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noisyquokka · 1 year ago

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The In-Betweens

PAIRING - Minho x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS - After a year of cat and mouse, Minho realizes his mistake too late. Will he be able to convince you that he's invested in something more?

WORDCOUNT - 7.7k

WARNINGS - Angst, hurt/comfort, some fluff, a lil suggestive, miscommunication, One Night Stand turns to No Strings Attached turns to Fear of Commitment, Minho is bad with serious romantic relationships, emotional-support Soonie (it's a warning in its own right, thank you very much!)

A/N - It's been a while friends, but I'm back...? And I'm bringing the angst train with me! I've written a lot (and I mean A LOT!) of fluffy, happy, cute shit over the years of having this Tumblr, and I've been absolutely hankering for some good angst because I'm a little masochist who loves ripping my own heart out and splattering it onto concrete. So without further ado…

The 8th floor apartment is deathly silent for being situated in the heart of Seoul, Minho thinks. Or perhaps it's the indisputable ringing in his ears that scrambles his senses. He shoulders the front door closed, leaning back into it once the mechanism latches as tired optics scan the dimly lit space.

The apartment sat the same as it always had at this hour - shadows crawling up beige walls, reaching toward the empty sofa that Minho swore he would replace at some point. The damn thing is about as comfortable as a cardboard box.

Still, Minho found himself stalking towards the godforsaken thing, tossing his jacket over the back as he crashed against the back of the couch like a crumbling building. An exasperated grunt leaves his lungs, muscle and bones sinking into the weaved cushions like soil reclaiming his remains.

Gone.

The apartment was so quiet because you were gone. No longer a home as he had began to think every time he walked in to see your shoes by the door, or a spare toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet next to his. You weren't humming along to the playlist you'd put on whilst making dinner for the two of you. Because you left. Brown eyes close at the realization. Not that Minho had to realize it, no. It was merely a reminder along with the white-noise that whirred within his eardrums as he stumbled closer and closer to his apartment door every night.

The whirring in his ears stopped only at the weight of a furry shadow against his calf and then his chest. Brown optics met green feline ones as Soonie hopped onto the couch beside his caretaker. Minho visibly relaxed at the cat's presence, deft fingers conforming to orange tabby fur. Content purrs vibrated through one being into the other, melding the two souls into one.

"Soonie..." He breathes, melting even further into the couch as Soonie nuzzles his head against Minho's jaw, white-socked paws kneading softly into his clothed chest. "I fucked up, didn't I?"

The question was more rhetorical than anything. Of course, you fucked up, dumbass! You led them on for months. It was stupid of him to think that you would stick around after months of the push and pull. To be frank, Minho didn't expect this fling to last as long as it did - nevermind evolve into more.

What could he say?

He began to enjoy your company a little more than he anticipated. Those moments with you were ingrained in every wrinkle of his brain, more than half of them in this very apartment. Hell, you had never moved in with him, but the amount of time you spent here made it seem as such. Along with the amount of personal belongings that slowly accumulated. He remembers the night he'd teased you about it.

"Not even three months and you're already moving in?" His breath tickles the skin at the back of your neck, chills raising over the exposed flesh as he presses a chaste kiss there. You shudder at the contact, attempting to keep your focus on the eggs currently sizzling over the stove top. The Seoul skyline burns with the start of a new day, casting a persimmon glow through the apartment.

"Mm, I wouldn't consider a toothbrush and a few clothes 'moving in', Minho." You counter, reaching down for the arm that rests over your waist, holding you against him. "Offer's tempting though. Your shower's a hell of a lot better than mine."

Lips twitch at your comment, a faux smirk that chokes him out.

What the fuck...

You had stayed the night again - the fifteenth time in a row now, Minho notes. Not that it bothered him; having a warm body to lie with in place of cold sheets. It had the muscle in his chest working overtime, pumping blood to every last inch of his being, washing over him like a drug.

That was what bothered him.

Before you get a chance to turn around, nimble fingers reach for the spatula in your grip, a murmur of, "I got it". A sly grin. That arm around your waist leaves you as the man's attention is taken up with finishing breakfast.

The usual sounds of the kitchen take over - the sizzling skillet, dishes and utensils clinking, low-fi thumping through the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen island. Feline trills are a welcome sound as you pull the dishes out of the overhead cupboard. Orange cream hops onto the kitchen counter and nuzzles against your torso in greeting. You glance down to meet sea glass and twitching whiskers.

"Morning, handsome." You coo, fingers carding through the short hairs atop his head. Soonie meows in response, stretching his neck into your palm as you massage his cranium in circular motions. He purrs at the contact, completely mesmerized by your magic fingers. Minho catches the interaction from the corner of his eye, lips pulling back in a grin.

You hum to yourself as you continue - one hand petting the greedy feline, the other pulling the dishes needed from the cupboard - and Minho can't help his gaze from straying to the source of the sound.

Fucking stunning, he thinks to himself, spatula resting against the edge of the pan. Sun-kissed legs sway along with your hips as you get lost in the beat of the seemingly endless playlist.

And he gets lost in you.

He swallows as his gaze travels upwards. The shirt that covered your shoulders had belonged to him at one point, baggy and loosely hanging low enough to hide the expanse of your thighs. Were you even wearing shorts? He couldn't recall if they were still strewn somewhere in the hallway with the rest of your discarded garments from the night prior. No matter, it seemed you'd staked your claim to his clothes like Soonie claims the warm, sunny spot near the window in the living room. Even farther, and Minho finds himself at your neck and jaw - the flesh there peppered in deep hues of red and purple. A temporary claim of his own. He grins at the thought -

"-Minho!"

"Ah, fuck!"

You're beside him in an instant, turning the burner off and rushing the skillet to the sink. Cold water douses raging heat, burnt eggs slipping over the edge of the pan into the sink along with bits of melted plastic. You sigh, leaning against the marbled countertop. You feel Minho's presence over your shoulder, a sigh of his own leaving him. A quiet moment passes, save for the fading sounds of the cooling pan hissing.

"When you said you had it, I sure as hell didn't expect you to mean you were cooking the spatula." You chide, turning to face him. He chuffs at your comment, eyebrows raising as the space between the two of you dwindles to none.

"I'll have you know that you are the worst distraction this side of interstellar space."

'Fuck, did I just say that? Out loud?' Minho swears his head is spinning, the scent from your body wash egging it on in the close proximity.

Your gaze narrows on him and you tilt your head, instinctually wrapping your arms around his neck. Pulling him impossibly closer. Contact that has the man inwardly keening. Like fucking magic, you were.

"Oh, so I'm the problem, huh?" You say, mock disbelief laced in your tone. Your ability to keep the energy playful was godly, even as Minho felt the snare tighten around his neck. You don't seem to notice though, and he keeps up with your banter ten-fold, warm hands settling on your waist. The fabric of your shirt bunches in his grip.

"The biggest problem, baby," He mutters, leaning so close that his breath fans over your lips. His grip on you is firm, one hand traveling up the side of your body until it finds a home at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He feels your pulse sing beneath the skin. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were distracting me on purpose."

He watches you roll your eyes, even as you lean into that touch, a hint of a grin on your lips. Heat floods the back of his neck when you run your fingers through the dark tresses of hair that reside there. Minho catches the groan in the back of his throat.

"Are you sure you're not just... terrible at focusing?" You prod, smoothing down the wrinkles in his t-shirt before your eyes lock with his again. There's a spark in yours - notes of collected mischief that only you could hold for the man in front of you.

"I am more than capable of focusing," He says, but as large hands squeeze the flesh at your waist, you read his actions well enough.

