pushing the man in front of you out the way as you stared at him in shock.

“Chanyeol,” It was the man’s turn to stutter, jumping to help him as he limped away from the car to pass a glance at you, “We thought-,”

“Well you thought wrong,” He didn’t give him a chance to explain before he interrupted, looking around at the underlings holding guns up to the car before he focused on someone standing behind at the foot of the house, not that you bothered to turn around, “Do you mind calling them off, Jongin?” A chuckle met your ears faintly from the man in question.

“Only the warmest of welcomes for you, Yeol…” Jongin spoke, as Chanyeol began to limp around the car and away from you, their voices fading out; and your body deflating slightly, he was partly being carried by the man that tapped on your window, not that you bothered.

Glancing around to fully look, you noted how one of the men still stood next to Jeonghan – a hard look passing over his face as he stared at him but you merely caught Jeonghan’s slightly annoyed eyes with a soft smile, making your way over much to the digression of the man with him.  The two of you shared a look before something settled on Jeonghan’s face, a hand touching your shoulder a few seconds had you looking around; a familiar face filling your vision.

“Y/N, was it?” The man you registered as Minseok touched your shoulder with a slight smile as you meekly nodded in response, “Fantastic, do the two of you want to come with me?” You were about to answer when Jeonghan cut in.

“We have somewhere to be,” Jeonghan stated, giving Minseok a look which didn’t sit well with him, “We’re just ready to leave.”

“As nice as that is,” Minseok smiled tightly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist, my boss would like to see the two of you.”

“That won’t be needed-,” Jeonghan tried to talk about you cut him off with a look, knowing the last thing to do was offended someone that could have you shot before you could blink.

“Ignore him,” You smiled apprehensively, “Lead the way,” You gestured for him to walk in front of you.

The two of you probably looked vaguely like show ponies as you were led in front of the large group and into the house; everyone’s eyes staring at you like you could revolt at any moment and decide to attack – a far cry from what it was like last time you were here. The compound was still the same as before, the winter morning giving it a glint that almost made the place look friendly but as you were led up the stairs to the familiar foyer; your heart dropped out of your ass as the prospect of where you were going. The two of you were only one step into the place before you heard a voice off the side make a side comment.

“We’ll you look terrible,” A sarcastic voice that held no bite sounded off, your eyes flicking to a familiar face.

Baekhyun.

“You’re one to talk,” You said softly, wincing slightly as you took him in – he was much in the same condition as Chanyeol if only a fraction better; his face cut and bruised, but he still looked good, “You look like you’ve seen better days.” He laughed at that, wincing softly as he walked closer.

“I suppose I owe you thanks,” He said honestly much to your surprise; his eyes flicking from you to Jeonghan who was posed slightly behind you, “The two of you.” “What for…” You frowned; a bit confused.  

“Well, he’s not going to say it is he,” Baekhyun rolled his eyes, “Whatever you did for Chanyeol, thank you – honestly.” He looked you in the eyes; a rare moment from the man that he looked someway normal.

“It’s okay…” You said softly, “Jeonghan did most of the work.” You nodded with a small smile.

“Regardless,” Baekhyun waved his hand, shooing the thought off, “I owe you my thanks, I’m not mentally prepared for a new partner just yet” He winked at you as Minseok scoffed.

“You’re keeping the boss waiting, Baekhyun.” He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite in the words.

“Merely giving my thanks, Min,” Baekhyun smirked, before he gestured to the stairs, “Be on your way.”

Baekhyun blended back into his place as Minseok continued to lead you both up the stairs in silence; only the sound of yours and Jeonghan’s breathing was heard as the stairs became less and less before your eyes. Jeonghan was staring at you intently, his eyes asking if you were okay but you merely shook your head; the last time you had seen the man in the office, the two of you shared a normal moment in his car as he drove you home, but now it seemed like that was a distant memory that wasn’t to be thought of again.

The double cream doors opened on-demand as the three of you neared, opening to show you the horror inside, sat at his desk casually with a raised eyebrow was the man of the hour: Sehun.

“If I knew you’d be back so soon I’d have thrown together a better welcome party,” Sehun wasted no time in making a sardonic remark, “But I see you brought a friend this time,” He noted as the two of you were led to stand in front of his desk so he could get a better look at you.

Every time you saw the man you were constantly annoyed at how put together he looked in every situation – this time his long hair was loosely slicked back from his face to reveal the smooth skin of his unmarred face, his all-black suit doing the most of giving off the appearance that he was, in fact, the powerful man he believed himself to be.

“Nothing to say?” His mouth jilted slightly, he was in a surprisingly good mood for someone who had a man MIA for nearly a day, “That’s a first.” You merely just turned your head away from him.

“Sehun,” You said quietly in a greeting - nodding at him, “Lovely to see you again,” He hummed at that, casting his eyes from you to Jeonghan as you winced, you could imagine his face.

“Problem?” Sehun’s voice lost its amusing edge at he spoke to the man, “Or would you like to introduce yourself?” When Jeonghan was silent at that, you elbowed him.

“Jeonghan.” The man in question said briefly, not paying him the reaction Sehun wanted from him.

“Jeonghan,” Sehun mused to himself, leaning back in his chair casually – one leg lifted gracefully over the over, “I suppose I owe the two of you thanks,” He hummed softly.

“I’m not sure what trouble Chanyeol found himself in, but I give my thanks that you at least returned him somewhat intact,” He continued with a fraction of amusement, “I’m not typically a man to repay kindness with anything other than that, but seeing the job you’ve done on him I suppose I can give you something.”

You imagined Sehun was a great actor when he wanted to be but now wasn’t the time, he was acting uncharacteristically childish – a far cry from the man you’d seen before.  

“A favour,” Sehun said plainly, “For saving one of my men, I’ll grant the two of you a favour.”

“A favour.” Jeonghan reiterated plainly, “You’ll owe us a favour?”

“Issue?” Sehun’s eyes glinted slightly, the deep pools flicking to the only person that had a problem with him.

“Yes, there’s an issue,” Jeonghan snapped.

“Jeonghan,” You sounded shocked at the voice that came from him, realising the danger he could put himself in but you watched in bigger horror as a dark look fluttered over Sehun’s face, taking that mask he had on with it. There’s were a few tense seconds of silence before Sehun stood up from his desk.

Sehun squared his shoulder as he rounded his desk, the tick in his jaw twitching with his displeasure; a dark looking coloured his igneous eyes, a dark look directed at the two of you. There was a thick silence in the room as Sehun walked up to the two of you, dismissing you in the conversation completely to talk to Jeonghan, the latter of which being equally as ticked off as the perilous man he was confined in a room with.

“You should keep in mind who you’re speaking to.” Sehun tutted sarcastically, his eyes filtering down to his opponent; whom of which was a decent amount shorter than him not that the latter cared, “Better yet, you should keep in mind where you are.” You practically sweat dropped next to the two of them.

“And if I don’t?” Jeonghan challenged back, the testosterone practically suffocating in the room; but Sehun merely smirked, looking him up and down.

“I don’t think you want to be in a position to find out what happens,” Sehun hummed as you caught sight of one of the smaller members of the gang from your peripheral touching the gun on his waist, “Not many have lived to tell the experience.”

Putting your hand between them, you eyed Jeonghan as you gave Sehun a small shove away; a very bold move on your part, but it didn’t stop their staredown.

“Stop it.” You hissed slightly at Jeonghan, eye’s hardening before you turned to the head man himself, “Stop it, we’ll take the favour.”

“Y/N” Jeonghan hissed, placing a hand on your arm to draw you back, but you merely pulled out of it; still facing Sehun, who only wore a smirk on his face.

“Enough,” You snapped softly as Sehun cut in.

“You heard the lady,” Sehun gestured to you, a darker amusement dancing in his eyes, “A favour for your good deeds.”

“A favour, I saved your-,” Jeonghan began before you snapped at him.

“Jeonghan, enough.” You tensed your jaw at him.

“Don’t be mistaken, kid” Sehun hummed, retreating to lean against the front of his desk, away from the brewing storm, “A favour is no easy way out, dare I say – even hard to come across”

“What do you mean,” Jeonghan frowned, the sound of a quiet sigh from Junmyeon the corner telling you that this probably wasn’t going to end well.

“You saved one of my men,” Sehun shrugged, “I owe you something, both of you” He glanced at the two of you.

“Such as…” Jeonghan glowered, not seeing the value in what he was offering; this time it was your turn to quietly sigh before you decided to answer.

“Probably whatever we want…” You grimaced slightly, the idea of asking them for anything tasting like ashes in your mouth.

“Within reason,” Sehun corrected with a chuckle, his arms very much crossed over his chest in a casual stance, as much as he enjoyed riling up Jeonghan; even knew that he was no threat.

“If I may,” Junmyeon piped up from his stance at the back of the room, “Sehun is right, a favour from us is nothing to be taken lightly…”

“It’s a tradition amongst us,” Junmyeon, ever the peacemaker continued, “One we normally reserve for our families but one we can pass on in moments of great exception.” Sehun rolled his eyes softly, your eyes catching his for a brief few seconds while Jeonghan locked with Junmyeon. “It’s a way of saying that we at Exodus are grateful for your efforts,” Sehun pipped in, looking slightly annoyed, “And in turn, we are indebted to you, the two of you.”

“You can bring it in yourself to be indebted to someone,” Jeonghan snapped slightly.

“Don’t push it,” Sehun snapped back, “I can easily decide to revoke it if you keep this up,”

“I’m not one of your men,” Jeonghan glared as you practically melted from stress beside them.

“If you were you would know to watch your tongue,” Sehun sneered in such a way, filled with such hate and authority, that you felt a chill run down your spine; even Jeonghan stopping to be quiet for a second, “Do not take my kindness for weakness, kid – If I wanted I could shoot you where you stand and no one would come looking.”

“Sehun,” Junmyeon warned, but he was ignored.

“You’re testing my composure,” Sehun spoke plainly as his eyes hardened, “And you are in no position to do so, so a word of advice? Bite your tongue before I decide that you don’t need it anymore.” Sehun’s words resonated a silence in the room that felt like winter had gotten through the front door.

Jeonghan was left a deadly look on his normally calm face, staring down the man who didn’t bother to look at him anymore; Sehun’s eyes set firmly on your form as he decided to speak again.

“Thank you,” He spoke honestly, “I’m aware you were in no position to help but myself and my men are glad you did” You merely just nodded at him, registering your thanks before you meekly smiled.

Glancing at the two of you again Sehun waved his hand, “Take your leave.”

His name died on your tongue slightly as you went to say something else, but you knew this wasn’t the time or place to ask anything – not with the ticking time bomb next to you. The two of you merely nodded as you turned around, Jeonghan wasting no effort to get out the room in a fuming mess, your own body trailing before him a few paces, Junmyeon at the door giving you a look as he spoke quietly.

“You have our thanks…”

This time he wasn’t cooped up in the compound, he was in the only place that he could feel at home – hundreds of floors above the world and nestled in the apartment than no one knew he owned. But regardless of this being home, Sehun found himself staring out the window of the apartment with an ache in his chest that didn’t feel like it belonged there – a dull throb in his chest as he looked out at the glinting lights, a reminder of all the things he owned in life.

He wasn’t a sentimental man, he nothing to be sentimental over; his life didn’t call for that, but as he sat on his floor staring out the window, he found himself reminded of his own loneliness. Sehun had so many secrets in life and no one to share that burden with, even now as he uncharacteristically sat on his floor; he longed for someone to share the moments of weakness he did feel with. It had been a messy week for him, from a botched mission that resulted in one of his best men being put out of commission to another break-in at his weapons depo; Sehun had a thoroughly terrible week. His life was still on the line wherever he seemed to go, mumblings of the new gang getting louder with each passing day to the point he knew his men would start questioning him soon; he was looking weak in their eyes, fragments of his business caving in on him and he was doing nothing to stop it – not like he could do much at the moment.

Sehun and his family were terrible people, everyone knew this, it was part of the job of being in the Oh family; to be a terrible person. And while he knew that some people would be rejoicing at the fact Exodus was taking an ego hit, Sehun could only feel the burdens of his failure and confusion.

“Father had it easy huh,” He spoke softly to himself, eyes glancing over to the small pooch that decided to join him, Vivi’s fur glowing in the nightlife as he nestled himself into Sehun’s outreached hand, “Where am I going wrong…”

Vivi only gave a small dog cry at his owner's apparent sadness, nuzzling into him to make it all go away but as cute as Sehun found the act; he was sobered by the fact that he could get no answers from the small dog.

“Junmyeon thinks I’m being reckless,” He spoke to Vivi, “Throwing a party while there’s a target on my life, but he’s missing the point.” He sighed softly.

“I can’t bring them out of their hole, so I have to bring them to me…” Sehun said quietly, “Even if it kills me, I can’t let what’s been built crumble to the ground, even if I don’t want it anymore.”

“I think that’s why I’ve connected with her,” Sehun screwed his face up, “That girl that Baekhyun as roped in.” Vivi tilted his head at that.

“I’ve always gone to people for escapes,” Sehun sighed, “Not to get help but to ignore the world for a while,” He wasn’t speaking to anyone at this point.

“First it was Jeonghwa, she’s been there for so long that she’s lost sight of what I was doing,” Sehun noted, “Now I’m being present with this new person, someone that hates me to my very core and I can’t help but feel like I want to chase her down.” Vivi let out a noise like he was trying to talk back.

“Goodnight Sehun…”

Sehun still felt his skin prickle at the thought of his name dropping from her lips days even after it happened; it had been a while since someone had so softly said his name – no ill intent or lust coating the words, just pure unaltered thanks coating the words like some sickly-sweet honey. He’d never admit he thought about her in a way that brought warmth to his chest, that he found the fondness she carried in her eyes tempting to him.

“It’s not about feelings,” Sehun tutted snapping himself out of it, “I don’t want that from her, I want an escape – someone who can remind me that my life isn’t all this.”

“I’m a selfish man,” Sehun frowned but it wasn’t a dig at himself, in his eyes; if he accepted it then it wasn’t a flaw.

