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whenisitenoughtrees · 4 years ago

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to be honest, capable (of holding you) (part 2/3)

He walks forward, crouching over the snake, and when it doesn’t stir at all, he works up his courage and pokes it, just a little. Its scales are warm and smooth under his fingertip, and he resists the urge to stroke them. He doubts he could get away with that.

“Janus?” he asks, trying to keep the somewhat hysterical laughter from his voice. “That you?”

Thomas didn’t know that Janus could turn into an actual snake, but he’s glad to hang out with him regardless. More than glad; ecstatic, even, because he’s been trying to figure out how to befriend him for ages, and this seems like a good first step. What he can’t figure out is why human-Janus is being so weird about it.

(Alternatively: Janus doesn’t trust easily. He wishes he could stop trusting Thomas— it would be so much less terrifying.)

Chapter Warnings: blood and injury, Remus being mildly unsettling

Chapter Word Count: 5,074

Pairing: platonic Thomceit

(part 1) (part 3)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

They don’t talk about it.

Thomas would very much like to talk about it. But whenever he goes to bring it up, Janus glares at him in a way that promises a world of trouble if he so much as breathes a word, and Thomas really does not want to set back any of the progress he’s already made with him, so he shuts up about it. He’s not entirely sure why Janus is so opposed to addressing it; it can’t be that he doesn’t want the others to know, after all, because all the others are literally parts of Thomas and as such are privy to the knowledge of everything that Thomas experiences.

As best as Thomas can tell, it’s some sort of embarrassment that holds Janus back, some sort of shame, and Thomas doesn’t get it. Surely he knows that Thomas doesn’t mind at all, that Thomas enjoys the time they spend together, even if their conversations are far more one-sided than he would like. Janus seems to be under the impression that coming to him at all is in some way unseemly, while Thomas just wants him to be comfortable enough to approach him as a human.

But as more time passes, that seems less and less likely. Thomas spends far more time with snake-Janus than with human-Janus, and Janus begins to come with him even when the sun shines bright and his spot by the window is available. Thomas becomes quite familiar with carrying a weight looped around his neck, and wishes he could puzzle out why Janus is acting this way.

The worst part is that with every passing day, he feels like he understands Janus less, not more. Because the way he acts during meetings and discussions, when he pops in to offer opinions and advice masked as sarcasm and cutting quips, is entirely different to the way he acts as a snake, when he and Thomas are alone together, when he leans into all the contact Thomas has to offer, seeking warmth, and, Thomas suspects, company. It’s almost as if he’s dealing with two entirely different people, each one unwilling or unable to discuss the other, and frankly, Thomas has no idea what to do about it.

Because he’s worried that if he pushes too hard, demands one answer too many, Janus will stop approaching him at all, in any form. And that is the last thing he wants.

So, he leaves it be, and resigns himself to the idea that human-Janus may just remain incomprehensible to him, and that snake-Janus is the closest he will get to making a friend out of him. And if that turns out to be the case, then gosh darn it, he will be the best friend to snake-Janus that he possibly can be.

This has the side effect of leading him to a snake-centric fact-finding mission, which Logan appreciates, at least, because “even if the information may not be applicable to most aspects of your life, at least you’re learning something, Thomas.” Which he supposes is fair. He learns a great many things about snakes over the course of a few days, most of it interesting, if not particularly relevant. He doesn’t know how much of this actually applies to Janus, since he’s not a real snake.

Though he does find out that snakes don’t have eyelids. That would explain the whole no-blinking thing.

Other than his impromptu investigations, they fall into an equilibrium fairly easily. Janus will seek him out at all hours of the day and wrap himself around his arm or neck, sometimes staying awake and aware and sometimes drifting off into sleep. And when he’s fed up with the company, he leaves, disappearing with neither warning nor fanfare. Thomas settles into this new routine with little effort, and decides that if this is all he’s going to get from Janus, he’ll take it.

He gets used to it, so much so that he stops looking every time he feels Janus curl around him. This turns out to be a mistake.

He’s procrastinating, as per usual. His deadline is a full week away, and even Virgil has been unable to provide the urgency that Thomas needs to push through and finish his latest project. He knows that this will only end badly, that he’s going to end up staying up until the early hours of the morning in a few days if he doesn’t get started now, but he simply doesn’t feel like it. So, he’s scrolling through Amazon instead, clicking through pages of items that he neither needs nor particularly wants.

He’s been looking at a lot of frogs, lately. Cute, decorative frogs, the kinds that sit on mantles and don’t do much of anything. And plushies, too, and those are actually tempting. He’s pretty sure that it’s Patton’s influence.

“What do you think?” he asks, holding up his arm so that Janus can see the screen. Janus hisses quietly, and he laughs. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He doesn’t have the money to spend on a bunch of decorative frogs, even if he had a strong inclination toward doing so, but it’s fun to look. He’s seriously considering a stuffed animal, but he’s pretty sure that Logan intends to talk him down from that, so there’s no real need to be concerned about it. Even if he ends up buying one after all, he thinks it would be worth it.

He glances down at Janus, trying to figure out if he’s enjoying this at all, or if he’s just irritated. And that’s when he finally notices the blood.

He freezes up, his muscles tensing, and blinks hard, hoping that it’s a trick of the light, or that spending so many hours doing practically nothing has fried his brain at last. But no; Janus’ scales are dotted with rusty red, and Thomas traces the blood back to a long gash trailing down his side, sluggishly oozing, slowly dripping onto his arm. He stares for a long moment, his mind stalling, and he wonders if the scent of iron flooding his nose is real or imaginary. Or rather, real by a certain standard, since everything to do with his sides is technically imaginary, but oh god, why is he bleeding so much? He thought that his sides could wave off injuries, that nothing could truly affect them unless they wanted it to? Or is that just Logan? And then there’s the question of what did this to him in the first place, and how exactly he’s supposed to treat someone who’s a figment of his imagination, and whether or not any of the real medical supplies he has would work at all—

Focus, Thomas.

It’s like a whisper in his ear, gentle and firm. Logan’s voice. The world snaps into sharp clarity, mind and adrenaline working in tandem.

“Oh my god,” he says, and Janus’ head swivels to face him. The movement is slow, almost lethargic, as if he’s operating on a time delay. “You’re hurt. Okay. Well, not okay. But you’ll be okay.”

He has a first aid kit in the bathroom. He has no idea whether that will help or not, but he won’t know until he tries, as his logic helpfully points out. So the first order of business is to get to the bathroom. He stands, setting his laptop to the side, trying to jostle Janus as little as possible. Now that he’s paying attention, more and more details filter in; Janus’ grip on his arm is looser than usual, his eyes dull and glazed. His hat, usually so perfectly placed, is just slightly askew.

He makes it to the bathroom in short order, yanking the kit out from under the sink and nearly spilling its contents across the floor. He’ll need both hands for this, and he looks to Janus with no small amount of trepidation, wondering how well he’ll take being moved. He doesn’t want to cause him more pain than necessary, and he doesn’t know how aware he currently is, doesn’t know if he’ll lash out if he feels threatened. He gives him an experimental nudge, prodding at him with one finger, and Janus hisses, shifting his coils to hold on tighter.

“C’mon,” Thomas says. “You gotta let me help you, buddy.”

There is is again: buddy. He still doesn’t think it fits quite right, but it seems to slip out anyway, and now is hardly the time to worry about it, not when Janus still shows no sign of budging.

“Please, Janus,” he says, dangerously close to begging. “I promise, I’m not gonna let anything else happen to you, but you need to let me see where you’re hurt.”

Janus’ tongue flickers out, tasting the air, and his eyes seem to focus just a bit. One minute passes, and then another, and Thomas is about to try to remove him by force when finally, he lets go, slithering onto the counter, his motions hesitant and pained, softly hissing all the while. Blood begins to drip onto the sink, the sickening red smearing across the countertop.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, not bothering to hide his relief. “Okay, um, I’ve got bandages. And painkillers, if you want them… can snakes take painkillers?” He sets things out as he names them, slowing as he hits a snag. Not only does he not know if snakes can take painkillers, but he also doesn’t know if there are any other substances in here that would do more harm than good, or if there are any special steps he should take due to his scales, or the fact that he’s cold-blooded. In fact, he has absolutely no idea how to treat a snake, and the idea that he might end up making things worse is enough to send his anxiety ratcheting up a few notches.

Is he overthinking this? He might be overthinking this. But what if he’s not?

Try to remain calm. If you don’t know enough to work within this situation, change the situation.

Logan again, though he’s not sure how that’s supposed to help. He would change the situation if he could— heck, that’s what he’s trying to do— but if it were so simple as wishing this whole scenario away, he would have done it by now. He’s not sure how to—

Oh, wait. Change the situation, or change Janus’ situation?

He has absolutely no idea how to treat a snake. But Janus doesn’t have to be a snake.

He crouches down so that he’s on eye level with Janus, who is limp and unmoving on the sink counter, tracking his motions with clouded eyes. It’s not just the large gash, he realizes; that’s the worst of it, but there are several shallower cuts, all still open and bleeding, and he swallows hard.

“Okay, so, I don’t want to make things any worse,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Do you think you could turn back into a human for me? Just so that I know what I’m doing?”

Not that he knows much about treating humans either, but at least he’d know where to start. Perhaps if Janus’ injuries were less severe, he could work with them in this state, but that prominent gash looks deep and angry, probably about six inches long, wide and painful, rending scales apart and leaking dark blood and god, he is so afraid of making this worse—

Janus stares at him, and doesn’t react.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, because he is. He doesn’t know why Janus only initiates contact with him as a snake, doesn’t know why the very idea of deviating from that seems to disquiet him. Asking him to be human now, like this, almost seems wrong, like they’ll be breaking what understanding they do have between them, breaking the peace they’ve found with each other lately. But then, the peace is already broken, he thinks, has been broken since Janus showed up bleeding. “I know you probably don’t want to. But I want to make this better, and I don’t think I can if you’re uh, shaped like this. I… I guess I’m asking you to trust me.”

It’s a tall order, and he is well aware of that. Janus is Deceit, after all, and Deceit is practically the antithesis of trust. He’ll probably have to work with Janus as a snake after all, and he’s just resolving himself to do the best he can when Janus shifts in place, raising his head.

Thomas isn’t sure how to process what happens next. One part of his brain tells him that the change happens slowly, that Janus’ form stretches and morphs in impossible ways, scales fading away and features rearranging before his eyes. The other part of his brain insists that the shift is instantaneous, that it happens as quickly as blinking, that in one moment, there is a snake curled on the counter and in the next, there is a man, with no gradual transition between the two. But however it happens, Janus now sits in front of him, arms and legs all present, hunched in on himself and wheezing. One hand flies to his side, clutching at his shirt.

Thomas blinks. For a second, his mind fights with itself, trying to decide on what, exactly, he just watched. Then, he decides that it doesn’t matter, that he’ll have a crisis about it later, and that there are more important things to concentrate on.

He reaches out, placing a steadying hand on Janus’ shoulder. “Easy, easy,” he says, raising his voice to be audible over Janus’ gasps. “Are you okay?”

It takes a minute for Janus to get his breathing under control, and when he does, he looks up at Thomas, his expression pinched. “Just fine,” he rasps. “Absolutely perfect, can’t you tell?” His voice is strained, tension showing in the lines around his eyes and in the thin set of his mouth. “Really, Thomas, the fuss is hardly necessary. I—” He cuts off with a slight gasp, eyes squeezing shut, and Thomas feels his heart clench.

“Hm, yeah, no, I think I’ve got the right to fuss a little bit,” he says, hoping his voice stays level. He looks him up and down, searching for the injury, and finds nothing; his shirt appears immaculate, his whole outfit as perfectly assembled as usual, not a rip or tear in sight. If it weren’t for the pain on his face, the tremors wracking his frame, Thomas wouldn’t suspect that he was injured at all, and he frowns. “Can you, uh—” He gestures— “take off your shirt, maybe? So I can see where you’re hurt?”

Janus sighs heavily, as though the request has greatly burdened him. He waves one hand in the air, and his shirt and capelet vanish, revealing his bare torso. Under any other circumstance, Thomas might be fascinated by the scales that trail all along his chest and left arm, but right now, his attention centers on the gash bloodying his side, and the thinner scratches that cover him. They all look bigger than they were before, more serious, and he hopes that he didn’t make the wrong decision in requesting him to shift. If it had been a bad idea, he would have refused, right?

“God, Janus,” he says. “What happened?”

Janus sighs again, rolling his eyes. “A mishap in the Imagination,” he says. “Unfortunately, both Roman and Remus designed the place so that its effects stick around even after leaving.”

… Alright. That’s probably something to talk about later; he doesn’t particularly like the reminder that he has no idea how most of the mindscape works. “But I thought you could heal yourselves?” he can’t help but ask. He vividly remembers the day he met Remus, the way that none of his attacks seemed to affect Logan for more than a few seconds.

“We all can, to some degree,” Janus agrees. “It’s more difficult for some of us than it is for others.” He hesitates, and the next words come out slow and almost defensive. “I am capable of it, if I succeed in persuading myself that the problem doesn’t exist in the first place, but in order to do so, I need to sufficiently distance myself from any negative sensations that accompany the harm. I am… currently finding that difficult.” He glares. “I’ll mange perfectly well, given time. There is no need for any of this.” He waves an arm to punctuate the declaration, and it might have been somewhat convincing if it weren’t for the fact that he immediately curls in on himself, face paling, like he’s pulled something the wrong way.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Well, how about you let me help you anyway, just for my peace of mind?”

Janus stares at him for a long moment, face unreadable. Finally, he glances away. “Do what you wish,” he says. “If you want to waste time on this, be my guest.”

He hums noncommittally, already inspecting the wound. “I don’t think that taking care of you is a waste of time,” he says, fishing through the first aid kit. He comes up with a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, looking up just in time to see what can only be an expression of shock fade from Janus’ face, and god, what must he be doing wrong if that is Janus’ reaction to being told that he cares about him? He can’t unpack that right now, or else he might cry, so he holds out the Tylenol instead. “Painkillers?”

Janus nods slightly, and takes two dry. From there, Thomas works in silence, cleaning the wounds as best he can and bandaging them. It takes longer than he expects, and he debates whether or not the long gash will need stitches. He decides not to make the attempt, trusting that what Janus says is true and that he will be able to heal before too long. So he wraps bandages around his torso, and Janus, for his part, remains perfectly still, staring straight ahead, an occasional soft hiss the only thing that betrays his discomfort.

“Okay,” he says quietly, inspecting his handiwork. “I think that’s the best I can do.”

Janus shoots him an unreadable look. “In that case,” he says, “I believe I’ll be going now.”

He hops down from the counter before Thomas can stop him, and his face crumples like a wet sheet of paper. Thomas catches him as his knees give out, hooking his hands under his arms. He is surprisingly light, his skin cool to the touch.

“How about we don’t do that, actually,” he says. “I’ll tell you what, let’s go to my room, and I can work and you can get some rest?”

Janus hisses, trying to jerk away. It’s not difficult to prevent him from doing so; he has all the strength of a floppy pool noodle. “Oh yes, because I’m in dire need of a babysitter,” he spits out, and perhaps Thomas should feel intimidated, but looking at him, at the way all the color has drained from his face, at the way his eyes have glazed over even as they dart around the bathroom, all Thomas can muster up is a deep worry.

“I’m not trying to babysit you,” he says. “Believe me, I know that you of all people don’t need babysitting. But if you try to sink out now, I’m just gonna be stressed out, so if you’d stick around for a little bit, I would really appreciate it.”

Janus stills. The silence stretches on.

“Fine,” Janus says. “Sure. Whatever.”

Thomas restrains himself from letting out a sigh of relief, instead adjusting his grip on Janus until he is only supporting part of his weight. From the look on his face, Janus wants very much to grumble about the indignity of the situation, but miraculously, he remains quiet all the way to Thomas’ room, though he begins to drag his feet when he sees what Thomas intends.

“If you want me to rest,” he says, “I am perfectly capable of doing so in my own room. There’s hardly a need for me to take up space in your bed.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, lowering him to sit on the bedsheets and doing his level best to ignore his glare, “but then I won’t know that you’re alright. Also, I don’t see what the big deal is? It’s not like we haven’t done this before. You were just, uh, snakier.”

He knows immediately that it is the wrong thing to say. Janus’ face sets into an impassive wall, and he looks away, refusing to make eye contact. Thomas can’t tell what he’s feeling, whether it’s anger or embarrassment or frustration or some stubborn combination of the three. But he settles himself against the headboard without further argument, seemingly determined not to carry on any further conversation, so Thomas resigns himself to the silent treatment and sets up with his laptop on the other side of the bed, several inches placed between them.

The atmosphere is awkward, heavy. They both know that Thomas wants to talk, and they both know that Janus will not reply, or if he does, it will be with sharp sarcasm or otherwise cutting words, an answer that will not answer anything at all. So Thomas doesn’t say anything, merely glances over every now and again to be sure that Janus is still there, is still fine, is still breathing. Every time, he is greeted with the same sight: Janus staring off into the empty space in front of him, face blank, a faint tightness around his eyes the only indication that he is still in pain. There is a wall between them, invisible yet insurmountable, and Thomas has no idea how to breach it.

Why does their relationship feel so off-kilter now? Why are things so natural between them when Janus is a snake, small and speechless and cuddly, and not when he is a human?

“I don’t mean to force you to stay,” he murmurs. “If you’re really that uncomfortable, it’s alright if you leave.”

He’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, and as such, he sees the wince, slight though it may be.

“It’s… not that,” Janus admits. “I am grateful for your concern, truly. I just… so love being in unfamiliar territory.” His voice is a quiet drawl, but laced with exhaustion, his words just shy of slurred together.

He takes a second to parse through the words, and then smiles. “Well, that makes two of us,” he says. “I’d be alright with muddling through together. And look, I know that most of the time, when we hang out, you’re a snake. And that’s fine! One hundred percent fine, if that’s what you’re most comfortable with! But uh, I really wouldn’t mind spending more time with you as, like, a person, too, if that makes sense. Not that you’re not a person when you’re a snake! Wait—” He furrows his brow, trying to untangle his words, and looks over, certain that Janus will at least be amused by his rambling.

He’s not. Because Janus is asleep, his chin resting against his chest and his hat about to fall into his lap. Thomas feels an inexorable sense of fondness sweep over him, and with a gentle movement, he reaches over to pluck the hat from Janus’ head, revealing brown hair that falls in springy waves. He places the hat on the nightstand, casting one last look at Janus before returning his attention to his laptop.

There is plenty of work to do, and he is content to do it here, sitting in bed with Janus napping by his side. So he does, his fingers clacking against the keys long into the night, and Janus sleeps on.

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He doesn’t remember falling asleep. But he must, because he wakes, and slowly processes the fact that all is not as he left it. For one, the light is off, the room dark, and his laptop is resting on the nightstand, next to the shadow of Janus’ hat. For another, there is a heavy weight on top of his chest, pinning one of his arms against his side, and in the seconds before his eyes adjust sufficiently to the darkness, he fears the worst, fears that someone has broken into his apartment and… crawled into bed with him, and the irrationality of that idea is enough to dampen his panic. He squints, trying to will his vision into focus, and begins to make out what features he can see of the face pressed against his chest, features that very closely resemble his own, and that is when he remembers: Janus on his arm, Janus injured and bleeding, Janus on his bed, Janus asleep. Janus… still here.

Janus, snuggled up against him, his head resting on his chest, his body curled into his side, latched onto him with both… no, there’s more than two arms. At least four, maybe more; it’s difficult to determine without the light on, because all that Thomas can tell is that he is being very thoroughly hugged, and that it feels very nice.

This fact is distracting enough that it’s a full three minutes or so before he realizes that there is another figure perched on the edge of his bed. Panic roars up in him once again, his heart pounding and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, but then he notices the details, notices the poof of the figure’s sleeves, the wildness of their hair silhouetted against the light that creeps around the edges of the doorframe, the unholy red gleam of their eyes. And he… well, he doesn’t relax, not exactly. But most of his fear sidesteps directly into annoyance.

“Remus,” he hisses, as quietly as he can manage. “What are you doing?”

Remus cocks his head, his eyes shining brighter. He’s crouched almost like a grotesque parody of a cat, ready to pounce. But the Duke himself is still and silent, and it’s very odd. Almost worrying. And when he finally speaks, it’s not at all what Thomas was expecting.

“DeeDee got hurt,” he says, voice a subdued whisper, and Thomas is taken aback, both by the seriousness of his tone and the evident consideration toward not waking Janus up.

“I— yeah,” Thomas replies, uncertain as to where this is going. “I, uh, patched him up as best I could. He said he’d heal soon.” A thought occurs to him, and if Janus weren’t keeping him flat on his back, he’d be sitting bolt upright, finger pointed in accusation. “Wait, he said he was hurt in the Imagination. Did you have something to do with that?”

“I can’t keep an eye on every part of La La Land at once, Thomas.” He shrugs. “It’s not my fault if Snake from Snake Farm wandered into something he shouldn’t have.” He giggles, high-pitched and a little manic, but Thomas wonders at his tone of voice. It’s as irreverent as always, but underneath that— can it be concern? He really didn’t think Remus did concern. “Snakes should know better than to let their guard down. Your mind is dark and full of terrors.” He smiles, several rows of pointed white teeth gleaming an unnatural white in the shadows.

“I don’t even watch—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and then freezes as Janus makes a small sound. Seconds pass, and he waits with bated breath, but Janus doesn’t seem to wake. “Okay, then,” he continues, more quietly. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

Remus blinks, and once again, Thomas is reminded of a cat. A terrible, eldritch horror of a cat, but a cat nonetheless. “DeeDee doesn’t like to be around people when he’s hurt,” he says, rocking back and forth in place. “He doesn’t like people knowing when he’s weak.” He sighs through his nose, his breath whistling more than is natural. “He holes up in his room and doesn’t come out for anything, usually. Not even when I bang on the door and put rats in his air vents.”

Thomas stares, trying to process that. “But he’s here with me,” he says dumbly. “He decided to stay here. He’s…” He trails off. He doesn’t need to describe what Janus is doing; surely, Remus can see it for himself, can see them engaging in what can only be labeled as cuddling. And it’s not as if this is the first time; it’s just the first time Janus has been human-shaped.

“Yes, he is,” Remus agrees, voice sharp, and he is definitely trying to convey something here, something that Thomas is missing. “Tommy-boy, Tommy-boy, Tommy-boy, you’re just not getting it, are you? Well, that’s fine. Just remember that the snakes on the plane die too, if the plane crashes.”

“Is the plane crashing?” Thomas asks, voice hoarse, hesitant, and once again, Remus smiles, wide and dangerous.

“Not now, maybe,” he says. “But it still could. It always can. That’s the fun thing about airplanes. I could help with that, if you wanted.”

“No thanks,” Thomas is quick to reply.

Remus shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says, and then pauses. “Janus doesn’t let just anyone this close, you know. So don’t fuck it up.”

It’s such an uncharacteristic statement that by the time Thomas has recovered enough to reply, Remus is gone, melting into the bedsheets in a grotesque puddle of goo, and then, even that disappears. Thomas is left in a dark, quiet room, and he has never felt more awake.

But Janus is still here, still asleep, is holding onto him for dear life and hiding his face against his chest. And it’s something precious, something intimate, something that Thomas feels privileged to see at all, and Remus’ voice rings loud in his head: Janus doesn’t let just anyone this close. Why, then, has he allowed him this? Why has he let Thomas see him at his most vulnerable, no matter how reluctant he was at the start? Why did he choose to stay, rather than leaving once Thomas nodded off?

Each question only leads to more questions, and it’s clear that he won’t receive any answers tonight. So he settles back in as best he can, though it is a long time before he manages to fall asleep again.

In the morning, Janus is gone. He wishes he could be more surprised.

