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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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in support of Texas relief, @mystifiedgal donated $10, and requested Sam developing mind-reading and learning what Dean wants. Thank you for donating!

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(read on AO3)

It starts as dreams, the night after they lose Ava. They drove straight from Lafayette to Peoria and after Peoria they move one town over so as not to be newcomers in a town that just had a homicide, and they work all through that day, in Bloomington, calling contacts and putting out feelers, trying to see what might've happened to a short sweet dark-haired girl, a secretary, who'd never done a thing to deserve this. Sam couldn't stop thinking that, no matter how stupid it was. How Ava, how all the rest, hadn't done a single thing to merit this kind of punishment.

He falls asleep though he didn't think he would. Dean's reading at the table with the lamp turning the backs of his ears, his neck, pure white, and Sam's looking at him and thinking about Ava's face shocked-white in the neon from the motel, and then he's asleep, and he's dreaming but it doesn't feel like dreaming. It doesn't feel like a vision, either, how that vicious sharp reality climbs down his throat. In the dream he knows he's dreaming, and he isn't really there, and not even the vague protagonist-body that's usually in his dreams, when he dreams he forgot to study for an exam, or is standing in a rotting house with an empty gun and ghosts slipping through the walls, or smiling at a clever girl with her blouse unbuttoned just right. Instead this dream is—feeling. A wash of dark, and water lapping at the edges of a boat he can't seem to see beyond. Dean, sitting in the stern, his head in his hands, and because Sam isn't really here he can't yell or act or splash the dark water into Dean's face, but—as soon as Sam thinks that, about splashing the water, the surge of fear is so overwhelming that the world turns black. Dean's fingers curl against the side of his head, his ring flashing, and his lips are parted and wet and something unknown flashes through Sam's gut and when he wakes up, dragging in air like he's been running a mile, the room is dark and Dean's a curled lump on the other bed and Sam carries that strange, fearful feeling with him all through the next day, like a fresh-broken bone, throbbing.

Dean frowns at him when he's snappish at lunch, but doesn't call him on it. Dean's being careful with him, which Sam—hates, is grateful for. So Sam maybe didn't have the best reaction to finding out their dad's last words, and maybe the thing with Gordon was—a lot. Gordon was a lot. Ava, poor Scott Carey, Andy and Ansem, Max. It's all been a lot. Dean maybe has been struggling with the secret he was carrying but Sam's struggling with how his mouth tastes like metal all the time, thinking of yellow eyes looming up out of the dark, and so he'll take some concessions, maybe even a little pity, if it makes Dean focus on what they really need to focus on. Dean's letting him direct, not looking for other hunts, staying right here in Illinois and keeping his nose to the ground for Ava or for any hint of another 1983 kid with unexplained powers, and Sam doesn't need anything else, beyond that, not right now. They'll work out the rest later.

Trouble is: Sam's focus is split. He spends the day casing details of Ava's life, job and fiancé and family history and any single second where her life might have brushed against the dark, and at night his dreams are a flood. Black water, rising. Dean, terrified, and his skin that kind of white that comes from a flare of too much exposure, and his eyes dark hollows, and the bones standing out in his hands, clutching at his head. On the fourth night of everything the same choking claustrophobia Dean turns his face and Sam sees that he's bleeding, from the ears and from the corner of his mouth, and the blood is so dark it looks black, too, and Dean covers his mouth with one hand and then though the surrounding water is the same endless expanse the boat becomes that cabin where Azazel rode their dad's body, the shift seamless and unexplained in the way of dreams, and Dean's got a hole in his stomach, the blood flooding out onto the dry wood of the boat/cabin floor, and he puts lax fingers against it that don't stop the bleeding at all, and Sam wakes up that time and has to scramble for the bathroom, retching, although when he clutches the sides of the sink nothing comes up and his mouth just tastes like—saltwater.

That day Dean brings him coffee in the morning and tries to be circumspect. He's bad at it. "Starting to smell like a dorm room in here, man," Dean says, mouth quirked. "Laundry stank and BO and, uh, making like the Lone Ranger?" He makes a vague gesture around his lap, but his heart's not in it. "Gotta air it out, dude. See some sunlight for twenty minutes."

"I'm working," Sam says, but to be honest he's not. He's sitting there with Ellen's half-remembered list of demon sightings in the last six months and instead of working the map he's been staring at the closed curtains for the whole time Dean's been gone. He drags his good hand over his face and lets his heavy casted arm thump down over the notebook. Dean raises his eyebrows, letting a glance over the empty map make his point for him, and Sam sighs. "Making like the Lone Ranger?" he says.

Dean's smile gets more real. "Unless you've got a pretty little Tonto around here, somewhere—" he starts, and Sam rolls his eyes and flicks a crumpled ball of wasted notes at Dean's face, and while he's sputtering Sam says, suddenly desperate for it, "Yeah, okay, we could use some air. Laundromat around here?"

"Hey," Dean says, sitting up, "I don't think I heard myself volunteer for laundry duty—" and then, twenty minutes later, they're installed at a laundromat, empty at nine on a Tuesday morning, Dean bitching still about whose turn it is to fold the whites but looking decently happy, stretched out in one of the shitty plastic chairs with coffee resting on his belly and a morning talkshow on the crackling TV mounted in one corner of the ceiling, and Sam feels it.

Sam feels it. There's a chair between him and Dean, piled with a box of donuts and the police folder Dean went out and stole yesterday, and Sam grips the armrest on the side Dean can't see and squeezes so hard the metal edges hurt his hand, and it's welling up in him. A grey clouded day with a shaft of sunlight slipping through and warming a patch of cold dirt—that's what it feels like, Dean's happiness. Sam licks his lips and breathes shallowly, controlled. When he glances over Dean's watching the show—some sponsored segment about a special vacuum for pet hair, in which he seems completed absorbed—and he's relaxed, in that way that Sam's only ever seen Dean relaxed when they're alone. Completely in his body, unselfconscious of how he's taking up space, boots kicked out on the grimy floor, his eyes clear. A fleck of pink donut frosting on his top lip. There are shadows under his eyes because he doesn't sleep enough and there's a bruise at his temple where Gordon hit him, but he's okay, for this moment. Sam can feel it, in a completely distinct way to how he feels his own body, his own aches and tiredness and worry, and he sits there in ringing panic until the washer buzzes. Dean blinks, the spell of the daytime anchors suspended, and frowns at him, and says, "Hey, earth to egghead, I am here in a strictly supervisory capacity," and Sam has to roll his eyes again and stand up and deal with the laundry, and there's Dean, again, the happiness muted and rolled under—a dragging pull at the chest, an ache long-held and familiar. Worry, concern. Annoyance, too, and then as Sam's dumping their load of jeans and jackets into one of the rolling baskets that twinge of annoyance slips away into guilt, and he has to brace his hands on the sides of the basket and breathe again, slowly, trying not to crawl out of his skin with the violation of it.

"What?" Dean says, while Sam's silent over the wet clothes. "Did I leave gum in my pocket or something?"

He knows Dean. He has known Dean, from when he was little and running around after him thinking his big brother was the coolest smartest person in the world to when he was a sad kid thinking his brother didn't actually like him that much to when he was an angry teenager wishing his brother would take his side in anything, ever, for fucking once. Dean was always a known quantity, no matter what. No surprises. Sam knew when he was cheerful and angry and hurt and he knew how to deal with every version. This is—more than that.

No signs, still, of Ava. They move outward. Day trips, stretching out into different towns, different precincts. They split up, Sam renting a car, and on the state highways with the radio silent Sam tries to think, with Dean not around with his thoughts filling up the air between them.

He catches hints, with other people. A sheriff who's not sure why some U.S. Marshal is asking questions, and he's clearly annoyed but there's an undercurrent Sam catches, a sapping weariness and sorrow that Sam blinks over before he excuses himself, wondering. A search: a wife, recently dead at forty. Sam chews the inside of his cheek raw on the drive back to Bloomington, and Dean texts and says dinner? back in thirty and Sam replies I'll pick up pizza and he waits in the lobby of the pizza place with his knee jogging and a waitress smiles at him, professional, and Sam takes a deep breath and looks at her, taking in her sneakers worn around the edges and her muscular legs and the greys pulled back into her ponytail and she says, "Can I get you a Coke or anything while you wait, hon?" and a swirl of heat curls into Sam's stomach, slants down queerly low, and he sits up straight and watches her eyes flick over him, his chest and lower, and he blurts out, "No," and then, too late, "thank you," and she frowns and the heat fizzles out into disappointment and he thinks, fuck. Fuck. What now?

With Dean the feelings bloom raw and real and present. Sam doesn't have to look. A day of frustration and no leads but Dean doesn't actually feel the frustration, not really, because he's humoring Sam's obsession over finding this girl Dean never even met—and there's a little satisfaction there, too, something that makes Sam set his beer down a little too hard on the table when he recognizes it, because they're spinning their wheels here, Dean thinks, and that means that Sam's being kept here, safe, away from demons and whatever plans there might be, so he's getting what he wanted, after all. The second Apes movie is on the motel TV and Dean's watching that, scratching his belly idly after too much pizza, and Sam goes into the bathroom and sits on the closed toilet and presses his fingers into his ears so hard he can't hear anything but the beating rush of his own heart, and even through a closed door and quiet and dark behind Sam's eyes he can feel it: his brother, content to be here with Sam, on a night where nothing's yet gone wrong. Little does he know.

Is this some new shift, in Sam's visions? Not only to see the future but to see—what? He doesn't know how to define this. He's seen in movies when people read minds, like that terrible Mel Gibson thing that Dean loved even if he pretended it was shitty—it's always narrated dialogue, someone's thoughts piped directly into the psychic's head. What Sam's getting isn't as useful as that. Emotion, shifting sensation, the ebb and flood and draining drag of how people move through the difficult world. Guilt, misery. Contentment. Fury, brief and shocking, enough to make Sam snap the pencil he's holding, and he looks up to find Dean leafing through Dad's journal, his face a calm mask, and Sam thinks, jesus, he has to tell Dean. He has to, and yet: what can he possibly say?

The dreams are still bad. Sam comes awake like out of a sucking bog and he breathes slow, eyes on the ceiling. Dean's small snores in the next bed. The fear's a pool, lapping against Sam's skin, and he turns his head and says, very quietly, "Dean." There's no answer because of course Dean's deep asleep, of course he's dreaming, and Sam rolls over, watches the slow rise of Dean's chest, concentrates. The dark rises thick, miserable, but Sam already knows that part.

He gets up, keeping quiet, and takes the step between their beds. The room isn't all that dark, the parking lot lights seeping bright behind the curtains, so it's easy to see the gilded line of Dean's cheekbone, his lips parted in sleep, his eyes closed and still. His face tipped toward Sam's bed. Sam wants to touch it so abruptly that his fingers are already reaching out but he stops himself. He leans over, instead, bracing a hand on the headboard, and tries to focus, tries to pin down the amorphous shifting haze of Dean's thrumming head. When he closes his eyes he doesn't see the black lake, the creaking boat, but the fear slips, slides, lapping against him. Against them both. Sam can't grasp it. He's not Andy, to push thoughts into someone else, and he doesn't see how he could get control of this—to ease the fear, or tell Dean somehow that it's going to be okay even if, really, Sam's not sure that's true. He stands up and turns away, goes to the window to look out at the silent parking lot and breathe, waiting it out. The dream swells and subsides, around him, and maybe that's Dean slipping down into a different REM cycle or something but it's a relief. Sam presses his forehead against the cool glass. Visions, and now this. His pointless, stupid powers, that don't let him do anything except see shit he can barely hope to change. Whatever powers the yellow-eyed demon was after them for, Sam hopes he won't be disappointed that Sam's in particular are completely impotent.

By the time two weeks have gone by Sam's—used to it is maybe not the phrase, but he can deal. Still in Bloomington, still searching. Waiting around, now, mostly, for Ellen's contacts to get back to them, for Ash to come up with anything on a scrape of, as far as Dean could relate, the entire internet. If Sam's honest with himself he thinks they're never going to find Ava, and if they do certainly not alive, but they're looking anyway. Dean doesn't suggest they move on, doesn't argue for anything else. He keeps them fed and caffeinated, finds new badly bowdlerized action movies to watch on the room's TV, follows Sam's leads when Sam suggests a new avenue of searching. His dreams are a little calmer, maybe just from the fact that they're stalled in place—a vacation, of a sort, like Dean asked for even if they're doing nothing remotely fun—and during the day Sam sits surrounded by his thoughts and it's… comforting. Sort of.

Happy isn't the word, Sam realizes, for that thin sunlight feeling. Contentment, maybe. Dean has it when they're quiet together, when they're doing stupid chores like laundry or taking a break in research to make some salt rounds, when they're arguing over Stallone versus Van Damme for the tenth time. When they're working Sam's gut tightens without his say-so in random spikes of anxiety, of worry. His heart clenches and he actually puts a hand over it, and he's just reading the police blotter in the paper, so when he looks up and Dean's got his half open to the obits, Sam frowns and says, "What?"

Dean jerks, like he was caught at something. "I didn't say anything," he says, and his face is calm but his hand's spread over some thin column, some family's sadness, and when he gets up to piss Sam pulls the paper around and sees it's an obituary for someone's father, dead a little too early, and Sam sits back and puts his knuckles into his eyes and breathes out, trying to shake the lingering ache of it.

Coming out of the shower that night, Sam wraps a towel around his waist and steps out into the bedroom. "What's for dinner?" he says, thinking he'll argue for Chinese whatever Dean says, and thinking that he might try searching up more information about Ansem's family, in particular, to see if there were any patterns there they could use, and he's in his own head enough that it takes him a minute to feel how the room has shifted around him. He pauses, leaning over his duffle bag, trying to pinpoint.

"There's that cheesesteak place over on 15th," Dean says, easy, but he's not at ease. Sam's feeling that same unexpected swoop in his gut, that low achy pull, and this time it's not from a woman but from a guy and so it's a tightness in his nuts, his blood heating. Sam grips his t-shirt in both hands, tight enough that his broken wrist aches. His cheeks have flooded hot and he stands up, shrugs his shoulders and feels the cold air on the water still on his skin, and the—the lust, because that's what it is, this thick wanting that's pulsing up through his stomach—it swoops low, shifts, and the flooding rise of guilt and fear that follows is so fast that Sam coughs, shocked.

"Yo, Marlee Matlin," Dean says. "Cheesesteak?"

"Yeah," Sam says, not turning around. He doesn't want to see what face goes with this feeling. "No onions on mine."

Dean snorts. "Heathen," he says, and there's a rattle of the keys being dragged off the table and Dean swinging into his leather coat, and he says, "Have clothes on by the time I get back, you exhibitionist," and the tangled mix of wanting and terror and shame is so thick that Sam can still feel it when the door's slammed behind him, when the car's rumbling on, fading only when the sound of the engine does, and Sam turns around then finally and looks at the empty room and thinks—nothing. His brain doesn't know what to do with this.

The cheesesteaks are decent. They watch the local news for any blood-and-guts, and then Frasier reruns. Dean's content has been blasted away by what happened earlier but he's acting fine and Sam's wondering, now, how often he's been fine when something raw and bizarre was rearing up in him. How long it's been in him. "You okay?" Dean asks, at some point, light but careful, really asking, and Sam dredges up a half-smile from somewhere and shrugs, says, "Just thinking," and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Oh, god help us all," and Sam throws a balled napkin at him, and Dean grins and swings into the bathroom and Sam hears the sink go on but when he closes his eyes his head is full of Dean's head, and he can almost see it: Dean braced over the sink, his head hung between his shoulders, his cheeks hot and his hands clenched and him saying to himself something like stop.

Sam blinks, back in the room. He did hear that. Stop, Dean says, inside his own head, loud and deliberate, but his thoughts swirl somewhere else and he's imagining—there's Sam's back, broad and damp and golden in the light, and the low line of the towel around his waist, and the wet curl of his hair around his ear, and how Dean wanted to put his mouth there, so badly he could almost taste the water—and then the harsh wave of recrimination floods the image out and Dean looks up into the mirror and thinks to himself, in clear words that he doesn't say out loud, you pathetic fucking freak, and Sam has to get up off the bed and slam out of the room and stand in the parking lot with freezing air on his bare arms and he holds his hand over his mouth so he doesn't curse out loud and he thinks jesus, bad enough that one of them is thinking it—the self-hatred that's tightening up his chest is hardly easing, from getting some distance, and soon he'll have to go back into the room because Dean will wonder what the hell he's doing, standing outside in his socks like a weirdo, and Sam has to say—he has to—this isn't fair, to either of them—but how can he say it without Dean knowing exactly what Sam must have overheard—overfelt—and Sam knows his brother, always has, and he knows what'll follow. A freakout, to say the least. Recrimination, reflected blame, anger and then fear—always the fear—that Sam's slipping further away, or worse that Dean will have pushed him further away—and Sam can't do this, he can't live like this, without Dean. He can't handle this stupid, terrible year, not without his brother on his side.

He takes a deep breath, cold in his lungs. Jesus, is that what he's going to do? Just live with it, because—

"Dude, what the hell?" comes Dean's voice, behind him. Sam turns and finds Dean, yes, standing in the open doorway, his hair a little damp at the edges like he splashed his face, his eyebrows high because here's his little brother being a weirdo like always. Except that he's more worried than his face lets on, and there's a rising tide of is something happening, is this something about the demon, the tang of fear that fills every night.

"Thought I heard something," Sam says, trying to interrupt it before it gets too bad. "By the car. I think it was just a dog or something."

He's a better liar than Dean gives him credit for; already it's working, the fear sliding into warm exasperation. That thin, frail beam of sunlight. "Freaking out Fido, now?" Dean says, while Sam walks wincing back across the parking lot, scattered gravel poking through his socks. "New low, bro."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, brushing past where Dean's holding the door open, and there's a thrill—in his chest, in Dean's—that he clamps down on, ignores, but he can't ignore the misery around it. That's a problem.

Sam stays awake that night, waiting for Dean to sleep. The black lake, the blood. Sam turns on his side and watches Dean's face and closes his eyes slowly, thinking of that moment just before the guilt, the shame—the clear, unadulterated want—and when he dreams they're in the cabin, again, and Dean's bleeding with his unconcerned hand holding nothing inside, and the water surges hard against the sides of the boat, floods the floorboards, and Sam opens his eyes and slides off his bed onto the floor and lays his hand onto Dean's stomach where in the dream he's dying, and he presses his forehead against the mattress and shudders, aching with how much it hurts, and the dream—shifts.