“Should I feel this amused at the idea of using something up until there’s nothing left?” He asked nobody, “Should I find a pastime in turning people into nothing?”

“I am a horrible man,” Sehun sighed as he let silence envelope himself again.

His apartment was still, the only occupants were sat on the floor wondering why life had led them here, but Sehun could still find it in himself at least find amusement in his situation – life be dammed or not.

“Maybe I’ll do something I’ll regret, but maybe it might mean something more…”

No one was home when the envelope was slid carefully under her door, the off cream paper skidding across the wooden floor like butter and not even she had expected to see something so formal sitting at her feet when she returned home from work that night; a frown lacing onto her face as she plucked the thing from the ground like a flower.

With intricate handwriting and a wax seal, she found herself curious at who would leave her something to beautiful to read but as she opened what she thought was going to be a letter; her face paled slightly at the card instead.

“You are warmly invited to a night of festivities, courtesy of Exodus…”

[potatocrab]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (12/18)

Chapter 12: A Man of Integrity 

Nick and Madelyn start their investigation on one of his oldest unsolved cases, reestablishing their bond as partners in the process. In Concord, they meet with Preston Garvey, who proves to be more help than they initially realized. After weeks of separation, Madelyn reunites with the Railroad, and with Deacon. A public demonstration at MIT sheds light on a new danger lurking in the shadows.

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Brent. I am a man of integrity, but I'm always willing to listen to an interesting offer.” - Albert Arnett as played by Walter Slezak (Born to Kill, 1947)

[read on Ao3] x  [chapter masterpost] 

May 11th, 1958

What felt like an eternity had only been a few weeks for the Valentine Detective Agency. Nick and Madelyn hadn’t been doing a lot of field work, despite the reemergence of one of his oldest cases. They’d hunkered down in the agency, pouring over cold-case files and following up on decade-old leads while he recovered from the lingering injuries sustained at the hands of Eddie Winter. Even after being discharged from the hospital, Nick had a lot of healing to do. With time, the physical scars had begun to fade, but the mental trauma would last a lifetime.

Nick insisted the best thing for him to do was to stay busy, burying himself in what he knew best, lest he succumb to the darkness. Eddie Winter—his greatest and longest adversary was dead—but so was the love of his life. Jenny. Neither was something one got over so quickly, and Madelyn had first-hand experience in at least one aspect. She was determined to provide all the distractions he needed, even if it meant shirking her would-be responsibilities with the Railroad. Deacon covered for her as any great partner would, taking their separation in stride. He understood the relationship between Nick and herself was still rocky and required all the extra attention she could afford. Whatever spark they’d recently discovered would have to wait to be ignited.

Tinker Tom delivered more decoded transcripts as the weeks passed, either by dead-drop or handing them off to Drummer Boy for personal delivery at Madelyn’s apartment. The intel did little to fill in the blanks, and after weeks of digging and struggling to answer decade old questions, Nick and Madelyn were still at square one. A missing baby boy, and one name—Preston Garvey.

“Time to hit the pavement,” Nick declared that Sunday morning, with a certain kind of gumption Madelyn hadn’t heard since they went after Eddie Winter nearly a month ago. Even though there was so little to their casefile, they had to start somewhere, and the detective was rearing to go.

With Piper’s help, they would divide and conquer—while Nick and Madelyn went to speak with the parents of the missing child, the reporter would use her resources to track down Preston Garvey, and hopefully confirm how he was tied to the case. The three of them working together again—just like old times—even if everything about their dynamic had changed.

Madelyn felt like a stranger sitting in the passenger seat of Nick’s Cadillac. Although they had made their amends after Jenny’s death and begun to settle back into their relationship as detective and lawyer—partners—there was still an obvious strain that she couldn’t ignore. It was all business, devoid of all levity and humor. Understandable, considering he was still in mourning. Nick was hesitant to speak about his grief and put on a brave face for the sake of appearances, brushing off Madelyn’s emotional counsel. She hadn’t expected him to be just as stubborn as she was when it came to dealing with heartache. All she wanted was to support him in the same way he was there for her when she lost Nate all those years ago. If what he needed was time, then she could accommodate, even if it hurt her to see him in so much pain.

She busied herself by reviewing the tiny stack of paperwork in her lap, sifting through the dossier on the missing baby boy, Shaun. Madelyn had typed out the facts, pulling out bits of information from the various Railroad reports and news articles to establish a solid timeline of events, as well as name all involved parties. On October 23rd, 1947, just a month shy of his first birthday, he was kidnapped from his parents—a one Mr. and Mrs. Perlman. All the newspapers, media reports, and archived police casefiles indicated there were no witnesses. However, Tinker Tom’s transcripts suggested otherwise. The amount of times Preston Garvey was named and redacted certainly gave them a clue.  

When Madelyn opened her steno notepad, a postcard slipped out. On the front was a scenic photograph of Hershey Park, a familiar tiny paper ribbon taped to the back with a short, scribbled note:

A chocolate would’ve melted –D

“I wanted to apologize.”

Nick’s comment caught her off guard, and she quickly glanced over to study his profile. She was as startled as she was confused, unsure of what he had to be sorry for. He cleared his throat, green eyes dancing over to her for a moment before focusing on the road again.

“If it seems like I’ve been keeping you at a distance lately, it hasn’t been intentional,” he said carefully. “I’m not entirely sure what is normal anymore. How to act. How to have a civilized conversation or be alive in a world without—” he broke off, hands gripping the steering wheel tight. “But I know you’ve been trying. Stuck around despite the doom and gloom. Don’t think it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

At a red light, Nick turned his full attention towards her, offering a tiny smile. “You’re a real gem, you know that, doll? One in a million.”

“I know,” Madelyn grinned, unable to resist the urge to lightly tease him in return. It was a gamble, but thankfully, he softly chuckled. She shrugged. “What are friends for?”

Nick side-eyed the documents in her lap. “Is that a message from…”

“Deacon?” she hesitated, knowing the two still had their differences. Just another reason why she’d asked the Railroad spy to keep his distance from the agency for a while. Since then, he’d been out of state on classified business, sending correspondence through dead-drops whenever possible. When she didn’t answer right away, Nick let out a deep sigh.

“I’ve noticed that too—you’ve kept him away to avoid conflict,” he pulled a hand away from the steering wheel to rub at his jaw. “Old shame the way I’ve acted, and maybe it’s time to let bygones be bygones. Wouldn’t want to come between the two of you.”

Something about his tone made Madelyn realize he’d made some astute observations about the pair—but when? Deacon had only visited once since Eddie Winter’s demise, so unless Nick could suddenly read minds or had become an expert on body language, he must’ve been talking to the neighborhood gossip—Piper. She’d certainly seen a lot of their interactions in the last month, enough to write an expose, if she wanted to.

Madelyn tried to stay coy. Afterall, she still wasn’t sure what her relationship with Deacon was. As far as she knew, they were just partners. “It isn’t like that,” she denied, and the lie tasted foul on her tongue. “We’re…just friends.”

“What a shame,” Nick’s lips turned up into a sideways smile and she knew he’d read past her fib. He took a moment to study her hands, where she’d moved her wedding ring from her left finger to her right. He hadn’t mentioned it before, but she knew he’d noticed the moment she made the switch a few weeks ago. A monumental step, to declare herself a widow, indicating she might be ready to move on.  

“I could use some of that Hardy brightness, now more than ever,” he explained. She’d been considerably happier in recent months, even through the danger and traumatic events. It didn’t take a genius or detective to say it was in no small part due to Deacon. “Don’t hold back on something good on account of me. Never hold back on happiness.”

When had Nick turned the tables on her? Wasn’t she supposed to be giving him heartfelt advice in his time of need? She allowed his words to sink in, reading over the handwriting on the postcard, tracing her fingers over the words. Regardless of how she truly felt, she wasn’t about to let herself get distracted when they had more important matters at hand. Still, it was comforting to know that Nick was on her side—another facet of their friendship and bond solidified.

She tucked the postcard safely away, and re-focused on her case notes. “You said you never worked with the parents directly in ’47?”

Nick shifted in the driver’s seat, thrown off by the change in subject. If he was offended, however, his expression didn’t show it. “No. I was a rookie P.I. back then, still wet behind the ears. Corruption aside, if you think Boston P.D. holds their cards close to the chest now, just think how paranoid they were ten years ago.”

“Worked as a consultant for just under a month,” he continued. “When the leads dried up, rather, when the police couldn’t provide me with any more valuable information, they cut me loose. Cut the parents loose too. Tried to reach out to them, but they’d disappeared after losing faith through a whirlwind media storm.”

“I don’t blame them,” Madelyn responded. She frowned at the date on the paper—1947. “Are you sure they’ll want to talk to us after all this time? We’re practically ambushing them.”

Nick slowed the speed of his Cadillac as he turned onto a private driveway, crossing over a wooden bridge, a large decorated sign in the nearby field indicating their arrival—Sanctuary Hills. Madelyn felt uneasy, and for good reason—she was familiar with the suburb, used to live down the street in a picturesque house in the middle of a cul-de-sac, and attended the Concord church in the town proper. Of course, that was when Nate was still alive, before she was forced to downsize and move to her tiny, Cambridge apartment.

“Are you alright?” Nick asked, reaching his hand over the center console to wrap around one of her own. While others would’ve flinched away, she took comfort in the cold touch of his prosthetic. Only then did she realize they were parked in front of a single-story home, painted a brilliant blue, with perfectly manicured lawns and a pearly white-picket fence.

She released a shaky breath. “I will be.”

Instead of waiting for Nick to round the car to open the passenger-side door for her, she exited the vehicle herself, gathering her purse and documents under her arm and stared at the residence ahead with a mix of insecurity and dread. Nick offered his arm, sensing her apprehension, and she gladly gripped his elbow as they followed the sidewalk path up to the front door. The detective did the honors in ringing the doorbell, and the pair waited, listening as a cheery female voice echoed out from within.

“I’ll be right there!”  

Nick and Madelyn exchanged a quick glance before the door opened. With only an old, black and white newspaper clipping to go off of, Madelyn wasn’t sure what to expect when they arrived. But she was still surprised by the woman’s appearance, specifically, how young she looked. She couldn’t be any older than thirty, not a wrinkle in sight on her beautiful face, or a grey hair sprouting from her dark brunette waves.

The woman at the door flashed them a polite smile. “May I help you?”

Nick extended his good hand. “We don’t mean to intrude,” he started as she shook his hand, one eyebrow raised in mild suspicion. “I’m Nick Valentine, and this is my partner, Madelyn Hardy. We’re from the—”

“Detective agency?” she interrupted. To their surprise, her expression shifted, a smile pulling at her lips as she shook Nick’s hand in earnest.

“Uh—yes,” he answered, momentarily stunned. “Mrs. Perlman, I presume?”  

The woman nodded. “Please, call me Nora,” she opened the door further and stepped aside. “Do come in. I thought—” she stopped herself short, sucking in a breath and snapping a hand to her mouth as if to hold back a flood of emotions. Her courteous smile returned as she gestured them inside. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

Madelyn followed Nora through the foyer, pausing to watch as she collected Nick’s faded trench-coat and fedora to hang on the entrance-way rack. They continued through to the living room, and while Mrs. Perlman called for her husband, Madelyn took the time to scan the interior, taking in the furniture, decorations and personal memorabilia that made the place home. It was right out of the pages of Good Housekeeping—the envy of any would-be housewife. Madelyn mentally chastised herself, knowing whatever jealousy she felt was misguided and inappropriate. She knew more than anyone that appearances were not meant to be taken at face value. Nothing, or nobody was ever as perfect as they seemed.

“Detective Valentine?”

Madelyn turned away from staring at a faded family portrait hanging on the wall to see Nora’s husband already in the middle of firm handshake with Nick. The man was tall, broad-shouldered—built like a soldier. His dark hair had been slicked back, and more than a few faded scars adorned his face and arms. It was reminiscent of the same marks her husband would return home with—such was the life of a military man.

“Mr. Perlman—”

He cut Nick off with a shake of his head. “Nathan.”

Madelyn recoiled, but hid her reaction the best she could. It was only a name. Despite the first-glance similarities, this man was not her Nathaniel—not her Nate. Nick glanced at her, acknowledging the coincidence, before continuing. They were there for a reason, and it wasn’t best to dawdle.

“I apologize if this seems out of the blue, after all these years,” the detective began. “I worked in liaison with the Boston P.D. in 1947. Wasn’t sure if they told you about my investigation into your son’s disappearance or not.”

“We weren’t aware,” Nathan clarified. Nora shook her head, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Not specifically.”

“We know of your work,” his wife interjected. “The only people brave enough to go after Eddie Winter,” she gave Nick an empathetic look. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife.”

He didn’t bother to correct her, jaw tightening as he nodded. Before the silence could stretch on for too long, Madelyn spoke up. “We’d like to reinvestigate your son’s disappearance—”

“Shaun,” Nora interrupted again in a firm tone, all the while maintaining her composure. “He didn’t just disappear. He was taken from us.”

Madelyn didn’t take offense to the correction, understanding her grief. “We want to start the investigation into Shaun’s kidnapping anew,” she explained. “If you’ll allow us.”

The husband and wife were silent, exchanging anxious glances that spoke volumes. After a moment, Nathan motioned for the group to move into the living room proper, the couple sitting on the larger couch while Nick and Madelyn perched themselves on the opposite loveseat.

“Has there been a development we should know about?” Nora asked nervously. No doubt she’d been down this road before, full of hope, only to be let down time and time again. “The police haven’t spoken to us in years.”

Nick was straightforward. “Just rumors. Nothing concrete. But worth opening the casefile for, worth starting all over again.”

Another stretch of silence as Mr. and Mrs. Perlman contemplated the offer. Reopening decade old wounds without the guarantee that anything would come of it wasn’t an easy ask, wasn’t the best gamble. It involved a certain level of trust to be placed in the Valentine Detective agency—in both Nick and Madelyn. Two strangers that appeared out of the blue with nothing but speculation and a paper-thin casefile.

