#as one does when they are not in a good state of mind

[imfinereallyy]

I wonder if you look both ways (When you cross my mind) pt. 2

pt. 1

🐝･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･✦ʚɞ

June 1996, Chicago

Steve doesn’t exactly know when Eddie Munson became one of his best friends, let alone when he fell in love with him.

He supposes both things occurred between the end of the world, and Eddie’s back walking out the door for the last time, unbeknownst to anyone. Though, that is five years of time, who’s to say when it really happened.

Dustin will argue the friend part. He likes to think it was he who brought them together (it certainly wasn’t; in fact, it put a real bump in the road for them). Dustin also thinks, which Steve is more inclined to think is true, that the two of them had become friends during Eddie’s slow recovery and Steve’s guilt complex, which made him feel responsible for him.

Which—ouch, Dustin—but years of therapy would prove him right.

Little shit.

Dustin doesn't know about the love part, though, and Steve doesn’t think much of the party knows except for one or two of the perceptive ones.

Looking at you, Lucas.

Robin likes to argue that Steve doesn’t know when he fell in love with Eddie because Eddie was different from everyone else.

Steve puts everything into love, moves fast, falls hard, and ultimately gets crushed by his own passion. Steve doesn’t know how to take things slow or wait around for the right person.

Until he did, with Eddie.

Steve managed to have a slow decent into the madness of loving a man like Eddie Munson. And he never did anything about it, although he didn't mind. Steve was okay with just being friends and loving from afar.

Until they weren't even that, and Eddie was gone.

Steve can't think about that now, instead he should probably worry about the man himself breaking into his apartment at 3 a.m.

"Get. Out." Robin hisses, breaking Steve from his thoughts.

Suddenly, Eddie stands. His hands thrust forward in a placating nature, and nervous energy radiates off of him. "Robin, please—"

"No, Munson. You don't get to disappear from our lives for five years, and then break into our apartment!" Robin whisper shouts, the metal bat waving around in her grip.

Steve still hasn't said anything, still unsure of any of it is really happening. But he can't help but warm at Robin's fierceness.

She will go down swinging for Steve, even against someone she cares about.

Fuck, he loved her.

"Give me one good reason not to bash your skull in with this thing, Munson. I dare you!" Robin took the metal bat and pushed it into Eddie's chest.

Steve gets a good look at him as he stumbles backward. He doesn't look much different—well that's a lie. He does look different; more tattoos, more piercings and Steve is pretty surprised to catch him wearing anything other than a band tee. It is just so all quintessentially Eddie. The jewelry is all silver, any tattoo he got after 1986 appears to be in black and red ink only. Even his tee is still black despite the lack of a band on the front.

"Birdie, I don't think you should have Steve's bat in your hands, you're a bit dangerous." Eddie tries to grab the bat from her hands but Robin yanks it back.

"Oh, fuck you, Munson! You don't get to call me Birdie, and this is my bat. Steve's is wooden and full of nails and underneath his bed. You should know that, or has the last five years really rotted your brain?" Robin is now waving the bat around with gusto, nearly missing Steve's head at one point.

Trying to shake himself from his frozen state, Steve decides it is probably in everyone's best interest if he steps in.

"Robs." Steve speaks gently, hand on the bat as he slowly lowers it down. Her shoulders drop, the fight draining out of her in seconds. "It's okay."

It's not okay. Steve doesn't understand what's happening right now. But Steve is okay as long as he has Robin, and Robin has him. Steve hopes she understands that's what he meant.

Robin nods her head, and shuffles closer to him.

Steve takes a shaky breath, "What are you doing here, Munson?"

Eddie cringes at the use of his last name but doesn't comment. "Listen, I know it's weird me just stopping by suddenly—"

Robin snorts, "I wouldn't exactly call breaking in 'stopping by'."

Eddie shakes his head, ignoring her. Stray curls start to fall loose from their bun. "I just want to talk, for you guys to hear me out."

Steve rubs a hand down his face, he is getting too old for this stuff. Being blindsided, being surprised—being thrown sideways and upside down. Sure, twenty-nine isn't exactly old, but Steve has lived practically six different lifetimes by now. There is so much damage to him—physically and emotionally. He is supposed to be past nonsense like this.

Robin takes his silence as permission to snip at Eddie, "No. Go away, Eddie. You don't get to do that. Get out."

Eddie moves a step forward, he is now illuminated completely by the side table's light. He looks tired—good but tired. It's not the kind of tired you see of someone in distress, not the ache that comes along in the tunnel that has no light in the end. No, Eddie looks tired in the way that comes with healing. Like working hard exhaustion. As if coming home from a long but good day at work, and the night grows weary.

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, but Steve cuts him off. "It's fine, Robbie. It's late; let him crash on the couch."

Eddie's shoulders sag in relief, "Thanks, Stevie, we can talk—"

"No." Steve chokes out, moving his hand towards his throat so he can remember to breathe. "You don't get to call me that. And we're not talking about anything. You'll sleep here, but that's it. I might not want you here, but it doesn't mean I'm going to let you wander the streets at night."

"Steve, please—" Eddie reaches out his hands to touch Steve. It is most likely going to be a gentle touch, but Steve can't help the way he violently flinches.

Eddie looks taken aback, eyes wide and full of sadness. He pulls his hands back.

"No, Eddie." Steve grabs Robin's hand and starts to pull her to bed. She doesn't protest and instead leans into his touch. Steve turns over his shoulder to look at Eddie again. "You'll stay the night. It's not an option. But my morning? I want you gone. I don't want you to be the first thing I see after sunrise."

Steve turns quickly back around, ignoring the pained grunt from behind him.

Bypassing Robin's bedroom, Steve pulls them both into his. Robin doesn't question it and instead makes herself comfortable in his forest green blankets.

Steve quickly follows after, snuggling into the bed beside her. People have thought them weird over the years—always in each other's spaces and knowing every little thing about each other. Partners, friends, family—all of them had something to say about it, never even bothering to understand.

Well, except Eddie. Eddie appreciated it, accepted it. Adored it at times.

"Are you really okay with this, Dingus?" Robin whispers softly between them.

"No." Steve never lies to Robin; she'll know. "Not at all, but I'm not going to let him wander the streets, no matter what I loved him at some point. I don't let the people I loved, get hurt."

Robin squints in pity, "Loved?"

"Not now, Bobbie," Steve whispers.

Robin nods, "Besides, I'm pretty sure 'Ed Sloane' can afford a fucking hotel room."

Steve lets out a loud snort, it echoes throughout the room. "God, don't remind me. What a stupid fucking name."

The two of them dissolve into giggles, bumping their heads together. Under the covers, they clasp their hands together tight. "I just don't want you to derail your life, for someone who walked so easily out of it. I know you have that important lunch with Drew tomorrow."

Steve takes a breathe through his nose, "Yea, I do. But it'll be fine. He'll be gone before I'm even up. You know Eds, he's a runner. Wouldn't stop trying to prove it, in fact."

Robin's face is scrunched in pain, and her eyes pool with pity. It's as if she knows something Steve doesn't or sees something he chooses to ignore. She doesn't comment on it, though. Instead, she raises an eyebrow, "Eds?"

It isn't snippy or accusing. Her voice is soft against his cheek. Steve doesn't have the mental capacity to argue though. "G'night, Birdie."

"Goodnight, Stevie." She whispers.

Steve closes his eyes, knowing it will all feel like a dream tomorrow.

Steve is familiar with having dreams with Eddie in them.

🐝･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･✦ʚɞ

more to come i promise, especially after your (loving demands). especially my mutuals who yelled at me in the tags and my dm's (it made my day).Part 3 is currently being typed up. Also might fuck around and make this a full-blown ao3 one shot; who knows.

tag list!:

@stevesbipanic @withacapitalp @emryyyyy09 @brainfugk @blueberrylemontea-fanfic

@slv-333 @thetinymm @connected-dots-st-reblogger @helpimstuckposting @dreamercec

@goodolefashionedloverboi @stripey82 @little2nerdy @anne-bennett-cosplayer @resident-gay-bitch

@ghostquer @sourw0lfs @devondespresso

(please let me know if you don't want a tag, I had to guess by the comments, and sorry if you’re getting a random tag after posting, I had to fix the tag list cause tumblr is weird)

#okay so now it is a thing #no more idk i promise #also this has a happy ending i promise #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #my writing #platonic stobin #platonic soulmates stobin #stobin #platonic with a capital p #steve and robin #I wonder if you look both ways (When you cross my mind) #ao3 #ficlet #angst #hurt/comfort

[midnightarcheress]

Simon thinks he could live like this.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: nothing he's just down bad 7 | gold rush masterlist.

“are you insane?!” Daniel shouts, slamming the door behind him and stomping his feet towards Simon with a menacing look, “you think you can just move her around like this?”

“she wasn’t safe in that house, this is for her protection,” he answers promptly, crossing his arms and taking a step in front of you, covering your frame from the irate man. if he could, he’d land a punch on his face in no time, not caring that technically he’s his boss.

“yeah? and you simply have to be here with her, right?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes at him. you watch the scene unfold from behind Simon, brows knitted together and bottom lip nearly bleeding from biting too much. he’d managed to momentarily tranquillize you, bring you back to earth after the terrifying panic state, but the anxiety kept simmering underneath your skin, just waiting for another chance to take over your body.

“the shitty security system you put in her house wasn’t enough to prevent the bastard from intrudin’, the bloody alarm didn’t even go off,” he retorts, eyes shooting daggers straight ahead, “so yeah, i’m gonna stay with her for as long as it’s necessary. contract says to protect her, doesn’t it?” 

the two of them stay quiet, a silent staring competition on Daniel’s side, a mere warning on Simon’s side. he won’t budge, won’t allow you to go back to that house, hand you on a silver platter to the grim reaper hiding behind letters and eerie messages. 

Dan leans on his side to look at you, ignoring the mass of a man in front of him. “are you sure about this?” his tone is strangely soft, like a switch flipped in his mind, all anger vanishing. you nod, offering him a small smile that does a poor job of concealing how nervous you are about the situation. he purses his lips, taking one last glance at Simon’s unwavering posture before sighing in defeat.

it’s been two weeks since the mirror message that led Simon into comforting you, and two weeks since he had to control his own panic, trying his best not to spiral. it had been a while since he shared a living space, so staying with you feels like a dream that he’s constantly afraid of turning into a nightmare by saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, or even thinking about what’s happening. 

the safe house Price arranged is far from the size you’re used to, being at least three times smaller than your own house. but to his surprise, again, your reaction to it contradicts his expectations. it could just be you being a phenomenal actress, covering your resentment behind a beaming smile, but you seemed to have grown accustomed to his presence easily, didn’t protest once, never lamented the loss of luxury and privacy.

he wanted to deny the feeling, shove it deep down in his brain and lock the safe, but it was nice, the domesticity of it all. it was nice learning little details about your routine; how you only get out of bed the second time your alarm rings; how you’re definitely not a morning person, judging by the gruff good morning you mumble when you slide to the counter stool; how you love trying new recipes and quietly dance in the kitchen, freezing when you notice him watching you; or how you’re always carrying something to read, it being a book or a script.

it was nice making you coffee in the morning and seeing you rub your sleepy eyes, nice hearing you humming a song in the shower, nice catching a glimpse of you in lingerie when you forget to lock your bedroom door, nearly making him choke in his own spit by the sight of the small tattoo on your hip. is it a star? a flower?

he felt like he was playing house with you. a game where you’re his loving wife and he’s a devoted husband, where he could feed his delusions, live everything he was convinced he’d never have in this lifetime. inside those walls, he could do it all, except the one thing he longed the most – touch you. kiss the top of your head when you’re baking in the kitchen, run his fingers through your hair when you’re curled up on the couch, feel your soft skin under his fingertips when you lay in bed, bend you over the table when you pass by him in skimpy pyjama shorts.

“do you... wanna watch a movie?” you ask, remote in hand and head leaned back on the sofa, chewing the inside of your cheek and attentively glaring at the television. he tilts to the side, stirring his thoughts away and taking in the view of your features illuminated by the bright lights coming from the screen. it was easy to get lost in how beautiful you were, a magical creature brought to earth to bewitch him. 

your head suddenly shifts to where he’s sitting, and it hits him that you’re still expecting an answer. fuck. “uh, yeah, sure.” he mumbles, snapping back to the telly, swallowing the desires his throat dared to spill.

later that day, Simon steps onto the front porch for a much-needed nicotine fix, dark blues painting the sky as the last rays of sunlight vanish from the horizon. he hates the burning sensation of the smoke in his lungs, but always craves the lightheadedness and dopamine flush in his veins, no matter how many years it takes from his life. 

“god!” you jump, looking behind you and putting a hand over your chest to steady your rapid heartbeat, “you really are a ghost, aren’t you?” a chuckle falls from your lips after the startle, travelling the air like a lullaby, and he ignores the flutter in his chest that happens whenever you laugh.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” you shrug and turn back to your initial position, sitting on the steps and watching the crunchy tree leaves dancing in the breeze. he follows your gaze to the front lawn, bringing a cigarette from the pack to his lips, debating if he should truly smoke with you in there. you never complained, but he’s caught you frowning at the thin cardboard a few times around the house, so he decides not to light it.

“can i ask you something?” you blurt out, lifting your chin to face him, eyes searching for his, and his head dips, irises focusing on yours. one brow raises at your sudden curiosity and he nods, back propped against the column, waiting, “why Ghost?”

his jaw tenses, gaze shifting from you to the carton in his hands. the ever-dreaded question. “dunno. just a nickname.” lie. he couldn’t tell you how everything was taken from him and he faked his death years ago; how he truly became the ghost of man. you don’t deserve to be burdened with that knowledge, so it is just a nickname. 

he looks back to you, gauging if you bought his deflection or not. you’re still focused on him, vision flicking at every crease of his expression, waiting for any falter, but it doesn’t come. “you can call me Simon.”

the thin line of your lips breaks into a smile, cheeks rising and making his heart skip a beat. so much for easy detachment, “okay, Simon.”

the way i still have at least ten parts of this story in my outline but i'm so unmotivated to write it :(

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #f!reader #fem!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost imagine #ghost fanfiction #bodyguard!ghost #bodyguard!simon #actress!reader #bodyguard au #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #gold rush #bodyguard!ghost ☾ #nyx writes ☾ #midnightarcheress

[adriennebarnes]

Can You Be My Boyfriend?

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Hispanic/Latina! Reader

Summary: Y/N is Ferrari’s social media manager and when one of the mechanics doesn’t take no for an answer, she pretends she’s dating a certain Ferrari driver.

Warning: grammatical and spelling errors cuz I don’t proofread

A/N: i just wanted to say thank you so much for the love y’all gave “Prince of Ferrari”, it means a lot to me as a new Charles Leclerc writer. I hope y’all like this one too, just like Olivia Rodrigo, I am so American,

Y/N walked into Fred’s office.

“Mr. Vasseur, I had an idea for a new C2 challenge.” Y/N said.

“What did you have in mind, Y/N?” Fred asked.

“I was thinking we make dishes from each place we go to. Like Cuban food from Miami, Texas barbecue ribs, paella from Spain, and we have Charles and Carlos match the dishes to their flag. I personally think it would be fun, you know? Or we could do a video where the drivers tell us from which Grand Prix the photo was taken.” Y/N suggested.

“Those are very good ideas, Y/N, see if the boys are up to it, will you? Figure out when the best time is to film that.” Fred said.

“Yes, will do.” Y/N said and left his office. She walked to the living room (does the hospitality have a living room? I don’t know) to see Carlos and Charles chatting to away.

“There she is! Como has estado, hermosa?” Carlos asked Y/N, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek.

“Ha estado súper bien, un poquito cansada, pero nada que no se puede arreglar con un café.” Y/N said, her and Carlos laughed.

“I understand half of that.” Charles said.

“Now you know how I feel when you speak French.” Y/N said. “Anyway, as your social media manager, I had an idea for an upcoming challenge, we have to make the most of this season.” Y/N said.

“We hear you, mon ange, what’s the idea?” Charles asked.

“Can you guys guess what Grand Prix this is based off the picture?” Y/N asked, showing them a picture on her phone.

“That’s when I won in Monza.” Charles answered.

“Good, this is your challenge, guessing Grand Prixs based off a photo.” Y/N said putting her phone away. “It’s not much, but it’s different from what you guys have done in the past. You could also match dishes to their countries.” Y/N said.

“Sounds like a fun challenge.” Carlos said.

“Good to hear. I’m gonna be with the photographer, he’s taking photos of the new livery and I need to approve them before I post them on Instagram. See ya later, okay?” Y/N said, stepping into the garage where she sees the photographer looking over the photos on his camera.

“Y/N! You’re here, tell me what you think, and be brutally honest. Do you think they came out to blurry?” The photographer, Daniel, asked. Y/N started looking them over.

“They look great, honestly, it matches Ferrari’s instagram feed, you did a good job. Can you upload them to the computer?” Y/N asked and Daniel said that he could. He left Y/N alone on the garage and that’s when one of the mechanics, Ruggero, approached her.

“Sei bellissima, a more mío.” Ruggero told her. Y/N rolled her eyes,

“Grazie, Rugge, what do you want?” Y/N asked.

“You are very hostile towards me, you know? I might be able to forgive you if you go out with me.” Ruggero said.

“Not gonna happen, Rugge, aren’t you tired of getting rejected?” Y/N asked.

“I bounce back. Come on, amore, why won’t you let me take you out? You think you’re too good for me?” Ruggero asked.

“What are you talking about? Oh my god, I don’t think I’m too good for you, where the hell did you get that from?” Y/N asked, so confused at the turn this conversation took.

“Well that’s the only thing I could think of, you come from the states, you clearly think you’re better than Europeans.” Ruggero said and Y/N had enough of this nonsense.

“I have a boyfriend! Que pesado eres, me cae.” Y/N said.

“Really, who’s the boyfriend?” Ruggero asked. Y/N saw Charles walking into the garage.

“Muñeco, there you are!” Y/N said loudly, walking up to Charles and kissed him. Charles widened his eyes in shock but kissed her back and they both pulled away, Y/N wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest and Charles rubbed her back.

“Congratulations, does Fred know?” Ruggero asked.

“It’s private right now, we’re just seeing how this goes.” Y/N replied and as soon as Ruggero left, Y/N pulled away from Charles. “I am so sorry! Ruggero wouldn’t leave me alone so I had to tell him I had a boyfriend and honestly whoever walked through that door was going to be the victim of my lie but I am glad it’s you and not Carlos, mainly because Ruggero knows Rebecca is dating him.” Y/N explained quickly but Charles was still distracted, thinking about the kiss Y/N gave him.

“I’m sorry, what?” Charles asked.

“Can you be my boyfriend?” Y/N asked.

“I Don’t think we could pull this off, Y/N. We work together.” Charles said.

“We would only have to pretend we’re dating around Ruggero, no one else has to know, I promise.” Y/N said.

“Okay fine.” Charles said, him and Y/N were walking back to the main area (I don’t know how this works) and Carlos was standing next to Fred and Ruggero with a smile.

“Congratulations, cabrón,” Carlos told charles, hugging him. “You two are adorable.” Charles turned to look at Y/N with a look that said ‘no one will know, yeah right’

“I didn’t know you two were dating.” Fred commented.

“It’s still new.” Charles replied, putting his arm around Y/N.

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with the social media posts, it should be fine.” Fred said before walking away. Ruggero smiled before going back to the garage.

“Now I know why you always called her ‘mon ange’, que coqueto saliste, eh charles.” Carlos said, leaving Y/N and Charles alone, Y/N pulled away to face Charles.

“Well so much for that plan, I really am sorry, Charles.” Y/N said.

“You know what? It’s alright, it’s okay, pretending around here should be easy enough, this can’t get worse, right?” Charles asked.

“I Don’t think it can. How about I buy you lunch for getting you into this situation? I swear I did not mean for this to happen.” Y/N said.

“Yeah, sure let’s get lunch, where do you want to go?” Charles asked.

“Well since this lunch is my treat, you choose where we should go.” Y/N said. Charles and Y/N walked to the parking lot together and Y/N was walking towards her car when Charles grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards his car. “Seriously?”

“Well what kind of boyfriend would I be if we went to lunch in different cars?” Charles asked.

“Yeah, makes sense, Ruggero is watching through the window too, let’s go.” Y/N said. Charles opened the passenger door and Y/N got in, he close the door behind her, ever there gentleman, and he got into the driver seat. He turned on the car, and gave Y/N his phone so she can choose the music.

They arrived at the restaurant and like always, there were fans recording Charles and Y/N in the car, leaving the car, eating at the restaurant, talking, laughing, within the hour, Charles and Y/N were trending on Instagram, Twitter (X), and TikTok. As they waited for the check, Y/N was scrolling on TikTok when she found a video of her and Charles in the car.

“Charles, i think our ‘relationship’ went public.” Y/N said, showing him her phone. Charles’s eyes widened.

“Cant say I’m not surprised, I just thought videos wouldn’t be posted until later, you know?” Charles said and Y/N put her phone away.

“We haven’t even been ‘dating’ two hours and now everyone knows. You have no idea how sorry I am, I feel so bad for dragging you into this.” Y/N said.

“None of this wouldn’t have happened if Ruggero understood the word ‘no’ so you are fine, I’m glad I was able to help. But what was that thing you called me? ‘Muñeco’? Why did you call me that?” Charles asked.

“So ‘muñeco’ means ‘doll’, you have a pretty face, everyone says you’re good looking, you know you’re good looking. So muñeco just suits you, okay, especially with those dimples.” Y/N said, Charles smirked a little.

“You think I have a pretty face?” Charles asked teasingly.

“Great, I boosted your ego, like your head wasn’t big enough already. You literally said in one of those C2 challenges when Carlos had your photo that if you were a woman, you would be in love with yourself.” Y/N said. The waiter came in with the check and Y/N was going to take it but Charles was faster. “Dude, I told you I was gonna pay.”

“It would look good if you paid, there are cameras everywhere apparently.” Charles said, placing his credit card with the check. The waiter took the check.

“Then I’ll Apple Pay you. You gonna train today?” Y/N asked.

“Yes actually, come with me? You could post it to my story.” Charles asked. The waiter came back with Charles’s card.

“Yeah, I can do that. But we gotta go to Scuderia Ferrari for my car.” Y/N said, getting up from the table, Charles getting up as well.

“I think it can stay there overnight.” Charles said.

“You want me to spend the entire day with you? You’re insane.” Y/N commented as they were leaving the restaurant.

“Maybe, but it is to keep up appearances.” Charles said.

