#*GLASS BREAKING* *SIRENS WAILING* | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lilbunnis · 7 months

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❛ ♡. gif credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐬. ❜

★ ⎯⎯ big brother!aemond is used to your sweet moans and whimpers, though he is reaching his breaking point--- he must have you, no matter the consequences.

author’s note᛬ hii! first time posting on here--- this is obvi a new acc (personal reasons) but i also just wanna strictly post my writing on this blog. first time writing incest, too! oh, & im in my witchy era. anyways, if u’re a minor then do not fuckin interact, thx.

warnings᛬ mdni! smut, angst, dubious consent, dark!aemond, profanity, she/her pronouns, afab reader, innocence kink, corruption kink, manipulation, pussy whipped!aemond, incestuous relationships, breeding kink, cunnilingus, fingering, obsessive & possessive behavior, pet names. any grammatical errors are my own--- in advance, i sincerely apologize.

word count᛬ 1.5k

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘.

oh, how sweet her lips were, so soft and plump, like the ripest of peaches during the middle of summer, ready to be kissed. gods, her eyes… so dark and tempting, yet warm and doe-like, a gift from their mother, the queen. her skin was pure and soft and untainted, almost whispering to him to touch, touch, touch--- touch her!

she was his--- since she was torn from their mother’s womb, bloody and screaming, a dragon come forth, his darling little sister.

he loved, he loved, he loved her.

the very epitome of a true born targaryen, made for him.

he knew since the day that she came into this cruel world that she would belong to him, that she would be his.

his, his, his.

“b-brother! no, n-no, i- nghh.. ‘m gonna—“ she babbled cutely, her voice like sweet music to his ears, a siren’s call, begging him to take her maidenhead.

the voices in his head were insistent and loud, screaming venomously at him, luring him to kiss, to touch, to take--- she was rightfully his by birthright, why shouldn’t he indulge?

yes, they hissed, encouraging him with their sweet, persuasive voices inside of his head--- had he finally gone mad? were the rumors of the targaryen madness true?

even so, he did not give a fuck.

his sweet baby sister was his, she always would be, and the way she clawed at his wrist, begging him to fuck her with his deft fingers faster, faster, faster!

or, perhaps… trying to push his hand away--- no, no. she loves him, and he loves her!

it was destiny, their destiny, to be together as husband and wife and bring forth a whole new bloodline of true born targaryens!

yes, his sweet little sister would give him so many babes, he’d fill her up and watch her as she’d grow round and fat with his many sons and daughters.

fire and blood, fire and blood, fire and blood---

then, a scream--- oh, so feminine and sweet; how he just adored his sweet little sister, his little darling.

aemond heard her cry out, the sweetest wail, fat tears falling down her flushed cheeks as he continued burying his long, nimble fingers inside of her sweet, drooling cunny, preparing her for his cock.

meanwhile, he kept pressing against that little patch of nerves inside of her that she could never reach by herself, stroking relentlessly--- meanly.

poor, sweet little lamb.

aemond was panting heavily, watching as her sweet little cunt sucked in his fingers greedily, making his lips twitch in amusement--- he could barely withdraw his fingers due to how fucking tight she was.

uncaringly, yet so lovingly, he would cruelly plunge them back inside of her, wet noises and her sweet, breathy little moans and whimpers filling his chambers.

“that’s it,” he cooed softly, his voice a raspy baritone, so convincing, “—doing so fucking well for your big brother, issa jorrāelagon.”

quietly, he continued into the night, moonlight spilling in through the glass windows of his chambers, his amethyst colored eye was fully blown wide and focused solely on her squelching cunt, watching as her little clit twitched and practically begged him for attention.

and who was he to deny his little sister such sweet, sinful pleasure?

not a second later, aemond moved to settle between his sister’s thighs, lowering his head until his breath ghosted over her wet, puffy folds, allowing him to inhale her feminine scent--- causing him to release a low, satisfied groan.

then, the prince nuzzled his sharp, prominent nose against her little, fleshy bundle of nerves, breathing her in further as two of his long fingers continued to wildly fuck her little virgin fuck-hole.

“b-bro-brotherrr! please, please! need.. n-need to--- please!” came her sweet, girlish voice which was higher in pitch than usual, making him let out a soft, amused hum.

“as you wish, sweetling,” he murmured against her clit, the vibrations from his deep voice causing her to squirm impatiently, before finally, she felt his plush, naturally curved lips wrap around her aching, throbbing clit, causing her to wail brokenly and clutch the silk sheets with tiny fists.

aemond, the kinslayer, could never deny her, could never say no to her--- perhaps, he should be furious at how weak she made him feel, but he could never find it in his cold, blackened heart to ever feel any sort of anger towards her.

his sweet beloved.

it was maddening how helpless he was against her, how deep his devotion to her was--- possibly, others would call it obsession, sinful, an abomination, but aemond knew the truth; dragons did not concern themselves with the likes of sheep.

oh, how he loved her, how he wished to possess her, to be the only person she would ever love, to be her one and only like she was his.

passionately and glowing, burningly real, her nude skin glistened in the moonlight, the few candles that were slowly dying out around his chambers and the burning fire in his fireplace teased shadows from the corner of his eye, the ghosts that still haunted the red keep were always watching and judging them viciously for their sins.

and oh, how their intertwined souls would burn in the brightest of flames, always together, even in the deepest pits of the seven hells, for all of time; for eternity.

still, he ignores the demons--- too drunk by the sweet taste of his little sister’s cunt.

“mine,” he purrs against her cute, twitching clit, suckling the nub into his watering mouth, which made his cock leak even more pre into his small-clothes, causing him to groan and harshly grind his loins down against his bed.

“say it, sweetling--- tell me that you’re mine,” he murmured, wrapping one of his massive hands around his sister’s smooth, left thigh, digging the tips of his calloused fingertips into the meaty skin possessively, holding her in place.

“ah, ah, ah— aemond, nghh..! oh-hmm, ‘m yours,” she babbled sweetly, her words slurring slightly as she began reaching her sixth peak of the night, causing more tears to spill down the sides of her face as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear her blurry vision as she felt her big brother scissoring her weeping cunt open.

wailing in despair, she felt her brother’s skilled tongue flicking and rolling her clit into his eager mouth again, suckling at it and nipping at the little nub mercilessly.

gently, with such cruel, bloodstained hands, aemond squeezed his sister’s thigh harshly, causing her to squeal and thrash her head around on his feathered pillow, her back arching like a bowstring as she finally reached her sixth peak, crying out and babbling her big brother’s name over and over and over--- pleadingly.

“oh, oh, ohhh..! f-feels so--- so good,” she sobbed brokenly, her thighs shaking and clenching around his head, making him continue to dig his neatly trimmed fingernails into the pillowy skin of her left thigh that he was still clutching, while moving his head quickly back and forth, stimulating her little nub until his little sister saw stars.

aemond knew it was sinful, having his sister gush and leak and drool all over his fingers and tongue as he continued suckling at her now overstimulated clit, her skin glistening with sweat, making her skin shine so beautifully against his silk bedsheets--- she was ethereal, an angel, his.

“sweet girl, you’ve done so good for me this evening--- so fucking perfect, little darling,” he praised tenderly, removing his mouth from her clit, while still gently nuzzling the twitching bud with the tip of the cleft of his nose, his fingers still moving almost lazily inside of her cunt, curling his fingers inside of her.

…as if he wished to stay inside of her; forever.

a soft hum escaped him in content, while he continued to gently fuck her with his fingers, more slowly as he heard her soft, girlish pleas--- more like sweet little mewls of his name.

“i think you’re ready for my cock now, don’t you?” he questioned darkly lovingly, pressing soft kisses against her engorged clit, allowing his slightly swollen lips to trail open-mouthed kisses all across the soft curls covering her mound, then across her inner thighs which were covered in her slick, watching as they continued trembling in his strong, possessive grasp.

silently, he gazed up at her longingly, a low purr rumbling deeply inside of his bare chest, the thought of plunging his furiously hard, weeping cock into his sister’s tight little cunny was almost too much to bear for the kinslayer.

oh, and how all of my devotion turns violent, aemond thought wickedly to himself, but no--- not with his sweet, beloved little sister…he would take her as his lady wife, to love and cherish and breed her nightly with loads of his seed until she was pregnant with many of his babes.

even then, aemond would never stop, how could he? she was his everything, and whether or not she was too fucked out by him feasting on her cunny for hours was no matter, because he already knew.

she loved him just the same, even if she truly did not know it just yet, his innocent little sister.

hm, what a sick little head he had, how his love turned into obsession, into possession--- but nonetheless, it was still love.

pure, undying love.

fin.

2K notes · View notes

hamsterclaw · 1 month

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Yoongi’s a murder detective fighting burnout when he’s assigned the case that you and your former partner fucked up.

Paring: Yoongi x f! Reader

Genre: Detectives!Yoongi and reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of murder, bloodshed and assault, sex, depression and burnout, mentions of guns

The flashing blue lights in Yoongi’s window are followed by the wail of sirens cutting through the early evening bustle.

Yoongi looks out the window. He’s three floors up from street level, there’s raindrops tracking along the dirty glass, the faint smell of mildew that accompanies any rainfall in this filthy city.

Under the table, his good leather shoes, the ones he saves for weddings and funerals, have rubbed a hole in the skin over his achilles. Yoongi had worn them for his disciplinary hearing today, the part of him that still wants to be a cop temporarily winning over the part of him that doesn’t.

He wonders if this is what burnout feels like.

His superior, Kim Namjoon, had called him into his office after the hearing to tell him he was on probation, to clean up his act because he wouldn’t be so lucky as to get off next time.

The truth is, Yoongi had known while he was pressing the suspect’s face into gravel with his booted foot that it would come back to bite him on the ass.

He’d done it anyway.

Yoongi’s never been kind to scum who exploit children, but his partner, Jung Hoseok, had seen something in Yoongi’s face that day that had made him report Yoongi.

Yoongi doesn’t blame him. Hoseok has been his partner on and off for five years and he’s as sterling as they come. His moral compass is as strong as it was the day they graduated from the academy, despite all the fucked up shit they’ve seen.

Unlike Yoongi.

Yoongi was never black and white to begin with and now he’s so far into the grey he scares himself sometimes. It’s never been his goal to be the kind of cop who metes out his own justice.

Only madness lies that way.

Anyway now Hoseok’s been reassigned temporarily to narcotics, supposedly a break from homicide, and Yoongi’s partnerless.

Probably not for long, there’s always some hungry rookie wanting the credibility of working homicide.

Yoongi sighs, closes the file he’d been skimming. It’s well past seven, there aren’t any open cases that need his immediate attention and he figures he might as well go home to his apartment and his cat, Kenzo.

The pavement’s slippery under the smooth soles of his good shoes, Yoongi pulls his coat tighter against the early autumn chill as he walks the five blocks to his apartment.

The smell of fried wontons fills his nostrils as he passes a conduit street in the back end of Little China, Yoongi’s tempted to stop and pick up dinner.

He’s tempted every time and succumbed yesterday so he soldiers on, not without a pang of regret. He regrets food choices because he’d rather that, than think about his actual regrets.

The bang of a gunshot when he’d been two minutes too late to what then became a crime scene.

Fucking some girl with a cute face because he hadn’t been man enough to treat Mara the way she deserved.

Choosing to stay in homicide even after it had become clear to him that he had plumbed the depths of human depravity. Scarring his psyche repeatedly because it’s easier than making the active choice to request a transfer.

Yoongi unlocks his door, toes his shoes off, hangs up his coat.

There’s a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a flash of grey fur as Kenzo skitters across the entryway, close but not touching him.

It’s the kind of greeting Yoongi can get behind.

He pours out a serving of dry food into Kenzo’s dish, heads to the fridge to reheat yesterday’s wontons.

Eats standing at the tiny kitchen island, cracks open a beer to wash it all down.

He catches sight of his face, pinched in the scowl it seems to fall into more often than not these days.

Jesus, is he getting old?

Yoongi avoids looking at his reflection again as he showers. Changes into the same t-shirt he’s been wearing for weeks, contemplates watching porn just to take the edge off, but decides he can’t be bothered.

He falls into sleep, deep and dreamless, wakes up with an almighty crick in his neck just before dawn from the way he’d been huddled in a tight ball under the covers.

He knows he’s not right, but he’s been not right for so long Yoongi wouldn’t even know where to start putting himself together again.

***

Redemption comes in odd packages, Yoongi thinks, as he looks up a case he worked on six months ago, a shady businessman on the fringe of organised crime who’d got high as a kite and beat a sex worker to death.

He’d been killed on the way to serving out his sentence in the cushy prison in Busan his fancy lawyer had managed to negotiate, crushed in the back of the transport vehicle when it had been t-boned by a lorry.

Apparently a freak accident, Yoongi doubts it but he’s also not going to look too closely, it’s out of his jurisdiction and he’s too jaded to mourn the loss of another brutal asshole. They’d had to identify the sex worker by her dental records and DNA, her face had been unrecognisable.

There’s a knock on the frosted glass panel on his office door, Yoongi looks up as Kim Namjoon walks in, followed by the latest hungry rookie angling for a stint in homicide.

‘Min Yoongi, this is Y/N L/N,’ Namjoon says. ‘She’s a new transfer in from the Seoul branch.’

Yoongi doesn’t have to fake his disinterest as he nods politely at you.

‘What’s the case?’ he asks.

Namjoon looks pointedly at the crime scene photo blown up on Yoongi’s screen.

Yoongi waits.

He can feel your gaze on him, but he’ll get to that later.

The anticipation of a new case never gets old, he’s been in homicide since he graduated off the beat ten years ago and he no longer thinks it’s sick of him to get excited about another murder.

It’s the thrill of the hunt that he lives for, the translation of nebulous facts and witness statements into a puzzle that he can solve.

Yoongi’s damn good at his job. It almost makes the sacrifices in the rest of his so-called life worth it.

Namjoon hands Yoongi a case file, crisp, sharp edges waiting to razor his fingertips open. Flat.

Inside, the standard cover page, then a note that makes Yoongi sit up straight out of his slouch.

He looks at Namjoon to find Namjoon’s already looking at him.

‘The reaper of Seoul?’

Yoongi realises as he says the words out loud how it sounds.

The capture and subsequent conviction of the serial killer who’d terrorised the citizens of Seoul for three years had made headlines nationwide.

Last year.

‘Yeah,’ Namjoon says, the tension in his jaw evident now that Yoongi’s looking at him properly.

Namjoon glances at you. ‘It would seem he never left.’

You shift your weight and your eyes meet Yoongi’s.

‘My partner and I broke the case,’ you say. There’s a brittle smoothness to your voice that Yoongi recognises as a paper thin facade over the hauntedness underneath. ‘Turns out we didn’t.’

***

The note in the case file is a single sheet of letter paper, lined in blue.

The handwriting is precise, neat between the lines.

Oh dear.

Better luck this time?

Best regards from your neighbourhood Reaper.

Yoongi looks at you, sitting across the room at the desk Hoseok’s temporarily vacated.

You’re staring at your screen, face backlit in blue, expression unreadable. You’re in black, nondescript knitwear, your hair pushed back from your face, eyes narrowed.

He clears his throat. ‘You worked the case with your partner.’

It’s a statement you answer to like a question.

‘It was the first case I picked up when I joined homicide,’ you say, turning to Yoongi. ‘It started with -‘

‘Kim Seulgi,’ Yoongi says.

You nod, almost grimacing at the name of the Seoul Reaper’s first high profile victim.

‘Her family wanted answers.’

Kim Seulgi had been born of Seoul’s elite, an architect with her grandfather’s firm who had picked up a number of accolades for her work on the National Opera House.

She’d been engaged to an equally accomplished classical pianist, Jeong Minho, and had been the only offspring of her wealthy parents.

She’d disappeared three days before her wedding, only to turn up on her wedding day, floating in the Hangang, dressed in the clothes she’d disappeared in.

You say, ‘She was an ambitious first target.’

‘Was she the first?’ Yoongi asks.

The flicker in your eyes tells him this isn’t the first time you’ve considered this.

‘My partner Kiho.’ There’s strain in your voice. You start again. ‘My partner, Kiho, and I thought he’d killed before.’

You shrug. ‘The captain felt we were wasting time looking back into his early years.’

Yoongi says, neutral, ‘Budgets are limited, your case must have passed the thresholds for plausible deniability.’

‘It seemed to fit,’ you agree.

Your eyes meet again. ‘Not all of it, though.’

Yoongi knows, intimately, what it’s like to not be certain. Sometimes all you have is your instinct. It’s one thing to build a case no reasonable person would doubt, but you’re also betting on your gut. You’re betting on being a good enough detective to know that the pieces fit, without forcing them to fit.

You’re betting on being honest with yourself, and Yoongi knows more than anyone how tempting the lies can be.

Now you’re the one watching him, taking the measure of him.

His email pings.

‘That’s the link to the full case file,’ you say.

You get up, carry a stack of notebooks to his desk.

‘Our notebooks,’ you say.

Yoongi looks at the stack.

Every cop’s got their own collection of notebooks, raw data and impressions that don’t always make it into official reports.

The equivalent of dirty underwear when you’re not expecting company versus lingerie when you’re down to fuck.

This close, he can smell your shampoo, bright and faintly floral.

You blink at him.

‘I need to sort something with human resources,’ you say. ‘I’ll see you later.’

In actual fact it’s 36 hours later when he next sees you, at 4am, at a crime scene.

***

The rain falling is more than a drizzle, enough that the tent around the victim is the first priority.

There’s an imprint of violence in the air, Yoongi knows you feel it too by the way your lips tighten as you duck under the yellow tape to join him.

You nod at him in greeting, then there’s silence as you enter the tent.

The victim’s on her front, face turned to the right, hand tucked under her cheek.

She hasn’t been dead long enough for livedo to set in, she would almost look asleep if it weren’t for the purple of her lips, the greyness to her complexion.

The bath of blood she’s lying in.

Yoongi can just see the edge of the gaping wound on her neck.

You wait until forensics turns her body over.

The top three buttons of her silk blouse are undone, her chest slick with blood.

Yoongi’s reading the crime scene like he’s reading you, and he knows what you’re going to say before you say it.

‘It’s him,’ you breathe. The devastation in your eyes makes it difficult for him to look at you. ‘Fuck, it’s him.’

***

You’re shivering visibly despite the hot coffee Yoongi’s poured you, despite the fact that he’s turned the heating in his ancient Hyundai up as far as it’ll go.

There are droplets of water in your hair, sparkling incongruously in the gloom.

You’re waiting till first light to knock on neighbourhood doors, the victim was found in a quiet cul-de-sac.

Two minutes from her own front door.

Not much chills Yoongi these days but that fact does make him pause.

The audacity of it.

He says, ‘I have a blanket in the trunk.’

You’re protesting but Yoongi gets back out in the rain anyway, grabs the blanket and gets back in.

