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#fury: good grief how did you spent that long listening to him

alwaysmarveling · 3 years

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Call Me Back

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: death, a small sexual innuendo, and lots of commas and long sentences

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: You and Wanda promised each other you would always call to check in, and Wanda’s going to do her best to keep that promise, no matter what.

The first time you met Wanda was… well, when was the first time you met Wanda? Was it when wisps of red flashed in front of your eyes, projecting images so horrific and lifelike that you all but collapsed in a heartbeat? Or was it when she stepped forward to shake your hand timidly, grief and determination filling the witch as she promised to make up for it?

“I- I wouldn’t have done it if I… we were just trying…”

“Don’t worry about it,” you had told her with a smile before confiding in her about your own missteps, how you’d wreaked havoc on all of New York with your powers of body modification after your own parents died, how Fury finally got the Avengers to catch you, and how they quickly became your new family.

“You mean they really almost burned the kitchen down trying to make you a birthday cake?” The brunette giggled later that night as you recounted the story of your sixteenth birthday, the two of you sitting comfortably beside each other on the living room sofa.

“Yup. And when Nat showed up with an ice cream cake fifteen minutes later to find smoke in the living room, Sam told me she freaked on everyone.”

“Excuse me, Y/N, I did not do any ‘freaking.’ God, is that what you teenagers are calling it now?” The two of you erupted into laughter, and the redhead could do nothing more than shake her head, a smirk playing on her lips no matter how hard she tried to conceal it.

---

Much like Nat and Steve predicted, the two of you became fast friends. You sat next to each other on movie nights, sang karaoke in your room when you thought everyone else was asleep (if they weren’t awake when you started, they certainly were once you were thirty seconds into Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”), and, much to Steve’s dismay, when you finally became confident with your ability to grow wings on your back, snuck out regularly for late-night flights around the compound.

But you also insisted on being there for Wanda’s training sessions, even if it meant you had to wake up an hour earlier. You cradled the witch in your arms when she woke up night after night with an aching hole in her heart before you eventually insisted you guys just share a room. And you promised her, above everything else, that when you went out for anything, whether it be a quick grocery run or a month-long mission, you’d let her know you were okay.

You knew the promise she pleaded you to make was a result of the anxiety she suffered. She’d lost everyone she cared about; if a simple text or call was enough to put her at ease, you’d do it in a heartbeat.

---

“Wanda,” you’d whispered, the teen immediately sitting up straight when she’d heard the cracks in your voice. “I- I don’t know what to do. I’m safe, but...” She told you to stay there, don’t move, she’d be there in minutes. And, with your brain unable to function enough to think of any other option, you listened.

Her heart broke at the sight of you, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself and your head hung, you feet occasionally kicking the wet sidewalk. The neon sign of the restaurant your date had promised to meet you at illuminated one side of your face, allowing her to see the tears that you had tried but failed so desperately to hold in. But the witch didn’t let you see her emotions, instead whisking you away from the unfamiliar section of the city, brushing the tears off of your cheeks and bringing you to the twenty-four-hour diner for milkshakes. She made a fool of herself in front of the waitstaff until tears flowed from your eyes once again, but this time, the crystalline drops rolled down your raised cheeks, aching from smiling too hard.

When you had a panic attack during training because you couldn’t get one of your body modification attempts to reverse—”Wanda, I cannot be stuck with claws for hands, I can’t!”—she refused to let you hang up until the steady sounds of her own breathing calmed you down, the sharp nails receding and making way for the soft pads of your very human fingertips.

And when she called you after the mission in Lagos, you worked tirelessly to complete your own solo mission as soon as you could. You returned to the tower to find her holed up in the bedroom, news broadcasts playing nonstop on the television to remind her of the horrors she’d committed; accident or not, she told you, she needed to hold herself accountable. You simply shook your head at her, holding out your hand without another word. She didn’t take it at first.

“You can’t fix it, Y/N. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.” She was expecting you to fight her back on it, yell at her and demand that she take your hand, or perhaps you’d go the complete opposite direction and leave her alone, let her be swallowed by guilt and anguish, rip open old wounds and form new ones as she thought of how she tore apart families that were probably much like her own. You did neither.

Wanda’s green eyes remained fixed on your outstretched hand. You stayed silent, one eyebrow cocked as if daring her to see what would happen should she choose not to take it. It was only then that she realized, for once in her life, the person she most loved wasn’t leaving; the support she so desperately needed wouldn’t be yanked away from her when it was mere centimeters from her grasp.

So she rested her fingers in the palm of your hand, and you pulled her out to the balcony where the two of you had spent night after night watching the stars instead of sleeping, making up funny names for each of them and rolling in fits of laughter that only came to those delirious and sleep-deprived enough to understand just what was so funny. Except, this time, instead of dropping into the oversized beanbag chair that was the usual spot of your stargazing shenanigans, she watched curiously as you removed your shirt. Her mouth dropped as you closed your eyes and allowed the white feathers to emerge from beside the ridges of your spine. Although it was a process she’d seen several times before, your modifications had never ceased to amaze her, and your angel-like wings had always been her favorite. The witch admired the additions as you allowed them to flap slowly, once, twice, before turning back to her.

“Let’s go,” you finally spoke, the order gentle but leaving no room for negotiation.

“Where are we going?”

“Away.” That was enough for the brunette, who squeezed your hand before following your lead. She allowed you to guide her through the maze of clouds and couldn’t help but smile softly as the sun’s rays hit your face at just the right angle. You wore the exhaustion from your recent mission on your face, and streaks of dirt covered the bruises that she was sure littered your body. But she was content, in awe, because you were you. You didn’t put up walls to hide your scars from the world, didn’t use passive-aggressiveness to hide the passion that burned in your heart. At the end of the day, you were good, purely and truly good. You were an angel; even the sun knew it.

What Wanda didn’t realize, but what you taught her that night, as she sat surrounded by sunflowers, the moon, thousands of gleaming stars, and the tickle of your feathers as your wing pulled her close to you, was that she was one too.

“I’m glad you called me,” you whispered, your eyes not leaving the open sky as you pointed out a particularly bright spot. “I’m gonna call that one… Philip. He looks regal, real proud. Look at him, so much brighter than the others, and he knows it too.” The witch breathed out a soft chuckle, stroking her fingers over your feathers as she responded.

“I’m glad I called you too. And I think Philip is a good name for him. What about that one?”

“Hmm… Walter? He’s a bit more serious, I think. But you see the one next to him?” You waited until you got a nod from the girl before continuing. “That’s his sister. She makes sure he has fun, even when he says he doesn’t want to. But you name her, Wands. Naming stars is a two-person job, you know.” She squeezed the elbow that you nudged her with before giving in.

“Alright… that’s Delia. And, yeah, she’s the best. The life of the party. Walter keeps her grounded, though,” Wanda added, to which you agreed to with a hum. You two fell quiet after that, enjoying the comfortable silence and looking up at the twinkling lights, some of them gaining names and stories, others waiting to be named another night.

“Wanda?”

“Yeah?”

“You call me if you ever need me, okay? I know we started this with me calling you, but I’m here for you too.” The witch met your eyes with a firm bob of her head, but you continued, desperate to make sure she understood. “And if I don’t pick up at first, you call me back, okay? Call me until I respond, promise?”

“I promise,” Wanda soothed gently. “I will.”

“Okay, good, good. Because,” Wanda felt a brush of your feathers against her upper arm as you fluttered your wings, slightly agitated, “because I think I love you. I mean, um, I know. I know I love you. I love you. Yeah, I-” Wanda shut you up with a kiss, her lips pressed urgently against yours. And if you hadn’t lost your breath from your rambling or your declaration of love to the girl of your dreams, then you most definitely lost it as your lips melted into hers, in the comforting warmth of her palm against your cheek, and in the words that left her mouth as you finally pulled apart, breathless.

“I will, Y/N, I promise. Because I love you too.”

---

People thought you were inseparable before you started dating, but they all realized how wrong they were after that night. The two twin beds quickly became a queen-sized mattress, sideline support during training sessions became fierce yet playful spars, and the private giggles you guys shared grew tenfold. Fury wasn’t exactly happy that his unofficial daughter was now dating, but he was pleased by how efficiently the two of you worked together, which led you to this moment, the two of you covering the Quinjet while waiting for the rest of the Avengers to finish their business inside the massive Hydra base. With Wanda covering the ground and you in the sky, flying with the white-feathered wings that Wanda loved so dearly, the two of you held off the swarms of Hydra agents relatively well. With a small break in between incoming agents, Wanda looked up to check on you, but she was a moment too late. Before she could even think to warn you, the pure feathers she loved to brush her fingers through fell from the sky, the white stained with red, your screams ripping through her eardrums.

No one, including Wanda, had time to think as she exploded with a new rage, one that hadn’t run through her in years. One that she hoped she would never experience again, but here she was. And there you were.

While you were held in the air by her signature red mist, the opposing agents fell to the ground. She didn’t care about their screams, only yours. And with them all dealt with, she could turn to you, rushing you both into the Quinjet and yelling for the other Avengers to get back here, now.

But her efforts were futile. She could press down on the wounds all she wanted, beg for you to come back until her voice was nothing more than a whisper, but nothing would work. You were gone the instant the missile had hit you, and as much as Wanda wanted to deny the truth, she knew it just as much as your other teammates did when they rushed onto the Quinjet. You were gone before you could say a single goodbye.

---

The first time Wanda called was from your shared bedroom. She dialed your number before tracing the pillow where your head would have laid, running her fingers over the cartoon carrots that covered the comforter. The yellow bedding set was a gag gift Tony had gotten the two of you when you got your new bed.

“You know, since I figure the two of you will be going at it like rabbits,” he winked before getting immediately smacked in the back of the head by Steve.

“They will be doing no such thing,” the supersoldier had chastised him with a roll of his eyes. “God, Stark, sometimes I forget you have a brain when you say such stupid things.”

But you loved it, telling Wanda, “The carrots remind me of you, Bunny.” And how could she return the present when you were being so sweet about it? But the sheets didn’t make her smile in the same way they once did because you were gone. No one was there to tease her about the way her nose wiggled much like the little white fluffy creatures or promise to get her carrots from the market the next day.

The call went to voicemail, and as bittersweet as it was, Wanda savored it because it was you. Your voice. But the beep came far too soon, and your turn was done. So she spoke.

“Y/N, hey, it’s me, Wanda. I, um, I love you. I’ll always love you, yeah?” The witch put the phone down, thinking that was all she could bear to say as the lump in her throat ballooned in size and hot tears filled her eyes. But just before time was up, her hand shot up to press the device against her ear again. “Call me back, milaya.”

---

The second time Wanda called was from the balcony. The brunette eyed the sparkling diamonds that filled the sky, wondering how you could be gone when, the last time she was here, you were right there beside her, laughing over the boys’ latest shenanigans and Ned, the newly named star.

Now, the beanbag chair felt too big, too empty without another person sitting next to her. Without you. So she dialed your number, the only number she bothered to learn by heart, and waited for the dulcet tones of your voice. As the dial tone rang, she ran one hand over the white feather that laid gingerly in her lap. Natasha had given it to her along with several others a few days after your death. Each of the team members had one to remember you by, but the spy had picked out the biggest and most brilliant ones to give to Wanda.

“I know how much her wings meant to you-” Natasha stiffened as Wanda threw her arms around her. But the witch didn’t care, her tears soaking the redhead’s shirt as she tried to find the words to thank her. She couldn’t, but it was okay. Natasha knew anyway. Wanda had little time to reflect on the memory before her face brightened at the sound of your voice.

“Hi, this is Y/N-

“And her girlfriend, Wanda! She’s taken, so don’t even think about it, you jerk!” Wanda smiled slightly at your jubilant laughter, remembering how you’d pushed her away for interrupting you.

“I’m not available right now, but leave me your name, number, and message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can, okay? Talk to you soon.” The witch’s eyes closed slightly as the greeting ended with a spell of your giggles before it was interrupted by that damn beep. God, how she hated that beep. Nevertheless, she took a breath and spoke out into the clear night sky, looking up at the stars as she did so.

“Hi, lyubov moya, it’s me. Wanda. I’m calling you back, just like you told me to. I’m not okay. I need you. I love you.” Her breath caught in her throat, forcing her to pause for a moment, but she forced herself to keep going a second later. “Sam and Bucky did the stupidest thing today. Nat and Steve were all over their asses. You should’ve seen it. I miss you. Please, call me back. I’ll tell you all about it.”

---

The last time Wanda called was from the sunflower field. The two of you hadn’t been here since the night you told her you loved her. In fact, it took Wanda several hours to find it since she hadn’t been paying much attention to the route the first time you came.

Once again, the night was clear, the stars lighting up the dark canvas with their radiance. She missed the feeling of your wing wrapped around her, of your presence next to her. But she had one of your feathers in her fingers and your voice in her ear, and to ask for more would be greedy, right?

“Hi, angel. It’s Wanda. I’m calling you back to leave a message, but I can’t do it again after this because I don’t want your voicemail to fill up, okay? I’m sorry, I know I’m being selfish, but I need to be able to hear your voice, so I can’t let it fill up. But I haven’t forgotten you, I promise I haven’t. I never will. I’m still-” Wanda swallowed, a fighting effort to calm the waver in her voice. “I’m still not okay, but I’m trying. For you. But I’m not okay, I need you to call me back. I’ve named one up there Halia, but her twin sister needs a name. And naming stars is a two-person job, you know.” The witch sniffed once as the corner of her lip curved up slightly, remembering the playfulness in your voice when you’d first said the line. “Call me back, Y/N, please.”