“I guess, but how long do we say we’ve been dating?” Y/N asked, getting into Charles’s car, he does the same.

“4 months seems good, don’t you think?” Charles asked.

“I guess that’s plausible.” Y/N said, Charles starts the car and drives off.

“Do you miss New York?” Charles asked.

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked.

“You travel a lot with us and you moved to Monaco for work, but do you ever miss New York? Your family? I know I miss my family when I’m away for races.” Charles said.

“I miss the food in New York, I can’t get decent tacos al pastor in Monaco, I gotta wait til the Mexican Grand Prix for them.” Y/N stated. “But yeah, I do miss New York.”

“You should ask for vacation time so you could go.” Charles said.

“I Don’t think they’ll give it to me, but thanks.” Y/N said.

For a week, Y/N and Charles have been spotted together everywhere, at races obviously, with Joris, Andrea, Doni, and Victoria, even with Charles’s family. Right now Y/N was with Charles at a club in Monaco. Y/N was at a table with Charles was at the bar getting drinks. Y/N noticed a girl flirting with Charles, touching his hand, before he pulled away with two drinks for him and Y/N.

“Charles, can we talk for a second?” Y/N asked.

“Sure, what’s on your mind, mon ange?” Charles asked, the nickname still causing butterflies in Y/N’s stomach.

“If you wanted to hook up with that girl, you can. I don’t want to have you tied down for a fake relationship.” Y/N said.

“I wasn’t interested in her at all, you know.” Charles commented.

“Really? What happens when the next girl that hits on you is more your type? I don’t want to hold you back, we are friends after all.” Y/N said.

“I have a confession to make.” Charles said, Y/N nodded her head for Charles to continue. “I’ve liked you for a while. Before you kissed me, it was a little crush, I thought it would have went away, but being with you this past week made my crush grow stronger. You don’t have to feel the same way, I just wanted to get this off my chest.” Y/N was shocked. Charles usually went for Instagram models, but he actually likes her, this was her dream come true.

“I’ve liked you for a while too, I just never thought you would see me that way.” Y/N said.

“I’m going to kiss you right now, okay?” Charles whispered, getting closer to Y/N, looking at her lips then back into her eyes, Y/N nodded, leaning in until their lips touched. It was a soft, gentle kiss, until Charles gained more confidence to do more. They pulled away. “Will you be my girlfriend? For real, this time?” Charles asked.

“Yes I will.” Y/N responded, they kissed again.

The End

Was this good? I think it was good, the pacing is weird, but I had no idea where this was going, just saying. Was it just as good as “prince of Ferrari”? Probably not, but I hope y’all liked it, should I keep writing Charles Leclerc fanfics?

#hispanic reader #latina #hispanic #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

[squadmuse]

NSFW ALPHABET

THE SPENCER REID EDITION

A - Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Spencer loves post-coital cuddles so much. He’ll also give you a good massage, having read on the different techniques and memorised it all so he could give you some great aftercare if sore. Spencer also loves bubble baths - fight me on this.

B - Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and their partner’s body)

Spencer isn’t the most confident about his body but he likes his hands, as he knows you do (you also love his taut ass too) and can do some wonder with those fingers especially. On you, well Spencer is tied between your breasts or your neck, the latter because he loves snuggling into the crook of it.

C - Cum (anything to do with cum basically…)

Spencer prefers cumming into a condom, unless you’re trying for a baby. He does however lose his mind when you suck him off and let him cum on your face.

D - Dirty Secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Spencer is the king of phone sex, even though he is a known technophobe. He loves phoning you up from whatever city or state he is in and whispering the dirtiest of words to you…

E - Experience (how experienced are they, do they know what they are doing?)

Spencer isn’t that experienced, but he’s memorised the Kama Sutra and a lot of other NSFW material that he can have you experiencing mindblowing orgasms one after another.

F - Favourite Position (again, pretty self explanatory…)

Spencer is tied between doggy-style or cowgirl. He loves having access to your breasts and ass and hips.

G - Goofy (are they more serious in the moment or are they more humorous?)

Spencer can have the goofiest moments with you during sex and he isn’t against pulling a magic trick on you either. But he has moments where he’s determined to try out a new position or toy on you and he’s focused so much.

H - Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

Spencer is somewhat groomed down there.

I - Intimacy (how are they during the moment? Are they romantic?)

Spencer is very romantic and affectionate. He’s never loved someone as much as he does you, nor has he ever been loved by someone like you do him… he is devoted to you and shows it wherever he can.

J - Jack Off (masturbation…)

It happens more so when Spencer is away from you and needy, or in the shower. He doesn’t like bothering you if you’re tired or asleep.

K - Kink (what are their kink/s?)

Spencer loves leaving marks on you and sometimes leaves numerous hickies across your body as he worships you. He loves doing role play with you too, whether it’s geeky or more sexy. Spencer also enjoys phone sex, you in lingerie and edging too. He has a slight breeding kink too.

L - Location (where are their favourite places to do the do?)

Spencer, while he is an FBI agent has a bucket list of places he wants to have sex with you at. Airplane bathroom, his university office or lecture hall… he’s got to try them all.

M - Motivation (what turns them on, what gets them going?)

Spencer loves you in lingerie like so so much. He gets so hard so quickly if you tease him by showing the lace of your bra or silk thong or satin thigh-high stockings.

N - No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs?)

Spencer will never ever degrade you or hurt you, he never wants to see you cry or sore from him in the wrong way.

O - Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill etc)

Spencer is a fan of blowjobs, he can cum so quickly from your talented tongue. But he does love giving you orgasm after orgasm as he eats you out.

P - Pace (are they fast and rough, soft and sensual?)

A man of science, Spencer measure each other with skill and decisiveness that leaves you ruined whatever way it goes.

Q - Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often etc.)

Oh Spencer loves a quickie! Sometimes you need him there and then or him for you, and each time he’s raring to go. Also with the unpredictable nature of his job, sometimes a quickie is all he has time for before flying off somewhere.

R - Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

Spencer again is a master of facts and figures, the probabilities of getting caught or not… but that doesn’t mean he isn’t against getting a little risqué with you…

S - Stamina (how many rounds can they go? How long do they last?)

Spencer puts in a lot of foreplay and can go about two rounds of sex with you. He will hold off orgasming so he can have you cumming multiple times.

T - Toys (do they own toys, do they use toys? on a partner or themselves?)

Spencer isn’t experimental on himself but he loves trying new and different toys on you. He loves handcuffs and vibrators in particular.

U - Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Spencer loves to tease you nonstop, he has memorised every single thing that gets you bothered and he can read you like a book he knows inside out.

V - Volume (how loud are they, what sounds do they make etc?)

Spencer is so vocal! Dirty talk, groans and grunts amongst whispers of appreciation and random sexual facts.

W - Wild Card (random headcanon)

Spencer is surprisingly dominant in the bedroom.

X - X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Thin, veiny and long just like his lean frame. Spencer is also circumcised too.

Y - Yearning (how high is their sex drive)

Considering his job, Spencer has a slightly above normal sex drive. He can’t get enough of you when he’s home with you, and as they say distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Z - Zzz (how quickly do they fall asleep afterwards)

Spencer usually waits to make sure you’re asleep and content before drifting off to sleep himself.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #criminal minds

[railingsofsorrow]

5 hours apart

[spencer reid x reader]

summary: “I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts.” “I don't want you to miss me. It's tearing me apart.” from this prompt list.

pairing: spencer reid x svu!detective!f!reader

w.c: 3.7K

warnings/content: long distance relationship; crying; sadness; discussions of a case related to kidnapping (brief); migraine; this o.s approaches healthy siblings dynamic and some childhood trauma, be aware; discussions about marriage; spencer does not beat the pipe cleaner allegations.

A/N: decided to do a crossover one shot between criminal minds and law and order: svu (my newest obsession)because I love both shows (and nick amaro has older brother vibes) and it fit pretty well. there's like a few Spanish terms that I used and please consider that I did Spanish in high school and had a few classes afterwards, forgive me if I made some misspellings.

navi

masterpost

cm masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

There are two missed calls on your phonescreen when you turn it on. The heavy load of paperwork you needed to finish plus the migraine that did not leave you alone forced you to turn your phone off during the daytime so you could concentrate on working. Amanda and Fin telling you to go home wasn't as effective as your boss ordering the exact same thing upon seeing your tired state. Thankfully, by the time he did that, you had already finished everything and you happily obliged.

The keychain clinking against the doorknob makes you drop your shoulders in relief. You aren't home but it's close enough. It's been a few months since you have stepped into your brother's place, but it's the same as you remember. Grey couch, the spotless kitchen island that you can see as soon as you walk in, the innumerous pictures of your brother and your niece scattered around the walls.

You throw your dark brown blazer on the loveseat across the room and sit on the couch unceremoniously, pressing play on the latest voice message.

“Hey... It's me. I called you before and it went straight to voicemail, I... I forgot to say something.” You snort, hair falling off of your ponytail as you let it loose down your shoulders. Never have you ever seen your boyfriend forget something. “I'm sorry I couldn't make it. I know I promised and I really wanted to go but the case, it was a serious one, they needed me.” The guilt in his voice breaks a part of you inside. “I-I'm sorry I let you down.” There's a beat, some voices in the background that you can't make out who it is because they're too far away. “I love you and I'll make it up to you, okay? Call me when you can, please.” And the message ends.

You only notice you start crying when a sob echoes through the room and the sound comes from you.

You were never mad at him. Deep down, you expected him to cancel on you because of a case, you knew you would if you were needed. Both if you are not the kind of people who let your people hanging, especially if the reason is work. And that's fine, when you started dating Spencer, that was the first thing you understood, as he did.

Being far away from him is what kills you. You manage to work long-distance. He visits you on his (rare) day-offs, you escape for a few days to Virginia. It works. It's how you do. But there are moments in which you just need him close and it's not like you can drive over to his apartment right away. 5 hours apart does that to a couple. It's not unbearable, but it's painful.

You miss him.

So you dial the number you know by heart, sniffling quietly on your bubble of loneliness in the empty apartment.

You don't know where he is, if he's home, if he's in a completely different timezone. You don't care.

It rings twice before his voice fills up the call. “Hi—Hey, angel.” He sounds frantic. You smile thinking he must have been waiting for your call.

“Hey, Spence,” you respond, folding your knees on the couch. “Are you home? I didn't text first to see if it was a good time to talk, sorry.”

“It's always a good time to talk to you.” He says without hesitantion. “I'm on the motel, packing.”

“Oh, so did the case end okay?”

You can feel the relief through his exhale. “Yes, we found the boy on time. He's finally back with his parents. Home.”

Your mouth twitches, “that's good.” And you make sure to add as you always do, “you saved a life today, I'm proud of you.”

His soft awkward chuckle causes a tearful grin out of you. You can practically see him blushing.

“Thank you. It was... It's a good feeling.”

“Are you happy?”

“Not really.”

You brows furrow slightly. “Why? Did something happen?”

“I miss you,” he says. “I am happy that we saved someone today, of course but... You know, the first person I wanted to tell it to was you. I just— I miss you. So much it hurts.”

You close your eyes as the tears slip one by one down your cheeks, you felt their salty taste. Your chest clenching as you stay silent for what feels like several minutes until Spencer's concerned tone breaks the silence.

“Angel?”

“Please don't miss me. It's tearing me apart.” Your request doesn't quite make sense but you don't have time to think it through before you say it. It just what comes out of your heart.

“Please, don't cry.”

You let out a tearful laugh, attempting to dry your tears foolishly.

“I'm always missing you, sweetheart. I'm sorry but that's inevitable.” He adds, sadly.

“It hurts so fucking much.”

Spencer clears his throat and you know he's either refraining from crying himself or trying to mask it.

“I know. I'm sorry.” He pauses. “I wish I was there.”

You shake your head even though he can't see it. “'s not your fault. It's your job, you can't help it.”

"I hate it that you're crying and I'm not there to comfort you."

"I'm fine," you whisper, sniffling. "Don't worry about me. Today was just... A shitty day, really."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You hum, fiddling with the soft fabric of the light green hand-knit throw blanket your brother always left on his couch. "Migraine." It's what you say and all he needs to know to wince in the other side of the line.

"Did you take something for it?" Spencer is aware of your frequent migraines and how much they bother you.

"Yeah, it's okay now." You reply even though there's a little painful pang in the back of your back right now.

"Maybe you should try to sleep a little. Did you know that sleeping seven hours every night impacts on your focus, body weight and immune system? Actually, adults aged from sixteen to sixty years should all get at least seven hours sleep every night, but that's almost never happens because of people's usual hectic work schedules-" He sucks in a breathe upon noticing he's rambling non-stop. You laugh and suddenly the harsh grip on your heart diminishes a little. His voice appeasing the momentary heartache you're going through.

"Says you. Who never sleeps, anyway. And work on caffeine 24/7."

"Hey," his tone has a tinge of amusement but he pretends to be offended. "I sleep."

"You do when I'm there. Cause I force you."

"Oh, you're so cruel to me, angel."

Your lips widen into a smirk. "That I am."

The conversation carries on for a while, until you figure out which time it is where he is and immediately orders him to go to sleep because he has an early flight to catch in the morning. He's reluctant, but he eventually lets it go because you need to sleep too and you will talk in the next day again.

Before he hangs up, he asks, the first time he hesitates in the call. "Uh, does- does your brother hate me?"

Your brain takes a few seconds to grasp what he's implying, until you remember what was supposed to happen this weekend. Spencer would come over to your place in New York to meet your brother.

You bite your lip, straightening your legs out on the ouch. "Yeah, about that..."

"He does, doesn't he? I don't blame him, I did screw up-"

"Wait, baby, that's not it. I... I actually didn't tell him." A pause, you curse under your breath. Now he must thing you didn't want him to come. "Spence?"

"Did I pressure to do something you didn't want? I should have asked you if you wanted meet to meet him, right? I think I kind of invited myself over and-"

"Stop." You cut him off. "No, Spencer. You didn't pressure me into anything. I want you two to meet, of course I do. You're one of the most important people to me, but I really forgot. I'm not making up an excuse."

"Alright, yeah. Okay." He says and you hear a door closing and wood creaking. He must be sitting on the bed.

"I love you." You receive the mental image of the scrunch of his nose and the smile he can't help whenever you drop the L bomb out of nowhere. "And you know he doesn't have to approve anything, right? Nick has no say in who I date or not."

"But he's your brother, he's important to you and I would meet him someday anyway because- I, well." Your body shakes with laughter and the phone almost drops from your hand.

"What, are you proposing now, genius? Through the phone, really?"

"Don't make fun of me." Spencer warns playfully.

You take a few seconds to process that he doesn't deny it. You said it as a joke but he didn't even deny it that he thinks about marrying you. God, your chest could combust.

"You think about it?" You ask, shifting your position to bring your knees to your chest. "Us? Someday?"

"You mean getting married to you? Yes. I do. We haven't discussed it yet, but... Yes, I do think about it."

"Mhm."

"Has it ever... crossed your mind?" He's reluctant, shy to ask even. You find it cute as everything Spencer Reid does. Marriage is something that never really crossed your mind, to be honest. You think is nice when people get married and show their love to their loved ones, but your parents' relationship carved a fear deep within your chest and your entire perception of love had to be relearned through the years they separated. One thing that you learned is that no person and no relationship is the same. It's not because your father broke your trust and destroyed a part of your and your brother's childhood that your future partners will do the same. It is easier said than done, but you're coming around to the idea.

"Not before you." You admit quietly.

"Oh."

“Yeah.” You ponder out loud. “It scares me a bit, that I consider spending the rest of my life by your side. Doesn't it scare you?”

“It does,” he replies. “But the idea is nice to think about.”

You smile, letting out a soft breath. “Yeah, it is nice.”

A male voice calls out for him in his end and you know he has to go. You had already taken up much of his time, anyway.

“They want to go to a bar nearby to celebrate.” Spencer explains to you, not sounding too thrilled about the idea.

You snicker, “go have fun, genius. You deserve it. Try to enjoy it even if this is not your usual idea for fun. I love you.”

“I love you more.” Spencer says and laughs at your groan of protest on the other side.

“We're not going to be one of those couples who never hang up because you love me more or no, I love you more, Spencer.”

“I just like to mess with you.” He admits with an edge of amusement to his tone. And damn you miss the smirk you know he's making right now.

“Yeah, I know. Now go, have fun. And have a safe flight tomorrow, text me when you land?”

“Of course, angel. Try to sleep a bit, you need the rest.”

You smile. “Sure. Bye, Spence.”

“Bye, angel.”

An hour or two goes by since your phone call with your boyfriend and manage to cook some dinner and then throw yourself back on the couch while a random show is played on TV. You end up falling asleep and wake up upon hearing the jiggling keys against the door of your brother's apartment, rubbing your eyes in your disoriented sleepy state. Checking your phone, the screen says 11p.m.

Nick stops midway from his way to the couch, where he was probably about to throw himself at. From his tired eyes and hunched over stance, you are able to tell how exhausted he is. “Why are you always here?” Nick throws himself on the floor instead, his head falling against your knees. The tone he used would make you slap him right behind his ear, if you weren't still with your mind in that phone call and a million miles away from New York. “I thought you rented an apartment. Or is it that you just miss me?”

“I don't miss you.” You mumble, voice muffled by the soft fabric of the blanket covering half of your face. “I see you every day, idiot. How can I miss you.”

Nick raises an arm towards your calf and you immediately kick his hand away before it can get to your feet. He chuckles, fluttering his eyes open for the first time since he got home. He glances up at you, who's glaring at him. His smile falls.

“What's wrong?”

You shrug, pulling your knees up to your chest and turning your head towards the TV. You weren't paying attention since the show started, you had no idea what is going on. “I cooked dinner. Left you a plate on the microwave. Go eat, I bet you didn't have a proper meal. You never do.”

“That's not true—”

“Eating burritos isn't a proper meal, Nick.” You groan as he tries to take another look at your face. “Stop it. I'm fine.”

“Yeah, I don't buy it. What happened?” If there's one thing your brother is, that thing is anxious. Nick is a worrier. And he's completely paranoid about knowing what's going on to find a solution before the time runs out. Even if there is no time to run out. He gently tips your chin up, frowning. “Why have you been cryin’?”

You turn your face away from his reach, sitting up on the couch. You take a moment to form your answer and he's anxiously waiting for it, coffee-brown eyes inspecting your matching ones.

You decide to go simple, but it's also the truth. “'s not a good day, that's all.”

He blinks and then the concern opens some space for understanding in his expression. And just like that, he figures out what's been making you upset. You don't doubt that he really knows, since your brother and you always understand each other with a look.

“D'you wanna talk about it?” His usual sarcastic tone gives place to a softer one. The one he uses in moments where his little sister needs her older brother.

You shrug, letting out a sigh before resting your head against the couch, eyes studying the ceiling. “It's nothing, I just... I miss Virginia, that's all.”

Nick hums, nodding. “You mean you miss the skinny kid from the FBI.”

A laugh bubbles out of you unexpectedly, you playfully shove his shoulder as he offers you an unimpressed look.

“Stop being mean to him.”

“Me?” Nick pulls himself up to the sofa, groaning when his joints complain as he stands up. “'m not being mean to anybody.”

“Okay, grandpa.”

“Hey,” he throws a pillow at you, narrowing his eyes threateningly. “you don't get to be mean to me.” You roll your eyes. There he goes playing the older card that just makes him look exactly like an elderly. “Why don't you take a few days off? I can't remember the last time you did that.” Before you can respond to that, he frowns, turning to you as if he just had thought of something. “Or why doesn't the skinny kid come and visit you? It's not that hard.”

“He was gonna to that this weekend.” His raised eyebrow makes you sigh and shake your head. “He had a case last minute, so he couldn't.”

He pauses, munching on his cheek. You question his thoughtful expression.

“What? No jokes now?”

“It's serious then? You and him.”

You blink at him, puzzled by the question. It wasn't what you expected. “W—yes. Why would you ask that?” He had walked up to the kitchen to grab a bite of whatever you had made him and you followed right behind.

“Nothin’,” he says, turning the microwave on and stepping towards the fridge to grab something to drink. “I just never saw you in a serious relationship.”

You pause.

Okay, you had a few flings in your life, it's not like your love life is messy, it is actually pretty simple. You and the people you've previously have relationships (or situationships) enjoyed having fun. You weren't looking for anything serious and when you were... well, your job got in the way. Until Spencer Reid. He's the unexpected occurrence that showed up during a local case to investigate a series of murders in the city of New York and both of your teams worked together. If someone told you before that you would get attached so quickly to someone and consider driving five hours just because you missed them then you would have laughed in their face.

Your brother might actually have a point. He had never seen you in a serious commitment before, he has, however, had the opportunity to try and scare off some of your partners — the ones he accidentally met, at least.

“I don't need to disclosure every aspect of my love life to you, Nicholas.”

You crossed your arms as the corner of his lips lift in a knowing smile. “Stand down, tiger. I just made an observation, no need to get defensive.”

“I'm not.” You say, shifting on your feet, suddenly self-conscious with the whole conversation. It's difficult to talk about someone so important to you to another someone that's important to you. You've never share much about your personal life and inner struggles with anybody, and that has everything to do with the man you call “father” in the biological sense. But Spencer managed to push through these walls and he didn't demeaned you because of your trauma, neither did he treated you as if you were made out of glass, that you could shatter at any given second. He understood you and you understood him, which is why love has always been within your reach in your relationship. It was only a matter of time.

“He's important to you, isn't he?” The microwave beeped but none of you move.

“Yes.” You utter, playing with the ring on your index finger. “I know we don't— we don't talk about these stuff...”

“We can if you want to—”

“No, it's not— That's not it. I mean. You're my brother and we have a good communication but I never felt the need to formally introduce anyone to you because you're family, Nick. You're my only family,” you finally look at him. “If it ever got to the point, one day, where it was worth it for me to do that, then I would. I just thought that I wasn't made for love, you know?”

You see him rushing to disagree with you and probably say you can't think like this and that is not true, so you intervene before, smiling.

“But I know that that is not true, alright? Porque le quiero y sé que él también.” His eyes soften at your claim and you feel like crying again because you miss Spencer and you wish he's there with you. “So yeah, it is serious. And the reason he was going to come visit me was to meet you properly.”

“What?”

“Yes. That was my reaction too.” A fond smile takes over your mouth. “He insisted he wanted to meet you because he knows how important you are to me.”