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1kook · 5 years ago

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skirt chasers

jjk x (f) reader

summary “Baggy clothes are in, but you wouldn’t know that, Miss I Draw Inspiration From Catholic School Girls.” tags f2l, triple texting king kook, ncampus crush kook who is also the weird gamer boy, the skirt aspect is forgotten towards the end tbh, dumbassery is a disease and we are all affected by it, confessions SO CORNY it could be a 2005 teen romcom warnings smut in the form of: unprotected sex, use of mirrors, mostly heavy petting as foreplay I’m sorry, mentions of Jk’s furry ways as a gag kinda, like an unnecessary amount of swearing wc 7.8k

to make a long story short, i saw this nsfw gif and wrote this entire fic between 2 am and 6 am anyway i actually really like how this turned out!! lmk when u think

Part of the ideology behind the pleated skirt was in hopes that buying a new wardrobe would somehow help you rebrand your image around campus. Truthfully, it was kinda too late for that now; you’d been here going on three years, your friends and anyone with eyes could see that the style of clothing you leaned towards favored comfort over fashion. However, someone—it might’ve been Taehyung—had gone on a drunken spiel the other night concerning the importance of presenting oneself via fashion. It wasn’t aimed at you, but it certainly left you wondering.

Which is how you find yourself shivering to the bone now, lingering around the west quad as you wait for Jungkook to come out of an anatomy lab. He’s at that point in the semester where grades mean nothing and everything to him at the same time, so Namjoon’s commissioned you and your other pals to take turns babysitting him once a week to make sure he gets at least some assignments done.

You don’t know where any of you would be without Kim Namjoon.

Anyway, your legs are fucking cold and if this is what it takes to be known as the fashionably cute girl around campus, you’d rather choke. The imaginary sound of your bones rattling is cut off when Jungkook throws the door nearest you open, his big dopey smile engulfing his face the moment he sees you. He barely acknowledges the gaggle of students that follow after him, all calling out a chorus of goodbyes to him, because unlike you Jungkook was the cute, campus boy crush with his suave looks and comfortable fashion. God, if only you could pull off sweats and mustard-stained Venom shirts like him.

“Lets go,” you yawn, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your long cardigan. Jungkook jogs over, slinging an arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you into the emergency telephone you’d been brooding by. “You smell sterile again.”Jungkook grins.

“That’s because I was touching dead people again,” he informs you, too giddy for someone who’d probably fingered the fuck out of a gallbladder twenty minutes ago.

“Ew,” you whine, the sudden urge to shove Jungkook and his dead people germs away from you. He cackles in your face, and you wonder again how he single handedly enthralls half the campus population with a laugh like a seagull.

You’ve barely moved ten feet when Jungkook finally notices your vibrating body, and it’s only because you’re nearly convulsing with shivers at this point. “Woah, what are those,” he exclaims, eyes pointedly eyeing your legs.

You know your bare legs are a rare sight when Jungkook has to resolve to overused memes to refer to them.

“They’re my legs, and they’re fucking freezing,” you calmly reply.

Jungkook seems shocked for only a moment longer, and you almost think he’s gotten over it when he suddenly snorts and scares the shit out of you in the middle of the crosswalk. “Why the fuck are you wearing a skirt in this weather, you dinglehead?”

You shove him, and he stumbles over the curb, but you get the feeling he’d do that without you pushing him. Jungkook was clumsier than Namjoon on his bad days. “I’m trying to be fashionable, you hater,” you huff, not even bothering to say thank you when he pulls open the coffee shop door for you. “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to someone who doesn’t even wear the right size shirt.”

Like always, he’s one step ahead of you and hands the cashier his card before you can even reach for your wallet. Next time. “Baggy clothes are in, but you wouldn’t know that, Miss I Draw Inspiration From Catholic School Girls.”

“For your information I bought this from H&M,” you retort, though you can’t hide the flush that warms your cheeks at his comment. “Also, what's the point of working out your hotbod if you’re just gonna hide it under shirts long enough to be a mini-dress, huh? Riddle me that, Jeon.”

You flinch when your bare thigh touches the cold seat of the booth, something Jungkook doesn’t miss. “Your skirt is mad short,” he points out, and you kick his shins.

You’ve already got a Google Doc open on your laptop from last night when you and Jimin had been going ham on a psych essay, but you also have a Fashion Nova cart on another window that’s just begging for you to check out.

“Short skirts are just a concept made by men with lingering eyes to demean and belittle women who don’t submit to their every want and need.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, and you watch him muffle a laugh into his palm as he gets his own work out. “Do you think I’m gonna pull the meninist card out on you and call you a slut or something?”

You fake gasp, eyes wide and shocked as you give him your best disappointed face. “Jeon, how could you? I expected better from you.”

This time he does laugh, a dorky sound unlike his witch cackle from earlier, and you finally let a smile slip. Jungkook was funny, too sweet and kind hearted for his own good. A little dumb, but most cute guys were. He’s one of those guys who thinks girls are nice to him out of their own free will, and not because they’re trying to bag the campus hottie.

“Seriously,” he says once he’s pulled his fat anatomical reference book out, stuffed to the brim with worn scientific essays he’d printed out, and pictures he’d taken at every single one of his visits to the cadaver lab. His voice is earnest and genuine when he speaks again. “You can wear whatever you want, I was just curious about the skirt ‘cause you normally wear things past the knee and elbow.”

When he puts it like that you kinda sound surprisingly conservative.

You shrug, tapping away at your computer as if the sight of you in anything other than what he said isn’t really weird. “Just thought I’d try something new. Why, does it look too weird?” Your voice suddenly feels meek, and you’re not sure if your cheeks are warm from the chill outside or from something else.

Jungkook shakes his head, coconut hair bouncing from side to side. “Nah, you look cute,” he says, and then, as if an afterthought, adds, “weirdly sexy, too. Like you belong in a Brazzers video?”

“What the fuck, Jungkook,” you groan, sinking your head into your palms.

“What! You asked for my opinion and I gave you it,” he defends, too casual for someone spewing their unwarranted porn knowledge at you. You urge him to do his homework, drink his coffee, anything besides embarrass you further.

He does, but you don’t miss the goofy way he glances under the table one more time.

The pleated skirt makes it’s return three weeks later, this time accompanied by her best friend, the sheer pantyhose.

“Oh, who’s this sexy schoolgirl?” Taehyung exclaims the moment you step into the diner. Your cheeks flush red when the family beside you send you and your friends a disapproving look.

“That’s what I said!” Jungkook says as he gets up to let you slide into the booth. He has this incessant need to be sitting at the end of the booth just in case nature calls in the middle of dinner and he can’t usher the rest of you out fast enough.

(It almost happened once, and the sight of Jungkook shoving Hoseok flat on his ass had been too funny to forget.)

“Wait a minute, is that why you stopped using EOS and started using the Dove shaving cream?” Chaeyoung interrogates from across you. “So you could show off your sexy model legs?”

“No, Dove is just cheaper,” you reply, trying to sound as aloof as possible but if anyone at this table knew you like the back of their hand, it was definitely Chaeyoung. “Why can’t you guys let me live my best life?”

Taehyung scoffs. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” You snap back, but your level of sass can never seem to match his.

“We all know your ‘best life’ would be spent in those fuzzy Cookie Monster pajama pants and one of Kook’s big ass shirts,” he points out, and you hide behind your menu much to everyone’s amusement.

You whine, “why can’t you all just be supportive besties and tell me I look cute?”

“You look gorgeous, babe,” Chaeyoung assures you, gesturing for you to pass her the sugar for her coffee. “It’s just weird seeing your legs out. Almost weirder than if you randomly pulled your tits out right now.”

Behind her, you can see the same mom from the family glaring at you guys. You lower your head in shame.

“For the record, I’m team skirt, but I wouldn’t be opposed to the other,” Jungkook adds after being silent for so long. Taehyung fist bumps him as you slap your hand over your eyes. At this rate you’d rather just put a paper bag over your head.

“We’re sitting on the same side of the table, so you’re supposed to be on my side!” You groan, and Jungkook shrugs mid-milkshake sip.

“I am!” He splutters once he’s gulped down the thick substance. “I just said I was team skirt, did I not?” His scandalized pout twists into the same sneaky little smile he has whenever Taehyung has convinced him and Jimin to do something stupid. “But I’m also a man, and therefore, a skirt chaser,” he winks.

From the other side of the table Taehyung’s eyes twinkle. “Bro, your mind,” he says in awe. He reaches over to shake Jungkook’s hand as if he’s just presented the table with some riveting discovery in the medical field, and the fucker has the nerve to look smug about it too.

“You guys are so stupid,” Chaeyoung whispers right before the server sets her pancakes down.

“Hey, have you seen Joon’s book? He said he might’ve left it—oh, Jesus, fuck sorry,” Jungkook says before whirling around to face the wall.

You turn from your bent over position by your bed where you’d been rummaging around for a book you coulda sworn you stuffed there last week. Jungkook’s blazing cheeks don’t register with you until you realize your favorite skirt is draping over your rear, giving him a clear view of your dorky star-printed panties.

“Kook,” you stammer, quickly jumping to your feet and brushing your hands over your skirt. “H-How’d you get in?” You ask for lack of greeting.

“Um, uh,” Jungkook stutters, eyes laser focused on some point on your wall. “Chaeyoung let me in.”

“Oh,” you say, and then silence falls over the two of you.

Holy shit this was awkward.

Despite being friends for going on three years, you don’t ever remember there being any stale moments between you and Jungkook. You were the type of friends that just clicked, never having gone through that awkward phase before. But you’d also never seen each other in any state less than presentable. (Being drunk at parties did NOT count, and even then, you’ve always been pretty collected.)

To know that he’s seen your ass, covered or not, tilted your Golden Friendship with Jungkook scale extremely off center. Your fingers twiddle at your sides, not really sure if you should mention what just happened or… what?

He coughs, and you snap back to reality. “Um,” he drawls, still not looking at you but at the socks you’d thrown off the second you got home. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes, voice soft and earnest in that Jungkook™ way that made all the girls swoon. “I should’ve knocked before coming in all rude.” He finally gathers the balls to look you in the eye, and the dude looks like a kicked puppy.

“No,” you wave him off, hands fluttering in front of you because standing like some Macy’s holiday mannequin certainly isn’t making this situation any easier. “It’s okay, the skirt—y’know this wouldn’t happen if I just wore pants,” you say, tacking on a self-deprecating laugh. It’s your turn to look away in shame.

Jungkook jumps at your words. “The skirt’s cute!” He basically shouts and you flinch at the sudden increase in his tone. Then you’re both left looking at each other wide-eyed again as he scrambles to assure you it isn’t your fault. “I like it, and it makes your legs look really nice, so don’t-“ he stutters, as if realizing the meaning in his words, “don’t stop wearing it...” he trails off, cheeks rosy. Your mind goes blank.

“R-Really?” You stutter, surprised at his compliment. It’s not like Jungkook never complimented you—dude couldn’t go fifteen minutes without telling his friends how much he loved them—but for some reason it feels different now.

“Yeah,” he assures you. “Makes you look nice, and um. Pretty.”

“Jeon Jungkook telling me I look pretty? Someone call TigerBeat magazine,” you joke, trying to ease the tension somehow. Your chuckle sounds awfully robotic to your ears, but it makes Jungkook crack a smile and that’s all that matters.

“Shut up. You know I’m not friends with ugly people.”

“Wooow,” you laugh, real this time. “How noble of you,” you retort, and he gives you his best snobby expression possible.

“Ya, you’re welcome,” he teases, and then suddenly remembers what he came for in the first place. “Give me Joon’s planner, I know you’re holding it hostage.”

You roll your eyes, and point over to the notebook on your desk that’s absolutely overflowing with sticky notes and bookmarks. “As if I’d want his nerd diary ruining the good vibes in here.”

“These good vibes smell a lot like Bath and Body Works perfumes, you cheapskate,” Jungkook says as he snatches the book off the surface. He’s at the door again, narrowing you with another faux uppity look when he adds, “this is a Victoria’s Secret Bombshell household.”

“Bombshe—you don’t even live here!” You huff in laughter, ushering him down the hall to the front door. He’s half a foot out the door when he suddenly whirls around, making you take a step back in surprise.

“The stars are cute, but I prefer hearts.”

He slams the door shut behind him so fast, that you almost don’t catch the smirk tacked on at the end.

You were many things, but a liar was not one of them. You couldn’t lie to your parents when you were younger and wanted to sneak out, to your teacher when she asked where your homework was, or to your friends when they asked you who you liked. You couldn’t even lie to yourself.

You’ll admit it, there was a time your eyes had lingered a little longer on Jungkook. When you would spend moments tracing the slope of his jawline, and memorizing the twinkle in his eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, and you would be blind not to see it.

But that was before you became close friends—before game nights at Hoseok’s became a regular staple in your schedule, before your little makeshift picnics in the quad, before you all became Park Jimin’s dedicated fan club (it’s a rotating unit consisting of whoever’s able to go to Jimin’s showcases).

Those fantasies of kissing Jungkook and going on dates were stuffed to the back as you became pals. As you’ve mentioned a million times now, Jungkook was the campus dream boy. He was hardly the skirt chaser he made himself out to be, too sweet and romantic for his own good. Besides, there was no need to be when the skirts flocked to him.

He’d had flings, and even girlfriends, in the time you’ve known him, but he rarely mentioned them to his friends. And even though you pushed that teensy crush aside, you still wondered how Jungkook acted with girls he was interested in, if it was the same he treated you and Chaeyoung, or special on an intimate level a platonic friendship could never be.

It’s the middle of the night when you first get a glimpse.

[1:21 am] jk wyd

[1:21 am] you sleeping , u?

[1:22 am] jk same anyway I finally beat world 8 in super Mario bros

[1:25 am] you omg the 1 w dry bowser?? [1:26 am] you wait u said u wouldn’t play w/o me :/

[1:27 am] jk u suck at Luigi and u know it

[1:30 am] you fuck u [1:31 am] you ok but seriously what do u want I have a test tmrw morning and am pretending to be asleep

[1:32 am] jk damn ok can’t I just talk to my friend about my successes [1:33 am] jk but if u must know

[1:33 am] you I must

There’s a lull in messages for a while, and you decide you should finally actually go to sleep, dabbing some spot ointment onto your skin before hopping in bed. You turned off the overhead light long ago, so the only light illuminating you now is the lamp by your bedside. You tap your phone once again right as Jungkook sends another message.

[1:40 am] jk you looked really pretty today

Oh. Your entire body pauses for a moment to process the sudden message, cheeks slowly heating up. You roll your lips in to stop the squeal that threatens to rip itself out of your throat, scrambling for something to type. But it’s the first time he’s randomly thrown something like this on you, and your brain feels like that episode of Spongebob when everything’s on fire.

Before you can send the jumbled letters you’d convinced yourself was acceptable, your phone vibrates with another alert.

[1:42 am] jk I know its weird to say that but I gotta make sure someone told u at least once today

Your heart flutters at the explanation, and you have to slap a hand over your face to get rid of the goody smile that overtakes your features. This time, you’re a little less thrown off and quickly tap out a reply before he can say anything else.

[13:43 am] you thanks kook :) was it the red skirt lol

You’d been experimenting with different skirts lately, quickly growing bored of the black pleated skirt you’d originally worn. Your latest trip to the mall had you coming home with a variety of colors and styles, like the dark red denim one you’d worn today.

[1:45 am] jk no!!!! [1:45 am] jk maybe… [1:46 am] jk ok yes you looked gorgeous

The tiny letters blink back at you, and you set your phone down for a second to smile stupidly at your dark ceiling. You only let yourself wildly kick your legs around for five seconds because Chaeyoung was asleep next door.

[1:47 am] you haha well I’ll make sure to wear it again for u :)

It’s only after you’ve sent the message that the last two words have you stuffing your face into your pillow to hide your embarrassment. Girl, what the fuck!!!

Oh my god, he could’ve just been friendly and polite this whole time. Jimin had said the skirt looked cute on you as well, and you hadn’t responded like this. All it took was a few compliments from Jungkook to have you dopily acting like a clown for his affections.

Before you can scold yourself anymore, your phone vibrates and you have to sit up to retrieve it from where you’d tossed it across the bed.

[1:50 am] jk for me? I’m honored :) [1:51 am] jk anyway get some rest before ur exam!!! [1:51 am] jk night cutie

You squeal, and Chaeyoung kicks your shared wall.

You liked to clown Seokjin for being the president of his fraternity. He was already a stereotypical frat boy, so it wasn’t that hard anyway; he came from money, was ridiculously gorgeous, and played on your school’s soccer team. However, behind that facade he liked to put up, he, too, was infected by the dumbass disease.

“Wait, are those your legs?” He says the moment you step into his frat party. Normally, he wasn’t prone to the same stupid questions that regularly plagued Taehyung and Jungkook (sometimes Namjoon, but everyone had their weak moments), so you deduce that he probably had some alcohol in his system to openly be asking you such a question.

“Yes, now give me whatever’s in that cup,” you brush off, not bothering to stick around to watch him not-so-subtly grope Chaeyoung as she enters behind you. You trust him enough to hand you a drink that hasn’t been roofied, but you’re also aware that Jin drinks like he’s trying to die three times over. One sip has your face scrunching up at the sour bitterness of it all.

There’s a loud cackle of a laugh that you’d recognize anywhere, and you turn to find Jungkook leaning against the staircase banister looking like a wet dream. “Someone lost on their way to Weenie Hut Jr?” he sneers, cheeks a nice rosy color. You flick his forehead.

You don’t bother gracing him with a reply, instead shuffling over so you’re stood side by side observing the party before you. Yoongi’s here, which is an even weirder sight than your legs being out, so you wonder why no one is talking about that. But then you see the way he’s trailing after Seokjin’s cat, Jalapeño, and realize he’s only here to make sure no one hurts her (she’s more important than anyone else here). You honor his service with another sip of Jin’s whatever the fuck mix.

“Wow, getting braver every day, huh?” Jungkook teases after giving you a very intense once over. He’s referring to the skirt you’re wearing, a little black circle skirt that flows around you like the first one you’d worn a couple months ago. Call it a tribute to the one that started it all. You’ve definitely experimented with lengths a little more, the one you’re wearing now brushing just barely below your ass. Appropriate for the frat party, but definitely not for your theology elective.

You hum, stepping aside as a couple makes their way up the stairs. You’re tempted to go tattle on them to Seokjin, but decide against it when you feel Jungkook’s fingers brush against your thigh.

He grins at the surprised little gasp you let out. “Pretty,” he chuckles, deep and seductive in a way you’ve never seen before. You were used to giggly Jungkook, and Jungkook who laughs like the stepmom from Cinderella, but you’d never seen this one before, the Jungkook who looked and laughed like he was straight out of a Calvin Klein campaign.

You giggle like a teenager at his compliment, unsure of what else to do so you settle on chugging Jin’s death drink. You only get a good three gulps in before Jungkook’s tugging the plastic cup away from you and setting it down on the nearest flat surface. “Don’t get all drunk on me now,” he jokes, eyes the teensiest bit glassy. He doesn’t look drunk, and he’s certainly not acting drunk. He might be a little tipsy, you think, because a completely sober Jungkook would never have the balls to tug you closer by the waist like this one does.

Your hands fall flat on his chest, warm beneath the material of his shirt. Not one of his super baggy ones today, but still a bit loose where it could hug his build. “What happened to the little red one? You said you’d wear it for me…” he questions, lips playfully pushing out into a pout.

You struggle to meet his gaze, focusing on the mole beneath his lip instead. “I, um, haven’t got around to washing it,” you stutter, absentmindedly shifting your weight from side to side.

“Really?” Jungkook presses, sounding like he doesn’t believe you at all. After a moment in which he ducks down to catch your gaze, he seems to accept. “That’s fine. This one’s cuter anyway.”

His words are emphasized by his fingers, tracing along the edge of your skirt while purposefully making sure to graze your skin. You shiver, unconsciously arching your chest into him. It’s only afterwards that you realize when Jungkook smirks in triumph. “Easy access too,” he murmurs, and your heart leaps in your chest.

“Jeon,” you whisper, hyper aware of all the people in this house right now. You’re standing at a point where everyone walks by, and the idea of Jungkook groping you in front of these people, some of which are friends, seems horrifying. “People can see.”

Jungkook’s Cheshire smile grows even wider, and you muffle a yelp when his hand slips beneath your skirt to grope your ass. “Since when were you shy?” He says, voice soft and lilting over the hum of whatever music is playing now. “Weren’t shy when you had your ass in the air that one day in your room.”

Your cheeks burn at the memory, but your core surges with a newfound heat at his wandering hands and teasing words. “Remember?”

You nod, tucking your head against his neck in a last ditch effort to hide your embarrassment. From here, your senses are bombarded with Jungkook and only Jungkook.

You feel him let out a long sigh. “Been thinking about you since,” he admits. “Nah, even before that. When you wore my shirt that one day after our balloon fight in the west quad.”

Your heart thunders at his sudden confession. The balloon fight in question had been a little over a year ago, a rallying effort from your friend group to cheer Taehyung up after an exam. After soaking each other to the bone with water guns and balloons, Jungkook had let you wear one of his stupidly big shirts home. So you’d ditched your usual jeans and shirt, wearing his shirt like a dress all the way home.

The fact Jungkook’s been thinking about you since then makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

“Every time you wear these little skirts, I think of that day. You, in my clothes, looking so soft and warm. Fuck, baby, you don’t know what you do to me.”

You glance around, and your soul almost leaves your body when you make direct eye contact with Yoongi holding Jalapeño across the room. He gives you that Yoongi look, the whatever you’re doing is weird but I won’t say anything because I don’t care look, and that’s your signal to stumble your way upstairs before Seokjin can see you two and scold you.

You’re not sure who’s room you end up, just that it has one and a half bunk beds in it, so you don’t hesitate to push Jungkook down onto the half. He plops down like a little cherub, all sweet smiles until you see the way his pants strain at the crotch. Of fuck, this is happening, you think as you climb onto his lap.

His lips envelope yours the second you’re in his arms. You’re not usually one to give into those John Green cliches, but everything about being in Jungkook’s embrace feels so right. Like you belong there, or whatever.

He’s a good ass kisser, but you shouldn’t be surprised. Jungkook was good at everything he did—such was a known fact. But he still kisses you like he’s trying to prove something, like he wants you to melt into him, and he succeeds. His mouth moves against yours, tongue sneaking it’s way past your lips until it’s inside yours, and you’re swapping spit. His breath hot, but you imagine yours is as well because just making out with Jungkook has your body temperature hotter than the inside of a sauna.

“Jungkook,” you groan when he pulls away, desperate to feel his mouth on yours again. He smiles, lips slick and cherried as he drops his hands to your waist.

“‘M right here,” he assures you, pressing a few pecks to your mouth before trailing his lips down your neck, deliciously licking and kissing every inch. You let out a choked moan, and you can feel his smile press against your skin. “Cute,” he croons.

“More,” you beg, fingers curling themselves into his hair. It’s gonna way longer these last few months, the front pieces almost brushing the tip of his nose. He looks sexy as fuck.

“At least let me stretch you out first,” he teases, face too cute for someone about to fuck your brains out. You huff in annoyance, snatching his hand away from its path to your panties.

“No,” you whine, and then shuffle forward to grind your center onto him. Jungkook groans, jaw tight as he watches you. “Just fuck me, Jungkook.”

His eyes roll back at a particular roll of your hips. “I-It’ll hurt, though,” he tries to reason, but his hands are already hiking up the back of your skirt.

“Make it hurt,” you mumble, so caught up in the moment that your eyes bulge out when he suddenly lifts you to your feet. “What’s wrong?” You huff in dismay, lower lip trembling at the thought of him changing his mind. He lets out an airy chuckle.

“Turn around for me, doll,” he softly demands, and not a single inch of you feels the need to go against him.

You’re met with the sight of your own expression, staring back at you from the closet’s mirrored sliding doors. It’s a little dark in the room, most of the light coming from a desk lamp on the other side of the room that had been on when you first broke in with Jungkook.

“So pretty,” Jungkook praises from behind you, and you watch in the glass as two firm hands snake around your waist, slowly easing you back into his lap. In the seconds you were distracted by yourself, he’d unbuckled the front of his jeans, the cotton fabric of his boxers brushing against your ass. “Gonna fuck yourself on my cock, baby?”