His hand on your neck moves north, capturing your chin in his fingertips to angle your head upward. Brown optics bore into yours, flitting down to bitten lips, long fingers smoothing the skin with delicate strokes. Then, he's leaning down, and you barely have time to react to the all-encompassing feeling of his mouth on yours.

He's already deepening the kiss, a rumble within his ribs that sounds like the purring of a cat at the sensation of your nails embedding themselves in the back of his head, teeth grazing the plush of his bottom lip. He revels in the sound that leaves your chest - something between a groan and a sigh. Minho feels himself crashing, the floor beneath him shaky as if a sinkhole is ready to give way.

This feels too domestic.

Too real.

His lungs shrivel in his chest, heart thundering behind its marrow cage with a vengeance. Buried six feet below the surface, alive and struggling to survive long enough to dig himself out. But you've got him ensnared - every time he attempts his escape, you're pulling that cord tighter - like a raptor struggling to break the net caught around its wings. The feeling akin to... anxiety, was it? He needs out and you're not allowing it.

Minho feels you pull back before he has the chance, heads in a collective haze as you laugh breathily. Foreheads connect, a semblance of comfort for the man; grounding him to the present moment. The apartment is quiet again, aside from two erratic hearts beating and a feline purring somewhere. Finally, you speak up - whispered words kissing his cheeks.

"Got any baking soda?"

Those brown eyes blink open at your question, brows creasing against your forehead.

"For?"

"Saving your skillet."

He chuckles, velvet and silk bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, and you can't help how much you love the sound.

"Bottom cabinet next to the fridge. Middle shelf."

Minho thinks that your smile never looks as genuine as when you direct it at him. So much authenticity from one individual... for one individual. Was that even possible?

The cabinet door shuts with a thud, bringing him back to you and the current mess. You work like a well-oiled machine - pulling the handle of what was once the plastic spatula out of the pan, emptying the soggy eggs and water. Minho watched from over your shoulder as you filled the pan just enough to cover the melted plastic and mixed in the right amount of baking soda before placing the pan back on the stove. In reality, you didn't need to do this. Minho would buy a new one if he had to. But you were so quick to fix the mess he'd made, he didn't even bother telling you to stop.

"There! Once it starts to simmer," You clasp your hands together, turning away from the active burner with a look of pride, "the plastic should come up and your skillet will be saved."

The kitchen stared back at him, shrouded in a void. Even without the lights on, Minho could see the demons in the deepest shadows, phantoms that swirled and floated over the space like lions hiding in tall savannah grasses, surveying. Sizing up potential prey.

And Minho was the prime rib of a wildebeest grazing away from its herd, none the wiser to the salivating maws camouflaged in the desert brush.

He spots that same skillet on the stovetop - melted plastic a distant memory as you did, indeed, save it. Now, he wishes he'd bought a new one.

You and Minho had agreed to keep this fling 'no strings attached' from the beginning. And while you had agreed, he couldn't help but notice the difference in your behaviour as the weeks progressed to months. Perhaps you had just gotten more comfortable with him. Let your walls fall the more you got to know him. All Minho knew was that the way you treated him made his chest fuzzy, like carbonation rising to the top of a just-opened soda can.

The first time he'd felt that was five months in - a simple text message...

'Can we talk?'

In any other circumstance, Minho would've been unbothered by those three words. Can we talk. It was what you'd expect from your spouse when things weren't going too hot, or an ex wanting to explain themselves, wanting another chance. Someone who wanted to end things. His heart had never tightened in his chest like it had that evening.

He wondered if he had done something to offend you. Expected you to tell him things weren't working for you and this whole fling was over and done. In the anxiety of it all, he still managed a calm reply of, 'Yeah. Whenever you're ready.'

The reality was that you just needed an outlet to rant about the shit day you'd had at work. Something about your supervisor expecting more from you than the rest of the team you were working alongside. Minho barely comprehended what you were upset about, too enthralled by the searing embers in your eyes through the video call and the passion in your chest as you spoke about the job that you loved and the people that made it less enjoyable for you. If anyone would have walked into his apartment and saw him, they would've thought he was talking with his spouse. The man held nothing but admiration and respect in his eyes for the person on the other end of the call.

He'd only realized how little he'd been listening when you huffed in exhaustion, heavy palms pressing into sleep-ridden optics.

"Alright, alright, I'm done ranting for tonight." You'd mumbled, lips twitching into a shy smile. You were never shy with him, what with the way your first meeting ended with the both of you in his bed. And yet you sat in your room, picking at the skin of your cuticles and tried your darndest to evade those brown eyes like a child being scolded by an adult. You had just unloaded about something that didn't even pertain to the guy, never mind your relationship with him.

He probably doesn't even care. Why did I text him, of all people?

"For tonight?" Dark brows shot up in amusement, a smirk slashing his lips. "So I should expect another call tomorrow?"

"N-no! That's not what I meant, Minho."

He watched on as you fidgeted with the charging cable that had been connected to your phone, still avoiding his gaze. You had been frazzled, but Minho's teasing had twisted the frayed wires that made up your nerves and grounded you a bit; he could tell. Finally, your gaze slipped from the oh-so-fascinating charging cable and back to him. Somewhere in Minho's foggy mind, letters subconsciously swirled into syllables - and syllables into words - until a full phrase was crafted. Sitting there in a ribcage that fluttered with butterflies. Longing eyes stared at one another through a screen, two people separated by a few city blocks. The phrase weaved through glass and pixels - every molecule that inevitably made up a sentence slithered up vocal chords only to get snuffed out in the last second once you spoke up.

"Thank you."

Minho's ears had twitched at those words, the genuine whole-heartedness in your tone. It had just about bowled him over. He recovered, though; back to his playful and teasing self. A simple jerk of the shoulder.

"It's no problem."

The connection had gone dead for a moment, your smile frozen in a fraction of time even as your voice rolled through the speaker again.

"I'm being genuine, you know." The connection returns and Minho remembers to breathe. "All teasing aside, I don't normally rant about my frustrations to my hookups..."

"Well, I'm happy to help you release your frustrations in more ways than one."

"Aaand I'm hanging up!"

He had to chuckle at the memory, even as the demons on his shoulders cackle like jesters. Something shifted that night. Minho didn't know exactly what that shift meant for his relationship with you, but he felt it in every interaction from that moment on. He still feels it now as the blue light of his phone glares back at him. His thumb scrolls aimlessly through his social feed, posts and photos flying by in a blink.

It's not the distraction he was hoping for. The search bar at the top of the screen beckons him; just one tap of the finger, and their profile is at the top of your history. It has the muscles in his hand twitching.

With a few swipes, all background apps are closed and the phone is put to sleep. He shoves the device away with a heaving sigh. Things were going... good?

Weren't they?

This was what he had wanted, right?

It was a fling. No strings to complicate it. Just a way to pass time. To not be alone.

Shaky hands press into distressed denim, nails tearing the fibers apart as he wracks his brain. He digs deeper and deeper, excavating the mountainous terrain of thoughts and memories that he's had over the past year with you. Evidence that one could hold against him if he denied his feelings. Feelings were dangerous.

We weren't lovers. We were just two strangers wanting to fill spare time in our lives.

If the worst lies can torch the soul, Minho was a living effigy; burning alive with each lie he tells himself, affirmations to rewire the way he thinks about you. It's the homecoming to Hell and he'll be lucky to walk away from such torment. Demons get off on torment, after all.

You never thought you'd get attached, did you?

His shoulders set, muscles beneath the skin knotted with tension. The ringing swallows his hearing again. Soonie can't calm the death rattle this time, as much as he tries to.