With the message over, Wanda clutched the phone to her chest, her breaths becoming faster and shallower as she closed her eyes, trying to accept the knowledge that it’d be the last time she’d ever leave a message, the knowledge that she was really losing you… the knowledge that she already lost you.

---

Months went by. Wanda wasn’t sure how they did, but they did. The first sign of it was the first Halloween without you, as she saw the other couples dressing up in matching costumes that you would’ve loved, costumes you would’ve pointed out to Wanda with an excited bounce and told her you’d have to wear next year. The next was Thanksgiving, when Wanda ran through the list of everything she was thankful for and came up short when she thought about the people she still had left. And then it was Christmas, and Valentine’s Day, and the first day of summer.

And while Wanda did her best to move on, she always found herself under the stars, dialing your number. She sat on the balcony, in the sunflower field, wherever she could see the sky, and she listened to your voice telling her that you’d call her back as soon as you could, always forcing herself to hang up a second before the beep could cut you off. Wanda named every other star she saw, leaving the ones in between for you and hoping that you’d approve of the names she chose.

“I’m naming that one Angel for you, Y/N,” Wanda murmured. “It’s even brighter than Philip. It’s the brightest star in the sky. I know you think it’s silly to name things after people, but this one’s just special, so you’re gonna have to make an exception, okay?” The brunette’s lips stopped moving, but her eyes stayed wide open as she watched the star as if, if she watched it long enough, studied it hard enough, you would materialize from its luminescence. As if you would come back to her. But when you didn’t, she finally allowed her watering eyes to rest, her eyelids drooping to surround her in darkness.

“I’m not okay, Y/N.” The witch’s voice was softer than it had ever been, more tired. But this time, there was no one to whisk her off and make her forget the heaviness of it all. “I need you so badly. I love you so much. I always will. But, please, angel, call me back.”

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #avengers x reader #marvel #mcu #I wrote something #alwaysmarveling

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forsakenmis · 3 years

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Calming her down

Title: Calming her down Pairing: top!Wanda Maximoff x female!reader Rating: 18+ Incredibly NSFW Warnings: Dark Wanda, kind of non-con, strap on, fingering, mummy kink, post-WV finale so spoilers if you haven’t seen it. also i haven’t editted it so beware grammar and spelling mistakes. Word count: 4215 words

It had taken far too long to track her down. Why they asked you to do it, you weren’t really sure. It’s not as if you and Wanda ever really talked, or even made eye contact, during the years as an avenger. Yet you were given the task of pulling her back onto the rails, rails she’s apparently veered pretty badly. You really think Doctor Strange, the Gandalf of wizards, would be a lot better at handling her than you would be. Or even Clint, the guy who was her mentor. But no-no one wanted to reach out to her, even though they spent years arguing that she needed to be supervised. You could go on for days how you being the person being sent is the most ridiculous idea they could have had.

You weren’t even a super, or an avenger, you started off as a shield agent who was then thrown into Stark Industries as Tony’s intern. Fury wanted an in and you were that in. Then everything went bottoms up and you became a slightly more valuable member of the group. Support, really.

After the snap, you just wanted a stable life. A normal life. By the time they contacted you to do this, you’d applied to a college. No, a university. In Australia, which was far, far away from New York. The briefing was simple. Wanda, left to her own devices in her time of need, went to try to handle her own grief after stealing Vision’s body from S.W.O.R.D. You were being asked to go try to talk some sense into her. Then, within the week of you repeatedly saying no, it turned out the head of S.W.O.R.D. was a bastard which you could have seen coming from a mile away, and Wanda was god knows where.

They promised you they’d leave you alone after this.

So you said yes.

What could go wrong?

You were still asking herself that three weeks later when you were sitting there still trying to find out where exactly she went. Wanda wasn’t going to be easy to find, especially considering she didn’t want to be found but you did it. It was four in the morning when you finally narrowed down a list of ten possible locations that she could be in. You were too tired to even crack a smile, you fell back onto your bed to sleep.

Your celebration was sleep for by the next morning, you were trekking across the world and came to the outskirts of a property with the view of the mountains. Pretty, sure, but you didn’t think Wanda was here for the view.

It was eerily quiet when you walked up to the door. That type of quiet they put into horror movies before they pulled out a jump scare. You didn’t trust it. Then again-not that there was anything around to make noise. Wanda could be asleep, as maybe all this isolation has meant she’s forsaken a body clock.

Still-you trusted it as much as you could lift Mjollnir and you couldn’t even make it shift.

The curtains were closed, you couldn’t see anything as you walked up the two steps and you had to stop your hand from hovering over your handgun. It would have been more of a self assurance. You couldn’t dream of winning against Wanda in a fight, both of you would be aware of that, but you couldn’t exactly imagine she’d be that trusting of you if you walked in holding a gun. So you fiddled with the watch around your wrist, it was a gift from Tony years ago.

You could have brought reinforcement, sure, but that seemed like a moot point considering you were trying to gain her trust, somewhat. The reinforcement would have been S.W.O-oh whatever, sword, you don’t have the time for formality. And sword made such a huge mess of it the first time round so you didn’t think they were going to help this time round. You tried calling Clint, but he was busy, apparently. Too busy to pick up your calls.

This was definitely a suicide mission.

You knocked three times with the back of your knuckles and listened, trying to hear any hint of movement.

Nothing.

You knocked again. Knock. Knock. Knock. Not even a creak.

Maybe she was asleep or maybe, dare you say it, had gotten it wrong. God, you’d hate for some old man to swing the door open.

Your hand dropped to the handle, going to test the lock, but then it swung open and if it wasn’t for your own instincts, you would have stumbled forward.

Wanda.

Your eyes slammed onto her face and, for the first time in years, you fumbled. She looked different, way too different for your liking, she looked older since Tony’s funeral. Mature. More confident in herself. You could think of a different million ways to describe her in that split second.

She’d always been pretty before but this Wanda was…gorgeous. This Wanda could also read minds.

You cut your thoughts short and took in a slight breath. Wanda wasn’t saying anything and her only acknowledgement was the slight hook of her brow.

“Wanda,” you began before forcing a smile onto yourself, “long time no see.”

“So they sent you, of all people,” Wanda remarked and you made a face. Sure-she was right but that was, quite frankly, rude.

“They suggested I come and I wanted to come,” you lied, “to see how you were doing...okay, look, I know we never talked. Or interacted. I know that. I was probably not the most open to you as I could have been.” Wanda was continuing to stare at you. She was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. A shirt that arguably was one size too small for her. You weren’t really sure what to say, if you were honest, you’d spent so much time trying to find her, tracking her down like a puzzle, that you forgot to plan for this interaction.

“But I like to think we were on good terms,” you continued. Worst thing she could do was close the door in your face and you were more than happy to camp outside. “Enough that you’ll hear me out. I heard about your book, the darkhold–” That’s when you got a reaction out of her. Her eyes narrowed, growing even colder, and you could see her grip tightening on the door. “–we need to talk. Please-just let me in. I’m not going to fight you. We both know I can’t do that.”

You were keeping your thoughts clear. You didn’t want her reading you.

After a second, Wanda swung the door open wider and let you in.

Your eyes scanned the room the moment you entered the threshold, looking for all the exits, before you turned back to Wanda. Wanda, who had closed the door, and had started walking towards you, close enough that you took a step back but found yourself hitting the back of a table.

Now that she was right up in your personal space, close enough that you could smell the soap she was using. Your heart was beating now.

“So you came for the book?” She asked, staring down at you. She was only a couple of inches taller than you but it may as well have been more.

“No, I came here to help you. And I know that book isn’t helping you, no matter how much you think it is. Wanda, that book is dangerous,” you said, gaining enough courage that you pushed yourself off the table to step forward, getting into Wanda’s space just as she was in yours.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Wanda remarked but she didn’t move. “You’re as bullheaded as you used to be, never knowing when a fight was too big for you. I remember all those times Nat and Steve had to throw themselves on the line because you’d done something reckless.” “That’s rich coming from you.” “I could protect myself,” Wanda snapped back. “So where are they? The rest of them. The people that said they were my family. Were you all that they had?”

You clenched your teeth. Don’t say the truth. “They wanted a woman’s touch with it,” you lied. “There isn’t that many of us who were close to you back then anymore.”

It was really only Nat and maybe Pepper who were close to Wanda. Both were a little preoccupied as of right now (for different reasons) to come knocking on Wanda’s door.

“A woman’s touch?” Wanda echoed, saying it in a way that made you clench your teeth. It was a raspy whisper. “And what, may I ask, would that entail?”

With the way she said it, you were pretty sure that Wanda wasn’t meaning it in the same way you were. Albeit, your meaning was rather off as well. In that you had no idea what that would entail either.

Wanda must have realised this and took a step back. “I suggest you leave,” she said and you hesitated before shaking your head.

“I won’t do that,” you said and she frowned. “They asked me to calm you down–”

“Calm me down?” She repeated, pronouncing each syllable, and it was as if the temperature dropped ten degrees. “Calm me down.” Then she smirked and it made you roll back on your heels.

“As long as you have that book, yes,” you said, “how about this–I take the book and then I go. You’ll think more rational without it, Maximoff, you know that. Deep down. You’re smart, Wanda, smarter than anyone ever gave you credit for. Besides Vision–”

“Don’t say his name,” Wanda snarled and suddenly she was in front of you again, hand around your throat, “do you understand me? He doesn’t exist here, not with you around.”

You didn’t really know what she meant but you ran with it and nodded. Her hand was tight and your airway was becoming a little too blocked for your liking.

She stared down at you, her eyes hard and cold, but then they softened and her grip loosened but they still didn’t leave your skin.

“You know, I might have pursued you back then, if it wasn’t for him,” Wanda began and you blinked. What? “You were everything I liked in a girl. Besides your recklessness….and stubbornness...but I think I can deal with that pretty easily.”

“Wanda, I’m flattered, really, but how about we focus,” you said, carefully, deciding to take that with a grain of salt and then over analyse it at three in the morning. Like how could you be cock blocked by a bloody robot? “Just give me the book and I’ll leave you in peace. I’ll make sure no one comes looking for you–” “You can’t promise me that,” Wanda remarked before she dropped her hand to take a step back. Then she looked you up and down. “You said they wanted you to calm me down, right? How about I keep both you and the book.”

You would like to say you were able to fight back. Prevent Wanda from knocking you out. But you were gone by the time she finished her sentence.

----

When light streamed into your eyes, the first thing you registered was the soft pillow underneath your head. Then you felt the rest of the bed and your eyes sprung open.

Your legs were bent up and out, Wanda’s red mist wrapped around your ankles and knees to keep them up. Meanwhile, your wrists were stuck to the headboard. Then your eyes rested on….Wanda?

Transparent Wanda reading that bloody book. You swear to god-you’ll burn that book the moment you get your hands–

“You’ll do no such thing,” Wanda’s voice cut through your apparently rather loud thoughts. You turned your head, trying to find her, and there she was in the doorway, sipping a cup of tea, watching you. Then she kicked off it and moved into the room and slid the mug onto a table before coming to the bed. “Maybe I’ll let you hold it one day as I read it.”

“I don’t...I don’t understand, Wanda, let me go,” you whispered as you began to struggle, pulling on the restraints again and again, but they weren’t budging. Neither was Wanda.

“I don’t think I want to,” Wanda hummed as she pushed herself onto the bed, “you see, I lost everything. My brother, Vision, Nat, Steve, my two boys, then Vision again. I lose every single family I ever have. Maybe this time I’ll succeed. I’m trying to find them, you see, with the book. Find them and pull them out. We can live here, happy, away from everyone.”

“We’ve done this story before Wanda, it didn’t–” “This time will be different, I’ll be more powerful, I won’t mess up this time,” Wanda pressed as her hands went to your inner thighs, moving them up and down your clothed skin. “And, when it comes to you, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. I don’t think I’ll let them see you. No, you can be my little secret. I stared at you for too many years, let you whore yourself out to other people. Not anymore.”

You drew your brows together. This couldn’t be happening.

“As you said, you’re meant to calm me down, right? Meant to pull me off some edge because everyone else was just too busy,” Wanda said as she positioned herself between your legs, bending down to kiss your jawline. You throbbed and pulled on the red strands wrapped around your wrist, but to no avail. “But I can think of another edge you can get close to,” she whispered as she pulled away again.

“Wanda, what are you–”

Her fingers slid in between your thighs, pressing into your heat, and a sharp gasp left your mouth. She began to rub through your jeans, cupping your heat, and you tugged again. This time, the red scratched the watch around your wrist and suddenly your clothes had snapped into the red armour Tony had built you years ago. Protective armour that replaced whatever you were wearing in a nick of time.

Useful.

The shift was enough to push Wanda off you and she stared down at the red and black armour with a slight tilt of her head.

“Well, that won’t do, will it?” She asked as her hands trailed down the cool metal. “Neat trick. Tony’s design, right?”

“Of course,” you responded after a moment, your chest rising up and down. There was no point in denying it-it was obviously Tony’s. Right down to the colours.

