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blackberrywars · 2 years

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Cabin - Aiden/Lambert

SFW prompt fill for day 1 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Beta’d by the utterly delightful @hellinglasses

Rating: T

Words: 2678

Pairing: Aiden/Lambert, Laiden

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Non-Graphic Injury, Humans Being Assholes, Mentioned Past Sexual Encounters, Light Angst, Crying, Cutagens, Omega Lambert, Alpha Aiden

Summary: On the Path, there’s little room for comfort, softness, and safety, a rule that holds truer than most, even when Lambert needs those things the most. After they get turned away at their usual inn for Lambert’s heat, Aiden spends the next year making sure her baby wolf will never have to spend another season in a damp, cold, dirty cave again. Even if her hands get scraped to shit in the process.

Read on AO3

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For the twentieth night in a row, Aiden can barely suppress a groan as she soaks her splinter-ridden hands in diluted Black Blood. It’s Lambert’s own recipe, saved over from last year —stronger stuff than she could ever brew herself— but the wounds have already healed over, sealing the wood pieces inside until she can dissolve them through her skin. She needs the potency. There’s more work to do. Her axe, pilfered from some asshole’s front yard, lays heavy across her lap. Not five paces farther stands the fruits of her labor. Barely eight by eight feet of rough-cut lumber with a floor of hard-packed earth, the little cabin has a strong frame and the kind of character only small, ugly, beloved things do. She grins. She’ll have to cut more logs tomorrow for the roof, soak them all in lye, and then add a rafter or three to support the results. Without Guxart’s tools, she can’t curve the beams, but if the damn thing doesn’t leak or fall down on them, she’ll be more than grateful.

It’s not Dyn Marv. It’s definitely not Kaer Morhen, not that she’s ever gotten to see it. But Lambert might just love it anyway, their own little shelter far away from anyone planning to bother them —Cat, Wolf, or human. Gods, fucking humans. Aiden tries not to put her anger on all the however-fucking-many people on the Continent, but her skin burns as the potion eats through the sealed wounds and into the splinters, and she doesn’t care enough to spare them. Especially not when she remembers last summer so well, when she can feel the pain and rage simmering in her chest. It hurts more than her hands do.

They hadn’t been prepared for rejection. Maybe they should have known better, after so long on the Path, but the little Nazairi inn had been a safe place (or as close to that as witchers got) for three wonderful years. Even longer, for Lambert before they’d bonded. Every midsummer, they saved up to rent a heat-room and spend a week in soft linens, where Aiden would take care of her baby at her most vulnerable. No monsters, no wild beasts, no people coming to bother them. The old man who ran the place, Azik, was always kind, offering them good food and not overcharging them for any of it, just absentmindedly rubbing his own scarred mating mark and handing them the keys with a smile. Said he remembered how it felt. To need somewhere warm and safe and comfortable.

Another year came and went, and they’d been more than happy to pay him a visit again, only to find him long gone. He was only mortal. Fickle, lovely, and mortal. His son, or so the bastard called himself, replaced him, told them to fuck off and find another inn, because he wouldn’t allow rutting mutants in his establishment —surely they’d put a curse on him. Nevermind that Aiden had been half-carrying Lambert, already half in pre-heat. Or that she’d offered to pay double. He had the same bowed lips as his father and none of his compassion to fall out of them. So, Aiden had to find a cave. Killed the poor bear inside, cleaned it as best she could, and laid out their meager amount of clothes on a bed of greenery and moss; the best nest she could provide, all while Lambert shivered with pain. It could have been worse. Her baby wolf had lived through worse: heats alone and heats unfortunately not.

She went back and killed the son anyway. Strangled him with a particularly strong vine from their makeshift nest and spit on his corpse on her way out. Lambert had their bags waiting when she returned, and Aiden couldn’t help but kiss her again.

Otherwise, she might not be here, surrounded by the stones and wood, having to rub her own aching shoulders after working well into the night, high off Cat and her own determination to get the little heat-house done before summer. She’d be traveling the Path with her baby wolf. Her omega. All day, they’d fight monsters and complain about random shit they encountered, be it the price of decent ale or a particularly rough patch of road. All night, they’d fleece humans at Gwent or make a disgustingly domestic camp together before fucking each other silly. Instead, Aiden’s alone. Alone and lonely, because she left a note for Lambert in their usual spring meeting place to meet her in summer instead, and she hasn’t seen her baby wolf in nearly a year.

Fuck, but it’ll be worth it. Guxart has everything she’s bought stockpiled in the caravan, ready for her to secret them away here. Soft cushions stolen from the inn in Nazair, furs treated by Kiyan’s expert hand, vibrant silks from Zerrikania, and a new courting gift, an alchemy kit set in silver. Aiden would give it —everything her omega could want or need. She’d feed Lambert sweet dried fruits and jams by the spoonful, fresh mushrooms from the forest cooked in the small ground oven she would build. All that and more, once she finished building the roof, insulating the walls, painting the inside, cleaning the debris, packing the dirt, laying the boards, and sleeping for a week.

—

———

—

If Lambert trips over one more fucking tree root, she’s gonna rip her blindfold off and shove it down Aiden’s throat. The damn Cat had been dragging her along for nearly half an hour, and for all that she trusted Aiden with her life, the journey had put several expensive dents in her greaves. But she’s not really bitching about that. Aiden hadn’t explained anything to her before tying the cloth over her eyes, and frankly, Lambert had thought she would be having a much better time right now. Or at the very least less shitty than stumbling down a road and through the forest to fuck-knows-where.

Aiden had even dodged her kiss by the dick-graffitied signpost! And their reunion fuck! Her heart beats a little faster, and Aiden can hear it, and it’s just a little too humiliating to even acknowledge that this entire situation has her so anxious. She exhales, harsh and fast. Squeezes down on her alpha’s hand, partly to show her displeasure without actually having to say it out loud, partly to comfort herself, but even that’s different. Her calluses are all fucked up, thick in new places and softer where the old ones should be. It’s a stupid thing to care about. To worry about. Maybe Aiden found a hobby. More likely, they’re from whatever nebulous “work” she picked up that kept her away from Lambert in the spring. She cares anyway.

“Can I take this shit off now?”

“Not yet.”

“I swear on Melitele’s dripping cunt, if we are not there in fifteen seconds, I’m going to stab you.”

“You’ve never seen Melitele’s dripping cunt, so that’s not a very good swear. Also, we’re here.”

“Oh, fuck you—”

The slip of fabric falls from her face and Lambert can’t catch it, too busy staring at the structure in front of her. It could be a fisherman's shed, for its size, but all she can smell is cut wood and resin, the smell of the forest and Aiden beside her. She can’t see any scratches on the walls, or weathering on the roof. The paint looks new. Past the open door, where she doesn’t have to duck her head for once, a raised mattress covers the floor, with blankets folded in a stack atop it and cushions piled on the side, all of it absolutely perfect, arranged just the way she likes when she has the materials to make a nest for them. Aiden takes her hand again, rough calluses scraping against her skin, and oh fuck. Fuck.

“Aiden…… you made this?”

Strong arms wrap around her hips from behind, and Lambert’s silently thankful. Her right knee wobbles with the effort of keeping herself upright, and her throat feels like it’s closing with every second she stares at the little cabin with its flat roof and pale blue walls and the beautiful, beautiful nest inside. Smug as anything, close enough for Lambert to feel the grin against her neck, Aiden replies.

“Mmhm. Surprise! I spent all winter saving up the coin, and all of spring getting materials and building it so I could fill it with every soft thing I could think of. I know you miss your furs in Kaer Morhen.”

“What? This is… fuck, Aiden, what did you do?”

A stab of guilt hits her in the chest. How much does all this cost, if Aiden spent two seasons saving up and building it? She reaches down for the nearest pile of fabric, a collection of silks that feel almost liquid in her fingers, cool and soft next to the dense furs beside them. They’re not like the ones in Kaer Morhen. Those furs are older than she is, dusty and tough, smelling like every other Wolf omega who’d used them before she got the leftovers after centuries of wear. Winters make for poor hunting, when the bears, wolves, rabbits, and foxes are all in their dens, and fuck knows she hates the cold. The rest of the year, she’s gone. Vesemir spends his time just trying to keep the walls from crumbling. Never in her life has she felt furs this soft, this expensive. Aiden’s arms squeeze tighter around her middle.

“Gods, how much do I owe you for this? Even just the furs, fuck! You put months of pay and work into this, and unless you stole the materials, these must have cost a fucking fortune!”

“Pfft. You don’t owe me a copper.”

“The fuck do you mean, not a copper? This is so much, and they’re my heats, it’s my own damn responsibility.”

When she tries to turn around to face her, Aiden just tightens her grip, pinning Lambert to her soft chest. A deep, rumbling purr vibrates through Lambert’s back, and she can’t help but relax the slightest amount, practically conditioned after years of this bullshit to know that sound means safety and contentment.

“I mean you don’t owe me shit. These past ten years, you paid for our weeks in the inn, and even if you hadn’t… baby wolf, you let me share your heats —that’s worth the cost and more. That’s a gift and so is this.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

The purring gets louder, but Lambert can feel Aiden’s exasperation like she’s the one being unreasonable.

“How could I not? You were miserable last year, no matter how much you tried to grit your teeth and tell me you’ve had worse.”

“I have. And I lived.”

“Not the point, little wolf. The point is that this year, you don’t have to deal with that filthy cave or worse, and that in my fucking opinion, you deserve a palace.”

“It’s too much.”

“Do you like it?”

It gives Lambert pause, that question, mostly because of course she fucking does. She looks around, double-checking to see if the little cabin wasn’t as lovely as she first saw it, but no, there’s the pillows and the furs and the paint and the calm, safe place that Aiden has built for her.

“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s for you. You’re mine, you’re my omega, and I made this for you. If you like it, then every last thing I bought and did was worth it.”

And hasn’t she thought the same thing a million times over in her head? Fuck Aiden for saying things so damn well. For having the words. She thinks it every time she buys Aidn’s favorite pastries even when the baker charges her double the price. Or takes the kikimore’s claws so Aiden doesn’t take the venom. Or leaves Kaer Morhen when the Killer is still snowed through, just to see her sooner. How much has she paid? For Aiden’s happiness, brief and lasting? They’ve been through this. She loves Aiden, and Aiden loved her first. From anyone else, Lambert would keep demanding the hidden price until they caved, but with Aiden…… there won’t be a debt to pay later down the line.

She even squeezes Lambert just a little tighter, which does not fucking help the fact that she’s about to burst into tears. Her alpha built her a cabin with a nest inside, and it’s dry and safe and warm, far away from humans and monsters and fuck-all everything else that isn’t them. It has furs, and fuck her for knowing that, too. In the winters, when she deals with her heats alone, they’re all she has, but now she’ll have them in the summer too, with her alpha. Aiden kisses her shoulder over her armor, right above their bond-bite, and then the tears are rolling down her face.

“Shit. Baby, why’re you crying? Do you not— “I love it. Alpha, love, I love it.”

“You do?” She loops around to Lambert’s front, blocking her view of the cabin which almost helps her stop crying, because fuck everything, she wants to sob just looking at it. “Oh, baby wolf.”

Aiden hustles her further into the cabin so they're both inside and shuts the door behind them, solid and protective. Properly inside, it’s dark and cool. A thick bearskin lays just by her feet, and Lambert kneels down to bury her hands in it, sighing at how soft it feels against her skin. She coughs, trying to clear her throat. Chokes, then tries again.

“You can tell me later. Just let me take care of you —it’s what I built all this for.”

So she lets Aiden take her bags. Allows it when Aiden peels off her armor, piece by piece stacked by the door until she’s in just her shirtsleeves and rough trousers. Tries to take off Aiden’s in return with shaking hands, and she lets her; even though it takes her twice as long as it should, having something to do with her hands finally stops the tears before they lay down on the bare mattress. Aiden takes her usual spot pressed tightly against Lambert’s back, tucking her head under her chin. It hurts, and her voice comes out gravelly and awful, but she talks anyway.

“You made me a nest.”

“I did.”

“It’s… fuck, Aiden, it’s perfect. No one around for miles, far from the road, and…… fuck.”

“Mmmm.”

Aiden purrs again, rumbling and so sweet. This time, she lets Lambert shift in the cradle of her arms, turning until she can look at Aiden’s handsome face, dark and scarred in the lowlight. She presses a kiss to the underside of her chin, and then another. Everything is soft and warm and good. Her alpha included, and maybe more so than the cabin and everything in it combined, burning like a furnace against her body.

“I like taking care of you, omega. And it really did suck being in that cave for a week.”

Lambert rolls her eyes, wincing at the dryness. She takes the levity for the out it is and presses another grateful kiss to Aiden’s neck.

“It really fucking did.”

So much so, that she’d already had another inn lined up. Nenneke knows the owner, a no-nonsense young woman involved in a considerable amount of elf-smuggling, who would gladly let a pair of witchers defile one of her rooms for a price. Not that she’d tell Aiden that now. Aiden had built her a shelter with her own two hands, and for all that she slightly resents the instinct that makes her find it so attractive, rewarding her alpha’s good behavior usually goes well for both of them. Lambert can keep her mouth shut on this. She won’t tell anyone about the hidden cabin. This little place is theirs now. Theirs and theirs alone: not for the Wolves or the Cats or the humans or the Path, and she’ll enjoy every second they have it.

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#witchersummercamp #witcher summer camp #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #lambert #witcher lambert #fem!lambert #aiden #witcher aiden #fem!aiden #laiden #light angst #crying #slice-of-life kind of #but in the context of omegaverse and anti-witcher bigotry #berry's fics

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f4irycafe · 2 years

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too late

summary: as the youngest son in an abuse-stricken family, eren is under mounds of pressure to break the generational curse of violence that plagues the men in his family. this is his first test.

pairing: eren x reader

warnings: dark content, graphic depictions of domestic abuse, child abuse, choking (eren chokes reader), toxic relationship (kinda, erens an asshole), cursing, hurt/comfort.

word count: 3.1k

song inspiration: too late by zamir

notes: let it be known that the choking is NOT in a smutty way. so when it comes up don't yell @ me cause i'm warning you right now. i heard this song and immediately thought about eren. i know grisha didn't physically abuse carla but i hate that man so damn much. so none of this is canon. also i’m not 100% sure i tagged this correctly, if there’s anything i should change please send me an ask so i can fix it. :)

PLEASE REBLOG

it had been variations of the same fight every day for weeks now. you and eren had spent so much time together at your separate apartments, so you had decided to move in together. in theory it sounded nice. being able to come home to your boyfriend after a long day of university, cuddle into his arms, make dinner together, then do the same thing the next day. in practice ... it wasn't so black and white.

this was the third time this week you had walked in the door to a dirty house. dishes from breakfast, towels dropped on the floor of the bathroom ruining the hardwood, dust coating the tops of every surface. because of the monthly allowance eren got from his father and his fully paid tuition, he saw no need to join clubs, get a job, or do anything that wasn't required of him. he went to class, basketball practice after that, then came home. while you on the other hand had school, the clubs you managed, and work, all just to keep your full ride scholarship.

you knew that you and eren came from different worlds financially, but after you moved in with him those differences became alarmingly clear.

you couldn't help but sigh when you saw all the lights turned on, and the heaters cranked, knowing that the money would be coming out of your paycheck. you threw your back and jacket in the middle of the hall before you stormed through the place.

"eren, where the fuck are you!" you yelled. you checked the living room before going upstairs to your shared bedroom. the only other place he could be was his gameroom. he had claimed it as his man cave the day you moved in, wasting no time in setting up the space how he liked it.

"eren!" you banged on his door a few times then waited. no answer. you called his name again. nothing. you swung the door open, not bothering to knock. he was completely plugged in, headphones on as he screamed at his monitor.

"take this shit off," you muttered as you grabbed his headset, throwing it to the side. his green eyes snapped to yours in a look of bewilderment, his hands coming up to his sides.

"what the fuck is wrong with you. do you know how much those cost?"

"why are the dishes still in the sink?" you asked. he didn't bother to get up, instead deciding to look at you in a way that made your skin crawl.

"what? he asked slowly, like he couldn't quite believe what you were saying.

"i left at seven this morning. your classes got out at 4 and you didn't have practice today. it is now nine pm," you said as you checked the clock on his computer, "so why the fuck are the dishes not done."

eren was still. your breaths came out ragged as you stared at him, your hands balled into fists at your sides.

"hello?!" you said when he still hadn't answered you.

"i was busy." he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "jean came over, he just left a little while ago."

"you've been here all day eren! i haven't even had the chance to eat dinner yet and-"

"then go eat it," he said as he cut you off.

"then go eat your fucking dinner and clean the kitchen. i don't understand why you're up here bitching to me about it. you could have already started by now if you weren't wasting your time yelling at me."

you wanted to scream. he just wasn't getting it. your relationship was so nice before you had made the decision to live together. he'd show up to your place with takeout and that sweet sweet smile on his face, ready to stay in and massage your feet if that was what you asked of him. now? the last time you had sex was in those first days you have moved in together.

sometimes you got home early to clean the house yourself, but once, just once you wished he would take the inicitive and do it himself.

"so you couldn't have cleaned before jean came over? maybe during?" when eren rolled his eyes and reached for his headset you saw red. you stomped over to the other side of his chair and kicked the damn thing out of his reach before he could grab it.

that was enough to get his attention.

"you wanna do this right now?" he asked as he stood up, shoving the chair behind him so hard it hit his table with an alarming 'crack'.

"you don't do shit, eren! you sit around on your ass all day playing video games and hanging out with your friends. i do everything! every fucking thing. i clean, i sweep, i cook, hell when we have sex you don't even eat me out anymore. i thought that maybe, just maybe you would help me today, you know cleaning the dishes and maybe making dinner."

erens mind was reeling as you yelled at him. deep down, he knew you were right. he knew he was being an asshole and forcing you to do all the labor. but fuck, he didn't know how else to be. it hurt, to have all his shortcomings thrown in his face by the woman he loved most in the world.

"but god forbid that get in the way of you hanging out with jean. jesus fucking christ. i'm the one taking the most credits, i'm the one who works for five fucking hours every other day. me eren. that shit is all fucking me! if i had known you were gonna be this god damn useless i would have never moved in with you."

oh that did it.

"then leave huh? leave if this is so fucking shitty for you." what the fuck was he saying. he didn't mean this. he didn't want you to leave.

"don't push your fucking problems onto me. you don't have to be president of all those little clubs your in, you don't have to work insane fucking hours all the time. i didn't force you to do that shit. if having a clean kitchen is such a big problem then maybe you need to rearange some things in your schedule."

"fuck you, you worthless, spineless piece of shit." you spat with every ounce of venom in your body.

worthless.

pathetic.

unworthy.

worthless.

one second the both of you were standing in the middle of the room yelling at each other. the next he had you shoved against the wall, his left hand forcing your airway closed as the other punched through the wall.

"shut up." he yelled, spit flying in your face as he accentuated his words with the pounding of his fist on the wall.

"shut the fuck up!" when he opened his eyes it wasn't your face that he saw, it was his fathers. with another blink he saw zeke.

then his mother.

he drew in a sharp breath, as he stared back at his moms face. she had a black eye and a nasty bruise was forming on her cheek. she looked so sad, so scared as she looked back at him.

he remembered that day so clearly.

knocking himself out of his trance he saw you again, saw you sob as you clawed at his wrist. he let you go in an instant, tears immediately flooding his eyes as he realized what he had just done.

"oh god." he muttered. his breathing quicker, his heartrate even more so. he didn't let either of you get another word in before he was sprinting out of the room and down the stairs. you called after him but he couldn't hear you, his mind too far away to register anything other than the car engine revving to life as he drove away from you.

he drove until he stopped crying, which was a while. when he did park he had no idea where he was. all he knew was that he was far enough away from you, right where he should be.

worthless.

pathetic.

he was eight years old the first time he saw his father hit his mother. he had come home from school waving his new report card in his chubby little hands, excited to show his parents his good marks and brag about how his friend armin had helped him.

he heard the fighting before he saw it, instantly dampening his good mood. he slipped his backpack onto the living room floor as he wandered through his house towards the sounds.

"don't embarrass me like that ever again. do you understand me?" he heard his father voice say. it was angry. mean in a way he had never heard before. the loud sound of smack echoed through the house next, causing eren to burst into his parents room.

his mother was huddled on the floor, the force of the below grisha had dealt her sending her to the ground.

"mommy?" he asked, shaking her as she lay on the ground. when she didn't respond he turned to his dad, fat, angry tears beginning to roll down his face.

"don't hit mommy! that's mean! we don't hit people!" he said, repeating what he had heard his teachers say whenever he got into fights on the playground.

"out of my way boy."

eren didn't listen. instead choosing to run at his father, his little fists pounding at his thighs.

eren didn't even think that he could be hit next. but there he was, curled up in his mothers side as he screamed in pain from the smack grisha had delt him on his face.

"get out of my sight, both of you." carla picked eren off of the ground, letting him cry into her shoulder as she exited the room.