His excavating turns impulsive and desperate; the metaphorical rocks, mud, and clay displaced from the caverns ceilings, only to crush him under its weight. The earth shifts as he attempts his escape, but he's only digging himself a deeper grave. He's fucking helpless. And yet, through the haze, he spots the ray of light that promises comfort and release.

A tear tracks down his cheek as he reaches for the discarded phone once more. Deft fingers navigate back to the homepage of his socials. One tap of the search bar. Another tap on the first profile in his search history.

And there you were to save him, digging through the mass of soil like a trained canine successfully sniffing out the soul trapped under the rubble.

Your profile was a mix of your favored things and selfies. Minho had found himself checking your posts when he was bored, unbeknownst to you since neither of you followed one another. He found your posts to be interesting at first. Didn't take long for periodic profile peeks to turn into subconscious ones.

You had him before his mind could even attempt to intervene with what his heart wanted.

Truth's pain can never be outrun, but Minho was stubborn enough to try. He'd run himself into the ground instead, assisted in sparking the flames that engulfed your relationship. Fractions of the argument he'd started echo in his head. Words he could never take back.

"What, you thought just because we spent more time together these past few months that I'm suddenly obsessed with you? That all this bonding and bearing souls is gonna end in some fucking fairytale ending for the both of us?"

Your eyes widened, the sudden change in his demeanor made your head spin. The two of you had gone out to the movies tonight, even spent some time at a nearby arcade afterward. Everything was going so well, until it wasn't...

You didn't expect your teasing joke about having a "date night" to so catastrophically backfire.

"Where's all this coming from, Minho?"

For the first time since you met, you swore the person talking was an imposter. The words that spilled from his lips seemed to flow so easily for him. You hated it. Minho's gaze darkened, shoulders wound tight in a way that sent up a flag of caution in your mind. It had you so confused that you didn't even realize the snake coiled in the grass.

"You knew what you were getting into." His voice is unnervingly low, fists clenched so tight you swear they crack under the pressure. "This was nothing more than a fling. It's not my fault that you can't control your feelings."

Your gaze hardened. The air between you had shifted; it's charged. Tense. He's standing so close to you and yet a concrete wall separates the two of you for miles. Your eyes find his and you can't recover. Those same eyes that had become a safe haven for you - warm and teasing and always inviting - were now pools of stagnant muddy water. The viper grows restless the longer you stare, baring fangs in a show of agitation. You shake your head.

"Well fuck, tell me how you really feel. Please."

You hated that your voice cracked.

Minho hated that your voice cracked.

His chest strained with every word from you, ensnared by glassy eyes and the attempt at sarcasm. Still, the emotions flowed from you like a broken dam. It came to you so easily; expressing emotions. Minho loved that about you. And he hated that he loved it. The man sees red because of it.

"This was a mistake. I knew it from the moment we agreed to this."

"Then why bother wasting all this time on me, huh?" Your quick response only fuels his frustration, but you don't notice. "We've been at this for a whole year, and now you're trying to tell me this has been nothing but a-"

"You really think I enjoy spending all my time with someone so fucking needy?" The venom drips from the viper's fangs as it strikes, piercing the muscle deep within your chest. His words reverberate through the kitchen as he unloads his frustrations on you. A flash of orange and white zips past the kitchen entrance, searching for comfort deeper in the apartment. Somewhere deep in Minho's psyche, the rational little guy is attempting damage control, to no avail. The man is wound so tightly that words fly with no filter. Venom floods your veins.

You're nothing more than a fling.

Just like every other person before you.

You stand there, waiting for him to come down from his epic high. You didn't know where this had came from, considering everything seemed fine between you two since the beginning. Perhaps it was a lapse of judgement on your part. Even so, you didn't deserve the modest amount of insults and hurtful words that he threw at you.

Once he's done, you wait with baited breath and a maimed soul. The apartment is deathly silent aside from the rasped breathing and shuffling of pacing feet. Slender fingers run rampant through dark locks. When Minho turns around to face you, you finally speak; voice as calm and steady as you can muster.

"Are you done?"

You hadn't looked away in the past three minutes since he'd began tearing into you. You couldn't allow yourself to. You had yet to say anything in this exchange that you would regret. As much as he had hurt you, you couldn't allow yourself to hurt him back. Shots had been fired and you had taken every last bullet, felt it tear and burn the chasms of your soul like acid.

Minho breaks first. Dark optics shut, accompanied by a heaving sigh that shrivels his lungs. The guilt hits like a freight train, metal slamming into his chest repeatedly. But he doesn't get ample time to recover from it because you're moving in his peripheral. He watches you reach for your belongings on the kitchen counter - phone, bag, earbuds. You reach for the jacket you'd brought along. The night had been going so well.

It wasn't supposed to end like this...

You shrug the piece on with a heavy heart, the fleece cloaking you in a warmth you know you won't find in this place any longer. Minho stands there wracking his brain for the apology he's searching for. God, he fucking despises himself.

"You know, all I needed to hear was that this wasn't working for you anymore. I would've just left it as it is." Your voice was as steady as before. Soft. Even. A whisper through the trees. Minho swears you have more to say, a pause that has your throat visibly taught. If you did, you shoved it down, turning towards the door where your shoes sit in waiting. They slip on easily, bringing you one step closer to what Minho is dreading.

But how could he expect anything less after everything he'd said?

You turn to face him for the last time, searching voided optics for any semblance of guilt or regret from the past fifteen minutes of back and forth. But even as Minho's dealing with his internal battles, his expression on his face is one of stoicism. You couldn't read him.

Fingers grasp the door handle, subconsciously tightening around brass. You take in the apartment for the last time, tongue darting out to wet dry lips before you find his shadow again. The door opens with a subtle click and your brows crease. You can't bring yourself to say a goodbye. It's not what you want, after all. So you settle on the current thought that stabs at your skull.

"Mixed signals aren't as sexy as you might think." Your eyes pierce through him, a fire extinguished as you make your leave.

The door closes behind you with a thud. A gunshot, Minho believes. Because as much as you had tried not to hurt him, your attempts were futile.

His soul bleeds out on the kitchen floor.

How foolish one could be.

Minho knew there was some truth to his words that night. He knew he would probably break your heart at the end of it all, mostly on account of his shitty communication when he felt it was time to quit an arrangement. But then again, he'd never dealt with feelings like this before. Never had to fight with himself over whether or not the spike in his pulse was just a mish-mash of lust and desire, or an all-encompassing love that set his heart aflutter.

And then there you were.

With your domestic affections and your heart-shuttering behaviour. How the fuck could he think over anything when you were around? He may as well cease to exist.

Brown optics rove over the latest post on your profile, a photo that he had taken during one of your many "dates" together. A weekend trip that Minho had mentioned to you on a whim after you'd had a particularly shitty week of work. He had planned everything out, much to your surprise, but you couldn't have asked for a better weekend. You'd spent all night talking about anything and everything during the train ride, and while Minho wouldn't have chosen the night train in any other circumstance, he knew that he'd enjoy it with you. Even if you had fallen asleep, having you there would've been enough. You had arrived at Jeongdongjin station and made it to the coast just in time to experience the ocean waking in tandem with the sun. You hadn't noticed at the time, but Minho had pulled his phone out and captured the fleeting moment with the press of a button. He had never confessed that you had been the main focus of the photo.

The entirety of that weekend had chewed your relationship up and spit it out somewhere in between for Minho.

