#worst case scenario i rock a buzz cut

[stop-talking]

Gonna let my 11-yr-old sister bleach highlights into my hair

(and then dye them red)

[diaphragmjellyfish]

Research

Finally wrote something again! Sorry it took so long. 

How exactly do you get a dog to lose your scent? Because avoiding your werewolf boyfriend Embry was proving a lot harder than you had anticipated. Last weekend was… eventful. You guys had finally done it. Gone all the way. After 6 months of dating and an imprint bond, you both finally decided you were ready to take that next step. And you’ve only had one thought since that night. 

That shit hurted. 

It was borderline unbearable. The pain was searing. You lied there until Embry was done, faking moans and even faking the Big O, and you were less than eager to do it again. Were you broken? He seemed to enjoy it, so obviously you were to blame. He’d been super clingy and lovey since that night, even more so than usual, and you didn’t have the heart to be around him knowing you had faked it like that. What if he found out? He’d be crushed. What if he wanted to do it again? You couldn’t take that pain another night. What if he faked it too and was going to break up with you the next time he saw you? Yeah, no. Avoidance was the way to go. 

He wanted to take you out to see a movie. You mysteriously came down with a case of allergies in the middle of winter. 

He wanted to pick you up after school and give you a ride home. You had the sudden urge to join a club that was meeting after school that day. 

He called, your phone was on silent. 

He texted, you suddenly became illiterate. 

But he kept trying. God, why was he making this so difficult?! Thoughts like this swirled through your head as you walked the long way home from school. He knew your usual route, so obviously that was out of the question. You took a path through the woods that would eventually spit you out right by the beach where you could sit and think. The forest had always felt like a second home to you. Peaceful, comfortable, private. You walked for some time before hearing twigs snapping in the distance. Probably a rabbit or something. Louder snapping. Bigger sticks. Definitely not a rabbit. You halted, waiting for the creature to pass, when a large gray wolf stalked out of the trees. 

Damn. 

He was wearing the softest, cutest, most “kicked puppy” look on his face that you had ever seen. Head bowed, he walked up to you slowly, whining. So he had noticed your avoidance. You held your hand out to him, petting the thick fur between his ears. He sniffed your hand, giving it a soft lick. 

���Hi,” you whispered. He whined louder at this. “Embry…” you started, before he crouched down, a silent cue for you to get on his back. He waited. 

Guess this was inevitable. And at least him showing up in wolf form gave you some time to think about how exactly you would explain what had happened. With another soft sigh, you climbed up on his back, holding the fur tightly as he trotted off into the trees. After about 5 minutes, you realized that he was taking you to Sam and Emily’s house. You weren’t in the mood to be around the rest of the pack right now. 

“Embry, I’m kind of busy today. I don’t really have time to hang out with the pack.” 

He ignored you, trotting along as if your statement was the buzz of a mosquito in his ear. When you reached the house, however, you quickly realized that no one else was there. They must all be out. It was a Friday afternoon, after all. 

When you reached the lawn, Embry stopped and crouched once more so you could dismount. When you did, he ran off behind the house, walking back out several minutes later as the inky-haired boy you had grown to love. His face was full of sadness, yours full of anxiety. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said. 

You silently followed him down the path that led to the cliffs, waiting for him to say something else. He never did, only kept walking. You struggled to keep up, but were too stubborn in your silence to ask him to slow down. You both finally reached the rocky cliffs jutting out over the frigid ocean. He stopped, staring out at the horizon. You paused next to him, waiting. After another several minutes of silence, you grew impatient. 

“It’s supposed to snow Monday,” you said. 

You waited. Silence. 

“The news said they might even cancel school.” 

A pause. Nothing. 

“I don’t know about you, but I could definitely use a three day weeken-”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he cut you off, seeming agitated. For as long as you’d known Embry, he was never in a bad mood. Never anything but happy. Maybe sad on a few occasions, but never angry. Never frustrated. And it was making you nervous. 

And now it was your turn to be silent. Yes! You wanted to say. You hurt me! But you couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He didn’t do it on purpose, so why would you make him feel guilty about something that was your problem and your problem alone? 

“Because, if I’m counting correctly, it’s been 5 days since I’ve so much as heard from you. Barely a text back. Not a call, not a ‘hey! I’m super busy this week.’ Why are you avoiding me? I thought… after last weekend, we should be more in love than ever right?! Did it not mean anything to you?” 

You remained quiet, tears pooling in your eyes. You gave no sign that you were going to respond, so he kept going. 

“Just tell me where your fucking head is at, Y/N. You can’t keep brushing me off like this. Did I do something wrong? Do you regret what we did? Am I, like… not ripped enough for you or something?” 

“Embry, no,” you pleaded. You could see the insecurity behind his eyes. You had to tell him what was going on, but you knew it would crush him. “It’s not that at all.” 

He waited. “Then what?” 

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your face. You wiped it away quickly before taking a deep breath. “I have been avoiding you.” You looked up at his face at this, finding tears building up in his own eyes. “I love you, Embry. But last weekend, just… I can’t do that again.” 

He clenched his jaw, looking anywhere but your face and nodded. He was hurt. You definitely could have worded that better. 

“Let me explain,” you pleaded. He wouldn’t look at you still, but didn’t walk away, so you kept going. “I think I might be broken or something, because that… It didn’t feel right.” 

At this, he looked back at your face, switching from hurt to concerned almost immediately. 

“Why would you think you’re broken?” 

Another pause. “I know you would never hurt me on purpose…”

“You were in pain?” he panicked, fresh tears pricking in his eyes. 

“It’s not your fault,” you hurried. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that? Why would you let me keep going?!” 

“I’m sorry!” you cried, causing him to walk up and embrace you. You sobbed into his chest as he pet your hair, all signs of anger gone. “You were having a good time, and I didn’t wanna ruin it, but it hurt so bad…” 

“Shhhhh,” he cooed as he rocked you from side to side, letting you calm down. “It’s okay.” 

After several minutes, you finally stopped crying. He didn’t falter in his embrace, only left light kisses on your forehead and cheek. 

“Y/N, I am so sorry,” he whispered into your hair. 

“It’s not your fault,” you replied. 

“Yes, it is. I’m supposed to take care of you. It was my job to make you feel good, and you were hurting that bad and I didn’t even notice.” You sniffled, just enjoying being in his arms. A few more minutes passed as you both calmed down. 

“To be fair, I did take a drama class last semester. I’d say I put on a pretty convincing performance,” you added weakly, an attempt to lighten the mood. 

He huffed a laugh, if for no other reason than to make you feel better. “Had me fooled,” he added. 

You smiled, looking up at him. “I’m sorry for avoiding you.” 

“It’s okay. I just wish you would have told me as soon as it started to hurt that you wanted to stop.” 

“I know. I should have, I just got all in my head about it.” 

“And I’m sorry for hurting you. I’ll never forgive myself, and I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore,” he answered, nervously awaiting your response. 

“I forgive you. And of course I still want to be with you, Embry. I love you. We just need to work on our communication skills a little bit,” you laughed. 

“We do. And I’ll start. I would really love another chance to make you feel good. If you promise to be honest about how you’re feeling, I know I can do a way better job. But I understand completely if you wanna wait a while… or if you never wanna do it again. You’re in charge here.” 

His words had your heart melting. He really did care about you, and you knew that if you had told him in the moment that you were in pain, he would have done anything to get you feeling good. You were always his first priority. 

“I’d be willing to try again, but what we did last time didn’t work. I think we need to think of some new techniques or something,” you mumbled shyly. 

“Tell you what. I’ll do some research, get some stuff, and you can come over tonight… if you want to. And we can maybe try again? And if you get there and aren’t feeling up to it, we can just watch a movie and cuddle. No pressure… I just miss you.” 

You thought for a second. Worst case scenario, you’d cuddle on the couch and eat junk food. You trusted Embry completely, and if you said stop, you knew he would. 

“Okay,” you replied. 

__________________________________

After a long shower, some fresh makeup, and a cute-yet-comfortable outfit, you were ready to go over to Embry’s. Sure, the nerves were kicking in, but you trusted him when he said he would do some research. When you pulled up, he was already standing in the doorway smiling. You ran out and gave him a giant bear hug (or wolf hug), and he picked you up and carried you into his room, kicking the door closed with his foot. 

“I missed you,” he said, face buried in your hair. 

“You saw me like 3 hours ago,” you giggled in response. 

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen you all week! Gotta get my Y/N fill or I might die!” 

You laughed loudly, hands threading up into his hair as he sat down on the bed with you seated in his lap. 

“Yeah, yeah, just try not to crowd me,” you cheekily replied. 

He raised an eyebrow before tackling you back onto the bed, tickling you like a maniac and placing playful kisses all over your face and neck. 

“Like this?! Don’t crowd you like this?” 

“Embry stop!” you laughed, trying to suck in a breath between his manic tickles. When he finally stopped, he was lying between your legs, one hand grasping both your wrists above your head, the other propped beside you so as to not crush you. He stared lovingly at your face before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your lips. His grip on your arms loosened, as if to say You can stop me anytime, but you didn’t. You kissed him back, arms staying in place to tell him that you were okay. 

The kisses grew slightly more heated, but Embry kept them gentle. And every time you thought he was about to take things to the next step, he’d just kiss you some more. You were growing slightly impatient, breath labored and blood pumping fast. Your stomach became slightly warm, and every time you leaned up, he’d pull away. 

“You’re being mean,” you whimpered. 

He just looked at you and smirked before leaning down and capturing your lips once more. You could feel your blood heat in every part of your body. From your head to your toes, you felt warm and fuzzy, yet desperate for more,,, more touch, more pressure, more Embry. Growing frustrated, you hooked your legs around his waist and tried your best to pull him closer, unintentionally grinding your hips into his. When he brushed up against your core, you let out an involuntary sigh. It actually felt nice. He smiled into the kiss, pulling his lips away from yours and dragging them down to your jaw, and then your neck, suckling and sucking and leaving light red marks that made your head spin. The hand that was holding your wrists came down behind your back and up into your hair, firmly pulling your head back to give him better access to your neck. 

This movement made your entire back arch up into his body. His grip in your hair tightened slightly, lips sucking your skin up into his mouth as he nibbled, before soothing with his tongue. Your toes curled, legs pulling him impossibly closer. When he felt this, he ground his hips down into yours. The combination of his hands, lips, and weight on top of you made you let out a gasp. Your hands held onto his shoulders for dear life, pulling his shirt up in an attempt to take it off. He got the hint and sat up to remove it, being away from your body for far too long for your taste. He didn’t lower fully back down, however, instead sliding his warm hands under your shirt and onto your stomach. You sat up, taking your sweatshirt off and throwing it violently across the room. His eyes widened as they looked down at your bare chest in an almost feral fashion. He gripped your thighs, tugging you down the bed with ease, and resuming his position on top of you, hands roaming all over your torso. He cupped your breasts gently, rolling your nipples softly between his fingers. You shut your eyes and threw your head back, enjoying the sensations. His kisses trailed from your neck and down to your chest, softly. Lovingly. When he reached your nipples, his tongue poked out and licked around each of them, before taking them into his mouth and sucking. His hands continued to caress your back, and he took his sweet time switching from one breast to the other, and back again, until he felt your skin grow almost as hot as his. You were writhing underneath him, panting as your mind tried to comprehend the sensations. And his mouth, God it was so warm. You felt him kiss the undersides of your breasts, and then your stomach, and then lower… 

When he reached the waistband of your leggings, he brought his hands up as if to pull them off of you. He stopped, looking up at you for permission. You gave a lazy nod Yes, and lifted your hips to help him. He pulled your underwear off as well, spreading your legs and almost salivating at the sight of your soaking pussy. Not wanting to waste another second, he once again began placing kisses on your lower stomach, and then down to your hip bones, scraping his teeth lightly against the skin, which had you shuddering. He trailed lower, to where your thighs met your core, and began to suck lightly and the soft skin there. Your clit was throbbing by now, desperate for any sort of attention. You thrust your hips up, desperate for his mouth on the place you needed him, but he only pulled your legs over his shoulders and brought his arms across your stomach to hold you in place. Your hands went to his hair in an effort to control any aspect of this situation, but the boy was strong. He teased and teased and teased, until you thought you might very well crawl out of your own skin if he didn’t properly touch you soon. Embry brought his face right up to your center and licked into your entrance, making your toes curl once more. His hands gripped your hips as he brought you as far onto his tongue as he could, nose not quite brushing where you still needed him. 

“Embry…” you whimpered, about to tell him what you needed. 

“I know, baby. I got you,” he spoke, as he finally brought his warm tongue to lick a firm stripe up to your clit, swirling it around and sucking the swollen nub into his mouth. 

You let out a moan. A real one. Your first real one. And it only encouraged Embry, as he began to suck and lick with a steady rhythm that caused your legs to shake. You felt your stomach start to coil after several minutes of this, hands fisting Embry’s hair even tighter. It felt amazing, but that coil wouldn’t snap. He started to notice you coming down slightly, orgasm fading away, when he brought his index finger into your mouth. You sucked on instinct, before he pulled it out and brought it down to your entrance. He swirled the digit around a few times and began to push in slowly. One knuckle. Then two. And then he was fully in you. Sucking your clit into his mouth yet again, he rubbed his finger up into your front wall, massaging the ridges there. 

“Oh… Embry, oh my God,” you moaned. He used more pressure, and then brought his finger out and added another, slowly pushing them in together and resuming the ‘come-hither’ motion. You felt your muscles shake, losing all control, and the coil in your stomach tightened rapidly once again, only this time, it broke. Your back arched, eyes shut tight, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard. Waves of pleasure drove through you, hands holding his head firmly onto your center. When you came down and opened your eyes, you looked down at his face to see an excited grin. 

“If you tell me that was fake, I think I’ll cry,” he chirped. 

You calmed your hard breathing enough to mutter a “That was real.” 

“Do you wanna keep going?” he asked. 

You nodded, taking note of the obvious tent in his shorts. You reached a hand down to grasp him, when he grabbed your wrist and said “Nuh-uh, I’m still making it up to you.” 

He stood up off the bed and went over to a plastic shopping bag on his desk. He opened it and pulled out a condom, some lube, and a small pink toy. Your eyes widened, and he cockily stated, “told you I’d do some research. Come here Sweetheart.” He held a hand out to help you up, and moved you so that you were on your hands and knees, bum facing him as he stood at the edge of the bed. He tore the condom packet open with his teeth and rolled it on, and then opened the bottle of lube and slathered it all over himself. He then brought what was left on his hand up to your sensitive core, distributing the substance gently. Throwing the bottle onto the floor, he lined himself up with your entrance. 

“You sure you wanna keep going?” he asked. You nodded in response. “I need you to say it, babe.” 

“Yes, I want to keep going, Em,” you almost cried. 

“Okay, but I need you to tell me if it hurts even a little. Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

He grasped your hip with one hand, guiding himself in with the other. Slowly, carefully, he became fully seated inside you, giving you a moment to adjust. You felt no pain, just a delicious stretch inside your walls. When Embry saw that you were relaxed, he pulled himself out a couple of inches and softly thrusted back in, looking for any signs of discomfort. He found none, and continued. He dragged himself in and out of you at a torturous pace that made your breathing pick up yet again. You needed more. You began rocking yourself back onto him, begging for a faster pace, and he complied. He pulled out several inches more this time, shoving back in at a quicker pace that had your toes curling and your moans going up in pitch. At this, he stopped holding back. Embry began pounding into you, hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave the good kind of bruise. You were moaning loudly, brain turning to mush. This is what sex was supposed to be like. What you’d always imagined it would be like. Passionate, loving, amazing. 

Embry found himself reaching the edge, but would not allow himself to finish before you. He reached down onto the bed for the small pink toy that you had forgotten about. He flicked it on, brought his other hand down and around your throat to pull you up against him, and held the small vibrator right onto your clit. The pounding pressure of his dick paired with the fervent vibrations had you seeing stars. You came. Hard. You didn’t know how long the orgasm had lasted. When you came to, you were lying on your back on the bed, breathing still labored, as Embry cleaned your thighs off with a damp towel. He noticed you looking up at him. 

“Hey, Sweetheart,” he cooed.

“Hey,” you responded weakly. 

“How ya doing?” 

“Really good,” you laughed. 

“Yeah?” he beamed at you as you nodded in response. “Good. I’m gonna get you some water and then we can cuddle, okay?” You only smiled in contentment as he walked off into the hallway, returning shortly with a cup of cold water. “Sit up for me?” 

“Can’t,” you answered, eliciting a laugh from him. 

“C’mon, I’ll help you,” he spoke as he gently held the back of your head, supporting you as you leaned up to drink from the cup he was holding up to your mouth. After you took a few sips, he seemed satisfied and placed the cup on the floor, lying down next to you and pulling you close. “If you start ignoring me after that, I might have to kill you,” he teased. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t ever ignore you again.” You sighed in contentment, listening to Embry’s soothing heartbeat, before you began to wonder. “By the way, what the heck kind of research did you do?” 

He huffed a laugh before responding, “Some guy on the internet called Owen Grey.” 

[unbridgeabledistances]

hi 💜💜 i got a prompt about ian x body image a while ago (my inbox is a hot mess and i may have deleted the prompt lol, but i did paste it into my phone notes)- and i was feeling some feelings today & had some spare time amidst my travels & ended up writing this!!

prompt: can you write about ian and his relationship with his body image, esp post-canon when they move to the westside

(tw for body image/eating disorder/food mentions)

--

He didn’t really even think about it the first times that he did it— skipping a few meals that went unnoticed in the morning clamor of the Gallagher kitchen. He noticed his skin growing tauter and tighter around his abdomen with every passing day, a hollow absence sitting like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

He did it for a reason—he’d been getting more lingering looks under the flashing lights at the club, more unwelcome fingers pressed against the now-present ridges on his stomach, tracing his toned upper arms. The less there was of him, the more they wanted him.

The thing about Ian is that he was always disciplined; the middle child, the one who was overlooked and ignored and blended in until he decided that he had to make a name for himself. He and Lip and gotten into hair-tugging, jaw-smashing fights about this very reality; Ian was completely, totally, absolutely ordinary. Until he made himself extraordinary—until he burst through the storefront labeled “ARMY” at a strip mall with smudged windows and said with a tall chest: I want to enlist.

Everything had led up to this— every push-up on the creaking slanted floor of their childhood bedroom, every jog at the crack of dawn. He was going to make something of himself, he was going to be a hero.

He was going to get the fuck away from Mickey, and his wife, and whatever else kept pushing him down and holding him back.

When Ian came back from the army, when he was sleeping on exposed floorboards and working at the club all night—that was when it all actually started. When he decided that less of him meant more—when he decided that he should give people the best show he could, because everything else was fucked up anyways. This was all he was good for.

But then Mickey came through the door, pale skin flashing in the strobe lights, wearing that fucking dark button-up with sleeves folded to his forearms and smelling like nice cologne that he’d almost definitely stolen from one of his brothers’ bathroom shelves; and for a brief moment after the initial shock set in, Ian was proud— proud of how much negative space surrounded him, proud of how he could press his thighs into stretched golden spandex better than any of the other men thrumming to the beat beside him on the podium. Proud of how much other people wanted him, when Mickey didn't.

It was only later, after Mickey carried him home (easily, too easily) after he’d passed out in a snowbank, and Ian had woken and waited for Mickey to burst into his bedroom door at the Gallagher house while he leaned against the wall and scribbled on a notepad— later, when Mickey was about to curl on the floor and sleep using one of Liam’s balled-up t-shirts as a pillow— that Ian noticed Mickey’s eyes lingering on his uncovered torso, a second longer than the quick glances of admiration from the well-dressed men with greased-back hair and grubby fingers at the club. It hit Ian, then, when he saw Mickey’s gaze that was soft around the edges, the same fuzziness and confusion of Fiona’s stares when he would chatter on for too long in the mornings:

He’s worried about me.

But Mickey played along— Ian was back, and Mickey stayed beside him this time, and chuckled when he walked down the stairs to the sight of Ian cutting off the bottom half of his old ROTC pants, now multiple sizes too big and hanging baggy even at the hips. Mickey curled beside him on the twin bed, silently stroking hair back from his forehead and cradling his cheeks with a feather-light touch as Lip and Liam’s even, sleeping breaths swirled around them. And Ian kept doing pull-ups, and told Carl that he liked the way that Mickey smelled. Mickey came out for him. And for a while things were really, really fucking good, and Ian didn’t even think about the gnawing hollow feeling in his stomach at all any more.

Until a grey morning came, quick and silent, and kept him frozen under the sheets for days.

In the months afterwards, Ian trained harder, faster—he met up with Fiona as she pushed Liam in the stroller and jogged beside them, ran before and after shifts at the club, did push-ups on Mickey’s grimy floor while he was out handling Rub N’ Tug shit.

I’m not Monica. This wasn’t going to happen again. His body could do this. His body could fix his brain.

It couldn’t.

Most of what happened on the “road trip” with Yevgeny (that was the only phrasing that Ian could really mentally use to name the incident, the only semiotic filler for “kidnapping” that didn’t want to make him burrow even deeper under his tattered blankets) was a blur—Mickey feeding him fistfuls of pills and room-temperature Gatorade, luring Mickey to the dugouts where he tried to do a pull-up and felt a quivering in his limbs, a weakness rather than a familiar and fulfilling burn. Slamming Mickey in the face with a fist that was too flimsy, too weak—a fist that still left the blooming of a bruise on Mickey’s jawline, a splatter of blood caking into his eyebrow. But still weak, still not enough. Definitely not strong enough to fight off two MPs with loaded guns, tangling his hands behind his back and forcing him into the backseat of a car.

More blurry days— on the road with Monica. Breaking up with Mickey. Getting a job at Patsy’s. Withering away, purple bags sagging under his eyes. Becoming less, always less.

Then, a glimmer of light— he met Caleb. He studied to be an EMT. He got a call from Mandy, got to wrap her in his arms in less-than-ideal circumstances.

“I got tired of starving myself to fit in that golden thong.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

He started to run again—and he started to not miss it, the hollow feeling gnawing at his insides, the twisting lack. He met Trevor, he went to brunches, he ordered mimosas and muffins and kept himself in shape, but didn’t push himself too far.

So it surprised him, really, when once again his body and mind weren’t in sync.

That was the biggest thing he’d think about, in the idle hours of he and Mickey’s prison cell, months later—that for once in his life, years after the nights at the club or the hazy early mornings at Patsy’s or in a baggy janitor uniform, he was actually doing really, really fucking good. He had a following. He was strong. Or at least he thought he was.

But something about being near Mickey pulled him out of his head and into his body, centered him— it always did. Mickey had always liked his body; Ian remembered how Mickey’s eyed at lingered that night at the dugouts, when they were two kids doing pull-ups and Mickey watched his muscles clench in the moonlight, two sets of shining eyes and bodies warm with beer leaning closer to each other in the muggy air. But Ian never felt a need to flaunt his body, or change his body, for Mickey— and in so many ways, those first days in prison were like his body was coming home. Sometimes it was hard, and fast, and filthy words whispered into each other’s skin—and sometimes it left them grasping for breath in an entirely different way, in fingertips lazily skimming over collarbones and fisted into roots of hair, of breathed “Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful”s escaping Mickey’s parted mouth that Ian mentally stored but never brought up again, because he knew in the best case scenario Mickey would just roll his eyes and call him a “soft bitch,” and in the worst he would just flat-out deny it. But Ian felt balanced in a way he hadn't in months, with all the "Gay Jesus" bullshit pressing in. He took his meds, he did his nightly sit-ups, he counted down the days—until the hourglass was slipped out from under his fingertips and he was teleported back to the Gallagher house, back to the place where so much of this began and so much was about to end.