“We’d be grateful for your help,” Nathan finally answered for the pair. “It’ll be eleven years this October. It’s about time somebody gave a damn about finding Shaun.”

Nora acknowledged her approval with a small nod. “Whatever you need from us.”

“Do you mind if we ask you some questions about the day Shaun was taken?” Nick carefully asked.

Madelyn didn’t dare to reveal her notepad until the couple nodded, signifying they were willing and able to provide answers. Despite the facts they had gleamed from news and police reports, it was best to hear it straight from the victim, even after the lapse of time.

“October 23rd, 1947,” Nick started, reminding them all of the specific date. “Where were you?”

“Concord. Near Main Street,” Nathan answered. “We’d walked with Shaun’s stroller into the nearby park to see the Halloween decorations and look at the changing colors of the trees. Shaun wasn’t walking yet, but we let him crawl through some leaf piles while we watched.”

“Did you go anywhere else?” Nick asked.

Nora nodded. “We got lunch at the corner-side café near the church. We were thinking about taking Shaun to the museum, but…we didn’t get that far.”

Her husband wrapped a comforting arm around her back, encouraging her to rest her head against his shoulder. “It was broad daylight,” Nathan explained. “We were just walking up the main road when a man with a gun came out from the alleyway behind us. He grabbed me at first, held the gun to my head—”

He broke off, taking a moment to console his wife who had begun to softly cry. Nick, ever the gentleman, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her with a solemn expression. “We can stop, if you’d like.”

“No,” Nathan insisted, with a sigh. “If I’d been alone, I’d like to think I would’ve reacted differently. Military training—but Nora and Shaun, I couldn’t risk the two of them being injured—maybe that’s why he attacked. Saw a couple and a baby and thought we were vulnerable.”

“Can you describe the gunman?” Nick asked next.

Both Nathan and Nora shook their heads. “He was wearing a mask. But I saw his eyes—dark brown, filled with nothing but evil.”

Madelyn wrote down everything. “Did he say anything?”

“He—” Nora hesitated, wringing her hands. “He wanted us to beg for mercy.”

The tip of her pencil nearly snapped from the pressure as a similar, horrific memory came rushing back. Her and Nate, begging for their lives in Boston Common—coincidence, or…? Madelyn shut her eyes tight, pushing the thought away—there was no chance the same person who kidnapped baby Shaun was the same man who killed her husband. The crimes were too different, separated by too much time, and—

“…it didn’t matter in the end,” Nathan had been talking the entire time, and she’d tuned him out. She scrambled to catch up, scribbling down his words as he spoke. Nick had noticed Madelyn’s unease, flashing her a silent, knowing look. “The man shot me in the arm, and wrestled Shaun out of Nora’s arms.”

“After that, it was all a blur,” the wife described in a shaky voice. “Police, reporters. We told them everything we knew. They did the best they could—”

Nathan didn’t seem to agree. “They kept us in the dark.”

“It’s no wonder you’ve shown up after all these years,” he continued. “Maybe you can succeed where others have failed, Mr. Valentine. Offer us something the Boston police have never been able to give us.”

Nora grasped her husband’s hand in a tight grip. “Our son.” 

May 12th, 1958

Neither Madelyn or Nick expected the parents of the missing baby Shaun to be so forthcoming, especially after so many years. But Mr. and Mrs. Perlman—Nathan and Nora—had welcomed the detective into their home, thankful that the agency was finally looking into the case. They had realistic expectations, understanding the investigation could very well end up in a dead-end, just as it had before. Nick was determined, however, a newfound fire surging through his veins at the prospect of solving a seemingly impossible case. He’d proved he could do it before with Eddie Winter, he’d be damned if he couldn’t do it again.

“Are we sure this is the place?” Madelyn looked up and down the sidewalks outside the Concord café, dubious of the location they’d been given.

Nearby, Nick flicked his cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with the toe of his loafer. He grumbled beneath his breath. “This is what happens when we leave things up to Piper.”

The reporter had come to them the previous evening, stating she’d gotten lucky in her search for their supposed missing witness. Preston Garvey—alive and well, and still living in Boston. Better yet, she’d tracked down his whereabouts and daily routine, giving them an exact location of where he could be expected to be found. It was only fitting that it was the same general location in which the crime occurred, though Madelyn was distracted by other memories. While Nick focused on studying the parameter, she stared at the church steeple—it was where she’d been married, and where she’d held Nate’s funeral services—the last time she’d stepped foot inside the sacred space.

“Hey doll,” Nick’s hand grasped her shoulder, pulling her back into the present. “You alright?”

She nodded, forcing a smile. “Right as rain.”

He didn’t believe her, she knew, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he silently led her through the café doors, the jingle of the bell signifying their entrance. The waitress behind the counter greeted them with a smile, but before she could move towards them with two menus, Nick raised his hand and gestured to the man sitting by himself in a back booth.

The man was dressed in a modern, relaxed suit—though, he wore a blue, woolen sweater instead of a jacket. On the table was a faded brown, trilby hat with an insignia that Madelyn didn’t recognize. He was engrossed with the newest edition of the Boston Bugle, and didn’t notice their approach. Nick politely removed his fedora and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Garvey?”

He didn’t seem surprised by their arrival, calmly raising his gaze to look at them both. “Mr. Valentine? Miss Hardy?”

“That reporter—she works for, or with you?” he asked next, before either could respond. Seems that killing Eddie Winter brought nothing but notoriety to the agency, and perhaps some unwanted fame to for the pair. Couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized from the papers as the ones who brought the crime syndicate down. “She was following me around all day yesterday, didn’t do well enough to hide that she was. Figured I’d see the two of you soon enough.”

Nick softly chuckled, despite himself. “You’re very perceptive.”

“Have to be, now more than ever,” was the man’s response. He finally reached out to shake their hands. “For whatever reason, I’m the man you’re looking for. Please, call me Preston.”  

He gestured for the two to sit in the booth opposite of him, folding the paper so he could give them his full attention. Nick was never one to beat around the bush, so to speak, and got straight to the point.

“We’re looking into an old case, and your name came up as a potential witness,” he explained. “Shaun Perlman. Kidnapped in 1947, do you—”

“Yes,” Preston disrupted with a small frown. His eyes darted to stare out the picture window, out onto the calm town street. “Ten years, sure, but I remember. Was barely sixteen when it happened.”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised to hear he was that young, she hadn’t been any older when the abduction happened, a young newlywed trying to make her way while her husband was away at basic training. Preston looked at the two, obviously perplexed.

“Thought they’d found the kid,” he said, solemnly. “Didn’t realize that wasn’t the case.”

“Unfortunately not,” Nick answered with a sigh. “Seems like Boston P.D. couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation and ran out of leads.”

Preston shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Or maybe they’ve been corrupted longer than you realize.”

Nick had his own reasons for being wary of the Boston police system—hell, he was suspicious of the local government and had been for years. Still, he needed a little more than hearsay, especially from a stranger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know how you found my name,” Preston shook his head. “Back then, the police completely dismissed me as a witness. A young black kid? You really think they believed a word I had to say?”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t stop her from feeling upset. She and Nick had seen this type of behavior from certain precincts and officers over the years in other cases—it was easy to blame on incompetence and corruption, but in reality it was outright bigotry. Preston didn’t give them a chance to respond as he continued to speak.

“They didn’t talk to anybody. There were other witnesses, but good luck finding them now. Best I know, they’re either dead, or long gone from the area. The police made a show of it for the parents, but in reality they fumbled the case from the start,” he explained. “On purpose, if you ask me.”

Nick rubbed at his jaw, mulling the theory over in his head. “What would they have to gain from covering up the kidnapping of a baby?”  

“Maybe that’s the real mystery,” Preston answered. He looked outside again, focusing on the alleyway across the street. “Who would want to take a baby, anyways?”

Madelyn glanced over the notes she’d taken when speaking with the parents. “Can you tell us what you saw? What do you remember?”

“Everything,” he replied, quickly. He pointed to the sidewalk. “I was standing on the street corner when I heard the gunshot. There weren’t many people in the area, but they all scattered. When I turned around, a man cradling a crying baby was running towards me and I just knew there was something wrong about him by his expression—”

“He wasn’t wearing a mask?” Nick interrupted, alarmed.

Preston shook his head. “No. But what kind of parent is walking around Concord with a holstered pistol?”

“What did he look like?” Madelyn prompted, waiting to fill in the details in her notepad.

“Tall and bulky,” Preston shut his eyes, recalling the image. “He was wearing a black leather jacket and combat boots. Maybe he worked on the military base? Had a…shaved head and this jagged scar over his—”

“Left eye?” she interrupted, all the air sucked from her lungs. Even Nick looked shellshocked.

As soon as Preston nodded, she felt bile tickle at her throat and didn’t have time to excuse herself before she pushed herself out of the booth and ran out of the café and onto the sidewalk, heaving in the fresh air so she wouldn’t vomit into the street. This wasn’t a coincidence, and the thought she’d dismissed the previous day had suddenly been confirmed. The same man who’d kidnapped baby Shaun was the same man who’d murdered Nate. A million questions flooded her mind—was it a case of mistaken identity, separated by nearly a decade? Had he tracked Nate and her down thinking they were the parents?

Madelyn didn’t know how long she’d been outside, aimlessly pacing when two hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug. Nick hushed her as she initially tried to push him away—she wasn’t even crying, she hardly needed consoling—or maybe she did. Her heart was racing, hands trembling so fast she was sure she was going to collapse. Better that Nick keep her upright until she could stand on her own. He didn’t say anything—not that he needed to—he knew everything about Nate’s murder, and why she reacted the way she did. If anything, he was filtering through the thousands of theories in his mind, struggling to come up with a logical reason as to why the crimes were related.

Their witness, Preston, had followed them outside, and judging by his sympathetic expression, Nick had informed him of her connection to case. If it had been any other person, at any other time, she would’ve been upset—her folly for being unable to stay composed when in the field. And here she thought Nick would be the one struggling.

“Listen,” Preston interrupted the silence, anxiously shuffling his feet. “I want to help. With your case and…anything else you might need.”

Madelyn and Nick had shared a skeptical look. They’d been sold a similar story before, though that was from a very different kind of character—a young mercenary with more trouble than they could handle. The detective eyed him. “We already have informants.”

Preston smirked, shaking his head. “Do I look like a spy?”

“After the kidnapping, a local neighborhood watch started up. It was rough going, getting enough people to join, and over the years our numbers have dwindled thanks to the crime families taking over,” he told. “Hollis, our leader passed away in ’49 and I’ve been the de-facto leader ever since.”

“How can you help?” Madelyn asked, meaning well.

“We’re a network,” he replied. “Not just in Concord. Lexington, Charlestown…used to be in Quincy before the Gunners took over, but that’s another story. We see a lot, without being seen. There to help and protect the people at a minute’s notice.”

Sounded not unlike a spy network she was familiar with. Made her wonder if they were familiar with one another or had crossed paths. Instead of questioning it now, she silently deferred to Nick. His quiet amusement told her he was impressed.

“What do you call yourselves?” he asked.

Preston grinned. “The Minutemen.” 

May 14th, 1958

Madelyn stared up at the lantern perched high upon the Old North Church steeple, the burning flame shining bright against the dark evening sky. She was still unsure if making the trip to North End was the wisest decision and had only made the late-night visit at Nick’s insistence. Ever since their meeting with the Perlman’s, followed by Preston in Concord, he’d noticed her melancholy and overall listlessness. Where he was gaining a fresh strength and passion in the reopened cold case, Madelyn was fading away. Present, but only in the physical sense. After a long day in the office, he sent her to the church with the hopes a break from her usual routine would return the pep to her step. Her partner’s advice was right—he usually was. Plus, it was time to pick up the latest intel report from Tinker Tom—why not do it in person?

Surprisingly, the Railroad headquarters was sparse of agents. Drummer Boy was absent from his usual spot by the entrance way, likely making the rounds through the city, collecting dead-drops. Doctor Carrington was also missing from his corner, but she could hardly guess what kind of mission he could be on. In the far corner, she noticed Tinker Tom was tapping away at a typewriter, a pile of yellow holotape cartridges on the desk next to him. Nearby, Glory was reading through a stack of intel, pausing every few lines to notate the papers with a fountain pen. One person’s absence was more obvious than the others, though Madelyn tried to keep her disappointment hidden as she walked by the repurposed catacombs, keeping her gaze focused forward.

Desdemona didn’t bother looking up from the spread of information on the circular dais when she approached. “Stranger.”

“A new codename?” Madelyn dared to joke. If Deacon were there, he’d laugh. She glanced over her shoulder just to double check one last time.

“Might as well be,” the Railroad leader answered with a heavy sigh. “I won’t lie to you. Your absence has been felt. We’re stretched thin as it is, and with Deacon no-contact while he’s out of state…”

Madelyn did her best to not let her expression betray the truth—that was news to her—she’d been receiving notes from the Railroad spy for weeks. He hadn’t been overly discreet about it either, using Drummer Boy as a go-between when other dead-drops were unavailable. Made her wonder if there was more truth to the story about who really ran the show, as the two liked to hint.

“Still,” Desdemona continued, waving her hand aside as she flicked her cigarette. “What you and Valentine have done for this city is remarkable.”

“Hopefully we managed to kill a few birds with one stone,” Madelyn replied. “It wasn’t just Eddie Winter. But maybe now, there will be less threats knocking at our door.”

“If only we could be so lucky,” was Desdemona’s response. She inhaled deeply on her smoke, turning away to exhale the white-grey plume. “Speak to Tom and Glory. They’ve found something that may be of interest. I’m curious to know if you’ve had similar discoveries in your investigation of Winter or the Boston P.D.”

With a nod, Madelyn stepped over to Tinker Tom’s workspace, curiously looking over the array of empty coffee cups and gizmos as he continued to type and mumble to himself. It took just over a minute for him to realize she was standing patiently at his side.