Wanda’s eyes turned red as the red mist circled around her hand as she lowered it back down. You flinched when you felt it slink in between the small crevices. The suit was meant to be protected against outside substances, able to go into water, but you supposed Tony didn’t exactly build it against Wanda.

“Wanda, you don’t–” “If you don’t be quiet, I’ll make you, do you understand me?” She hissed as she bucked her hand backwards and the suit around your hips ripped off you and tossed across the room. You whined as the cold air hit your bare skin, contrasting the building heat in between your legs.

You were left with nothing but the top half and the pants that wrapped around your thigh. “Much better.”

With that, she went back to what she was doing before but this time there was nothing to prevent her from slipping her fingers through your slick folds, the tips of her nails teasing your entrance.

“Look at you, already so wet,” she cooed and you gritted your teeth. This really couldn’t be happening. This was a dream. She could control reality, this was just a dream. “This isn’t me in your head, sweetheart, trust me–I would have cut the foreplay if I was creating this.”

She continued to massage your heat and it took you everything you had not to moan.

“Why are you…” you tried saying but you were cut short, once again, when her fingers found your hooded clit, using the tips of her nails to start playing with it. You bucked your hips instinctively and she chuckled.

“You said you wanted to help me, right?” Wanda asked and the building heat was beginning to become a little too much. “So how about this, sweetheart, you help mummy out by becoming mummy’s little stress reliever.”

Two fingers suddenly plunged into your entrance and your back arched. At least your clit got a little bit of a break but it wasn’t long until her palm began to grind against it as she thrusted the fingers into your tight entrance. Each thrust expanded your walls, letting her in even deeper, your own arousal making her movements slick and quick.

“Wand-” you began to moan but it morphed into a sharp yelp when she pulled her fingers out to slap your cunt.

“You’re a smart girl, sweetheart, it’s how you got around Tony for so long. I think you know exactly what you want to be calling me,” she said and suddenly she was back down so that her face was only inches away from yours and her fingers slid back inside of you.

Unlike last time, though, it wasn’t rough and sharp. Her fingers were slow as they moved inside of you, curling at the tips, scratching your walls. Exploring. She was exploring you and you could do nothing but whimper and moan.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I know you would. Look at you, already so wet and submissive for me,” she whispered, scattering kisses down your jawline as she reached your ear to nibble on your earlobe. “I’ll keep you in here for as long as I need you. Ride your pretty little mouth as I read that book, fill you up again and again until you’re passing out. All you have to do is be a good little girl.”

Heat was curling through your body, that buzzing sort of heat, that made your vision blur. Your teeth were clamped together. You wanted to moan, they were in your throat, but even when you opened your mouth, no sound came out. Just silent moans. The fingers moving inside of you had grabbed all your attention.

Then she scratched that little sweet spot and it was that that pushed out a moan that bounced around the room. Wanda laughed, hitting it again and again.

“Let your mummy hear your moans, sweetheart,” she said before she pulled back to kiss you on the mouth, biting hard on your lip so you wouldn’t even try to close your mouth and stop the tongue that slid into your mouth.

Your stomach was twisting into knots at this point and seemed like every other muscle seemed to be cramping. You were close to climax. Your walls clenched around Wanda’s fingers. Just a little bit–

You groaned when she peeled herself off you. You blinked up at her, looking through what seemed like tears, as you were denied that relief. Relief from the throbbing coming from your cunt.

“You want to cum, baby?” Wanda asked as she pulled off her shirt. Underneath was a simple black bra that was quickly disposed of. Your eyes, naturally, landed on her chest. A chest that, even under the circumstances, made you drool. Wanda’s clicking your fingers drew your eyes back up. “Eyes on mummy, sweetheart. God, you really are a little whore, aren’t you? Tell me-do you want to cum?” You pulled on your restraints just once more but all it seemed to do was to make it even tighter.

You nodded, jerkily.

“Use your words, sweetheart, I very clearly established you’re not mute,” Wanda remarked as her fingers went down to her jeans, fiddling with her button.

“Yes. Please, I want to,” you mumbled, knowing you won’t be coming back from this point. Then again-if she could make you feel like that again...maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Wanda tilted her head as she hummed, not having to move much to slap your sore cunt again and you jerked. “Say it politely and maybe I’ll consider it.” You scrunch your eyes shut and mewled when she began to knead your pulsating clit again. “M-mummy, please,” you whispered and her hands left your cunt. Before you could even open your eyes, you felt her lips on yours. Soft, gentle...loving.

“Good girl...that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She asked and you could hear the ruffling of her pants as she kicked them off. “Now...mummy’s going into your head, okay? I promise it won’t be long.” You began to struggle again but the warmth of her powers quickly washed over you. Your memories began playing the past three months. You tracking her down. Refusing back up.

Then she was out again.

“You really told no one where you were going? Almost as if you wanted this to happen,” She said as she shifted on top of you. Shifted that you felt something rub up against your entrance and you flinched. She...she was packing. “Of course I am, sweetheart, do you really think I wasn’t prepared for you? I knew you were coming from a mile away, honey.”

And with that, she pushed the strap inside of you, not bothering to wait for you to adjust until she was completely inside of you. You arched your back again, pressing into Wanda’s naked body, as the pain of being ripped open rushed through your body. You moaned and grunted as you grew adjusted to the width and length of Wanda.

“Come on, baby, you can do it,” Wanda murmured into your lips and suddenly your wrists were freed. But then her own hands came up to wrap around them to press them against the pillows herself. “I know you’ve taken bigger. Do you think we didn’t know? Didn’t know you and Nat were fucking every other night?” The comment drew you out, just for a moment, and you shook your head but all she did was pull back slightly to slam inside of you again.

“Don’t lie to me,” Wanda snarled, “tell me, tell me the truth. Use your words.”

It took only a few more thrusts of her strap filling you up again and again that the words began to spill out of your lips. “S-she found out. About my status as a shield status. Fuck,” you hissed out, barely able to hear your own words over the lude noises of Wanda beginning to pound into you. This wasn’t fair-you couldn’t dream of talking when she was fucking you like this.

“So you whored yourself out to her to make sure she kept her mouth shut,” Wanda said, finishing the sentence and you nodded jerkily. “You little slut. I bet you liked it too, just like how you like me pounding into you. But you’re mine now. Not hers. Not Tony’s. Mine. My little whore.”

She shifted upwards so that her chest was dangling above your face. “Suck your mommy's tit, baby, I saw you admire them before.”

It was a welcome change, you had to admit, to trying to formulate sentences and words around the moans and screams spilling out of your mouth. Your head leaned forward, closing the distance, so your mouth could wrap around her erect nipple and your walls clenched around her strap as you heard her moan.

Her hand moved to the top of your head, her nails scraping against your scalp as she interwove her fingers through your messy hair. Your tongue lapped at the small bud between your teeth and she began to move her hips in time with your tongue.

Your now free hand wrapped around her body so your nails were digging into her shoulder, drawing Wanda down even closer so you could take more of her tit into her mouth.

The same heat that had built before was coming back, and you weren’t sure how long you could hold on at this point.

“You can cum whenever you want, baby, just this once,” Wanda purred, hearing your thoughts, and it was all you needed, that confirmation, to come undone. Your walls clenched around the strap and you could feel Wanda slowing down as thrusting became just a tad more difficult and you screamed into her tits, careful not to clamp your jaw shut, as the orgasm rushed through you.

Even through it, she continued moving inside of you, and you almost felt like you could pass out.

“Good girl,” Wanda whispered. “Oh, I could get used to this. I’m going to keep you in here, do you hear me? Make you a good little whore for me to come home to.” They did say your mission was to help Wanda calm down.

#wanda x reader #smut #wanda maximoff smut #dark!wanda maximoff #top!wanda #dark wanda maximoff x reader #misfitwrites #wanda maximoff x you

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dekuskacchan · 3 years

Text

Tell Me I’m Dreaming

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of injuries and hospitals, Bakugou Katsuki needs a hug

Summary: Katsuki wakes up in the hospital after the war to find that Deku is still unconscious.

A/N: Hello! SO chapter 298 is out now and it left me Feeling Some Things. i hope you like!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970094

Sequel

Pain.

It was the last thing Katsuki remembered before he’d blacked out. He was bleeding, dying, fighting with all his might, and then, as the adrenaline wore off, there was nothing but unbearable pain.

And Deku.

Deku.

Katsuki cracked his eyes open with a groan, taking in his surroundings. Instead of lying on rough, dirty terrain, he was now in a bed, his torn costume replaced by a scratchy, blue gown. An oxygen mask covered his face.

“Shit!” Katsuki hissed at the ache in his side as he lurched forward, ripping off the mask.

“He’s awake!!”

An entourage of classmates was there to greet him, shouting in excitement that he was okay, but Katsuki only had one thought on his mind.

Where was Deku?

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

“ARE YOU TRYING TO DIE?!" The little purple runt was gripping Katsuki by the back of his gown, trying to hold him back as he ran through the hospital.

“Midoriya hasn’t shown any signs of waking up,” they’d said.

“Shut the fuck up! You’re gonna kill me even harder by yanking me,” Katsuki snarled, shrugging off the leech as he marched on.

Deku was the only one who wasn't awake.

Katsuki was littered with wounds, but the sickening anguish he felt upon hearing those words was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

"He’s dead meat if he thinks he can die on me" Katsuki growled as he approached Deku's door, wrenching it open.

Katsuki stopped short, staring in disbelief at the sight before him.

Deku had experienced his fair share of injuries, but Katsuki had never seen him look anything like this.

He was lying supine, body heavily bandaged, with all four of limbs fully casted. His legs were in traction, and braces fit snugly on his shoulders. His breathing was so shallow that Katsuki could barely fucking tell he was even breathing at all. A monitor beeped quietly, tracking the slow, even rhythm of his heart.

Katsuki gritted his teeth, anxiety bubbling in his chest.

“Young Bakugou,” a soft, broken whisper startled Katsuki.

He was so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed All Might sitting at Deku's side. He looked like shit, skin pale as a ghost, eyes more sunken than usual.

Good.

“How-” Katsuki swallowed, “how is he?.”

“He’s…stable,“

“Don’t fucking sugarcoat it,”

All Might sighed and nodded.

“All four of his limbs were shattered, and he has some broken ribs. He’s been comatose for two days,” his voice was grave, “the doctors have no idea when he’ll wake.”

The words felt like daggers, twisting in Katsuki’s chest, gouging out his already bleeding heart and ripping the air from his lungs.

No, no no no, this isn’t real. How is this fucking real?

“--stopped the internal bleeding,” distantly, Katsuki heard All Might speaking, but he wasn’t paying attention.

A coma. He’s in a fucking coma.

Images flashed through his mind. Deku, destroying his body with each desperate punch. Deku’s shocked cry when Katsuki launched himself into All for One’s tendrils to protect him. Deku’s mangled body falling to the ground beside him. Deku, Deku, Deku, Deku was fucking dying-

“--know this is hard for you too, young Bakugou,” All Might was still rambling, and a molten rage rippled through Katsuki’s body.

How is he so fucking calm?

“You...fucking asshole,” Katsuki growled, eyes narrowing, “you FUCKING ASSHOLE.”

All Might’s mouth fell open in alarm as Katsuki all but sprinted across the room, grabbing him by the collar.

“You- this is your fault, Katsuki seethed, “you lied to us, you hid information, you- you could have-”

“I know,” All Might nodded somberly.

“HAAH?!” Katsuki shouted.

“I know,” All Might’s voice was firm now as he looked Katsuki in the eyes, “I should have been more open with both of you. If I had, maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Katsuki was trembling in fury, blind to all but the overwhelming grief he felt, and suddenly his fist was colliding with All Might’s jaw. He reeled back with a groan as a searing blast of pain surged through his injured shoulder and abdomen.

All Might grunted and rubbed his face, but he seemed unsurprised. Like he fucking knew he had this coming. It pissed Katsuki off even more.

“Alright, I deserved that,” he grunted, eyes widening in concern when Katsuki doubled over in pain, “but, young Bakugou, you need to rest-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki spat, “Deku almost fucking died.”

Logically, Katsuki knew that All Might was just as helpless here as he was, and he was suffering too, but for some reason that was making Katsuki even angrier. Angry at All Might and his fucking secrets, angry at Deku, at Shigaraki, everyone in this fucking hospital, at himself-

“So did you,”

Katsuki flinched at the memory, balling his hands into fists.

“That’s- that’s fucking irrelevant.”

“No, it’s not. If it weren’t for your quick thinking, young Midoriya might not be here right now. You’re right to be angry. But please, be angry at me, not-”

“I am angry at you!” Katsuki roared.

“You’re angry at yourself too. You shouldn’t be,”

Katsuki sank to his knees in defeat. White-hot bile rose in his throat, choking him as he tried to speak.

All Might gently rested a hand on his uninjured shoulder.

“Please, rest. You’re going to cause yourself further harm.”

“He...what if he- he can’t-” Katsuki stuttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his bloodshot eyes to prevent tears from falling.

“He won’t,” All Might tried to comfort him, but Katsuki could tell he was scared too, “this is an excellent hospital, the doctor’s are doing everything they can.”

“Well they’re not fucking doing enough,” Katsuki snapped.

“I’m worried, too. But we can’t lose hope, young Bakugou.”

