#little fucker who hated his peers so much he learned to write and read to write in his dairy—

[roboyomo]

we're gonna deal psychic damage to kenix by making him have to look after the main trio but as kids

[laughing-with-god]

Pen Pal 1.5

Summary- As a lonely person, the idea of exchanging letters with someone apart from society was actually quite appealing to you.  In a random act of charity and desperation, you sign up for a pen pal and get paired up with an inmate named Jungkook.  The letters were meant to help him cope with prison life, but little did anyone know it was actually driving him more mad.

Warnings- Yandere/Prisoner Jungkook x Reader.  Mature themes.  Mention of mental disorder.

Words; 5.4k

“Have you ever felt so connected to someone that you didn’t understand why they were inside another skin and inhabiting a different body than you?”

He supposed that he should’ve been more displeased with where he landed himself.  

A cage of a jail cell that was six by eight feet and enclosed with brick walls that were so old, the paint was chipping off more and more each day.  The only entrance and exit being the harsh bars of the metal doors where a police officer could always be seen patrolling the passage ways, eyeing inmates with a judgmental glare as if he knew each and every one of their stories and how they were menaces to society.  

But if Jungkook was being true to himself, he couldn’t find any need to relate to his fellow prisoners fantasies of being in the outside world once again.

He had no desire to integrate back into society.  

He hated the world for a long time.

He hated how obnoxious and fake people were in the modern era.  He hated how capitalistic and money hungry the economy was. He hated how surface level and crude the general community was.  

From the time he was born, his peers would only approach him because they had hopes of being friends with the son of a rich power-broker.  

They would smile to his face and claimed to like him, but behind his back they would complain about how ‘boring and weird’ he was.  

Indeed, as a youngster Jungkook had been very introverted.  

He loved drawing, and this caused looks of confusion as most boys his age would enjoy a game of football or soccer more than doodling.  The only reason he got invites to playdates or birthday parties was due to his family’s social status. He was quick to catch on when his ‘friends’ would always push to go to his house, to play with his toys and to drop the Jeon name when bragging to other people about the ‘friendship’.  

However as Jungkook got older, the less he cared about such trivial matters.  As an insecure little boy, it bruised him quite a bit. But as an older teen, he accepted it as a harsh reality.  No one liked him for him, yet it wasn’t as tragic as it sounded. Because, he didn’t accept them for who they were either.  The world and Jungkook had a mutual understanding for each other. He despised them for it used him.

So when he went and got himself locked up, he really didn’t have that much remorse for what he would miss of the outside world.  The criminal psychologist said he had a problem with feelings in general; having a low emotional capacity for settings or situations but a heightened one for certain people in his life.  But Jungkook paid this analysis no mind. After all, how many different settings, situations or people can he encounter while serving a life-time sentence at one of the most highly guarded prisons in the country?

He did what he had done, and he was at peace with everything concerning the matter.  

When other inmates would rant about how they missed very basic things of life; non-cafeteria food, going to parks, having your own home and schedule, Jungkook didn’t care for the sentiment at all.  In fact, he thought they were weak to not even be able to handle prison. Really, how bad was it? You got a bed to sleep on, a toilet to shit in and was fed three time a day. With the way these fuckers ranted, you would’ve thought they were world war soldiers talking about home life whilst serving in the trenches.  Pathetic, really.

One day, Jungkook walked into his cell after a decent work out only to spot a pristine and angelic white envelope on his bed (more like a slab of metal with a cheap blanket on top but what did you expect of a cell?). This caused Jungkook to quirk a brow at the odd sight, he was pretty particular with boundaries and it annoyed him to see his roommate not respect his space.  

“Joon, I told you not to leave shit in my area.”  Jungkook motonously commented to his cell mate that was currently on the top bunk, book in hand.  This caused the older to peek from his spot above and glance down at the lower bunk.  

“Uh...that’s not mine.  Plus it has your name on it and everything, bro.”  

Jungkook sighed and pressed his tongue against his cheek in an angry tick that he had adopted years ago.  He really just wanted to head to the showers and he couldn’t imagine who would be writing to him. His family having disowned him for his crimes and everyone else having forgotten him or shunning his existence like he had the plague.  Not that he was too disappointed with these developments, he could spend the rest of his days without a word from anyone from the outside and he would still die content.

With a huff, he snatched the envelope and opened it with very little grace.  

‘Dear Mr. or Miss. Prisoner…..’

Jungkook’s doe eyes skimmed passed the delicate but noticeably rushed handwriting, soaking in the words with hesitance at such unexpected vulnerability from an utter stranger.  It wasn’t a long letter (Jungkook was finished reading it after 30 seconds or so) but he plopped himself on his bed to re-read the letter when he was done, showers somehow forgotten.

Said person who wrote to him managed to sound very weak and tired through diction alone.  However, this moment of weakness from the stranger was somehow not at all judged by Jungkook.  This revelation startled the prisoner himself, given that he had always made it a habit to look down on those whom lacked the mental strength that he did.  A fucked up social darwinism philosophy that was only heightened by being around meager sheep while he was a full on ruthless psycho. But why? Why did he feel pity this time instead of the usual disgust whenever someone was so bare and raw to him?  

The answer was simple.  

He related to you.

He felt as though you had put it best into words exactly what he felt when he was living out there in the public.  The world was scary and he didn’t blame you for being paranoid or locking yourself up. He could practically feel your fear from where he was; locked in a tiny cell and miles upon miles away from civilization.  He got the sense that you were different, like him. Most people he had encountered in his lifetime have always been okay with how the world was, not acknowledging the sinister characteristics that came along with it.  Authenticity was oozing from your writing as you did way more than just acknowledge the bad; you did your best to stay away from it all together. In a weird way, Jungkook found this cute. You were like a frightened child that hid under your bed to avoid the evil babysitter, escaping was your pure and innocent plan of action.  Which was different from Jungkook’s more violent actions….but he concluded he liked the contrast between you two. While you decided to take it out on yourself and starve yourself from stimulation just to keep away from the barbaric world, Jungkook took it upon himself to make everyone else pay.

“It it that stupid Pen Pal program?”  

Jungkook glanced up from the paper to see his cellmate hang his head from the bed above, watching Jungkook with questioning orbs.  Jungkook just scoffed at the upside down face and nodded.

“I just threw my letter away.  I heard they put all of us in that program because it’s a tax-write off for them.  It’s bullshit.” Namjoon told the younger.

Jungkook didn’t supply the other with an answer.  Instead he carefully folded the letter and placed it smoothly under his pillow. Then, he headed out to the showers while thoughts of what to write back to you filled his mind.  

--

‘Dear Y/n,

Well I would feel rather….accepting.  

I think you must be a very wise person to keep yourself far from the wretched claws of society…..’  

Jungkook tapped the capped pen against his chin, looking over his writing for any errors or mishaps before he signed off entirely.  

His letter was more in response to yours, after all you hadn’t given him that much to reply back to.  But still, some communication was better than none at all. Jungkook wanted to let you know that he understood your fears.  Hell, he even shared them with you. He hoped that you believed him when he told you that he also harbored disdain for your enemy.  And he also wanted to learn more about such a like-minded individual. Surely, you both had to have other similarities too, right?

He added the request for an image of you toward the end of his letter, just out of sheer curiosity for his long-lost twin. He didn’t care what you looked like but he wanted to scratch the itch of placing a face with the writing, knowing the urge to know would never go away until he saw your face.  

Other prisoners watched shocked as they witnessed Jungkook make his way to the mail room to drop off a letter to be sent off, knowing that he never made contact with the outside world.  

--

Jungkook found himself pacing his cell in an anxious manner, arms crossed and brows furrowed.  His stomach was tied into knots and his palms were clammy, hinting at one of the first times that he’s ever been nervous.  

He really was hoping for a response from you.  

He knew that it was very childish and sad to be so giddy for a letter, but he couldn’t help but get excited at the prospect of another note.  It was refreshing to be able to talk to someone who wasn’t a felon. Someone who wasn’t there in person yet still reached out to connect with a corrupt scanderal such as himself.  

Which is why when the usual mail carrier came down the cells, cart in hand with envelopes, pictures, money and presents for inmates, Jungkook found himself holding his breath and wishing for the first time ever that the carrier would stop at his cell.  

He had never been on the receiving end of such transactions, he had no one on the outside to look out for him.  But the faceless recluse that had reached out to him in a cry for companionship had fogged his mind, leaving hims restless and jittery.  

Could it be that he found a genuine friend?  

One that didn’t use him for his reputation (unlike his former childhood friends) and accepted him as the fuck up he was.  

“Letter for a Jeon Jungkook?”  The middle-aged man paused in front of the barren cell, sticking a pristine white envelope through the metal bars.  It was almost comical the joy that bursted through his chest and the way he leaped to attrive the holy piece of material.  As if it glowed bright in the grim and grey limbo that he was stuck in.

Not being able to withhold the anticipation, Jungkook quickly took the letter to his bunk and carefully slit it open.  

‘Dear Jungkook,

Words cannot express how thankful I am that you answered my pathetic call for help…’

The writing was noticeably neater than the first letter.  Jungkook noted with a smile how much longer this one was prior to the last.  The inmate forced himself to pore over every detail at a slower pace, not wanting to accidently skim past any vital information yet also wishing to savor the ritual.  

You seemed very blindly kind to someone who was a wretched crook.  In fact, you claimed to be very grateful to hear from little old him.  The feeling was utterly foreign, the idea that someone was out there that genuinely wanted his friendship, someone who genuinely wanted to know his most bland personal preferences, who was practically pleading for his written company.  It made him feel wanted. After some thought he decided that he quite liked the new feeling. Even at his worst; locked up for a lifetime sentence, you went out of your way to kill his loneliness. He almost giggled when you told him of the disorder that the world had labelled you with, it was awfully funny to him that you both were called mentally unstable.  You two now had that in common as well. He felt a sudden stab in the gut when you mentioned your sister. He guessed if he had to identify the emotion it would be closest to sympathy or guilt. He supposed he felt...bad for your loss. Jungkook smiled widely.

Yes!  That’s it!  He felt bad for you!  

God if the psychologist who said he had no emotions could see him now...

Towards the end of your writing, you mentioned not being a ‘looker’.  As if the paper itself burned him, Jungkook dropped the object with great haste to dig through the envelope.  You had sent the picture! He almost forgot that he even asked for such thing.

And there it was, a small 4x6 printed image of a lovely face smiling shyly at the camera.  

Your face was small and round, skin serene and creamy with its (porcelain/olive/honey/amber/cinnamon) hued pores that was the canvas for your darling features.  Your nose was benevolent and perched regally as well as perfectly centered amidst the sculpture that was your appearance. The bridge of the blessed feature dipped discreetly and softly, complimenting the luminous orbs that were vividly painted with a the crispest shade of (color) that he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing.  The enchanting irises were artistically framed by magnetizing dark eyelashes that were as long as they were seductive. Somehow he just knew that the colors supplied by whatever commercial printer didn’t do the color-pads of your eyes justice, imagining the shiver that will go down his spine when he could be bare to them in their full and unfiltered glory.  They held a humane gentleness but still….a simmering witt was also bubbling under the surface. Overhead the eyes were carefully groomed eyebrows that were neat and shapely, one was elegantly arched in a expression of somber joy.

Underneath your nose was a pair of nectarous ruby red (or flowery pink) lips that looked perfectly cushioning to any lucky man who would have the chance to collide theirs with yours. Your pristine and snow-white teeth were barely poking out, show casting your shyness even when plastering on a friendly smile.  It’s as if you were unable to let yourself be one-hundred percent bare even in something as basic as a grin. He wondered what kind of mellifluous sound would erupt from such a devine cavern. Your (color) hair was sadly put up, unable to flow freely in the still-frame image. Even though he had very little to study, he still knew that he would want to (straight hair; run his hands through your silken strands) (curly hair; bounce the fluid swirls of your playful mane).  An odd urge to inhale the scent of your shampoo was what Jungkook felt next.