"fucking pathetic," grisha muttered as they left. eren heard it, heard the way his fathers' voice was laced with such deep-rooted disappointment.

that was the first time he ever watched his mother get hit. in the early days, he often tried to intervene. he always ended up getting beat as well, until he just stopped trying to help his mother. he learned that if acted like he wasn't aware, grisha wouldn't lay a hand on him.

and that was how it went.

he heard his mother crying herself to sleep most nights, and would often see her sitting silently in the kitchen as she drank. they had used to be so close when he was a kid, but when he began to ignore the abuse and hide behind his feigned ignorance, something vital snapped in their relationship.

the nail in the coffin was when carla found out about zekes affair. it was before eren had been born, and resulted in the birth of his older brother zeke.

his mom hadn't smiled in years. hadn't had a reason to, and eren was content to let it be that way. he had gained favor with his father the older he had gotten, been trained, and poised to take over his family's company alongside zeke when he was old enough.

he didn't say anything when zekes wife started to have the same lifeless look his mom had, or when dina, zekes mother, started to look that way as well.

he stopped getting into needless fights at school, became placid and valuable in every aspect of his life. he had been beaten into submission by grisha, and had stayed that way for a very, very long time.

when he met you, he had sworn to never become like the men in his family. he was soft spoken, kind, charitable, generous, everything his father wasn't. it wasn't even as if he was trying to be those things, he just was. the boy who was beaten and tossed to the side flourished with you. you gave him a chance to reconnect with his inner child. you allowed him to be romantic, to love you and not shy away from the love you gave him in return.

he don't know what had happened, how he had become so sour in the past month. but calling him worthless, reminding him of the cowardly boy he was deep down hurt something inside of him. something that he had tried to ignore for the past fourteen years of his life.

you locked yourself in your room the second he left, crying to yourself as you curled into a ball on the floor. never in your life would you have ever thought he would get physical with you. your brain was too scrambled to think through it straight.

it scared you, the way his eyes blazed with such fury as he came at you. you would never be able to forget the way his hand felt on your throat, of the wind that brushed yourself because of the speed at which he was breaking the wall.

but above all else, you would never be able to unsee the scared, helpless look in his eyes when he looked back up at you.

you waited for him to come home for hours, scrambling to the windows anytime you heard a car go down the street. you cleaned anxiously while you waited, doing the dishes you had screamed at him about hours earlier. eventually you fell asleep, too emotionally and physically drained from crying and worrying that your body shut down on its own accord.

eren crept back into your apartment in the early hours of the morning when he knew you would be sleeping. he wasn't sure he'd be able to face you just yet. his first impulse was to go into the kitchen and clean the mess he had neglected to clean the past weeks, only to find the entire room spotless. the dishes had been cleaned and stored properly and the counter was spotless. he sighed, letting his head fall against the cold metal of the fridge.

he had fucking choked you, he had put his sullied hands on you after he promised himself to be better. tears came to his eyes again as he cried silently, his head hanging in his hands. on the drive back he had accepted the fact that you would leave him after this. there was no way you would want to stay with someone who put hands on you. just because he had come to terms with it didn't mean he liked it, but there wasn't much that could be done.

he took it upon himself to sleep on the couch that night.

you woke up the next morning to an empty bed. you're initial panic was quickly calmed when when you saw your boyfriend curled up in a rather uncomfortable looking position on the couch. you let him sleep, shuffling your way to the kitchen to make yourself some breakfast and coffee before you headed to class.

the noise woke eren up, his body shooting itself off of the couch as he whipped around to look at you. his heart broke when he noticed your tear stained face.

"y/n, i am so sorry," he started, rushing off the couch and into the kitchen. you raised a hand to stop the river of apologies that was sure to flow out of his mouth. you had stayed up for a good while trying to figure out how this conversation would go, and every time you came up blank.

"what was that?" you asked as your hands fiddled with your coffee mug. "what the hell was that eren."

he took a deep breath and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to regulate his breathing. he had to tell you. it wouldn't be fair if he didn't.

"when i - when i was younger my dad used to beat my mom. i guess i can't really say when i was younger because he still does," and thus started the word vomit of an explanation that pooled out of eren's mouth for the next half an hour. he told you everything. how his mother would clean his face before dealing with her own scars, how he turned a blind eye towards the abuse if it means saving himself. he told you about dina, zeke, his past relationships, everything.

at one point you had moved from the kitchen to the couch, your hands clasped as you listened to him. he had to pause multiple times to cry, squeezing your hands to try to keep it under control.

"he called me worthless every day. and i had spent so long trying to prove to him that i wasn't that i lost myself. but you, you found me, baby. i will never forgive myself for hurting you, and i understand if you want to leave me, but just know that i love you more than i've ever loved anyone, more than i love myself and it scares me."

it was a sorry sight honestly, the two of you sobbing into each others arms on the couch. you knew about the tension eren had with his family, but he always refused to tell you why.

"i want to move out," you said after a few minutes of silence. eren opened his mouth in protest, but you cut him off before he could speak.

"i'm not breaking up with you. but, we shouldn't have moved in together yet. neither of us are ready, and that's okay. but i can't keep doing this, and i don't want to hold onto empty promises anymore. it's only been a few months, i can still move back with my friends, and you can go back to living with armin."

eren nodded, melting into your hands when you put them on his cheeks.

"why didn't you tell me this bub?" you asked.

"i didn't want you to think i was weak." you shook your head.

"never. you were doing what you could to survive. i don't blame you for that."

"you didn't have to clean the kitchen you know," you smiled slightly. "i would have done it when i got back."

"a guilt clean?" eren huffed out his own laugh, opening his eyes to look at you.

"yeah. a guilt clean."

"i have to get to class. but when i get back help me star packing up. alright?"

"alright."

elles rambles: not my best work but i felt called to produce angst lol . thank u bae for beta reading <3 @starryenigma

#eren x reader #eren x you #eren jeager x reader #eren angst #eren jaeger angst #aot angst #attack on titan angst #eren jeager #eren x black reader #aot x reader #aot x black reader #tw: domestic violence #tw:child abuse #f4irycafefics🗃

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msmarvelouswinchester · 3 years

Text

Irresistibly Yours

Chapter 1 - The Elevator

Summary - Y/N Y/L/N moves to NYC in hopes for a fresh start after a nasty breakup. There she meets her neighbor, the cynical lawyer, Dean Winchester. A love-hate relationship starts evolving between them ever since they met in the elevator one morning but a desperate situation and a string of lies forces the two friendly rivals to go on a date or rather a fake date. Will sparks fly between them when Dean gets to know Y/N real and up close? Will Y/N finally find her Prince Charming in the grumpy, workaholic, divorce lawyer?

Pairing - Lawyer!Dean Winchester x Y/N

Warning - None for this chapter

Word Count - 1981

Square Filled - Moodboard ( @girl-next-door-writes )

A/N - *Cracks knuckles* Ta-daaaa! The series is finally here it's already Sunday where I live and I was dying to share this! It's going to be a wild ride ahead. So buckle up your seatbelts and enjoy the ride!

This is also my submission to @flamencodiva's Writing Challenge and @deanwanddamons' 2K Blogiversary challenge (congratulations on your milestone, Sian). Prompts are in bold.

Beta'd by @miss-nerd95 (Thanks again, hon❤️)

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Throwing her bag over the table, Y/N slumped down on the couch, letting out a sigh. The pressure from the higher-ups, consistent criticism of your work and impending deadlines were weighing heavily on her shoulders and she was in a desperate need of a break.

She looked over to the stack of papers on the table that now lay abandoned. The rejection from the publishing company was the fucking cherry on top. Y/N buried her face in her hands in frustration as she was almost on the verge of a mental breakdown, a few angry tears rolling down her cheeks. Letting her head fall back, she swiped away those angry tears, letting out a long sigh of defeat.

“Why can't I ever do anything right?” She mumbled, her breathing heavy as she bit down on her trembling lips.

In her late twenties, after a nasty break up, Y/N had a marvellous thought that she needed a fresh start. So she had left her corporate job back in Atlanta and moved to New York to pursue her dreams of becoming a writer. She had secured a good position in one of the leading magazine companies and started to write the novel that she had been planning since she was seventeen, but lately nothing seemed to work out the way she wanted. Sure, she was getting paid well but it wasn't enough compared to how much she had to deal with her shitty coworkers and bosses. She had now lost every motivation to continue her novel after the first draft got rejected by the publishing companies enough times to make her feel insecure about her writing.

“Why can't my life just be a goddamn Hallmark movie?” Y/N muttered under her breath as she picked up a cushion and covered your face, letting out a muffled scream.

Her wallowing time was interrupted by the blaring noise of her phone in the awfully quiet apartment, making her nearly jump out of her skin. Another frustrated groan left her lips as she saw the person calling her.

“I told you to stop calling me, for god's sake!” Y/N yelled into her phone.

“Come on, Y/N. One dinner.” The man on the other end pestered. “You know, at work people talk about how uptight you are. Let yourself go, once in a while.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Michael- I'm not interested. I told you a hundred times before and I'll say it again. Leave. Me. Alone!” She said. The line on the other side went quiet.

“Bitch.” She heard him say before the call disconnected.

“Fuck off!” She yelled again, knowing fully well he couldn't have heard her now. Y/N finally decided to put him in her blocklist because Michael didn't seem like he was gonna stop otherwise.

It wasn't that she had a stick up her ass for not wanting to go on a dinner date with her coworker. Honestly, she missed the whole first date experience, but Michael was definitely not the guy for her, or for any other girls out there in her opinion. He threw around sexist comments around the office like it was some cool shit and chivalry was definitely dead for him.

Y/N finally got up from her seat, shoulders still tense from the day's events. Opening the refrigerator, she stood there gawking at the leftovers in it.

“Cold pizza….spaghetti….chocolate brownies….” She looked at your dinner options, weighing each one's pros and cons before settling on - “Brownies it is.”

Taking out the chocolate confection , she returned to the couch. She put on Netflix as she browsed through it's movie section.

“Stupid Prince Charming-” she scoffed, biting into the delicious the chocolate chip brownie in hand. Grumbling at the unrealistic standards of Netflix rom coms, she still pressed the play on the film The Proposal.

Finishing her 'dinner', Y/N picked up the comforter, nestling deep into her couch as she watched the coldhearted Margaret fall head over heels for her assistant, the exhaustion kicked in.

“Fuck!”

And that's how the next morning started as Y/N woke up one hour later than usual. She had fallen into a deep sleep on her couch before Andrew even got to propose to Margaret, which was not exactly the wisest decision as the next morning, her neck and back screaming in pain.

The girl knew she was going to be late to work today by the time she had left the house. Hair up in a messy bun, a bag hanging from her shoulder, she tried to smoothen down the creases on her skirt before rushing towards the elevator in high heels.

“Hold the door!” She yelled at the man inside as soon as the door started to close. She sprinted towards the elevator as the man kept looking at her, an annoyed look evident on his face when he slammed the button, taking a step forward to keep the door from closing.

“Thank you!” Y/N huffed, as she got in the elevator. The man chose to remain silent and he pressed the ground button on the elevator. “I am so screwed today! I have never been this late to work!” She babbled on but the man still maintained the stoic look on his face. Y/N slightly turned to face the man of stone. He was probably in his thirties, his dirty blonde hair, sparkling green eyes and light stubble on his cheeks went very well with the crisp grey suit he was wearing. One hand in his pocket, he just stood there, jaw clenched together, eyes focused on the shut doors.

“You know, I should have set the alarm! Stupid-”

“Do you ever shut up?” The man finally spoke, a look of disinterest passing his face.

“Wow. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I guess.” Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Excuse me?” His voice was hard.

“I said, someone woke up-”

“I heard what you said. I am just not interested in listening to your morning fuck-up story.” He scoffed.

“Woah, okay.” She widened her eyes at his disrespectful comment, “I just-” The elevator reached the ground floor of their apartment building and the doors opened with a ‘ding’.

“I think you don't want to waste anymore time talking since you're already running late.” Y/N gasped slightly at the audacity of the man. “Have a good day, Miss L/N.” The man wished before moving out of the confined space as Y/N narrowed her eyes at him and wondered how he knew her name.

“Have a good day as well, Mr….” She trailed off as she got out of the vator as well.

“Dean Winchester.” He said as he walked away, never once looking back as Y/N stood there, bewildered at what just happened.

Hands balled up into fists in apprehension, Y/N inhaled audibly, as she stood on the other side of the door. She was late to the meeting by half an hour, twenty-four minutes to be precise and nothing annoyed her boss more than tardiness.

“Y/N, it's a pleasure that you finally graced this meeting with your presence on this fine morning.” Abaddon’s words laced with acute sarcasm made it quite clear that Y/N was doomed when she entered the room. The remaining four pairs of eyes in the room were zeroed in on her, as she abashedly took a seat at the far-end of the table. She couldn't risk her job because of her smartass mouth and she was already on thin ice, so she kept quiet and let Abaddon carry on with the meeting cause even Cruella De Vil would be hiding her face in shame if she ever met Abaddon. She was an Umbridge before her coffee and a Regina George after drinking her coffee. There was no way she was going to spare the poor girl today.

“As I was pointing out, our sales have gone down in recent months quite drastically. Readers are saying the contents are not relatable or entertaining enough….”

A yawn threatened to leave Y/N as she listened to Abaddon go on about the poor performance of the company, her mind preoccupied by a certain green-eyed man. She had never seen Dean in the building before this morning. He was annoyingly good looking and rude and Y/N couldn't seem to get rid of the image of him looking dapper in that grey suit. She was barely able to focus on what Abaddon was saying.

With Dean Winchester still running through her mind, Y/N trudged back to her small cubicle after the painfully hour long meeting.

Plopping down on the chair, covering her face with her hands, she exclaimed, “I need coffee!”

“Thank me later.” She turned her head to Meg as she pushed a hot cup of coffee towards her before going back to her own cubicle.

“Black, just like my heart.” She said before inhaling the strong smell of the drink. Taking a little sip, she let out a sigh of content. “Jesus, I needed this badly.”

“Yeah, you look like shit,” Meg chuckled, earning a glare from her friend. “Did you even take a look at the mirror today? Honestly, I am not even exaggerating, I-”

“Meg, I’ll forever be grateful to you for this cup of coffee, but please stop talking.” Y/N groaned loudly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Michael walking towards her and put on headphones and turning the volume up, trying to look busy. “Heads up, incoming douchebag.” The brunette said. After the hubbub of the morning and the shitshow of a meeting, Michael was the last person Y/N wanted to see.

“Morning, Y/N.” The smug smile on his face made her cringe. This had been going on for a month now. She thought after last night, Michael would finally back down, but apparently she was very wrong. “My messages don't seem to get through anymore.”

“She blocked you. God, take a hint.” Meg muttered.

“She's right. It's ‘cause you can’t seem to take no for an answer.” Y/N huffed.

“One dinner. Just one.”

“No.”

“She said no. Isn't that enough?” Meg jumped to her friend’s rescue when she saw her fumbling and getting uncomfortable. Michael inched towards Y/N anyway, completely ignoring his colleague’s comment, a smirk evident on his face.

“Y/N, don't be so uptight. What harm does a single dinner gonna do?” He asked.

“It’ll be cheating. I have a boyfriend.” Y/N blurted out, making Meg’s eyes go wide, but it actually seemed to work as Michael moved away from her.

“A boyfriend?”

“Yeah. We have been going out for a while now.” The said man frowned as he thought the words over before leaving her space with a little nod of his head. Maybe it worked on him without any hassle, but she knew this lie would come back to bite her in the ass if the whole office got to know about it. Oh, and they would know since turning around, Y/N saw Ruby staring at her, a grin appearing on her face as she took in all the juicy gossip. The lie was now gonna spread like wildfire.

“Spill.” Y/N turned to look at her friend who stood there, hands folded, eyes wide, brows raised in utter disbelief. She puckered her lips as she waited on Y/N to explain who just frowned in reply. “Well? What happened? I want all the details, Y/N!”

“Oh come on, L/N. Share the deets.” Ruby snickered. “Who's the man that actually managed to capture your heart?”

“Dean Winchester.” The name tumbled out of her lips so easily and that was how she knew she was screwed.

Chapter 2

Feedback is highly appreciated!

Let me know if you want to be tagged in this series!

#deanwanddamons2kcelebration #girl next door's make me feel bingo #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #au dean x reader #dean winchester #irresistibly yours #au dean winchester x reader #dean x y/n #dean winchester x y/n

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rizlowwritessortof · 3 years

Text

Meant To Be - Chapter 8

Dean and Jordan are each trying to escape their painful pasts. Their chance meeting and a dangerous encounter begins a relationship that may give them both a new start.

Pairing: Police Detective Dean Winchester/Jordan Taylor

Word Count: 3085

Warnings: None

Aesthetic by @editsbymichele on Instagram; Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Jordan regained consciousness with a groan at the throbbing pain in her head. She tried to move, to hold her head in her hands, but they were securely bound behind her back – duct tape, it felt like, and she opened her eyes slowly, remembering what had happened and wondering where she was.

The masked man in front of her shoved at the shoulder of the larger man beside him. “Hey – bitch is awake.”

She squinted up at the man who had spoken, defiance in her eyes. “Fuck you.”

He took a step towards her, but his apparent boss grabbed his arm. “Knock it the fuck off. Take a walk.”

Douche-bag flunky stalked away in a huff, and the man in charge hunkered down in front of her. “Sorry things have to be like this, but it’ll be over soon. Just keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told, and you’ll be fine.”

Jordan just glared back at him, then turned her head, letting her eyes scan the room. She was in some sort of garage, or storage building, she wasn’t sure. The windows were painted over, so no view to the outside. She winced as she moved, her jaw aching and her head pounding with every beat of her heart. Oh, God… Sam…

“What about the guy you beat half to death. Will he be fine?”

Her captor tilted his head. “They hauled him off to the hospital. I’m sure he’ll live.”

She stared back at him, venom in her gaze. “He’d better.”

He chuckled quietly. “Listen, all you need to worry about is that your boyfriend does what he’s told. Then everybody can go home, nobody else needs to get hurt.”

“Right. Except him.”

He shook his head. “As long as he does his job, he’s good.”

“I thought this was all about revenge for the shooting.”

“I want one thing, and one thing only, and a cop is the only one who can get it for me. Speaking of… it’s about time to make a call. Since you’re awake and so chatty. Because I’m sure he’s gonna want to talk to you.” He stood back up, pulling a phone from his pocket – it was hers. He placed the call and put it on speaker, waiting silently for an answer.

“Jordan?”

“Wrong. I am Jordan-adjacent, though.”

“She’d better be in perfect health, you dick, or...”

“She’s fine. Just shut up and listen. Remember a couple of months ago, the big drug bust, made all the papers?”

Dean was silent for a moment, and Jordan pictured him closing his eyes, dreading what was coming next. “Yeah.”

“Well, Detective – all that cocaine? That was mine. You’re gonna go to the evidence lock-up, take it all out, and bring it to me. Three duffle bags, no tricks.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Crazy or not, it’s mine – and I want it back. I don’t care how you do it – not my problem. You get me that coke, and your little spitfire here gets to live.”

“I’m not doing shit until I talk to Jordan. I need to know she’s okay.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” The masked man knelt down in front of her and held the phone closer to her. “Go ahead, talk.”

“Dean?” Her voice quavered as she fought tears for the first time since her ordeal had begun.

“Jordan, are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. Dean, is Sam...”

“Sam’s gonna be fine. Don’t worry.”

Her captor rose to his feet again. “Okay, that’s enough for now. I’ll call you in one hour with instructions.”

Jordan swallowed a sob, tears slowly trailing down her cheeks as he ended the call. “You’re insane. How is he supposed to steal drugs from the police lockup?”

“He’ll figure it out. He’d better.” He turned and reached to grab her by the arm, pulling her to her feet. “And now, since our little phone call is done – you can go into the storage closet so we can take off these fucking masks. Hope you appreciate how careful I’ve been to make sure you can survive this little transaction.”

She shot him a glance full of spite. “I’ll send you a fruit basket.”

He laughed. “You know, different circumstances, I think I could really like you.” He unlocked and opened the door to a large walk-in closet, windowless and dark except for vents high up near the ceiling that let scant light in from the room outside. He moved farther into the room, lowering her down next to the wall. A blonde sat across from her, arms held close against her body. “Brought you a roommate. Play nice.” He turned and left the room, locking the door with a loud click and walking away.

The girl looked up at Jordan, her expression stoic. “So you’re the one.”

“The one what?”

“The one I was supposed to grab the first time.”

Jordan leaned her head back against the wall. “You’re Megan? What are you doing in here? I thought you were working with these assholes.”

Megan looked away. “I was supposed to do their dirty work for them. Didn’t work out so well.”

“Sucks when you piss off the boss,” Jordan muttered resentfully, and the blonde’s head raised back up, her blue eyes angry.

“Look, I didn’t… I mean, I knew what I was doing, but I just – I wanted justice for my brother. They lied to me. I found out, after… I tracked down a couple of people that were there that night, people that are still hiding because they’re afraid of these fuckers. They told me what happened. That your cop boyfriend didn’t have any choice. And I was pissed, I called these asshats and told them I wanted to meet.”

“I take it they didn’t like what you had to say.”

“I told them I didn’t like being lied to and used, and that I was done. And they told me that was too bad, because they couldn’t let me go since I knew too much. And I tried to get away, but they broke my fucking arm and knocked me out, locked me up in here.”

Jordan was silent for a moment, the only sound the other girl’s agitated breathing as she fought to control herself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I assumed… Do you know who they are?”

Megan shook her head. “No. They wore masks when I met them, before that it was just phone contact.”

After a few seconds of silence, Jordan spoke softly. “They want Dean to steal cocaine from the evidence lockup and bring it to them. Supposedly, if they get what they want, they’ll let us go.”

Megan let out a derisive snort. “I’ll believe that when it happens. They’re already on the hook for murder, I doubt if they give a shit about a couple more.”

Resting her aching head against the wall, Jordan let out a sigh. “I know.”

Dean gripped his phone so hard that his hand shook, and Donna put a firm hand on his forearm. “Calm down. Losing it right now isn’t going to help anybody, Dean.”

He looked at the technician sitting behind the monitor, and she shook her head before dropping her eyes. “No trace. Damn it, Donna, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Cap’s office, now - brainstorm. We’ll figure it out.”

After a quick knock, the partners were invited to enter, and they both plopped down into the chairs in front of the Captain’s desk. “So what are we dealing with?”

Dean filled him in on the ransom call, and the Captain leaned back in his chair, looking Dean in the eye. “You know we can’t just give them the coke, Detective.”

“There’s got to be something we can do. He’s calling in one hour to give us the drop instructions,” Donna said, forcing herself to remain calm. “Can we put dye packs...”

“They said no tricks. They’ll check for that. We can’t risk it.” Dean bit back, and she took a breath before trying again.

“Okay, they demanded we bring the drugs in three duffle bags. We put a tracker in them.”

The Captain spoke up. “In all probability, they’ll expect that and switch to their own bags when we make the drop.”

Dean moved forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “Okay, so we put a tracker in the coke. Let forensics open one up, put it in the middle so it can’t be seen, and seal it back up exactly like it was before. Then we can track it to their destination.” The Captain narrowed his eyes, considering, and Dean continued. “Sir, I swear on my life I won’t let them get away with those drugs. But you have to let us do this.”

The Captain thought for a few moments before sitting upright and blowing out a loud breath. He nodded, then said reluctantly, “Okay, I’ll sign the order. I’m holding you to your word.”

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. “We won’t let you down, Cap.”

The older man’s words followed them out the door. “You damn well better not.”