He breathes in, still halfway in sleep himself. Dean's hand covered in blood and his shoulders hunched up, but his face turns up and he sees Sam, standing there in the doorway watching him. He says something but Sam, the real Sam, can't hear it; the Sam-of-the-dream comes closer, looms. He looks a foot taller than Dean, broader. Monstrous almost. Sam catches his breath and the dream-Sam puts his hand over Dean's hand, holds it tighter against the wound, and Dean tips his head back and murmurs something and the Sam of the dream presses their hands tighter, hard enough that it should hurt except in the way of dreams there's no real pain but only the knowledge of being torn open—and then the Sam of the dream leans in and presses his mouth to Dean's, a chaste strange kiss, like kissing marble—and their hands sink into Dean's stomach, tearing—and when the kiss ends Sam lifts up and Dean opens his eyes and Sam's eyes are yellow, from edge to edge, and Sam shoves away from the bed, scrambling so fast he slams his shoulder into the frame of his own, and by some fucking miracle Dean doesn't wake up so Sam's left panting, alone on the carpet in the dark, a remembered warmth against his lips and his hand feeling an echoed-ghost slickness of black, dripping blood.

He puts on his sneakers, a hoodie, sticks his phone in his pocket but turns it off. He goes for a run. Three a.m. is silent around here and he needs that, needs no people. He runs hard enough and long enough that it's hard to think beyond the burning in his thighs, his lungs. His hurting shoulder where he's going to have a bruise.

When he gets back Dean comes awake at the door opening. "Where were you?" he says, bleary, and Sam says, "Out for a run, go back to sleep," and Dean's tired enough that he blinks at Sam heavily and mumbles, "Okay, freak," and subsides, turning over and hugging the pillow close. Sam stands with his back to the door, his hands fisted around the knob, watching as Dean slips back down into sleep, and it's deep, dreamless, a relief.

Sam showers and takes his time about it. He's not getting back to bed today. He washes his hair and his face, not bothering to be careful about keeping his cast dry anymore—it's almost time for it to come off, anyway—and his brain won't empty, won't let him forget. He can't get the image of his own eyes out of his head. Glinting gold. The version of him in the dream wasn't cruel, because it wasn't human. Peeling Dean open and giving him what he wanted and killing him, all at once. It's not hard to interpret.

He washes the rest, streaking soap. Takes his limp dick in hand, running his thumb under the foreskin, and then holds himself, his cast braced against the tile wall. He hasn't jerked off in—he can't even remember, the last time. It could clear his head. He squeezes, sliding wet up to the head, but what he imagines is—Dean's mouth, in the dark, barely parted. His own shoulders, gleaming inside Dean's head. He lets go of his dick and wipes his hand over his lips, trying to get the sensation out, and shuts off the water. It can't go on like this. Not like this.

He dries off in a half-assed way and tugs on boxers and nothing else. Out in the room Dean's still asleep and dawn's not yet rising. Sam shuts off the bathroom light and in the mostly-dark goes over to Dean's bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, and puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck. A blurring shift, coming on like a slow dimmer switch, as he rises up out of whatever dreamless space he was in. "Dean," Sam says, very quietly, and Dean's eye slits open, gleaming. He turns his head, rolls back a little, and Sam's hand drags along to his shoulder, fitting there on the smooth warm round of it. Dean blinks and is still almost entirely offline, the fog of his thoughts nothing but grey sleep, and Sam leans down and kisses him, then, catches his mouth a little off-center with his lips dry, his breath sour, his body warm and loose and unable to stop him.

No reaction for a few seconds, either in his body or his head. Sam opens his mouth and presses Dean's lips wider and gets the morning-taste of him, thick and strange, soft. He touches Dean's chin, the damp edge of his cast dragging against his skin, and it's that which seems to wake Dean up—his body going stiff, his mind flooding with—god, Sam can't untangle it all. "What," Dean says, against Sam's mouth, pulling back, but Sam grips his shoulder and presses him flat against the bed, leaning over him, keeping him here. Flicker of his eyelashes in the dark and his mouth's shining now, too, from Sam's mouth. Sam's stomach turns over to see it.

Sam doesn't say anything. Dean's breathing hard, looking up at him. Fear, pooling around the bed, flooding the room like the bed's the boat and the room's the lake, and Sam maybe doesn't get it entirely—he thinks of his eyes, yellow in Dean's mind, and his hand clenches hard enough on Dean's shoulder that Dean cringes away, grips Sam's wrist. "Sam," Dean says, uncertain—wondering if he's still dreaming—and Sam leans down and kisses him again, ignores Dean's stiff scared lips and licks inside, knocking him open, his cast heavy on Dean's chest, his wet hair dripping cold. He feels it, of course, when it starts to wake in Dean—the sensation of his body, his mouth, the warmth rising south, the shock of getting this—the confusion—and he pulls away, enough that he can look into Dean's eyes, says, "Feel this," and breaks Dean's grip on his wrist and slides his hand down under the blanket and past Dean's flinching belly to his dick, heavy in his underwear, swelling. Dean takes a shuddering shocked breath and the rise of want is so thick that it chokes out the fear, the guilt, his mind going full and focused at getting his dick held by someone he wants as badly as he wants Sam. God. To know that.

The want is so intense that Sam knows it won't matter that he's never done this before. A dick is a dick, though, he figures, and he slips his fingers inside the waistband, finds the pole of it—thick, the skin unexpectedly soft—and Dean's body arches under his, his breath hot and fast already. Sam doesn't want this, not in the same way, but it hardly matters when Dean's desire roars high between them. "Touch me," Sam says, and Dean goes for Sam's chest, his shoulders, grasping in fumbled shock, while Sam gets a better grip, pumps, finding a rhythm. Awkward with his left hand but clearly doing the job, from how Dean's already shaking, his thighs spreading for it under the blanket, his fingers tight in Sam's skin. Sam leans down, finds Dean's mouth again, and Dean opens for him easy, letting Sam inside, his hands finding Sam's jaw. His fingers careful, uncertain—sliding up into Sam's damp hair, holding—and his hips jerk—and Sam licks into Dean's mouth and pumps him faster, his shoulder sore and aching, his fingers getting slick—jesus, Sam runs his thumb over the head and feels the wet leaking—and Dean jerks under him like touching a live wire and comes just like that, hips shoving up into Sam's grip, wet heat that spills over Sam's hand and against his wrist. Sam gentles his grip and Dean jerks into his palm, getting the last of it out. His chest is heaving, under Sam's cast. Sam kisses him, again, and Dean's teeth drag against his lip, and Sam slides his hand up out of Dean's shorts and presses his palm firm against his bare belly, heedless of the mess.

When he lifts up Dean's staring at him, fixed. The room's inundated with his thoughts, a whitewater crush. Sam's mouth tastes like metal. Dean's fingers reach up, white, and touch his cheek, and Sam drags in air and lets himself be touched, and Dean doesn't know what to do with this. He wants to tackle Sam back to the bed and he wants to crawl under something and he wants to be not who he is because who he is has ruined—

"Stop," Sam says, pressing his palm harder against Dean's belly. "Stop thinking."

Dean licks his lips, looks back and forth between Sam's eyes. Distracted from the misery but just as bewildered, and worse. "What are you thinking?" he says, after a few seconds. Scrape of voice, thick and unsure.

"I'm thinking I want you," Sam says, and Dean blinks and this terrible curl of hope goes through him, another kind of light like a brush of rose-fingered dawn at the edge of a dark landscape, and Sam hasn't felt that, hasn't come close to that, this whole awful time. Sam bites his lips and hopes Dean doesn't hear the next part as qualification: "I want you here. With me. Not—freaking out. Not worried about—whatever it is you're always worrying about."

Dean swallows. His face turns away a little. "Me, worry," he says, breath of a scoff, and there's that rawness again, the shame pulling at his gut. Afraid of this and afraid of Sam in equal measure.

Sam can't stand it. He won't have it. "Don't," he says, and Dean's eyes flick at him sidelong, his mouth turning to some unhappy shape, and Sam pushes in and spreads out over the top of him and kisses him again, his wet gross hand sliding up Dean's side, his mouth crushed hard against Dean's mouth. Dean kisses back this time, for real, and he's—softer, tenderer, than Sam would have ever imagined Dean would kiss, if he had ever imagined it.

It's Sam who breaks the kiss—every part of Dean, body and mind, is full of the feeling that he would never, ever stop unless the room was on fire, and maybe not even then—and when they're breathing against each other Dean's hand worms up out of the blanket and finds Sam's side, over his ribs. Squeezes there, very lightly, his heart thrilling terrified at the presumption. "Sammy," he says, one word a complicated snarl of a question, and Sam shakes his head, can't answer. He moves his right arm, bracing the cast instead by Dean's head, and Dean's chest rises under the release of the weight. A release, all over, and that dawn keeps rising, though the lake's still black and its depths are impossible to see.

Sam tucks his head down, his face in Dean's throat, like they're hugging, like something familiar at least, and Dean's arm goes around his back, holding him. "Sam," he whispers, against Sam's hair. Sam closes his eyes and feels the surge of it: tender, violent, aching. A glut that presses against the back of his teeth with all he wants to say and won't.

He doesn't know if that feeling is his, or Dean's. Behind his eyes it's black and dawn's still not here. On a lake, in the dark, there's a boat creaking, the water surging high but not yet spilling over the side.

#ffcc #wincest #pining!dean #psychic sam #mildly dubious consent #my writing

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scripts4dreamers · 5 years ago

Text

Not Your Hero. Chapter 1

Prologue, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four

AN: With the Victory Tour well underway, things are changing fast.

Characters: Finnick Odair, Coriolanus Snow, Haymitch Abernathy, Chaff Mitchelle, Mags Flannagan

Pairings: Finnick x reader

Spoiler(s): None

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, death, murder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, psychological manipulation, intimidation

Prompt/Inspiration: Prom Queen - Molly Kate Kestner

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You pulled your legs up under your chin and tried to breathe slowly, closing your eyes and and praying that the motion of the train would be able to settle your stomach. However, with your eyes closed, you could see the faces of all the tributes you’d outlived all the clearer, projected larger than life on screens, with their grieving families underneath. You shuddered thinking about the sound one of the mothers in district nine had made; a sort of wail, loud and piercing, like her heart was being ripped from her chest right before your eyes. She’d been clutching two small children by their shoulders, twin girls, probably around nine or ten years old. They’d been crying too, but one of the girls had met your eye and the depth of despair you’d seen there had chilled you to the bone. Their brother was dead and you were not, that look said, and there was nothing you could do to make up for that.

Whatever confidence you’d had going in to the tour had evaporated by the time you’d reached district twelve and now, with district four coming up, you could feel yourself slowly unraveling. It wasn’t just the speeches, and facing the families of the fallen tributes, it was everything. It was the parties and the dinners and the interviews, it was seeing the highlights of your games recapped on every television screen twenty-four hours a day, it was the fact that the capitol was edging closer and closer and, for some reason, the closer it got, the more filled with dread you became.

If it wasn’t for the others, you weren’t sure what you’d have done. Because, of course, you weren’t alone in this. At each district, there were other victors to meet, people like you who knew what it took to survive the Hunger Games, and who had done this same trip themselves once. At first you hadn’t quite known what to think about them. It was strange meeting people you’d been seeing on TV for your entire life, even stranger considering you’d seen basically all of them murder other children. But, of course, they’d seen you do the same and, when Seeder Howell, Victor of the 30th Hunger Games, had pulled you into a hug and whispered that you would be alright, you’d found a glimmer of something you’d been looking for for months now; hope. It was such a relief to be understood again, to not have to explain yourself, and your limits, to everyone all the time, that you found yourself actually trying to make friends. Many of the victors were much older than you, of course, and not all of them had decided to join you once you left their district but, luckily, enough had so that the train didn’t seem empty and haunted anymore. At any given moment you might bump into Indigo Weaver, Alto Combe or even, if you were in the bar cart, the elusive Haymitch Abernathy. Your prep team were beside themselves. They’d never seen so many famous people in once place, they often squawked, wasn’t it just so exciting?

“Land ahoy!” Chaff, another victor from district 11 called out, his loud voice echoing through the carriage.

Your heart pinched and you pressed your face into your knees harder, forcing yourself to breathe slowly again. You were not looking forward to this, not at all. The face of the blonde boy flashed behind your eyes again and you bit back a whimper. These speeches had been hard enough when the tributes you were thanking were virtual strangers but now, with district four officially in sight, things were about to get a whole lot more personal.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Chaff asked, sitting down heavily next to you, “Not excited about the party they’re throwing for you?”

“Go away, Chaff,” you replied, trying to sound firm and failing miserably.

“No, I get it,” Chaff continued, as though you hadn’t spoken at all, “this one’s gonna be tough for you. You beat out one of their tributes in the finale, didn’t you?”

You looked up and glared at the older man, a move that may have been more effective if your eyes hadn’t been red and puffy from crying, and contemplated the merits of cussing him out or just ignoring him entirely. Chaff raised an eyebrow and you sighed, feeling your fragile attempts at indignation evaporate. James said you should try opening up more, that it would help in the long run and you liked Chaff. It didn’t make sense for you to bite his head off, not when he’d only ever tried to help.

“Both, actually,” you said, staring determinedly out of the window, “I killed the girl, and two of the other careers with an electrical device I made from bits of landmine and a current generator I got from a sponsor. But that was pretty early on. It was the boy I killed in the finale.”

It felt odd, talking about this with somebody. For so long you’d shut down any and all discussion about the games, not even daring to let yourself think about them for fear of triggering a panic but now, with the other victors’ constant encouragement, you were at least trying. It felt like pulling a deep thorn out of your arm; nearly unbearable at first but then, once it was out, there was a kind of relief, like maybe now you could start bandaging that particular wound.

Chaff nodded, like he understood and you realised, again, that he probably knew all of this already. He was just trying to get you to talk, to share with him, like everyone was always saying you should.

“Do you know his name?” He asked.

You nodded, “Boyd.” you said softly and then, as an afterthought, “He was eighteen.”

You weren’t sure why that was important exactly. Were you trying to absolve yourself? Was pointing out that this boy was nearly three years older than you were at the time supposed to justify what you’d done? Were you bragging? Or was there something else to it, a desire to make the blonde boy in your memory feel more like a real person, someone who had lived and breathed and dreamed. And died, at your hands.

“Mmm,” Chaff hummed, agreeing with you on whatever point it was you were trying to make, “they won’t blame you, you know?”

“Who?”

“The mentors. Finnick and Mags are good people, they won’t blame you for anything you did in the arena.” he explained.

You pressed your lips together and nodded tersely, “And the families?”

Chaff looked down at the stump where his left hand used to be and sighed, seemingly lost for words. He patted your knee comfortingly and stood.

“You’re gonna be alright, kid,” he promised, “you’ve just gotta keep yourself alive, that’s all anyone can ask.” he continued, cryptically, “You should probably go find your prep team. We’ll be arriving soon.”

“Okay,” you whispered, worrying at the inside of your cheek with your teeth.

Outside you could see trees and hills flashing by and, in the distance, a strip of blue reflecting the sun that must have been the ocean. You’d never seen it before, only the occasional crude imitation in the Hunger Games. The sight of it filled you with something like calm. The ocean had been there for billions of years, it had seen hundreds of billions of people come and go, swallowed their joys and sorrows alike and stayed exactly the same. Surely, if it could persist, you could too?

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Mags’ hands were rough. They pulled at Finnick’s hair hard, making him wince and reach up to see what it was she was doing.

“Stop,” Mags said, slapping his hand away, “I have to get rid of these knots before the cameras arrive.”

“Arrive?” Finnick laughed, “Mags, they’ve been here for two days already. It’s a little late for that.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately and stepped in front of Finnick, resting her hands on her hips expectantly. She was so small that, even with Finnick sitting down, Mags was just barely taller than him, but anyone who had met her knew that size was no true indication of power, and she had more than a little fight in her. Finnick looked down, thoroughly chastised by one look.

“Exactly, Mr Odair,” Mags explained, moving back to continue untangling his hair, “they’ve been here for two days and the poor girl hasn’t even arrived yet. Imagine the circus that’ll show up when they finally do get in.”

“There’s always press on a Victory Tour,” Finnick offered.

“I know, but this is a lot,” she countered, “even by your standards. It makes me nervous.” Mags faded into silence, letting the sound of the brush echo through Finnick’s empty bedroom for a while, lost in her own thoughts. “Poor thing,” she eventually muttered, mostly to herself, “turned sixteen in the arena, what a horrible way to celebrate.”

“Poor thing?” Finnick responded, with an incredulous laugh, “She killed both of our kids, you know?”

Mags waved him away, “Tsk, I know that. And they would have killed her if they could. That’s how the games work, Fin, we can’t blame her for being a better player.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest to ward off the sharp stab of guilt that thinking about Boyd and Ariel always brought on.

“I know,” he eventually relented, “I know that. I just-it’s so frustrating, sending them in every year only to watch them die, you know? I really thought we had a winner this year, and when Boyd got so far…” Finnick’s voice trailed off.

Mags nodded understandingly, though Finnick couldn’t see it, “Fifty-eight years I’ve been doing this,” she said simply, “I was a mentor for twenty before I brought home my first win,” she squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, “you’re young, it’ll happen. You’ve just got to keep trying.”

Finnick hummed noncommittally, thinking privately that there was no way he would survive losing another twenty-six tributes. Mags might be able to do it but, then again, she’d always been far, far stronger than him. Impulsively, Finnick reached back and grabbed Mags’ hand, resting his cheek against it like he was fourteen again.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Mags said, running her fingers through her hair, “we’ll be alright. It’s only a day. Soon they’ll all climb back into their dens and leave us alone for another six months.”

“But first we have to get through the tour,” Finnick pointed out.

She nodded, “First we have to get through the tour.”

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Finnick smiled and counted to ten in his head, waiting patiently for the mayor of his district to finish the long, drawn out rambling he called a speech. Every year it was roughly the same; meaningless references to the Capitol’s generosity, the importance of the games, the valor of those who fought in them and his own, genuine joy at meeting [Insert whichever victor just won’s name here], a worthy champion. Finnick, the other victors and several important members of local government were clustered strategically near the base of the stairs in the Justice building so the crews of Capitol filmmakers could get shots of everyone individually, and as a group, waiting excitedly for the arrival of the newest victor. After skipping the ordeal that had been your public speech, and the mandatory quick trip to the beach every victor was entitled to, Finnick had been unable to wiggle his way out of this, the last event; a dinner hosted by the mayor in honor of you. It was sure to be horrendous.

While the mayor droned on and on and on (somewhere in roughly the middle of his speech Finnick predicted), Finnick leaned over to the two men standing to his left and slightly behind him, keeping his voice low.

“So, what’s she like?” he asked softly, “Is she as insufferable as they usually are.”

“She’s less insufferable than you are,” Haymitch answered, surprisingly less drunk than Finnick had expected him to be, “but, granted that’s a rather low bar.”

Finnick chuckled and shot a look at Chaff, who smiled slightly, but shrugged.

“She’s nice, I like her,” he said softly, “she’s got spirit but,” he winced, “you remember how it was just after your games. She’s got a lot to work through.”

“Group therapy with our drunk Uncle Chaff, you mean?” Finnick teased. Chaff shrugged again, which he took to be agreement, and continued, “I remember how that goes. Well then, maybe when it’s my turn to share in the Safety Circle I’ll ask her why she choked my tribute to death, that’ll be fun.”