Lost in his own self-induced trance, he didn’t realize that he had been staring for so long until he felt a shadow loom over his figure.  

It was his cellmate and suddenly the infatuated man became all too aware of his slightly ajar mouth and his widened eyes that were stuck on the flimsy printed picture that was tightly held in his grasp (as if terrified that someone would steal the chef d'oeuvre...in an abode of criminals, this fear was somewhat relevant).  Quickly, he masked his expression to that of usual indifference.

“You’ve been sitting there staring for like eleven minutes.  You good?”

He just nodded, not a fan of frivolous speech or furthering conversation with people he cared none for.  Still, the fucker persisted.

“You sure?  Your girl didn’t send you something naughty or something, right?”  This was said in a matter of humor, an attempt to relieve the dark aura that Jungkook seemed to exude in every social interaction.  However, the serious face that Jungkook had on gave the other the impression that he had hit the mark precisely. Joon’s jaw dropped and an eager grin formed at the corners of his lips.  

“Really?!  No way! Can I see?”  The over-sized goon attempted to stride forward, hands already out-reached to grasp at the first smut he would’ve seen in a long time.  Out of primal instinct to keep what was his away from the snubby hands of others, Jungkook pulled back. But the fool had enlarged limbs and this meant his lengthy arms were very capable of plucking the picture off of Jungkook’s safe grip.  

Greedy, Namjoon ran his eyes over the photo.  His grin slowly slid off as he realised that it was indeed nothing sexual.  Nonetheless, his eyes lingered far longer than Jungkook cared for….before promptly returning the image to it’s rightful owner, whose jaw was clenched and teeth now grinding at the recent events.   

“Who is she?”  

“My pen-pal.”  Jungkook promptly answered whilst hiding both the letter and photo under his pillow before placing his head on it, staring up at the bunk above him.  

“Damn, if I’d know that I could’ve gotten someone like that….”  A brief pause as Joon climbed up his bed as well. “I definitely wouldn’t have thrown mine away.”  

Jungkook felt the familiar agitation hit him, tongue pressing against his cheek and he wondered if it was too late to request a cell change.  

The lights went out and ponderings of what to write back filled Jungkook’s mind along with the bewitching photo that was just directly under his head…

--

Opting not to go to breakfast, Jungkook stayed within his cell.

He elaborately printed his response back to you.

‘Dear Y/n,

I thought you were a very smart person but obviously not…’  

The inmate was sure to make you aware of how breathtaking you were, but also very careful in tip-toeing around just how gorgeous you were to him.  He could have written a dozen novels about your exquisite appearance alone, but obviously he was unable to do such thing. He didn’t want you to think he was a creep and halt all communication with him.  In an effort to get closer to you, Jungkook added some sentiment in regards to your loss, adding an anecdote about his mother for dramatic effect.

Now, it was time to fulfill your wish to see him as he had seen you.  

He had no problem with such request.  Not that he ever paid attention to such pointless gossip, but he had always heard whispers of how handsome he was.  Jungkook didn’t consider himself to be a little Fabio on any scale, but he knew he wasn’t hard on the eyes of the opposite sex.  The trouble was, how exactly would he be able to send a photo?

After a year in prison, you get to learn that there are two ways you can survive in such element.  You either adapt or you crumble.

The fittest of the inmates learned real quick how to make prison into their home.  Some men have been here so long that they grew connections and were able to bring some things from the outside world in.  

Jungkook made plans to visit one the older inmates, knowing that he could trade a candybar for a favor of sneaking a photo out to you.  For now, he folded his letter and placed it in the envelope, awaiting his picture before being shipped off to the mailroom.

--

‘Dear Jungkook,

…..I guess you’re not the worst face I’ve seen….’

Jungkook smiled as he fondly traced the words that you have written onto the paper only days prior.  He imagined your endearing face scrunching up into a thoughtful expression as you scribbled your response back to him.  You were funny and he couldn’t deny the sense of pride he felt when you admitted to his attractiveness. In the past, he never gave a fuck if people thought he was the next Ryan Gosling or the ugliest mug they’ve ever seen.  But he felt a weird sense of relief behold him when you said that you indeed thought he was good-looking. He didn’t want to imagine what he might’ve felt if you called him ugly or stopped talking to him after seeing his face.  

But that was not the best aspect to be seen within your writing.  

The best thing that caused his chest to erupt in a warm and fuzzy feeling was when you agreed that you also felt a connection between you two.  That you found him to be ‘marvelous company’ and you enjoyed his letters. This just confirmed his suspicion that you were somehow tied together.  That you two were meant to stumble upon each other in the most unconventional way. Jungkook was sure of it, that you two have defied the odds that cruel reality set against you ‘mentally unstable’ pair and found peace along with understanding within each other.  

Jungkook didn’t know how to describe you.  Surely a ‘pal’ wasn’t it.

You were like another half of him.  

Like you both have fallen from the same star and were unfortunate to fall on this damned earth. Surrounded by the bizzare ‘humans’ and called odd for not being one of their species.  Jungkook decided then and there that you two were mates.

And yes, Jungkook meant it in the primal and borderline barbaric ways that animals did. He would prove his worthiness as a male specimen, he would shelter and feed you, he would breed and produce offspring with you.  Regular people would look at this plan and consider it cave-man like, but he thought it was considerably more romantic this way. Animals mated for life and were not afraid to get murderous when someone threatened this sacred bond.  What was so wrong with such animalistic viewpoint? Humans were the worst type of creature and he was not at all interested in their fake way of obtaining a lover. And he got the sense that you weren’t either. Dates, chocolates, flowers?  How is it that those things were put on a pedestal as a grand show of affection but having a genuine connection with a person was not? Jungkook couldn’t strain his brain to understand such mindset.

This all left the forefront of his mind when he read to the last parts of your letter.  Eyebrows going up in surprise at the ‘P.S’ adage that was never before seen from you. His smile slipped off his face when he saw what you wished.

You wanted to know how he landed himself in prison.  

Now….that was a touchy subject.  

He really didn’t want to scare you away.  

You were too understanding, too alike to him for Jungkook to ever want you to run away.  He knew that no matter how much he could try, his crimes were inexcusable. Even the holiest of saints would hinder their forgiveness.  

Jungkook came to the conclusion that it would be best to tell a white lie until he had more of a connection with you to reveal the truth.  

Sure, he was utterly enthralled by you but he didn’t know how deep your affections lied with him.  He just needed more time to spin a perspective to fill your ear with, he needed to get his claws deep within you, he needed you to be as dependent on him as he was with you.  Jungkook decided to create a fake story to keep you close to him.

Jungkook smirked and grabbed a pen and paper for the next letter.  

--

‘Dear Jk,

My day to day is also lifeless, I’m afraid…’

It was lunch time and Jungkook sat alone in his usual corner of the table, mystery meat forgotten in favor of absorbing the new letter that you had produced for his addiction.  

The first paragraph had the psycho inmate smiling as he pictured you in your tiny apartment, dressed in comfy clothes doing the most mundane things.  He liked to spend his free time just imagining what your comfy ‘nest’ was like, picturing your tiny frame skipping around it. You sitting on a sofa, bundled up in blankets and one of his oversized sweaters, book in hand and steaming hot cup of hot chocolate in the other.  You in the kitchen, humming some tune in your dulcet voice as you attempted to make him a home cooked meal, frowning when you realized that you had not followed a certain step correctly like the cook book said. You laughing at the movie that played on the television screen while you both reach into the popcorn bowl at the same time.  What Jungkook wouldn’t give to live in the little nest with you.  To occupy the same cocoon that you created.

He often found himself fantasizing about being the brave one for you.  

The one who would go to the outside world on your behalf.  He would get you groceries, get a 9 to 5 to pay the bills, go out at 3 am to get you lady products or any random craving.  Wouldn’t that be nice? It would be similar to a caregiver role. Him taking care of you so you just had to stay your pretty self at home, keeping it warm and pillowy for his return.  You would be so thankful for his willingness to go out into your worst fear for the sake of your happiness.

But then, as the letter continued, Jungkook’s mood soured.  

Your mother had violated your space and made you feel awful.  

Jungkook felt rage in that moment.  

He never held so much hatred for someone he had never met before.  

He instantly knew that he didn’t like your mother.  

A piercing sensation thundered upon his chest.  The cursed image of your sweet face covered in tears fogged his mind’s eye.  

God helped anyone who fucked with you.  

Jungkook folded the letter and put it in his pocket, shoveling some tasteless cafeteria food to distract him the familiar hellish itch that screamed at him from underneath his skin.  

Later that day, Jungkook responded with a letter of his own.  

He attached the drawings that he had mentioned to you, somewhat bashful that for the past weeks all he had been able to draw was you.  But he brushed the feelings off and focused on another task; getting you to start calling.

He would often see inmates taking up phone booths, talking and laughing with loved ones from the outside for a couple minutes at a time.  Jungkook wanted that for you two. He wanted to hear the blessed voice that he knew you had, and he wanted you to become familiar with his as well.  After all, you would be hearing it a lot in your lifetime.

--

‘My Dearest Y/n,

I’m sure you must’ve gotten busy, why else haven’t you written in a week?’

Jungkook was slowly becoming irritated at the lack of mail he has been receiving.  It had been five days since you had responded and Jungkook felt anxious at your sudden silence.  You were a sweetheart and would never abandon him. You weren’t like those other wretched people, right?  No! You couldn’t be.

Jungkook shook his head and mentally cursed himself for even thinking that for a moment.  

You must have gotten busy.  

Maybe your mom didn’t give up on pestering you.  

--

‘My Dearest Y/n,

Where have you gone?  You haven’t forgotten about me have you?’

Jungkook couldn’t bear the silence.  He was slowly growing restless. He needed the stimulation that was your communication.  Without it, he had no new material to fill his mind. No new scenarios to daydream about.  NOTHING to get him through the day in the colorless cell that began to taunt him. He attempted to distract himself with the picture of you as well as your 

former letters that now had tear stains because of his new habit of crying over them, knowing they might be the last he ever gets from you.

--

‘Y/n,

This isn’t funny anymore….’

Jungkook was not only uneased, but now he was worried.  Thoughts of what could’ve possibly caused your silence now haunted his mind at night when he attempted to get what little rest he could.  Time was only worsening his growing paranoia each day that he didn’t receive a letter.

He knew you lived alone and had very little outside communication with anyone.  The main ones being him and your mother. Jungkook could only assume that your mother and you would be taking a break due to your mother’s mental breakdown.  And that left him. Stuck in a penitentiary with no way to reach you. He nearly punched the brick wall of his cell when he came to the realization that something could’ve happened to you and no one would’ve known.  If you didn’t answer this letter, he didn’t know what he’d do.

--

‘Dear Jungkook (or should I say Easter Bunny?)

I know what you did.

I know that you lied to me.

I know you’re a murderer.  

Friends don’t lie to each other, Jungkook.

I think it’s best if we find different Pen Pals.

All my best wishes, Y/n.

The letter fell to the ground as Jungkook stared in shock at the absurdly short and cold answer he got from you.  

He underestimated you.

You found out.  

Jungkook felt his temper flare as well as his breathing.  

He’d be damned to let you go.  

You were soulmates….couldn’t you see that?  

Jungkook never thought he’d have to rely on this but he had no choice.  

In the cell block, there were some people whom have been there for 30 years, and other for 30 days.  Prison 101 is to not fuck with the guys who had time under their belts. It was best to respect them and acknowledge that they have connections.  But respect was the last thing on his mind as he stormed into the tiny cell room of an old geezer whose been committing crimes since before Jungkook was even born.  