Jordan looked up as the door rattled, then swung inward. Her captor knelt down in front of her, setting a bottle of water nearby. “Lean up, I’ll cut your hands loose. Can’t do anything in here, anyway.”

She did as she was told, relieved to be able to move her arms, and gratefully accepted the water. “Thanks,” she muttered grudgingly, and he moved over to set water down near her fellow prisoner. “She needs a doctor, you know.”

He rose to his feet and turned, moving back towards the door. “After I have my property, she can see all the doctors she wants.”

Megan looked down at the bottle, shaking her head as the door closed and locked again. “And how the hell does he think I’m gonna open this?”

Jordan stood up, stretching her aching shoulders, and walked over, kneeling down to open the bottle. Megan’s face looked flushed, her eyes glazed over a little, and Jordan laid a hand on her forehead. “You’re feverish. Maybe they’ll at least give us some aspirin.”

Megan huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t count on it.”

Jordan went to the door and pounded, shouting. “Hey! Anybody out there? Can we get some aspirin?”

A loud bang on the other side of the door startled her back a step. “Shut the fuck up in there! Be glad you got water.”

Megan gave her a half-smile. “Told you. But thanks for trying.”

“Assholes,” Jordan said under her breath, stripping off the button-down she was wearing over her tank top and kneeling back down in front of Megan.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, watching Jordan fold and re-fold the shirt until she was satisfied with the results.

“You have to be exhausted trying to hold your arm like that. I thought maybe a sling would help.” She carefully slipped the makeshift sling under Megan’s injured forearm, taking the sleeves behind her neck and tying them into a knot. The girl sighed with relief as she relaxed her shoulder, letting the shirt cradle her arm.

“Thank you.” Jordan smiled at her and headed back to her spot against the wall.

“You’re welcome.”

Dean ended his call and stuffed his phone back into his pocket, turning to Donna. “Sam’s out of surgery, everything’s good.”

His partner sighed with relief and smiled. “Thank God. One of the guys from forensics just finished up with the tracker. Everything’s ready to go.”

As if on cue, Dean’s phone rang, and he grabbed it from his pocket, nodding towards the tech who would be trying to trace the call. When the officer signaled, Dean answered. “Yeah.”

“I assume that you’ve got my coke ready to deliver?”

“Yeah. Just tell me where and when so we can get this over with.” The man rattled off an address, and Dean repeated it. “I want to talk to Jordan. Make sure she’s still okay.”

“No more time for socializing right now. She’s fine. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Like hell I will.”

“You don’t have a choice. Meet me at that address in 45 minutes, come alone, and I’ll give you her location so you can have a nice, long chat with your girl.” The call ended abruptly, and Dean swore, his teeth clenched together in frustrated anger.

Donna put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. We’re gonna nail these bastards.”

He took a breath, his expression taut and determined. “Fuckin’ right. And she’d better be okay, or I swear to God...”

“She’ll be okay. She’s smart, and she’s tough, and you’re gonna get her back.”

Dean pulled into the parking lot, eyes scanning the area. “You can still hear me?” he asked, and a tinny affirmative reply came through his earpiece. Donna and two other squad cars were parked a couple of blocks away, and the SWAT van was another block over and north, their tracking equipment set up to follow the cocaine after the drop.

A dark, nondescript SUV pulled into the lot and parked a couple of car lengths away. Dean exited the car, tugging his vest down and taking a couple of steps to the front of the car. His contact climbed out of his vehicle, mask in place, moving forward a few steps and then taking a wide-legged stance, his arms folded over his chest. “Okay, let’s get this party started.” Dean nodded, opening the trunk and grabbing the bags, walking forward until the man shouted for him to stop. “Drop the bags right there.”

“Where is she?” Dean responded, still holding them, challenge in his eyes.

“When we conclude our business, I’ll tell you. Now drop the bags.”

He did as he was told, muttering under his breath, “I’m gonna kill this fucker.”

Donna’s voice came back, “No, you’re not. Just take a breath, partner.”

At a motion from the man in charge, a couple of masked men exited the vehicle, empty duffle bags in hand. They knelt on the ground and began to transfer the cocaine to their own bags, and Dean walked back to close the trunk on his cruiser. “What’s the matter, don’t trust me?”

“Oh, come on, Detective. Like I don’t know they’d put some kind of tracker in those bags. I don’t blame you, don’t worry. I’m sure your commanding officer insisted.” His men finished loading the coke and retreated back to the SUV, tossing their prize into the back before getting back inside. The driver pulled a phone from his pocket, dialing and speaking a few quiet words before looking towards Dean and speaking.

“All right. Well done, Detective. You’ll find your little spitfire in a storage building two blocks north of here.” Dean moved quickly towards his door, but the man called out again. “Also, you have a choice – you can have your backup try to follow us – or you can get to that storage building and save those girls. Seems a fire got started in there somehow. Your choice. Better hurry, though.”

Dean was in his car, engine roaring to life, as he spoke to Donna. “Did you hear that? Meet me there, let SWAT track the coke!”

“You got it!” the answer came back, and Dean squealed the tires, heading north. His foot to the floor, his eyes scanned frantically for smoke as he approached the two-block area, and he screeched to a halt in front of the building, smoke already pouring from a broken window on the side. His backup pulled in a few seconds later as he reached the door, placing a palm against it to test for heat.

“Bring the battering ram!” He shouted, knowing it was futile to try to kick in the steel-reinforced door, and two officers came at a run with the tool in hand. “Call fire!” he shouted over his shoulder as the third slam into the door sent it flying inward, the frame splintering. Donna and two other officers entered right behind him, skirting the fire and searching the building.

Dean headed straight for the closet, hearing Jordan pounding on the door and calling out. “Help! We’re in here!”

“Stand back from the door!” he shouted, waited a few seconds, and let the battering ram do its work. “Jordan!” He rushed into the room, letting his relief wash over him for a split second before taking her arm and shoving her towards an officer. “Get her out of here!”

“Dean! Megan needs help, she’s sick, and her arm is broken,” Jordan called out to him, then let the officer lead her out.

He nodded, heading Megan’s direction. “Okay, Megan, I’m just going to pick you up and carry you out. Can you get your good arm around my neck?” The girl nodded, and Dean bent to pick her up, as careful as he could be not to jostle her arm.

Fire and Rescue were just pulling in, and Dean carried Megan directly to the ambulance, waiting for the EMTs to ready the gurney before laying her down. “You okay?” he asked, and she nodded, and he stepped back to allow the paramedics to do their job. He turned, eyes searching until he spotted Jordan being hugged by Donna, and in a few long strides, he was there, pulling her into his arms.

He held her tight, letting her sob softly into his chest until she quieted down. “Thank you,” she whispered as he pulled back, looking down into her eyes. He touched her face, barely brushing over her bruised jaw and gently touching the cut over her eyebrow, beautifully framing her black eye.

“Got quite a shiner, there,” he said, and she nodded, wincing.

“Yeah, they, uh – they slammed my head into the steering wheel.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault. Sam...”

“Sam’s okay. He’s out of surgery, he’ll be fine, hospital called me.” Another ambulance pulled in, and he brushed his knuckles over her uninjured cheek. “I’m sorry, Jordan, but you need to go in and get checked out.” She looked into his eyes, watching the guilty struggle there, and put her hand over his.

“Dean – go. Catch those assholes. They’ll take care of me.”

After a moment’s pause, he finally nodded. “Okay. Let’s get you in the ambulance, then Donna and I will go help SWAT take out the trash.”

Chapter 9

#meant to be #chapter 8 #dean fic #dean x oc #dean x jordan

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cherryblossomtease · 3 years

Text

In The Fairest Season ~ Part 4

18+ only

warnings summary masterlist

Chapter Warnings - mild graphic violence

~LATE AUGUST~

Bird song usually soothes you in the mornings.

Your bed is near the window and when the nurse leaves it open you can feel the cool breeze and hear the sparrows, but this morning you’re in pain and you wish you could quiet the little beasts.

You had a nightmare, that must be what it is. Your dreams have always been vivid, ever since you were a child. So much so that they set the tone for your day.

This one is a replaying of the night you almost died. You’ve had it before, for better or worse it is typically the same, but this time, he was there just watching as the butcher hacked away.

You woke with your pulse racing, scared for a while until the sparrows calmed you, and then the pain kicked in and now you are just angry.

It isn’t true. You know he’s the one paying for your care or else you would have been sent home weeks ago.

Instead you have a private nurse and this beautiful room on this quiet floor far from the chaos below with a doctor who speaks kindly when he comes to do his rounds.

He checks your wound which is a specific form of torment you would not wish on your enemy. It is too hard for you to speak when he asks how you feel, but you write with chalk on the little slate they’ve given you and when he is done prodding, they give you fresh bandages and let you sleep.

Eating slowly becomes easier too— when you have an appetite.

Turning your head from the bright light of day, you look at the vase on the table beside your bed and stare at the single dead rose.

It was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes after your surgery. Someone had placed it on your bed while you slept after they stitched you back together and you’ve kept it, refusing to let them throw it away.

Once, you overheard the doctor say that the assailant was in a hurry. The theatre was a risky place to commit such a crime and get away with it. His careleness and your bouquet which took the impact of his assault kept you alive, but it would take time and rest before you could speak.

You still do not have the heart to ask him about singing.

Baron Zemo likes the hunt.

It’s been a while since he has, but not long enough that he’s forgotten how it’s done, or how much he enjoys it.

Patience and observation are his weapons and he’d spent the past few days using both.

The Baron had stripped away his fine clothes, concealing his wealth with worn shoes, a tattered coat and the hat of a man no one would notice. He left the pretty summer mansions behind, forgetting the charm of street lamps and manicured topiaries that decorate the parks, choosing instead to disappear into the bleak slums, quietly following the man whose name he’d gotten through his first round of cat and mouse which had ended very badly for the mouse.

Down he went over shit covered roads, dodging the beggars and dirty children, slipping in and out of the shadows like a predator that crouches in the tall grass before leaping to bite the neck of its victim.

He had stalked around this way for two nights. Thankfully this man -Karpov- is simple.

It will be over and done before midnight.

Pressing his back to the damp wall, the Baron keeps out of sight as Karpov stops at the entrance of an abandoned warehouse just off the water. He speaks with the old man sitting on a barrel and lights what’s left of a cigarette while they chat, the sound of gulls and gentle waves deceptively tranquil.

Zemo watches him, staring at his plain face. He will never forget it, or the way he feels knowing that you have seen him too, and why.

Their voices fade though his eyes stay trained on his target, just a sliver of his face showing around the corner in the dark, the memory of you onstage coming to him quickly.

He can see you so clearly, with your voice so bright and strong. It fills the music hall with the most beautiful sorrow he has ever heard, just when he needed it most…

Karpov may not have killed you —little bird— you are still alive, you are strong and healing even now. But he tried, and that is enough.

There is a righteous anger burning in the Baron’s heart that drives him—pushing him forward much as it did when he lost his wife and son. He won a war fueled by that rage and it is this same hurt that clears his head and keeps him steady. He is at his best when he is hunting those who deserve to die. This man, he thinks watching Karpov take a long drag, is most deserving.

So Zemo waits.

When Karpov finally goes in and the old man slumps down in a drunken sleep, Zemo slips on the mask he has not worn since the fighting at the borderlands and goes inside, making his way through the dark, his eyes quickly growing accustom to it.

He sticks to the shadows moving in through the fallen beams until he notices the silence. Karpov knows he's here. That’s all right.

“No use for that, I know who you are.” Comes Karpov’s voice in the distance.

The Baron smiles beneath his cover. “Then you also know why I’ve come.”

“I guess you’re mad about your little ingenue” He says the word making it sound crude.

“That is an act, only the role played on stage. She —is anything but.”

“All the same, you’ve got a score to settle with me….same as you did the ones that ripped your country apart. Come on then. Stop hiding.” Karpov says and the Baron hears how his voice wavers with fear.

He must truly knows who has come for him.

“What stories have you heard?” Zemo asks, curious as he walks past the wreckage. “What tales of war have made it all the way to your filthy ears?” He smirks. When he steps into the dim light of a barrel fire, the doomed man backs away.

Through the flames, Karpov catches his first glimpse of the Baron. He sees the long black coat with the white fur collar, similar to what the men wore to stay warm through the long winters of a northern war and the thick gloves to make gripping swords much easier. And finally, the mask that had become the stuff of legend between the fighters. Karpov may not have been there to see first hand, but he'd heard enough on the docks from the ones who traveled through, those few who survived...

Zemo's men rallied behind the mask and his enemies feared it. The entire time, none knew who the man that wore it was, the Baron had managed to keep this identity secret. They only knew that he was fearless and seemed to enjoy the killing when it kept others alive. Now Karpov knew— he did not expect to live long enough to tell the secret.

“You’re Baron Zemo.” He says awed. “The masked swordsman of Sokovia.” He grins with the discovery. “You’re the one who waits, and hunts.” His gold teeth gleam in the firelight. "And falls in love with little stage girls who forget their place." He says with a laugh, but that laugh is not genuine. He is trying very hard to stave off the inevitable.

Zemo squares his shoulders and fixes his eyes on his victim. It’s been a very long time since anyone has looked at him this way, but it is instantly familiar. All cowards make the same face right before they die. Still he is surprised and tilts his head, perhaps a little flattered that his war reputation has reached so far. He gives a single nod. “Yes… the patient man. With experience.” He adds and looks Karpov in the eye, his grin hidden beneath the mask. Why is he still standing here?

“Run.”

The man growls an angry response, he does not usually back down from a fight, but when the Baron steps around the fire, and draws his sword, Karpov forgets his own reputation in the slums and turns, fleeing up a set of crooked stairs, jumping over the places he knows won’t support him as he makes his was along the balcony of the next floor. The Baron stays put to watch; his brain doing the calculations to follow without stepping on a rotted or missing plank.

When the time is right he follows.

“I can smell you from here.” Zemo says into the dark as he climbs, his voice finding Karpov before he does. They say predators can smell fear, perhaps the war has changed him more than he realized. And to think he used to be a peaceful man.“People seem to find joy in taking things from me.” Zemo says stepping onto the second floor. He pauses to listen so happy that the hunt is not over. This may be Karpov’s territory but what is a broken building to a man who has seen the end of the world. “Such careless, stupid ignorance.” Zemo scolds softly. “Better men than you have tried my friend. And I’m sure you know that happened to them. You see it is not what I did during the war that should frighten you. It’s what I did to the ones who caused the deaths of my family after the fact.” Karpov is breathing is too loud. He does know.

Zemo hears and pauses, going left to find him instead of right.

Karpov feels panic, he’s set something off inside of Zemo, something that had been quiet for so long. He should never have done it, but how could he have known that the Baron the little bitch snuck off with was this one!

And then a breeze, like the breath of an angel catches his hair, reminding him of another way out.

Not waiting to test fate, the man scuttles across the floor boards down a short hallway with the broken wall that leads to the water below. He stands gazing down not wanting to jump, but not wanting to die in a fight either.

It isn’t so very far, he thinks watching the gentle waves break on the planks of the warehouse. But those rocks… he is certain he will not be able to miss them. He will have to take a running leap. Gathering his courage he takes a step back.

“Tell me, how long do you think it took your friend to give you up?” Zemo asks, his voice as light as a feather in Karpov’s ear. “Just the threat of my blade and he told me your name. I still killed him of course."

Karpov shuts his eyes, angry that he’s missed his chance. The bastard Baron moves as quiet as a snake in the grass. “You killed Charlie?”

“Yes.” He says and begins to raise his sword.

Furious at being caught, Karpov gives a shout and swings back with an elbow, but Zemo ducks missing the swing, rising with a single attack. His trusted sword delivering silent death. He takes a step or two back and waits. He did not miss.

Karpov stands, his face contorting, he reaches as if the Baron might help. He is confused and then he realizes.

The blood looks black against his dirty shirt blooming like a rotted flower as it seeps from the wound to his heart. The color drains from Karpov's face.

Zemo looks him over and it comes on quickly. Rage and fear are such a powerful combination. As the dying man sputters, the Baron kicks his stomach hard enough to send Karpov through the broken wall.

Pulling the mask from his face, Zemo quickly goes to the edge of the building, leaning over in time to see the way Karpov’s body breaks on the black rocks, ruined and hardly recognizable as a man.

He stares down at the gore for far too long, his only thought being that Karpov’s accomplice Charlie had been shown a mercy when his throat was sliced. Though it was a just end for a man so fond of showing the same -kindness- to innocent women.

Turing away, Zemo sheaths his sword and slips his mask into his coat, sad to put it away, and starts back through the warehouse. Unsure that he’s done what you would want, he questions his actions, but he is certain that his own brand of justice has been served.

The men who would cause you harm are dead. And that is all that matters.

“Throw it out,” You say. It is the first time you’ve tried using your voice. The nurse is shocked that you’ve finally given in but she seems so pleased that you try; you are only angry with what you hear.

It sounds like a crow scratching at a window.

You hate the sound.

It’s never even occurred to you to love or hate your speaking voice, it’s just been there and pleasant enough, sort of soft and unassuming, so different from when you sing.

Everything has changed so quickly.

“Are you sure miss? You’ve kept it all this time.” She says, her kindness punctuated by her hand resting light on your shoulder.

You look up at the ceiling from your pillow in bed refusing to look at that silly rose anymore. It is a symbol of something that has been proven to be untrue.

One week spent with your fate unknown. Three weeks you’ve lain here recovering. In all that time he has not written or come to see you.

It is unexpected, you’re not sure what to make of it, but you assume the worst and try to adjust to living with a broken heart beneath a lost voice.

“I’m sure.”

youtube

#baron zemo x you #zemo x y/n #zemo fanfic #zemo x reader #baron zemo fanfiction #baron helmut zemo #the baron always gets his revenge #with a sword #Youtube

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chaoticspacefam · 3 years

Text

Kiss With A Fist

A/N:

quite literally heeheheh ok I’ll see myself out LMAO the rest of this song doesn’t literally apply to these two, they love each other very much and rest assured they’d never actually, deliberately hurt each other. it’s more the general Vibe(tm) of the song that fits their courting process + I really liked the poetic irony of this line used as the quote & the last line of the fic XD Also bear in mind this is from D’leah’s POV and yes, it is semi-ironic on purpose because...it’s D’leah. Any regulars on the blog should be very familiar with mama Sith’s propsensity to be a bully with an overinflated ego at this point *shrugs* XD

OKAY, with that out of the way, here we go! A little oneshot. I haven’t sat down to properly write or edit for a good long while, but this is still one of my favourite oneshots that I’ve ever written tbh, so...enjoy! 😄😄 I’ll leave it up to reader interpretation as to whether they actually finished the mission her brother & dad sent them out on or got sidetracked(tm) 👀😉

I don’t think it needs a particular warning since it’s literally one sentence but there is a mention of killing an assassin in the middle of this (under the cut) so ig be aware of that. It’s not horribly graphic so should be fine but uhhh, just in case?

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“A kick in the teeth is good for some, but a kiss with a fist is better than none!” ~Florence & the Machine

Of all the Royal Guards that could have possibly been assigned to accompany her on this mission, it had to be this one. The heiress would be lying if she said she wasn't a tad bitter by the Emperor's insistence on that arrangement; she'd attempted to change his mind in a moment of desperation in the past, but her father would hear nothing of it, patting her on the shoulder and claiming that none of the others had the skill level for this sort of task, or to keep up with her during it. So, once more, she was resigned to the company of the fool who, despite her snapping, always seemed to turn up when he was least wanted and needed.

(This was, of course, not the case and given that his entire purpose was to protect the heiress from threats, perhaps she should have been more tolerant of his presence, or perhaps her protests stemmed less from annoyance and more from something else than she was willing to admit…)

And he had been fraying D'leah's nerves ever since they'd landed on Tatooine this morning. Kissai had enough arrogance for the both of them, and he seemed to have gotten the idea into his head that she couldn't take care of herself without him needing to jump in to "rescue" her at the most inopportune moment. It was infuriating. She did not need him charging in to help, she could handle herself just fine.

Everything about this man irritated her to no end: the way he stomped around with his great big feet and woke half the karkin’ planet, his habit of always being right behind her whenever she turned around, the way he kept grabbing her by the shoulder to pull her back and insist he, of all people, went first; his stupid face and that annoying, oaf-ish smile of his…

She’d been so busy internally cursing her Guard that she’d failed to notice the man who had been tailing them since the spaceport; in fact, she only noticed him in the first place when she heard his spine crack as Kissai lifted him into the air with the Force, then flung the body down in front of her almost pointedly.

D’leah let out an agitated hiss as her amber eyes flicked from the corpse at her feet, to his face as he raised both browstalks at her as if to say "I told you so", then back again, and sputtered.

“He wasn’t going to shoot me.”

“I think you’ll find he was, princess.” Kissai retorted smoothly, plucking the man’s blaster pistol off the ground and waving it at her as he added, “You’re welcome, by the way.” She bristled faintly at the word ‘princess’. Sometimes when she was in a good mood, she’d slip up and let it slide without correcting him. Today, after the morning she’d had, D’leah was in no mood to put up with it.

“I don’t need you following me around like a lost Tuk’ata pup!” she snapped at him, trudging onwards and praying he’d catch his stomping feet in a sinkhole when he tried to follow her.

“Your father seems to think otherwise.” The man simply laughed the comment off, pulling his hood up to protect his face from the sand that whipped into a vortex around them. His voice dropped an octave, to become a more serious growl. “Are you forgetting that my entire job is to protect you?”

The Ahaszaai High Lady snarled under her breath, checking the locator beacon Duuma had given her as she ducked into the alcove it indicated. The lost artifact should be around here somewhere…

“I don’t need protecting, I can take care of myself just fine!”

“Mm, of course, D’leahane, because Sith who can take care of themselves usually almost get decapitated by assassins.” Kissai snorted, though she could practically hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, “I think your father’s right to ask me to accompany you. You’d have died three times today if I hadn’t.”

“GO JUMP IN A SARLACC PIT!” she shouted back at him.

“And there are the creative insults your brother warned me about.”

D’leah paused in her search to turn her head and give him a dirty look over her shoulder, intoning menacingly. “I’ll kill him when I see him next.”

Kissai’s expression moulded into one of concern this time, the red-eyed Pureblood blinking at her uncertainly as he reminded her. “...You don’t know which one it was.”