Hands it to you, takes your cup as you drape the blanket around yourself.

‘It gets colder here than Seoul,’ Yoongi offers, handing you your coffee back.

‘We fucked it up,’ you say, and Yoongi knows that’s what you’ve been thinking since you saw the body.

He’s just been waiting for you to be ready to say it.

‘So make it right,’ he says, simple.

‘An innocent man’s in prison because Kiho and I fucked up,’ you say.

Yoongi doesn’t want to minimise it but he doubts the man you put away was completely innocent.

‘I read your notebooks,’ he says. ‘Who’s Jeon Bogyeol?’

There had been twelve murders before the arrest. All women in their late twenties to mid thirties, all living alone.

They’d all lived in the same part of Seoul, but apart from that there was nothing to link them that he could find.

You look at him warily. ‘He was a night watchman at the apartments of seven of the women.’

Yoongi waits.

‘We cross-referenced staff at all the addresses, and his name kept coming up. Like Jang Daeseong.’

You flinch at the name of the man convicted of the murders, as though it didn’t fall from your own lips.

You keep talking, though, your voice never faltering. ‘We never found any links between Jeon Bogyeol and the other five women.’

‘Did he have a history?’ Yoongi asks. He’s looking out the window at the first rays of sunrise, muted orange through the rain. His shoulder aches, an old injury he doesn’t think about except when he’s tired, and cold.

‘There was a neighbour,’ you say. You’re chewing on your bottom lip, a tell Yoongi’s noticed for the first time tonight.

‘She called the police once saying she’d seen Bogyeol taking a woman into his apartment against her will.’

You’re frowning. ‘The beat cops who responded to the call out said there was no sign of anyone else in his apartment. The neighbour moved away.’

‘Moved away?’ Yoongi asks, and you glance at him, understanding the sharpness in his tone.

‘I was going to look into it when the Chief shut us down,’ you say. It’s stated simply, like a fact, no sign of defensiveness.

Yoongi offers you more coffee from his flask.

‘Where’s Bogyeol now?’

‘When the new letter came in I looked him up,’ you say. The steam rising from your cup obscures part of your expression for a moment, but Yoongi can hear the tremor in your voice.

‘He’s less than fifty miles east of here.’

Dawn’s breaking, the rain’s finally starting to peter out, but Yoongi’s chilled anyway.

***

The morning sun is high in the sky by the time Yoongi and you finish interviewing the neighbours and the new victim’s friends and family.

Yoongi’s phone rings. It’s Namjoon.

‘Can you talk?’ Namjoon asks.

Yoongi mouths ‘Namjoon’ in response to your inquiring expression, puts some distance between you and him.

‘Yeah,’ he answers.

‘The post-mortem results are back, and the preliminary tox screen is negative. The ME’s put the cause of death as exsanguination.’

Yoongi processes this. ‘It’s the same MO as the previous Seoul reaper victims,’ he says.

Namjoon sighs. ‘Has anything new come out of your interviews?’

‘No,’ Yoongi says. The victim had been well-liked, none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything, and on the surface of it there were no conflicts he could see. Her boyfriend of two years had been away on a work trip, his location confirmed around the window of the crime.

Yoongi’s looking at you as you wait against the car, and when your name comes out of Namjoon’s mouth he’s already got an inkling of what Namjoon wants to know.

‘I reviewed the case,’ Namjoon says. ‘There are no obvious flaws or errors in their investigation.’

Yoongi grunts. ‘There was a lead that they didn’t follow up on.’

He fills Namjoon in.

‘I’ll follow it up.’

Namjoon says, thoughtfully, ‘I wonder where her partner’s working now.’

Yoongi’s surprised Namjoon doesn’t already know, to be honest, he’s always two steps ahead of Yoongi.

He flicks his gaze to you again. You’re still waiting against the car, and there’s a loneliness to your posture, a fatigued downturn to your mouth that makes him say, ‘Hey Joon, I’ll call you back, ok?’

He ends the call, unlocks the car.

‘We should get back and compare notes,’ Yoongi says. His voice has dropped the way it does when he’s tired, and shit, he is tired. He hasn’t slept well for a while.

‘Let me drive,’ you offer. You take his keys, and your fingers brush his for an instant.

The contact, brief though it is, makes Yoongi’s skin tingle.

He wonders if you notice his reaction, but you’re already sliding in, adjusting the seat, starting up the car.

***

Yoongi wakes when you’re parking the car, sits up, a little embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, looking to gauge your reaction.

‘Don’t be,’ you reply. ‘I would have done the same if you’d driven.’

There’s a hint of mischief in the curve of your half-smile.

‘You mumble in your sleep.’

Yoongi rubs a hand over his face. ‘What’d I say?’

‘I couldn’t make out any words,’ you tell him, but there’s a twinkle in your eye that makes him wonder if that’s really true.

Mara is the only person who’s shared his bed in recent years, and she’d never mentioned anything.

You swipe your ID to get into the station, hit the lifts.

In the dire grey lighting you look almost as tired as he does.

‘Coffee?’ Yoongi offers, when you pass the vending machine on the way to the office.

‘Yeah,’ you say. You’re on your phone, frowning over a text.

Yoongi passes you a cup.

‘Problem?’ he asks.

‘Kiho,’ you say. You look at him. ‘My old partner. He wants to meet up.’

‘It’d be useful to talk through the case with him,’ Yoongi agrees.

Your expression is difficult to read. ‘He’s in a retreat a couple hours drive from here. He took time off after we closed the case.’

Yoongi gulps his coffee. ‘There isn’t anything else we can do here anyway, we’re waiting on leads.’

He reaches out his hand for the car keys. ‘I can drive.’

***

The retreat Kiho is staying in is set amongst the foothills of a mountain, rolling grounds all around, a view of the cliffs overlooking the sea.

It seems to Yoongi like a place only the very rich or the very damaged would live.

Unless you get better pay packets in Seoul he’s apprehensive about meeting Kiho.

You sign in at the front desk, the receptionist greets you warmly, like she’s met you a few times before.

You lead Yoongi through a huge lounge, through open patio doors and into a green. Yoongi’s looking around at the residents, scanning the area the way he does automatically whenever he’s in an unfamiliar place.

You’re waving a hand, and then you’re embracing a tall man tightly. Neither of you say anything but Yoongi can see the way your shoulders slump, like the tension’s draining out of you.

It’s only when the tall man looks up at Yoongi inquiringly that Yoongi notices the long scar running along his neck. Tracing the path of his jugular, vertical rather than horizontal.

Kiho extends a hand.

‘So you’re going to get our guy,’ he says.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that.

‘We’re going to get him,’ he says, finally.

Kiho turns to you. ‘You haven’t told him,’ he says to you.

You’re looking at Yoongi.

‘We can tell him now.’

***

‘I started getting notes after Jang Daeseong was convicted,’ you say. You’re sitting in a gazebo with Yoongi and Kiho, mugs of coffee in front of you.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

You flick your eyes to his, then look away, unlock your phone.

Yoongi takes your phone, scrolls through a gallery of pictures.

Lined paper, handwriting he’s seen before.

Yoongi reads through the content, then returns your phone to you.

‘The originals are with forensics,’ you tell him. ‘The paper and ink are generic, impossible to trace. There’s no trace of DNA, not so much as a partial print.’

‘The notes stopped coming last month,’ you say. ‘Right around the time I moved.’

Kiho’s scratching his neck absently, Yoongi catches how your gaze drops to his scar.

The length of it’s longer than a stab wound, he thinks the surgeons might have had to extend the scar to repair the vessels beneath.

You turn to Yoongi.

‘We have to stop him,’ you say. ‘Use me to lure him out.’

‘He nearly killed me,’ Kiho says. His expression is sober, his tone flat.

He stops there, but Yoongi can hear his next words, loud and clear.

What’s he going to do to you?

‘We can’t let him keep going like this,’ you say, very gently.

Kiho meets Yoongi’s gaze.

Yoongi doesn’t falter.

‘He has to be stopped,’ he agrees.

***

The drive back to the police station goes quicker - there’s something about seeing your old partner that’s given you a bump of energy.

Yoongi can practically feel the adrenaline fizzing in your blood, coming off you in waves.

He’s worried about the crash when the adrenaline ebbs.

He sure as fuck hopes you can cope with the lows better than he can.

He’d put in a call before you left the retreat, Namjoon’s fast tracking a last known address on the neighbour of Jeon Bogyeol who’d moved away.

You’re typing an address into the satnav yourself, face drawn, eyes serious.

Yoongi doesn’t have to ask whose address it is.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ he asks.

His voice is as neutral as he can make it but he already knows that you’ve made your decision.

It’s written all over you, in the way your shoulders are squared, in the tilt of your chin, in the way your hands are tensed into fists in your lap.

‘I need to see this through, Yoongi,’ you say.

Yoongi takes a moment.

‘What happened to Kiho?’ he asks.

‘He didn’t see who it was,’ you answer. Your eyes are fixed in front of you, jaw tensed.

‘He was heading home in between shifts and he got jumped in the car park under his apartment. If he hadn’t been found by the car park attendant —‘ you voice trails off, and you shiver.

‘He was lucky the car park attendant called for help right away. That his next door neighbour, fresh off a shift in the trauma department, arrived home when she did and was there to take over. That he lives five minutes on blue lights away from the best trauma centre in Seoul.’

You look at Yoongi. ‘Kiho’s damned lucky to be alive.’

‘It’s a different injury from the reaper’s usual MO,’ Yoongi says slowly.

You nod. ‘He was toying with us.’

‘You said you received notes from the Reaper,’ Yoongi says. He’s watching you carefully in the rearview. ‘What did they say?’

Your lips press together in a line, but your voice is steady when you answer.

‘He said he’d been watching me, and that he was coming for me. That I’d be his final kill.’

***

The address you’ve put in for Jeon Bogyeol is a house in a run down suburban neighbourhood, the type of place Yoongi grew up.

The houses are haphazardly arranged, like a careless scatter on a Monopoly board, connected by a warren of roads too narrow for more than one car to pass.

Yoongi can see you tensing up the closer you get to your destination, and after he parks and switches off the engine, he places his hand on your arm.

Your eyes are expressive, more so than your voice.

‘We haven’t got grounds yet for an arrest warrant,’ you say, flat.

‘We’re working the case,’ Yoongi replies. ‘And if it’s right, we’ll work it until it’s airtight.’

Your response is to stare at him a moment, then to push open the car door.

Yoongi notices that you’ve unzipped your jacket, making your holstered gun more visible.

His own gun presses against his hip, the weight of it reminding him that although he’s only drawn it a handful of times, each time has been with intent.

He sure as fuck hopes neither of you will have reason to draw your gun today.

***

The address is little more than a shack, a rickety door that looks like it’ll give under a strong kick, a boarded up window that’s visibly cracked.

Yoongi knocks, identifies you both.

Follows procedure because he’s determined to get it all right this time.

Get the monster locked up where he belongs.

You don’t have grounds to break down the door, at least not until you go round to the back and see the pink tricycle upended in the dirt, streamers splayed tendrils of pink and white.

There isn’t much that sends Yoongi into the grey as much as the suggestion that a child might be involved.

He doesn’t really recall looking at you to confirm, just knows that one minute he’s outside in the chill and the next he’s inside the shack, gun drawn, the metallic tang of blood in the back of his throat.

There’s nowhere to hide in the empty shack, Jeon Bogyeol is gone.

You do a cursory search but both of you know you aren’t going to find your answers here.

Then Yoongi must blank out, because the next thing he hears is your voice, firm, saying his name.

He’s panting, covered in sweat, back against a wall, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his jacket to keep him upright.

He blinks, and you snap into focus. There’s ringing in his ears.

Your mouth opens, and the ringing stops. He hears your voice.

‘Let’s go, Yoongi.’

He lets you lead him out, folds himself into the passenger seat of your car, notes distantly how you put your hand on the top of the doorframe like you’re worried he’s going to bang his head.

You start the engine and then you drive, and Yoongi’s grateful that you don’t say anything at all, don’t ask for an explanation of why a fucking tricycle sent him into a tailspin.

Yoongi looks down in his lap because he’s not ready to see if you’re looking at him differently now that you’ve seen him wig out.

You put the radio on after a few minutes, stop at a drive thru after an hour.

It’s only when you hand him a coffee, silently, that he’s moved to speak.

He clears his throat, and you’re the one who speaks, still looking straight ahead, out the windscreen.

‘You don’t have to tell me. I mean, I’ll listen if you do, but you don’t have to.’

Yoongi chews on that a moment.

‘Three years ago I worked what we thought was a murder in Busan. It turned out to be an abduction.’

Yoongi laughs. There’s no humour in it.

‘We found her. She was still warm. If we’d been ten minutes quicker at figuring it out, if her fucking dad had told us about the business deal he had that had gone sour sooner, if I’d even just tried harder…’

His voice trails off.

He risks a glance at you.

You’re still not looking at him.

‘I can’t speak to whether you could have prevented it, Yoongi. All I know is that none of us come to work to do a bad job.’

Your hand lands on his forearm briefly.

‘Some days are just bad days at the office.’

It’s not the first time Yoongi’s heard it, but it’s the first time it’s been said to him with no judgement that he can hear.

***

When you get back to the precinct, Namjoon’s waiting.

He hands Yoongi another case file.

‘I got Jimin to follow up on those leads we talked about,’ Namjoon says, no preamble.

‘We visited Jeon Bogyeol’s last known address,’ you say. ‘There’s no one there now, but it hasn’t been long since he moved out.’

Namjoon says, ‘Keep me informed.’

He nods to the case file. ‘There’s some interesting information in there.’

As Namjoon walks off, you turn to Yoongi.

‘I’m going down to visit someone I know in forensics, see if they can check the house.’

Yoongi heads for your joint office.

There’s a cleaning cart parked just outside the door, which opens just as Yoongi reaches for the doorknob.

The cleaner apologises and bows politely.

Yoongi steps aside to let her pass.

‘You forgot this,’ he says, spotting the dusting cloth left on your desk.

He hands it to her and places the file on his desk.

Outside, it’s raining again.

***

Yoongi wakes with a jolt.

You’re perched on the edge of his desk.

‘You should go home, get some sleep.’

‘In the middle of an active murder investigation?’ Yoongi mumbles.

‘I’m one of the potential targets, remember?’ you say, grimacing. ‘He might come to us.’

At Yoongi’s expression, you say, ‘We’ve been doing nothing but following up leads since the last murder. The last investigation took months, almost a year. What are you going to do, not sleep until he’s caught?’

‘I don’t sleep much anyway,’ Yoongi says, but he knows you’re right.

‘I know you don’t,’ you reply. There’s an empathy in your tone that reminds him you’re a homicide detective too.

You exchange a look, and then you both speak at the same time.

‘I should go —‘

‘Do you like wontons?’ Yoongi blurts out.

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Is this like inviting me in for ramen?’

‘What?’ Yoongi splutters. ‘No, not like that. There’s this place I go. They have—-‘

‘Wontons, I get it,’ you say. You get up. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

***

It’s been a while since Yoongi shared a meal with someone else, the last person was Hoseok, who could go straight from a crime scene to a steakhouse without turning a hair.

You’re chasing a wonton around your plate, fatigue lining the corners of your mouth.

Yoongi asks, ‘Where do you live?’

‘The other side of town,’ you tell him. ‘Near the financial district.’

‘Fancy,’ Yoongi muses.

‘More than I can afford,’ you say darkly. ‘If this case goes on for a while I’m going to need to move.’

You look up at him. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Close to here,’ Yoongi says.

‘Yeah?’

You put your chopsticks down. ‘I should —-‘

This time, Yoongi interrupts.

‘Do you want to come round for ramen?’

Your eyes meet, and there’s a beat of silence. Then a pulse of connection that sends heat through Yoongi’s veins.

Your knee brushes his under the table.

‘Yeah,’ you answer, deliberate. ‘Fuck, yeah.’

***

Yoongi’s always hated the preamble to a hookup, in his line of work uncertainty is a thing to be avoided.

You work the case until you get an explanation no reasonable person would doubt.

He finds himself waiting, though, now that you’re standing in his apartment.

You’re looking around, and he wonders if his existence seems as lonely on the outside as it feels on the inside.

He’s wondering if you’ve changed your mind, if you really did think he meant ramen, when you reach out and grasp the front of his shirt.

Slip the tips of your fingers just under, hold the placket as you use your other hand to unbutton. Start at his throat, work your way down, slowly.

His skin prickles under the warmth of your fingers.

You lean forward and press a kiss to the base of his neck.

Yoongi reaches up, slides a hand around the nape of your neck, and you tilt your face to his.

Close up, you’re soft.

Yoongi traces your bottom lip with his thumb, and your lips part.

You don’t say anything, though, and that’s ok, because Yoongi thinks you’re as talked out as he is.

It’s been a hell of a fucking day.

You’re kissing his neck again, instead of his mouth, and that’s ok, because this isn’t love, it’s comfort.

A human connection in a day filled with monsters.

Yoongi sighs as your hands slip over his bare chest, round to his back.

He helps you lift your top over your head, admires your breasts, nipples pressing against the fabric of your bra.

He cups the weight of them in his hands, and you moan.

Yoongi’s cock is filling out, and you’re undoing his belt like you want to see for yourself.

You drop to your knees in front of him, press your mouth onto the length of him over his boxer briefs, sigh with pleasure.

‘Not too much,’ Yoongi warns, ‘not if you want me to fuck you.’

You look up at him, hair mussed, a smile curving your lips.

You tug his boxer briefs down, and Yoongi curls a hand around himself so as not to hit you in the face.

‘Just let me —‘

You open your mouth to take him in, and Yoongi groans at the feel of your warmth.

When did he last —

His crown nudges the back of your throat, and you swallow, and he loses his train of thought.

He grabs your shoulder, tugs you up, kisses the smear of his own stickiness at the corner of your mouth.

The light slanting in through the window is hues of gold and orange, filling in the hollows of your face, outlining the curves of your body.

Yoongi has to stop looking at you because he doesn’t want to cry at how much he’s missed being close to someone like this.

‘Where do you want me?’ he asks, voice taut.

‘Anywhere,’ you say. ‘Just turn these fucking lights out.’

***

In the dark, Yoongi’s most enraptured by the warmth of you.

Your skin is smooth, so soft under his hands as he wraps his fingers around the curve of your hips.

His cock glides in and out of the heat between your legs, and your moans are beautiful but what really gets him are the hitches in your breathing as he moves.

He turns you over, onto your back, and you pull him to you. Your mouth opens on his shoulder in what would be a kiss if you weren’t biting down. Your tongue flicks over his bruised skin, an apology.

You haven’t spoken to each other in words in a while but Yoongi doesn’t think either of you need words right now.

At least he doesn’t.

You’re tightening around his cock now, your cries quickening until you gasp his name in a tone that makes him grunt and his hips jerk, taking him deep as he can go.

Even in his pleasure he makes sure not to crush you as he collapses next to you.