Katsuki felt All Might kneel beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he was on the verge of tears, too.

“Fuck you. You should be,” Katsuki grumbled, but it lacked the venom he’d intended.

A sudden knock startled both of them. Katsuki raised his eyes to see Present Mic’s head peeking through the cracked door. He looked like shit, too.

“Aizawa wants to talk to you,” Mic murmured, “and you should be in bed, Bakugou.”

“Tch. You should go to hell,” Katsuki growled.

All Might nodded solemnly as he stood, offering a hand to Katsuki to help him up, but it was stubbornly batted away.

“At least sit in a chair, then, young Bakugou,” All Might sighed reluctantly, “I will return shortly. Please, be careful," and with that, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Katuki shifted his gaze to Deku. He watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed quietly, listening to the steady beeping of his heartbeats on the monitor.

I might never get to tell him.

Katsuki clenched his teeth, struggling to maintain his composure as the thought reverberated through his mind.

I’ve been a fucking coward and now I might never get to tell him.

Deku had always watched Katsuki so closely. He was always watching, always reaching out to him, always had a hand open for him- but now that Katsuki was finally reaching back, Deku's hand was gone.

Suddenly, Katsuki had never felt more alone, and the dam broke.

He hunched over, slamming his fists on the ground as broken sobs wracked through him. His injured body screamed in protest, but he didn’t care. All of his wounds fucking paled in comparison to this- this was agony.

“Wake up, you asshole,” he gasped, gripping the side rails of the bed, “you can’t just fucking die on me.”

The tears were flowing freely now, blurring his vision, burning hot against his skin.

“Aren’t- aren’t you supposed to be the fucking chosen one? Don’t you want to win and save everyone? You can’t win if you’re dead,” Katsuki cried.

He was dizzy. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, nothing existed except this overbearing, unwavering hurt.

“You can’t die. Don’t fucking die on me.”

Katsuki was helpless as he spiraled, choking on tears as he pleaded for Deku to just fucking wake up already, until he was finally spent.

He was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his fucking life.

His body slumped, head dropping to the mattress and arms falling limp at his side. There was nothing he could do, and he knew it.

He had never felt so powerless. All he could do was sit here and fucking wait for Deku to wake up.

But what if he never does?

“Please wake up, Deku. I need you,” Katsuki whispered hoarsely, raising a weak hand to hold Deku’s arm.

“Just don’t fucking die.”

Katsuki wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. He was drifting, falling, desperately clinging to Deku as his only anchor to reality, and then suddenly, the heart monitor picked up speed.

His mind raced with fear. Shit, shit shit shit where is the fucking doctor? He’s--

Deku stirred beside him, grimacing as his limbs budged, and Katsuki’s own heart skipped a beat.

“Deku?” he whispered.

There was no reply. Deku’s face slowly relaxed, his body unmoving, and Katsuki hung his head. His mind was playing cruel tricks on him now, not fair--

“Ka-"

Katsuki’s head snapped up once more, and without thinking, he reached up to cradle Deku’s face. He was searching for any tangible proof that this was real, that he wasn’t dreaming, he really just heard his voice--

Tired, green eyes cracked open to meet Katsuki’s, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Kacchan, is that you?” Deku croaked.

“Yeah, Deku, it's me.”

Deku’s eyes welled up with tears as he smiled, and Katsuki’s anxiety instantly melted away.

“Kacchan.”

A/N: WHOOPSIE aha I made pain :’)

#i love all might but he really needs to be clocked in the face #cmon man #these boys have me EMOTIONAL they love each other SO MUCH #usghbus #bnha #bnha 298 #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #bnha fic #bkdk #Bakudeku #Midoriya Izuku #bakugou katsuki #toshinori yagi #all might #birdie writes #my fic

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rein-ette · 3 years

Note

So I read the tags in your engbel post and honey you KNOW what I am here for

Please share all of your engbel ;A;

I thought this would be easy but it actually turned out a lot harder than I thought. I hope this delivers on both your and @mr-nauseam's expectations.

1. Many Belgian ports were part of the Hanseatic League, thus though inland Belgium came under heavy French influence, it's great port cities were in contact with English influences as well for hundreds of years before the 16th century. Hence, like Hanover, Belgium was just a girl that Arthur would meet in his travels. Since Arthur tends to be in good moods whenever he's "escaping" from his duties at home and at sea, these interactions were amiable, but not prolonged or particularly memorable (for him).

2. At this point it wasn't entirely clear that Belgium was even a nation, though she certainly wasn't human. I haven't quite decided what she was the representation of, since the low countries were so politically fractured at the time -- perhaps it wasn't obvious to her, either. I like the idea that nations carry a bit of mystery, a seed of the future in their existence.

3. Since she may well have been one of those semi-immortal nations who drift in and out of this world rapidly like a spring breeze, she felt a certain fascination with England, who was older and seemed more sure of himself, rushing around like he always had something to do. She was particularly taken by the fight in him, the way he lived so vibrantly (she was not the first or the last). For her, England and Portugal belonged to a richer, more fast-paced world than the simple, provincial lives she and her brothers led.

4. Everything began to change with the Dutch Revolt. In many ways it and the ensueing 80 years war had the same impact on Belgium's psyche that a civil war would. It was the first time her family, her status quo, her identity were torn apart with breathtaking brutality. She could not quite understand the white-hot fury of her brother with the Spanish, nor could she forgive Spain for treating her own with such violence. Though the southern provinces of Belgica Regia would ultimately remain Spanish, the long, terrible sieges on Antwerp and other cities left her reeling. Britain, despite being offered to rule the United Provinces, remained relatively uninvolved. Still, it was the first time Belgium and her people mattered politically on the international stage, and Arthur would not forget her again.

5. But England remains closer with Netherlands than with Belgium. This would later crop up as a source of doubt between them -- Belgium was somehow too French, even though she often did not want to be, and if France was England's sworn enemy, well -- how could they ever work out? She was "other", and yet she was not. This would somewhat undermine Belgium's confidence later, but this straddling of two worlds actually prompted England's first real curiosity to know her better, though he did not (in typical Arthur fashion) act on it.

6. The next turning point was the French annexation at the end of the 18th century, leading into the Napoleonic Wars. Belgium had endured centuries of conflict, back and forth tug of war, and a bid of independence against the Austrians. She was still not a true nation, but she was no longer a little girl on the docks, either. She had learned to fight, to conceal, to want things for herself. England too was no longer the wild, fierce thing that had once visited her shores. He still had that fight in him -- but the edges had turned bitter, and his eyes held more and more doubts about life than convictions in it. They were no longer young.

7. During the Napoleonic Wars, incidentally, is when Belgium first falls in love. That brilliant red coat, that trim waist and dark eyes -- he had traded his childhood intensity for a different kind: an intensity of hatred, of ambition, of objective. It thrilled her -- perhaps because she too, had tasted the pulse-quickening thrill of war, had glimpsed the glory of empire. His power was attractive in and of itself, and she wanted to be closer it.

8. Being given to her brother she does not appreciate, but by the 1830s she is free. For the next few decades they begin their carefully choreographed romance: a summer spent at his estate as a visiting lady, a trip to the continent to listen for gossip and buy clothes. Arthur, more settled, less wary, indulges in his past curiosity while trying to come to terms with the fact that while he wasn't paying attention, the girl on the docks had acquired a smile that was razor-sharp. They talk, between the carriage rides and evening parties. They talk of their memories, of their friends, of literature and war and philosophy. She keeps up with him on every topic, something he is astonished by.

9. Their relationship crumbles when she acquires an empire of her own. Historically speaking, England begins its most notable period of splendid isolation from 1885, and relations cool when London becomes a centre for resistance against Belgian rule in Congo. Personally speaking, Portugal breaks up with Arthur and he spends the next decade moping like a little bitch, mostly around Paris so he can distract himself with inane drama. Belgium too finds increasingly that she no longer wants a one-sided relationship she isnt sure was love in the first place. The power she was so drawn to in him -- she could have that for herself.

10. The First World War ends all dreams. Despite it all Belgium fights like hell, crops her hair and binds her chest and fights on the front lines. Two years in and England too is worn through with worry, exhaustion, grief. There is no space for glory or pretense anymore. For the first time, perhaps in their entire relationship, they meet each other's eyes as equals and they talk. They ask each other the difficult questions and they do not shy away from the difficult answers. It's a trust that's taken centuries to build, but when the next war comes they don't even need to ask questions anymore. From then on their relationship turns back to idle conversation and coffee dates -- whether it's coffee dates in bombed out cities or among the skyscrapers of the 21st century matters little -- but it's not playing house. Neither wants anything from the other and their curiosity has been satisfied. They simply know each other, and it's enough to be together in that knowledge.

#hws england #hws belgium #engbel #my hcs #it feels like a fic tho my god #you asked for all my engbel and that’s pretty much it #I’m fresh out of engbel

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shih-coulda-had-it · 3 years

Text

casualty report

my entry for @queenangst‘s bnha gen contest! Link to AO3, but also contained below the Keep Reading.

WC: 2,454

Summary: Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. Yet whenever Toshinori sits in one with Gran Torino, it seems that Toshinori is always clawing at his own heart. Spoilers up to C305.

The air is cold, sterile, and silent, save for the low hum of machinery and intermittent beeping of the heart monitor.

Yagi Toshinori enters Gran Torino’s assigned room in a similarly muted fashion, sliding the door open and shut with barely a click. He finds the chair where he left it; the old man hasn’t gotten any visitors besides him and the nurses. Like Midoriya, Torino teeters on the knife edge of survival, and like Midoriya’s classmates, Torino’s colleagues are swamped with work.

Toshinori has the privilege to visit them both. So he splits his time between his teacher-mentor-father and his student-successor-son and waits. They are similarly stubborn about clinging to life; Toshinori is confident they will wake.

Whether they will be happy about it…

As he sits, Gran Torino’s eyes crack open. His already labored breathing stutters, resulting in a full-body twitch that eventually culminates in a pained groan.

“Take it slow,” Toshinori advises.

“Stupid lesson from a stupid teacher,” Torino snaps. Toshinori looks away to focus on the bright yellow fabric bundled on top of a cabinet, neither laundered nor repaired. He’ll have to do it later.

The silence between them is tense. Surprisingly, it’s Torino who breaks it.

“Izuku?”

“Coma,” Toshinori says, fingers curling into fists. Before Torino can curse, Toshinori adds, “I think he’s talking to the predecessors of One for All.”

“Not something you could do,” the old man comments. He’s peering down at his injuries with a detached fascination: the maimed leg, the thick compress hiding beneath his bandages. Toshinori is uncomfortably reminded of his own injury, and of his own convalescence. He had recovered quickly, and privately, though he suspects that One for All had assisted with the process.

However lucky Torino is to have survived, Toshinori thinks the aftermath will be so much messier.

“It’s not,” he agrees.

“How can you tell?”

“A feeling,” says Toshinori. He forges on despite Gran Torino’s disbelieving eyebrows. “I think oshishou had a point, about the predecessors’ spirits living on in One for All. I’m not able to channel One for All anymore, but I think I still have some connection to the Quirk.”

“Ghosts in the machine,” says Torino dryly. He studies Toshinori. “Oh. You’re not joking.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this.”

Honestly, Toshinori had thought Torino would be ecstatic (as ecstatic as the old man ever got, as he swung between smugness, serenity, and seething fury) at the possibility of reconnecting with Shimura Nana. He had also quailed at the thought of telling Gran Torino that Toshinori’s own connection seemed to be a one-way thing.

And Toshinori doesn’t know how to tell Torino that he feels betrayed, in a way.

When he was researching the previous users of One for All, an alien-like urgency had pushed him past investigating to obsessing. As though a whisper had filtered through his head and said: what else, what more, why now?

Shinomori’s case. The hypothesis that Toshinori’s Quirkless heritage had protected him from the pitfalls of a stockpile Quirk.

The harsh intake of multiple people breathing in at once, even though Toshinori had been alone, with only stacks of heavily-redacted reports to keep him company. All of Toshinori’s devotion, and it had earned him nothing but sleepless nights and silent vigils.

Torino sighs then, heavy with resignation. And just like that, he moves on. “Shigaraki?”

“Escaped,” Toshinori reluctantly says. He doesn’t want to talk about the current situation of society and its failure to stabilize in the wake of so many terrible revelations and events. He really doesn’t want to talk about Tartarus. Except, it will be impossible to keep Torino in the dark about it forever. “Don’t have a heart attack on me, but—All for One’s back on the field.”

One heartbeat. Then two.

Something like forty years ago, Gran Torino and Toshinori had sat in a hospital room, numbed to the core by the very real confrontation and consequence of baiting All for One into the light. The superficial injuries belied the grief suffusing Toshinori’s body, and although he hadn’t recognized it at the time, the terror in Torino’s.

White-faced, Gran Torino had told Toshinori that they could not afford to stop moving.

Sleep. Wake up. Go to school. Your internship hours are going to be spent sparring with me.

For the rest of the year?

Until I’m goddamn satisfied.

It was a miracle they had survived the first week without killing each other. In retrospect, Toshinori could see the value in Torino’s decision to forgo the mourning period. Toshinori had still ended up sobbing on the ground, confessing to his father what he could not to his mother.

And of course, without dwelling on Toshinori’s admission, Gran Torino moved on to the next point of business.