Now it was her turn to grin at him.

“Don’t need to, I have a fifty-fifty shot.”

“No wonder they’re both afraid of you.” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Truthfully, the High Lady was doing her best to ignore his obvious needling as she ducked through another archway and moved further into the cave system, the words she threw over her shoulder echoing back to him off the empty passageway’s walls.

“You should be afraid of me, too. I could end you.”

She was surprised he was still behind her, he could move rather fast despite his large frame, it would seem. D’leah tried not to be too impressed by that fact, but if she was being honest...

“Does it bother you that I’m not, princess?”

He wasn’t going to drop this, was he? She’d been about to levitate a pile of rocks out of their path, but stopped and spun around to glare at him instead.

“Don’t you “princess” me, you...you…” just when she needed it the most, her ability to think of an appropriate insult failed her, and instead she trailed off into awkward silence. Kissai took that as an invitation to make her even more irritated that his wit was quicker than hers, and added, grinning the whole while: “If you’re trying to think of something you haven’t called me yet, we’ll be here for a good century or so.”

“Fool.” she hissed in frustration. He had her on the ropes, now, and that wasn’t somewhere the Ahaszaai heiress was used to being. “Is that the best one you have? Did I wear you out, my Lord~?” he crooned back at her, and that was when D’leah put her foot down. She flung a few bolts of lightning in his direction for good measure. As she had suspected, his reflexes were as good as his saber skills and he easily deflected them off his palm before the electricity did any damage, swatting them aside into the wall as if he were brushing dust off his cloak.

“I knew you were going to do that, too...do you really think I can’t handle you?” he teased fondly.

“I’ve no time for oafs the likes of you.” D’leah growled.

"Then tell me to leave you alone." he stared back at her seriously, browstalks furrowing as his gaze slid from hers to focus on the rest of her face, as if searching her expression for a nonverbal cue he might have missed. "At your word, my Lord, you'll not hear another thing from me beyond those necessary for my duty."

Looking into his eyes in that moment, she was forced to admit the reality that perhaps she didn’t want him to leave her alone. He’d figured out she was testing him, and now he was calling her bluff, the kriffing, good-looking bastard. Her jaw spurs rattled in annoyance, but D'leah's lips remained sealed. He waited a full minute, still studying her carefully, to give her plenty of opportunity to voice her thoughts.

She didn't. The corners of Kissai's mouth turned upwards into a faint smile.

"That's what I thought." he stepped away from her again, but not before slipping up and forgetting his station for long enough to murmur fondly, "Your nose scrunches up when you're sulking, you know. It’s cute."

D'leah could let "princess" slide on a good day, as far as his pet names went it was among those she considered tolerable, but she drew the line at "cute"! Annoyed and frustrated in more ways than one, she strode after him to reach up and grab the taller Pureblood's shoulder to stop him in his tracks. The Guard turned towards her again, a small, confused noise rumbling in his throat.

First she punched him in the jaw, then she kissed him. Hard. And that was the end of that.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #elven's writing #subterfugeverse #swtor oc: d'leah ahaszaai #sith heiress #swtor oc: kissai ahaszaai #d'leah/kissai #d'leahssai #is this classified as a meet cute; a meet-ugly; or some sort of weird in-between version of *BOTH*? you guys decide hahahaha #this *is* a prequel of sorts ;) i'm finally trying to sort out my askbox and clear it so i can open it again in a few months' time #so that oneshot will go out next week; if fanfic/writing gods are with me and i can finally finish writing it 🙏#d'leah: stop saving me all the time; i can save myself!!!#also d'leah: constantly walks her ass into danger with alarming regularity #emperor ahaszaai: uh; yeah; hey....izreni do you....do you think you could; maybe; stop her from doing that. great; thanks #d'leah likes to blame kissai for saarai's knack of throwing herself into danger like some sort of damage/blaster bolt sponge #but the truth is it's actually *BOTH* their faults; d'leah's just as bad at wandering into dangerous situations #it's just that kissai's whole ass job is to jump in the way before something bad happens *to* her #i really enjoy writing their dynamic it's so much fun #it's a blend of bodyguard/royalty; ''only i get to make fun of/beat them up''#and later on once they're married: well-meaning idiot/''oh fuck that's *MY* idiot!!''#it's great XD #i need to find a better title/''name'' for the Royal Guard(s) but atm i'm drawing a blank so generic filler fantasy moniker(tm) it is !#(for now)#also yes the jaw spurs *are* bone and they *do* emote with them; bioware are cowards and no i will not stop with that headcanon LMAO #i could write a whole ass essay on that point alone #maybe one day when i actually manage to draw the examples like i keep saying i will XD

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number-one-micoverse-fan · 3 years

Text

“Beware the Fury of a Patient Man”

Quote by John Dryden

Dom’s on a mission. And he’s not going to stop until he sees it through to the end. Even if it costs him. Warnings: blood, graphic descriptions of violence, injuries, angst, gun violence, acts of violence against children

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Dom wrestled the gun away from his assailant and slammed the butt of it into the man’s head. Then he did it again. And again. And by the fourth time there was blood splattering hot and fresh across his hand and the man wasn’t moving.

It took a minute to catch his breath again, casting a wide-eyed gaze around him to make sure no one had come running to investigate the noise. But the yard remained dark and undisturbed, and Dom climbed to his feet, legs shaking, clutching the gun in his hand tight enough to make his fingers ache with the grip. He was already tired, his body sore and drained from tracking the van all the way out to the run down house outside of town.

But he wasn’t going to leave without doing what had to be done.

Breathing shallow to muffle the noise, Dom crept around the back of the house, his steps as light as he could make them on the dry grass. There were only a few lights on inside, filtered through grimy windows and barely lighting the night. None of the windows were open and Dom didn’t dare try them, expecting them to creak or at least make too much noise for him to safely enter. There was a sliding back door, however, and Dom pressed himself against the side of the house, squinting through the dirty glass to try and see what was inside. An empty dining area, cluttered with garbage and broken chairs, and what looked like a kitchen, cleaner but only just.

Dom bit his lip as he hooked his fingers into the door handle and carefully applied pressure. It stuck, at first, and then gave way with a low hiss and a dull creak. Dom froze, ears straining to listen for footsteps. When nothing happened, he eased the door open further, squirming through it, trying to suck in his stomach, his back scraping against the threshold. He thought about leaving the door open, making an easy escape route, but if someone noticed then it could spell trouble if they suspected an intruder was in the house.

There was muffled laughter from somewhere above him, the sound of floorboards shifting under foot, tangled with the dull buzz of a television or radio.

Good, they were distracted.

Dom didn’t know how many there were, but he hoped they were all in the room upstairs.

He moved quietly through the house, sticking close to the walls and trying to move only when there was an influx of noise. It felt like it was taking him hours to make his way towards the sounds, even longer on the stairs, and more than anything he wanted to charge down the hall and kick the door in like an action hero. But he kept his slow and steady pace, heart pounding in his chest, mouth dry, palms sweaty where he gripped the gun.

The sound of the television was louder, coming from a cracked open door at the end of the hall, blue light flickering across old floorboards.

Very carefully, Dom nudged the door open further, blinking in the brighter light of the room. His gaze swept over the room, searching. There was a television on an old shelf against the opposite wall, backlighting the three adults sitting on the couch, laughing and chattering to one another. Dom eased forward, trying to see into the shadowy corners, and the floor creaked under him.

He froze.

“Ey, Jamis, you get them beers already?” One of the men on the couch turned to look over the back of it towards the door. He frowned when he didn’t see his friend, but Dom, his mouth opening to call out.

Dom pulled the trigger.

Blood exploded out of the man’s skull and he went flying off the couch to crash to the floor.

The other two were on their feet in an instant, one of them throwing himself forward in front of the couch and the other diving over the armrest to roll away. Dom followed the one who’d jumped the arm rest with his gun, firing off a few more rounds, splinters from the wooden floor erupting where he missed.

A movement in the corner of his eye made him turn and he saw the first man scrambling to his feet. Dom aimed the gun to fire but his hand froze, finger brushing the trigger without pulling it.

Because as the man rose to his feet, he had someone else with him.

Cody.

The boy was wrapped painfully tight in duct tape, a piece pressed over his mouth, bucking against the hold of the man whose arm was around his neck. There were tears streaking down Cody’s face, his eyes wide and terrified, rolling wildly until they locked on Dom. Then he made a desperate sound behind the tape and Dom could only hear his son’s voice desperately calling for help.

It made white hot rage over power the cold fear in his heart.

But before he could move, the second man dived at him, knocking them both to the floor where they scuffled. The man sat on his chest, pinning him to the floor, and grabbed Dom’s wrist that held the gun, slamming Dom’s hand into the floor over and over, trying to get him to drop it. Dom snarled at him, using his free hand to try and claw at the man’s face. The man twisted away from him, taking a second to punch him in the face a few times until Dom’s head was spinning. He felt his grip on the gun weaken and a growl escaped him. His head darted forward and he sunk his teeth into his attacker’s arm as hard as he could.

The man screamed, trying to wrench away and beat him off. Dom took the opportunity to throw them both to the side, rolling over so he was the one on top, and tried to point the gun at the man’s head. The man struggled, shoving at Dom’s face and clawing at his throat, trying to strangle him.

“DROP THE GUN OR I KILL THE KID!”

Dom froze, head snapping around to stare up at the first man.

He was still holding Cody pressed against his chest, an arm around his neck. In the other hand he held a gun pressed against Cody’s temple.

The man under Dom shoved him off and wrenched the gun away, kicking Dom in face as he got to his feet. Dom felt his nose crunch and coughed as blood splashed down his face, eyes watering with pain.

“Shiiitt,” The second man hissed, checking the gun, “This guy killed Zach! And probably Jamis too, I think this is his gun.”

“Just kill him,” The first man lowered his own gun, but kept his grip on Cody who was still struggling and thrashing, “We’re gonna have to burn this place down anyhow, it’s been compromised. We can—OW! WHAT THE FUCK!”

“Hey! How the hell did he do that!?” The second man abandoned Dom and ran around to the front of the couch to see what was going on.

Dom took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, breathing heavily through his mouth. The first man had dropped Cody, who was now squirming backwards across the floor as best he could, and was more preoccupied by the second captive. Milo had sunk his teeth into the man’s ankle and wasn’t letting go, even when the man started kicking and punching at him. What was astounding was that Milo had clearly been gagged with duct tape too, remnants of it still clinging to his face. There was blood on his face too, but it was hard to tell if that was from Milo or from the man he was biting. The second man was pulling at Milo’s legs, trying to pry him off, but that only had the first man screaming at him to cut it out and pry the little shit’s mouth open.

Dom wasn’t going to let them lay another hand on those kids.

He launched himself over the back of the couch with a roar, shoving the second man down hard enough that he smashed his head into the shelf and lay on the floor groaning. Before the first man could level his gun, Dom snatched the one from the second man’s limp hand and fired. The bullet punched the first man in the stomach, making him stagger back. While he was recovering, Dom shot the second man in the head and scrambled to his feet to charge the first man, the last enemy standing.

But his opponent was quicker.

There was the crack of a gunshot and Dom felt something hot and sharp bloom in his side. Another one ripped into his shoulder and his arm dropped limply to his side. Dom ignored it. There were more important things to take care of.

He screamed at his son’s kidnapper, firing his own gun again and clipping the man’s leg. He dropped to one knee and Dom bowled into him, sending the two of them sprawling. Both of their guns flew from their hands. The man yelled and squirmed, punching at Dom, but Dom barely felt the blows, his one remaining hand clawing at the man’s face through watering eyes, blood, and wailing fists. Teeth scraped his knuckles and then his fingers found a fistful of the man’s hair. Dom clenched it, pulled the man’s head up, and slammed it back into the floor as hard as he could. His opponent shouted and his hands paused their wild punching, one of them remaining to claw stupidly Dom’s shirt.

Dom could only see red, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He lifted the man’s head again and, again, slammed it into the floor. And again. And again.

Distant pain wrenched in his stomach but he shoved it to the back of his mind. His only focus was on getting rid of the monster that had hurt these children.

He slammed the man’s head down again. And again. Again, again, again. Even when the body under him stopped moving, he kept mindlessly smashing the broken skull into the floor, blood soaking his hands and staining his jeans, his breathing labored and wheezing.

It was only a sniffling whimper that snapped him out of it.

“Cody…” He croaked, looking around.

The boy was curled on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, shivering and crying. Dom staggered to his feet, wincing and putting a hand to his front, only to have his fingers bump against the handle of a knife. Ah. He’d been stabbed.

Gritting his teeth, Dom pulled the knife from his stomach, choking down the pained noise that wanted to leave him as blood rapidly stained his already ruined shirt. Couldn’t let Cody know how hurt he was.

Breathing heavily, Dom dropped to his knees next to his son and put a hand on his shoulder. Cody started and pulled away, eyes snapping wide open.

“Sh, sh, Cody, it’s okay, it’s me,” Dom murmured. His touch had left a red hand print on his son’s shoulder. He tried not to think about it, “I—I’m going to cut the duct tape. It will probably hurt, I’m sorry.”

He slid the knife carefully into a gap and began to saw at the tape, first cutting loose Cody’s arms, then his legs. Peeling the tape off did make Cody whimper and fresh tears sprout in his eyes, but he took it like a champ. Dom was extra careful with the piece of his mouth and as soon as Cody was free, he threw himself into Dom’s arm, sobbing into his chest. Dom winced at the pressure on his wounds but wrapped his good arm around his son reassuringly,

“I’m s-sorry I didn’t come sooner. It’s okay now. You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe. Will you h-help me with Milo?”

Cody sniffed and nodded, clutching at Dom as the man shuffled across the floor to kneel next to Milo. The kid was a lot more battered than Cody, blood oozing from a split in his forehead where he’d been kicked, matting his hair, one of his eyes already swelling shut. It looked like he’d ripped through the duct tape on his face with the edge of something sharp because it had cut into his cheek, leaving it to bleed freely down his chin and into his mouth.

“A nail,” Milo explained with a feral grin while Cody picked the remains of the tape off of his friend’s face and Dom cut him loose, “It was sticking out of the floor a little and I used it to rip off the tape!”

“It’s probably infected,” Cody said in a shaky voice but he was smiling as he helped Milo to his feet. Dom smiled tiredly at the pair, leaning heavily on the wall as he stood up, one hand pressed over the hole in his stomach. There was a slice in his side, hot blood still leaking down his pant leg, and his shoulder ached something fierce, but it was worth it. The kids were safe.

“Let’s get outside,” He said weakly, making sure to keep a smile on his face when they looked at him. He followed them out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door where he sagged onto the steps with a sigh. The van was parked in the drive and he’d thought to take it and drive them home but he was too worn out now; probably wouldn’t have been able to stay awake for the journey. He reached a shaky, blood soaked hand into his pocket and tugged out his phone,

“C-Cody…need you to call…call…” His vision blurred and he heard his son shouting his name and then Dom fell into darkness and knew nothing at all.

———

He woke up in in a white room with tubes and wires attached to him and a dull pain throbbing distantly through his numb body. Sleep tugged at him, urging him to go back to sleep again, but Dom struggled against it as his bleary gaze roamed around the room.

Miranda was slumped in a chair behind him, asleep, circles under her eyes and her hair in the messiest ponytail Dom had ever seen. She looked beautiful. Like an angel in the white room.

He shifted slightly to call to her when he felt something warm and heavy pressed against him. He looked down slowly and felt instant relief and comfort and warmth fill him.

Cody was tucked against his side, cleaned up and with a few bandages, but looking none the worse for wear. His hands were fisted into Dom’s blanket, head against Dom’s chest, having squirmed carefully under Dom’s arm. His glasses were crooked; he’d probably fallen asleep with them on.

Dom smiled, very faintly, tiredly, and let himself relax. His eyes closed.

They were safe.

Everything would be okay.

#pays emily in violence and angst as i always do #dominic #violence #injury #angst #whump #fan fiction

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imma-fucking-nerd · 4 years

Text

Retribution

(Connor x Reader)

⚠️TW: Graphic descriptions of death & Suicide⚠️

A/N: im sorry in advance for the angst that this fic will be. I went down a rabbit hole of slowed sad songs :')

——————————————

It had felt like years since the last time he saw your face. Your smile. The way the corners of your eyes creased when you laughed. God how he missed that sound. It never failed to make his artificial heart skip a beat. Sure, he could replay a memory of you laughing but it just wasn't the same. It would never be the same. Because whenever he would replay one good memory of you, it would always be spoiled by his last memory of you.

The way your gorgeous (l/c) lips that always curled into a smile crafted just for him, quivered and turned a cold blue. The words that fell from those perfect lips that were nothing but kind, had turned into desperate pleads. How your beautiful hair that suited you so perfectly, clung to your face as the rain poured down onto you. And finally, your bright and captivating (e/c) eyes that were glossed with hot tears, betrayal, hurt, fear.

You were so scared. Terrified, even. But he didn't care. Not when it mattered anyways. He pressed the cold steel of his gun to your forehead and pulled the trigger without a second thought. Actually, that was a lie. He did feel a sense of hesitation when he met your eyes. That almost made it worse, didn't it? Because he went through with it anyways. He didn't have a choice, he told himself. He was just a machine back then. It was Amanda who was the real murderer. But none of those excuses soothed the guilt that consumed him.

It was his fault. He was the one that stole your life away from you. The one you trusted the most in this world. He knew what he meant to you. He knew that you would let him take you to that abandoned warehouse no questions asked. It was all too easy for him. He wished that you had been more suspicious, wished you hadn't trusted him with your life, wished you fought back.

But you didn't fight back. You didn't even attempt to for the possibility of living another day. You knew Connor never failed his mission. Instead, you tried your hardest to make him realize he didn't need to do this. That he was more than a machine, a tool used to do the humans dirty work. You told him he had so much more value as a person. You told him you loved him. But your words didn't get through to him. Not until it was far too late.

Now those words were all he could hear. Over and over. He hated it. He hated the guilt. He hated the grief. He hated himself. He just wanted it all to stop. The memories, the feelings, everything. It was all too much. But he knew it was nothing less than he deserved. He was a murderer. A monster.

Because not only did he kill you in cold blood, he left you there. Left your body to rot in an old abandoned warehouse where no one would suspect your corpse to lay. To decay and be eaten away by whatever vermin was lucky to come across you. He didn't even give you the decency of shutting your eyes. Letting them stare lifelessly into the distance until they were eaten away.

After he became deviant he returned to that warehouse. Your body still in the same place, same position he left it. If he were human he would have barely recognized you with how nature reclaimed you. But he did recognize you. He remembered everything. Ever painful detail replayed infront of him as he stared into the empty sockets of your eyes.

The image that was now stuck in his mind forever made him sick. If he were human he was sure he'd never be able to keep anything down again. But instead, he just had to live with that clenching feeling in his biocomponants. The suffocating feeling of his actions coming back to haunt him.

Hank, the only other person who gave him a chance, lost his last game of russian ruellet a few short weeks after the android confessed to his greatest regret. He foolishly thought that when Hank's eerily calm reaction meant there might have been a small chance he could be forgiven one day. That maybe he wasn't alone. But when he walked into the old Lieutenant's home and spotted his blood splattered kitchen he realized how wrong he was.

You were practically like a child to Hank. Sure you annoyed the living fuck out of him, but he really did care about you. He even cared about Connor in his own way. But once he heard the news that you were dead. Murdered. By the very android he would have proudly called son. He fell deeper into his depressive state. Deeper than ever before. And not too long after, he joined his family. Leaving Connor on his own.

It felt like he had killed Hank too. Maybe it wasn't him who pulled the trigger, but it was him that took something so special away. Yet again he was the one responsible for the loss of another irreplaceable life. It was his fault. The only people he would ever realize he loved were dead because of him. Because he was too stupid to realize his fucking mission didn't mean shit.

So there he sat, next to the spot where your body used to be. It had long since been cleaned up, buried in a nice cemetery. A place he would visit daily and talk to your gave as if you could hear him. Waiting for a reply that would never come. He looked down at the revolver in his hands, the same one Hank had used. The same one he would use.

Connor popped out the chamber, a single bullet in one of the eight slots, and gave it a spin before flicking it back in it's place. He pressed the cool metal under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Click

His LED was burning a crimson red, a colour it never seemed to shift away from these days. He continued his action of spinning the chamber again, returning the barrel under his chin.

Click

Flashes of your eyes, your face, replaced the image of the dreary warehouse surroundings. He hoped maybe he would see you again as he continued his game of one man russian ruellet.

Click

God how he missed you. Missed Hank. He never really realized it in the moment, but you were hilarious. A small, bittersweet smile made it's way onto his face as he recalled one of your jokes. The chamber spun once again, before clicking into place and the barrel returned under his chin. He never realized how much he loved you. He wished he got to tell you. He wished he realized it sooner.

Bang

———————————————

A/N: lowkey on the verge of crying over this shit THANKS A LOT ME. Sad Connor is NOT okay and I am probably going to go write a fluffy fic ASAP to feel better.

#dbh x reader #dbh fanfic #dbh #detroit rk800 #detroit become human #detroit #dbh connor #connor rk800 x reader #connor rk800 #connor x reader

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panda-noosh · 5 years

Text

against the odds {Finn Shelby x Reader}

Words: 11.2k

Summary: Your worlds could not be more different, but that doesn’t stop them colliding.

Genre: angst!

Warnings: strong language (stronger than usual because it’s the Peaky Blinders), violence, graphic depictions of injury.

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - okay we’re trying something new. let me know what y’all think :)

----

The sound of guns shots has become something normal.

Your mother would be absolutely mortified to hear such a thing. When you moved from London to Birmingham, she thought for sure you would be safe, hidden away in a little shack with no one to bother you. You would get on with your studies before moving on to bigger and better things, and in the beginning, that was the plan. You kissed your mother goodbye, hopped on the train and departed for a life you had all planned out.

Small Heath isn’t the place to make dreams come true, but it’s where you ended up.

The job at The Garrison was only meant to be part-time, but again, Small Heath is full of unexpected little mishaps. After the old barkeep, Grace, was brutally murdered at a party she herself had organised, you had been offered the job full time - and you took it.

You took it, even though you knew with everything in you it was a bad idea. The world was falling apart around you, and it was as if the main source of this destruction came directly from inside The Garrison itself, like this tiny little pub in Birmingham was the hub for all the worlds travesties.