Somewhere in between nails tearing bed sheets and plush lips pressing against knuckles. Borrowing old T-shirts and sharing breakfast in bed. Somewhere in between two strangers giving in to their carnal desires and a thick band of silver sitting pretty in a velvet box, weighing heavy in one's front pocket. A much needed weekend getaway spelled more questions than answers that only brought on more conflicts between head and heart.

Only now, he realizes that's exactly what he needed.

The time on his phone reads 9:57 PM. Minho's fingers curl gently through Soonie's fur as he thinks over his options.

Drowning in his guilt sounds fitting, maybe a bit unhealthy. But he's fought his heart tooth-and-nail for the past few months. And it's gotten him a front row seat to his own self-destruction. Nowhere good, that's for certain!

Minho zeros in on the apartment door with a burning in his gut and a newfound determination. Feline eyes track the shape of his caretaker, hardwood creaking with each hurried step. The door shuts with a resounding thud.

The apartment is quiet until a quiet chirrup! leaves Soonie's throat. Tabby fur preens as pink toe beans reach forward in a big stretch, tail high and nails protracting with a lazy abandon. A moment passes - tail twitches, a yawn presenting little white fangs, a pink tongue wetting whiskers - before he hops off the sofa and makes the long journey to his human's bedroom. Green eyes survey the room upon entering.

A pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, Minho's no doubt from the scent. Soonie knows his human hasn't been doing too well. He can sense the inner turmoil every morning when he wakes up, every evening when he comes home. And as much as he tries to comfort him, Soonie knows he can only bring so much relief.

Whiskers twitch at the familiar scent he's searching for, padding through the bedroom towards the bathroom. A hoodie lays in the doorway, hiding a few other garments beneath. Your clothes. Left behind like most of your belongings that night. He greets the fabric with short trills and soft sea glass; a sort of joyful hello, I've missed you to a long-lost friend. He analyzes the heap before making the executive decision of curling up in it.

Minutes pass, a city muted by glass barriers. Green eyes close. A deep sigh is released.

The feline settles in for a cat nap.

ᓚᘏᗢ~~~ᓚᘏᗢ~~~ᓚᘏᗢ~~~ᓚᘏᗢ~~~ᓚᘏᗢ~~~ᓚᘏᗢ~~~ᓚᘏᗢ

The city bustles with nightlife, even at 10:26 on a Wednesday. Your feet ache from the busy work day, having been pulled every which way since the start of your shift. Now, all you wished for was to get home and melt beneath a steaming showerhead.

Unfortunately, the promise of a nice shower doesn't hold off the severe storm in your mind that is Lee Minho.

You wish that four weeks of no contact would've been the cure for you, but alas. One year with someone doesn't exactly make it easy to erase them from your memory, fling or not. And right now, you'd give anything for some concoction that would wipe the slate clean. The distance didn't help. It only kept you locked inside your head, Minho's words - the good and the bad - glued to every last nerve ending of your brain.

If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that this illusion that you had manifested was crazy. You and Minho weren't anything beyond two people messing around. You'd fucked around with other people before him without feelings getting involved. But as they say, you can't help who you fall for. The heart wants what it wants. So on and so forth.

You shake your head as you enter the apartment building, keys rattling in your grasp. One of two elevators is waiting patiently for you and you silently thank the elevator Gods for such hospitality. You press the floor to your apartment, stepping back until your back hits the wall. A sigh leaves you, free hand finding purchase at the bridge of your nose. Your fingers press into the corners of tired eyes, encouraging fuzzy stars behind the lids.

Fuck, what a fool you had been.

All this overthinking has you utterly exhausted.

Perhaps Minho was right; you should have hit the brakes, sealed the cap on your own feelings months ago. But then the what ifs invade your rational thoughts. What if this fling would've worked out? What if Minho had felt the same way for you? What if you had moved in after all, and all those lingering glances and teasing banter was more than a lustful attraction?

What if you keep up this stupid fantasy until the band-aids no longer hide the cracks?

The thought stings, like slicing your heart with a serrated blade.

The elevator halts it's journey, pulling you from your intrusive thoughts with a Ding! You make your exit and head down the main hall of the fourth floor. You really need some closure, or a distraction. Maybe both. Both sound good, you think. Or maybe some good ol' reverse psychology.

What's the point of moping about some guy who was only interested in a quick fuck, right?

God, now you're fucking grasping at straws.

All you're realizing is that, lately, your mental hurdles begin and end with Lee Minho. You give up for now, because at this point, there's no winning with your rose-colored glasses on. What you need is a warm shower and a comfort food to go along with a comfort show.

You turn the corner, steps faltering at the familiar shadow standing a few feet down the hall. Your heart strains against your chest.

"Minho."

Your voice knocks him from his stupor, glancing away from the numbers adorning your apartment door to lock eyes with you. He was here, like an answered prayer. Only you crossed that prayer off your list the moment you left him standing in the entrance of his apartment. Lucifer was laughing up at you from the deepest circle of Hell.

You knew that as much as you attempted to hide your feelings for him, Minho could read you like an open book. On the other hand, Minho was a novel of riddles, every sentence more cryptic than the last. You spent the last few months trying your hand at unscrambling the secrets behind his mannerisms, to no avail. The man rode the middle line at all times. And now, you needed to heal the papercuts that littered your heart.

You straighten at the sound of your name falling from his lips.

"I uh - you.. you're home late." His voice wavers, and suddenly the carpet beneath his feet is super interesting. Fingers anxiously rub the nape of his neck. Again, you stand before this man, confusion etching the lines of your forehead.

The Lee Minho you know doesn't act like this. Anxious and fidgeting like a nerved up school boy. He's quite the opposite; bold, confident, if a bit effervescent.

You remember you haven't answered him, blinking back to the present.

"Yeah... double shift."

He nods at your short response. You can't be bothered to mask the exhausted irritation in your tone, too focused on the fact that he's standing here at all. Minho's expression holds something akin to relief, and for a moment you find yourself hoping that it's because of you. You internally slap yourself on the wrist for it.

"You don't usually take doubles."

"Why are we doing this, Minho?" You ask, exasperation heavy in your tone. Keys clatter against bits and bobbles, attached to the keyring that's hooked securely around your index finger. "What are you doing here?"

You're already sick of this forced small talk. Sick of tip-toeing around feelings. You're not sure what Minho's intentions are after weeks of no contact, and frankly, you aren't sure you have the energy to care.

Minho tears his hand from the base of his neck, fingers lacing together at the crown of his skull. The frustration that radiates from him is obvious, even more so when his lips thin into a snarl. You're suddenly wondering if he's here to rip into you again. The fluorescent lights hum a monotonous tune as you stand there watching him shoot daggers at unseen phantoms down the hall. Realization hits then.

"You can't answer that because you don't even know, yourself."

You can't help the mocking chuckle that rumbles through your chest. He walks all this way only to stand here like a cornered feral cat. That's fucking rich!

Minho startles at your shoulder brushing his arm, wide eyes narrowing as you fumble for the key to your apartment. Dark optics burn steady on your back, but you do your best to ignore them. Nickel-plated brass shimmies into the lock, aligning the pins in the mechanism. You turn the key.

"I was right," His voice is permafrost, freezing the muscles and joints of your hand on the door knob like some kind of magic spell, "when I said this thing between us was a mistake."

"Go home, Minho-" Your fingers press against brass, slipping into the entrance with a steeping burn beneath your skin. Minho has lived this scene once. Didn't like the ending the first time. He's the only one who can change it.

Minho feels you pushing away, so he pulls back.

The door stops short of the frame. You look up to find sharp eyes already on you.

"I was right because I knew I would fuck this up with you."