“Cockroach,” Torino says through gritted teeth. The heart monitor stays impressively calm. “Third time’s the charm, then?”

“Torino-sensei, the third time was Kamino Ward. It’s safe to say the odds are against us.”

Toshinori’s bleak assessment earns him a narrowed glare, and it’s a sign of how exhausted and bitter Toshinori feels that he is unfazed. He can afford to be scared of Torino when Torino is walking of his own volition, cursing up a storm about the fact that he can no longer eat a whole box of microwaved taiyaki.

“Casualties?”

“Multiple civilians,” says Toshinori. “Multiple pro-heroes. None of the students, thank goodness.”

Torino stares at him. “There were no students at the hospital.”

“Many were… encouraged to participate in the mansion raid.” It still leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Terrible, yes, to see Eraserhead bandaged up yet again due to Toshinori’s failures, but it was even worse to see his students file back into U.A.’s dorms, eyes shadowed with something more than grief. Midnight’s death haunts them still.

The old man breathes.

“What else?”

“A loss of trust,” Toshinori says, leaning his elbows on his knees, fingers pressed together like a prayer. “Civilians want to protect themselves, and the remaining pro-heroes of Japan are stretched thin. Some died, and many are retiring.” He offers Torino a mirthless smile. “Yoroi Musha is out.”

“Twenty years too late,” Torino responds.

“You never liked him.”

“Gimmicky cowards with a chip on their shoulder shouldn’t be in this line of work.”

Well. Either Toshinori takes that as a personal insult, an unintentional dig, or Gran Torino’s acerbic sense of humor. He goes quiet anyway. Now is a good time as any for a lull in conversation to occur, but Toshinori doesn’t get long to contemplate his next move.

“What’s eating you up,” Torino demands flatly.

“Nothing.”

“Pull my other leg.”

“It’s nothing,” Toshinori stresses. “And if there was something, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

“Toshinori. When you bottle up your specific brand of guilt, it has a tendency to backfire on you spectacularly,” says Torino. “I’m not walking away for a long time, so get it off your chest right now while I’m wired to half a dozen machines.”

Toshinori interlocks his fingers.

“Toshinori.”

“The Public Safety Commission has been disbanded,” he tries. “Their headquarters were attacked the same time the raids occurred.”

“Unsurprising,” says Torino.

“I don’t think anyone could have anticipated a direct attack, Torino-sensei.”

“I’m not talking about the Commission. I’m talking about you. Deflecting.”

Hospitals are supposed to be places of healing. Yet whenever Toshinori sits in one with Gran Torino, it seems that Toshinori is always clawing at his own heart.

“Do I disappoint you?” Toshinori asks, resigned to hearing an answer he already knows, staring hard at his hands. He’s pushing the wrong side of his fifties, less grizzled and more gaunt, more of a beanpole and less of a pillar. It’s impossible to remember all the things he did right when all Toshinori can see is where he went wrong.

And even though Gran Torino looks so fragile, tiny and bedridden, bandaged and hooked up to more machines than Toshinori can count on one hand—he still has the strength to look ahead.

Toshinori didn’t learn that. He had thought he did, those six years ago when he survived the fight with All for One, because in spite of the grievous injury, All Might had forged on.

“You can be honest,” Toshinori says. “Just like in U.A.”

“We’re a long way from that time,” says Gran Torino. His expectant and unimpressed expression hasn’t changed.

“It was a yes or no question, Torino-sensei.”

“No, then.”

He says it so simply. Toshinori blinks. Torino tips his head to the side, watching with half-lidded eyes how Toshinori processes his answer. Except Toshinori cannot fathom when this change of perception happened, because just as recently as Kamino Ward, Toshinori had still been reduced to sitting on his ass, listening to Gran Torino’s instructions.

“You’ve done more than anyone should have asked of you,” Torino says. “And you did it well.”

“I overlooked so many problems,” Toshinori protests. “So many people didn’t feel safe.”

“Brat,” says Gran Torino fondly.

“Torino-sensei.”

“There’s something more than that. You’ve been dealing with that insecurity for decades, and you know as well as I do that even a Symbol of Peace can’t catch everything. What’s going on?” Torino is ruthless when he wants to make a point; Toshinori circles back to his original impulsive question and thinks—

“Midoriya-shonen,” says Toshinori in a soft voice. “He’s talking to the predecessors.”

“So you said.”

“And I couldn’t. I can’t, even now, even though I’m connected to One for All still.” From there, the words come spilling out. “Oshishou told me from the beginning that One for All had some kind of spiritual essence. She might not have said outright about the voices, but she hinted at it. That we could meet again, somehow. And all those years… forty years, Torino-sensei, and—and nothing. Not a word, not a vision.”

Midoriya’s crybaby genes must have bounced over the connection, because horrifically, Toshinori can feel his face contort and his eyes water. He hasn’t cried in front of Gran Torino in decades.

“Like I wasn’t worthy,” Toshinori concludes, choking on the last word.

Here is what Toshinori learned on his own, independent of Gran Torino’s teachings: don’t cry. Smile through the fear and the pain, and don’t cry.

Conveniently, Toshinori has forgotten that all those decades ago, Gran Torino never censured him for his tears. So it is now, that Toshinori feels the unfamiliar prickle and the cooling trails sliding down his face, and Gran Torino says nothing.

Until he does.

“You’re everything Shimura stopped hoping for. Did you know that?” Toshinori jerks his head up from its bowed position; he can hear oshishou saying in her wry tone, typical Torino. Can’t make eye contact when communicating an emotion. “I saw her through almost every big milestone in her life. Her pro-hero license, her marriage, her pregnancy. The loss of her husband, and then her son.”

“You didn’t try and stop her.”

“She knew best.” Torino’s grin is painful. “I believed that then, and I believe it now. Kotarou survived longer than he would’ve if he stayed in her custody, which was ultimately her goal. So Shimura was right on that, never mind what Kotarou did with his life after. And you… I told you already.”

“You know me,” Toshinori jokes. He recalls his rusty impression of Torino’s lecturing tone, perfected during those golden hours of patrol with oshishou. “‘It takes twice as long for me to tell you something, versus me beating the lesson into you once.’”

“Then listen,” says Torino. “When Shimura met you, she was still hurting from giving up Kotarou. She couldn’t stop being a hero, but she didn’t want to stop being a mother. And every day, the news cycle spoke of a crime wave, fueled by something bigger than the injustices of the world.

“I was enough to keep her from drowning in work. It wasn’t until she met you that she started smiling again. That she had a son again.”

Toshinori scrubs his eyes. “Really could’ve used this talk forty years ago,” he manages.

“I wasn’t this emotionally intelligent forty years ago.”

“If Hound Dog ever managed to sit us down for therapy, he’d diagnose us both as emotionally-stunted,” he tells Torino. “You probably perpetuated a family cycle, Torino-sensei.”

“One of us cries, and it isn’t me,” Torino shoots back waspishly.

“It’s Midoriya-shonen,” Toshinori agrees.

Torino’s laugh comes out as a wheeze, and Toshinori winces in sympathy. The exhaustion that comes out of crying begins to settle in; he hasn’t allowed himself to cry for a while. Not in front of the students, and not in front of his colleagues. Gran Torino is situated in that blurred zone of family and teacher and co-worker.

Gran Torino is tiring as well. The conversation’s taken a lot out of him, and it surely doesn’t help that he was treated to a hint of Toshinori’s resurfacing insecurities.

“You asked if you disappointed me,” the old man says quietly, hoarsely. “Didn’t I disappoint you?”

His throat sticks.

Torino smiles, wry. “I know,” he says.

“Torino-sensei,” Toshinori attempts, horrified at his slip. He should fix this. He has to make sure Gran Torino knows that the past is past, and that his efforts haven’t been wasted on an ungrateful child. As Toshinori opens his mouth to reassure Torino, an urgent flicker of something calls out to him.

His head jerks to the door. Outside, down the hallway, in another room—

“He’s waking?”

Toshinori looks back to Torino, distractedly saying, “Yes,” before he freezes. Gran Torino has propped himself up halfway, teeth gritted with the effort it takes. He has reached out and clumsily pressed his hand against Toshinori’s forehead, fingers dipping into his hair.

It feels like a benediction.

“I am,” Torino forces out, “so proud of you. I could not be prouder. You were worth it, do you hear me, Toshinori? You are, still.”

The moment doesn’t last forever. Whatever burst of adrenaline fuels Torino, it dwindles with emotional vulnerability. He pats the top of Toshinori’s head and slumps back into his pillow, looking gray with exhaustion.

For his part, Toshinori stares, wide-eyed, like he’s fourteen years old again, meeting Gran Torino for the first time.

“Go,” says Torino. “Izuku shouldn’t wake up alone. He should have his family with him.”

There is a weak grin pulling at Torino’s mouth, familiar in its toothiness. Toshinori gets to his feet. He’s unable to return the smile, because he is suddenly terrified that if he leaves this room, Torino will somehow find a way to escape the hospital, hole up in his apartment, and—and—

“He’ll need you too,” says Toshinori. “Get better soon, tou—Torino-sensei.”

Gran Torino closes his eyes, and Yagi Toshinori moves on.

#queenangst gen contest #bnha #torino sorahiko #gran torino #yagi toshinori #all might #shih.txt #/DIVES THROUGH THE FINISH LINE/ TOUCHDOWN #found family feels #except the found family won't/can't acknowledge it #this is a long overdue conversation i hope we get in canon

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herstarburststories · 3 years

Text

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination - supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that? Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

#dean winchester #dean's birthday #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester's birthday #dean winchester x you #supernatural #spn #dean winchester imagine #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester imagines

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obaewankenobis · 3 years

Text

for forever — obi-wan kenobi

pairing(s) : obi-wan kenobi x reader ( mostly focused on obi-wan’s character, not the relationship because i am a hoe for this man )

summary : after the fall of the jedi order, you can finally be together. alternatively, obi-wan needs therapy/deserves happiness.

word count : 2.1k

warning(s) : character death, a bit of angst i guess but it’s mostly fluff.

notes : roughly edited so i apologize if things don’t make sense, i honestly came up with this on a whim and have No Idea what was going through my head when i wrote this. the povs also switch a lot but enjoy </3.

The sand bit at his fair skin, the grainy winds of Tatooine ruffled through his auburn locks, peppered with strands of grey, as Obi-Wan Kenobi stood, rigid and grief stricken. Kind wrinkles framed his eyes, eyes weighed down by exhaustion and desolation, the memory of a thousand wars flickering in the brilliant blue reflection. Without speaking, the woman looking at him from afar knew he had suffered a lifetime of hardship and grief, his aching heart not given a moment to mourn the loss of those closest to him. The mahogany cloak billowed around his body, covering the burnt, tattered tan robes he wore, as the wind picked up, signaling there would be little time before the twin suns set and it was much too dangerous to be outside. Snuggled between the lone man’s arms, swathed in soft cream blankets to shelter him from the cruel and unforgiving weather, was a baby. With sea blue eyes and the sparse tufts of pale blonde hair, the newborn was the mirror image of his father — that in itself was bittersweet.

Fire. That was all Obi-Wan could remember, the smoldering lava confining him and his enemy — once his friend, his brother — inside a tight circle of flashing blue and blazing rage. Now, things were blissfully quiet, as if the universe was trying to give him peace of mind after what it had taken from him. With heavy shoulders and hollow eyes, Obi-Wan was a shell of who he used to be: a great warrior and an excellent negotiator, all gone. His last mission was here, on Tatooine, to deliver the baby to his aunt and uncle: Owen and Beru Lars. Then, he would spend the rest of his years wasting away in a sandy prison, languishing in his defeat.

“Is it true?” The woman from afar, who had taken to staring at him from a distance, finally approached him, awaiting his answer with bated breath — Beru. Is it true? The words reverberated in his head, as the reality came crashing down upon him. The woman in front of him needed certainty, she needed answers, answers Obi-Wan could not give her.

“Yes,” came the final reply. Who knew a single word could hold such heavy meaning? Yes. An entire government who’s history spanned hundreds of years prior collapsed within a single day? Yes, that had happened. His religion, who he had devoted his entire life to and poured his soul into, gone? Yes, decimated without a sliver of mercy. The baby’s father, the hero of the galaxy, the crown jewel of the Jedi Order, killed? Yes, murdered in cold blood.

Beru finally brought her attention to the boy nestled within the robes of the man. “Is he . . . ” She seemed to only speak in half questions, as if finishing the sentence would make it a harsh reality, and leaving the query to hang heavy in the air would somehow leave her life in a fairytale.

“Yes,” he replied again, nearly choking on his words as the boy let out a tiny coo, as if he sensed they were discussing him.

“Oh.” There was a pause, a flicker of hesitation, before the woman decided to continue her pattern of half inquiries to form her own story. “May I?” With shaking arms, Beruu reached forward to take the boy from Obi-Wan’s grasp and welcome the baby into her own warm embrace. Part of him didn’t want to let the child go, for once he did he would have no real connection to his past life. Letting go of the boy meant letting go of everything, from his first steps in the Temple, to his meeting with his apprentice on Naboo, to the countless, sleepless nights in a war torn galaxy, it would all be gone. The woman’s tender smile and patient gaze was nearly patronizing, she was trying to sympathize with something she couldn’t possibly understand. No one could. A wave of fury washed over him, trapping him in a cage of his own emotions. Obi-Wan had never felt such an intensity roll over his body, preferring to keep his temperament a tranquil, emotionless pit. But this raw, uncontrollable fury was soon washed out with an even more overpowering bout of sorrow, shaking him with such force it made his knees wobble and threaten to give way. For over thirty years he was taught emotions were the enemy, by being detached and aloof he would survive, and look where that had gotten him.