The hollowness, the hunger, didn’t really need to be there anymore once he was out— it was only a dull murmur. A ghost, a memory trapped in dreams of strobe lights and prying hands.

Mickey got out, and they got married—and in the moments before Ian called Mickey an “ugly motherfucker” as he let a smile crack onto his face—and he knew Mickey felt it, knew Mickey heard: I have never known anyone as beautiful as you.

And Ian’s fullness just kept blooming and compounding and radiating after the wedding; they fought, and then they didn’t, and it didn’t matter anyways because they were fucking married. Ian kept doing sit-ups before they went to bed, even though he felt like he didn’t really have to anymore. Something big had shifted; something had settled and given way, had filled in all the cracks.

So he’s surprised, when they move to the West Side, and that feeling starts to stir again; faint, fuzzy, like some sort of invasive and shapeless amoeba in the dark corners of his brain, whispering and hissing that there should be less of him. On their first morning in the new place he heads to the gym, wearing a camo t-shit that covered his torso and shoulders—and of course he ends up making a fool of himself next to some guy, some guy that he could have been, with sweaty toned abs and bronzed skin and rippling muscles. He doesn’t know why it gets to him, that small interaction—he’s so much happier now, so fucking happy he’s buzzing with it, but there’s also something churning in the faultlines of transition; that aching for hollow absence and stretched skin and interested eyes, that feeling that made him woozy and lightheaded as a kid but also sickeningly proud, like every moment of standing tall, of dancing, of staying alive was a statement, a challenge, a test of how much he could push his ability to be desired.

He immediately pushes the thought down. He doesn’t fucking need that anymore to keep his head above water; he’s stable, he’s loved, he’s fed. He’s growing organic tomatoes, and definitely developing a farmer’s tan from his days hunched over their way-too-tiny community garden plot tenderly watering and pruning the vines and brambles. He is desired. So it doesn’t make fucking sense that the hunger, the clawing in his stomach for the absence, doesn’t really stop.

**

“Okay Gallagher, spill.”

Ian felt his eyebrow raise instinctively at Mickey’s tone. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at this fancy fucking chicken thing you made for, like, twenty minutes. Stop staring at it and eat your goddamn dinner.”

He felt a twist in his gut. I don’t want to.

“M’actually not really that hungry.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck’s up? You stressed about work shit?”

Ian huffed out a breath of relief. “Nah. It’s not that.” He fiddled with his fork on the plate, drawing lines into the sauce pooled under the tomato-basil chicken he’d made. It was healthy, it was good, he’d worked out today; he could stomach a couple bites of dinner if he fucking had to. He just had to work up to it. Even the smell was making his stomach twist— it had smelled good while he was cooking it, placing fresh-scented basil leaves into the simmering sauce, but now it just was too much.

Mickey’s boot nudged against his calf from under the kitchen island. “Ey. Is it a tired thing? Or a… sick thing?” His eyes darted to their kitchen cupboard, where Ian kept his meds on the bottom shelf by the water glasses. “Or, like, a food thing?”

Ian felt his fingers go slack around his fork. “A food thing?”

“Yeah, man, y’know. When you get all weird about food.”

A tightness in his chest. “What the fuck? I don’t get weird about food.”

Mickey’s eyes flickered to meet his—and Ian would have gotten more pissed off if he didn’t see the soft concern bleeding into Mickey’s gaze, how cautiously Mickey was trying to broach the topic. Ian blew out a breath. Of fucking course Mickey noticed this shit— he always did.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re usually good, especially compared to when you were fucking starving yourself when we were kids. But, uh… I don’t know.” Now it was Mickey’s turn to play with his food, scraping his fork along the remnants of sauce on his plate that was nearly clean. “You got kind of weird about working out and shit in prison. And then at the house, with all the quarantine bullshit the first few weeks. Eating fuckin’ cereal all the time, then not eating at all. You’ve been normal since then, or whatever. Lookin’ healthy.” Ian felt Mickey’s gaze drag over him. “Just don’t want you getting stressed out and not eating again or whatever.”

Ian felt a muted warmth blooming in the hollow of his stomach, filling in the cracks of where the jagged feeling continued to claw. If it was anyone else laying out this fucking analysis of his habits Ian would’ve gotten defensive—or at the very least annoyed, that someone was pinning down yet another one of his behaviors, putting them under a fucking clinical microscope.

But of course, this was Mickey— and the difference with Mickey was that he cared, he cared so much that it made Ian’s body ache every time he realized it. Those words wouldn’t have come tumbling out of Mickey’s mouth if they hadn’t been building for a while, hadn’t been gnawing away at some corner of his mind over time.

Ian raised a hand over the table to clasp into Mickey’s warm palm—reaching over the empty plate, the plate of uneaten food.

“It’s, uh. A food thing.”

Mickey’s eyes met his—open, listening.

“You’re right about all the starving myself shit from forever ago. And the not eating. And the… quarantine stuff. I guess I just thought that now that things were good, it’d go away? And I feel so fucking good right now. But sometimes I just have weird days.”

Mickey huffed out a breath. “I fucking know you do, dumbass. M’just saying that I notice that shit. And we can figure it out.”

Ian felt the corner of his mouth tick upwards. “I really thought it was gonna go away. I’m a fucking adult.”

Mickey shrugged. “Sometimes shit doesn’t work like that, Gallagher.” He chugged a sip of water from his glass, apparently glad that this heavier part of the conversation was over now that he knew what was up. “It’s like what you tell me about my shit with Terry. Trauma doesn’t just magically fucking disappear.”

Trauma. He’d never really thought about it like that before—he had plenty of childhood shit to work through, between abandonment and raging mental illness; and he’d never really thought that his body image issues made the list.

But maybe they did— maybe this was another wound, one that he could learn to heal.

Mickey kicked his shin under the table. “There’s cereal and stuff in the cabinet, I got the Fruit Loops shit you like. Want me to wrap up the chicken and shove it in the fridge?”

All he could do was nod— and once again feel that warmth on his insides that Mickey was this good, that he knew how to make shit like this easier.

And he snuggled into the couch beside his husband, a bowl of soggy cereal in his hands.

[bittykimmy13]

Luck and Miracles (GT Angst)

In which a trapped trinket is discovered.

Warning: Mentions of cruelty

Characters and universe belong to me and the lovely @marydublin5​ / @little-miss-maggie​ 💕

Charles was lucky to be alive. And that was about where his luck ran dry.

He had been trapped for over a day. Footsteps thundered past his prison constantly, but no one gave a crushed beer can a second glance. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone stepped on the can or whisked it up to toss it in the trash. All his attempts to squeeze past the crumpled aluminum were in vain. With each failed effort, he only exhausted himself further.

Of all the ways to die as a trinket, he hadn’t seen this one coming.

It had been a seemingly routine night at the bar. He was ordered with a fancy drink, abandoned in the glass when the customer was done with him. Then another man, on his way back to his friends, had come by and plucked him up before a server could clear the table. 

Before Charles knew it, a group of humans had crowded around him at a corner booth to keep him from sight. Huge faces marveled and sneered at his size. They normally couldn’t afford trinkets, judging by their choice of cheap beers. Charles had every intention of riding out the situation, but he knew he was in trouble when one of the guys posed the question of whether a trinket could fit through the top of a can.

He still had shallow cuts on his arms and legs—a parting gift from his struggle when he was forced through the sharp opening. The beer had stung the wounds when he dropped in. Laughter had rattled through the can. Being a bar trinket was hellish enough, but a new fear had drenched him in the darkness. There was no warning when the can would be lifted and chugged at. 

It seemed he was forgotten by the end of the night. Or perhaps the men worried they would get into trouble for snatching a trinket. Whatever the case, Charles’ prison had been carried outside. With little warning, the top of the can was crushed into itself, and he felt himself plummet. The impact on the sidewalk knocked him out cold. It was a miracle he had survived the fall.

Luck and miracles. What a joke.

Weak and dehydrated, he finally caved and drank from the shallow pool of beer trapped with him. He knew logically that it would only make things worse, but at least he could trick himself for a few minutes that he was nourishing himself.  Before long, he felt weaker than ever, head buzzing.

The slight drunkenness injected a futile bit of confidence—just enough to make another escape attempt. He tried to shove his way through the concave part of the can. The opening let in a sliver of light, taunting him with freedom that was inches out of reach. He only managed to rock his prison and make himself dizzier. 

Footsteps pounded nearby, disturbing the can more than Charles’ worthless struggles. He slumped back down on his hands and knees, barely able to hold himself up.

The footsteps stopped.

They trailed closer, closer, then stopped again.

Charles held his breath, realizing the can had finally been noticed. This was it. He was going to be thrown away. Maybe this time the fall would kill him. But there was an unnervingly long pause like the giant was waiting for something to happen.

A man’s voice came from high above. “Hello?”

Choking on his trapped breath, Charles realized his movements had been noticed. He didn’t budge again, praying the giant would lose interest when nothing happened. But it was too late. 

Aluminum creaked as fingers closed around the outside of the can and lifted it upright. He slid to the bottom, bracing himself when a shadow darkened overhead. He glimpsed a blue eye peeking through the opening. The eye widened when it spotted him huddling in the darkness.

The giant uncrushed the can, making the walls groan and crackle. Charles whimpered and ducked his head, feeling the same stab of fear from last night that the aluminum would pulverize him.

“I’ll get you out of there,” the owner of the eye said, remarkably calm. A fingertip grazed the opening experimentally. A sigh. “You’ll cut yourself if you go through there. Hang on.”

The can was carried off. A car door opened and shut, and the giant settled into a seat. Charles braced his back against the damp wall, flinching at the sound of metallic rifling until the giant found whatever he was looking for.

“Keep your head down,” the voice commanded. “I’m cutting this open.”

Something stabbed through the wall near the top of the can, prompting Charles to do as he was told. The sharp point circled around until the entire ceiling of Charles’ prison was lifted away. Light stung his eyes. He squinted up at his captor, spotting curly brown hair and intense eyes that did not seem to match the mild voice. 

The giant reached for him. Charles reared against the metal wall, batting at the fingers. 

“D-don’t touch me!”

His attempts to evade were pathetic at best. The fingers gently pinned him before gradually curling to take him into their grasp. He expected to hear a scoff or sinister chuckle as he continued to fight. Instead, he was met with murmured assurances. 

“It’s alright,” the voice said, patient. “You need to get out of there. It’ll only take a second. I won’t hurt you.”

The giant brought Charles before his gaze, which searched him up and down. For what, Charles couldn’t be sure. He continued to squirm weakly as the giant briefly turned his attention away to rifle for something else. The next thing Charles knew, he was seated on the giant’s lap upon a handkerchief the size of a picnic blanket. A bowl of water was pressed into his hands—no, a water bottle cap.

“Drink,” the giant said simply. He mostly held the cap, coaxing Charles to drink as much as he could. He could only manage half the cap, after which he shook his head for no more. 

The cap was pulled away. Before Charles could even wonder what would come next, the giant hands gathered him up along with the handkerchief. Charles huddled into the cloth, flinching severely each time to the giant nudged a fold closer to dry the beer off him.

“Don’t worry,” the giant murmured. “You’ll be able to clean up properly soon. I’ll get you some food at home, too.”

“H-home?” Charles croaked. He dared to meet the giant’s eyes, almost losing his nerve at the stare he was met with. “W-what do you want with me?”

“To help.”

Charles scoffed before he could consider that humoring the giant might be his best option. But it was too late for that. Charles ducked his head as the giant leaned in closer for a better look.

“Whatever horrible worst-case scenarios are playing in your head right now… none of them are going to happen.” The giant sighed when Charles refused to look at him. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

Unsure what to believe, Charles tentatively peered up. “Why are you doing this? W-who are you?”

“I’m Will. I just… want to help.” He gave Charles a lingering, melancholy look, then glanced side to side through the car windows. “There’s people starting to walk by. We need to go.”

“H-hey!” Charles protested as Will moved him toward his pocket.

The exclamation did him no good. He sank to the bottom of his new prison, wrapped up in the soft cloth. The car started. It was so loud, Charles almost didn’t hear the voice rumbling against him. As the car lurched into motion, Will murmured for Charles not to worry. That he was safe. That he would have his own bed. Plenty of food. Space to roam. Whatever he wanted.

It had to be a fever dream.

Though Charles knew this was all too good to be true, he was willing to hold onto the delusion as long as he could. He settled against the bottom of the pocket, bone-tired. 

Somehow, the darkness began to feel less like a prison. Perhaps because it was warm and calm. Perhaps because, finally, he had been noticed.

[honeymoonjin]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 9.3k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:

Sick of unsatisfying hookups, boring relationships or the company of your own hand? Apply today for the chance to be on bangasm.com’s very first reality show! Seven attractive young gentlemen will be vying for your choice of who is best in bed. All from different backgrounds, these men claim they’ll be able to rock your world, so don’t hesitate! Apply now!

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as the Lady in the first season of The Gentlemen.

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: filmed sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, fingering, praise, creampie, cursing, body worship

banner designer @jamaisjoons​ | dedicated to my sfhs girls and everyone in the villa <3

DAY SIXTEEN

The realisation of the decision you have to make hits you like a truck the moment you wake up.

You hadn’t lied to Yoongi last night. Chatting with him about it was helpful, and you’re insanely grateful for his attentiveness and the fact that you can be honest with him about things like that. But it doesn’t mean you’re any closer to knowing who you want to be eliminated.

You’ve barely been awake and coherent for a minute before your phone buzzes noisily on your nightstand. Blinking blearily at the screen, a message from Taehyung lights it up. Bunkroom, please.

He’d sent it two minutes ago, your phone giving you that 2min reminder. It must have been what woke you. Your sleepy fingers manage to type out a quick coming now before you force yourself out from the cosiness of the covers and heading down.

Jimin is already there when you arrive, arms crossed to preserve the warmth of his body and perched on the foot of Taehyung’s bed. The masseuse had picked the two-set of bunks, directly across from the door, and he sits wrapped up in blankets, cross-legged and leaning against the far wall. He pats the mattress with a covered hand and you sit between the two, Jimin naturally scooting up to sandwich you between the two.

“Is this an intervention?” you joke weakly, voice still croaky from sleep.

“Not really.” You feel the pressure of Taehyung’s head on your shoulder. “Do you know who you’re voting out yet?”

You let out a self-deprecating scoff. “I do not.”

Taehyung goes silent for a moment. “Well… I have an idea.”

Jimin turns to face him, clearly just as in the dark as you are. “About who to vote out?”

“Kinda,” Taehyung murmurs. The only light in the room is what sneaks in through the crack of the doorway. You let your eyes slip shut as Taehyung winds his fingers into yours. “I want you to vote out me.”

Both you and Jimin go stiff, protesting at the same time. “Tae…”

“No,” the older man to your left says harshly. “Why would you want that?”

Taehyung seems to similarly shrink away and lean in closer, making himself small. “It would be easier on Y/n,” he states in an equally small voice.

Your eyes snap open even though you can only see grey-scale versions of the boys. “Tae, that’s not how this is meant to be. I’m a big girl; I’ll live.”

“You don’t get it,” Taehyung insists, sitting up and untangling himself from you so he can face you full-on. “I know the decision is hard on you. But it’s really hard on us too, and I realised last night that it’s not because I’m worried about getting voted out, it’s because I hate seeing you so upset. We’ve already made a promise to each other. I’ve seen more of you and shared more with you than most of the other guys, and I just think… You know, fuck the competition. You and Jimin both mean more to me than the game, and so I think I’d be happy to take that hit to make things easier on all of us.” His gaze drops, fingers picking at the thread of the blanket. “And, you know, maybe we’d be able to keep us a secret longer if the others saw you vote me out.”

While you sit stunned into silence, Jimin burst into action, gripping your thigh gently but emphatically. “It should be me, then. You’ve been nothing less than a sweetheart this entire time, Tae, you don’t deserve last place. Let Y/n vote me.”

Taehyung chuckles, no sadness or resentment in his voice. “Nobody would believe that Y/n would vote you out, Minnie,” he quips, his teeth gleaming in the dim room. “You’re too good at what you do.”

“I’ve been an asshole. I got in a fight the other day. I don’t think it’s hard to believe at all.” Taehyung makes a noise of protest in his throat, so Jimin cuts back in before he can voice it. “At least let’s flip a coin for it. Leave it up to chance.”

Your body goes lax against the wall with a silent sob of miserable irony. Just yesterday Taehyung had jauntily suggested you could choose who to vote off with a coin toss, and now he was rifling through his bag for one, to see if he or Jimin would be the one to leave. “I haven’t even said yes,” you point out lowly, “I haven’t said I want this. That I’m happy for one of you to leave.”

Jimin lets out a quiet sigh, his face cast in the warm hallway light as Taehyung opens the door wider to see more. “But would you be happier if you made one of them seventh place? Had them think they’re the worst in the house?”

“At least this way we won’t be offended or mad at you,” Taehyung assures as he returns, running his thumb over the engravings on a 50 won coin. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

They’re waiting for you. You bite down on your tongue and force yourself to think. To picture the faces of the others, of how they might react. Hoseok if he was on the chopping block for the second time in a row. Namjoon if he felt like his inexperience was his downfall. Jungkook thinking the fight yesterday was the nail in his coffin, or Jin seeing your elimination as a rejection of him and his feelings. Yoongi after letting you confide in him only to send him figuratively packing.

You’d have to eliminate them eventually. All but one of the guys on this show would face that goodbye at some point. Was it selfish of you to push it off for one more week?

“You can flip it,” you decide after a moment, your stomach sinking immediately. “Fuck, this sucks. I’m so sorry.”

Jimin’s grip on your thigh squeezes once comfortingly, and Taehyung rubs your shoulder, before he turns to his elder. “Min, heads or tails?”

“Heads,” Jimin picks without hesitation.

Taehyung, however, does hesitate. “Doesn’t heads come up more often?” he questions warily.

Jimin grits his teeth and nods. “It should be me.”

The masseuse frowns, his black curls like a dark halo as he steadies the coin on his thumb. “Whoever’s comes up gets eliminated?”

Jimin nods again. “Flip it, Tae.”

The second he flicks his thumb and the coin rises, you squeeze your eyes shut, not even breathing. Hoping that the moment where both of them are going to stay in could last a little longer.

The two boys go silent. You feel their eyes on you, then their hands, both slipping into yours just seconds apart from each other. Feeling your eyes prickle, you clear your throat. “Who is it?”

Without a word, your right side becomes heavy as Taehyung buries his face into your shoulder, free arm wrapping tightly around your waist.

You begin to cry before you can even think to stop it, leaning back into him as much as you can with both your hands occupied. Opening your eyes, they remain too blurry to really see out of, but you feel the two of them shift, fingers wiping under your cheeks and cupping your jaw.

“Hey, shh, don’t cry, petal,” Taehyung voice croons, smooth like velvet. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

You sniff shudderingly, detaching your hands from theirs so you can press over your eyes, composing yourself. “Sorry,” you mumble in a thick voice, “I’ll just miss you.”

You blink away the last of your tears so that his face comes into focus, lips curving slightly, eyes swimming with emotion and with tears of his own. “Hey,” he soothes again, “I’m not going anywhere. All this means is that I can’t have sex with you. It’s not like sex is the only valuable thing about you, the only thing I like about you, you know? I can still hold your hand, I can still be beside you, I can still make you smile. I wanna see that pretty smile again, petal.”

Even though you probably look like a mess, and your heart is fizzy with mangled emotion, you can’t fight the smile that stretches across your lips. Taehyung brightens at the sight, praising you softly as you reach out and shove him playfully. “You sap,” you whine petulantly, heart settling nonetheless.

Having let the two of you share that moment together, Jimin finally pitches in, his voice bright and soothing like yuja tea. “Worst case scenario,” he jibes lightly, “you’ll just have to fuck pup with his hands tied and take the punishment.”

Your laugh is watery but it’s genuine. “Ah, Tae, are you gonna put me in some crazy lingerie or something?”

“I don’t have to when you look gorgeous in everything you wear already,” he admits with a fond smile, before it stretches wider, a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Lingerie sounds nice though. Good thinking.”

Jimin clears his throat lightly and stands up off the bed, slipping his phone out of his pocket to consult the time. “It’s just gone eight, so you have about an hour. I’ll give you two some privacy, yeah?”

Jimin shuts the door behind him, inadvertently pitching the room back into darkness. Taehyung lets out a breathy giggle, getting up to stumble around for the curtains.

You wince and shield your eyes when the white walls gleam with the brightness of the morning sun.

Taehyung looks more gorgeous in the well-lit room than he did in a dim one, so you will your eyes to quickly adjust, drinking him in. Deep chocolate curls resting on his brow, he shakes them back as he gestures up with a single hand. “We should probably go on the top bunk.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I don’t wanna get my hair caught on the metal springs on the bottom there,” he explains, leaning forward to wrap his fingers around the network of wire that holds up the mattress of the top bunk just above your head. “I swear I’ve done that so many times in just this one night. It hurts.”

Slipping out dutifully, you climb the few rungs of the ladder to sit atop the bunk, reminded of the last time you stayed here with Namjoon and Hoseok. The mood is so different now, only emphasised by the way Taehyung gently tips you back against the pillow the second he joins you.

“Tae, what are you- Tae,” you gasp, feeling the slight tickle of his hair on your neck as he leans in and pulls the neckline of your sleep shirt over your shoulder, baring the flesh. His lips leave light butterfly kisses over the sensitive skin, making you sigh out at the feeling. “What are you doing, Tae?”

He sits up, braced by his forearms on either side of your head. Like this, his hair casts a shadow over his face, but you can see the insistent fire in his eyes. “I want to touch you, petal,” he confesses, “one last time.”

Your heart is seized with emotion, a lump thickening in your throat. “It won’t be the last last time, Tae.”

“True,” he acquiesces, “but for the rest of our time here I’ll have to see the others with you, our Minnie will be able to still be with you, but you and I won’t be able to do any more than hold hands. Won’t you let me treat you like your deserve before then?”

You nod quickly, breath hitching. “Touch me, Tae.”

This time he doesn’t waste time shifting the fabric to the side. Instead, his large palms slip under the small of your back, guiding you to arch it so he can slip your shirt off entirely, tossing it down all the way to the floor.

You sit up and peer over the edge with a wince, glancing back up at Taehyung. “Please don’t fall over,” you plead in a small voice.

The masseuse grins fondly, taking a peek before moving the other way, towards the wall. “It’s not that high,” he protests softly, even as he props himself up on one elbow, his leg thrown low over your thighs, keeping you locked in close too. His hand lowers to run lightly down your side, making you shiver. “Better?”

You bite your lip and nod. “Better.”

With a slightly bemused hum, Taehyung dips his head and his lips find your skin again, making use of the lack of shirt to trail kisses lower, unhurried even with the very real threat of the deadline hanging over you.

You let out an airy sigh at the intimate way he moves down your shoulder, over your collarbones, to the swell of your chest. Instead of a straight line, every kiss is plotted out in mindless curls and loops, like he wants to cover as much ground as possible.

As his hair tickles your skin, it sends tingles running down your nerves, your nipples peaking as they anticipate his attention. “Tae…” you breathe, giggling when his chaste touches make you shiver.

His voice vibrates slightly against your skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises, his free arm slipping over to gently grasp your arm, thumb running over the crook of your inner elbow. “So gorgeous, petal.”