Your body freezes in its place, hips stiff as his words bounce off ringing eardrums. Slim fingers clench against the woodgrain, broad shoulders taking up the sliver of space that's left. Your brows crease above narrowing optics, taking in the enigma of a man before you. There's a cautious plea swimming just beneath dark, tired irises.

Hear me out. Please.

A moment passes of just this; a staring contest between two souls, peeling back epidermis to discover the treasures hidden under it's surface. Down the hall, a door rattles it's frame, slammed shut by the careless and exhausted tenant who resides there. It's a draw, with the both of you blinking simultaneously. Maybe...

When you haven't made a move to close the door, you know your mind is already made up. You release the breath you've been holding. Minho's gaze softens, and although this conversation would be best discussed in private, he doesn't push you to let him in. You're still standoffish, as you should be after the shit he'd said weeks ago. But you pull the door open a bit, allowing him enough space to - at the very least - breech the threshold. He shifts forward, leaning a shoulder against the steel door frame.

"You have every right to slam this door in my face." He says, bores a hole in the damned thing as he speaks. "Hell, I'll even do it for you. I've spent so much time fighting with myself. Telling myself that every stolen glance and lingering touch was part of our arrangement. But then you started to treat this as more than just sex, and I-"

He falters, runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. Fuck, why was this so hard for him? You may have been right; He doesn't know exactly what he wants to say to you. But he's here, and you're willing to listen.

So he's gotta try his hand. Lay all his cards on the table.

"I'm not the guy who settles down. I don't take anyone on dates, or plan trips to de-stress. I spend more money on my cat in a year than anyone else, including myself. And yet, somehow, I've done all of that with you." Minho's eyes glow as he speaks, you swear you spot little embers aflame in gold - A sunrise you've yet to behold. His tone is low, but there's no doubt that he's bearing his heart with every word.

“That trip to Jeongdongjin… I barely remember it because I spent all my time caught up in you. It’s been that way since three months in when I teased you about moving in with me. You’ve had me wrapped around your finger since then, double-knotted for good measure. And that scares the shit out of me! Because I’ve never felt this way with anybody. Like something’s missing when they’re not around.” He shakes his head, as if he's scolding himself. "I said a lot of shit that night that I'm not proud of. Let my own walls cave in on me, and I hurt you in the process. And no amount of sorry could make up for that, I know. But I don't think I could live with myself if I saw you around this city with someone else. And I know you deserve so much more than what I've offered. I don't know how to love someone like that."

The muscle in your chest goes into overdrive as he rambles. You weren't sure what you were expecting when you saw him standing there in the hallway, but you're certain it wasn't this. For a moment, silence fills the space between you two. He sucks down a deep breath, swallows his nerves away.

"But I want to try. With you."

Oh.

You zero in on the man, eyes deadlocked on one another as you process his words. Minho wants to try. And you want nothing more than to accept his proposal as truth. But every neuron in your brain is firing off red flag like a siren. As much as you've fallen, you've also shattered like a box of fine china sitting on the highest shelf - the height too great to salvage such a delicate parcel. The chemistry is - was there. Undeniably. But now?

Part of you wants to slam the door and forget that this conversation, this connection ever happened. The other part of you wants to give him everything. Pull him in and never let go.

Quit entertaining these fantasies!

You shake your head, eyes closing as shaky fingers press against dark lids, attempting to quell the pounding that's settled in your temples. You wish it'd quell your anxiety. Your ringing ears. You sigh, leaning into the width of the door as you let your hands fall to your sides. Minho's gaze is almost thoughtful when you look up; those hidden embers dulled, but still illuminated by the warm glow of the floor lamp in your apartment. He closes the distance by a half-step and your heart rattles in your chest.

But you don't back away.

You don't slam the door in his face.

And when his bold step doesn't get him in trouble, he brings a cautious hand up. It's unlike him to be so slow like his, hovering over you as if you're a wild animal that's in need of rehabilitation and about to bolt. But you're still here, by some miracle, and you allow him into your space. Because in the moments where Minho's emotions seem to break the barrier of cool rationality he's built for himself, you wonder just how deep his feelings for you really run.

He's gonna break your heart into a million little pieces again. Could you really handle that?

The thoughts tumble until he makes contact, drawing you out of your mind and back into the moment. Warmth bleeds into warmth as his fingers press into the skin behind your ear, calloused thumb skating over the expanse of your cheek bone. You wonder what it'd be like to forget such a tender touch. Your hands find Minho's wrists, sliding lower to grip strong forearms as you rest your forehead on the center of his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat is steady and soothing - a lullaby for your tired mind.

There's no mistaking the intimacy in these actions, no longer an exchange of rough leather and torn linen, but of pressed lavender and well-worn journals. It's comfortable. Feels like a safe haven. It drowns out every single worry in your head. Even so...

"I need time..." Your voice is a whisper, laced with an exhaustion that dominates your being.

"Alright."

"I can't just fall back into your arms because you say you want this now. That's not how this works."

You feel his voice rumble in your head; sweet like honey, as intoxicating as wine.

"We can start over."

He pulls away from you, lifting your head up to look you in the eyes.

"Take things slow."

He nods.

"Take things slow... see where this goes."

"But if you ever chew me out like that again, I'm gone."

"Shit, baby, I'll buy you the one way ticket out of Seoul." He says it so seriously, you can't help but laugh. The sound ushers forth galaxies in raw citrine.

You allow yourself to slip into a state of warmth and comfort, your body leaning subconsciously as you bump your forehead with his. Minho's hand slips from your cheek, his fingers splaying at the back of your neck to pull you in until your lips meet. A duet of profound sighs tame rabid nerves. It's slow and delicate, technicolour - Everything you don't expect from him, yet everything you need from him. He takes up your space like he belongs there.

Maybe he does.

You peel back with a soft smile etching your face. When you press yourself further against his chest, he wraps his arms around you in a gentle embrace, fingers running the span of your back in soothing motions. If this is what taking things slow feels like, then it might be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

"It's getting late." He states, catching the time on the wall clock a little ways from the door - 11:03 PM -and you hum, acknowledging the fact even as you stifle a yawn into his jacket. "I should go."

You crane your neck to catch his gaze.

"Stay for tonight?"

You take in the look of shock on his face because, obviously, he doesn't expect you to ask. But he's already here, basking in your beauty and joy and all the things he's missed while he's been distant. It's written all over his face. And if you're honest, the close proximity and your exhaustion are both catching up to you.

Before you can explain yourself further, Minho's hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together and pulling you into the apartment. The door finally shuts.

Minho doesn't quite know how he'll do it, but as long as he's got this chance, he'll gladly spend the rest of his life making it up to you.

Psst!! If you made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my work 💕 I appreciate you!

#stray kids #skz #lee know #stray kids x reader #skz x you #lee minho x reader #skz x reader #lee know x reader #minho x reader #skz lee know #lee know imagines #skz minho #gn reader #x gender neutral reader #quokkawritings🌻

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hearts-hunger · 2 years ago

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Chapter One: A Flash of Steel and Silver {Series Masterlist | Series Playlist ♫}

Series Summary: You've been called the Jewel of the Bay, a lady born and bred in one of the Royal Navy's most profitable ports of call. On a fateful summer night, taken aboard the pirate ship Starcatcher, your world is turned upside down. To survive, you must put your faith in the honor among thieves and learn to trust the devotion of a pirate to his most precious treasure.

Pairings: Jake x Reader, Sam x Danny, Josh x Reader | Chapter Word Count: 4.7k | Warnings: AU-typical violence, harassment, historically accurate misogyny

A/N: My sweethearts! This is my very first time doing an au like this, and I'm very excited to share it with you. I have no concrete plans for this series, and no update schedule - I'm just seeing where the wind takes me on this one. I know it's different from my other fics, but I really hope you like it! ♡

Pirates.