The older man was used to people coming to his cell, usually asking about how to get hands on a cell phone or how to get the precious kitchen duty to sneak food.  Over time, the man humored many childish inmates with some insider tricks. Almost everyone had talked to him at some point, but Jungkook was one of the very few whom did not approach him seeking an easier ride.  Thus, he was shocked to see the young and deadly figure swoop into the area, eyes dead and jaw clenched.

“You’re going to do something for me.”  Jungkook said this monotonously while maintaining eye contact.  The older man couldn’t ignore the shivers that went down his spine but he still acted calm, knowing you couldn’t show weaknesses to the younger and violent inmates.  

“Is that so?”  The older quirked a brow at Jungkook though the rusty mirror and went back to shaving his face.  The younger was behind him and just tilted his head and stepped forward, still staring at the man through the reflection of the glass.  

“You are going to sneak me out of this joint.”  

This caused the older to laugh, not believing his ears at such a ludicrous request.  

Jungkook came up behind the older, mouth close to his ear and eyes lifeless and inky as they held the older’s through the mirror.  

“Listen here you senile fuck, I know that you know who I am and what I did.  It’s your best interest to listen to what I tell you. Would you like to hear a secret?”  The petrified and frozen man nodded, not having the balls to disobey or look away. “I never told the jury that I didn’t murder those people on my own….I had a partner.  A partner who is still out there and would surely take care of your pretty little daughter I hear you talking on the phone to.”

Jungkook smiled as the man grimly agreed to do whatever he wished.  

Now, he just had to inform you of his upcoming arrival.

--

‘My Dearest Y/n,

I see you found out about the nickname the hideous press gave me.

Well….this type of revelation is best talked over in person.  

I’ll see you soon.’

Author’s note; so....both JK and Y/n have mental problems, just to clarify.  Also, this wasn’t part two bc I think of this as just the other half of part one.  There will still be a part two and three.  Please let me know what you thought bc a full inbox makes for a happy writer.  It’s challenging to write for a Y/n character bc the point is for you guys to identify with her in the story and I wanted you guys to feel like you truly are her so when I did the part where Jk becomes very obsessed with the pic, I wanted to add details but obvi not everyone has the same characteristics so I added diff options...pls let me know what you thought of this.

[quinlinkin]

take it from me ( i’d be lost without you ) ↳ Q’s twdg writing challenge

character(s): mitch, clementine, minverva, violet, louis, aj, lilly, dorian ship(s): n/a word count: 2073 author’s note: more mitch lives au! i swear i only meant to make this short and sweet, but y'know... i can't control myself apparently lmao

[   ao3 link   ]

*credits to the wonderful @stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale​​​​​​​ for creating this challenge! you can view the entire prompt list + further details here. happy writing!!

                                                         ― ☼ ―

                                       day eleven ; escape.

He’d been easy enough to capture once Lilly’s knife had mercilessly slashed across his throat.

Falling to his knees, his hands clutched around his neck, Mitch had thought that was it. He could feel the blood seeping through his fingers, dripping to the ground and staining his sleeves a dark, angry red. Willy’s voice rang out across the courtyard in a desperate cry of his name, and Mitch wanted to yell right back, tell him to stay away, to not risk himself in trying to rescue him when it was already too late.

But, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything more than uselessly slump over onto his side, gasping for air as he continued to grow weaker beyond his control.

He’d blacked out shortly thereafter. Easy pickings. It becomes apparent that he’d been viewed as worth saving when he wakes up alongside Violet within a cold, musty cell. His neck had been hastily bandaged, his throat feeling as if a hot poker has been brutally shoved down it. Tears sprang to his eyes as he’d struggled to sit up.

Rage had taken over in an instant.

“Mother- fuckers-” he’d managed to choke out, his voice barely above a strained whisper, though with the attempt to speak came a brand new searing wave of pain that had nearly brought him to his knees a second time.

He was beaten down. Broken. Ashamed.

Lilly made sure to rub it in his face how foolish he’d been to try charging her when she’d come down to their cells in order to further intimidate them. She made it crystal clear to him how pathetic his attempt truly was, how she so easily could have killed him.

But, somehow, at least according to her; he had also showed‘potential’.

A good soldier, she’d told him, after he’d been properly trained and weaponized. She was trying to manipulate him, just as she did towards Violet.

He didn’t fall for it. Not like she did. Mitch couldn’t blame her for that, not with Minerva’s looming  presence as she peered through the iron bars, watching with cold eyes as Lilly continued to brainwash the person she had once loved.

Though, it’s not to say he didn’t suffer underneath his own inner turmoil.

The embarrassment he feels towards his disastrous failure in killing Lilly plagues him like a disease. It creates a feeling of immense weakness, so powerful that it all but incapacitates him.

Mitch doesn’t speak another word, and it’s not entirely due to the blazing pain in his throat. Wedging himself into the corner opposite Violet, he consumes himself in self-created silence.

At least, until Clementine makes her grand appearance.

Perhaps it shows far too little faith than what she deserves when Mitch is taken completely by surprise by her arrival. He’s unable to comprehend why a girl they’ve known for a total of two weeks would lay her life on the line to save them, and yet, here she is.

Captured with the rest. Mislead by Minerva in a deliberate act of betrayal that makes him hate her impossibly more. He hadn’t any time to warn her before she’d been knocked unconscious.

It’s all he can do in repayment to try and redeem himself. With a newfound sense of determination fueled by Clementine’s selfless devotion towards bringing them home, Mitch is right by her side as wakes, when she puts her plan into motion. He’s right there as she deals firsthand with Lilly’s attempts at manipulating her.

And with AJ freshly whisked away by Lilly as a last resort when all else fails, she feels like a ticking time bomb, even more dangerous than the genuine explosion waiting to happen underneath their feet.

If they somehow manage to make it out of this alive, he’ll be sure to tell Willy just how proud he is.

“Don’t,” Minerva breathes, facing Clementine where she clings her hands around the rusty iron bars. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”

Mitch sneers at her from the sidelines. It had taken everything he had in him to not try killing her himself after learning of the truth about Sophie, regardless of the fact it surely would have only gotten himself killed in the process. Regardless, his newly induced fury remains very much alive and well.

Minerva seems to read that well enough without him having to speak. She meets his rage-filled eyes, and freezes on the spot.

“Mitch,” she all but gasps, fervently shaking her head. After everything that’s happened, and she still has the audacity to try explaining herself. “This- this is the only way we survive-”

In the next moment, Louis gratefully takes the words right out of Mitch’s mouth

“Are you serious, right now?! ” he cries out incredulously, stepping closer to the bars of his adjacent cell. “After everything that she’s done, you’re just gonna help her?! ”

And then, in a tone filled with so much sheer intensity, unlike anything Mitch has ever heard from him before, Louis yells point blank, “Fuck. You! ”

He couldn’t have said it better himself.

It buys them the necessary amount of time to continue their plan, Minerva turning to face Louis in order to confront him. As Clementine drops to her knees to retrieve the knife AJ had slid into their cell, Mitch readies himself to burst through the door the second she successfully unlocks it.

Except, neither of them could have expected the newest delay in their efforts. In a flash, Violet has crossed the room from where she’d previously been huddled in the far corner, and it takes a moment for Mitch to process what’s happened. It doesn’t allow him the proper amount of time to intervene.

Violet grabs Clementine, forcibly shoving her against the wall and halting her process on chipping away at the rusted metal. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Violet looks frenzied, panic clear even in her angered expression. “You’re going to get us all killed!”

Yet as she rears back, ready to clash with Clem who’s already braced herself, Mitch finally steps into motion. He lunges forward, grabbing Violet by the wrist and securing her before she has the chance to make a move. 

Predictably, she immediately begins to thrash.

“Get the fuck off me!” she growls, and while she gives her best effort in yanking away from Mitch’s grasp, he’s far bigger and stronger than she is.

The commotion all too easily attracts Minerva, who rushes towards their cell the second she registers what’s going on. “What the hell are you doing?! Stop! ”

He’s thankful that Clementine wastes no time in resuming her efforts to escape. Though just as she manages to break through the thin sheet of metal to allow her access to the outside lock, Violet becomes more desperate.

And, in her wild, desperate flailing, the back of her head makes contact with Mitch’s throat. Hard.

The pain that instantly ensues is blinding, his airway constricting until he’s sent into a violent coughing fit that’s well beyond his control. Gasping, he’s forced to unwillingly release his hold upon Violet, a hand moving to grasp at his bandaged neck.

It’s only for a fleeting second. Call it adrenaline, or perhaps it’s simply the pure instinct to survive. Whatever the case may be, even as he can feel fresh blood beginning to seep through the bandages and smearing against his palm, he throws all caution into the wind.

Violet is making another grab for Clementine. Minerva is raising her crossbow.

There’s no time. In one last attempt to free themselves, Mitch charges.

He hits the door with more than enough force than what’s necessary, sending it flying open and knocking Minerva to the ground with it. Her crossbow skids across the dingy carpet, though Mitch pays it no mind.

He can’t stop, not now. He puts all of his trust into Clementine to free the others as he turns around, and with blood trickling from his neck down the front of his chest, he squares off against Minerva.

She knows she doesn’t stand a chance against him if he gets the upper hand. But, she’s desperate. Reaching behind her, she brandishes a knife.

“I won’t let you get them all killed!”

Mitch raises his hand just in time as she strikes, catching her arm in his hand. While he may possess the advantage in strength that hinders her ability to force the knife any closer, he forgets about her certain, newly acquired assets.

An entire year of intense Delta training. A soldier in her own right. It’s nearly a fatal mistake.

With one powerful, well aimed kick, she takes out his knee, and he goes down. Somehow, Mitch’s grip around her arm remains unwavering, tightening enough that he manages to take her down with him. They land in a tangled heap on the ground, and although Mitch can feel his wound steadily oozing more blood, it hardly deters him.

He gets the upper hand. Flipping himself over until he’s hunched over Minerva’s scrambling form, he pins her knife-wielding hand above her head, and slams it against the floor.

With a sharp cry, her hand is forced open just enough for the knife to be sent clattering. Clementine appears seemingly out of nowhere, quickly snatching it up and out of her reach. Though it doesn’t stop Minerva from making a frantic attempt to reclaim her weapon, and as she twists underneath Mitch’s grasp, Clementine springs into action.

It’s the only way they can be ensured she’ll stay down. Raising her first, Clementine strikes. Once, twice, until Minerva has been knocked out cold.

Maybe they make a great team, after all. With Minerva subdued, Mitch raises to his feet, leaving her passed out and defeated on the floor.

He turns around, only to be met with yet another surprise.

Louis had managed to get a hold of Minerva’s discarded crossbow somewhere during the altercation, and kneels with it pointed at her with shaking hands. There’s profound fear in his eyes, and Mitch realizes he’d been mentally preparing himself to take a shot. He’d been ready to potentially save Mitch’s life, even if it meant harming the person they’d once called a friend.

Mitch doesn’t get the chance to show any amount of appreciation. Nor does he have time to warn him, for in the next second, Dorian suddenly approaches from behind Louis.

“What the hell is going on down here?!”

She grabs his shoulder, and in a panic, Louis spins around with a startled gasp of, “Oh, fuck!”

The crossbow goes off.

With a sickening, gurgling sound, Dorian instantly collapses. The bolt had gone straight through her mouth, and as her lifeless body slumps forward, Mitch can see where it protrudes through the back of her skull.

“N-no, no, no,” Louis utters weakly as he pitifully scoots away on the floor. His expression is entirely distraught, reflecting the horror for what he’s mistakenly done as it sets in. “W-wait… No, that’s not what I…”

As Clementine runs to unlock Aasim and Omar’s cell, Mitch simply can’t take his attention away from Louis. He approaches him carefully, just as he’s feebly tossing the crossbow aside from where he’s left in a crumpled mess on the ground.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Mitch’s chest constricts at his repeated apologies, the broken tone of his voice downright breaking his heart. He feels partially responsible, a rising sense of guilt not for the death of a coldhearted woman, but the softhearted boy who’d accidentally caused it in a noble attempt to protect him.