“Oh.” He is officially caught off guard and it makes you chuckle. That is a rare image you're seeing in front of you. No one catches Nick Amaro off guard. One point to Spencer, I guess. “Well, now I just have to meet this chico who stole my sister's heart.” He's back to his playful persona, lifting a hand to ruffle your hair, and you flip him off. “Let's see if he is all that you claim he is.”

“He's a good guy, asshole.” He hums, munching on his food. “You'll see,” you say with a small grin while you turn back to the living room to lay back on the couch.

“We'll see.” He mumbles from the kitchen, shaking his head when a thought crosses his mind. He can't believe you fell in love, he still sees you as an annoying toddler who wouldn't let him be at school while he was trying to impress his friends because you were too shy to make your own and would cling to him like a lifeline. In all honesty, Nick has always enjoyed your company, it makes him feel grounded. He cares about your well-being and tries to protect you from every bad thing you have to face, but he knows he can't. Sometimes, you gotta face things on your own. And, sometimes, you don't need your older brother to shield you from pain. It's hard for him to accept that, especially after what you both endured through your lives.

You're all grown up now and he has to stand down his overprotective side because you can handle things, he knows you do. Though he'll be there, in the corner, having your back as always. Because that's what brothers do.

Hopefully, this Spencer Reid will pass the test.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[translation]

Porque le quiero y sé que él también. = because I love him and I know that he does too

chico = boy, kid

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

taglist: @lilyviolets ; @whore-for-spencer-reid ; @yeonalie @ninkieminjaj ;

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part three | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. the previously established story dyanmics: explicit violence, mentions of torture. mentions of past sexual abuse, detailed descriptions of needles. chapter word count: 12,525 words.

-

B E F O R E

“Happy fourteenth birthday.”

Felix looks up from his work.   He underperformed in training today and landed himself a punishment.  His good record spared him anything too painful, but he has been assigned cleaning duty.  Taking apart, cleaning, and reassembling weapons is not difficult work – he could do it in his sleep – but it is tedious.

Tedium is its own kind of torture, especially these days with his mind in a state of tumult.  He has grown closer to Chris with each passing day.  Felix knows they are not meant to think of each other as friends, just fellow soldiers, but that is the word Felix uses.

My friend.

That is who stands over Felix now.  Chris is smiling and holding something wrapped in what looks like a kitchen napkin.  Felix blinks at it, then furrows his brow.

“Huh?”  Felix says.  “It’s not my birthday.”

“Could be!” Chris says. 

Felix supposes Chris has a point.  Felix does not actually know his own birthday because he bounced around foster care before he found himself in Miroh’s program.  If his birthday was recorded anywhere, no one told him what it was.  So it could be his birthday.  The odds are not great but not impossible.

“Um,” Felix says, because no one has ever wished him a happy – or happy possible – birthday.  He guesses the best reply is, “Thanks?”

“It’s not a trick, man,” Chris says, smiling.  He laughs at Felix, though it doesn’t feel cruel, and ruffles his hair before shoving the little wrapped item at him.  “Here,” Chris says.  “Got it especially for you.”

Felix unfolds the napkin and finds a cookie.  It’s not the kind of food that is served at the regiment because their diet is so strict.  Food is a sustenance and not a pleasure.

“Wow,” Felix says.  It is a genuine surprise.  Chris had to go out of his way to get this. 

Felix feels embarrassed.  He still struggles to cope with feeling in general.  He almost yearns for a simpler, more naïve time, when he didn’t have to think or feel, just trust and follow.  Now he is a flustered knot of embarrassment because Chris is giving him presents just because Felix mentioned he had never received one.  It was an off-handed remark a few days ago, that he didn’t know his birthday and had never received a present but that it didn’t matter because he didn’t deserve it.

And he didn’t, he doesn’t, deserve any of it.  Not a birthday wish or a thoughtful gift or Chris’s friendship.  Felix has so much blood on his hands and he doesn’t how much of it is innocent.  He never counted his kills like some other agents, stupid kids bragging to seem bigger and more powerful than their circumstances.   Felix never did it for glory.  He knew his place.  Now he doesn’t count them because it doesn’t matter.  It all comes back to him when he closes his eyes.  He remembers what they were wearing, what they said before they died, the things they begged to a naïve, indifferent child.

He doesn’t count them because he doesn’t need a number to know it’s too much and he will never be able to take it back.  He doesn’t deserve birthdays and friendships and Chris.  He never will.

He doesn’t say this out loud.  He knows Chris will argue with him, belligerent in his kindness and reassurance.  Felix won’t listen in turn.  The conversation would be useless.  Rather than bother, Felix asks, “Where did you get it?” 

“Hey, I know I’m trouble,” Chris says, still smiling, “but I got connections too, you know?” 

Felix guesses he means Miroh’s daughter as she is the only agent with outside connections.  They seem to have a tenuous understanding because she and Chris get in the most trouble.  Chris, because he still bristles at commands and steps out of line.  Her, because she’s Miroh’s daughter and held to a higher standard than the rest of them.

Chris can befriend almost anyone, garnering admiration in his peers if nothing else.  His rebellious streak means no one wants visible association with him, but in the quietest of corners there is a whispered respect for the First Guard.  He is as notorious as he is skilled and he has a natural leadership.

Felix supposes it is not outside the realm of possibility that even Miroh’s daughter would consider Chris a friend – but only somewhere even quieter than most.

Felix does not consider Miroh’s daughter a friend and he doubts he ever will.  Her proximity to Miroh makes her an even bigger liability than Chris.  Felix would never get close to someone like that, born into their position and too close to power for his liking.

“Miroh’s daughter, you mean,” Felix says.

Felix might keep his musings close to his heart, but that doesn’t mean Chris can’t read them anyway.  Chris is a soldier by instinct if not choice.  He is always one step ahead.  It’s like he is inside Felix’s head.  He seems to know what Felix will do before Felix does.

“Yeah,” Chris says.  He rubs the back of his neck, breathing deeply.  He looks almost sheepish, as if admitting he knows better.  “She’s not that bad when you get to know her.  Really.”

Felix is certain he looks unconvinced.  It makes Chris laugh.

“You look worried,” Chris says. 

“I do worry about you,” Felix says.  He looks down at the cookie in his hand.  It is hard to say out loud, but he manages a weak, “You’re my friend.”

Chris is suspiciously quiet.  When Felix looks up, Chris has a determination to his countenance. 

“Find me when you’re done here,” Chris says.  “I wanna show you something.”

Felix, as usual, does as he is told.  When his punishment ends, he tracks Chris to the barracks where the older boy is patiently waiting.  He claps Felix on the shoulder but otherwise doesn’t stop to greet him.  He is a little skittish as he leads Felix to their mysterious destination.

It is not so extraordinary in the end.  Nothing around here is.  Everything is cold chrome and sleek silver, one room much like the next, branded by Miroh as surely as its occupants.

Chris knocks out a ventilation panel then leads Felix to what looks like an unused crawl space, forgotten and collecting dust.

“Welcome to my office,” Chris jokes, still with that nervous laughter.  It is putting Felix on edge.

“Is everything all right?” Felix asks.

“Well, no, Felix,” Chris says.  “It isn’t.  You know that now, don’t you?”

A couple years of shared assignments between the best and second best, the rebellious and the reluctant.  A couple years of watching Miroh bludgeon his way through the world.  A couple years of regret.

A couple years of friendship to change everything.

“Yeah,” Felix says.  It is all he needs to say.

“Sit,” Chris says.  There is a corner of the room that has been cleared of dust, this part of the hideaway evidently well-used.  “Let’s talk.” 

Whatever conversation Felix expects to have, it is not the one he gets.  He sits and watches Chris, watches him breathe and measure his words.   Chris is usually confident in what he has to say, even when staring down a barrel of a gun.  This is more than disconcerting.

“I’ve been talking to some others in the program,” Chris says.  “We’re all growing up.  I’ll be eighteen soon.  If we’re already strong, we’re just gonna get stronger.  Miroh has complete control over us.  I’m scared that if we don’t do something about it soon, then everything is going to get worse.  A lot, lot worse.”

“Do something,” Felix says, his mind going a mile a minute.  “What do you mean?  Who else have you told about this?”

“People I consider friends,” Chris says.  He puts a hand on Felix’s shoulder.  “People like you, Felix.”

He thinks of the cookie in his pocket.  His heart punches up with alarm. 

“Miroh’s daughter?”  Felix asks and this time he knows for certain his thoughts are very clear.  He says her name – not even her name, her position, the daughter and heir of the very thing Chris wants to fight – and he says it with the obvious inflection of what-the-fuck-are-you-thinking? 

“She’s a friend,” Chris says in a voice he usually reserves for an enemy.  It startles Felix into silence.  Seeing that, Chris smiles, trying to lighten the mood.  “You don’t have to trust her,” Chris says.  “Just trust me.  Felix, I want to get us out, all of us.  I don’t want that man or any other man like him to hurt anyone else.  Not kids, not adults, not anyone.  I won’t put you in more danger, I swear.  That’s the opposite of what I want.  I’m gonna protect you, okay?  I’m gonna protect all of you.  When the time comes to take a stand, I just want you to be ready.  If something happens, if it all goes wrong…”

Felix looks at him, alarm and worry plain on his young face.  Chris squeezes his shoulder again.

“If…” Chris swallows then continues, “If it is all goes wrong, I’ll pay the price alone.  But I’d rather die trying to save all of you than live another day hurting innocent people for Miroh.”

“Chris—” Felix starts, an argument on his tongue.

“Don’t,” Chris says firmly.  “If there was anything worth dying for, Felix, then it’s this.  I’m gonna get you out.  I’m gonna get you all out.  I swear.  Just be ready for when I say.  Just trust me.  Just be my friend.”

Felix spends a week after that in a state of restless turmoil.  He sleeps poorly and fights worse and even spends a night in the Cell for his mistakes. 

He doesn’t know what to think about Chris and his intentions.  It sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.   But if it worked…

It wouldn’t take the blood off Felix’s hands, but it would be a start to something better.  Felix has little thought for his own fate, undeserving as he is, but he thinks about Chris.  Chris, the First Guard, who has been here the longest, who has watched the most people die, who has been punished the worst.

Chris deserves better.

Felix believes in Chris.  He believes if Chris made an effort, then he would have what it takes to make a difference.  Felix knows Chris is capable. He could do what he sets out to do.

It is not Chris that Felix worries about.

Felix observes Miroh’s daughter, studying her more closely than ever before.  Felix trusts Chris’s general discretion but he worries Chris has a blind spot concerning her.  They are the only two in their age category and they share a small barrack, the forced proximity undoubtedly creating a semblance of intimacy.  Chris might trust her but Felix is not so biased.  All he sees is Miroh. 

Felix watches her.  She doesn’t spend much time with Chris in public, her only close relationship with Seo Changbin.  They are a bit notorious together.  Felix would not call them the best fighters but they are tricky.  He is pretty sure they throw their fights with each other and embellish more than necessary.  Both like a good skull crash, more brutal than efficient.  The trickery and brutality makes Felix more wary of her.

At the same time, her obvious friendship with Changbin shows she can care about someone else.  The pair throw a mean punch but always patch each other up after.

Chris catches Felix watching them.  They are having a go in the ring, punching and flipping, grinning when they think no one is watching.  They have smiles just for each other.

“You look really deep in thought, mate,” Chris says, laughing.  He hands Felix a water bottle while toweling down his own sweaty neck.

“Huh?” Felix finally breaks his concentration.  He takes the water and smiles one of his instinctive but fake smiles – the kind he uses on a mission, when he is trying to convince an adversary that he is an innocent, unassuming kid.

Chris sees through it, of course.  He lifts an eyebrow at Felix then follows his line of sight to the ring.

“What?” Chris says, laughing again.  His own ears turn a little red as he teases, “You got a crush on her or something?”

“Ew, shut up,” Felix says, throwing his own towel at him.  He feels flushed despite the fact it is vehemently untrue.  He is not used to being provoked with that line of teasing.  “No,” he says certainly.  “I have no feelings for anyone.  But I think they might.”

“Huh?”  Chris looks between Felix and the ring.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at them,” Felix says.  “They’re a little too close, don’t you think?” 

Presently, Miroh’s daughter has Changbin pinned to the mat.  She is on top of him and whispering something that makes them both snicker.

Chris stares at them.  After a beat of contemplative silence, he laughs.  Felix recognizes the fake sound, the same disarming humour Felix uses when conning someone.   

“Yeah,” Chris says.  “Hey, I’ll be right back, yeah?”  

Felix watches Chris amble over.  He says something to the duo and Changbin retaliates with some non-descript shouting and flailing.  Miroh’s daughter rolls her eyes.  She grabs Chris by the collar and yanks him into a fight. 

The rest of the day progresses without much fuss or bother.  Miroh has no jobs for them today so the schedule is just training and recuperation. 

Felix manages to avoid punishment today.  He tries expelling his anxiety in a fight but it does not fully work.  Felix has come to realize he is not very good at letting go.  Belief, emotion, the good, the bad: all of gets clutched in his fists and held to his heart.

Fighting tires him but it is not a satisfying tired, of exerted muscles and a pumping heart.  He feels weary and everything everywhere is so loud, the chrome and steel of the Miroh facilities like an echoing dome.  It cycles all that noise in an agonizing reverberation.  It feels inescapable.  He goes to the barracks which are smaller but it makes the claustrophobia worse.

Laying in his bunk, rubbing his temples, Felix dreams of a quiet room of his own.

It is then he remembers Chris’s hideaway.  Chris miraculously dodged punishment today so he retreated to the barracks a while ago.  Felix doesn’t want to disturb him but he figures Chris won’t mind him using the hideaway on his own if he’s careful.

They are permitted access to the training room for the few hours between work and mandatory repose.  The hideaway is en route so it is easy for Felix to stealthily retrace his steps without raising suspicion.  He disappears in the security blind spot the way Chris showed him.  

Felix is in the tunnel when he hears a noise.  He worries he was followed despite being so careful, but then he realizes the noise is ahead of him, not behind him. 

He freezes in the crawl tunnel, trying to discern the sound.  It doesn’t sound like talking, more like… breathing?  Heavy breathing. 

Then he hears a laugh that he recognizes as Chris.  And he is not alone.  The other noise is a sigh, a lighter, more feminine sound.

Oh.

Apparently, Chris’s hideaway is not just for talking to friends.  The sound of kissing and sighing is more friendly than his conversation with Felix, that’s for sure.

Felix is frozen for a minute, too stunned and embarrassed to think of moving.  He has to shuffle backwards to escape because he can’t turn in that part of the crawl space.  If this was a mission, he could do it, but this is personal.  He doesn’t want to get caught but it’s not because it will compromise any job; it’s because it will be awkward.

He scuffs his shoe in his backwards shuffle.  It clangs, a subtle sound, but one that makes him wince.

It goes quiet around the corner.  Felix knows he was heard and there is no time to escape.  Seconds later, a frantic looking Chris is in the tunnel, red-faced with a line of sweat on his brow.  His uniform is clearly dishevelled and Felix gets even more embarrassed.

Those feelings need somewhere to go.  It comes out of him in a burst of frustration.

“What are you doing?” Felix demands, his voice breaking. 

“Nothing!” Chris says, clearly a knee-jerk reaction.  Then he takes a breath and says, “Look, I can explain—”

“It’s not Miroh’s daughter,” Felix says.  He can’t even pose it as a question because he refuses to believe Chris could genuinely be that reckless and stupid.  Befriending her is one thing – a stupid thing – but fooling around with the daughter of the powerful man who owns them is begging for tragedy. 

“I’m not stupid,” Chris says. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Felix says.  “Whoever it is, you need to stop.” 

“Look—”

“Seriously, Chris!”

“Felix—”

“It’s not worth it!”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Chris snaps.  “You’re not normal and you don’t understand what it means to care about someone like that.”

It is obviously thoughtless, blurted in the head of the moment.  It hurts anyway. Felix wonders if Chris can see the pain on his face because Chris looks immediately remorseful. 

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that—” Chris starts.

“It’s fine,” Felix says.  “You’re right.”

“Felix—”

Felix pushes backwards and leaves without waiting for any protest.  He does not stop, marching all the way back to this bunk.  Anger and embarrassment have finally dissipated by the time he returns.  It has been replaced with determination.

Chris is the best, but he has been compromised whether he wants to acknowledge it or not. He feels too much, for everyone and everything, and it will get him in even more trouble than he is already in.  if he retaliates with thoughtless provocation when it’s just Felix confronting him, then what will he do when it’s Miroh and the stakes are even higher?

Chris said he would protect them all. He swore to succeed at any cost, including his own life.  There is no one swearing the same for him.  No one has ever protected him. 

Felix is the second best.  He has never left a job unfinished and for that he is not deserving of the protection Chris is offering.

It won’t clean the blood on his hands, but if Felix can save a life worth more than his own, then maybe it will start to justify all of this, all of him.

Chris was right.  Felix is not normal.  But he was wrong say that Felix doesn’t know what it means to care about someone.  Because of Chris, Felix knows how to care.  He knows what he has to do.

Chris can try and save them all.

Felix is going to save Chris. 

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

Miroh’s main facility has fallen.

It sounds so dramatic for something so anticlimactic, like you are describing the collapse of a kingdom and not the shutdown of his main office operation. 

It feels like an apocalyptic demise. 

You and Chan fight your way out of the building, taking on the people who fight in your name.  Your father’s name.  Miroh.

Miroh is dead.  Irrefutably broken, little more than a heap of meat on the tarmac.  With him gone and the only named heir on the run – you – this facility will shut down to maintain security. 

Miroh ran a meticulously compartmentalized business. There is protocol for everything so even if one part of his operation fell, the rest could continue unimpeded.  Miroh tried to establish a legacy that could rival old money like his enemy, going so far as to predict his own demise.  Miroh has long braced for the eventuality of his end, so he made sure his business could fracture and run without him.

He did everything in his power to make you just like him, a little broken fracture of himself to ensure that legacy.  But then he could not actually face what he created.  He could not actually let go.  He was the only one with the perspective and power and he had to keep it that way. 

Miroh would not have accounted for your rebellion, not for the sake of someone else.  For a friend.

Flashes of the last twenty four hours play in your mind.  You can hardly pinpoint the change in yourself.  It feels like this was somehow inevitable, despite how much you would have balked at the idea before.  But now it is all that matters.  It’s all that makes sense in this chaos.

You have to find your friend.  This facility will be empty in a matter of hours, but there are others.   Changbin is in one of them.  You have no idea where to start.

One thing at a time, you tell yourself.  Before you can ruminate on anything behind or in front of you, you need to fight.  You do not have time for introspection or planning.  You need to get away.  Away from this place, away from your dead father.

Away from his soldier, the First Guard, Bang Chan, who for some reason is helping you escape.

You don’t know why.  You seriously doubt your barely coherent pleading broke the conditioning and literal torture that made him into this thing. 

You don’t have time to find out.  At the first opportunity, you break away, leaving him with a handful of operatives to fight.  It should keep them all occupied while you escape. 

You do not want to risk trapping yourself in an enclosed space, so you do not venture to the parking garage where the company vehicles are stored.  Some of them will be programmed and bugged.  You feel bad targeting a civilian, but stealing one of their cars is the safest bet.   There are some administrative employees who complete menial tasks for the company, those with next to no clearance level.  They park their personal cars around the facility.  You pick one that is easy to reconfigure without a key to boot. 

Minutes later, you are driving for an exit.  Your whole body is aching but you push through it.  There will be time to recuperate when you are in the clear. 

Sirens wail and alarms blare, every security measure in action.  Your escape is certainly not a clean one but it doesn’t matter.  You just need to get away.

If you can get off the facility grounds, you can lose any adversaries in the back country roads.  The route to the facility was intentionally designed to be a convoluted labyrinth, making it difficult for enemies to approach without giving the facility ample preparation time.  You know the paths better than anyone.  You can get away.

A soldier marches right into the middle of your escape path. 

It is too brazen for a regular agent.  They would not be so stupid to try that, knowing you would just barrel into them. 

You speed closer and recognize the First Guard.  Chan is unflinching as ever, standing in the middle of the road as if he intends to stop your car with his body.   He is strong but not that strong.  You know that.  But he looks like an inhuman phantom, looming there in his combat gear and mask, unphased and unharmed despite the hour of nonstop violence.   

But that’s not the reason you stop.  You think about him in that van.  You could only see his eyes but they were expressive, the tilt of his head inquisitive. 

You slam on the brakes.  The car stops inches from his body but he doesn’t even blink.  

Your heart is racing, breath bursting in gasps.  He strolls around the car as if he was just waiting for his ride. 

Soldiering instinct propels your hands.  You draw a gun as he opens the passenger-side door.  He bends down and looks at you, his brow quirked with a silent question.  Your hand shakes and he is too good not to notice.  You know that, but a regular person would never guess because he does not take his eyes off yours. 

He disarms you, faster than a blink.   He drops into the passenger seat, then slams the door and shoves the gun in its storage compartment.

You stare at him.  Your gaze follows the line of his stark profile.  His hairline is a little sweaty but he doesn’t look out of breath.   

You don’t know what to think. 

This is the longest you have been in his company since you were kids in training.  Your memory of him is insubstantial, having spent little to no time with him personally.   But it hardly matters what he was.   Now he’s a soldier above all soldiers, a shadow filling this small civilian car.  He’s not the biggest man in the world but he’s overwhelming all the same, partially because of his uniform and partially because of his posture.  He feels too big for this little human space.  His knee hits the gear shift, his thighs bulky in the small seat, his shoulders broad where he leans back. 

He looks across the car and meets your eyes.  You think about how many people have met this gaze, maybe in a moment just like this, sitting across from Miroh’s asset in a little civilian vehicle before he put a bullet between their eyes or snapped their neck.  You have seen the results of his missions even if you were not involved in them.  The statistics and numbers speak for themselves.  Those eyes have seen more death than life and right now they are resolutely focussed on you. 

You jump when he lifts his hand.  He says nothing but turns the rearview mirror in your direction.  You reluctantly peel your gaze away from him.  You see what he sees: a vehicle in rapid pursuit of your own.

“Shit,” you say.  You shove the mirror back into place.  Your hands collide for a split second. 

You can’t linger on the weirdness of this moment, that the First Guard is your ally, sitting in the passenger seat and helping you escape.

You drive.  The other vehicle chases you down.  You get past the easy security measures, blowing past gates and guards.  When you approach the last gate, Chan rolls down the window and twists his body.  He pulls the stashed gun and aims somewhere.  Your eyes are on the road so you don’t see exactly what he does, but the gate slams shut between you and the pursuing vehicle, trapping them on the other side.    

Then it is just you, him, and the road. 