His palms are like hot coals against your skin as it breaks out in goosebumps, hair standing on end. It feels like a quiet eternity before his mouth reaches one of your nipples, closing around it with the sudden wet heat of his tongue. You cry out at the unexpected stimulation and jerk, but the weight of his head, leg and arm carefully pinning you against the sheets keep you steady.

Taehyung takes his time worshipping your breasts, sucking your nipple with a wet pop as his hand shifts once more to play with the other. Pausing to lick the pads of his thumb and forefinger, he returns to roll the bud between them, making heat pool in your core.

Part of you feels like pushing his head between your legs, or wrapping your legs around his waist and demanding he fills you, but you don’t want this moment to be over any sooner than it has to be. Instead, your fingers wind into his hair, cradling his head to you as you arch your chest up into that delicious stimulation.

Even as you feel his cock plump up between the layers of clothing that separate you, he doesn’t so much as grind his hips, focussing fully on your pleasure. After what could be mere moments or entire minutes, he swaps over, leaning to the opposite breast to lave his tongue over it, baring the slightest nip of teeth to make you gasp.

It feels like a lazy eternity before his hand moves again, this time running a flat palm between your breasts, down your stomach and slipping under the worn elastic waistband. Wanting to give yourself a little room to breathe under the baggy pants you’d worn to bed, you’d foregone panties, and Taehyung hisses in sharply when his fingers run over your mound and immediately dip into your folds.

Recovering quickly, he begins to massage your hooded clit, using your own wetness to lubricate it for a smoother slide. You let out a throaty moan, legs parting to make more room for his sizeable hand. “Tae,” you pant out again, whimpering when he begins pressing kisses to your stomach.

“Yes, petal?” Taehyung questions sweetly, his movement on your clit so slow that you find yourself rocking your hips against him just for more stimulation.

“Want you to kiss me.”

“I am kissing you,” he counters, lips dragging over your hipbone as he speaks.

You whine. “On the lips, Tae.”

His fingers delve lower, parting your folds. “Which ones?”

Though the thought makes you clench around nothing, you push weakly at his shoulder in protest. “Up here, Tae, wanna kiss you properly.”

He gives in, shifting up to join his swollen lips to yours for the first time since you’d gotten up here. Just as you hook your hand on the nape of his neck and kiss him, he breaches your walls with two slick fingers, making you cry out into his mouth.

Taehyung chuckles, massaging you from the inside, fingers scissoring and curling rather than thrusting. “That feel good, petal?”

You nod shakily, eyes fluttering shut as you put your mind into kissing him properly, tongue running down the seam of his lips so that he parts them for you. He continues to work you open with languid grace, his fingers so long and deft that even the most minimal movements take your breath away.

He may be focused on your pleasure, but he doesn’t seem to be pushing you to orgasm, instead letting you bask in the warmth of your arousal and his steady stimulation. Even as he slips a third finger inside you and uses the base of his palm to rub against your clit, you’re reminded of a massage. The way he draws out the moment so that you can enjoy the experience of it, not just the final result. Your muscles go lax and one of your legs hitch up to spread yourself wider for him, but still his ministrations are so slow that you can’t even hear how obscenely wet you must be.

Still fully clothed, you can feel Taehyung’s hardness against your hip, his leg splayed over one of your thighs to keep you still for him. As your pleasure steadily rises, but that familiar curl in your stomach never tightens, you begin to grow needy. First attempting to rut against his fingers, then nipping at his lip in the hopes of riling him up, you eventually resort to pulling away from him and giving him your best puppy eyes. “Please, Tae, I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes are still blissfully shut from the kiss, and his brows furrow just slightly, hand stilling inside you. “I wanna make this last.”

You bite your lip, pressing a hand to his cheek fondly. “I don’t want to run out of time. We’ll end up being late to the meeting.”

Taehyung sighs, tilting his head to press a kiss to your palm. “Who cares if we’re late?”

Your lip twitches. “Sejin, probably. Do you want him coming up here at one minute past nine, interrupting us?”

The masseuse winces, his fingers slipping out of your wet heat. “You think he’d do that?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t wanna risk it either,” you offer up.

“Fuck.” Taehyung sits up and quickly tugs down your waistband, making you squeal and giggle at his sudden change of pace. “You’re right, shit.”

He strips himself even quicker than he did you, jimmying out of his boxer shorts and tugging his shirt over his head like it’s scalding him. Immediately you feel his erection against your thigh, heavy and wet with precum. Instead of getting back up on top of you, you feel Taehyung’s hand - still sticky from your arousal - pulling your hip up to guide you to lie on your side.

With legs intertwined, he hitches your outer leg over his waist and lines himself up at your entrance. Almost shaking with excitement, you cling to him and hold your breath as he pushes forward, his head entering you slowly but surely.

It’s quiet in the bunkroom, the only sound being your shared breathing, but there’s something so vulnerable and tender in that silence, and you tremble as he bottoms out inside you. The angle you’re both at, lying side by side, makes it feel like he’s deeper than you’ve ever felt before, filling you completely. You picture his cock so far inside you that it presses against your stomach, and the thought makes you tremble.

“Okay?” Taehyung checks in, giving you a moment to adjust.

You nod and lean forward to capture his lips, savouring that familiar embrace. “Ready, Tae,” you confirm, clenching around his girth. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

Taehyung lets out an unbidden groan, and just like that his patience is dissolved, rutting up into you with short, staccato thrusts that punch the air right out of you. Your fingers curl, clutching onto him for dear life as your nerves are set alight.

Every rock of his hips grinds his cock into the base of your clit, and you find yourself grinding against him, helplessly seeking out the best angle. “T-Tae, fuck, so good,” you manage to force out, voice wobbling even more than your legs.

His hands are all over you; running over your thighs, stroking your back, gripping your ass to meet every thrust. As you look over to him blearily, that same desperate hunger is evident in his face. You take a few moments to appreciate him. This will be the last time in a while that he’s writhing in carnal bliss because of you, and you fight to memorise every last inch of his face.

His hair is messy from sleep and the roughness of your current predicament, some curling at his temples even as the rest sticks up at odd angles, but on him it looks like some kind of wild halo that just makes him all the more gorgeous. His eyes are clenched shut even as his mouth goes slack. The tiniest gloss of drool gathers in the corner of his lips, which are a swollen pink, contrasting so beautifully with his olive skin. Light moans and exertions fall past those lips like a steady river, rushing louder every time you clench around him.

Unable to hold yourself back any more, you lurch forward, teeth pinching your lip with how eagerly you rejoin yourself to his. His responding whimper is muffled, but the way his thrusts stutter as his hands fly up to cup your face close to him speaks volumes.

The movement of his cock deep inside you isn’t measured, or ruthless, or graceful. It’s seeking pleasure and giving pleasure mindlessly, wishing to be as close as you possibly can for as long as you can, barely even speaking to each other.

His lips are equally uncoordinated as they slant against you, his tongue dipping out thoughtlessly, teeth nipping needily. You lose your mind to this primal moment between the two of you, sense of time fading away as minute details like a drop of sweat rolling down your back take centre stage. All you can focus on are his fingernails lightly pressing into your cheek; the roughness of his leg hair against your calf; the squeaking of the springs beneath you.

You can’t even tell if you’re making any noise yourself, so lost in those divine notes that slip off his tongue. At one point your mouths slide apart and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, focuses on thrusting harder. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, trying to meet those thrusts but every moment your pleasure mounts it just gets harder to make your body obey.

When Taehyung speaks, it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed, if Sejin is waiting outside or if you still have most of the hour. Once he buried himself inside you, you slowly stopped caring about the outside world. Those doors felt like an impenetrable wall that would keep you and him secure for as long as you needed it. His voice comes to you muffled, a tickle on your collarbone. “Wanna feel you cum, petal,” he confesses, voice hoarse. “Are you close?”

You gasp, writhing against him. “Need more, Tae.” You barely manage to finish your sentence before fingers are grinding against your clit, pressing it between the pad of his thumb and his cock. Immediately, heat rushes through you, making your eyes roll back. “Fu-fuck, right there,” you cry, core pulsing with every thrust.

With an added source of pleasure, your orgasm begins to quickly approach, your entire body alight with it. At some point your eyes have fallen shut, and you’ve failed to meet his thrusts, almost entirely unable to think, your mind just overwhelmed with the feeling of his cock moving so deeply inside you.

Taehyung, although similarly delirious with pleasure, seems slightly more put together than you. His hips begin to snap faster, fucking into you without abandon even as the angle prevents him from getting too much momentum. His thumb speeds up, rolling your most sensitive bud over his shaft as it drives into you, and his free hand is trapped between you and the sheets, fingers tangled in your hair.

“Close, so close, gon’cum soon, Tae,” you warn him in a garbled stream when the stimulation begins to surmount what your body can handle. Toes curling, you pant and wait before your orgasm to hit any second, whining every time his length pulls out.

When Taehyung speaks, it’s breathy like a prayer. “Kiss me.”

You have just enough time to seek out his lips before the dam breaks and you’re cumming around him. Still seeking his own end, Taehyung ruts into you and makes out with you messily, groaning into your mouth when you tighten, nerves singing with raw pleasure, an orgasm that never seems to end.

You continue to kiss him as he finally begins to spill inside you, going tense and grinding his hips rather than thrusting. It feels so right, being joined like this with limbs entangled and every breath shared.

It takes you a few moments of coming down from your high to notice the wetness on your cheeks. At first you think you’re crying, overwhelmed from a powerful orgasm, but as you crack your eyes open you see Taehyung pull back, shoulders jerking and a hand clapped over his mouth and nose.

He cries silently, tears soaking the pillow and dripping off his nose, but there’s nothing you can say. It’s just a game, you still have me, we only have to wait a little while, these things wouldn’t bring him any comfort, not when he already knew them. His wasn’t a sadness you had to explain away or solve, it was one he just needed to feel in its entirety.

So, just as quietly as sobs wrack his body, you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, and hold him close.

He calms down eventually, pressing his cheek against the crown of your head, but the two of you stay like that for every last minute that you have left.

When your phone vibrates, followed quickly by his, you know that your time is up, and you dress in silence.

--

The meeting starts at 9:12 a.m. You know this, because by the time Taehyung descends the stairs - joining you several minutes later to prevent suspicion - Sejin is wearing a hole in the carpet, informing the group there is a schedule for a reason.

“Can we get started now?” Sejin asks in a snappish tone, before taking in a measured breath, calming himself. “Sorry. Long day.”

“But it’s only nine… thirteen a.m.,” Taehyung supplies helpfully. Sejin doesn’t seem to find it very helpful. “Sorry. Yes, we can start.”

As the masseuse settles himself on a couch beside Jimin, you do your best not to look their way. Sat beside Sejin on the edge of the coffee table, you’re facing the whole group, but there is a strange sense of calm that comes over you when you look at the others. Knowing they’re safe for at least another week.

“Once again,” Sejin announces, knee bumping yours, “the gentlemen have a chance to defend themselves before Y/n makes her decision. Clockwise around the room; Namjoon, we’ll start with you.”

It’s been a pretty rainy morning, a cold front frosting up the windows and making the heatpump slow to act. The academic has himself bundled up in a thick brown sweater and chunky pants, hands slipped between his own thighs for an extra bit of warmth. Somehow, the stocky clothes just make him look smaller. “Y/n,” he begins, “I know I’m never going to be as experienced as the others beside me, but I do really want to keep learning with you, and exploring different things. You make me feel really comfortable and at ease, which is unusual since usually I panic even thinking about kissing someone, and so I’d be really sad if I lost that learning curve that I’m going up with you. I hope you enjoy our time together enough that you’ll let me stay a little longer.”

As he is most days, Hoseok sits beside Namjoon, half-leaning on the taller man. He’s wearing sleek black today; skinny jeans, fitted turtleneck and a cinched waist. Reminiscent of the first two scenes you’d done together, you wonder if he’s wearing those clothes strategically. “My turn? Y/n, if you’re thinking of voting Namjoon out, vote me instead, and if you’re thinking of voting out any of the other guys, good luck to them.” His cheeks lift in a warm smile as you laugh, the humour skimming off some of the tension that weighs the room down. “But on a serious note, I think you and I are extremely sexually compatible, and I take great pleasure in watching you fall apart for me. I want for you to see me as somebody that you can trust to take care of you, but also push you and challenge you. For that, I do hope you choose not to eliminate me.”

You suck in a slow breath. It’s strange hearing them out with no intention of voting them out anyway. Rather than making you feel more indecisive, it reaffirms all the good that you have in this house, that you’re lucky to still retain after the meeting today. You owed Taehyung a massive thank you.

Wedged on the other side of Hoseok is the youngest gentleman. Jungkook has his legs tucked under him, fluffy grey bedsocks peeking out. When Sejin looks at hiim expectantly, he clears his throat. “I actually, um, have a presentation.”

As the rest of the room watches in bewilderment, he hops off the couch and flicks on the television. On the screen, two mirrored selfies of him pouting and winking bracket a message, VOTE FOR JUNGKOOK.

He sucks in a breath suddenly, whirling around to face you. “That should say don’t,” he explains in a rush, “don’t vote for Jungkook.”

Turning back, he crouches beside the cabinet to where a laptop is hooked up to the back of the TV. Changing slides, he straightens up again. A crossfade gives way to a slide which begins with the title, Who Is Jungkook?

“Fucking hell,” Yoongi grumbles, shifting to get himself comfortable on the middle couch he shares with Jin. “Wake me up when it’s my turn.”

Clearing his throat, Jungkook begins to read off the screen. “Who is Jungkook? Successful camboy, avid gamer, budding chef - that’s a picture of me helping hyung cook - and most importantly… Objectively the most attractive guy in the house.”

Even as he hurries to change slides, the other men - namely Jin and Taehyung - protest with cries of outrage and disbelief. Jungkook ignores them, just raising his voice enough to carry over their complaints, waiting for the new slide to bounce in above the previous one. “Why should you save Jungkook?” This time, Jungkook stays crouched, each bullet point having its own slide with a related picture of him. “I will stream with you. I will help cook for you. I will let you play as Widowmaker. I will work out every day so that I stay capable of lifting you easily. I will show you the unflattering pictures I take of the hyungs.” Somehow, Jungkook’s managed to capture a shot of Hoseok mid-yawn, nose scrunched and jaw wide open at the dining table. The man himself lets out an indignant huff, only relaxing once Jungkook switches slides again, a dissolve transition leaving you with a final selfie with Jungkook biting his lip and flicking the camera a peace sign. Jungkook straightens up. “I will give you all these things and more if I’m still in the competition, so please, don’t vote Jungkook.”

Taehyung’s hesitant smattering of applause fills the room as Jungkook switches off the television, sitting himself back down beside Hoseok. Even as he smiles and acts casual about it, you can see his nerves in the way he wrings his hands in his lap. Even if you hadn’t already decided to vote out Tae, there was no way you could’ve voted Jungkook out this week.

Jin is next up, on the couch directly in front of you. His ment is simple. “Vote me out if you think I deserve it. If you genuinely think I’m the worst in the house. I don’t think you do.” The rest of the room falls silent, waiting for him to continue, but he sits back and shuffles Yoongi’s shoulder to indicate his turn.

Sitting up, honey blonde hair disheveled from the back of the couch, Yoongi clears his throat and looks over at you. “You and I spoke last night about the others, about reasons for them to stay in, reasons for them to be voted out. But you didn’t cover me, so here’s mine. Pros: I know my way around the female body in general and, I believe, your body specifically. I’m very willing to give most things a go, I learn fast, and you know that I can keep my head above the water in moments of crisis. I’m a safe person to have in the game.”

You grin. “And your cons?”

Yoongi harrumphs, pouting petulantly. “Well, I’m not going to say them now, am I? I’m trying to promote myself.”

Your bemusement is quick to evaporate when you realise it’s Jimin and Taehyung that are last to defend themselves. Running clockwise, Taehyung is the one who has to speak up now. His eyes dance around the room rather than settling, fingers fiddling with the zipper on his jacket pocket. “Y/n,” he announces, voice so soft and tentative, “I think you and I have a lot of, um, potential together in the bedroom, and, you know, if you keep me in the game, you’ll be able to enjoy the best hands in the business. And I really enjoyed my time with you so much, especially this week. It’s like we have an understanding when we...” Taehyung’s mouth opens, closes. “Uh, so… Don’t vote me out, because you’ll miss out on those things.”

You try not to let the blue cloud in your chest show on your face, staying neutral. You and him both knew you would miss out on those things. That you would miss those things too. Giving a little nod, hyperaware of your reactions, you turn to Jimin.

He’s looking you dead-on, barely moving. “You should vote me out,” he says plainly. “Not...any of the others.” Not Taehyung. “I was a dick the other day, I’ve been an asshole mostly this whole time, and I’m sure the other guys would love it if you did, because they all know I’m the biggest competition. If you ever miss me, I have countless videos online you could watch, or you could watch me fuck one of the guys here. And I’m sure you already have a name in mind, but change it to mine. It should be me.”

Your mouth goes dry, heart racing sickly in your chest. Taehyung’s staring at Jimin with puppy eyes, a silent protest. On the other side of the room, Jungkook lets out a surprised chuckle. “Reverse psychology!” he chirps. “Nice, hyung.”

“So, Y/n,” Sejin asks, voice warm with sympathy, “who’ll it be?”

With eyes stinging, you duck your head, the name on your tongue bitter like battery acid. What you wouldn’t give to throw yourself away instead. “Taehyung.”

The room goes dead quiet. No sighs of relief, expressions of condolence. No announcement from Sejin.

In the two weeks you’d been here, you’d been in this position once before. But that time, exactly one week ago, you’d been subject to a sudden change in events that saved everyone. Now, with Taehyung’s name still hanging in the air like a melancholy ghost, the weight of this decision and its finality sit heavy around the room.

The first cut is the deepest, and as Sejin begins to instruct Taehyung on how to proceed as an eliminated member, you feel like your heart has been sliced in two. The half of you that wants to rush up to him and kiss him silly and take back what you said, and the half that’s filled with an overwhelming relief that you’ve kept the others safe for now.

Taehyung doesn’t look at you much as he leaves. There’s a moment, a single glance, where he gives you a teary smile of approval and comfort. A million words that you can’t say in front of everyone. But then he turns, and he walks out the front door.

Jungkook, who was too shocked into silence to even be listening, straightens up with the wooden thunk of the door closing. “He’s not leaving for good, is he?”

Sejin shakes his head stiffly, before clearing his throat and slipping back into his producer mode. Even as he does so, you can see the elimination upsets him too, his eyes sad. “Taehyung is going around back to the confessional booth for his exit interview. He doesn’t need to be around for prompt distribution, so he’s going to just do it now. Which brings me to this week’s theme.” Sejin pauses for dramatic effect, but it only serves to highlight the sullen mood in the room. “Work hard, play hard.”

You frown in confusion. The first two weeks were easy. Locations, roleplay. You knew what type of thing would be occurring even if you didn’t have the specifics for each member. But this time, you felt totally lost.

Sejin continues. “This week, prompt distribution is also different. Usually, we have you randomly pick a prompt from the bunch. But this time, we have a Bangasm Bomb coming into play. Week 3’s Bangasm Bomb is that whoever won fan favourite in Week 2 will distribute the prompts for Week 3. Yoongi, that’s you.”

Though all of you are a bit reserved, you can’t help but perk up, the interest around the room growing. Yoongi, sat beside Jin but taking up most of the couch, sits up suddenly. “So I give them out randomly, or…?”

“You read all of the prompts and assign them however you choose. Without revealing the prompt to the rest of the group, I ask that you give a reason for each choice.”

Yoongi grins, jumping up in an usual show of liveliness to get the slips of folded paper off Sejin. “I guess I picked the right week to absolutely kill it in the audience vote.” He makes you wait an eternity as he painstakingly opens them all and considers them, eyes dark as they search the room, making little noises of consideration and indecision. Finally, he stands up straight and immediately pockets one.

“A reason, Yoongi,” Sejin reminds.

The doctor blinks. “Because I want it?” Moving to the next one in his pile, he approaches Hoseok first. “Okay, this one is because I think it’s best done by a professional.”

Hoseok takes the slip and holds it close to his chest as he reads, brows lifting. “That’s probably a good idea,” he affirms. “Thanks, hyung.”

Yoongi, clearly gleeful with his position of temporary power, glances at the next slip. “Ooh! Okay, this one is for Jin-hyung because it fits perfectly.”

Jin accepts the slip warily, letting out an exasperated laugh when he reads it. “You little shit.”

Yoongi’s grin is wide enough that you can see his gums. “I love this,” he informs Sejin, “whoever came up with this needs a raise. Anyways; next one.” Opening a fourth piece of paper, he immediately seeks out Namjoon. “I’m giving this to you because I think you’ll get a kick out of it, and I heard through the pipeline that you like to be called daddy.”

Namjoon goes red faster than a changing traffic light, spluttering violently on a lungful of air when he reads the prompt.

Before he has the chance to put it away, Hoseok puts a strong hand on his shoulder and holds him in place so he can quickly sneak a peek of it, collapsing into a peal of laughter when he sees it. “You’re probably right,” he quips to Yoongi, who preens in satisfaction.

“Okay, moving on,” Yoongi continues, “Jungkook, this one’s for you. I figure you’re such a switch that you could play this either way, and I’m curious.”

You furrow your brows, as does Jungkook, but the moment the youngest man reads his prompt, the lines in his face smooth out in realisation. “Thanks, hyung,” he offers up sweetly. “I like this one.”

“I’m sure you do, kid,” the doctor says with a pat of his shoulder, before handing Jimin the final prompt. “And I’m giving you this one because it’s the last one left.”

Jimin scoffs at the weak reasoning, but his eyes dart up to you immediately once he looks at what it says. With a lip curling in bemusement and interest, Jimin thanks Yoongi. “This suits me just fine.”

Done assigning prompts, Yoongi turns to Sejin. “If this show gets greenlit for a second season and you don’t offer me a job, I’ll be personally offended.”

Sejin rolls his eyes with a begrudging smile. “Good job, Yoongi. And meeting adjourned, ev- Wait, no! There’s more; almost forgot.”

You lift your brows, waiting for some other groundbreaking twist or dramatic flair that seemed to keep cropping up during these meetings.

The producer stands himself up, patting his back pocket where his phone rests. “I just had a meeting with the showrunners, and they’re not happy with the punishment for breaking elimination rules. I’ll go tell Taehyung this after, since it mostly concerns him and Y/n, but as an FYI, the protocol around eliminated members has changed a bit.” He takes a breath, hands up and ready to gesture his explanation. “Basically, our old system was that if an eliminated member touched Y/n sexually, he’d be out of the house for good, and if Y/n touched the eliminated member sexually, she had to wear an outfit of that person’s choice. Uh, it seems that second system isn’t really that drastic, and could easily be manipulated, so we’re changing it up upon the showrunners’ request. Now, if the eliminated member touches Y/n sexually, he’ll have to leave as usual, but if Y/n touches him sexually, her punishment has changed to being taken out of the house for 24 hours.”

You tip your head to the side. “That doesn’t sound like a punishment.”

Sejin gives a strained smile. “You’ll be taken out of the house for 24 hours, handcuffed to me.”

“Huh?” Jin asks incredulously. “Bit wish fulfilment isn’t it, big guy?”

The producer has the good grace to blush. “It’s not like that, and it wasn’t my decision. Apparently, the viewers these days are taking more interest in the workings of staff. Additionally, as with the clothing rule, handcuffing Y/n to another member of the house is once again too easy to work around. Anyways, that’s the new rule. Got it?”