Louis is far too good for this miserable fucking world. It makes Mitch sick at how unfair it is that he’s been forced into this situation.

Despite the condition of  throat, Mitch forces himself to speak. “Lou,” he rasps, a grating, unnatural sound.

Louis’ head snaps up, his eyes wild and horribly distressed. With a sorrowful look, Mitch tentatively offers him his hand.

“Let’s-” he winces for a moment, before powering through the pain. “Let’s get… the fuck off of this goddamn boat…”

Sniffling, Louis hesitates before slowly nodding his head. He takes his hand, and Mitch gently pulls him to stand.

“I- I didn’t-” Louis mumbles, his breath hitching.

He doesn’t need to clarify, doesn’t need to explain himself. It’s no secret to anyone that Louis would never intentionally harm anyone, whether they deserved it or not.

Mitch squeezes his hand. “I know.”

[kiruuuuu]

I received this a while ago and actually wrote more Bandit/Lion a while ago but never got around to posting it. Well, ‘tis the season, anon, and I send all the love back ♥♥ I hope you enjoy it :) As always, if the warnings put you off, please do not read this! (Rating M, Warning: non-explicit non-con, dark themes interspersed with fluff?, ~6.5k words)

This is the second WIP I’m posting of which I’m not sure if I’ll ever finish it or write more (simply because I usually get distracted by other things). I remain intrigued with their dynamics as I tried to push both of them into extremely unhealthy versions of themselves which turned out to be a challenge I enjoyed tackling, especially since I like interpreting characters in different ways and exploring a variety of themes :) Ultimately, this work is meant to set them on a (very rocky) path of mututal growth and end up with them actually happy, as insane as it sounds... only I never got that far. Anyway, please enjoy the beginning of that journey 💗

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“You’re gonna saw through your tendons eventually if you keep this up”, Bandit points out while brushing over the bandages covering pale wrists. No matter what he does, they end up bruised or bloody, scratched or cut because either Lion doesn’t learn or likes hurting himself a little too much. It’s probably a mixture of both, Bandit has noticed the scars despite how faded they are – he knows what to look for. They’re silvery stripes, paper thin and forming a tight ladder down Lion’s thighs, an easy-to-reach place where it’s not obvious to anyone who won’t see him naked and can even be hidden while swimming, unlike other common places like upper or lower arms or just below the ribs. Bandit didn’t go swimming a lot as a young adult.

There’s nothing on Lion’s wrists, however. No long vertical stripe, so it was less genuine death wish and rather a cry for help which probably went unanswered. It usually does.

When the redhead doesn’t answer for a while, Bandit peers down at him. They’re lying in bed, sated, Bandit satisfied and Lion aching, somehow always ending up pressed against each other – Lion extremely reluctantly in the beginning, usually taking the first opportunity to flee, though he got used to it after the first few times. Right now, he’s glued to Bandit’s side, head resting on his shoulder and limbs thrown over him. He seems shorter than he actually is in these moments, younger, too. His breathing is shallow and regular, his eyes are closed and his lips slightly parted; he’s a sight to behold, reddish brown hair mussed up, lashes fanned out over blushing cheekbones, rosy lips swollen still.

The fucker’s asleep.

Bandit sighs, annoyed, and begins untangling himself from Lion’s grasp, wavers when it tightens for a moment but ends up escaping nonetheless. He shoves a pillow into Lion’s arms which they automatically hug and starts cleaning up the room. There’s drool, sweat, precum and actual come on the floor, that goes first so he doesn’t slip on it. Next, the toys, cane, ropes, all the filthy things which he throws back into the box, then he returns the everyday objects like candles and scissors to where they came from. Once he’s done, he tosses Lion’s clothes onto the foot of the bed and goes to raid his freezer. Their sessions usually leave him ravenous.

He keeps coming back. No matter what Bandit does, no matter how much he personally humiliates him, exposes his flaws, insults him, no matter how much pain he causes, Lion keeps coming back to him. He cries, hides his face in shame, screams, whimpers, begs, shakes his head and fights, yet Bandit is the one to whom he clings after it’s all done. He soaks up every little bit of validation like a sponge, even if it’s just a nod or an appreciative pat; he’s started leaning into Bandit’s touches, not only during when he’s starved for affirmation but also afterwards, pressing himself against Bandit’s body and trembling nervously until he gives in and holds him.

He always gives in.

It’s a fucking bad idea. It’s one of the worst ideas Bandit has ever had, he should’ve left it at that very first encounter because that one at least went by his own rules, ferociously ripped Lion back to reality and showed him unambiguously that he’s not in charge, that Bandit could ruin him whenever he wanted, that he’s nothing. Knock him down a peg. He began losing control over it as soon as he accepted him back, foolishly assuming he’s feeding his own desires when none of it would’ve been possible without Lion approaching him first. There was a shift in power. In a way, Bandit is merely allowed to do what he does now, and he’s even predictable. He makes Lion come at the end, unfailingly brings them both to an orgasm which blows both their minds, and once that’s happened, it’s over. No more pain, no more distress, instead it’s softer words, reassuring touches. No wonder Lion returns – Bandit is safe. He knows what to expect, roughly, knows they’ll end up sharing body heat. Knows Bandit always makes sure he’s ultimately fine.

There’s a reason for it. There are several, in fact, and they’re fucking good reasons which makes this all the messier.

When Lion is still sleeping half an hour later, Bandit plops down on one of the chairs and throws a sock at him. Since it has no effect, he does it again and watches, chewing, as Lion blinks with a frown, yawns, stretches and winces at the residual pain. His eyes lock on to Bandit and then the chicken nuggets he’s eating which seem to convince him to get up. His body is battered and bruised, his ass and thighs purple and the indentations from the ropes faintly visible still in some places; it’s like he’s been decorated, painted. In a way, he’s prettiest like this, marked and claimed by Bandit and only he is allowed to see him like this. Lion puts on his underwear and a t-shirt, just like Bandit, before unsteadily walking over to him.

He’s sleep-warm and grimaces as he straddles Bandit’s lap, discomfort clearly written in his face. “There’s another chair right next to you”, Bandit complains but feeds him a nugget regardless, slathers it in sweet and sour sauce first and then stuffs it into Lion’s mouth. He’s a solid weight, fingers toying with the hem of Bandit’s shirt as they eat in silence, digits touching bare skin now and then and Bandit almost expects Lion to start petting him. Lion gulps down all of the orange juice and doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon. “You’re heavy, kid.”

“Don’t call me that.” Of all the names Bandit calls him, this is the only one against which he steadfastly protests. He scoots closer, leans his head against Bandit’s and murmurs: “I called Claire yesterday. To… talk some more, I guess. Explain myself. Make amends.”

Bandit neither knows who Claire is nor does he want to know. Thinking about it, he knows surprisingly little about Lion’s private life seeing as how familiar he is with his body – he’s aware Lion has a son but doesn’t know the story behind it. Claire could be the mother, Lion’s mother, his sister, a friend, who knows? “I don’t care about your fucking sob stories”, he tells Lion bluntly and massages his thighs until he squirms away in pain. Despite the harsh words, it’s self-defence and Bandit hates the fact that he recognises it as such.

“She hung up on me. But I’m still glad I did it.”

This is the most important reason why Bandit doesn’t turn him away, doesn’t refuse to play his game. There are other reasons but this is the only one that matters. Lion is young and lost, the list of mistakes alarmingly long – he’s a walking cliché, masks insecurity with arrogance, hides things from himself which Bandit drags to the surface, forcing Lion to face them, confront himself. He’s the worst person to do all this, has himself convinced he can’t stand the ginger prick and isn’t known for his empathy or compassion. And he especially doesn’t like that he both knows what Lion needs and even provides him with it.

He puts his arms around him, feels Lion relax at the gesture, pets his hair and says quietly: “Good boy. Well done.”

And Lion curls into him, leans into his touch and makes a muffled, content sound.

.

~*~

.

It’s a familiar scene, both contenders having clashed in the past already so it’s not as much of a surprise as it could’ve been. There are few onlookers, some who ignore the scene on purpose, others who seem just as unwilling to intervene and only one person trying to defuse the situation, stop it from escalating. Blitz is positioned between them, hands outstretched in both a calming and warning gesture – don’t cross this line, or else. His expression is serious and almost as angry as those of the two adversaries glaring at each other over the German’s head, their body language nothing but aggressive, ready to strike. Last time, it was the Frenchman who lost, humiliated by the SAS legend. Maybe now he’ll try to win.

Bandit walks over and earns a warning look from Blitz which is basically ordering him to fuck off, he’s got the situation under control, there’s no need to rile Lion up further. He has no clue that he couldn’t be more wrong about Bandit’s intentions and blinks disbelievingly when his teammate puts an arm around Lion’s abdomen and pulls him back, away from Thatcher, away from the small crowd sitting nearby. Lion is fighting against him yet more for show, Bandit’s presence alone leaves him imbalanced and seems to interfere with coherent thought, causing him to be manhandled without much hassle. “Kid”, Bandit starts softly and suppresses a sigh when Lion slaps his arm away.

“Don’t fucking -”, he snarls and lowers his voice, “- I told you not to – this doesn’t concern you. Piss off.”

“Go apologise.” Lion’s ire shows in his pale eyes, so Bandit clarifies: “I’m serious, go fucking do it. Don’t argue.”

“But he -”

“I don’t care if he dropkicked your son or insulted your mother. Apologise. You’re on thin ice, asshole. Do it.” And he’s a fucking stubborn git, nostrils flaring and hands balled to fists so that everyone who takes one good look at him knows he’s not going to back off. Bandit quite obviously has to make him. He grabs Lion’s sweater, right over his belly, over the place where he usually claims him, where there’s a lightning bolt temporarily branded into his skin right now, and pulls him closer. “He’s going to sock you if you don’t. And I’m not stupid enough to stop him, because we both know you deserve it, you little piece of shit. But I don’t like people laying their hands on my property. So shake his hand and walk away.”

He’s never done this. What they do in his bedroom stays in his bedroom, outside they never interact, walk past each other without a single glance, don’t touch, don’t talk, don’t look. They’re in vastly different circles seeing as Rook actively avoids Lion and often hangs around with the GSG9 whereas Lion is usually found in Montagne’s vicinity. It’s the first time Bandit is making use of this strange power Lion allows him to hold and he’s not exactly sure how it’s going to go, whether he’ll upset the odd, fragile peace between them.

Lion is returning his gaze, unmoving, before uncurling Bandit’s fist from the fabric of his sweater. “You don’t own me”, he hisses and Bandit thinks he miscalculated up until Lion stalks past him towards Thatcher, head held high. And hand outstretched.

No one expects it. The Brit gapes for a few seconds before he finally takes it, replying gruffly to Lion’s muttered apology and then both of them turn and leave without another word – disaster averted, fight prevented. Only now everyone is staring at Bandit, especially Blitz, brows drawn together in suspicion.

“What the hell was that?”, he demands to know after walking up to him and looks about ready to cross his arms.

Bandit takes out his cigarettes, lights one and inhales deeply before answering, ignoring the subtle shaking of his fingers. “No idea. According to you, apology isn’t part of my dictionary, so there’s no way I would know.”

“How did you get him to do that?”

“Threatened to steal his kneecaps.”

Blitz is visibly upset now, angered by the notion of Bandit keeping secrets from him without even telegraphing it before – he tries to control Bandit’s every move, acts like he’s a bomb which randomly arms itself and requires instant disposal in such an event, even pretends he’s the only one who can take on the troublemaker of their group. Like a martyr. “Threats wouldn’t have worked. You never talk to him. What’s going on?”