“Oh, oh!” he exclaimed, jolting up to stand before sitting down again. He flashed a bright smile at her as he dragged a nearby chair closer for her to sit. “Agent Charmer! For what do I have the pleasure?”

“I see you’ve been hard at work. Thank you again for all the intel you’ve provided to the agency,” Madelyn responded. “It’s been a tremendous help in developing leads for our case. I haven’t seen Nick so invested in…a long while.”

“Alright, alright!” Tom nodded along enthusiastically. “I’ve been hitting the numbers. Err—words. Intel. Lots of information to swim through, gotta pretend I’m a little fish. Swimmin’ along in a sea of—”

Glory loudly cleared her throat from her spot at the nearby desk, prompting Tom to falter but continue smiling. “Right—so, you know what keeps coming up in these data files? The college! MIT—Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Good thing I can read binary, like hello zero, one, zero, zero, one, one, zero, one—”

“Tom!” Glory cut him short, with a short laugh of disbelief.

Madelyn furrowed her brows together, not even trying to make sense of the scribbles of notes he handed over. It sounded like another one of Tom’s wild theories, or a red herring. The more she stared at his handwriting—MIT scrawled repeatedly over the various pages—something clicked in her mind.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen them mentioned in some kind of report,” she explained, catching Glory’s attention. “Donations to Mayor McDonough’s campaign, some of Winter’s men were graduates. A lot of the government officials have ties to the college.” Madelyn paused. “Didn’t you have a theory about them secretly terraforming the Commonwealth?”

Tom leaned forward, transfixed. “Did I? I did!”

“Aren’t you an intern?” Madelyn asked Glory, switching her attention to the Railroad heavy.

“Never officially was,” the other woman shrugged. “My position has changed after my cover was nearly blown. Wish I could say there was somebody on the inside, but right now, we’re walking blind.”

“Swimming,” Tom corrected, much to Glory’s chagrin.  

Desdemona stepped over to where the group was congregated. “There’s going to be a public demonstration at the MIT campus tomorrow morning. Glory can’t risk being spotted again, and our other agents are in the field. You are the perfect fit to blend in with the crowd and media presence.”

Madelyn refrained from asking about her partner. If Desdemona said Deacon was unavailable, she would need to let it be. No need to sound desperate, or make their relationship appear more suspiciously close than it already was. She thought back to Nick’s original goal for her when he encouraged her to the Railroad headquarters that evening. If anything, accepting a new solo assignment was just the distraction she needed.

“I’ll be there.”

An hour later, and with a new stack of transcribed reports in hand, Madelyn slowly walked through the catacomb tunnels the same way she entered, listening to the sound of her heels as they echoed off the concrete floors. Her first few visits had left her unnerved by the entombed dead and darkened halls, but all these months later she found a serenity to it all, like there wasn’t a safer place in the world. Ironic, considering she’d once vowed to never step foot in a church again. She took her time walking up the basement steps, pausing in the small, ruined hallway that led towards the damaged pews. For a moment, she considered staying to pray.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Whatever shock she felt quickly melted away into relief as she spun around to find Deacon leaning against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over his jacket as he flashed her a sideways smirk. For all the time apart he looked the same as always, sporting his signature black styled wig and reflective sunglasses. He wouldn’t be Deacon without them.

She stole Desdemona’s line. “Stranger.”

“Didn’t your parents ever warn you about stranger danger?” he joked in return, pushing himself upright.

“Who doesn’t like a little danger now and again?” Madelyn shrugged, unable to hide her amusement.

She’d missed their teasing—just on the verge of flirting—a banter they’d been proficient in since their first meeting. It was refreshing to know that even after all the trials they’d been through together, their relationship—whatever it was—had survived. If anything, it had flourished. He smiled at her, sharing in her quiet joy. God—she’s missed him.

“Good thing I’ve got enough to spread a lifetime,” he softly chuckled, finally moving over to where she stood. “Does that mean you like me more, or less?”

Madelyn laughed—not like he couldn’t know by now. “I’m not that easy.”  

“Shucks.”

Despite her words, she couldn’t help herself from reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders, pressing up on her toes to reach his height the best she could. Deacon leaned to reciprocate the hug, arms tight around her waist as he brought her close against his chest. She couldn’t put into words how wonderful it was to be reunited—to be held—so she remained silent, face buried in the curve of his shoulder. He rested his chin atop her head, nuzzling his cheek against her soft golden curls. It was rare to allow themselves a such a reprieve, to get caught up in a tender moment so much so that the rest of the world fell away. A moment of escapism was what they both needed—they needed each other—even if that had yet to be said.

“Come on,” Deacon pulled away first, lowering her so both heeled feet were level with the ground. She could tell he was studying her face, beyond the darkened frames, and wondered what he was thinking. His hand sought hers out, holding it in a loose grip as he motioned for her to follow. “Let’s get you home.”

“Inviting yourself over?” she teased as they walked through the church.

Deacon smirked, raising his eyebrows high. “Drummer Boy told me you’ve been having him over for dinner while I’ve been away,” he mocked offense, flashing an over dramatic pout. “Feeding him pot-roast and other All-American housewife recipes.”

She giggled at his theatrics as they stepped out into the crisp, evening night. “You only want me for my food!”

“You first,” Deacon replied, nonchalant in his confession—if it even were one. “Food later.”  

Whatever snarky response she expected, it wasn’t that. Momentarily stunned, she felt the heat rising up her neck and cheeks. Instead of fumbling through a less-than cheeky reply, she flashed him a wink, earning her a low whistle. Madelyn was glad she’d gone to North End that evening, laughing as she squeezed his hand, thinking—she hoped he liked meatloaf.

May 15th, 1958

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology campuses were a short walk from Madelyn’s Cambridge apartments, making the trip to the Thursday morning press conference a breeze. As soon as Deacon caught wind of her assignment from Desdemona he decided to tag along, and she welcomed his company. Even though the job required little intrigue, it had everything to do with blending into a crowd unseen—something he was an expert at.

By the time they arrived at the waterfront campus, a large gathering of people were already seated in rows before a large, temporary stage. A podium had been set up, as well as curtains to disguise whatever the presentation was to be about. At the front of the crowd was a grouping of media and news reporters—at least one of them had a camera to record the event, likely for that evening’s broadcast.

Madelyn and Deacon remained on the outskirts, close enough that they could see the stage and hear the announcements, but far enough away that they could survey the attendees for anybody suspicious. She scanned the throng of people, but as far as she could tell, they all appeared to be the typical Bostonian resident.

“Look,” Deacon didn’t point, placing his hand on the low of her back to gently guide her body towards the promenade. “See anybody familiar?”

She leaned into his embrace for show, glancing over at the courtyard. It was hard to see through her sunglasses, making her wonder how the hell Deacon managed to get any espionage work done when wearing a pair all hours of the day. With a little squint, however, she realized—she’d seen the man before.

“The man in black,” Madelyn answered, thinking back to their first escapade in downtown Boston through the underground tunnels and the Switchboard. It was the same well-dressed man who’d nearly cornered them in the Slocum’s Joe, she was sure of it. So was Deacon, apparently. “Has he seen us?”

“Hard to say,” he mumbled in reply, scratching at his temple as if he was contemplating removing his pompadour wig. Maybe he’d be less likely to be recognized with ginger hair—or maybe he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Before either of them could say anything else, fanfare from the stage caught their attention and the audience stood in applause. Deacon took the opportunity to move them closer, out of view from where their former stalker was on watch.

“Good morning Boston!”

Madelyn shouldn’t have been surprised to see Mayor McDonough addressing the crowd, a jovial expression adorning his face as he waved to reporters and shook hands with the college delegates on stage.

“Thank you all so much for attending,” his voice echoed out as he stood at the podium, speaking into the array of microphones. “This is sure to be a momentous occasion for Boston’s most prestigious of universities. Without further ado, let me introduce to you the head of the Robotics division, Doctor Justin Ayo.”

Deacon and Madelyn politely added their applause to the cheers of the crowd as a new man approached the podium, thanking the mayor before addressing the audience.

“We’ve all heard of the technological marvels of General Atomics and RobCo Industries but even these corporate giants have their limitations,” the professor explained. “What if I told you it was possible to merge science and humanity together to create something the likes have never been seen before?”

Doctor Ayo paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. “Here at MIT, we’ve managed to combine the mechanical with the biological to create the first of its kind. I give you, the android.”

From behind the curtain, something moved—the metal frame of what looked like the hybrid of a skeleton and machine. It was walking, baby-steps across the stage, and something about the movements sent a shiver down Madelyn’s spine.

“Is that a robot?” Madelyn asked in a hushed whisper to Deacon.

He shook his head, lips pulled tight in a thin line. “Doesn’t look like any protectron I’ve ever seen.”

“These marvelous beings have been created with fully functional artificial intelligence,” Doctor Ayo continued, to the shock and whispered gasps of the crowd. “This is not your ordinary Mister Handy—each synthetic human—or synth—as we like to call them has a distinct personality.”

“Why, in a few years and with further research and development, they may not be able to be distinguishable from you or I.”

“That’s…” Deacon’s jaw clenched. “Fuck.”

A commotion erupted from the group of newshounds and Madelyn recognized the bright red press-cap, even from the distance she was standing. Of course Piper would be at the gathering, there to gather information for a scathing article for Public Occurrences. She raised her voice high above the other shouting reporters, clamoring for attention.

“What safeguards are in place to prevent the synths from malfunctioning? Do they have free will? What if they chose to attack? What are your plans exactly with these androids?”

Doctor Ayo was defiant in the face of her flurry of questioning. “I didn’t realize we’d started the Q and A session already.”

“Miss Wright!” Mayor McDonough came forth again, publicly reprimanding her. “That’s enough out of you!”

Another man stepped to the front of the stage, causing a hush to fall across the plaza. An older, studious looking man—silvery grey hair and groomed beard, in an expensive suit befitting of a college administrator. Whoever he was, his presence demanded silence and attention.

Madelyn shot a confused look at Deacon. “Who is that?”

“MIT’s Director,” he answered with a slow shake of his head. “Surprised he’s even here. Not known for public appearances.”

“Such paranoia,” the director spoke, in a calming voice. His hand landed on the mayor’s shoulder and quickly, McDonough’s expression seemed to calm. “Everything will be alright.”

Oddly, eerily, Mayor McDonough repeated the words into the microphones. “Everything will be alright.”

Even though the majority of the spectators were calmed by the Dean’s words, Madelyn wasn’t. Everything wasn’t okay. With the presence of their new invention, it was anything but.

[jewishzevran]

look upon the Light so you may lead others here through the darkness

After the Herald of Andraste has some choice words for him, Cullen and Leliana have a talk about faith. [ao3]

A/N: I originally published a different version of this, which was less specific to my canon and took place in Leliana’s quarters. I have deleted it, but kept the title of the piece for the update. I like this version a lot better.

The Herald frowned at Cullen, and spoke with a tone that he couldn't quite place. "But... the Templars have served the Chantry for ages.”

“And in that time, they’ve come to take the Order’s services for granted–" Before he could continue, the Herald made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, before turning and walking away. 

"Wait where are you going? What's the matter?"  

She wheeled on him. "Seriously? After everything, that's your reason for leaving?"

"You're a Dalish elf, what do you know of the chantry?"

The Herald blinked, and her mouth curled into a snarl as her hands balled into shaky fists. She crossed back to Cullen and stood inches from him, her anger letting her tower over him despite her stature.

"How dare you. Are you so selfish and blind that you don't think it affects us? You think we were all born out of holes in the ground completely isolated? I grew up in Kirkwall. I know plenty of the Chantry, and their supposed peacekeepers. What do I know of the Chantry? What do you know of peace? You wield fear and cruelty like a slavemaster cracks a whip and expect your charges to survive unscathed? If you cage a dog and beat it for years how can you be surprised when it bites? And your "harrowings?" You take young mages, barely old enough to be adults and send them into the Fade with no warning, no training, no advice and expect them to fight demons? If they fail, you kill them, without so much as blinking. Do you write letters of condolences to their families? Do you even remember their names? And if you decide that one of them isn’t fit for the trial, you hold them down and forcibly remove their emotions! Have you not once considered how abhorrent the idea of a tranquil actually is? How egregious threatening people with psychological torture is? And don’t even try to justify it with “it’s for their own good”, whose good? I've heard stories that some poor families promise their children to the Order from BIRTH. Preying on poor and vulnerable families so their children can be groomed to hate an entire subset of the population? Discouraging circle mages from having relationships in case they have mage children? Any children born regardless are ripped from their mothers and given to a chantry orphanage to raise and then recruit as Templars. The most frequent cause of death in circles is suicide, did you know that? Do you care? I had friends in Kirkwall that were raped and beaten, and it doesn’t matter that you didn’t personally participate, you were silent while others systematically abused their charges. The Chantry doesn’t make peacekeepers or protectors. It makes soldiers. You say Anders started a war, but you never even thought about the alternatives. It wasn’t ‘start a war or maintain peace’ it was ‘rebel or spend a lifetime in slavery and enduring abuse at the hands of our oppressors’!  And you would kiss their feet in servitude."

She stalked off, then turned round, stalked back and punched him square in the jaw, with a resounding crunch. The force of the blow sent him staggering back several paces. 

"What do I know of the Chantry, shemlen? I know they massacred my entire people in the name of your God. Andraste spit on your skills being taken for granted. You want to be part of the Inquisition? To work side by side with mages? You need to do a lot of fucking soul searching about why you're really here, Commander Rutherford."

The Herald was crying as she walked away, wiping angry tears from her eyes.  Cullen was left standing dumbstruck. He spent several minutes quietly fuming. 

Maker, she can throw a punch.

His jaw was going to bruise and he could feel it. Then he started thinking about what she said and every angry word attached itself to a memory. He headed to the training grounds. Sword drills would hopefully clear his thoughts.

What do you know of peace?

He thought back to Kinloch. To the words he spoke to Nina Cousland. He begged her to slaughter anyone she saw in case they were possessed.