You blink. “So… let’s say I run outside right now and touch Tae’s dick. I’d then have to be handcuffed to you for a whole day and like, do producer shit? Meetings and editing and stuff?”

“That is correct.”

“What happens when one of us needs to pee?”

Sejin lets out a weak laugh. “You’d be allowed out of the cuffs to use the bathroom.”

“What happens when it’s nighttime?” you question, heart sinking as you realise your loophole to Tae is quickly closing up.

“Well, I usually go home around 11 each night, and my girlfriend is happy to take the couch should that happen.”

“What- What if-” Your mind whirls as the other guys chuckle at your predicament. “What if I wake up in the middle of the night to get a drink but you’re still sleeping? What if the guys in your meetings ask why you have a young girl handcuffed to you and I have to explain it’s technically a sex thing? What if-”

“All the things that make this a punishment, Y/n. I suggest you practice restraint and avoid breaking the rule.”

Your glare is softened by a petulant pout. “You’re a sadist.”

“This wasn’t my idea, Y/n. It’ll be a punishment for me too.” Sejin clears his throat. “Anyways; meeting adjourned. I’m off to catch Taehyung up.”

The stunned silence lasts no more than ten seconds once Sejin leaves. Jungkook, a toothy grin and cheeky eyes, starts bouncing in his seat. “Y/n and Sejin sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-”

“Shut up,” you shout with a whine. “This sucks.”

“Such a relief you have six other dicks still to choose from,” Yoongi drawls. “I’m sure you’ll live without one.”

Without thinking, you stick your tongue out at him, making him laugh at your antics, before pushing on Jin’s thigh to stand up. “Well,” the doctor announces, “I, for one, could do with a celebratory brunch.”

Jimin frowns. “What are we celebrating?”

Yoongi beams. “Me making you all my little bitch,” he declares, letting out a startled hoot when Jin jumps up to tackle him, manhandling him towards the kitchen.

As the two chefs of the house begin to lug out ingredients from the pantry, Jungkook turns to the rest of the group with a worried frown. “D’you think Tae is gonna be really sad?” he asks in a small voice.

Finally getting up off the hard surface of the coffee table, you make your way over to him, perching yourself on the arm of the couch. “Maybe,” you admit honestly, “but I think if he needs space, he’ll go upstairs, and if he wants comfort, he’ll come back to us. We should let him choose.”

As it turns out, Taehyung chooses both. The kitchen is steaming with a delightfully savoury aroma by the time he comes back in through the front door. He hovers in the entrance to the kitchen and dining area for a moment or two, waiting for the chatter to die down once everyone catches sight of him.

Announcing that he was taking a long shower but that he’d be back down and not to wait up, he’d rushed to his bedroom and left you all to confusedly finish preparing the food. He doesn’t return until you’ve all almost finished eating.

When he does, though, he appears like an entirely different person.

Wearing a raggedy shirt and pants, face red from a hot shower but hair dry, he dumps a white plastic bag on an empty space on the table with a dramatic flair.

Jimin watches him warily. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Taehyung chirps easily, “we’re dying our hair today.”

The words out of his mouth are totally unexpected, and everyone freezes into a bewildered silence.

Hoseok, with a spoonful of soup and green onion halfway to his face, falters. “Sorry, what?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Taehyung explains, like this is the most important thing he’s ever said. “I don’t want to be excluded and I want to have some fun with you guys instead of moping, so we’re going to dye our hair together.” Pushing aside empty bowls and half-eaten side dishes, the masseuse begins emptying the plastic bag onto the table. Bleach, developer, blood red dye, an emerald green and a deep royal blue.

“Where did you even get those from?” Jin asks, abandoning his plate to eye the products with interest.

“Ordered them online,” Taehyung answers with a shrug. “Well - technically I ordered them ages ago, Jungkookie wanted the e-girl TikTok hair, but I reckon we should just go for it. Some of us are in urgent need of a dye job. Namjoon; that’s you.”

The academic recoils, tugging at his grown-out faded purple ends. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Hoseok winces. “We don’t all have to dye our hair, do we?”

“‘Course not, hyung, you can supervise.”

It takes Yoongi insisting that everyone help clean up the table first that springs everyone into action, and in no time at all Taehyung has scoffed up whatever leftovers remained, and Jin has gathered additional supplies like bowls, towels and tin foil, hustling your ragtag group of eight down to the first-floor bathroom.

It doesnt take long before a temporary salon has been set up in there. With chairs taken from the kitchen, product being mixed in little black bowls on the sink benchtop, and three willing victims clutching towels over their shoulders.

In the first chair, Namjoon is watching in mild alarm as Jimin mixes bleach and developer in a bowl, eyeballing the measurements. With gleaming blue hair of his own, Jimin seems more experienced than some of you, but his job is more difficult than the other stylists of the day, since he had to get rid of Namjoon’s purple before bleaching and dying the lot.

You’d chosen the easiest of the three, Jungkook, and painstakingly consult with some of his favourite TikToks for the right amount of hair to section out as Taehyung takes charge of mixing his own concoction of bleach.

Finally, it’s Jin who has also volunteered to dye hair, although it’s not his own that he wishes to dye. Yoongi sits with a bitter scowl on his face as Jin pours in different coloured dyes into one bowl like a mad scientist. With already blonde hair, Yoongi at least has the luxury of skipping out the extra step, but it just gives Jin more time to conceive a crazy colour.

Hoseok, happy to take on the supervisor role, flutters around and hypes everyone up; massaging Namjoon’s shoulders, letting Jungkook show him countless videos and grimacing at what Jin has in his bowl.

“Hey, Tae,” Yoongi calls out in a forced casual tone, “why is it that when you were the one who bought the dye, you aren’t the one getting chemicals all over his hair?”

The masseuse shrugs easily, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder as he stirs away. “What can I say? I’m an artist, not a canvas.”

Jungkook blinks up at him past your shoulder. “I’d like to see you dye your hair, Tae. You’d look pretty with any colour.”

Taehyung reaches out to pinch the maknae’s cheek fondly, but accidentally leaves a smear of white behind. Jumping into action, you hold Jungkook’s chin steady as you wipe it off with your thumb, feeling his eyes on you and his breath hitch.

“Oh, you’re not- Y- You’re going straight in there,” Namjoon stutters shakily. Letting go of Jungkook’s face and stepping away, you glance over to Namjoon and Jimin.

The younger man has Namjoon’s hair sectioned with clips, painting thick globs of bleach onto the purple in his lower layers. “Don’t worry,” Jimin assures, “you’ll look fantastic after this.”

“Worst case scenario, you can lop it all off,” Jin points out cheerily.

Yoongi’s arm reaches out between folds of the towel on his shoulders, keeping Jin at bay. “You better not lay a fucking hand on me with that mindset.”

“Don’t be silly, Yoonie,” Jin teases, adding in some more green. “You’re my Mona Lisa.”

Yoongi humphs and collapses back against his chair, pink smattering his cheekbones.

Taehyung’s hand wraps lightly around your wrist, handing you the bleach he’d mixed up. “We’re good to go,” he declares to you and Jungkook, “I wanna go see what colour Yoongi-hyung’s getting. You guys start.”

Left in charge of the bleach, you turn back to Jungkook. Standing over him, it’s impossible to ignore the way his doe-eyes observe your every move. “Are you still good with these two chunks?” you check.

He nods quickly, lips pressing into an eager but shy smile. “Do you think it’ll look good?” he asks hopefully.

“You’ll look gorgeous.” Getting him to hold the bowl of bleach up for you, you dip the brush included in the box and begin to brush the white, thick liquid over the strands of black hair. He doesn’t flinch as the brush moves higher, sitting so still and patient. “What colour are you going to get it?”

His cheeks puff as he blows air into them. “Hm, I don’t know. Tae said maybe pink? I could mix in only a little bit of red so it’s not so strong. But then pink fades fast.”

You hum, switching to the other side. “You could dye it red and then when it fades it would fade to pink.”

He lets out a little gasp. “That’s smart! I like it.”

From down the room, Taehyung’s voice echoes. “Hyung, you’re fucked!”

“Hey!” Jin cries. “It’s going to look good, just trust me on this!”

Taehyung leans his back against the sink and clasps his palms together like he’s praying. “Yoongi-hyung, picture this. You’re Bob Ross. You’re painting a beautiful lake on a sunny day. Blue sky, clear water, lush riverbanks. Can you see it?”

Yoongi frowns. “Sure.”

“The little cup of dirty water you used to clean your brushes with? That’ll be your hair.”

“Oh, god,” Yoongi moans miserably, slumping so low he almost falls off the seat.

“Disrespectful little brat,” Jin enunciates as Taehyung moves back across the room. “This was your idea!”

It takes the entire rest of the day, but by the time you all sit down on the couches for dinner - courtesy of a food delivery app, Yoongi and Jin both too tired to cook - three of the eight of you have shiny new looks.

Jungkook looks undeniably striking with his stripes of firetruck red framing his face. Contrasting sharply with the black of the rest of his hair, you could easily mistake him for a Twitch streamer or something, pulling off the look with a natural coolness.

Done with purple, Namjoon had taken advantage of Jimin’s decent level of expertise and let the blue-haired man work his magic, bleaching his hair a couple of times and dying it to the unusual choice of silvery grey, the roots slightly darker so that - in Jimin’s words - he could get away with regrowth for longer.

But perhaps the biggest surprise of all is Yoongi, who smugly peacocks around the room with a unique shade somewhere between mint and teal in his hair. Jin had quietly confessed to you and Jungkook when he was cleaning his bowl that it wasn’t in fact, the colour he intended it to be, but that what Yoongi didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

The blue-green tones are somewhat reminiscent of the clear lake Taehyung was describing, and it brings out the soft pink of Yoongi’s lips and his dark lashes so beautifully. How Jin’s luck never seemed to run out, you didn’t know, but part of you wished you had volunteered yourself for a dye job too. Now you, Jin, Hoseok and Taehyung were the leftovers with natural hair.

Like some sort of unspoken agreement, the seven of you keep a close eye on Taehyung throughout the evening. You let him pick a movie for all of you to watch, pile extra food into his bowl, Jungkook even brings a secret stash of chocolate down from his room to share with him. All of you sensitive of how he must be feeling, it’s only natural that you take extra good care of the masseuse.

And, when it finally comes to head up to bed, Taehyung is flooded by offers to keep him company in the bunkroom. It’s Jungkook he picks, the two thick as thieves, and shortly after midnight your phone goes off from a text that Jungkook has sent to everyone except Taehyung. Just two words that are enough to allow your mind and body to rest. He’s okay.

[hamiltonimagines]

Everything Will Be Okay

Pairing: Lin x Reader

Request: “Hi! I'm in need of some LMM love pretty please 🥺 where he and the reader are together, and her mother is sick and in the hospital very suddenly. She calls Lin from the hospital and he rushes to her side and he comforts her and spends the night with her in the waiting room just cuddling her and trying to keep her distracted and making her smile. Just some fluffy comfort if you can/want, please and thank you much!!” - @stelle-tenere

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Very vivid description of having a loved on in the hospital. Multiple descriptions of panic

I looked over at the clock and saw that it was 4pm. I realized that I should probably start getting ready for my date. Lin and I had been dating for about four months and we had a date tonight.

I got up from my couch and walked into my room to find an outfit to wear. I was standing, looking at all my clothes, when I heard my phone start ringing.

I didn’t know who would be calling me, so I walked over to my phone. I saw an unknown number. I wasn’t expecting a call, but I picked it up.

“Hello?” I answered the phone. “Hello is this Y/N?” The woman on the other end asked. I sighed to myself, it was probably another one of those fake phone calls, where they tried to get your credit card information.

“Yes it is” I replied, simply. “This is the New York General Hospital, your mother was just admitted to the hospital. She had a bad fall, and she’s currently in surgery” the woman told me.

I could feel my heart drop. I could feel my whole body fill up with panic. I had a million questions racing through my mind. I had a pit in my stomach and I couldn’t get rid of it. I didn’t even notice that I hadn’t responded.

“Ma’am, are you still there?” The woman asked. “Yes, I’m sorry. I will be right there” I said, hanging up the phone and grabbing my keys. I raced to the hospital, faster than I’d ever gone anywhere before.

The whole ride there, the only thing I could think of was my poor mother, laying on the floor, hurt. I couldn’t bare to think about how scared she must have been, waiting for the ambulance.

I pulled into the hospital parking lot and raced inside. I ran up to the front desk. “Hi, my name is Y/N. You called me because my mother had a fall. You said she was in surgery” I told the woman at the front desk.

“Ahh yes, your mother is in room 742. It’s the first door on the right, down that hallway. She might not be awake from surgery yet” she told me. “Okay thank you” I said, and walked to the room as quickly as my legs would carry me.

I walked in and saw my mother, still asleep. It broke my heart into a million pieces. She looked so fragile, and she had so many wires attached to her.

I could feel the tears start to well up in my eyes. Then, I felt my phone start buzzing. I saw that Lin was calling me. I stepped into the hallway and answered it, I needed a distraction.

“Hey Y/N? Where are you? Is everything okay? You were supposed to be here 30 minutes ago, I’ve been texting you” he told me. “Hi Lin, everything’s fine. I’m at the hospital” I told him. “Wait, the hospital? Are you hurt?” He asked me, his voice laced with concern.

“No, it’s just my mom. She had a fall. I have to be here with her, I can’t come tonight” I told him. “No, I get it. You have to be with your mom. What hospital are you at?” He asked me. “New York General” I told him, not even thinking about it. “Okay, well I’ll let you get back” he told me. We both said goodbye and I hung up.

I glanced back in the room and saw that my mother was still asleep. I decided to call my siblings and let them know what happened. I was the only one in New York, so there’s no they could come.

I finished making my calls and I walked back into the hospital room. I sat down in the chair next to my mom’s bed. I looked down at my hands, I couldn't do anything, but think of the worst case scenario.

I could feel the tears start streaming down my face. I grabbed a tissue and started to wipe them away. Then, I looked up and saw Lin standing in the doorway.

I stood up and ran over to him. He pulled me right into his arms. He felt warm and his embrace was comforting. He rocked me back and forth as I quietly cried in his arms. “Shhh shhh everything will be okay” he whispered to me.

“She must be in so much pain, I just want to take all of it. I would take away all her pain, if it just meant she would be better” I told him, trying to stop crying. “Well you can’t do that. But what you can do is love her and be here for her. And I know that she knows how much you love her” he told me, kissing my temple.

“I just feel so useless, she’s just laying there and I can’t do anything to help her get better” I confessed. “Do you need me to do anything?” He asked me. “Can you stay here? I need to go find a nurse and see how my mom’s surgery went. Can you come find me if she wakes up?” I asked him. “Of course” he said, giving my hand a a reassuring squeeze, before I walked away.

I walked down the hallway and back for the front desk. “Hi, I was just wondering if you knew how my mom's surgery went?” I asked her. “One second, let me check the file” the woman said. She looked through a folder and looked back up at me. “Her surgery went well. She had a large cut on her leg and they stitched it up. She has a prescription for the pain, but she should be able to leave tomorrow” the woman told me. “Okay thank you so much, you’ve been really helpful” I thanked her.

I walked back to my mom’s room and saw Lin walking toward me. “What’s wrong?” I asked panicking. “Nothing’s wrong, she just woke up. The nurse said she might be a little groggy” he told me. I could feel my whole demeanor change. I felt so relieved that I could finally talk to her and see what she needed.

I walked in and her eyes lit up when she saw me. I sat down next to her and we talked. She said she didn’t anything. Then the nurse gave her some medicine to help her sleep. The nurse said it would help her heal faster.

I grabbed a magazine off her bedside table and started to read it. Lin peaked his head in and saw that she was asleep. He quietly walked over next to me and sat in the other chair.

He set his hand on my thigh, and he started to draw little shapes absentmindedly. I leaned my head on his shoulder and he put his arm around my shoulders. I continued to read the magazine, mostly as a way to focus on something else.

I started to feel a little tired, but I knew I had to stay up, in case anything happened. “Are you tired? You could go take a nap in my car if you want, I’ll stay” Lin suggested. “No, I need to stay awake. Let’s go get some coffee” I said, standing up. “Okay” he said nodding.

He interlaced our fingers and we walked to the cafeteria. It was taking all of my will power to not burst into tears.

I didn’t say a word to Lin, the whole way to the cafeteria. I had too much on my mind. “So how are you holding up?” He asked me, as I poured the coffee into my cup. “Honestly, I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to fall apart every time I look at her. And I know she got lucky and it could of been much worse, but it’s mind-numbingly terrifying” I told him, honestly. “Listen, you would be crazy if you felt fine. But I’m here for you and I will do anything you need. And I’m also here to tell you that everything will be okay” he told me, putting his arm around my waist and kissing my cheek.

“Did you know that Hawaii is the only state in the US that grows coffee” Lin said, trying to distract me. “I know what you’re doing” I told him, and looking up at him. He had a dumb smile on his face.

“Thank you, for trying to distract me” I said, as we started to walk back to her room. “You don’t have to thank me. I’ll always be here for you” he assured me.

We got back to the room and sat back down. Lin draped his jacket across his lap and used it as a blanket. He slowly started to doze off. I picked the magazine back up and started to read it.

Before I knew it, I was yawning and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I stood up and started pacing around the room, trying to stay awake.

Then, Lin stirred in his seat. “What time is it?” He asked me. I checked my watch. “Almost three in the morning” I answered. “Have you slept yet?” He asked me, concerned. “No, I’m fine. I have to stay awake” I told him. “I’ll stay awake for you, if that’ll make you feel better” Lin suggested.

“Okay fine, I’ll sleep for a little bit. But you have to wake me up if anything happens” I told him. “I promise, now come get some sleep” Lin told me. I walked over to my seat and laid my head down in his lap. I was finally able to relax. He stroked my hair, until I feel asleep.

taglist: @someinsanefangirl @outcasted-aloy @geekycatlover @fanfic-addict-98 @romanoffs-heart @multifandomwriterx @andreasworlsboring101 @criminallyhamilton @imatyoursurrvicesurr @irlydontknoanymore @sayweird99 @nyxie75 @elizard-hamilton @twix-baby @trost-town @notebookgirl30 @teenag1jealousy @royalreadery @elizasfaith @kmsmedine @brunadesuu @grandpa-agustd @athenawinchesterx @labellapeaky @rthoney @nerd-88 @theatrenerd86 @riiyy @ahhahahhh @sleepylunarwolf @khaylaloves @kissthehomiesgoodnight @alexander-hamilhoe @hj-creates @thomasjeffersonisntcominghome @kileynoelle852 @sinfulwrld @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my imagines!!

[athina-blaine]

MoMM Update! - What to heck?

Hello, everyone! Unfortunately, Chapter 2 is still under works– the hiatus we mentioned back in our first update post has arrived and MoMM has to take a bit of a backseat for now. I was definitely overzealous in flinging around posting dates the way I did, and I apologize for that; I’d hate to have inflicted any unnecessary disappointment. I promise to practice more reservation in the future!

In the meantime, I’ve decided to go ahead and post the first half of the chapter under this cut– 6k words, 17 pages, I got it all right here for ya. [pats top of post]

Enjoy!

THE MONSTER OF MAGNUS MANOR

CHAPTER 2

THE ESTATE

(Chapter 1 here!)

Martin’s dreams were murky things, cut to the clop of fading hoofbeats and a pair of frightened eyes– eyes that kept locking with his own as the world faded in and out. At some point they’d manifested fully into a man– he was saying something, a string of urgent, unintelligible words that blistered the air around them.

“–tay with me, don’t– no, no, no, no–”

Martin’s vision greyed out before he could make out the rest.

When he resurfaced,  he was lying in a … a bed? Was … this the castle infirmary–? No, he didn’t think even Lord Barclay’s mattress was this comfortable. And the rock slab cots lining the servants’ infirmary didn’t have four poster canopies, either …

Strange dream. Everything wobbled, and grew dark again.

And then he was blinking awake. The bed and its canopy were still there, as lavish as they’d been in his dream. 

“Are you awake properly, this time?”

The unfamiliar voice had Martin lurching upright. Pain zinged through his skull; he groaned, pressing a hand to one eye.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. “I-I guess so?”

The man sitting beside him let out a slow breath, some of the stiffness unwinding from his posture. “You’ve had a few false starts,” he explained. “Understandable, given your head injury.”

Head injury. The events from earlier came rushing back to him– Martin’s vision was still swimming, but he recognised this man, or the colour of his eyes, at least. They were the same shade of brown as the mysterious figure from the fog. He’d since pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing dark skin marred with pockmarks on one side of his fine-boned face. His hair had been tied up in a silvering bird’s nest of a bun, and a few thin strands had fallen to brush the shoulders of a richly embroidered vest.

Martin tallied it all up: posh manner, fine clothes, the thin, borderline regal cut of his face. Despite the incongruity of his scars and disheveled hair, the facts pointed to one thing– this had to be the lord of that mysterious estate.

A mysterious estate he was now inside, with an injury that had stars dancing before his eyes. “How–” Martin started, then paused to steady his breathing. “How long was I out?”

“Not long.” The man pulled an ornate pocket watch from his vest pocket, squinting. “It’s about five o’clock.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Does it look like five o’clock in the morning to you?” the man demanded, gesturing to the window. He was right; a weak orange sunset had begun staining the sky, casting dark shadows from the treeline over the estate’s grounds.

“No.” The word had been torn from Martin’s mouth with a burst of horror. He scrambled for the sheets, startling a noise from his host.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Martin wasn’t listening; the image of Lord Barclay’s cold eyes as he told him, in unequivocal terms, that he was sacked had sent a low, buzzing static through his ears. “I’m sorry, thank you for taking me in, but I need t– I need to–” He had to get back– for his mum, if nothing else. Oh, God, if he lost this job now …

“What you need is to lie back down.” Martin’s bare foot had scarcely touched the floor before the man rose to his feet, thrusting a hand against his chest. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You’ve been concussed.”

Martin was unceremoniously shoved back down. He could’ve fought back– the stranger’s wrists were stick-thin where they stuck out past the sleeves of his tunic, and Martin wasn’t exactly small– but the sudden motion sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and Martin couldn’t summon the strength for it.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” the man said, eyes fierce. “In your current state, you’ll collapse before you ever make it out of this forest. Is that what you want?”

The words hung in the air between them. Martin swallowed, shaking his head.

“Then lie down.”

Cowed, Martin sank back into the mattress. Once it was clear he wasn’t struggling, the man relaxed, withdrawing his hand from Martin’s chest.

“Thank you,” he said, sitting back down. Then his shoulders sagged. “I … apologise. I’m sure you have somewhere important to be, and you’ve been hurt as a direct result of my actions. Please believe me when I say this was not my intention.”

A heavy note of guilt rang through his voice, and Martin’s chest panged with instinctive sympathy. “I-it’s fine. It was just an accident.”

If anything, the grim set of his host’s mouth worsened. “I should also warn you– your horse ran off. I tried looking for her after bringing you here, but she doesn’t appear to be in the area.”

Oh God, Phillipa. “… she’s resourceful,” Martin said, but it was much weaker this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s found her way back home already.“ 

The stranger kept his gaze trained on his hands. “ … I– yes, of course. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.” Abruptly, he stood once more. “I assume you’re hungry? Now that you’re awake, I can bring you something to eat.”

Martin jumped. “Oh, uh.” It would have been a full day since he’d last eaten, by now. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep anything down. Based on the strange intensity in the man’s eyes, though, only one correct answer existed. “Y-yes, I– um, thank you. Actually some– some tea would be nice?”