He continues smoking as he considers the vast pool of excuses he could use. Blitz would indubitably realise they’re lies, they’ve spent too much time around each other to fall for this type of thing anymore yet it’d buy him time. He can stall, annoy him a bit and then walk off – with some luck, that’ll be the end of it, Blitz might forget or at least not bother him for a few days. They’re squinting at each other, cogs turning in both their heads and maybe Blitz has seen the marks around Lion’s wrists, noticed how Bandit looks after him now and then, because he whispers in a tone implying even he can’t believe he’s suggesting this: “Are you sleeping together?”

It might also be the last possibility left – there’s no way Bandit would voluntarily spend time in the Frenchie’s company, so they’ve certainly not become friends. He decides on a flippant answer and hopes Blitz leaves it at that seeing as he normally doesn’t show any kind of interest in Bandit’s love life. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m fucking him.”

His teammate is in utter disbelief. “And he lets you?”

Under any other circumstances, it’d be a rhetorical question warranting an eye roll, maybe a quip, yet definitely doesn’t deserve any kind of answer. Under other circumstances, Bandit would make a joke, a smart comment. Right now, he feels the weight of their secret on his chest, the responsibility to make sure Lion doesn’t tilt, thinks back to the very first time. “No”, he laughs tonelessly and takes a deep drag more so that he has something to do while Blitz’ face falls in shock. Now he’s going to make a big deal out of it, that much is clear, possibly yell and put all the blame on Bandit when -

Well. He is to blame, isn’t he? And it is a big deal. There’s no way he can deny it.

“We two”, Blitz hisses, “need to have a fucking talk.”

.

He doesn’t understand. Like a stray mutt who suddenly has the door closed on him, all nutrition refused, no warmth provided anymore, he stares, concerned, uncomprehending. Probably thinking: why me? And Bandit has no answers for him because it’s been him his entire life as well and if he’d found an answer, he’d damn well share it with everyone who’s as lost and confused and afraid as he used to be, as the redhead on his doorstep is now. He’s not inviting him in to avoid a scene, Lion would rather be caught dead than found yelling in a staircase where he has no business to be. He blinks, brows drawn together in a perfect mirror of Bandit in different stages of his life, moments on which he doesn’t dwell for good reason.

“Do you get it?”, he clarifies once more. “We’re done. That’s it. You had your fun, now it’s over, so fuck off.”

A small shake of the head. He’s not playing by the rules, not the rules Lion set for himself, guidelines neither of them have discussed and therein lies the problem – they’re ultimately hoping for different things, Lion for salvation and Bandit for … he’s not entirely sure, actually. For Lion to get his shit together. To become a person who doesn’t need to seek out Bandit anymore. In a way, he’s digging his own grave with what he’s doing – he craves that which leads to him being alone again. Figures. “That’s not -”

Not how it works? That’s life, kiddo. We never get what we want. “Don’t come back”, Bandit tells him and shuts the door in his face before Lion’s aggressive stance translates into a full blown fist fight right after he’s managed to convince his neighbours not to file a noise complaint. The walls are thick enough but Lion’s voice carries.

Blitz’ aghast expression won’t stop haunting him and neither do his words, expressing concepts which Bandit waved off dismissively, no matter how insistent Blitz was. He liked it, he said. He seeks me out. There were a lot of uncomfortable questions with unclear answers, awkward silences and muttered curses from his teammate as Bandit regarded him coolly, arms crossed and waiting for him to be done.

But they reached him. It took a day or two, but Blitz’ words reached him. And so he’s shutting Lion out now. For both of their sakes.

Lion kicks his door so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t put his foot through it.

.

~*~

.

A fever dream. That’s all it is, surely, none of it makes any sense. Bandit’s brain cannot piece together how he got here, it’s drifting gently on the waves of heavy intoxication, the flood of alcohol coursing through his system. He’s moving – or being moved? – yet the motion is repetitive, preventing him from going anywhere. The ceiling above him looks familiar but it’s just a normal ceiling, there are no decorations on the bare walls though there’s a new-looking wardrobe at the edge of his vision. Noises are around him, floating in the air and diving into his ears now and then, especially on one side, his limbs might as well have been cut off with how little control he has over them. He weighs approximately a ton.

There’s something happening to his body and he’s not sure what it is.

It started out simple enough, fragments of the hours earlier flit through his muddled mind: a few pubs, familiar faces, then no more familiar faces. A brawl. His ribs are hurting. Some woman, her legs spread and lipstick smeared, face contorted in disgust – he slapped her, meant it playfully but prominent cheekbones invaded his head and so he brought his hand down harder than she liked. Much harder. She screamed at him and probably disappeared though Bandit doesn’t remember that part, merely draws the conclusion based on the fact that she’s not here right now. Someone else is.

Only then do the noises register as moaning. A hand strokes over his cheeks, urgent, a soothing hiss, shhh, as if Bandit was crying or hurt, shhhh, insistent against his skin, just like wet lips which nip at his throat, taste his pulse. He’s nauseous, there’s a faint ache further down and all he smells is his own sweat mixed with beer; he’s uncomfortably warm and just uncomfortable in general, his legs being folded and the hand is still there, feeling his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, and so is the reassuring shhh.

A fever dream. And he’s starting to wake up slowly, sober momentarily due to the adrenaline rush of not knowing where he is, with whom he is. Bandit’s head lolls around, falls to the side and the sudden change in view is dizzying, now he sees shoulders and a torso and can actually see what’s happening to him which in no way makes it any better. His tongue isn’t his anymore, neither are his arms or legs, they’re at the person’s mercy. And the only mercy he’s being shown is the gentle hand and the calming shushing that now and then devolves into a strangled moan.

He’s dreaming, surely. Because this can’t be reality. This can’t be happening.

.

He wakes up mostly naked. That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern yet he’s being shaken, as if his pounding headache, desiccated body and throbbing pain weren’t distressing enough already. Not entirely sure what’s going on, he switches to auto-pilot and swats at the insistent hands until they’ve disappeared, opens his eyes and blinks dazedly at a face he knows very well. I’m in Lion’s flat, he surmises based on the fact his surroundings are unfamiliar and as barren as he’d expect the Frenchie’s apartment to be, only to add: The Lion’s den. Hilarious. He would’ve congratulated himself with a chuckle if he had the brain capacity to spare, but as it is, he’s little more than a zombie.

Memories are fuzzy, so he decides on worrying about those later, allows Lion to pull him to his feet, even dress him. A glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table tells him it’s seven in the morning – much too early after a night out, that’s for sure. He stumbles around, greedily gulps down half a bottle of water when Lion hands him one and follows him, accompanied by prodding and poking to guide him in the right direction. They leave the flat, enter Lion’s car and as it’s still not fully day yet, Bandit sleeps some more on the way to wherever, head leaning against the cool window and jolting with every bump in the road, but he’s slept under worse conditions.

Surprisingly, he knows where he is when he pours himself out of the vehicle after they’ve stopped. Lion helps him get up, rummages around in Bandit’s pockets and causes an almost overpowering urge to punch him. The sudden impulse is overwhelmingly strong and he has to actively fight it down, struggle against it – he looks at the asshole assisting him in climbing the stairs and wants nothing more than to grind his face into the asphalt, smack it against the metal railing, hear his bones crunch under Bandit’s foot. It’s irrational, they have no quarrel with each other, not anymore, not since Lion knows to keep away, from Rook, from Bandit, from a lot of people. He clenches his teeth, balls his hands into fists and somehow makes it inside. Lion never crosses the threshold.

It’s a good thing. Bandit doesn’t know what he would’ve done otherwise.

The door clicks shut and he staggers to his bed, collapses on top of it and almost immediately falls asleep again.

.

This time, he remembers. His thoughts have cleared up and the shock of his dream contributes as well, floods his system with adrenaline upon the soft shhh in his ear – he wakes up screaming, kicking and flailing but is alone in his large bed. Breathing heavily, he looks at the hook fixed to the ceiling. And he remembers.

It helps that he’s more aware of his own body now, feels the vague burn around his wrists, notices an uncomfortable feeling in his guts. He knows what it means. Even if he couldn’t recall the guilty moans on his skin, the movements, the fingertips dirtying him, he’d know what it means.

He throws up until there’s nothing left in his stomach and dry heaves until his head feels split in two and his throat is raw and sore. After drinking more water and swallowing painkillers which immediately cause him to vomit once more, he nibbles at a slice of bread and waits for the trembling to subside. He’s freezing; even wrapped in several blankets, he’s ice cold. Eventually, he works up the courage to shower. Under the hot stream, he scratches his wrists bloody and scrubs himself clean thoroughly, meticulously.

He’ll be fine. It’s not the first time. He knows how to deal with it, knows what to avoid and what to do, it’s alright. Maybe after a few days or weeks, he’ll be back to normal.

Lion, however, won’t be.

.

~*~

.

“He’s going to have a meltdown”, Bandit tells his teammate without context and plops down on the chair opposite him.

Blitz is instantly suspicious. “What are you talking about? Who will? And why?”

“My Frenchie.” He doesn’t miss how Blitz’ eyes harden and his expression turns stony. “Don’t fucking give me that, you twat, I’m dead serious. You remember Baffin Bay? The fucking yacht?” A nod. They both know exactly what Bandit is referencing and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to spell it out, doesn’t have to get any clearer than this. It’s taken him almost a year to stop shifting the blame, to rephrase ‘you left me alone with him’ to ‘I was left alone with him’ to ‘I stayed behind’. He snapped – the screams still feature in his dreams sometimes, as do the crimson walls. It astonished him how much blood the human body can really hold. “How was I afterwards?”

Another rhetorical question and this one causes something pained to flit over Blitz’ face. Bandit is the only one brave enough to mention the aftermath, a mixture of destruction and self destruction ultimately halted by a series of worrying events during which he almost went so far as to harm one of his colleagues. He was walking on thin ice after the whole incident and, among other things, has Blitz to thank for dragging him out of the deep pit of depression into which he fell. “Horrifying”, Blitz answers honestly and it’s refreshing to get a candid answer for once instead of sugar coated simplifications, a switch of topic or, even worse, a positive spin. “How is this relevant?”

“Have you looked at him? Yesterday? Today?” The hesitation tells him everything he needs to know. “He’s not sick. He’s not just in a bad mood. He’s going to fucking break down and it’s not going to be pretty.”

“What happened?”

“Mind your own goddamn business.”

“You’re the one telling me about this. Do you want me to get Six involved?”

Bandit rolls his eyes and leans closer, lowers his voice. “That’s exactly why I’m here. If he explodes, he’s done for. Six won’t trust him anymore. I’m only still here because you vouch for me, let’s be honest – and no one whom she trusts as much as you will vouch for him.” As far as he can tell, Lion needs this job. A good part of his self-worth is tied to it and not only because he made it to where Doc is, no, it’s obvious Lion considers Rainbow to be the crème de la crème, the highest step on the career ladder. Getting thrown out because of mental problems would destroy him.

“So what do you want from me?”

It’s baffling Blitz still hasn’t caught on. “You told me never to contact him again. It was you who made me stay away from him, remember? I don’t want Six involved, so I’m coming to you. Allow me to talk to him. Allow me to defuse this fucking time bomb. And let me keep meeting up with him, he needs it.”

“You are so unbelievably full of yourself, Dom. Absolutely not. If I catch you anywhere near him, it’s over. You need this job too.”

He slams his fist on the table and it says a lot that Blitz doesn’t even twitch. “Motherfucker. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, but you do?”

“I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“I’m probably the only one who even remotely -”

“Why?”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

Blitz fixes him with a level gaze, unflinching and without mercy. “Tell me what happened. What did he do? And tell me why you’re going to such lengths to help him. It’s not what you’d usually do. It’s not even what you’d do most of the time, especially not if you can just as well watch from the sidelines.”