He puts the gun away.  He sits back.  He rolls up the window.  He makes it seem like a routine, still unphased while your heart pounds with adrenaline. 

You do not look at him.  You do not speak.  You focus on escape, taking a convoluted path through the countryside just in case.  When the facility is far, far behind you, you take a back road and pull into a shadowed space between some trees. 

You slam to a stop, shift the gear to park, but keep the engine running.  You clutch the steering so hard, you imagine it cracking beneath the force of your grip. 

Chan still does not speak.  The last time he spoke was on that rooftop.  What now? 

A damn good question. 

You look at him.  He is not sitting the way you would expect a machine of a man to be sitting.  You would have thought the First Guard would sit straight-backed and braced for confrontation, but his slouch is almost insouciant. He sits with his knees apart, his body slanted where his elbow rests on the door.   One gloved hand strums the door and the other is draped over his thigh.  He looks at you without any expression you can interpret. 

You are tired.  Your body hurts.  Your father is dead and the operation is changing and your only friend is suffering and you can’t do anything about any of it.  This morning you held a modicum of control over your life – or you thought you did – and now everything has spiralled. 

You know logically that Chan is a victim of Miroh, but right now it does not matter.  He is an infuriating figure of composure, not to mention your father’s greatest weapon, and that combination snaps the elastic thread of your patience, already stretched to its limits.

“Take off the fucking mask,” you say. 

He stares at you, his expression still unreadable.  You are tempted to reach across and rip the mask off his face.  You would definitely not succeed, no match for his reflexes on a good day, but logic is inconsequential in the face of your emotions. 

He doesn’t test you.  He stares for another moment then raises one gloved hand.  He unhooks the mask and peels it off.  He runs the other hand over his face and through his hair.   

You are not sure what you were expecting.  The same brown eyes stare back at you, lined with a smudged shadow to look as dark and intimidating as possible.  His brows are thick and dark, his hair as black, sweat loosening the slick style so a single curly tuft falls over his forehead. 

You follow the slope of his nose down to his mouth.  His mouth is closed and he is not smiling.  He has full lips, almost too pretty for what he is.  Glancing at that mouth on that too-pretty face, you picture a dimple smiled.  The memory is almost a blur, a smear of an image over his face.  You blink and it’s gone, his stoic face staring back at you. 

“What is it?” he says.  His voice is like the rest of him, too big in this small space.   You swear it shakes the car and the earth under it, though that is ridiculous.  It’s just a voice.  He’s just a man. 

Except he’s not.  He’s something else, something that should not have done what he did.  You have a million questions.  You need those answers before you can continue but it all jumbles together in your head.  It’s all too much, the flashes of today, of the past, of an uncertain future full of even more violence.

You finally turn off the engine and get out of the car.  You have no intention of going anywhere, but you need space. 

You pace in a long line, breathing in and out, using every trick in the book to ease your racing heart.  After a minute, you hear the passenger door open.  You look over your shoulder at Chan.

You can’t help the instinctive reaction to measure him like an adversary.  It doesn’t help he has pummelled you twice in the last few months, not to mention his horrid reputation in an already horrid place.  It would be stupid not to brace yourself. 

He approaches you cautiously.  He has the gall to raise a hand like you are the wild thing and he is the tamer. 

“Easy,” he says.  His voice is not so booming out here.  Other than the dark combat uniform, he almost looks normal, his whole face open to you, eyes narrowed with intense focus. 

It makes you breathe harder, the exhale shaky.  He notices because he tries to placate you. 

He smiles. 

It is forced and unpracticed, but there are those dimples, just like you thought.  You would have been less startled if he bared his teeth like an animal.  The smile unnerves you, undoing all the calming work of your exercises. 

“It’s all right,” he says in a frighteningly gentle voice.  He tilts his head as he looks at you.  “It’s just me, yeah?”

Just him.  Like that should comfort you.  You suppose you can marginally see things from his perspective, that maybe he has proved himself.  After all, he helped you escape.  It is obvious he is not doing this for your father or he would not have let you kill him.  This is not part of a grand plan.  There is no strategy.  It’s all over. 

It’s just you and him.

It does not comfort you the way he evidently thinks it should.  Now is the time to ask those million questions, but you are beyond words.  You are a live wire and that pitiful attempt at a truce ignites a flare of angry sparks. 

You were built to fight.  It punches out of you.  Literally.

Chan is faster than you.  He dodges your swing with ease, fast as an electric current himself. 

“Hey now,” he says, holding out both hands.  “Don’t—”

You know you can’t win this fight.  You know it’s stupid to try.  But each swing flies out of you, instinctive as breathing.  He catches every blow, bats your hands out of the way, but he doesn’t swing back.  His refusal to fight infuriates you.  It makes you feel as helpless as you are. 

An aggravated cry spills out of you, a strain behind your eyes as you take another swing. 

“Stop it,” he snaps, his smile gone. 

He finally goes on the offense, catching your hands and pinning them down.  There is a moment of struggle before you feel the driver door at your backside, his body caging you in.   You rear up against him but he holds you down, hip to hip, hand to hand. 

“I said stop it,” he says.  “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you ask, voice breaking.  “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Your chest is pressed against his, moving with your breath while he stands like an ungiving wall.  You glare at him and he stares back.  His brow furrows in seeming confusion.  He closes both eyes and breathes out, a steadying breath. 

You thought seeing him lose composure would make you feel better, but you feel worse, more unnerved than before. 

He looks at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering when he clenches it.  You stare at it as he releases you.

“You must know I can’t trust you,” you say. 

You make the mistake of lifting your hands to shove him away.  You do not intend to punch him again, the worst of that aggression gone, but he doesn’t know that.  You suppose you can’t blame him for his instincts after your demonstration. 

When you lift your hands, he grabs your wrists.  Swiftly and effortlessly, he pins your hands by your head.

“Oh,” he says.  His eyebrows lift and his face is far more expressive than you expected.  “I’m the one who can’t be trusted, right?” 

“Excuse me?” you snap. 

“I’m doing my job, yeah,” he says.  “Yesterday you were running jobs for Daddy and today you shot him dead.  Wanna talk about erratic behaviour?  Wanna talk about who’s unpredictable?  About who can trust who here?” 

Your mouth parts with a useless, breathless rebuttal, stammering and empty.  You didn’t expect that many words from him, not when he has been a silent shadow for so long.  Never mind the easy, casual speech, every colloquialism and the taunting hurl of daddy.  It makes you think of that scathing, troublesome boy he once was, as sharp with his tongue as everything else.  But he is not that boy.  You know for a fact he was broken.  He has done all those jobs for Miroh without causing any strife in the operation.  He is a weapon and nothing more.  He exists to follow orders. 

Until today.  Until you. 

“So?” you finally say, because what else can you say? 

“So?” he repeats. 

“So.”  You have those million questions, but there is only one that really matters.  “What are we?  Soldiers without a general? Because right now it seems like we’re two people who have no reason to trust each other and no reason to work together.” 

Your gazes are locked and you measure each other.  Not that you are much of a threat to him.  He has you pinned with very little effort.  If you were at your fighting best, you like to think it would be a little challenge, but right now you stand no chance against him.  

But he doesn’t want to hurt you or he would have done it already. 

He drops your hands.  He doesn’t step away, still regarding you with that scrutinous eye, but it is a menial demonstration of trust. 

You drop your arms.  You stare back at him, refusing to show the depth of your weakness.  You think his body might be keeping yours upright, your legs so weak.  You do everything in your power to keep your wild emotions in check, to keep the tears in the back of your eyes.  You breathe deeply. 

“I’ll help you find your friend,” Chan says, the last thing you expect him to say.  You can only watch as he sighs and speaks.  “You were my last mission,” he says. “Miroh told me to bring you in.  I did.  He wanted me to watch you.  I am.  He wanted me to be your—”  He laughs but it is not a happy sound, dry and devoid of pleasure.  “Your bodyguard, I guess.”  He shakes his head.  “Consider this me following orders,” he says.  “That’s what I do, yeah?  I follow orders.  And I don’t leave a job unfinished.  Ever.” 

“And Miroh?” you say tentatively.  “The fact I killed him?”

He shrugs dramatically, hands open in surrender. 

“Miroh didn’t make me his bodyguard,” Chan says.  “He made me yours.” 

It is such preposterously simple logic that you laugh, a disbelieving bark of a sound.  You look around at nothing, like the answer to your ridiculous circumstance is in the trees or the road.  

When you look at Chan, he is still looking at you, his brow quirked inquisitively. 

“Well?” he says.  “Is that enough?  Can we work together to finish this last job?” 

“Your job,” you say slowly.  You meet his eyes.  “So that’s what I am to you?”

It’s meant to be an easy question with a reassuring answer.  He is a soldier.  You are his job.  He will do what you ask.  It’s as simple as that. 

He tilts his head as he looks at you.  His contemplation is too heavy.  It was a simple question for a simple soldier who should speak no language outside of missions and reports. 

His gaze is searing and it makes your heart skip a startled beat. 

“Yes,” he says.  He speaks the word like it’s exhausting to say out loud.  It lands with a thud on an exhale.  “My job.”

His forearm is planted by your head.  His other hand grips your bicep.  He is keeping you in place with his hips and thighs.  You can feel the tension in his body. 

You have no idea why you do what you do.  It comes from the same place as those desperate punches.  You know it’s useless, you know nothing will come of it, but you ride the propulsion of adrenaline.  Your body, on the brink of desperation, has been pushed to its utmost capabilities in the last couple hours.  What does it want?  What do you want?

What did you ever really want?

You kiss him. 

It shocks you both.  Unlike the punch, he does not know how to retaliate.  He stands there, breathing into your mouth.  He is neither encouraging nor withdrawing. 

You stop quickly and wipe your mouth.  Mortification sets in. 

None of this is like you.  You blame stress.  Your body is confused and hurt.  You need recuperation.  Whether you like it or not, you need comfort too.  It is a deep internal call, only human.  But you won’t be getting that from the solid, inhuman wall around you. 

You push at that wall and it finally gives.  Chan steps back.  You doubt a punch would have moved him so easily as that kiss. 

“Ignore that,” you say.  “Adrenaline.  I’m still – not right.”

He just stares, once more a silent shadow.  You breathe out in a huff. 

“Okay,” you say.  “And we’re back to the staring.  At least I know you’re still working.”

You turn to open the car door, effectively ending the tense exchange.  Chan walks away.  He silently circles the car to reach the passenger door.  You look at his face, once more stoic and expressionless.  He doesn’t look at you, dropping into the vehicle without another glance or sound. 

You close your eyes.  You take another deep breath of fresh air.

Maybe this is good.  Maybe Chan is the ally you need right now.  Someone level, someone only concerned with mission parameters.  Someone who will not become compromised because of emotion. 

Because you are very compromised. 

You are not thinking clearly.  You need a plan and some water and rest. 

You get in the car.  You start the engine.  You don’t speak another word.

-

You drive for hours, wanting distance between you and the destruction.

The silence in the car is piercing, your head aching after the first hour.  The little space acts like an echo chamber for your tumultuous thoughts.  You keep replaying the day, every death and cry.  You think about your security team strewn across those stairs, just another casualty in Miroh’s game.  You think about your father, the unplanned murder but the utter lack of regret in your heart.

You think about Changbin.  Your reckless side wants to look for him right now.  You cannot stand to waste another second.  Based on your father’s words, he could be anywhere, subject to any number of horrors.  But despite the whirlwind tempest of your mind, there is a soldier inside you and she is more pragmatic.  You are in no condition to fight.  Even if you knew Changbin’s exact location, you would be no use to him.  You need to rest, formulate a legitimate plan, then attack. 

You can’t afford to make any mistakes.  Better than anyone, you know the forces you are up against. 

You pull into a highway fill-up station at dusk.  The car needs fuel and so do you.  There is a little shop near the fuel pumps, the place deserted other than the bored cashier behind the counter. 

There was some cash in the glove box, enough for necessities.  You will inevitably need to steal or manipulate, but you prefer to lay low tonight.  You were careful to avoid traffic cameras and security tv as you exited the previous city.   By the time the car is reported and Miroh’s operation works out your connection, you will be off the grid. 

You turn off the engine and reach for the wallet.  Chan snatches it first. 

“What are you doing?” is spoken in unison. 

“I’m going to buy us some fucking water and food,” you say. 

“Are you?  Really?”  He gives you a pointed up-and-down look.  “You gonna do that looking like you just played cannonball with a cement wall?” 

You have not gotten a good look at yourself, just a flash in the rearview mirror, but he is probably right.  You feel like utter shit so you must look it too. 

“Well, you can’t go in there either,” you say.  Even without the mask, he is clearly in an unusual uniform.  A bored clerk will remember a terrifying soldier in combat clothes marching through his shop. 

Chan flashes you a dimpled smile, frighteningly charming.   

“Sure I can,” he says.  “Just have to blend in.” 

Your eyes widen as he discards both gloves then opens the neck of his shirt.  You stare as he efficiently strips off his top layers. 

If he looked powerful in the uniform, he looks as just as intimidating without it.  He doesn’t boast gargantuan proportions but he doesn’t need it.  There is lethal strength to the rolling musculature of his sturdy body. 

You shouldn’t care.  Soldiers strip all the time, long assignments and shared compartments making it an inevitability.   But Chan is not just another soldier.  In your head, he is that living shadow, covered all the way up to his eyes in the Miroh black and blue.  Seeing all that skin is a startling reminder of the man under the mask. 

You find Chan watching you, amused.  That stupid eyebrow is quirked again. 

“What?” you snap. 

“Nothing,” he replies.  “Be right back.  Don’t miss me too bad.”

You roll your eyes, slumping in your seat as he gets out of the car.  You have half a mind to drive away but you are pretty sure he would find a way to manifest at your destination anyway. 

You watch as he enters the shop in a nonchalant stroll, wearing just his pants and boots.  He waves at the cashier and says something that makes him laugh. 

To his credit, Chan looks like a regular guy on a hot day, casually perusing a gas station shop.  He makes small talk with the cashier and they laugh some more. 

You knew Chan was a good soldier but you didn’t expect him to be such a good agent too.  He is probably better at the civilian act than you.  You are standoffish and opt for a quiet demeanour, blending in through invisibility rather than a persona. 

Chan walks in and out, the cashier unaware of the nature of his customer.  You return to the road with a full of tank of gas and some sustenance. 

“Are you going to put your shirt back on?” you ask. 

He gives you a side-eye as he shrugs the outermost layer back on.  He doesn’t do it up.  You refuse to act like a glimpse of his bare chest means anything to you. 

Except it does.  When he sits there with his knee against the console and his skin showing and a tuft of hair over his forehead, he looks like a person.  He is a person, one who has been subject to some of the worst horrors of Miroh’s operation. 

There is no denying Chan is a complicated figure, unwillingly complicit in atrocities.  He acts like a normal person with a fully cognizant mind, but you just witnessed for yourself how easily he can fake that.  You do not know how much of the real Bang Chan is actually inside him. 

“Chan,” you say after a long time.  The sun has almost fully set, the sky in its navy gloaming. 

“Yeah?” he says. 

There are no words that suffice.  You could give an entire speech and it would be virtually meaningless.

“I’m sorry,” you say, leaving the breadth of the apology up to his interpretation.  You keep your eyes on the endless miles of highway that stretch ahead.  There is a long journey in front of you.  There is a longer road behind you. 

The car is illuminated with golden light from passing cars and overhead lamps.  It flashes over his face in the deepening darkness. 

“Don’t be,” Chan says.  He crosses his arms in a protective position, looking out his window though there is nothing to see but the highway and passing cars.  “None of this was your fault,” he says.  

You laugh, a similar humourless sound to his earlier laughter. 

“That’s not entirely true,” you say, thinking of all the missions you deliberately ran for Miroh.  You thought you could make it mean something.  You were just like your father, believing the ends would justify the means.   You never tortured Chan yourself, but you were part of the operation that kept him in chains.  There was nothing you could do to save him, but you certainly never tried. 

He looks at you.  You hear him move, the crinkle of his clothes, the water bottle he twists in his grip. 

“I don’t blame you, you know,” he says.  “Seriously.  Today was crazy.  Everything’s crazy.  You’re not responsible for it.” 

“I’m not not responsible,” you say.  “My team is dead.  My friend is gone.  My dad – well, you can’t say I didn’t do that.”

“He had that one coming,” Chan says, his laugh a little more real.  “No offense, but your dad kinda sucked.”

You find yourself laughing more genuinely too. 

“Yeah,” you say.  “I think we can agree on that.” 

You fall into silence but it is more comfortable than before.  There has been an undeniable tension since the moment he climbed in this car, looking at you with questioning confusion as you pointed a gun at him.  You were panicking but he must have been equally bewildered.  To him, you were a mission.  He lives by his orders. 

“I should apologize to you,” he says.

You look at him with obvious surprise.  He meets your gaze, his expression sincere if not a little chagrined.  His dimples show with a faint smile but it is not very happy. 

“I’ve been an ass,” he says.  “Today was – well.”  He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Trust me,” you say.  You try to lighten the mood with your tone.  “I’m a Miroh.  You will never have to apologize to me for as long as you live.”

He doesn’t laugh or even force that pretend sound.  He stares ahead, his gaze sorrowful and faraway. 

“Sorry, that was—” you begin. 

He forces a smile and shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says.  “Truce?”

Smiling feels awkward and your injuries probably make you a terrifying sight.  But he accepts it, nodding at you.  The car does not feel like such a claustrophobic space after that.  The air is clear as it can be, considering who you are.

Neither of you has an identity right now.  You were tethered to the same monstrosity and now it is gone.  Everything is different.

You are too tired for another late-night heart-to-heart.  It is time for rest. 

-

There is enough cash for a cheap motel room.  You find a quiet inn off the highway, sequestered beyond trees and countryside fields.  You finally look at yourself properly in the bathroom mirror.  You decide Chan’s earlier remarks were a severe understatement.  You look like a battleground more than a soldier. 

You injures will repair themselves with time, but it is a grisly sight.  You shower for now.  The soap and water helps. 

You don the same shirt and underwear.  New clothes will be a necessity.  You mentally plan tomorrow, everything you will need to accrue before you formulate an attack.  You have already mentally plotted the closest facilities, but you will need to verify their function and security protocol before striking. 

You are mentally strategize as you exit the bathroom.  You are distracted, thinking nothing of the fact you are wearing underwear and a shirt. 

Chan already showered because you insisted, knowing you would take longer with your injuries.  He is sitting on one of the single beds, sorting through his weapons. There is the gun you stole from Miroh plus his own array of armaments, things so well hidden you did not realize he even had them.  They are laid out on the bed.  He sits at the foot in his combat pants and nothing else, his dark hair damp and face bare. 

You stroll past him, feeling his eyes as they lift from a gun to your bare legs.  Now that you have scrubbed the worst of the brutality from your body, you feel like something of a person again.  His flicker of attention ignites an undeniable spark in your belly.  At first, it startles you, because the First Guard is the absolute last person you should ever think of like that.

But then you look at him.  He has turned his eyes back to his work, saying nothing as he reloads the gun with second-nature efficiency.  He is holding a weapon but, despite his conditioning, he is just a man. 

You are a grounded person.  You keep your head down and go about your tasks with confident certainty.  He is here, you are here, it has been a long day, and it is not unusual for soldiers to seek comfort before the dawn of a new fight.  Comfort is as important in healing and recuperation as anything else. 

You sit on your own bed and look at him. He is effortlessly attractive with his dark hair and dark eyes, the sloping muscle of his firm body.  You trace his chest and abdomen with your eyes.  He does not lift his gaze, his attention on the gun.

“Do you want to fuck?” you ask.

Bang Chan is the best soldier in the force.  You are pretty sure he has never fumbled a weapon quite so spectacularly.  It clatters to the floor and he kicks it under your bed.

“What!” he says.  He doesn’t look at you as he retrieves the gun, laughing a comically nervous giggle.  “Um… what?” he asks again.  Before you can answer, he shakes his head. “That’s uh, wait.  Um.  No.  Bad idea, right?  I mean—”

“It’s just a suggestion,” you say, not really offended. “It’s been a long day.  It doesn’t mean anything.  We’re both adults here.”

As you say it, you consider his circumstances.  Chan has spent his entire life in the house of Miroh.  He is not innocent but he might be inexperienced.  This man has killed dozens of people and worked dozens of dangerous operations.  His body is built for violence, not pleasure, and certainly not his own. 

You find yourself blurting, “Have you ever…?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, brow furrowing with annoyance. 

“All right, all right, just asking,” you say.  You decide not to push the topic because it clearly makes him uncomfortable.  You just cleared the air and you don’t want to muddy it again. 

You change the topic swiftly.  You make some empty remark about the weather as you turn on the small television.  It’s an old contraption, buzzing with static as it flickers to life.    

Chan resumes his work.  He puts his head down to concentrate. 

Your gaze inevitably strays to him. 

His hair dries curly.  It feels like an unusual thing to know about the First Guard.  He looks so much younger with a clean face. 

You jump when that face lifts.  He looks at you. 

“It wasn’t… you know…” There is a hunch to his shoulders, his eyes dropping to his work.  “I just did it on missions, ya know?” 

“Did it,” you say.  “On missions.”  It doesn’t register right away, partly because you are tired and partly because you did not expect him to continue this conversation.  “You mean sex?” you ask.  “You had sex on missions?” 

“I had sex for missions,” he corrects, eyes on the weapon he is disassembling.  He is acting like the conversation is meaningless, his attention divided, but you know his task does not require that degree of concentration.  He could take that thing apart in perfect darkness. 

“For missions,” you repeat.  “What, like a honeypot type scheme?  You?” 

It seems ridiculous at first.  You picture the First Guard smashing through windows and tackling you in stairwells.  There is nothing seductive about that raw violence.   But then you look at the man in front of you, young and handsome, the one who so easily charmed that cashier while pretending he was someone else.  You picture him in a suit and tie, maybe a t-shirt and jeans.  He would be devastating with the right preparation. 

Chan is the best.  Maybe it shouldn’t surprise you he would excel regardless of the scheme. 

“Something like that,” he says.  He finally loads the magazine.  “It wasn’t so bad, though.  Seriously.”  He twirls the gun with an effortless flourish.  The grip finds his palm like the pistol is a part of him.  “Trust me.  My body was used for worse things.  You get that too, yeah?” 

You suppose you relate well enough.  You were raised in the same program, put through the same grueling regimen.  You have done things and you are not proud of them all.   Your circumstances are not the same, though.   You are each uniquely situated in your positions, even if you started in the same place. 

We’re all that’s left.

Changbin’s voice in your head causes your mind to drift. 