Another soft cry from the baby jerked Obi-Wan back into the present moment, as his tiny arms reached for the woman, drawn to her sunny kindness and comforting aura; he realized a place to call home or a comforting shoulder to cry on was never something he could offer as the baby grew older. The woman made a small clicking sound with her tongue, looking up at Obi-Wan with an expectant gaze, and yet his grip on the baby remained the same. Although his mind seemed desperate to listen to logic, to reason, his body remained motionless, following the dull ache and painful longing in his heart. The battle between his mind and emotions lasted a fraction of a second, and at last, as it had time and time again, his mind won.

Like he had done all his life, selflessly sacrificing himself for thee good of the galaxy, he let go.

The woman took the baby in her arms, and began her journey back to her homestead, pausing just slightly to exchange one last parting smile and a word of comfort. “I think someone wants to see you, Master Kenobi.” With that, Beru began walking, a happy baby in her arms, to her husband, just as the sky merged from clear blue to salmon pink and hazy orange, the twin suns beginning to disappear over the horizon rapidly. As the light dimmed and dusk settled in, the man could make out the shadowy figures of Beru and Owen Lars, holding Luke Skywalker in unmoving content.

Here to see me? Obi-Wan frowned, reflecting on the woman’s words. This was not his home, his very identity was supposed to remain a secret, who could possibly want to see him? Unless . . .

No, that was impossible. He had mourned your death just as he had mourned every other Jedi’s death the moment their own clones turned against them, and he would not allow even a tiny sliver of hope to crawl its way back into his heart. Because in the end, he could only cling to the belief that things would get better, and false hope in such a desperate time would be his undoing.

—

You wondered how long you could stand in the shadows before he noticed you, standing awkwardly by his dewback as he delivered Padmé and Anakin's son to his new family. Like Obi-Wan, you had suffered the loss of everything and everyone you knew, your entire life destroyed in the span of a second, and all you could do was stand there, watching everything burn. The Jedi robes you once wore with pride, robes that were once a symbol of humility and hope across the galaxy, now put a priceless bounty on the head of anyone who wore them.

“Obi-Wan?” The name was dry in your throat, mouth parched and lips cracked due to the harsh Tatooine heat.

Though he was always subtle, you could see his entire demeanor change, the way his shoulders became straighter, the way his hands, once balled up into fists of worry, were now relaxed and laying loosely at his side. In a moment, he had turned around and closed the distance between the two of you, caramel boots growing dull and scuffed as he stepped through the unforgiving desert surface beneath him. “You’re alive,” his voice came out in a hushed, cautious tone, disbelief still tainting the edges. “I thought — Yoda and I — the only ones left — ” his words grew more jumbled with each passing phrase that left his lips.

“But I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” you cut him off, the calm gentleness of your tone making him stop in his tracks. Slowly, each movement pained and deliberate, you stepped closer, inching your way forward until he was right in front of you. Neither of you could look away; with the Jedi Order dead, there was no reason to hide in secrecy now.

—

To realize he was not alone was comforting, but to know it was you he could seek company in was freeing. In that moment, with the distance so close between your bodies, Obi-Wan dared not breathe, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out the smallest of breaths — this was all he had ever wanted, and still, despite everything, it was something he believed he could never have.

He wouldn’t allow himself to believe it. Not after he spent all those years repressing the desire that burned so deeply within him it began to rot within his heart, trapped with no release in sight. At one point, he had every reason to deny the yearning stirring within him, but now? Now there was no war, no Council, no code, no nothing to stop himself from unleashing decades of pent up turmoil within him.

And stars, it was suffocating.

He couldn’t do this.

“You know you don’t have to push me away any more.” A suggestion more than a factual statement; voice thick and barely audible.

Was this a dream, a fantasy meant to be chased after in his sleep? Or some sick, twisted premonition the Force was trying to convey to him? So many nights he had spent languishing in his loneliness, dazed in a delusion that remained but a figment of his imagination.

“I know.”

“What?”

“The Jedi are no more. We . . . We don’t have to pretend we don’t have — ” The words were bittersweet on his tongue; even with no one there to watch and scold him, he could not betray his way of life so easily. That everyone I have ever loved, I have watched die in my arms? And throughout all of that, I have never been tempted by the dark side, but if I lost you, I would be afraid of my own morality? Those were not easy thoughts to formulate into a coherent sentence — there were no words Obi-Wan could say that would even begin to describe how he felt.

Instead, in a tender gesture of vulnerability, he reached out through the Force, and all at once it came crashing down on him.

This feeling . . . it was all consuming, and he was drowning, struggling to keep his head above water and not surrender to its frosty depths. He was submerged in an endless stretch of icy ocean water so frigid and numbing, that he felt nothing and everything all at once. It was terrifying to think — and let you know — you held so much power over him, but in the same instance, he felt at peace, like a weight he had dragged around for decades was finally lifted off his shoulders. I love you, rang as bright as the city lights on Coruscant and as clear as a Nabooian waterfall. I love you.

“I love you, too.” He heard your voice in a soft whisper, swelled up with emotion as you took in everything. Chills erupted down his spine; he couldn't quite tell if it was from the inky blanket being tugged across the sky as dusk descended into nightfall, or if it was the four word phrase that left your lips.

—

“I cannot live without you,” Obi-Wan let out a shaky exhale, breath fanning across your face just slightly, your foreheads making contact in the lightest movements. You felt dizzy, in a dreamlike trance, for you had never been this close to him. You could see every horror he had survived in his glassy blue eyes, notice every perfect imperfection that blemished his skin and made him all the more real. In a moment, his face had become blurred as he closed the distance and finally, finally, his lips were on yours, and you connected in a long awaited, eternally sought after kiss. You could feel his hands, calloused but gentle, cupping your face, as your own fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, the kiss grew more fervent and needy, every rule you had ever lived by crumbling as you melted deeper into his touch.

After a long moment, you broke away, breathless, your face still tantalizingly close to his.

“I will never leave you, Obi-Wan,” your lips parted in a determined vow, a promise you would keep to your dying breath. The Jedi were dead, and yet you never felt more alive.

#obi-wan x reader #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi #star wars #angst #probably should edit this #obi-wan needs a hug #and some therapy too #post order 66 #revenge of the sith #prequel trilogy #star wars prequels #one shot

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lillotte17 · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow

Got hooked watching Word of Honor and Zhou Zishu's Sad Face Journeys in episodes 33-34 came for my life, so I wrote a little scene set after the whole Heroes Conference Thing. ...And then Wen KeXing showed up and just...*gestures vaguely* I don't know what happened here. XD

Zhou Zishu sits quietly beside the bed, watching Wen KeXing's sleeping face with an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with his failing body, and everything to do with the fact that he is about to die.

When his shidi had made a miraculous reappearance at the Heroes Conference, his first reaction was gut-wrenching surprise. It felt as though the ground had suddenly dissolved beneath his feet. His heart leaping so high in his throat that he forgot how to breathe. Dizzy with the overwhelming rush of joy and confusion. Uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

But once the shock had subsided, the anger had been hot on its heels. And he wanted to be mad about it. Wanted to take Wen KeXing by the shoulders and shake him so hard that his teeth rattled around in his skull. Wanted to scream and sob and rail against the now inevitably fast-burning candle of his fate. At the unfairness of losing his life just as he had found something worth living for again. Someoneworth living for. For a few moments, the fury had burned so brightly in him he thought it might be enough to kill him then and there. That the fire between his lungs would simply burst his chest open and engulf everything around them in a sea of red.

But when they had caught each other’s gaze, he had seen the apology roiling in Wen KeXing’s dark eyes, raw and miserable, even without a word being said. The apology, and the fear. That same fear Zishu had seen flicker across his face every time he had tried to coax him into confessing that he was from Ghost Valley. The same fear he had seen in him the night Wen KeXing had snuck out of the Four Seasons Manor to intercept Ye BaiYi and tried to prevent him from reveling his identity. And yet again, when Han Ying had died, and he had nearly killed himself in a blind panic trying to fix it somehow. The fear whispered that death was preferable to his hatred. That his blade would be kinder than his revulsion. That Wen KeXing would sacrifice anything to avoid being abandoned once again.

Zhou Zishu was helpless in the face of it; as he always seems to be. The look that passed between them had been fast and fleeting, there and gone again with barely a blink, but it was enough to douse the flames of his anger with a tide of chilling and fathomless grief. The rest of the Heroes Conference passed before him in a daze. Vengeance, and justice, and pride. Wen KeXing blazing in the brightest and truest version of himself for all to see. Dazzling and mesmerizing and impossible to look away from. He does not know if he has ever loved him more, even as he felt his heart slowly sinking down into the pit of his stomach. The numbness of acceptance settling into his bones.

There will be no escape from death, this time.

He had been quiet on the way back to Jing BeiYuan’s Manor. Quiet enough to worry both Wen KeXing and ChengLing, who always seems to see more than he understands. He had listened to their reasons and excuses, and he had done his best to reassure them afterwards, but his own words sound hollow in his ears. The best he could do was to get Lao Wen hopelessly drunk, and pray that it made him less intuitive. The suffusion of elation and hope in the air had nearly been enough to choke him, though. He did not want to rob them of it, but he found he could take part in it either, no matter how much he wanted to. He could not bring himself to celebrate a future he can no longer share with them.

Zhou Zishu understands Wen KeXing. He understands that he is just as abysmal at properly conveying affection as he is himself, if not more so. The man only knows how to protect people he cares for by either sending them away from him or drowning them both in blood. It is how he had managed to survive all those years surrounded by madness and chaos and death. Zishu had done much the same, while he was working in the capital. Hiding all of their softer places far away from where the light could reach them. Playful banter has always passed easily between them, but tenderness is heavier, and vulnerabilities almost impossible to speak aloud. They are both trying to do better, struggling to pull their own humanity back into their hands where it can be shared freely, but Wen KeXing’s hurts are older and deeper. His path back to the world of the living inevitably more winding and complex. He still has not mastered the art of articulating his fears and concerns.

Zhou Zishu’s health was tenuous even before he had been kidnapped and tortured. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been in no fit state to fight an angry mob. Wen KeXing hid the truth from him because he knew that he would chafe at being told to stay out of harm’s way; that they would have argued about it until he was either allowed to participate in the scheme or he was spitting blood and passing out on the floor. Zishu cannot even say that this assessment of his character was a bad one, but it still stung to be kept in the dark, and the hurt was lingering. And yet, however deep the barb of this secret may have landed, however misplaced the caution may or may not have been, he knows without a shred of doubt that Wen KeXing’s deception was born of love, and he can hardly hold that against him.

Especially not now.

Wen KeXing turns his head slightly, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like an extremely slurred version of his name. His expression is smooth and peaceful, his hair a dark fan across the bed behind him. The rosy glow of happiness and alcohol still pinking the apples of his cheeks.

Zishu smiles despite himself. It is much easier to find traces of the little boy his master had planned to take for his second disciple when he looks like this; safe and sleeping and completely at ease for the first time in who knows how long. He wishes he could recall those few precious days they had spent together as children with more clarity, but the memory of it is like a silk brocade left to sit too long in the sunshine, its delicate patterns fading as the colors wash away in a flood of light. Zhou Zishu had been too young to fully comprehend the weight of death when his master had returned from his trip to collect the Wen family without his shidi or his parents in tow. That his master had been sad about it was enough to impact him, but in the grand scheme of things, the wounds to his own heart had been minimal.

What would have happened if they had kept looking for Zhen Yan, he wonders. If he and Wen KeXing had grown up together as best friends and martial brothers and soulmates? Would their master have found a way to soothe Zhen Yan’s rage before it consumed him? Would Zhou Zishu have made the same mistakes with the Window of Heaven if Wen KeXing had been at his side? Perhaps they could have saved each other before things had reached the place they were now. Or perhaps Wen KeXing would have died under Zhou Zishu’s leadership with the rest of their sect, and his failures would have tasted that much more bitter.

He sighs quietly. There is no sense dwelling on things he cannot change. He had been a child, and just as powerless to save Wen KeXing from his fate as the boy himself had been. Feeling guilty about it was meaningless at this point. It was enough to have him here and now. Enough that they had had any time together at all. Enough that Wen KeXing had fallen off of that cliff and somehow still managed to walk back to him.

It has to be enough, because it is all they have. All they can have. Even if he wants more.

“Ah Xu?”

The voice is thick with sleep, but marginally less inebriated than before.

“Mn,” Zhou Zishu hums in acknowledgement, his gaze shifting slightly to watch Wen KeXing blink himself back into wakefulness.

“You didn’t go to bed?” he asks, bleary and swaying slightly as he attempts to sit up.

“There is someone in my bed.” Zishu points out archly.

Wen KeXing looks murderous for a few seconds until he realizes that the person in question is, in fact, himself. When the clouds break, his expression immediately shifts to one of insufferable satisfaction. He leans precariously off the side of the bed, robes and hair both hopelessly askew.