Haymitch chuckled but Chaff shot him a dark look.

“Don’t make this harder on her, Odair” Chaff said, “lord knows this whole thing is unbearable enough as it is without you making an ass of yourself.”

Finnick gave him a look of mock outrage, “What? It’s a simple question! You’re telling me I can’t ask a simple question?”

“I mean it,” Chaff warned, “she’s been through hell and back, the last thing she needs is your bruised ego getting in the way of her recovery.”

“Ouch,” Finnick laughed, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Don’t worry, Chaff,” Haymitch interjected, “I’ve got no doubts in my mind that Finnick will like the new girl just fine.”

There must have been some sort of inside joke there, because Chaff chuckled.

“What?” Finnick asked, annoyed at being left out

“Oh, nothing. She’s an interesting girl,” Haymitch interjected, “let’s just say, it might be a little like looking in a mirror.”

“Doubtful,” Finnick retorted under his breath.

Even if the others had heard him, they didn’t have any time to respond because, right at that moment, Finnick heard the telltale phrase;

“A worthy champion.” signalling the end of the mayor’s speech, and the room burst into rapturous applause.

Finnick got his first glimpse of you at the top of the stairs and his breath hitched in his throat. Even from where he was standing, he could tell you were beautiful, the type of beautiful that doesn’t come around every day, the kind of beautiful that can’t be ignored, no matter how hard you try. A hush fell over the room as you made your descent, your beautiful black gown reflecting the light like the world’s most subtle and sophisticated disco ball. You smiled graciously at your audience, the perfect blend of confident and humble, even blowing a kiss to your mentor, Jason as you walked. Your eyes glanced, unseeing, in Finnick’s direction, and he felt his heart stutter just a little bit. Something on his face must’ve showed his surprise, because he heard Haymitch suppressing a laugh from behind his back and, flushed with embarrassment, Finnick forced his face back into its casual mask of amused indifference.

Okay, so you were attractive. That wasn’t unusual for a victor. It didn’t change anything, not really.

At least that’s what he told himself as his eyes clung to you, watching intently as you laughed at some horrendous joke the mayor made and, with every ounce of feigned surprise you could muster, consented to saying a few words to open the evening.

You stepped up to the mic and, for the first time, Finnick saw a glimmer of discomfort in your eyes. But before he could do much more than notice you had smoothed it away with another gracious smile.

“Hi,” You started with a breathy laugh, breaking the tension and endearing yourself to the audience from the start, “I promise I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to take a moment to thank Mayor Eluuicious and his government for organizing this beautiful event for me tonight. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all the effort you’ve all put in,”

“Well, we couldn’t pass up the chance to celebrate your sixteenth birthday with some proper flair,” the mayor joked, earning a rather more forced laugh from the crowd.

You acknowledged his words with a smile, but continued, “it’s been so lovely being here in district four, and I will be truly sad to say goodbye but,” you finished, “I’m not gone yet so let's party.”

You stepped off the staircase and were promptly engulfed by a crowd of people, all clambering to get pictures with you or to ask questions about your experience in the games. It was a dance Finnick knew well. Usually he would be off and finding a drink by now, scoping out the event from some corner where he knew he would be seen by everyone, including the cameras, just like he was supposed to, but something was making him feel off balance. It felt like he was fifteen again; shaky and unsure of himself, desperately hoping that no one could see how inexperienced he was.

“So, how screwed are you then?” Haymitch asked, appearing next to Finnick like a phantom, a full glass of clear liquid already clutched in his hand and a smug smile on his face.

Finnick growled, “Fuck off, Haymitch.” And stalked off, determined to regain some of his composure before someone who actually mattered noticed his awkwardness.

Before long, Finnick had downed two glasses of champagne, and was most of his way through a third, leaning casually against a pillar near the modest buffet table and watching your movements like a hawk. From what he could tell, you were good at this. Every movement you made was calculated without looking forced, every smile incandescent with happiness while still maintaining a distance and mystery to it, every phrase balanced and fair, treating all equally and showing favoritism towards none. Of course, the cameras ate it up, basically falling over themselves to talk to you, to get an exclusive clip or a photograph to take home to the Capitol, but Finnick didn’t care much about that. He was watching for the other moments, the brief flashes of reality that slipped through your carefully schooled features without you even meaning to. There weren’t many; an eye roll here, a subtle wink to Chaff or Jason there, clenching your fists whenever someone came too close, things like that. It was these that Finnick found so fascinating, and what kept him from trying his best to charm his way into an early exit.

He watched from afar as you gestured towards the food table, extracting yourself politely, but firmly from the mayor and three high ranking government officials. As you made your way towards the table, Finnick heard you exhale loudly and watched as the marks of exhaustion started to creep its way onto your face. You piled your plate high with mini meat pies and bits of deep fried fish, looking conspiratorially over your shoulder, as though to check that no one had followed you over. Finnick found the sight somewhere between endearing and frustrating, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Hey there, Y/N,” he called, stepping out of the shadows with his signature catlike grin, “bored of your adoring fans already?”

At the sound of his voice you jumped, clenching your fists and turning to face the attacker quickly, only to relax and let out a breathy sigh of relief when you saw who it was. Finnick felt a pinch of guilt at the look of shock on your face, but pushed it down and leant casually against the table.

“Finnick,” you breathed, pressing a hand to the base of your throat, “I didn’t see you there.”

“I can see that,” he replied, gesturing down at your plate of spilled food.

You glanced down at the mess and blushed, looking sheepishly over your shoulder at the crowd to see if anyone else had noticed. Up close Finnick was relieved to see that a lot of your radiance came from particularly good make up. While you were attractive, some might even say beautiful, it was in a softer, more realistic way, less harsh angles and overly white teeth and more actual sixteen year-old girl.

“Not the best introduction I guess,” you laughed nervously, fiddling with your dress, “I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier, Mags was so complimentary about you.”

Something about you made Finnick feel unsettled, like the floor beneath him was sliding around and trying to trip him up. It was exciting, but also nerve-wracking, and totally not something he was used to. Part of him wanted to push, to see how much more thrilling and uncomfortable he could make it, the other just wanted to run and hide somewhere far away where you’d never be able to find him. The effect was disorienting but, being himself, Finnick leaned into it, letting the reckless portion of his mind take the wheel.

“Yeah, well, Mags is much braver than I am. You see,” Finnick continued sardonically, leaning in as though to tell you a secret, “I’m not quite done grieving the deaths of my two tributes. Didn’t feel up to a beach trip, I’m sure you understand.”

You pressed your lips together so they disappeared into a thin red line. Your face went blank instantly, hardening back into an expressionless mask as your bright Y/E/C eyes deadened, sending a shiver down Finnick’s spine. You didn’t seem much like a sixteen year old at that moment at all. The smiling, giggling girl had vanished, leaving a stranger in her place. This person seemed dangerous, this person seemed like the victor of the Hunger Games. There was a masochistic part of Finnick that liked seeing this more dangerous side of you. It was thrilling, and genuine and so much more interesting than the pleasantries and quibbling that usually happened on these trips.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said, devoid of any emotion, “excuse me.”

And with that, you stormed past him, knocking his arm hard with your shoulder as you passed.

“Ouch,” Finnick laughed, rubbing the spot where your bodies had connected.

If you heard at all you ignored him and he watched, with a slight sinking feeling, as you rejoined the party, your perfect smile firmly back in place as though nothing at all had happened. It took roughly eight seconds for Finnick to realise what an ass he’d just been and he sighed, swallowing hard past the disappointment he felt in himself.

“Why did I do that?” he asked himself softly, turning back to the buffet table and noticing, with another pang of guilt, your untouched food, “Ah, shit. Um, you there,” he gestured to one of the Capitol servers that he knew had arrived with the train.

The man scurried over, obviously holding in a minor freak-out at being addressed by Finnick Odair, “Yes, Mr Odair?”

“Can you-uh-can you make sure there’s some food ready for Miss Y/L/N when she gets back on the train?” Finnick asked, “Something tells me she won’t have much time for eating tonight.”

“Yes of course, right away Mr Odair.” The attendant nodded.

“Thank you,” he said, with a semi-distracted smile.

“Well that was nice of you,” Mags noted, appearing at Finnick’s side like a ghost, “what brought that on?”

Finnick shrugged and wrapped his arm around the small woman’s shoulders, kissing the top of her head, “Call it an olive branch. Or an apology.”

Mags raised her eyebrows at him, “Making friends fast as usual. Does this mean you want to sit this tour out and just join the others at the Capitol?”

Finnick thought for a moment, the sound of your laughter catching his ear as Chaff whispered something to you under his breath. The sound was light and clear, and made something in the pit of Finnick’s chest feel fluttery and delicate.

“Uh-no,” he said, ignoring the knowing look on Mags’ face, “no, let’s go with them. Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” Mags asked.

“In case,” Finnick shrugged, “I don’t know, in case something good happens.”

“Okay,” Mags chuckled, “I’ll go get started on the packing.”

Finnick thanked her softly and then shoved his hands into his pockets, continuing to watch you from the sidelines. Eventually you looked up and met his eye, fear turning to confusion when he smiled gently and raised a hand in greeting. Hesitantly, you smiled back, your eyes still questioning his intentions, but Finnick took it. He still wasn’t sure about you. There was something just under the surface with you, close enough for him to sense, but still too deep down for him to identify that he wanted to reach.

“Well, you’ve intrigued me,” Finnick whispered to himself, “let’s see what happens next.”

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Tag list: @i-love-you-green, @heatherhollowayst

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pikapeppa · 4 years ago

Text

Professor Solas/Lavellan: Oceanic

Chap 4 of Inadvisable (professor Solas modern AU) is posted!

In which Nare Lavellan throws caution to the wind when she officially meets Professor Solas for the first time. 😏 Featuring both Nare and Solas POV!

~4300 words; read on AO3 instead.

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- NARE -

Nare tapped her fingernails on her empty glass as she scanned the bar. I don’t see him, she thought in disappointment, then turned back to face her new labmates with a somewhat perfunctory smile.

Merrill was in the middle of telling a story. She covered her mouth with one hand as she giggled. “After that, Professor Abelas has never eaten any of the baked goods I bring in. It was only the one time, though. I don’t usually put a tablespoon of salt in my cakes, I swear.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Tamlen said. “Professor Abelas doesn’t even eat storebought baked goods that are brought into the lab.”

“I think that’s how he got so tall,” Dagna said. “Not eating baked goods.”

Tamlen smirked. “Dagna, you think everyone is tall.”

She tutted and poked his hip. “Silly. I’ll let you get away with that comment since you always get the files down from the top shelves for me.”

Athera tilted her head quizzically. “Is Professor Abelas going to come to this mixer?”

“He already came and went,” Merrill said. “He always comes right when it starts and leaves within the hour.”

Athera’s eyebrows jumped up. “He came right at eight o’clock? I bet no one was even here yet!”

“That’s why he comes on time,” Tamlen said dryly.

Athera snorted. “That makes so much sense, actually.”

Nare briefly stopped scanning the room to grin at her. “Are you going to gossip about him now since you know he’s not going to show up?”

Athera scoffed. “I’m not going to gossip about a faculty member at the campus bar. I’m not stupid.” Then she smirked and elbowed Nare. “I’ll keep the gossip for when we get home.”

“Oh good,” Nare said brightly. “I still can’t believe you told Tamaris about your day while I was in the shower.”

Merrill clapped her hands. “Athera was so impressive today. You didn’t cry once!”

Nare looked at Merrill and Athera in genuine alarm. “Cry?” she exclaimed. “Why would you cry?”

Athera rolled her eyes, and Tamlen helpfully replied. “Professor Abelas is, uh, stern.”

“I think his face will crack if he smiles too much,” Merrill said.

Tamlen cocked his head thoughtfully. “His frown does kind of look like a golem, doesn’t it?”

“Yep, it really does,” Dagna chirped, “and I would know. Golems were the focus of my undergrad thesis.”

“Were they really?” Athera said keenly. “I only had one single lecture during my undergrad that even talked about golems. What can you tell me about them?”

Dagna launched into an excited explanation of the role of golems in ancient Orzammar, and Nare took the opportunity to scan the room once more, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. Really, if she saw Professor Solas at this mixer, it would be better if she stayed away from him.

But at the same time, if she stayed away from him and he saw her, that would be worse, wouldn’t it? She was his new Master’s student and they’d run into each other earlier today, even though he didn’t know who she was. If he saw her here tonight and she didn’t talk to him, it would be weird when she formally met him tomorrow in his office, as if she’d been avoiding him. And she had no real reason or excuse to avoid him.

Aside from the juvenile but persistent fantasies she kept having about his height looming over her and his gorgeous voice curling out of those plush full lips.

She nibbled the inside of her cheek and tapped her empty glass. Then Athera nudged her. “You’re starting to make me nervous now,” she murmured. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Nare smiled at her. “I’m fine, I promise,” she said. Then she looked at her new labmates. “Does Solas — er, Professor Solas usually come to these mixers?”

Merrill nodded. “He does, yes. He’s probably here somewhere talking to someone.”

“Being told off by someone, you mean,” Tamlen drawled.

Merrill tsked. “They only tell him off because they’re jealous.”

Dagna giggled. “Or because he embarrassed some Orlesian professor in one of their lectures by pointing out something wrong.”

Nare looked at him with wide eyes. “He does that in the middle of other people’s lectures while everyone is watching?”

“Yep,” Tamlen said smugly. “It’s kind of awesome, actually.”

Nare laughed, and Athera sighed happily. “I’d like to see that sometime.”

“You can, if you want,” Tamlen said, to Nare’s surprise. “Solas is insistent that all his lectures be open for anyone to audit. The administration almost had a fit at first because his classrooms were so packed that it violated fire regulations, but it’s calmed down a little bit in the past couple years.”

Nare stared at him. “Open for auditing? Wow.” That basically meant that Solas was doing his world-class lectures for free for anyone who wanted to listen.

She sighed to herself. As if she needed more of a reason to have a crush on him.

Merrill seemed to agree. “I think it’s brilliant. He’s trying to share the knowledge of Arlathan so openly! After so many years of their borders being almost completely closed to outsiders!” She sighed wistfully. “I hope I can go on an exchange to Arlathan someday.”

Dagna nodded enthusiastically. “That would be pretty amazing. Can you imagine how much we could learn?”

Nare smiled in agreement and glanced around, and her heart stopped.

There he was. Professor Solas was standing near the bar in a fitted blazer and a collared shirt, smiling politely as a dark-haired man spoke animatedly to him.

Her frozen heart bolted into a galloping pulse. Oh gods, she thought. Oh gods oh gods. He was here. She was hoping he would be here, and now that he actually was, she thought she might pass out from excitement. Or from anxiety. One of the two.

She tore her eyes away from him and smiled idly at Athera and the others, but she could barely pretend to be paying attention anymore. Professor Solas was there, standing right there not twenty feet away and drawing her attention more readily than a lighthouse beam.

All of a sudden, she couldn’t resist the beacon anymore.

She held out her glass to Athera. “Can you take this? I’m going to the washroom. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure,” Athera said, but Nare was already walking away.

She twined her way through the crowd and slipped into the washroom, then stepped in front of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were a bit flushed, but that could be chalked up to the crowded bar. Her hair looked good, half pinned-up and the rest spilling down her back in loose waves, and her makeup was surprisingly unsmudged.

She took a deep breath to try and calm herself, but it barely helped; her anxiety was burning away and being taken over by excitement alone — a kind of reckless excitement that Nare was not accustomed to feeling. But then again, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this kind of spine-tingling excitement about anyone.

Honestly, she couldn’t remember ever being this desperately attracted to anyone. Too bad he had to be her fucking supervisor.

It’s fine, she thought. I’ll just introduce myself and talk to him a little bit. It’s fine. It’s perfectly innocent.

She smiled at herself, then pressed her lips together to quell a stupid little giggle. Then, before she could lose her courage, she swept out of the bathroom and back into the bar.

- SOLAS -

Dorian raised his eyebrows winningly. “Come now, Solas, you have to admit that a collaboration would be a huge opportunity. An exhibit developed and created by both of us focusing on the interplay between Tevinter and Arlathani culture over the centuries? People across Thedas will be discussing it.”

“I will consider it,” Solas said.

“You should,” Dorian said. “At most, a collaborative project could garner patrons and sponsors for several years’ worth of funding for both of our departments. At the very least, it will get people talking.”

“That’s not something I have had particular difficulty with over the past few years,” Solas said wryly.

Dorian chuckled. “True, true. You and Abelas and your controversial theories. Come, my friend, your glass is dry.” He leaned over the bar and signalled the bartender.

Solas hastily held up a hand to stop the bartender’s approach. “Thank you, but no,” he said to Dorian. “And I’m afraid I will have to cut our conversation short. This mixer is intended for mingling with the students, after all.”

Dorian sighed playfully. “I hear your message loud and clear. You’re sick and tired of me nattering your ear off.” He stepped away from the bar. “I will let you be. But promise me at least that you’ll consider a collaboration.”

“I will,” Solas said. And he meant it. But just because he considered a collaboration with Dorian didn’t mean he would agree to one, even if it did mean more sponsorship and funding. The Ancient Elvhen Studies program wouldn’t need funding beyond the next couple of years, after all.

Dorian clapped him on the shoulder, then wandered into the boisterous crowd. Once he was gone, Solas let out a sigh of relief. He was far more adept at these sorts of gatherings than Abelas was, and truthfully, Solas didn’t mind coming to these events; he was always willing to engage in a rousing academic debate or an in-depth discussion of art over drinks. But just because he enjoyed the debates and the discussions didn’t mean he wasn’t exhausted by the time the night was done.

And tonight was only half-done. He’d only arrived about a half-hour ago, and he really ought to stay for at least another hour. It was simply unfortunate that tonight’s mixer happened to fall on the sort of lazy weeknight that Solas would have preferred to spend on his couch at home with a book in hand and Fenor purring happily in his lap.

He sighed and glanced around the room. Then his heart flipped in his chest.

A beautiful young elven woman in the crowd was smiling at him. A young woman he recognized, actually. Long russet hair, big blue eyes, long bare legs in a dark red dress…

It was the woman he had bumped into this morning on his way to the library.

Collided with, more like, he thought ruefully. He really should have known better than to read while he was walking, especially when he’d forgotten his reading glasses at home and had to squint hard at the page.

He nodded politely to her. Her smile widened, revealing a dimple in her right cheek, and she slipped deftly through the crowd until she was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” she said. “We meet again.”

“So it seems,” he said. He was a bit taken aback by her confidence; it was a contrast with how shy she’d seemed earlier today.

“I didn’t realize that you were a student here,” he said. As soon as the words left his lips, he felt foolish. How could he have realized she was a student? They hadn’t even encountered each other on campus.

Thankfully, she didn’t point out his inane comment. “That’s okay,” she said. “I wasn’t heading toward campus, anyway.”

He blinked. “That’s right, you weren’t. Where were you headed?”

“I went to the modern art museum to see the neo-Avvar exhibit.”