“What about you?” Chan asks, drawing you back to the conversation. 

“Me?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “You.”   

The First Guard is asking you about your sex life.  You woke this morning in a safe house and put on combat gear, ready for another mundane day of field work.  Somewhere in the middle of that was a cascade of violence.  Now Bang Chan is asking about your sexual proclivities.  If you weren’t so exhausted, you would laugh. 

“I mean, nothing special,” you say, sufficing for the boring truth.  “Mostly just this.  Sex doesn’t really mean anything to me.  It’s like exercise.  Long nights on a job.  You know.  Fellow soldiers on a mission.  Sometimes a civilian hook-up.” 

You can’t parse the expression on his face.  His gaze is somewhat judgemental, or maybe it is just scrutinizing, intensely focussed.  It bristles your nerves.  Your tone is more derisive when you say, “I’m not a romantic.”  You hold his intense stare in your own.  “Sex is just a bodily function to me.  Sometimes the body needs the release or the pleasure or whatever, so I satisfy it and move on.  That’s who I am.  I work.  I get the job done.  That’s what I have always done.”

What you always did.  You are not sure how to describe yourself anymore.  You nonetheless punctuate that definitive statement.  You assume that is the end of the conversation. 

Then Chan asks, “So there’s… no one… for you?” 

If he was any other soldier, you would think he was angling for flirtation, but he just turned down your very blatant offer. You do not know why he has any motivation to ask such personal and irrelevant questions. 

It is not worth the argument.  You conclude with a simple, “No.” 

He nods, rocking his whole body with the force of his too-casual gesture.  The tips of his ears are red, though your gaze does not stay there.  You are quickly distracted by his bicep.  He lifts an arm to rub the back of his neck, muscles softly rippling.  His brazen questioning coupled with his awkward shyness is incongruous. 

You think it is unlikely you will ever understand this man.  He has been taken apart and put back together too many times.  Fragments of him seem to fire all at once and in great contradiction. 

“What about Changbin?” he asks.  “He must be pretty special to you.  Ya know, for you to have done all this for him.” 

You are simultaneously struck by repulsion and sentiment.   Changbin is very special and you regret not realizing it sooner.  He has always been at your side, taking hits to protect you well before he became your bodyguard.  He is the person who kept you smiling.  You understood each other on a different level.  His friendship was a rare gift and you took it for granted.  Now you would do anything to have it back. 

But also…

It’s Changbin.  Ew.  You are an only child but you feel a brotherly affection for him.  Picturing him in any other context is nauseating.  It just feels wrong. 

You have such a visceral reaction of disgust that Chan laughs.  He puts up his hands as if in surrender. 

“Sorry, sorry, my bad,” he says.  “Just friends, then?” 

“Yes,” you say.  “Though there’s nothing just about it.” 

You have replayed that rooftop exchange a hundred times, torturing yourself with every possible outcome.   If only you did this, if only he did that.  You rearrange every second, trying to find a version with a different ending.    

You wonder how he will react when he finds out what you did.  Aha, murder princess living up to her name! he might say.  The old man should have seen it coming.  I knew you could it, but of course I did. I’m so much smarter and better looking than everyone else here. 

You smile at the idea but it fades quickly. 

Changbin was with you last night.  He was sitting within arm’s reach, his scar under your fingertips.  Now he could be anywhere and it’s all your fault.  Not just because of the rooftop mistakes, but because of every mistake you made before that.

You exhale.  Your shoulders shake.  Chan watches you close a fist around a pillow.   

“You all right?” he asks. 

“I’m ending it,” you say. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I always thought Miroh was an inevitability.”  You are speaking out loud but mostly to yourself.  Your gaze is fixed on some distant point, your mind and heart miles away.  “But he wasn’t,” you say.  “No more soldiers.  No more experiments.  No more bribes and theft and terror.  My father is dead and I am going to do what I should have done a long time ago.  I am going to make sure his work dies with him.”

You look at Chan.  A day ago, you both existed for Miroh.  Now you are two people planning to dismantle an empire from a motel room and a stolen car.     

“Do you have a problem with that?” you ask. 

A part of you is braced for the worst, that he will reject it, that he will revert to some kind of conditioned programming and drag you back to a facility for condemnation. 

Even while you think it, you know it won’t happen.  The eyes staring back at you are as clear as your own. 

“I’m just the bodyguard,” Chan says.  “I go wherever you go.  Always.”

You feel invigorated to start now, but you are tired beneath the burst of adrenaline.   You need to let your body heal.   

The room is dark and you doze in the light of the television. After a couple hours, you roll over and find Chan is still awake.  He is laying on his bed, arms crossed and eyes open.  He is watching the shopping channel, ad after ad after ad, with far more intensity than it merits.   His mind must be somewhere else.  You can only imagine what he is thinking about. 

You wonder how much he knows about himself.  He responded to your half-coherent treasonous pleading.  Does he remember hating Miroh?  Or is he truly only helping you because of mission parameters? 

It is easy to forget when he is a bare-faced, curly-haired young man slouching in a motel bed, but Bang Chan is lethally competent.  He knew all of Miroh’s innermost schemes.  It will come in handy now, but it makes him an irrevocably dark character, whether it was willing or not. 

You wonder how much Changbin would trust him. 

Wait.

You were so distracted with your plans, you did not question a moment in your conversation. 

Chan mentioned Changbin. 

You never told Chan the identity of your friend.  When you were pleading with him, you just called him a friend. 

Maybe Chan heard you talking to your father.  Maybe he knows about your relationships because that was his job.  Maybe he just guessed because Changbin volunteered himself in the ring. 

Maybe Bang Chan remembers more than he is letting on. 

-

You fall asleep to the soft drone of the television.  Your mind is walking in circles and you dream of similar rings.  Nightmares of chrome cages and steel traps, a suffocating helplessness squeezing your ribcage. 

In your dreams, the room fills with smoke, a charcoal smog that chokes you as quickly as the compression on your chest.  You look down but you can’t see your body, only feel it.  Your invisible body struggles against invisible bindings.  You gasp for breath.

Your father appears.  It is him holding you down, a heavy hand in the middle of your chest.  You cry out.  You want to move but your body is trapped.

You close your eyes.  When you open them, Changbin is there.  He is still a teenager.  His head is bleeding – why is his head bleeding? – but he wipes the blood as if it’s nothing more than sweat, all his focus on you. 

Of course it is.  He’s your friend.  He’s here to save you.  How did you not see it before?  It’s like you have been moving through the world in a fog, the same grey smoke that envelopes you now.  His face is the only clear image, gawky with youth but alive and real.

The weight is lifted off your chest.  Black spots swarm your vision as you suck in a lungful of air. 

When you look again, Changbin is grown.  He looks like he did a day ago, dark bangs in his eyes, stocky build ready for a fight. 

“I’m not leaving here without you.”

Not leaving here.

Not leaving here.

Not leaving here. 

His voices dances around you.  You are trapped in your body, a screaming, shrieking force, watching through dead eyes as the world spins.  People pass but they don’t hear you.  You try to reach for someone but your body doesn’t respond to your thoughts. 

A labyrinthine stretch of road unfurls then disappears.  You are standing in the infirmary at the main facility.  You stare at yourself, the younger version of you.  You are already dead behind the eyes, resigned to your situation.  There are masked doctors around you.  A tray full of needles.  You watch as the long point penetrates your skin.  You’re just a child, arm so small in comparison. 

Your child face contorts with pain, an expression your adult face cannot mimic because you cannot control your face. 

You remember the pain, even if you cannot cry.  It was like nothing you had ever felt.  The pain meant it was working. The medicant was only administered to you when it had been thoroughly tested.  The first injection killed every subject except one.  The second program was a success. 

The children were writhing in pain for weeks, screaming and crying, begging for parents that never came.  Yours did, looming over your bedside, touching your feverish forehead and speaking through the fog of pain. 

An investment, Miroh called it.  You’ll thank me one day. 

Changbin is there.  He is a child too.  They put a needle in his skinny arm.  He winces but he doesn’t cry.   He isn’t scared of the needles or the pain, but he isn’t eager either.  He is just there, his head down. 

You blink and he is grown.  The needle is still in his arm, only it is not an injection but an extraction.  You watch the fullness of his face wither.  They are taking too much.  He becomes a child again, screaming in pain.  

The same pain moves inside you. 

No, worse. 

Worse. 

You never could have imagined a worse pain.  It courses through your whole body, peeling apart your insides while you lay there, helpless, watching.   

Your father stands over you.  You’ll thank me one day.  

He disappears.  For a flickering moment, you see Bang Chan.  Curly-haired, dimpled cheeks.  He stutters and shakes like a bad film projection.  His face contorts, changes.  Wide dark eyes stare at you, his face covered in rain – water – tears?  Pouring down his cheeks, mouth open and a mute cry in the grey. 

You want to touch him but you cannot move.  His face flickers again.  You feel a tiny, infinitesimal twitch in your pinky. 

Then he disappears altogether.  Your father is there.  He grabs you by the shoulders and slams you down, straight through the earth, holding you there in the darkness where no one can find you and you cannot move. 

“Hey—” comes a voice, somehow reaching you in the depths of that pit.  “Hey, hey, hey, wake up.” 

In your dream, your father shoves you. 

In reality, you are thrashing in a motel bed. 

It takes a minute to realize you are awake, that everything was just a terrible dream.  Your adrenaline is a white hot heat in your chest, your voice a strangled shriek as you clamour around the twisting sheets. 

“Hey, it’s all right,” Chan says.  “You’re just dreaming, whoa, easy, c’mon…  It’s all good.  Easy now.  Breathe for me, okay?” 

It feels like your first breath in years.  It goes down shaky, your vision blurry.  You realize Chan is holding your wrist, lightly but carefully.  You blink up at him.  He turned on the bedside light at some point.  Half his face is lit in gold as he looks at you with concern.  It is such a strange expression to see on him.  These were the same eyes glaring at you over that uniform mask.  Now that brow is pinched with worry, his own breath a staggered thing. 

“You all right?” he asks. 

You are sitting upright.  You look at your wrist in his hand. 

“Did I try to punch you again?” you ask. 

“You missed,” he says, smiling.  Then he shakes his head and says more seriously, “It was my fault.  You were yelling in your sleep so I woke you up.  I guess it was too fast or something.  Just, you know, I don’t think the walls are very thick here.”

“Right,” you say.  Your heart is still stampeding.  “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he says.  “You… you good…?” 

“Yeah,” you say.  You are too weary for patience, so sarcasm spills out of you.  “Peachy.” 

He opens his mouth but you don’t wait to hear it.  You slide out of bed and land on shaky legs.  Your whole body is covered in a sheen of sweat.  You want to shower, wash away the nightmare and the terror. 

You are a light sleeper.  You never dream like that. It is a testament to your exhaustion that you fell into such a deep sleep. 

You tell yourself it was a dream, but your reassurances don’t work.  Because it wasn’t really a dream, was it? It was flashes of real moments, real faces, real pain. 

You stand under steady stream of hot water.  You watch as the heat and the torrent opens a few scrapes, the water at your feet turning red.  You think of Changbin with a needle in his arm, all that red pouring out of him.  Standing there, helpless to do anything, like you are right now. 

You have no idea where he is.  You look at the scar on your palm and think of him in the moonlight, him in the ring, him at your side.  A smile, a joke, a reassurance.  A hand in yours, a promise. 

He knew you better than you know yourself.  He predicted this exact crisis of identity. 

When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be…  When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…

He drew that line across his palm.  You picture a chasm of a wound, gaping and red, rushing red at your feet. 

Just remember me, he said.  I didn’t bleed because I believe in Miroh.  I’m your soldier, not his.

True to his word, a man of principle to the end, he is bleeding for you right now. 

In all your years of training, fighting, and soldiership, of missions and schemes, tricks and plots, you have always kept composure.  Now it all weighs on you at once, every single second of your life, and it’s too much.  

When was the last time you cried?  You can’t even remember.  It pours out of you now, big ugly gasping sobs that spill into the shower.  You sit down where the water is pooling in pink.  You wrap your arms around your legs and draw them up to your chest like a child. 

You do not know how long you sit there, crying until it feels like there is no more water left in your body.  It must be a long time because the water runs from hot to lukewarm.  It feels strange to heave dry sobs with the shower still pouring down on you.  

The water abruptly stops.  You lift your head.

Chan stands there.  He doesn’t look at you directly, his expression solemn, but he turns off the water and gets you a towel.  

It feels surreal.  Bang Chan is moving around a small motel bathroom, helping you like he has helped you all day.  You stare at him with scrunched, sore eyes, your throat too strained to speak.  You drop your legs and let him wrap the towel around you.  Your heart kicks with momentary fright when he scoops you up, an effortless sweep. 

No one has ever done something like this for you.  You wouldn’t have let them, even if they tried. 

You need it.  You never realized how much you needed it.  You are certain you will feel embarrassed in the morning, but right now you put your arms around his neck and cling for dear life. 

He says nothing.  He hooks an arm around your back and the other under your legs.  He carries you back into the room and lays you in your bed, adjusting the towel for your modesty before pulling the blankets over you. 

You continue to sputter and hiccup, looking at him as he moves.  You wonder if he looks like this on a mission, determined and swift. 

No.  The First Guard wouldn’t fix the pillows under your head.  He wouldn’t tuck the blankets around you. 

Bang Chan stands over you, wearing nothing but his combat pants, no weapons or masks or piercing stares.  He has curly dark hair and a soft face.  When you touch his bare shoulder, he looks at you with a heart-shattering amount of tenderness.  You didn’t know anyone could look at somebody that way, never mind him, never mind at you. 

There’s a person inside him.  There’s a person inside you.  You don’t know who either of those people are, but you want to know.  You need to know. 

You curl your hand into a fist and feel the scar on your palm.  A day ago, none of this would have mattered, but you know why it matters now. 

“We have to find him,” you say.  Your rasping voice is barely above a whisper. 

Chan slowly cups his hand over yours, his palm to your knuckles, holding your touch against his shoulder.  He squeezes your fingers.  He nods.

“We will,” he says. 

“You’ll help me?” you say. 

“Yeah.” His own voice is a rasp, skirting the edge of emotion too.  He swallows it down and smiles at you.  “Like I said.  I go wherever you go.  Always.” 

He sits with you in the soft golden light of that small bedside lamp.  You do not think you can sleep again, but then exhaustion settles over you. 

You are on the cusp of sleep when he touches your forehead.  Your eyes meet briefly.  It wakes you with a heart flutter, similar to a dream that drops you into reality.  It is the heart-racing thump of a sudden fall.  The kind that feels so real, more like a memory than a dream. 

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you #bang chan fanfiction #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction

[ldrfanatic]

speak nowww

Slytherin Boys as Speak Now Songs

*in perspective of their relationship with you AND their personality. and why*

here's speak now (tv ofc), 1989 is on the way; which taylor swift album should i do next?

(mattheo riddle, draco malfoy, theo nott, lorenzo berkshire)

slytherin boys masterlist nav

mattheo riddle as Better Than Revenge

best lyric(s) - "she should keep in mind there is nothing I do better than revenge" + "she underestimated just who she was stealing from"

explanation - so, as stated in ttpd version (here), mattheo has a lot of pent up frustration and anger. so he's really good at getting back at people. especially when he gets into a relationship with a partner he really cares about and they ask him not to be mean or attack people for no reason. then he has to channel all his efforts into just getting back at people who bother him. (even though sometimes bothering him is just looking at him even slightly sideways).

w/ his partner - with his partner, mattheo has absolutely no regrets or qualms about being an absolute menace to society. since he began dating them, he's been much less volatile than his normal self, but whenever people get a little too cocky and do absolutely anything at or to you, all bets are off. then mattheo feels that its necessary to step up and remind people that he's still the dark lord's son and he will be the dark lord's son if he has to.

draco malfoy as Speak Now

best lyric(s) - "don't say yes, run away now, ill meet you when you're out" + "horrified looks from everyone in the room but i'm only looking at you"

explanation - I feel like draco is the kind of guy who would totally 1000% crash your wedding if you were ever marrying someone other than him. (*I just read this theo fic abt him crashing readers wedding, ill try and find it and link it here*) But anyways, he would totally crash your wedding. like at first he would feel really bad for even thinking about it but then he would legit just stroll into the chapel like "you can't marry him, you're supposed to marry me" even if he like never mentioned anything about his feelings for you. he mentioned them in his way aka glaring at you slightly less intense than he does everyone else. how could you not notice that he was in love with you?

w a partner - def more silly and cute than anything, but i like to think that when you first started dating (esp if youre a gryff or a huffle) draco would make it his personal mission to embarrass the hell out of you by saying the most out of pocket things in front of like the other slytherins or just in the middle of class as loudly as possible. he just likes to see the little blush on your cheeks whenever he says something that he most definitely should not be saying out loud.

theodore nott as Electric Touch

best lyric(s) - "all I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life" + "I'm tryin hard not to look like I'm trying"

explanation - theo is that guy thats scared of commitment. (sorry to all the theo girlies me included but we gotta admit it at some point). it's not that he doesn't care about his partner, it's just that he's terrified of commitment. there's way too much that could go wrong. he learned very early on that you could do everything right, love someone completely, treat them wonderfully, and then they could just die. but bc his mother passed at such a young age he has a very distorted point of view on this because in his head, he's like but what if they just die???

w/ a partner - that being said, when theo finds that person that's like the one for him, he wants to commit so bad. and he puts all of his effort into it, like he'll call you his girlfriend, he'll spend an exorbitant amount of money on you, he'll even buy you a damn ring, but he won't let you get emotionally close to him. and it kind of freaks him out when he finds himself wanting you to know him in that way. when you finally confront him about one day and he's like, what if you just like died?? and you're just sitting there across from him like '...'

theo, wtf? i'm not just gonna like keel over one day.

after that he kind of lets you in a little and after a few months when he's sure you're not just gonna suddenly fall over, then he's completely fine and continues on like nothing ever happened. (its a little amusing in the hindsight of it all)

lorenzo berkshire as Dear John

best lyric(s) - "don't you think 19's too young to be played by your dark twisted games" + "cause you burned them out, but I took your matches before fire could catch me"

explanation - I don't think it's really talked about enough how much emotional support that enzo needs. his own family aside, he still grew up around death eaters and that surely cannot be healthy for a guy. so when he finally is an adult, i like to think that he looked into some kind of therapy option wizard, muggle, or otherwise. i think that he probably also struggled a little with the friends that he lost during the entire ordeal that he wishes he could've saved (almost like survivor's guilt)

w a partner - so when it comes to a partner, i really think that he needs someone who sees him. that's really important to him that he's with someone that he could just let go with and not have to worry about always being either grinning or stonefaced. He'd like to be able to feel his entire range of emotions without hindrance and he's only really gonna feel safe to do that with a partner.

---

4.25.24

wc 960

taglist @moonlightreader649 @svt-dk97 @thatdammchickennugget @helendeath @fandom-life-12 @bouquetolegoflowers @maryvibess

#slytherin boys #theodore nott #slytherin #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #slytherin boys x reader #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #enzo berkshire #enzo berkshire x reader #draco malfoy x reader

[synthshenanigans]

Both of us see a cloud & all good things come in threes moment

Lil ideas n things:

• He's based on Spring & a Storm a bit. Hence the clouds & flowers. [They're cherry blossoms specifically :} cos pink]

• You can kinda tell in the doodles, but his face is a mask similar to Soul in the album art. Behind it is a shadowy figure like the one in Light & Night. Also has little glitches and video effects over him similar to TFaR

• There's a lot of things on him that are in pairs of three from the line "All good things come in threes" from VoaC. Three lil floaty cloud hairs. Three flowers & three clouds on his pants. Three stamens on the flower in his hair etc.

• Outfit detail; The jean jacket has spilt colors like the hoodie in TFaR. Idk why but I also like the idea of him have skeletal related things, so the back side has a spine & ribcage design. You can also kinda see it in the top drawing but he's got skeleton gloves too :}

• When he does split into three, its not immediately as HMS. Whole turns into mixed state of being Whole & Soul. Not quite fully himself now but still hasn't split into solid forms yet. Heart & Mind are more basic black & white versions of themselves. Just vague ideas/forms of feelings & thoughts. This a shitty doodle but they named Spring and Storm

They look kinda dumb to me atm but eh concepts are fun

Have had a very rough idea of doing an HMS animation using the OG Spring & a Storm with them two being the voices during the Mr. Moon segment

Also when in these states, the two rarely ever remember anything that happened in those moments. Soul can somewhat recall things when being that Whole/Soul inbetween but its not all that clear. Kinda like a Dream you could say :}

Maybe will add more or make another post if I think about anything else

#Whole being pink based is my favorite thing #chonny jash #chonnys charming chaos compendium #cj whole #-atlas art- #this took a lot longer to make & post than I wanted it to augh #not a favorite thing of mine that I've drawn but one of my favorite concepts

[ninjakk]

Hey!!

I recently saw someone claim that Wei Wuxian was starved of conversation on his journey to Yiling with Lan Wangji and Wen Ning and so board he needed to chat to people before they ascend the mountain. I hadn't really noticed this until it was mentioned. What do you think of that scene?

I love your meta and fics btw. You use your understanding of the novel in your writing and it's just *chef's kiss*

Hi anon 👋🏻

Personally, I've not seen any comments regarding the above - but we can certainly look at the text in question 😊

Let's take a look at the scene in question:

Several days later, they arrived in Yiling.

The Burial Mounds were less than five kilometers ahead of this small town. Although they didn’t know exactly what awaited them there, Wei Wuxian had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. But Lan Wangji was right by his side, his gait steady, his gaze cool. Wei Wuxian had never been one with any sense of crisis to begin with, and with the way Lan Wangji looked, he was even less likely to get nervous at all.

Passing through the small town of Yiling, he was awash in the sounds of the local accent. It was invigorating and incomparably endearing. While he wasn’t planning on buying anything, he couldn’t help but strike up conversations in the local dialect with the street vendors. Only after he’d had his fill of socializing did he get down to business.

“Hanguang-jun, you remember this town, right?”

7S translation

So the scene opens with WWX gushing over how safe and happy he feels around LWJ. He's just so thankful to have someone by his side, someone he can fully depend on and is there for him, should he need it. This very much echoes his thoughts from when they began their descent from the Cloud Recesses, at the start of their journey here. For someone nearing the place he met such a gruesome end at previously, he seems incredibly content and calm - all thanks to LWJ. So straight away, we are reminded of how WWX feels around the other man. It's there for a reason, to set the scene. WWX is relaxed and enjoying himself because he's with LWJ.