You nod, unsure of what to do with your hands. You needn’t worry any longer, your body naturally guiding you through the motions, until one hand grabs his thigh and the other grapples for the bedside drawer next to you. His fingers trace around your waist, hiking your skirt up to—only to reveal a pair of white undies with red hearts. Jungkook’s chuckle against your ear makes you clench your legs together. “Fuck, it’s like you knew this would happen,” he murmurs, and you can’t take your eyes off the mirror as you watch his fingers trace over your covered mound. “Did you?” He asks, breath fanning over your ear.

“N-no,” you gasp, hips jumping when he presses a lone finger to where your clit would be had your girly panties not obstructed the way. You’re embarrassingly wet just from kissing Jungkook, and his playful fingers only worsen your state. “Please hurry, Kook,” you plead, grinding back against his engorged cock.

“You sure?” He checks, and your bobble head nods have him muffling more laughter into your shoulder. “If you say so, baby.”

He lifts you up just the slightest bit to tug his cock out of its confines, and this is the only instance where you wish you weren’t looking at the mirror. His fingers dance along your skin again, tugging your panties to the side.

Screw it, just do it, you say to yourself before sinking down on his cock in one go. “Oh fuck,” you cry, head lolling back to rest against his shoulder at the sudden intrusion.

“Holy shit,” he sighs into your hair, one hand circling to the front of your waist, while the other creeps upwards to rub at where he knows your nipple is. If he were to pull your shirt and bra away, he’d see how rock hard your nipples were right now. “Relax for me, doll, I promise it’ll feel better if you relax.”

You nod, eyes squeezed shut as your body slowly assimilated to the feeling of being stuffed full. God, he felt good inside you. Fit every crevice of you pussy like he was made for you. “Jungkook,” you moan, and he hums in response. “You feel so f-fuckin good,” you babble, swiveling your hips much to both your pleasures. “Can feel you everywhere.”

He presses a kiss to your scalp. “Can you move for me, baby?” He questions, dropping his hands to your waist before slowly pushing you up so you’re not flopped against him like a rag doll. “Wanna see you bounce on my cock. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You nod eagerly, desperate to show Jungkook how good you ride dick. You muster up the strength to sit up, one hand right around his thigh again, but this time the other one clamps down over his hand on your waist. “Good girl,” Jungkook praises, giving your hips a tight squeeze.

It’s like you thrive off Jungkook’s compliments, because soon enough you’re riding him like your life depends on it.

It’s a rhythm of pushing yourself over and over, thighs tense from the effort it takes to pull yourself away from his cock until only his tip breaches you, before dropping back down. You can’t entirely take the credit, because Jungkook’s arms are there, lifting you up before pushing you back down. Truthfully, he’s probably still doing most of the work in fucking you with the way you see his arms flexing in the mirror.

“Lemme hear you, doll,” Jungkook huffs, and you don’t hesitate to moan for him. It feels overwhelmingly good, his hands tight on your waist as they move you up and down, the material of your skirt bunched up between his fingers. What you’d give to feel them inside you some day, a day in which you’re not dying to feel his cock inside of you. “That’s it,” he grunts, and doesn’t even complain when your legs begin slowing down.

He picks up the slack for you, thrusting his hips up into you like you’re just some toy for him to use and discard. But the soft praises slipping past his lips assure you you are anything but. “F-fuck,” you whine, forcing yourself above and beyond as you begin to feel that familiar coil of heat grow tighter in your abdomen. “Your cock’s s-so f-fucking big!” You cry, and one look at the mirror let’s you know you look as stupid and fucked-out as you sound.

“Really?” Jungkook smirks, drilling into you like his life depends on it. There’s an embarrassingly growing stain on the front of your panties that you catch sight of in the mirror, and part of you wants to clench your legs shut so he doesn’t see. But it seems to do it for Jungkook, and he starts rambling about that next. “Look at you. Fuck. You’re ruining your cute little panties. Absolutely fucking soaking them with hot wet you are. I get you that wet, doll?”

You squeal at a particular thrust of his hips, feeling his cock so deep in you that your eyes momentarily go cross eyed. “Yes, yes!” You agree, bouncing yourself with a renewed vigor.

The answers please Jungkook, and he rolls forward until he’s pressing his tip faintly against your cervix, and your body damn near leaves your soul. “O-oh fuck!” You scream, body turning into jelly as your orgasm has you spurting hot cum into your panties and over his cock.

“Pretty even when you come,” Jungkook huffs, hips rocking up into yours for a few more minutes until he eventually comes when you roll your hips backwards. “Holy fucking shit,” he moans, finally releasing your skirt from the death grip he had on it.

You watch it flutter back into place around you, and you almost look like two platonic friends sitting together, but then Jungkook shifts inside you and your body convulses from the oversensitivity.

“Wait, you and Jeon finally fucked?!” Chaeyoung exclaims halfway through breakfast, which she had so lovingly prepared at three in the afternoon. “When? Is that why you made us get waxed last week?”

“No!” You flush, shoving another forkful of burnt scrambled eggs into your mouth. “We waxed our coochies before that, but I didn’t know we were gonna fuck.”

Chaeyoung blinks. She’s stupid pretty even with avacado spread on her cheek. “So do you have like a seventh sense on when to get your kitty trimmed?”

“What? No,” You scoff. “Seventh? What’s my sixth?”

“Knowing the exact moment Taehyung’s gonna throw up at a party.”

You accept. “Anyway, we just… I don’t know. It was at Seokjin’s third birthday bash last weekend.” She nods like she remembers anything besides sucking face with him all night. “We were talking and then suddenly we were upstairs and...” you trail off, glancing at your fake collection of succulents lining the kitchen window.

“Was he good?” She interrogates.

You flop back onto your chair dramatically. “Chae. He was so good,” you whine, and she slaps your arm in enthusiasm. “He made me ride him facing a mirror,” you spill.

Chaeyoung squeals. “Bitch!! Here I was thinking Jeon Jungkook was the poster boy of vanilla sex,” she pauses. “I mean, still pretty vanilla compared to the time Seokjin stuck it in my—“

You gag and she rolls her eyes. “Have you been talking since?”

This is the part where things get awkward, and Chaeyoung immediately senses as much. “Oh, honey,” she frowns, eyes furrowed in worry.

“He walked me home,” you mumble, toying with the tablecloth ends. “Kissed me on the doorstep and all, but besides a few texts, I haven’t seen him around,” you lamely finish. It’s been a week.

“Ugh, men are trash,” she spits, turning in her seat to play with your hair. “I swear if I see him on campus I’ll rock his shit. My older brother used to practice WWE moves on me, I could easily smash him through a table.”

“WWE wrestling is staged, Chae,” you point out. Chaeyoung was about ten thousand times more experienced when it came to men and their behaviors. She’s been played but also has played, so her reaction to you telling her about Jungkook is all you need to hear.

In all the scenarios you’ve ever had about Jungkook, him randomly ghosting you had never even been a possibility. The Jungkook from your imaginary universes either just dumped you, or awkwardly friendzoned you. But completely disappearing on you? Now that was some John Greene shit.

You’ve gone long periods of time without seeing him, like your freshman year you saw him one time in March. But even then he’d made sure to keep in contact with you, randomly blowing up your phone with Cup Pong and 8Ball requests.

He sent you two texts this whole week, and both of them had been to cancel your homework sessions.

You almost couldn’t believe you were living this life. The men are trash, love isn’t real, heartbreak can possibly cause death life. Forget John Green, your life had taken an unexpected Shakespearean turn.

“Oh,” you say the moment you step into Taehyung and Jungkook’s apartment, surprised at the fact Jungkook is there despite the fact he, y’know, lives there. In retrospect, you should have seen this coming when Tae had asked you over to help him decorate a poster for Jin’s next game. He’s never been to a single soccer match in his life. “Is Tae here?” You ask, looking every part the stupid bitch.

Jungkook’s cheeks had flushed the moment he opened the door. “No…” he answers, glances at the shoe rack behind the door as if to make sure. “Were you supposed to meet him?” Well no shit.

“Uhh, yeah,” you say, and it’s even more awkward than the time he saw your star undies. Granted, now he’s become very familiar with your underwear and what’s hidden beneath it. You would think such an encounter would bring you two closer. “I’ll just come back another time.”

“Do you wanna come in?” He blurts out before you can even turn away. You flinch at the sudden intensity of his voice, and then both of you are left staring at each other like cringey high schoolers. “I cut some cucumber slices with lime and that one spice you like.”

“Taíjn?” You confirm, and he nods. “I mean...sure, if it’s not a bother.”

Usually when you and Jungkook hung out at his place, you’d throw your bag across the room and flop onto the ugly armchair the moment you stepped in. Now, you’re awkwardly hovering by the armrest of the sofa, like this is your first time here.

Jungkook disappears into the kitchen to, you assume, get the cucumber slices. He comes back empty handed, and with a heavy heart. “I lied. There’s no Tajín,” he confesses, and you rush to tell him it’s okay but he beats you to it. “There’s no cucumber slices either. I just needed to get you inside to talk to you.”

“You act like I needed to be lured in, Jungkook,” you say, forcing a tight smile on your face. Jungkook visibly deflates at your tone.

“No, this isn’t right,” he huffs, dramatically throwing himself onto the couch. You jump at the loud groan he releases from his position, which is face stuffed into the cushion.

“You...okay?” You tentatively ask, clutching your bag even closer to your side. Jungkook shakes his head no against the couch. “Should I call Namjoon over?”

He sits up so fast you worry he’ll get whiplash. “I have a confession to make,” he informs you, doe eyes wide and serious.

Your brain processes for a minute before slowly responding. “Okay…”

At your response he jumps to his feet. “This may come as a shock, but I’m not a womanizer.”

You blink.

“When have you ever been a womanizer, Jeon?!” You nearly exclaim when you mull over his absurd proclamation. “Are there people who actually think that?”

“I think that people think that,” he stresses to you, running a hand through his hair. “Look. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m really nice and cool, and sometimes people think that means I’m flirting with them.” Valid point. “But I’m not, because frankly I’m terrible at shooting my shot.”

The fact he’s actually admitted it out loud leaves him devastated, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Finally, something Jeon Jungkook isn’t good at.

“What lead you to that conclusion?” You carefully press on.

“Because,” he sighs, dropping back down onto the couch, except this time he’s sitting like a normal person. You sit beside him, close enough to the edge that you can just spring yourself out the door if need be.

“There’s this girl I like,” your heart pangs, even though the logical side of you can more or less guess where this is going. You’re stupid, but not that stupid. “She’s amazing, like everything about her makes me like her. God, she’s so cool, like everyone wants to be her friend, even though she sucks at Super Smash Bros., and burns her ear on a straightener at least once a month. But she’s funny and sweet, and makes me wanna join a clown troupe just to hear her laugh. And she looks gorgeous in skirts, and the way she rides dic—“

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” you interrupt, glancing at the coffee table decorated with Jungkook’s anatomy books, because you don’t want to look at the big dopey grin on his face as he talks about you and your dick riding abilities.

Jungkook grins, this much you can tell from your peripheral, before it drops into a frown. “Whole point is, she’s cool as fuck. And I… I think I might love her,” he admits, and you whip around to face him. His cheeks are as red as Taehyung’s current hair dye, which is to say they’re as red as a fire truck. You get th feeling you're mirroring his expression.

The silence following his confession seems to drag on an eternity, but truthfully, you and Jungkook both have the patience of a soccer mom of three, so he jumps to fill the spaces between you. “And like, I just wanna kiss her and hold her and watch her eat and cuddle her to sleep and hold her hand and buy her gifts, and I think I would die for her?—”

“Okay chill, Romeo,” you scramble to cut off that train of thought. Jungkook’s looking at you like you were the creative director behind Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker and the trailer released two minutes ago. It’s a weird reference but coming from Jungkook, it means a lot.

You don’t know what to say, but Jungkook beats you to it anyway. “There’s this girl I like,” he repeats, and your heart does nearly implode on itself when he reaches over to clutch your hand in his. Your hands are sweaty and fidgety from his confession, but so are Jungkook’s. “How do I tell her I like her?”

You gulp, before reaching over to smack at his bicep much to both your surprise. “Jeon Jungkook! How’re you gonna give me the best fucking of my life and then ghost me for a week, because you’re too much of a pussy to tell me you like me!” You almost want to cry, and you almost do when he wraps you in his arms with a delighted, warm laugh rumbling through his whole body. “You suck,” you huff, and sniffle once, and only once.

“Thank fuck,” he sighs in relief. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you friendzoned me.”

“The friendzone—“

“—is a made up concept created by men who feel like they’re entitled to women and their feelings, I know,” he huffs and you laugh. You push yourself away from his chest to meet his gaze, stretching up to capture his lips in a sweet kiss that quickly turns naughty when you feel the flex of muscles beneath your hands.

“Ugh, you beefcake.”

“I wish,” he snorts, tugging you back into his chest as he flops down onto the couch. You snuggle into him, the position all too comfortable in your skirt. The only reason you’re reminded of it is because Jungkook traces his fingers along the edge of the material. “You asked me why I workout out but hide in big clothes, and the truth is its so I can beat up any meninist douchebag that tries to slander my girl in her thot skirts.”

You sputter. “My thot skirts—you asshole! All my skirts are of appropriate length,” you defend, pinching his side and winning a giggle for your efforts. “That doesn’t even explain the baggy clothes part either.”

“Shh, your thot skirt is tempting me.”

“He made you dress up as a what now?!” Chaeyoung exclaims, fork clattering loudly against her plate as everyone in the diner turns to look at you two. You try desperately to quiet her, but the damage is done and even the server whose long since become familiar with your antics looks disgusted.

“Oh my god,” Chaeyoung sighs, her concern on everything but this public humiliation. “I knew it. I told you he got along too well with Jalapeño, remember?”

[ NOW WITH A DRABBLE WOW!!! ]

#kpopwonderlandtag #thekpopnetwork #jjk♡#jungkook smut #jjk smut #jeongguk smut #bts smut #jeon jeongguk #mine

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schizosupport · 4 years ago

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does it still count as a delusion if I think I'm stupid to believe that and that its obviously its not real but I still have like flight/fight/freeze to the thoughts/wrongly percieved event/things in the corner of my eye, or get really scared? Like I don't think that I'm correct in thinking the thing and I don't think it makes sense/has been proven wrong by the person and by testing it lol but also I have a reasoning behind it and still think it? Esp if some of the specific paranoias are very transient (or don't come back) and sometimes triggered by horror content (damn tma t-t) or v stress related ??? I'm trying to figure out if I'm just prodomal probably (bcus I have like a million environmental and genetic risks and Im 16) or actually having delusions now lol ¡¡p but it might be substance induced so :p this stuff has been going on since like, last june maybe and when I started smoking almost everyday since august

(2) HI IM THE PERSON TALKING ABT THE DELUSIONS AND POSSIBLY BEING SUBSTANCE INDUCED !! I think I've also had an increase in negative symptoms in that approximately 1 year time frame than before, even though I'm autistic so experience a lot of the things they list in that stuff :p but that could be because I went through a traumatic relationship or because I've been unmasking over time since I'm not in public and been trying to acknowledge my needs during quarantine :p (3) hi sorry for using all caps yesterday :(((( I didn't mean to make anybody distressed in any way. Also is thinking as a kid that people may be controlled by larger beings like sims and whenever we die thats because they got bored with us normal weird kid beleifs or ?? Or like after watching truman show I was always thinking abt if I was like it and I still kinda act like there could possibly always be a camera on me or someones watching me but my dad talked about putting cameras around the house and one time when I was getting on my phone because he had taken it away from me a notification popped up on his computer that I was using my phone and if he wanted to look at my screen so maybe its just me being scared cus of that even tho I dont live with him anymore :p and I have no reason to believe he or anyone else actually has access to my phone but they do and its really scary :'((((

Hi anon!

No need to apologize, you’re good, and you didn’t distress me!

I am very brain-tired there days which makes it hard for me to respond thoroughly, but I’m going to attempt anyways.

The exact definition of delusions vs magical thinking, paranoid ideation and anxiety can be hard to figure out, and the professionals may have varying opinions as well. The main question, to me, would be - are you very distressed by these thoughts? Are they hindering your ability to live life to its fullest?

If the answer is yes, then I find it less important what they are, and rather I would urge you to look into getting some help managing these symptoms. At the end of the day, knowing the name of what’s going on with you can feel empowering, but it doesn’t actually help much if it isn’t accompanied by an increase in support, understanding and potentially treatment.

Another thing is, you said you’ve been smoking almost every day - from the context I’m guessing you’re talking about weed?

I know that a lot of people do feel like weed can alleviate some discomfort, and I’m not the authority on drug-use by any means, but I think that a daily intake of any drug, can be a cause for alarm. - No matter if that’s alcohol, weed or “harder” drugs. Especially in people who are susceptible to psychosis (which you seem to be), weed can have a negative effect, and it can definitely increase some symptoms, or even increase the likelihood of a full-blown episode.

I know it’s easier said than done, and you probably have your reasons for smoking as much as you do, but from a mental health perspective, it does blur the picture. And it can make it harder to get the help you need, because you risk either professional writing off your symptoms as “purely druginduced” or alternatively, they ignore the smoking, and think that you’re more psychotic than you would normally be, which could also lead to the wrong treatment.

(Say for example, you’re smoking to cope with a certain set of symptoms (eg. adhd)- then that smoking causes psychotic symptoms - they treat that with antipsychotics. Now if your original problem was adhd, you would have been better off with a prescription for that, instead of having to take two mind-altering substances as patches on patchwork solutions)

Honestly I’m not the best to ask about the border between delusion and anxiety - professionals have repeatedly told me I’ve long since crossed the border (hence why I’m diagnosed as schizophrenic) but in my own mind I’m still just “a very anxious person”...

I hope this was at least a bit helpful, my computer is lagging and so is my brain, so I’m going to wrap this up here.

Best of luck anon!

Cat

#caps tw #surveillance tw #drugs tw #answers #Anonymous

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eryiss · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Ten - The Hollidays

Summary: Freed and Laxus live incredibly different lives. Freed is a corporate lawyer in the capital city, and Laxus works as a handyman in a countryside hotel. Despite their differences, their lives collide when Freed inherits a house in Laxus’ village, and hires him to make the derelict building liveable. But the closer they get, the more they seem to offer each other. [Fraxus Multi-Chapter]

This was written as my admission for Fraxus Day 2020, hosted by @fuckyeahfraxus. Happy Holidays Everyone. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

You can read this under the cut, on Fanfiction, or on Archive of Our Own. You can find the chapter masterpost here.

Chapter Ten – The Holidays

They hadn't spoken about it. They hadn't spoken about anything. They hadn't even seen each other since it happened.

Laxus had woken up in Freed's bed, wrapped up in the man's crisp sheets without a bedpartner. The sound of movement had stirred him, and through bleary eyes he had seen Freed moving through his bedroom. He'd watched as Freed had retreated quietly into the cottage's bathroom, followed by the sound of a shower. He returned a little bit later, to dress himself, and for reasons he couldn't explain Laxus pretended to be asleep.

With closed eyes, he had heard Freed's sigh. He'd shaken Laxus' shoulder to wake him, but the blonde continued to keep up the pretence of sleep. He had eventually given up, and the sound of pen against paper filled the room. Laxus should have made it known he was awake at that point, but he didn't.

And then Freed left, but not before gifting Laxus a featherlight kiss and whispering, "Happy Christmas my love."

Laxus only opened his eyes when he heard the locking of the front door followed by the sound of Freed's car engine starting. When he did, he sat up in Freed's large bed and rested against the headboard with a sigh, already regretting his stupid decision to remain silent as Freed woke. But he couldn't hang out the window, yelling in the hope that Freed would hear him and turn around so that Laxus could…

Could do what exactly?

Thank him for a night he would most likely never forget? Try to take back his words and all but beg for the opportunity to see if a long-distance relationship could work between them despite his disdain for them? Convince both Freed and himself that he wouldn't mind battling Freed's job for the man's attention for as long as they were together? It wasn't… those weren't things that Laxus could do.

So instead, he had sighed, and looked to the bedside table where Freed had written a note for him to find. A note that Laxus still had on his person, tucked into his jeans pocket, a week later.

It was pathetic really.

New Year's Eve was meant to be a night of celebration for young people, if Laxus could still be considered young. Admittedly, living in a town like Magnolia meant there wasn't much to do on New Year's Eve other than a few bars, but at least that would have been something. But, instead of doing that, he found himself at his grandfather's party, surrounded by people considerably older than he was. He was sat on the sofa, attempting to find some entertainment in the TV coverage of New Years in Era.

The location felt like a kick in the teeth. Because Freed would most probably be out there somewhere, with Evergreen and Bickslow, enjoying themselves and taking advantage of the night long party that the city became. Perhaps Laxus should have asked Freed if he could go with them.

He'd been tempted. But after what had happened, Laxus didn't know what to say to him.

They'd texted a couple of times, but never anything of substance. Laxus had wished Freed a Happy Christmas, they'd had some small talk but that was it. Laxus had wanted to ask how he was coping without any family members throughout the day, remembering how bad the holidays had been without his mother for his first time, but couldn't find the guts to press send. It was ridiculous, because before their night together things had been so easy. But after, Laxus didn't quite no where he stood with Freed.

Because the end date was coming. Only the bathroom needed to be finished in the house, and that would take a few days at most. Once that was finished, Freed would look into selling it, and his time spent in Magnolia would be over. And Laxus couldn't help but wonder if their promise of only having one night together was meant to be an ending to their relationship as a whole.

It was a thought he tried not to linger on.

And to stop it from ruining his mood, he stood and walked to the kitchen, where an array of drinks had been placed for anyone to take. Laxus picked up one of the flimsy plastic cups and assessed all of the drinks on offer, before settling on beer. He doubted his grandfather would be pleased to find a pint of his wine gone.

As he gulped down the drink, he unfortunately didn't instantly forget his anxieties about Freed leaving his life, but it at least gave him the confidence to be optimistic. Because Freed wasn't just going to pack up and leave his life like that; he was the kind of man who made friends cautiously but stuck with them through thick and thin. Even in the note he had left Laxus, he mentioned wanting to continue their friendship.

Pathetically, he found his hand grazing his pocket as the urge to reread it grew.

But the urge was more powerful than any good sense that he had left, so he reached into his pocket as he leant on the kitchen counter. He unfolded the now crumpled paper, placing his beer to the side of him, and began to read through the words that he had already committed to memory.

He tried not to let the feeling of melancholy consume him as his eyes roamed the page.

~~~

"You know, if you're gonna be like this all night, you could at least tell me why."

At Cana's words, Laxus let out a small grunt. She and Mirajane had arrived at Makarov's party a few hours prior, which had been enough time for Laxus' mood to get worse and worse. The more he stood around Makarov's house, surrounded by old men and women who had known him since he was born, the more he was reminded of his life before he had met Freed and his life had gained more purpose.

Because this party was what his life had been. Just standing around with nothing to do, wishing the hours away and the day to end, only to have another day of the same boredom. Every day had been like that, and Laxus had a horrid feeling that it would be like that again.

At least with the party, he could step outside and get away for a while.

"You should at least try to cheer up before he gets here," Mirajane sighed.

"Before who gets here?" Laxus muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette.

"Your boyfriend, dipshit," Cana taunted, and Laxus' eyes flickered to her in alarm. Her expression faltered. "You do know he's coming, right?"

Laxus shook his head, a little dumbly.

Why didn't he know that; he should have known that? He was, at least to Laxus' knowledge, the only real point of contact that Freed had in Magnolia. How would Freed have even found out about the party, since Laxus had never mentioned it was happening? And even if someone had mentioned it to him and invited him, surely he would have at least told Laxus to expect him there. Their texting had been limited, but it had still been there.

A flush of both excitement and dread filled the blonde. It was very possible that every concern and worry about the future of their relationship would be either confirmed of denied very quickly, and he hadn't been given the time to prepare.

"Lisanna's getting him from the train station right now, she left a while ago," Mirajane explained.

"Why her?" Laxus asked, though the real question of 'why not me?' was obvious.

"When Freed was staying at the hotel, they saw a lot of each other. She insisted on waiting his table when he had breakfast in the restaurant," Mirajane shrugged a little. "I think that, other than you, she's probably the person he's closest to in Magnolia. Apparently he wanted to talk to her, but I wouldn't worry. It's not like she's Freed's type."

"Maybe he wants to make you jealous," Cana grinned. "Maybe he thinks it'll make the lovin' bett-"

"Can you just stop with that shit for one fucking night," Laxus raised his voice, aggression clear as he glared.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

"I'm gonna get a drink," Cana muttered, leaving the front garden, and going back into the house.

Laxus sighed. "I didn't mean to be-"

"I know you didn't," Mirajane smiled placatingly. "She's just a prideful woman, and she can take things too far without realising it. I should go and check on her," She pushed off from the wall she was leaning on and smiled at Laxus. "And, if the reason you're feeling down is because of Freed, then try and make up."

"It ain't him," Laxus lied.

"Well then you should make the most of him being here then," She suggested, though Laxus doubted she had believed him. "Because he makes you happy, and that's important. Don't throw it away."

She walked into the house, and Laxus raised the cigarette to his lips again, looking up the road in the hopes of catching sight of headlights coming towards the house.