He thought about psychological torture and the screams and pleas of mages undergoing the Rite of Tranquility being abruptly cut off as that blankness took over their faces. 

He thought about his lessons as a boy, the pride in his teachers' voices as they spoke of the glory of the Exalted Marches and never used words like "massacre" or "genocide". How the elves deserved it. How it was their fault for being savages that denounced Andraste. 

He thought of the mothers who cried and begged when their children were taken to Circles. He thought of the mages that had panic attacks before their harrowing. He thought of the mages he'd personally seen use blood magic or turn into abominations - the mages he then helped kill.

For the first time in his life, he realised that in the moment before they cut their veins open or let a demon burst forth from their chests, every last one of those mages wore the same expression.

Fear. Desperation. Pain.

He remembered one young woman who had run away from the circle because her mother was dying. They'd tracked her down in a barn. She backed into a corner begging them not to take her. There were five of them surrounding her in full armor, and she was alone. Unarmed. 

"Blessed are they who stand before The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."

He remembered repeating those lines to himself when he was fighting mages. When he was killing them. He felt sick.

"Commander? Are you alright?" 

He blinked, coming back into focus, and realised the dummy in front of him had no head anymore.

"Excuse me," he muttered, and walked briskly to his cabin.

He once visited a prison on templar business. He realised it didn't feel any different to the circle.

"Mages are dangerous. Any one of them can be corrupted." 

Those were the words spoken to him when he joined the order. The ones he repeated to himself over and over. Even here. Even at the Inquisition. He wasn't raised to do good. He was raised to kill mages. 

He once told Hawke that mages weren't people. Her sister was a mage. A Warden now, but–maker no wonder she looked at him with disgust.

"If you cage a dog and beat it for years how can you be surprised when it bites?"

He almost vomited as he remembered the Commander who calmly explained to him and all the other recruits that making a mage Tranquil was like neutering a feral dog - unpleasant, but necessary to tame it.

He remembered someone at Kinloch telling him how some of the Templars left books about blood magic around deliberately so they could apprehend anyone that read them.

He remembered a mage being beaten in Kirkwall screaming in pain and using the blood on the whip to conjure a protective shield around herself. Which they broke through. And killed her.

How did he spend so long utterly convinced that he was doing the Maker's work, when all he did was cause pain and violence? How did he convince himself he was in the right? 

Mistress Lavellan was not the first person to shout at him about this. Maker knows Hawke did it enough. What's different? What's chang–

The lyrium.

He staggered in his pacing around the room, almost falling over as his eyes went to the pile of belongings in the corner that the box he'd had since he was 18 lay at the bottom of. 

The first time he'd taken lyrium he'd hated it, it was disgusting - he remembers his friend Pip vomiting, asking if he had to take it, and the furious Commander threatening to beat him for insubordination.

Do we even need it? Is it even necessary? 

His thoughts turned to Alistair. Oh Maker. He'd never really thought about it, but Alistair left for the Wardens before he took his vows. He’d never taken lyrium, and Alistair could use his Templar abilities without it. He'd seen it. At Kinloch.

Cullen roared in anger and threw a glass at the wall where it shattered.

Lies. His whole life, his whole belief system was built on lies. He'd caused so much pain. So much evil, and he’d never once questioned it. 

How did he even begin to undo his wrongs? He could ask for forgiveness from Andraste, from the Maker, but what good did that do in the here and now?

There was a knock at the door.

"Not now!" 

"Bur sir, you asked for this report as soon–"

"I said NOT NOW!!"

The poor scout scurried away. A minute or two later, a familiar voice sounded outside, accompanied by a gentler knock. 

"Cullen, it's Leliana. Can I come in?"

"Fine." He tried to spit the word but his voice broke, betraying him. He didn't look up as she slipped inside.

"You're bleeding, Cullen." She gestured to her mouth, and Cullen mirrored her. 

Oh. Mistress Lavellan must have split my lip.

"I, ah, had a run-in with the Herald. It probably looks worse than it is."

"Let me–"

"No! I deserve it."

Leliana arched an eyebrow. She glanced deliberately at the shattered glass on the floor and then back to him. "Is there something you'd like to talk about, Cullen?"

"You have far better things to do with your time," he mumbled, turning away, but she grabbed his chin and made him look at her.

"That is not what I asked."

"I am a grown man Leliana, I can–"

"What? Self-flagellate in isolation and bottle up your emotions until they fester?"

Tears pricked in his eyes. He couldn't meet her gaze. 

"I understand not wanting to burden others with your feelings, Cullen, but shutting yourself away helps no one, least of all yourself. How is it better to break things and shout at our scouts through doors once you can't keep a handle on yourself any more?"

His cheeks burned with shame. He started to shake, the compassion in her voice stabbing through him deeper than any sword could.

She frowned a little. "Would you like me to pray with you?"

Cullen couldn't stop the hysterical laughter that burst out at that. As if prayer could fix what he was. What he'd done.

"Sit. Now." Cullen knew better than to ignore the authority in her voice, and as he collapsed into a chair, Leliana knelt in front of him, and tucked a stray curl behind his ear. Her face was dark with worry. She reminded him of Mia.

"Talk to me Cullen. Tell me what's wrong."

"Everything!" He shouted, unable to stop the tears that started falling from his eyes. "She was right! She stood there and shouted and wept and said the word Templar like it was poison and she was right! I killed innocent people because the Chantry told me my whole life that it was my duty to do so! I helped torture and murder children! And it took someone punching me in the face and calling me an idiot to make me even realise that that was wrong! If the Chantry is what the Maker truly wants then I want no longer want any party in it!"

Leliana took his hands. "And if the Chantry is not what the Maker wants?"

"Isn't it?" Cullen retorted bitterly, pulling his hands away. 

"Has He personally told you it is?" She was watching him calmly, as though his whole world wasn't spiralling into the abyss, and he wanted to scream.

"The Chantry speaks the word of the Maker. Everything they do is in His Name."

"That doesn't mean they are right."

He threw his hands up in the air in frustration, and stood, beginning to pace again. "Pray tell, then Leliana. What IS His will, hm? What DOES the Maker want? Did He put me on earth just to suffer? Is this my Trial? Am I failing?"

"The Maker does not make you suffer, Cullen. That is the fault of men."

"Stop being so cryptic!" He was shouting now, he could hear his voice getting louder and louder, and his face going red with anger and grief. "The Chantry speak for the Maker. They are His Church!"

"The Maker did not pick up a pen and write the Chant himself!" Leliana raised her voice too, standing defiantly in front of him. "He did not make the circles, or the Templars. Humans are fallible Cullen. They make mistakes, and words and intentions can be twisted!"

"But-"

"Who is your God, Cullen? Is it the Maker? Or is it The Chantry?"

The question stunned him into silence. His ears rang and he actually staggered backwards under the force with which the implications hit him. For what felt like an eternity, there was only silence, and his own ragged breathing as everything he ever learned fell apart and reformed into something new.

He stared at Leliana in wild disbelief, and she nodded, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

The Chantry and the Maker were not the same.

...the Chantry was wrong.

The Chantry was wrong.

The Chantry could be wrong. And he could still follow the Maker. 

Except.... Could he?

"Leliana..."

She waited patiently.

"How can I ever follow the Maker when I did such evil in his name?"

"I will be blunt, Cullen. There will be people that will never forgive you. Nor do they have any obligation to do so. But that should not stop you. It is never too late to change, or to start anew. True faith comes from action. Be vocal. Be compassionate. Treat mages with kindness and trust, but understand why they might not want it. You keep saying you are not the man you were in Kirkwall? Prove it. Repentance is hard, and will make you uncomfortable. You must work for it, and keep working for it. Remember it is not a goal, but a constant journey."

The words settled over him like a weighted blanket - heavy, but somehow comforting despite the solemnity of the moment.

"Thank you." He hesitated for a moment, staring at the ground, still wiping away the last of his tears. "...will you pray with me?" he asked quietly. "Not the Chant, just -"

"Of course."

Praying in silence was different. He was so used to speaking the words of the Chant and feeling them flow through him. Still, despite the quiet, it made the air in the cabin warm and light.

He felt a calm begin to settle inside him in the wake of his turmoil. He still had questions, and doubts, and guilt... but for the first time in far too long, he also had hope. He wanted to see the Herald and apologise. But that could wait. 

Leliana kissed his head and said " I'll tell everyone you are feeling unwell and you're not to be disturbed. Take some time to yourself. Rest. Start fresh tomorrow. When you want to talk about this some more, you know where to find me."

As she left, she smiled back at him. "Andraste watch over you, Commander."

It was a surprise that his returning smile came so naturally. "And you, Leliana."

[twobitmulder]

MCU Spider-Man 3 Pitch

I have not been the biggest fan of the MCU’s take on Spider-Man, but I do think there’s a way that they could close out his trilogy and make up for a lot of what didn’t work while also staying true to what’s been done in the first few movies.

So picture this, it’s been a few months, maybe even a year, since Spider-Man was framed for Mysterio’s death. Stark Industries lawyers have been able to convince a judge that the footage was doctored to put Peter’s face in in it, but that’s only improved the situation a little bit. Half of New York still thinks Peter is Spider-Man and the other half at least think Spider-Man murdered Mysterio and framed this kid. Happy and Stark Industries have had to distance themselves from Spider-Man publicly because even though Peter Parker is technically legally innocent, Spider-Man is still wanted for murder.

Ned and MJ stand by him, but the fact of the matter is that the world is just against Peter Parker on all fronts....

That’s when Norman Osborne shows up. Norman is a tech genius and his company Oscorp has always been a sort of quiet competitor to Stark Industries. Since the Snap (or the Blip if you prefer) they’ve raised their public profile and are doing a lot of work cleaning up the world. Norman approaches Peter much like Tony did. He knows Peter is Spider-Man and he’s offering him a job with Oscorp, a way to save his reputation and earn some money (Stark Industries covered the legal fees, but the constant attention has put a strain on the already sparse Parker family budget). Norman is putting together a new team, to fill the void left by the fracturing of the Avengers...the Thunderbolts.

Now Peter isn’t an idiot. This all feels sort of suspect. After all, Mysterio came to him as a fellow hero too. So he does his due diligence. He checks with Dr. Strange and looks as far back as he can into Osborne’s past, but he can’t find a blemish, what he does find is that Osborne knew his father, worked with him when they were in Grad school, and it leads to a very tender father/son moment between them. 

So he agrees to become a Thunderbolt on a trial basis. May doesn’t like it, but Peter is 18 and she can’t stop him. MJ thinks he’s nuts. “You got lucky trusting one billionaire, you’re crazy to trust a second one.” Even Ned, trying to be supportive, can’t help but feel that something is off.

Peter meets the other Thunderbolts. Max Dillion, who can control electricity, Sergei Kravinoff, who has enhanced strength and agility, and Dimitri Smerdyakov, their own personal Black Widow and master intelligence operative. They have an early run in with Mac Gargan, now in possession of a suit of power armor and calling himself The Scorpion, but the real clincher for Peter comes when, responding to an attack by some kind of sand monster, they capture a very alive and well Mysterio.

With the path to fully clearing his name now open, Peter comes to fully trust Osborne who tells him how he wants to do what the Avengers couldn’t. He wants to build a suit of armor around the world.

Meanwhile, MJ and Ned are still suspicious and they break into Oscorp where they find Osborne’s scientists running tests on Dillon, Kravinoff, and Smerdyakov. But worse than that, they find Beck and Gargan free, and getting equipment upgrades from Oscorp scientists. They’re captured and interrogated by Osborne. MJ tells him that she’s got him all figured out, that he’s just running the same scam that Beck was, creating fake disasters to swoop and stop. But Osborne tells her that it’s much more than that. Peter represents the possibility of a new generation of heroes, young and impressionable that he can mold and shape, effectively putting the next generation of super people entirely under his thumb. Luckily for Osborne, Beck’s stunt with the doctored footage helped alienate Peter enough for Osborne to get his hooks in.

Later, Peter is worried that he can’t get in touch with MJ and Ned, but Osborne tells him not to worry, tells him that his destiny as a hero is beyond all that and that he’ll make new friends, friends on his level. Osborne shows Peter files he’s been keeping on other young people with powers (and here we can take an opportunity to show off some upcoming characters, I think Angelica Jones, Bobby Drake, and Sam Alexander would be fun Easter Eggs) that he wants Peter to start training to be the next generation of Thunderbolts.

This starts to rub Peter the wrong way and he wonders if maybe MJ and Ned were right. He hacks Osborne’s computers and steals some files on the Thunderbolt Project and takes them home to sort through them. On his way home he gets a call from MJ telling him to meet her in Central Park. 

By the time he gets there it’s dark and he sees not MJ, but Aunt May meeting with someone who looks just like Peter. Before he can call out to her he’s blindsided by a masked man (Kraven, but Peter can’t tell) who pins him down and makes him watch as the False Peter (Smerdyakov) locks eyes with Peter and makes it clear that if he makes a sound he’ll kill May. Kraven asks for the data Peter stole from Oscorpe back. Just as Peter is about to hand it over he sees May wallop Smerdyakov.

We cut to May kicking Smerdyakov’s fallen gun away from him and asking him where Peter is. Smerdyakov’s shapeshifting falters and we see a new form, a blank, smooth white face.

“How?” He asks.

May sneers at him. “You think I don’t know my own son?”

A webline hits Smerdyakov square in the chest and Peter rockets into frame, knocking him onto his ass. Kraven rushes him and Peter yells for May to get clear.

Suddenly an explosion rips through the park. Osborne, in something almost like a cross between an Iron Man suit and and Vulture’s wing harness, swoops down, picks Peter up, and plucks the data stick from the pocket of his suit, then throws him into a nearby building where Peter blacks out.

Peter wakes up in a hazy and brightly lit version of his bedroom. He sits up on his bed and makes eye contact with someone across from him.

“I let you down didn’t I? I tried to...I tried to be better. I tried to...”

“Pete,” an unfamiliar voice says, as we pan to the other end of the room and see, for the first time in the MCU, Benjamin Franklin Parker (I’m imagining Nick Offerman, but Toby Maguire would be fun too). “You could never let me down.”