They have just arrived in a city he is very familiar with. It's the place he both lived as an orphan and frequented as a man while residing at the burial mounds. He is surrounded by the accent of his "home" for the first time in over 13 years and it's making him feel sentimental. I also think it's a great parallel between when WWX finally visits Lotus Pier in the coming chapters and how desolate and subdued the place has become since JC became sect leader.

I think the above reaction is very normal considering the emotional impact it obviously had on him. WWX has already stated on numerous occasions that LWJ makes him happy and he enjoys his company, but he's also very sociable and likes to look around markets and chat with vendors - there's even a scene in the novel which states as such and many other examples. Although WWX is running around chatting and exploring the stalls, LWJ is still by his side. Doing so does not subtract from his obvious enjoyment of having LWJ's unwavering presence.

We see more than enough evidence that WWX happily chats to LWJ and that he, in turn, even responds and asks questions also. There seems to be this mind-boggling misconception that LWJ literally doesn't speak, and if he does he's like some caveman that can't communicate effectively, when it's the exact opposite. LWJ talks when necessary and is very succinct with his words - he's a true gentleman of their time. Of course, in comparison to WWX, he's much less chatty - but when he does talk it's sincere and relevant. WWX loves this about him! He's also an incredible listener and doesn't miss a single thing WWX says, which WWX also appreciates! Hardly anyone listens to all his ramblings and holds them all so dearly!

It's funny, because although WWX chats to anyone and everyone, it's obvious he enjoys conversing with LWJ the most. He treasures the fact they are on the same wavelength and understand each other implicitly 🥰

Aww! Thank you so much anon! I'm glad you are enjoying my meta and fics ❤️

I hope I managed to answer your question! Have a lovely day 😘

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mdzs novel #anon ask #answered ask

[avicebro]

fate fandom poll results! (higher res, since tumblr has crunched it)

these are the big patterns i noticed. if you want some more commentary on the numbers, come and join me in the read more:

I first want to reiterate that I did this as a way to see if I was in a bubble. By the end of the poll, it received 93 results. A lot of these responses did come from tumblr and twitter (thank you friend for posting onto your twitter), and so, the demographic that is being polled is biased. Please keep this in mind.

Overall Age/Satisfaction:

Overall, more neutral or people upset with the fandom.

Older fandom - these numbers also do align with the perception that fate fandom grew in size with the pandemic

Shoutout to the 1 person who said they were in the fandom for over 15 years. I'm saluting you

Shouldn't have been surprised there were zero 20+ years responses, but hey, yk, if you don't put it there.

Gender:

I also did this because I wanted to know how gender of characters played into whether a character had 'nice' or 'rude' fans.

Note: I put any characters that have gender ambiguous or gender: unknown in the non-binary section. So this does mean that characters like Astolfo, Caeneus and D'Eon are in this section. While the general fandom may not see some of these as non-binary, it's easier than doing a big asterisk. I'd love to run another poll examining the way trans and non-binary characters are viewed by the fandom, but that's for another time.

Thus, my method was: I read the response, and for each character listed, I sorted them into one of the 3 gender options and tallied it as a point. So, for example, if someone said Avicebron, Medea and QSH, then that would be one point for male, one for female, and one for non-binary. Groups, unless they are specifically one gender, were not counted, however I did keep them in mind (see: later on).

If someone specified popularity, I tallied that as well. For the 'nice' fans, there were only nice comments about 'low rarity/less popular' characters, with the opposite being true for rude fans and popular ones. Hence their bars.

I also included the 'none' section, as there was a non-zero amount of people answering with none, for both.

Male characters' fans are perceived to be kinder 1.8 times more than fans of female characters

On the other hand, female characters' fans are perceived to be meaner 1.7 times more than male characters

Specifically, some stated that they do not trust 'male fans' of some characters

Some gender non-confirming and/or non-binary servants (like Astolfo, Mordred) also have a similar rule, aka "do not trust male fans"

Younger characters like Taisui and Voyager often have 'nice' fans, while younger female characters have 'rude' fans

In the future, it would be interesting to take data on gender to see the main demographics answering these

As I am trying to remain as unbiased with this data presentation as possible, I will just leave the data here. Again, if I redid this poll I'd ask for gender metrics, and maybe try and spread it to reddit spaces for less polling bias.

The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

When looking at specific characters, I sorted through the responses and counted how often certain characters appeared while accounting for repetition. Simple as that.

Top 10 Characters Associated with 'Nice' Fans:

Arjuna (16)

Dantes (10)

Gilgamesh (10)

Voyager (9)

Diarmuid (6)

Cu Chulainn (5)

Enkidu (5)

Ashiya Douman (5)

Oberon (5)

Mandricardo (5)

Couple extra things to note:

groups mentioned often: GUDAGUDA, KOTRT, Hindu Servants

Kintoki mentioned rather often, too

People highlighted that they like seeing people talking about characters that are less known/less popular.

Avicebron did appear on the top 10, however I have excluded him from the list as it is likely due to polling bias. Thanks, though.

Besides Enkidu and Ashiya Douman, the top 10 list is dominated by male characters.

Top 10 Characters Associated with 'Rude' Fans:

Morgan (20)

Artoria (15)

Cu Chulainn (13)

Melusine (12)

Rin (12)

Astolfo (11)

Jalter (11)

Gilgamesh (11)

Arjuna (10)

Castoria (9)

Couple extra things to note:

As mentioned before, some replies were 'Saberface fans', 'Prillya fans' or 'male fans of x'

People highlighted disliking fans of 'popular characters', some specifically stating their dislike stemming from fans pushing a 'need to roll' mentality upon the fandom.

Male Ritsuka appears more frequently as 'rude' versus female Ritsuka.

'Rude' fans are often associated with being fans of non-FGO properties (namely: Prillya and F/SN).

People who show up on both top 10s: Arjuna, Cu, Gilgamesh.

There are also some less popular characters who were highlighted more often as being 'rude'. However, considering the fact that these characters likely do not have that many fans, I have not included them in the data. That being said, if you wish to DM me about them I'll share. I just do not want to drag anyone, you know.

What's Next?

Maybe in a year, I'd like to re-do this poll. Namely to see if the overall satisfaction changes. But, there's there's a few things I'd like to add to the questions next time:

Gender and Maybe Sexuality Preferences

As mentioned above, I think actually taking data on the gender of the participants would be helpful. Further, sexuality would help understand the data. I do not think it's a big leap to suggest that this poll is low on responses from male fans, specifically straight men. But I would like to have the actual data, and not just a hypothesis.

"Which character's haters do you find rude?" question

As my friend pointed out, as well as some of the responses - some of the haters of a character are ruder than their actual fans. I think this would be interesting, too.

Branching the poll out so it catches more attention from the other side of the TM fandom.

While I would like to keep this predominantly to the tumblr and twitter side of the fandom, it's clear that the results tend to veer on the side that is more FGO-focused. I'd like to get some more data from those who don't play FGO or focus their time on non-FGO property.

Post it to other places.

This was a fun trial run! Maybe I could run a separate poll next year, so there's two: one shared only to tumblr, and one to twitter/reddit. I am, at the end of the day, someone who loves data and would love to compare and contrast fandom perception.

Have an option to share characters who's mind you've been changed on.

Sometimes, it really just takes one person to change your mind on a character. I'd like to highlight that.

I believe? That's everything? I tried my best to be as unbiased as possible in presenting the facts. In a reblog of this post, I'll share my further (biased) thoughts at a later time.

I'm curious to see what you guys think! Did this make sense for you? Are you maybe surprised? Ultimately, thank you for responding to my silly lil poll, and I hope that these numbers don't make anyone upset.

Adet

#fate/grand order #fgo #fate series #thank you guys heehee <3

[nereidprinc3ss]

i know we’re all excited for part 4 coming and ofc I don’t want you to get overwhelmed but i was wondering if we could have Spencer’s POV?

in one of the scenarios, he stated that he was in falling in love for reader and it has been noticeable that he has gotten laid with more/other women in the past.

i would like to know more about how was spencer as a lover back in that time like how he felt after s*x and stuff, like a flashback or something and how his relationship with reader has changed him, his own perspective. BUT ofc, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. it’s all good if you choose to ignore this; ily. thanks for always feeding us. we love being your children💗💗

hi love i actually do have headcanons for dybmn!spence’s romantic/sexual history and idk if they’re ever going to fit into that series but i’d be happy to share them here!!

18+ under the cut/season 8 spoilers barely

so basically in my head he loses his virginity to elle greenaway (DUH) and they actually have a little bit of a relationship but the dynamic isn’t quite right because she’s going through all her own shit and at that time of spencer’s life it’s more simple for him. like she’s his first everything and he’s super in love with her but she is older and more experienced and really cares for him but knows for a lot of reasons that this wide eyed rose tinted view he has of her and their idealized relationship is never going to work out. #ILOVEELLEGREENAWAY but anyway they are never exclusive and in the dybmn universe i think he doesn’t necessarily SLEEP w lilah archer but they hook up in that pool beyond just making out mwaha but he’s just a little guy like he’s not CHEATING on elle because they’re not exclusive but she realizes she’s way too into him and that actually ends up figuring into why she leaves the BAU like yes it’s everything with her trauma too but that’s part of it because she knows she can’t sustain that relationship and being much older than him she’s the responsible party so yeah. i also think that time he visits her hotel room was maybe the last time they hooked up

after that i think he kind of develops a pattern of sleeping with women who are older/more experienced than him because he’s just used to being around older people anyway and he feels he can relate to them better and im imagining this is like seasons 2-4 spencer so it’s him and a bunch of hot 30-40 year old women (and probably men) and he’s just like a slut honestly like he’s really easy because he desperately craves affection and validation and i’d say he continues slutting himself out in that way for many seasons, but slowly with people who are more his age, probably until like around season 8 when he meets maeve and then all that shit happens and he kinda is just not into sex or romance for a long while. and i think after that he occasionally will hook up w someone but his main slut era was like seasons 2-6. (it slowed down when his migraines started but did not stop because he’s unstoppable) (he also may have had an actual relationship during this season 7 period in my mind. idk why i just sense there was someone before maeve. no i will not be providing reasoning season 7 spencer just looks like he has a girlfriend)

anyway. the number of bodies that man has is unknown. it may be a number so high we can’t conceive of it. he’s a capital doubleyew Whore unfortunately. but he’s rlly reigned it in by the time he meets reader which can be whenever you want but i picture it as being anywhere from season 9-14. and i think by the time he meets her he really is like basically celibate. like he hasn’t been with anyone by choice for a long while by the time he meets her. he is a retired slut if you will.

saliently i don’t think he ever does anything with jj. that is a purely imaginative thing for him and he lowkey has a madonna whore complex about her. i don’t think he was ever really in love with her he just loved the idea of the pretty blonde girl loving him back. but that is a whole other thing. and he’s way over it when he meets reader.

n e way those r just my silly thoughts. like i said i don’t think i’m ever gonna fit this into the actual narrative but yeah that’s what ive been imagining!!

#asks #ramblings

[akutasoda]

For the 1k event can I request angst hcs with the demon bros with a fem mc whos a fallen angel but with mauled wings? Like we’re talking loose feathers and flesh sticking out bonus if they randomly met her in the forest

bloody damnation

synopsis - when they meet a fallen angel in unfortunate circumstance

includes - lucifer, mammon, leviathan, satan, asmodeus, beelzebub, belphegor

warnings - fem!reader (no pronouns), heavy angst, very little comfort, body horror???, lots of blood, wc - 1.8k

lucifer ★↷

↪as part of his brotherly duties, he had to go search the forest out back of the house of lamentation when one of his brothers ran inside claiming there was some 'horrid monster' lurking. creatures in the devildom normally didn't stray as close to the house so he immediately knew something was up.

↪although maybe he would've preferred you to have been 'a horrid monster' purely for the reason of the awkward situation you have placed him in. it's one thing to find some demon or creature with mangled parts, it was another to find an angel - or the reamins of one.

↪your once beautiful, silken wings lay crumpled and tangled in a mess behind you. he could practically smell the blood, see it too as it stained the grass beneath you and soon covered by the white feathers that turned darker as they hit the ground.

↪for obvious reasons, lucifer reluctantly brought (snuck) you into the house and hid you in his room until he managed to get hold of diavolo to sort out your situation. however he knew he couldn't just leave your wings in such a state, it looked like it hurt and he couldn't imagine they'd heal prettily if left like that.

↪he once had beautiful wings, some say he still does. so he knew how important keeping wings in a good condition was and so he managed to convince you to let him provide a basic, temporary solution to your wings. he hardly wanted to know what happened for you to fall let alone fall and end up with your wings in such a condition so he remained silent.

↪bu the time diavolo arrived, lucifer had performed basic healing magic and bandaged your wings to allow the membranes to heal inside your wing. he could think more clearly about the situation of having a fallen angel in the devildom knowing your pain had been limited for now.

mammon ★↷

↪mammon had decided to sneak out again and somehow lucifer found out and was actively searching for him. so he decided that sneaking through the dense forrests on the outskirts would be a good way to avoid lucifer and sneak back in - hopefully convincing lucifer he'd never left.

↪the smell of iron hit his nose and made him stop in his tracks. it dawned on him that he had no idea where he really was and so his mind decided that the blood was because some vile creature was feasting nearby - maybe he'd become the next victim? but when nothing showed signs of appearing, he kept moving forward until he halted at the sight of the blood.

↪he never knew there could be so much blood in one place. the grass was practically a sea of crimson and i the middle was a brutal mess of white that covered what appeared to be a body. mammon felt sick to his stomach at the sight, especially the bits of flesh that clung to your feathers like parasites.

↪now mamon was greedy, he could save himself from your sorry sight and leave or he could do something for you. fortunately mammon could be more kind that greedy at times so when he finally realised just what you were or used to be, he knew he couldn't just leave you to bleed out on the forest floor of unfamiliar territory.

↪he didn't mind recieving a scolding from lucifer when he emerged from his hiding, mainly because lucifer was too stunned to see you in his brother's arms as mammon asked for him to help you. mammon knew how scary it was to fall, he helped his brother and now he wants to help you.

leviathan ★↷

↪it was a well known fact that levi spent most of his days locked inside his room. he barely went outside unless it was for RAD or absolutely necessary for him to leave the sanctity his room provided. however sometimes he'd have to leave his room but he never dwindled around.

↪levi was desperate to get home, it had been a long day at RAD and he finally managed to snag a limited edition item from a store on the outskirts of the devildom. all he had to do now was get back with his purchase in perfect condition. he practically jumped out his skin when he heard a scream from further beyond in one of devildom's forest beside him.

↪he knew he shouldn't walk into a dodgy forest after hearing a scream - it was like every horror troupe! but surely a peak couldn't hurt after all what if someone was hurt? not that he'd normally care all that much but something felt different, more serious.

↪and he was right, the sight wasn't pleasant by all means. the remains of what could only be an angel thrasing around desperately trying to subdue the bleeding that was a constant stream of crimson. levi felt sick, by no means was it your fault but he just couldn't stand the sight of your flesh and feathers mixing together.

↪he fumbled desperately trying to reach his d.d.d to contact lucifer for help but he felt absolutely helpless in the scenario. he had fallen once, sure it wasn't aa brutal as you but he could only imagine the fear you must be feeling - especially whe you're wings are practically falling off. but what could a lowly otaku like him do?

satan ★↷

↪on his way back from RAD, he had seen a rather adorable cat run past into a nearby forest and naturally satan followed. a part of him was convinced that maybe he would get lucky and find some sort of secret cat hideout in the devildom.

↪he found it rather alarming that the cat suddenly turned heel and ran back past him not to far fron a clearing. although when he looked into the clearing, he hadn't expected to see the fallen remains of an angel crumpled into the floor.

↪ originally he thought you looked absolutely ethereal, ironically the devildom's light seemed to highlight your features perfectly. however he quickly doubled back on his thoughts when he could see the mess that were you're wings. the crimson coated over what used to be a pure white, feathers had fallen and in their place was evidence of flesh that certainly shouldn't of been there.

↪he had always been curious and so showed no hesitation in stepping towards your poor form. the exhaustion from blood loss and the actual act of 'falling' was evident on your frame and so you barely paid attention to the approaching demon - perhaps he'd be kind enough to put you out of your misery.

↪satan knew you were still alive but he was stumped. did he just leave you here for something crueler to come along and finish you or did he help you?

asmodeus ★↷

↪it had been another late night for asmo, he had snuck out once again against lucifer's demand and asmo had spent some time at the fall. although for some reason he wasn't actually in the mood to be there no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to stay, so he had left way earlier than normal.

↪it was a rather quiet night all over devildom, way quieter than what asmo was used to seeing and so he figured he might as well just head back. or that was his plan until the sight of a rather deep crimson caught his attention. small drops lead into puddles and eventually the source lay at the edge of the outskirts of a forest.

↪asmo started panicking and immediately fumbled out his d.d.d to call atleast one of his brothers who may be able to help. he wasn't dumb and could recognise those wight feathers, he knew you used to be an angel because the greying feathers told him that you were no longer welcome back in the celestial realm.

↪he took great pity on you. he was sure you would've beeen a stunning angel but know you were reduced to nothing but a former shell - just like him all those years ago. he took cautious steps toward you but it became clear that exhaustion had taken over you, oh how he wishes he could help you return to your former beauty.

beelzebub ★↷

↪it had been another late fangol game. the other team had put up more of a fight than beel's team anticipated and the matches dragged on and on. once the game had finished he informed his brother's that stayed to watch that they could go home without him as he'd still be a while.

↪he didn't mind walking home on his own at all or atleast until he closed nearer to the house of lamentation and saw a very concerning amount of blood trailing off into the closest forest. beel was a kind soul at heart and if somebody was hurt, he'd want to help.

↪although he wasn't exactly prepared to find a bleeding angel at the end of the trail. the sight of you and your mangled mess of feathers, flesh and blood was by no means pretty. he approached you carefully but he could tell that even if you did notice him, you didn't care. you were too exhausted to do anything but accept your fate.

↪beel felt pity when he watched your slumped form crumple to the ground, he did rush over and checked if you were alive. one minute you had been laying face down in youe own blood, the next some stranger was carrying you away and before you're mind slipped into darkness you heard multiple voices as somebody laid you down on a rather comdy surface.

belphegor ★↷

↪the avatar of sloth wouldn't be the avatar of sloth if he didn't spend most of his time lazing around or sleeping. he rarely went out without nearly falling asleep many times. but sometimes the house of lamentation gets too loud. way too loud. normally he just goes into the attic but between mammon being ounished by lucifer and satan going through a rage, he'd rather not.

↪the forest behind the house was normally quiet and no unwanted creatures normally came near as they also seemed to fear lucifer. sure it wasn't the attic but he was tired and needed one minute of peace without fearing that satan would wreck through the entire house or lucifer would do the same trying to catch mammon. he didn't plan to be long but the unpleasant smell of blood quickly hit his senses.

↪out of weird curiosity, he followed the smell and he wished he didn't. he stared at you as a flurry of emotions swirled inside of him. was this what pain lillith had to endure when she was forced out of the celestial realm? no, no she was sent to the human world, surely it was painless physically? all belphie could do was stare awkwardly at the bloody mess that was you.

↪he could hear your laboured breathing and could see the amount of pain you probably were in, yet he froze. the right thing to do would be to go alert his brother's of your presence but he doubted they wouldn't be much help right now but he could barely help you himself.

akutasoda's 1k event

#↪♡akutasoda's 1k event ♡ #x reader #x fem!reader #x female reader #x fem reader #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #obey me luficer #lucifer x reader #lucifer x mc #obey me mammon #mammon x mc #mammon x reader #obey me leviathan #leviathan x mc #leviathan x reader #obey me satan #satan x mc #satan x reader #obey me asmodeus #asmodeus x mc #asmodeus x reader #obey me beelzebub #beelzebub x mc #beelzebub x reader #obey me belphegor #belphegor x mc #belphegor x reader

[blobbycentral]

Puppets of the Gods

(Aka that one AU where the Cookies of Darkness get possessed by the beasts)

Get ready, this’ll be a long one

The AU starts with Dark Enchantress and main group of the Cookies of Darkness (Pomegranate, Poison Mushroom, Licorice, Red Velvet, and Affogato) heading to the great tree for an audience with the beasts. In this audience, the beasts demand cookie bodies like they do in game. Dark Enchantress though, instead of making new cookie bodies from scratch, offers up her subordinates as vessels and the plot begins.

(Yes that is a paper bag on his head and no I will not answer why the paper bag is grey)

SILENT SALT COOKIE

Silent Salt and Burning Spice fought over who would get the guy with the massive sword and arm. Since Burning Spice was too busy arguing with Silent Salt, they ended up getting Red Velvet instead. He’s not a terrible body to host. Strong. Nice sword. Quiet. Though he could get over the cake monster things. Silent Salt is allowed to take out whatever they want.

RED VELVET COOKIE

As a loyal member of the Cookies of Darkness, he accepted the possession, practically welcomed it. Well… he did. I mean sure Silent Salt isn’t the worse to be possessed by. He’s seen Affogato’s and Licorice’s state. It’s just… so quiet. Too quiet. He’s locked in this mind space watching Silent Salt wreck his life’s work and hurt anything that comes in their way. Maybe if Dark Enchantress knew what was going on she would help… if only he could find a way out.

BURNING SPICE COOKIE

If Silent Salt wasn’t such a big fat paper bag, Burning Spice would’ve gotten Red Velvet. But noooo he had to get the other brat with a big scythe. Licorice Cookie or whatever his name is, he’s frail, bratty and won’t shut up or stop escaping. It sucksssssssss. At least he hates Mystic Flour’s vessel as much as Burning Spice hates Mystic Flour!

LICORICE COOKIE

Alright, maybe this makes Licorice Cookie not the most loyal Cookie of Darkness but he HATES BURNING SPICE! If he had his diary (which Burning Spice looked through btw) he would be scribbling so much the paper would be soaked in pen. Everyday he and him argue and argue about what to do. It’s not Licorice’s fault that this man doesn’t know a spell book from a piece of toilet paper! Ugh… he just needs to find a way out.

MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE

Pomegranate Cookie is loyal and quiet like a good pet. Her hair is annoying to deal with. They spent hours just trying to figure out how to take it out of those buns. Then there's her whole obsession on Dark Enchantress Cookie. Sinful and annoying. Does she not understand caring is a waste of energy? Alas

POMEGRANATE COOKIE

She knew of her master's grand plan since Dark Enchantress thought of it. She gave up herself as soon as Dark Enchantress gave out the order. She did everything Mystic Flour said just as Dark Enchantress had ordered her to do. She sat by and let Mystic Flour destroy her room, clothes, mirror— she’ll sit silently and let all happen. She can’t let her master down even if it destroys everything.