Then you’re up, walking over to the window, pulling up the sash, lighting a cigarette without asking if he’s ok with it.

Yoongi admires the outline of your profile against the glass.

‘I needed that,’ you say, taking a drag, hunching a little to blow smoke out of his window.

‘Me too,’ Yoongi says, honestly.

He ties off the condom, gets up to toss it in the trash on top of yesterday’s takeout.

Pours you a glass of water on his way back to bed.

He half expects you to be dressed, and you are, but in his clothes, not your own, an old t-shirt he’d tossed on the chair by the bed yesterday morning before he left for work.

He can’t see your face clearly in the dark. It makes it easy to find his voice.

‘You should stay,’ he says. ‘We can get coffee in the morning.’

You’re quiet. ‘I want to.’

Yoongi climbs into bed, and after a moment you slide in next to him.

Your bodies aren’t touching at all, but somehow having you there with him is enough.

Yoongi means to check on you, but he’s asleep so quickly he doesn’t get a chance to.

***

There’s a basketball hoop set into the wall in the back end of the station, a concrete square with a chain-link fence.

The building opposite is a block of offices, as is the building next to it.

Yoongi makes the shot, and you grab the ball on its first bounce.

You say, ‘Forensics got nothing from Jeon Bogyeol’s shack. He bleached the shit out of the place before he left.’

Yoongi grunts, watches you point and shoot.

He’d read through the file Namjoon gave him on the neighbour - it’s incomplete but she was last seen alive twelve weeks ago in a coastal town.

There’s something niggling at the back of his brain, he’d suggested shooting hoops in the hopes that the activity might shake the thought loose so his conscious mind can make the connection.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Namjoon.

‘I’m going up to see Namjoon,’ he says. ‘You coming?’

‘I’ll stay here for a bit,’ you say. ‘I’ll be up in a sec.’

Yoongi shrugs, lets himself back in.

Takes the stairs up to Namjoon’s office on the third floor.

There’s a cleaning cart parked next to the staff kitchen as he rounds the corner.

Yoongi’s about to knock on Namjoon’s door when his scattered thoughts crystallise.

The case file Namjoon had given him had a grainy photo of Jeon Bogyeol’s neighbour, the one who’d reported him and then disappeared.

He’s seen her face before, and recently.

Coming out of your office.

‘Fuck,’ he swears.

He grabs his phone out of his pocket, dials your number.

Your phone rings, and rings.

Yoongi takes off, down the stairs, back the way he came.

By the time he bursts out of the back door of the station, gun drawn, his heart’s thumping triple speed, but his hand is steady as he aims it at the man with a knife standing over you.

His finger goes from trigger guard to trigger.

‘Fucking drop it,’ Yoongi warns.

He doesn’t, so Yoongi shoots.

***

Jeon Bogyeol’s neighbour who had reported him was called Seo Hyerin.

She was in her early forties, an ex-teacher who he’d coerced into helping him by turning up at her new place even after she’d moved to get away from him.

She’d been too scared to disobey him, but in forcing her to help him, Jeon Bogyeol had given her access to enough information to clinch the case against him.

Once she’d found out he’d been shot and was likely to go straight from hospital to prison, she’d shared all that information with Yoongi and you.

The pieces fell into place so easily there was no need to make any of it fit.

And now Yoongi’s sitting in the kitchen of your apartment, watching as you pack things up.

He’d been right. Your place was fancy.

You were being transferred back to Seoul to finish up, see things through with the case.

He realises you’re looking at him.

‘My new place is a couple hours drive from here,’ you say.

‘Yeah?’ Yoongi says, like he hadn’t already looked it up.

He’d also looked up timed automated cat food dispensers, just because it was one thing to have a neighbour drop in and feed Kenzo if he’s stuck with a case occasionally, but it’s another thing if he’s regularly going to be driving down to see you.

If he’s regularly going to be spending the night away.

It’s uncharacteristic, for him, but he’s hopeful.

‘I slept pretty well that time,’ you say, looking down into your box.

You look up at him, and the curve of your lips makes Yoongi think to himself that he’d like to kiss you, sometime.

‘In your apartment,’ you clarify, like he wouldn’t already know.

‘I make good ramen,’ Yoongi says. ‘I can make it again for you, you know.’

You laugh, and the sound makes Yoongi feel warm.

He realises that he’s smiling.

Fuck, it’s been a while.

#bts fanfiction #bts smut #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi smut

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proxycrit · 3 months

Text

Elesa climbs to celestial tower to ring the bell. Emmet, stuck in between the distortion world, finds his way home.

Part 1/ Part 2

The conductor falls, down, down, down.

“What’s my name?” He calls to the abyss in terror (what is terror?)

He’s a singular being, right? (That’s not right. He’s one of a pair.)

The abyss gazes back. It has no answers to give, in its multitude.

Not to someone that’s so, so alone.

———

Somewhere else, one Elesa of Nimbasa rings the Celestial Tower’s Bell, over and over. Her companion, Chandelure, keeps watch.

Nothing happens.

Elesa’s stomach sinks. The reverberations of Celestial Tower’s brass bell mocks her in its echo. The vibrations of it’s distortion only makes the tears she tries to hold at bay worse.

In the blur of her failure, she sees chandelure’s flames suddenly die. Part of her panics.

The rest of her is apathetic and numb.

What’s the point? It didn’t work. Elesa closes her eyes. Tries to swallow, and fails. She’s so tired. She’s so, so tired. The deal with Azelf, the media storm she’s weathered, the constraints of her job, the almost loss of chandelure-

Emmet has been gone for three months. Ingo has been gone even longer.

They have gone where she can’t follow.

Elesa, the ghost whispers in her head. Elesa shakes her head in denial. She doesn’t want to plan right now. She wants to curl into herself, and disappear, just for a bit.

Elesa!

“I can’t do this,” she croaks. The sob in the back of her throat bubbles outwards. She wants Zebrstika. She wants Skyla. She wants her friends.

The paliphet Azelf forced her forward. It permeates her thoughts, drowning out logical thought.

(Too much willpower, and it will become an obsession, Azelf had warned her once in Ingo’s voice. And then, in Emmet’s voice: And when you fail, it willll break you. And finally, in her own voice: you will not have a choice but to move forward, with this curse.

I accept, elesa and told it back in the lake.)

I’m so tired, Elesa thinks now, two months later.

But she keeps moving forward. The bell rings again as Elesa strikes it, with all the hurt and rage and longing forced by her own hand into her soul-

-And that’s when chandelure screams, and there is a terrible rolling crack, and Elesa feels the sudden lurch in her gut as she looks up, her apathy torn into shreds as-

The sky tears open in a fractal wave.

Elesa gapes.

She can not comprehend the sudden black webbing across the sky. In the distance, sirens suddenly start wailing as people stop to perceive the impossible.

But Elesa does not care, because in that moment, the wrench in her gut is so great she almost staggers off the platform. Chandelure is by her side in an instant, her glass body a warm comfort to the sudden chill, because-

Something white is falling.

Elesa’s doesn’t know what she yells. But the tug in her chest feels like the beat of a drum, and she is helpless to the melody that calls for action.

Azelf’s blessed takes a leaping step forward, off the building. Chandelure lets out a panicked chime and the warmth of psychic cradles Elesa as she reaches out, arms outstretched, falling and flying and-

And Emmet, sparking with white electricity, reaches back.

NOTES:

AU’s Salvaging the Ship of Theseus! Everybody has a Bad Time. (Emmet and Eelektross go to Hisui and learn about the joys of the distortion world. Elesa hunts legends and makes bad deals. Ingo babysits some sneaslets.)

Backstory and explanation:

Prior this scene, Emmet was travelling Hisui with Eelektross before he falls through a mirror and becomes lost in the distortion world for a month. Elesa and Chandelure, meanwhile, refuse to give up on their remaining friend. (Ingo’s fine! He’s in Hisui right now trying to get fired so he can go searching for his memories. Eelektross is… less fine. We will Worry about That Later.)

Disclaimers: Everything’s a work in progress and subject to change!

Part 2!

#submas #submas au #salvaging the ship of theseus #(gives you a drabble)#this fucking scene…. living in my head… HARASSING ME UNTIL I WRITE AND DRAW IT.#BEGONE FOUL DEMONS #emmet #elesa #chandelure #pokemon #pokemon au #hope this haunts you as much as it haunts me #critdraws #critterbitter screams into the void #submas angst #submas fanfiction #fanfic #Spotify

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deepouterspacecandy · 1 month

Text

Our Sanctuary of Ruin: Part Two

18+ Only. Violence, graphic sexual content, gore, references to death.

The thought of Abby being a mother absolutely melts me. There are tough themes in this one, but there’s a whole lot of fluff and domestic bliss mixed in, too. I’m taking a brief break from writing because my training schedule is intense, but I’ll definitely check back regularly to respond to your comments and asks. Thank you a million. I appreciate you.

The corridors of the stadium are a disorienting maze of shadow and rot.

Dust-covered lenses bleed a florescent glow onto the dusty walls below, emergency bulbs buzzing eerily.

It’s hard to imagine that just a few hours ago, people were rushing to their rooms and plowing through the crowd toward the exit gates. Now, it seems only remnants of them remain to stumble upon.

The wailing sirens persisted until the generators sputtered their final breath, the deafening noise resonating across the city to beckon every infected from miles around.

If, by some stroke of luck, you were able to escape, you would have simply found yourself trapped in the brutal clutch of a slow and agonizing demise.

“Can you hold the baby for a second?” Abby asks.

The unsettling stillness in the air is haunting, and with every clumsy stumble of a reanimated corpse triggering the motion detector, it amplifies the chill seething under your skin.

A cascade of light flickers on just long enough to reveal the macabre sights scattered across the field.

Abby’s heavy hand landing on your shoulder startles you.

“I need you to take the baby, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“No,” you say. “You are not leaving.”

That she would even suggest it, given everything you’ve just experienced together, leaves you stammering. Fear, camouflaged as anger, lingers at the edge of your voice.

“Don’t you dare leave my sight,” you say. “Do you hear me?”

Her arm cradles the bundle of blankets, and you can’t help but marvel at how delicate the infant looks against her broad chest. It’s taken a small miracle to soothe the baby and bring an end to the incessant crying. You’re reluctant to interrupt the peace and risk another wave of violence.

Glass shards crunch beneath her boots while she sways to a lullaby only she can hear.

“I have always come back for you,” she says, gently cupping your jaw, tilting your chin to meet her gaze. “Haven’t I?”

“Abigail, don’t.”

“I can’t leave them like this,” she says.

Murky dread twists at the pit of your stomach as you shift your gaze beyond her and peer into Jordan’s apartment. From floor to ceiling, their windows are a shattered mosaic of broken dreams.

As you reach for the baby, their tiny body wriggles uncomfortably, until you find yourself naturally swaying back and forth, mirroring Abby’s movements.

Small eyelids flutter open, and in the absence of light, a luminous galaxy of guiding stars reveals itself.

“Hi, there,” you say, your voice a strained whisper. “You are so small. How are you this little, huh?”

“I can make this better,” Abby says, leaning in to press her lips to your forehead, snuffling to hold back her tears. “I’m going to make this better, okay?”

Despite the madness of an impossible world, Abby always keeps her promises.

----------------------------------------

The grassy, sweet notes of green tea drift down the hallway from the kitchen, where you can hear Abby humming a familiar tune.

You bury your face into the silk pillow beside you, its shape still molded by her presence. The fabric feels refreshingly cool against your skin, and as you take a deep breath, the subtle muskiness of moss and ferns blends harmoniously with the citrus notes of pine.

A small child clings to you like a little sloth, having snuck in at some point during the night. Despite the ache in your back, there’s a strange relief in already knowing where they are before your feet touch the floor.

“You awake back there, Caelus?” you whisper, your voice carrying a sleepy rasp.

When their only reaction is soft exhale, you allow it to be.

You still have a few precious moments to surrender to sleep, and the drowsiness pulls you back in. The sound of Abby packing up for work is a comforting ruckus, a reminder she will be waiting for you somewhere nearby when you wake up.

With each passing morning, as the sun makes its gradual climb into the sky, you and your child set off on your route to the schoolhouse, delighting in the energy that accompanies your journey.

“What’s this one?” Caelus asks.

In their state of fascination with insects, they eagerly point at a beetle, its iridescent shell catching the light. Abby always stays updated on topics like these, and you hate not knowing, so you make your best effort not to seem ignorant in front of your own child.

“It’s a Doodlebug,” you lie.

“Oh!”

“It’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?” you ask.

Caelus shakes their head and wrinkles their nose, mirroring Abby’s notorious expression of uncertainty.

“His feet are too prickly,” they say.

The child kneels to get a closer look, but when the beetle abruptly flies away, causing them to scream in surprise, it’s confirmation that Caelus dislikes Doodlebugs completely.

Moving through the thoroughfare, the sharp aroma of charred wood fills your nose, while colourful murals bring life to the buildings lining the path.

Scattered throughout the streets, small flower gardens bloom, greeting the season.

While the settlement operates with the guidance of a small committee and the active participation of all its inhabitants, the community holds your family with Abby in high esteem as the town’s original founders.

The diligent work put into making the residents feel safe and cared for is clear in the warm greetings you receive wherever you go.

----------------------------------------

The moment your child catches sight of Abby in the distance, their eyes become saucers. They yank on your arm before jumping up and down, flailing their hands to get her attention.

Piecing together salvaged metal sheets and reclaimed materials, Abby and her crew work together to repair a section of the wall damaged by recent storms. At intervals along the perimeter, guard towers stand tall, manned by residents who are ardent about defending their home.

Under the morning sun, Abby’s powerful body glistens with sweat, showcasing her unwavering dedication to removing the sleeves from all her shirts. The sight of her muscles flexing makes you want to take a pair of scissors to every piece of clothing she owns.

Your little one races towards Abby with great speed, their shoes pounding across the pavement.

Amidst the crowd of early risers, laughter erupts, adding a bright ambiance to the atmosphere as they admire Caelus before going about their daily tasks. The thing that really stands out to you is how thrilled Abby looks when she spots the people she loves approaching.

“Found you, Mama!” Caelus shouts.

Abby skillfully grabs hold of the human cannon hurtling towards her, twirling around until they both become too disoriented to remain on their feet. Joyfully, they roll together to the ground. When your child crashes into Abby once more, she lands flat on her back and bursts into rumbling laughter, summoning you to join in the merriment.

“When did you get so strong?” she asks.

“Today!” your child exclaims, their eyes shining with triumph. “Look at my guns!”

You give Abby a playful scolding, your hands firmly planted on your hips.

“What are you teaching our child?”

“How to be cool and awesome, obviously,” she retorts. With Caelus sprawled across her chest, Abby gently digs her fingers into their tiny ribs, causing their cackles to bubble up like an overflowing brook. “Right, Cae? Or are you just ticklish?”

Your child gasps for air and pins Abby with a serious look when the giggle attack subsides.

“How come you’re not ticklish?” they ask.

“Oh, I am,” Abby says. “But only mommy knows all my secret spots.”

“That’s not fair,” Caelus grumbles.

Manny hobbles over on his crutches, curiosity piqued by the commotion. Despite his arduous path to recovery, he never hesitates to contribute, continuing to be the finest marksman you’ve ever encountered.

Caught up in the moment, your little one forgets about Manny’s injuries and impulsively jumps on him.

In a reflexive action, you shout, propelling yourself forward to intervene and prevent what’s unfolding. Manny’s response is a calm smile and a dismissive shake of his hand, as he brushes off your unease.

“Sorry, Uncle Manny,” Caelus says.

“I am not made of glass,” Manny snorts, tousling the child’s hair. “No worries.”

As you watch them venture along the newly repaired wall, chatting amongst themselves, a wave of guilt washes over you for raising your voice.

With a dirt-streaked forearm shielding her eyes, Abby looks up at you, her gaze a mix of empathy and unmistakable hunger.

“You know this is my favourite outfit, right?” she says.

“I think you’ve mentioned it.”

Lost in thought, you stand there, arms crossed over your chest, gaze fixed unseeingly on your sneakers.

Abby tugs on your shoelace, untying them and compelling you to join her on the soft grass. You take a seat beside her, and as Abby’s crew guides your child through the art of hammering a nail, you’re captivated by their precise instructions and animated gestures.

When Abby strokes your thigh, you’re tethered to the earth, setting free your deepest worries.

“I really suck at this parenting thing.”

“Stop that,” she says. “You’re an incredible mom. Caelus is lucky to have you—we both are.”

“I never want to scare them,” you say.

The weight of Abby’s grief is palpable, mourning a mother she has no memories of.

“You panicked, it happens,” Abby says, planting a kiss on the palm of your hand. “Baby, look at me.”

Abby has a reputation for being blunt, so if she had any issues with your parenting, she wouldn’t hesitate to express it. Sometimes it’s tough to break free from your thoughts, even when you know they’re lying to you.

“Raising a kid with you is the best. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says.

Her lips curve into a lopsided grin as her hand sneaks under your shirt, tickling your abdomen.

“Uh oh. What is that look?” you ask.

“I never really thought about it before this—having kids, you know? But watching you with Caelus kind of makes my ovaries hurt,” she says with a chuckle. “You’d look real good with my baby in you.”

“Oh my god,” you blurt. “You better cut it out right now, Anderson.”

You brush away her hand and she’s radiating happiness.

“I’m just saying,” she giggles.

“Well, why is it my center of gravity that has to change—what about you, huh?” you ask.

“What about me?” Abby snorts.

“I think you’d look pretty delicious sporting a baby bump, just saying.”

A blush rises from her chest, painting her entire body a delicate shade of pink. Bathed in the sun’s warm glow, she becomes an ethereal vision of beauty, exuding an aura of calmness and security.

With a cocky brow raised, Abby brushes her fingertips against the exposed skin beneath your shirt.

“You’d miss my abs too much,” she teases.

“I already do,” you groan. “Don’t even get me started.”

Manny limps back to you, leaving your kid to assist with reconstructing the fences. His bond with Caelus goes beyond being Abby’s closest friend - it is reinforced by the fact that he was also Jordan’s friend and comrade.

The night your child was born, Manny was there.

The crisp hiss of beer cans being opened as Manny raised a toast to the birth of a new wolf cub and to Jordan’s brave proposal of marriage sifts to the forefront of your memory.

“He’d be proud,” Manny says with furrowed brows, his fingers absentmindedly picking at a small scab on his elbow. “Jordan couldn’t swing a hammer to save his life.”

The double meaning hits you square in the chest, causing your breath to catch, and you observe Abby being struck by the same brutal force.

You reach out your hand and find she’s already clinging to it.

----------------------------------------

Each week brings fresh growth and expansion to the greenhouses, as they continue to thrive.

This is the first year your town has made substantial trades with other communities, and it has brought about a remarkable transformation.

Unlike Isaac, Abby’s approach involves placing equal weight on both forming treaties and nurturing long-lasting relationships.