A single, sharp nod was his only response; the man turned on his heel, making a beeline for the door. 

Martin held out a hand before he could stop himself. “Wait– wait.”

The man turned, arching one brow, and heat washed over Martin’s face. He hadn’t actually had anything important to say, but they hadn’t even exchanged names.

“Sorry, I just … wanted to thank you. For– for taking me in.” He cleared his throat. “My name is Martin, by the way. Martin Blackwood.”

“A … pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Blackwood.”

Martin flushed. "Oh– just Martin is fine. Um … c-can I ask for your name?” 

Silence stretched taffy-thin between them as his host studied him, expression unreadable. Martin’s breath stilled in his lungs– was he being measured up? Found wanting somehow? He’d only asked for a name–

“Jon.”

Martin stiffened, but with a snap of his cloak, the man vanished, closing the door behind him.

Jon.

Martin wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. Jon. It was so … common. Approachable, for such an unapproachable man. Perhaps it was a family name.

Musings about Jon’s name could only distract him for so long, however, with his worst case scenario waiting for him back in the real world. Barclay would make him beg if he wanted to continue working in the castle, especially after last night’s disaster. 

Martin dropped his head in his hands. He was as good as sacked.

Distraction. He needed a good distraction. Anything to take his mind off agonising– not like he could fix anything confined to a bed by a stranger.

Lifting his head, he took a moment to peer around the room. It was bigger than the servants’ dormitory he shared with the others back at Barclay’s castle. To his right was an old, carved wardrobe; the desk and chair beside it had been made out of smooth mahogany. Paintings, their colours dulled by time, were hanging lopsided on some of the walls– a stark contrast to the faded wallpaper beneath them. Settled over it all was a fine layer of dust; only the chair, and the bed Martin was lying in, had been cleared of it.

Obvious disuse aside, even Lord Barclay’s accommodations weren’t this opulent. An unexpected twinge of guilt shot through Martin’s chest, as if he was doing something wrong. Stealing comfort that didn’t belong to him.

By the time Jon came back, the sunset had shifted from orange to a slow-burning red that dappled the sky. Tucked in the crook of his elbow was an unidentifiable bolt of cloth, and in his hands, a dinner tray. A silver dinner tray. “I apologise for the simplicity of the meal,” Jon said. “It’s … been some time since I’ve had the opportunity to cook.”

Had … was Jon implying that he, the lord of this house, had cooked for Martin? Martin swallowed, tearing his gaze from Jon back to the tray. Why wouldn’t the kitchen staff be making his meals?

Jon didn’t hand him the tray so much as he slid it into Martin’s lap; on it was a bowl of boiled vegetables, and next to that, a steaming cup of tea. Simple, yes, but Martin was grateful nonetheless.

“Thank you, really,” said Martin, entirely too genuine. Under the attentive eyes of his host, he shovelled a spoonful of turnip and carrot into his mouth, and started to chew. He stopped.

Jon leaned forward, poised. “How i– er, that is, I hope it’s to your satisfaction.”

Martin steeled himself and kept chewing, scrambling for a neutral expression. While the outside of the vegetables were soggy, their insides crunched against his molars, sending shudders down his spine. Underboiled, his mind supplied helpfully.

It was, perhaps, one of the worst meals he’d eaten in his life.

“It’s great,” he lied, smiling past the curdling in his stomach. Jon had made this himself, and Martin was going to die before he willingly insulted a lord to his face.

Jon released a quiet breath. “That’s … good.” He unwound the cloth draped over his forearm; it was a nightshirt and cap, made of fabric that could’ve been water for how it piled onto the sheets. “These are for you to wear to bed. You can find something to change into tomorrow in the wardrobe. Please inform me if there are any that don’t fit.” He winced. “And you’ll have to excuse me if you find anything that’s been chewed through. It’s impossible, keeping the moths out this time of year.”

“Tha– thank you?”

“You, ah,” Jon hesitated, before clearing his throat. “Seeing you’re here because of me, you’re welcome to stay until you’ve made a full recovery.” His voice grew guarded. “My only stipulation is that you remain in your rooms at night.”

Martin paused.

It wasn’t that unusual of a request– Martin was a stranger, of course Jon didn’t want him wandering about at night. No, what snagged Martin’s attention was the faint, nervous hitch of his shoulders as he said it.

“O-of course.” Martin’s throat bobbed. “Is it– can I ask why?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Oh, hell. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right. I-it’s just, I don’t know …” kind of strange? But the impatient twist of Jon’s mouth stopped him cold.

The silence dragged, then Jon crossed his arms. “I have a dog.”

“A … dog?”

“Yes. Big, vicious thing. He … patrols the manor at night– and he’s not partial to strangers.”

Oh. Well, that … that made sense, didn’t it? Still odd, though– Barclay had a whole team of hunting dogs, and none of them were allowed to wander the grounds without supervision. They weren’t pets, and they certainly weren’t guards. It appeared this one was, though.

“What’s his name?” Martin asked, before he could think better of it.

“What?”

“The dog.” Martin held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, it’s just, I love dogs. My neighbors had one when I was a kid. Ol’ Frankie.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed even further. “John.”

 “… John.”

“Yes.”

“John … the dog?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You named the dog after yourself?”

The look Jon shot him was equal parts baffled and incredulous, as if he were ludicrous for asking. “I came into possession of the dog after it received its name. And, besides, it’s John, spelled with an H.”

“I … see.” Martin didn’t see. “Obviously.” It had not been obvious.

Jon glowered, daring him to continue, then reached into his pocket. “One last thing. I noticed … well, here.” With an oddly stiff motion, he held out a small glass jar of salve. “For your hands. It would be irresponsible of me, as your host, to let them ulcerate unchecked.”

Startled, Martin glanced down at his hands– they were still covered in blisters from scrubbing last night’s mountain of dishes. He’d forgotten about them in all the chaos.

“Th-thanks,” he said, accepting the jar.

Clearing his throat, Jon stepped back. “I’ll let you finish your meal. You can expect me tomorrow morning with breakfast.” One hand on the door, he hesitated, then added in a soft undertone, “Get some rest.”

Jon was gone before Martin could answer. He was alone once again.

Unscrewing the lid of the jar, Martin gave the ointment an experimental sniff– honey and almonds. He scooped out a dollop and rubbed it into the damaged skin of his hands, sighing as it cooled the sting of his blisters. Astonishing, that Jon had noticed at all– Martin was so used to it, he would have left them to rot on his own.

He finished his dinner, half out of pragmaticism, half because he didn’t want to risk insulting his host. At least the tea was good.

Tray set aside, Martin began unbuttoning his dress shirt. What an unusual sight he must have made, passed out on the ground in formal wear. The clothes Jon had provided were silky against his skin, marred only by the must of disuse– still a luxury for a person with Martin’s background.

It wasn’t enough to distract him from the cold knot of trepidation that twisted inside his stomach. But Jon had been right; even if he had known the way, he would never make it back in his current state, especially without Phillipa. 

At the very least, things couldn’t get much worse. There was solace in that. 

Martin settled back against the pillows. With so many thoughts racing through his head, sleep should’ve been impossible– but the moment he closed his eyes, the rest of the world slipped away.

-

“Here you are!” Martin’s eyes flew open as Charles dropped the tray into his arms. Its contents had been obscured by a covering; Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of what was inside, but whatever it was, it was heavy enough that he buckled under its weight. 

Charles winked. “Better you than me, right?”

“R-right.”

“Well, go on then. He’s hungry!”

Pulse pounding in his ears, Martin scurried into the dark hallway. None of the candles had been lit, but he knew the way by heart. His arm shook under the weight of the tray– carrying it with both hands would’ve been easier, but that wasn’t proper. And Lord Barclay was so particular about being proper …

The grand door leading into the dining hall drew closer, and a coil of apprehension burrowed into Martin’s gut. An unusual smell had started emitting from the platter– sweet and gamey, meat mixed with sugar glaze. His feet moved, relentless, and with every step, that sinking pit of dread at the core of him grew heavier.

He opened the door. The dining hall was empty, save for where Barclay sat at the head of the table. A single lit candle shone down on the dozens of empty plates surrounding him. Barclay wiped his mouth with a pristine napkin, and waved Martin forward.

Martin’s hands were trembling. He placed the tray on the table in front of Barclay, in between the scattered, stained plates. At his Lord’s signal, he removed the covering with as much flourish as he could.

It was empty.

The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood on end. Run, his instincts screamed. Get away, now! 

Barclay looked up at him, green eyes glittering dangerously. “Well?”

Martin started– at some point he’d been lowered into a chair. In ginger increments, he leaned over until his head was resting against the cool metal plate, each shuddering breath fogging its silver coating. Barclay reached for his utensils; Martin squeezed his eyes shut, praying that, for once, Barclay wouldn’t start with–

“Eyes open.”

Swallowing, Martin obediently pried them back open. The fork hovered out-of-focus, brushing his eyelashes. 

Somewhere beyond Barclay’s hall, a voice brushed against the edges of his hearing. 

“–Hello?”

The fork plunged down–

-

Martin jolted awake, his hair drenched in sweat. Sunlight was pouring in through the window, illuminating swathes of dust motes floating through each beam. It must have been around mid-morning. Reflexive panic welled in the back of his throat (late, oh God, he was so incredibly late) before the events of yesterday came back to him. The panic slipped away, dulled with leaden resignation.

Sleeping in was nice, at least; when was the last time he’d been this indulgent? Giving in to the mattress’ siren’s call was tempting– he could have slept longer, waited until Jon came to wake him up. But while the dreams’ contents had slipped away faster than he could recall, their weight sat heavy on the back of his tongue. He wasn’t particularly interested in returning.

Taking a chance, he tossed aside his blanket and slid onto his feet. His heart lifted– had he recovered enough to make it back to the castle?

The world spun on its axis, and Martin caught himself against the wooden bed poster before he collapsed. 

Ah. As if he could be so lucky.

With one hand against the wall for support, Martin shuffled his way over to the wardrobe. The hinges creaked as he opened it– Lord, everything here needed a good cleaning. He’d have been tanned for letting a room fall into this much disrepair on Griffiths’ watch. Hopefully, the clothes would be in better–

Martin’s mind blanked. The clothes were indeed in better shape, but the options inside were … far more expensive than he was used to wearing. Was Jon not worried about Martin ruining them? Although they must’ve belonged to someone else– these were all too big for Jon. Whoever they belonged to, Martin prayed they wouldn’t mind him wearing their clothes.

He selected the plainest tunic and trousers he could find among the ornate, embroidered lot. None of them had moth holes, at least; Jon would be happy to hear that.

Speaking of his mysterious host …

As soon as he was confident he could walk without falling over, Martin opened the door to the hallway, glancing out into the hall. No dog; that was a good sign. Jon had mentioned bringing breakfast– the smartest idea was for Martin to wait inside his room, but his curiosity was burning. What did the estate of such an eccentric lord look like, anyway?

Surely he could risk a quick look around before Jon arrived.

Martin closed the door behind him with a gentle click, eyes roving over the hallway.

It appeared that the estate of a lord like Jon looked incredibly dusty.

Martin dragged an experimental finger over the surface of a nearby windowpane; it came back smeared with grime. Griffiths would’ve died on the spot– what on earth was Jon’s staff doing? Taking advantage of Jon’s generosity and shirking their responsibilities?

He picked a direction at random and began to walk, keeping one eye peeled for someone who could point him in a useful direction. This section of the manor appeared to have been functionally abandoned, though; perhaps Jon had wanted to ensure Martin’s privacy, although that seemed like an unnecessary effort.

By the time he reached what must have been the grand staircase of a foyer, he still hadn’t encountered another living being. Martin faltered, eyes grazing over the crusted windows, before dipping to linger on an old, broken gramophone at the bottom floor.

Where was everybody?

He continued trailing through the manor, more apprehensive now. Each step brought with it the sense he was a misplaced ghost; alone and drifting, untethered from reality. The layout of the hallways had a labyrinthian element to their design– a wise man would have turned back at risk of becoming lost, but … 

It was as if someone had wrapped a string around his joints, tugging his feet forward. Martin couldn’t have turned back even if he’d wanted to.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, crescendoing until they threatened to drive knives into his eardrums. No other noise penetrated the corridors; even the milky light filtering through the manor’s windows couldn’t reach him. The outside world had been choked off, as effectively as it had in the fog.

Panic swelled inside his lungs. Was there really nobody here? In a desperate bid, Martin threw open the first door to his left, hoping someone, anyone, would be on the other side.

Instead, he found the library. 

Stumbling backwards, his jaw went slack.

Martin had only seen two libraries in his life: the small, tattered bookshelf in the back of his mother’s church, and Lord Barclay’s personal collection– although the servants couldn’t make any selections for themselves. An entire room full of books, Martin had assumed it was among the largest collections of its kind.

He’d been wrong.

What stood before of him now were two stories worth of wall-to-wall bookshelves, brimming with texts and tomes in exquisite leather bindings. The scent of old parchment tickled Martin’s nose, sending him back to that dusty corner of the church, escaping through tattered parables and hymns.

Entranced, Martin stepped into the enormous room, leaving the door hanging open behind him. Giddy compulsion had him plucking out the first book he laid eyes on. A cookbook; although the language inside was unfamiliar, every page had been filled with mouthwatering illustrations. He selected another book at random: this time, a book of astronomy. And after that, a love story. Martin fought the urge to laugh, breathless. Just how many different books did Jon have?

Tucking all three in the crook of his arm, he continued down the aisle, reverent fingers brushing over each spine as he passed. A vast majority of them had been left untouched; preserved, perhaps, to maintain the appearance of esteem. That was the only reason Barclay ever added to his works. But occasionally, he’d come across a book with frayed pages, its spine threadbare.

Not mishandled, though. None of the pages had been dogeared, or the bindings broken. No, these carried the air of a book well-loved, read so many times over the years they’d been worn down to the glue. Martin took those with him as well, adding them to the growing collection in his arms.

When the first throbs of a sharp ache began pulsing at the back of his head, Martin ignored it. He couldn’t just leave, not with so much begging for his attention. When would he ever come across an opportunity to browse through a collection like this again? No, he had to make the most of it, while he still could.

But as Martin reached the far corner of the library, he slowed. A door was tucked away here, in a corner where no sunlight reached. It was nondescript, out of place in its simplicity– and yet, something about it drew Martin closer. Cool air seeped from between the door’s cracks, beckoning his curiosity.

His fingers grazed the brass handle–

“Don’t touch that.”

Martin yelped, books crashing to the ground.

Jon was standing at the end of the aisle with eyes like chips of ice. Heat bloomed across Martin’s face. This hadn’t been how he’d planned to encounter his host again: caught like a child sneaking sweets from the pantry.

“Sorry,” he stammered, scrambling to scoop up the fallen books. God, he’d dropped them. “I-I wasn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

“How many times do I have to say the word concussed before it sinks in?” With a sigh, Jon bent over to pick up the remaining books, depositing them on a random bookshelf before swiping the rest from Martin’s hands. Martin flinched, and the lines around Jon’s mouth deepened. "You’re in no condition to be wandering, let alone nosing around into places you shouldn’t.”

“I– I wasn’t trying to, to snoop or anything–”

“Really.” Jon shot a cool, pointed glance at the door. The flush crawled down to Martin’s neck, prickling in time with his erratic pulse. 

“Sorry,” he said again, lamely. “I really didn’t mean to– I-I was just … curious.”

“Curious. Of course.” With a sigh, Jon dropped the remaining books into another untidy stack, clapping dust off his hands. “I’ll show you back to your rooms– breakfast is waiting for you.”

Jon shouldered his way back out of the aisle, leaving Martin no choice but to follow. He was too embarrassed to protest even if he wanted to, but– his eyes lingered on the stack of books as they passed, mournful. It would have been nice to read at least one.

Jon urged him back into bed as soon as they reached Martin’s rooms, then turned to the breakfast tray he’d left on the desk. Martin fought down the growing dread at what Jon could have possibly prepared for this morning– but when Jon placed the tray on the bed, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Bread, butter, and a bowl of chestnuts. Absolutely no risk of anything overboiled here. And the bread was fresh, too– delicate wisps of steam rose to curl in the dusty air. Had Jon made this himself as well? It had come out better than the first meal, that was certain.

“Thank you,” Martin mumbled, picking up the bread knife to smear butter over a slice. 

Jon’s frosty expression didn’t change. "Why in the world did– I can’t imagine what possessed you to roam around this morning. Do you have any idea what I experienced when I found you gone?”

A spasm of guilt tangled in Martin’s gut. “S-sorry. I just … wanted to look around, a little.”

“There’s nothing worth looking at. This place may as well be a mausoleum.” 

Martin’s head whipped up. "You can’t mean that.”

A wry silence.

“Seriously? But your– your library is amazing! I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”

“Th– the library?” Some of the severity in Jon’s expression vanished; he blinked, opening and closing his mouth. “ … Oh. Well, thank you, I suppose. But I’m, ah … I’m not the owner of that collection.” A shy, almost pleased note crept into his voice. “I did help retrieve a few of the rarer tomes, however. ” 

Slice of bread halfway to his mouth, Martin paused. “You … but I thought …?” 

One arched brow crept toward Jon’s hairline. “You thought … ?” 

“I’m sorry, but– aren’t you the lord of this place?” 

“No.”

Martin took a moment to process this sudden collapse of his mental image for Jon. “But then who … why are you …?”

For someone so young, Jon had far too much stress lining his face. “It’s … complicated. You could say I inherited this place from its previous owner.” 

“Your father?”

“No,” Jon said, blanching. Then, without warning, he pitched forward. “I’ve been wondering if you’ll entertain a question from me.” 

Martin jolted, taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “Y-yes?” 

Jon smoothed a hand over one of his cuffs. “You were dressed too nicely to be working in someplace like a smithy. But your hands … I assume you’re a labourer of some kind?” 

“Oh.” Flustered, Martin set down the piece of bread. Why would Jon want to know a mundane thing like that? “I’m, um, I’m a server in Lord Barclay’s estate, actually.” 

“Barclay?”  

“Yes, Lord Barclay. Lord Frederick Barclay?” Jon was still frowning. “Your Lord. Your Lord, if you live in this region.”

“You really expect me to know the name of every noble that goes parading themselves around these parts like an arsehole?”

“I-I … suppose not?” Martin didn’t understand how Jon couldn’t know, though. What about his taxes? “H-how about you?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Well, you said the library wasn’t yours, right? And … you said you’re not the lord of the estate, yeah?” 

“In a legal sense, no.” 

Well that was an interesting answer, but Martin was learning not to ask for elaboration. “So, what do you … do?” 

Jon scowled. “I don’t see why it matters.”

“S-sorry.” 

“You apologise a great deal, you’re aware of this?”

“S–” Martin bit it back just in time, and Jon blew out a haggard, long-suffering sigh. 

“But I suppose it’s only a fair trade. If you really must know, I was – am, I suppose – the Head Archivist of this estate.”

Martin’s brows flew up– Head Archivist? That had to be rather prestigious. Did Barclay have a similar role anywhere present in his staff? The only thing Martin could think of that compared was … “So, like a librarian?”

“Not like a librarian.” But Jon’s mouth twitched. “I suppose there is some overlap. It was more than just filing books and keeping things tidy, though. We were also researchers.”

Martin perked up. “We?”

“… Yes. I … I did have a team working alongside me, previously. We researched unusual encounters, on behalf of our patron.”

“What kind of unusual encounters?” Fascinated, Martin leaned forward. “You mean like, like love affairs?”

“Nothing as salacious as that.” A slight smile broke out across his lips. “Although there– there was one time … ”

He stilled, trailing off. The fragile warmth that had been growing behind his eyes shuttered.

“Although … ?” Martin prompted after a beat.

Jon’s expression could’ve been carved from stone. He said nothing, shoulders hunched under some unseen burden.

A suspicion had been brewing in the back of Martin’s mind since his crawl through the manor’s hallways, and now, with Jon coiled tense as a spring in front of him, it came roaring back full force. Well, if there was ever a time for inquiries … “Can I ask you something?”

Jon huffed, and Martin winced. 

“Right. Um. I guess I just wanted to ask–” oh, how to phrase it …? “–is … is there anyone else … here?” 

Jon’s eyes lowered to rest on his hands. “No,” he said. “It’s just me. And now you, I suppose.”

And all at once, the pieces fell into place. Jon’s cooking, his nonchalance about the borrowed clothes, the dust that had settled in a thick carpet over everything Martin, or Jon himself, hadn’t touched. For the second time today Martin was left staring, dumbfounded. “… I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“This place is gigantic. Don’t you …” Martin glanced down at his lap, thumbing a loose thread in the duvet. “There’s really no one here?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Jon’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need your pity. Why else would I be here if I didn’t prefer it this way?”

Martin opened his mouth, but Jon stood before he could reply, stormclouds thundering in his eyes. “This has been more than enough excitement for one day– I’ll let you get some rest.”

He’d already made it to the door when Martin regained control of his voice. “Thank you for the ointment.”

Jon stopped, one hand frozen on the door’s handle. “Pardon?”

“The hand cream. It, uh, it helped. Thank you for noticing. And … and I’m sorry for … everything, I guess.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, then lifted his chin. “Glad I could be of some service.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Martin counted his footsteps until even their echoes faded down the hall entirely. 

It was probably for the best that he followed Jon’s instructions and got some rest. He had the gnawing sense that he was wearing out his welcome, fast.

He’d already nestled back into the mattress when a flash outside his window made him shoot back up.

Snow. Fluttering snowflakes were dancing on an invisible wind just beyond the glass. Martin rubbed his eyes– once, twice– but they were still there.

A trick of the light– it had to be. Some … half-asleep hallucination. He still had a ways to go before he was recovered, after all. Imagine– snow, at this time of year.

Putting it out of his mind, Martin pulled the duvet over him, and, with very little effort, drifted away again.

-

“–Hello?”

Martin stumbled to a halt, dinner tray in hand. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t have time to stop– there was still so much of the hallway left to go. But …

There. A door had appeared in the hall. Or had it always been there? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember …?

“You’re going to be late,” Charles said, somewhere off in the distance.

Late. Yes: Barclay’s dinner. He … he needed to leave. He was going to get everybody in trouble–

“–go.”

There it was again. Martin’s legs were stone; unable to move to the door, unable to move down the hallway. They had said go, right? He had to deliver Barclay’s dinner. But …

“You’re going to be late,” Mum said. Her eyes were hazy, unclear. What a wretched son he was; couldn’t even recall the colour of his own mother’s eyes …

“I’m sorry,” he said, but even he couldn’t tell who it was for.

-

Martin woke with aching arms and gummed eyes. Sunbeams were once again pouring in through his window, and this time, the accompanying disorientation faded faster.

Was it already morning? He must’ve slept right through dinner– this bloody mattress made it too easy.

And for once he was actually hungry. Properly hungry, too, without the accompanying nausea or weakness he’d grown accustomed to during his morning routine at the castle.

Today the silver tray was waiting for him on the desk– Jon had already come through this morning, likely an effort to keep him from waking, or wandering off again.

It was only as Martin was reaching for the tray that he noticed the books. Three of them, stacked on top of each other. Next to them were several pieces of folded parchment.

Martin, the letter started, with graceful, cursive handwriting, and something in Martin’s chest swooped low.

Here are some collections from the library, should you find yourself in need of entertainment. I had some difficulty choosing a recommendation, but I feel that these three have fairly universal appeal. Please take your injury into consideration, but I trust you to do what feels right for yourself.