Solas raised his eyebrows. “Ah. It’s a fascinating display, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she said enthusiastically. “I love the range of mediums they use in their work. The textiles were especially beautiful. I don’t know anything about textile art, but I feel like it would have been so hard to dye the tapestries in that kind of colour blending without any modern tech.”

“The textiles are truly impressive, aren’t they?” Solas agreed. “Incredible that such meticulous weavework could be done with bare hands. The Avvar are known for not using machines for their weaving.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? I just assumed that they used a loom of some kind.”

“No looms,” he confirmed. “Those tapestries were made entirely by hand.” He chuckled. “I believe my fingers would seize if I ever attempted such a feat.”

Her smile curled mischievously. “I can’t imagine that. I think you have the right kind of hands for weaving.”

He looked at her sharply, amused and surprised by her boldness. “Do you, now?”

He was further amused when she blushed. “I just… I can tell you’re an artist by your hands,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows, and her cheeks flushed even further. “I just mean that your… you have beautiful hands.” She laughed and patted her pinkened cheeks.

Solas smiled helplessly at her. There was something utterly charming about her confidence combined with her embarrassment, and… fenedhis, he knew he shouldn’t be encouraging this. He had no idea what department she even belonged to. But regardless of department, she was a student, and he shouldn’t be encouraging any kind of flirtation.

His wayward mouth opened of its own accord. “Do all artists have beautiful hands then, in your estimation?”

She waved her hand haphazardly. “No, no. I’m just being silly. Mine are nothing special, for example.”

He studied her with fresh interest. “Are you an artist yourself, then?”

“I… yes, actually,” she said. “I’m, um… I’m a painter. Digital and traditional.”

A painter as well? That was a happy coincidence. “As am I,” he said. “If you are a painter, you should know that you ought not discount your hands as being nothing special. A person’s hands speak of their character, whether the hands themselves are considered classically beautiful or not.”

She tilted her head. “Can you tell me more about that, professor?”

A warm feeling bloomed in his belly, and he eyed her carefully. Her tone and her expression were innocent, but there was something about the way she said his title that felt… not entirely innocent, somehow.

Against his better judgment, he held out his hand. “Certainly. May I?”

Her eyes widened. But before Solas could retract his unwise words, she lifted her left hand and placed it in his.

He studied her palm and her fingers for a moment, then turned her hand over. “You are left-handed.”

She let out a breathless little laugh. “I… yes, I am. How did you know?”

“A writing bump, right here.” He brushed his thumb over the small callused bump of skin on the knuckle of her fourth finger. “Incidentally, you may want to reconsider the way you hold your stylus or your brushes in order to avoid fatigue.”

She gave him a teasing little smile. “Oh please. You should know better than to mess with how a painter holds her brush.”

He chuckled. “You make a fair point.” He studied her the back of her hand. “No nail polish, tidy short nails: also indicative of a painter.”

“Nice try,” she said. “You knew that already.”

He looked up in surprise at her drawling tone, then grinned and released her hand. “You have caught me. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of note about your hands.”

She laughed. “Don’t say that. You figured out that I’m left-handed.”

He bowed his head politely. “You are overly generous with your praise.”

“Maybe you can make it up to me,” she said.

“What do you suggest?”

She cocked her head. “You could draw my hands sometime.”

His belly flipped. Her eyebrow was quirked, and there was no mistaking the coquettish angle of her head.

He cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back. “I… don’t think so.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I… anatomy is not…” He faltered before he could tell the lie that anatomy was not a specialty of his. “It has been a long time since I did any anatomy studies,” he said instead.

“Really?” she said. “I got the feeling that you’d be an expert at handling anatomy.”

The warm feeling in his belly flared hotly — and perversely. He gave her a chiding look, but he could feel his traitorous lips curling into a smile. “This is… hardly appropriate,” he said in a low voice.

Her cheeks flushed once more. She smiled at him, then dropped his gaze and tucked a stray strand of hair over her ear. “I know. I’m terrible, I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave you alone?”

No, he thought. Truthfully, there was nothing he wanted more than to continue this conversation with this alluring young woman. But he couldn’t keep this up. It was against university regulations.

“It would be inadvisable for this conversation to continue,” he said carefully.

Her answering smile was sheepish this time. “You’re probably right.”

“The faculty handbook confirms that I am,” he said dryly.

She laughed. “I guess so. Well, will you have a drink with me? Just a drink,” she said quickly. “A collegial drink, I promise.”

Her sky-blue eyes were wide and innocent – deceptively innocent. Solas eyed her shrewdly for a moment, then gave in. “I suppose one drink can’t hurt.”

She beamed at him and leaned over the bar to signal the bartender, and Solas idly studied the shape of her spine. Then his disobedient mind conjured an image of her bending over the desk in his office with her spine curved in a similar shape.

Mortified by his own thoughts, he hastily tore his eyes away from her, but her voice instantly called back his attention. “Professor, what would you like?”

Professor. She couldn’t keep saying his title. It was doing things to his imagination that it shouldn’t be doing.

He looked at the bartender. “Half a pint of Arlathan pale ale, please.” He looked down at his overly-tempting companion. “And for you?”

“Vodka tonic for me,” she said, and she pulled her wallet out of her purse.

Solas held up a hand to stop her. “Allow me.”

A slow smile began to curl her lips. By the time she was grinning, Solas’s heart was pounding in his throat.

She laughed softly. “Buying me a drink? That’s very collegial of you.”

Her tone was suggestive, and he liked it far too much. “It is collegial, in fact,” he said. “I can charge it to my department since this is a university-hosted gathering.” He gestured for the bartender to add the drinks to his tab.

“Ooh,” she said teasingly. “That’s a clever loophole.”

Vixen, he thought incredulously. He couldn’t believe he’d ever thought she was shy. She was bold and beautiful and tempting, and she made him want to be bold as well.

And that thought – that wish to meet and match her boldness – was one that he absolutely could not entertain.

He forced himself to hold back the flirtatious comment at the tip of his tongue. “It is not a loophole. It’s the truth,” he said instead.

She nodded and sipped her drink. Her expression was pleasantly neutral, but her eyes on his face were sly and warm, and Solas knew he ought to look away. He ought to break from her gaze and look at something else – anything else, really, aside from this beautiful woman that he absolutely should not be thinking about in increasingly carnal ways.

But he couldn’t look away. Her eyes were so clear and bright, and even in the dim light of the campus bar, he could see that they were an unusually lush shade of blue: not quite sky-blue like he’d originally thought, but a deeper, richer shade closer to cerulean.

Solas gazed into her cerulean eyes and sipped his ale, and she stared back at him as she sipped her vodka-tonic. By the time Solas had finished half of his drink, he still hadn’t broken from her steady gaze. Neither of them had said a word, and as he stared into her eyes and mindlessly sipped his drink, he slowly realized that not only were they not talking, but that they shouldn’t talk.

No, he shouldn’t talk to her anymore. If he said another word to her, he would only be digging himself deeper into the hole she’d started.

He finally broke from her heated gaze to drain the last drops of his ale, then placed his glass on the bar and leaned toward her slightly. “This is an impossible situation.”

She blinked at him – such an innocent gesture, but her pinkening cheeks betrayed her. “What do you mean?”

He lowered his voice. “You know precisely what I mean.”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she grinned at him again: a bold, beautiful grin full of mischief and heat that made him want to sink into her right here on the spot.

He licked his lips, and her cheeks flushed even more. Then her purse chimed loudly.

He hastily stepped away from her, and she exhaled loudly. “Damn,” she muttered. She pulled her phone out of her purse and checked the screen.

She wrinkled her nose, then looked up at him once more. “I have to go. My friends are leaving and I said I’d leave with them.”

He sighed – with relief, of course, certainly not with disappointment. Truly, he should be thanking whoever had sent her such a timely text. “I see,” he said. He nodded politely. “It was nice talking with you.”

“You too,” she said. But she didn’t step away. She was studying him thoughtfully, and as Solas met her gaze, he realized what her eyes reminded him of.

They reminded him of the ocean: the perfectly clear ocean off the coast of Arlathan. And if he wasn’t careful, he was going to drown himself in her oceanic eyes.

He stared at her, his heart pounding and the blood thrumming through his body in a way that was really not appropriate for such an event. Then she stepped close to him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

He froze. She was lifting herself on her tiptoes and leaning in close to him. Her heated eyes were coming closer, and his lungs were frozen and his brain was completely paralyzed with excitement as she raised herself higher and nearer to his face…

He parted his lips – to tell her to stop, to back away, certainly not to invite a kiss – but before he could say a word, she brushed her lips over his cheekbone in a demure Orlesian greeting.

She lowered herself slowly back to her heels, and her hand left his shoulder. “Goodnight, professor,” she murmured.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t reply. The sound of his title in her voice and the brush of her lips on his cheek had left him utterly stunned.

She smiled at him one last time, then turned away. His hand moved involuntarily to reach for her, but he stopped himself in the nick of time.

A second later, she had disappeared into the crowd.

Solas stood stock-still at the bar for a long moment. His pounding heart was a drumbeat in his ears, drowning out the cacophony of conversation and music and laughter in the bar. Heat and disbelief and desire were thrumming through his limbs and into his cheeks and — fenedhis, he couldn’t ignore it any longer: he was hard. Shamefully hard and throbbing, his mind totally preoccupied with the feeling of her lips on his cheek, brushing over his cheekbone so close to his mouth — such pretty smiling lips. Ah, to imagine those smiling lips wrapping around his shaft and taking him deep into her throat…

He rubbed his hand over his face. He couldn’t think like this. He didn’t understand why he was so deeply affected by this particular woman. It wasn’t like this was the first time a student had come onto him, and it had never been a problem before to tactfully rebuff them while making it seem as though he was unaware of their intentions.

So what was it about this particular young woman — this particular student — that had so captivated him that he was suffering from all sorts of tawdry thoughts that he really shouldn’t be having?

I should avoid her, he thought. If he avoided contact with her, he could avoid having any further carnal thoughts about her. Perhaps if he asked the administration to look up her name, he could…

Suddenly he realized something: he didn’t know her name.

She hadn’t introduced herself before launching straight into a conversation with him.

He laughed softly at his own sheer idiocy. Had he even introduced himself to her? Had his wits entirely left him the second she’d graced him with that mischievous smile?

He drew a deep breath, then exhaled heavily and stepped away from the bar. Enough of this, he thought. You must stop thinking about this. He ought to spend more time speaking with the students; he hadn’t even spoken with any of the students from his own lab yet tonight. What he really should be doing was looking for his new Master’s student, Nare. Surely she was here tonight. Perhaps she had found Merrill and Dagna.

I should have stayed home with Fenor after all, he thought morosely. With one last sigh, Solas stepped back into the crowd.

#solas #solas fic #solavellan #professor solas #professor solas au #inadvisable #pikapeppa writes

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soobadnoonecanstopher · 5 years ago

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The Price of Privilege - Part 12 (A Kyungsoo Series)

Genre: Angst / Romance / Arranged Marriage / Royalty AU

Characters: Kyungsoo X You

Description: The time has come to marry the man your family has selected to take your hand. As royalty, these important matters are arranged for you, but when you meet your soon to be husband, he is nothing like you expected.

The Price of Privilege [M]: - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 , part 9 , part 10 , part 11, part 12 , part 13 , part 14, part 15

Prince Baekhyun led himself to his own bed. You followed only with a soft pressure against his back and the occasional shush to work against his quiet protests.

It could wait. Whatever was consuming him so entirely could be put to bed for now and be dealt with later. After some rest. After some food. After some comfort from a friend. Not everything had to be dealt with alone. Not everything had to be hopeless and never ending.

He laid on his side on the large bed and was asleep as soon as his head reached the pillow. Still, you ran a rhythmic hand over his back as his breathing evened out and he let out a few low moans before he went completely still and quiet.

The silence seeped in like a fog and you sank to the floor, leaning beside his bed and laying your head down on your arm that still touched his back.

It was still.

It was quiet.

The silence coated over your head and made your ears ache with how loud it was.

It was probably the silence that brought on the numbness, but the longer you sat there with your head down and your eyes closed, the less you felt.

The less you felt of it.

It and the guilt from it all. The ever pervasive dread in the pit of your stomach that did not let up. The pain and anguish caused by the choices you had made. The consequences of what you had done to him; his desperate and desolate cries in that dressing room. The silence was changing it and you began to feel nothing.

It didn’t hurt.

You had trouble breathing through your nose and your face was wet.

The arm that you laid on was wet.

The bed below your arm was wet.

It didn’t hurt. You felt nothing and it was absolute.

You were numb. The tears were annoying but nothing else.

They would end.

As everything did.

The friendship you had with May.

The brief love you had known from Kyungsoo.

The silence throbbed and the numbness unfolded.

Like waking up from a dream.

No matter how vivid and real the dream had felt, you were waking up now. And just as easily as you let yourself feel that dream, your reality was taking precedent. You would let it go just as easily.

It had all been a dream and it was time to wake up now. The memory of his love faded into the numbness and you let it go with the dream.

It was time to live in the real world now.

You would not hold onto that dream any longer.

—

You opened your eyes to the sunlight leaking through the tiniest opening in the curtains on the far window of this unfamiliar room. The stiff hardness below your body brought on an ache in your muscles when you moved your shoulders and you realized you were on the floor with a pillow below your head and a blanket over your body.

The memory of the evening before returned as you blinked away the bright sunlight and sat up in the empty bedroom.

Baekhyun was nowhere to be found, but you did notice a yellow post-it note stuck to a cell phone that sat on the bedside table.

‘I got this for you. -B,’ was scribbled on the note by what you assumed was Baekhyun’s hand and you picked up the cell phone to unlock it.

The lock screen wallpaper on the phone was a picture of you, passed out on the floor of his bedroom with your mouth open and an arm laid over your eyes.

You had a waiting text message from a number saved under the name ‘Pretty Baekhee.’

‘Servants came looking for you early saw you on camera. Wedding stuff. Isn’t your family coming today? Sorry if i was weird last night.’

You felt lighter today. Despite the sore back from the hard floor and the headache from not getting nearly enough sleep, it would have to do.

The dreams were fading.

You wanted to ask him about last night. You wanted to ask him about what he said about his mom. You’d typed out the question three times, each time deleting it before giving up.

‘Are you okay, Baekhyun?’

Your message sat there for a moment before you saw a few dots at the bottom of the screen as your message was received and you could tell that he was typing out a response.

Only the action stopped for a while, picked up again, and stopped again. You stared down at the phone for a long while as nothing happened.

Finally you felt a vibration in your palm that told you he had responded to you.

‘Yep, never better’

His reply was too short, too forced, and too flippant to be genuine. Especially with as long as you saw him typing for. He must have have had own little battle before deleting whatever he was too afraid to say. But what could you do? You couldn’t even be honest with him. Why did you deserve anything in return? You definitely couldn’t force him to talk with you. The idea of having someone to talk to felt so foreign to you, yet you yearned for it.

‘You can talk to me sometimes, if you want to. We could talk to each other. Friends talk sometimes.’

This message was not met with typing. This message was received, read, and then it sat there on your screen for ages as you looked down for any signs of life from him.

You’d given up on seeing him respond to it as you busied yourself with finding your way back to your own home so you could shower, change and get ready for the day.

He’d said that your family was due to arrive today and you recalled seeing a schedule of events before the wedding that had a royal dinner with both families and all wedding parties present.

This would be a grand event. You would have to remember to eat something before you got into your dress since you would likely be much too anxious to eat anything at the dinner.

You’d have to see him. Did you have the courage to look into his brown eyes and see all of that pain? Even worse was the thought of seeing those eyes vacant and hollow.

No matter.

It would be an ordinary day for both of you. Business as usual. Fancy restrictive clothing; hold your head up high. Accept curtsies and bows. Show deference to the influential. Eat three bites, place fork down, sip wine.

Look into his eyes. Ignore the pangs of guilt. Smile, but not too wide and don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Just an ordinary day.

Halfway through your food, the phone you’d hidden inside the waistband of your jeans vibrated and you excused yourself for the bathroom to read the text message from Baekhyun. The servants bowed at the waist as you walked by them. When you were passed, they simply resumed their work of readying your evening gown for tonight. As soon as you were out of the room you heard them resuming their low talking as they worked together and gossiped and giggled about something amusing. You swallowed away the envy.

‘Thank you for this. Talk tonight?’

It felt nice. The smile that reached your eyes was genuine.

Right there in that moment, hidden away in your bathroom with a house full of servants waiting to preen and pluck, truss and string you up, you made a decision for yourself.

You would talk to Baekhyun. You would trust him. You would have a friend and there was nothing in the world that could stop you from having a friend. A real one.

You had never owned your own phone before but you had watched May do it plenty of times to know that somewhere inside this keyboard was a selection of little faces.

You found them easily enough and scrolled through to find the happiest one. One with a large toothy grin and little moon eyes and you sent out your very first emoji to your friend. The happiness you felt inside of your chest made you want to type that little face many times in a row, but you stopped yourself and just sent one. You didn’t need to go crazy.

You hid the phone in the same shelf inside your walk in closet, just far enough back to be invisible to anyone who did not know where to look and you left the peace and quiet of the bathroom to get ready for the evening.

As these things go, there was an abundance of waiting before anyone required you to move.

The dress’s fabric was thick and shockingly scratchy whenever the ruffled hem tickled against your calves. Whoever picked it out obviously didn’t give a damn about the person wearing it. You recognized the thick glasses of the stylist from the dress fitting and her eyes roamed over your body in approval. She stopped at your neck. Her concerns ended there. They did not include the look in your eyes as you tried to ignore the itch in your skin when that stupid rufffle snagged on your pantyhose with every single step you took.

“This dress itches.” You said to the nearest ear to you and the servant girl looked at you for a moment; bowing her head in apology.

“I’m so sorry, your highness. It’s sponsored for the event by the designer himself.”

“What’s the problem?” The stylist had a whiff of your annoyance as you reached down to scratch lightly over your hose, careful not to snag anything with your nails.

“I beg your pardon, Ma’am, she says it’s itchy.”

You felt like a naughty child that was acting out, but you honestly did not believe you could stand wearing this for the entire evening. The stylist looked up from the dress at last and looked into your eyes for a good five seconds before she spoke again.

“He is Her Royal Majesty's favorite designer and she has selected this piece personally for you to wear tonight. It is an unimaginable honor.”

You could feel yourself losing the battle and the steel trap in her eyes held your own for longer than most of the hired help would even dare. “Perhaps a drink would help, your highness.” At last, she dropped her eyes and you gritted your teeth and nodded your head once.

A shot of alcohol arrived on a tray and you tossed back the bitter clear liquid.

It was an ordinary day.

The dinner was beginning. Faces were blurring together with the occasional important face popping into your vision.

You were presented into a dining room, a different one than you had visited before, this one larger and more grand.

All of the faces you had grown accustomed to during your time in this place were present. Only Baekhyun smiled at you when you made eye contact and you smiled back at him. The others nodded with tired looks in their eyes and you did the same to them. You looked around carefully and slowly, knowing who’s dark brown eyes would be the final ones for you to touch when you reached your seat.