Prior to the stadium’s collapse, most had already observed this trait in her, so it came as no surprise when many of the survivors and soldiers distanced themselves from the WLF and instead opted to follow Abby.

In the beginning, the situation was grim, and you were anxious that they might betray her, but their shared difficulties only fueled their determination to remain a cohesive unit.

Humanity continues to surprise you with its remarkable ability to inspire hope.

“Carrots or beets?” you mumble to yourself, perusing the lush aisles.

It is thanks to the bravery and endurance of your people that you have the luxury of thinking about what you will prepare for your family’s dinner.

Abby has a fondness for tomatoes that are crunchy and seasoned with a sprinkle of salt. Once they become squishy in the middle, she doesn’t hesitate to toss them into the pigpen. You pull a few from the vine with a satisfying tug, their deep red skin firm and smooth.

While she’s a total snap pea enthusiast, obsessed with their juicy pods, her favourite pastime has become flicking the peas across the kitchen with her spoon. It creates playful chaos that your child eagerly joins in on, but you’ve caught one in the eye a time or two.

You drop only a few handfuls into your basket, as you prefer to see the nutrients being consumed rather than flung across your linoleum floor.

It’s no great loss as potatoes are Abby’s true obsession, anyway—so much so that she keeps a clandestine garden dedicated solely to their cultivation in the backyard.

Abby’s meticulous care of the vegetable crops, ingeniously built out of rubber tires, keeps you going when you’re drowning in your thoughts by the kitchen sink. Your heart spills over with a bittersweet ache as you witness her skill in teaching valuable lessons to your child, always with a touch of fun.

----------------------------------------

Upon returning home from the greenhouse, the unexpected sight of two leather boots greets you, their muddy soles peeking out from the end of the couch. Inching forward on silent tiptoes, you notice Abby is indulging in a rare afternoon nap.

Her work ethic hasn’t changed in the slightest, her muscular hands calloused from keeping the community in one piece, but she no longer embarks on any overnight journeys—a blessing you value every morning as you wake up beside her.

Leaning against the bench of your breakfast nook, you watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, grateful that she is finding serenity through rest. It has taken years to convince her it’s okay to take a break.

“You’re welcome to join me,” Abby murmurs, voice muffled by the couch cushion. “Whenever you’re done being a creep.”

“Damn it, Abby,” you huff. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you walked through the door.”

“Great,” you say, bending over to collect a pile of wooden blocks spilling from the back of a toy truck. Before shuffling across the carpet to put them away, you can’t resist tossing a block at Abby’s backside, laughing as she grunts in protest. “I’ll get you one day, mark my words.”

“You almost had me,” she says.

Her drowsy gaze lingers on your body, tracing every curve and contour. While you run your fingers through your hair, suddenly aware of your appearance, she adjusts herself to make space for you.

“How long before our rug rat gets home?” Abby asks.

Your stomach flutters as you hear the subtle shift in her tone.

“Any minute now,” you say.

She nibbles at the dry skin on her finger, deep in thought about her next course of action.

Though you’re always together, it’s challenging to find moments of intimacy with a five-year-old running around wanting to play airplanes with Abby every twenty minutes and crawling into bed between you in the middle of the night.

“If you’re in the mood,” Abby says, moistening her lips with a slow lick. “I think I can get you there in under a minute.”

Her cunning smile stirs up a flash of desire, heat thrumming deep inside you as the temptation draws you to her like a magnet. It’s been such a long time that you suspect her forecast on your ETA is right on the money.

“Here?” you ask.

“Well, I can take you to bed,” she says. “But you won’t be leaving it.”

Sitting up on the couch, she gestures for you to park yourself on her lap.

You rush to close the curtains in the dining room and check that you’ve locked the front door. On your way back to her, your shirt hits the floor, causing her blue eyes to widen, struck by the pleasant view.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Abby murmurs.

“Takes one to know one, my love.”

Without warning, Abby pounces forward, taking your wrist and guiding you to straddle her. Sparks spread for miles in every direction as her calloused hands become reacquainted with your body. She moves slowly, painfully so, stopping to trace the dip and swell of each scar she lands on. Just when you’re certain she’s missed a spot, her fingers flex and the smooth bed of her nails backtrack to cover the ground she neglected.

“I’m so in love with you,” she whispers.

With tenderness, you cup her face in your palms and take a moment to appreciate the new freckles that have surfaced on her cheeks.

“Show me,” you say.

Abby sets a match to every cell in your body as her slick tongue darts out to taste your lips before trailing down the column of your neck to your collarbone. Looking up at you through her long lashes, you see that she’s already panting as you drag your fingers across her sculpted shoulders.

You help her undress, slipping her shirt over her head. She’s breathtaking, every edge of her swollen and defined, but she’s so soft when she looks into your eyes.

“You’re perfect,” you say.

Your arms tingle with goosebumps as she teases the sensitive parts of you that make you writhe, pausing to whimper against the shell of your ear.

“You’re perfect,” she murmurs. “I want to fuck you forever.”

“Can I try it like this?” you ask.

She hisses with anticipation as you gingerly push her knees apart, heat pooling below your navel.

“I’d fucking love that,” she says.

She helps you settle with one leg on either side of her thigh, before sliding her hands to your hips with delicious pressure. The friction from the seam of your pants intensifies as she encourages you to grind against her.

Her lips graze yours with a gentle, electrifying touch, leaving you moaning into her mouth, welcoming the stimulation.

“You’re down bad, baby,” she says.

“Watch it,” you say, relishing how swiftly your warning turns her on. “You’re down just as bad.”

“Fuckin’ rights I am—look at you,” she growls.

Gently unraveling her braid, you marvel at how it has grown in length since you last untangled it. Abby’s hair is incredibly soft, even softer than the fuzz of an orchard peach, and when her fingertips dance up your back, you know she’ll taste sweeter.

“Close your eyes,” Abby whispers.

The wild friction spreads as you grind your hips in rhythm with hers. Each searing kiss across your jaw tightens your spine like a bowstring as your busy mind fades, building a hot coil inside you, matching the increasing greediness of her mouth.

“That’s it,” Abby says. “Take what you need.”

Rocking yourself harder against her, the frenzied motion shoots all the way to your toes. She whines, her breath against your neck making you shiver.

“Please don’t stop,” Abby begs.

When a sudden, jarring knock at the door leaves you both frozen in absolute shock, the feeling of devastation hits you instantly, dousing you in a bucket of icy water.

“Are you kidding me?” you mutter.

Abby lets out a frustrated, breathless laugh before her head falls onto the back of the couch. Unable to resist, you join her, resting your forehead against hers.

“We should do this more often,” you say.

She lifts you up to place a tender kiss on your bare stomach before helping you to your feet.

“You’re hilarious,” she says.

Abby hollers over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall to splash cold water on her face.

“I’m making this happen. I don’t care if we have to climb up to the roof.”

The pounding on the door gets louder, this time coming from four different hands as far as you can tell. You quickly slip your shirt back on, giving it a once-over to ensure it’s not inside out.

“Yes, you do. You’re terrified of heights, remember?” you say.

“I dangled out of a helicopter for you. I think I can figure out how to rock your world ten feet off the ground.”

As soon as the door opens, Manny’s beaming smile suggests he didn’t miss much of your conversation. With a cheerful squeal, your tiny human launches themselves at you, their little arms wrapped around you in a tight hug.

Abby sneaks by to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen, while Manny shoulders his way past you to antagonize her.

“Should we come back later?” Manny razzes. “It looks like you haven’t finished your reps.”

“You’re about a day late and a dollar short, fucker,” Abby groans. “You have the worst timing, ever.”

“Bad word, Mama!”

“Yeah, you better watch your mouth around the little one, Abs,” Manny says. “You need to set a good example.”

Squatting in front of Caelus, she apologizes for her foul language and reaches for the folded piece of paper in their hands. It’s a picture of a helicopter and she’s captivated by it, studying every intricate detail.

“You made this all by yourself?” she asks.

“Miss Dina helped me with the udders,” Caelus says.

“Do you mean the rotors?” Abby asks, her face twisting into the sweetest smile. “That’s what these great big blades are called.”

“That’s what I said, Mama.”

With a smirk on her face, Abby lifts the little one up to the fridge, basking in their excited chatter as they debate the perfect spot to place it.

Your refrigerator is a gallery of imagination. Most of the artwork consists of random doodles and images that Caelus has reconstructed by colouring enthusiastically outside of the lines with thick stripes of crayon.

“Do you two need a little alone time?” Manny asks, giving you a rowdy shoulder check and making you stumble.

You reach into the basket on the counter and toss a pea at his head. Turns out it’s fun.

“That depends,” you say. “Are you offering?”

You watch with delight as Abby and Caelus chase each other around the house.

Abby’s dedication to your family has taken your love for her to an otherworldly level. Her capacity for protecting others knows no bounds, especially with your child. She would move mountains for them, and you’d be right there beside her.

One night without little ears around couldn’t hurt, though.

----------------------------------------

When the raiders come, it’s in the dead of night.

Jolted from your sleep, a bad feeling in your gut unsettles you. The bedroom you share with Abby is calm, save for the long, sheer curtains, which flutter softly in response to the gentle wind slipping through the bedroom window.

With Abby’s arm draped across your stomach, her grasp on you unyielding, you’re loathed to disturb her slumber based on a mere hunch.

You do it anyway because if you’ve learned anything, it’s that your instincts on these matters are rarely mistaken.

“Abby, wake up,” you say.

Pulling you tighter to her body, she nestles into the crook of your neck with a sleepy sigh. The untamed strands of her tussled hair stroke your face, tempting you to succumb to her embrace and drift back to sleep.

You nudge her awake slowly, not wanting to startle her, just in case your worries are unwarranted. Her soft hums vibrate against your throat while her hand glides to the side of your thigh.

“Again?” she chuckles hazily. “I don’t know if I’ve got another one left in me.”

“It’s not that,” you say. “Something feels off.”

Abby’s head tilts upwards, her curious gaze fixated on your face, trying to gauge your expression. After the trauma you’ve all endured, it’s only natural for complicated feelings to come and go from time to time.

“It’s our first night without the kid. It’s okay to be a little on edge,” Abby explains. “Want me to help with that?”

Sated and achingly sweet, Abby lies naked and pliant in your bed after spending hours pleasuring each other. To turn her down, knowing what you’d be missing, seems like a criminal act.

“Can we do a sweep?” you ask. “I know it’s late.”

“Of course,” Abby says.

You understand that’s not what she had in mind, but when your head is swimming with quandaries, it’s hard to let go. Tracing your bottom lip with her thumb, she plants a tender kiss on the tip of your nose before showering your face and chest with a thousand more obnoxiously loud, undeniably passionate ones.

They’re wet and messy, and she persists until you’re giggling like a lunatic.

Hair disheveled, her skin dappled with sweat, she catches her breath.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” you confess.

When a disturbance erupts outside, Abby is on her feet in an instant, rummaging through the closet for her clothes and gear.

“Grab Caelus,” Abby commands. “I need Manny at the wall.”

----------------------------------------

Sometimes, despite a tempestuous start, everything falls into place.

Through her kindness and willingness to forgive, Abby has welcomed several people into the fold you’d otherwise expect her to shoot on sight. Back when she was still donning the WLF patch on her coat, it was highly likely that she would have.

All the weary wanderers have found redemption to be well worth the time and effort so far.

But on occasion, no matter how hard Abby tries, she’s forced to make the bitter decision to eradicate the threat to protect what she has built. You wager it’s one of those times as the distinctive crack-pop of her hunting pistol booms through the forest, and she returns to you spattered in blood.

The townspeople bear no grudge against her for the measures she takes to ensure their safety. While returning to their residences for the night, their gratitude is evident as Abby makes her way home with her head hung low.

You want to ease all her suffering, but the only thing you can do is support her with time and an abundance of love.

Following a scalding hot shower, she requests to face alone—her priority is to make sure you’re both safe before reading her little one a bedtime story.

Caelus fiddles with Abby’s knuckles, bruises already forming on the fragile skin.

“Did you hurt someone, Mama?” they ask.

With a sharp inhale, Abby’s nostrils flare and her eyes glaze over before she continues to turn the page.

Nothing is more devastating than seeing the woman you love overcome with shame.

“Yes, I did,” Abby says.

“It’s bad to hurted people, Mama.”

“You’re right,” she whispers.

Her eyes follow closely as Caelus tugs on her fingers, carefully examining the various scars that adorn them. Every mark on her body represents a chapter of both injury and growth, a living map of her experiences.

“Mommy doesn’t,” Caelus says.

It feels as though they’re verbalizing their thoughts, seeking understanding amid the ever-changing dynamics. Abby could recount dozens of hair-raising stories of similar situations you’ve faced, lives you’ve forever changed, but she simply nods in agreement.

“Why?” they ask.

“Well, you know how Mommy makes the pretty flowers grow and helps the sun make our food, yeah?” Abby says, attempting to make the most complex thing in the world more straightforward. “And how her hands work hard every day to turn the soil into the things we get to eat?”

With a nod, Caelus gazes up at her, their big brown eyes full of wonder.

“And you know how we need to have the scarecrow outside to keep the animals away?”

“Mr. Scarecrow protects the apples!” Caelus says.

Abby’s smile is so incredibly sincere that it tugs at your heartstrings. It brings to mind all the parenting hurdles she faces with her heart on her sleeve.

“Yes, he does,” Abby says as your little one uses their fingertip to trace the cartoon animals in their book. “And if we take Mr. Scarecrow away, the people we love might lose all their apples, and I just can’t stand for that to happen. It would hurt Mama’s heart so badly. Do you understand?”

Nodding, they furrow their brows, grappling with the influx of new information and attempting to make sense of how it relates to their own life.

“Are you Mr. Scarecrow, Mama?”

“Sometimes,” Abby says. “And you and Mommy are my apples. It’s my job to protect you.”

Caelus snaps the book shut in favour of cuddling her.

“Do you get scared?” they ask.

Abby’s gaze shifts to the ceiling, and as she holds your child, you’re reminded of how they still seem so small in her arms.

“All the time,” Abby admits. “Do you?”

“I’m really scared of Doodlebugs!”

“What the heck is a Doodlebug?” she asks.

Perplexed, Abby turns to you for answers.

When you give her a shrug, she knows what you’ve done without saying a word.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian

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songbirdseung · 5 months

Text

bad boy, gone good / choi yeonjun

Choi Yeonjun — the epitome of a bad boy, known for his rebellious attitude and mysterious charm. His days were filled with the thrill of breaking rules, and his nights echoed with the adrenaline of living life on the edge.

Enter Y/N, a beacon of warmth and kindness, with a heart untarnished by the city's harsh realities. Fate intervened, weaving their destinies together in unexpected ways. When Y/N, the girl with a smile that could brighten the darkest corners, collided with Yeonjun's world, everything changed.

As their worlds collided, secrets unfolded, and the walls Yeonjun had built around himself began to crumble. Y/N's presence sparked a transformation in him, challenging the very essence of his rebellious nature. Can love be the catalyst for change?

Yeonjun's early years were marred by the harsh realities of an unforgiving environment. Growing up on the fringes of the city's underbelly, he witnessed firsthand the struggle for survival. Raised in a broken home, where love was a scarce commodity and instability was the only constant, he learned to navigate the tumultuous seas of his youth alone.

Fuelled by a hunger for control in a world that seemed determined to wrest it away, Yeonjun delved into the realm of defiance. The streets became his sanctuary, a place where rules were mere suggestions and boundaries blurred into shades of rebellion. His demeanor transformed, adopting an air of defiance and a reputation that sent shivers through the city's spine.

The allure of the night, with its neon glow and hidden corners, became Yeonjun's playground. Graffiti-covered walls and the distant wail of sirens provided the soundtrack to his tumultuous existence. He embraced the role of a bad boy with open arms, finding solace in the chaos that mirrored the storm within.

Yet, beneath the tough exterior and the smirks that hinted at a disregard for authority, there lay a complex soul. A boy who had grown up too fast, who yearned for stability amid the turbulence of his surroundings. The bad boy persona was both armor and camouflage, shielding the vulnerabilities that lurked beneath the surface.

The memory of that encounter lingered, a pivotal moment where the trajectory of Yeonjun's life shifted. The streets, once witnesses to his rebellion, became a canvas for transformation. In the tapestry of his past, that cold night held a defining thread—a thread that hinted at a yearning for something beyond the confines of the city's chaos, a yearning that would eventually lead him to an unexpected encounter with warmth and kindness, the likes of which he had never known before.

Yeonjun found himself on the familiar concrete steps of an abandoned building, the remnants of shattered glass and graffiti-covered walls bearing witness to the desolation that mirrored his own existence. The city slept, but not Yeonjun. His restless spirit roamed the streets like a lone wolf searching for purpose.

As he sat there, contemplating the harsh truths of his life, the echoes of raised voices and slammed doors reverberated in his mind. Flashbacks of a tumultuous household, where love was a scarce commodity and stability a distant dream, played like a haunting melody.

That night marked the breaking point, the moment Yeonjun decided to escape the suffocating embrace of his turbulent home. The city's heartbeat became his guide, and he embraced the streets with an air of defiance, determined to carve out a space where he could breathe.

In current time, the night air was thick with the energy of rebellion as Yeonjun, accompanied by his fellow comrades in mischief, ventured into the heart of the city. The neon lights painted the streets with vibrant hues, reflecting the chaos and vibrancy that fueled their nightly escapades.

Yeonjun's friends each carrying their unique brand of defiance, joined him in this ritual of rebellion. Beomgyu, with his mischievous grin, Taehyun with an air of nonchalance, Soobin radiating quiet intensity, and Huening Kai exuding youthful exuberance—this band of brothers made the city their playground.

The night unfolded in a series of reckless adventures, a collage of moments that defined their camaraderie. They spray-painted walls with vibrant colors, leaving their mark on the city's canvas. The distant sound of music wafted through the air as they danced in abandoned alleyways, an impromptu celebration of freedom.

Yeonjun, the orchestrator of this nocturnal symphony, led his friends through the labyrinth of the urban jungle. They scaled fences, traversed rooftops, and embraced the thrill of the unknown. Each daring feat was met with laughter and shared glances that spoke volumes—a silent understanding that this night was a manifestation of their collective rebellion against the mundane.

Amid the chaos, Yeonjun couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia. The city, once his refuge from a turbulent past, had transformed into a playground of shared adventures. Yet, there lingered a subtle shift in dynamics, an undercurrent of change that hinted at a journey beyond the recklessness.

As the night wore on, they found themselves perched on the rooftop of an abandoned building, the city sprawled beneath them like a glittering tapestry. The collective laughter echoed in the silence that followed, and Yeonjun's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the first light of dawn painted the sky.

In that moment, surrounded by the camaraderie of friends who had become his chosen family, Yeonjun felt a subtle reassessment of his rebellious pursuits. The thrill of the night was undeniable, but there was a whisper of something more—a yearning for depth, for meaning, and perhaps, for a different kind of rebellion that extended beyond the shadows of the city.