Peter tells his uncle that he thinks he made a mistake, that he doesn’t know who to trust anymore, and that this whole Spider-Man thing was supposed to be to make Ben proud, to make up for...well, Ben knows...but it never seems to turn out right. It just feels like he keeps getting drawn into other people’s messes and making a mess of his own life and he’s tried to be his own person but it feels like the more he’s Spider-Man the less he knows who he’s supposed to be. Is he Tony? Is he Osborne? Is he an Avenger or a Thunderbolt? Ever since he got drawn into this people have been talking about his potential and he’s afraid that he’s not going to measure up to what people expect of him. And Ben very gently tells him that it’s not about measuring up. It’s not about being the next Tony Stark but better or becoming an Avenger. It’s not about measuring up to anyone’s ideal. It’s about knowing that he’s making a difference because he feels it’s the right thing to do no matter whether the rest of the world sees him as an Iron Man or a menace or an Avenger. And he tells him that he knows he knows he’ll do the right thing, because he can’t not, it’s who he is, it’s in his actions every day.

Peter wakes up to May frantically doing chest compressions on him in the middle of a collapsed public restroom in the park. He almost tells her what he hallucinated while he was out, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead he says they need to get to a computer.

Peter reveals that he made a backup of the data and stored it in the suit’s computer. He opens up the files and they find out that Osborne is planning to release the personal information of his teenage Thunderbolts candidates to every budding super-criminal and news outlet in the world. He’s gonna back them all into a corner the way Peter was, destroy their lives so he can pick up the pieces and turn them into his loyal army.

Following an SOS from MJ Peter find Osborne and confronts him in the Oscorp Tower while Aunt May sneaks in and rescues MJ and Ned. What follows is a climactic fight where Peter takes on Osborne’s Sinister Six while May, Ned, and MJ make their way past Oscorp’s security to stop the data leak. 

The fight spills out into the city and Peter shows off his experience as Spider-Man, staying one step ahead of his multiple foes and pulling civilians out of harm’s way.

May, MJ, and Ned manage to stop the data leak from Oscorp Tower but Osborne reveals he can just as easily release it all from his suit. He points out to Peter that as far as the world is concerned, he and the Thunderbolts are new superheroes while Spider-Man’s reputation is still in doubt. 

“Keep fighting me and they’ll hate you forever” Osborne says.

“It doesn’t matter if they hate me” Peter says, tearing the computer systems out of Osborne’s suit. “It matters that they’re safe.”

The day saved and the villains defeated and incapacitated, Peter limps to the top of Oscorp tower where he meets May, MJ, and Ned, as they watch as the sun rises over the city.

Cut to a few weeks later and the media is still divided whether Spider-Man is a hero or a menace. Norman Osborne has been taken to The Raft after a data leak from Oscorp Tower revealed business dealings with remnants of Hydra, AIM, and the Fisk Crime syndicate. MJ, filling out applications for a journalism major at ESU, looks knowingly proud and justifiably smug as this is reported. 

The film ends as Peter, in his Spider-Man suit, approaches a young girl sitting on the edge of a rooftop, flames dancing on her fingertips. Ned and MJ monitor him from a jury-rigged computer display and talk to him through his suit.

“Hi,” Peter says to the girl, “Angelica Jones?...Can I talk to you for second? I think I can help you.”

Post Credits Scene 1: Peter is visiting Dr. Strange again who tells him that he honestly can’t say if the vision Peter had was anything more than a near death hallucination, but that he should take comfort in knowing that the people we’ve lost can still help us once they’re gone, even if it’s just their memories. Peter presses the issue and Dr. Strange shrugs and says anything is possible. There are infinite worlds after all, different planes of existence, different dimensions.

Peter Scoffs, “That’s just something Mysterio made up to con us”

“Well even a broken clock is right twice a day” Strange replies.

Post Credits Scene 2: Osborne is locked up in The Raft. Footsteps approach. General Ross comes up to his cell and shakes his head.

“Beat down by a kid Osborne. Well, even so, you still put together a damn impressive team. I had some ideas about continuing your little project. I do really like the name.”

[ahmedmootaz]

Ooooh I saw your last comic and I wanted to ask if you have any headcanon for magica? Btw u are such an amazing writer and you deserve more followers.

Dear Anon,

D’aw, thank you! Your compliments are really nice to hear. I wouldn’t say that I’m much of a writer, but if any of my writings appeal to someone, then it makes it worth it.

But regarding the question: Yes. Perhaps not as crazy as other people’s, but I have my fair share of head-canons about her. They don’t necessarily apply to one version of Magica over the other, rather, to all of her versions. So without further ado:

1) She mostly speaks English (with a british accent, even) to out-british Scrooge. She still speaks italian, but when trying to one-up your mortal enemy at every possible turn, she’d do anything, no matter how petty or unnecessary it may be. Poe’s her only remaining family member who speaks English with her to both train her and himself, even if he obliges because she wouldn’t accept anything otherwise.

2) A powerful sorceress herself, she often suffers from linking her powers to powerful/mystical objects (See: The Shadow War.), losing them afterwards. While it’s never as severe as what happens in Ducktales 2017, it’s always rather humiliating whenever it happens.

3) Born during a prosperous era, Magica was often the most spoiled of The DeSpell new generation. She was expected to be a new dark sorceress, and it was how it happened.

4) Her entire family tree is full of villains and other morally ambiguous people. It runs in the family, and she only picked up the torch where it was left.

5) I go off the notion that magic helps lengthen one to live a bit longer than your every day person, so I often think she’s born around 1910. Living atop Mount Vesuvius with the rest of her family helped her not really feel The Great War or World War two, though some of her family members got conscripted into the armies of whatever territory they were on.

6) Speaking of which, she does love the little home she has atop the Mount. It’s quite the pleasant place to live, though she had to cut off some of its compartments throughout the years as it fell apart. Naples is a nice city, but she never appreciated the city-life. Only its amenities, as such, she steals her electricity cables, her water pipes, Internet cables and anything else that has bills from down there. She has other bills to pay as a witch, but these ones are out of her life.

7) She’s not really ‘hip’ with the new Tech of this day and age, despite the fact that she’s one of the youngest witches around. Her never-ending quests for glory often put her out of the loop for a couple of years.

8) This isn‘t really a head-canon, more like obscure canon, but she adores football. She’s the number one fan of the Italian team, and she stops all her activities during the World Cup. She’s still salty about the last few ones.

9) She’s not the greatest when it comes to home chores. She often prefers magic to manual labor, but sometimes magical dust or stains require this manual labor. She’s also not the greatest cook around and often depends on Poe, her brother, to help her out with that, even if she can do some of it on her own.

10) Despite her cold, hard exterior....she’s also pretty cold on the inside. But she has a heart. She cares for her family (some members, anyways,), her spells, and winning.

11) Speaking of which, she does actually win!....Whenever Scroogie isn’t around. Retrieving ancient artifacts, destroying other enemies, you name it. She’s a competent sorceress, and if it wasn’t for Scrooge’s perseverance and experience, I’m not certain he would’ve stood against her for long.

12) She had a sort of dream-team with Poe when he wasn’t a raven. He was far more physical than her, and she was better at spells than he was. He used the physical side of magic while she was on the more mentally exhausting parts. Though he did dabble in bits and pieces even she doesn’t touch...

13)...That was, of course, until he became a raven. A battle-gone-wrong and a spell that was supposed to hit a blank ricocheted off a mirror and hit him and, much to both their horror,  she couldn’t go back on it. The closest remaining family member she had and she turned him into a raven. It’s a rather sensitive part of their relationship, and she didn’t forgive herself for it.

14) Both as a result of no longer having Poe be the hitting force of the duo and because of her adventures, she’s rather athletic for a supposed fragile sorceress, if her ability to square with Donald when he’s enraged and then draw is anything to go by.

15) She’s an avid fan of Ducktor Who. Ever since she discovered it in the 60s and up until now, she’s been watching every new episode. First as something to get her mind off of any sort of failure that might’ve befallen her, it’s now something she actually enjoys and sets up an entire movie night for.

16) She’s also a big fan of fashion. Not all the time, obviously, but she has a sort of style, even if she’s often too busy plotting to notice if she’s wearing socks with sandals or other such horrors.

17) She cannot drive cars to save her life, literally. Boats? Sure, some training and a sunken yacht in the Pacific later, but she can do it. Planes? She can keep them in the air. Cars? Nope.Not a chance. If it doesn’t explode, every car she drives is a likely target for bumps, scratches, and complete and utter pulverisation. Luckily, she has magic by her side, but it ruined a good plan on more than one occasion.

18) She’s a pretty good reader. You need to be one when all of the world’s spells are scattered throughout thousands of pages.

19) She’s not really the social type. She has some friends here and there, but disregarding her family, she mostly works alone. It’s not that she can’t do it, more than she can’t be bothered to do it. Too much time spent for too little. Who cares if people found her weird? She only needed her new raven assistant to go shopping.

20) Despite everything that may appear, she’s still at heart Magica DeSpell. Queen of Naples, Guardian of the Forbidden Spells, Creator Of Untrue Titles, you say it. She’s a threat that none should have to face, and she can demonstrate why with her fist before her spells.

So those were twenty head-canons I had of Magica. I hope you do enjoy them, Anon, and be sure to leave your thoughts about them! I do appreciate other people’s thoughts, really I do. So until next time, see ya’!

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 29)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25  Lewis POV 3,  Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3

Part 30: here

. 

Clank. The screwdriver clatters on the concrete, impossibly loud for something so small. Arthur grimaces at the noise, attention jumping up to the workshop door in guilty anticipation. When several seconds pass and his Uncle doesn’t come barging in to deliver a lecture on how he shouldn’t be sneaking into the workshop without permission, Arthur returns to the half-constructed box of plastic and wire he has positioned on the desk before him.

He squints in the dimming light. The sun has almost set, casting a small square of orange light on one half of the workbench. Arthur is hesitant to open the garage doors or switch on the main lights, knowing it would tip off his Uncle. An unusual lack of clients that week had left the garage wholly empty and the benches clear. Even Uncle Lance, who practically lived at the workbench, is out, giving him the window needed to finish his current project.

The project? Fix his Uncle’s old VCR. Then Lance would finally be able to re-watch all those old wrestling tapes he kept boxed, gathering dust, up in his room. The VCR, broken for as long as Arthur could remember, had been a permeant fixture of the living room until relegated to the shed out back.  Arthur has his doubts on how enjoyable he would find watching two men role around or whatever they did in pro wrestling, but his Uncle probably kept the tapes around for a reason. The point of a gift was to do something nice for someone else. So far, he has pulled the whole thing apart, spotted then fixed the fault, and is fitting it back together again.  Not like the VCR is super complicated. Not like the computer, which had been a lot harder to reassemble. Uncle Lance had not been pleased about that one. “Arthur!” The sudden address almost has him knocking the whole thing to the ground. He doesn’t, but it’s a near miss. “What have I told ya about messin around in here!” Arthur jumps up, dropping the screwdriver out of sight onto the seat. Not that the small action helps him any. Not with the incriminating mess spread across the workbench. “I’m not!” He blurts. His Uncle folds both his arms and gives him that unimpressed, ‘you’ll be grounded in your room for the next week if you don’t start explaining quickly,’ look. Despite Arthur now being almost the same height as Lance, the other man seems awfully tall when he’s angry. “I mean…I’m not ‘messin around’ I know exactly what I’m doing. Also, I’m only using the tools, none of the electrical equipment, just like you said. What’s dangerous about that? Not like I’m about to stab myself with the screwdriver.” He quickly delivers the pre-prepared excuse before his Uncle can start lecturing. More unconvinced frowning. The arms remain crossed. Maybe he should have skipped the ‘stab myself with a screwdriver’ part. Lance didn’t think Arthur dumb enough to do something that stupid right? Right? “Is that the VCR?” His Uncle spots the partially assembled project. So much for the gift being a surprise. Arthur clears his throat, “Yeah. I found it in the shed.” Anything in the shed was free game. “What the fuc…ah…heck ya doing to it?” Lance's next expression is more confusion than anger. Confusion is good. Arthur can work with confusion. “Fixing it,” Arthur can’t help but feel a little proud, “I just need to put the casing back, and it’ll be done.” “What for? We don’t own any tapes?” Pride becomes awkwardness, and he looks down to the ground, “Ah…what about the ones in your room?” His Uncle coughs, “Those old things? Ya’d hate wrestling.” “Yeah? I mean…I fixed it so you could watch them…” He trails off, suddenly embarrassed. His Uncle goes quiet. Why had he thought this was a good idea again? Of course, his Uncle didn’t want to watch the tapes. If he had, he would have bought a new VCR or got their one fixed by a professional. It’s not like it was expressive or anything. A weight lands on his head, and Arthur is treated to the sensation of a hand ruffling his hair. “Yeh a good kid,” His Uncle mutters before speaking louder, “I’ve been tryin to fix that thing for a good while. How long did it take ya?” The embarrassment evaporates, and Arthur lets himself grin, attention jumping up as he rushes to answer the question, “Like…four hours. I know, that’s a long time, but it took me way longer to disassemble it than I thought it would. I had to make notes and stuff because I only had the instruction manual to work from, and I didn’t want to mess up and not be able to put it back together.” He gestures at the paper-strewn workbench. “Not what I…” His Uncle starts then grunts in amusement, “That’s impressive.” Arthur feels his chest inflate and his back straighten. Impressive. His Uncle thought it was impressive.