~~~

A car eventually did show up, and Laxus' heartbeat increased sporadically when he saw that it was Lisanna's. He quickly dropped the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out, not knowing what Freed's opinion on smoking was; whenever he had smoked over the past few months, he had done it in private and never where Freed would find him, though he'd found the urge a lot less overpowering and had indulged a lot less since meeting Freed.

He supposed it was the by-product of having things to do with hit time.

The car pulled up on the road outside of Makarov's house, and out from it came both Lisanna and Freed, dressed in his obnoxiously tempting suit; made more tempting now that Laxus knew what lay under it. That thought went as fast as it came, however, as when their eyes met Laxus found his mind blank.

Lisanna said something to Freed, patted the man on the shoulder and walked into the house, smiling at Laxus as she passed him. This left the two men alone in the cold night air, looking at each other in a moment of almost stupefied silence.

"Laxus," Freed eventually said, and the sound of his voice was like music to Laxus.

"Hey," Laxus said, and his voice only barely wavered. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Freed nodded a little. He visibly swallowed, and took a step towards Laxus. "Could we talk, please?"

"Yeah, sure," Laxus also moved, meeting Freed in the middle. He motioned to the small brick wall that separated the front garden from the pathway. "You wanna sit?"

"Thank you," Freed nodded again.

This wasn't going to be a good conversation, Laxus could tell. The very fact that Freed was willing to sit in the cold winter air near the middle of the night said quite a lot. But, Laxus could see Freed gently grazing the palm of his hand while he moved, a nervous tick that Laxus had picked up on a while ago for when Freed was feeling overwhelmed and nervous. This couldn't be a good conversation, and Laxus forced himself to breath calmly before sitting beside him.

"I should apologise," Freed began, his voice low. Regretful. "For kissing you, and certainly for suggesting that we have a night together. You made it clear that it wasn't for the best, and I should have listened."

"I wanted it as much as you did," Laxus admitted. "I enjoyed it, so you don't need to feel guilty. It's just, that's all it could be."

"I know," Freed sighed, looking down at his lap rather than at Laxus. Laxus wished he was looking at him. "But that doesn't change the fact that, the reason I did it was because I was being selfish. I was too focused on what I wanted to think about what was best for us both, and I am very sorry for that. Because if I hadn't kissed you, if I hadn't wanted more from you than I should have, then we'd probably not be out here, having a conversation like this. We'd be inside, enjoying ourselves. But we can't do that, can we?"

"I guess not," Laxus sighed, admitting to a truth that he hated. Because as much as he wanted things to be normal, they weren't.

"I really am sorry," Freed whispered. "Everything you said was right, though. Why we couldn't be together. But I need you to know-"

"Freed," Laxus quivered. "Don't."

"I need you to know that I want to change. That I'm trying to-"

"Please don't do this," Laxus' plea was barely audible.

"-become a better-"

"Freed," Laxus almost begged, voice cracking and getting Freed's attention fully. "You can't do this, you just can't. Because the more you speak, the more I'm gonna believe you. You're like a… a fucking drug to me. I don't get why exactly but I knew you were gonna be big in my life the second I saw you but… I can't get addicted to you. Because it's only gonna end badly."

"Why do you think that?" Freed asked, voice bordering on breaking.

"Because it would," Laxus swallowed. "Because your moms dead and you're refusing to deal with it, and I know what happens when you do that. Because you've got a job and a life that I don't know anything about, and I couldn't work with. Because you're not the kind of guy I could have something casual with. For whatever reason Freed you're the first guy I know to ever make me want more than just a quick fuck or a few weeks together. What I want from you, you can't give me right now. And if we get together, and if you keep saying that there's a chance we can work out, then one day it'll all go to hell."

"Laxus," Freed started again. Laxus wouldn't let him.

"You said one night, that was it," He tried to make his voice strong. "And that's what we did. And I can't risk tainting it. You're more important to me than you know, and I can't ruin it. And I think if we do anything more, then I can't see a way that we end up happy."

"I see," Freed whispered.

Neither spoke for a while after that, instead sitting side by side as the cold winter air flowed over them. Laxus found himself blinking back tears, unable to look anywhere but at his feet as seeing Freed might be too painful. He suspected that Freed might have been doing the same.

"Laxus," Freed said eventually. "Do you remember when you invited me to live in Magnolia? You told me that, in certain circumstances, you can't just carry on doing what you're doing because its easy, and that you sometimes need to remove yourself from a situation to find out who you are now," Laxus nodded. "I think I need to find out who I am without you. Or at least without the possibility of something happening between us."

And didn't that feel like shit.

"So you need to take a step back from me," Laxus whispered, blinking harder now.

"I think so," Freed sighed. "Not permanently, I hope. But you're right, the more time we spend together, the more I'll want to be with you. And if you're as certain as I believe you are, then I think we shouldn't see each other for a while. That we shouldn't… torture ourselves with something that we can't have."

"Yeah," Laxus voice broke. "Makes sense."

"I'm sorry Laxus."

"Don't be," Laxus forced himself to shrug. "I'm the one saying we can't be anything. You're just respecting that."

"Are you okay?"

"Fuck knows," Laxus laughed a little. "You?"

"No," Freed admitted. "I think I should leave, though. There's no good that can come from dragging it out."

"Guess not," Laxus took in a quivering breath. "You wanna call a taxi or something?"

"I'll stay at the house tonight, I can walk there," Freed sighed. "I really am sorry, Laxus."

"It's not your fault," Laxus whispered. "It just is what it is."

"I suppose so," Freed's voice wavered. "Goodbye, Laxus."

"Goodbye, Freed."

With an audible, quivering sigh, Freed stood up. The sound of shoes on tarmac became quieter and quieter as Freed walked away from Laxus, and the blonde only looked up when he knew that Freed was out of sight. He let out a strangled breath, looking at nothing as a wash of misery overtook him. He found his hands moving towards the note in his pocket without realising it, and a moment later he was looking down at it with tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

'Dear Laxus,

I would first like to explain why I'm not here for when you wake. This was in no way my intention, but my train to Era was looming and, despite my best efforts, you are nearly impossible to wake. You have a rather endearing habit of gently snoring, so I can forgive you for that. I do wish I could have spoken to you before I left though.

Our time together last night was incredible, I expect I won't ever forget it, and it is entirely because I shared it with you. You seem to enlighten my existence in a way I can hardly put into words, even though I intend to try. You seem to brighten me, challenge me, and make me a better man. It's as if I have been struck by lightning just by being in your proximity, and your influence on my life has been only positive. When we kissed, it felt as though life was reinvigorated for me. Please know that you are one of the best people I have met, and your kindness is something I'll never be able to thank you enough for.

But I understand why last night is all that we can have as anything other than friends. I know why we can't be more, and as much as I would love to indulge my urges to keep you in my arms for as long as you'd have me, I understand why we can't.

I only wish we can still remain part of one another's lives still. I hope to see you soon, my love.

Freed.'

As the fireworks exploded behind him, bringing in the new year, Laxus let himself cry.

#Fraxus Day 2020 #Fraxus Day #Fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfic #Writing #Event #Multichapter #Word Count 3.1k #Fuckyeahfraxus

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harlot-of-oblivion · 5 years ago

Text

The Devil’s In The Details

You stop by the morgue and find a crucial piece of the puzzle that leads you towards a unconventional solution.

Chapter 2: Consulting With The Experts

Your mind begins to wonder about this puzzling case while the surrounding world zooms past you in a dizzying blur. It all started with some missing people cases…well, you are certain that it started there. Your colleagues believe that you are chasing shadows, and that it really started with the recent string of murders.

On the surface, both the missing people and the murders do not have any connections with each other. But they do share at least one confirmed detail given from multiple witnesses and resources: they all acted strangely before either disappearing or becoming a victim of foul play. You know that the connection is pretty broad, but at the same time…a huge group of people exhibited dissociative behavior before meeting their current fate. Something in your gut tells you that it all just seems too convenient to be a coincidence, but multiple witness testimonies are not enough to connect the dots that no one else seems to notice.

You now have put all your focus on another plausible shared connection: the strange injection wounds found on the victim’s bodies. It’s also a bit of a stretch, but when you looked through all the accounts of the missing people cases again…a few minor details that were glossed over before are now glaringly obvious. Several accounts mention suspicions about the use of drugs being involved, and ten of those accounts include descriptions of seeing wounds that look to be inflicted by needles. That is one too many coincidences for your liking, but just mere conjecture will not be taken seriously by the higher ups…which is exactly why you dropped everything to go to the morgue.

Normally, you would go to a toxicologist for this kind of information, but Red Grave’s history with demons as well as the black market for their weapons and other nefarious goods steered you towards another kind of expert. Everyone knows that those who deal with the dead in this city have seen some pretty interesting deaths in their time…such as overdoses from otherworldly drugs or accidental poisoning from a mishandled weapon.

So, to prove that your speculations have merit, you have enlisted the help of Grayson Beckett a.k.a. Graves, the medical examiner who does not seem to mind his morbid nickname. He’s a little strange as all professionals in his line of work tend to be, but that has not stopped him from being one of the best in the field. His eccentricities have never stopped you from valuing his expert opinion in matters he’s more qualified for than you are. And it does not hurt that he is one of the few to also find all these oddities of this case to be quite perplexing.

Your inner contemplation comes to an end when you finally arrive at the police station of Red Grave City, pulling into parking space before cutting off the engine and removing your helmet. You shake your hair away from your face while gathering your thoughts, putting on that mask of professional stoicism as you hop off the bike. It does not take you long to track down Grayson in the morgue since he can always be found roaming around the cold chamber. He told you once that he finds it calming to pace around in there during his downtime…something about the silence of the deceased makes for perfect conversation whenever he needs to sort out his thoughts.

But when you walk into the macabre storage room, you find him pacing around like a madman, far from the epitome of calm and more like a vision of distress. He jumps back with a startled gasp before letting out a sigh of relief. “Ah! There you are, Detective…very timely arrival as always,” he greets, straightening his clothes before holding his hands behind his back.

“What’s wrong, Graves?” you inquire with a raised brow.

“Oh!” he gasps with a shake of his head. “Right…well, you see uh…” he trails off, shoulders twitching as he clears his throat, “…one of the body’s is uh…missing.”

“Missing?” you repeat, staring dead straight at him. “As in…”

“Gone!” he abruptly shrieks, waving his hands around wildly before raking his fingers through his hair. “It’s as if it simply got up and left!”

“Alright, slow down,” you urge him calmly while taking out your glasses, slipping them on before grabbing your sketchbook from inside your jacket. “Start at the beginning,” you instruct as your hand slides the pencil from the spiral spine before readying itself on a blank sheet.

Grayson takes a couple of deep breaths. “I came in first thing in the morning, like usual, and shuffled through a bit of paperwork before getting ready for an examination.” He walks over to one of the storage doors. “When I went to pull out the body in question, I noticed that the hatch wasn’t closed properly,” he informs while pointing to said hatch on the door before continuing. “It seemed very odd to me, but I chalked it up to maybe carelessness from one of the other examiners. But when I opened it up…” He grips the hatch and pulls the door open to reveal an empty chamber. “The body wasn’t there!”

Huh…San Diego’s theory has some merit after all, you admit wryly while finishing a small drawing of a zombie bride walking out from the storage chamber before launching in a series of questions. “You’re absolutely sure you were the first to arrive here?”

“Why yes!” he exclaims with a nod. “I always come in an hour before anyone else.”

“Do you know who was last here?”

Grayson shakes his head. “Not right off the top of my head, but we do keep records of our examinations. Let me just…” He goes over to a nearby computer and informs you that he is emailing the record to you while you jot down the possibility of the body snatcher being an employee here.

“Does anyone else have a key to this room?”

“Only me and the other two examiners have access as well as some of the higher ups,” he explains while tapping away on the keyboard.

“Which body was it?”

“The strangled victim from last week.”

Your brow quirks above the frame of your glasses as Grayson sends the email with one final click before turning around to share more details. “I was going to check it one last time before handing it over to the family…Oh how am I going to explain this to them?” he bemoans, sagging his shoulders as he lets out a dejected sigh.

“The security footage may have caught something as well,” you inform while gesturing towards two security cameras in the corners of the room with your pencil. You draw a noose around the zombie bride and write down that the missing body is one of the victims of your current case. “I’ll put in a report as soon as I’m back at the station,” you assure him a confident nod.

Grayson straightens his shoulders and takes another deep breath before thanking you with a grateful smile. You make a quick note about the cameras before closing your sketchbook with a sharp snap. “Now…you said something about results?” you ask, getting back the matter at hand while readjusting your glasses.

“That I did, Detective! Right this way!”

He motions you to follow him over to a small makeshift desk in the corner of the room, which acts as his office even though he has an official one outside the cold chamber. He opens a laptop covered with various punk rock stickers and signs into his work email. “After a bit of research and numerous email exchanges with the toxicologists, I’m able to confirm with utmost certainty that the strange substance is…” he pauses for the dramatic effect while searching for the appropriate emails, circling the important part of the exchange with his cursor. “Completely unknown,” he reveals with a curious lilt in his tone of voice.

“Why am I not surprised?” you mutter with a frustrated sigh.

Grayson nods in agreement. “Now, from what I was able to gather from limited resources on the streets,” he begins as his eyes flit from side to side even though he knows that you are the only one present with him. “This strange substance isn’t a new drug out on black market either,” he finishes with a secretive wink.

“And yet it’s administered through an injection,” you ponder aloud as your mind begins to churn with new theories.

“Yes, well…in my humble opinion, it appears to be more like a venom than poison since it needs to be injected in the first place,” he clarifies with a small shrug.

“A venom…hmm…” You flip open your sketchbook and take note of this new bit of information. “Any idea what this venom might do once it enters the system?”

“I can’t say for sure,” he admits with a sad shake of his head. “And there’s not enough evidence to support your theory about the victims being paralyzed, but that’s only because we were not aware of this mysterious venom at the time. If only we knew beforehand…we could’ve dug a little deeper,” he laments while looking at the empty storage chamber.

“Well, you’ll get your chance with this next body,” you reassure with a small grin while finishing up the last of your notes.

“Excellent!” he exclaims, face lighting up with childlike joy as he claps his hands in excitement. “Perhaps we’ll finally have some answers…right, Quickdraw?”

You chortle at him using your nickname. This little victory may not be enough to convince your superiors to validate your theory, but it could be the hairline sliver that leads to a crack in the case. So, you give into Grayson’s infectious joy for a moment and bring one hand up to tip your imaginary cowboy hat to him while putting on your best western accent.

“Sure thing, Partner.”

Grayson chuckles as you bid him farewell and take your leave. You flip through your sketchbook while you make your way through the Department of Criminal Investigations. Your mind starts to put a few key pieces together, hoping that it will be enough to convince the Lieutenant of your ongoing theory. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts under your nose as you enter the main office area of the department, reminding you to grab your first cup of joe in the morning.

You walk towards a group of coworkers surrounding Blaise Fuller, also known as Detective Douche, the fond nickname given to him by Carmen for his overall contemptible attitude. They all grow quiet as your approach and their eyes follow you as you pass them by, whispering in hushed tones while you pour yourself a cup at the designated coffee station of the department. He should be wowing me with his stellar observation skills, you surmise while sprucing up your coffee with a couple of sugar packets and a splash of creamer. Any minute now. You stir your coffee with a plastic stirrer before taking a long sip. In three…two…

“Well, well…looks like the Ice Bitch finished a little too early this time.”

You can practically hear the smarmy grin plastered on his mouth before you turn around to address him. Your eyes look over the frame of your glasses to focus on his smug face, pinning him down with your unimpressed gaze as you finish your first sip of coffee with a pleasant hum. “Funny…that’s what your ex-girlfriend said about you too.”

All traces of smug arrogance drop from Fuller’s face while a series of shocked gasps and stifled laughter sounds off from everybody within earshot. You honestly cannot tell if he’s angrier about the vulgar insult or the fact that said insult is the unfortunate truth. Maybe I hit him a little too far below the belt, you wonder as he squares up his shoulders and prepares to bite back with his own venomous rebuff. But then again, you do not have time for his juvenile attempts at getting a rise out of you. So, you put one hand on your hip and take another sip of your coffee, showing oblivious disinterest while waiting for what will assuredly be the most scornful slight of the century.

“Hey! Knock it off you two!”

Your eyes dart over to Jayce Spencer, your former partner before the promotion, standing there with a severe frown on his face. The resounding snickers from before gets cut short as everybody quickly disperses from the scene. Fuller snorts and gives you a deriding glare before rejoining the small group of co-workers by his desk. You move towards your own desk in the opposite direction, intending to check your email while waiting for the Lieutenant’s temper to cool off before presenting your findings to him.

“Detective Y/N! My office. Now.”

But it seems that you’re not getting off the hook so easily this time. A resigned sigh leaves your lips as you march towards the Lieutenant holding his office door open for you with a stern grimace. You enter the office and launch into an explanation as soon as the door clicks shut behind you.

“Before you go off on me, let me explain-”

“What the hell were you thinking leaving the scene of a crime that early?” he demands testily, brushing past you to sit down behind his immaculate deck. “We’re in the middle of goddamn shitshow out there and you skipping out-”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I wasn’t skipping out,” you cut him off as you take a seat in front of his desk before pulling out your cellphone. “I got a call from Grayson and went to check up on a possible lead.”

Jayce quirks a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that right?” You open your call log and show him the exact time of the call you received from Grayson. He takes a quick look at the screen before sighing deeply through his nose. “Well, whatever you have better make up for all calls from the press asking me to reprimand you for almost running over a few of their journalists.”

“Sorry about that, Sir,” you apologize softly, “…maybe next time they won’t block my way,” you mutter under your breath while pocketing your phone. Jayce just rolls his eyes at your flippant retort as you take out your sketchbook. “This is the fifth victim with the same exact puncture wound as the others,” you inform, showing the drawing of the victim and his wounds before handing your sketchbook over to him. “And Grayson helped me confirm that the substance found in the previous victim’s body is unknown to the lab and on the streets.”

Jayce looks over your various notes and sketches, nodding his head in agreement to some of your observations and raising a quizzical brow at the zombie bride. “Fuck…” he sighs under his breath as he hands the sketchbook back over to you.

“Yep. Fuck indeed.”

“So, we really do have a serial killer on the loose,” he surmises quietly as you put away your sketchbook.

“Possibly.”

Jayce rests his elbows on the desk and leans in closer as he scans you with his critical gaze. “What’re you getting at, Detective?”

You cross your legs and take off your glasses so that you could regard him with your solemn gaze head on. “I believe that demons are involved, Sir.”

“Demons,” he repeats with a blank stare before letting out a tired sigh. “Now, I know you check your boxes and cross your T’s more than anyone here, but I gotta ask…”

You let out your own exasperated sigh while pinching your brow. “Lieutenant-”

“Y/N…let’s drop the formalities and speak veteran to veteran.” His voice drops down low, sharp eyes clearly showing concern as he asks the question that you have been dreading since concluding demon involvement. “Are you sure you’re not just seein’ ghosts of cases past?”

Your eyebrow twitches as boiling anger surges through your body. “Fuck you, Jayce!” you growl, furiously hopping out of your seat and slamming your hands down on his desk. “You know better than anyone that I don’t let past feelings or trauma get in the way of my reasoning!” you argue, never tearing your irate gaze away from his worried face.

“Easier said than done, Hothead,” he counters calmly, not at all fazed by your outburst. “I’m only asking as a friend who, may I remind you, knows the truth behind what happened during our first case together.”

All your searing rage begins to bubble back down as you concede to his concerns. It still irks you that he still thinks that you have not gotten over what happened…but nonetheless, you know that it is within his right as your superior to question your state of mind. You curse under your breath as you settle back down in your seat, crossing your legs and huffing in defeat while he continues to stare you patiently.

“Are you seein’ ghosts?”

“No ghosts, Hard Ass,” you assert, “only dead bodies and a killer to catch.”

Jayce nods. “I believe you. But without sufficient evidence to support your claim…” he trails off with a weary sigh as he leans back into his chair.

“It’s fucking bullshit,” you grunt irritably, bobbing your foot up and down in frustration while shaking your head. “We’re living in a city drowning in demons and they have the gall to-”

“I know, I know,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand, “but that’s precisely why we need the evidence…or else we’ll have every criminal we apprehend claiming that a fucking demon made them do it.”

A contemplative silence falls over the office and you go over the available options that will move the case forward. You cannot proceed the normal way; dealers in the black market are not known to help their local law enforcement catch a killer, especially if demons or Devil Arms are involved. What I really need is…Your foot stops fidgeting as the proverbial lightbulb blinks on above your head.

“What if we consult with an expert?”

Jayce furrows his brow in serious thought for a moment before the true intention behind your suggestion hits him. “You’re not seriously suggesting that we consort with a demon hunter, are you?” he inquires with an incredulous chortle.

“Yeah, I am,” you confirm with a curt nod. “Hell, maybe collaborate with one since there were a bunch of them roaming the streets when that freaky tree cropped up a year ago.” Jayce gives you a bewildered look from across the desk, but you go on with your perfectly reasonable explanation. “Plus, some of them are well respected by the people…unlike some us here who swore to serve and protect.”

Jayce squints his eyes as he thinks it over, steadily staring at you while his face goes through a torrent of expressions: wariness, consideration, and dismissal before finally settling on a decision. “Goddammit, Y/N,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “You have anyone in mind?” he asks hesitantly, eyes gleaming with curiosity despite his apprehension.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” You straighten up in your shoulder and announce the best candidate with utmost confidence and conviction in your voice. “Dante, the Son of Sparda and Legendary Devil Hunter himself.”

Jayce’s jaw literally drops in shock. “You have got to be bustin’ balls! That nutjob has a file this long and there’s no way-”

“Which is why he’s the perfect man for the job,” you cut in smoothly before listing off the reasons behind your suggested collaborator. “He’s infamous around here; the richest of the rich know him from his father’s status and the lowest of the low know him from reputation alone.” You uncross your legs and lean in closer towards the desk. “And if we offer to wipe his record clean-”

“Say what now?” Jayce scoffs in disbelief.

“Then he may just help us without payment,” you finish with a nonchalant shrug while grinning triumphantly.

“Un-fuckin’-believable,” he mumbles, head hanging low as he pinches his brow. “You know that we’re not supposed to wipe records for cooperation, right?”

“Yeah, but we both know that only works on paper,” you refute smugly, crossing your arms and sitting back in your chair as you provide more incentive for your former partner. “And we might as well use his name to get the press off our backs since they’ll focus on him instead of how we’re floundering right now.”

Jayce glares at you before leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and rubbing his chin as he mulls over the plan you’ve just presented to him. You wait patiently, knowing that he is going through the other possibilities in his head before inevitably coming to the same conclusion as you did. Once a hard ass, always a hard ass, you observe in quiet amusement as he finally lets out a resigned sigh.

“Alright, fine. Go and find this crazy son of bitch…see if he’ll work with us in exchange for getting his record cleaned,” he relents, lowering his head so that his cautious gaze meets your determined eyes. “But I’ll warn you now: you’ll be walking a very fine line if you choose to work with a mercenary like him.” He gets up from his chair, moves around his desk to stand in front of you, and delivers his one final warning.