As they descended from their lofty perch, the echoes of their nightly escapades still reverberating, Yeonjun couldn't shake the feeling that this journey, shared with those who understood the language of rebellion, was on the cusp of a transformative chapter—one where the shadows of the past might find solace in the light of unexpected futures.

The night hung heavy with the scent of salt and the rhythmic lullaby of crashing waves as the boys of TXT gathered on the beach. The sand beneath their feet felt cool and comforting, a stark contrast to the day's rebellious escapades. The moon cast a gentle glow on the water, and the city's distant lights shimmered like distant stars.

As they settled into the makeshift circle they'd formed, the atmosphere was charged with a unique blend of camaraderie and introspection. The sound of the waves provided a natural soundtrack to the quiet moments, punctuated by occasional laughter that echoed against the vast expanse of the ocean.

Yeonjun, gazing at the horizon, broke the silence, his voice carrying a reflective tone. "You ever wonder where we'll be in a few years? What we'll be doing?"

The question lingered in the air, prompting thoughtful glances exchanged among the group. Soobin, the silent contemplator, spoke up, "I mean, we're living this wild life now, but what about the future? Are we just running from something or toward something?"

Beomgyu, who usually wore a carefree grin, chimed in, "Life's one big adventure, right? But what if we're missing out on something important along the way?"

Huening Kai, always the beacon of youthful energy, added, "I never thought about it like that. What if we're letting the thrill of the present distract us from the potential of the future?"

As the conversation deepened, the beach transformed into a confessional of sorts. Each member shared their aspirations, fears, and the weight of expectations they carried. The moonlit night became a canvas for vulnerability, and the camaraderie they'd built was the brush that painted the tapestry of their shared journey.

Taehyun, usually reserved, spoke softly, "Sometimes I wonder if the choices we make today will define who we become tomorrow. Are we building a foundation or just stacking up uncertainties?"

The vulnerability in his words hung in the air, and a collective sigh seemed to escape the group. Yeonjun, looking at each of his friends, felt a sense of gratitude for the shared vulnerability that turned their nightly escapade into a poignant moment of reflection.

In the quietude that followed, the waves continued their rhythmic dance, a reminder of the ever-flowing nature of time. The boys, surrounded by the serenity of the beach, found solace in the shared realization that life's journey was a delicate balance between the thrill of the present and the unknown promise of the future.

As they stood up to leave, the moon casting long shadows on the sand, there was a subtle shift in the air. The beach, once a backdrop for rebellion and laughter, had become a canvas for contemplation—a place where friendships deepened, and the echoes of the night lingered as a reminder that every choice, every adventure, held the potential to shape the narratives of their lives.

The morning sun painted hues of warmth across Seoul, casting a soft glow into Yeonjun's apartment. As he blinked away the remnants of sleep, a lingering sense of introspection from the previous night clung to his thoughts. The beach conversations, the shared vulnerabilities—all echoed in his mind like a gentle reminder of the potential for change.

Yeonjun sat up, his gaze drifting to the cityscape outside his window. The morning held promise, a clean slate waiting to be written with new choices and perspectives. The weight of the past lingered, but the desire for transformation stirred within him.

A tentative resolution formed in his mind. "Maybe it's time for a change," he mused, the words carrying a whisper of determination. Yeonjun envisioned a different trajectory, one that embraced growth, stability, and a departure from the reckless patterns that had defined his life.

But as the day unfolded, the stressors of reality pressed upon him—deadlines, expectations, the constant hum of the city demanding attention. The allure of his old haunts, the familiar thrill of rebellion, seemed like an escape from the complexities of change.

In the face of mounting pressure, Yeonjun found himself retracing the steps of his past. The city welcomed him with open arms, the neon lights and graffiti-covered walls a comforting familiarity. The adrenaline of rebellion called out, promising a temporary respite from the weight of uncertainty.

Hours passed in a blur of graffiti, daring escapades, and the intoxicating thrill of defiance. The city's heartbeat matched the rhythm of his footsteps, and the echoes of the night played out like a familiar song. In the midst of chaos, Yeonjun sought solace, a fleeting escape from the internal conflict that tugged at his soul.

As the moon reclaimed the sky, Yeonjun, standing on a rooftop overlooking the city, felt a mix of emotions. The temporary euphoria of the night's escapades masked the underlying conflict within. The city's shadows, once a refuge, now mirrored the complexities of his own journey.

In the quiet hours before dawn, as the city slept and Yeonjun stood alone, the weight of his choices settled upon him. The desire for change, the yearning for a different path, clashed with the allure of the familiar. The morning sun would soon rise, and with it, the echoes of the night would fade into the reality of a new day—one where the trajectory of Yeonjun's life remained uncertain, hanging in the delicate balance between the past and the potential for a different, yet uncharted, future.

The night wore on, and the city's pulse beat steadily with the rhythm of rebellion. Yeonjun, still caught in the throes of his old habits, found himself stumbling into a dimly lit bar—a haven for those seeking refuge from the chaos outside. The air inside was thick with the hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the distant melodies of a live band.

As Yeonjun settled onto a barstool, the atmosphere of the place embraced him like an old friend. The bartender, a grizzled man with a weathered smile, poured a shot without needing a request. The amber liquid seemed to carry the weight of countless stories, each sip a silent acknowledgment of the night's tumult.

In the corner of the room, a spotlight illuminated a small stage where a singer crooned a soulful ballad, her voice a comforting melody in the midst of the cacophony. Yeonjun, lost in the ambiance, barely noticed the figure approaching him.

"Rough night?" A voice, tinged with empathy, cut through the ambient noise. Yeonjun looked up to find the hostess, Y/N, standing beside him, her eyes reflecting a curious mixture of concern and understanding.

He offered a half-smile, a gesture that held a hint of weariness. "You could say that. Just trying to escape for a bit."

Y/N nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken struggles that often brought people to the dim corners of the bar. "We all have our reasons for seeking refuge here."

As the night unfolded, the conversation between Yeonjun and Y/N flowed effortlessly. The clinking of glasses and the distant melodies became the backdrop to their exchange. Y/N, with a warmth that transcended the dimly lit surroundings, shared snippets of her own journey—the dreams she harbored, the challenges she faced, and the beauty she found in the small moments.

Yeonjun, typically guarded, felt a subtle vulnerability in her presence. The night, once a canvas for rebellion, transformed into a space for shared stories and connection. The weight of uncertainty, which had driven him to the familiar haunts of the city, seemed to momentarily lift.

As the clock ticked away, and the night began to wane, Yeonjun found himself captivated by the genuine nature of the conversation. In the midst of the city's chaos, he discovered a moment of respite and connection—one that hinted at the potential for a different kind of escape, one not rooted in rebellion, but in the shared understanding and warmth of unexpected connections.

As the night unfolded, and Y/N's laughter resonated in the air, a subtle shift occurred within Yeonjun. The dimly lit bar, once a refuge from the complexities of his world, now harbored the potential for something different—a connection that went beyond the neon-lit rebellious escapades.

In the midst of their conversation, a quiet realization dawned on him. Y/N's presence was more than just a temporary distraction; it was a gentle tug at the strings of his guarded heart. Her warmth, the sincerity in her eyes, and the authenticity with which she shared her stories created a bridge between their worlds.

As Y/N spoke about her dreams, her challenges, and the beauty she found in life's small moments, Yeonjun found himself drawn to more than just the words. It was the way her eyes sparkled with passion, the genuine laughter that danced through the air, and the subtle nuances of her expressions that etched themselves into his consciousness.

He couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between the chaos of the city outside and the serenity he felt in Y/N's presence. The night, once a canvas for rebellion, now unfolded as a tapestry of shared stories and unspoken connections. The music played on, a soft melody that underscored the intimate exchange between them.

In the quiet pauses between their words, Yeonjun's thoughts danced on the precipice of realization. He was attracted to more than just the allure of the city's shadows; he was drawn to the light that Y/N brought into his world. Her authenticity, the way she navigated life with a genuine spirit, resonated with a part of him that had long been buried beneath layers of rebellion.

As he stole glances, catching the subtle play of emotions on her face, Yeonjun acknowledged the stirring of something unfamiliar. It wasn't just attraction; it was a recognition of the potential for a connection that transcended the transient thrill of the night.

Yet, amid the subtle allure of this realization, uncertainty lingered. Yeonjun grappled with the juxtaposition of his rebellious nature and the yearning for something more profound. The night may have been a temporary escape, but in the presence of Y/N, he found himself confronting a truth that hinted at a different kind of escape—one rooted in the genuine connection and the uncharted territories of the heart.

The bar's ambiance hummed around them, the murmur of conversations and the soft melodies providing a comforting backdrop to Yeonjun and Y/N's shared connection. As they settled into a lull in the conversation, Yeonjun couldn't help but steer the dialogue toward the uncharted territories of personal preferences.

"So, Y/N," he began, a playful twinkle in his eyes, "what kind of guys are you into? Bad boys, perhaps?"

Y/N chuckled, a warmth in her expression that mirrored the sincerity in her words. "You know, Yeonjun, I've learned not to judge someone based on appearances or stereotypes. Whether they're a 'bad boy' or a 'good boy,' it doesn't matter to me. What's important is the connection, the compatibility. That's what makes someone attractive in my eyes."

Her words hung in the air, carrying a wisdom that transcended the casual banter. Yeonjun, caught off guard by the depth of her response, felt a subtle reassurance wash over him. It was as if Y/N's perspective lifted a weight he didn't realize he was carrying.

She continued, her gaze meeting his with a genuine sincerity, "People are so much more than the labels we give them. It's about understanding who they are, what they value, and finding that connection that goes beyond surface judgments."

Yeonjun nodded, a newfound appreciation for Y/N's perspective settling within him. The weight of his own self-imposed labels, the confines of being a "bad boy," felt a little less constricting in the face of her understanding.

"That's a refreshing way to look at things," he admitted, a genuine smile forming on his lips. "Sometimes, it's easy to get caught up in those labels and forget that there's so much more to a person."

Y/N's smile mirrored his own, a shared understanding passing between them. In that moment, the barriers of judgment and preconceived notions melted away, leaving room for a connection that went beyond the surface. The night continued, the ebb and flow of conversation carrying with it the promise of a connection built on authenticity and shared perspectives—something that felt, for both Yeonjun and Y/N, refreshingly real amid the transient thrill of the city's night.

A week had passed, and the bar that had become a refuge for Yeonjun seemed unusually devoid of Y/N's presence. Night after night, he found himself scanning the dimly lit space, hoping to catch a glimpse of her warm smile and engage in the conversations that had become a source of comfort.

However, fate seemed to play a coy game, and Y/N remained elusive. The absence of her laughter, the missing warmth in her eyes, left a void that echoed in the silent corners of Yeonjun's thoughts.

His friends, the members of TXT, couldn't help but notice the change in Yeonjun's demeanor. The usual twinkle in his eyes was replaced by a subtle hint of melancholy, and the playful banter that characterized his interactions with them took on a more subdued tone.

One evening, as they gathered in the living room of their shared space, Beomgyu couldn't resist teasing. "Hey, Yeonjun, what's with the long face? Did the bad boy finally meet his match?"

Taehyun chimed in with a sly grin, "Yeah, you've been looking a bit too contemplative lately. Is there a love story brewing in the shadows?"

Yeonjun, caught off guard by the sudden attention, sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's not like that. I've just been trying to see Y/N at the bar, but she's never there when I am. She's a part-timer, and our schedules don't seem to align lately."

Soobin, always the voice of reason, leaned forward with a knowing smile. "Ah, the mysterious part-timer. Yeonjun's got a soft spot for her."

The room erupted in laughter, and Yeonjun rolled his eyes, his attempts to brush off the teasing met with playful persistence. Huening Kai, ever the optimist, added fuel to the fire. "Lover boy Yeonjun! Who would've thought?"

As the banter continued, Yeonjun found himself opening up to his friends about the connection he felt with Y/N. The laughter transformed into genuine curiosity as they listened to the subtle nuances of his encounters with her at the bar.

Beomgyu, with a mischievous grin, declared, "Looks like our bad boy is turning into a romantic. Who would've seen that coming?"

As Yeonjun strolled through the bustling streets, the echoes of his friends' teasing still resonating in his mind, he found himself drawn to the familiar hustle and bustle of a nearby mall. The rhythmic hum of shoppers, the vibrant displays in store windows, and the scent of various cuisines mingled in the air.

Amid the crowd, a flash of familiarity caught his attention. There, across the bustling walkway, was Y/N. She navigated the mall with a sense of purpose, her presence standing out amidst the diverse sea of shoppers.

A rush of anticipation coursed through Yeonjun as he approached her. "Y/N!" he called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.

She turned, a surprised yet warm smile spreading across her face. "Yeonjun! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?"

He shrugged casually, the teasing banter from his friends still fresh in his mind. "Just taking a stroll, you know. Happened to stumble upon this place. What about you? Shopping spree?"

Y/N chuckled, her eyes lighting up with genuine warmth. "Not really. Just running errands and grabbing a quick bite. Care to join me?"

As they walked together through the mall, the atmosphere shifted from the casual banter of their bar conversations to the lighthearted exchange one might expect from friends catching up. The city's chaos faded into the background as they explored the various stores and shared stories about their day.

Y/N's easygoing nature and the genuine connection they shared created a sense of comfort that transcended the initial allure of the night. As they reached a quaint café tucked away in a corner of the mall, Yeonjun found himself appreciating the simplicity of the moment—a chance encounter that felt like more than just a casual run-in.

As they sat, sipping on their drinks and exchanging stories, Yeonjun realized that sometimes, the most meaningful connections can be found in the unlikeliest of places. The mall, once a backdrop for the city's daily rhythm, became the setting for a different kind of encounter—one that hinted at the potential for a connection beyond the dimly lit corners of a bar or the playful banter of friends.

In that moment, as they shared laughter and conversation, Yeonjun couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of curiosity about the unfolding chapters of their connection—a connection that, like the city itself, held the promise of unexpected discoveries and the potential for something more than meets the eye.

As the conversation flowed and laughter echoed through the cozy café, Yeonjun felt a surge of courage welling up within him. The warmth of the moment, the genuine connection with Y/N, emboldened him to take a step beyond the casual encounters of the bar and mall.

Summoning the strength, he cleared his throat and, with a sheepish yet sincere smile, asked, "Hey, Y/N, I was thinking… would you mind if I got your number? Maybe we could hang out sometime, like, properly?"

Y/N's eyes twinkled with amusement, and a playful grin danced on her lips. "About time, Yeonjun. I was starting to wonder if you'd ever ask."

Embarrassed yet relieved, he chuckled, "Well, you know, bad boys gotta be careful with their tender hearts."

They exchanged numbers, the promise of a new connection etched in the digits on their screens. Yeonjun couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the next day—a hangout that held the potential to explore the nuances of their connection beyond the confines of the city's night.

As they parted ways, the warmth of the cafe lingered in the air, and Yeonjun couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter marked a turning point. The city, with its chaotic rhythm and unexpected twists, seemed to be orchestrating a unique chapter in his life—one where a simple hangout held the potential to unravel layers of connection and redefine the narratives of his rebellious heart.

The next day dawned with the familiar energy of Seoul's bustling streets. The TXT members gathered in their shared space, a routine invitation to embark on their usual escapades hanging in the air. Soobin, the de facto planner of their adventures, couldn't help but extend the invitation.

"Hey, guys, what do you say we hit the usual spots today? Paint the town with our rebellious spirit?" Soobin suggested, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

However, Yeonjun, with a subtle smile playing on his lips, spoke up, "I think I'll pass today, guys. Got something else on my agenda."

A collective eyebrow raise from the group accompanied Soobin's teasing tone. "Oh, really? Got a hot date or something, lover boy?"

Yeonjun, unfazed, nodded with a smirk. "You could say that. Just something casual."

As he walked away, leaving a curious group of friends in his wake, the echoes of their laughter followed him. The playful teasing resonated through the space, and Soobin couldn't resist making one last comment before Yeonjun disappeared into his room.

"Looks like our bad boy has caught the love bug. Who would've thought?" Soobin quipped, eliciting a chorus of laughter from the remaining members.

In his room, Yeonjun couldn't help but smile at the banter of his friends. The usual rebellious pursuits were set aside for a different kind of adventure—one that involved the anticipation of a friendly hangout with Y/N. As he got ready for the day, he couldn't shake the feeling that this departure from their routine held the promise of something meaningful, a chapter in his life that unfolded beyond the city's night and the echoes of his rebellious past.

In the dimly lit corners of a Seoul nightclub, the atmosphere pulsed with energy, and the echoes of laughter and music filled the air. Yeonjun, known for his magnetic charm and carefree persona, moved through the crowd with an effortless swagger that drew attention like moths to a flame.

In this scene, we find ourselves in a moment from Yeonjun's past—a time when he was the quintessential heartbreaker, a playboy who reveled in the thrill of transient connections. His reputation preceded him, and many were lured by the enigma that surrounded him.

As he danced with someone new every night and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, there was a certain intoxication in the fleeting encounters and the admiration he received. The city's lights, reflecting in the eyes of those who sought his attention, seemed to validate the reckless pursuit of pleasure.

However, amid the dance floor's pulsating rhythm and the haze of nightlife, there were moments when Yeonjun, in the quiet solitude of his thoughts, felt a twinge of emptiness. The very charm that drew others to him became a barrier, shielding him from the depth of genuine connections.

The flashbacks are a montage of shared glances, whispered promises, and the ephemeral nature of his interactions. In each scene, we see glimpses of the playboy persona, the facade that hid a sense of hollowness.

Cut to the present day, and Yeonjun, as he prepares for a different kind of encounter with Y/N, finds himself dwelling on those moments of his past. The weight of his playboy reputation, the regret for the hearts he left in his wake, lingers in the recesses of his consciousness.

As he faces the present with a desire for meaningful connections, the echoes of his playboy days serve as a backdrop—a reminder of the journey that brought him to this point of reflection and the potential for growth and redemption.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the city, Yeonjun and Y/N found themselves in the heart of Seoul, ready for a hangout that promised to be different from their usual encounters.

They decided to explore the city's hidden gems, away from the neon-lit corners and pulsating beats of the nightlife. The evening air carried a sense of anticipation as they strolled through quaint streets, exchanging stories and laughter.

Their connection, once confined to the dimly lit bar and the casual encounters of the mall, deepened in the midst of shared experiences. They discovered shared interests, laughed at each other's jokes, and engaged in conversations that flowed effortlessly.

As they explored a cozy café tucked away in a quiet alley, the ambiance echoed the genuine warmth of their connection. The clinking of coffee cups and the distant hum of the city formed a comforting backdrop to their shared moments.