Despite the little voice in your head telling you to step away, find a life elsewhere, it’s Finn Shelby that keeps you rooted behind the counter. It’s always been Finn Shelby.

Tall, broad shouldered, built like a watered down version of his older brother, John. By name, Finn is scary, but he’s only scary because he’s a Shelby. For the first few weeks of you settling into The Garrison, you had walked on egg-shells around him, lest he suddenly draw a pistol out of his trousers like you’d seen his brothers do on multiple occasions.

However, time went on, and things became clearer, and soon, Finn was seated in front of you when the rest of the pub was emptying, and the two of you spoke.

About nothing. About everything. About a life outside of this mess. He’d laughed at that, and you remember the noise being so pleasant, like music to your ears, and you remember shutting those thoughts down with the harsh reminder that the man in front of you was a Shelby, meaning there would be no room whatsoever for anything like that.

You saw more of Finn each and every day. He hardly ever speaks to you when his older brothers are waltzing about, but with the recent business with the Russians, the older Shelby’s visits are getting few and far between, meaning you see more of Finn throughout your always-busy shifts at The Garrison.

The door slamming closed signals his arrival this evening. Having already spent a good six hours on your feet, serving the drunk and disorderly, it is a relief of the grandest kind when you look up and see Finn and Isaiah pushing through the crowd towards the bar; Finn is smiling, nudging Isaiah’s arm to which Isaiah ruffles the boys sandy blonde hair.

“Evening, Y/N,” Isaiah says once he and Finn have finally arrived in front of you.

“Evening,” you reply. “What are you two drinking today?”

“I’ll have a whiskey,” Isaiah replies. “My boy here will have-”

“Just a water,” Finn cuts in.

Your eyes sparkle, darting up to meet his own; he’s staring right back at you, a shy smile on his face. “Just a water, Mr Shelby? You do know what time of day it is, right?”

Isaiah has one eyebrow raised, glancing at Finn through the corner of his eye. “Have you gone fucking mental, mate?”

Finn shrugs. “I’m not feeling good. Just a water will do fine.”

“Alright. A whiskey and a water, coming right up.” You turn to the shelves, trying desperately to suppress the tiny smile threatening to weave its way onto your face.

Behind you, Isaiah’s voice is hushed but still audible when he says, “You think staying sober is gonna impress the new barkeep?”

“I’m not impressing anyone,” Finn bites back. “I don’t need to impress anyone.”

Isaiah scoffs. “Right. You’ve just lodged a stick up your arse for the fun of it, have you?”

The unmistakable sound of Isaiah’s forehead smacking off the counter sounds behind you.

“Fuck! Alright, I get it. I get it. I’ll keep my fucking mouth shut next time, yeah?”

“Good. Next time it won’t be my hand smashing into the back of your head.”

“Ooh, I’m shitting myself.” Isaiah is laughing when you turn back around, their selected drinks in your hand. You slide them across the counter, following close behind when you lean forward with your arms crossed. Isaiah smiles, taking a swig of his drink before he pats Finn’s shoulder and says, “I’ll be off now, anyway. That table over there is playing cards.”

You crane your neck. “Are they really? I told them not to do that - half of them gamble their money off before they pay for their drinks. Robbing bastards.”

“I’ll tell them to keep a few shillings spare, shall I?” Isaiah grins again, grabs your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles before he turns on his heel and heads towards the table in question. You watch him go, shaking your head slowly.

It’s just you and Finn now.

Finn hollows out his cheeks, swirling his water around and around and around. His hazel eyes burn into the top of the glass, as if he can somehow turn the water to wine if he stares at it long enough; his hands are scarred and bruised - old and new, mixing together against pale skin that really shouldn’t be so blemished, but is anyway.

You resist the urge to reach out and touch his hand, trace your fingers along the scars left behind by years of being a Shelby. There’s so much you can say to him, so many opinions you can throw at him in one go, but you don’t think he’ll listen. Maybe you don’t really want him to listen. Maybe he shouldn’t listen, because at the end of the day, he’s a Shelby brother, and you’re a barmaid.

Finn looks up. “You know what I’ve noticed recently?”

You raise a brow, silently urging him to continue.

“You don’t drink a lot. At all.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. It’s weird, though. You’re a barmaid. You’re surrounded by all this booze and you don’t touch it.”

“Arthur will have my hands if I even think about taking from his stash.”

Finn purses his lips, casting a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t think Arthur will notice. He’s a bit busy right now.”

You shrug, straightening up. Your shoulders crack with the slow movement, hours on your feet finally taking a physical tole on you. “I don’t have to worry about that, anyway. I’m not a big drinker in the first place. I’m more of a tea fan.”

Finn scoffs. “Tea?”

Your arms fall to your sides. “What’s wrong with drinking tea?”

Finn raises his hands in a mock pose of surrender, a shining grin forming on his face. You find yourself smiling right back, completely unable to stop yourself. “I’m not saying anything is wrong with tea. I like a cuppa myself sometimes, actually.”

“Aye, so wipe that fucking smile off your face, Finn Shelby, before I do it for you.”

Finn laughs, his hands clapping back against the counter. “You and what experience?”

You roll your eyes, slapping his hand away from your arm before he can curl his fingers around your wrist in that way he always does when your conversations take a turn for the amused. “You have no right to judge my drinking habits when you have a glass of water sitting in front of you.”

“If you want me drunk, Y/N, all you have to do is say.” With that, he takes a swig of his water, staring at you over the lip of the glass; his gaze has a warning to it, but that isn’t uncommon for the Shelby boys. Dark eyes an accessory to a personality of pure gold, you find your knees going weak beneath their scrutiny.

You look away, grabbing a dirty glass as way of distraction. “It’s not my job to tell you what to drink, I’m afraid. I pour the beverage, collect the money, tell the drunk twats to fuck off when I need to - and that’s it.”

Finn hums into his glass. “Sounds fun.”

“It pays.”

“And that’s all you care about?”

You look at him. “That’s all anyone in this shit hole cares about, Finn. Including you.”

Slowly, Finn sets his glass down on the counter. You find it strange how he can down an entire glass of whiskey in two seconds flat, but struggles to make a dent in a glass of water.

“Money isn’t all I care about, you know,” he says. “I have. . . other things.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“You can ask if you want.”

You pause, towel still stuck in the dirty glass, mind still reeling, knees still slightly unstable. “I don’t want to know. I’m too involved with you Shelby boys as it is.”

Finn chuckles. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, it’s the worst sin of them all.”

“May God have mercy on your-”

Finn’s words are cut off by the gunfire.

As earlier stated, gunfire has become something you’re not unfamiliar with. Before arriving in Small Heath, even the sound of a car back firing would have sent you scrambling for cover, unfamiliar with the sounds of violence, but now, you simply crane your neck to get a better view of what is going on.

Thomas, John and Arthur Shelby stampede through the doors of The Garrison, John laughing his head off, Arthur yelling, Thomas strolling alongside them. John still has his gun raised towards the door, but judging by the sudden silence, none of his enemies have been left standing.

Finally, John twirls around and laughs. “That’ll show the bastards, eh?”

“What did you do?” Finn asks, turning to face his brothers. John immediately wraps an arm around his shoulders, pressing Finn’s face into the crook of his neck. Finn fights against the grip, pushing John away with a scowl.

“None of your concern, Finny-boy,” says Arthur. The older man doesn’t look at you when he says, “Whiskey. Now.”

You grab him a whiskey.

“Who are you sending out to clean up the bodies?” Finn asks.

“Some of the Lee’s will take care of it,” Tommy replies. “Casualties were light this evening.”

“I think that’s a cause for some fucking celebration!” John hollers, slapping his hand against the counter. “You’re a bit slow on it today, love. Where’s my fucking drink?”

“Give them a bloody chance,” Finn hisses.

You grit your teeth, handing Arthur his drink before you nod your head at John. “Sorry Mr Shelby.”

“Whatever. Just get me a whiskey. And don’t be stingy with it, alright? I’m in a good mood tonight.”

You do as asked, pouring a glass half full of whiskey and sliding it over the counter. You make one for Tommy, as well, even though the boss didn’t ask; he’s got his head down, staring at some pages he has now scattered across the bar, taking little to no care about the other inhabitants spread out across it. You give Mr O’Neil a pleasant, apologetic smile, and he nods because he understands perfectly well why you can’t move them; they’re the Shelby boys. They’ll sooner take their fingers off one by one before taking orders from a simple barmaid.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Finn?” John asks.

“Water. Don’t touch it.”

You turn. John is glaring at Finn’s glass of water like it has just offended his ancestors, one eyebrow raised, his lips quirked in an amused smile that tells you he is seconds away from taking the piss out of his youngest brother. You hang back, watching the scene unfold in the way you’ve mastered over the past few months - looking, but not making it obvious you’re listening.

“Water,” John repeats, jostling Arthur’s arm. Arthur is laughing, has the decency to cover it with his own whiskey glass. “You’re on the water, are you? When’s the baby due, then?”

“Fuck off, John.”

John slaps the back of Finn’s head. “I’d sooner drink my own piss than touch that stuff.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

John laughs. “Oooh, he’s got a mouth on him tonight, hasn’t he?”

“The water makes him loosen up,” Arthur replies, before his eyes shoot to your own. “Or maybe it’s the barmaid. Tell me, Finn - is their mouth any good?”

Your eyes pop open, heat rising to your cheeks. You’ve always known the Shelby brothers to have absolutely no filter, but it’s very rare you’re behind the comments they fire. You fold your arms over your chest, resisting the urge to tell Arthur to go to hell; you’ll leave that to Finn, who now shakes his head and says, “For fuck sake, can you two just mind your own business for once?”

John wraps an arm around Finn’s shoulder and purrs in his ear. “You are our business, little brother. I’m proud you’re getting your balls drained.”

Finn’s cheeks are coloured red by now. He keeps his eyes on the countertop, fingers moulding together to the point where there is a red mark beaming from where he rubs his thumb back and forth. “It’s not like that. Neither of you have a clue what you’re on about.”

John’s eyes snap up. You look away, running your fingers along the glass cabinet in any attempt to keep up the facade of not caring. “Aah. They’re hard-to-get, are they? Do you forget you’re a Shelby? You can have anyone you want.”

“I don’t want anyone.”

You bite your lip, turning your back on them.

John laughs. “Right. Well, when the hormones finally hit and you start getting blue-balls, just keep in mind that we run this place. We’ll get you sorted.”

Finn doesn’t reply. Part of you is glad he hasn’t, because his response would only lead to further discussion into something you certainly do not want discussed; John and Arthur continue their celebrations throughout the night, requesting more and more drinks, making more and more crude jokes. Tommy laughs along with them sometimes, but he can handle his drink much better than they can. Every now and then you will look over to the Shelby table, note Finn’s uncomfortable demeanour, before catching Tommy’s eye. It startles you every time, and you never keep the eye contact long enough to figure out what he wants - just long enough to acknowledge that it’s not an accident. He’s analysing you.

When it comes to Tommy Shelby, that can’t be good.

----

The light is dim in your flat.

The bulb is on it’s way out, and you know that. If you hold off buying another one for any longer, you will be left shrouded in darkness for the evenings - and you’re not home during the day any more. Nonetheless, you pretend it’s fine when you get home. Another day spent dealing with drunken idiots, though Finn didn’t show up tonight, which made the night a little bit worse.

You turn on the record player, put it on it’s softest volume before you tug your robe from your shoulders and step into the bath. There is a cup of tea sitting on the desk beside you. The curtains are closed, your bed awaiting your arrival. You are determined to relax tonight. You think you deserve it.

You don’t wash yourself. Instead, you spend the time just staring up at the ceiling, a cigarette between your fingers. You trace the patterns indented in the roof, notice the damp spots that will soon make you cough if you don’t take care of them - yet another maintenance issue to add to the ever-growing list. You don’t even know where to start; the idea of going out after work to buy light bulbs, or ventilation, or a new set of curtains - it’s daunting when you’ve seen what these streets can be like. In the day time, perhaps it’s not so bad. People walk around Small Heath in the day light all the time, but you’re always working when the sun is out; the only time you can go out is at night, and you’re not stupid enough to risk that.

You close your eyes, sliding lower beneath the warm water. Your feet pop up over the edge of the basin, and you wiggle your toes against the cool air that attacks them, a direct contrast to the bubble-less water you’re currently soaking in. You want to stay there until your fingers are wrinkled, until the water is cold and there is no pleasure to be taken from it any longer.

You want to disappear beneath the water forever, never resurface. Not dead, but not present, either.

These thoughts get to you sometimes. Ever since leaving London, they appear at the most random of moments; you wouldn’t describe yourself as a very sad person. You’ve struggled, and you are struggling, but life is good. For the first time ever, you have a steady wage, and you can afford things. For the first time ever, you have friends you can genuinely joke around with, regulars at The Garrison who have already sworn to protect you with their life purely because you know just the amount of tonic water to top their whiskey with.

But anyone will agree - disappearing forever is much easier than dealing with life. It doesn’t matter how happy you are.

These thoughts are cut off by a knock at your door. You immediately bolt upright, water sloshing over the side of the bath. Your eyes dart to the door, mouth opening, words of welcome on the tip of your tongue, but they are blocked by the anxiety coursing through you right now.

And then, “Y/N? Open up.”

Your throat closes over, the familiar voice of Thomas Shelby startling you into action. You don’t waste time pondering on why the fuck he’s decided to visit you. You just hop out of the bath, snatch your robe and tug it over your shoulders before opening the door. You grip the front of your robe with one hand, your other hand curled protectively against your chest.

Because there he is. The most feared man in Small Heath. The most feared man in Birmingham. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was the most feared man in the United Kingdom.

He’s not a tall man, but his personality gives him a good foot in height, in your eyes. With his shoulders drawn back and his daunting, ice-cold stare, the fact that most men are taller than him does not factor in on the fear he emits from people. He’s wearing a nice suit - as per usual - and there is very little expression on his face. His eyes roam your form for a second before he sighs and says, “Bad time?”

“Yes.”

He pushes into the house, nudging you out of the way with nothing more than a clip of his shoulder against your own. “That’s a shame. Have you got whiskey?”

You swallow, slowly closing the door behind him. The music still plays softly in the background. Tommy rummages through the tea set-up you have laid out, frowning when he realises you don’t have any alcohol for him to consume.

“I have tea,” you reply, hovering by the door in case you need to make a run for it. He’s trying not to be threatening, but the outline of a pistol is so prominent against his waistcoat.

Tommy glances at you. “I’ll have tea then.”

You gesture towards the tray. “It’s all there.”

“I pay you to pour my drinks.”

You tap your empty wrist. “Off the clock, Mr Shelby. Pour your own drink, or dehydrate for all I care.” You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”

Tommy sighs, pouring himself a cup of tea - no milk, no sugar. “I’m here on behalf of my brother - young Finn.”

Your heart stops for a brief moment. “Finn sent you?”

“No.” He takes a long, loud sip of his drink. “Finn seems to have become quite. . . mute when it comes to matters concerning you.”

“You shouldn’t tease him, you know. He’s a nice boy.”

“He’s a Shelby. None of us are nice.” Tommy sits down, runs his fingers along the broken curtains behind him. “He’s just nice to you, which is why I’m here.”

You raise a brow.

Tommy looks over at you, shakes his head when he sees your confused expression. “You’re aware of the work Finn is involved in, yes?”

You don’t reply. It’s response enough.

“Good,” says Tommy. “Then you’ll know the risk you’re taking by getting involved with him.”

Your eyes widen. “Mr Shelby-”

“Call me Tommy.”

“Mr Shelby, Finn and I aren’t involved. We talk when he comes to The Garrison, but it’s nothing more than that. I talk to everyone that comes to The Garrison.”

Tommy takes another long, loud sip of his tea. You want to slam the entire tea kettle into his fucking skull.

He sighs, content, when he finally sets the cup down. “I have a question, Y/N.” He flicks his eyes up. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

You freeze. “What?”

“Finn doesn’t just talk to people. He knows his own business just as well as anyone else - he knows it can never just be talking when it comes to people outside the Peaky Blinders. Our enemies will find his weak spots, and they will use that against him. I’m afraid, Y/N, you are definitely one of his weak spots.”

Your heart is beating so loud, a symphony in your chest. Your palms are sweating, and suddenly the heat from the steam is overwhelming. You swipe a hand over your forehead, biting your lower lip when you say, “No one has come to hurt me if that’s what you’re worried about. Nobody will come to hurt me, because I’m the fucking barmaid. I’m not your little brothers play thing.”

Tommy smiles. Smiles, like he’s amused. “I never said you were. In fact, I think Finn sees you as everything but a play-thing. He’s always been the naive one of us - I think he believes in true love.”

“And do you not, Thomas Shelby? You had a wife once, no?”

Tommys smile fades, replaced by that familiar deadly look that - somehow - you’re much more comfortable looking at. When Thomas Shelby is smiling, he’s unpredictable. At least you’re used to his scowl.

He bites the inside of his lip and looks into his tea cup. “I came here to tell you that - for your own safety - you need to stay away from him. Break his heart. Do whatever it takes, because the business we’re involved in right now is no place for you. And you will get involved if this little thing with Finn continues.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? There’s nothing between me and Finn. You’re wasting your time.”

Tommy slowly stands up, setting his cup on the side. He glances at the bath water, the dim lamp turned on in the corner, the broken curtains. He purses his lips, points to the ceiling and says, “I’ll send someone over in the morning to fix some things in here.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“No.” He starts towards the door. You move out of his way, keeping your eyes trained on the floor when he leans in and says, softly, “But this place needs to look decent if I want it taken over when the Russians get rid of you.”

----

Every person walking through the door is an enemy.

That’s the power Thomas Shelby has. He twists your brain. He puts you on edge. He makes every person a threat.

Your hands tremble when you pass the glass across the counter. Your voice shakes when you laugh at the inappropriate joke told by the man you’ve seen everyday for the past three months - he’s an alcoholic, you’re pretty sure, and you sometimes feel bad for being the person serving him his addiction, but right now, you look into his eyes and you see nothing but motive, motive, motive.

He wants to kill you. The person over at that table wants to kill you.

Thomas Shelby probably sent them. A warning. A way for you to understand he isn’t messing around. Whatever you and Finn have - it needs to stop before things get out of hand.

You inhale deeply, leaning your head against the glasses case. Behind you, the pub is thick with people, the evening crowd bustling through the doors at speeds you can’t keep up with. It’s strange, really; you’ve been doing this job for months now, and never before have you lacked. You’re always on your toes, skilled in talking to people, providing drinks right on time. But today, things are different. You can’t concentrate. You have to ask people to repeat their orders.

Nothing is right. Everyone is an enemy.

“And what the fuck has got into you this evening?”

You close your eyes, Isaiah’s voice making you tense. “Is Finn with you?”

“No. Little Boy Shelby had a family meeting to go to. Left us both for dead.” Isaiah racks his knuckles against the counter. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You turn. Isaiah sits at the bar, that jovial smile on his face. As soon as your eyes meet his, however, it morphs, shaping into something close to concern. He’s a Peaky Blinder, though, so you aren’t really sure what way to take it.

You hollow out your cheeks, closing the gap between you and him. You lean against the counter, ducking your head down. “Thomas fucking Shelby.”

Isaiah sighs, placing a hand on the back of your neck. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing. He’s done. . . Well, he’s done what he always bloody does.” You look up, around, shrink back down against the counter. Lowering your voice, you say, “You didn’t exactly go into detail about how bad this whole Russian deal is.”

Isaiah pulls back. “Tommy was talking about the Russians?”

“Tommy was talking about me and Finn.”

“Right. . . And that has to do with the Russians, how?”

You raise a brow. Isaiah examines your face for a second before the realisation dawns on him; he pulls back, that cheeky smile forming on his face again. You roll your eyes, grabbing his wrist to yank him forward.

“He’s talking shit, Isaiah. You and me both know that Finn and I are just mates.”

Isaiah scoffs low in his throat. You wack him round the ear.

“We are!”

“Maybe you think that,” Isaiah argues. “But Finn has a special place in his cold dead heart for you.”

You shake your head; you’ve heard it all before, and it still doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem real. Finn is a Shelby boy through-and-through. Shelby boys don’t fall in love with barmaids. Shelby boys don’t fall in love at all.

But then you remember Grace. Sweet, kind, understanding Grace who managed to sweep Thomas Shelby off his feet with nothing more than a purring accent and an attitude. She was close to the complete opposite of Thomas Shelby, and yet she had his heart in her grasp.

But you’re not like that. You’re not another Grace. Whatever she had, you don’t have it.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, pulling away from Isaiah. “You’re no fucking help, are you?”

“I’m telling you the truth. What did Tommy say to you?”

“Is that any of your business?”

Isaiah rolls his eyes. “Don’t get bitchy with me now. You’re the one looking like the fucking mafia have their guns to the back of your head.”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Or what?” Isaiah swivels round in his chair, doing a dramatic overview of the crowded pub. You squeeze your eyes closed, raking hands through hair matted from long hours trapped in a room full of smoking alcoholics.

Isaiah turns back to you, one eyebrow raised. “Y/N, what has Tommy got you so afraid of?”

Opening your eyes, you regard him with what you hope is a brave look; you don’t want to make your fear obvious, but it is, because it’s there and you can’t push it away. Thomas Shelby’s voice is playing on a continuous loop in your brain, the warning that once meant nothing to you only just now reaching its full potential in your head.

“He’s just being Thomas Shelby,” you mumble. “You know how he is.”

Isaiah opens his mouth to say something more, but is cut off when Charlie pokes his head round the door. “Oi, Y/N. We need some more rum from the back room.”

You scowl. “I’m a bit busy out front, Charlie-”

“I’ll take over. I hate the smell of that fucking stuff.”

You roll your eyes, nod a quick goodbye to Isaiah before pushing away from the counter and heading into the back room of the pub. It’s only small, filled to the brim with multiple wooden containers that hold all types of beer and alcohol. The stench of bleach fills your nostrils, and you succumb to pulling your shirt over your nose to block it out.

Pushing crates of alcohol out of the road, you make your way to the back of the room where you know the rum is stored. You quietly curse Charlie under your breath, curse Thomas Shelby, and the Russians and everyone who is currently making your life a complete misery, because there’s just something about finally being alone that gives room to all the thoughts you’ve been trying to avoid.