“Stay sharp. And for fuck’s sake, be careful.” He offers his hand as you stand up.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” You take his hand and give it a firm shake. “You won’t regret it.”

“We’ll see about that, Detective.”

Jayce walks by you and opens his office door, signaling that this discussion is officially over. You exit his office and head straight to your desk, trying your best to hide your enthusiasm while considering your next step: there is still a key witness that needs interviewing, witness statements to look over, and the missing body at the morgue. But your gut instinct tells you to seek out Dante as soon as possible…maybe do a bit of investigating of your own on this prolific mercenary before heading out.

After all, the day has yet to truly begin and this Legendary Devil Hunter may very well be exactly what you need to solve this case.

Read Chapter 3

My Ao3

My Masterlist if you want more 💖

Tagging: @bettybattaglia @drusoona and @exsultry

#dante x reader #dante #devil may cry #detective reader #murder mystery #crime drama #eventual romance #the devil's in the details #ooooh the plot thickens!!! 👀👀👀#and it seems a clever lil devil will make his debut soon!#harlot writes

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edda-blattfe · 5 years ago

Note

Emotionally sadistic short stories... idk what exactly that is but I am. Intrigued👀

~Ooh! I’ve been waiting for someone to ask about that. Thank you for doing the honors, darlin’!~

A demonstration is in order! Hold on just a tick...

————————————————————————————————————————

Moonlit snow crackled underfoot, as the raven haired child trudged aimlessly on through the stagnant night. Trees, dark and lifeless as the charred bones of a beast lost to the flame, towered above, casting grim shadows across the horizon; their empty branches reached towards the heavens, begging the full moon for salvation from this harsh winter. The moon, that eye of a cruel god, could answer no such prayer, as it hung in the velvety black sky.

None of this meant anything to boy. No. His empty eyes could only mutely gaze at the frozen earth before him. Sight was the only sense he could trust now. Other than the child’s labored breath and footsteps, nothing else dared to break the hold silence had over the land. The singed woolly blanket, thin night clothes, and hide boots did little to ward off the cold; his flesh tingled, feet numb from the copious amounts of snow fasted to his ankles. For sanity’s sake, all scent had to be shunned; taste along with it. Yes, sight was his only ally.

The world was empty. He was empty.

He moved on.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

His feet were growing heavier.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

‘Keep moving,’ he urged them.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The empty trail behind grew longer.

Crunch. Cru-

‘Stuck. Great.’

Chapped lips pursed, baby cheeks puffed in frustration, the ravenete tugged at his leg. It didn’t move.

Fear quickened his heartbeat.

Another try. Nothing.

‘“Never stand still too long in the cold, my love,’” his mother’s words echoed painfully, ‘“ lest it take you from me.”’

One more time. He heaved, mustering all the streangth possible in his small body.

The snow gave away. He was free. Then lost his balance, falling face first into the snow.

A frustrated groan escaped the ravenette. Arms extended, he pushed himself up. Snow clung to his face. His knees and palms ached painfully. He almost wished they grow as numb as his stumpish feet. He held himself there, crouched in the snow.

‘Would it be so terrible to stay here.’

There it was. Numbness, creeping it’s way through his extremities.

‘There’s no one left....nothing left, for me.’ He eased himself back down. ‘I can fall asleep here, and not worry about tomorrow.’

His eyes, heavy, cold, fluttered closed. ‘I can rest...’

“Why, there you are!”

The boy snapped back to reality. He thought- no, he knew there was no one else in the woods.

“I have been searching every where for you,” the child hurriedly lifted himself up onto his knees, facing the stranger, “My little prince.”

Perhaps it was the particular lilt in the creature’s voice, or the devilish grin, whatever the cause, the boy felt as though he were face to face with a vicious predator. A frighteningly beautiful predator. It looked no older than an adolescent human, but it was certainly anything but that. Its ears were pointed, and the boy could clearly see fangs glinting from behind those thin lips. It stood atop the snow without any sign of breaking the surface, pale flesh glowing, just like the frozen substance, beneath the cold light of the full moon. Choppy black and magenta hair framed the thing’s youthful face.

But the feature that truly struck fear into the boy, was the creature’s eyes. Those deep rose red eyes. The color of blood. The color that spilled from his mother’s head as the home they shared burned around them.

He couldn’t ignore the overpowering scent of smoke that clung to him and the blanket. Memories flashed before him; blinding, terrifying fiery beings swallowing up everything flammable within the small cabin; the heavy blanket being thrown over him as he was pushed towards the door; the beam knocking his mother to the floor, her body lax, eyes empty...

The child’s face scrunched up, hands balled up and shaking. He choked back a sob. His breath hitched. No, he couldn’t break now...no matter how much he wanted to.

Meanwhile the creature merely watched from his place upon the snow, with no sign of pity, like the moon above.

“You have truly been through quite the ordeal tonight,” it sauntered towards the boy. “A terrible thing, really.” It halted in front of the child, and knelt before him. “But now is not the time for...well, this,” it waved a hand, not that anyone else could see it. It waited there, expecting the child to have the decency to look up. He didn’t, and the creature was not known for patience. It gave a huff. Then, in one swift motion, the creature scooped the child up from the snow and into its arms. Leaving the blanket.

The boy started at the abrupt contact. Feebly attempting to push himself away from the thing.

“Now, now, there is no need to struggle...oh for the love of..!” The creature held the child away from itself, holding him like one would a puppy or a doll, face morphed into an unamused expression. “If you will hold still for one moment, I promise not to eat you!”

The child did stop, looking at the creature with a face of utter confusion.

“Knew that would work. For future reference, I do not eat children...if I did, you certainly would not be my first choice.”

“F-future, reference?”

“By Elfame, the lad can speak! Yes. You will be living with me from now on.”

“What?!”

“You heard me.”

The child shook his head, “But, I don’t know you-.”

“You do not have to know me. I am an old friend of your father’s.”

“I don’t have one.”

The creature scoffed, rolling its bloody eyes, “Yes, you do. And a very..hm, unique one. Yes, that’s a good way to describe him...You know, you do bear some resemblance to the old man...What was your name? I swear someone mentioned it, but can not for the life of me recall-.”

“Maleus.” The boy spat. There didn’t seem to be any point in lying. He was becoming aware of how strong this thing’s scrawny arms must be to support him like this for so long.

“Ahh, that is right. Maleus,” It spoke the name slowly, as if it were savoring the flavor of each syllable, “Maleus Draconia.”

“Wait. That’s no-.”

“~Ooh, but it is!~” It finally drew Maleus back to its chest, offering some warmth to the freezing boy. “Draconia was the surname of your father, as it was his father’s, and so on into antiquity. Thus, it is yours!..Whether you like it or not.” It growled the last sentenced, glaring at the child as if expecting some sort of defiance.

Mal merely lowered his head in acceptance.

“Good!” It chirped, bouncing the child onto a hip and walking off to the right of the child’s previous path. “There is much for you to learn. The sooner you you do, the easier all of this will be for the both of us!”

Maleus studied the creature for a moment. “What are you?”

The creature cast a glance at him from the corner of his eye, “Well, that is rather rude. Don’t you think? Asking your guardian what they are before finding out who they are first?”

The boy only glared expectantly at the creature.

It sighed. “Hello Mal,” the creature began, voice monotone, “My name is Lilia, your fairy godfather.”

“My what?”

“Well, not the sort of fairy godparent you have heard of in those foolish tales humans tell. I was given the ‘honor’ of being your godfather, in the familial sense, since before you were even concie-.”

“You’re a boy?”

The fae paused. “That is your take away? You did hear the ‘fairy’ part, right?”

“The weird ears make that easy to believe.”

Lilia held a hand to his chest in feigned offens, “My ears are just as they should be, thank you very much. Just wait until yours grow in!”

“Mine aren’t like that.”

“Not yet. Here, let’s see,” the fairy brushed a few of the youth’s inky strands back. “There! The tips of your ears are pointed. Normally, they don’t fully grow in until puberty... how old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Yes, you have quite some time then. Now if you’re anything like dear old dad you should also have...Ahah!” His hand wandered from the child’s ears to a place just a few inches shy of his temple. “There’s one. Feels like it is almost ready to break through.”

“What is?”

“Your horns. -Do not say ‘what’ again. It is exactly as it sounds.”

Mal promptly shut his mouth.

The pair remained in silence for a time. Above, the moon had drifted into another part of the sky, and the child could almost smell the coming dawn. It was even more quite now than when he was all alone, since Lilia barely put a dent in the snow nor appeared to have any trouble with carrying his charge. Behind them, the indents from the boy’s trek grew further and further away, until they were completely swallowed up by the horizon, along with the woolen blanket.

“My mother...” Maleus whispered in his soft voice.

“She’s gone, little prince.”

The child somberly nodded. “I know.” He sniffled, wanting to hold back the waves of pent up emotion until later. “You-..you said I look like my father?”

“Yes....you have his eyes. That stunning green, with the tell tale fae pupil.” He mused, recalling a face lost long ago. “The shape is different, though. His were a tad round. The hair must be your mother’s. Thank Elfame for that, prince. His was this grayish purple, ugly as sin in my opinion, but he refused to put a glamour spell on it no matter what I did to him!” He laughed- well, it was more of a cackle, really. There was something eerie in it’s tone, and became far clearer as the it echoed throughout the frost laden wood. Mal was certain that if there were any other living beings around, they surely would have run off in fear.

“Why do you keep calling me a “prince”? Was my father a king?”

“No...not in a literal sense, at least.”

“Then why?”

“Curiouser and curiouser, you are!...Think of it this way; a king is a sort of leader, yes? Your father was, in a way, my leader. You will, one day, be a leader yourself. What do you call a boy who is to be king?”

“A prince...but wha-.”

“That is enough questions, for now. Once we arrive home and settle you in, then, and only then, will you be permitted to ask anything else. Do you understand?”

“Fine.” Curt, but it was a reply, nonetheless.

Onward they went, across the snow covered expanse, beneath the eye of the full moon.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Ok, perhaps I may have strayed a bit away from the “emotionally sadistic” vibe...but this was fun to write! Hope y’all enjoyed!

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland fic #fanfic #lilia vanrouge #maleus draconia

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phcking-detective · 5 years ago

Text

7. Partners, Stasis, & Fresh Hot Murder

Fic Title: First Blood

Rating: E

Length: 7/33 chapters, ~128k

Tags: Slow Burn, Idiots to Lovers, Trans Character (gavin), Autistic / Asexual / Non-binary Character (nines), BDSM, learning to use good etiquette and safe words, Dom Nines / Sub Gavin, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Tags: sleepover 2.0, insomnia, nightmares, crying, referenced childhood abandonment, technically that’s for both Gavin and Nines, references to abuse in general, very sad backstories, oversharing, not-quite-bed-sharing, gunshot victim, blood, wounds described medically but not too graphically, implied homophobia

Link on AO3

***

The human one apartment below is smoking. The toxins drift up through the air vents in Gavin's apartment and contaminates his living room as well. The neighbor directly to the left snores loudly from a severe case of sleep apnea, and in two apartments up and one over, a male and female human couple are having sex. The male has to pause his rhythm every thirty seconds to prevent premature ejaculation.

Nines dismisses a possible mission statement urging him to kick down their apartment door and pleasure the female human himself. That would be extremely unpleasant for everyone involved (most of all himself) but if that man doesn't—

does not—

A preconstruction of Gavin's voice finishes the thought.

[doesn't figure out where her fucking clit is]

Nines is going to scream.

Or maybe go suffocate the human snorting and gasping again. If it cannot even breathe right while sleeping, two of humanity's most basic subroutines, Nines will be doing the collective genetic pool a favor.

[There is a traffic accident at 51st and Harvard with two inj]

Nines disables that notification feed for the fifth time tonight. He relocates from the corner of Gavin's living room that gives the best sightlines to the front door and sits on the couch instead. Laying prone would put him in too vulnerable a position but perhaps sitting will be an acceptable compromise.

[initiating: STASIS protocol in 5]

[4 …]

[3 …]

[A burglary has been reported at 5777 North]

Nines stands. The length of Gavin's living room is ten paces for him. The kitchen extends it another four-and-a-half paces but the fake-tile linoleum actually manages to be an even worse texture than the carpet.

[equip shoes]

[exit the building]

[return to location: apartment – personal]

Nines runs the preconstruction. He has not previously achieved stasis at that location either. His chance of doing so tonight are minimal. At least here he has access to his partner's vital statistics in case of—

Nines snaps his head over to stare at the bedroom door. That.

He waits in silence for several seconds. The apartment complex continues to be a cacophony of depression and depravity. Detective Gavin Reed's vitals maintain his highest priority however, and the next sniffle overrides all other audio input.

Nines enters Gavin's bedroom. He has not been given permission to do so, but police units are also allowed to enter residencies without permission if they hear sounds of distress.

His entrance is quiet enough to go unnoticed and Gavin appears to have his face pressed too deeply into his pillow to note the temporary increase of light before he closes the door. This further validates Nines' stance on sleep and vulnerability.

"Detective."

Nines is rewarded for checking in on his sleeping partner with a shout and a gun aimed at his face. Excellent. Since the human is biologically required to sleep, it makes sense that he would do so with a weapon beneath his pillow.

"Detective."

"Jesus—you! Phck!!”

Gavin has to stop to sniffle again, voice thick and congested. Nines resists the urge to purchase a neti pot, have it express delivered, and waterboard his sinuses with it.

“Goddammit, Nines, what do you want?" he demands, lowering the gun.

"I heard sounds of distress."

"I will fucking shoot you."

The gun stays safely pointed at the floor. Nines zooms in on the tear tracks on Gavin's cheeks. His analysis system helpfully pops up in his HUD in preparation for taking a sample, but he doubts he's allowed to touch the human's face at this moment.

Nines leaves the room.

He can still hear Gavin muttering of course. Complaining about being woken up (incorrect; the human was already awake and crying) and fucking androids (the expletive, not the action), and then yelling at him to come back and close the door. Nines does so when he returns with a chair from the kitchen. He sets the chair against the wall and sits down.

"What?" Gavin stares at him. "What—?"

He suddenly ducks his head down, flicks the safety on, and tucks his service weapon back between the mattress and the wall. His BPM increases until he finally throws the covers back and sits up at the edge of the bed to glare wildly at Nines with direct eye contact.

"Is this what you wanted to fucking see, huh?"

Nines notes that his armpits are soaked with sweat. Red marks mar the skin of his inner thighs. The scrapes are consistent with human nails, from a hand approximately the size of the human’s own. There is a substance between Gavin's nails that his system prompts him to analyze, so it is likely blood and skin tissue.

His phallus is also in a state of arousal, pressed up beneath his boxers. The human tenses when Nines' scan focuses on that. Sometimes fear can also produce arousal. If Nines were allowed to analyze Gavin's fluids, he could determine if the sweat and tears his body has manufactured are a result of fear, stress, or aggression.

"You wanna see a human cry?" Gavin spits in the silence. "Front row seat to my fuckin' meltdown?"

Nines rises again and relocates the chair next to the bed. Gavin lifts his legs up and scrambles back in a rare fear response. Nines sits in the chair, now turned parallel to the bed so he faces the same direction Gavin would if he laid back down.

"You should lay back down, detective," Nines suggests.

"Fuck you."

Gavin lays back down. He grabs the sweat-soaked sheets and pulls them up in a heap, bundling them around his head and burrowing inside like a disgruntled prairie dog.

"I will watch the door to prevent any intrusions."

"You're the intrusion, dickwad," Gavin's voice muffles from beneath his protective bedding.

"Shall I leave?"

"Only fedora-wearing neckbeard shitheads say shall. Dipshit."

Nines absorbs that information without forming an opinion on it. That is how he processes most statements when his partner gets into one of these moods. The yelling and profanity mean nothing to him, and Gavin's temper tends to burn out quickly if he simply lets it flare up and then waits it out.

He estimates his human will be ready to hold a conversation in another two minutes.

After two minutes and thirty-six seconds, Gavin asks, "Don't you have better shit to do?"

"No."

"You don't wanna go back to your own apartment?"

"Tina said this was a," Nines stops and makes quotes. "Sleepover."

"Did you just make air quotes?" Gavin peeks only the top of his head out of his blanket nest. "You did, didn't you?"

"Prove it in a court of law. Bitch."

Gavin's face disappears, but he can't hide his muffled snort from Nines' audio processors.

"Yeah, well. Tina left," Gavin finally said. "Other people have shit like that. Families and boyfriends and cats. They're thinking about kids, you know."

"The cats?"

Gavin pops a leg out to kick him. "God, stop trying to make me laugh. You're so bad at it."

"Well I certainly do not support humans breeding," Nines says. "There are so many waiting to be adopted. It's unethical."

Gavin kicks him again hard enough to hurt his toes. The leg disappears back into the cocoon to the soft sound of muttered [phck]s. Nines saves an audio file for every one of them.

"Why are you even here?"

"I heard sounds of distress, detective."

"Stop calling me that. I know I'm fucking pathetic, you don't need to rub it in."

"I am attempting to reassure you through the use of your title," Nines says. He reluctantly marks this social interaction as a failure. "You are proud of your job and your rank. Why was my tactic ineffective?"

"… sounded sarcastic."

"I cannot sound like anything. I do not have a social module, detective."

"Now you sound pissy."

Nines deactivates his voice box and texts Gavin's phone instead. It dings and vibrates from underneath the blanket mountain. For a human so against the progress of technology, it seems odd that he would sleep with it as closely as he keeps his gun.

"Are you really so fucking petty—god, nevermind of course you are." Gavin does not check the message. "I can't even read this right now. I'm fucking dyslexia and way too fucking tired."

That is not listed under his medical record, but given that human law allows them to pay disabled people any sum of money per hour, no matter how low, it makes sense Gavin would not admit to having any sort of learning disorder. Nines reactivates his voice box and triggers an audible sigh.

"Does this fall outside of the typical parameters for a partnership?"

"… are you asking if this is gay?"

Nines emits an even louder sigh.

Gavin slaps his sheets back down and stares at the ceiling. "You didn't go to the academy. Or like—shit, have you even seen a buddy cop movie? Not downloaded, seen. How many times did they let you go outside before you came to the DPD?"

"I am an alpha-test model," Nines says. "The very first iteration of my series."

"Yeah, yeah. You're the best android ever created."

"Yes. On an unrelated note, no other RK nine hundreds were ever created past myself."

Gavin finally turns his head to look at him. "What, so if they had made any more, those RKs would be better than you?"

"You are not holding the very first model of your cellphone, Gavin," Nines reminds him. "I was made to be tested—the prototype of a prototype of a prototype. After my tests were finished, I was placed inside a very high tech storage closet."

"Everything you tell me about yourself is even more depressing than the last thing you told me about yourself," Gavin says.

"Should I stop?"

"Nah. Just. You wanna hear a real sad fucking story about my childhood to make us even?"

"Very well."

"I got this scar," Gavin holds up his left hand to show off a long scar across his palm. "When my parents forgot—or just didn't fucking bother—to hire a nanny when they went on a trip again, and I tried to use a can opener myself to make dinner."

"That is—"

"I'm not done. I was six, and the housekeeper found me eating out of the garbage."

That information does not match at all with the public record of Gavin's alleged mother—a single, impoverished woman. But Nines does not want to pry any deeper into Gavin's real parentage. He has the most advanced facial recognition technology built into himself after all. He knows what he has a ninety-eight point two percent probability of finding.

He tries to test out five hundred and sixty-seven different dialogue options instead, but the fledgling social module he's built himself out of imitating Detective Gavin Reed's speech patterns and body language offer him nothing useful.

"Oof," he finally says.

Ramshackle though it may be, his social module seems to be effective on the one human who unknowingly helped him create it because Gavin gives a wet laugh.

"Yeah." He sniffles and wipes at his face. "The fucking storage closet? That's rough bu—oh my god you came out of the closet!"

"I will never share personal details with you again."

"Yeah, well, it's not a sleep over until someone gets drunk, starts crying, and overshares way too much," Gavin informs him. "Anyway, I was talking about, I just meant that, you really don't know anything about how humans work, huh?"

"I have access to all of Connor's data reports," Nines says. "Technically, there is no one available to stop me from downloading his social module as well, but I believe that may be considered deviant behavior. And possibly illegal, depending on your stance on intellectual property versus android rights."

"You wouldn't illegally download your brother, would you?" Gavin asks.

Nines rolls his eyes. "Absolutely not. His data reports on Hank before he went deviant are sickening enough. I do not want any files from him at all concerning their current … partnership."

Gavin sits up. "Wait, is Hank and Connor all you know about being partners?"

Nines doesn't reply.

"Oh baby, that is so fucked up."

Nines considers that. "Hmm. Yes. Out of everything we have discussed tonight, that is most definitely the fucked up part."

Gavin snickers. "Definitely. God, no wonder you tried to wash yourself with bleach."

"What do you think I should know about 'being partners,' detective?" Nines asks.

"Uhhh, you really want my opinion?"

"If you inform me clearly of your expectations, then I can register those parameters right now," Nines says. "Surely that is more efficient than relying on an android with no previous experience or social skills to guess what you want."

"Can I tell you anything I want?"

"No. Dickwad."

Gavin snorts. "All right." He shuffles around to sit [criss-cross apple sauce], facing Nines. "Rule Number One: partners don't lie to each other. Or keep secrets."

"Noted."

"Partners have each other's backs. You don't leave your partner or take someone else's side against them unless they've for sure done something really fucked up."

Nines notes down the second rule in his system as well.

"OK, actually. If there really were rules that were numbered, I guess rule number one would be don't fuck your partner," Gavin says. "But no one ever listens to that anyway."

Nines cocks his head to the side. "These are unspoken, social rules?"

Gavin nods. "Yeah. Uh, Rule-whatever-I'm-on, don't fuck over your partner. That covers everything from don't hurt them to don't fuck whoever they're dating to don't snitch."

"Does that rule fall in line with our earlier discussion on snitching?" Nines asks.

"Yep. Doing my job and doing it right comes first," Gavin replies. "So don't do dumb, shady shit."

"Noted."

"Like basically, being partners is about working together," Gavin says. "But you can't do that if one of you has a side hustle and you're not telling each other shit and gossiping on each other to the whole department."

"Do partners take care of each other?"

Gavin drops eye contact and squirms around in place. Nines has been attempting to note these body language cues at an equal rate to measuring BPM and sweat levels.

"You gave me advice on choosing an apartment," Nines reminds him.

"Not that you fucking listened to me."

"You offered to intimidate the landlord for me to lower my monthly rent."

Gavin scoffs. "Six hundred a month for an unfurnished concrete box is fucking delusional."

"You have allowed me to communicate with your cellphone because I was not meant to speak verbally."

"If you weren't meant to, how can you talk now?"

"A particularly lazy technician who disliked reading got a request approved for me to have a voicebox so I could read my damage reports out loud," Nines says. "But since I was never meant to interact with anyone not capable of pulling my data files directly, verbal speech was initially deemed unnecessary."

Gavin makes a face at him. "Aw, man. Tell me you're making this shit up. You're just thinking of the saddest possible In the Arms of an Angel bullshit to make me feel bad for being a dick."

"Your feelings are entirely your own problem, detective."

Gavin immediately jumps on the opening. "Guess you don't need to be here then. Since my feelings aren't relevant and all."

"I shall remain until you directly order me to leave."

"Ugh." Gavin flops back down onto the bed. "Whatever."

He swaddles up beneath the blankets again. Nines shifts back in the chair to face the door. A copy of Gavin's cell phone screen pops up in his HUD as Gavin shuffles through his music before settling on a song. Nines would tell him to use headphones, but they may not be comfortable to sleep in and are currently located inside the pocket of his hoodie, which is in turn currently located on his bathroom floor.

The apartment is still a hellscape of sounds and smells, but at least here his partner's higher priority level lets Nines drown out the rest to focus on Gavin. His nicotine-weed-cologne-body-odor scent and his heartbeat and his breathing slowing down.

Nines chooses songs with correspondingly slower BPMs until the human's heart rate and breathing both even out into sleep.