SHADOW MILK COOKIE

You know, he’d prefer Pure Vanilla. He’s more fun to toy around with! This dumb one is such a boreeee. Traumatize him once and he’s all like “I’m emo and sad and stay quiet in the mind space” it ain’t t all bad. Having a body is just soooooo much fun! He gets to play with cookies for real now! The world will remember how fun he was ;D

AFFOGATO COOKIE

When Dark Enchantress Cookie offered up the Cookies of Darkness, Affogato Cookie ran. He was barely a member anyways! He shouldn’t have to be puppeted like a worthless… well.. puppet. It doesn’t matter anymore. Shadow Milk knows everything and just how to screw with his head. He hates it. Makes him want to go back to the hell of the Dark Cacao kingdom.

ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE

She wanted the pretty girl to be her vessel! Not some kid! Sure she was a little slow on pickings but still! They just sleep around and asks for bedtime stories and shroomies. What the actual oven is a shroomie anyways??

POISON MUSHROOM COOKIE

The pink lady is pretty. She reads them stories and snuggles them in her wings. It’d only be better if she had shroomies

And that’s all! If you have any questions feel free to ask! Thanks for reading!

#cookie run kingdom #crk #crk fanart #pen sketch #beast yeast #the beasts #cookies of darkness #crk au #au posting #au info #affogato cookie #poison mushroom cookie #pomegranate cookie #licorice cookie #red velvet cookie #dark enchantress cookie #silent salt cookie #burning spice cookie #or red spice idk man #mystic flour cookie #shadow milk cookie #eternal sugar cookie #I Lowkey hate all of their designs #but that’s okay

[ravennaortiz]

Good morning! I would love to request chibs, 16 and 33 💗

Thank you so much!

Good Morning Love! Our handsome Scot is perfect for these prompts! You are more than welcome! Feel free to drop by anytime! As Always my stories are 18+!

P.S I put a little twist on this and I hope you don't mind!

Tag List: @keyweegirlie @hatersaremymotivators @meera10 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mama-mischief @youngadult9016

Prompts

16. Your scars are beautiful

33. Are you blushing?

Love the Man, Love the Scars

"What does a lady have to do to get you to buy her a drink?" you asked with a flirty laugh as you sat next to Chibs at the bar. The older man chuckled as he looked down at his whiskey glass in front of him. He had been trying to ignore his ever growing interest in you since he had first met you weeks ago.

He had nothing to offer a beautiful woman like you. Yet he couldn't help but let his eyes follow you around, his heart speed up when he heard your voice or caught the sweet whiff of your perfume.

"Aye, Lassie. I suppose be nothing but a beauty" replied Chibs as he dared to look up at you.

You nodded as a smirk appeared on your face as you put your hand on his knee making him jerk slightly. "I see. So then why haven't you brought me a vineyard yet? Or am I not beautiful?" you teased letting a pout form.

"Ye the most beautiful lass I've ever seen" replied Chibs as he grabbed your hand and squeezed it reassuringly. The softness of it making him wish he could have you in his bed letting your silkiness slide over him .Giving his head a quick shake he spoke again. "Its me who is an ugly mug with these" he stated as he pointed to the scars on his face.

"Stop that" you scolded as you smacked his hand. "Your scars are beautiful. They tell a story of a brave man" you continued as you gently traced one of them.

Chibs felt his cheeks heat up at your words and touch.

"Are you blushing old man?" you inquired noting the reddened tint to his cheeks.

"Its the whiskey" muttered Chibs as he tried to deny his reaction.

"Already blushing and I haven't even gotten to the part about how I want to trace them and him with my tongue" you replied as your free hand slipped to his crotch.

Chibs swallowed hard as he licked his lips. "Maybe we should get out of here so I can hear more about this tracing" .

Want more Chibs? Click here

Want to make your own request? Click here

Want on the tag list? Click here

#sons of anarchy #ravennasmasterlist #ravennasrequest #soa fanfic #chibs telford #chibs telford x reader #chibs sons of anarchy #chibs telford imagine #chibs x reader #soa chibs #chibs imagine #filip telford #filip chibs telford #sons of anarchy fanfic #sons of anarchy fanfiction #fanfiction #imagines

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #6] Wishing

warnings: i like to call this a montage chapter - it gets us through the entire summer :) gym trips! dionysus nights! jaykay being sexy in the gym! dynamic and friendship solidified!

soundtrack: c'est la vie - ethan surman; my type - brb.; happiness - the 1975

wc: 6k

bd total wc: 540k (on-going)

minors dni | AO3 | series masterlist 

The scowl on your face as you reach the gym prevails. You've a coffee in one hand - ice americano, double shot - and the hood of your sweater is bunching around your shoulders. You lift it over your head, and push the swing door of the gym open with your shoulder, wanting to avoid the unwanted eyes of Jiyeong, just in case she's working.

You don't look over to the reception, but the lobby is empty, regardless. It's quiet, always a little less busy in the morning than it is in the evening.

You make your way to the gate of the gym. Punch in the code. Get it wrong. Tell the keypad to 'stop being a prick'.

You try again, exhaling a weighty sigh as you do so.

There's a whir as it works this time, hinges clicking open for you. The metallic clang of gym equipment and grunts of burly men cloud the air, battling with the voice in your head for the title of most annoying sound. Always have to win, don't you? Couldn't just take a loss!

It's a flaw; one that you'll admit to, but one that you wouldn't change for the world. A little bit of drive is good, even if you do drive yourself up the wall more often than not.

Hood up, a pair of leggings and a sweater on, black high-tops tied in bows around your ankles, you look like death warmed up. There's glitter caught in your lashline, and your hair is still damp from your quick shower, but you've a point to prove.

And so, just shy of midday, your feet stomp heavily up the stairs, as thunderous as the look on your face.

It's not that you're actually mardy or moody at all - you're just hanging like an absolute bitch.

Whatever Jeongguk puts in those tiny purple shots is lethal. Writes you off every single time.

Admittedly, you had gone a little harder last night knowing that you didn't have work the following day, but that's beyond the point. Normally your hangovers aren't so bad, especially not when you drink water throughout the night - which, thanks to Jeongguk, you had been.

Jeongguk doesn't notice your arrival until you roll down onto the bench behind him. You're on your side, legs tucked up, just like you had been in your bed when his message had arrived in your inbox.

He's in shorts - black, finishing midway down his thigh - and a big baggy t-shirt. On his feet, he's matching with you. Black Chucks. The only difference is that he ties his around the front. His bows are double knotted and little lopsided, the white trims on the soles scuffed and well worn. He's got history in his hi-tops, and you wonder how it compares to yours.

There's a girl in the city who matches him, and it isn't you. You don't have the tiny 'J' scrawled into the rubber of your soles like she does. He's scratched out her initial on his sole.

Takes a little longer to erase it from his other soul, mind you. It's still there. Only faintly, but enough to make him trip over himself from time to time. S'why he always double knots. Harder to fall, that way.

There's concentration on his face, features perplexed as the weight he lifts forces him to exert more energy than he's fully ready for. His teeth are bared, face tight, brows tied in a pretty knot between his eyes. You can see why Jiyeong is so territorial. He's not a bad-looking bloke. Quite handsome, actually.

He exhales as he brings the weight down, resting it on the ground, chest heaving ever so slightly before he turns to look at you. His brows are still furrowed, but his eyes are soft as his body gets more comfortable and settles into a state of rest.

A breathly laugh graces his lips as he reaches for the towel by your head. He pays no mind to the fact your crown is resting upon it, whipping it from beneath you to dab at the sweat gathering on the back of his neck.

"I said bright and early," he smirks, knowing that you must be hating everything about this interaction.

"It's before twelve," you mumble, eyes closed, knowing that watching his dimples form would only make your tummy feel all light and vomit-inducing. You're too hungover for anything other than neutral sensations. "It is bright and early."

"You're basically asleep."

"The bet was that I'd be here, Jeon," you remind him, voice a grumble as you shuffle deeper into your position. "Not that I'd be doing anything useful."

You've a point. It's not one that he can argue against, and so instead he just shrugs and picks his water bottle up from beside the bench. He tosses a little back into his mouth, the stream of water running from the plastic opening and into his mouth with such precision that you're sure he must be an asshole deep down.

You don't buy the nice guy front. Only assholes look that good doing the bare minimum. You'll get to the bottom of his assholeness eventually, but not now. Not when you're this grouchy, and everything feels a little biased.

"C'mon," he says as he knocks his head to the side. "Treadmill. Walk with me. You'll feel better for it."

"I think I'll die," you tell him with so much certainty he can't help but laugh at you.

Still, he stands in front of you and waits for you to join him. Knocks his knee against yours. Kicks your shoe with his own.

He's patient, his eyes soft as they look down at what a sorry state you are. There's something about the way his lips purse gently that makes him feel like a safe bet.

You've no regrets for tumbling out of bed and catching the subway to meet him at the gym. Your head is killing, granted, but it would have been killing you at home, too. At least this way you can feel like you've actually done something productive despite the hangover.

"Trust me," he insists, holding out his palm. "It really will help."

And so you take his hand, letting him pull you up. They warm, and a little clammy, but you don't mind.

When you're finally on your feet, your eyes are level with his chest. He's broad, chest well defined even beneath the shirt. You try not to think about the fact you've seen him shirtless, but you can smell the scent of his laundry detergent, and it adds a whole new element to the enigma the Jeon Jeongguk is. Looking at him, you'd imagine a scent of musk - something woody, maybe. Instead, he smells like fresh blooms, sweet peas under summer sun.

You don't let yourself linger for too long, fearful of him reading into the way you can't seem to keep your eyes off him. He's just new. Something shiny. Fresh. Excitement amongst the mundane of a city you've grown tired of.

He reaches down to pick up your half empty coffee and takes a sip as he begins to walk away. "Tastes like shit."

You pull it back from him, and nudge his side. "Feels like crack cocaine. The Purple Starfuckers, man... they actually kill me."

"You're welcome."

Small talk peppers the walk down the steps - How are your friends? Get home alright? How was Jimin feeling in the morning? How long do you have to stay after closing time? - and flitters around the pair of you as you set your inclines. His is noticeably higher than yours, but you're not here to work out. You're here to win a bet - of which he keeps reminding you that you lost, and that you are, in fact, a 'loser'.

You just tell him to 'fuck off' in return.

He never does. Just smiles, beams all wide, teeth on display, nose a little scrunched, and says "sounds like something a loser would say."

Jeongguk is easy to be around. His company, his humour, the anecdotes he tells. They're delivered freely, revealed without pressure. No diamonds are being formed, but there's enough of them in your eyes when you laugh with him, regardless.

You reduce the ease of your interactions to your perceived lack of expectations he has of you.

There's security that comes with fucking someone's housemate. You're no longer a viable sexual conquest, and therefore you don't have to worry about an ulterior motive for your exchanges with Jeongguk. Jimin's been there, done that.

For Jeongguk to be hanging out with you, you think he must actually like your company. It's mutual. Reciprocal. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

There's a clear line drawn in the sand between the two of you, as you walk forward on separate treadmills. He matches your speed - slow and lethargic - despite his marginally higher incline, before offering you his water.

You hold up your coffee, but he shakes his head. "It'll dehydrate you."

You'd left in such a rush (and without any intent on actually working out) so had neglected to bring any water with you. Never mind the fact you stopped by the coffee place inside the subway station. Force of habit.

You're chronically dehydrated as it is. Danbi has to remind you that you need water, not just iced americanos to get you through the day. Sometimes you listen. More often than not, you don't.

"Sure?" you ask, aware that you don't really know each other well enough to be sharing drinks yet (despite the fact he'd already helped himself to your coffee) but he just nods. Doesn't really see it as a big deal.

"Don't backwash," he tells you as you're mid-sip, and it almost makes you choke the water straight back into the bottle. You refrain, swallowing it down, coughing slightly as you recover from your shock.

"Christ. Too late," you joke as you pass it back, before he makes some crude remark about how you've basically kissed now, and that 'you can't have your way' with both him and Jimin.

"Fuck off," you laugh. "For starters, Jimin and I aren't like, a thing. It was a one-time hook-up."

"Sure."

"Well, I mean, he tried last night," you shrug, looking up to the mirror ahead, finding Jeongguk's dark eyes already on you.

He doesn't look away as he says, "he did?"

"You served us, Jeongguk," you remind him. Your memories of last night are far clearer than they were of the night you'd actually hooked up with Jimin. "He wasn't getting me drinks just to be kind."

"You don't know that," Jeongguk pouts, though he's not sure why. He knows Jimin. He was definitely trying to get laid - but he's also his best friend, so he says, "he's a good guy."

"I don't doubt that," you agree, not wanting it to appear as if you're being over-critical of Jimin. You're the one who fucked him, after all. He's incredibly attractive, and you know that many people would consider themselves lucky to end their night with him, but you've fucked handsome men before. It doesn't really couldn't for all that much.

A fuck is just a fuck.

What we do in the dark has no bearing on who we are in the light of day.

"Sounds like you do," he assesses, but you dismiss it.

"Sounds like you're reading into it a little too much," you banter back, slowly learning that Jeongguk likes to do that. He overanalyses. You do quite the opposite.

Jimin could have a noble peace prize for all you care. Doesn't mean you've any interest in fucking him again.

The conversation dwindles on, you gradually upping the pace of your treadmill to the point where Jeongguk might consider it a brisk walk (though you'd argue it's a jog).

He's kind in the way he takes a second to think before he speaks, conscious of letting you finish your sentences, and also wanting to be sure of the words he articulates. Thoughtful. Mild-mannered. Nice, but not in a way that boring. Nice, in a way that feels safe.

By the time your legs begin to ache, the treadmills have been running for over forty-five minutes.

You've been too busy guessing the conversations between other strangers in the gym. Who they are; where they're going after their sessions. What they'd had for breakfast (and for some reason, Jeongguk would guess 'egg whites' without fail for every single person) and what they'd be having for dinner.

He mimics their voices, and you laugh along, adding a narrative. So many lives have been lived by the people around you, and not single one you get even remotely correct.

There's a burly man, bearded and broad, with a petite girl hanging on every word he says towards the far corner, and you decide that they're a couple.

Jeongguk thinks they're siblings.

Makes it a little awkward when the guy starts squeezing the girls ass mid-squat.

"Yep, no, maybe you're right," he cringes, face scrunching up, lip ring almost disappearing into his mouth as he does so. Unfortunately, he does also then begin to debate the prospect of them maybe being stepsiblings, at which point you threaten to push him off his treadmill.

"You watch too much porn," you tell him, and he can't even argue against it.

It's been a little while since his last situationship ended, and he's been avoiding bedding anyone new like the plague. Been keeping girls he thinks he could grow to like at arm's length. Safer that way.

"I watch a perfectly healthy amount of porn," he scoffs, but then bunches his face up, clearly not proud of himself for making such a declaration. He chooses to not share the fact that he and Jimin split a VPN bill for that purpose exactly.

You laugh with him, the topic moving along to the PG shows he watches instead, the Netflix shows you're both hooked on, and what you'd each chosen for your Vecna song (which also leads to him helplessly defending all of his Spotify playlists from your gruelling judgement ( Justin Bieber defined a generation and I won't listen to you talk shit about him.... And fuck off, Mad at Disney is cute! Cute! I'm never showing you my Spotify ever again. EVER.))

He mirrors you as you slow the pace of your treadmill, looking over to you after checking the time on the clock - 58:23. Longer than he'd expected you'd last. "Done?"

"Done," you nod.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like death?"

"Still?"

"Still," you nod. "Need a Vita500 and a nap."

"There's CU round the corner," he notes. "I'm now about to leave anyways. I'll come with you. You can get your vitamins, I'm gonna grab something to eat."

You nod, not minding in the slightest - but he mentioned food, and your stomach begins to grumble like King Kong atop the Empire State.

"Would die for convenience store ramyeon," you sigh, musing over one of the finest delicacies in life. Nothing beats instant jjajangmyeon, not even a home-cooked meal.

"Wanna grab some?" Jeongguk asks a little mindlessly, not thinking much of the offer. "I'll eat with you."

And so he does. The comfort born in the confines of the gym is nurtured over cheap food and even cheaper shots at one another in the form of banter. He's a lot of fun, you think. It's a shame he's always stuck behind the bar and never able to let loose with you in the club.

He texts you midweek to let you know he can put you on the club guest list, if you want. Save paying entry and queueing. You'd be mad to say no - and so you spend the next few days convincing your friends that another night out is a good idea.

It's not. Hoseok somehow ends the night without his shoes, and you wake up with an ache in your lower back from a guy who'd tried to be all sexy in his bedroom last night, failing miserably. Human bodies aren't supposed to bend in the way he insisted on positioning you in.

You ignore the slight burn as you head to the gym though, ready to pretend like Jeongguk's the bane of your life once more.

A routine is forming.

What started as a bet becomes a weekend guarantee: you will get shitfaced at Dionysus on a Saturday, and then you will chat shit with Jeongguk on the treadmills for the duration of your Sunday morning.

He never lets you off the machines until the scowl that you inevitably arrive with transforms into a subtle smile. Some weeks it's quicker than others, but one thing is for certain; your scowl will always fade.

By week three, he's already by the treadmills when you arrive.

"No napping today," he teases with a soft smile, making light of the way you always curl up on the bench behind him as he does his final few reps. He's already done with them. Got to the the gym fifteen minutes early to make sure he would be.

"Gguk," you groan, dragging your feet a little and yet still heading in his direction towards the cardio area.

The way his body swings around to look at you, a single brow raised, is like something out of a kid's cartoon. He's so animated and full of energy that it's hard to believe he was at work until five that morning. "What did you just call me?"

"Shut up," you mumble, crossing your legs and sitting down on the treadmill belt. It's quiet - this time of day is never busy - so you don't feel bad for hogging a machine that no one would be using regardless. "Everyone calls you that."

He hops up on his treadmill and sets an incline, while you let your body flop down on yours.

"You're not everyone."

"Be impossible to be everyone," you mumble, eyes closed, body shuffling into a more comfortable position - until the treadmill jolts, moving ever so slowly beneath you. The way you get up is akin to a cat being confronted with a cucumber, a small yelp leaving your lips. "Jesus, Jeongguk!"

He's smirking, as if hadn't been tampering with the buttons, shrugging. "Started by itself."

"You could have killed me."

"What a shame that would have been." He grins at you like a kid who just found a stash of candy. "C'mon! Up you get. I've got places to be. A life to live."

You scoff as you begin to walk forward, lowering the incline that he'd set it to. "You? A life? Seems unlikely."

"You know, you're incredibly hard to like," he assures you. You catch the challenge of his gaze in the mirror and simply shrug.

"Yet here you are, still trying to be my friend."

"Can't shake you off."

"You force me to come."

"I do no such thing."

"Ohhhh, disco baaaaall," you begin to imitate him, bringing your clasped hands to your heart as if you really are begging. You sound nothing like him, but it's kind of deliberate. The more ridiculous you sound, the more he'll laugh. "Pwetty pwease come to the gym and keep me company."

"I don't talk like that," he laughs at how whiney you sound. "And fuck off, I've never said that."

"So you don't mind if I leave?"

His hand reaches over and hooks into the hood of your sweater, as if you're a dog on a leash. His grip is tight. Ain't no way you're going nowhere.

"No, you're not allowed," he says sternly, but there's a smile on his face, voice dulcet as the command rolls off his tongue and sinks into your ear. "I'll get bored."

"See!" You laugh, and pay no notice to the fact his hand stays with an iron grip on the fabric of your sweater even after the joke has been made. He keeps it there.

"It's either I have you keep me company, or Jimin keep me company," he says with a shrug. "I've always got a second choice."

"Aw, but I'm your first choice. How cute."

"My god, I hate you," he says as he finally drops his grip on your hoodie, nudging your shoulder as you walk. He busies his hand, tampering with his incline, trying to make it seem like the touch was casual. Nothing to read into.

It's a debate the pair of you are able to have for hours; who hates who more, who hated who first, who's gonna hate who for longer.

It's not flirting as such, but it is a ruse. You deflect the fact that you actually really enjoy each other's company, using hatred as a measure of just how much you like one another. It's all very juvenile.

He tells you he hates you when you steal half of the cheese he buys for his instant ramyeon after the gym, and you tell him that you hate him every single time you show up at the gym. It's a win-win.

By the time week four comes around, you're surprised to find yourself considering signing up for another month.

You rarely use your membership - once a week, to be precise, and only for about an hour at a time. It does give you a luxury of freedom, though. Chances are you'll be able to find Jeongguk there, no matter what time of day it is.

You'd swung by one evening that week after work just to show him the painting someone did of breadfish, knowing that he'd be the only other person in the city who remembered something so ridiculous.

He'd been deadlifting at the time, a thick leather belt cinching the baggy shirt he'd been wearing, stopping you quite suddenly in your tracks.

Hands covered in paint, hair up, a pencil still tucked behind your ear, you're the most 'you' he thinks he's ever seen you.

Sure, he's seen you with your makeup all smudged after a night out, and he's seen you after far too many drinks deep, but he's never really had the luxury of a totally sober 'you'. The 'you' that other people get to indulge in.

The glitter on your lids is a little more subtle than he's used to - it's thinner, finer, a little pink in its hue - but still prettily in place. Sparkling under the harsh gym bulbs. It's nice to know you're a disco even in the daylight.

He finds himself holding the bar he's lifting for a little longer than expected. His eyes are on yours in the mirror. You've paused by the top of the stairs, eyes on his.

It had been the shock of how bloody tiny his waist is that had startled you first, the look in his eyes, second.

And it's that second surprise - a pleasant one - which stops you from doing anything else but staring. He's got car crash eyes, and you can't help but watch the disaster of the wreckage burn.

You can't even really take in the rest of his face, and it's a shame, for he's a sight to behold; lips ajar, the freckle beneath them covered by the shadow of his pout, brows furrowing together slowly.

The longer he looks at you, the more strained his expression becomes - until his eyes close, teeth clenching, body holding the weight until he can't support it for much longer. It drops, his body shaking as his chest heaves, the sound shattering the tension between the pair of you.

You feel bad for intruding; as if you've seen him in a way you were never supposed to. It's not like you walked in on him showering or anything as intimate as that, but it's been a while since a man has looked at you like, well, that.

Desire, passion? Sure, whatever. They'd looked at you with those in their eyes.

But Jeongguk hadn't been looking at you with either of those wants. At least, not a want for you.