Clink.

You freeze.

The echo sends goosebumps up your arms. Your hands still against the wood of a single crate, fingers curling. The air grows still, and suddenly you are made well aware of the gaze burning into the back of your neck.

It is replaced by the cold kiss of metal.

You inhale sharply, bolting up straight but you don’t dare move. You stay rooted there, trying desperately to gather some coherent thoughts that will help you out of this situation, but nothing besides white noise comes to the surface. You’re going to die. Tommy was right. The Russians have pinpointed you, and there’s no going back now.

“You didn’t even scream,” a cold Russian accent purrs. It’s low, so close to your ear. You nearly jump with the unexpected proximity, but it’s as if the gun has pinned you down. “I don’t know why I expected any different - the Shelby boys like the brave ones, yes?”

“I’m just the barmaid.” Your voice shakes. At this point, you don’t even care.

Your captor laughs. “Oh sweetie, I know. And I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“It doesn’t. You’re wasting your time. I don’t have any information-”

“Who told you I’m looking for information?”

You clench your teeth, squeezing your eyes closed. “What else could you possibly want from me?”

It’s quiet for a split second. The air is suffocating. The walls are drawing impossibly closer, and you’re certain you’re going to faint with the sudden onslaught of unexplainable heat rushing to your face.

The Russian leans in. His lips are inches from your ear, barely brushing the lobe when he says, “Loved ones make fine bait, don’t you agree?”

His question goes unanswered when he slams the gun into the back of your head, and the darkness pours in.

----

The ropes have already done more damage than you’re comfortable with.

Indents in your wrist. A bloody indent in the back of your head. Throat hoarse from yelling, crying out for a mercy you know you will not get; there is only one way this can end. Finn will come barrelling through that door with his band of merry men, and you will be dragged from these pits through gunfire and death.

Or you’ll get killed.

Neither of the options are appealing. You don’t want Finn throwing himself into danger, but in the same breath, you don’t want to never see him again. You have things you want to say to him. You have things you need to say to him, because if you’re about to die, you don’t want to die with this weight on your shoulders.

Blood drips from the cut above your eyebrow. You blink it away, throwing your head back to let out another strangled cry for attention; so far, the only people who have entered your cell are the people assigned to injure you - only little cuts; a slit above the eyebrow, bending your finger back just a little bit, tugging on a tooth just enough to make you fear them ripping it from your skull entirely.

It’s a weird form of torture, but it’s certainly working. You feel the pain tenfold when it bombards you few and far between. The cut on your forehead throbs. Your fingers ache with strain. Your gums have already started swelling from the prodding they’ve been given these past few hours.

Few hours. Time isn’t real any more. You’re locked in a windowless room with only a metal table and a single chair placed within it. The world could be burning outside, and you would be none the wiser.

The door opens again. A tall, grey-haired man in a lab coat walks in, smiling with a set of teeth too perfect for the head they’re moulded in. His steps are sure and professional - he’s done this before. He probably thrives off it.

“How are you?” is the first thing he asks.

You spit blood on the concrete.

He nods, kneeling down beside your chair to double check the bindings. His fingers are warm against your cold wrists, and you silently curse the sudden desire for him to just wrap them around your own and never leave - the cold is eating you alive. This tiny taste of warmth makes you crazy.

“Another hour has passed,” he explains. “It seems we might be forced to take things into high gear.”

Your eyes snap up. You say nothing, but the question glows in your eyes nonetheless.

The man nods like you’ve replied. “We’re going to start sending the letters out. Details. And we’re not known for being liars, so we’re going to have to rough you up a little bit more to really make the Shelby boys quake, yes?”

You stare at him. You hate him. You hate him, and he’s smiling, and you would do anything for the opportunity to reach over and claw those glowing eyes from his fucking skull.

He smiles again. “Don’t worry. The sooner your boy comes through that door, the sooner this can all stop.” He slowly stands up straight. “Let’s just hope he gets here before the blood loss gets too much, yes?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?”

You hadn’t even realised that was a thought you were having; it seems so desperate, so close to the edge of giving up that it feels wrong to even think. But your head is throbbing. Your mind is numb. For the first time in your life, death doesn’t seem like a bad thing.

The Russian’s smile slips. He tilts his head to the side, regarding you with beady eyes the colour of cracked pottery. “Don’t get it twisted, little one. We don’t enjoy doing this - but we have business.”

“Oh, fuck you! That’s your excuse?”

“That’s the truth.” He tugs on your bindings, forcing them deeper into your cold flesh. You squeeze your eyes closed, a trickle of blood tracing its way down your hand. “We don’t enjoy doing this, Y/N, but if you keep this up, you’ll definitely make it easier.”

You shake your head. “I told your man back at The Garrison that this is a waste of time, and it is. The Peaky Blinders don’t give a fuck about me - they never have. They’ll see I’ve disappeared and put up a vacancy for a new barmaid. That’s all the attention they’ll give me.”

“Oh, but we both know that’s a lie. Young Finn Shelby has already taken an interest in you. He’s already given you much more attention than what you describe.”

“Finn likes a chat. So does any drunkard on a Saturday night.”

And then the first blow hits.

Unexpected, uncalled for. You don’t have time to beg for mercy before his wrinkled fist is smashing into your nose, your head crashing against the wall behind you, blood immediately clogging your nostrils. The noise that escapes your mouth is guttural, gargled from the blood that rises in the back of your throat; he caught your lip, too.

“I don’t like liars.” He steps back, rolls up his white sleeves. That smile is gone from his face, replaced by an angered scowl. “Lying will get you nowhere here, little one. It’s only going to make you look like a fool.”

You try saying something, but blood pools over your lips and the words are caught within the platelets, drowned beneath a pained grunt.

“Sometimes it’s just easier to know you’re place,” he continues. “Feel free to scream if you so wish, but that was the last lie I want to hear from you today, do you understand?”

You spit blood onto the concrete again. “Fuck you.”

He drags the knife from his sleeve.

----

“The letter has been sent. They should receive it within the next half hour.”

The man - Igor, you’ve learned - nods. Still, his sleeves are rolled to the elbows. Your blood mats the dark hairs running along his arms. His smile has returned.

He’s got what he wanted.

You can’t lift your head. Blood dribbles from your swollen lips. Two fingers on your left hand have been snapped for no reason other than they are bone, and Igor is merciless. Cuts and bruises dot your face, your body. Your shirt is ripped, sliced from the blade currently sitting idle in Igor’s hand. He’s taken a break, the letter has been written, and the Peaky Blinders will soon hear word of your stupidity.

Tommy will read the letter and laugh. You know he will. He’ll look at the details, and he’ll imagine your bruised and battered body, and he’s going to say what Thomas Shelby always finds pleasure in saying: “I was right.”

And he was. The little bastard was right the entire time.

“It takes an army, you know,” says Igor, waving his little helper off. The door slamming closed behind him makes you jump. “To do this, to really rile us up to this point. It takes an army.”

He approaches you slowly. His heels click off the concrete, silenced only when he kneels beside you. The stench of his breath fills your senses, a mix of smoke and alcohol - something you’re all too familiar with.

“You must realise how far Thomas Shelby and his men have pushed us,” Igor continues. “We protect our own. You understand that, don’t you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Igor runs his thumb along your swollen bottom lip, examines the blood before wiping it on his unstained handkerchief, pulled from the inside pocket of his blood stained lab coat. “I wish to be friends with you when this all ends.”

You squeeze your eyes closed.

“You lied to me a few times, but I can get past that. As I said before, Y/N, it takes an army to rile us up - not a few tales told in the moment. So I hope when this is all through, you can look past the corpse of your lover and see our side of things.”

Your head snaps up. Pain bounces through your skull, but you push past it to say, “Corpse?”

Igor smiles, slow and thin. “Finn is a Peaky Blinder.” Not a question, because Igor has done his research. “They must all go, Y/N. All of them. No matter how innocent they seem.”

“Please don’t.”

“I will not argue this point with you.” He stands up, brushing imaginary lint off his coat, as if it’s not covered in blood. “I’ll leave you to rest until we get some kind of response.”

“If you get a response,” you spit. “I told you-”

“We’re not wasting our time,” Igor says. “Having you in our company will never be a waste of time.”

He offers you one final grin, one final chance to tell him you understand, before he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

---

In the moments before death, you may take a moment to look back upon the life cut short.

Regrets, pleasures, happiness - all of it will come rushing back to you in a single, fatal blow. Faces of loved ones will flash through your mind, all smiles and scowls and inside jokes. Their voices will echo. The feel of their hands against your skin will tingle against the flesh now rotting away as death takes its patient, steady strides towards you.

This moment can be seen as a blessing or a curse. A good farewell, or a waste of time.

You sit with your head hung, blood matted hair falling against your blood stained cheeks. Your head thuds, but not enough to push the image of his face away.

Finn Shelby was never meant to be the last person you ever thought about, but you’re almost certain that is how it’s going to end up.

His smile, always timid because he’s a Shelby and Shelby boys aren’t meant to smile. You remember sitting behind that bar, trying desperately to find something that amused him, some inside joke the two of you could share together - just to see him smile. Just to see him break the hard mould his brothers have always set him in.

You recall him walking through the doors of The Garrison almost every evening. Sometimes he would be alone. Sometimes he would have Isaiah with him, or some other threatening member of his brothers motley crew; it didn’t matter who accompanied him, though. His eyes always found yours, his stride always led to you, his final goodbye for the night was always pressed into your hand for you to take to bed.

And you always claimed you didn’t love him. It was easier that way. You have an idea that most people who find themselves feeling things for any of the Shelby boys will much rather live in denial than admit their feelings. That was the mindset you took; it’s safer to ignore them. It’s safer to pretend you just care for Finn as a friend might care for a friend.

But you’re dying. There’s no reason to deny anything any more.

Your head rolls back, cheek pressed against your shoulder. In the distance, you can hear the Russians talking. They stand outside the door, discussing things in a language you do not know, making decisions about a life slipping away. One of them bites into an apple, and they make it so loud and so obvious, and your stomach starts growling in response.

You won’t be able to eat anyway. Not when everything will taste like your own blood.

You settle your mind on the sound of Finn’s voice. It blocks out everything else, giving you a nice distraction to latch onto until things end. Your wrists ache, and your body is going numb, but in the back of your mind, Finn is telling you it’s all going to be alright, promising a life beyond this moment. You close your eyes, let your head fall to your chest-

And then the gunshots sound.

A noise once familiar now jolts you upright. Your heart spirals, thumping against your rib cage in a manner close to dangerous. People are yelling. In two seconds flat, the calm and quiet of wherever the fuck you are is shattered.

“Shit,” you whisper through swollen lips and blood. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Something has happened. The Peaky Blinders, maybe, but your brain goes directly for the worst case scenario - it’s not them. They don’t care about you. This is the Russians. Maybe they’ve got impatient. They might be wiping each other out. You don’t know. You’ve never dealt with this kind of thing before.

You stir in your seat, ignoring the burning pain flaring in your wounded wrists. The ropes are slippery, the blood curling around the fibres, and you can feel them shifting, but you’re too weak to slip them off. You thrash back and forth, biting back the scream of frustration just seconds before the chair tips to the side, dragging you with it.

You cry out, bruises and scrapes being knocked against the cold concrete. Black dots burst behind your eyes, and you’re certain this is it. These black dots are going to overwhelm you, take over everything until that pretty bright light appears in the distance, an angel coming to take you home.

But you don’t want to die. No part of you wants to die. The pain isn’t bad enough. The circumstances aren’t scary enough for you to crave death; not when the memories you were pondering on before are so strong, so bright, everything you want and aren’t willing to give up.

You curl your knees into your chest, squeezing your eyes closed to block out the sound of the gun shots. You remember all those evenings in The Garrison, simply rolling your eyes when John or Arthur or Tommy would come skidding through the front doors, gunshots following close behind. Back then, in that setting, it was so normal. It was an everyday occurrence. In Small Heath, people are meant to die. Wars are meant to be fought. Enemies are meant to be-

“Y/N?”

Your eyes pop open. A sob falls from your lips. You’re trembling.

“Finn!” you cry out. “Finn!”

The door is thrown open, locks wasted, security obliterated. In the hallway, people yell and scream, and gunshots are fired left, right and centre, but suddenly, all of it is just background noise.

Finn is here. He slides to his knees, dropping the gun that is far too big for him. He pulls the strap away from his shoulder, throws it to the side before he grabs his knife and cuts into the ropes binding your wrist to the chair. You gasp as soon as you’re free, crawling to your knees only to fall directly into his already-open arms.

You sob into his shoulder. Your body aches. The world is tilting, and blood is pouring from a slit in your eyebrow, right down the side of your face. Finn holds you close, whispers in your ear words that you cannot hear. You just focus on his voice, the lull of it, how each syllable shakes as it passes his lips.

He pulls away, holds you at arms length. His eyes scan your face, thumbs tracing a line down the side of it. His fingers pull away bloody, and at the sight of it, his own skin pales.

“You have to get out of here,” he says. “You have to get out of here now.”

He scrambles up, dragging you with him. You wince, but you know you have no other choice; you need to move fast or risk getting shot, wasting this second chance you’ve so mercifully been given.

He drags you towards the door, where the gunshots are loud and the smell of death is pungent. You wince, letting Finn drag you into the blood smeared hallways-

Where he passes you right to Isaiah.

You flinch away, neck twisting round just in time to catch the moment Finn starts walking in the other direction. It’s confusion at first, followed by anger, followed by panic that sees you reaching out and grabbing his wrist before he can get very far.

He ducks his head down, gun dangling around his neck. “Let me go, Y/N.”

“No. You’re coming with me. You’re getting out of here, too.”

“They nearly killed you.” He turns, running his eyes over your injured form. You’re slouched against Isaiah, one eye swollen, but not enough to shield your obvious hesitance at letting Finn go in there on his own. “I’m the one who’s pulling the trigger this time. I told Tommy that when we walked in.”

“You don’t have to - Finn, you don’t have to do any of that. Leave it to Tommy.”

“I told him this,” Isaiah says. “The shithead didn’t listen.”

Finn whirls round, pointing a finger right in Isaiah’s face. “And you can shut the fuck up, alright? These men came for me. They came for my loved ones - I’ll be the one to sort them out, and that’s the end of it.” He pushes Isaiah. You stumble to the side, scrambling for his wrist, but Finn pulls away before you can get a hold on him again. “Get them out of here. I’ll meet you back at The Garrison.”

“Yes boss,” Isaiah grunts. He starts pulling you away. You start yelling, thrashing around in his grip as much as your injured limbs will allow, but there’s no point to it. Finn turns on his heel and starts down the hallway, marching towards the area where the gunfire is still going off, where blood is still being spilled, where there is every risk he might be added to the long list of corpses found later on.

You let Isaiah drag you from the building, because it’s all you really can do right now. Your body is giving in, the pain coming back in full force when he drags you out of the building and into the sunlight. You fall to the side as soon as Isaiah lets go of your arm, stumbling in the grass with a gasp. You grip your arm, curling fingers along the slitted knife wounds running the length of your flesh.

Isaiah drops to his knees beside you. “What did they do to you?”

“You’re an idiot,” you choke out through a wince. “A fucking idiot! You let him go back in there on his own!”

Isaiah pulls back, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re blaming me? He’s a Shelby, Y/N! A stubborn bastard.”

You groan, shaking your head. “We need to go back. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how dangerous they are-” You stumble to your feet. Isaiah catches you just seconds before you crumble to the floor all over again.

Tears leak from your swollen eyes, the world spinning. There’s a bed of water just a few feet away, and the sight of it reminds you of your dry mouth. A boat bobs within it, Charlie ready to take you home. You meet his eyes and he waves, but there is none of his usual enthusiasm; he just looks startled, eyes wide as he takes in your battered form.

Isaiah tugs on your arm, drawing your attention back to him. “Finn will kill me if I don’t get you back home in one piece, love. So do me a solid, yeah? Just this once.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t think - I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

“What are you - ay, no. Open your eyes, Y/N. Stay with me!”

But it’s too late. The world is spinning. The gunshots echo inside a head that suddenly feels much too heavy for your shoulders. It falls against Isaiah’s shoulders, and then he starts yelling, hands scooping you up. He barrels across the grass towards the boat, Charlie yelling out questions you cannot even begin to comprehend. Isaiah is yelling something back, voice hectic, but again, it slips through one ear and out the other.

It’s a relief when the darkness finally settles in.

----

Your body aches.

Bones out of place, blood pooling in the back of your mouth, the taste of ash and death licked from your teeth. Memories cling to the surface, perched on the shock of still being alive.

The hospital room is lit only by a tiny lantern set upon the table beside your bed. In the air, there is a single cloud of grey, swirling from the soft lips of Thomas Shelby to the roof high above your head.

The mob boss sits beside you, legs folded at the knee, eyes trained on a magazine. Between his lips is a cigarette that he now takes a heavy puff from, draining the life from it in the way you’re certain he has drained the life from so many human beings.

You should be intimidated, demanding answers to a situation you don’t even really want to ponder right now. But instead, you glance over, swiping a lazy hand across your eyes. Thomas flicks his own eyes up, acknowledges your rousing state and goes back to his reading.

“You’re not the right Shelby.”

“I’m afraid you have to go through me before I can put you through to Finn.”

“What are you doing here, Tommy?”

He looks at you then. Ice blue eyes carved into a face of pure steel; it’s a lie. His entire expression is a lie, something to throw you off balance. He smiles, and he tilts his head, and he hardly ever raises his voice, but behind that casual demeanour is a demon - a demon you’re growing to respect.

“They told Finn you might not make it,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Good.”

“But you’re alive.”

“Also good.”

“You should have listened to me, Y/N. You’ve dug yourself too deep into this to crawl out now.”

You shrug. It’s a lazy gesture, one that certainly does not encompass the real emotions clawing to the surface right now. The world is coming back into view. Recollections of what happened are prying, trying to get you to give them an attention you really cannot afford to give them at this moment.

Tommy sighs, setting the magazine aside. He even has the decency to quash his cigarette in the ashtray before he leans forward, elbows pressed into his knee. “Finn wants to see you.”

“He made it out alive then?”

“Did you think otherwise?”

You tap your temple. “I was a little too out of it to be focusing on Finn Shelby.” A lie, but you don’t need to tell Tommy that.

Because he probably already knows.

“I want to see him, too,” you reply, voice quiet. “I just - I want to make sure he’s okay.”

Tommy tilts his head. “He’s not in this hospital beside you.”

“Where is he then? Bleeding out back at the Shelby headquarters? Left to die because he didn’t listen to his all-mighty older brother?”

Tommy doesn’t even flinch at your tone of voice. He simply plucks a second cigarette from the tin case in his pocket and hands it to you; you take it, do not place it to your lips. “I didn’t make a mistake in telling you to stay away from Finn. Clearly, my warning was made with sense. None of this would have happened if you listened to me.”

“No, Tommy,” you say. “None of this would have happened if you didn’t get involved with the Russians in the first place.”

And for the first time, Tommy looks genuinely shocked. His eyebrows shoot up for only a single second, his lips parting before he snaps them closed and turns away, glancing at the door of the hospital. His jaw clenches, Adams apple bobbing as he swallows down whatever words of hostility he had set out for you.

And then, his voice low, “I don’t know what power you have over Finn, but he won’t listen to me. Nothing I say - nothing I do - will make him see sense. He wants to see you.”

“And I want to see him. Where is he?”

“Back home. He doesn’t know I’m here.” Tommy looks up. “He thinks you’re dying, Y/N. We’ve made an effort to keep him away.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Thomas, but it isn’t needed. I’m alive. I’m - I’m okay.” You place your hands on your ribs, bruised and battered, halfway to broken. “Let me see him.”

“When you’re healed,” Tommy replies. He starts to slowly stand, all long legs and expensive suits. He brushes a hand through his hair before placing his flat cap back on his head, and all you can do is watch his gracious movements when he plucks your unlit cigarette from your fingers, places it in his own mouth and heads towards the door.

“Tommy,” you bark, stopping him in his tracks. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t reply, but the acknowledgement is enough for you to continue. “You were right. It’s my relationship with Finn that threw us in the shit. But just ‘cause you’re right, doesn’t make my relationship with Finn wrong.”

His fingers curl around the cigarette tin in his hand. For a second you think he might humour you, respect you enough to turn and give you some kind of response, but he does no such thing. He simply starts walking again, slamming the door closed behind him.

----

Being out in Small Heath at night is dangerous. It was once an action you never would have even considered.

Now, however, with your battle scars throbbing and your mind a blur of painkillers and hostile memories, you don’t care. You pull your knees into your chest, leaning on the wall of the small building you call home. The children no longer roam the streets; the carriages have been parked up for the night. Above you, the moon blinks, asking you what on earth you think you’re doing sitting in the open like this, when the rapists and murderers are at their optimum.

You take a sip of your tea. Well, Mr Moon. I don’t care.

Tommy kept his word, of course; stumbling into your house for the first time in two days, the first thing brought to your notice was the new bulb in your lamp and the new curtains set up against the window. The roof was painted a fresh white over the course of your absence; Tommy had left a single note on the mantelpiece: “Sleep well.”

What it means, you don’t know, because it obviously isn’t just a casual, light hearted message to welcome you back. Thomas Shelby isn’t like that.

Through the silence, it is easy to hear the footsteps sidling up beside you.

In the darkness, you stiffen, hands curling round your mug. You don’t look up to see the persons face, but a single glance to the left reveals all; you would recognise those polished boots anywhere. Boots that should be stained by dirt and blood and gore remain clean, because Finn is a Shelby, and that’s what Shelby’s do.

“You should be inside,” he says.

You press the cup to your chest, the warmth scorching your collar bone in a most delicious way. “I couldn’t sleep.” You look up, breath leaving you as soon as you see him. Even the shadows do little to mask the face you’ve fallen in love with - and god, you’ve fallen in love. Months of trying to deny it, of telling people you and Finn are friends and only friends has come crashing down with the experiences of the past few days. He stands above you now, hands tucked in his pockets, his hair a little bit messier than usual. He’s staring down at you, eyes glittering under the lanterns lining the street above your head.

You tap the concrete beside you. “Sit?”

He lowers himself to a squat, not quite sitting but he’s close enough to you now that you can smell the mint leaves on his breath.