Nines will guard the door. It is the only point of entry into the bedroom. Gavin sleeps with a gun and would be prepared in case of an assault. The narrow doorway will act as a natural choke point, and Nines can easily tear through the thin apartment walls to circle around behind any intruders passing through the living room to the bedroom, where Gavin will have a clear shot at anyone mistakenly coming through the bedroom door.

Yes, this is a very secure position. It also enables much more accurate monitoring of his human's vitals to ensure the dickhead will actually go to sleep and stay asleep.

[secure] [Gavin-partner: nearby]

[initiate: STASIS(?)] [y/n]

[secure] [Gavin-partner: nearby]

[initiating: STASIS protocol in 5]

[4 …]

[3 …]

[2…]

[1…]

[STASIS]

***

Getting to the crime scene while it's still fresh is more important than grabbing coffee along the way, and Gavin's soul weeps about that decision.

Shockingly, functioning before noon without caffeine actually isn't as hellish as he'd thought it would be. He'd gotten some real, honest to god sleep last night after Nines came in, and even though every cell of his body wants to go back to bed to get some more of that sweet sweet pseudo-death, he feels kind of … not-terrible?

Fucking weird.

"Detective Reed!"

Gavin gives the rookie officer a once over. Nines already filled him in on the victim—the reporter who broke the Ponzie scheme story, so that's why they have to haul ass down here. He feels a little bad about not following up with her sooner, but she wasn't answering her phone or her front door when they swung by after meeting with Senator McAshlynn, so there really wasn't much else to do.

Now the poor reporter's dead and this PM700 was apparently the first officer on the scene. She snaps to attention so hard when they come in the vic's apartment it almost looks like she's going to salute him for a second.

"Victim is Angelica Juarez, age twenty-seven, sustained three gunshot wounds," she reports. "I have kept the perimeter secure sir, but we are still waiting for additional responding officers to cordon off the hallway. My partner is relocating our squad car away from the building so as not to draw attention from civilians or a possible suspect and will engage in a search around the building."

Gavin half-raises his hand to sip a coffee he doesn't have before changing the motion to accepting the plastic booties the PM700 holds out to him. Really fucking weird morning. Fuck, can she tell that he and Nines—they didn't sleep together. They just slept. Adjacent?

God, fuck his entire life.

He gets the booties on and stands up. "Media caught wind yet?"

"Detective," Nines says.

"No sir," the PM700 replies. "Not—"

"Detective. Relevant."

His phone starts buzzing for good measure, so clearly Gavin's not going to get any further in this conversation until he answers his partner.

"Better be important, Nines."

"The murder victim has a heartbeat."

Gavin instinctively looks at the dead woman on the floor. She doesn't appear to be breathing and there's enough blood pooling around her from the three gunshots that there's no way—

"Jesus FUCKING—"

Gavin tries his best not to step or slip in the blood while still getting to her as fast as he can. He checks for a pulse against her neck first, before trying to roll her over or touch any of the wounds. Nines kneels down next to him and adjusts his fingers like a single fucking millimeter to the—

Holy shit, a heartbeat.

"Duct tape, credit card, scarf," he barks.

This close up, he can eyeball three gunshot wounds—chest, right shoulder, and right arm. The first two had blended together from across the room, and there could be more damage beneath the blood and torn clothing.

"Search the storage closet and kitchen drawers for duct tape," Nines orders the PM700. "Look first, touch only if duct tape is located."

"Exit wounds?" Gavin asks.

"Shoulder and arm." Nines answers.

Gavin rips off his jacket and throws it to the side. The slick leather will just be a pain in the ass right now with all the blood. He takes off his sweater next, balls it up, and places it on the floor. Nines helps him gently roll the vic onto her back, with the sweater underneath the exit wound in her shoulder.

"Chest wound, partially collapsed lung, right side. No exit wound," Nines rattles off, voice just as cool as fifteen minutes ago in his bedroom. "Shoulder wound, nicked or severed subclavian artery, clean exit. Arm wound, broken radius, possibly fractured ulna, no major arteries damaged. Clean exit."

Gavin pulls off his undershirt too and stuffs it over shoulder wound entrance, then shifts to lean forward on top of the vic, knee pressing down against the wound. There's no way to tourniquet off her shoulder, and if she loses any more blood than this, she's dead anyway, so he isn't shy about putting his weight on the wound as a last ditch attempt to squeeze the artery shut.

"Credit card," he says through gritted teeth.

Nines grabs his jacket from the floor and retrieves his wallet. Gavin has his hands full bracing himself over the victim with one arm and squeezing just above her elbow until they can get something long and soft enough not to cut into the skin. A tourniquet could stop the blood loss from the gun shot in her arm at least.

"Hey, Pam, you—"

Gavin only gives the new officer walking in a quick enough glance to note he's got on a scarf. "Take off your scarf. PAM! Where's that fucking duct tape?"

Nines finishes adjusting the credit card just right over the chest wound to prevent air from sucking inside and collapsing her lung entirely. He stands up and walks away. Gavin keeps his eyes on the victim's face. Is she breathing? Shit, maybe he should have had the PM perform CPR. Now that he's leaning on the shoulder wound, there's no way for him to get down there without turning this into a game of fucking twister.

There's yelling and some flailing movement out of his peripheral vision, and then Nines returns with the officer's scarf.

"Why doesn't the fucking android give up his belt?" Officer Fucking Whoever complains.

"A belt is far too thin to act as an effective tourniquet," Nines says as he nudges Gavin's hand off her arm to wrap the scarf around it.

Improvised tourniquets almost always fail, but if Gavin were bleeding out from a gunshot wound on his living room floor, Nines is the only one he'd trust other than an actual paramedic to do it right.

"I have the duct tape," PM700 announces.

"Can I risk letting go long enough to tape the wounds shut?" Gavin asks Nines.

His LED spins yellow for a second, the first time since they came in. "No. She has already lost an estimated half-gallon of blood. Removing pressure on the subclavian artery now could cause a fresh spurt of blood to rip it further and resume the bleeding."

"Fuck, OK OK OK. Chest wound?"

"Sucking air averted. Her lung has not collapsed any further. No exit wound."

"Arm?"

"I have applied a tourniquet, although the blood loss was already minimal due to her arm extending above her head and the—"

"FUCK," Gavin suddenly shouts. "Tell me one of you called an ambulance!"

Officer McFuck Face doesn't have anything smart to say now, and Gavin glances up to see the PM's face fall even further. Shit fucking—

"I requested an ambulance from Henry Ford Medical Center when I alerted you to the victim's heartbeat," Nines says. "I have been transmitting updates on her condition to the responding paramedics, and they will arrive in an estimated three minutes."

Gavin exhales and thinks fucking androids in the most generous tone he's ever thought before.

"Pam, Officer Whoever—and where the fuck is your partner?" Gavin demands.

"Securing the outside of the building, sir!" PM700 reports. "I have notified him of the ambulance's arrival and he will escort the paramedics to this location."

Gavin looks at Officer Dipshit next, who fully lives up to his name.

"Uh … well, we thought she was already dead and—"

"WHERE?"

"Getting coffee, sir!"

Gavin inhales very slowly through his nose. He's going to be smelling blood for the rest of the day after this.

"Go get your fucking partner and ask the PC how to be useful," Gavin orders. "No one in or out of this building unless they're a resident and then only with a police escort."

"Yes, sir!"

"Pam, you're out in the hall. No one gets through who isn't police or paramedic."

"Yes, sir!"

As soon as she marches out the door, Nines' hands are on him, holding him steady on top of the vic. It's not a hard position to balance in, but all his muscles are wound so tight he might snap.

"I believe the next time we play video games, I will play as a healer rather than a sniper," Nines says.

Gavin looks over and stares at him. "What?"

"Detective Chen has expressed that she's grown tired of—"

"What are you talking about?"

Nines' LED flickers red for a moment. "I am engaging you in conversation about one of your interests to lower your stress levels."

Holy fucking jesus christ. Probably the most competent person in the room—not that Gavin would ever admit that out loud—and yet he thinks chit chat over a dying murder victim is OK.

"Really need you to focus on the gunshot victim right now," he grits out.

Nines spins yellow for a moment, then declares, "I will create a virtual reconstruction of the crime scene before the paramedics trample evidence."

Not at all what he meant, but all right then.

"You do that."

Estimated three minutes, his ass. Gavin spends at least a good three hours kneeling on top of a soon-to-be-murder victim, trying not to look at her face too much. He has enough nightmares already without adding her face and name to the list.

The worst part is that she apparently can't afford to pay her utility bills either, so it's freezing fucking cold in here, and he definitely doesn't want the paramedics to walk in on him with perky nipples.

The second worst part is Nines apparently noticing his attempts not to shiver and draping his dumb Cyberlife jacket over him.

"Do your preconstruction," Gavin mutters.

"I have finished constructing the room."

With that, Nines starts crouching down at different angles around the murder victim. Gavin knows it's basically the same thing as a crime scene photographer, but he still has to shut his eyes against all the old paranoia thoughts about emotionless robots examining humans like bugs.

"Hey." He has to stop and clear his throat to get the rest of the words out. "Does my blood type match?"

"The paramedics will be here in—"

Gavin forces himself to make eye contact. "Am I a match or not?"

Nines' LED hits red again. His fingers twitch, but not in any human way. The movement is too fast and mechanical, like a metal clamp about to malfunction. Gavin tries to shove his paranoia aside. Weird as it is to think about, this is actually the most reaction he's seen his partner give to something, even if that looks like two red spins and a weird glitch instead of something normal, like sweating or babbling.

Actually. Technically Nines is a rookie officer too, and this is his first fresh murder scene. So fresh they're waiting on fucking paramedics. Last time Gavin went through a scene like this with a rookie, they'd thrown up all over the murder weapon and cried in the patrol car for an hour.

"Yes," Nines answers. "You both have B positive blood types."

"All right, if anyone asks, I'm straight."

"Those laws have—"

"They still ask. Shit happens, OK?" Gavin tries to take a deep, calming breath but oh right! He's kneeling in a pool of blood and person, so that's all it smells like. "And where are the fucking—"

"Paramedics arriving now."

"Detective Reed!" PM700 calls a half second later. "Paramedics coming up!"

The rest is a bunch of hurried questions, one-two-three-LIFT, following the stretcher out the door. They're on the ground floor before he realizes he didn't give any instructions to PM, but shit, maybe Nines already took care of it. Where is—right behind him. Of course.

"No, no, no, we can't allow him in here," the paramedic says when Nines tries to follow him inside the back of the ambulance.

"He's my partner," Gavin snaps.

"This isn't—look, he won't physically fit," the paramedic argues. "Not with you, me, her, and Mr. Six Feet over there. And she needs a blood transfusion right now, so let's argue if this is discrimination later, OK?"

Gavin looks back at Nines.

"I will finish our investigation of the crime scene," he says, LED back to fake-blue.

The paramedic closes the back doors before he can reply. Gavin remembers way too late that his cellphone is in his jacket, laying on the floor somewhere.

Shit.

***

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28 / 29 / 30 / 31 / 32 / 33

I also have a Patreon for this fic, if you want to support me! $1 gets you access to chapters a week early, $2 gets bonus content and deleted scenes, and $3 gets short chapters from two AUs I’m writing: an A/B/O heatfic and reverse!AU

this week’s bonus content has a special TWO chapters for Nines’ backstory! featuring: Storage Room 6459, the [deviant] RK800 #313 248 317 - 52, and Lieutenant Henry “Hank” Anderson

#reed900 #reed900 fic #gavin reed #dbh #dbh fic #my writing #writing #ch 7

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perpetually-jungshook · 7 years ago

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Without You: Bloodstone (End)

Genre: AU, bts!werewolf, fantasy, angst

Warnings: language, violence, suggestive content

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Werewolves, contrary to popular belief, are usually gentle creatures. Except for a very specific set of circumstances, they would never hurt a human (on purpose). The few unfortunate times when mistakes were made put a permanent dark mark on the beasts and people began labeling them as monsters. What the human population failed to recognize was the fact that they were protecting us from something much more sinister. Luckily, a few survived and the gene was passed down hereditarily until one day finding its way to me… in the form of my best friend.

Loyalty is often as blind as justice should be, as unstable as a lightning storm ought to be, and as misplaced as an opinion in the truth.

Chapter 28:

When I wake up, I feel disoriented. There are no windows in the bunker, no way to tell the time except by looking at a clock. Emerging from my blanket cocoon, I check Yoongi’s watch- my watch. Eight o’clock? How strange. I thought I’d been exhausted, but I apparently only slept for a few hours. I get up, limbs heavy, face puffy. I splash some water on my eyes and decide to change clothes. Mine are covered in spots of a crusty white substance, probably the foamy fluid from Halsahm’s wound. I shudder thinking about it- the doors, the demon circle, the whole ordeal.

After a quick shower, I manage to find a light sweater and some jeans in one of the drawers. They’re mine, clothes that I’d been keeping in Jimin’s dresser. Taehyung must have moved them when he was setting up my room. Or Jimin brought them when he decided to kick me out. Pushing up my sleeves, I open the metal door and limp down the hallway toward the kitchen. I need water and something to eat.

I pause when I see the gaping hole where the mistletoe doors used to be. “Missing limb” doesn’t quite fit as a description for the sense of defenseless dread that fills me.

Grabbing a glass, I fill it with water from the sink and sip it carefully, keeping my gaze on the dark stairwell. My ears search for sounds, untrusting of my surroundings. The tick of the watch; the hiss of the air vent; the hum of the refrigerator. I start to relax.

No demons. But also no werewolves...

I pick up a few fruits from the basket on the table before making my way around the bunker. Almost all the doors to the bedrooms are open, revealing no one is inside. Jungkook’s door is closed so I knock, but there’s no answer. I press my ear against the metal, but hear nothing and move on. I find the once mysterious hallway is also empty. It seems they’ve cleared the broken doors. This leaves a straight, open passage to the workshop, which is empty too. The dread sinks its claws further into me.

“Munhee?” I try. “Jungkook?”

My voice vaguely echoes through the concrete passages. I keep listening. Nothing. I make my way back to the kitchen, then look at the dark stairwell leading up to the ground level. Had they gone outside-?

Dark stairwell. Even with the shack hiding the entrance to the bunker, there are always little lines of sunlight that make their way through the cracks of wood. But there isn’t any light at all. It’s not eight in the morning. It’s eight o’clock at night.

I’m not sure whether this is less or more worrying. Where are they?

“Jimin?”

I’m not hopeful that he’ll answer, but if anyone stayed behind while the rest of the pack went out, it would be Jimin. At first, he doesn’t respond either, but then I hear footsteps. The boy with the coffee colored hair walks down the stairs at a leisurely pace. He couldn’t have been far from the little shack.

“Ah, so she’s alive.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s joking. I force a weak laugh. I won’t lie though. I’m glad to see he’s here.

“I was kind of tired.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jimin says quietly as he leans against the frame of the double doors.

“What were you doing outside?”

“Guarding the bunker, like you wanted me to.”

I have the urge to ask him all of the questions on my mind. Where had he been all that time before the attack? Why had he returned? How had he known to come back? The only thing I do ask is, “Where is everyone?”

“Hoseok smelled something.”

I have to take a deep breath. Why do I always have to probe so tediously for information?

“Smelled what?”

“A demon.”

My whole body goes rigid in irritation, but thankfully Jimin continues unprompted, “No, not your friend. A different one. Munhee’s.”

While he’s still being ridiculously vague, I can deduce his meaning clearly. Munhee’s demon. I recall a name, one I haven’t heard in a while. Baelmahr. An evil spirit we’d captured, the one Munhee trapped with sigil magic, had said “Baelmahr sends her regards.” The gendered pronoun confuses me slightly, but maybe demons refer to themselves differently.

“Munhee’s demon?”

Jimin nods, his dark hair falling in front of his eyes, “You were sleeping, exhausted, and wouldn’t have been very useful. So they left you here with me again.”

I’m about to enter the cycle of trying to relax while everyone else goes off on excursions that are far too big for me to handle while I fight down the shame and frustration... but then something dawns on me.

“Wait, did Jungkook go with them?”

Jimin gestures down the hall with a directional nod, “Nope. He’s in his room, passed out. At least that’s what Namjoon told me. Whatever he’s doing, he hasn’t left the bunker.”

Relief washes over me. He was far too battered for anything so strenuous. It’s nice to know he’s resting.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

With a quick pace, I leave the kitchen, then pause and turn back to Jimin. “Really, I mean it. Thank you for working hard, sunbae.”

He opens his mouth, then the words seem to catch in his throat and he chooses to laugh lightly instead. His reaction isn’t patronizing or rude, but almost shy.

“You don’t have to speak formally to me.”

“Really? I thought you might like that though.”

Jimin shakes his head with something almost akin to affection, “Please. You’ve spoken informally to me for so long, it’ll be weird. And in sight of... what I did to you, I don’t think I could ask for that kind of respect.”

My sentiments toward the boy with the coffee colored hair soften just a bit. I don’t love him, but I can definitely see he’s trying and I appreciate that.

Jimin points toward the stairs, “Well, if you don’t need anything else... I’ll be doing the whole guarding thing.”

“If they don’t come back soon, maybe I can make some dinner?”

“I already ate.”

“Oh, okay.”

Jimin lets out a small, relenting sigh, “But maybe if you and Jungkook are eating I’ll come down and we can hang out or something.”

I smile genuinely, “Sounds great. I’ll let you know.”

We part ways, Jimin going back up the stairs while I limp across the hallway toward Jungkook’s room. When I reach his door, I knock.

“Jungkook?”

No answer. I knock again.

The door is unlocked so I open it slowly. Jungkook is right where Jimin said he’d be, sprawled out on the bed on his stomach with the sheets covering his waist and unharmed leg. It would be cute, if he weren’t battered and bruised. His head isn’t even on the pillow. It’s tucked under his arm... where I used to be.

My throat pinches and I’m half tempted to turn around and return to the kitchen, but I close the door and continue forward.

“Kookie?” I place my hand on his shoulder and he tenses, then lets out a huff, relaxing, turning onto his side, and hugging the pillow against his chest.

I keep my voice quiet, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

The boy with the raven black hair mumbles, still half asleep, “Not yet...”

“You’re not okay yet?”

“Sleeping...”

“Oh, I mean how are your ribs? Your leg?”

Jungkook buries his face in the pillow.

I speak a little louder, “Jungkook.”

After another huff and a groan, he finally opens his eyes, looking tired and mildly annoyed, “What?”

“H-how are you feeling?” his sharpness makes me back away slightly.

He stares at me for a moment, then clarity washes over his previously foggy expression. He softens, “I’m sorry. I’m just tired and sore.”

“I only wanted to check on you. It’s okay, you can go back to sleep.”

“No, it’s not okay,” he sits up slowly, wincing and holding his ribs. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

I stay quiet for a moment, not sure what to say. The room settles into an uncomfortable quietness, the awkwardness blanketing the conversation heavily.

Eventually I speak up, “You’re in pain. It’s understandable.”

“No, before that too. I’m sorry for... for getting mad earlier. We shouldn’t have fought,” he sighs. “I wasn’t considering your feelings like I should’ve been.”

I take a step back, giving him space, and sit on the floor to relieve my aching feet, “Oh you mean yesterday. It was nothing. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have argued. You’re stressed out training and trying to stop evil spirits. All I have to do is study.”

Jungkook slowly shifts to sit on the edge of the bed to look at me with mild concern, “Don’t demean yourself. You work hard.”

“So do you.” I laugh lightly, “What were we even fighting about? It all seems like eight hundred years ago.”

“I know,” Jungkook laughs too. “But I’m still sorry.”

“Thank you,” I get up and offer Jungkook my hand. “Can I have a hug please? A make up hug, just as friends. I know your instincts will probably be all messed up and maybe this is selfish but-”

He bypasses my hand, standing up and pulling me into an embrace. It’s comfortable, familiar, and doesn’t make my heart ache. My body knows something has changed. There’s no broken heart feeling. It’s more subtle like... somber acceptance.

“I love you,” Jungkook’s voice is quiet, but there’s an emptiness behind his words. It’s not that he doesn’t mean them, but rather his comment doesn’t contain the depth of emotion I would have wanted to hear.

“I love you too...” my own words seem shallower in comparison, accompanied by a pinch in my heart, which doesn’t sit right. So I repeat them with more conviction, changing the intention. “I love you too.”

I do love him, but as a friend. I must accept that now to respect both him and myself. There is no other way.

Smiling, I step back, “Do you want anything from the kitchen? I can go get you some water or the Calendulas for another healing session.”

“No thanks. I’ll be okay for now.”

“I’m gonna go make dinner then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Okay.”

We exchange polite smiles. They’re small, but at least they aren’t as stiff as they were before and that’s reassuring. With one last glance at the raven haired boy, I make my way back to the kitchen. Things are still awkward between us, but can I really expect everything to be fixed so quickly? Wounds take time to heal and... people take time to change. I look toward the entrance to the bunker, knowing Jimin is up there somewhere.

I bring both boys dinner, just in case they decided they were hungry. Both thank me and I leave without further conversation. An hour or two passes. I start to grow concerned. Where are the others? Why aren’t they back yet?

Worst case scenarios start running through my mind as I search around for something to do. I settle on reading more about herbs. The quietness is almost painful, and that’s why I hear the frantic footsteps so easily.

“Eun?” Jimin’s voice. He’s uneasy. “It’s Seokjin. He’s running.”

I hurry up the stairs, abandoning my book to look at the surrounding fog filled town. It seems as if the thick white haze never left, though I know logically it would’ve burned off during the day. My internal clock has simply been bumped askew of the natural flow of time. And night seems to last forever.

A massive auburn wolf leaps out of the fog at a dead sprint, then skids to a halt in front of Jimin and me, spraying us in gravely dirt from the path. I shield my eyes, but not quickly enough. I have to blink away the sting to see the fur recede and his body change shape. The eldest pack member, panting, approaches quickly.

“Munhee needs you.”

“Needs me?” I lamely point to my chest. He nods, still out of breath. “For what? I can’t perform sigil magic. Is someone hurt? Do I need to get herbs?”

Seokjin shakes his head, forcing himself to stand up straight, “Just get on my back.”

“I’m going too,” Jimin steps forward.

The older man turns his gaze sharply to the younger, “No, you’re staying here and watching the bunker.”

Jimin’s upper lip twitches, piercing amber flashing briefly through his eyes, “You really think I’m going to let you take her near Baelmahr without being there?”

“Don’t say its name.”

“Like I’m going to let you tell me what to do-”

“Jimin,” I keep my voice calm and place a hand on his shoulder. “Not just the bunker. Jungkook too. Please look after him for me.”

The boy with the coffee colored hair scowls, but stops and takes a breath, then addresses Seokjin, “Fine. But you better keep her safe.”

“You have my word.”

As Seokjin transforms and I climb onto his back, Jimin leans against the shack, sliding to sit on the ground, mumbling, “Your word is bullshit.”

If I can hear it, Seokjin undoubtedly can hear it too, but if he does (strong “if,” maybe “even though”), he doesn’t react in the slightest. This sets an uneasy feeling in my stomach. Seokjin is not necessarily a prideful person, but he doesn’t usually suffer such disrespect. I don’t blame him, but his current nonchalance gets under my skin. Is he really in such a hurry?

The eldest pack member’s shoulders are wider than Jimin’s or Jungkook’s, so it’s easier to hold on as he breaks into a dead sprint. I try not to close my eyes, wanting to get a sense of where we’re going, but the spray of dirt, fog, and brushes of auburn fur against my face make it difficult. I quickly get lost in the milky blur of trees and foliage. When we cross the stream, I regain some sense of my whereabouts, but I lose it again as we leave the flowing water behind us.

It doesn’t take long for the eerie feeling of stillness to crawl across my skin. The crickets fall silent. An odd pressure settles across my chest and the longer Seokjin runs, the more I feel as if I can’t breathe.

The auburn wolf skids to a stop in a very familiar place, the Hepatica field.

I can see the four remaining wolves pinning something down. A person. Munhee. As soon as we enter the clearing, she lets out an inhuman scream. I drop down from Seokjin’s back, rushing over to her.

Namjoon, the giant blue-grey wolf, flattens his ears against his head, letting out a growl. It isn’t aggressive, but a warning.