“I am always willing to share everything I have with Ah Xu,” he declares with feigned sweetness.

“How kind of Philanthropist Wen to make a present of what he stole from me,” Zhou Zishu snorts, “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“Ah Xu!” Wen KeXing objects. “How is it stealing when you gave it to me freely? You think I would come to your bedroom with the intention of sleeping?”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything about your intentions.” The reply is given with a smirk, but his eyes dart away from him. “You asked me to drink with you, but the jar you brought was empty. Besides, I am thinking about giving it up. I have been told that it is bad for my health.”

“Aiya, first Ah Xu accuses me of being a thief, and now he tells me such scandalous falsehoods!” Wen KeXing shakes his head, attempting to seem wounded despite the grin on his face. “I already accepted your punishment earlier, there is no reason to be cruel.”

“Who is a liar here?” Zhou Zishu inquires laughingly, gesturing back and forth between them. “Which one of us is the most scandalous?”

“It’s me, it’s me,” Wen KeXing acknowledges, his head bobbing up and down in agreement, “But Ah Xu, you cannot expect me to ever believe that you would willingly give up drinking good wine with me? And as for not understanding my intentions, well…I believe that even less.”

“Was your intention to make sure I could not get any sleep?”

Wen KeXing only smiles at him widely.

“…I regret asking such a question,” Zhou Zishu chuckles, reaching out to lightly slap the side of Wen KeXing’s face in both fondness and chastisement. “Ask a shameless man a question and you are sure to get a shameless reply.”

Wen KeXing grabs hold of his hand before he can pull it away, leaning into it with a sigh.

“What is so shameless about it at this point?” he wonders, something soft and shining igniting within his gaze. “Living together. Dying together. Watching as our hair turns gray with old age. We’ve already promised to share these things, haven’t we? Why give me your bed when we could share that, too?”

Zhou Zishu takes a long look at him. At the dark hair spilling across his shoulder in disarray. The front of his robes just rumpled enough to expose the elegant line of his throat as well as part of his collar bones. The flush of his cheeks and the promise burning in his eyes.

He cannot deny that he wants it. Even knowing it might make things more painful later on. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be greedy while he still can. While he can still hear Lao Wen calling for him and feel his skin beneath his hands. His sense of taste and smell have gone already, but can still see him, and that could be enough. More than enough.

But will it be enough for Wen KeXing?

This is the last thing they have to give each other. The last pieces of themselves they have been holding back. Mostly because there simply had not been time for it amidst the chaos swirling around them. It always seemed as though either their lives were in danger or one of them was injured. Up until now, even Zishu had been optimistic enough to assume they would have time for it later, though. Time to use physical intimacy as an almost second meeting. To learn how they need each other in the quiet and the dark. To learn the ways they can be gentle, and the ways they can be fierce. To burn each other up in desperation and desire.

It seems too heartless to have it be a farewell instead.

Zhou Zishu lets out a long breath.

“…Not when you are drunk,” he says quietly.

Wen KeXing blinks at him in astonishment, eyes blown wide and round as saucers, clearly expecting a flat-out rejection.

A moment later, the blankets have been hastily flung aside, and he is staggering off of the bed has fast as he can. Which, as it turns out, is not very fast at all. Zhou Zishu easily catches him with one arm, lightly pushing him back into a seated position.

“Lao Wen, where do you think you are going?” he laughs.

“I need to sober up,” Wen KeXing explains, looking so serious about it that Zhou Zishu cannot help but reach out and pinch his cheek. Lao Wen slaps his hand away, his expression mulish.

“Don’t pout,” Zishu scolds, still chuckling, “It is too late to be staggering around someone else’s house. With my luck, you would drown yourself in the fish pond, and then BeiYuan and Wu Xi would be terribly put out.”

“But Ah Xu, if you won’t let me leave, and you won’t share the bed, just what do you want me to do?” Lao Wen complains. “Even if you don’t want to have sex, you should at least lay down and rest properly. I want you to get well as soon as possible.”

Zhou Zishu’s mouth stiffens slightly.

“I know.”

Wen KeXing’s brow furrows in concern. He reaches out a hand, long fingers hovering just above his heart, when Zhou Zishu catches them tightly in his own. He is not certain if Lao Wen could glean the truth about his condition from his pulse while still tipsy, but he is not about to run that risk tonight.

“Are the nails bothering you again?” Wen KeXing asks, doleful this time.

“No.”

It is not a lie.

“Then come to bed,” Lao Wen cajoles, using their joined hands to tug him closer, “I promise not to molest you unless you ask me to.”

Zhou Zishu makes a sound of grumbling disbelief, but still allows himself to be pulled down next to Wen KeXing. The bed is big enough for two, but only just. Lao Wen retrieves the formerly discarded blankets from whatever corner he had toss them and bundles them up together like two caterpillars in a single cocoon. His face is close beside him on the pillow, warm breath fanning the side of his neck. An arm drapes loosely about Zishu’s waist, and he turns his head slightly, intending to shoot a warning glare in the other man’s direction.

This is a mistake.

Wen KeXing’s eyes are dark and intense in the moonlight, half closed with either sleep or desire, it is hard to say. His lips part slightly as Zhou Zishu turns to him, and the hand draped around his waist clutches faintly at his robes as if on instinct. Both of them seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

“…Ah Xu, you can kiss me, if you like,” Lao Wen whispers finally, so soft it almost seems like a dream.

“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” he means it to sound teasing, but it comes out in almost a sigh.

“Because I want to kiss you,” Lao Wen replies matter-of-factly.

“I never thought of you as a pillar of self-restraint,” Zhou Zishu huffs.

“I promised to be a gentleman.”

Zishu closes his eyes and lets out a deep, soul-rattling sigh. He is almost glad he cannot smell the oils Wen KeXing uses in his hair or the trace of alcohol on his lips. The proximity is staggering enough all on its own.

“…It would not stop with a kiss,” he admits aloud to both of them.

He does not open his eyes again, but he can feel Wen KeXing’s body tremble slightly as he laughs, and that is almost as bad.

“Ah Xu, I would hardly complain,” he replies, testing his luck by shifting close enough so that their foreheads are lightly touching. “But you want to rest, and I want you rested, so it is no great loss, either way. You will still be here with me tomorrow, after all. There is no need to rush these things. Sometimes, a slow spring is sweeter.”

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu manages to reply around the lump lodged in his throat, “I will still be here tomorrow.”

#Word of Honor #Wenzhou #wen kexing #zhou zishu #fic #this was supposed to be all angsty #but they are SO EFFING FUNNY #it's so fun writing their banter #askdjghasdfgk #i am sorry #i have no idea what emotions this actually conveys at this point #i just work here

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yoondoze · 4 years

Text

coin toss | jjk

you and jeongguk go way back, even before you were the menacing duo many knew you to be, even before he brought you into the mafia and left you there to join the city’s detective agency. a call for cooperation comes out of a common enemy, requiring the two of you to reconcile for one last mission.

pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

word count: 25.4k

genre: soft and hard angst, mafia/detective agency au, complicated exes (?)

warnings: language, violence, blood, character death, sexual implications, little bit of gore, jimin has a weird hatred of yoongi idk don’t take it seriously, mentions of torture, grief, too many italics

a/n: long time no see everyone, hope you’re doing well! this story was inspired by my favorite anime, bungou stray dogs (it’s got a soukoku type beat & you’ll recognize some structures). it’s my first back in a while, and it’s also the longest piece i’ve written, so i hope you all enjoy it! <3

To be called to the Boss’s office for a quick word is almost always a sealed exit ticket from this world. One, because regular meetings of necessity are always held in the boardroom and discussed amongst the executives. Two, one on one meetings mean no witnesses. You’ve been there once before and barely made it out alive. To make it out a second time? The chances are practically nonexistent.

The room feels less like an office and more like an 18th-century study, a dark academia dream with the coffee-toned furniture and ceiling-high shelves stacked with books. The only sign of modernity is the pristine silver laptop sitting perfectly on his desk. The guards to the side of the room look straight ahead, no indication of how this will end for you.

“My dear, good to see you,” The Boss purrs, eyelids falling into tender crescents as you place yourself gently on the cushion of his ornate bergère. Typically there are two of a kind that sit across from his dark oak bureau, but at this moment one has been removed from the space so yours could be positioned parallel to his own chair.

The Boss has an intimidating air about him. From the gentle yet feline-like movements that look like they mask something sinister, to his signature verbosity that’s almost professorial, he’s the perfect paradigm of a godfather.

“And you, Boss. It’s been a while.” You maintain a cool tone, not breaking his eye contact. He was a dog that could smell fear and would drag it out of you if he thought it could sate his twisted desire for control.

He sighs as his cheshire smile fades. “I don’t like beating around the bush, as I’m sure you know. You... must have heard the rumors of a third party organization stepping foot in this city, yes?”

The whispers started only days ago, and the most you heard was only an assumption from another underling at the bar. Considering how much people loved to gossip and how boring it got around here, you were just going to brush it off. However, if it was enough to bring you here, it had to be something worth your attention.

“Yes, it’s been floating around.” You clear your throat. “Is it something to be worried about?”

He puts his elbows on the table and clasps his hands together, sucking a breath through his teeth. “This has happened before, when a new group tries to disrupt our hold on the functioning of our territory, and we have always squashed them from the picture quietly. But unfortunately, those who call themselves the Syndicate play dirty.”

It seems as if things were not heading in the track you imagined when being escorted on the long walk here. But then he orders the guards at the sides of the room out, and your heart jumps to your throat.

As the large doors close behind them, he resumes talking.

“Last week, twenty-two of our men were killed and one taken during a weapons exchange with a western group...who we thought were a western group. All they left behind was a handful of playing cards.” His wrist flicks up suddenly, a black card tucked between his two fingers. The shine on the back glints under the dim lamplight. He stares in disdain.

The nervous habit of jumbling your fingers started up in your lap, asking, “Who was it?”

“Underlings of the Syndicate,” he brushes past, holding up a single finger before continuing, “The key is that the missing one was a trusted man in our central intelligence unit. He was carrying knowledge of our expansion plans within the next year. When backup came, he was gone. Intelligence then reported that the Syndicate was also responsible for the crisis of our allies in the Midwest, Fox Lodge, two years ago. And a year before, the Federacy in Europe. They crumbled in a matter of weeks.”

The man sweeps his dark hair from his forehead, an undetectable motive flaring in his eyes, the one person you could never read.

“Simply,” he shrugs, “this fish is too big to fry on our own.”

You couldn’t help but swallow. “And that means…?”

“I’ve spoken to the director of the Detective Agency. A temporary ceasefire has been agreed upon... Similar interests, a common enemy, you see.”

Existed an extensive list of things that did not have the capacity to surprise you anymore in this life. But a ceasefire? That was impossible; The Detective Agency and the Mafia had always been at odds like a fated grudge of the gods above. The fighting had been continuous for all your time spent in the organization.

“I know,” he nods, “It is a miraculous thought. But they have the resources and we have the manpower. While it would be great to let Syndicate take them out for us, we would ultimately be next on their list. Cooperation is our best bet.”

And the thought of what this conversation may be coming to strikes you like lightning on waiting sand. “I thought you didn’t approve of betting, Boss.”

“Hmm… I see you’ve caught on,” he says pensively, a smile rising on his face as fast as it disappears. “This gamble is one I have much faith in. It used to be our ace in the hole, you remember?”

Weakly, you mumble, “I do.”

“You must realize that our situation is grave. I would not suggest it if there was another way. In the kindest manner I can put it, dear, your willing partnership is required.”

And there’s the kicker, the whole reason why. A sick feeling seethes in the pit of your stomach, makes you want to gag or throw up or pass out. You have a choice, of course, but not a real choice. To clarify, it was agree, or be squashed out quietly, as Boss liked to say. On the off chance you would choose death over discomfort, he had to call you to his office for safe measure.

“I understand, Boss,” is all you could manage.

“I’m glad,” he smiles. “Though we have all turned a bit sour since Jeon’s departure, I’m sure you are capable of uniting for the sake of our city. I wouldn’t mind if you killed him after the mission is complete, either, but I will leave that up to your judgment.”

The name is awkward coming off his tongue, even with the chuckle he throws in to lighten the mood, implying an air of distance and estrangement.

Jeon. That bastard. The thought of working with him… incredible. It was silly of you to think that you’d never see him again while fighting for control of the same city, but there you were, awestruck and in embarrassing shock. “Thank you, Boss. I’ll do what is needed.”

“Get some rest. I’ll be calling a meeting tomorrow with the other executives and we will talk about the plan. You are excused.”

With an obedient nod, you are lifting yourself from the chair and heading toward the door, the sound of your heels muted on his burgundy carpet.

“Oh, and dear?”

You pause, turning your head over your shoulder and clearing your throat. “Yes?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he traces his thumb along the blade of his knife, glinting in the dim glow of the moonlit window. “You know I trust you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without a falter in his expression, he makes a swift movement with his wrist. Before you can blink, the blade flies past your ear and lodges itself in the door in front of you. “Don’t make me regret it.”

A threat not to be taken lightly.

“Of course.”