He knows the answer to this. He doesn’t like it, not one bit, and still he knows it. So he starts with the ‘easier’ part. “I drank too much. I must’ve somehow gotten to his apartment. He fucked me. The next morning, he drove me home while I was still too tired to realise, so we didn’t talk. Haven’t been alone in a room with him since.” Blitz has the aura of someone who’d like to interject with something unqualified, so he adds: “I was unconscious for most of it, Elias.” Blitz’ mouth closes again. There’s a short silence during which Bandit struggles to keep still. He’s witnessed Lion screaming at Twitch first hand, calling her something which rhymes with her callsign and he knows the idiot usually harbours nothing but respect for her. He’s seen the wild look in his eyes, the bags under it, the shaking fingers, knows the signs.

“Jesus fucking Christ”, Blitz finally says and massages his temples. “None of this is convincing me to allow you to go anywhere near him, let alone not to inform Six right this instant, you do realise this?”

“Give me a week. I’ll sort him out.”

“Why should I trust you not to just skin him alive like you would anyone else who even tried something remotely similar?”

And there it is. The question Bandit has feared, the one he avoided up to now – too much of a coward to even admit it to himself. He thinks of the quiet moments after, Lion’s limbs entangled with his, a snarky comment making pale lips curve into a tired smile, auburn hair tickling his skin. “Because I care”, he replies softly.

.

Lion has never reminded him more of a wild cat, pacing in its cage, rearing to sink its claws into whoever put it there or whoever is unlucky enough to get too close. He refuses to look at Bandit directly, lets his gaze wander through the busy café, attracted by anything that moves, now and then flitting over to where Blitz and Montagne are sitting and chatting. It was the only way Bandit could be sure to get him to turn up – make the situation as non-threatening as possible: in public and within sight of a friend. He suspects Lion thought he’d do the same Blitz expected of him but lion hide isn’t what he’s after.

It’s strange, looking at him. Bandit is used to having the upper hand always, in the beginning due to his knowledge of how to get under his skin, provoke him into a fit of rage, later the much more tangible control of physically restraining him and forcing him to listen to whatever Bandit has to say. He lost it when he sent him away. He set him free and, predictably, the cat bit him now that he held no power over it anymore.

“We have to set some boundaries”, he announces while stirring his coffee.

“To what end?” He’s aggressive, thinks Bandit is here to accuse him and therefore is ready to defend himself whatever the cost. It’s counter-productive, so Bandit ignores him.

“No touching outside of play.”

Lion looks ready to sock him in the jaw. “The fuck are you talking about?! Besides, you came over, you know. You threw me out of bed by knocking at my door in the middle of the night and you even tried to punch me.”

Justifications before Bandit even mentioned any of it. He’s losing him and he really can’t afford to. “Listen to me, asshole”, he hisses, “I’m not talking about any of it. We’re not going to talk about it. I’m willing to give you what you want, which is the best fucking you’ve ever had on top of indulging your every whim about being beaten bloody – and you know I’m discreet, I don’t ask questions, I take care of you. You know all this. But I’m only gonna do it if we have this fucking talk, no matter how much you don’t want to.”

It’s the first time either of them implies their sessions have been to Lion’s benefit and not Bandit’s. He’s shocked into speechlessness but they both know he’s not far off the truth, not at all. And yet: “This isn’t what I want. I can’t stand your fucking ugly face, how narcissistic do you have to be to believe -”

“Cut the bullshit, I don’t have the time for it. If you really hate it so much, leave, as simple as that. You know I won’t touch you.” It’s a gamble. He’s convinced Lion’s aware of benefiting from this, now it’s just a question of pride – and the pretty boy definitely has an abundance of it.

“It’s not that simple. You’re abusing me.”

“And you don’t like that? Alright. I can stop hurting you. I can stop degrading you, it’s no trouble at all, I’ll just cut out everything I normally do and then we’re left with vanilla sex. If that’s what you want, sure, let’s fuck missionary style and afterwards giggle like schoolgirls who did something forbidden. I’m down.” Lion rolls his eyes. He’s endlessly annoyed yet it’s not Bandit’s words alone achieving that effect but also his frustration about being unable to speak what he’d really like to say. Bandit is trying to make it as easy as possible for him but it seems he’s dead set on overcomplicating matters. “Look. I’m going to spell it out for you and all you have to do is nod or shake your head. Do you want to keep meeting up with me?”

Lion is chewing on his lip indecisively. He’s being forced to make a decision and he doesn’t like it – he seems to prefer being able to shift all responsibility and blame to someone else, pretend he’s being forced, justify it to himself as something out of his control. That way, he doesn’t have to think about any of it too hard, about why he enjoys it so much, about why he allows Bandit to hold this kind of power over him. He glances at Montagne again who’s laughing at something Blitz said, the two of them comfortable in each other’s presence. Both Lion’s and Bandit’s body language is tense, alert. Eventually, he nods slowly.

If he brags or gloats now, Lion is going to leave. So he simply nods as well. “Alright. Do you want to keep playing?”

A derisive huff. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“No. That’s what it is”, Bandit stresses, face serious. “It’s pretend. It’s not real.”

“The first time felt pretty real.”

It’s a sore spot and Lion nailed it. Bandit almost winces but stops himself, lowers his gaze regardless. “The first time was… selfish.”

“Oh, and the ones after that weren’t?”

“No. They were mainly about you.” He can watch the cogs turn in Lion’s head, trying to recall details. The kid must realise that a few things he genuinely hated weren’t brought up anymore, that Bandit kept a certain routine to which he responded well, that he always made sure Lion was alright afterwards. Well, mostly alright, considering.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“What’s your safeword?”

“Come on.”

“I’m not doing it if you don’t have one.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“No, you’re being a little bitch. I knew you wouldn’t like it because it gives you control but imagine all the things I can try on you because now I know you’ll stop me if it gets too much. Also, now you can beg as much as you want and I won’t budge.” He can see it in Lion’s face, the question of there’s worse? clearly written on his forehead, followed by an intrigued expression. A safeword is like a condom, ultimately it ensures both participants’ safety but it’s inherently unsexy, a mood killer – which is why he’s bringing it up now and not in the moment. You can slip a safeword on way in advance. “Choose something you won’t forget. Something easy.”

“Okay. Malfrat.” A French word which rolls over his tongue effortlessly yet leaves Bandit frowning. “Basically means bandit in French.”

Good enough for him. He tries to remember the way he said it, makes him repeat it a few times so he’s familiar with the intonation and can identify it even if it’s mumbled, screamed, muffled, slurred. Finally, he nods. “Good. Now to the details. Is there anything you’d like me to never use on you again?”

“What is this, a shopping list?” Despite all his complaints, Lion has calmed down considerably by now. He’s focused on their conversation, barely pays any attention to his backup and has stopped fidgeting. Bandit has shown no inclination to blame him for what he did nor to even mention it, and the prospect of continuing that which they left unfinished due to Blitz’ horror and sharp words seems to placate him. “I don’t like the whips.”

“So no whips anymore. Got it.”

Lion hesitates. “That’s not what I said.”

“Fucking hell, then answer the question. I’m serious about it, if there’s anything you don’t want me to do, now’s the best time to say it. What about the humiliation? The writing? Finishing inside of you? Fucking in general? It’s all fine with you?”

Lion ponders the question for a while but it’s clear he’s made up his mind, is merely working up the courage to say it out loud. His cheeks are filling with blood and it hits Bandit not for the first time how crassly beautiful he is when he has no right to be. His fingers are itching to make him squirm under his touch once more, the pent up desire returning full force upon him pursing his lips. They look so soft that Bandit wants to run his thumb over them. “You can praise me more”, he finally murmurs, visibly embarrassed.

Bandit stares. “What, during? Afterwards?”

“Both.”

This is – he’s noticed, of course he noticed, how could he not when every single compliment turned Lion to putty in his hands, tamed him instantly where violence riled him up at first. A lot of pain is necessary to break his spirit but it only takes a few gentle words to make him pliant, obey Bandit’s every command. He pictures it, forcing Lion to his knees with kindness, having him suck him off amateurishly yet eagerly, thirsty for every word falling from Bandit’s lips and so, so willing. The content smile on his face. The way he leans into his touches.

He’s floored. And yet he nods. “Alright. I can do that.” And with this, Lion seems satisfied.

It’s good enough for the moment. There are things Bandit can do to him Lion isn’t even considering, so for now he’ll err on the side of caution and not touch on any of them without explicit consent. He’s learned his lesson. And he’s fairly sure Lion has, too.

[bravemccalll]

your blood in my veins

| ao3 |

chapter one – a day of birthdays and odd encounters

 Hajime wakes up on the morning of his 20th birthday with the heavy sound of a bass thrumming through his apartment.

Now, Hajime may only get paid minimum wage at his part-time job at the small café around the corner from the university he attends, but god damnit if he is not going to write a strongly worded complaint to the owner of his building about his neighbour’s need to blast their club music at 7am.

He gets up and decides that’s just going to get dressed as quickly as possible for his lecture at midday and just find a bench to read on to waste time, but he can feel vibrations rumbling beneath his feet while he’s brushing his teeth and he can’t take it.

He jerks open his front door and knocks on his neighbour’s door, one shoe on and tied, the other still back by his bed, his shirt untucked at the back and unbelievably tired because life has dealt him a shit hand, but he refuses to have ‘inconsiderate neighbours’ be one of his cards, god damnit –

A man opens the door and Hajime opens his mouth to ask him to turn down the music when he realises that there is no music and the landing he’s standing on his silent except for the loud judgement that is emanating from the man in front of him.

“I,” Hajime starts. “Sorry, I thought, uh. Nevermind.”

He turns and goes back into his apartment where only a few minutes ago he could’ve sworn the wooden flooring had a pulse with the way it shook beneath him.

He shakes his head, grabs his other shoe, tucks his shirt in and chalks it up to lack of sleep and heads out for the day.

Not the best start to his birthday but he’s had worse.

(Across the country, Peko exits the club, her pay-check tucked into the pocket of her leather jacket. She checks the time and almost laughs. It’s been her birthday for a whole seven hours and she hadn’t noticed. Figures.

She hums ‘Happy Birthday’ to herself as she walks home, her key tucked between her fingers, just above her knuckles. It’s bright out and she doesn’t think anyone would try anything with the sun’s harsh glare beating down on them, but she doesn’t want to chance it.

She wonders if her mother has anything for her at home and speeds up.)

//

 Chiaki taps her finger on the edge of her laptop and stares at her computer screen. Various windows, all with different codes, stare back at her.

She checks the time. 9:00am. She checks the date. 15th of August. It’s her 20th birthday. And it’s too early to call her grandparents.

She wonders what they’ll do today – her, her grandmother and grandfather. Last year they went to the park and had a picnic while her gran fussed over the bags under her eyes and her grandpa excitedly explained every dish he had made.

They might have a ball this year. She hopes not. The last ball they had for her birthday was when she was eight and she distinctly remembers tripping over the hem of her dress and falling into a punch bowl. Never again.

She sighs and starts to shut down her laptop, saving and double-saving her work before closing the lid. She rises off the cosy armchair she was gifted when she first bought her house and makes a note to get a glass of water before she starts to get ready for the day while she grabs her laptop case.

Just as Chiaki turns to the kitchen, she’s hit with a blind pain, the kind that makes you see white for a moment. She looks down and there are her hands, usually pale with her nails round and smooth, now stained red with her knuckles bust open. One of the bones at the base of her middle finger on her right hand has pierced the skin and she feels the urge to vomit.

She runs to the sink and shoves her hands under the tap, looking around frantically for her phone to get an ambulance over because dear lord bones aren’t meant to do that, are they?