“How have you been, Finn?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He glances at you, chews his bottom lip. “I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead.”

“Who?”

“Everyone.” He rubs his knuckles along his upper lip, a rare demonstration of nerves. “It fucked me up. Fucked my brain up.”

“I could have died.”

“But you didn’t.”

You close your eyes, tilting your head back just a little bit. When you speak, it’s like you’re addressing the moon. “No. I didn’t. Because you stupid fuckers came and helped me.”

Finn scoffs. You look at him, one eyebrow raised. You can feel the stitches in your forehead pulling with the movement before Finn reaches over and runs his thumb along the seam, as if flattening the scowl.

“I’m offended you thought I’d just lounge about on my arse all day whilst you were in danger.”

You swat his hand away, tea nearly spilling over the lip of your mug with the action. “You could have been killed, Finn. Killed. Do you know how long Thomas would have let me live if you got yourself murdered whilst trying to save me?”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Don’t even talk about Tommy. He-”

“A whole zero seconds,” you cut in. “He would have shot me on the fucking spot.”

Finn lowers himself to the curb completely, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “He wouldn’t waste bullets like that.”

You slap his arm.

Finn throws his head back, laughing. His smile is so bright, momentarily letting you forget about the darkness you are both encompassed in, the world of danger you stand upon. For him, it is willingly. He was born into it and has seen no reason to leave. For you, the choice was made not by your head, but by the stupid thing beating in your chest. You’ve fallen in love, and can’t bring yourself to walk away.

It’s as you’re having these thoughts - these scary, scary thoughts - that Finn reaches over and brushes his thumb against your lower lip. You tense, eyes darting to his own. He’s staring at your mouth, tongue peaking out from appealing lips of his own.

You slowly reach up, curling your fingers around his wrist.

“I killed them.” His breath fans your face, all mint leaves and truth. “Shot them with my own fucking gun.”

“Finn…”

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

You close your eyes, tilting your head to rest in the palm of his hand. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, tugs you into his side without explanation or awkwardness; you fall into his grip, resting your head against his shoulder as the darkness comes back, and the reality follows suit.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His grip tightens. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to give you the burden of having to protect me all the time.”

“It’s not a burden-”

“Tommy warned me about what it would mean for me to fall in love with you, the danger of it. He told me to stay away.”

Glancing to the side, you catch sight of Finn’s clenched jaw, fingers on his free hand curling and uncurling.

You reach over and touch his wrist. “He wasn’t wrong, Finn.”

The Shelby boy closes his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want to hurt you-”

He stands up, sudden and swift, with the grace only a Shelby boy could truly have. You catch yourself before you tilt, head following his movements. He runs his hands through his hair, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “You know, Y/N, there’s a reason I didn’t let Tommy handle the Russians on his own.”

“Finn, keep your voice-”

“A very good fucking reason.” His eyes burn into your own. “You’re the one person who listens to what I have to say. I felt like you were the only person in the world who saw me as Finn, not just an extension of the fucking family business.”

Your heart thunders. “Finn-”

“You were the one thing I thought I could enjoy on my own, because you can look Tommy in the eye and tell him no. You’ve always been able to do that. You don’t want to hurt me? Then don’t let that fucker get in your head. You can walk away from here now, never talk to me again, but for the love of god, don’t be like everyone else - don’t let Thomas Shelby run your fucking life.”

You’re standing in two seconds flat, arms thrown around Finn’s shoulders, back and stomach screaming in agony but you don’t care. You kiss him with a ferocity you’ve never known before, drown in the feel of his hands resting on your jaw, his breath mingling with your own, the years of pent up need finally rushing from your system in a single clean swoop.

Finn kisses you back just as desperately, his fingers resting on your jaw line but not controlling your movements; you’ve taken control. You’ve got your arms slung round his neck and this man wrapped around your little finger, and you sink into him, deeper, deeper, deeper if that’s even possible after the months of denial you forced yourself into.

You pull away first, shaking your head. “This is so stupid.”

Finn runs his hands through your hair, voice a whisper. “I love you.”

You melt against him. He catches you, hands slipping from your hair to your waist where he tugs, pulling you closer against him. “I know this is a bad idea,” you mumble into his neck, “but I can’t leave.”

“You don’t have to leave. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“And I won’t.” He pulls away, holding you at arms length. “But my life is a fucking mess, and you’re the only thing that makes sense, so I’m going to try my fucking hardest.”

Here he is. Finn Shelby, a member of one of the most feared gangs in England, someone who is meant to grow up to be just as scary, just as intimidating, just as savage as the rest of his family - and yet he holds you like you’re made of glass, nimble fingers cupping your elbows, eyes soft, trained on your mouth as you purse your lips and shake your head.

You can imagine the destruction this will cause; Polly will have something to say, some insult to throw in your direction because god forbid someone put her boys in any type of danger. Arthur will let you away with nothing. John will curse and kick things and throw a hissy fit. Thomas will just be a danger, a risk you’ll have to look out for.

You wrap your arms around Finn yet again, hugging him close. He nuzzles his nose in the crook of your neck, sways back and forth just a little bit, like the night breeze has finally taken him hostage. You bury your own head against the side of his, the feel of his skin making it so, so easy to forget about what it is you are really doing.

“I love you,” you whisper, directly into his ear because you feel like you need to. Right now, with the stars and the moon as witness, you need to tell the truth.

Finn shudders against you, tightening his hold on your waist. Afraid to let go. Afraid to dive headfirst into a life he once signed up for, but one he has never been prepared for.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders one shot #finn shelby #finn shelby imagine #finn shelby one shot #finn shelby fanfiction #finn shelby fic #finn shelby x reader #peaky blinders reader insert #finn shelby fluff #peaky blinders writing

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #331

my head hurts way too badly to think up some intro lyrics, so just g’night.

Have you ever become good friends with someone you never met in person? Oh yeah, I've had best friends over the Internet. Hell, I'm closer to many online friends than I am most irl ones. They know "the real me" more. What do you consider your default mood to be? Stressed, probably. Discontent. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve ever kept a goldfish alive for? Not long. Proper goldfish husbandry is a very neglected topic, and I sure as hell never knew how to set up its tank adequately. Have you ever been paintballing? No, don't plan to. It looks like it hurts like a bitch. Do you want a large wedding? No. Did you ever collect any sort of cards? I had a very small collection of Pokemon cards. I didn't collect them avidly. What’re the best and worst books you ever had to read for a class? The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton was the best. The worst was some book we had to read in the 6th grade about a kid during some war that moved around a lot... I don't remember the name or who wrote it, but it sucked. What’s the best meal you had at an amusement park, or If you haven’t been to one, how about a good meal at another place like a zoo, aquarium or museum? I don't know. I haven't been to many. Who, whether a person or company, emails you the most? My PHP therapist emails me a check-in sheet and Zoom link every day there's a therapy session. What kind of sound or noise freaks you out the most and why do you think it scares you? Let's seeeee... I don't know if there's a sound that actually freaks me out. There are some I don't like, but none that like, frighten me. At least that I can think of. What’s the strangest art piece you’ve come across? Biiiitch there's a painting in Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs I'm not gonna go into, but shit fuckin wild. What’s the most clever or unique name you’ve come across for a business? I've definitely heard some cool ones, but I don't know about one that really stands out to answer this. If you had to name one of your hypothetical future children after a song, which song would you pick? Maybe like... okay, I'm blanking. Good thing I'm not having kids to name then, right? What’s the last song you heard? "Down in the Park" by Marilyn Manson is on atm. What is your favorite line from a TV show? *shrug* Any current family issues? No. How many hours do you spend online a day? How do you feel about that? I'm doing something on the computer pretty much... always. I hate it, and I hate it a lot. I don't want my life to be tied solely to the digital plane. I want to do more than bounce back and forth from website to website. Do you think that people have the power to make their own lives better? Absolutely, but there are some things they simply cannot change. It's about perspective and how you play the deck you're dealt. What is the biggest problem in your life right now? Right now, the most limiting thing is my physical health, probably. Just walking being torture affects my ability to exercise, and my body is a major reason - if not the biggest, at this current time - for my depression. This also plays a massive role in jobs I can handle. Not to sound like my emo self writing middle school poetry, but my body feels like a prison. Do you feel that you are loved? I know I am by some people, though I have a hard time understanding why a lot. What is the one thing you want most from life? Life satisfaction. Pride in what I've accomplished. A regular state of being content. Birthplace? I'm just gonna say in eastern NC. Do you believe in love at first sight? No, merely infatuation. Love is much too deep for that. Do you think dreams eventually come true? Some can, but usually only if you put effort into making that so. Favorite fictional character? like ummmmmmmm have you heard of this sassy bastard called Darkiplier- Go to the movies or rent? Before Covid, I loved going to the theater. It was something to do, plus a giant screen is nice. McDonalds or Burger King? McD's. I'm not a big BK fan. I only really went there during my vegetarian phase for the veggie burger. Current annoyance? This motherfucking headache. Last thing you ate? I have a meal replacement shake with me right now, if you consider that "eating." I didn't have a proper dinner. The last solid food I had though was some cookies and cream Greek yogurt. Last thing you bought? With my own money, I think I bought Mom and I some cheap McDonald's order semi-recently? Or maybe paying my $100 deposit for my tattoo was most recent, idk. Soonest thing you are looking forward to? For Mom to get her CT scan and find out what's going on in there. What did you do today? It was a pretty average day. I woke up way too early, though. The only thing even semi-unique about today was I played World of Warcraft for a few hours again; I've been quite unattached to it lately, but I went through an episode today of actually having fun playing. Oh, and I've been battling a migraine. It's more of a severe headache now, at least, but it still sucks big time. Do you like to see it snowing outside? Oh yes, absolutely! When you were in high school did you ever have bomb threats? I believe once we did from a very volatile student that honestly caused quite a lot of trouble. He's dead now. Who knows ALL of your secrets? Nobody. Did you have a job before you were in college? No. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to have a baby right now? That's a terrifying thought, no. Are you on birth control? Yeah, but just because it tames my menstrual cramps. Without it, they could be debilitating some days. Who is your last sent text to? My best fren. Have you ever eaten at Chipotle before? Possibly? Idr. Do you swear often? Excessively. I had a dirty mouth prior, but my swearing got really bad when I started staying at Jason's house a lot. He and especially his mother swear like mad. Do you own any shirts with a peace symbol on it? No. Do you have your national flag hanging up anywhere outside your house? Not at this house, no. Would you ever go to Japan? Oh, yes. I would love to. It's... very morbid, but I would really like to walk the (public) paths of Aokigahara Forest, nicknamed "Suicide Forest" for the horrible amount of, well, suicides that happen there via hanging. Like, you might just casually run into a dead body. I want to just... feel it there, walk in silence and empathize with people who didn't know what else to do and hope so deeply that those departed know they were never alone in their pain. I know with absolute certainty I'd probably be teary-eyed the whole time and cry a whoooole lot, but it's just an experience I want to have. What was the last thing you went to Walmart for? Some basic groceries. What should you be doing right now? Sleeping, given this headache... I just don't want to yet. Are you afraid of getting your heart broken? I'm fucking terrified of that ever happening again, far more than words can properly express. Have you ever been in a choir? Yes, actually; when I was a Catholic kid, my sisters and I were in the church choir for a year or so, idr. Do you have a Twitter? Yes, but only to like Mark's tweets, haha. Oh, and very rarely enter giveaways I'm interested in. Describe your retainers to me, if you have them, that is. I have a permanent metal one behind my front row of bottom teeth to keep those straight. My upper teeth had one of those normal retainers you take in and out, but I didn't wear it enough, so now it doesn't even fit. Would you like for someone to call you right now? No. I'm tired, my head hurts, and I'm enjoying the song I'm bingeing. It's so weird, I rarely ever go on music hunting trips (no real reason, I just... don't), but I've found great shit lately. Do you like to brush your teeth? No; it's a chore. I only do it because I don't want my teeth decaying, falling out, or getting too yellow, and the taste in your mouth and gritty texture on your teeth isn't exactly great when you don't brush. Have you ever had a surgery? Two. Give out your phone number over the internet? I have over private messages. Do you look older or younger than you actually are? Given my wardrobe (like graphic tees and band shirts), I probably look younger in the eyes of especially older people. I personally say I look my age, though. When is the next time you’ll be up on stage? I never plan to be again. What is the last show that you watched a full episode of? Some cooking show with Mom. Nailed It!, I think? Do you know anyone who lives in Utah? No. I love Utah, though; it's actually a place I'd be willing to live in with just how pretty it is and not super populated. Do you get your feelings hurt easily? VERY. I'm probably one of the most sensitive people you can meet. Do you still talk to the person you last made out with? Yeah. Have you ever seen your best friend cry? Ugh, yes. What kind of vitamins did you take as a kid? First we took those nasty, chalky Flintstones kinds, but as time passed, Mom moved onto giving us gummy bear vitamins that were perfectly fine. Did you get any compliments today? No. Are you friends with your neighbors? Not "friends," no. What towns have you lived in? Three different ones. That's all you're getting. Have you ever thrown up from drinking? No. Done any illegal drugs? No. I mean I've had some alcohol underage, but I've never done anything remotely hardcore. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve been on an airplane without changing flights? Idk. Who have you texted today? My mom and best friend. What time did you wake up this morning? Ugh, like five in the fucking morning. I couldn't go back to sleep. What is your favorite condiment to go with french fries? Ketchup. What do you have a habit of doing when engaging in a conversation with someone? Making shitty eye contact, and I'm one of those people who "talks with [their] hands." I also lose my train of thought a whoooole lot. Have you ever layed in a hammock? Yeah; we had one growing up. Have you ever lost a pet in a tragic way? How did you cope? Well yeah, I've had lots of pets, so thus lost some in particularly painful ways. The most scarring loss of a pet though is as follows: Teddy, my dog, picked up one of our cat's very young, wandering kittens in his jaws in a manner that looked as if he was trying to carry it like Aphrodite (the mother cat) does when she would bring them back behind the couch, where she gave birth/had her little "nest." I absolutely freaked and had to pry the kitten from his mouth, and it slowly died in my hands. I think Teddy accidentally crushed its ribs. I. Was. A. Mess. Then, there was Aphrodite herself. I've told the story before of our former neighbors calling animal control because our cats would wander through their yard, and all of our cats were taken away while I was unaware at school. Came home, and they were all gone. Aphrodite was my baby, so I was devastated. Screaming, sobbing, cursing on the porch for like 20 minutes... It was awful. What type of curtains do you like? I don't... know? I don't know the actual names of any types... What type of quality is a must-have in a friend? I absolutely cannot be friends with someone who thinks they're above everyone else. Are you any good at reading someone's body language? I think I am. What goes good with a nice cold glass of milk? Cookies! Especially Oreos. Dip it in there for around five seconds, and it's perfection. What fruit is too sweet to you? Grapefruit came to mind first. How did you feel after your first kiss? I had butterflies galore and was so giddy and smiley. After the first, I just wanted to kiss him a billion more times. What’s your favorite constellation and why? I don't have one. Shower curtain or door? Curtain. The glass doors are too revealing. Have you ever thought to yourself that you’re the luckiest person in the world? Most deeeeefinitely not. What time of day do you most enjoy looking at the sky? Sunset if there are clouds present, but sunrise if the sky is pretty clear.

#survey #surveys #questions

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hongism · 4 years

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finding beauty in your darkest places - chapter 8

Pairing: TBA (i have no clue at the moment, ot7 for now)

Genre: Psychiatric Clinic!au, Heavy Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 6094

Warnings: strong language; deals with mental and emotional illnesses and disorders as a heavy theme of the story, future graphic depictions of disorders - please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable

Chapter specific warnings: discussions of character death, graphic depictions of anxiety attacks, discussion of suicidal thoughts and actions

Rating: PG-13/Mature

Summary: Everyone has their issues, and everyone deals with them differently. Jungkook thinks that avoiding his problems is the best option out there.

aka

Jeon Jungkook is the newest patient at the Omelas Specialized Psychiatric Clinic, and he just wants to get in and out as quickly as possible so that he can go back to university and be with his friends again. Of course, that doesn't work out according to his plan.

a/n: hello hello this is somewhat of a surprise chapter because i didn’t have this on the schedule or planned in my mind really. However, i find it easiest to write my feelings and since i’ve been feeling down recently, this chapter was easier to write and i felt more inspired to work on it. It’s also been quite some time since i posted, and for that i am hugely and immensely sorry. time slipped away from me and i put this story on the backburners of my mind for too long.

Also, this chapter contains a small surprise for my boo @maptoyoongi bc Mari has been so helpful and kind and lovely about helping me with this story and supporting me big time when it comes to this story. I never feel as though it’s enough to just say thank you and i wanted a way to thank you in a special way ;-; even now, i don’t feel as though this is enough to say thank you <3

(it’s been so long that this is the first time i’m actually using the tag list omg)

tag list: @succulentjinkook @mxrzan

7 | 8 | 9

Finding Beauty in Your Darkest Places

Chapter 8: Black Waters

It's cold. The edges of autumn have seeped their way into the clinic, bringing brown and red leaves to the trees around the basketball court, and the season is windier than usual. A gust of wind passes over Jungkook's body. He doesn't brace himself against the breeze despite being in a typical short sleeved white shirt. Rather he remains where he is, sprawled out in the middle of the basketball court and staring up at the clouded sky with an equally clouded mind.

Cold.

Everything is cold. His fingers are never warm anymore, the cold seeping to his palms on occasion. Part of Jungkook knows that he should be worried. It's a concern, maybe a serious health concern in fact, and yet...nothing.

Cold.

Jungkook would rather be cold.

"For the longest time, I only saw that reflection when I looked in the mirror. It took a long time to separate Kim Namjoon from the disorders the doctors labelled me with. What do you see in the mirror, Jungkook? Do you know who you are or do you just take the labels doctors give you? Are you “Jeon Jungkook, Panic Disorder” or someone else?"

Who is he? According to the voices scampering through his head without rest, he's a number of things. Loser, asshole, trash, garbage, piece of shit, dirty, crazy, a disappointment. A liar. Jeon Jungkook is a dirty fucking liar, and he knows that to be the truth.

The worst thing he could do is dwell on the past. Think about all the ways in which he wronged Taehyung, you, Namjoon, Yoongi, Hyewon, maybe every patient in the clinic. His brother...mom...father. Jungkook's head begins to tingle, a faint sensation starting in the back of his skull and quickly travelling to the space between his eyes.

“It’s far better to know people for their heart and not their mind. A person’s mind can be fucked up and distorted. But the kind of person they are, what they do for others, how they treat others — that all tells you much more. We are all souls with a house of flesh and bones, wrestling with a mind that is not our own. For some people it gets to be too much. They just want out of the cage they feel trapped in, and society is the one keeping them there. They don’t see their body as anything good, it’s only a trapped feeling, and sometimes they try to get out. They try to get rid of a certain part of themselves, kill the mind that isn’t completely theirs.”

Namjoon's words stay with Jungkook and cling to the loose bits of his brain only to eat away like a parasite. Kill the mind that isn't completely theirs. In the first few days after that conversation with Namjoon, Jungkook wanted nothing more than to do just that. It would have been so easy, so quick and painless, he could've just done it. Should have. And yet, he lives to see the clouded sky another day, back cold from the pressure of the concrete under him, and surprisingly at peace with being alive.

Nevermind the nagging voices in his mind telling him he's a coward who can't kill himself properly. Jungkook is content.

His birthday came and went without any celebration, which is exactly what he had wanted. None of his family came to visit before or after the day of his birthday, and when each Sunday ended without their presence, Jungkook found that he was not upset in the slightest.

At peace.

Such a strange concept.

When has Jungkook ever felt at peace with anything in his life? Where did this sensation come from? Namjoon's understanding and endless wise words provided relief, yes, but Jungkook wouldn't go so far as to say that they put his fears and anxieties to rest. They haven't gone anywhere. They're just...quiet, but not in a relaxing or easing sense. Jungkook flips between being content and on edge throughout the day constantly. Because it feels like they're waiting. Waiting for something, the drop of a pin, the perfect trigger, the slightest misstep.

On edge may be an understatement.

Dr. Martin requested that Jungkook begin to attend group therapy sessions at his last meeting with the doctor. The idea, in and of itself, sounds like a cruel form of torture for a person like Jungkook -- one still wrestling with the weight of what's wrong with him, the issues swirling through his body and mind.

It will be beneficial, the doctor had said.

Jungkook mentally called bullshit. How could it be? A sit down chat with other patients where he has to talk about himself and his struggles? Fuck that. Jungkook would rather have a fork stuck through the back of his hand. Besides, another huge concern that looms in the back of Jungkook's mind is that Taehyung may be at one of these sessions.

The two are still doing a fantastic job of avoiding each other, and considering they are roommates, Jungkook is impressed they've been able to keep it up this long as it is. But he can't run away when trapped in a room for a group therapy session. He has to sit there and take it, facing the person whose trust he broke, whose relationship he ruined, and whose condition has regressed dramatically in the past few days.

All my fault. My fault. I did that. It was me.

Jungkook's eyes flutter shut, blocking the sky from his view and letting the blackness behind his eyelids sweep over him.

"We need to talk."

Jimin had caught Jungkook by the arm after breakfast two days ago and uttered those four words, eyes narrowed and expression grim. For a moment, Jungkook had thought that he did something wrong or something to upset Jimin. Of course he did, he single-handedly destroyed Taehyung, but Jimin was not angry. His expression softened a moment later, and he had said that he wants to help fix things.

Again, Jungkook mentally called bullshit.

"Fix things". A load of bullshit by itself, but also something that Namjoon said was unnecessary. Fix what? The countless problems Jungkook has caused since arriving in the clinic? Or fix Taehyung himself?

Jimin never approached Jungkook after that, however, which left Jungkook to wonder when the older man is going to approach him, if he does at all. He certainly isn't going to be the one who makes an effort to bring the topic up with Jimin.

Jungkook sits up on the pavement, eyes snapping open again, and he blinks at the intrusion of light through the clouds above. With a quick glance at his watch, Jungkook scrambles to his feet and rushes for the door. His group therapy session starts in two minutes, and the room is on the other side of the clinic. Moving quickly, Jungkook manages to sprint over to where Dr. Martin's office lies, coincidentally across from the room where group therapy sessions are held. The door lies cracked open, and through the small space, Jungkook can see multiple forms already seating inside. No voices arise from the room, however, so Jungkook can at least rest in the knowledge that he isn't late.