The word alone struck fear into the hearts of the people of Sapphire Bay, sending them inside to lock their doors and close the window shutters with a firm crack. Those devils marked by the branding iron were hated and feared, considered with a mix of awe and horror and morbid curiosity. To meet one meant certain death; for the superstitious, even to speak of one meant the calling down of hell’s rapacious wrath upon the new world’s fragile kingdom of islands. Everywhere, in hushed voices and cautious glances at the western horizon, people dreaded the coming of those demons. Pirates.

You had learned to fear them just as much as anyone, the threat of them always lingering in the back of your mind, but there was an insatiable curiosity that held you captive any time you so much as heard them mentioned. Your late father, the former governor of Sapphire Bay, had spoken of them often; you’d grown up on snatches of conversations heard from the other side of his study door, tales of murder and thievery and drunken escapades, stories of freedom and bravery and adventure.

Those stories had continued to fascinate you even as you became a woman, and you were more interested in them now than you had been as a child. Lucky, then, that you’d been betrothed to Commander Kit Drake of the battleship Black Smoke; his own closed-door conferences about the pirates that roamed the seas provided an endless diversion to your hungry imagination.

Hearing those stories was perhaps the only lucky thing about your betrothal, and you reminded yourself to try and think of other silver linings as your lady’s maid dressed you for dinner at the Commodore’s estate.

“He’ll tell me how beautiful I look,” you said to yourself, touching light fingers to your lightly rouged lips. “Surely he will.”

“Indeed he will, miss,” your lady’s maid said as she styled your hair. “You’ll be the jewel of the bay this evening, all sparkling in the candlelight.”

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Thank you, Tabby. You’re very kind.”

She smiled. “Have you decided what necklace and earrings you’ll be wearing tonight, miss?”

You brushed a hand over your deep blue bodice. “I suppose the sapphires would be best, wouldn’t they?”

“As you say, miss. Commander Drake will surely be pleased to see you wearing his gift.”

Tabby finished your hair, a relatively understated crown of curls, and spangled you with trinkets from your jewelry box that could have fed and housed a family for several months. You touched a hand to the blue gem that rested in a swath of silver, the centerpiece of the heavy necklace that felt more like a collar for a dog than a gift of love from your fiancé.

“There you are, miss,” Tabby said when you were ready. “I’ll tell the footman to bring the carriage ‘round.”

The Commodore’s estate was right on the bay, a sprawling mansion that put even your father’s estate to shame in sheer grandiosity. Several carriages stopped outside the main doors, ladies in fine dresses and men in naval uniform stepping out to join the group that filed into the golden, candlelit hall inside. Your attention was drawn to the sea as you waited, watching the way the moonlight dashed itself to bits across the glittering surface of the water.

“My dear. You finally made it.”

You looked over from the bay to the door of your carriage. “Kit.”

A frown tugged at your fiancé’s expression. “You mustn’t call me that here, dearest, you know that. Commander Drake or ‘sir’ will suffice.”

You flushed, wishing you’d remembered that rule. “Of course, sir.”

You accepted his hand when he offered it to you, and you looked up at him with girlish eagerness to see if he’d comment on your appearance.

“I wore the jewels you gave me at our engagement,” you said quietly.

He gave you a distracted glance. “Oh. Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Do you... do you like them?” you asked, crestfallen.

He breathed a short sigh. “They’re lovely, my dear. Let’s not tarry, shall we? I’m afraid you’ve already made us late.”

He offered his arm, and you hung off of it as a good young lady should. Your head turned back to the sea, just for a moment, and you thought you caught a glimpse of a shooting star reflected on the waves.

“We’ve got to double our presence on the coasts of the southern isles. We’ll rout them simply by being there in force. They wouldn’t dare to try and attack any of the ports there if we made our presence more obvious.”

You took a sip of wine and tried to look bored, knowing that the quickest way to get navy men to stop talking of pirates was for a lady to show an interest in their conversation. If they didn’t consider you too delicate or stupid for that kind of talk, they’d fear for some kind of longing to spark within you, the same kind they allowed to rage unchecked as they sailed on their mighty seafaring vessels.

“No corsair in these waters is a match for any of our fleet,” Kit argued. He gesticulated and narrowly missed your wine glass as you set it down. “I say with conviction, gentlemen, that there is no need to add even a single ship to those we already have out of port.”

“Maybe they’re not a match for your ship, Commander,” said a lady on the opposite end of the table. You glanced over with mild panic, wishing you could tell her merely to listen, but the gentlemen she was interrupting didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ve heard you gentlemen say the Black Smoke is the fastest ship in the Royal Navy,” she said, and there was a flirtatious intonation to her voice that drew the men in like moths to the flame. “However, I’ve also heard it said that there is a pirate galleon in our waters that can match it for speed.”

“Name the ship,” a lieutenant challenged.

The lady smiled. “Starcatcher.”

The name caused a flutter of excitement to stir in your breast. Starcatcher. It certainly sounded like a fast ship, and no vessel in the Royal Navy had such a wonderful name.

“Nonsense,” Kit said, waving her remark aside even as he trained his attention on the coy curve of her mouth. “The Starcatcher is a myth told to frighten new deck hands. No such ship exists.”

“No?” the lady asked with an elegant lift of her brow. “And what of its sister ship, the Indigo Streak? Some men say it can disappear into thin air.”

“Some men are fools,” Kit said, and his smirk betrayed his arrogance. “No doubt you’ve heard these same men claim to have seen the witches that serve as the figureheads of each ship.”

“They’re not witches,” another man protested. “I’ve heard they’re meant to be Nike and Themis, goddesses of victory and justice.”

Kit scoffed. “Victory and justice, indeed. Even if these ships did exist, what victory and justice could be won outside the King’s authority?”

“Pirates don’t consider the King’s authority legitimate, though, do they?”

All gazes swung to you, and you felt a wash of embarrassment follow the heady flush of having impetuously offered your own opinion. Kit’s face went pink with anger.

“What a pirate thinks of the King’s authority means little,” he said sharply. He took your hand under the table and gave it an uncomfortable squeeze, leaning close. “And what a woman thinks of it means even less, my dear, so I suggest you keep such foolish thoughts to yourself.”

He released your hand with disdain, and you shied away from him as far as you could. You understood perfectly well why the lady with the deep red lips was allowed to speak and you were not; her comments were meant to incite men to braggadocio and pride, and yours only called into question their self-assurance. You would not speak merely to stroke a man’s ego, pirate or King’s man or anyone in between; most at the table considered it better, in that event, for you to keep your mouth shut entirely.

You took another long drink of wine and tried to keep your hands from shaking. Of a sudden, everything was overwhelming; the sound of tittering laughter and silver forks against china dishes, the smell of dozens of different perfumes, the heat of the candles that cast flickering beams onto jewels and gold buttons and silver sword handles. You felt pressed in on all sides with an extravagant meal you couldn’t hope to finish in front of you, men to the right and left of you, servants behind you to tend to your every need should you so much as wave an indolent hand.

You took a deep breath, as deep as you could with your stays laced as tightly as they were, and dug into the reserve of feminine gentility and self-control that had been trained into you since birth.

“Commander,” you said quietly, touching your hand to his sleeve. He ignored you, and desperation clawed at you.

“Sir,” you said in a pleading whisper.

With a frustrated huff, he turned away from his companions and met your eyes. “What is it?”

“I beg your pardon,” you said. “I — I suddenly feel quite ill. My head, it’s...”