“But you’re not getting outta trouble that easily. From now on, tell me when ya want ta use the tools…” Arthur is too happy to properly register the rest of the lecture. He is happy, right up until… “Stop. Ugh.” …His Uncle’s voice cuts off abruptly. Confused, Arthur tries reacting, but finds himself frozen, stuck staring at this Uncle’s still expression. Wind, birds, the hum of the workshop’s generator: it all drops away. Silence. The world shifts sideways, sunlight dimming. Reds, browns, and oranges are replaced with shades of grey, colour draining from the walls and floor. “Yuck,” The third, familiar, voice continues, “Enough of the mushy sentimental nonsense. It’s giving me a migraine.” Arthur, abruptly able to move, recoils violently to the side, stumbling back and spinning to face sound. Relaxed in the work chair adjacent to the bench, is a recognisable figure. A second Arthur. Green skinned, twirling the screwdriver idly between two fingers, it gives him a lazy wave. “Sup,” The creature greets jovially. A memory. This was a memory just like with Lewis and The Cave. The realisation hits him in the chest, taking his breath away, ripping the energy from his limbs. Arthur is not ten years old, avoiding homework, presenting Uncle Lance with his latest endeavour. That was the past. A memory. Grief and disappointment travel through his every cell, coiling painfully about his heart before sinking into greyed-out workshop floor. Arthur’s attention drifts to his Uncle who is still frozen, face morphed between a stern frown and half-crocked smile. This is the present. His own personal hell. “Personal hell? That’s a bit much,” The demon laughs, amused, pointing the screwdriver at him, “Humans. Kill one relative, and it’s like the word’s ending. You’re all so dramatic.” “Why are you here?” Arthur hastily retreats across the room, putting his back against the door. Between him and the doppelganger stands the frozen, desaturated silhouette of his Uncle. Whereas before, in the memory, Arthur had been shorter and barely reaching his Uncle’s eyeline, now, he is standing a head taller. Still dressed in the oiled work shirt and pants he’d be wearing for the last twelve hours, Arthur's mind churns trying to compute events around him. These are same clothes he had been wearing when…when he had… “What did you do?” He snaps, trying and failing to stop his voice from shaking. The pain weighs on him, deadening any other observations. He’d like to return to the blissful unawareness of the memory, please. Why is the bastard demon ruining even that? “Me?” The demon scoffs, “I didn’t do anything. You came here all by yourself. A mental safehouse of sorts. It happens now and then. I call it ‘ignoring reality’ but whatever, same difference.” “Can’t imagine why I’d want to ignore reality. What a mystery. How will you ever figure it out?” Arthur retorts, lacing in some sarcasm, feeling along the door for the handle. A patronising grin, “No need to be rude. We’re supposed to be a team here. It wouldn’t be right if I just let you hide out and waste away back here.” “Why not. You have my body, what else do you want?” Arthur finds and tries the handle, jiggling it about. It is stuck fast. Funny, this door didn’t have a lock in the real world. Arthur could just scream. “Our body. OUR.” The demon stands, chucking the screwdriver down. The screwdriver’s blue handle turns grey like the rest of the environment, and it clanks once on the desk before freezing. “In all honestly? I get lonely, driving around all by myself. Being stuck in a cave for a century or two will do that to a guy. Sure, the whingeing is a little annoying, but hey, what’s a road trip without friends.” “You killed...” He swallows the sentence. It’s too painful to say. “We are not friends.” “Ouch.” The demon stalks closer, green eyes flashing, “Now that one really hurt…” Arthur stills, dread growing exponentially. The room suddenly feels tiny and very constricting, like it is shrinking in on him, forcing the two of them closer together. “…and after all the fun we’ve had. That’s despite exceptional levels of restraint on my part. I’ve killed, what, two or three people? That’s nothing.” They are now a half meter a part, and, despite being almost identical, the demon looms up over him. “Take it from the expert. This,” A loose but pointed gesture towards the frozen memory of his Uncle, “can always get worse. For instance, Lew’s family, I can kill them quickly or slowly. I’m leaning towards quick, more time to hit the road, but hey if I need to prove a point…” “NO!” “…I will.” Arthur’s yell bounces abnormally around the empty workshop. In attempting to inch along the wall and give himself room, he has managed to back himself into a corner between two shelving units. Now, he’s boxed in with the doppelganger standing far to close. Body language nonchalant, at odds with an unnaturally blank expression, the threat hangs in the silence. “So enough of this. How about you join me up front." A hand is extended, accompanied by an abrupt smile. Green eyes half-closed with delight it sings, “It’s what you’ve always wanted.” Yeah, when he was with his friends and having fun maybe he had once wished to spend more time up front driving with Lewis and Vivi. After all this, it seemed so dumb to want something that stupid. Arthur studies the ground, stalling, increasingly dismayed. The grey concrete is speckled with small pot-marks from where he or his Uncle have dropped tools or equipment. What he doesn’t want is to be subjected to strange emotions or stuck with his own thoughts, trapped, watching this thing continue to rip his life apart. When had wanting anything ever worked out well for him? Not like this decision mattered anyway. It was just an illusion of choice. The demon could pull Arthur out any time it wanted. His hand twitches up. Obviously, he’s moving too slow, because there is a sigh of inflated irritation. A hand slaps over his wrist. Before Arthur can flinch, the world dissolves. There is a yanking sensation, then light, sound, and smell return. The van materialises around him. The seats are firm, indented from use, there is the lingering smell of greasy food, and sound of an idling engine. Arthur is briefly stunned into non-thought, mind running a blank, while he deals with the stimulation onslaught alongside a disorientating deluge of conflicting foreign emotions. Of course, after he acclimatises, the despair it right there to swallow him up again. Hopelessness is a heady darkness, eating him up, leaving him with barely a coherent thought. It makes him tired. Dully, Arthur notes their location as they turn onto the highway, having just been stopped in a rest area. Nice to know he’d been enough of an inconvenience that the demon had needed to pull over and fish Arthur out of his memories. An inconvenience. That was the extent of his ability. Story of his pathetic life. While Arthur wallows in his failures, he idly notes the road as it curves ahead, recognising a collection of stone bluffs passing on the right. He knows this section of highway. They are on their way to Kingsman Mechanics. Home or to what was once his home. Maybe, if he unexpectedly tries to wrestle for control at just the right moment- perhaps on the tricky turn coming up, -he can send the van flying. Take them both out. At this point, Arthur is willing to try anything to save Lewis’s family. Road safety be damned. The road dips down into a tight turn. Arthur tracks the van’s progress. Right on the road’s bend, Arthur throws his weight against the nothing and space restraining him, trying to get some response. He, maybe, manages to freeze the body for a millisecond before getting shoved aside with disgusting ease.   “You know. If this body dies, I’ll still be here. You’ll be gone for good though,” The demon comments conversationally, shrugging their shoulders in a ‘what can you do’ movement. ‘Bet there’s a reason you don’t ride around in a possessed corpse.’  Another failure. Add it to the list. “Aside from the fact that I have standards.” A laugh. “I mean, hey, one of us needs to.” More amusement at his expense. Arthur winces and doesn’t bother engaging further, choosing instead to sink down and wrap himself in his blanket of misery. His only consolation is that this pain is all him and not the demon. The demon is still feeling a mix of satisfaction and enjoyment. Small potatoes when put up against his own overwhelming desolation. When it comes to negative emotions, even without his body, Arthur has the bastard beat. It is not much of a consolation.

Part 30: here

[jisungmark]

for those interested in my kcon experience. if not, just skip!

for those who may not know: chungha, everglow, and oneus were unable to attend due to visa issues. wheein from mamamoo was unable to attend due to health issues.

day one (8/15):

we (as in my bestfriend and i) didn’t have anything planned since we weren’t going to klub kcon. we just went straight to early check-in after we dropped our luggage off, the line was c r a z y. we saw what engagements we had for groups (originally we pulled n.flying (2x), mamamoo, momoland, and verivery audiences) then we went down to this big huddle that they had going on and ended up switching a few of our passes and getting sf9, stray kids, and ateez. after all that was done, we just went site seeing and tried in & out, it’s not good.

day two (8/16):

we woke up kinda early since we were still on pa time so we went to get breakfast. then we just went straight to the convention. the convention was huge and it had so much going on, it was absolutely wild. we did random dance plays, watched dance groups perform, yknow things like that. then we went to ateez’s audience. they are so fucking pretty in person. yunho had blonde hair with black roots. yeosang and this american air is a good mix 🥵 we didn’t have a hi-touch so we watched the other crowd do it. san was interlocking his fingers with poc girls. seeing that made my entire day, it was so beautiful. after that we just went back to the convention and did some more bullshit. ateez ended up coming down for a random dance play but by the time we found out, the crowd was too big. so we waited on the side and got videos of them when they left. we blew some time until we had to go wait in line for kcon rookies. ateez, loona, and ab6ix performed. we were towards the back, but the back view was so nice bc you could see everything. they introduced themselves, played games, and each performed. once that was over, we went to go eat. we tried shake shack, chic-fil-a is better.

day three (8/17):

so we had our n.flying audience passes still but we had no idea who they were. so we ended up skipping their engagement. i really don’t even remember what we’re doing at that time. sf9 had a live talk and we watched some of it before we bolted down to their audience line to get a good standing place. lemme tell you, dawon being a crackhead in english is my new kink. hwiyoung was out here glowing, well everyone was. they were just so mf pretty. it’s crazy because we were gonna sell those passes so that we could see ateez at the foodie stage, but that crowd was too big and it was impossible to really see. we had an audience pass for stray kids, but some mess happened and we ended up not seeing them. we tried to do a meet and greet with holland, but the line was too long so we ended up not seeing him. i bought some merch and we left the convention. we went back to our friends’ hotel before we went to koreatown. i bought a little ass seventeen keychain for $11 (the love for my boys). then we went to go eat at a restaurant. we saw a girl who does dance covers on insta (@_isabae_) outside. the idea became to all hold up a different video of hers towards the window until she saw it. she may have cried, she may have recorded us, she may have called us weird. then we just all went back to our places of stay at wee hours in the morning.

day four (8/18):

i ended up buying a verivery hi-touch from someone. i went by myself because my bestfriend didn’t really know them. we played games and won free stuff before i went down and got in line. she stayed up in the convention and was gonna get near the stage for the live talk with stray kids but the crowd was crazy. it was almost half the convention that was filled. i was in a good spot when it came to seeing verivery, all the pictures i got were close and clear. their hands are so soft. look, i’m supposed to be minchan biased but when hoyoung closed his fingers around my hand, my mind went blank. like i truthfully don’t remember much of my hi-touch but that part as well as yongseung holding on. minchan is on the taller side and his fingers are really slender. but that’s really all i remember. i went back to my bestfriend and almost cried bc of it. some nice girl in the audience crowd recorded for me. we stood in the stray kids live talk crowd for a bit before we went over to the star square. verivery was over there again and i like almost tore my bestfriend’s arm off when i saw them behind the curtain. they read us our horoscopes and signed their name on the wall. we made our way back to the live talk since we knew verivery was gonna be next but a lot of them didn’t move from stray kids. my bestfriend went to a random play dance and i went and got in line for red carpet. we sat in line for two hours but it was worth it. we saw stray kids, verivery, n.flying (we didn’t know they were so fucking beautiful???? we regretted not going to their audience), itzy, fromis_9, AND SEVENTEEN. now y’all know how i feel about seventeen. i literally started crying a bit as soon as i saw them. i recorded each group i liked to the best of my ability but i was screaming and shaking. seventeen was last and after they left, i really just broke down and cried. like i got to see the group who means probably the most to me in person. we just hung out with some friends until it was time to say our goodbyes. we acted a fool in public and some guy thought we were actually performers so he asked to take a picture with us. meanwhile there was a group actually performing (@b2e on insta). we took pictures, videos, exchanged social medias, everything before it was time to go. we got back to our airbnb with heavy hearts and we flew back home the next morning.

[adityatodi]

New Orleans

October 6, 2019 Sunday

On my way back to Boston from New Orleans.

I arrived in New Orleans late Thursday night (midnight) on the same flight as Angel Saez. We took an Uber to our AirBnB in the French district.

Friday morning started with breakfast at Bear Cat Café with Ben, his wife Ilkania, Akash, Dana, Jaclyn and her boyfriend Blake, Rebecca, Macy and Kumiko. The huge portion sizes served as a welcome to the city. We then headed to the Whitney Plantation to get a tour of the plantation and learn about the history of the plantation and more about slavery. Some of my takeaways/learnings:

Often when we think of slavery, we think of slaves working in plantation or house maids. But system of slavery also included skilled Black labor and craftsmen whose stories are often not ones told

The first form of dehumanization in this whole process was stripping the recently arrived Africans of their African name and giving them French name

While in 1808 Trans-Atlantic slave trade ended, it continued to flourish within US boundaries until 1864 and beyond

When we talk about colonialism, often large portions of blame is assigned to British. Why do we not put same blame on the French, Belgian or the Portugese, who were actually the ones who were “pioneers” of Trans-Atlantic slave trade

Often times when we talk about humans doing bad things to other humans the reference is Holocaust. Slavery was brutal, why are these analogies not made—because they are Black lives?

Why are the rebellions that slaves fought, e.g. there was one in 1811, not given the same heroic importance as the Revolutionary Wars for American Independence?

After the tour we head to the historic Café Du Monde to get coffee and the delicious beignets. Walk around the area, head home to do some work, drinks at Cane and Table and 3-course dinner at Sylvain. We then go to a bar playing Jazz on Frenchmen street (really good music), then a handful of us (Kumiko, Dana, Liz, Akash, Zubby and I) go bar hopping along Bourbon Street.