He'd been pushing himself. Proving himself.

And while he hadn't been proving himself to you, you're reminded why you don't fuck anyone face-to-face these days. Eye-contact. It's too much. Gets you all hot and bothered.

And so while his chest heaves, eyes looking you up and down, a little unsure of what the fuck just happened, you do the only thing you can: distract him.

Behind your back is the breadfish canvas, so you bring it around, hold it in the air and smile as brightly as you possibly can. "Please tell me you know what this is."

He takes a second. Tilts his head, and then realises exactly what it's meant to be - a loaf of bread with a fish head and tail tacked onto the end. He's not seen it since middle school. Was the only one of his friends who found it fucking hilarious - and the way you're beaming makes him think that you were probably just as strange as he was, growing up.

Your mutual childhood strangeness is proven right. Transcends in adulthood, apparently. He sends you voice notes of him singing the breadfish song on loop for three days straight. You block him on 4 separate occasions.

Doesn't stop him from making sure the DJ plays the song on Saturday night. He'll take the blocking if it means he gets to see your smile just as bright as your disco ball eyes.

When Sunday comes, the look on Jeongguk's face as you tell him your membership is due to expire is hard to read.

His eyes, for once, don't give much away.

He's forbearing as he says, "you can't use your memberships expiring as an excuse not to hang out anymore. I'll still force you on hangover walks."

His stoicism fades as he tries to hide a smile when you ask him to wait by the door of the gym lobby. You renew your membership. Just for another month - just enough to keep him happy.

And so the routine continues. Saturday nights are reserved for Dionysus; Sunday mornings for the boy from behind the bar.

There's normally a gap of five or so hours between you saying goodbye at the club and hello at the gym.

Sometimes you go home from Dionysus with Hoseok and Danbi.

Other times, you end up in an apartment that's unfamiliar, with a man who's equally as unknown.

They're always nice enough.

Never nice enough to make you wanna stay the night.

On one occasion, you end up going home with another woman, instead. It's not unheard of, for you, just harder to come by. Your first experiences had been with women, and your dating history is littered with as many women as it is men. You don't subscribe to the idea of sexuality being a linear thing, far more content with just going with who feels right, not what feels right.

Naively, you'd put her on a pedestal, thinking you'd finally get a decent lay - but a drunk shag is a drunk shag. You still ended up leaving as soon as you could, orgasm not quite reached.

At this point, you figure it's a mental block. You never used to have this issue, but you also used to only fuck people you loved.

When the people you loved began to fuck you over, things changed.

You've too many rules now. Too many restrictions on yourself. You can never fully relax and actually enjoy sex for what it is.

The rules are never set in stone, but they always follow the same pattern.

Don't let yourself be vulnerable. Don't get fully naked. No kissing during sex. Absolutely no face-to-face fucking - taken from behind, or not at all. You'll give oral, but the second someone tries to reciprocate, you move it along.

How can you enjoy intimacy with another person when you won't let yourself be intimate?

There are just too many things that remind you still of him; things that will hurt your heart more than it already does when someone else takes his place.

And so sex isn't really sex anymore. It's a tool.

You use it to pretend like you're over everything that happened with your ex; as if you're in control of a situation that he created.

And so that's why Saturday nights are reserved for Dionysus: they're filling the space of date night. Sunday mornings in the gym? Filling the space of lazy morning fucks and brunch down by the lake near Hoseok's place.

Being busy with the gym stops you from making 11:11 wishes for him to show up at your door, and the nights in Dionysus stop you from looking for shooting stars to wish upon instead.

Instant noodles with a guy you barely know don't quite manage to make you forget about eggs benedict with the man you thought you might one day marry, but hey - it's something at least.

On the nights that Jeongguk knows you don't go straight home, he checks up on you; will text when his shift is up, again when he gets home, and one final time when he wakes up. He doesn't care for the semantics that come with double messaging. He isn't trying to impress you.

He knows what you get up to in the dark. What you do is your prerogative. He's more concerned about the lack of trust and faith he has in the people you do it with. Despite this, not once does he berate you for it.

Even Hoseok's made a dumb remark here and there about the fact you're 'getting around', but if Jeongguk's thought similar things, he doesn't let you know it. He's a good friend. One that you're lucky to have. Thank God you fucked his flatmate and not him, instead.

The illusion of you has slipped by this point, for Jeongguk. He knows you too well to toy with what-ifs.

You feel secure in the fact he's not trying to get into your pants; a rarity for dudes these days.

Even Jimin took the hint after you turned him down, and has become a welcome addition to your nights out. He's fun to flirt with, but he knows nothing will happen, so he never pushes it too far - but is also happy to be your cover when another bloke is getting too touchy with you for your liking. He's been your 'boyfriend' a grand total of three times, now - only ever for a night.

You're not too familiar with Jeongguk's other friends yet, but you sometimes get in on a round of shots with them. There are four usual suspects: Jimin, Taehyung, Namjoon and Yoongi. All handsome, all perfectly nice. None of them stick to you like glue, though. Not Jeongguk did.

Hoseok and Danbi have followed your lead, and consider the boys casual acquaintances; drinking partners for when they happen to be at the bar at the same time.

A dog walker by profession, Danbi always finds herself flirting with Taehyung, who tries his hardest to get a discount on her services. She always refuses.

Jeongguk and Yeonjun have a running bet going to see how long it takes until he's paying full price, just for an excuse to see her outside of a club setting. They've had to reset the bet twice, because Danbi might just be the most stubborn woman to have ever graced the planet.

Summer is spent in a technicolour haze of Purple Starfuckers, club lights, unorthodox gym routines and enough glitter to open a craft shop.

Jeongguk didn't quite know how, but he was always finding flecks of the metallic warpaint on his gym gear. He always has a little laugh to himself whenever he does the laundry. "Fucking Disco Ball."

It's early autumn by the time Hoseok and Danbi make their first appearance at the club without you.

He texts you - boo, you whore - and waits in the backroom of the bar until he sees a reply come through.

Busy tonight, your reply reads. It feels a little cold, but you don't mean for it to be. You're just a rush, and Jeongguk nagging you is the last thing you need.

JK:  Busy doing what?

You:  none of your business x

Despite the kiss you end your sentence with (he can hear the way you say 'mwah' the same way you do whenever you know you're being a little cheeky), it still feels... off.

JK: Oddly defensive.

You: i'm always defensive :)

You:  lemme know when you get home safe

It's a simple role reversal, but Jeongguk isn't sure what to make of it. He's normally the one making sure you get home safe. Not the other way around. It's not a 'what-if' scenario that he's run through in his head before. He doesn't like it.

He likes being depended on. Has gotten used to you depending on him.

Pushing it to the back of his mind, he makes orders without much thought, too busy letting himself indulge in what-ifs. It's been a while since he's thought of any regarding you, but he's consumed by them, now. Where you are, who you're with. Why Danbi and Hoseok won't give him a straight answer when he asks. They say it's not their business, but the way Danbi gives Hoseok a grimace whenever the topic is mentioned would suggest she doesn't approve.

It's probably why you haven't told him. He wonders how bad it must be. Secrets aren't something really kept between the pair of you.

There are things he hasn't told you - parts of his past he'd rather keep buried - but he doesn't actively hide himself from you. He thought you did the same.

Apparently not.

He arrives home with no new message from you. It's five thirty, and even though he's a little pissed with the sudden change in your attitude towards him, he can't bring himself to take it out on you.

JK: I'm home, asshole.

JK: Dionysus ain't the same without a disco ball.

Tossing his phone down onto his sheets, Jeongguk stares up at his ceiling. There's never been a complicated weight to your friendship, but he's also never been in the dark before.

Above him, origami birds dance in the light breeze coming from his aircon unit.

There's a dozen strung up from his paper folding phase six months ago, when he was trying to get his mind off of the girl whose initial had been scratched out of the soles of his shoes. Thought that if she came back, she'd find the birds endearing.

Kept them up just in case. Now, he just keeps them up as a reminder: You've gotta let wild birds fly away. Can't keep them caged up.

And it's funny, cause the strings the birds hang from feel like a cage for his thoughts, now. They get tangled in the spokes, your name wrapping around the bars. He can't keep you in a cage, either. Can't expect you to be as you always have been with him, just because it's the 'norm'; can't expect you not to have a life without him.

You:  does your apartment need one?

JK: A disco ball? Don't think so?

Truthfully, he thinks a little disco ball would be fitting strung up with all of his birds.

You: gaaawd, ur such a boy

You:  i'm   asking if i can come over :(

He tries not to read into the unhappy face, but it has him sitting up, replying just as quickly as his heart is beating. There's something amiss, and he doesn't like it.

JK: Oh. Now?

You: no, next week

You:  yes now, doofus

JK:  It's 5am?

He doesn't know why he's being like this. Difficult. Perhaps he is a bit bitter. Petty.

You: this isn't a booty call lmao, chill out

You: i'll be there in 15

JK: Do I get a choice?

He's smiling as he sends the message, and hopes you'll read it in the tone he intends. He's bantering, trying to deflect from the heaviness he can feel in your text thread.

He's relieved when you reply just how he hoped you would.

You: no x

JK:  See you in 15, db x

AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT

#by holly #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #jk #jungkook x reader #jeongguk fanfic #bangtan #jungkook fluff #bartender!jungkook #non idol au #bts fanfic #jeongguk fic #bad decisions #dappleddaisies

[my-favourite-zhent]

Fortune and Favour

Hello folks, a new AU long fic for you.

Summary:

AU set in Luskan 1480DR. Rugan has assumed leadership over the Coin Spinners gang and taken the name Clearlight. When a Waterdhavian noble comes snooping around for Illuskan Netherese relics under the gang's headquarters Rugan steps up to put them in their place. What he instead finds is the chance at an amazing payday and an unexpected prize.

Notes:

This AU is straight out of the filthy mind of @fistfuloftarenths. She head canoned the idea of Rugan of Clearlight based off the screenshots of @captainsigge. Fistful also came up with a lot of the scene ideas, so I'm bordering on being her ghostwriter at this point. Also thank you to @dustdeepsea for helping me with the title and summary. Big shout out to all three for beta reading for me. These fics are pretty much written for the Zhentil Keep Perverts at this point.

Banner by the lovely @coreene

Chapter One below the cut or here on AO3

Chapter One

1480 15 Uktar

Eden of Clearlight was dead, had been for many months now. While she had rallied many of the other gangs to the Coin Spinners banner, she had lost almost as many men in the ensuing chaos. The Coin Spinners had been left adrift, weakened, directionless and Rugan had seen an opportunity.

He’d only been a lieutenant in a lower ranking gang – so low its name does not bear recounting – when Eden had pulled them all into the fold. But now she and most of her officers were dead. There had been a few others that vied for leadership, and all had found a knife in their back. Either each other’s or Rugan’s.

So it came to be that at barely twenty-four Rugan had become the new head of the Coin Spinners, and with it acquired the title Clearlight. So named for the temple-come-fortress that housed them. He had struck decisively at the other criminal organisations before they had gotten their feet back under them. Most had survived but in weakened states. There were few left who would dare challenge him now. Which was why Amnos’ information came as a surprise.

“Some girl’s been asking about you down in the Cutlass,” the redheaded man had said as the pair stood in front of the altar to Tymora that marked the centre of the fortress.

“That right? Looking to get recruited?” Rugan drawled in his lilting Luskan accent. He tilted his head as he spoke, tied back flaxen hair catching gold in the sunlight that trickled through the stained-glass window overhead. It was said to be the last glass window in Luskan, and for which the temple and now Rugan derived their name.

“Doesn't seem like, looked a bit posh to be joining up.” Amnos scratched his beard pensively.

“A noble?” His eyebrow quirked. That was interesting. Not that he had any love for nobles but he’d never heard of one stooping to joining a street gang, especially not in Luskan of all places.

“Seemed so, dressed nice and spoke real educated-like too. Southern accent it sounded like.”

“Who’s she affiliated with?” The thought of a southerner stirring up trouble did give him pause. Kalen Dren, one of the parties who had been involved in the annihilation of the Luskan gangs, had been from Waterdeep and had since returned there. Any locals would’ve known to stay out of Rugan's way.

Amnos shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like she knows the local gangs, we haven’t seen her make contact with anyone. She’s just been reading books when she’s not harassing the locals.”

“Suppose we should pay this little interloper a visit then. We can’t have just anyone trading on my good name.” He smiled shark-like.

+++++

The Cutlass was one of the busier inns. In the city’s heyday it had been a sight to behold. Still turned a profit as it was, but much like Luskan it’s glory days were long past. The timbers were old and rotted, and its windows were made of thin sheets of animal horn rather than glass.

A nervous silence had fallen over the taproom when Rugan and Amnos entered and he felt a smile play at the corner of his mouth. There was power there, in being feared. Rugan’s exploits against the other guilds had been cutthroat and his reputation well earned. He had little interest in the common folk though. These customers had no reason to fear him as long as they didn’t cross him, but there was no need to tell them that.

He nodded at Amnos to wait for him down here before ascending the stairs to the inn’s rooms. The girl had been under watch for a few days now and his men had informed him of which room was hers. He knocked at the door. Whatever this little noble wanted, he'd be sure to send them packing.

The door swung open and there she stood. Little was right, she barely came up to his chest. But gods, she was beautiful. With soft raven waves cascading past her shoulders, a small but perky bust and a delicate waist that was begging to be grasped.

“Heard you've been asking around about Clearlight, lass.”

It was meant to be intimidating, well, just a touch to start. In her excitement the girl didn't seem to notice. She clasped her hands together under her chin and looked at him with wide eyes.

“You know about the Clearlight temple?” The delight in her voice was unmasked. Her eyes were sparkling, and they were lovely too, framed by thick dark lashes.

The girl’s reaction was the exact opposite of what he had intended, and he felt himself swallow unexpectedly. She grasped his hand in both of hers.

“Oh, do please come in!” She began pulling him into the room without waiting for a reply. Rugan allowed this, but not without some trepidation. Was this a trap set by a rival faction?

“I'd love to hear your opinion on the maps. It took a while to piece them together.” She ushered him towards a table that looked like the victim of a mad cartographer. Several maps were scattered over its surface, weighted down with pebbles. He could see underneath was a larger sheet that had connections between these disparate pieces drawn in.

“Now, no one source had all the sections of the undercity of course. What information we have on Netheril and Illusk is fragmented at best. But based on the complete diagrams from various other Netherese ruins we know that the general floorplan of a Netherese vault house follows a distinct pattern…” The girl had taken a seat at the table and continued to chatter on, but she had lost him a while ago. He sat down in the opposite chair, scrutinising her as she spoke. 

A thin braid encircled the crown of her head, adding a touch of order to the chaos that was her hair. Her blouse looked to be of a fine cotton, with ruffled trim along a neckline that dipped deliciously low. He admired how the swell of her breasts peaked out from beneath her top. It was cinched under her bust by a green velvet jacquard corset, laced up the front. Her pants were tan leather, they looked smooth and barely worn. Amnos had been right, entirely too posh to be a recruit. Some noble out of Baldur’s Gate or Waterdeep mayhaps?

“I keep asking about the temple but no one seems to want to talk about it. You'd think it was dedicated to Beshaba rather than Tymora with how skittish the locals have been.”

“People can be a bit superstitious here in Luskan,” he offered, inwardly grinning at his good fortune. 

She was a complete and utter fool. For all her research she had neglected to look into the local criminal organisations before coming to Luskan. Of course she didn't know that the Coin Spinners had taken the temple as their base, and that he had taken its name for his own.

“Ah, forgive my manners. I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Isolde.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

“Rugan.” He replied, taking her hand and raising it to place a kiss upon it.

She was taken aback, eyes wide with surprise.

‘Didn't think a guttersnipe like me knew how to address a noble lady, did ya?’ Rugan was both rankled by the thought and smug that he had proved her wrong. 

He noticed a blush creep over her cheeks and how she seemed to be appraising him now as if noticing him for the first time. He felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. No, it was more than surprise, she was flattered.

“P-pleased to meet you,” she managed to eke out.

“Indeed.”

Then, just as quickly, it seemed his hold on her was broken by a sudden recollection.

“Ah I almost forgot! The onion skin!”

“Onion skin?” 

But she was already out of her seat and rooting through her pack. She returned with a roll of paper that when unfurled was semi translucent. He supposed it did resemble the skin of an onion.

Carefully she placed it overtop the other maps, pinning it down based on some landmarks only she perceived. There was a map on the onion skin he realised. Tymora’s tits, this was—

“It's the blueprint for Tymora’s temple. The clerics in Waterdeep let me take a look at their copy. Took a bit of maths to get it to scale with the others but luckily the walls are mostly square. Mind you, this is from when it was built in the 1370s, there's no way to tell what it looks like now over a hundred years later. At least not short of going in yourself.”

Now this was something. It galled him to think that a map of the hideout had just been floating around in some Waterdeep temple for any preening noble to come have a little look-see.

“And these markings here?” He gestured to the map, careful to keep his tone neutral.

There were four circles and three crosses marked on the onion skin which lined up with structures on the maps below. He already had a sneaking suspicion what they were based on their locations.

“Passages down to Illusk. The circles are confirmed, cross-referenced with some old journal entries of a priestess I found in Candlekeep library.” 

She was correct, two were caved in, but the remaining pair the Coin Spinners had heavily trapped and kept watch over. Never knew what manner of sneak or beast would come up from the undercity.

“And the crosses are unconfirmed?”

“Right, I couldn't find any historical records that mention them specifically, but based on the fact that the first four correspond with the Netherese designs, I think it's safe to assume there would be a temple counterpart for the remaining three. Two of them are connected to a hidden inner chamber while the third connects to the high priest’s chambers, which would explain why they weren't widely known. I mean, it's just a hunch, but I'm fairly confident.”

She looked proud, and he supposed she had reason to be, having found three unguarded entrances to slip into his lair.

“Why would the temple builders create passages, and not just loot the undercity?”

“They may have already looted it or attempted to. But I suspect the temple's location would be particularly auspicious, sitting on top of a coin house. The number of passages also suggests this—seven was considered lucky in many human cultures.” She mused.

There was a sharp whistle and they both started from their chairs.

“Shit, the kettle.” She hurried over to the opposite table where a ceramic kettle bedecked with runes was steaming. Nobles and their magic toys.

“Would you like some tea?” She called over her shoulder.

“Oh, aye.”

Rugan took the opportunity to consider his next steps. He had come here expecting an upstart wanting to buy their way into the guild, or perhaps some imposter trading on his name. Either one he would've cowed or killed, depending on how much he disliked them. He was certainly prepared to dislike some preening noble.

But, technically she was innocent of any crime outside general nosiness. If anything it was his good luck that he had found her before some rival did. He could just take the map but that left the girl as a loose end. 

Rugan watched as she prepared two cups of tea. Killing her would be easy enough, but it would be simpler to find the entrances with her know-how.

‘Besides,’ he thought, as she tucked her hair behind her ear revealing more of her slender neck, ‘Noble or not, it would be a crime to remove such a pretty thing from the world.’

She returned with the two cups, and he noted she had left two sugar cubes on his saucer. Sugar had been a luxury in Luskan of late, seemed like more and more things were luxuries nowadays.

“My thanks.” He accepted the cup politely and dropped both cubes in before stirring. “You bring all this with you from Waterdeep?”

“Yes, that's right. Generally prefer to travel light but the merchants I know in the city were of the consensus that it’s a bit harder to get supplied in Luskan, and in any case it was just the one boat up.” She took the seat beside him and sipped at her tea.

“Not too long of a trip I hope?”

“A little more than half a tenday by galley. Not long at all.”

He nodded and took a deep draught of the tea. Rugan was no deckhand, but you don’t grow up in the city of sails without learning a thing or two about ships. A galley was one of the fastest and most expensive ships to book passage on, just one way may have run her fourty or fifty gold pieces. Definitely moneyed, maybe a merchant family out of Waterdeep? She might fetch a nice ransom. No servants though, at least none that Amnos had observed. This wasn’t entirely unusual with tourists who thought part of the fun was ‘roughing it’ . Especially if they were stingy tourists.

“I’m being rude again, I’ve forgotten to ask about your interest in the temple.” And she really did look sorry.

“Well I live there for one.”

“Live there!” She straightened in her chair. “But the clerics in Waterdeep, they said the clergy has long since abandoned Clearlight temple.”

“We’re not really associated with the Waterdeep branch. None of the large organisations have any interest in Luskan since the Spellplague. You could say we’re a bit esoteric compared to most Tymorans.” Rugan didn’t consider himself a particularly good liar, but the girl hadn’t seemed to have noticed.

She was leaning in close now, barely containing her excitement. “So you’ve been inside? You’ve seen the passageways?” He could smell her hair now, it was like jasmine and orange peels.

“Aye lass, some of them. Most are collapsed but those new ones on your map I haven’t seen before. Could be worth an investigation.” The girl was almost leaping out of her chair, this was too easy.

“Would you permit me to come look?” Her voice had already been high but it seemingly shifted a whole octave up now. “I promise not to disturb anything, and of course there would be a split of anything found down there.”

He let his features fall into a charming smile. “Well, if you're promising.” Of course the split would be highly in his favour, if he let her keep anything at all. Unlikely.

It was his lucky day, Tymora be praised. He was going to secure the fortress, possibly a payday and—he let his gaze linger on her a moment—a bit of company if he played his cards right.

She must have noticed his stare, noticed how close they were because her cheeks were reddening and it seemed like her breath was caught in her throat.

“Are you a treasure hunter, then?” Her cup was no longer steady in her hand and he gently took it from her, placing it on the table.

“N-no, just a student. I've been writing my graduation thesis on Illusk.”

“And the treasures they left behind?” He leaned in closer as well so they were mere inches apart. 

“It's the records I'm interested in.” Her voice was quieter now, it had a breathy quality to it.

“Not the coin?” She merely shook her head and he reached forward to palm her cheek. When she didn't protest, Rugan felt confident in his approach. She was younger than him, not by much, but enough that combined with a sheltered upbringing she was likely inexperienced in these things.

“Seems to me, if we're going to be working together we should get to know one another a little better. Don't you agree?”

#rugan #bg3 rugan #rugan bg3 #coin spinners #bg3 #forgotten realms #baldurs gate 3 rugan #fr fanfic #fr fanfiction #fortune & favour #fr fanfic: fortune & favour #luskan #forgotten realms fanfiction #forgotten realms fanfic #faerun #toril #clearlight temple #clearlight x isolde #isolde x clearlight #rugan of the clearlight #au #alternate universe #forgotten realms au #bg3 au