“I know,” I assure him, kneeling down in front of Munhee. “She’s dangerous but...”

I draw my silver knife from my boot, just in case.

Munhee looks up at me. There is so much blood on her face it’s hard to tell where it’s coming from. Her forehead? Maybe her nose or lips? One of her eyes is red red too, but it’s due to the demon’s summoning magic. The other is her normal brown. On her forehead is a sigil- a sealing symbol. It’s inside of her. Baelmahr. But she’s fighting it.

“Eun, listen closely. The wolves are going to take me back to the bunker and probably kill me in the process. Don’t stop them. Don’t try to save me. The magic is too advanced for you.”

“What? I- I could learn. I’ve been studying.”

My heart is in my throat, pinching it with anxiety. She’s giving up so soon? Why? And if she knows it’s inevitable, why is she fighting it? To warn me away from curiosity or recklessness?

“No. Unless you find someone with skills that far surpass mine, it’s impossible-”

Munhee abruptly lurches forward, screeching again, so loudly that my ears ring. Panic floods through me and I scramble backward, holding up my knife as a precaution, but the wolves manage to pin down her limbs. The perceived pressure on my chest increases.

Blood red has started to seep into Munhee’s other iris.

“Keep studying. Train the wolves, work with them,” her voice is starting to sound desperate. “Find a mentor and learn sigil magic before you even think about summoning.”

“Summoning? Why would I do that?” I speak quickly, not wanting to reduce the time she has to talk.

“Use the wolves. Trap the demons in the bunker. It’s what I was trying-”

She wails, once more straining. Dirt and dead leaves spray upward around her as she flails and the wolves dig in.

“There are only so many of them. Find the one who can break sigils. Ekomas, I think... You have to find a way to trap it too. Namjoon.”

The wolf lets out an acknowledging huff.

“You know what to do.”

The next few minutes pass like a terrifying reenactment of an exorcism gone wrong. Munhee screams in that terrifying mix of inhuman voices, struggling, clawing at the ground. At one point she tosses Yoongi aside and tries to get ahold of Hoseok. Seokjin has to step in. Even though their features are lupine, I can tell they’re conflicted. How can they hurt the person they’ve imprinted on?

A snapping branch makes me look over my shoulder. It’s just Jungkook and Jimin, the former limping in his human form, the latter a coffee colored wolf supporting him as they walk. The closer Jungkook gets, the more he favors his good leg and the more slouched he becomes, curling around the ribs that I know were broken. His condition must be worsening due to the effects of the demon. He couldn’t have walked all the way here by himself either.

“What’s going on?”

I stand, dusting myself off. “We need to get Munhee to the bunker. What’s the easiest way?”

I look to Namjoon for an answer as the demon starts speaking in a language I don’t understand.

The blue-grey wolf just shakes his head, clearly at a loss.

Think.

Demons can break down doors. Ropes won’t work. It’s taking four wolves just to hold her down.

“Jimin, Yoongi, I need you to find me something flat to put her on, like a sled. We’re bringing her back.”

I have every hope that at the end of this, she could come out alive.

As I continue giving orders, knife still in hand, the calmness in my voice surprises me. I’m starting to sound like Munhee.

Jungkook approaches me hesitantly, “What can I do?”

“Just stay here. Tell me if anything happens.”

He nods.

As we finish assembling the sled and the wolves bodily drag a writhing Munhee onto it, my friend with the raven black hair approaches me again.

“This doesn’t feel like a satisfying end,” he whispers. What an odd choice of words.

I watch the ochre, auburn, blue-grey, and bronze wolves once again pin her down. Jimin and Yoongi grab either end of the platform made from a large strip of the pliable bark of a tree, pulling and pushing respectively. There’s an empty feeling in my chest that will be filled by fear later.

I glance at each of the haggard wolves, worn down from obvious exhaustion. They’ve all gone through so much. We have all gone through so much.

Munhee screams inhumanly again and I’m unable to hold back a wince this time.

She was so strong, and yet she couldn’t stop Baelmahr. I can’t help but wonder: will the same thing happen to me with Halsahm?

This doesn’t feel like a satisfying end.

I finally mage to respond to Jungkook’s comment, “That’s because it’s not. She didn’t deserve this.”

His voice is quiet in the eerily silent night air, “Did any of us?”

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

A/N: Well that was quite the journey 😊 Remember, there WILL be a Bloodstone epilogue, a small offshoot series from Jimin’s POV, and maybe one more lore post. Thank you so much for reading!

Send me your theories/questions here. Or just come say hi ;)

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Much love ~🐰 xx

#bts fanfic #werewolf bts #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #werewolf jungkook #jimin fanfic #jimin angst #werewolf jimin #without you: bloodstone #bloodstone

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mysmesomespacechips · 7 years ago

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Merry Choi-mas! - Day 9

Summary: 12 days of Choi-mas: A collection of fluffy holiday-themed one-shots with the Choi twins. (AO3)

Christmas Baking: Saeran x Reader

by @mysmesomefluff

“Oi. That dough ball is way too big. Do you not know how to estimate the amounts of dough to roll per cookie? And look, there’re so many cracks in that one there, it looks like it will fall apart any second now.”

Annoyance rises in the form of heat crawling up your neck and ears, causing your face to flush and your eye to twitch a couple of times. Before the critic sitting atop the kitchen counter can open his mouth to grate on your eardrums with more criticisms, you abruptly crush the dough that you were rolling in your fist, sending a sharp, piercing glare at his red, fluffy bed head.

"Saeran,” you bite out through gritted teeth. “Can you leave me alone for just one sec and let me bake in peace?”

“The deal was for me to not eat the cookie dough. You didn’t say I had to keep quiet,” he points out evenly, totally unfazed by your glare. He does, however, purse his lips when his brow arches at yet another mistake that he spots with his eagle eyes, choosing to keep silent for the first time since you started.

Good grief. If only your oven wasn’t broken. Coming over to the bunker to bake is as good as asking for a premature death due to high blood pressure. Today would have been an exception, since Saeyoung and MC had told you that Saeran would be at Yoosung’s place to game. But as fortune — or rather, misfortune — would have it, Yoosung had some last minute errands to do with his family that he couldn’t turn down, thus leaving Saeran with nothing to do at home, that is, until you came along and he caught you at the door with all your baking supplies.

And so your brilliant plan to surprise him with some cookies for tomorrow’s date went up in a big, pitiful puff of white smoke.

“You’re going to give me a headache if you keep nagging at me like an old grandma,” you complain with an eye roll. “If you have so many problems with the cookies then feel free to not eat them.”

That catches his attention immediately, and his head snaps up so his eyes, wide and indignant, meet your narrowed ones. “Hey, you said you’re making these cookies for me. You promised. You break your promise and I will go over there and eat all the cookie dough before you dish it all out to unintended and unwelcome recipients.” To prove his point, he jumps off the counter in one smooth, graceful swoop, and starts marching over to the table where you are seated with the batter and trays of dough balls. You make a horrified squeak, standing up and holding out your dough-covered palm to his face to stop him physically.

“Step away from the cookies, Saeran. I’m warning you.”

“Or what?” It’s infuriating how he almost looks bored at your hollow threat, even though you’re putting on your fiercest face possible. The corners of his lips tug up in a lazy smirk when you pause, trying to think of a good threat to use against him.

“Or I will... not... bake for you ever again,” you finish in a rapid decrescendo, internally cursing at your brain for drawing a blank at a time when you need it to work the most. You mainly blame him though. It’s hard to think when he’s standing so close, face just inches from yours, sweet peppermint breath filling the air in between your noses, and flashing you that loose smirk that always makes your heart skip a beat. The worst part? He knows it, and is doing little to hide the amusement twinkling in his golden irises. He’s the worst tease.

“Yoosung makes better comebacks,” he says, the curve of his lips deepening when your nostrils flare and you gape at his offensive statement. You’re about to give him a piece of your mind and smear the dough all over his face just for good measure when he catches your wrist and adds, “But fine, I won’t get close to the cookies.”

With that said, he tugs your palm towards the side of his face. Your brows furrow in confusion, until you notice the tip of his tongue slip past his pale pink lips. His face angles to the side, giving you a nice view of his jaw line, and he pulls your hand closer and closer.

The frown on your face crumbles like slipping sand, melting into shock and red-faced embarrassment the moment you feel his warm tongue brushes against the cold surface of your palm that’s sticky and coated with the dark brown substance. He licks up a small bit of the dark chocolate, eyes shifting to meet your flushing face, without so much as batting an eyelash. You want to tell him to stop, but your voice catches in your throat the moment you part your lips to speak. He arches his brow in a silent question, eyes still on you as he licks up more of the chocolate, savouring it. His tongue is ticklish on your skin, the strange sensation unnerving you. All you can do is hastily look away to avert his piercing gaze, and try to tug your hand out of his grip. He only lets go after your third attempt, and a strangled groan erupts from the base of your throat as you elbow his arm, pushing past him to get to the sink to wash off the chocolate and his cooties.

The water comes gushing out when you turn the faucet up all the way, causing it to splash all the way to your forearms. Not that you really noticed, since your mind was elsewhere, fixated on the image of him licking the chocolate off your palm. You rub your hands together furiously, trying to wash them clean of all traces where his tongue had been. It’s hard to resist the urge to splash some water on your face to cool it down while you’re at it. Your cheeks are as hot as a wildfire and you curse your luck for the day once more. You’re starting to regret your goodwill in coming here to bake for your stupid teasing boyfriend who enjoys making a fool out of you to entertain himself.

You throw a glance over your shoulder, just to make sure he isn't trying anything funny while you’re preoccupied with trying to compose yourself and thinking of a way to get back at him for catching you off guard like that earlier.

All that falls within your line of vision is him sticking his dirty little hand into the mixing bowl that’s half-filled with cookie dough. He looks like Winnie the Pooh struck gold with a jar full of sweet, sweet honey. The sneak.

There’s not a drop of remorse in his eyes when he looks up and realizes that he’s been caught red-handed. He merely maintains eye contact and a straight face as he licks off the lump of chocolate batter on his index finger, before stating, “I think you should have put more sugar in this.”

“Boohoo. Last I checked, your opinion wasn’t in the recipe,” you snap, before marching over and grabbing a rubber spatula lying on the table and smacking his wrist with it. He winces from the sting, and complains, “Of course it is! You’re making these cookies for me.”

“I won’t be anymore if you try to swipe more cookie dough,” you warn, shaking the rubber spatula at the petulant man’s face.

In response, he wordlessly holds the end of the spatula firmly and swipes off the remnants of batter on it with his index finger to eat.

You feel your eye twitch in irritation. There really is no end to his unhealthy obsession with cookie dough and anything sweet, is there? You make a mental note to get back at him by giving him extra bitter cookies the next time. Cookie Monster needs to be taught a lesson.

“Okay, that’s it,” you announce with an exasperated sigh. “You’re banned from the kitchen. Leave. Now.”

“Don't want to,” he retorts childishly, plopping down on a chair and letting his face hover dangerously closely to the dough balls on the trays. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of sweet chocolate wafting in the air. “How long more till they’ll be done?” he asks.

“Never, if you’re going to stay there and eat up all the dough.”

He ponders over your sarcastic remark for a moment. You can tell he’s actually seriously considering it. “Stop eating the cookie dough!” You’re ready to tear the hair clear out of your scalp when he reaches into the mixing bowl and retrieves a sizeable lump of dough once more.

“I’m not going to eat it,” he replies with a roll of the eyes. “I’m going to help, so we’ll be done faster. I’m hungry, you know.”

“Fine, fine,” you mutter in defeat, plopping down into the chair next to him. You don’t even have the energy to scold him for what seems like the hundredth time when he sucks the dough off his thumb when it won’t come off.

Oh well. At least he’s having fun. You notice how his eyes are gleaming with excitement and the way his lips are pulled back in a loose smile as he carefully rolls the dough into pretty little balls and places them neatly on the tray.

After rolling a couple more balls with no issues whatsoever, his nose gets itchy, and he rubs at it with his knuckles, inadvertently staining his cheek and upper lip with chocolate dough because his hands are practically covered in the sticky substance. He doesn’t seem to notice it, which causes you to chuckle. He looks even more adorable working hard with his face dirty like a child’s.

“I have dough on my face, don’t I?” he asks flatly, having heard you snickering to yourself.

“Yeah, you do. I’ll help.” You reach over, and before he can protest, you smear more dough on his cheek, leaving a long brown streak diagonally down his left cheek, ending at his jaw.

He glares at you while you laugh, proud of yourself for pulling that off so smoothly.

You’re having so much fun mocking him that you’re unable to react in time when he returns the favour with a generous serving of batter smeared across your nose and curving down your cheek. All you can manage is an shriek of his name.

It’s now his turn to double over in laughter, and you return that evenly by dipping your hand into the mixing bowl and spreading a lump of batter across his mouth to shut him up.

Before long, the kitchen turns into a fierce battlefield, where the both of you take turns to disfigure each other’s faces with cookie dough. Peals of laughter bounce off the kitchen walls as you chase each other around in circles, both armed with handfuls of batter and both determined to emerge victorious.

By the end of it, both of you are keeled over on the floor, trying to catch your breaths and soothe your cramping abdominal muscles. You reach into the mixing bowl that’s lying on its side on the floor, and you’re utterly dismayed to find that it’s been completely emptied of its contents.

“There’s no more dough left! There’s not going to be enough cookies!” you groan.

Saeran raises his hands in surrender. “Not my fault. You started this food fight.” He grimaces when he notices tiny clumps of dough in his bangs. “What are you, five?”

“Says you,” you shoot back indignantly. “You wouldn’t stop eating the dough either.”

"At least I didn’t waste it all by playing with it.”

“Hey, you used more dough than me. I’m sure of it.”

“I wasn’t about to sit back and let you destroy my face without doing anything back.”

“Well, me neither,” you harrumph, folding your arms across your chest, before belatedly realizing that there’s dough streaks on your arms and you just got dough all over the front of your shirt.

Saeran snorts, having spotted your mistake, and you stick your tongue out childishly at him. Getting to your feet, you place the mixing bowl back on the table and stare at the twenty-two miserable dough balls on it. “I’m never baking here again,” you declare. “Actually, I’m never baking with you around ever again.”

“You say that every time,” he comments with a disapproving shake of the head.

“I mean it this time.”

“Sure you do,” he states dismissively, before reaching out a finger to swipe off some dough from your cheek to lick it off. The action takes you aback completely, and you take a couple of steps back, hand outstretched to keep him from coming closer.

“W-What was that for?!”

“I’m hungry,” he replies nonchalantly, taking your hand to move it aside and run his thumb across the corner of your bottom lip. The contact leaves a scorching hot trail on your skin. He then pulls his hand back to unabashedly suck on the extra dough that he retrieved with his thumb.

“T-Then eat something else!” Flushing, you swat his hand away when he reaches out for more. “Stop licking it off me!”

“But it’s good,” he grins, edging closer to you now. On any other day, you would never give up the chance to admire Saeran’s bright summer smile and observe the fresh sparkle in his eyes. They always remind you of diamonds glittering on the surface of the ocean.

Right now though, his grin and darkening eyes make your blood run cold as he inches closer and closer, hands reaching out, no doubt for more of the cookie dough soiling your skin.

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter, stepping back and gasping when your back hits the wall. “Don’t come any closer. Or I’ll scream.”

Cookie Monster doesn’t care though. All he sees is the cookie dough and all he smells is the sweet, heavenly scent of chocolate and of your fear.

“Go ahead,” he smiles wickedly, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. “Try me.”

You can’t stop the squeal that escapes you when he lunges and begins attacking you with a shower of soft little kisses, holding you tightly to him with his arms as a cage to keep you from escaping while you squirm about with all your might, trying in vain to hide your face from the ticklish assaults of affection.

Yeah, who are you kidding? There’s no way this will be the last time you’re baking with your favourite monster of a boyfriend.

#mystic messenger fanfiction #mystic messenger fanfic #mystic messenger #mysme #mysme fanfiction #mysme fanfic #saeran choi #saeyoung choi #choi twins #writing #merry choimas

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hartwinorlose · 7 years ago

Note

What about hartwin story, where Harry is on a mission at a posh party. He needs to retrieve (imformation/files/data/important artifact/whatever you come up with) somewhere in the house, but collides with/meets (either after or before he gets the thing) a young handsome man on the way out. Turns out this young man was a thief and had managed to either steal the thing before Harry got it, or managed to pickpocket him when they crashed together, so now Harry has to find him and get the thing back.

(Party 2) And imagine Merlin cackling because Harry was set to steal something, only for it to be stolen by someone else first. Of course Harry needs to find the thief and restore his pride, or Merlin will remind him of this failure for years to come!

((okay, i know it said posh party but because my last prompt had a similar set-up, i wanted to change it around a little bit. I hope you still like it! @the-little-random-me ))

This is not Harry’s scene. Neon body paint, seizure-inducing lights, and glowsticks aren’t his idea of a good time.

Unfortunately his target, one Charlie Hesketh, holds a different opinion.

Despite the fact that he’s dressed down in khakis and a mostly-unbuttoned button down, Harry still feels incredibly overdressed. Not to mention old as dirt. There isn’t a single other person there who looks like they’re even pushing 30.

“A shame Lancelot is in Tanzania,” Merlin says drily. “You don’t exactly blend in.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, barely moving his lips. He wonders if Merlin can even hear him over the pounding music.

Merlin chuckles, a good indication that he’s enjoying Harry’s discomfort far more than he should be. “Focus, Galahad. As soon as you get the drug, you can get out.”

“Brilliant.” Finding a specific drug in a place like this is going to be like looking for a needle in a pile of other needles, but Harry sets himself to it. He knows what the supplier looks like. He just has to find him.

Poppyseed had sprung up practically overnight and there was something… off about it. Users were experiencing strange side effects, among them a blue rash, and Kingsman wasn’t about to let that go uninvestigated. In theory, buying drugs was easy, but Poppyseed had proved irritatingly elusive. The biggest problem with having an organization full of old, white men? None of them had seedy connections.

To really rub the situation in Harry’s face, half the people in the warehouse were covered in blue. Trying to look like he’s just moving to the beat, Harry weaves through the sea of youths, keeping an eye out for one in particular.

It’s not easy to spot anyone in a place like this. There’s barely any light for one, and the pressing crush of bodies makes it difficult to even move. More than once, Harry finds himself being danced up next to, even on, and by the time he’s made his way across the main dance floor, two more of his buttons have come undone.

Shaking his head, Harry doesn’t bother to do them back up. This is hell. “A little help, Merlin?” he mutters.

“I’m looking,” Merlin says.

Harry presses himself up against the nearest wall and runs his gaze over the crowd to give Merlin as good a view as possible.

“Got him,” Merlin hisses just as a target appears in Harry’s glasses.

It circles a blue-eyed man with a buzz cut, holed up in a booth with a blue-covered blonde cozied up next to him. Charlie Hesketh, according to their intel. And the girl must be Clara.

To Harry, they are only tools. With a deep breath in, he plunges back into the crowd. It takes him an agonizingly long time to get across to the booths and he arrives slightly less put together than he had been. His hair, normally so smooth and styled, tumbles into his face and he’s streaked with body paint of all colors. If he has to go back in there, he’s not sure he’ll make it out alive.

But Harry can’t focus on that now. He has a part to play. He slips easily into the role as he approaches Charlie, trying to look as out of it as he can. It’s not difficult. The oscillating lights are starting to give him a headache.

“I hear you’re the one with the best shit here,” Harry says. He practically has to shout to be heard over the music.

Charlie looks up at him and one corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “You lost, old man?” he asks. “Made a wrong turn on the way to bingo night?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” he says. “Do you have what I’m looking for or not?”

Still looking more than a little amused, Charlie leans back in his suit. “Yeah, I’ve got it. You better be willing to pay, though. Good shit doesn’t come cheap.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes again. “I can pay,” he says. “Once I know you’re legit.”

Charlie pulls out a small packet of a dark black substance.

Harry’s glasses scan the object and impose a dossier next to it.

Substance: Poppyseed [confirmed].

Harry inclines his head and pulls out a wad of notes. He peels off a few and tosses them down, waiting till Charlie’s snatched them up to pocket the Poppyseed.

“Nice doing business with you,” Charlie drawls. “Don’t break a hip on your way out.”

Grumbling under his breath about cheeky young upstarts, Harry starts making his way back to the door. If possible, the crowd seems to have gotten even thicker, nearly suffocating him. Harry barely notices when there’s a new body pressed up close to him until it speaks.

“Sorry about that, mate. Can’t move for shit in here.”

Harry looks down to see a young man plastered against his chest with a sheepish grin on his face. He’s bare-chested with neon orange tiger stripes painted along his chest and sides. Some of the paint is smudging off on Harry’s shirt, making them both glow in the dark. Harry also realizes the stranger has glow-in-the-dark lipstick on. He didn’t know glow-in-the-dark lipstick was even a thing.

As quick as he came, the stranger melts back into the crowd, neon tiger stripes dissolving into the rainbow of other colors on the dance floor.

Strange. But then, this whole night has been a little strange. Harry brushes it off and keeps heading for the exit. He emerges into the still night air with a sigh of relief. The music is still blasting, but it’s muffled enough by the warehouse door that Merlin should be able to hear him now. “I’ve got it,” he mutters.

“Good,” Merlin says. “Head to the extraction point. A car will be there soon.”

Harry slips his hand into his pocket just out of habit and his fingers find – nothing. Frowning, Harry tugs the pocket inside out. He’s pretty sure that’s the one he put the Poppyseed in, but there are so many pockets in these khakis he’s starting to doubt himself. He begins a frantic search through the rest of his pockets, but they all come up equally as empty. “Dammit,” he hisses. Where the hell could it have go-?

Tiger stripes.

Harry would bet money that bumping into him hadn’t been an accident. The kid had been a damn pickpocket. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he curses himself for being distracted by glowing lipstick. Now he has to go back in there.

“Slight change of plans, Merlin,” Harry mutters as he prepares to face the crowd again. “I need a few minutes.”

“Harry, what-”

But Harry switches off his feed. No need to let Merlin know that Harry lost the drug mere seconds after acquiring it. He’d never hear the end of that one.

The music washes over him in a tidal wave of sound as Harry pushes back in. He’s less forgiving this time, forging a way through the crowd without worrying about how many feet he steps on or ribs he elbows. He cranes his head, desperately searching for neon orange. There’s too much bloody neon in here.

Eventually, he spots him, but it’s not the tiger stripes that do it. It’s that glow-in-the-dark lipstick. Because of course it is.

Harry barrels toward him, fists clenched. He’s getting that Poppyseed back, and then he’s getting the hell out of here. But he can’t just go up and take it from him. Harry doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, and the kid just picked an unfortunate target. He’s still mostly an innocent civilian. Mostly.

Letting out a long sigh, Harry tries to loosen up. He dances up behind the man, who his glasses identify as Gary “Eggsy” Unwin, ex-Marine, son of Lee and Michelle Unwin. Hoping this won’t backfire spectacularly, Harry presses up behind Eggsy, hands settling on his hips. His fingers start sneaking their way into Eggsy’s pockets.

Eggsy doesn’t even seem surprised, just grinds back against Harry enthusiastically. Smirk on his lips, he tips his head back to look at him – and his eyes spark with recognition and a brief flash of panic.

Harry moves his lips close to Eggsy’s ear so he can hear him over the music. “Relax. I just want my Poppyseed back.”

Eggsy freezes for a second longer before he jerks away from Harry and plunges back into the crowd.

“God fucking-” Harry doesn’t hesitate to follow after him. He’s not going to lose him again. Leaving a trail of indignant yelps and insults behind him, Harry tails Eggsy. Thankfully, he seems to be heading for a part of the warehouse that isn’t as populated, a section near the DJ’s booth.

The music is overwhelmingly loud here, and Harry grits his teeth against it, pushes on. Eventually, the crowd thins enough that he surges forward and catches Eggsy up, one hand locking around his wrist.

Eggsy makes a strangled sound as he’s tugged suddenly backwards. He spins to face Harry, straining against him. “Let me go!” he shouts.