She turns back to the sink just as she remembers her phone is on the armchair and the sink that was once splattered with pink water is now pristine and there are her hands, unblemished if a bit wet.

She blinks and wonders how she could’ve imagined something like that.

Not a great start to her big day. She resolves to not tell her grandparents about this, no matter how much she’d love to get their opinion on it. They’d just worry.

(South of Chiaki’s quiet house, Fuyuhiko on the bed in his dingy hotel room, his belt clenched between his teeth, his right hand a bloody mess but he can’t tell what’s his blood and what’s his associate’s. Associate being a loose term to describe the sneaky asshole who stole fifty grand from his father.

There’s a med kit that’s got bloody finger prints alone the front. A needle and some thread are missing, easily found in Fuyuhiko’s shaky left hand.

The fucker just had to break his right hand, huh.

He takes a deep breath and gets to work. Happy birthday indeed.)

 //

 “Hey,” Kazuichi says. “Happy birthday.”

Hajime smiles and lifts a hand to rest on Kazuichi’s shoulder. “Thanks, Kaz. So, did you build a robot to sleep for me?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible friend and I hate you.”

Kazuichi snorts. “I did buy you a coffee though,” he adds, bringing a hot cup out from where he’d been hiding it behind his back.

“You’re the love of my life,” Hajime replies, very seriously.

Kazuichi wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

Hajime looks at him, offended. “Excuse you.” He lifts the cup to his mouth and is instantly grateful for the heat. At this point he’s ninety percent sure his bloodstream is entirely made up of caffeine.

“So how was your history lecture?” Kazuichi asks, hopping up to sit on the wall next to him, his legs swinging. Hajime doesn’t know how Kaz is able to make his jeans look as though they’re meant to have those holes in the knees, but he doesn’t question it.

“Fine, I guess. Learned some more about Mary, Queen of Scots but I already knew most of the information.”

“Nerd,” Kazuichi says. Hajime elbows him in the ribs.

“What about you?” Hajime asks in return. He lifts his cup to his mouth as he waits for an answer and almost spits out the liquid because that was definitely not coffee. It tasted like herbal tea which Hajime has sworn off because of an incident involving spilling some of it down his front before his high school prom.

“What?” Kazuichi exclaims, leaning away from Hajime’s disgusted expression.

Hajime forces it down his throat only because there is a nice old lady standing just in front of him, waiting on the same bus as them, and he doesn’t think she’d appreciate being spit on. Besides, they’d need to share a bus together and really, he’s looking out for Future-Hajime who would have to bear the aftermath of that particular action.

“That wasn’t coffee,” Hajime chokes out. “That was herbal tea.”

“What, like from prom?” Kazuichi reaches over and takes the cup from Hajime’s hand and takes a swig himself. “No, that’s coffee. And very strong coffee, just like you need it in order to function.” Kazuichi frowns at him. “Are you ok?”

Hajime takes the cup back and drinks from it again. Coffee. He shakes his head to clear it and forces a smile. “Yeah, I’m just tired. Don’t worry about it.”

(Elsewhere, Fuyuhiko takes a sip of his herbal tea and spit it out a mouthful of what tastes like someone dumped lightly watered coffee beans into his mouth. It goes all over his new book and jolts his broken knuckle.

He is having a lousy fucking day. But now he has a weird urge to re-read his worn book on Scottish History, which is very odd considering he just read it but that’s life he supposes. Broken knuckles, tea that tastes like coffee and re-reading old books.)

 //

 Later that night, Peko sits beside her mother’s bed. She has fallen asleep, but she shivers weakly every so often despite the two blankets Peko has laid over her. Her mother is ill, and she feels useless, just as she does every time she comes home, and her mother has been unable to leave her bed on her own the entire time she was gone. It’s bearable when she has night shifts at least, so there are small mercies.

Peko sighs and grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes until there are little black spots in her vision when she pulls them away. She has been up for almost twenty-four hours and her body is starting to feel it. She glances at her mother again. They say it’s a motor neuron disorder, a disorder which leaves her muscles weak and sore. The doctor had told her that there wasn’t a cure and she had put her fist through a wall.

She stands and goes to get another blanket because her mum is cold because the bloody heating is broken, and her piece of shit landlord won’t let it get fixed until Monday when suddenly she isn’t in her small apartment, she’s in a ball room.

There are people milling around her, carrying flutes of champagne, some wearing sweeping gowns that swish and swirl and others are wearing inky black suits with crisp white shirts underneath them.

She looks down and she’s wearing a dress of her own, all baby pink and cute. She feels shorter than usual, even though she lifts the skirt of her dress and she’s wearing high heels.

Someone touches her arm and she jumps but when she turns, she sees a kind face peering down at her. “Are you alright, dear? I did try to tell your grandmother to tone it down a bit, but you know what she’s like,” the old gentleman says, chuckling slightly.

She opens her mouth to reply but she’s back in her mother’s bedroom, all the blankets in her home piled on top of her mother who has stopped shivering. Peko could cry from relief.

(Back at the gala, Chiaki excuses herself and sits on the patio and cries because that sick woman had looked just like her mother had and suddenly she isn’t Chiaki Nanami, 20-year-old coding genius, with her own house and a good career, she’s just nine again, crying under her duvet because her mother is sick and isn’t going to get better, no matter how many stars she wishes on.)

 //

 Fuyuhiko lies on his bed and stares at his alarm clock. In two minutes, his birthday will be over, over until next year. He wonders if his father remembers or even cared enough in the first place to make a note of it. Sometimes he likes to think that his mother would have cared but she died too young for him to actually make an informed guess on what their relationship could have been.

He shifts around, trying to find a comfortable position, turns to face away from his clock and comes face to face with a woman.

A very pretty woman. Her eyes are crimson and though he hates the colour, too much of it has stained his skin for him to find a liking for it, he can see the appeal of it now. Her hair is silver and curls lightly over pyjamas which have little Disney logos on them – adorable, he almost snorts.

The woman in his bed is very beautiful. The woman in his bed is cute. There is a woman in his bed.

He jerks back, off his bed and goes to grab the gun under his pillow, wondering if this is some sick joke his uncle is playing on him or if this is going to be the assassination attempt that will finally work because he got distracted by a pretty face but when he aims his gun, he’s pointing it at empty sheets.

He blinks a few times, checks under his bed and in the bathroom but she’s gone. He rubs a hand down his face and begins to pack up all his stuff. He’ll find somewhere else to sleep – someone knew he’s here and already the itch of paranoia ticks inside his skull. Maybe he can steal some of the sheets, the streets would be a lot comfier with them.

(Peko holds her heart and breathes deeply. There had been a man in her bed. A nice-looking man. A dangerous man if the scar above his eye meant anything. And he had been shirtless. Peko feels her face flush and hides the colouring by shoving her face into her pillow. It’s too late at night to be thinking of such things, now is the time for sleep.

(She doesn’t get to sleep for hours, the cold somehow much worse, as though she were outside instead of in her bedroom.))

 //

 Hajime climbs into bed after he finally finishes his assessment and submits it, and he checks the time and realises his birthday has been over for a few minutes now.

He rolls out of bed because he forgot to brush his teeth but just as he has the toothpaste on his brush, he sticks it in his mouth and looks into the mirror and a pale girl peers back at him.

She’s very lovely, with blonde hair that brushes the top of her shoulders and pale eyes that blink rapidly if a bit sleepily.

She reaches forward and touches the mirror with her hand. He does the same.

She stares at him and leans forward and mouths, “Who are you?”

Hajime smiles and thinks that this is one of the more entertaining dreams he’s had in a while. “I don’t know,” he mouths back because he doesn’t want to be Hajime right now. He wants to be someone else, someone who looks into his mirror and sees pretty girls instead of his own sorry reflection.

She huffs and looks adorable with her cheeks puffed out. “Shut up,” she says out loud and ducks out of sight just to end their conversation, all because of Hajime’s ability to always be a little shit.

His own reflection returns, and he sighs and finishes brushing his teeth and heads to bed, for real this time.

(Chiaki stands back up, but the boy is gone. He had looked tired but good-looking with olive skin and dark, fluffy hair.

It was as good an end to her birthday that she’s ever gotten, and she falls asleep with a smile on her face that no one sees.)

[coplins]

Ignorance is Bliss

Summary: Dean is trying to keep the political relationship with Caelum stable. Adam's married to their crown prince Michael so they're practically family, right? All Dean wants is to help. That's all, okay? So he lends Michael an un-asked for hand...

Notes: I got so inspired by YouCantKeepMeDown's fantasy AU that I asked to write another short story in the verse. ^^ So without further ado, prepare to be embarrassed. /Coplins ( @spnyoucantkeepmedown )

READ ON AO3 HERE

A Political Blunder

Dean’s eyes keep being drawn to the offending burrs and thorny twigs poking out of the downy feathers of Michael’s folded wings. The angel had managed to rid himself of the burrs that got stuck on his huge outer wings with relative ease, stretching, flapping, knocking down a small tree in the process. Those wings pack one hell of a punch. Michael’s only reaction to slamming his wing into the tree trunk had been a small, surprised ‘oh?’ like he hadn’t even noticed, and it was an ‘Oops,’ more than anything. Dean wonders if they can feel a damn thing with those feather-flappers on their back. Probably not much.

“I get your point, Sire. But with the risk of sounding disrespectful, to ignore the intel just because it comes from the village drunk would be stupid in this case.” Dean’s gaze jumps away from Michaels wings and to the speaker, Captain Aleksandr. After the attack on Gabe, he’d sent requests to his most trusted officers to tip him about what soldiers might be the most angel-friendly. He hates to admit to himself that not all guards can be trusted, as had been proven by Gordon. But there it is. So some rearrangements had been done. A couple of soldiers had been called home from the borders to replace others to make sure that any guard responsible for the safety of the royal visitors are either angel-friendly or neutral. The man currently speaking is in charge of that division. Dean hadn’t heard of him before the attack since the guy―a foreigner―had more or less showed up on the Winchester army’s doorstep when the Caelum war began and then remained stationed at one of the most remote outposts that never reported having any significant problems that needed royal attention during the war. However, looking into the guy’s service record he might have been a big part of that. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been knighted. (According to interviews conducted, that might be on him too, since he preferred to give credit to his peers, shying away from promotions.) Either way, he got along famously with the angel guards in the royal retinue and thus earned the rank of Captain of the Honour Guard. “We’ve been trying to keep things under lids to avoid people panicking, but the description the man gave sounded exactly like a leviathan. Our closest outpost lies here. According to all reports, everything is all kittens and sunshine over there, yeah? I’d say, it ain’t right. I smell something fishy, if you get what I’m sayin? Nothing’s ever just kittens and sunshine at a border post. Especially during peace when we’re bored as fu―” he clears his throat, remembering who he's talking to. ”Very bored.”

“Good point, Alexandr. And this outpost is just by the mountains. I think there’s a cave system in those mountains but those aren’t good for humans or angels due to toxic gas, so we’ve never had to worry about them.” Dean points to the map on the table they're standing around.

“Our esteemed guests probably have maps of the mountains that will show places where humans could safely cross the mountains,” the guard Captain says and looks up at the angel guard present while doing some weird twitch with his shoulders. Dean follows his gaze to see the guard’s feathers rustle when her wings move slightly. Dean looks back at the captain who seems content as if he somehow got his answer. It strikes Dean then, that those weird shoulder-movements Captain Aleksandr does sometimes maybe aren’t some kind of tick, but an imitation of how he’d move his shoulders if he too had wings. Huh. No wonder he gets along so well with the wing-boys. “But since we’re dealing with leviathans they might have used the cave system in case the gas down there isn’t toxic to them. And if they’ve overtaken this outpost they could easily spread both inward in this country, as well as go west and enter Caelum from our side, Sire. With the leviathans ability to mimic humans it’d sour the peace between your nations very quickly, if you get what I’m sayin?”