In this setting, Yeonjun felt a departure from the playboy persona of his past. The genuine connection he sought, the desire for meaningful moments, unfolded in the simple yet profound exchange of stories and laughter. The city, once a playground for his rebellious pursuits, became a canvas for a different kind of adventure—one that involved the exploration of authentic connections and the unraveling of his own layers.

As the evening unfolded, Yeonjun couldn't help but appreciate the shift in dynamics. The heartbreaker of his past found solace in the simplicity of the present—a friendly hangout that held the potential for something more profound.

For Y/N, the night held a similar sentiment. The playful banter of their past encounters transformed into a shared understanding, and the laughter that echoed through the streets became a testament to the budding connection between two individuals navigating the complexities of their own journeys.

Amidst the soothing ambiance of the café, Yeonjun found a moment to open up to Y/N. The warmth of their connection had already surpassed the transient encounters of the past, and he felt a genuine desire to share his thoughts with her.

"Y/N," he began, his gaze sincere and vulnerable, "there's something I've been thinking about a lot lately. I've been living this kind of… reckless life, you know? The playboy, heartbreaker image—it's not really who I want to be anymore."

Y/N listened attentively, her eyes reflecting a mix of understanding and encouragement. "It's never easy realizing you want to change, but it's a brave step to take," she replied, her voice gentle yet reassuring.

Yeonjun sighed, the weight of his past choices palpable in his words. "I've been concerned about where my current behaviors might lead me. I want something more meaningful, something that goes beyond the surface. I'm just not sure how to navigate it all."

Y/N offered a comforting smile, her words carrying a wisdom that resonated with empathy. "Change is a process, Yeonjun. It's about taking small steps, setting intentions, and being patient with yourself. You don't have to figure it all out at once. What matters is that you're aware of your desires for change and that you're willing to work towards it."

Her advice struck a chord with Yeonjun, a sense of gratitude swelling within him. "You're right. I don't have to rush things. It's just that… I've seen the consequences of my past actions, and I don't want to keep heading down that path."

Y/N nodded, her expression understanding. "Acknowledging that is the first step. And you're not alone in this journey. Surround yourself with people who support your growth, set realistic goals, and be kind to yourself along the way. Change takes time, but it's worth it if it aligns with the person you want to become."

As the conversation unfolded, Yeonjun felt a newfound sense of support and understanding. Y/N's words became a guiding light, illuminating a path towards self-discovery and growth. In her presence, he realized that the city, with its myriad possibilities, offered not only the echoes of the past but also the potential for transformation and a future aligned with the authenticity he sought.

The shared laughter and conversations took on a deeper meaning. Yeonjun, grateful for the connection he found in Y/N, looked towards the future with a sense of hope and determination—a departure from the playboy heartbreaker, and a step towards the person he aspired to be.

As they parted ways that night, the promise of future hangouts lingered in the air. Yeonjun, reflecting on the evening's events, realized that the city, with its myriad possibilities, was still full of surprises—a place where the echoes of his past were met with the potential for growth, connection, and the discovery of something more meaningful than the transient allure of his playboy days.

The night's gentle embrace lingered as Yeonjun returned home to the shared space where the members of TXT resided. The camaraderie of their friendship had weathered the storms of rebellion, and as he stepped through the door, he felt a sense of unity that encouraged him to share his thoughts with his friends.

Gathering the members in the living room, Yeonjun's expression held a mix of vulnerability and determination. "Hey, guys, there's something I've been thinking about. I've realized that maybe it's time for some changes in our lives, you know? Slowly, but surely."

The room fell into a thoughtful silence as the other members, each absorbed in their own contemplations, looked at Yeonjun with a mix of curiosity and support. Soobin, always the grounded leader, nodded encouragingly. "What kind of changes are you thinking, Yeonjun?"

Yeonjun took a deep breath before continuing, "I've been living a certain way, and it's been fun, but I can't help feeling like it's not sustainable. I want more from life, from our experiences. Maybe we can start making choices that lead to growth, connections, and something more meaningful."

The atmosphere in the room shifted, a shared understanding permeating the air. Beomgyu chimed in, "I've been feeling something similar. It's like we've been dancing to the same rhythm, and maybe it's time for a new tune."

Taehyun added with a thoughtful nod, "Change can be good, as long as we're doing it for the right reasons. What are you thinking, Yeonjun?"

Yeonjun, appreciative of the support from his friends, shared his reflections about wanting to shed the playboy image and embrace a more meaningful lifestyle. The room became a space for openness and vulnerability, each member contributing their thoughts and desires for change.

Soobin, with a reassuring smile, spoke, "I think it's a great idea. We've grown together, and this could be the next chapter for us. Let's support each other in making positive changes and explore the new possibilities that come our way."

As the conversation unfolded, the members of TXT found themselves in a collective agreement—a pact to embark on a journey of growth and change together. The echoes of their past, marked by rebellion and carefree pursuits, now harmonized with the potential for a future filled with genuine connections and meaningful experiences.

In that shared moment, surrounded by the support of true friends, Yeonjun felt a sense of relief and optimism for the transformative path that lay ahead—a departure from the old ways, and a step towards a future built on mutual support, understanding, and the enduring bonds of their friendship.

On Y/N's free day, Yeonjun took the initiative to introduce her to the members of TXT. The shared space buzzed with excitement as introductions were made, and Y/N's warm demeanor quickly endeared her to the group.

Yeonjun, ever the showman, decided to give a grand introduction. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet the fabulous Y/N, the one who's going to save us from our rebellious ways!"

Beomgyu, with a mischievous grin, added, "The one who will turn us from bad boys to good guys. Or at least try."

Y/N, amused by the theatrics, curtsied playfully, "Well, hello, gentlemen. I'm here for the challenge!"

As they all sat down, the atmosphere shifted from grand introductions to more casual banter. Soobin, the group's natural leader, decided to break the ice with a friendly question. "So, Y/N, what brings you into the chaotic world of TXT?"

Y/N, with a twinkle in her eye, replied, "Oh, just felt like I needed a little more chaos in my life. Thought you guys could use some company."

The boys erupted into laughter, realizing they were in for a day full of unexpected surprises. Taehyun, always the observant one, couldn't help but comment, "I have a feeling we're in for an interesting time with you around."

The conversation continued with jokes, playful teasing, and Y/N effortlessly blending into the camaraderie of the group. Huening Kai, intrigued by the dynamic, chimed in with a humorous question, "So, Y/N, what's your superpower? How do you plan to tame the chaos?"

Y/N, with a mock-serious expression, replied, "Well, I have the incredible ability to turn rebellious boys into gentlemen with just a smile. It's a work in progress."

The boys burst into laughter, realizing that Y/N's presence brought not only a mission of positive change but also a healthy dose of humor and lightheartedness. Throughout the day, they discovered that Y/N's superpower wasn't just in her ability to suggest positive changes but also in her knack for turning even the most serious moments into opportunities for laughter and connection.

As the day unfolded, the shared jokes and funny anecdotes became the glue that bonded them together. Y/N, with her infectious laughter and playful spirit, seamlessly became a part of the group—a friend who not only saw the potential for positive change but also knew how to make the journey enjoyable along the way.

With a genuine smile, Y/N proposed, "How about we make today a day of trying new things? I've got a few activities in mind that might be a fun change of pace."

The boys, always up for an adventure, agreed enthusiastically. Throughout the day, Y/N curated a series of activities designed to replace their rebellious habits with more constructive and fulfilling pursuits.

She started with a visit to an art studio, encouraging them to channel their creativity onto canvases rather than expressing it through reckless actions. Beomgyu, who had a knack for artistic expression, found a new passion for painting, while Kai discovered the therapeutic benefits of sculpting.

Next, Y/N led them to a community garden, where they tried their hands at planting and nurturing flowers. The act of tending to living things replaced their destructive tendencies with a sense of responsibility and care. Soobin, who initially questioned the choice, found solace in the simplicity of gardening.

Lunchtime was an opportunity for Y/N to get to know each member on a personal level. She attentively listened to their individual goals and aspirations, taking note of every detail. Over meals, she subtly integrated conversations about healthier habits and positive lifestyle changes.

In the afternoon, they visited a local gym, where Y/N introduced them to various exercises and fitness routines. Taehyun, who enjoyed the adrenaline rush of rebellion, found a new outlet in the intensity of a workout. It became evident that Y/N had tailored each activity to address the unique interests and needs of each member.

As the day unfolded, Y/N's ability to understand and connect with the members became increasingly apparent. She acknowledged the little details, the personal goals, and the reactions to different activities. For Yeonjun, she suggested activities that channeled his energy into a constructive outlet, away from the reckless pursuits of the past.

The day ended with a cozy dinner where Y/N shared her observations and suggestions for positive changes. The members, initially skeptical, found themselves inspired by Y/N's thoughtful approach. The city, once a canvas for rebellion, became a space for growth, understanding, and the potential for a future built on healthier choices and genuine connections.

As they bid farewell to Y/N that evening, the members of TXT carried with them a newfound sense of optimism and the seeds of change that had been planted throughout the day—a departure from their old ways and a step towards a future filled with purpose, growth, and the unwavering support of a friend who saw the best in each of them.

Later, TXT gathered for dinner, the playful atmosphere lingered from the day's activities. Beomgyu, known for his mischievous side, couldn't resist the opportunity to stir things up a bit. A sly grin played on his lips as he exchanged knowing glances with the other members.

"So, guys," Beomgyu began, his tone deviously casual, "I've been thinking… Y/N is really cool, right?"

Taehyun and Soobin exchanged amused glances, fully aware of Beomgyu's mischievous intent. Huening Kai, always up for a bit of fun, nodded eagerly. "Yeah, she's pretty awesome. Don't you think, Yeonjun?"

Yeonjun, unsuspecting and caught up in the positive energy of the day, looked up from his plate. "Oh, definitely. Y/N is great."

Beomgyu, seizing the opportunity, leaned in with a mock-confessional tone. "You know, I was thinking… maybe I should ask her out."

The room fell into a sudden hush as everyone turned their attention to Beomgyu. Soobin, trying to suppress a smile, asked, "Really? Beomgyu, are you serious?"

Beomgyu, maintaining his poker face, nodded. "Yeah, she's just got this… I don't know, something about her. I can't help it. I think I'm falling for Y/N."

The words hung in the air, and Yeonjun's eyes widened in surprise. Beomgyu, relishing the moment, continued, "What do you think, Yeonjun? Should I go for it? I mean, you did say she's cool."

Yeonjun, caught off guard, stammered, "Uh, well, I mean, if you think you like her, go for it. It's not like I have a say in it."

The room erupted in laughter as Beomgyu revealed the prank. "Gotcha, Yeonjun! Just wanted to see your reaction. You should've seen your face!"

Yeonjun, a mix of relief and amusement, playfully rolled his eyes. "You guys are unbelievable. I can't believe you pulled a prank on me like that."

A year had passed since the transformative day when Y/N entered the lives of the members of TXT, bringing with her a mission of positive change and growth. Now, as they gathered in their shared space, the room resonated with a different energy—a sense of purpose, ambition, and the unwavering support of true friendship.

The boys had evolved into different versions of themselves, each actively working towards personal goals that reflected their newfound determination. Beomgyu, once the mischievous troublemaker, had channeled his creativity into a successful art venture. Taehyun, always the thoughtful one, had found fulfillment in pursuing a career aligned with his passion for helping others. Soobin, the natural leader, had taken on new responsibilities with grace and determination. Huening Kai and Yeonjun had both discovered their unique paths, each contributing to the overall growth and success of the group.

In the midst of these positive changes, Yeonjun and Y/N had found solace and strength in each other. Their connection had deepened over shared dreams, challenges, and a commitment to support each other's personal journeys. What started as a mission to change rebellious ways had transformed into a meaningful and loving relationship.

The night was calm, the city outside their window settling into a serene rhythm. Yeonjun and Y/N lay side by side in the dimly lit room, their conversations flowing seamlessly from one topic to another. The ambiance held a sense of tranquility, punctuated by shared laughter and the comforting hum of the city.

As they spoke about dreams, aspirations, and the little moments that had defined their journey together, the conversation naturally gravitated towards the topic that held a special place in both their hearts—their relationship. Yeonjun, with a sincerity in his voice, expressed, "You know, I never thought a simple mission to change our ways would lead to this. To us."

Y/N smiled, tracing patterns on Yeonjun's hand. "Life has a funny way of surprising us, doesn't it? I wouldn't have it any other way."

They spoke of the challenges they had overcome, the growth they had experienced, and the unspoken understanding that bound them together. In the quiet of the night, their words became a shared journey—a testament to the depth of their connection.

As the conversation settled into a comfortable silence, Yeonjun leaned in, capturing Y/N's lips in a gentle yet passionate kiss. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, carrying the weight of shared experiences and the promise of many more to come. Pulling back, they exchanged smiles, their eyes reflecting a deep understanding that words couldn't fully capture.

With a tender embrace, they settled into the cozy cocoon of their shared bed. The city outside may have been alive with its own stories, but in that moment, the world narrowed down to the warmth of their shared space.

However, just as they began to drift into the quiet embrace of sleep, the door burst open with a bang. The room was suddenly filled with the blinding flashes of cameras, and confetti canons exploded, showering the room in a riot of colors. The members of TXT stormed in, each holding cameras and wearing mischievous grins.

"So, we heard you were having a moment," Beomgyu declared, camera in hand. "And what's better than capturing the lovebirds in their natural habitat?"

Yeonjun and Y/N, still recovering from the surprise, were met with the chaotic entrance of their friends. Soobin, Huening Kai, and Taehyun joined in the revelry, holding confetti canons and wearing party hats.

Beomgyu raised his camera, aiming it at the disheveled couple. "Say cheese! Or in this case, say 'sleepover!'"

The room echoed with laughter and playful protests as the unexpected sleepover took shape. Despite the intrusion, Yeonjun and Y/N couldn't help but join in the infectious energy. As the confetti settled around them, the room became a haven of shared laughter, friendship, and the enduring bonds that had blossomed amidst the chaos of their rebellious past.

And so, the night continued with impromptu celebrations, shared stories, and the kind of camaraderie that turned ordinary moments into cherished memories. The city outside may have slept, but in the shared apartment of TXT, the night was alive with the vibrant echoes of friendship and the warmth of a love that had blossomed against all odds.

#txt #tomorrow x together #txt fluff #txt imagines #txt post #txt x reader #tubatu #choi yeonjun #huening kai #beomgyu #soobin #taehyun #yeonjun #yeonjun fluff #yeonjun x reader #txt yeonjun #yeonjun imagines

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lemissingmask · 6 months

Text

[ID: Sketch in mostly greyscale with coloured fire and blood of Parker running over and starting to drop to her knees beside Eliot, who is lying amongst rubble, holding one hand to his abdomen, which is severely bleeding, and starting to push himself up onto his elbow. He also has blood on his head and face and elsewhere on his hands and chest. End ID]

Day 21: Blood loss

Eliot with very severe and rapid blood loss after an explosion causes him to acquire shrapnel wounds.

Ficlet below the cut

It was the sharp pain on the palms of her hands that Parker noticed first, the only clear sense in that confusion of noise and heat and swirling smoke.

Gravel.

Rough, sharp, gritty gravel underneath her hands and digging into her knees.

It had left bloody grazes where she had caught herself on the ground after Eliot propelled her behind the crate, throwing her to safety no more than a second before the explosion.

She hadn’t even really registered that there had been an explosion at all until she looked around and saw the fire, the smoke, the twisted fragments of metal and concrete scattered over where Eliot lay.

Or had been laying.

He was already pushing himself up from the ground, shards of glass catching the firelight from within his hair, glistening like the rich red blood that was rapidly darkening his clothes.

Parker stumbled to her feet, head feeling too heavy and body overbalanced, but within a couple of steps she found her limbs complying properly, and managed to get to Eliot’s side before he could get as far as standing.

As the thief dropped down, her knees landed in wetness, in Eliot’s blood, pooling rapidly beneath him as several deep wounds seemed to be determinedly pumping out his blood with each beat of his heart.

The worst, or where most blood could be seen, was his abdomen. He had his left hand pressed there, clutching the fabric of his undershirt tightly, both it and the clothing already covered in that shining red.

Knowing Eliot, knowing he would never just stay there like people actively bleeding out should do, she ducked under his arm to help him up, and together they stumbled back behind the crate that had protected her.

There had been three explosions in quick succession. More might be coming…secondary explosions as other things ignited and blew up.

Worse yet, she could already hear the wail of sirens, faint in the wake of the deafening explosion.

They needed to disappear.

Now.

If they were found there would be ambulances, hospital, police questioning, and Parker would either have to run and leave Eliot to be held prisoner in a hospital until they could break him out, or be arrested under suspicion herself so Hardison would need to get them both out.

She had to get out of there. Had to get them both out of there.

“Park,” Eliot, hoarse and close and quiet.

Next to her ear, not in it.

The earbuds?

She felt her ear, the device was still there but tapping it offered no feedback and she heard no reply as she called out Hardison. He always responded over comms, if they were working.

“Earbud’s fried,” she said, shifting it to her pocket.

Eliot reached for his, “Mine’s gone.”

Somewhere amongst all the debris.

Parker turned to Eliot, the motion making the world spin again for a moment, and she wondered if she had hit her head. Her brain felt too fuzzy.

“We have to get to Hardison,” she said, aware that he was probably thinking exactly the same, “Can you walk?”

He nodded, gaze fixed on her’s, assessing something that she didn’t understand.

“Okay…” she looked away, out at the gradient of lessening destruction as it went away from the epicentre. Somewhere out there Hardison would definitely go to park the van and wait to rendezvous. Did they wait?

“There!” Eliot pushed himself up, gripping her arm tightly and pointing towards an area some way off.

The deep shadow from one building was interrupted by an intermittent light. Regular sequence. Morse code, Parker guessed, and something that made Eliot smile slightly.

“Hardison?”

Eliot nodded, wrapping his arm back around Parker as she helped him to stand.

It was only a short distance - a hundred and twenty three metres - to the deep shadow, but it felt like twice or even three times that with Eliot practically a dead weight beside her, his steps slow and faltering, and having to hold one hand over his bleeding abdomen just unbalanced them more.

He stumbled and very nearly brought them both to the ground as they reached the van, saved by Hardison sprinting in to prop up Eliot on his other side.

“Dammit man!” Hardison took most of Eliot’s weight, freeing Parker to sprint ahead to get the van door open, “Please tell me you went and slaughtered a chicken or something on the way and that is not all your bl-“

“Hardison!” Eliot growled, cutting off his growing panic.

The hacker looked wide eyed and more than a bit ill as he got Eliot into the back, “We are taking you to a hospital this time.”

“No…just…” Eliot fumbled in his pocket, getting a hold of his phone, the screen cracked and blood in the fine lines of the glass.

More blood smeared over the phone as he dialled, fingers shaking on the buttons and making him mess the number at least twice. But he dialled what he intended and switched the phone to speaker, letting it fall gently onto the floor of the van, his hand limp beside it.