Kinsey’s Survival on the Front Lines, especially, I find quite compelling. It’s a collection of memoirs from Kinsey’s time in war, and while a few have criticised his writing style as a bit dry, I find the contrast between his straightforwardness against the reality of war is how he’s able to make his point so clearly …

Martin read slowly, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with each word. 

The letter was five pages total, front and back. All detailing Jon’s reasoning for the selections he’d made, from their historical relevance, to his opinion on their style of prose. Was there anything in Martin’s life that he could talk about for so long? That he was so passionate about? Maybe his poetry, mediocre as it was, but not with half as much eloquence.

Buried in the text, tucked between hesitant, tentative platitudes, were Jon’s personal reasons for enjoying each book, such as I would often find myself returning to this text during my apprenticeship, and Some might consider Williamson’s humour a bit crude, but I still found it enjoyable.

Martin lingered longest on these, drinking in each tidbit with the avidity of a book-starved scholar.

The letter concluded with,

By now I’ve realised I needn’t have gone on for so long, but I’ve already spent two hours writing this, and it seems a wasted effort if I just tossed it, so … there you are. If you made it this far, anyway. Admirable, if you have.

If the choice between the three books still proves to be too much, I would suggest Sutherland’s Mythos of the Ages as a start. It’s simple, but, as I’ve mentioned, the illustrative work is astounding, and although it’s rather sentimental, I find the tales of some comfort to me. 

Jon

Martin traced the elegant swoop of the J, heart ballooning in his chest until he might burst.

Oh.

–

If you would like to be notified of MoMM news and chapter updates, please message me your user name and I will tag you in future posts. Otherwise, check out the MoMM tag on my page in order to stay up to date.

 @itspandaatsume123​ @thesmallestzita​

[ahsana]

Rehab ~ Dean Winchester

Chapter 1 - The Party

Summary: Gwendolyn Anderson is in her early twenties. For most people that age, they're in college or just starting to find their way. For her, she lost the person closest to her in the universe and she has to find a way to pick up the pieces because everything as she knows it as about to change. After a few events that are less than coincidental, the only thing that seems to make sense anymore is a man with green eyes and a twelve step program.

Pairing: AU!Gabriel Novak x OC!Gwen, AU!Dean Winchester x OC!Gwen & possible other variations. Stay tuned to find out ;)

Word Count: 2038

Chapter Warning: Just like every other chapter in this book so far, there will be detailed drug use, mentions of drugs, paraphernalia, mentions of death and other very sensitive topics. If this could trigger you or set you off in any way possible, I urge you not to read it. If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, please reach out and get help. You are not alone. Always keep fighting.

Even when things were okay, I still never feared death. I've been on the edge many times; never quite falling off, but never quite holding on either.

A lot of people say overdosing was their rock bottom. It wasn't for me. Heroin is a strong word, and sometimes it even shocks me when I say it. Weird, right?

In health class as a teenager, I saw the pictures of drug addicted people and made a pact with myself in my head that I'd never become one of those people and here I am. I guess I should explain how I got here, though.

« FLASHBACK »

Why did I snort that line? My nose burns, my brain hurts, and my whole body feels like it's buzzing. I'm not exactly sure where the cocaine came from or why exactly I did it but I know that I have to get out of here and fast.

Parties aren't usually my scene, but I figured since it was my last day as a teenager I might as well indulge. My surroundings aren't familiar, just some college frat party that I knew of because I attend school here, but other than that I really have no idea where I am or how I got here.

I'm searching for the exit, pushing past sweaty bodies and other young adults who reek of alcohol and marijuana. I gave up hope halfway through the search because it feels almost as if though it's impossible, so when my eyes land on the staircase in front of me I sigh gratefully.

The door at the end of the hallway is propped open slightly; a large rock wedged between so it couldn't close. The loud music was causing my ears to ring so I walked as quickly as I could and became elated when I realized the door at the end of the hallway leading to outside, giving me a chance to get some fresh air.

I push the door open and realize it's heavier than I first assumed, so I try and let it close behind me gently so it doesn't knock rock out of place. I inhale deeply and look around, only to be met with the fact that I'm on the roof somehow.

"Wow," I mutter, and make my way towards the edge of the building; my shoes making the gravel of the rooftop crunch along the way. I peered over the ledge, and for a second considered flying.

Worse case scenario, I land flat on the pavement, ultimately dying in the process or I make it to the rooftop across the way. I step onto the ledge, squat and then sit; dangling my legs over the side of the building.

My heart is pounding a hundred miles a minute, and all of a sudden tears start streaming down my face.

"I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend," I gasp out of shock because I didn't realize that I wasn't alone up here—and also because a random man is singing to me. I turn my head to face the mystery man and am pleasantly surprised. "You could cut ties with all the lies, that you've been living in," He continues, and I recognize the song and join in with him.

“And if you do not want to see me again, I would understaaaand. I would understaaand," We both sing in unison, and the stranger lets out a fit of giggles which makes me laugh in return.

"So Miss, how are you on this lovely night?" He questions.

"You aren't even going to ask me my name?" I inquire with a grin.

"Nope, don't need to." I nod in response, pretending to understand why.

“I'm doing well, by the way." I add.

"That's amazing.. or.. would be, if you were telling the truth." I cock my brow up, and he quickly adds, "I mean you wouldn't be sitting on the ledge for nothing, right?"

I shake my head in disagreement. "That's where you've got it wrong, sir."

"Sir? Do I really look that old?" He jokes.

"No, but I'm not sure what to call you since we don't need to know each other's names." The stranger sits beside me and lets his legs dangle over the building as well. I take a closer look at his features that are illuminated by the street lights below and I am captivated.

The ridge of his nose, the length of his lashes and his eyes—Wow, his eyes. It's dark, but I can tell that they're brown with a swirl of honey and it reminds me of a Hershey's bar.

"So, did you find what you were looking for?" He asks, and I shake my head no for the second time. "Well then what are you doing?" I shrug. "You're not very talkative, are you?" He asks, seeming genuinely curious.

"I am, but I'm not sure what to say. I'm at a party, drunk and high off coke, sitting with a stranger on the edge of the roof; trying to come up with something I could tell you but I'm at a loss for words here." The man gives me a goofy grin in return.

"Well. We'll probably never see each other again, so why don't you tell me your biggest secret?" I laugh out loud.

"Sir, I've known you for mere minutes and you want me to do something like that? Strange." I mumble in awe.

"I'm not from around here, so I couldn't possibly hold it against you in any way."

"Why did you come here then?" I ask.

"Free booze."

"Interesting. Here—I'll make you a deal. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours." I whisper cheekily to him and he nods his head, agreeing.

"Sure. Okay. Let's start," he thinks for a moment, "My guilty pleasure is Lazy Town, the kids show."

"Ha! That's an awful secret, shame on you!" I reply but laughing while doing so.

"Fine, fine. Um, when I was seventeen I slept with my best mate's girlfriend. He still doesn't know." He whispers guiltily.

"Wow, that's pretty deep. Are they still together?" He nods.

"Been together for eight years, married for three—with two kids."

I chuckle, "How do you know you aren't the baby daddy?"

"Timeline doesn't add up—trust me, I did the calculations as soon as she told everyone she was pregnant the summer after we graduated high school," He trailed off but then turned his head towards me, "Your turn."

I gulp, and try and think of something.

"Um... Well, I might as well go all out then. My parents are both government officials. Amelia and Doug Anderson?" I throw the names out to see if he recognizes them.

"Holy shit," He marvels. "You're Gwendolyn Anderson. I should have recognized you as soon as I seen you! You and your parents are all over TV." I sigh.

"Yeah. But call me Gwen, I hate it when people call me Gwendolyn. Anyways—That's not exactly my secret." I look towards him and he motions for me to continue.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this but.. here we go. My entire life, I've felt like the weight of the world has been on my shoulders. Ever since I was a kid my parents have been pushing me to be the best in every category there has been or ever will be. My senior year of high school was the worst, obviously because of the impending doom of getting into the best college and working on getting scholarship offers; meanwhile keeping all A's, playing volleyball and volunteering."

I continued, glancing back now and then to see if he was still paying attention and he was alert the entire time. "It got to the point where.. I needed some extra help. Adderall was basically my scapegoat and how I functioned for the entire year. My parents were so busy being wrapped up in their own lives and pushing me to my limit that they never discovered I lost myself along the way. Now I'm in college, and I'm still trying to find my way back to a happy medium. But when I looked down at the ground, I realized that for some reason it doesn't even matter anymore."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"Have you ever gotten to the point where you feel like you're just numb? Everything is grey scale and there's no color at all? I'm just going through the motions. There's no highs or lows; only this weird middle ground. I thought coming to this party tonight and getting trashed would make me feel better but it didn't change anything." He nods, knowingly. I can tell he understands. He rests his left hand on top of my right one and somehow it felt like my body couldn't get any hotter.

I should be scared, uncomfortable even. I just met this guy and don't even know his name but I'm letting him touch me like we've been friends all our lives. A sudden thought makes me speak up.

"You know, it's not really fair that you get to know my name and I don't know yours." He chuckles.

“It's Gabriel." I smile because it's very fitting. He looks like a Gabriel.

"That's a beautiful name."

He laughs, "Beautiful? More like average. Your name is beautiful."

"I wholeheartedly disagree. I have a grandma name, at least yours fits your age no matter how old you are." He smiles. We sit in silence, his hand still resting on top of mine and I take another look down at the ground.

"How long do you think it would take to reach the ground?" I ask as if he'd actually know the answer.

"For a suicidal person? Too long. For a person just looking for some answers, too fast."

“How do you know which is which?" Gabriel lets out a grunt and laughs.

"Well, do you want to die?" He asks, raising his voice but continues smiling; which is oddly contagious.

"I don't think I'd ever do anything to speed up the process, so ultimately no. Probably not."

"I guess there's an answer then." Gabriel replies.

"An answer?"

"Yeah, the one of many you're looking for. I won't have them all, though."

"B-But I thought you were an all-knowing wizard!" I gasp out sarcastically.

"No, no. But... I maybe might have one.. just for now,"

I raise my eyebrow again and ask, "What might that be?" Gabriel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny baggie with pills inside of it.

"You might like these," he whispers gently.

"Ah, man. I don't know--"

“I'm sure drugs weren't the first thing you thought of, but maybe they'll help you forget until tomorrow." I sigh and stick my hand out apprehensively.

"What are they?" I question.

"Percocet. Strongest prescription." I nod, remember hearing some of my peers talking about it previously this week. I swallow two of them without a second thought.

« FLASHBACK OVER »

I look down at the person who brought me into this mess, and his face is quickly turning a light shade of blue.

"Gabe, God, You fucking idiot! I told you not to do that much!" I shout and dial 911 as quickly as possible.

The next thing I know, I'm sitting on the front porch steps of his apartment as they're carrying him away on a stretcher. My best friend is dead, and I can officially say I'm terrified.

[hunterpuff]

The Hunter’s Daughter- Chapter 12

Chapter Summary: Things never seem to go well for long for the Winchester’s. Dean and Reader were in a good place, but then all hell breaks loose for Sam, quite literally, which doesn’t go over well with Uncle Sam’s girl.

Chapter Word Count: 3,214

A/N: Thank you, as always, for all of the great feedback and responses, I appreciate all of it. As always, thank you to @bazingirl for all her help on this story.

Need to catch up? Series Masterlist

Dean had hoped that by talking to his daughter, explaining to her why he hadn’t been the one to raise her, that maybe it would help improve their relationship a little. In some ways it did, Y/N didn’t seem so distant with him any longer and she seemed more willing to talk to him, now. But they still weren’t what he would consider to be close. While she didn’t actively avoid him, and would even seek him out to talk once in awhile, but she still seemed to be closer to her uncle than she was to him. While Dean was glad she had someone she could talk to, he was envious of his younger brother; he knew that Y/N was never going to look at him as a dad, Bobby had long ago filled that role for her, but he still wanted to play some part in her life.

Y/N’s bond with Sam also made him dread what he had to do now. He had gotten a phone call about his brother and he knew that she was not going to take it well when he told her. Hanging up the phone, he looked over to the bed she was sitting on in the old cabin they were currently squatting in. She must have sensed something was up, because she looked up at him and frowned.

“Dean? What’s up, is something wrong?”

Taking in a deep breath, Dean walked over and sat down next to her, looking everywhere but at her as he tried to choose his words wisely. “Y/N, we need to go to the hospital. It’s Sam. He...was hit by a car.”

Y/N’s face drained of all color and she felt her heart drop into her stomach. She quickly studied Dean’s face, trying to gauge the gravity of the situation based on what she saw there but, unfortunately, the older man had always been good at keeping his emotions under wraps. It was probably for the best, because Y/N knew that she had to be panicking enough for the both of them. The only thought that kept running through her head was that she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t lose someone she loved again. “Is Uncle Sam okay? He-he’s not… He’s…”

“I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, Y/N. He’s alive, and they said he’s stable, but we still need to go. You need to come with me, sweetheart. You don’t have to go in and see him, but I’m not leaving you alone right now, okay?”

Not trusting her voice to respond, she just nodded her head as she stood up from the bed; her legs feeling as weak and shaky as jello. Despite the fact that Dean had told her that her uncle was stable, her mind kept going to a worse case scenario. All she could think about was the possibility that she was going to lose her uncle, the one person she had left that she felt like she could really trust. Dean must have seen it written all over her face because he reached over and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his side in an attempt to comfort her.

“He’s going to be okay, Y/N. Try not to go to the worst case scenario, okay? Come on, I know you’ll feel better once you see him.”

Y/N just nodded again and pushed away from him, forcing a weak smile as she grabbed her jacket off of the bed. She didn’t want comforted right now, not by him at least. All she could think about was seeing her uncle and making sure he was okay. Sam was the one person she felt closest to right now and no matter how much Dean might try and reassure her, she wasn’t going to be okay until she saw him with her own two eyes.  “C-can we just go now? I want to see Uncle Sam.”

Unfortunately for Y/N, getting to see her uncle and reassure herself wasn’t quite as simple as getting to the hospital and being taken to him. As soon as Dean had told the receptionist who they were there for, he had been informed that he wasn’t allowed to see his brother at this time. No matter how much Dean tried to push, no matter how many people he tried to question, nobody would give him any further information other than to say they couldn’t see Sam right now and that Dr. Kadinsky would be out soon to speak to them.

Y/N could feel herself starting to panic, she just knew that her uncle was dead and they were waiting for the doctor to come break the news to them, before taking Dean back to identify the corpse. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her lungs were closing off and part of her wondered if this was a heart attack felt like, but at this point in time it wouldn’t surprise her if she had one from the stress. Dean must have noticed her slowing melting down, because he lead her over to a nearby chair and sat her down, with the firm instruction to ‘breathe, damn it.’ Once she managed to get her body back under control, she looked up at him with fear filled eyes. “You told me he’d be okay, but you lied to me. If he was okay, we could see him, but we can’t. So he’s not okay. He’s probably dead and they won’t tell us and now I’m never going to see him again and…”

Dean cut her off by squatting down in front of her and laying his hand over hers. “Y/N, sweetheart, breathe. Calm down. I’m going to go find out what’s going on. You stay here and try not to overthink things, okay? I’ll be right back.”

He gave her a kiss to the top of her head before standing up and walking down the hall in search of the doctor they were told they needed to talk to about Sam. Y/N could hear him down the hallway and had she not already been crying, she would have been laughing at the thought of the poor soul who was on the receiving end of that rant. Normally she wouldn't be one for intimidating people to get what she wants, but in this instance she didn’t care. That was her uncle laying in this hospital somewhere; she wanted to get to him and she was on board with whatever it was that it took to get them to him. If she thought it would help she would have been in there right alongside Dean giving hell to anyone trying to keep them away from Sam.

It felt like years, but was probably only a few minutes, before Y/N was looking up to the sound of heavy boot steps echoing down the hallway. Dean was walking towards her, a doctor alongside him, with a grim look on his face and she felt her breath catch in her throat. This was it. This was the part where she was going to be told that her uncle was dead, that she had lost the only person she had left in life. She was still holding her breath when Dean came over and grabbed onto her hand and pulled her up, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “He’s going to be okay, kiddo. Physically at least. But he’s having some problems, so he’s in a locked ward to get some help. I’m going to see him now, do you want to come?”

Y/N felt her eyes getting wider as he talked and she slowly nodded her head. She didn’t know what kind of problem her uncle was having, or why he might be in a locked unit, but it didn’t matter to her. All she wanted was to see her uncle, to know he was okay. She followed Dean and the doctor through the maze of a hospital, thinking to herself that she would get lost if she ever had to spent any significant amount of time there, until the doctor got them buzzed into a unit was was set slightly apart from the main hospital building. Y/N could feel herself growing apprehensive as they walked through this new unit of the hospital. All around her people were either yelling or sitting in chairs staring blankly into space, and it scared her to think of her uncle in a state like that.

When they stopped in front of a room, Y/N stared through the barred window at Sam as Dean and the doctor talked behind her. He was laying on the bed, looking more exhausted than she had ever seen him, staring at some unseen entity in the room. She could feel her heart constrict in her chest seeing him like that. While she knew he had been having a hard time lately, there had been several hushed conversations when the brothers had thought she was asleep, he had done a good job of hiding from her just how badly he was doing. Seeing him like this, after he had become a rock to her as she dealt with everything going on in her life, was killing her.

Y/N felt a hand on her shoulder and she looked back to see Dean standing there, gesturing for her to go into the room. Taking in a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside tentatively. “Uncle Sam?”

The figure on the bed looked over to the two people who had just entered his room and tried to offer a weak smile, but the gesture fell short. “Hey, kiddo. Why the frown?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Y/N walked across the room and sat down on the bed next to her uncle. As soon as he was close enough to touch she reached out and gently touched one of the bruises that had formed on his face. “It’s nothing, Uncle Sam. I’m okay. Just worried about you, that’s all. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll be okay...I think. If not, you’re in good hands, you’ll be fine.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” Both Y/N and Sam had almost forgotten Dean was in the room, until they heard his deep voice coming from the doorway. “We’re gonna figure this out, we’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

Y/N heard her uncle let out a soft snort as he turned his head away from the two of them before nodding his head a little. “Yeah, okay. Better in no time.”

“Don’t give up, Sammy. There’s got to be a way to fix it out there somewhere and we’re going to find it.” Dean came over and laid his hand on Y/N’s shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s let him rest for now, while we get to work.”

On their way back to the motel, Dean filled Y/N in on everything that had been going on with Sam. From the time he had been without a soul, to the wall Death had built in his mind to protect him from his memories from hell, to Castiel having destroyed the wall. Now, her uncle was being plagued by hallucinations of Lucifer himself and had been awake for days because of it. The information was all a bit much to take in for Y/N and she could feel herself beginning to panic a little at the thought of it all. For the first time since moving in with her family, she was starting to think that maybe she would have been better off staying back with Jody. This was all high level stuff, far beyond anything she had ever done with her dad. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this life, at least not with the two men she currently found herself with.

Once they got back to the motel Y/N found herself with a list of her dad’s contacts and Sam’s cell, making calls to anyone and everyone they could think of to try and find help for Sam. Y/N wasn’t even sure of what they were looking for or what to ask for, but so far everyone she talked to told her that they couldn’t help. Finally, just when she was ready to give up, she struck gold. Or, at least she thought she did.

“Hey Dean? I think I’ve got something. Lead on a faith healer who seems to be the real deal. Might be able to help us out. Worth a shot, right?” She handed over the phone to Dean then sat and listened as she talked to the hunter she had managed to get ahold of. Normally she wouldn’t eavesdrop on someone’s phone conversation, but this was important to her and she wanted to know what was going on. She had no idea what, if anything, could be done for Sam and she wanted involved in every last detail. When Dean finally finished, she looked up at him hopefully. “So, can he help us? Does he know someone who can fix Uncle Sam?”

Dean sighed softly as he looked at his daughter. At this point in time, he didn’t know if anything could actually help his brother, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. She’d been through enough already, the last thing he wanted to do was make things worse for her. Right now he was determined to find a way to help Sam just as much for Y/N’s sake as for Sam’s. “I don’t know, sweetheart. It sounds legit, but I won’t know anything until I check it out. I don’t know what I’m getting into with this one, so I need you to stay behind while I sort it out.”

“But…” She tried to argue with him, not wanting to be left behind. This was her uncle and if there was ever a case she needed to be involved in, this was it. Before she could get any further, however, she was cut off.

“No, Y/N. I know you want to help out, but I need to focus on Sam right now. You can be the biggest help by staying here, so I don’t have to worry about you. I won’t be gone long, I promise. You hold down the fort here.”

Y/N thought about arguing with him, trying to convince him that she needed to go with him. Had she not seen the look on his face, she probably would have argued, but she knew that he had already made up his mind and there would be no winning the argument. “Okay,, okay. I’ll stay here. But you have to promise you’ll call me. Let me know what’s going on. I just...I want Uncle Sam back.”

“I know you do, sweetheart. That’s what I’m going to make happen. Just be patient and I’ll get this all fixed.”

It was hard for Y/N to watch Dean walk out the door while she was left behind. Everything in her wanted to go with him, to help him find a way to fix her uncle. But she knew he was right, he needed to focus on Sam without her being around as a distraction or liability. She could hold her own if she needed to be but he didn’t know that and now was not the time to prove it to him. So, as much as she hated it, she would stay behind and sit this one out.

The problem with being left behind was that she quickly started getting cabin fever. She always hated being useless, she wanted to be helpful, and right now was the most useless she had ever felt. She had tried to go and visit her uncle, but was turned away because she was too young to be there by herself. So, all she could do was sit in the motel and worry about both Dean and her uncle.

Even the frequent calls she got from Dean to updated her on his progress didn’t do much to quell her fears. She knew that he had found the faith healer and he was someone who could help, though Dean was very vague on the details. She knew that he had run into some demon problems but that he had dealt with them and now he had back up; again being vague with details. The last update had been that they were almost to the hospital that Sam was in and if things went well they would be able to fix him and get him out. But now it had been close to twenty four hours since she had last heard from him and she was starting to get worried, her mind automatically going through all of the worst case scenarios. The only explanation she could think of was that things had gone wrong and now both of them were gone, dead or worse, once again leaving her alone in the world.

Y/N was just reaching for the phone to call Jody to put out an SOS when she heard something outside her  motel room door. Reaching for the gun Dean had left for her, she moved to a position that would allow her to defend herself while also giving her a clear shot out of the room so that she wouldn’t be trapped. Somehow she kept her composure despite her heart beating so fast in her chest that she was sure that who or what ever was on the other side of the door could hear it.

She was standing there; gun raised, aimed, and ready to shoot when the door opened to reveal Dean standing on the other side. The look on his face when he realized he was staring at the business end of a pistol, pointed straight at him, was an odd mixture between fear and pride. “Whoa there, sweetheart. Don’t shoot. It’s just me.”

“Dean! Oh my God, don’t do that to me. I had no idea who was coming in the room. You didn’t call me to tell me you were on your way back.” Lowering the gun in her hand, she quickly slipped the safety back into place and laid the gun back on the bedside before turning back to him, an expectant look on her face. “Why are you back? Was the faith guy any good? Is Uncle Sam okay?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Dean got a wide grin on his face as he opened the door the rest of the way and Sam peeked his head around the door frame.

“Uncle Sam!” Y/N launched herself at her uncle to wrap her arms around his neck in a hug. Sam’s arms slide around her body and squeezed tightly as he lifted her up off the ground. “How? Are you okay now? You’re all fixed?”