As the groom, and the most important participant of this ceremony aside from you, Prince Kyungsoo would be seated at the top of the table, near the head. Near where his father, the king, was scheduled to appear and where his current wife, Queen Hong would be seated beside.

Next to them, you would see the face of your father, who had just arrived, you heard from the maids this morning. He was bringing along his newest wife. She was younger than you and her pregnant belly would have swollen enough to make her hold in a grunt when she stood up and again when she sat down.

You wondered if at last, your father would have the son he’d always desired and you wondered if that baby boy would ever know what it felt like to have a real friend.

You’d arrived at your spot and your view of the floor showed you black shoes connected to ankles and black pants standing exactly where you expected to see him.

Just an ordinary day.

There was a touch required here. His hand — the same that you’d felt before with his rounded fingertips and electric warmth as they etched a deep cut pathway across your bare skin. The passionate touches and heavy breaths of that far away dream world that still teased you.

You had to let it go. It was gone.

He held his hand out, palm down and you did not even hesitate. You had to still be breathing, right? You’d yet to collapse onto the floor at his feet so you must be awake.

Years of practice — you worked on muscle memory in front of this broken man with your broken heart still somehow pumping blood to every cell in your body on this very ordinary, very unremarkable day just like any other day.

The palm of his hand was moist below your fingertips and you bent at the waist and the smooth skin of the back of his hand was heated when you pressed your lips to it.

You’d meant to drop his hand quickly. It was done and you meant to let go. But he...his thumb moved with the lightest brush. Either a flinch or a mistake, he had given the smallest squeeze over your fingers. A ghost of a memory that had escaped. Remnants of the dream. It slowed you down and you looked into his eyes for a moment.

You remembered to breathe. You remembered the small smile you pushed onto your face, for the sake of the show.

He looked at your face now. The beautiful eyes of Prince Kyungsoo were holding on to yours with an unreadable and heavily guarded wall built around them.

He breathed in and out and in again and he blinked once before his head dipped and he bowed just once. It was his part.

No more would come from him until the dinner was over and he had to look at you again for the farewell.

There was a predictable flow to these things. You remained standing until your cue to sit and it came after your father entered, the King of your small nation who’s drought and famine ravaged population depended on this fortuitous union for, not their prosperity, but for their survival.

He was in a good mood. You could tell by the puff of his chest as he walked and the tight grip of a hand over his wife’s arm to steady her waddle. You looked at his hand noticing how tightly he held on, an outright protective stance it appeared and you wondered if they had been see the doctor about the sex of the baby yet. A boy would be an heir. A boy would be cherished and well loved at home. A boy wouldn’t have been sent off to an unfamiliar place and married off to whichever foreign prince would open up valuable trade routes and lower export tariffs on vanilla and coffee beans, your nation's biggest exports.

His beamed a wide smile to see you and you offered a deep bow as a greeting, mirroring many of the others who stood in this enormous dining hall.

There was a pause of breath before a loud voice announced the King and Queen’s entrance. The room responded and heads were down until the pair were well into the room and seated at the head of the table.

It was your first time seeing King Lee, Kyungsoo’s father and you had never expected the man to be so very old. You would not be surprised to learn that he had reached the triple digits, now that you were actually looking at him and you regretted not having been able to ask May anything about him before you found yourself in front of him. He was old enough to require a wheelchair which was pushed by a servant to the head of the table and he lifted a shaky hand midway to signal that the guests should be seated.

He stared ahead at the table with eyes that clouded over so much that you wondered if he was able to see through them and it became abundantly clear why you had seen none of this man since your arrival when his first words whispered over his shoulder to his Queen was a question as to why there were so many people here today.

His presence today was formality only, because Queen Hong’s voice spoke up over the sound of the senile old man’s heavy breathing and occasional coughing and soon he gave up and grew more interested in the glass of wine that was kept topped off at his place setting.

You found yourself reaching for your own wine glass with a similar fixation to keep the itch from the gown drowned under a haze of red tinted alcohol.

Halfway through dinner, the conversation shifted from mild pleasantries into rocky waters that made you put your fork down and look across the table at the profile of your father’s face as he reacted to the news that you were sure he had heard already.

A spy, from his own house, caught red handed by a member of this royal house.

“Such a shameful thing,” your father exclaimed with a slow shake of his head. “We can assure you, we were just as shocked to hear about the maid’s illegal activities as I’m sure you were. Just terribly shocked and disgusted. It’s a good thing she was caught so quickly. I don't tolerate traitors in my kingdom.”

His focus shifted to you and you felt the dryness in your mouth turn your tongue scratchy and sticky.

Beside you, Kyungsoo had been steadily sipping on his wine glass when he tipped it back further, emptying its contents into his mouth and he placed the glass back down on the table with a hard thud.

Below the table, his leg bounced up and down in a regular rhythm.

“She was certainly acting alone. I trust that mess has been cleaned up well?”

“Oh, we won't discuss such grisly details over dinner, but yes, the problem has been dealt with.”

The wine glass was being refilled and he angled himself toward the servant pouring the bottle.

“Bring me something stronger,” he said.

A servant returned with a glass and the bottle on a tray and Kyungsoo grabbed both the glass the the bottle to place in front of his full plate.

The rest of the dinner went by in a similar manner. By the end of it, you were quite literally itching to get back to your home so you could get out of this stupid dress and get away from the pervasive dark silence that sat beside you steadily drinking enough whiskey to put an entire soccer team to bed.

If you had any guts at all you might have reminded him that his wedding day was tomorrow and he had to be able to stand at that alter long enough to agree to this entire disaster with the words ‘I do.’

He couldn’t really do that if he was unconscious.

You’d been watching his face with a sort of disconnected feeling surging through you when a comment floated above your head and pulled you out of the trance.

“—too much to ask for, but it may be possible that their affections for each other run much deeper than mere familial obligations. What do you say, Prince Kyungsoo? Are the rumors true? Would you say you have fallen in love with her?”

Queen Hong was talking in that sickly sweet voice of hers and a curious crowd murmur could be heard around the large table. Kyungsoo had gone still beside you, but his fingertips still touching that damn whiskey glass.

He lifted his glass to his lips and slowly took a drink as he stared ahead at the centerpiece on the table. A large bouquet of hydrangeas in pink and off-white colors and some spots of chartreuse around the blooms. He wasn’t making any move to respond, and you wondered if he had even heard the question. Was he too drunk to reply. Did he intend on ignoring a direct question from the queen herself?

“Answer your mother, boy.” A low gasping voice called out and Kyungsoo’s eyes snapped up to where his father commanded a response from him. He let go of the glass and rubbed quickly over his face, ridding himself of the startled expression at being called out by the old man who hadn’t spoken a single word since the start of the meal. As he brought his hand back down you caught a tremble in his fingers as he sat up straighter and fisted his hands together down in his lap. You saw pinkness form on the back of his neck and on his ears at the embarrassment.

The old man’s outburst brought a wide smile to the Queen's face and her eyebrows wagged in delight at seeing Kyungsoo squirm so much. This was clearly her idea of a fun time. She was very amused now and you were very much not.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I’m… I’ve f-fallen…” he cleared his throat and you felt a sickness surge up hot inside your stomach as a startling force of anger took over.

How dare they demand this of him. How dare they talk to him in this way, like some amusing sideshow act that they could poke and prod at with a stick whenever they pleased.

Your hands were shaking and you used it to your advantage as you reached too quickly for your wine glass and tipped just so to send the whole thing flying over your plate and spilling the red liquid down the front of this ridiculous dress you were wearing and all down your itchy, itchy legs.

“Oh, my goodness,” you called out and you were descended upon by servants who dabbed with napkins and grabbed at your wine glass and dinner plate where an uneaten filet swam in a blood red lake. “I fear I may have celebrated too much tonight.”

“Yes, perhaps you have,” Queen Hong said with a touch of disappointment in her voice and a shrug of her eyebrows. You were surprised to see them move. You’d thought for sure they had been rendered immobile by all the Botox. “You may be excused. Kyungsoo you may escort your fiancé back to her room for the evening. I trust there will be no incidents of any kind at tomorrow’s ceremony.”

You bowed a farewell and you both exited the room together. You were hyper aware of the fire hot heat of his hand that rested over the small of your back just until you were both clear of the dining hall and then it vanished from you entirely.

You stood in a hallway and the walls spun a little bit.

You were decidedly more drunk than you had admitted to yourself and you fought it with a few hard blinks to get the walls to stand still.

There was a presence here. Kyungsoo stood with his back against the wall opposite of the one you occupied and his eyes were closed up tight as he leaned his head back against the wall. His hands were fisted into tight balls at his side and his cheeks were bright pink from the large amount of whiskey he had consumed. You were sure that he had had half a bottle at least, just at dinner alone.

After almost an entire minute, he leveled his head, and without looking at you, turned and walked away with an outstretched hand touching the wall with his fingertips as he walked.

His steps were not very steady but neither were yours. You knew this because you followed him. You were kind of unsure of where exactly you were in the palace and you figured he would probably head back to his place and you knew the way from there.

He turned a corner and there was another hallway.

Five steps into this one he stopped and spun around in a half circle with big black eyes wide on you and a hand still touching the wall to steady himself.

Would he speak?

Would he yell?

Would he cry?

His mouth opened up and no words came out, but you could see the pressure inside him making his chest, shoulders, up to his chin even vibrate with pent up tension.

But he did not speak a word. Instead he walked faster now in the opposite direction from where he going down that hallway, he walked passed you without relying on the wall this time he breezed passed you and you watched him go, giving the man some space before you resumed your following footsteps from further away.

Now you really didn’t know where you were. There was a huge wall of glass windows that overlooked one of the gardens and the night time exterior lights shone down on expertly manicured hedges and remarkable blooming flower beds.

You hoped you were at least sober enough to find this again. You quite wanted to see what it looked like during the daylight.

He walked for ages. He must have known you followed him, but made no attempts to speak with you or even look at you and eventually you recognized the large framed work of art from outside of his home. You heard the loud slam of his front door and the pervasive silence that followed that sound.

And it did not hurt.

You felt nothing. Not even the itch from the skirt ruffle. Not even the stickiness from the red wine that had soaked into your panty hose. Somewhere far away, you thought you heard a haunting sound somewhere inside that hallway, but you spun and forced your legs to move quickly. Back towards the familiar. Back to where you called home. Back to the place where the low echo of that single scream could not touch you.

You’d had enough time to get out of the dress. You’d grabbed a change of clothes and headed toward the shower with the wet tights halfway peeled off of your legs when you heard the pounding on your front door.

It was three swift knocks.

Followed immediately by three more.

An urgency was betrayed and you pulled the comfy sweats over your still sticky legs and pulled a t shirt over your head just as you pulled the front door open.

Kyungsoo stood there and he had not changed his clothes at all. The tight necktie still in place at his neck and the crisp suit jacket buttoned up from the dinner.

To the outside observer, the man was put together.

To you… you could see all of the pieces as clear as day. He was breathing hard as if he had run over after screaming his head off inside of his locked up living room and his eyes held tight onto yours with their vice grip when you opened the door.

“Did you watch it?”

His question was cold and it hit you hard against the chest. You took a step back. Away from this.

There was nowhere to go. He took a step inside your home and you retreated again, unable to look into the blackness of his eyes for too long and keep your wits about you.

“Kyungsoo,” you said his name and it felt dirty in your mouth. You had lost your right to say that name with your traitorous tongue, but you had nothing else to call him.

His body had a tremor to it.

“Did you see? Did you watch the tape? Did you see what I did to my own mother?”

Your head was shaking back and forth, not because you were going to lie to him and pretend like you never watched it, but because he had it so wrong. What he thought, what you had thought before you watched it, none of that was shown on the tape.

You reached your hands out cautiously outstretched in his direction and his hands surged and he swatted your hands away quickly, his body still shaking and trembling with every step he took as he paced back and forth.

The door behind him clicked shut and he sneered at you now, his teeth bared as he pulled his lips into a humorless grin.

“Did you see what I am capable of? What I did to her? What I can do to you too?”

He took a step into you now, and his hands reached for you, having swatted down the comfort you attempted to issued out in vain, this time when he reached for you it wasn’t with any sort of comfort or affection in mind.

You felt his strong grip reach for your shoulders and he squeezed down hard enough to cause a surge of pain through your arms and he shook roughly, demanding with his words and his actions that you speak, that you do something, or say something, anything to explain yourself. To explain this.

“No, Kyungsoo. Stop. Please.”

His grip tightened and you felt the tears prickling in your eyes.

“Tell me!” He screamed up close and shockingly loud and you flinched away from it when he shook you again. “Tell me you — saw it!”

You heard his voice breaking now and his words lost their stability. His anger was changing and his hands loosened their tight hold.

“Why won't you just tell me? Why won’t you just do it. Just fucking do it, tell everyone what really happened to her? Tell them I’m a monster — destroy me. They’ll execute me. They’ll kill me for this.”

The tears were falling down his face as he spoke and the whites of his eyes were bright red.

“What are you waiting for?” His eyes screwed shut hard and he released the hold on you, slipping down onto his knees, his hands followed your arms as he sank down to the floor and he let go of you completely when he covered his face with both of his hands.

“I watched it, Kyungsoo. I watched the tape.”

You’d found your voice when the painful grip of his hands let you go and he sobbed into his hands on your floor.

“Kyungsoo, there’s nothing there. It didn’t show you doing anything at all. It was nothing.” You felt a desperation in this. Like you couldn’t get the words out fast enough to convince him of the truths you had found.

“No,” he said from below his hands. “No,” he repeated. His head was shaking back and forth steadily as he denied what you said to him.

“Kyungsoo, I swear it. You can have it back. I promise you, there was nothing there.” You felt desperate to stop this — to stop this pain you felt choking you from the inside. You had trouble breathing and the tears made it hard to see, but you left him there in a heap on your living room floor and you ran to the bathroom — to the walk in closet with the hidden shelf and the spot where you kept the tape. It was still there. You gripped it in your hands and you ran back to where he sat on your floor with his hands fallen down to his sides and desolation on his wet face.

“Here,” you bent down to him, shoving the tape roughly into his hand and he looked at you in confusion before looking down at the tape and he was reeling with it.

“No, it’s not possible. I remember —I remember it happening.”

He was lifting himself, the tape in his hand as his tether to the past which he had been so certain of. The past that you were now denying had any evidence to back it up with.

“I remember the sound of it.” His focus was far away and he lifted a hand to run a circle over his ear as he spoke of the wretched memory. “I remember the sound of — the sound of her bones cracking — of her crying out in pain from it.”

The tears fell freely, dripping steadily off his chin and disappearing into the black of his suit jacket.

“—the sound of the air squeezed out of her, it happened right here, I’ve been living with it for fifteen fucking years—the sound of my mother, of my m-mother dying because I didn’t get my way and I threw a fit...” his hand beside his head pulsed his fingers open and closed as he put words to the horrors that happened in his memories.

His eyes suddenly focused again on you.

“Why did you do this to me?” His words competed with his heavy breathing and you wrapped your arms around your stomach with the painful question. Everything hurt. Everything ached. You could hardly breathe through the immense pain inside of you.

You felt all of this.

You felt like you were the one being crushed by this pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered and he lifted up the tape and squeezed down hard inside the palm of his hand. You heard plastic cracking.

“Why did you do this to me, if this thing was nothing. Why did you do that? I—” He gasped an inhale, “I loved you. You destroyed me, for this. For what? Nothing? For fucking nothing?”

“Kyungsoo, I’m sorry. I was trying to save May.” You were begging now. You felt the warmth of his hand as you frantically reached for it and the mention of her name stopped his breathing for a second as his face changed and screwed together in a fresh wave of pain.

“M-May,” he said below his breath and he stumbled away from where you reached for him; breaking himself free of your touch. “May.” He repeated again softly and he looked down in his hand at the pieces of the tape that sat inside of his fingers.

He retreated again and again until his back hit your closed door and his head was shaking back and forth.

“No,” he whispered and his eyes closed as he inhaled a deep chest filling breath of air and he lifted his eyes, planting them squarely on yours.

“This — This is wrong. I have to stop this. This wedding can't happen. I won’t let it happen. I don't care what happens to me, but we won’t be getting married tomorrow.”

There was a terrifying conviction inside his eyes as he spoke to you and it made you gasp out loud to see it.

It was impossible. Everything had already been arranged, and agreed upon by the governments of both countries.

They had both of your signatures and royal seals.

If either of you failed to show up, the missing party would be promptly located, dragged into the wedding hall and forced at gunpoint to state the words of agreement to the union.

This wedding was inevitable. It always had been. The only thing that could stop this wedding was something you did not dare to speak out loud, for it was something more horrifying than anything you could even imagine.

In the midst of your genuine shock at his declaration you didn’t notice the sound of your front door opening and you came into action only when you heard the loud slam of the door closing after he’d left your home.

When you opened the door back up to chase after him, he was already gone and the hallway you ran down in your desperate search showed no signs of him.

He had simply vanished, along with all of the fire and rage, ire and violence that threatened to destroy every cell inside his body and destroy you along with it.

The Price of Privilege [M]: - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 , part 9 , part 10 , part 11, part 12 , part 13 , part 14, part 15

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ladytp · 5 years ago

Text

Jumping from the Ropes - Chapter 1

Here comes my first-ever fully modern AU! Not necessarily by choice, but I received this prompt from @sincerelydayyy for the Sansan Christmas in July 2019 Secret Sansa challenge, “University AU, Christmas party”, and I really couldn’t see a way to wiggle out of the modern AU connotations without seriously violating the prompt… And it was an interesting challenge, so all good! I took the liberty of choosing the setting of my personal preference, a pro-wrestling world - so here goes!

EDIT: Oh my god, where are my manners! In haste to post this before leaving for work today, I completely forgot to give tribute to the beautiful, amazing @queenoferebor1204 who kindly betaed this fic for me! Thank you sooo much!!! 😘💖💕

Summary: What could the big bad heel of the Westeros Wrestling Association, Sandor ‘The Hound’ Clegane, and the university student with dreams of becoming a psychiatrist, Sansa Stark, ever have in common? A chance meeting at the University Christmas party, a moment shared.

…could she take the risk and jump from the ropes?

Sansa

“So, what’s Daddy’s little girl doing alone with a grown-ass man in a secluded place like this?”

The man’s words were as harsh as his tone, low and gravelly. Those, combined with his looks and menacing presence, would have been enough to intimidate anyone – and Sansa was no exception. Her heart started pounding and she almost turned on her heels to ran away, but knowing how ridiculous it would look, she grit her teeth and stood her ground.

The room was dimly lit. White light from the courtyard streamed through the half-closed shutters, but not bright enough nor far enough to reach him fully, leaving him shrouded in the shadows. Sansa‘s belly fluttered when she took in his form, really looking at him.