Saturday morning starts with brunch at Ruby Slipper with people in my AirBnB (Kuba, his girlfriend, Tory, Claire, Graciela, Eren and Katie). I then join a group from the other AirBnB to do a walking tour concentrating on the musical and artistic history of New Orleans. Thankfully the weather is bearable and not too hot. The guide carried a speaker and iPad with him to show us pictures and take us through the evolution of music starting with Armstrong Park dedicated to Louis Armstrong. I had first heard of Armstrong in college when I heard “What a Wonderful World” and was blown away by the melody and the tune. Some learnings

Urban slavery was different than rural slavery (e.g. plantation). In New Orleans given the influence of the Catholic Church, Sunday was a holiday for all including the enslaved. There were Sunday market gatherings at Congo Square where enslaved people could buy and trade for money it this became a step towards emancipation

Jazz originates from the confluence of traditional European music, particularly brass band with the Afro beats that African slaves brought with them

Armstrong received very little formal music education. It was a total of 18 months that he spent in jail because of firing blank bullets during a celebration when he was 11. In a crazy coincidence, his first wife dies of a heart attack while playing the piano at Armstrong’s funeral

After the tour we walk around, go to a café and then I head to the AirBnB to get some work done. At 7:45 Zubby, Kumiko and I go to the Spotted Cat Bar on Frenchmen street to hear some jazz. This was certainly the highlight of my trip. It’s a small bar and we’re all gathered around the stage. The band of 7 plays amazing amazing jazz—probably the best live jazz performance I’ve heard. Band name—Panaroma Jazz Band. The vibe of being in this small bar in New Orleans, drinking beer and chilling with a couple of friends on a wonderful evening with great music. This is the sort of stuff one imagines doing in New Orleans and I’m glad I got to do this. Zubby and I then head to get some Cajun food at Pierre Maspero’s. We strike a deep conversation on race, sexuality, and how often times those who complain of being oppressed are oppressors in other situations. After our meal we find ourselves walking back to Frenchmen street and somehow end up doing Karaoke on the way and improvising and just having a great time singing, making things up, being complimented by passerby’s on our skills, goofing around. The karaoke session continues at the AirBnB with the culmination of Louis Armstrong’s “What a wonderful world”. Ah! Grateful for such moments of pure joy. Zubby has an early morning flight so he heads to bed. I head out to Blue Nile to join a few others who are there. Some more jazz performance and back home for the night.

Sunday morning—late wake up, pack-up and get ready. Brunch at Satsuma Café and then I go to explore the WWII Museum. Takeaway/Learnings/Thoughts:

WWII was framed as a fight for democracy and democratic ideals. If today the US does not stand up and defend these ideals abroad, can one not say that WWII was fought in vain

Good to see a portion of the museum devoted to Japanese internment and the treatment of African Americans as second class citizen along with Native Americans and Latinos. However, the section seemed very small and I would have liked they spent more time talking about the implications of war on minorities

• I was able to better understand the significance of D-Day and the heroic efforts of the troops to capture Normandy. I especially enjoyed learning about the detailed deceptions that were devised to trick Nazi Germany to believing that the Allied Troops would instead attack Calais. The sheer number of tanks, planes, ships, boats and troops used for this battle was mind blowing

I found myself eager to see how this museum would talk about the dropping of the atomic bombs especially since the Hiroshima Peace Museum left a lasting memory on me. I was disappointed (but also not shocked) that only a very small small portion is devoted to it. Basic narrative---the Japanese were not willing to surrender->Americans dropped the first bomb->Japanese still not willing to surrender->Americans drop second bomb->Japanese finally surrender->Pictures of some devastating effects of the bomb->This evil was used to stop a greater evil of losing more people through conventional fighting

This narrative and the fact that the human impact and after affect of the dropping of the nuclear bomb was not covered thoroughly left me deeply frustrated. You have devoted 90% of the museum on technicalities, on how brutal war was for soldiers, how industry and Americans mobilized to fight the war, but how the f*** can you not talk about the bombing in a more sensitive way. War is not glorious. Let’s engage with this issue

Would Americans have given it more of a thought if they had the option to drop the atomic bomb on the German population? Of course, definitely yes. Because these were “Japs” who are supposed to be brutal and animal-like according to all the propaganda you spread, you find ways to justify killing civilian population and use mathematical logic of numbers to explain a war crime. Had Germany dropped nuclear bomb on U.S. cities and lost war, would the planners and executors of it not been tried for such an atrocity? Of course they would have. F*** this sh** and this convoluted logic. The U.S. needs to issue a blanket apology for what they did. It is a war crime and the American leaders who made this decision should have been tried—yes Truman should have been tried.

Step back. New Orleans.

Glad I came for this trip and was able to see this part of the U.S. Amazing food and music—such a touristy New Orleans thing to say. But honestly, that evening in the Spotted Cat bar was magical!

[smallerinfinities]

Gin and Juice: Part I

a/n: In which Reader has social anxiety, Shawn is a college football god, and alcohol is consumed. 

This is the first part of my first series!

I have no idea how I got here from a tallboy can of Mill Street Organic, but the mind works in mysterious ways.

|| MASTERLIST || 

warnings: alcohol, lots of it, and some non-consensual consumption

The house was practically vibrating from the inside. Music was blaring so loud you could clearly hear every word to every song. People would burst out the front door every few minutes to smoke or get some air. You stood on the porch and contemplated the reasons it would be best to leave: 1) this party was practically drowning in alcohol and you were not 21, and 2) social anxiety was a real bitch.

The only reason you were here at all was because your roommate dragged you here, then immediately ditched you outside when you got nervous about all of the people. She said it was time to “live the college experience” and “get the hell out of the dorm.” Maybe you liked your dorm. Maybe you liked feeling safe. Your college experience was supposed to be getting an education and then getting a good job so you could support yourself. This felt frivolous.

The door opened again and your roommate came out of the rave sure to be happening inside, alarm registering in her eyes. “Where have you been?! Come inside!”

“Caroline,” you whined, “I really don’t want to be here.” She grabbed your hand and started for the door to the house. You followed, dragging your feet the entire way.

“Will you stop acting like a child? I’m about to introduce you to some people so you’ll maybe make some friends and talk to someone other than your mother!” she screamed at you. You stopped in your tracks, breathing shallow and trying to control the tears threatening to fall. Caroline didn’t understand what it was like. Being at college felt like a thousand people staring at you all the time. A million sets of eyes just waiting to watch you fail. It was exhausting on a level that blowing off steam at a party wasn’t going to just fix.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean that. I just want you to get out and enjoy where we are a little.” She was backtracking, and she really did look like she cared about your well-being. You decided to just go with it. She could lead you around this party and make her introductions,  then you could go back to your dorm and crawl in bed until class on Monday. Caroline’s “college experience” be damned.

Your body slacked and let her lead you through the door. Inside, it was maybe less of a rave than a really smoky, smelly concert. Like an all-ages venue that drew in the under-18 crowd and their friends who were in bad alt-rock bands. Not quite the EDM show you thought you were hearing outside.

There were about a hundred thousand people packed into the two-story house. Caroline pulled you through the crowd, hand wrapped around your wrist like an elementary school buddy system. She jerked you around the corner, leading you both toward the kitchen, when you ran into a wet wall, jostling you out of your own world.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the wall shouted over the music.

Not a wall. A person. A boy. A very tall boy. A very tall boy with wall-like abs that were pressed against your body. A very tall boy with wall-like abs who had spilled his beer all over your shirt.

You slowly craned your neck upward and almost fell over. This boy had the most gorgeous brown-hazel eyes you had ever seen. They were looking at you, puzzled at your apparent lack of functionality. He swivelled his head then, searching for something or someone, “HEY GEOFF!?! CAN YOU BRING ME A RAG OR SOMETHING??”

He had stepped back from you, assessing the damage, and held you at arm’s length by the shoulders. His hands wrapped seemingly all the way around your upper arms and you could feel his calloused fingertips scratching your skin through the thin cotton shirt you wore. He kept looking into your eyes, pleading with you to say something, but you just couldn’t. His face was mesmerizing—a smooth, square jaw; cherubic, alcohol-flushed cheeks; the straightest, whitest teeth you’d ever seen; and a messy head of thick brown curls, coiffed into a perfect disarray. He’d stunned you into silence and the touching wasn’t helping. He seemed to be transferring body heat through his fingertips and you were starting to sweat.

A stocky guy with long-ish hair and a serious scruff situation ambled over with a rag. Wall Abs took the rag from him and started dabbing it all over the wet pattern on your top. You blushed violently and jerked away from him.

“Oh, here. Sorry, I didn’t think...I’m really sorry...I’ll leave you alone...enjoy the party!” he handed you the rag and then vanished. It didn’t escape your notice that he had turned just as red as you had and was quickly trying to exit the situation.

You held the rag to your chest and searched for Caroline. She was staring at you from ten feet away like an alien had just tore itself out of your body. You walked over to her and snapped your fingers in her face.

“Caroline!” you shouted, “why do you look like I’ve birthed an alien?!”

“Don’t you know who that was?” she asked, totally mystified that you obviously had no idea.

“Uhm, no? A tall boy with wall-like abs?” you mused, humoring no one, especially your roommate who kept flapping her jaw up and down.

“WHO IS HE?!” you roared, getting frustrated with this weird fangirl reaction.

“He’s Shawn Mendes, the captain of the football team. He’s the starting quarterback. He’s in the running for the Heisman Trophy. AS A SOPHOMORE.” She rambled on about stats and measurements and how fast he could run a 40-yard dash for what seemed like ages. It was an impressive, though weird, body of knowledge that she had collected on a guy that seemed overwhelmingly normal, if not shy, based on the interaction you had just had with him. The football god that Caroline was blathering on and on about seemed incongruent with the tall, blushing, albeit Adonis boy that you had just run into.

She finally settled down after living vicariously through your beer shower experience by the Heir Apparent of college football. You thought maybe she had forgotten about introducing you to people but no such luck. Her mission was revived and she grabbed a hold of your wrist again, making her way through the sea of humanity and finally pulling you into the kitchen. The sheer gallons of alcohol that must have been in there made it smell like somewhere between a hospital and a gas station.

“What do you want to drink?” You stared at her with a blank expression, “uhhh, I guess whatever you’re drinking?”

She rolled her eyes and tutted, grabbing a couple of bottles of clear liquor and a carafe of cranberry juice and a can of lemon-lime soda. Stirring together equal parts of everything, Caroline handed you a fizzy pink drink that tickled your nose when you smelled it.

“I call it Bitch Juice because it tastes like non-alcoholic prom punch. Literally not a hint of alcohol,” she nodded, acting like that invalidated the actual presence of alcohol in the drink. You took a sip dubiously.

“Huh, not a hint,” you confirmed, kind of impressed and yet kind of alarmed at the chemistry of it. Armed with red plastic cups, a chainmail-like requirement on this college party battlefield, Caroline led you into the main room of the house, filled wall-to-wall with bodies.  

“CAROLINE!” someone shouted from across the room. Caroline frantically waved at them, giving your wrist a fresh jerk in their direction. Before anyone could ask you anything, you took a long pull from the cup in your hand. They called it liquid courage, right? You needed some of that right now.

Caroline introduced you to her friends and you tried to take in all of their introductions, but mostly you focused on the pink concoction in your cup and how it magically kept refilling itself. Caroline must have gone back into the kitchen three times before you realized what was happening, too wrapped up in your own awkward to realize that she had been pouring more Bitch Juice into your cup as you paid attention to engaging with the people around you, a task that had become noticeably easier as the past couple of hours had dragged on. You had even laughed a few times and put your hand on a passing shoulder. You felt free for the first time in a long time. I guess that’s why they called it intoxicating.

“How many of these have you poured for me?” you asked her, starting to feel your fingers, toes, and lips tingle, a slight slur on your tongue.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” she thought, “maybe four? Maybe more?” Your eyes threatened to pop out of your skull. “Caroline!” you shrieked, “what do you mean ‘MAYBE MORE?’”

“I mean I’m not really sure, but it seems like you’re enjoying yourself! This is a good thing!” she encouraged, linking her arm with yours, as if you’d asked her to manually let your inhibitions down for you. It was a betrayal, no matter how freeing it may have felt.

You ripped your arm away from hers and stormed off, out of the crowded room. Having no idea where you were going, you climbed the staircase to at least get out of the thick of people on the first floor.

The second floor was just a long hallway with a bunch of doors. There were a few people up here, mostly making out, and none of them paid any attention to you. You hoped and prayed one of the doors led to a bathroom. A locked door felt necessary for breathing.

The first door was a bust—surprisingly empty bedroom (didn’t people hook up at these things?). The second door revealed a study, lined with bookshelves—intriguing but not a bathroom.

That left door number three. You tried to shove it open, but it only opened to a four-inch crack before halting. The light was on, and you could see a sink, confirming it was, in fact, the bathroom, but there was still something impeding your entry. You looked down at the tile and saw a black chelsea boot flat against the floor attached to a pair of black jean-clad legs. Someone was lying on the floor of the bathroom, and judging from how hard you must have knocked into them with the door, they weren’t conscious.

Flight or flight set in immediately. The hair on the back of your neck stood straight up and you felt more sober than you did two hours ago, let alone two minutes ago. The adrenaline burned through the alcohol like a forest fire. You needed to flee.

But what if they were injured? Or sick? Or...worse? Your mind screamed that you didn’t care, but your heart was compassionate and needed to make sure the person was okay. You used all of your combined body strength to slowly push open the door, sliding the body mass across the tile and onto the rug. You gasped when you finally slipped inside the room and locked the door behind you.

It’s him.

Tall Boy with Wall-Like Abs. Captain of the Football Team. Shawn Mendes. 

And he was passed out on the tile floor alone next to an empty bottle of gin.

Had he finished the bottle himself? Was he drinking alone? —How passed out was he? Should I try to wake him up? A million questions ran through your head, none of them answered by the massive human form at your feet.

You reached out and put the back of your hand to his face. He was clammy, far colder than he should have been in a house with so many people in it. You remembered the signs of alcohol poisoning from orientation—clammy skin, inability to stay conscious, inability to walk—all of which he was clearly exhibiting.

You crouched down and patted his cheek. “Shawn, Shawn, can you hear me? You need to try to wake up. Can you hear me?!” you yelled with increasing volume, “You need to get up, Shawn, or I’m going to have to call 911.”

That seemed to make it through his gin-fueled haze. He lazily opened his eyes, looking completely disoriented, clearly not sure how he had gotten to the bathroom floor. Running his hands through his thick, chocolate curls, he finally focused his eyes on you.

“Oh, it’s you,” he whispered in awe, flashing you a blinding smile.

You probably would have fainted if he hadn’t immediately doubled over and thrown up in the bathtub.

to be continued...

Gimme your thoughts! Angsty times are ahead!