He snapped his fingers, and a footman came to his side to await his instruction in perfect silence.

“Attend the lady,” he said, gesturing to you with impatience and contempt. “She’s taken ill, apparently.”

The footman bowed his head. “M’lord.” He pulled your chair out and gave you his hand; you took it, offering a feeble excuse to those few who noticed your departure and cared to comment.

“Shall I show you to one of the guest chambers, m’lady?” the footman asked when you were safely outside the dining hall.

You shook your head. “No, thank you. I wonder... could you help me find the gardens? I would be so grateful for a breath of fresh air.”

“Very good, m’lady,” was the man’s response. He escorted you to the gardens. “Shall I ring for a lady’s maid to accompany you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” you said. “Thank you for your help, sir.”

He bowed. “M’lady.”

A bit of the peace you so dearly needed was found out in the garden, and you wandered in the cool darkness of the shrubs and trees blossoming with flowers of every hue. You took a deep breath of the warm night air as you walked over the cobblestones, closing your eyes for a moment to drink in the quiet of birdsong and the ever-present hush of waves upon the shore. You longed to go down to the water, if only for a moment; what relief it would bring to feel the cool waves lapping at your ankles, to feel the salty breeze skim over your cheek with all the tenderness of a lover’s hand. You opened your eyes and felt its dark, silver-scaled presence call you like a mother to a child, begging you to leave the world you knew behind.

“Foolishness,” you whispered, pressing your hand against the merciless shackle of sapphire and silver that hung about your neck. You could never leave. You would be here, always, looking out upon the water, wearing its color on your breast, never quite close enough to touch.

You heard your name called from a direction opposite the ocean. Footsteps sounded behind you, and you did not allow yourself to breathe the sigh that waited ever-ready at your lips.

“I only needed some air, Commander,” you said without turning to him. “I’ll be well enough to join the ladies in the parlor after dinner.”

Without warning, Kit grabbed your wrist in a punishing grip and spun you towards him.

“Turn to me when I call you,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Do not presume to speak to me with an air of indifference.”

Your blood ran cold at the anger in his face. “I didn’t — I wasn’t trying to — ”

“I knew you weren’t ill,” he said, squeezing your wrist tighter. “You left because you wanted to shame me, didn’t you? Or perhaps because you were petulant about my correction?”

“No,” you said weakly, trying to tug your hand from his grip. “Please, Kit, you’re hurting me.”

He took your jaw in his other hand and squeezed it. “I told you not to call me that. Do you mean to respect me at all tonight? Or shall I have to teach you a lesson in obedience?”

You paled. You tried to find your voice to try and calm him, to apologize, but another man’s voice broke in before you could.

“Take your hands off the lady.”

Kit released your jaw, more out of surprise than any desire to obey. You tried to pull out of his grip, but he held fast to your wrist.

“Who spoke?” Kit asked into the darkness of the garden. “Show your face.”

“Take your hands off the lady, as I said,” the man repeated. “I’ve got a pistol aimed straight for your heart, Commander, and I assure I won’t miss.”

Kit’s face flushed an angry red. To your surprise and relief, he let you go, and you put a few steps of distance between you.

“How dare you speak to me in such a way?” Kit thundered. “I demand that you to come into the light and show yourself.”

No sooner had he spoken than a man sauntered out of the shadows of a copse of palm trees, a flintlock pistol held in an almost lazy manner in Kit’s direction. The hilt of a cutlass on his hip caught the light of the moon.

“You demand it, aye?” the man asked. His long hair was dark, his frame lean and hard-muscled; he was practically indecent, his cotton shirt unbuttoned to reveal a collection of necklaces that rested against his tanned chest. You blushed and averted your eyes when he looked at you.

“Makes you wonder,” he continued conversationally, turning his attention back to your fiancé. “Perhaps your King ought to call you Demander rather than Commander.”

Kit put his hand to the hilt of his saber. “What are you, boy?” he said derisively. “Beggar? Thief? Be on your way before I arrest you for harassing an officer.”

The man’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile as he returned his pistol to its holster at his waist.

“Go ahead, Commander. Though I doubt if you’ll find there’s any jailhouse to throw me in by the time you do.”

Kit looked the man over in confusion and absolute fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but an explosion from the outskirts of town effectively cut across him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Kit raged. He looked to see the billow of smoke from the direction of the jailhouse, then whipped his head back to look at the man.

“You’re a fool to attempt a prison break,” he said. “There’s plenty of brigs in the fleet to throw you and your worthless comrades in once we collect all of you.”

Kit drew his sword, and the man had drawn his and disarmed Kit in a flash of steel and silver quicker than you could see it. Kit’s sword clattered across the cobblestones and skidded to a halt at the man’s feet.

“I’d be careful who you draw your sword against tonight, Commander,” the man said. He kicked the saber back towards Kit. “You won’t find my men as forgiving as I am.”

“Your men?” Kit blustered, shame and fury mottling his face. “Who the devil do you think you are?”

A cocky smile lit the man’s face, and you found it somewhat maddening and almost alluring. Confidence radiated from him like warmth from the sun, and you watched in fascination as he took a step closer to Kit.

“You don’t know me?” he asked. He lifted his sleeve; just above the white bracelet he wore was the scarred mark of a pirate.

“You gave me this, Commander Drake,” the man said. “Though I suppose you were only a lieutenant back then, weren’t you?”

“Scum,” Kit spat. “I should have known. I’ve branded enough of your kind that you all run together into one wretched mass.”

“I see,” the man said. He sheathed his cutlass again even as Kit bent to retrieve his, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of a duel. He tilted his head towards the Commodore’s house.

“In that case,” he said airily, “I’d love to be the one to tell you that the wretched mass is running together in your Commodore’s estate as we speak. Taking your jewels, your gold, your spit-polished swords that have yet to taste blood. It’s only a matter of time before they interrupt your little dinner party, I fear.”

As if on cue, pandemonium erupted from inside the house. Doors burst open, sending a flood of screaming party guests outside with pirates right on their heels, each of them armed to the teeth and crowing with delight.

“Filthy pirate!” Kit howled. “I’ll have you and every one of your men hanged for this!”

“Oh, Commander,” the man said with a winning smile. “You’ll make me blush with that kind of talk.”

Bang. A bullet whipped past the three of you, slamming into the trunk of a palm tree and sending out a shower of splintered wood. You flinched and raised your arms to shield yourself.

“Aye, watch yourself,” the pirate called to whoever had fired. He sounded only mildly annoyed rather than fearful for his life, and you wondered if it was bravery or stupidity that made him so calm.

Suddenly, Kit grabbed your arm and snatched you close to him. For the second time that night, he held you in an iron grip, and there was little you could do to fight him off.

“You’ll tell your men to let me go,” Kit said, panic crawling into his voice. “You’ll order them not to shoot me, because if they do, they’ll hurt the lady.”

You startled at the knowledge that your fiancé was using you as a human shield, offering you as a bargaining chip to a pirate. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held you fast.

The pirate scowled. “Coward,” he spat. “What sort of man are you, Commander?”

“One not condemned to death,” Kit said, a maniacal glee in his voice. “Not tonight.”

He started to drag you with him as he made his way out of the garden, heading with slow steps towards the docks rather than the house where screams and gunfire still rang through the air. You kicked and clawed, begging him to let you go, terrified that a bullet meant for him would kill you too.

“Let me go, Kit!” you pleaded, tears streaming down your cheeks. “You worthless coward, let me go!”

“Silence yourself!” he hissed in your ear. “Once we’re well away from this, we’ll both be safe.”