Yep. How the hell isn’t this guy of a higher rank? Guy thinks of the big picture, and― Dean’s once again distracted by the burrs in Michael’s wings when the prince leans over the table to look at the map with a troubled wrinkle between his brows. The Caelum prince was out flying earlier today when he’d spotted a child running in the forest. He’d seen the upcoming ravine while the child hadn’t, and made a steep dive through the tree branches, wings brushing both sides of the ravine downward (consecutively picking up every burr and twig growing there apparently), catching the falling kid and swooping upward just before hitting the bottom. That was some badass flying that gained him a lot of points with the castle staff and commoners living in the surrounding area since news like this travel rather fast. Dean hadn’t seen it, of course. He’d been stuck sitting on his throne listening to petitioners. Anyone ever wonder why there’s no table in front of a throne? It’s because the monarch sitting on it would end up banging their head on the table repeatedly out of sheer boredom.

Sometimes Dean wishes to be a king was what commoners thought it was. Feasting, wearing fancy clothes, cavorting with maids, hunting with falcons and riding fancy, noble horses in perfectly manicured gardens. Hah! To be fair, if it was, Dean would probably be the one to run off and join a band of pirates. Now there’s an idea. He and Benny could― Nope. Don’t go there. He’s hardly going to abandon his kingdom while it’s on the brink of a second war. Now it’s about keeping up regal appearance in front of the people. Which is probably why Michael hasn’t removed the burrs on his innermost wings yet. Captain Aleksandr had approached them with the news of the leviathan rumour soon after Michael got back, and there’s no way for an angel to look regal while grooming. (It’s one of the most comical lessons Dean’s learned about the featherheads since they arrived.) So Michael had snapped his wings shut, stuck his customary broomstick up his ass, chin high, and pretended he isn’t bothered by his collection of debris. Dean knows all about that. He’d heard dad say ‘Could you try to be a little less… Dean, the next time?’ too many times. Royalty is supposed to appear, well… regal.

But it’s getting ridiculous. They’re out of the public eye now. It’s just Dean, Aleksandr, the angel guard named Neda, Michael, and his jackass brother Lucifer who’s currently perching on top of the backrest of a chair like a rooster, cawing his arrogant input just often enough for Dean not to forget that the fucker is there. When you think about it, it isn’t such a wonder Adam ended up screwing the guy. The guy’s practically walking around in a state of perpetual ‘fight me!’ And when you can’t fight them, it leaves only one solution… well. Adam’s got it right.

That’s not the point. The point is that they’re in private so they shouldn’t have to play pretend to be regal and aloof, unbothered by discomforts of mere mortals. “Woah, can we just stop. For one moment. I can’t fucking concentrate, okay?” Dean goes around the table towards Michael. “This is bugging the hell out of me. Now, hold still. I'm gonna help you.” Michael looks at him in confusion when he grabs the top of the huge outer wing and lifts it up. It exposes the two pairs of smaller wings. “Hold that up so I can reach,” he says and goes straight for a cluster of burrs stuck in the soft down on the inside of the innermost, smallest pair of wings. He digs his fingers in under the burrs and carefully combs outward, wiggling his fingers a bit to try to get them to come loose without hurting Michael. Michael goes rigid, eyes wide and feathers puffing out.

“Dean, uh, I don’t think―”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. We’re family now. No need to keep up appearance. This is causing you discomfort and it’s making me itch just by looking at it,” Dean says and discards the burrs on the table behind him before going straight for the next cluster. “I bet you’d do the same for me and there are practically no witnesses anyway. Wait. I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No, you’re not hurting him,” Lucifer says from behind, voice full of held-back glee. The look Michael gives him is so betrayed that Dean has to turn his head to shoot the other prince a glance. Lucifer looks like a little shit, eyes narrowed slyly, a smirk playing on his lips and feathers puffing up and smoothing down over and over, wings slightly bent backwards.

Dean scowls and looks back at Michael. “Am I hurting you? I can be gentler?”

“I―” Michael’s wings lifts like he’s agitated, though he keeps the wing Dean’s working on with deft fingers unnaturally still. Their eyes meet. Michael’s mouth works soundlessly for a beat, then his wings sag and he swallows. “No. No you’re not.”

“Good. So. Back to the topic at hand. If the Leviathans…” Dean goes on, laying out possible scenarios and what to do about it. Captain Aleksandr is wearing the blankest expression Dean’s ever seen while coming with his own input. Neda’s completely silent. She’s curved her sole pair of wings around herself to cover her face. They look a lot different than the princes’ three pairs and reminds of the knife-shaped wings of a high-speed tern, black, with red tips and a startling yellow on the inside close to the body, complimenting her dark skin. But you’re not supposed to compare angelwings to those of birds aloud. Yeah, no. That’s a blunder Dean’s not going to repeat. He wonders if she’s hiding because humans aren’t supposed to groom angels or some shit like that, and she’s respectful enough not to witness it? Dean hadn’t read anything about it when he tried to make sense of Caelum customs. But then again, their library is tragically understocked.

Michael’s voice comes out rough when he makes his own input. His cheeks are red and he’s sweating. Dean wonders if he’s catching a cold. He’d always figured angels weren’t sensitive to stuff like that because of the flying, but what the hell does he know? Maybe he’s just overheated? Dean’s got all three fireplaces burning merrily. He always gets a bit cold the days after he’s had a roll in the hay with Benny. Even after eating the awesome food Benny brought him, he had to recover from the blood loss before he was back to top-notch.

This wing-grooming thing isn’t half bad. In fact, Dean’s always found it easier to think when he’s doing something with his hands. Michael’s feathers are amazingly soft. Not those on his big wings that Dean had lifted earlier. Those were more like metal to the touch - if metal had a lovechild with silk, that is. But these inner feathers of the smallest wings are softer than a kitten’s fur and feel warm by the base. Honestly, Michael’s wings are downright gorgeous. A dark midnight blue that within the shaded parts seem to swallow up light to create an illusion of depth like the night sky, while the gold speckles on them instead reflect the light like little stars. The longer Dean had worked on getting the wing clean, the higher Michael has raised his other wings. Occasionally the wings tremble or feathers puff up to smooth down again. Dean’s almost finished with one wing, running his hand along the wrist of the wing, purring on the inside because it feels frigging good. “Damn, those are some kick-ass muscles you’ve got there,” he mutters.

“Comes with flying,” Michael chokes out, He isn’t looking so well.

“Yeah, I get that. Hey, are you okay? You look a little overheated. We can dose the fires if you want. I can put on warmer clothes.”

“Yeah, Michael. Are you feeling a bit hot?” Lucifer teases and sniggers.

Michael sends his brother a stern glare before answering. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“Alright. This side’s done.” Dean takes a step to the side to do the other one.

Michael pulls his wing away. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

Dean scoffs. “Really?” He darts his hand out to quickly yank a little twig out of Michael’s wing―making Michael flinch―and holds it up in front of the prince. “Thorns, Michael.”

“Yeah, Michael. Thorns. Let your brother-in-law take care of you. We’re family, after all?” Lucifer says with the vicious kind of glee reserved for brotherly teasing. “He seems good with his hands.”

“Damn straight, I am,” Dean agrees with a suspicious look at Lucifer.

“Isn’t he making this counsel a lot more pleasurable for you, Michael?” Lucifer teases, keeping eye contact with Michael. There’s something wrong about how funny Lucifer seems to think this is. “And it helps the good king concentrate so much better. Why would you deny him that? He’s nice. Isn’t it nice, Michael?” Yep. Definitely wrong. With how often he repeats his brother’s name, he’s obviously being mocking. Maybe he doesn’t think a mere human knows how to do this? Well, fuck him.

If looks could kill, Lucifer would be a dead bird. Michael’s eyes are nearly black, his face red, and his wings extend outward in an agitated manner. Suddenly, Dean’s pushed back against the table. Michael steps in close, snapping all his wings but the last inner wing shut tight and holds the remaining wing towards Dean. He’s way too close. Like, ‘Woah there, buddy. Back up.’ But then Michael turns his head towards Dean with a friendly smile, close enough to kiss. (A thought Dean certainly didn’t have, thank you very much.) “I’m sorry. You’re right. Please, go ahead.” Michael then takes a burr from the table and places on the map. “So if we presume that the Leviathans have managed to get a secret stronghold here…” he says and proceeds to lay out a scenario using the burrs and twigs while appearing to be completely oblivious to how badly he’s overstepping boundaries by nearly being chest to chest with Dean.

Hell, the fucker smells good.

Fuck, this is awkward.

Doesn’t he get how indecent this is?

Shit, but Dean really doesn’t need to have bird-related boner thoughts about Adam’s husband.

But what’s he gonna do?

Call Michael out on it?

It’d embarrass the hell out of the crown prince and they do not need anymore strain between their two nations than they already have.

Besides, Michael would probably take offense if he understood that Dean found this sexy as hell.

Yeah, no. Better to just play along and pretend that everything is as it should be.

Dean reaches out and starts removing the last twigs and burrs with gentle fingers, smoothing feathers into place (enjoying the softness and warmth), deftly massaging the wing-wrist while adding his two cents to the discussion…

“Captain!”

Sasha turns around to see the two Caelum princes coming towards him. He snaps to attention. “Yes, Your Highness?”

The crown prince comes to stand in front of him, his younger brother sauntering after him and stopping a step behind. “Your name is Aleksandr Chaadayev, and your men call you Sasha, is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“So, Sasha, about what you saw…”

“I saw nothing, Your Highness. I certainly didn’t see my king make a well-intentioned, ignorant blunder. I didn’t see him spend a whole counsel cluelessly touching the erogenous zones of another country's royalty. It would have been very awkward for everyone involved, but since it didn’t happen…”

Crown prince Michael’s wings sag a little in relief while the rest of him remain poised. “Very good. Then we understand each other, Captain. As you were.”

Sasha bows then turns to walk away. When he throws a quick glance over his shoulder Michael’s pulling his younger brother into a chamber, lips interlocked. Another thing that Sasha, naturally, ‘doesn’t see’.

He doesn’t walk far before he hears “Captain Aleksandr!” behind him.

He turns to face the king and bows his head respectfully. “My Liege.”

King Dean comes to stand before him. “Hey, about what you saw…”

“I saw nothing, Your Majesty. I definitely didn’t see the crown prince of Caelum make unwitting advances towards the Monarch of another country, one that happens to be his brother-in-law to boot. It would have been very awkward for everyone involved, but since it didn’t happen…” He lets his sentence linger to make his point.

King Dean scrutinizes him for a beat then looks like he’s trying not to sag with relief. “Good. Great. Let’s keep it that way, okay?”

“Of course, My Liege.”

“Alright. Carry on.”

Sasha bows and turns to walk towards his quarters again. He’s been relieved from his shift and has a couple of hours to catch up on sleep. He wonders why he always ends up here. All he wants is to fight on the frontline, yet for some reason he’s always singled out to work closely to royalty. It’s happened in every country he’s ever served in. He fears that one day, somebody’s going to figure out how old he really is, and how closely he’s worked with the royal families he’s served. That day he’ll be in trouble. That’s why he never sees or hears anything. He’s a master of lies and deception purely as a self-defense. If they could just leave him be and let him serve with sword―(knife, bow, poison, you name it)―in hand to quench the predatory hunger in him, he’ll stay to his dying day if he has one. He’s starting to feel his age. He wouldn’t mind finding a forever home instead of chasing wars like a crow wanting to feast on a battlefield.

For now, he’ll be content to catch a few hours of shut-eye. But the first thing he’s going to do when he gets to his small, private quarters, is bury his head into his pillow and have a laughing fit from the amusement over the blissfully ignorant behaviour he just ‘didn’t’ witness…