He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed across his chest. And what arms; thick and muscled, adorned with ornate tattoos. Not only arms, but everything about him was impressive, from the top of his head, down his thick body all the way to the bottom of his black work boots. His hair was dark and fell lankily to cover half his face, his body perfectly proportioned for such a tall man.

The Hound.

The meanest, the angriest, the most notorious wrestler in the Westeros Wrestling Alliance, WWA.

What have I gotten myself into?

Sansa swallowed, her mouth and throat suddenly as dry as parchment. She had probably drunk a few too many Christmas-themed Cranberry Margaritas, having reached that degree of inebriation where everything was wonderful and she felt confident, funny and in control. Why else would she have followed him, only to find herself in a situation she knew for sure she had absolutely no control over?

The Hound leaned back, his mouth twitching and his eyes travelling down her body. Sansa knew she looked pretty, having prepared for the evening with particular care. The annual King's Landing University's Christmas Party was one of the biggest events in its calendar, its attendees consisting of university staff and selected students, invited guests and sponsor representatives. An event that was worth all the fuss Sansa had gone through by doing her hair, makeup and dress, finishing with adorning herself with an assortment of novelty Christmas jewellery to heighten the spirit of the season.

“I… I thought you might get lost. The corridors can be quite a maze to navigate.”

Sansa had seen him leave the Great Hall after having hovered at the back of the room during the speeches, emptying beer bottles, one after another, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him. As one of the student body representatives and feeling partially responsible for the main sponsor’s guests – secured by her father’s connections – she had followed him to make sure he didn’t get lost in the labyrinth of the old building’s many corridors.

The Hound snorted. “I needed to get away from that. Too much noise.”

Sansa’s courage started to return. He was just a man, after all. A man in her father’s employ, even. Or to be precise, in the employ of Bobby ‘Stag’ Baratheon, owner of WWA, who’s COO her father was. Bobby had lured his old friend, Ned Stark, from the North to help him manage the unruly organisation, and as Sansa had wanted to take the opportunity of her university’s student exchange program, she had accompanied her father to the capital.

“I think I know what you mean. I’m not keen on big parties either,” Sansa said, relaxing her stance. Her heart rate had returned to normal and the cloying effect of the alcohol was restoring her confidence. She could do this, she could talk with him as if it was nothing special.

The Hound hadn’t moved but as Sansa’s eyes had by then adjusted to the darkness, she could see him better; the way his lips curled when he gave her another once-over.

“You, not keen on parties? I thought that’s where pretty little birds like you flock - to see and be seen.”

Something in the way he said it rubbed Sansa the wrong way. She knew some people saw her just as a pretty bimbo with no substance, but she knew better. She took her studies seriously and didn’t party any more than her friends did – probably less. She wanted to become a doctor, a psychiatrist, to help people in need, so to be dismissed as a party girl irked her.

“How can you say something like that? You don’t know me.”

“Aye, I don’t know you, but I have seen you fluttering around in your pretty pink and blue dresses, sipping champagne at the company events.”

Sansa drew in a deep breath, preparing to tell him she did those things only as a favour for her father who sometimes asked her to accompany him at official functions, when she realised what the Hound had just said.

‘Pretty pink and blue dresses’.

True, she had one pink and another light blue cocktail dress, specifically bought for such occasions – but for him to have noticed them must mean that he had noticed her.

Sansa swallowed the words on the tip of her tongue, suddenly unsure of her footing. She had assumed The Hound wouldn’t know her from a loaf of bread; an insignificant girl in the crowd when there were so many girls clamouring to be seen by him and other wrestlers.

Sansa had certainly noticed him, too. Not only was he hard not to notice, towering at least a head above most people in any crowd, but he was also the heavily promoted up-and-coming star of the company. The Hound was a heel, of course: one of the bad guys.

For a while, he had been an enforcer for the young gun Joffrey ‘King’ Baratheon – Bobby B’s eldest son with dreams of wrestling domination - accompanying him to matches and playing dirty tricks with his opponents whenever the referee’s head was turned. Eventually, a disagreement between the two – apparently a real-life matter, not kayfabe – had seen them go their separate ways. Since then, The Hound’s career had been in ascendance and he was currently holding the WWA’s Universal Champion title.

Sansa knew people she met were often surprised to find out that she followed pro-wrestling. It had been a natural part of life growing up, being surrounded by the wrestling world due to Ned Stark’s position in it. However, even later, she had found herself drawn to it on her own although she often found it hard to explain to outsiders why. Probably partly because of its sheer physicality and athleticism and partly because of the elaborate storylines weaved into it, which hooked the viewers in and reeled them into coming back to see where the story went. ‘Slow-burn soap opera’, as her mother aptly called it. ‘A transcendental art form, where what is presented is less important than how it makes the viewer feel’, as her intellectual younger brother Bran put it.

The Hound’s ring persona was supposed to make the audience hate him – which it did, for the most part. The crowd loved to hate him, and the pop he received was no less than what was given to faces such as the joke-cracking Bronn ‘The Enforcer’ or the all-around-nice guy Gendry ‘The Smith’. The Hound revelled in that hate, spitting it back into people’s faces – and yet, when Sansa had observed him on the sidelines or after the live segment had ended, she had been struck by the air of melancholy that seemed to surround him.

One Sunday morning when Sansa had been waiting for her father at the back of the stadium, she had seen The Hound jogging towards it with a huge black dog at his heels. It had been a Pitbull or some such, as lethal looking as its owner. He hadn’t seen her as she had been sitting under a cover some distance away, but she had seen them.

Sansa had followed curiously, and, after catching his breath and stretching, The Hound had engaged in a playful game of chase with the dog, both taking turns to run and pursue each other. It had ended with him being pinned to the ground under the dog’s huge paws, laughing and play-wrestling it to eventual submission. During the whole time, his face had been transformed from its usual surliness to something more open and relaxed – he had been a totally different man.

And then the backdoor had opened and Ned Stark had stepped out, and The Hound had instantaneously changed back to his brooding self.

Yes, Sansa had noticed him too.

While still wondering how to proceed – or not - Sansa suddenly also remembered an incident that had taken place a few months before, at one of those company functions. Ned had disappeared somewhere with Bobby, and Sansa had had an unpleasant experience of being harassed by two team officials, clearly worse for wear with a drink. They might not have meant anything with their clumsy attempts at flirtation, but Sansa hadn’t welcomed their company and had grown increasingly uncomfortable when they hadn’t picked up her signals to leave her alone.

And then, out of nowhere, The Hound had appeared and nailed the men with his piercing stare - and without him having to say a word, the men had departed. Yet before Sansa had had a chance to thank him, The Hound had disappeared again, moving surprisingly fast for such a big man.

“That doesn’t mean that you know why I was there or what I think of those events. Men like you are too quick to judge a book by its cover,” she finally said, still riled by his poor assessment of her character.

“Men like me? Now, who’s quick to judge? Do you claim to know me? I have seen you peeping at me by the ringside, don’t think I haven’t.” The Hound pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards Sansa. She instinctively took a step back, and noticing it, the Hound smirked.

“Is this what fascinates you? An ugly mug to stare at? Not like the pretty boys here at the campus.” He pointed to his face, the other side of which was covered with scar tissue. It was not a pleasant sight, the hardened tissue distorting his cheek into a bundle of twisted purple knots. Sansa had heard that it had looked even worse before but that one of the conditions of his first contract had been for him to undergo plastic surgery to make his appearance more palatable to the audience.

Whether the surgery had been botched or whether the intention had never been to remove the scars altogether, the end result was that many of them were still clearly visible. Oddly enough, it was usually considered to give him an extra edge in his profession, where much of the story was focussed on the heel trying to be as threatening as possible.

“No, it’s not that!” Sansa exclaimed. “I… I think you’re a good wrestler, that’s all.”

“Hmph.” The Hound stopped his advance and swayed slightly on his feet, taking a hold of the edge of an old wooden table between them. The room was dotted with them, being an old library, later relegated to a reading room for senior academic staff. Comfortable stuffed armchairs shared the space convivially with heavy ornamental tables, representing bygone times when universities epitomised dignity and grandeur.

He might have had a bit too much to drink as well, Sansa realised. He was holding a bottle of beer in his other hand although he hadn’t drunk from it during their conversation – if their exchange of thinly veiled challenges could be called one. Once again, the inadvisability of the notion of being alone in a room with a drunken stranger raised its head in Sansa’s mind, and yet, against all common sense, she didn’t feel unsafe. Despite knowing that none of her friends were aware of where she had gone after sneaking out of the big hall, and that the man standing in front of her was a simmering cauldron of testosterone, probably ready to explode at any moment.

“Your face doesn’t bother me,” Sansa continued, emboldened by her realisation. To prove her point further, she looked straight at him, letting her gaze wander to the burned side. “What happened to you - how did you get them?”

The Hound straightened slowly to his full height, apparently having regained his balance.

“Fuck - I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that question, to my face.” He cocked his head and stared at Sansa. “You’ve got some balls, girl.”

Sansa didn’t know how to respond to such a statement, so she said nothing.

The Hound seated himself unceremoniously on the table, half-sitting, half-standing, his hands crossed on his lap. He looked like a novice lecturer attempting to look hip and cool whilst sharing words of wisdom to his audience. His expression conveyed the same notion, watching Sansa as if to check that he had her attention before he started talking.

“In a house fire. In our house, in my bedroom, when I was just seven.” His tone was even, every word dropped precisely.

“Oh!” Sansa exhaled. For a child to have endured such a dreadful accident was horrible indeed.

The Hound stared at her as if waiting for her to say something else. While Sansa was trying to gather her thoughts and think of something suitable to convey her sympathy, his expression changed. It didn’t seem to be a reflection of Sansa’s inability to respond though – he appeared to have almost forgotten that she was there, instead staring vacantly ahead, his brows drawing together and his mouth twitching. Sansa drew a deep breath and soldiered on regardless.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, it must have –“ The rest of what she was going to say was cut short by the loud bang from The Hound hitting his fist on the table.

“Fuck that!”

Sansa jerked back, alarmed by his outburst.

“The fuck it was a house fire – that was just the lie my father told anyone who asked.” The Hound stared at his curled fist, his nostrils flaring. Then he lifted his head, his face contorted in rage. “You want to know what it was? What it really was?”

Sansa regretted rousing such a reaction from him. Why had she opened her big mouth and asked such a stupid question? It was clearly a sensitive subject and she of all people, an aspiring psychiatrist, should have known better!

It was too late to stop him now, however, so Sansa slumped her shoulders and tried to make herself as small as possible, hoping his ire would soon pass.

The Hound turned away so that Sansa was facing his broad back. He started with a low voice, so low that Sansa had to strain her ears to hear what he said.

“I was seven all right. My brother had a wrestling figurine he had gotten from somewhere, and it was the fanciest figurine I had ever seen; moving joints, exchangeable championship belts, the works. I played with it in our garden – I was just borrowing it - and he saw me. The BBQ was heating up – we were going to grill some sausages later – and he just picked me up, not saying a word, and carried me to it.” He stopped for a moment. “I think you can guess the rest.”

Sansa recoiled. Could it be – no, surely he couldn’t have?

The Hound seemed to have read her mind as he growled darkly. “Yes, he fucking did. Pressed my face against the coals and there was nothing I could do.” He exhaled sharply. “Except scream.”

Sansa stared at his back, her skin crawling. Helplessly, she hung on to the only logical thing that stood out for her in that macabre tale. “Your brother… surely he had to answer for it?”

The Hound threw his head back and laughed, a dry, barking laugh that stopped as unexpectedly as it started.

“Answer for it! Gregor was just about to be signed for the NGW, and had they known about it, he would have kissed that hefty contract goodbye! So my father made up the story about the fire and no one was ever the wiser.”

Next Generation Wrestling was a stepping stone to the WWA and the best way to proceed in the business. Sansa understood the importance of it, and still… Nausea washed over her just from thinking of what she had just heard.

Without conscious thought, she stepped closer and reached out to touch him, her hand meeting his shoulder, the heat of his body radiating through his T-shirt into her palm. The Hound tensed, his muscles as rigid as steel but he didn’t move.

“I am so sorry. I mean it, I really do. He did wrong and he should have never been allowed to get away with it.”

He didn’t reply but Sansa didn’t remove her hand. Eventually, after an indeterminate amount of time, she felt The Hound relax under her touch. To lay her hand on him for longer would have been too awkward, so Sansa pulled away slowly.

The silence stretched on. The low hum of music from the direction of the Great Hall drifted to the room, signalling good times and a party in full swing, somewhere far, far away. Headlights of a car driving into the courtyard traced a bright path across the wall before moving past, shadows reclaiming their place again.

The Hound’s back was still turned but he pushed himself away from the table, slowly, and walked to the window. He stared outside for a moment, then spoke. The heat was gone from his voice and he sounded weary.

“The shit is going to hit the fan soon. In the company.”

Sansa was taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

“Bobby is losing his grip and Cersei and Joffrey want to take it over. And when they do, your old man is going to get the boot.”

Sansa wasn’t exactly sure what he was referring to but lately, she had noticed her father being more distracted than usual and under a lot of stress. If this was the reason…it made sense. But why bring it up now?

“I don’t know much about it. Father doesn’t tell me about those things,” she offered, cautiously.

Slowly, The Hound turned to face Sansa. His mouth was set in a hard line and he clenched his jaw.

“What will you do, then?”

Sansa thought for a moment. “I’ll be fine. I am only here on a student exchange anyway, so once the semester ends, I’ll go back to Wintertown uni.”

“I know what I’ll be doing. Leaving. Don’t want to be Joffrey’s lackey, ever again.”

“I see.”

The Hound fell silent again. He looked at his hand and appeared surprised to find the half-empty beer bottle still in it. That state of affairs didn’t last long, though, as he gulped it down in a few greedy mouthfuls, then dropped it on the floor.

The thick carpet absorbed the sound almost without a trace.

Sansa shifted on her feet, thinking she really should be getting back to the party. It was her responsibility to look after the other guests as well. She hadn’t been surprised not to see the main sponsor himself, Bobby B, in the party, the scene not being his usual hangout. She had been surprised, though, to see some of the wrestlers and coaches there. Beric ‘The Sword’ Dondarrion was there, as was women’s champion Asha ‘The Squid’ Greyjoy, accompanied by their grizzly but good-natured head coach Barristan Selmy with his assistant Jorah Mormont.

“I should get back to our guests. I’m one of the student body hosts, and…” She let her voice trail off, The Hound continuing to stare out of the window showing no signs of having heard her – or caring about what she said.

Quietly, Sansa turned on her heels and walked to the door. Just as she was about to step into the corridor, he called after her.

“Little Bird.”

Sansa stopped, debating whether she should react to such a nickname, especially after how he had used it to disparage her earlier. Yet his tone was subdued, not challenging. She turned around, slowly.

“If you ever tell anyone what I told you tonight…” He had turned away from the window and faced her. His expression contradicted his words: the former spoke of a veiled threat of consequences if broken, the latter conveyed anguish and silent plea. “About anything I told you tonight…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but it was not necessary. Sansa understood.

“I won’t. I promise.”

A flash of something passed between them, the man and the girl. A quiet understanding, a secret entrusted to the care of another.

“You better get back to your party. Your friends must be missing you.” The Hound’s voice was husky, almost soft.

Sansa nodded and finally made her exit, all the time being aware of the Hound's eyes following her all the way to the corridor, where she broke into a small run. She had an odd urge to leave, to go home, to be on her own and ruminate over the strange encounter she had just experienced.

Once, when she had first arrived in King’s Landing, she had been given a backstage tour around the WWA stadium by the team fitness trainer Davos Seaworth. He had taken her to the ring itself and explained some of the basic training techniques and common moves, Sansa having a go at a few of them. Just simple stuff such as bouncing off the ropes, somersaults and falls.

Then Davos had helped her to climb up on the corner turnbuckles and she had stood there, supported by him from her ankles and knees, and looked down at the middle of the ring. It had seemed to be so terribly far away, and the thought of leaping into the air to execute a diving elbow drop, diving crossbody or, heaven forbid, some even more challenging move such as swan dive, had made her dizzy and caused beads of perspiration to trickle down her forehead. How anyone could have so much confidence, strength and skill to take such a leap, mystified Sansa. How could a human being ignore all common sense and its warnings to jump from so high up, just like that?

Her feet had trembled and sensing her unease, Davos had climbed half-way up and supported her by the shoulder while guiding her steps all the way down. When Sansa had finally felt the solid floor of the ring under her feet, she had taken a deep breath and sworn never again to climb so high - and most definitely never to fool herself into thinking that she could jump from the ropes.

She felt something very similar in that very moment – dizziness, a glimpse of danger, trepidation.

Yet it was ridiculous to think of the encounter in such terms so Sansa tried to push it out of her mind, stopping to gather herself behind the last door leading to the Great Hall. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and only then stepped back into the bright lights and a pulsating swirl of the humanity of the party.

#SanSan Secret Santa #sincerelydayyy #sansan #Sansa Stark #Sandor Clegane #Chapter 1 #pro-wrestling world #Merry Christmas in July!#of course!#ltp's first ever modern AU #yikes #gotfic #my fic #Jumping from the Ropes

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kpopchangedme · 6 years ago

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Saint-Agnès de Roma | Mark Tuan

A scholarship student like you has no business hanging out with the cool, filthy rich, teens of your private Academy... But somehow you still end up playing a naughty game with that one guy…

|| M.List || GOT7 ||

Protagonists: Mark Tuan & You

Word count: 8.2k

Lysandre’ note: FINALLY POSTING A NEW FIC. Trying to see if my shadowban is gone for ever and ever and ever. :’D I’m excited (can’t you tell?) and hope you like this.

Snippet: “You were kind of expecting the Reverend Mother to appear and throw the door open, yelling at you and Mark to get on your knees and recite Hail Mary any seconds now. He smiled, face glowing, illuminated only by the small rays of light coming through the door crack. Mark had a dangerous animalistic smile, one exposing canines and baring far too many teeth, often it made him look spooky. “Relax.” He commanded, hand climbing slowly on your side as his breathing neared your cheek. “I’m not gonna jump you. You were such a tease earlier. Is this really your first time?””

It was the long weekend of Thanksgiving, which for the rest of the students of the country, meant enjoying great food with their loving families. To the students of Saint-Agnès de Roma however, it was merely an opportunity to leave the dormitory and go wild for four days straight. If Jackson – the youngest son of the Wang family, and occasionally your best friend – was the one telling this story, he’d probably put it that way: Thanksgiving was the Saint-Agnès get-fucked Holiday. For all those ridiculously rich teenagers that long weekend meant; ski trips to the Rocky Mountains, manors deserted of any parental figures, countless parties and even shopping sprees to London or Paris.

You couldn’t care less about all that.

For you, every year, holidays only meant having the girl’s senior dormitory all to yourself. For a few nights only, you wouldn’t be woken up by your roommate’s grinding her teeth, your studies wouldn’t be delayed by some jock disrupting the peace and quiet of the library. Thankfully, they were only a few students that stayed over during the rare weekends of freedom: the ones with family issues so bad they’d rather be here than home, and the ones with an official school punishment.