“Eliot Spencer. Got another imminent terrorist threat for me to have to deal with today?”

The familiar voice of colonel Vance.

“Discrete medic in West Michigan,” Eliot said as loudly as his failing strength would allow, “You got anyone?”

A brief pause, then, “I’ll text you an address and let them know you’re coming. Nature of the injury?”

“Shrapnel wound to the abdomen, severe blood loss.”

Vance abruptly hung up. Moments later there was a text, an address, and without a word between them, Hardison grabbed up the phone and jumped into the cab, kicking the van into motion almost immediately.

Through all this, Parker had been focused on the injuries that were quickly threatening to kill their hitter. The conversation, the suddenly moving van, her own bleeding hands and arms were distant. Like something happening elsewhere, out of the bubble of her and Eliot and all that blood.

He had taught her basic first aid, and how to slow bleeding, how to clean and stitch up wounds. Bullet wounds and knife wounds. How to stabilise a broken leg or arm…not this. Not this jagged, deep, metal-flecked mess.

But she had grabbed their first aid kit anyway. Well stocked. Eliot had a medic friend who designed him the sort of first aid kit he would need, kitted out for the types of injury most likely in his line of work.

She had pulled on nitrile gloves over her own scraped up hands, grabbed gauze, sterile and bundled, and packed some in the wound, applying pressure over the top with more gauze. Her pressing over Eliot’s abdomen made him wince, but nothing more.

“How long?!”

Hardison glanced back over his shoulder, “Twenty minutes. If we’re lucky.”

Parker looked back down at Eliot, fading fast, almost colourless as his blood kept seeping out through the gauze and between her fingers.

“Tie this down,” he slipped a shaking hand over one of her’s, “Make it tight.”

She nodded, letting him take over applying pressure as she scrambled to get another roll of gauze from its packet. She looped it round over the wound and behind his back a couple of times, tightening it until she saw him tense from the pain, then fastening it with a knot probably not meant for bandages but it was what she knew.

“Good…now IV…” Eliot rasped, clumsily pulling up his left sleeve to expose a vessel she could use, “You remember…how to…?”

She nodded and returned to the kit. The only time she’d done this before, he had been more conscious than he was now, and they were only doing it to deal with severe dehydration. He had been able to help more than he was now, and there wasn’t all this blood on his skin already and they weren’t in a moving vehicle and…

“Parker,” his voice brought her back, “‘s okay. Instructions…on the…”

She looked at bags, neatly packed in beside the lines and sterile needles. Taped on each was the clear name of the fluid in the bag, when to use it, and stepwise instructions for how to set the IV up.

Eliot had planned for situations like this.

So she followed the instructions, blocking out the sight of the blood and the sound of Eliot’s breath growing more ragged, and Hardison’s panicked updates on how long it would take.

She couldn’t focus on all of it at once and she needed to get the fluids into Eliot. He was losing a lot and he needed more. Blood pressure getting too low was bad. She knew that.

And she did it.

She got the IV hooked up, the fluid moving into Eliot’s body…

He smiled that soft smile that made her chest tighten, “Good job.”

She fought back a wave of fear.

Not good enough.

Eliot was still bleeding out, still getting paler and paler.

Parker held his hand in one of her's, using the other to try and put more pressure on the wound.

After about seven and a half more minutes, his finger's uncurled, hand falling limp and unresponsive in her's.

"Hardison!"

"Almost there," he replied shakily, catching her gaze in the rearview mirror, "Just hold on. A couple more blocks."

It felt like ten, twenty, a hundred more, every passing second making it less and less likely that Eliot would survive this.

But he was still breathing, he still had a faint pulse, when the van stopped.

The back doors opened and Hardison jumped in.

Parker looked beyond him, to the concrete parking lot and the white building beyond. A door was already opening and two people pushing a gurney towards them.

She heard them say something, Hardison call something back, but the words didn't really register, and suddenly they were in the van too, taking up too much space and too much air and she couldn't breathe.

"Babe," Hardison's voice in her ear, his hands on her arms, "Parker, they got Eliot. You gotta let go."

She looked down at her hands, still holding Eliot's hand and the gauze tightly, both red but the blood was drying and getting darker.

Mutely, she nodded.

These were the medics Vance had said were okay, and they were going to help Eliot.

Parker let Hardison guide her back out of the van into the too-bright world outside.

His hand was shaking where it rested over her shoulder. She held it to make it stop.

The medical people had Eliot on the gurney now, wheeling him into the building at a run. Parker wanted to follow but she knew she wasn't supposed to. She could watch from a vent maybe, but that would mean leaving Hardison alone, and he was breathing quickly, panicking now everything they could do was done.

"Would you like to follow me?"

The kind voice, with a smile that was completely inappropriate, came from a tall person wearing Crocs and multicoloured scrubs.

"We have a staff area where you can shower, and I can find you some clothes to borrow."

Parker looked down at her once-white vest top, now a reddish brown over almost all the front.

They didn't need to borrow clothes since they always had plenty spare in the van, which was good because Parker wanted something comfortable and safe and ended up, after a long shower, engulfing herself in one of Hardison's hoodies.

After they had both showered and changed, the kind person in Crocs brought them some water and offered them hot drinks and cookies. They were now sitting in a cheaply furnished room with hot chocolate and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, staring at the same door Croc-person came in through before, waiting for them to return and offer some sort of update on Eliot.

Last they had heard, when the kettle had been boiling for the hot chocolate, he was still in surgery and that was all Crocs knew.

An hour later, they still had no new information, and the sun was starting to set.

Parker finished her drink, long-since gone cold, and rested her cheek on Hardison's shoulder. She let her eyes fall shut, the white of that door lingering behind her eyelids, until it faded with the creeping darkness of an exhausted sleep.

She opened her eyes to a dimly lit, horizontal, world.

Her pillow had changed from the wool of a sweater to coarser denim, and the hood over her head had been replaced by a familiar hand resting lightly on her hair.

From this vantage point of Hardison's lap, she could see very little of the room.

The coffee table, part of the counter beyond, and a leg that she knew with a very distinctive boot at the end of it.

She slowly slipped out from under Hardison's hand, registering by the lack of response that he was asleep, and sat up to get a better look at their hitter.

Pale but not covered in blood, and wearing clothes that had to belong to the clinic, except for his own boots, which were not quite as cleaned of blood as the rest of him. He was sitting in an armchair with a beer in one hand and an IV hooked up to the other arm, watching her calmly.

"Hey," he whispered, voice still as weak as it had been when they first got him into the van.

"Hey," she echoed, the image of him sitting there all clean and bandaged felt less real, less tangible, than the bloody, bleeding out, Eliot she had been knelt beside for an unbearably long twenty minutes.

She was clean but her hands still felt dirty. She still had some of his blood caught up in the corners of her nails and on her shoes, like on his shoes.

He had nearly died right there in the back of Lucille, and Parker couldn't stop it.

She opened her mouth, but shut it before making a sound.

How could she voice the reality that she - they - could never bear to lose him, that it would destroy them both, and that they would neither of them survive the overwhelming grief...she couldn't form the sentence that conveyed it.

“You doin’ alright?” he asked softly, something in his expression and those words telling her that he understood perfectly those words she couldn't say.

She nodded, swallowing down tears she hadn’t realised had been welling up, “You need to apologise to Hardison. You got blood all over Lucille.”

Eliot bowed his head, “I’ll apologise when he wakes up.”

“You’ll clean her when I wake up,” Hardison mumbled groggily, not moving.

Parker smiled as Eliot let out a small, tired, laugh, “Never gonna happen, my man.”

#ailesswhumptober2023 #Day 21: Blood loss #leverage #parker #eliot spencer #cw blood #cw fire #cw explosion

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thehistoriangirl · 5 months

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The Tides Have Veiled [Eleven]

This chapter was cut in half for being too long (like 7K long type thing). I hope to upload the other half before next Saturday :D

Viktor x Fem!Reader----3.3K---SFW

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis: Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: The consequences of last night's storm hadn't stopped yet, proving that the sea is as rutheless as she's hungry. Maybe you can trade some of your secrets for her own?

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @blissfulip @bittercyder

Eleven: The tears run down toward the sea;

When the sun poured inside the lighthouse, the storm had gone away as if it had never existed.

Like any other morning, you rolled over the cold cot, the old springs grumbling beneath your weight.

There was a foreign smell coming from the other half of the cot, like oranges and black coffee. Your eyes opened wide, hands scrambling around as if to search for the full-grown man that had vanished from the cot.

Was it all a dream?

“Good morning, Miss,” Viktor greeted, his back toward you as he was cooking above the hearth, the pan sizzling in contact with the flames. “Did you sleep well last night?”

Then no, it hadn’t been a dream.

“Um.. hi, hi, Viktor. Good morning,” you said, covering your mouth when a yawn escaped your lips. “What time is it?”

He hummed, looking at the old clock hung in the west wall, tucked beneath the stairs. “Barely six in the morning. You can sleep some more if you want."

You sat, rubbing your eyes. Upon the greyish morning light, you could see Viktor's eyebags surrounding his gold pools for eyes.

"What about you?" You had to say. "You look tired. You can take the cot, I'll go nap on the couch upstairs." Now that it was plein day, you didn't have any fear of staying in the beacon room. Not that Viktor needed to know about the twisted machinations of your mind.

Viktor put the pan over a wooden board in the middle of the table, the smell of scrambled eggs filling the little ground floor. He gestured for you to sit, politely ignoring your attempts at trying to brush your hair with your hands; with the humidity of the past storm, it was impossible to tame.

“You didn’t sleep well last night,” you told him. Of course he couldn’t, you thought, comparing the soft mattress and plush blankets against the bare, old cot and rough blankets that had seen better days.

Viktor didn’t try to hide it. “The storm woke me up,” he told you, gesturing with his fork. “The window upstairs broke. I think it was the wind.”

Your run ran cold, and you felt yourself getting shivers. The bloated face of the woman with its hollow eyes haunted you, and suddenly the plate of scrambled eggs didn’t seem as appetizing.

“Did you check it?”

“Eh… no, I didn’t,” Viktor said between bites. “I can’t climb the stairs holding the lamp. I just heard the glass breaking. I apologize. I should’ve checked it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you answered, almost automatically. You didn’t want to discover if the ghostly woman was only trying to harm you, or if she was trying to hunt him down, too. “It’s fine, Viktor. We’ll fix it soon enough.”

"I'm going to ask a glassmaker to come and take the dimensions of the window to change the whole panel. It’s dangerous to have a weak glass against such winds. You could end up hurt.”

You paused for a moment. “Oh. Today is your evaluation test?” Time had gone flying, with almost a month since you got married, with him coming to the lighthouse to pass every night under the same roof as you.

Viktor nodded. “Yes. But worry not. I’m planning to return here as soon as I’m done with it.” He squirmed around on the chair, putting his coat on as the windows of the living room started to stain with mist from the lightened hearth.

“You don’t have to,” you said, though probably he did it because you had seen what a journey of the city made to his body, and yours, for that matter. "I can imagine it’s very taxing to come and go in one day.”

Viktor dismissed your concern with his hand. “It’s alright, Miss. I can rest once I’ve returned here. Oh, that’s right, the power hasn’t come back yet.” He told you, standing to turn on the lonely bulb above your heads. “I suppose I’ll pass to ask the electric company about it.”

“Don’t the mayor of the town have to do that?” You asked.

Viktor smirked. "The mayor of this town lives in the city, so I don't think he had noticed about the power outage, no."

Not that you blamed him, even if you wanted to—if you had the opportunity to leave, you would also never put a foot on this beach again.

As you finished breakfast, feeling as if you had eaten bricks instead of food, you decided to check the beacon room as Viktor washed the dishes. You didn’t want him to exhaust himself climbing all those stairs when he had to go up the hill for his luggage and then walking around the city later that day.

As you took the first steps up, you noticed something amiss midway to the top.

Footstep marks were still wet against the wooden floorboards, amorph drips of a dragged long cloth that left behind a trail of saltpeter, water, and sand.

Your stomach turned, and you prayed your food wouldn’t come out as you overstepped the marks with your shoes, keeping up the rhythm of your steps to deter Viktor from any suspicion that something was wrong.

The beacon room's floor was sprinkled with glass shards shining like diamonds against the sun shyly peeking through the horizon; a cold wind moving your hair to convince you that you weren’t dreaming there where the window frame was supposed to be, now laying broken against the wall.

Water was splattered everywhere, and it was a miracle that it hadn’t started to leak toward the ground floor. Your boots created ripples with each step you took, the sand collected at the bottom of the shallow pond muddying the clear view of the still water. Just like another tidepool, and this time, you were the creature trapped in it.

You saw some blobs of a black substance floating away, like rotten blood that couldn’t mix in with the water. Unbeknown to you, you had been clutching your sweater close against your chest at the sight.

Because then everything had been real.

And if that woman was real…

You pictured last night, her sadistic grin against the window as she held a rusty knife, the glass starting to break under her smashing attempts. You couldn’t figure out how much did it take her to break it, and how you didn’t hear it.

Viktor did—he had told you that the glass broke, but you didn’t? How was that possible?

Your thoughts flew apart as you scanned the scene, grateful that the control room was blocked by an uneven threshold that kept any water away from the hermetic door.

“Miss?” Viktor called. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes! Yes, of course! I only have to mop the floor.”

After some minutes, you heard Viktor’s pace entering the beacon room, his golden eyes widened as he took in the flooding scene. As he walked further toward the window, you noticed how the blobs of black blood clung onto his clothes, and into your ankles.

“What is this?” Viktor said, holding the rusty knife between his fingers, the touch of the metal leaving behind a trail of black ink against his fingers.

“Must have flown inside due to the storm,” you replied barely seconds before he answered. The ghostly lady may have let it here to finish the job the next night, you thought, feeling shivering traveling along your spine. “Do you think the wood will root now that it’s humid?”

“With some luck, it won't. The wood will get dry with the sunlight, and we can schedule a varnish session for the floor later this week." Viktor hummed, keeping the knife in his pocket absentmindedly.

“Let’s put some wood boards covering the broken window,” he started, gesturing toward the control room. “Ah, yes, yes! The floor first,” Viktor said, observing his cane starting to get dirty with the rest of the sand, saltpeter, and black goop with a curious yet intense frown.

You nodded, going toward the locker to retrieve a couple of buckets and all the cloth you could use to dry and mop.

“Eh… Miss—” he started, his eyes seeking something inside of yours. However, the rest of his words were drowned by the growing cacophony of an angry mob outside.

You tilted your head, turning toward the stairs. “What is that? Is that outside the lighthouse?”

Viktor sighed, his lips glued in a thin line. “That’s for me,” he said, crossing the room and starting to walk down the stairs with a muffled groan of effort as he was descending as fast as he could.

“Wait!” you said, feeling the heavy ambiance of the beacon room now that he was gone.

As you descended the stairs behind his heels, you caught the glimmer of something pink and orange against the thin sunlight that had started to enter through the ground floor.

As Viktor opened the door, you knelt above the step, hands carefully tapping away until your fingers prickled with the now familiar outline of a shell—the shell Viktor had given you for good luck.

Looking back at the wet trail of that ghostly, ragged dress, you noticed that the marks stopped just where you were, a step over the shell tucked between the wall and the step.

“YOU’RE A KILLER! A MONSTER!” Someone screamed outside, and by instinct, you bolted down the steps until you crossed the entrance threshold.

Viktor caught a vision of you from his side view, using his left arm to stop you from coming in front of him.

“I must remind you that the malfunction of the whole electric suppliance to the town doesn't fall in my jurisdiction," he said, his voice cold and stern. “I have my emergency generator to keep the beacon going, but alas, said device is also connected to the only electric installment in town.”

“Don’t come here to give us a sermon!” You heard the voice of a woman scream, her tone uneven and raw. When you peeked over Viktor’s shoulder, you saw her blue eyes puffy from crying, her lips dry and bitten. “The storm came here because of you! Because of your cursed bloodline!”

"The only good thing your family has ever done was to build the lighthouse," other townsfolk said, the man that owned a small thrift store where you had bought your clothes. "And that charm has long gone. You should consider relocating, Mister."

Your mind traveled to the living room of Viktor’s apartment back in the city, to his health diminishing and the burning sensation of your lungs filled with saltwater.

He couldn’t leave, just like you couldn’t, either.

“I believe you’re the one that should relocate if you don’t wish to keep experiencing such storms,” you heard yourself saying to Mr. Edmund. “You know what it takes to leave one step away from the sea. How unruly she is.”

The man recognized you, of course, he did. Probably all the people gathered there had carved your face into their minds, the living child of the woman who drowned herself after returning from the city with a fatherless baby. The one who died from shame. From heartbreak, maybe. Feeding you the same hopelessness that had been oozing from you since the womb.

Viktor called your name in an almost nagging tone.

“What are you doing here, child? Do you fancy to keep attracting curses upon your family?” Edmund said, before being distracted by a pointy elbow softly poking his side.

Another woman, this one dressed all in grey, tiptoed to his ear and whispered something.

You tugged Viktor’s sleeve in the meantime. “What happened?” you muttered.

"A boat of three fishermen went fishing yesterday night. All of them are dead," Viktor answered just when the old man mumbled:

“…Oh, is that so? Then I guess she has embraced her curses just fine,” the old man said to the lady, who took a step aside when you fixated your view into her brown eyes.

“Who can be so stupid to go fishing in the middle of a storm?” you said. A lonely figure started to separate the crowd of people with their elbows, mumbling to step aside.

You recognized her despite her makeshift black veil covering her face; the ragged clothes were the same, and that look of rage and disappointment in her eyes had only increased from the last time she berated you in the foyer of Viktor’s house.

Your aunt strode toward you, her hands made into fists. She didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon, if it weren’t for Viktor’s cane pressing into the middle of her chest, stopping her from taking another step.

It was then that your aunt broke, pushing Viktor's cane away as she tried to desperately have her hands on you.

“YOU KILLED HIM! IT WAS YOU! YOU SENT THEM! YOU SENT THE MONSTERS TO KILL HIM!” Your aunt screamed, thrashing against Viktor’s body as he tried to push her away. “DAMNED WILL BE THE DAY OF YOUR BIRTH! A THOUSAND TIMES YOUR NAME BE DAMNED! YOU AND YOUR WHORE OF A MOTHER!”

“That’s enough,” Viktor said, finally grabbing her arms and tossing her aside, quickly putting his cane in the hollow of her throat. "I would advise you to calm down unless you wish me not to be so kind."

Your aunt fumbled her black skirt against the muddy entrance of the lighthouse, looking up at you with icy blue eyes injected with blood.

“You killed him…” she sobbed. “He who only treated you as a daughter, you killed my love,” she said, the words stealing the air from your lungs, the blood from your veins. "You had killed everything I've ever loved. And if that isn't proof enough of how cursed you are child, I don't know what will."

Your jaw started trembling. Your uncle was dead? But why had he gone fishing in the middle of a storm? "Wh—what?"