He clapped a hand over your mouth, and it only made your panic and anger worse. You had to get free of him — he was squeezing you so tightly, you couldn’t breathe —

In a last, desperate attempt at freedom, you bit down, hard, on the soft junction between his thumb and first finger. He bellowed in pain and released you.

“Bitch!” he howled, backhanding you across the face. The force of it made you dizzy, and his signet ring cut your cheek; you stumbled backwards, falling in a tangle of blue skirts to the unforgiving stone walkway.

“Right, that’s it.”

You heard the pirate’s voice as if from somewhere far away. You looked up with a bleary gaze; he stood next to you, his pistol held aloft and pointed right at Kit.

“No!” you shrieked.

You grabbed at his leg to try and stop him, somehow, blind devotion for Kit urging your forward. The pirate didn’t even seem to notice you, and your whole body flinched at the sound of gunfire. You squeezed your eyes shut even as sobs wracked your body.

“Come on, lass.”

You felt the pirate's callused hands reach to help you up, and you reacted in terror-stricken instinct.

“Don’t hurt me!” you begged, trying to get out of his reach, woozy with fear and pain. “Please, don’t hurt me. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone you killed him, I promise.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he said harshly. “Quit fighting, lass. I won’t hurt you, but you have to come with me.”

You looked up at him, and his face was blurry through your tears. “But you’re a pirate.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And your only chance of making it out of here alive.”

He offered you his hand, and you didn’t see any other choice but to take it. His grip was strong and steady, firm enough to help you but gentle enough to keep from hurting.

“Attagirl,” he said when you were standing. “Steady, now. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” you breathed. For some reason, you didn’t let go of his hand. “Where are we going?”

He nodded towards the bay. “My ship. You’ll stay there until all this settles down, and then I’ll take you back home.”

Shattering glass brought your attention to the house momentarily; a raging fire billowed out of the broken window, sending great clouds of smoke up towards the sky.

“Unless you live here,” the pirate said. “In which case, you’ll have to find other arrangements.”

You could do nothing but stare at him for a moment, bewildered and dazed. “But... why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me?”

He looked over your shoulder towards Kit, who lay groaning and weak in the grass with a bullet wound to the shoulder. His expression held nothing but disgust and contempt for your fiancé.

“I don’t like to see a lady mistreated,” he said. He gave your hand a gentle tug. “Come on. This way.”

You followed after him, helpless not to, feeling outside of yourself as you tried to think past the pain in your jaw and the overwhelming fear that still held you captive. He led you through the garden and down to the Commodore’s private docks where a skiff was waiting.

“Wait.” You stopped and tugged on his hand, and he turned to face you.

“What is it?” he asked, a touch of urgency to his voice.

You looked to the skiff and then back to him. “How — ” You swallowed nervously. “How do I know you won’t hurt me?”

He looked a little lost for a response. “I don’t know, lass. I believe you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Trust a pirate?” you asked, choking a little on the words.

He gave you a grim half-smile. “Could be worse.”

“How on earth could it be worse?”

He didn’t answer you, distracted by the sight of several more skiffs approaching the docks. You followed his gaze and saw they were coming from two huge galleons further out in the bay.

“Heavens,” you breathed. You didn’t know how you could have missed them, but they suddenly loomed like two great monsters on the surface of the water.

He pulled you towards the boat. “Come on, lass,” he urged. “The second wave’s coming in soon, and they don’t mind me as well as I’d wish them to. I’d rather you not be out here when they come.”

You met his gaze. “Second wave? There’s more of you?”

He huffed a short, mirthless laugh and ushered you into the skiff with little grace. Your became hopelessly tangled in your skirts and sat uncomfortably on the opposite side from him.

“You may wish to take off some of those cumbersome overskirts, lassie,” he said, taking the oars and rowing you out to the giant ships. “You’ll get them caught in something and get hurt.”

You blushed vividly. “Take off my skirts?” you repeated, incredulous and mortified at the idea, though you noticed you didn’t sense any salacious undercurrent to his suggestion. “I certainly will not. Just because you run around in a state of undress does not mean I will.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

You sat in silence as you came ever nearer to the twin galleons, feeling a caving pressure in your chest as they loomed closer. You looked around for something, anything, to distract you; against your better judgment, your gaze landed on the movement of your pirate rescuer’s strong arms with each pull of the oars.

You looked away, chastising yourself for such foolishness in the face of everything else that had happened.

When you reached the closer ship, you looked up at the cargo net that hung over the side with more than a little trepidation. How were you ever going to climb it in your dress?

Your pirate — when had you started to think of him as your pirate? — gave a theatrical gesture to the net. “Ladies first.”

You huffed, feeling anger at your situation start to override any other emotion. All you’d wanted tonight was to have a nice, unexciting dinner, and yet here you were, standing before a pirate and about to board his ship in the middle of the night.

“Very well,” you said tartly, dredging up some reserve of courage and feistiness from whatever was left in the hollow of your chest. With some difficulty, you reached under the waist of your blue overskirt and untied the two underskirts and hoop skirt underneath. He had the decency to avert his gaze, at least, but your face was still hot with embarrassment as you shimmied out of them and slipped off your uncomfortable shoes.

When all that was left to cover your undergarments was your overskirt and bodice, you stepped in your stocking-feet onto the first loop of rope on the cargo net.

“Mind your gaze, pirate,” you said, managing with a fair bit of exertion to climb the net. He scaled it with you, quick and nimble, and gave you a grin when he reached your perch.

“Pirate sounds such a dirty word when you say it,” he said, and there was a teasing lilt to his voice that gave you the strangest fluttering sensation in your chest. “You’d better just call me Jake.”

Oh, but you didn’t like knowing his name. Not one bit.

“Fine,” you said, tearing your gaze from his. “Mind your gaze, Jake.”

He grinned. “Only if you mind yours, lass.” He stepped up another rung and climbed the rest of the way with ease. You gave a dejected sigh and continued your laborious ascent to the railing of the ship.

When you reached the top of the net, Jake was waiting for you. He offered you a hand up, and it was only with his help that you managed to get aboard without falling on your face.

You looked up when you were steady. “Oh, dear.”

Several pirates stood frozen along the deck, watching you with a mix of shock, hostility, and undeniable interest. Each one of them was armed, sword hilts glinting at their hips and pistols tucked into belts that looped over their barrel-sized chests.

“Easy, lass,” Jake said, taking hold of your arm again. You barely registered that you’d made a sudden, jerky movement to flee the ship and go back down the net, but he’d stopped you before you could go anywhere.

“None of my men will hurt you,” he promised, and when you met his eyes with a terrified glance, you saw that he meant it.

“I have to trust you on this, too?” you asked feebly.

His mouth curved in a smile. “Aye. You’re getting the idea, lass.”

He let you go, a testament to his trust in you not to try and run, and nodded to the stairs before you.

“Allow me to escort you to my quarters,” he said.

You flushed. “Y-your quarters?”

“Indeed. Where I shall leave you to your own devices and come back out to be with my men.”

You gave a shaky sigh of relief. “Oh. Very well.”

You’d taken no more than two steps towards the stairs when another man appeared at the top of them, his features strikingly similar to Jake’s but done up in dark makeup that matched the black clothes he wore.

“Why, my dear Jakey,” he said with a glittering smile. “What have we here?”

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#ooooHHH i can't wait to hear what y'all think of this one <3 #jake kiszka x reader #pirate!jake #jake kiszka fanfiction #pirate jake kiszka #greta van fleet au #greta van fleet fanfiction #gvf pirate au #sam kiszka x danny wagner #josh kiszka x reader #maddie writes stuff!#fate of the faithful fic

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