You were neither; the exception, the scholarship peasant, there merely to make others feel better about themselves.

This year’s get-fucked Holiday however, you had agreed to do something quite unorthodoxy.

Soothing imaginary wrinkles on your skirt, you breathed in slowly to gather courage as you neared the Wang’s mansion. You were beginning to wonder why you accepted to come in the first place. You shouldn’t have given in to your best friend’s plea, him begging didn’t make you special in any way. Jackson had always been extra like that. He was a social butterfly and he was ‘close’ with everyone and their mothers. You guys were polar opposites and there were days where you were convinced Jackson believed himself to be the center of the universe, which was only partially right.

Still, even with his amazing social skills, sometimes it seemed that Jackson couldn’t understand the most basic things about humans in society: Birds of a feather flock together.

No matter how hard he’d try, his friends would never accept you.

It wasn’t true that finally joining one of his little ‘get-togethers’ would suddenly make you fit in with the cool crowd. Besides, it’s not like you even wanted those rich brats to like you. You’d gone through Middle School and most of High School invisible. You could endure what was left of Senior year being known as "that kid”. It wouldn’t kill you and you’d much rather spend your Friday night alone at the dorm, binging the latest tv show on Netflix, than with all of them.

Unfortunately, Jackson would never forgive you if you bailed out now. He freaked out when you tried to refuse his invitation for the hundredth time. He kept insisting tonight was going to be the ‘greatest night of your life’. Unfortunately, if all the invitations to his previous parties were anything to go by, you bet you’d still hear this argument to try to convince you to come to the next one too… And all the ones after that.

Jackson couldn’t stand the idea of people staying on the sidelines, and you knew why. He was just as righteous and idealistic as his father, Mr. Wang – probably the only billionaire in the world who always insisted to be called by his first name.

Ruiju Wang was one of the biggest benefactors of, not only the Middle School of Sacred Heart and its big sister’s Saint-Agnès de Roma Academy but also of the local orphanage. That was the only reason a kid like you got to meet a golden spoon heir like Jackson in the first place. You being a big bookworm and nerd was only coincidental, and Ruiju, seeing your potential, offered to the Sisters of the orphanage to sponsor your studies in the top schools of the area. You had always been thankful, graduating from Saint-Agnès Academy, despite your unfortunate background, guaranteed you’d get into one of the best universities of the world.

Thanks to the Wang’s gigantic fortune – mostly made in the late 70s by grandma Zhou, who Jackson once told you built a highly illegal traffic ring of tobacco and opium in British controlled Hong Kong – you now had a promising future. Perhaps that’s why you hated to disappoint your best friend. A future was a gift most orphans of the world would kill for.

Perhaps that’s also why you made it to his giant wooden front door, Friday of this Thanksgiving Holiday. Your finger hovered for a short second over the doorbell, still hesitating to join the party. But even so, your choice had already been made, you promised Jackson...

Seconds later, you were already following your very excited friend through the maze of corridors. It seemed you were heading to the East living room where you had already been countless times for the Wang’s charity events. It was an isolated part of the house, as opposed to where the rooms of the three living servants – but they called them employees – were. Ruiju and Sophia Wang had left for Australia to visit their eldest son and his family. Jackson opted out, favouring this little get together instead.

“I am sooooo glad you came y/n! You are not going to regret this!”

You could only lie through your teeth, this would be your first party ever and you didn’t belong here at all. If it was anything close to what you heard from rumours at school or seen in 90s teen movies, you’d flee without hesitation.

“TA-DAH!”

Jackson threw the doors of the living room open in front of you, spreading his arms widely. The small group of partygoers inside turned to stare at your entrance, as though you dramatically interrupted the most serious talk ever. He wasn’t kidding when he said it would be a small gathering, there was only around ten people, and you knew all of them from school.

“Wow, isn’t this a sight to behold.” Salome – head of the Senior’s Girl Dormitory, Captain of the Girl’s Lacrosse team and second-best student of Saint-Agnès – giggled, staring at you up and down. She was the devil incarnate and you threw an accusing glare at Jackson, who had conveniently not mentioned her being here. She hated you for always placing first despite lacking the help of expensive private tutors and made sure your life was hellish because of it. “How’d you manage to leave school y/n? I bet your convent strongly opposed.”

“I took the bus.” You answered sarcastically, choosing to ignore her last insinuation. You weren’t a nun, and you took the glass of colourful punch Jackson was already handing you as if to prove it.

You drank the cold alcoholized juice, walking closer to the group. It tasted like what you always imagined a vacation to the Caribbean would; sugary, with too much stuff going on, but overall enjoyable. Tonight would be your first time really drinking alcohol, but you were determined to try to blend in and that clearly meant boozing. A lot.

“I didn’t know public transportation served this neighbourhood,” Salome mused, frowning in disapproval.

It didn’t. You always had to walk 30 minutes after the nearest bus stop to make it to the Wang’s.

“Anyway, I’m glad you could join us.” A dangerous smile stretched her lips and you swear you saw Mark Tuan – descending of a long lineage of Saint Agnès alumnae and infamous serial-dater – squeeze her shoulder to ease her. It looked like these two were on again, his right arm was stretched to enclose her against his chest, as if afraid she’d dare breathe if he’d let go for a second.

“Everyone, this is my best friend y/n, she goes to Saint-Agnès too.” Jackson beamed as you carefully sat at the last empty spot of their circle. In front of you, Salome exchanged a long look with her friend Marissa – a total bitch from a new money family. The others all smiled and nodded, nonchalant at best. You had known most of them for years although you’d never spoken, and you were pretty sure they also already knew who you were. “Be nice, she’ll join our game! Where were we?”

“Katy was about to tell us about the weirdest place she has ever woken up in!” Salome laughed and Katy’s boyfriend Luis – the grandnephew of the Tsar of Bulgaria, or whatever – groaned, embarrassed for her.

“Come on, tell us!” Someone else’s pressed on, impatient. “It can’t be bad enough for you to strip.”

Immediately it clicked, and your gaze widened, staring at the pile of abandoned socks in the middle of the circle. Apparently, even filthy rich teenagers had nothing better to do than playing dumb games at parties. Still, you were glad their attention had left you completely.

Truth or Strip was sort of a legendary game at Saint-Agnès de Roma, and, as far as you knew, it was the first time an outsider was witnessing the closed circle of cool kids playing it for real. Maybe your luck just turned, this was a great behavioural observation opportunity.

“I once woke up in a…” Katy paused for effect and Luis tilted his head, frowning in anticipation. “... Gentlemen’s Club in Miami!”

“Boooo!” Marissa exclaimed as soon as the confession left her mouth. “Who hasn’t?”

You laughed as everyone did, certain 99,9% of the world’s population had never even set foot in that sort of exclusive place.

“BUT,” Katy raised a finger to defend herself, “the night actually started in Los Angeles!”

Impressed clapping followed, and you smiled in your glass as their sick oversharing game moved on. Apparently, you were as invisible here as you were in school, which was a relief, even if you promised Jackson to make friends. Everybody got drunker by the minute and almost an hour later, they were still playing the game.

Jinyoung Park – of Park Films, by far the largest movie production company in Asia – lost his shirt in a very gentlemanly manner, refusing to give away the name of his first conquest. Mark Tuan lost his too, refusing to share the weirdest place where he ever had sex. Chao-Xing – daughter of a Chinese real estate mogul, rumoured to own more than a third of Vancouver – took off her tights to keep the phone number of Justin Bieber her dirty little secret. Hyunwoo Son – of the South Korean ambassador’s family – gave up his (rather outdated) Ralph Lauren’ Polo to avoid spilling the tea on the craziest thing he used his diplomatic immunity for.

Everyone kept losing pieces of clothing except you, and you were starting to feel the dangerous buzz of the alcohol through your veins. So far it was all fun and games, perhaps it really was a great thing you’d come to this party.

Looking at them making fools of themselves felt surreal and oddly satisfying.

Studying these people in their own habitat could be great for your plan of pursuing an Anthropology Major. It made you feel like your very own Jane Goodall in the Kenya jungle, learning how to interact with primates.

“Jackson!” Jaebum Im – rumoured to be the secret love child of a top actress and one of Hyundai’s already married chairmen – slapped a hand on the built shoulder of your close friend, ready to get him to confess some horrible deeds. “Who’s your first love?” There was a collective roll of eyes at the easy question, but it caught your attention. “Truth or Strip!”

“Y/n,” Jackson answered immediately, not embarrassed the least by it and you blushed when everyone looked at you. Your friend was way too honest at this game, he only lost a single sock so far. He bluntly answered almost everything.

“What!?” Marissa – both of them infamously dated for a year during your time at Sacred Heart’ Middle School – sneered, staring dagger at you. “When?”

“My family sent me at least a day per week at her place when we were young, so we got really close.”

“Your parents sent you to... a-an orphanage?” Her mouth dropped, clearly horrified by the idea. “Is that even legal?”

“Yes.” You replied before Jackson could get offended for you, grinning at her unemotionally. “We used to play together every weekend since we were 8 years old.”

“Well well…” Salome, who seemed to have forgotten your existence until then, smiled diabolically. Perhaps she really had forgotten, everyone was pretty drunk by then. After all, the party was already going on a full swing when you joined. “Looks like we haven’t played with you yet… What should we ask y/n?”

“It’s not how the game works.” Youngjae Choi – golden son of one of the teachers, Mrs. Choi, and main soloist of the Saint-Agnès choir – cut in, trying to stop her. Half of an official nerd himself, he was already too familiar with her dirty shenanigans. Lord knows what he was doing here tonight, maybe your common friend forcefully dragged him too. “It’s Jackson’s turn to ask!”

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes, miffed. “But it has to be y/n since she hasn’t played yet.”

“Y/n…” Jackson frowned, seemingly unable to think of a question invasive enough to satisfy the vultures, but still soft as to not make you regret you’d come. “Um…” Also, he already knew everything about you. Growing up in a Catholic orphanage wasn’t exactly the most propitious background for nurturing some dark and wild secret.

“Come on…” Another one sighed.

“Are you still a virgin?” Jaebum asked curious, earning himself a warning glare from the host.

“It’s too obvious she is,” Katy giggled, turning his more innocent question into something displeasing. As though being a virgin was nasty and shameful, you clenched your jaw. “Has she even ever been kissed to begin with?” From the corner of your eyes, you spotted Tuan straightening, probably ready to join in and make fun of you.

“Give me a second, I’ll think of something.” Jackson – your actual first kiss, by the way – ignored them, but you felt your face warm up.

Ultimately, the impending question didn’t matter, because you knew just the way to remain in control of their game, stay ahead and not give them the pleasure of embarrassing you. It’s the only advantage to being picked on often, you learn to understand the rules better than the ones making them. It’s like chess, if you’re always a move ahead, they can never truly get to you.

To survive tonight and fit it, you’d have to channel your inner Jane Goodall; think like a primate; become a primate.

It was a good thing you were done with your second drink. Already, your mind was numb in the most perfect way, you felt courageous and unbeatable. You were going to show them – those rich brats – show them you weren’t scared of anything. You could be fun. You could play and act dumb too. You could misbehave just like them.

Just as Jackson was opening his mouth to ask something, you started to pull at your dark t-shirt, riding it up and out of your suede skirt. The room automatically fell silent, everything stood still. The only thing you could hear was the sound of the stereo in the background, playing the dirty pop of the Hit 40. All the other girls only had stripped off their socks, tights or blazers so far, not wanting to take off anything more substantial, but you weren’t like others.

You’d rather expose yourself before they’d try to expose you.

After you threw your t-shirt on the pile of already stripped clothes, you sat there in silence as the boys cooed, highly conscious of your bra and mini skirt. Thank God you were tipsy enough to still act confident. Like another – primate you.

“What the heck?!” Jackson yelped, gaze crazy wide as he looked anywhere else but your exposed skin. “I haven’t asked my question!”

You shrugged, playing cool, “My answer is Strip.” Turning to Salome, you mimicked her earlier smirk. Right now, she looked like she had swallowed something nasty.

See? Virgins can be so much fun.

“Awesome...” Jaebum clicked his tongue, clearly entertained. “Looks like it’s your turn now, brainiac.” The boy’ Lacrosse captain handed you a third colourful drink, eyes dangerously lingering on the curve of your boobs.

By your standards, Im was the most handsome guy at the Academy, not that you’d ever tell anyone. He appeared out of nowhere at Saint-Agnès in 10th grade. According to the rumours, he earned himself this one-way trip by stealing his dad’s favourite sports car and crashing it into the Han River. His father was said to have sent him to Catholic boarding school only because his mother cried and begged for it not to be Military Academy. Jaebum was a ‘no comment’ type of guy, so nobody ever got to the bottom of his story. If it was true, you had to admit his mom horridly failed him. You were pretty sure Saint-Agnès’ Reverend Mother was scarier than any drill inspector could ever dream to be.

Accepting the drink, you blushed for everyone to see. It felt as though Jaebum’s eyes were fire on your neckline, as though it were his fingers and not simply his gaze that was on you. You didn’t feel exposed, you felt seen. Every single guy in the room – except Jackson – had his eyes glued to you and surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be.

“Let’s stop now.” The host gloomily stared away. You knew him enough to be aware he thought he was responsible for letting his schoolmates corrupt you.

“Yes, let’s play another game.” Salome agreed all too eager, having recovered from your little stunt. You smiled widely as you took another big sip of the tropical punch, aware she was fuming.

“The Knot?” Marissa suggested.

“Strip Pong,” Luis replied, running his hand up and down Katy’s thigh.

You rolled your eyes as the ideas kept coming, all games you had no clue how to play and clearly involving losing more clothes and dignity. Mark Tuan snorted at your dramatic gesture, catching your attention.

He was also childhood best friends with Jackson, but you never hung out together after you entered High School. Jackson was the only one who kept publicly addressing you, whereas that jerk played the other kids’ scheme, the invisibility one. Mark offered you one of his legendary lopsided grins as you held his gaze. You quirked a brow in distaste for him to see, a part of you wanted that almighty guy to know he had no effect on you whatsoever. Not anymore anyway, you were way past that naive 11 years old phase where you thought he was kinda cute. Nowadays you weren’t one of his fangirls, dying for him to notice her.

Coming from alumni and rich – you-have-no-idea-how-rich – kind of family, Mark Tuan stood at the very top of Saint-Agnès eligible bachelor hierarchy, the type you bet student’ parents slyly mentioned at family suppers: “Are you friend with the Tuan kid? I hear he’s as beautiful as his mother. She was a Miss Universe in the late 80s.”: “Isn’t the oldest son of the Tuans in your class? He’s old money, they left Mainland China many generations back.” or perhaps even: “He’s worth 20 billion at the very least. Please, do shag him and get knocked up”.

You, however, had no parents shoving you his way. Mark Tuan had been the quiet and hard to get close with type even in Middle School, and of course, it took a Jackson Wang to break down his walls. But he wasn’t the shy kid following you two around anymore. Now Mark had found his own species and returned to the wild. Like all of them, he was all about Gucci tees, yachts, drugs, fun and whatever. You definitely hadn’t seen him at Sunday mass in a while.

From what you heard, he had become as superficial as these other rich jerks, going through girls as models go through clothes. Curiously, Salome always seemed to find a way to pull him back somehow. Why even bother? These two started dating on and off between Middle and High School and never stopped. The same summer you and Jackson had a fling. Why did Tuan like the she-devil though? Even Jackson didn’t have any clue, nor could justify his friend taste for the dark side.

Filthy rich players like Tuan weren’t a ‘catch’, they were the poison of modern society. They thought they could get away with anything.

“Suck and Blow.” Salome decided on the game Authority herself, unaware her very shirtless boyfriend was still checking you out. And boy was that a sight, even you had to admit it. He might’ve grown up to be a piece of shit, but Mark had become one damn good looking turd.

Once everyone agreed, you all stood and – Thank God – got dressed. You picked up your own t-shirt from the pile to put it on, relieved. Sure, you were confident, but you didn’t want to chill with them half-naked all night either. Done, the party spread in a circle again and, sensing your confusion, Youngjae pulled you by the wrist to his right. He then leaned in to whisper in your ear, not as subtle as he intended to: “We just pass a card around with our mouths without dropping it. It’s about timing, the pair that drops it has to deal with a punishment.”

“Ew, that’s disgusting.” You grimaced and he shrugged, apparently already familiar with the game. You didn’t peg him for the type to come to these parties often, but perhaps you were wrong. Perhaps the choir sweetheart had a secret thing for booze and dirty games… How intriguing, you turned to consider him anew. “Are you good at this?”

“I...” Youngjae hesitated a second too long, doubt shading his features, “am really, really bad.” He confessed like a sin, making you laugh. He was cute in a ‘pure guy’ kind of way, you were familiar through Jackson and often shared a table to study quietly at the library. Youngjae was also in Saint-Agnès’ top 5 and didn’t come from a particularly wealthy family, thereby an ally. Jackson once told you that Youngjae attending the Academy was in his mother’s teaching contract. His financial background made him comfortable and relatable somehow. At least you had someone like him here with you tonight. Jackson was way too busy hosting to notice you didn’t know where to put yourself.

“What’s the punishment?”

“Well, obviously, there’s a risk you’ll… kiss, by accident.” He cleared his throat, accidentally adorable. They were far worse fates than sharing a kiss with him, you decided. “And if you drop the card, the usual pun-”

“Have you never played, y/n?” Tuan, who somehow had appeared to your own right chuckled, amused by how clueless you were. “Cute.” You gulped, staring in his almond eyes, he was about the same height as you now. In your Middle School friendship years, he’d been shorter by many centimetres, never managing to grow fast enough to catch up to you. “Don’t worry.” Mark plucked his lips your way and winked, gaze dropping in your neckline. “I’m good enough at this for us two.” If you were reminiscing of young innocent feelings, his douchebag attitude definitely brought you back down to the present.

Strong of your alcohol confidence, you feigned to look over your shoulder in confusion. “Are you talking to me?” You pressed your chest with both hands like honoured to be blessed by his recognition. “Can you really see me?” Tuan blinked, taken aback and Youngjae snorted to your left. He was always a great public, easygoing and always laughing at your stupid jokes.

“Of course, y/n. Your bra was kinda hard to miss earlier.”

Having recovered, Mark’s rude tongue darted through his parted lips to taunt you and your face warmed treacherously. It had been forever since you two last spoke or stood this close. The way Mark was looking at you now felt unsafe, predaceous. You almost took a step away instinctively, but that wouldn’t have been a very ‘primate y/n’ thing to do so you held back.

“Good girl gone bad... I’m all here for you.”

Instead, at that, you rolled your shoulders and exchanged a glance with Youngjae.

“Well, you must not know a lot of good girls, Mark… We’re the very best at being bad.”

Youngjae immediately coughed and the player’s brows shot up, a new glimmer in his eyes. What the fuck was primate y/n doing, flirting? Why would you ever say something like that? Jesus.