“Yeah, kiddo, I’m all fixed. We’ll fill you in on the hows later, but right now I’m going to get some sleep. All you need to know is that I’m okay and I’m going to be from now on.”

Tags: @sammyisapuppy @casjohnson @trustnobodyshootfirst @wolfshifter4life @thatcrazybookwormgeek @greenmoony @colie87

[writingwithadinosaur]

“Proof” - Part 1

“Proof” - Part 1

My Masterlist - Here

My Tag List - Here

Eggsy Unwin x Reader

Harry Hart x Daughter!Reader

Word Count: 1,272

Key: Y/N = Your Name, Y/L/N = Your Last Name, H/C = Your Hair Color, E/C = Your Eye Color

Warnings: Cursing

Summary: You and Eggsy have been dating in secret. After finally telling Harry, you two are sent on one of your most dangerous missions yet. Will this mission help Eggsy win your father’s approval?

Author’s Note: This idea arose from a conversation that @witchymarvelspacecase and I had about how I’m in love with the whole Harry Hart x Daughter!Reader thing. Then it progressed into this. Hope you guys enjoy this mini-series! 

If you would like to be tagged in any of my future pieces, check out my tag list above and let me know! And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

<3

- DreaSaurusREX

Your life was pretty normal. Well, if you considered being part of a secret spy organization and having the one and only Harry Hart as your father. Then, yeah, life was normal. 

Sometimes being brought up by a father who was secretly a spy had its benefits; one of which was the knowledge of how to be sneaky. You knew it wouldn’t be a lifetime secret, but for 8 months, you and Eggsy Unwin had been dating and your father knew nothing about it. 

Eggsy had almost blown your cover multiple times, but somehow one of you saved it, leaving your father confused, but otherwise unaware of your relationship. And as much as you loved Eggsy, you couldn’t bear to keep this big of a secret from your father for much longer. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Eggsy. This mission is incredibly dangerous, even for us. If something happens--”

“Don’t.” You saw a small amount of fear behind Eggsy’s eyes as the two of you sat outside at one of your usual hangout spots. “Don’t fuckin’ say that. I’m not gonna let anythin’ happen to you. I--”

“I know, babe. I know you are going to try your hardest. And I’m going to try to do the same for you, but we can’t just ignore the idea of a worst case scenario; not this time.”

Eggsy just looked at you and sighed. You knew he agreed with you. It hurt him just to think about you getting hurt, or worse, killed during a mission, he couldn’t fathom it happening, especially on a mission with him. He intertwined his fingers with yours and gave your hand a light squeeze before bringing it to his lips.