“You sent that monster to kill him,” your aunt said, looking at the townsfolk as her bitten nails pointed toward Viktor and you. “She’s a witch! Just as her damned husband! They’re the ones summoning such monstrous creatures from the depths to attack the town! They’re the ones that should die at the cruelty of the sea, not us!”

Viktor thumped his cane against the metallic threshold on the floor. CLINK. CLINK. CLINK. With his free hand, he took yours, cold fingers rubbing slow circles on your knuckles.

“I saidthat’s enough,” he said very slowly, his golden eyes darkening in the slightest shade of dusk, where the rainy clouds start to cover the sun. “Unless you wish for a curse to befall all of you, you will leave. Now.”

The townsfolk looked at each other, their faces pale and clearly scared. They turned their back toward the both of you and quickly descended the cliff, all together like a group of sheep.

“I’m going to make you pay,” your aunt snarled at seeing the people behind her starting to vanish, with Viktor’s eyes still impassible glued on her. “To the both of you.”

As soon as your aunt had turned around, Viktor slammed the door of the lighthouse's entrance closed.

Looking at you, he reclined his cane against the wall to rub your arms up and down, trying to keep you from shivering.

Gently, he called your name, trying to follow your evasive gaze as you felt the burning tears start to crawl their way out of your eyes.

“You didn’t kill them,” Viktor told you, his face mere inches away from yours. “This isn’t your fault. Look at me. Yes… there it is,” he said, his index finger curled against your chin. “This isn’t your fault. Repeat after me…”

“…This isn’t… my fault…” he muttered, and you followed with a quivering voice.

“T-th-this is-isn-isn’t m-my fa-fa-fault,” you sobbed, your aunt’s words cutting deep within yourself.

"Come here." Viktor surrounded your waist in a soft, slow hug, allowing you to bury your head against the crook of his neck, taking in his soothing essence. His hands rubbed circles up and down your back, cooing soft soothing words against your hair.

Time seemed to freeze in your newly discovered sanctuary, there where you felt his heartbeat soothing yours, and his breath guiding you until you had calmed down enough to feel embarrassed for his proximity.

You gently pushed his chest away, and his hand gently ran down your arm, taking your hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on, I’ll make you some tea,” he said, entering the ground floor he guided you with a hand in your wrist.

Although your eyes were glassy from all the tears, you saw the suitcase then, tucked in a corner of the room.

“No, Viktor. You… you have to leave now or you’ll miss your examination test.”

He gestured away. “That’s not the crucial matter at the moment.”

You tugged at his hand, stopping him from pouring water inside a kettle. “You can’t lose your evaluation because of nothing.”

His golden eyes glued you in your place, his gaze quickly detouring from your face to where your hands were still intertwined. “It’s not nothing,” he said, his golden eyes piercing as they got framed under his frowned eyebrows. “It’s about you.”

Viktor put his hands over your shoulders in a gesture midway between a hug and a simple pat. After your heart skipped a couple of beats, he leaned in closer, enveloping you against his chest. “… I care about you,” he mumbled as the hug ended, with his fingers resting on the soft curve of your cheek.

“I care about you, too,” you admitted, though it was hard to look him in the eye. “That’s why I’m telling you to go and chase your dream—you’ve worked so hard for it, too.” So many sleepless nights studying to keep his projects balanced. He even married you to be able to participate. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

It wouldn't be the first time you faced a familiar death alone, although, of course, you didn't tell him that.

Viktor looked as he was about to retort, but you wished to be left alone for a while, to process your emotions and let things go.

"Please, Viktor," you muttered, and he closed his eyes with an almost imperceptible nod.

“I’ll be here before midnight,” Viktor assured you. “Please take care, alright?”

You nodded, and he squeezed your free hand before letting it go.

“Then… eh, I’m leaving now.” Viktor took his light suitcase, the edges of his coat flapping away with the wind. “Wait for me, Miss.”

He looked at your waving hand one last time before turning around, the soft clicks of his cane against the rock muffled by each blow of air until he wasn’t there at all.

Once again, you were all alone with the roar of the ocean that had been pacified by the recent killings, the waves lazily lapping at the shore. And further away, in one corner of the beach, near the swamp area, you saw them, all moving in groups like little black ants.

The funerals. You could smell the burned incense from up here, and for a moment you thought—would somebody be looking at my lonely figure from down there? And if so, what would I look like, for them? Like another ghost? Or a monster, perhaps?

You took a deep breath, letting the marine smell enter your nostrils, owning you, mixing you with it.

The lighthouse could wait because you knew that you couldn't leave in peace if you didn't say your goodbyes. Not when, this time, you could.

Perhaps then you could give said memories to the sea, hoping that she will be pleased with both blood and tears.

#viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor x you #viktor arcane x you #viktor x reader arcane #arcane viktor x f! reader #arcane x female reader

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poundcakecrm · 11 months

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grimmichi day sneak peak of a scene from Apostasy: a grimmichi priest/demon au you can read HERE.

He glows, backlit by a stained-glass sunset, bathed in so much red and orange and gold it’s like it’s bleeding out of him – the sun trapped in synthetic skin, just itching to break out. His hair is actual fire and his skin is porcelain. It’s all so fucking holy, venomously so. Nearly enough to wash out the sea of red dribbling down his temples to his neck, staining the white collar still chaining him to this place. Some of it runs into his lips, makes him taste copper. Kurosaki spits onto the tile beneath him and goes back to his useless mutterings, a jumbled mess of prayers and curses. Grimmjow’s patience wears thin. It’s a miracle he hasn’t torched the whole building already, shown just how hot hellfire can rage even after last night’s downpour. But the sun has risen now. It’s a new day. And he doesn’t need any kind of omnipotence to know the cops will be swarming this place within the hour most likely, once the morning commuters discover a corpse in their sacred little town. He tolerates Kurosaki’s pity party only a few moments more before shoving off the altar and slinking forward, scowl twisting deeper, voice sharp. “Enough.” Kurosaki’s nails dig into the tile but his voice dies abruptly, like Grimmjow had slashed his throat instead of just piercing him with his gaze. But he doesn’t pick himself off the ground, off his knees, doesn’t lift his bowed head; and Grimmjow had watched him genuflect and bow and bend his body in all the ways sacred respect commands but never before had he ever watched the fucker crumble, not even for his cross. “Enough.” He spits it like an amen and abruptly grabs a handful of that flaming hair, yanking back, yanking up. Amber eyes meet pyre flame blue and Grimmjow stares, Kurosaki scowls, and they drown in a stained-glass sunrise. Grimmjow casts a shadow over the priest this close actually, a pillar of black that only adds to the DARK twisted into Kurosaki's face. And maybe its the scowl. Maybe its the lingering, reddened swelling from last night's tears. Maybe its the blood. Regardless, standing there before the tabernacle of an uncaring god, Grimmjow suddenly begins to wonder if this is what it looks like. Faith dying. Sirens begin to wail in the distance.

#✧ ... poundcake writing #bleach #grimmichi #grimmjow jaegerjaquez #ichigo kurosaki #grimmjow #ichigo #grimmichi day #bleach fanfiction #fanfic #snippet

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jamisonwritestf2trash · 6 months

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part three !!! :3333 theres probabky gonna be 2 or 3 parts following this one... im also unsure why, but an underline appears under colored text on mobile now? dunno if its the same on the tumblr browser.

anyway, enjoy a bit of sniperscout and spydad ;)

------------<3

Sniper sighs as he drives down the lonely highway, the trees overhead casting enough shade that he doesn't need to wear his sunglasses, but he keeps his hat on. It's his good luck charm. His mum gave him it, and he doesn't plan on loosing it.

It's now been a week since Scout vanished. Sniper didn't outwardly show it, but he's just as nervous as Spy is.

A few months back, Scout had come to the camper with a rather sad looking bouquet of flowers and asked him on a movie date. And Sniper had said yes.

They'd been secretly dating since, and only Medic knew about it, and promised not to tell anyone. "It's not my place to deciee when you're ready to tell everyone", Medic had said.

Sniper wanted to be mad at Spy for making Scout so angry. But he couldn't be. Not after seeing how wrecked the Frenchman was, even after Scout's mother came to the base for a few days. She had left yesterday to return home, and made Spy swear to find Scout and keep him safe.

Sniper taps his finger on the wheel. There's a bit of broken glass on the road. Someone would have to clean it up later---

A flash of red lying on the side of the road catches his attention and he slams on the breaks.

What the bloody hell is that?

Hesitating, he pulls the van over and hops out, jogging the way back towards the red he had seen. And his blood runs cold.

"Jesus christ..." He whispers, and speeds up to running, grabbing his comm and radios Engi, since Sniper knows that the Texan always has his comm with him.

"Truckie, you there?" Sniper asks into the comm, and stares down at the mess with his hands on his hips.

"Yes sir, what's the deal, Stretch?" Engi replies. Sniper scowls at the stupid nickname.

"Find Doc. I found Scout." Sniper crouches down at the runner's side. "We're out on the highway. I don't want to move 'im, I.. I think he got hit by a bloody car. He doesn't look too good.

"Stay where you are." Engi orders. "We'll be there soon."

Spy knew immediatly when he heard Engi yell for Medic to get in the "goddamn ambulance" and drive.

They must've found Scout. There can't be another explanation. Spy looks out the window of his smoking room to see the ambulance pull out of the base's garage and speed away, sirens blaring.

He brings the cigarette to his mouth with a trembling hand.

When Scout was a few months old, Spy had come home to find him wailing in his crib. Heather wasn't home, so he assumed that she must've gone out to buy more baby powder. So that left Spy to take care of baby Scout.

And he did what a father should do. He picked up baby Scout out of the crib and sang him a French lullaby, and was able to get him to sleep again. He stayed in Scout's room until Heather returned, but he had also fallen asleep. She had snapped a photo, and Spy kept that photo in his disguise kit behind his cigarettes.

If only times could be that simple again.

Don't worry anon I'm pretty sure the color underline is happening for everyone. Anyway! Good job as always :)

#minificanon

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andy-clutterbuck · 2 months

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violetstormms · 1 year

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Mer Fics

~Mer Fics: We got mermaids, sirens, leviathans, seamonsters and selkies. Are you the fish? Are they the fish? Doesn’t matter it goes on this list.Celestial Omens (that really like Fishsticks) by BamSara

archiveofourown.org/works/38791902/chapters/96999486#workskin

When you are ten years old, you find two creatures, bloodied and injured, trapped a net on the beach near your home. You save them, make friends with them, and return them to the sea, leaving you to wonder later if your friends with the Sun colored scales and fins that shone like the full Moon were real or imagined up by a childhood of loneliess.

Time passes. You hear stories of monsters, Sirens in the water, one that is a good omen if spotted, promising your safe voyage as long as you respect the rules of the ocean, and one that sinks ships and eats people for fun. Just folktales meant to scare children.

A decade later, they return the favor, though they don't plan on leaving you so easily this time.

In Deep Dreams Between the Waves by NaffEclipse

archiveofourown.org/works/39359499/chapters/98499741

You see a fish, but the fish isn’t really a fish, because he looks up at you with big yellow eyes, wide with fright. Large black pupils dart around frantically. He’s small, less than half your size, which surprises you. You know mers are supposed to be big sea monsters that sink boats or cause storms, but you don’t see a monster. You think of a baby while staring at his chubby round face, creased with fear, and his small tail.

Subnautical Explorations by MarineFool

archiveofourown.org/works/42701589/chapters/107271720

In a political move against Alterra, the Mongolian States sent your ship out to build a new phazegate in the far reaches of the Ariadne Arm. You were equipped with everything you needed and then some. Now, the long five year journey was nearly over, and after a quick stop at planet 4546-B, you would begin construction within the very star system. But you did not expect everything to fall apart before your very eyes, at least, not this fast. And certainly not so violently.

Now trapped on an oceanic planet, you must figure out how to survive or die trying. As you continue and push through the various flora and fauna, you find that you are not as alone as you first thought.

Fish Fry by Robin_Green

archiveofourown.org/works/43210977/chapters/108606264

Pulled from the sea 5 years ago, I was tied up, beaten, and sold to owner after owner, each deciding I was too dangerous to keep. Back then, I was strong, able to break bones and tear flesh with ease, singing to lure humans to their demise. It's what my kind was made to do, kill humans.

But no more. Kept in increasingly small tanks, barely fed, and unable to swim, I started to weaken.

Eventually, I was dumped here. It was some kind of oddities collection. My owner had other humans pay to look at his strange assortment of items he had gathered from around the world.

Then one day I encountered two strange humanoid creatures that resembled the Sun and the Moon and my life started to change for the better.

Pisces Caelestis by S_V

archiveofourown.org/works/41745882/chapters/104729601

Underneath the glowing eyes, a great maw opened to hiss at you, baring several rows of needle-like fangs, wicked looking and sharp and also glowing in the blacklight. As the thing hissed, the cries started up again, more frantic this time, and accompanied by- it almost sounded like scratching?

And it was coming from behind you.

The bleeding creature had never been the one wailing.

Behind the Glass by bkbubble

archiveofourown.org/works/44296900/chapters/111400042

After a foolish mistake leads to you getting captured by humans, you're trapped in a large facility built for the sole reason of studying and experimenting on marine life. Most specifically - mers. With danger at every corner you have to remain vigilant. From the tests they put you though to the lucky escape, you can't afford to get distracted... but unfortunately the yellow mer you've befriended is taking up more of your thoughts than you originally planned. Now you have to protect yourself from the humans, while protecting your heart at the same time.

For in Safe Horizons by Anonymous

archiveofourown.org/works/40107018/chapters/100447866

It was supposed to be a normal expedition like any other, but something goes wrong and the ship crash-lands. Now you’re stranded on an ocean planet with no way of going home. How long can you survive until you can call for help and leave this planet?

For the first time in your life, you’re alone.

As alone as one can be when two alien creatures follow you around, anyways.

Fated to fall, but at least there will be leviathans along the way. by BlorbBirb

archiveofourown.org/works/44479783/chapters/111878509

You're setting foot on another planet. It would be cool, if it weren't for the fact that it was because you were crash landing with the rest of the Aurora onto an uninhabited planet with about.. 99.999% ocean as its surface.

You boarded the Aurora to go on a vacation, but oh well, you're stranded. Might as well start exploring, scuba diving sounds good, does it not? Just when you thought you could drop all the stuff you learned in school. What are the odds?

Of course, the locals have their own thing to say about the new alien on their turf. It's almost hilarious how hostile they are.

But, as with everything. We have our exceptions, two, actually.

So, what will it be then? Perhaps your odds aren't too bad on a planet of supposedly hostile oceanic monsters.

Master of Tides by AshenStatic

archiveofourown.org/works/41632932/chapters/104429049

You didn't MEAN to pull up a merchild from the sea. It just bit the bait meant for the fishes, that's all! But now here you are, playing and singing songs with the little tyke after they followed you home to the shore. Even the other one followed, though only after knocking you off your boat the first time. You’re pretty sure they were brothers or something since they stick reeeaal close to each other.

Cripes, these kids were cute. They seemed to adore you too, despite the second one being really cold in the beginning. That's okay though, it was fine. You loved them, you really did! But even so, you couldn’t help but worry about their parents. Fully grown sirens get SUPER protective of their children, but you’ve yet to see neither tail nor fin of mom and dad. Where were these kids’ parents? You weren’t stupid, they HAD to be nearby. No one had ever heard of a mer who just up and left their children alone like this, so where the heck were these kids’ guardians??

It's only when four arms cage you in and threaten to capsize your tiny boat that you realize, maybe you shouldn't have asked.

The Selkie Search by StarSwimmer

archiveofourown.org/chapters/106805550?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_588403440

You're a selkie happily living in your giant family pod, avoiding humans and eating fish when one day, all of the fish disappear and these two weirdo robot things show up out of nowhere! They say that they're oceanic exploratory bots and are tasked with discovering the hidden wonders of the ocean.. and they want you to come with them!

So, off you embark on an incredible journey with some incredibly odd companions, facing dangers, treasures, and a mysterious force working behind the scenes.

Fishy Business by Robin_Green

archiveofourown.org/works/38954280/chapters/97424184

Attacked and almost killed, I manage to escape my attackers and hide in a cave only to be found by something... not quite human. Too weak to get away and with the beasts that wanted to eat me waiting outside, this non-human kidnaps me, taking me to his ship. This is where I find that there are not one but two of these metal creatures.

A story where the main character is a mermaid and is rescued/kidnapped by Sun and Moon

Within a Sun and Moonlit Cove by shadow_oblivion

archiveofourown.org/works/38816991/chapters/97062900

You witness two mer hatch, and spend the entire summer with them. But at the end of that time, you get the mer to the sea before your family moves away. 20 years later, you are in desperate need of a break from your busy life. Taking a vacation to where you lived when younger, you fondly remember the two tiny mer, and hope they are doing all right wherever they are.

When you wander the shore near your hotel, during the day or at night, you start to find little trinkets here and there, along with an occasional dead sea creature. You might dismiss the odd sight as coincidence, until the items start to line the shore in the direction of a secluded cove in the distance.

Celestial Depths by Dewsparkle

archiveofourown.org/works/45695968/chapters/114994126

Well, there are many ways being stranded, alone, on an oceanic alien planet could be much worse.

---

You're stranded on planet 4546B after the Aurora is destroyed and most if not all its crew killed. Two of the locals seem to be oddly interested in stalking your every move as you struggle to survive while waiting for a rescue that may never come.

You just really don't want to be eaten and wish they would stop taunting you.

falling, freezing, finding by 4E7HER

archiveofourown.org/works/44933731/chapters/113060965

Why are these giant fish trying to become friends with you? ...No, seriously, what are they doing here?

What do you mean the nocturnal one saw a fish explode on you and decided he liked you? How is that allowed?

A Song of the Seas by StarForgedStories

archiveofourown.org/works/48452437/chapters/122214820

You don’t know what possessed you to buy that boat. Was it just a whim? A wish for a bit of adventure? To flee from the only life you'd ever known? Or perhaps even the call of something far more alluring than just the sea itself...

The sea has many mysteries within its dark depths and you're going to uncover them, whether you like it or not.

Crush Depth by NaffEclipse

archiveofourown.org/works/48656851/chapters/122737075

You stare out the forward viewport—the window. The sub’s only window. Blood splashes against the thick glass. It is human blood. It fills an ocean on Moon FZ-87. The atmosphere is dark and barren, speckled with the ghostly light of stars that have been gone for decades.

This is the last view you have of anything above the blood ocean surface. Futility sinks roots into your ribs.

DCA x Reader (SFW)

Song Fish Amid the Stars by NaffEclipse

archiveofourown.org/works/48365212/chapters/121985266

A pang hits your heart, going out to the little fish struggling to escape the cruel and entrapping lagoon.

But they look like mers. Sea monsters.

Mermaid!Sun & Mermaid!Moon x Reader (SFW)

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