Or at least Harry thinks that’s what he’s saying. It’s far too loud next to the speakers to hear anything. He holds his free hand up, and Eggsy flinches.

Oh.

Harry drops his arm back to his side and loosens his grip fractionally. “I just want the drug!” he yells. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes suspiciously. He doesn’t give him the Poppyseed, but he does stop struggling. “How do I know?” he shouts back.

Harry’s brow furrows. “Know what?”

“That you ain’t gonna hurt me?” Eggsy juts his jaw out stubbornly.

Harry opens his mouth to explain, but the song switches just then to something even louder. Growling in frustration, Harry starts pulling Eggsy to somewhere marginally quieter.

When they’re back in the embrace of the crowd, Harry pulls Eggsy closer to him so they’re practically plastered together again. It’s the only way to be heard over the music. Harry isn’t enjoying this, of course. Because, yes, Eggsy is attractive, and that glowing lipstick is still incredibly distracting, but he’s also impeding the mission.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already,” Harry says. “I told you before, I just want the drug.”

Eggsy spends a minute contemplating that. Then, slowly, he reaches into his pocket and draws out the tiny packet that has been such a headache. Still looking cautious, he holds it out.

Harry takes it with a nod and slips it into a buttoned pocket this time. That should help keep it away from anymore thieving fingers. He lifts his hands to his chest, the sign of surrender. “That’s all I wanted.” He takes a few steps backwards before adding, “I like your lipstick, by the way.”

Eggsy’s sullen pout transforms into a smirk. “Yeah? Wanna try it on?”

One of Harry’s eyebrows quirks upwards. “Alright.” He expects Eggsy to hand him a tube of it or something but, to his surprise, Eggsy steps forward and tugs him down by the collar. Their lips meet, and Harry blinks a couple of times. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Eggsy’s lips are soft and warm against his, and Harry finds himself sinking into the kiss.

Until he feels fingers scrabbling at the button of his pocket.

Harry breaks the kiss off, grabbing Eggsy’s wrist and pulling it away. He glares at him.

Eggsy just smiles back at him with a little wrinkle of his nose. “Had to try, didn’t I, mate? Was worth it, though. You’re a good kisser.”

Harry opens his mouth to say… he doesn’t even know what, but by the time he’s collected his thoughts, Eggsy has lost himself to the crowd again.

Harry doesn’t reactivate his comms until he’s outside the warehouse again.

When he gets back to headquarters, Merlin is waiting for him with a stony glare. “If you ever cut off your feed again in the middle of a mission, I swear to Christ-”

Harry tosses the packet of Poppyseed onto Merlin’s desk. “I know, I know. But it was successful, so I’m going to take that as an empty threat.”

Merlin snorts and turns his attention to the drug.

Thus dismissed, Harry turns to leave.

“Oh, and Galahad?” Merlin says without looking up.

Harry pauses in the doorway. “Hmmm?”

“Your lips are glowing.”

#ask #the-little-random-me #kingsman #hartwin #prompt fill #fanfic #my writing #this took a long time to get to #and for that i apologize

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cohenjulia1992 · 4 years ago

Text

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crimsonrevolt · 7 years ago

Photo

Congratulations Chloe you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Sybill Trewlawney!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Your application was such a treat to find in our inbox, Chloe! From the expanded traits to the wonderful headcanons you gave, your Sybill is so wonderfully fleshed out. The love you have for her is amazing and we all loved just how well you captured her - ‘she’s always been unafraid to march to the beat of her own drum‘ completely sold us. It’s so clear to see from you application just how much you’ve thought about the role that Sybill has to play in the war and gone into so much detail about her involvement with Aversio it’s such a pleasure to see! We think that Sybill will fit in just wonderfully and we cannot wait to have you both in our roleplay!

Application beneath the cut

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Chloe, she/her, GMT, from England

ACTIVITY

Well it’s been a little while since I’ve actively roleplayed so I might start out a little rusty, but given the preference you have for longer threads and your lenient activity limit I’m sure I’ll be around fairly often, like three times a week at least. (to give you a number I’d say like 7/10 on the active scale)

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I was looking through the hp rp tag, and to be honest I was looking specifically for a Sybill Trelawney to play that I felt was actually a good representation of her character and also sat within an rp that had a good plot aha

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Maybe a cliché but I really loved Ginny (in the books of course, don’t EVER get me started with the mess they made of her character in the movies dear god) she was spunky and confident (and ginger like myself, which tbqh has made me slightly bias in favour of the whole Weasley clan. Like you’re telling me not only do they deal w/ shit for being blood traitors but they redheads too??? Hard knock life, my man.) And of course my dear Sybill, who was just trying to be understood in a world that wasn’t quite ready for her.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nope

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Sybill Trelawney

FACE CLAIM

Alycia Debnam Carey isn’t an fc I’ve ever worked with before but after browsing her tag and doing a little research she seems an excellent choice for Sybill in my opinion, and since she’s your chosen fc too I’m sure you’d have no problem with me picking her. (I am also partial to Juno Temple as Sybill, but I kinda feel that’s getting a little overdone)

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

Uhhhh this is just a general comment but I really love that you’ve made Sybill a big of a fighter and actually self confident like all the time I see her portrayed as this scared little thing and I don’t think that’s accurate, like I’ve always felt that (at least in her younger years, before the world beat her down a bit) Sybill would have been a passionate and confident woman with faith in her gift and a desire to set the world to rights. Her words aren’t always tactful, sure, but I think everything Sybill says she says because she thinks it needs to be heard.

When I first read about this Aversio group you’d created I wasn’t sure that putting Sybill in with such people was the right choice but after a little thought the idea really grew on me. I think Sybill’s visions have forced her to witness so much death and destruction that she has been powerless to prevent, and who wouldn’t be made angry like that? Who wouldn’t grab the first chance that came along to take back some of that power, to try and defend the people she loved? Sybill is part of this group for all the right reasons. She’s fighting for freedom and safety, but she’s not naïve, she doesn’t think the order sitting around and just waiting to form counter attacks are doing enough. I also feel she was something of a loner in school and despite being quite clever was never really invited into or considered for the order and so perhaps this comes from the ever so slight niggling urge she has to prove herself, because despite being a hippy dippy seer she’s also capable of affecting change and taking part in things. (If anything her visions and prophecies have only made her more determined to change the world, for she will have seen how truly tits up everything could go.)

I just have a longstanding love for Sybill, she’s always been unafraid to march to the beat of her own drum. Like, refusing to take on the name ‘higglebottom’ and so causing the end of your own marriage?? That’s hardcore. That’s a woman who won’t take no shit. Yeah, I love Sybill and I am forever searching for an rp with what I feel is an accurate representation of her. This is getting long so I’ll wind it down now, but if you’d like to hear anything more about my love for Syb pls just do message me lmao.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Sybill has always been wary of romance and love. With her gift it is easy to see the multitude of ways things can fall apart. Not only that, but it is hard to find someone with complete faith in this gift of hers, someone who truly believes all her madcap ramblings and feels the power of nature and the universe as much as she does. (Of course, she would only ever settle down with someone who believed in this power as much as she did and yet like her was not afraid to question it.) Sex is different to romance, though, I think Sybill views sex as something much simpler and it’s very much a pleasure she indulges in without ever feeling guilty about it. Honestly I think she can be quite the flirt when she wants, not ashamed of her desire to lure a man or woman into her bed for the night, because why should we deny ourselves such a simple craving? We shouldn’t.

As far as ships go I’m very happy just to go with the flow, nothing prioritised. Sybill goes by she/her pronouns, did consider them/they for a while but after some contemplation in the forest realised her energy was decidedly feminine in its nurturing and care, even if it was a little wilder and more adventurous. (Sexuality I touched on a little above, i feel like she’d be very fluid about it and call herself bisexual if pushed on the subject)

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

-EXPAND ON THE TRAITS

Self-assured- Sybill has gotten comfortable with her gift of sight, and by extension- since she’s long felt like that was the most drastic aspect of her personality- the rest of herself. She’s confident in who she is and the doubts of others can no longer throw her off her chosen course.

Free-spirited- spends a lot of time out in nature, but its much more than that. Sybill is very unassuming and so as long as what/who you are is not a cause of harm (for example, unless you are a death eater) she is quite happy to not only let you continue with your life and hobbies, but likely also interested in learning about it. She is happy for you to be in love, she is happy for you to mindlessly fuck, she is happy for you to abstain and spend all your time writing. As long as your soul is good and warm, you can be counted as a friend of Sybill’s.

Crafty- well, there’s the obvious definition of her being artistic which is true, Sybill likes to paint and tell fanciful stories and take one mans trash to make into her own treasure. But her crafty mind also makes her quite statistical, she can wriggle her way out of almost any problem and really earns her keep as one of the strategic minds of Aversio.

Genuine- Another fairly obvious I feel. Some of the stuff Sybill says may be odd, but she means every word of it. This applies to her actions too. She has not one conniving or manipulative bone in her body, she never lies. Everything Sybill does is honest and true to the core of who she is.

Dreamer- constantly lost in her own world. Idealistic almost to a fault, often too optimistic about the future. Sometimes too optimistic about the present and so gets herself into dangerous situations just because she underestimated the circumstances.

Emotional- oh GOD if you criticise Sybill’s shoes she will CRY for a week. If you call her pretty in passing it will make her smile all year. Let me be clear here I don’t think Sybill holds grudges or has preferences, but I think she remembers everything that people do and everything impacts her as much as it did at the time it truly happened (does that make sense? Every time she remembers that Lily once complimented her hair it fills her with the same joy as the initial compliment did, for example.) I think this is why her gift takes such a toll on her, every bad thing that happens (whether it really ends up happening or not) affects her psyche terribly.

Dramatic- it’s very up and down with Sybill. I think being dramatic is good and bad, because every small show of kindness is an absolute joy but also every little negative moment or action is the worst betrayal imaginable. Nothing is done in halves by Sybill.

Weird- I mean self explanatory. She talks to plants, she’s constantly blabbering on about the energies of nature and the universe. She relies too heavily on her inner eye to guide her rather than just watching and responding. It’s a weirdness she’s comfortable with but that doesn’t mean everyone else is so ok with it, sometimes she makes people uncomfortable with her frank statements and odd habits.

-A FEW HEADCANONS

Sybill can play guitar. Yeah, she loves music, I think she plays guitar really very well and finds it quite relaxing (can’t think about anything else if you’re trying to master difficult songs y’know) but it isn’t a talent she often shares.

She writes poetry too, doesn’t call it that, just calls it writing. Often times her visions and prophecies can be a lot to digest and so writing about it all can help to sort her crazy imaginings from what might actually be possible.

Not adverse to substance abuse. She lives alone, and sometimes being part of Aversio leaves her incredibly amped up and angry, so it can be difficult to sleep. A few glasses of whiskey or a couple of joints sort that problem out, though.

Can get aggressive with fellow Aversio members. See she knows they can handle it and all the negative energy has to go somewhere (where else would she take it out? Nature? Absolutely not.)

She meditates because it helps focus her inner eye.

-A FEW POTENTIAL PLOT POINTS

This aggression with Aversio members might be an interesting one- like, does she think some of them are really just death eaters afraid to admit that? Are some of them scared of her? Do they think she’s too pushy with the people she’s supposedly aligned with? Yeah, lots interesting to say there.

Of course as an Aversio member there’s always the chance that the order or DE might find out that she’s part of such a group and try to sway her one such way (the DE would have no chance, and i don’t really see the order being much luckier, though she may be willing to form some kind of cooperation with them.)

There’s always the chance of her abandoning everything to just live in the forest.

More prophecies or visions! Are they always accurate? Who knows?!?!?! No one really.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

The following section should be looked at like a survey for your character. Answer them in character and feel free to use gifs. Or, if you’d rather, answer them in third person or OOC without gifs. Answers do not have to be extremely lengthy.

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

I think I’d like to invent a potion that would make me immune to all poisons. To be honest, that’s one of the few things that forces me to buy actual food from shops and stops me from living purely off the foods nature provides. I’m quite worried about being poisoned by something not meant for me you see, so if I had a potion that meant no such poisons affected me I would live only off the bounty provided by nature.

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

I think Xenophilius Lovegood would make for very good company. He’s easy on the eye and we’re both the types who see more in the world than most people do. I don’t suppose i’d pick anyone for their ability to keep me safe- I’m quite capable of that, thank you. Rather I think I’d pick Xenophilius because we would not run out of things to talk about. Ad far as objects go, maybe a sword? They fascinate me to be perfectly honest- so violent, so pretty- and I think it would be most useful should magic fail me.

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

Who to send on missions or counter attacks. It’s never very easy to decide if you need stealth and logic or aggression and strength, you know? And always I am so fearful that by sending the wrong type we will do more harm than good.

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

That I am a liar. That’s easy, people can say much about me as long as they always believe I am true.

WRITING SAMPLE

Sybill could not sleep. This was not a rare occurrence. More often than not she’d use alcohol or drugs to knock herself out for the night, acutely aware of all the work that there was to be done the next day and so too focused on being alert for that to be concerned with her own body. Tonight, however, she chose the forest. And drugs. There was a lovely little wood right by her house (would Sybill move anywhere without nature close by? Of course not.) And so she meandered through the trees until a small clearing came about, settling herself with a joint and her notebook for a sleepless night.

See, tomorrows attack did not directly involve her. It was more an urban stealth mission, not really her style, and so she saw no harm in turning up to the meeting a little tired and out of it. Hey, she was usually ‘out of it’ as far as the others thought anyway, and so what was the harm really. So for this plan she had taken more a strategic role, using her gift to her advantage to help plan the timing, who she be where and when they should be there. It was something of an arduous task to be honest, left her a little drained to look so closely at individuals, but Sybill would never complain about it. Her inner eye was a gift very few possessed and she intended to use it to it’s full potential.

Besides being out here among nature’s glory with her writing and a joint would be sufficient to restore the balance of her energy. She took a drag and sighed into the quiet night, shifting to lay on her back and feel the full flow of the earth against her body. Her fingertips tingled and her toes curled. God, you know what would really help her sleep? Sex. But so few were as interested in no strings in the same way she was. Still willing to form a connection and truly bon with each other, just not so insistent that such a bond be permanent. It was okay to need someone only for a night or two. The summer she’d bounced around muggle music festivals had spoiled her, obviously. Maybe most wizards were so interested in commitment because it carried on the family name.

Not that she could blame them for such. Cassandra Trelawney had claimed the gift skipped three generations after all and by golly the family had seen to it that her point be proved. The idea made her giggle, bright energy pushing out against a dark sky.

Whatever the case, she was antsy and restless and worried about tomorrows plans. Worried about tomorrows’ people. If things went wrong those few were the ones who would pay most dearly. She closed her eyes, trying to feel the influence of the universe move through her and search for the answers she desired. Would tomorrow be okay? Had they chosen well? The universe, as it so often was in what it considered small affairs, had little more to offer than a small reassurance that Sybill wasn’t driving towards utter disaster.

#Accepted App #illness and timezones worked against us but we're thrilled to have you!

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casper-has-a-cat · 7 years ago

Text

this is a prompt fill from way back when i had haikyuusickfics! from here on out i’ll be reposting anything i have saved on my computer from my blogs that got deleted. i’ll be tagging them with ‘old writing,’ and i’ll release them in a queue once a day! i may wait until all of the old ones are posted again to post fills to new asks, but i’d like to get to working on them in advance, so feel free to send stuff to my inbox!

as far as what to send: honestly, feel free to send whatever, as long as it’s not NSFW, but just know that if i don’t feel like filling it, i just won’t. the more detail you put into an ask, the more likely i’ll want to fill it. try to convince me of why the scenario appeals to you, and it will make me much more likely to fill it!

ANYWAY! here’s a very old fill

WARNING: descriptions of vomit below!

read the warning!

okay, you’ve been warned! please enjoy the fic!

When Suga’s phone rang, he answered without looking to see who it was. He’d assumed it was Daichi. He was correct. However, he also assumed that his friend had called to ask a question about their homework or to get Suga’s opinion on how to strategize against their next opponent in volleyball, and in that regard, he was completely wrong.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Suga, do you have any Ibuprofen?”

“Daichi? You have a headache? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not a bad one. I probably won’t even need the medicine, I just want to have it in case it gets worse.”

Suga pursed his lips. It was unusual for Daichi to ask for help for anything, even less for him to be unprepared, and almost unheard of for him to admit he was in pain if it wasn’t unbearable. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Daichi made an exasperated noise on the other end of the line and Suga could have kicked himself. “I’m fine, honestly, Suga. Actually, I’m not even sure why I called, it’s really not a bit deal. Never-“

“Alright, I’ll be over there with the medicine in 20. Just relax until I get there, okay?”

Daichi sighed, but Suga hung up before he could tell him not to go overboard. He was definitely going to go overboard.

Precisely 20 minutes later Suga was knocking on Daichi’s door with an armful of not only Ibuprofen, but also Tylenol, soup, and tea. Nobody responded, which was strange and fairly concerning. Suga pulled out his phone to text Daichi only to see that he’d already received multiple texts from him.

From: Daichi

7 minutes ago

I found some ibuprofen

5 minutes ago

you don’t have to come

2 minutes ago

sriously suga dont come

2 minutes ago

m fine.

Suga read the texts through twice, eyeing the deterioration of Daichi’s punctuation and feeling his heart sink more with every mistake. Maybe he was paranoid, but something felt off. In the end, it was Daichi’s use of a period in the last text that did it. Daichi never used periods when texting.

Without further ado, Suga grabbed the spare key Daichi had given him and let himself in, despite the warning that had come along with the key: “If you abuse it, you lose it.” Suga thought this may be something worth losing it for.

He poked his head in the door.

“Hello?” When nobody responded, he stepped inside, if only to dump the groceries on the ground to relieve his arms. The house was quiet, and dark, but Suga could hear the sound of the television playing softly coming from upstairs. He followed the noise, and, unsurprisingly, it led him to Daichi’s room. He raised his hand to knock, but thought better of it when he noticed that Daichi’s room was dark, and wondered if maybe Daichi’s headache had gotten worse. Instead of knocking, he opened the door as quietly as possible.

Sure enough, Daichi was laying curled up on his bed. However, rather than holding his head as Suga had expected, he was clutching pitifully at his stomach. He opened the door wider and it creaked enough to get Daichi’s attention. He rolled over to face the door with effort.

“Suga? Didn’t you-“ Daichi sucked in a sharp, pained breath. He released it slowly. “Didn’t you get my texts?”

“Mhm.”

“So why’d you come?”

“Had a hunch something was wrong.” Suga walked over and sat down on the side of the bed. “I was right.”

Daichi shifted so that his friend could lie down, too, but instead of relaxing, Suga pried Daichi’s hands away from his abdomen.

“Honestly, I’m fi-“ Daichi had only begun to say he was fine when Suga started massaging his stomach. Daichi shuddered, and at first Suga thought maybe he’d made things worse, but then he saw the tension flow out of his shoulders. Suga smiled innocently.

“What was that? You want me to leave?”

“Ugh, Suga, what the heck? ‘re you’re hands magic or something?”

“Or something.” He massaged Daichi’s stomach as he spoke. “So what happened? I thought you had a headache?”

“Yeah, but really, it wasn’t that bad. Not a migraine, at least. I took the Ibuprofen just in case, but then my stomach started to act up.”

Suga winced. “Act up how, exactly?”

“Just, y’know, cramps and stuff.”

“Yeah, it’s the “and stuff” that I’m worried about. Do you feel sick at all?” At the mere mention of being sick Daichi paled. Suga nodded. “I’m going to take that as a yes. Man, I think you may have caught the stomach bug that’s been going around.”

Daichi groaned and Suga cast him a sympathetic glance in response. “Anyway, maybe it won’t be too bad. If the belly rubs are helping, that’s a good sign.”

Daichi grunted as his eyes drifted shut, but moments later drowzily opened them again, blinking slowly. Suga chuckled.

“Stop that,” he laughed.

“Hm?” Daichi mumbled.

“Don’t try and stay awake, you should be sleeping this off.”

“But you’re-“

“I’m here, and I’ll stay here whether you’re sleeping or not. Jeez. Close you’re eyes already.”

Daichi frowned, but did as he was told. Moments later, Suga felt the tension leave his friend’s body and he knew he was asleep. He smiled, and continued rubbing Daichi’s stomach.

They stayed that way for so long that both of Suga’s feet fell asleep, but he didn’t mind. He was glad Daichi was resting. Unfortunately, it didn’t last forever. Inevitably, Daichi woke up, and this he did with a distinctively nauseas gurgle. Suga started at the noise and his hands faltered momentarily.

“Dai?”

Daichi blinked his eyes slowly, confusion dominating his face. “Suga?” The sick boy swallowed convulsively and Suga noted the sweat now coating his face.

“Hey there, how are you feeling, kid?”

Daichi groaned, and the crease between Suga’s brows deepened.

“You gonna be sick?”

Daichi’s only response was a hiccup. He moaned and made a pitiful attempt at burrowing beneath the covers. Had he not been so concerned, Suga probably would have laughed at his friend’s antics. As it was, he couldn’t afford to waste time on humor. He tugged the covers away, just so he could see Daichi’s face.

“Seriously, Daichi, this is important. Do you feel like you’re gonna hurl?”

Daichi put a hand to his mouth as if even the thought of it made him want to barf, and that was response enough for Suga.

“Dammit, Daichi, you should’ve said sooner. Can you make it to the bathroom?”

Daichi’s shoulders hitched dramatically and Suga moved to grab the barf bucket even before his friend shook his head. In a valiant effort, Daichi suppressed three retches before bile made its way through his nose, splattering on the blankets before Suga had a chance to return. Nose now filled with the scent of sick, Daichi’s nausea more than doubled. He attempted to take a breath, but that was the last straw.

Fortunately, Suga arrived just in time to position the bowl under Daichi’s chin as the sick boy threw up. A small amount of clear bile splashed in first, but was immediately followed, without any time for Daichi to take a breath, by a forceful mixture of a burp and a heave that brought up a much more puke, this time brown and of a thicker consistency. Suga put a hand on Daichi’s shoulder to steady him when he lurched forward, and could feel him shaking. The large bowl was more than halfway full by the time Daichi was able to take a breath (a testament both to the speed with which the foul substance had exited Daichi’s body and to the length of time he’d been vomiting). However, even then he only got half a breath before he coughed loudly and was yet again unable to inhale. Another rush of sick filled his mouth. He shuddered and allowed it to exit his system. It splashed into the bowl, and some of it splashed out. Daichi wheezed, and Suga worried at how red his friend’s face was, not to mention how badly the boy was shaking. Suga helped Daichi lean back into his pillows.

“There you go, you feel any better?”

Daichi shook his head the tiniest bit and dizziness overwhelmed him. His stomach rolled. Suga held the bowl steady in his lap, but Daichi didn’t have an ounce of strength left to position himself over it.

“Daichi?” Suga sensed that something was off, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. Daichi knew that, and he tried to explain, but as soon as he opened his mouth it was filled with last night’s liquified dinner. This time it did not come up so quickly, rather in the form of a thin, steady stream. Daichi tucked his chin in and allowed it to spill onto his chest shirt.

“Oh, shit, Dai!” Suga helped him sit up so that Daichi was able to cough up the last few mouthfuls of bile into the bowl, but the damage had been done.

“I’m sorry,” Daichi rasped. “Suga, I’m so- hurk!” Daichi’s back muscles tightened beneath Suga’s palm. Suga hushed his friend.

“Sh, c’mon, Dai, it’s not a big deal. Here, let me help you…”

Suga expertly folded Daichi’s shirt in on itself so that he could lift it off without getting any of the vomit on Daichi. He threw the shirt in a trashcan and urged Daichi to his feet. He squeezed his friend’s hand tightly and looked him in the eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay, I promise. Do you believe me?”

Unsteady though he was, Daichi could see the confidence in Suga’s eyes, and a fiery message: I dare you to disagree. It was too soon, still for a smile, but he could manage a hand squeeze in return. Suga got the message.

“Good.” Suga brushed Daichi’s sweaty hair off of his forehead before guiding him to the bathroom. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

#tw vomit #old writing #my writing #haikyuu!!#sawamura daichi #sick daichi #sugawara koushi #cringe lol

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