That peace of mind dissipates the moment he steps through the door. There Taehyung sits, directly across from the door in a rickety plastic chair. He stares forward and locks eyes with Jungkook as soon as the door moves. Both men freeze, stare at each other with eyes growing wider with each passing second. Panic.

Jungkook's brain is firing warning signals everywhere, the cold in his fingertips grows to a dull ache, and he curls his fingers into his palm under the skin almost breaks. Panic.

Taehyung's face relaxes into a deadpan expression, wide eyes returning to a hooded gaze. Jungkook glances at the people on either side of him, Hyewon on one side with her platinum blonde hair that blends in too much with the white of the clinic around her, and Eunbi on his other side. Both girls wear similar expressions, but when Hyewon makes eye contact with Jungkook, she beams brightly at him. Jungkook offers his own weak smile in response but it doesn't linger. Rather, he steps around the circle of chairs and moves to the seat across from the girl, one beside Seokjin, who seems about as happy to be here as Jungkook is.

"Hi, Seokjin."

Jungkook's greeting is met with a small grunt rather than words, which catches the younger off-guard. Seokjin never fails to be bright and cheerful, chatty even when no one else seems to be in the mood to talk. The Seokjin before Jungkook now is not the one he knows, not in the slightest, and that realization itself sends a chill down the back of his neck.

"Good afternoon everyone!"

A bright and warm voice intrudes on the silence of the room. Jungkook glances up, eyes finding the door again and spotting a young woman dressed in a set of pale blue scrubs. Her smile is too bright, a foreign expression from a nurse at the clinic, and Jungkook almost hazards a guess that she's faking it. However as she steps further into the room, her grin remains. She wastes no time in coming to sit at the last available chair one seat over from Jungkook.

"I'm seeing a few new faces today. First of all, I'm so happy to see that and welcome. I hope that we are able to help you all and this session offers you some peace from the harshness of what's inside your head. Secondly, I'll introduce myself for those of you who may not know me. My name is Dr. Mari, I take care of the group therapy sessions here at the clinic. Would you please each introduce yourselves so that everyone can know each other's names? Oh, also share one interesting fact about yourself! A simple icebreaker to help keep the tension at bay." Dr. Mari motions to the girl sitting on her right, asking her to start wordlessly.

"I'm Hanuel and um, I-I like dogs?" The girl shrugs a bit after her introduction. Seeing her fidget in her seat, eyes wavering and not meeting anyone else's in the room, and the sheer expression of panic across her face as she introduces herself sends Jungkook's mind into a panic of its own. He grips the fabric of his sweatpants tight between his fingers, knuckles white from the force of his grip, and the rapidly accelerating drumming of his heartbeat in his ears begins to resound. His mind shuts down in that moment, blocking out sensory functioning and clouding all his judgement with the constant rhythm of panic in his body.

Before he can stop it, the anxiety attack washes over him like a tsunami. Cold, even colder than before, yet hot at the same time. His throat is burn, skin scalding around his neck, and he's almost certain that his face looks much like a tomato at this point. Jungkook knows what comes next. The distortion, the confusion, pain -- oh so much pain.

Idiot. Dumb fucking idiot. Why did you think it was a good idea to come here? You think you're normal compared to these people? No, look at you. Look at you barely functioning. Dumb fucking idiot. Worthless, I told you you were worthless.

Can't fucking kill yourself properly?

At least do it like you mean it, you worthless disappointment.

Jungkook sinks. The water plunges over him, filling his lungs and throat with black water that freezes his insides. He's thrashing, fighting to get out, but to no avail.

Jungkook has been here before. This is familiar. A hand closes around his throat, and he can no longer breathe. It's familiar.

Something wakes him up from the reverie, well someone to be more specific. A hand comes down on his thigh, and Jungkook jerks his whole body, finding the culprit staring at him with wide eyes. It's Seokjin. The fingers that close around his thigh simultaneously pull him from the depths of the black water in his mind. He nods twice. Jungkook takes the hint and glances around the room, seeing waiting expressions.

"Oh, uh, I'm Jeon Jungkook...the--the newest patient here."

Dr. Mari offers a soft smile, her eyes twinkling as she does. "We're so happy to have you here, Mr. Jeon. Thank you for coming." Jungkook nods a few times in response. He fights to gain control over his breathing again as the girl on his right introduces herself. Seokjin's grip gradually lessens until Jungkook doesn't feel the pressure of his touch any longer, and when he glances down to where the man's hand had just been, he swears the skin tingles with lingering warmth.

"We will open the discussion today as usual. Remember anyone can jump in and talk, there doesn't need to be any specific order, and you don't have to speak if you don't feel comfortable doing so. Hopefully it's helpful to some extent and encouraging to hear others open up in front of you. Now, how are each of feeling today?"

Silence meets Dr. Mari's question. A moment passes when each patient glances around the circle as though pleading another to speak up and make some sort of conversation, but no one does. Dr. Mari remains quiet and patient though, eyes soft as she glances over the patients before her.

"W-Well..." It's Eunbi who starts up the discussion, her voice quiet and hesitant. She doesn't continue her train of thought, at which point, Dr. Mari nods at her.

"Go ahead, dear."

"Well, I've been feeling down and distracted recently. Um, Miyeon might be leaving soon. I-I'm really happy that she is getting better and could leave shortly, but...and I know it's a selfish thought, but I don't want to see her leave. She's my best friend, and she's always been here for me. I don't know what it'll be like to not have her here. She--she helps keep everything in check, keeps all the pieces glued together, so I'm scared. I'm sc-scared about what might happen if she leaves." Dr. Mari hums as Eunbi finishes speaking.

"Does anyone have any advice or words for Eunbi?"

Taehyung doesn't hesitate. He leans forward, quick to offer some sort of reassurance with his words. "Jimin and I will always be here for you. Even if she does leave, we'll still be here." Eunbi smiles at Taehyung, not saying another word and instead shifting her gaze to the floor. Silence creeps into the circle once more. Dr. Mari waits a few moments before cutting the quiet with words of her own.

"Seokjin, you're being awfully quiet today. Is anything in particular on your mind?" Jungkook follows the doctor's gaze to Seokjin.

"No, it's just that I was up late last night talking with my roommate," he explains. "We were having a chat and it ended up being a lot longer than anticipated, so I went to bed very late."

"I understand, that's alright. Why don't you each tell me about one thing that made you happy this week? Seokjin, we'll start with you if you don't mind."

"That's perfectly fine. Um, I spent a lot of time in the library with Namjoon this week. I was able to make it through almost half of a book without getting detached. I remembered most of the content too, so I was happy to finally able to talk through things with Namjoon after reading the book. I haven't been able to do that in a long time."

Eunbi picks up after Seokjin, talking about something related to Miyeon, but Jungkook doesn't pay the words much attention. Dr. Mari's question lingers in his mind. What made you happy? Jungkook doesn't need to think for long because his answer is nothing. If there was anything that made him happy, it's been blocked out and erased by the bad memories. Nothing. It sounds too depressing in Jungkook's mind, and he's sure that if he were to admit that out loud, Dr. Mari would talk to the doctors about his condition. Maybe he'd get new pills, new therapy, more appointments, more and more pointless diagnoses that aren't entirely accurate simply because it's what works best for the system.

"And you, Jungkook?" Dr. Mari cuts through his thoughts.

Maybe it's best that way. Take more and more pills until you're a husk of a human being. Then they won't ask if you're happy.

"Nothing good happened to me this week," Jungkook says without looking up at the doctor. He expects to hear her sigh and click her tongue against the roof of her mouth as a show of disappointment. Neither sound comes.

"Did anything at all make you happy?" She inquires instead.

"No." Jungkook dares to glance up, finding Taehyung's eyes across the room, and the other man wears an expression of sadness for a moment.

"I understand," Dr. Mari says in a quiet voice. Her tone remains level and soft as she consoles him. "It can be tough to have a week like that. But know that things will get better. Whether it happens today, tomorrow, in three weeks or three years -- this will pass, and you will be better and stronger because of it. We're here to help along the way and support you when you don't feel like you can do it by yourself any longer. Now, I would like for you all to share one thing that made you upset this week. Jungkook, would it be alright if you started? You seem to have a lot on your mind, so I'd like to talk through that some if you don't mind." Jungkook's eyes flit over to the doctor. He expects to see the cold and retrained expression that always covers Dr. Martin's face, or the slight look of disdain from some of the nurses, but he sees neither. Rather, Dr. Mari blinks back at him with brows furrowed, gaze soft, and expression reading pure concern. Something about her expression eases Jungkook's mind.

"I'm not sure where to start."

"That's alright, you can just say whatever comes to mind first if you'd rather."

"I...I had a falling out with someone." Jungkook shifts in his seat, daring to look in Taehyung's direction. They meet eyes for a second, then Taehyung ducks his head and refuses to look at him any longer.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Jungkook debates it, considers telling the truth and being honest for once. Just once, he really wants to be honest. He wants to get it off his chest, be open, but to do it in front of these people? People he doesn't know well, some people he doesn't care to know and vice versa, people who could use this against him. Yet Dr. Mari's expression of interest and concern compels him to speak.

"We had a disagreement, and I didn't consider how my actions would affect him mentally or emotionally. I...it's selfish, but I don't want to be responsible for harming him or the relationships he has with others."

"Do you feel bitter at all? Towards that person?" Jungkook jerks his head to find the source of the question. Taehyung's eyes are on him once more, eyes wide, and teeth gnawing his lower lip now that he's put the question out in the air.

"No, not at all," Jungkook admits. Taehyung dips his head. "I just--well, I feel guilty, I guess, for hurting the other person. I wish I could explain that to him but it seems like he's avoiding me. I want a chance to ask for forgiveness, but I don't feel like I deserve it."

"Why would you think you don't deserve a chance for forgiveness?" Dr. Mari asks.

"It feels a bit like I've hurt him too much to be forgiven."

"Maybe...maybe the other person overreacted some because he didn't know how to handle the information," Taehyung speaks up again. "And maybe he isn't upset with you, but he said some hurtful things that shouldn't have been said."

"Taehyung is right. Communication is key, especially when it comes to disagreements. I encourage you to talk with the person again and maybe explaining the situation a bit more will help. That may also help you have better days and find more happiness in things." Jungkook nods along with Dr. Mari's words. "Thank you for sharing, Jungkook. Would anyone else like to share?"

"Um, I-I would," Taehyung pipes up again. He fidgets in his seat before speaking again, a small sniffle accompanying his movements. "I, uh, I called my mom earlier in the week. She said...she said my grandmother passed away. I-I don't know why, but she helped raise me and has always been there for me no matter what. I wish--I wish that I could have been there for her before this happened. It doesn't feel fair."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Taehyung. I understand how much she meant to you and how it must be very hard for you to handle while being at the clinic. It must be very hard for everyone here. It's hard to feel as though there is no way out, no way to see family and friends, and live your own life. Everything you do is under watch, someone is there with you, you're required to follow all these regulations and rules. While, yes, they are meant to help your betterment and assure safety, it must feel very suffocating at times. However, each of you has come to this place together, all suffering and struggling with similar things, and you are with each other at the same time for a reason. You should be a beacon of hope and a light at the end of the tunnel for each other. When something bad happens, rather than stepping away from each other, you should step towards one another. Be there for each other and treat this place as a new home. While it may be a temporary one, it is an important one. This is a place where you can have a new family, not a replacement per se, but a family full of people who know what you go through each and every day and understand how you feel.

"I understand each of you may have qualms with each other or with the staff here at the clinic. It can be hard to feel surrounded by people who seem not to care about you or want you to get better, but I assure you there are people who want to help here. Whether it be a doctor or a nurse or a patient, people want to see you be better and stronger, to return to your life outside the clinic.

"Everyone is at the clinic for a reason. Obviously you each know that, the patients are here for their specific reasons. The reason I came to the clinic, however, is because I wanted to make a difference and be a person who could help in some way. When I was your age, I didn't have anyone to rely on or go to when I struggled. For many years, I struggled alone, and it was the most terrifying experience of my life. I'm here to make sure that each of you don't have to feel that way, to give you an option, a choice to not be alone. I love seeing progress in each of you, and growth, but I adore seeing you grow and rely on each other to get better. Medication can only do so much. There has to be a change in the heart and in the mind in order to overcome your struggles. That is what I want to see as a doctor here. I want to see patients come together and help each other because we doctors and the nurses lack in many areas. You can do so much more for each other since you understand each other. Now, I will leave you all with that thought for the day. Thank you for coming, thank you to our newcomers, and you're free to leave now."

Jungkook moves to get up, but a hand clamps down on his leg, keeping him planted to the seat. He looks to the man on his left in confusion. Seokjin doesn't say a word, nor does he even spare Jungkook a glance, and he keeps staring forward at the floor in silence. Dr. Mari is the first to stand, followed by a few of the female patients, while Taehyung lingers in his seat as well. A few moments later, the room is empty except for Taehyung, Seokjin, and Jungkook. There doesn't seem to be any reasoning behind why they're lingering, and Jungkook can only blink between the other two in wonder. Taehyung won't take his eyes off Jungkook, lips slightly parted as though he's about to say something. Words never come.

A minute passes, then two, then three in silence. There's an itch under Jungkook's skin now, the anxiety crawling its way back into his system. Then, a creaking noise rises, and Taehyung stands up. He heads for the door without saying or doing anything, leaving Jungkook to wonder what the hell just happened. Once Taehyung is out of sight, Seokjin releases a deep breath.

"Did something happen between you and Taehyung?" He asks.

"No." The answer comes a bit too quickly, perhaps the lie is too transparent, and Seokjin can see straight through him. "Nothing happened. Everything's fine." Jungkook ought to stop talking, he's only digging the hole deeper at this point. He won't be able to drawl out of it once Seokjin catches on that it's a lie, but luckily enough, Seokjin makes a noise of approval.

"Sorry for bothering you. I just--it seemed--I most likely misread things. I make too many assumptions anyways, according to Yoongi at least."

"Ah, no! Don't worry, it's fine." Jungkook rushes to reassure the older man, and Seokjin smiles back in gratitude as he does. "Would it...be alright if I asked you a few questions actually?"

"Oh, me? That's fine. Ask away!" Seokjin grins at Jungkook, the lines around his mouth and nose scrunching up with the gesture.

"How long have you been at the clinic?"

"Hm, I think it's been about a year for me now. Might seem strange, since Namjoon, Yoongi, and Y/N have been here for a lot longer."

"How did you start talking with them then? Or become friends, I mean." Seokjin leans back in his chair, squinting at the ceiling.

"Well, Y/N was the person who showed me around the ward at the time. Back then, she was a lot less bright and happy." Jungkook does at double-take at the words.

"She doesn't seem bright or happy at all now," he scoffs.

"It used to be a lot worse. I have no clue why, but she was absolutely hellish back then. Even so, I found her interesting and I was grateful that she showed me around, so I kinda just pushed myself into her life. After I found out that Yoongi was my roommate, I thought it was sort of meant to be? That sounds odd and cliche, but that's the reason why I spent all my time with the two of them. Namjoon was obviously there as well, though at the time he didn't spend all of his time with us as he does now. Thinking back, it was hard dealing with both Yoongi and Y/N since they were both so hellish then, but Namjoon was good at placating it. Y/N and Yoongi would argue all the time, back and forth with no end whatsoever. Namjoon would just say "stop" and they would shut up. I don't understand it, even now that it's a lot better and way different than it used to be."

"What do you mean?"

"They care about each other -- Y/N and Yoongi that is -- but it's always seemed as though they have a really twisted way of showing it. I don't approve of it, but I'm not the person to tell them otherwise. It's not my place, first of all. Secondly, I can't do anything about it even if I wanted to. The only person who could have an actual impact would be Namjoon, although anytime I mention it to him, he shuts me down and refuses to talk about it." Seokjin's admission triggers something in Jungkook's mind, and he's taken back all the sudden to one of his previous conversations with Namjoon.

“Quit asking, Jungkook.”

“I’m so-sorry, I was just c—”

“I don’t want to talk about them so you shouldn’t bother.”

“Talk about Yoongi and Y/N?”

“Drop it now before I have to say it again.”

Now that he knows it's been a recurring pattern with Seokjin, Jungkook can't help but wonder what the cause is. Did something happen there for him to be so against talking about it?

"Eh, now that I think about it, I guess Y/N wasn't the absolute worst she could've been. When I first arrived, she really tried her best to help me and look after me in a way, even though I'm older than her. Over time though, she started helping me less and less. I think it's partly because I insisted that I was just fine helping myself. Maybe that's why she was cold to me for so long. Part of me feels guilty about having her help me, somewhat due to the fact that I'm older than here, but also because there isn't really anything wrong with me."

Jungkook blinks at Seokjin. ...isn't really anything wrong with him? But if that's true...why would he be here?

"I'm not sick or anything like that, so she didn't need to help me."

...Not sick?

"We argued about that at one point. I don't remember the exact content of the argument, but Namjoon took my side and of course Yoongi took hers. Things were tense for a little while after that but we cleared things up and talked through it. Turned out better in the end because now we're fine, and she knows that she doesn't have to help me anymore."

"Makes sense," Jungkook mumbles, more focused on the fact that Seokjin claimed to not be sick.

"Of course, she still tries from time to time," Seokjin continues as though Jungkook didn't say anything. "But it isn't as frequent as when she tries to help others like she does with Hoseok or Taehyung or even you."

"What?" Jungkook blanches at the mention of him. "She doesn't do that for me. She doesn't do anything like that at all, especially not compared to what she does for Taehyung or Hoseok."

"Oh, you can't see it?" Seokjin's eyebrows raise, and he swipes his tongue across his lower lip. "I know that she's trying her best to help, but it may not be obvious because of the kind of person she can be. She truly does care though, no matter what you might think. It's just--she, well, she has a tendency to believe that she can help others while keeping them at arm's length, even though that's almost impossible. Maybe that's what caused us to fight in the first place: we don't see eye to eye on a lot of things. At the end of the day, we respect each other. That's the most important thing: mutual respect and care. As Dr. Mari said, being there for each other is valuable and I wouldn't want any sort of petty argument to get in the way of that."

"I suppose so. Well, no, that's right. That's 100% correct. Just...difficult, I guess."

"So can we talk about what's going on between you and Taehyung now?"

"Huh? W-What? Nothing happened, I don't--I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit." Seokjin releases a small laugh. "Whatever happened between the two of you is somehow affecting Taehyung's relationship with Y/N." Jungkook's heart plummets. He noticed? How did he notice? Did other people notice too? "Listen, Jungkook. Taehyung is one of the most important things in Y/N's life, the other thing being Hoseok. She doesn't feel as though she has any purpose or value outside of that."

"I...I know that, but there isn't--there isn't anything I can do." Seokjin grabs hold of his forearm, pinching the skin with his rough grasp.

"I was up late talking with Yoongi last night, and we were talking about Y/N. She came to visit Yoongi while I was gone yesterday. I was helping clean up and take care of dishes after dinner so Yoongi was alone. I--they--" Seokjin cuts himself off before he can say any more. "Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this. No, I'm sure it's fine. It's fine, I don't have to tell him everything." Jungkook leans away from the man, but Seokjin's grip only tightens around his arm. "Anyways, Y/N and Yoongi talked for a bit."

"You see, this is why we are better off not talking when we're together. Things that don't involve conversation always do more good for the two of us."

Jungkook narrows his eyes. "But...Y/N told me herself that they don't tend to talk when they're together." Seokjin's eyes grow wide, then he shakes his head.

"Uh, it's not my business to tell you the details of her relationship with Yoongi or to explain what the two of them do in their private time."

"P-Private time?" Seokjin presses his lips into a thin line. A second passes, then reality sinks in, and Jungkook suddenly understands what you meant when you said that. "Oh." Seokjin offers a weak yet understanding smile.

"Again, it's not my place to talk about that. But anyways, back to the topic at hand. Y/N had mentioned something to Yoongi about needing a distraction because Taehyung was acting strange and different. She apparently went to talk to him, and he flat out ignored her. She's scared that he's mad at her for not finding his bear sooner."

The black water laps at Jungkook's ankles. He's expecting another tsunami.

"Did Taehyung mention what happened between them or if it has something to do with whatever happened between the two of you?"

"No," Jungkook denies quickly. He tugs his arm out of Seokjin's grasp. "It's not my business to talk about that anyways." Seokjin purses his lips then opens his mouth to say something else. "I have to go." Jungkook stands up, excusing himself from the conversation before it goes any further. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't care to know about whatever is going on between you and Yoongi, or how hurt you are by Taehyung's behavior. It doesn't matter. It's not like I'm going to fucking stay at the clinic forever. Jungkook pushes his way out of the room, leaving Seokjin behind him, and doesn't care to look back and see whether the man decided to follow or not.

The black water is at his waist now, he feels the tug of the tide pulling and dragging him further in, and the cold black hand ready to close around his throat.

Your fault. Your fucking fault. Look what you did. You dirty fucking liar. You disappointment. Look at you. Can't do anything right, huh?

Jungkook stumbles on thin air.

Can't even kill yourself properly, can you?

Then all the sudden, he's on the floor, staring at the white ceiling with a dull throbbing in the back of his head.

"Jungkook!" It's not Seokjin's voice -- far too feminine for that -- but his mind is too swamped by black water to put a name to the voice.

"Y/N!" That's Seokjin, Jungkook recognizes it from having just heard it so much minutes ago. But that means, that it must have been you who yelled his name. For some reason, that realization causes the black hand around his throat to retract and sink back into the water, and the water recedes until it's lapping at his ankles again.

Hands find the collar of his white tee, pulling his shoulders up off the floor. Jungkook blinks a few times as your face appears before him. It stands out against the white of the ceiling, a blur to your features until Jungkook focuses his eyes again.

Then -- panic.

Oh god, is she mad at me? Does she know? She knows. Fuck, I'm screwed. She knows about the journal, about Taehyung, about everything. Fuck.

You smile.

Jungkook chokes on air.

"I found it, Jungkookie."

...

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! not a lot happened but at the same time a lot kinda happened?? i missed this story so so much and was so happy to return to writing it. i am excited to share more of this story with you guys, along with other projects that i have :3

consider sending me a ko-fi!!

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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