“You’re right.” He took a deep breath in and let it out on a long sigh. “So, how do you suppose we tell ‘im?”

~~~~~~~~

You and Eggsy had decided to approach Harry while he was in his office. It was secluded, and you knew that if you asked, your father wouldn’t let your secret live past the confines of those four walls. 

When you mustered up the courage to tell him, he looked unfazed, which was unsettling to you and Eggsy. You both had expected some sort of emotion; anger, betrayal, happiness, anything! But instead, he just sat at his desk, quietly, thinking. Then, after a moment, he stood up and came around to the side of the desk that you and Eggsy were on. He looked down and saw your hand laced in his. 

“I cannot say that I am entirely surprised.” You and Eggsy looked at each other, both of you still trying to get a read on how Harry felt about the two of you.

“So… you’re not upset?” you finally asked. Harry let a small smile pull across his lips after he takes a breath in.

“No. I am not upset. ‘Protective’ might be a more appropriate word, but not upset.” You couldn’t help the wide smile from stretching across your face before you let go of Eggsy’s hand and rushed to hug your father. You could hear Eggsy let out the breath that he had been holding for god knows how long.

“That’s such a relief. We were so worried that you wouldn’t approve and then we wouldn’t know where to go from there!” Before you could ramble anymore, you felt your phone buzz in your jacket pocket. Eggsy’s phone also went off. Merlin’s name flashed across both of your screens.

“We’ve got to go meet Merlin. Probably information about the mission tomorrow. We’ll talk more later? Dinner at home?”

“Sounds lovely.” You kiss your father’s cheek and turn to leave with Eggsy but don’t get far. “Actually, you go on, (Y/N). Eggsy, we need to have a tete-a-tete. I’ll let Merlin know about Eggsy’s tardiness. ”

You nod and then give Eggsy’s hand a squeeze. He instantly makes eye contact and you can see a new look of fear in his eyes. Not only has he never had to deal with a protective father like this, but he has never even seen this side of Harry. 

“You’ll be fine,” you mouth to him. He nods and brings the back of your hand to his lips, figuring anything more than that might be too much for Harry to handle after finding out about your little 8-month secret. You turn to your father while walking backwards toward the door. 

“Be nice. He’s been nothing but a gentleman. I trust him with my life.” Your father just nods in response and waits for you to head down the hall before speaking, leaving Eggsy feeling more and more nervous. He’s always been close to Harry, he was Eggsy’s mentor for christ sake. But this was something that he had no experience in.

“Would you like a drink, Eggsy?” Harry asked as he went to a small bar cart off to the side.

“I feel like that’s a trick question.” Harry stood and turned to face Eggsy, his face as stoic as ever.

“Let’s cut to the chase then, shall we?” Harry took a couple of steps towards Eggsy, causing him to straighten up more, if that was even possible. “I know you. And you know me. And you know how much (Y/N) means to me, yes?”

“Yes. And before you give me the whole speech about what you expect from me, I know. I know I’m not the first choice you probably had in mind for a wonderful girl like her. But for the past 8 months, we have been the happier than we imagined.” Eggsy took a moment to adjust himself and continue in a more confident manner. “I have seen (Y/N) at her happiest moments and when she’s hit rock bottom, and she has seen me in those places too. I would do anythin’ for her. Anythin’ to keep her safe, to help her, to make her smile. And I know that that sounds cliche and questionable, but I mean it more than I have meant anything in my life.”

Eggsy was internally screaming as he watched Harry stand there, absorbing all of what he had just said, still not showing any emotion. After what felt like ages, Harry moved towards Eggsy a few more steps.

“You do not need to argue your case, Eggsy. I’ve seen you mature through your time here. I’ve also seen the difference you’ve made in (Y/N)’s life. I give you and (Y/N) my blessing. But I would not be doing my duty as her father if I didn’t have this conversation with you.” He stepped past Eggsy and stopped in front of the door, reaching for the handle.

“Thank you, Harry. Your blessing means a lot to us. (Y/N) was worried sick.”

“There’s no reason to be worried. That is, as long as you stick to your vow to keep her safe and not hurt her. If you can’t do that, then there will be consequences. Just remember all of those weapons I showed you. I wouldn’t want to experience how those feel.”

Eggsy was sure the fear on his face was obvious. Harry let a small smile fall to his lips before he opened the door and ushered Eggsy out. 

“Now, off you go. I’ll tell Merlin you are on your way.”

Eggsy stepped out into the hallway and jumped out of his skin when Harry shut the office door behind him. 

“Well, that could have been a lot worse…” Eggsy thought. “At least the hard part is over with. Back to focusing on the mission and (Y/N).”

Tags - @melconnor2007 @ashenfallsof @geeksareunique  @witchymarvelspacecase @theeactress @thomasstanleyhoelland @white-chocolate-mocha-fan

[penname-artist]

Emergency - Chapter Five

Chapter Title: Eye on the Sparrow

Rated M

[Planes fanfic]

-----

Thunderstorms were rolling in, fast. Flashes of white light set the skies ablaze for merely a second, before darkness again claimed the clouds. Thunder boomed and rolled across the cliffs, chasing after the light spectacles in the sky. A scene as beautiful as it was dangerous. And this perfect storm was about to reign an all-out hell across the park.

Blade had only ever gone this fast once before. He shuddered still to think about it. He was hammering down at 193, 194... the needle all the way to the edge of the red, and he still wished he could go quicker. 195, he wasn’t even cleared to be able to go this fast. But that was what happened when you get hybrids - even with only slightly varied heritage, crosses tended to have random picks with genetics, in a wider range than you’d think. Both of Blade’s parents, who were non-pure themselves, had 193mph maximums. But he just passed 196. He hoped he wouldn’t spontaneously combust. As he neared the cliffs, he was hoping and praying that against all odds, they were alright.

-----

Thunderstorms were just a fraction of the problem; The Grand Fusel Lodge, the big hat of the whole park, called in for a search party from their air attack team. Somebody was missing. A minor. It had been a little over four hours since Madison and Clark had seen their daughter, Amy. Last they had seen, she was with a kids trail group near Anchor Lake. It wasn’t uncommon that while parents went to enjoy the more historical trails, park rangers and summer camp leaders would set up special trails for the young’ns to keep them from getting bored. Usually they included scavenger hunts or other interactive games for the group. What worried the team, however, was the trail that they used for the day. Generally the kids' trails went up around the lake and back, with one part going over a bridge. That meant a high risk for high waters, sure to be with the coming rain. They needed to find her, and fast, before the rapids did. Blade was the best they had - well, more the most capable they had, for an aerial search. Not everyone had the ability to hover and pivot mid-flight like rotorcraft did. He also had a hoist, which came in handy for just such occasions. So with Smokejumpers on the grounds all through that region of the trails already, Blade had to become their eye in the sky for the scouting mission. Amy was only ten, a Mustang GT, described as being burgundy with silver accents, with hazel eyes. Unfortunately, a hard color palette to find in a forest filled with brown pine needles and leaves. But the team was determined to do their best. Panic had begun to make itself known across the Agustawestland’s face as he scoured the hillside for any sign of the child. He was forced to double, and sometimes even triple-check every other rock that protruded from the earth that even resembled the shape of a vehicle. It had been about an hour now that they had been looking, and there was no sign of her. Not even a trace. Being so young, tracks that might have been made in the ground would be so light, barely noticeable under a foot of pine needles and brush. And then, an hour and a half into the search, one of the Smokejumpers radioed out to Blade to check the outskirts of the cliffs, to the far side of the lake. It was a long shot, and a risky one to boot, as it meant the chances of finding her perfectly okay were...slim. But the cliffs were close to one curve of the neighboring trail, so if she got lost on the wrong path she’d have ended up going by it. The helicopter took a deep breath, checking the treeline once more, before turning towards the cliffs. They had wandered to the other side of the valley where the trail started, so the cliffs were quite a ways off. But seeing the clouds rumbling in, Blade knew if he was going to search there, he had to get there now. He closed in on the cliffside at a whopping 197, the needle of his speedometer sticking past the red bar into the tiny region of black. He could feel the burn of his engine, being pushed to its limits. Luckily he didn’t have to go on for much longer. As soon as he could view the cliffside in focus, he came to a halt, engine happy to slow itself down, though still rumbling, boiling hot. For as long as he could, he scoured the rocky landscape, every rock and bush putting him on edge as his mind tried playing tricks on him. He waited for every update from the ground searchers on the other side of the park trail, panic rising still as nothing new was reported. His core beat through his system, hearing muffled with it’s every pulse. It was beginning to drizzle. Then it was sprinkling. In less than a minute, the rain began to fall in earnest, the wind whipping it across in waves of lighter and then heavier rain. Water lashed at the helicopter’s side, but he wasn’t going to give in. Even as lightning began to strike down closer and closer to the park, thunder getting louder and more in sync to every strike, the red and white chopper pressed on. He couldn’t let another down again. Then the unthinkable.

-----

The report came in jagged, both from the heavy static and from the helicopter’s wracked tone as he fought against choking sobs and strained cries. But enough was known for the team to turn their attention to the cliffside. There, at the bottom of the valley, their goal. Taken by the impact of the fall.

-----

Blade didn’t stick around to see the rest, once they had confirmed that it was her, and radioed to the Lodge about their find. It was their worst case scenario, but at least they had found her. At least they knew. The base was told, too. Maru sighed, cutting the radio off. He didn’t know what to expect anymore from the rookie when he returned, which he had just found out would be in the coming minutes. As the sound of the steady beat of rotor blades approached the station, he was already waiting outside of the garage. The first ones were always the hardest.

It was CHoPs all over again. He couldn’t stop himself from the horrific images that bombarded his mind the moment he touched down on the base. The moment his shock and denial was cleared, and he saw the reality of the situation unfold before him. He had broken his own promise to himself. He was too late to save her, too. He wasn’t on the base anymore. He was standing in front of Nick, watching the end. Watching him succumb to the flames, to his dying core. There was nothing he could have done, nothing anyone could have. The realisation burned inside of him worse than the burns against his body, boiling through paint and metal and twisting them into horrid things. Demons lurked in every crevice of the scene, buzzing like a swarm around them both. He’s gone. The form in front of him glitched and reformed into a much smaller being - a Mustang GT, laying broken and dead in the ditch of the canyon. She’s gone. The trails of demons swirled all around, enclosing every concept of light or life from around him. Every shrivel of hope. You were too late. He was losing himself to the darkness. Like drowning, and he couldn’t fight the pain and panic any longer. You couldn’t save them.

Then darkness was all that remained.

-----

His first conscious thought was that he had died. All he knew was surrounding darkness and a numbness in his body he couldn’t rid himself of. And then there was a song, somewhere in the distance, it’s singer somehow familiar, yet still entirely unknown to the chopper. But he knew the words. It was an old song, very old. He remembered every word, every note of that song, because he and his peers all recited it in choir each Sunday morning.

“Why should I feel discouraged, Why should the shadows come, Why should my heart feel lonely, And long for heaven and home…”

He hadn’t heard it in so long. It brought him back thirty years, back in Redding, California. His childhood, his family. Hearing it now brought a bittersweet twinge; He once had a great relationship with his family, until he came out about him and Nick. He and his father had never spoken a word since that fight. The young chopper had torn himself up about it then, practically tried to pretend his co-star and partner didn’t even exist for two weeks straight. When the Hughes finally deigned to ask him what the matter was, he finally caved. And Nick set the record straight for him. “Look, you be what you want to be,” he told him, “and if they only want to see you as shameful and something to be turned away, then they’re hypocrites. We have a saying in our house: Love always. That means we don’t care what you are, what you do, how far into the pit you get, we love everyone. Because that’s what we’re here to do.” “You’re too good for this world.” He always said, whenever Nick had to remind him of those principals. Love. It was the same form of admiration and care that the unknown singer put into every note of his song. The same way Nick did when he sang, usually to get something off his mind.

“I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free…”

Letting his own cares go, Blade lip-synced the last lines of the song, as he had always remembered they were sung;

“For his eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.”

[avijohann]

Thank you for answering so kindly. Again, I do see where most of this is coming from, it just feels weird seeing so many people in the replies and reblogs jumping in defense of something that up until this very post I didn’t even notice nor care about, and this happens a lot when it comes to latine stuff in fandom. It often seems we have different priorities.

At least from what I’ve seen, Aubrey is treated with a lot of love and respect in the fandom. People draw her in skimpy clothes a lot, but I’ve never seen something that looks sexual or objectifying (i don’t think wearing short shorts or crop tops is inherently sexual, I wear them a lot too, but that’s just personal preference). She’s always depicted in cool action poses, like she’s having fun with her magic. I personally love each and every Aubrey version. It would make me uncomfortable if someone were to draw her in a submissive pose or something like that, but so far i haven’t come across something like that yet.

Although I do think Aubrey is treated differently than other female characters in design choices, it doesn’t feel to me it’s a race thing? For example, you have Lucretia, Sloane, Nadiya, and even Lup as brown characters. Lup is subject on her own, I have no business there as I’m cis, but as far as race is concerned, I’ve never seen something that screams “I like to sexualize latina women” with her either to be calling a racial pattern. Maybe it is a bisexual thing after all, and in that case I’m the one who doesn’t get to police you on how to feel. I haven’t seen people treating her as flirty or outright promiscuous, but if there’s something I don’t notice because I’m not bi, I understand if it makes you uncomfortable.

But as far as her latina identity goes, I have... a lot of thoughts on Aubrey. Most of the design choices I make with her come from my own understanding of what being a rebel, punk rock, and unconventionally feminine, means in the latinoamerican family. For example, people are saying she is not supposed to be too feminine, but she doesn’t look “feminine” to me. Femininity here is dresses and flowers, or fashion and accessories from a magazine. If I walked home looking like that my parents would think I’m either a lesbian (I mean, if I was still in the closet) or about to go fight cops. And on the other end is her personality, which sure, it doesn’t match the crop too fish net look, but that’s also nothing like what you would expect from someone with a buzz cut and a denim jacket. I’ve always thought of that aspect of her as part of the play between expectations vs reality all the amnesty characters have. Look at Duck and Ned, nothing we know about their appearances show how they truly are.

I have a lot of concerns about latinoamerican representation, in general and in TAZ, and I appreciate the love and care people have for the twins, Errol, and Aubrey (and Joaquín, for the little content he gets). And again, this is my personal opinion on the subject, it doesn’t represent everyone else in the community. I’m not Puerto Rican either, so I don’t have any authority beyond the general latina experience. If another latine fan thinks completely different from me I would love to talk, even if worst case scenario we agree to disagree. But for the rest of you, I would appreciate if you just let me do my thing and don’t jump to conclusions on my or any other latine’s behalf. Thank you.

so, um, while we’re on the subject

can I ask why bisexual puerto rican Aubrey is always portrayed in like… short shorts/skin-tight leather/fishnet tights/revealing crop tops? 

y’all think maybe portraying a bisexual WOC who never canonically wears anything revealing in exclusively revealing/’sexy’ clothes might be, uhhhh… 

a bit not great? 

especially when the only other queer woman on the show (who is usually interpreted as white) is also usually portrayed as wearing a lot less revealing clothing?

like she’s literally in a rural west virginian ski town? aubrey’s prrrrrrobably not rocking a corset? 

[twdixonimagine-blog]

Is that accent fake?//Norman Reedus

Info: y/n gets fed up with lack of quality time with her best friend, Norman, due to fans. She goes out for a drink and finds the company of another man but when Norman finds her, he isn’t happy.

Warnings: swearing, smut

“Norman! Stop, don’t!” y/n screamed.

Norman held y/n by her waist and threatened to throw her in the lake. She held onto him for dear life, not wanting to be thrown. It didn’t help that she was fully clothed in jeans and a white shirt. It’d be heavy and see through, luckily if she was thrown in, she had a spare hoodie that was dry and on land. 

Then he did it, she was in the water. She came up for breath and Norman laughed looking at her. So gorgeous, even when her hair was wet and her face in a pout. So called angry at Norman but both knew she couldn’t stay long at him mad. 

Both had feelings for each other, but both were good at hiding them. Norman feared rejection, he had only loved once before and we see how that went. Y/n on the other hand just feared rejection. Rejection from Norman, and ruining their friendship of almost a decade. 

“I hate you” She exclaimed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’ll join you then” Norman said with a smile.

He removed his jacket and then his shirt. It wasn’t the first time she saw him like this but it was still great to see. He then took off his pants and jumped right over her head. The splash ricocheted onto her and she had to brush the excess water from her face, once again. 

“You are so horrible” She laughed.

He smirked at her comment but it turned into a smile getting to see her face so happy.

“I know” He replied.

He swam to her so they had a foot of space between each other. It would’ve been a great moment that could be romantic, but they were just friends. Either way, it was ruined. Girls came around the wall of trees with camera phones out, few smart paparazzi followed. Always amazed at how people tracked them down, but always ended up annoyed. y/n rolled her eyes and dragged herself out the lake. Every time they tried to hang out, it was always ruined.

“Y/n, y/n, stop” He called out her name trying to get to her but the water held him back.

“He’s all yours” She said to them.

She threw her hoodie over her soaking wet body. It wasn’t comfortable but better than walking in the streets of New York with a see through shirt. She wrapped her hair up into a bun and turned. He was taking photos, thumbs up and smiles, no attempt to get y/n. It hurt.

She trudged out and into the streets of New York. She hailed a taxi, it took quite some time to find someone who would let her soaking wet self into their cab. While she sat in the back ad drove off, Norman was trying to get her.

After the fans and photographers left, Norman was alone. He sighed realizing that y/n was upset. He hastily pulled on his jeans and threw his jacket over his bare torso. He ran out to find her, bare feet on the dirty ground but she was worth it. She was nowhere to be seen and he couldn’t do anything about it but give her time to calm down.

After getting cleaned up y/n left to her favorite bar. She went to the one she always did, it was close, cheap and everyone knew her there. She didn’t have to get dressed up or anything fancy. She walked in the smoky bar, makeup messy, hair not done and in jeans and a baggy shirt. 

“Hi, Harrison” She waved to the drunk that was there every day.

“Hello, y/n. How are you?” He asked.

“Just peachy” She said sarcastically and sat at the bar.

“Hello, y/n. How was your day?” The bartender, Nick, asked.

He knew what drink to get her based off of her response. The harder the day the harder of a drink.

“Norman threw me in a lake and then fans interrupted and I ended up soaking wet in jeans in the back of a creepy cab”

“Rum and coke?” He asked to make sure she was okay with it.

“Yeah, perfect. Thanks, Nick” She told him with a halfhearted smile.

“Anytime, y/n” He gave her a soft smile back and went to make her drink.

That’s when he made his move, a random sat next to her ready to sweet talk her into his bed. 

“Hi, love” He spoke with a British accent.

She rolled her eyes, no time to sleazy men.

“Is that accent real or fake?” She asked sarcastically.

“Real. I’m visiting from out of town, country, actually”

“Oh, I’m sorry” She apologized realizing how rude she sounded.

“It’s fine. What are you drinking tonight?” He asked moving on, a smile on his face.

“Rum and Coke” Nick interrupted, handing her drink to her.

“Long day?” He asked.

“Just a little” She laughed while looking at the ground.

Then her phone buzzed, Normans name on it. He sent a text, and another and another. Notifications from him rolled in. Texts, calls, tweets, from him and fans.

“Boyfriend?” The man asked.

She looked at it. She only wished to have the honor of calling him her boyfriend. But if she did, she would lose her chance of getting an easy one night stand, a night to forget.

“No, just a friend” She sighed and looked up at him “I’m y/n, and you are?”

“Sam”

Norman was filling with worry. He was scared of what she could and would do. He knew that she was running out of patience, she wasn’t used to the attention, but she would, he hoped. He texted her numerous times and tweeted to ask fans to see if they could get through to her. Lengths most would take for girlfriends he took for his closest friend. He wanted to at least know if she okay even if she was mad, he wanted to make sure she was safe and okay.

He paced around sending text after text, he ran a hand through his hair. He quickly ran out of patience, especially because it was dark. He had only the worst case scenario in his head, she was dead or kidnapped.

“Fuck it” He cursed under her breath and left his house.

He slammed the door behind him and got in his car. The first stop was her house. He used the key she gave him after knocking was useless. He checked her house and there was nothing, no one or any sign of where she could’ve gone. Then he went to her favorite bar.

He walked in and nodded to Harrison, as well as y/n had. He found her sitting at the bar with some 9 to 5 business man. He tried to keep his cool even though he wanted to punch the guy for even talking to her. He walked up to the duo.

“Jesus Christ, y/n, I was so worried about you and here you are” He said with a fake smile.

“I’m here and I’m fine, Norman” She tried to dismiss him.

“Y/n, we need to t-” He started but Sam cut him off.

“Hey, man. She’s been ignoring your texts all night so I think you ougtta go” Sam stood up and placed a hand on Normans chest to keep him away.

“You can get your fucking hands off me, Prince Harry and leave my girlfriend the fuck alone” Norman said shoving his hand off him.

Y/n was taken aback by the words he had just said. He called her his girlfriend. She could see Norman getting riled up and knew he had to get him to go. SHe stood up and put one of her arms around her chest and the other behind his back.

“Norman, let’s go” She spoke trying to get his heavy figure to move.

“Norman!” She raised her voice.

He gave in and let her pull him away. She lead him out the bar and to his car. He calmed down in the night, it was nice to have fresh air.

“Norman” She started.

“Don’t say anything” He spoke, still somewhat angry.

“We gotta talk about what you said”

“What? Me calling you my girlfriend? It was just to get that wanker away from you”

“Oh” She spoke in disappointment but didn’t expect much more. 

He drove to her house and walked her up. It was quiet, the elevator was the worst. Dead air in close confinement. When they got to the door, he unlocked it for her.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Norman” She kept the conversation short.

As she tried to close the door but held his foot in it. She looked up at him and his eyes were dark. She wasn’t sure if she should be excited or scared.

“Norman” She spoke as he didn’t.

He pushed in and put his lips to hers. She kissed back without hesitation. He closed the door with his foot and took her to her bedroom. They fell onto the bed, he was on top of her. He kissed her roughly, as if claiming territory.

“Can’t believe you left me for some stuck up British at a bar” Norman joked, a smirk on his face.

“I left because of your groupies” She responded.

“So you were jealous? Jealous of your friend and his fans, huh?”

“You could say that” She replied and smiled up to him.

He moved his harsh kisses to her neck. He left marks down her neck before raising her shirt off of her body. Beneath was her bare chest and he took one of her nipples in her mouth. He wanted her so bad and he finally had her.

“Norman” She moaned breathlessly.

“y/n, I like you a whole lot” He spoke as he focused on getting her pants off and getting them both off.

“Me too” She replied.

“Good, then we both get why I am marking territory, and why I was worried about you and why I chased after you, right?”

“No, I don’t”

Norman pulled himself out of her jeans and boxers, lining himself up with her,

“Because, I love you” He spoke as he thrusted into her.

Her jaw hung open, head back into the pillow and hands grasping at his biceps. Norman kept his pace with minimal grunting, a thin layer of sweat forming on both of their bodies.

“Fuck” He grunted.

He dove his head down to her neck, making more marks. He liked having her close to him either way. She moaned as he was making her feel good everywhere. She clawed on his back, wanting him to keep going the way he was.

“I’m close” She told him.

He sped up, the bed rocked along with her body under his. She couldn’t even realize she was about to come until it was happening. She bit his shoulder to quiet herself and give her some relief of all the pleasure. Norman quickly finished onto her lower stomach before rolling over next to her. She was ready to get up and clean herself up.

“No, stay” Norman told her while he went to get her tissue paper.

He wiped up the mess he made off of her and threw it away. He pulled a blanket over them, one hand behind his head and the other wrapped around y/n. She traced patterns on his chest lightly.

“Why didn’t you say it earlier?” She asked him “Could’ve saved me a lot of nights crying myself to sleep”

“I was scared” 

“Of what? Rejection? What girl would reject you?”

“The one that has been around longer than anyone else. One who already knows my downfalls and my shit. One who doesn’t want to take me on anymore than she wants”

“Well I do, Norman. Every last part of you, I want it all. Good and bad”

“Good thing, because I feel the same”

[overhere-series]

Over Here: Chapter Six

Here’s the next chapter! Going to try and have this next one up on Wednesday, though I’m getting busy with work again in this new month and school is going to come collect. I have until May 5th to have a good amount of this book ready for my senior project, though- means more prose for you folks! 

Cass doesn’t crawl all the way to the end of the tunnel this time, tucked out of sight but able to get a good look at whatever might go down. Worst case scenario, she can pounce out of here to save her guide if he does something stupid. She still can’t tell what best case scenario might be, though.

Still, too late to think too much on how dumb this all feels, spying on a bird who’s not a bird as he visits a horse that’s not a horse.

Winston kneels at the edge of the pool as the thing inside rages at him, screaming and stamping as he sits without even a twitch. He listens, patient, but the fragment doesn’t have much to actually say, it looks like.

“I’m terribly sorry for the state we left things in, but we’re perfectly willing to give you any help you need,” he replies to the roars, a calm in his voice that makes it almost deeper somehow. Definitely a few steps below his usual cracky lilt.

YOU HAVE NO RIGHT. IF YOU BELIEVE I WILL SUBMIT AFTER WHAT YOU’VE DONE, I PROMISE YOU- YOU SIT BACK DOWN. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

The bird rises to his feet, arms spread wide and hands balancing a shimmering fluid something. Like water curling on the air around him as he funnels his arms in smooth arcs, the fragment silent in the shadows. A rough shape just as hazy as the magic forms on the pool’s surface as the ritual continues.

A song like the one he’d whistled for the sylphs echoes in the dome, slow and measured as a lullaby. The gleam of light in the center dims. By the time he’s let his arms relax and the song goes silent, Cass can make out an outline emerging from the pool. Her head aches a little to look at it head on. Out of the corner of her eye, it’s like the shadow of a horse, like the thing in the pool as she’d seen it before it was bound. Its mane fans out around it, glowing faint white until it blinks out of view.

AAAAAAAAAaaaaah how could you let me carry on that way? All fragment and desperation and- ugh, absolutely horrible. I hate it.

“Happens to the best of us,” Winston says. “Trust me when I say I preferred you that way for the moment, all told. You weren’t terribly wise in avoiding my work.”

Do not remind me. If those children had not come I may have remained in that state longer still. You do not know what it can be like, trapped in a vessel like that. If I had not been bound by your kind the damage might have been far worse…

“I can only imagine,” the bird answers, grim. “We’ll do what we can to end this sort of thing. It doesn’t really solve matters.”

That it does not. You wane. Is something wrong? Your vessel-

“I’ll be fine in time. Thanks for your concern. Will you need anything further from here?”

You.

“I’m sorry?”

A strong breeze rips through the domed pool, chilling Cass and reminding her all too much of the sylphs from the night before. Instead of passing over her, it comes to a halt in front of where she sits in the tunnel.

Winston peers inside and waves. “Oh! Hello, Cass-”

You, the gwyll buzzes. You kicked me. Did you need to kick me?

“You stole two kids and pulled a jerkass Jedi mindtrick on me.”

It hurt! It was dead tissue so I couldn’t feel it, per say, but it’s the sentiment-

“And to think we were making such progress,” Winston sighs, even if a smile plays on his lips. “You could have come with me. What’s all of this sneaking around for?”

Cass spins her glare at the active air to the bird, climbing out into the dome. “You said you were taking care of business. You’re just playing pattycake with the thing that tried to kill us?”

“I did come to settle business and I have. I would have told you had you asked.”

Cass sets her jaw. “Don’t change the subject. What’d you do to the monster?”

That’s rude.

“That was rather rude, Cass.”

She crosses her arms. “So what’d you do to it?” she asks.

“Them.”

“Them, then!”

“I healed them. When a fragment is broken, the right magic and emotion can piece them whole again.”

And what good magic it was, the gwyll hums, slurring a little like they’re drunk. Nothing compares to human magic, not with all the meaning, personality… Keeps us without a name much, much less fragile. I missed sunlight. May I go now?

“Apologies first.”

Both Cass and the gwyll are scandalized. Cass snorts, about to protest before the gwyll shifts as if bowing and speaks with begrudging respect. I apologize for seeking your name, human, it announces.

“Cass?” Winston prompts, hands clasped. He looks like her dad trying to get her to fess up to smacking Stan for the remote.

“You’re kidding.”

She can tell by his stern look he’s not. She looks at the gwyll, or where she pictures it being. “Fine! Fine. I’m sorry for… kicking you in the face twice. Happy?”

“Much so, yes. Now,” Winston says, rubbing his hands together. “To find a new vessel for our friend, shall we?”

For a split second Cass’s blood goes cold, but Winston only studies the curved walls of the branch-dome instead of giving her a sly grin. “And why the heck are we looking for a body for a thing that tried to kill us?” she gets out.

“Because they lost their last one and I’d like to find them a new one,” he says. His hands find the spot he’s been looking for in the dome. Shoulder deep in a weak part, he adds, “Would you like to come or should I wait for you to sneak along behind me for a third time?”

Heat rushes to Cass’s face. “I didn’t-”

“I don’t mind, truly,” he continues. “But I prefer the warning this time. It could have been real trouble this afternoon had our friend been worse off.” He offers his hand, the other still plunged in thickly woven vines.

Careful of the edge of the pool, Cass takes his hand and the rushing step to whatever’s behind the dome.

They both teeter on their feet when they’re spat out the other side. Winston releases her hand, breathing hard. Whisking takes its toll the more he does it, it looks like. Part of Cass wants to get the magic thing down just so her guide won’t keel over before they even get to Haven.

Warden? hums the gwyll.

“We’ll be along, give us a moment. Are you alright, Cass?”

“Fine.”

Step lightly.

“Lively?”

Lightly.

“We wouldn’t want to scare off any potential vessels, of course,” Winston explains.

“Is that why you’re barefoot?” she asks. She’d put her shoes back on before she went in the tunnel again, but she’s got to admit they make more of a crunch in the summer grass than they ever had on concrete and carpet.

Winston brightens, impressed. “Clever! But no, it’s just easier to exchange. Shoes aren’t always free of metals and the like, you see. You can only wrap so much in leather to keep it on you in a change of form.” He sticks out a leg and flexes his toes for emphasis. The gwyll huffs.

Cass goes rigid and the bird shuts up. So much for quiet.

Something small but not too small. Lithe? Something graceful. The last one could prance before it fell here. The gwyll’s running description goes on as they creep through the brush. Several somethings skitter around beneath and above them, but nothing the gwyll seems to want. Cass has no clue how they see anything as the sun sinks them into darkness.

Somehow Winston can see better than her, too, though. A few times he nudges her foot or holds out his arm for her to steady with. Despite herself she has to grab it once before she can trip over a rock or root hidden at her feet.

It doesn’t help that her eyes grow heavier by the second, or that she needs a little guiding more and more. The gwyll keeps debating bodies- a weasel, a squirrel, a bird-

But I don’t want to be prey. Immersing in a mind like that is not good after… this last vessel.

Cass doesn’t have the energy left to snap at it to find another horse to take over, which in retrospect works out since she doesn’t remember seeing any so far. Instead she stubs her toe and hisses. Something a ways away echoes it and kicks her brain awake.

“Do a cat,” she says.

The gwyll pauses in their monologue, sends the air around Cass shifting again as they move. She shivers.

Yes. Yes! I like this vessel, warden. Make it so.

Winston blinks. Cass tugs him forward toward the hiss she heard, the rustle in the thickets of cats fighting. The wind picks up as the gwyll drifts alongside them.

They reach it just when the fight dies down, the losing black tabby backing up from a ginger one stalking the bushes a few feet away. Territory fight, it looks, like the ones Thor has with some of the cats in their neighborhood.

Winston steps forward like he means to break them up but Cass yanks him back. The gwyll noses closer to the two cats. As she watches the black one goes still for a few moments. Blinking over and over until a shudder passes over it.

It stretches and turns the other way. Apparently not a fight worth winning anymore.

Instead it lets the ginger prowl off and comes rubbing up against Cass’s ankles. The scratches on its side aren’t too serious, but they seal up as Winston runs his hand over them.

The cat bows its head. Cass catches a shimmer to its eyes that makes her own ache again.

Thank you. I do not know how long I would have remained if you had not come. My apology for the harm I caused. The gwyll’s voice still rings through her head. She feels weird petting the cat now. The cat that’s not exactly itself anymore.

“A pleasure. Anything else you might need?” Winston yawns.

Cass elbows him half-heartedly, wishes he would stop asking if people want more from them when they’re both barely standing. But the cat just nuzzles his hand with their head. A cut beside their ear heals.

I need nothing more. I will find a warren on my own means. Fair fortune.

“Fair fortune,” Winston says.

“Hail and well met, man,” Cass mumbles. When the rustles of the cat leaving go silent, she takes the bird’s hand and doesn’t protest being led to a less crowded piece of forest.

“Thank you for your thought,” he says. “Or we may have wandered much longer than either of us would have liked, yes? We need to be on the other side of the barriers if we want any rest, however.”

“Why? Fragments?”

A hum. Tired as she is, Cass barely remembers the time between taking his hand and the pair of them finding a wall of vines and thickets. “We finding another town?” she asks, rubbing her eyes.

Winston shakes his head and tightens his grip. The whisking wakes her up, enough to wise her up to the fact that they’ve been holding hands for way too long. She hugs her flannel around her shoulders.

“Here, huh?”

He sits in the grass in front of a tree and shrugs an apology.

Cass glares at him with droopy eyes a minute, but the waking part of her brain doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction- or waste the energy. Tough it out. The longer you wait, the nicer a bed will be.

So she sits on the other side of the tree, bag set at her feet. The puffy lavender grass manages to be survivable, and the night here doesn’t chill as bad as it might have back home. Even the stars here are different, bright and clustered and everywhere like they are on clear Earth nights but in new patterns.

She runs through the day as she looks at them. The Fausts, the gwyll from the pool, the warmth reeled from her insides and up her throat like she might throw it up.

That jerks her awake. Winston peers around the trunk to look at her, map across his lap. He’s got one of his feathers in hand, dribbling a bit of ink as smudged words glow faint on east Ellis. “Everything alright?” he asks.

A phantom heat burns in her chest but douses as she slows her breathing. Cass nods. Winston still looks her over, concern on his face but surprise too like she’s just shaken him from something right along with her.

“Go to sleep, birdbrain,” she says around another yawn. “Do you even sleep?”

“Yes,” he says, flat as if responding to a different question altogether. His eyes fall back to the words he’s scribed as he jots more disappearing words down. Cass rolls over and focuses on how heavy her eyelids are. The scratch of the bird’s pen makes it kind of easier.

[obscuraxrp]

The smoke settles to reveal KANG DANIEL, also known as LOTUS, a 20 year old human of Sunseong. He is a university student and florist who appears to be gifted with precognition – but like most things in Sunseong, there seems to be more to him than meets the eye.

FACECLAIM: Kang Daniel, mmo trainee (produce 101)

APPEARANCE:

notable physical characteristics include a minor case of heterochromia iridium (mismatched eyes), with a hazel right eye and a light brown left eye, and standard lobe piercings.

BIOGRAPHY:

his story starts off like any tragedy does, with a bright, naive child who only sees the world through rose-colored glasses and lives only golden tinted days. the boy’s world is one of vivid colors and glowing lights, with even rain appearing as something happy and wondrous to his wide and impressionable eyes. his childhood is one of blooming flowers and blossoming plants, with an earthy petrichor clinging to his every movement.

he spends his days in his mother’s garden, always smiling and always laughing.

(perhaps, if you really tried hard enough, you might still smell the subtle scent of soil on his clothes.)

he’s still a kid when his roots are torn out of the ground and moved elsewhere. his father doesn’t come with him.

he finds himself chasing after the man’s shadow on the late, lonely nights where he would stare at the deathly still ceiling from his small bed and wait for his mother to come home from work, missing the warm smiles and gentle touches that had been painted over by indifferent pats on the head and lackluster quirks of lips. soon, the world around him grows grey and cold, and his smiles grow smaller and smaller.

it is only when the grandfather enters the picture that the wilting blossom begins to rejuvenate.

he begins to spend more and more of his time in the elder’s store, marveling at the beautifully crafted jewelry, and how the smooth metal almost felt otherworldly against his skin.

they grow closer and closer, his mother becoming farther and farther away, and in his head, the store becomes his real home, his grandfather his real family.

on his eighth birthday, he receives a pair of silver earrings. his mother immediately disapproves and forces him to return them.

the boy is left devastated when his roots are upturned once again two years later when he opens the apartment door to find a small, neatly wrapped box at the doorstep.

he opens the door to the familiar store with a wide beam, holding the open black box in one hand, only to smell iron and see red seeping across the floor, with knocked over and emptied shelves covering a body he doesn’t want to look at, a body he doesn’t want to even think for a moment is -

clunk.

a silver earring falls out of the box as it falls, hitting the wooden floor with a clink, and disappears under the large burgundy recliner that he had spent many lazy summers lounging on and listening to stories.

the sound breaks him out of his stupor, and he turns quickly, feet moving to get him somewhere, anywhere, anywhere but here. In his fear, he loses his footing, and he vaguely remembers almost making it to the door before his body lands on the wooden floor with a crack.

he wakes up in a hospital bed barely remembering his name, saying the first words that came to his mind.

“where’s grandpa?”

his mother, disheveled from lack of sleep and ruined by worry, lets out a soft cry at her son’s curious expression, and says the first thing that would soothe his poor heart.

“he’s sleeping now, dear.”

the kids looked at him weirdly nowadays, he found, pointing at his eyes and making faces.

as he begins to pick back up pieces of his memory, he finds holes and loose ends - his grandfather had passed away of old age, and his mother had requested him to stay away from the store for the sake of honoring his wishes. funny thing was, he couldn’t remember the last time he had visited the old man.

they called him names for his strangely colored eyes, laughed at the fact that he only wore one earring - a gift from his late grandfather. There had been two originally, his mother had said.

that was weird. he only remembered having one.

it didn’t bother him, though. to be fair, he thought himself strange, too.

it wasn’t until they started calling him a supernatural that things began to change yet again.

“look at the witch! he’s trying to save his familiar. ”

he outstretches a hand towards the skittish feline, holding onto the tree’s trunk with one hand.

here kitty, kitty.

“you know, my dad told me that really bad witches snatch children away from their families.”

“really? don’t let him get down, then!”

slowly, carefully, it inches towards him, about to touch his hand when -

thunk.

a rock bounces off the branch, scraping against his palm and causing the cat to lose its footing.

no!

and in that moment, he loosens his hold on the trunk and presses his feet against it, ready to jump.

screams. he hears them faintly, growing louder in his mind. and for a split second, he sees his twisted and broken body on the ground, eyes wide open and unseeing. he sees every horrified face, every pair of eyes trained on him that were as wide as saucers, swimming with fear. he sees the cat struggling to remove itself from his limp and useless arms.

a hot white pain bursts through his head at the grotesque image, and as time slowed, his arms move on their own, instead grabbing onto the branch and swinging his body over to catch the creature by its scruff.

he hears the shouting of teachers as he hung onto the tree’s limb with one arm, head buzzing and black spots covering his vision.

they fade away as his grip slips and his arm is relieved of its strain, and he sinks his face into the feline’s fur as he falls into warm, firm arms, eyes closed.

from that day on, his head was constantly swarmed with visions and sleep was hard to come by. quickly falling into an endless cycle of pain and fear, constantly slipping between reality and dream, the boy became an exhausted, empty shell of his former self. every step hurt, every sense was heightened, and visions of himself getting scrapes, bruises, hell, even paper cuts haunted him.

soon he stops going to school, stops leaving his room, stops getting out of bed because it was simply too dangerous.

his mother gives him a ring one day, telling him that it was a “good luck charm”. he doesn’t buy it, but wears it anyways - an apology for the worry and anxiety he’s inflicted on her.

he doesn’t believe it, of course, until the depictions of his death that hang around his dreams, the fear of his future injuries, suddenly don’t seem as bad, don’t seem as harmful. breathing seemed so much easier for some reason; nerves were only small distractions.

and for once, he thinks.

he begins to think that not everything he saw was a truth set in stone; at least, it didn’t have to be.

he starts to realize that he has a power - a power that could change his life.

so he takes a step into the outside world, and, for once, he’s not afraid of it.

CHARACTERIZATION:

a delicate balance between sanguine and grounded, daniel is a star that tries to hide its glow by blending in with the others. he tends to shy from the spotlight, preferring to remain as a background character, although his work ethic and modesty tends to attract more attention than he seeks. he is candid - although easily embarrassed - and carries a strangely endearing charm to his subtly awkward persona, whether it’s by the way he smiles or interacts with others. despite being the designated “straight man”, daniel is exceptionally agreeable, and, unfortunately, an owner of a bleeding heart. a supernatural sympathizer and animal lover with a knack for putting anyone in his vicinity at ease, kang daniel always speaks from his heart and with a strong moral compass.

however, he is often a little too grounded; a natural worrywart and inherent skeptic, daniel frequently views the world through jaded lenses, internalizing much of his conflict. he is, in fact, often overwhelmed due to his inability to control his specialty, and subsequently carries a heavy burden on his shoulders, second-guessing himself on multiple occasions and showing brief moments of indecisiveness or being consumed in thought. at his very worst, he can appear either much too insouciant or exceptionally perturbed - with occasional fits of silence or emotional meltdowns thrown into the mix - although he has a good sense and tends to shut himself in during these times to avoid troubling others.

SPECIALTIES:

Precognition [Rank I] (20 pts) precognition, often characterized as foresight or some form of supernatural premonition, is the ability to fathom future events moments (or even years) before they occur. thus, the holder is capable of altering their actions as to bend time to their will - assuming that they are able to manage their ability well, of course.

Limits:

daniel’s ability currently only operates as a form of danger intuition; when threatened, he unconsciously casts a spell in which visions occur in brief “flashes” that, when uncalled for, can quickly overwhelm the mind, drain energy and render him vulnerable - this is due to an unconscious internal barrier that prevents him from utilizing the entirety of his power.

likewise, he can only see into the immediate future, and is incapable of controlling when “flashes” occur due to lack of mastery. however, his ward allows him to mitigate the impact / shock value of their content, and he can sense them seconds before they occur, causing the likelihood of complete vulnerability to be exceptionally unlikely.

on the other hand, depending on how emotionally charged the visions may turn out to be, the probability of backlash from the spell (manifesting as - on a smaller scale - migraines and sluggishness, and in the worst case scenario, momentary blindness, paralysis or unconsciousness) is fairly likely - effects can last from a few minutes to an hour.

Ward of Time Reduction [Major] (10 pts)

manifestation: a sterling silver earring - horseshoe circular barbell (right ear)

background: having received a pair of earrings at a young age from his grandfather (and later losing one due to unknown causes), daniel frequently refers to the remaining piece as his “lucky charm” - despite being completely unaware of the magical properties that it holds - and is always spotted wearing it.

ability: highly in tune with its user’s emotions, the earring is capable of “slowing down”, or simply skewing the wielder’s perception of time so that they are given extra seconds to think or process thoughts. symptoms include experiencing a “lull” in surroundings, as well as various other visual effects.

limits: the ward’s effects occur only within the mind, and are purely internal - thus having no impact on any external sources. Its powers only span a few moments, and when not utilized properly, can appear as simply sluggishness or a figment of the wielder’s imagination.

Ward of Calming [Major] (10 pts)

manifestation: a plain, silver ring (right index finger), with a width of roughly four millimeters - incapable of rusting and with the inscription K.D. on the inner ring.

background: a ring given to him by his mother, who hoped to “cure” his fits as a child with a ward from a supernatural friend of his late grandfather.  despite initially wearing it as a reminder of his family and home, he begins to wear it permanently after experiencing complete vulnerability once taking it off.

ability: also exceptionally empathetic, the ward enables a calming feeling that slows abnormal increases in heart rate and immediately stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system. this ward is also capable of using its owner as a vessel for its magic, therefore allowing them to spread this effect to other hosts through contact.

limits: the ward works of its own accord, only activating once it picks up on discrepancies within the user’s nervous system, and is tailored specifically to and only for daniel. this renders it useless if any other person were to attempt to utilize it. the magic is purely initiated through touch, and its benefits are unable to be bestowed upon the other lifeforms it comes into contact with unless two requirements are met: (1) the host (i.e. - daniel) is wearing it, and (2) the host has made physical contact (that hasn’t been broken) with said lifeform.

Unspent: 60 pts