“Well, colour me intrigued.” Mark exhaled before taking a sip of his cup and you stared, trying not to hate yourself for saying shit like that aloud. “Then a good girl like you probably has a few bad tricks to teach me.”

You were about to reply with something – hopefully clever – for him to sod off, when Jackson announced the start of the game, standing on the other side of the circle. Your jaw dropped, realizing it meant you’d play between Youngjae and Mark. You’d sooner eat a live spider than kiss that jerk. Oblivious to your inner turmoil, Jackson winked at you, taking out a credit card from his wallet. (Lord knows where it had been!) Without wasting a second more, he put it on his mouth, sucked air and lowered to Salome to his right, passing her the card.

The game had started. Suck. Blow. Suck. Blow.

Pretty simple and self-explanatory. You tried to concentrate on watching the others play with ease to prepare yourself. If you mastered the technique, there was nothing to be afraid of. Still, you suspected it was a lot harder than it looked though and you peeked at Tuan, nervous. In a matter of seconds, it was your turn and Youngjae lowered himself above you, brows furrowed in concentration. You sucked the card successfully, disgusted at the sensation of wetness on your lips. Dreading the next exchange, you turned to the man to your right, not without a certain sense of responsibility. You were usually good at games and you could own this one too. Tuan’s face drew nearer, and you stilled, trying to make it easier for him. You passed the card without any difficulties. Thank God, you sighed, watching it make its way faster and faster around the circle.

You would get herpes because of this stupid party game. Ew.

You lacked time to dwell on that new disgusting realization before it was your turn again. Clearly, the unspoken rule was to accelerate to make things harder. No one had dropped the card yet. Youngjae chuckled gladly when he successfully passed it to you once more and you tried to ignore the dirty wetness from all the other players this time. This time, Mark wrapped his hand around your neck to stabilize himself when you turned to him. Other players had done it too and it made the exchange easier, so you tried not to think much of it. Like you did earlier, when you felt him suck, you blew to let the card go. Only this time, to your absolute horror…

The card fell.

You barely managed to retreat away from Mark’s plucked lips in a panic to avoid any skin contact. Drunkenly stumbling backwards, you hit Youngjae who held you up with strong hands. The small gathering collectively laughed at the fail and Mark winced, falsely apologetic.

“Gee!” He snapped his fingers like a 30s cartoon character who just made a blunder. You stared, bewildered as he bent to pick up the credit card, tossing it to Jackson under a thunder of woos. Mark lost on purpose. You were almost sure of it. Next, to the awfully serious host, Salome was livid, looking like she was about to murder you on the spot.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” Bambam – a 2nd generation heir from Thailand, newly transferred after being successively kicked out of his four previous boarding schools in Asia (and very proud of it) – announced your punishment.

Unfortunately, you knew how to play that game.

“W-What?!” You gasped in dismay, desperately turning to Youngjae for help as Mark shrugged at you, smirking.

Seven Minutes in Heaven?! More like: your own personal Hell.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Salome crossed her arms in front of her petite frame, head about to burst. “She obviously dropped it on purpose!” Your mouth opened in befuddlement. It was the stupidest accusation in the history of mankind. “Mark.” She warned, and the young man shrugged again, unbothered by her dirty glare.

“Rules are rules.” He said with a laugh.

“It’ll be the most boring seven minutes of your life, Mark!” She snapped, lacing venom in her words and the others self-conceited asstwats stifled their laughs.

“Excuse me?” Insulted, you narrowed your eyes at the brunette. Alcohol was apparently making you forget that these rich brats’ opinion of you couldn’t matter less. Boring? Why was she taking her anger out on you? You weren’t the one who failed the game and it’s not like you were trying to seduce her disgusting boyfriend.

“Please y/n, everyone knows you’re frigid.” Spiteful, Salome snickered, but no one found her funny this time. Jaebum even took an instinctive step between you two. Wait… Was she jealous, of you? The thought made you secretly ecstatic. Jeez, she should keep Mark Tuan on a leash if she cared that much. It’s not like he wasn’t running around giving it to anybody in the first place.

“Sally, don’t–” Even he tried to stop her, but she cut him off.

“I mean, isn’t she saving herself to take the veil or something?”

Your jaw clenched at that one last insult. You were aware of your prudish reputation, an overly Catholic childhood tends to stick to anyone, but you hated it. Salome regularly used that to publicly ridicule you. This time was different though, and she was either too drunk or stupid – or both – to realize that. She had just shown you her entire hand.

You smiled, she’d given you leverage, the upper hand, something invaluable you never had before. Now you knew her weakness.

“Jackson?” The summoned boy winced at your call, apparently dying a thousand deaths. It was too late now, you were worked up and he recognized that expression on your face. There was no point trying to stop you. “Where’s the closet?” You asked, as if there was some sort of unholy place specially dedicated to playing that game.

“W-What?” He couldn’t have looked more alarmed

“Tuan and I obviously need a heaven.” You pressed on, rolling your eyes. You should’ve stopped, but you were getting way too defiant.

“We do?” Mark whispered for only you to hear, slight panic now showing.

“Rules are rules.” Primate y/n replied to him sarcastically.

You wouldn’t have played Seven Minutes in Heaven with that asshole just to abide by the rules of this stupid party, but if it made Salome lose her mind... Then it was the only reason you needed to be willing. You’d do almost anything to give her a taste of her own medicine.

Youngjae pulled at your elbow, mouthing a very clear ‘don’t’ as a warning, probably thinking you had a death wish. There was no way she’d let you live when she got back to the dormitory after the Holidays. Too bad for her, the she-devil was already making your life a living Hell. You grinned at Tuan, trying to look convincing. You didn’t see him anymore, he wasn’t that former childhood friend nor the school’s hottest manwhore.

Now he was it, your own personal vendetta.

“A closet?” Jackson breathed out, mind completely blank. You bet if it was anyone else playing, he’d laugh and cheer, turning into his usual overdramatic bubbly self. Right now, he looked nothing but dejected.

“To show Tuan a not-so-boring time.” You enlightened, seriously exasperated. This time everyone else came alive to guide you two. Mark, who followed with heavy feet, clearly had a change of heart, but you didn’t care. He was the one who dropped the card. He didn’t have to do it for laughs, to bluff like that. What an ass.

‘We’re still young and they aren’t all that bad. You need to learn to have fun y/n!’

That’s what Jackson had said to convince you to come. I’m trying, you thought, I’m being; not boring. You bet now he was regretting ever inviting you.

You had to enter a guestroom to find an actual closet and it was empty and surely uncomfortable, like pretty much anything in the Wang’s gigantic mansion. Still, in a daze, you stepped it, followed closely by Mark. As soon as the door closed behind, you heard a chair being dragged to block it.

Now if either of you wanted to make a run for it, you couldn't. Great….

“Why’d you do that for?” You immediately ushered and hit his arm, freaking out at the dramatic shift of atmosphere. Before, you were sure he lost on purpose and he must have had intricate ulterior motives. There was no way one of the biggest playboys of the Academy did that just to earn himself seven minutes in the dark with your nerdy ass.

“Weren’t you begging for this to happen just now?” Mark drew nearer and you backed away until you couldn’t escape anymore. His arms found the wall on each side of your head. That proud asshole didn’t seem half as reluctant at the thought of you now that nobody could see him. This situation felt awfully intimate... Even though Salome was probably counting the seconds until she could open the doors.

“Besides, I haven’t done anything yet.” His whisper made you shiver as his breath fawned over your face.

You exhaled anxiously, staring back at him, oscillating. “Your girlfriend is going to kill me.” Perhaps you shouldn’t have drunk that much. Sure, you told Jackson you would try to fit in, but right now, with Mark, locked in this closet... It felt as though you had succeeded at becoming an entirely different person and you wondered if you’d find yourself back once the door reopened.

Jane Goodall did struggle after she left the primates to their jungle and returned to her own reality.

“Who?” He questioned innocently, “When I’ll date for real I won’t play around.” Mark’s right hand found your hip bone in the semi-darkness, thumb brushing your stomach through the fabric. You stilled, not knowing how to react to that. “Sally’s just a little intense,” he glanced down at your lips, “sorry she’s being hard on you.”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” The last world barely left your throat. From this close, this turd… He smelled kind of nice. Dammit.

“So… Are you really a good girl?” Mark hummed softly, leaning closer, voice deeper than the freaking Pacific ocean. Betraying goosebumps immediately spread on your skin. Right, you closed both eyes in defeat. That was why he made sure to lose the game. He knew it would turn out like this. “I bet it’s true...”

Mark's tongue darted out, catching the light and your eyes dropped on his lips. It was unfair. You weren’t prepared to face that kind of threat tonight. He was getting all predacious again and you were an easy prey. Sure, you hated the guy… When sober, collected, in control of yourself… Apparently, being pressed against a hot torso in the secrecy of a closet can change one’s perspective. You were almost trembling, blood boiling, body turned to stone; trapped.

“That you’re good at being bad.” Mark let out a weird small exhale, almost inaudible, tilting his head to the side.

Oh God, he was going to make this happen.

You had kissed boys before – OK fine, mostly Jackson and only when you were about twelve – but you had never made out in a dark closed space with anyone and surely that was bound to be sinful. Just being this close with Mark was surreal, electrifying, completely wrong. Did all guys smell like that? Jesus.

You were kind of expecting the Reverend Mother to appear and throw the door open, yelling at you and Mark to get on your knees and recite Hail Mary any seconds now.

His thumb pressed that spot on your hip and you inhaled sharply in apprehension, almost a purr. How humiliating, you’d never even made a sound like that. That jerk’s touch was more inhibiting than alcohol. Primate y/n was a traitor. Hopefully, you’d remember not to ever trust her again tomorrow morning, when you’d sobered up. Mark must have heard it because he smiled, face glowing, illuminated by the small rays of light coming through the door crack. He always had a dangerous animalistic smile, one exposing canines and baring far too many teeth, often it made him look spooky.

“Relax.” He commanded, hand climbing slowly on your side as his erratic breathing neared your cheek. “I’m not gonna jump you. You were such a tease earlier. Is this really your first time?”

Mark wasn’t that much of a talker in Middle School, this new him was the worst. He chuckled silently, unaware of your thoughts and a resolve birthed in your chest at his amusement. You weren’t about to let that guy boast later to the whole school about how inexperienced you were. Especially not to his bitchy non-girlfriend. Strong of determination and anticipation, you put your own hands around his hips, unsure where else they should go. You weren’t going to freak out. You weren’t going to be boring. You might as well go all out if primate you were about to do this to herself.

“No,” you lied, almost convincing your drunk self. “it’s not.”

“I’m gonna kiss you...” Mark announced with his alpha tone, not buying the lie. Although his statement should have sounded awkward, it made you shiver at the suspense. Through the tip of your fingers on his shirt, you felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Was he nervous? Surely not, you bet he’d kissed a thousand girls in dark closets.

“Well…” You faked confidence again, acutely conscious of how hot he was now– in every possible way… Even if he was a disgusting manwhore. “Is it coming today or...”

Mark was still baring his toothy grin when your noses brushed. You’re the one who met his lips in the middle, surprisingly tilting your head to help.

He tasted of Caribbean punch, a mix between warm nights, fresh fruits and bonfire. It was addictive, not half-bad. Instantly, Mark’s kiss became insistent, his mouth opened against yours, adding pressure and you obeyed, too dazed to do anything or have second thoughts.

He was trapping you against the wall roughly, ravaging you. He had absolutely no mercy and you were pushing back with all your might to survive, hips, lips and hands all over. This wasn’t about the reality outside at all, any thought of the others completely vanished the second Mark slid his hand under your shirt. You let him do it, skin awaken by the touch, discovering a thousand new nerves on your body.

Yes, you had become another y/n.

That was the only explanation. A y/n that makes out in dark rooms with cool kids and grinds into them shamelessly, but just for seven minutes.

Seven extremely messy minutes.

Mark groaned in your mouth, skilled fingers caressing your stomach softly and you curved against him, craving more, possessed. Your skin was buzzing, like screaming, begging to feel him more. His left hand hiked up your body in a hurry, climbing under your t-shirt in your back and you prayed the door wouldn’t shed light on this scene. It would be terribly embarrassing; you were letting him put both of his hands up your shirt. Mark pressed his leg between yours that opened automatically, and your fingers entangled themselves in his hair, almost for support. He never broke the kiss. He too, probably knew better than to waste any second of whatever shared craziness this moment was.

“So good,” Mark grunted, words shaking to escape his throat and you opened your eyes in amazement, “but so bad.”

Shared hysteria. That was what this was.

You both weren’t done though. He adventured his left hand on the fabric of your bra and you froze briefly. Mark must have felt your hesitation because he kept it there. He didn’t push it further nor did he take it away and it felt weird. Like your heart was about to burst through your left breast for him to hold. Sometimes you dreamed of being touched like that, but it was even better than what you imagined, overpowering.

Even if it was by Mark Tuan, or perhaps even more frighteningly; because it was him. This was all Primate y/n’s doing, anyway, not yours.

The Reverend Mother would’ve had a heart attack if she knew where you were and with whom. Your head was spinning, imagination taking this even further. This deserved at least a thousand Hail Marys, a plethora of Rosaries.

“Fuck,” He whispered in your mouth, the sound like thunder. “Who knew.”

Not you.

You had no idea you were so easy, such a whore. He resumed kissing you as though this was perfectly normal, but perhaps he just couldn’t stop either. You could feel him through his pants, the bad boy wasn’t so unphased by you. This was so new, everything was exhilarating. Mark rocked between your legs, causing your eyes to roll back in your head. You were enjoying every second of this, you were right; Seven Minutes in Heaven with Mark Tuan was your own personal Hell. Whatever this was would haunt you later on for sure. The smell of his skin, the taste of his tongue, the touch of his hand. But you were shameless, you took it all. You didn’t have any second to waste before reality hit. Mark pushed against you again and you pressed closer involuntarily, wondering if he was doing it on purpose.

The direct friction on your tights and panties was going to make you lose your damn mind. You slid one of your own hands under his shirt to feel the abs you spotted earlier during the Strip or Truth game. You ran your nails on his body, and he moaned.

Mark Tuan, actually moaned while making out with you.

You stilled for a heartbeat, unsure if this was supposed to be good or not until he bit your lips, rolling it between his teeth. And you came alive again, because... Jesus. That was unexpected. And Lord, that felt like Heaven. Your hands slid to his back to pull him closer and Mark obliged, fingers caressing the curve of your boobs endlessly, every bit of skin not covered by your bra. In the moment, you wanted to ask him to touch you under the fabric, wanted to know if you would break, but your mouth was too busy being full of him.

As though he heard your thoughts, or unable to refrain from it anymore, Mark’s left hand finally slipped under your bra to touch your breast. He brushed your nipple, causing you to make another embarrassing inhuman sound, something low that he swallowed and kept to himself. Thankfully, Mark only became more eager after that. He used his other hand to press you harder on him through his pants, rolling his hips forward. Your whole body was ablaze, alive in a way it had never been before, and surprisingly Mark seemed as equally taken. His kisses were messy, his breathing on your face heavy as if he was running a marathon. According to your heart rate, you certainly were too.

Mark mumbled unintelligibly, something about his will failing and doing this sooner, as he slipped his free hand to where your thighs met. Before you could process what he said, he touched that forbidden place through your tights and panties, even just like that it felt overwhelming and dangerous. Instantly, you fidgeted and dug your nails in his skin. He hissed and stilled too, but you pulled at him, undecided on what you wanted to do next. Reality was still waiting outside that door.

“Mark…” He seemed to recognized the call for whatever it truly was, and his fingers started to move cautiously on the fabric.

“Shhh, don’t want them to hear, do we?” Mark’s head dropped in the crook of your neck to suck on your skin. Your whole body was humming at his touch, like wanting to be heard, to scream for the world to know.

Right. Reality. You covered your mouth with your hand, flustered. If you were still logical, sober and calm, you’d push him away, ask him to stop, but you didn’t want that. You wanted Mark to keep going, keep that up for an eternity, nothing else mattered. “Mark, this is s-so…”

Summoned, he grunted on your neck pleased you kept calling his name. “Good,” he asked, lips now brushing yours “being bad?”

Reprobate. Wrong. Lewd. Vile. Immoral. His fingers were still rubbing you, and you sighed, clinging to him, unable to say anything else. Perfect. Mind-blowing. Addictive. Perfectly right.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” Hot.

“Me?” Hot. “Have you lost your mind?” You giggled and he joined, complicit.

“Yeah,” Mark’ hands abandoned their dirty deeds to cup your face, pulling you in for a deep kiss, “long ago.”

“When?” Seeing your frown, he grinned way too largely again. He was just about to answer when reality interrupted.

“ONE MINUTE!” Someone loud – very Bambam-esque – hit the door and you both jerked away, startled.

How many bases did you two run anyway? Suddenly, you wished you knew baseball enough to get the sexy metaphors. Was that only the first base? This felt like way more.

“Fuck,” Mark swore again, exhaling loudly. “Y/n, that was… so hot.” That word again. It was the first time someone used it to describe something about you. Then again, tonight felt like a night full of ‘firsts’. Mark reached for your skirt that had riled up your hips and pulled it downwards, hiding how far your game had gone. The fact that it was his first move gave away how accustomed he was to that kind of heated make-out sessions and you shook your head from side to side, remembering who you were with and why. Right. He was the player of Saint-Agnès de Roma, a manwhore… Surely that was why.

“Did you drop the card on purpose?” You asked hurriedly while he was making sure your t-shirt was back to its original place.

He blinked, staring at you for a long second like you were a dimwit. “Yes.”

“Why?” You were determined to leave this place with a clear answer.

“Well, y/n,” Mark murmured, pressing his lips on yours and running his tongue at the edge of them one last time, “I don’t think I could make myself any more obvious.”

“W-What?”

“TIME’S UP!” Someone yelled – yep, it was Bambam – letting the too cruel light shine on the scene inside the closet.

Thankfully, Mark was standing at a safe distance when the door opened. Still, he must have looked guilty somehow, because Jaebum applauded, impressed.

“Jesus Christ,” Jackson swore – a very rare occurrence – when he saw your ruffled hair and swollen lips.

Another day, you’d feel like hiding away, but, probably because of the rush of oxytocin and all that Caribbean Punch, tonight, primate you just shrugged it off. Your mind was caught up elsewhere, up in the clouds. No wonder that jerk was so popular with girls.

After those Seven Minutes in Heaven, you had learned three new things:

One, Mark Tuan could Jedi trick you into doing absolutely anything.

Two, you could make him lose his mind...

And three…

You sneaked a look his way while getting pulled by Jackson out of the (blessed) closet. Mark was strangely silent, letting his friends tease him without much reaction. He met your gaze and you misstepped, almost falling on the Wang’s luxurious carpet. Jackson caught you in extremis and your clumsiness made Mark snort, struggling to conceal his inhuman grin. There he was, making fun of you again.

And three... Tonight was obviously going to become a regular thing between you two.

And you weren’t the one making the rules.

|| M.List || GOT7 ||

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