As you tread down the hallway on your way out, you can't help but chastise yourself. How dumb could you be? Of course he would try to intimidate you like that. Any other day, you could have sensed it and caught it before it even parted with his palm. That was how it was supposed to be, as the renowned Scorpion, right? Was the thought of Jeon and having to see him again so debilitating that you let your guard flounder like that? Pathetic.

Hopefully he’d only take it as a slip-up. Take it as a respectful allowance and understanding as opposed to weakness. If you were losing your skills, your value was lost, as was your privilege to live.

The ride back to your apartment is the worst you had in years. Even the radio station you listen to regularly for mind-numbing background noise has you wanting to burst. The traffic lights make you want to scream, the sound of the air pushing past the open window has you bubbling with fury, the blinking advertisements circulating building perimeters driving your mind blank. Somewhere in a moment of clarity, you know it all starts with fear.

Truth was, you and Jeon were partners once. In crime, the trump card the Mafia put down to play dirty, no way to get around you. In tandem, a menacing duo, the bold and the lethal, the Lion and the Scorpion. In the sheets, from time to time, after a few too many drinks or a few too many flirty looks on a sober night. Two sides of the same coin. But that was then, in a different time and a different world, and in a way that you hated how your mind had retained him so perfectly in his bitter absence.

☆☆☆

To be honest, the atmosphere of the first meeting really couldn’t have been any better than expected. It’s the furthest thing from civil, of course, but it can be considered a blessing that everyone participating was still breathing.

For protective purposes, office space had been rented out for a few hours for the intents of the meeting. There were only eight of you gathered in the small space; From the Mafia, the four top executives and from the Agency, the VP and three head advisors. One of them, none other than Jeon himself. The president and the boss stayed out for this meeting in an attempt to lower the tension, which was certainly an effort taken. Personal affairs mixing in would have resulted in at least one dead body within the first thirty seconds.

While there is some sort of discussion occurring around you, you are only focusing on how pathetic you feel in that you’re actively avoiding Jeon, as well as the discomfort in the pit of your stomach that appeared as soon as he did. You always thought that you’d be strong and bold the next time you met, but now that the time has come, you’ve let yourself down. Seeing him face to face after all this time is a reminder of everything you’ve been pushing to the back of your mind for years.

Meanwhile, Jeongguk isn’t sure what the playing field looks like just yet. He’s resting his head on his fist, sneaking a glance at you when he can and wishing you’d speak up so he’d have a good reason to look at you for longer than a blink, but you’re awfully quiet. He hates to think it might be because of him.

“We received an anonymous tip this morning about an underground base in the Coral District. Supposedly, there are multiple entrances from bars in the surrounding area, creating a tunnel system.” Namjoon, the VP, pushes his glasses up and closes the manila folder in his hands he had been referencing. “As our only lead, I think it is in our best interest to take a look.”

Namjoon is by far the most uptight man you had ever met. A little pretentious, of course, but in a way that almost made him cute. His calculative nature made him a good asset, but you couldn’t imagine how much of a bore he must have been in his daily life. You could bet without a doubt that he had been the most opposed to collaboration - if not by the countless moments he had spent sighing in your past encounters, then surely by how his condescending tone went into overdrive the second he sat down.

Yoongi, one of your fellow executives, states plainly, “That means nothing.” He seems more focused in the dirt tucked beneath his fingernails than the meeting at hand.

“It’s anonymous. For all we know they’re trying to trick us,” adds Yeji, personality plagued with suspicion. She doesn’t want to be here as much as you do, but she’s trying. Yeji is scrutinizing and not impressed by the image of naivety that stems from such a simple deduction, and that’s on top of her personal problem with the righteous narrative of the detective agency. You don’t blame her.

“And for all we know, it could be useful. The people of this city are our eyes and ears.” Jimin shoots back, stare unwavering. “It’s not like we should just ignore it. Do you have anything better?”

The strain in the air is almost unbearable, pulling up the hairs on your arms with all the tense energy circulating. It’s as if lightning was about to strike any second. No one says another word, only dirty looks being exchanged between headstrong personalities until a defiant knock comes to the door, startling the aggression into temporary submission. Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you, the only movement he had made this entire time. You only shrug at him.

“Who is it?” Namjoon asks, standing from the table.

“Just clean up. I’m here to take out the trash.” Silence engulfs the space like a dense fog hanging in the air, until the man behind the door calls again, “It’ll only be a second.”

Hesitantly, Namjoon makes the call for him to come in. All eyes flick over to the man, who cautiously enters the room with a nervous laugh. He is clueless to what he’s walking into. He waves a hand of greeting before fetching the bin from the corner of the room, taking it to the main dump on wheels in the hallway. After a few shuffles and plunks, he comes back in to put it in its place.

Namjoon adjusts his tie and clears his throat as he sits down again, resuming the meeting.

“I don’t care what we do as long as we can be done with this,” Taehyung mumbles, resting his head on his palm with half-mast eyes. He’s practically falling asleep, like a cat resting in the sunbeams pouring through a window.

Wendy, another advisor, rolls her eyes at him, responding with a scoff, “Of course you don’t care…”

“Oh, like you’re such a saint.”

The boardroom erupts into yet another argument, different groups spitting words at their own personal targets. All you can do is sit and listen, your hope for this mission decreasing exponentially as the seconds tick by. At least if it didn’t work out, you won’t have to see Jeon again after this.

“Creep,” mutters Yeji under her breath from the chair next to you. She had been removing herself from the argument like you save for a few special dramatic sighs and trivial insults that you didn’t condone, but didn’t exactly scold her for either. After all, she is the closest thing you have to a best friend.

“Huh?” you inquire wisely. “Who?”

She tilts her head to the hallway. Your head whips around to see the janitor through the walls of windows walking away with a peculiar bounce in his step, one he most certainly did not arrive with.

“What’s his problem?” you whisper, leaning in.

“I don’t know, but he was laughing to himself while they were arguing. He’s probably just another weirdo,” she snubs with a sigh. “You know how people are in this city.”

Though you had a slight feeling of discomfort from the commencement of the meeting, since stepping foot in the lobby of the building even, you simply brushed it off as paranoia, or nervousness from who you were about to see. But it just seems too strange to ignore anymore. Wasn’t the building supposed to be completely empty today, aside from those in the conference taking place right now? Your instincts scream at you through a closed mouth, wariness freezing your limbs, but why?

You hold your hand up discreetly as you stare at the simply dark grey bin across the room. It’s the only thing that seemed out of place - besides the meeting table and chairs, the room is completely empty. The pristine board room, black and grey and sparkling clean. And then, the cheap plastic bin.

The argument settles when Yeji whistles, getting their attention.

“What’s wrong?” Wendy asks obliviously before you shush her with a raise of your pointer. All focus zeroes in on the bin… and that barely noticeable line trailing from it to the door handle.

One tick is all you need to hear.

“We gotta go, now,” you state, standing up hurriedly from your chair. Chatter and confusion ensue again as you drag it behind you over to the floor-length window. You pause, narrowing your eyes at the distance down from the second story. Considering there were no other exits from the room and you suspected that no one here was a part of the bomb squad, it was the only way to go. You drawback, hands gripping tightly around the armrests and hoist it up, swinging it around your side. it effectively shatters the glass, the piercing noise as shards clatter to the floor making you squint.

“Woah, woah, what are you doing? Do you know how much that’s gonna coast?” Namjoon shouts, becoming frantic as you further knock the glass out from the surrounding area.

“They knew where we were. Look at the bin,” you explain quickly. Their surveillance of you averts to where you had been looking moments before, realization dawning as their sight finds the transparent cord set tight.

“Taehyung, you first.” The boy trails to the make-shift exit without question, blond locks bouncing in front of his face as he hurries over. Carefully, with a hand on the frame, he peers out to see what he’s working with. He’s made do with worse before. He lowers himself out onto the ledge one foot at a time, cautious not to cut himself on the jagged glass poking out. With a deep breath, he commits to the jump and launches off, landing cleanly on the flower beds below.

He cranes his neck up to you with disgust written all over his features.

“It’s new still,” he complains with a frown, toeing the dark mulch which must be fresh and with a rotten stench. You don’t have the time to admonish his behavior as you usher the others out, keeping an eye on the bin and the hallway. Yeji is out next, hitting the ground lightly with Taehyung’s guiding arms.

You fish a compact walkie from your pocket, tossing it down to her. “Find the janitor. Evacuate anyone else you see. Channel Six.” She catches it with ease, only providing a nod before sprinting off around the corner, ponytail whooshing behind her. Namjoon, now on the ground with Jimin, spares a word with him before Jimin takes off after Yeji to catch up.

“You run a well-oiled machine, Y/N. I’m impressed.” Jeon’s voice from beside you grabs your attention, to which you can only hold his eyes for a moment before breaking it off. He stands smugly with his arms crossed in front of him.

He immediately cringes internally at the way it comes out. It was just supposed to be a compliment, genuinely, but the tinge of complacency in his voice took it all away. The way you don’t respond clamps his heart, but only pushes out more awful dialogue with an inappropriately playful tone.

“What, you’re just gonna ignore me?

Swallowing your nerves, you insist, “Get down.” Now, of all times, he chooses to chat you up? The chipper attitude had your nails imprinting half-moons to the base of your palm.

But he can’t stop himself. Even as he reads your growing impatience, he acts like a whiny toddler, emphasizing, “No, no, ladies first of course.”

“Get down.”

He’s trying not to let your firm edge get to him, playing it off with, “God, so cold. You’re hurting my feelings-” “Get down, Jeongguk!”

The once fluid movement of the world slows as you shout at him, your own voice becoming muted as you listen for it. A blinding light bursts from across the room, ripping through the walls and bursting the glass like balloons, growing brighter and brighter as you watch. In a split second you’re falling, tearing through open air while barely sensing your entanglement in something soft before hitting the ground with a blunt stop.

He had pulled you into him instinctively as the blow forced him off his feet, but the regret is instant in Jeon’s mind as he struggles to move. Not for grabbing you, but for the stupid words he couldn’t close the dam on as they poured out. The threat completely left his mind in the effort to get you to respond to him. He wants to smack himself, but his body hasn’t had the chance to recoup yet.

You groan, body practically frozen in ache. Rolling off of him, you rub your lids and scratch the hair out of your face, looking up to see smoke pouring out of where you just stood moments before. Jumping to your feet, you brush the small shards of glass from your clothes and ignore the dizziness, aiming to put as much distance between the building and you as you could, but not before pulling a disoriented Jeon to his feet to take him with you. He’s coughing and clutching at his rib, your weight hitting him as an extra beating once he had landed.

Collapsing on the curb out front, you try to catch your breath. That bastard. If it weren’t for his necessity to uphold such a jackass mentality, you wouldn’t have needed the extra painful push out of the building. Without even needing to look, the sound echoing alone let you know that the building was collapsing in on itself. While you can’t feel it now because of the adrenaline, you know you’ll be hurting later.

A muffled noise comes from the walkie in your back pocket. It’s Yeji, who is suspiciously breathing fine as her heavy footfalls transmit as loud as her voice, reporting, “Finally caught up to him. It looks like he’s heading to Coral District, we’re on his tail but we don’t know what we’re going into!”

The device jumbles in your shaky hand as you scramble to get back to her. “We’re on our way, don’t worry. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

You bring yourself to your feet, your fleeting moment of recovery already gone.

“Namjoon, can you stay behind for cleanup? Rest of us will catch up to Yeji. You heard her, right?”

He nods solemnly, and you suppose the blast to the building also was one to his ego. His notorious calculative nature had failed him this time around with that poisonous hatred in the way. Maybe he’ll reference it next time.

You think that Jeon is going to come up with another snarky comment to make, but all he does is pinch his nose bridge and massage his temples. He chooses to stay behind also as you, Wendy, Taehyung, and Yoongi follow in quick pursuit. It’s no surprise that Yoongi, one of the most sloth-like yet efficient strong suits of the Mafia, is already pulling over a civilian vehicle to take.

“Yeji, current location?” You ask into the radio, trying to keep up an acceptable trot behind the group.

It only takes a second for her voice to crackle back through. “Corner of Park Ave and Third. It’s weird though - he’s not just running away from us, he’s running to somewhere.”

Up ahead, Wendy is pushing Yoongi aside as she shows her ID to the astonished woman floundering for words, admirably commandeering the car rather than stealing. No surprise, but smart nonetheless. One less lawsuit to worry about.

It only takes a second to envision a mental map of the city. The Corner of Park and Third is heading toward an unfamiliar side of town. What was even over there? The subway station, a shopping center? No place plausible for a bar, and definitely not near the Coral district. There was no place you could think of he might be leading them to - unless, of course, he was leading them away from something.

In fact, his direction is almost exactly opposite from…

“Tae!” you shout, just as he’s getting into the car. “Corner of Park Ave and Third. Get on your walkie, I’m taking a detour!”

He tips his head back in understanding as he jogs backwards to the car, soon ducking in slamming the door shut behind him, the car speeding off with a squeal. The thought of being in that car with them makes you shudder, but it’s not like where you’re off to is any better.

The location is printed on the backs of your lids in vermilion red ink. You had to know it regardless of whether you were a frequent visitor or not, because being aware of your surroundings when doing the kind of work required for your job was just as necessary as the job itself. You couldn’t be making arms deals in the alleys behind the Detective Agency unless you were aiming to spend some time behind bars.

Your heart drops as you round the corner to see the building absolutely sacked, your sprinting pace coming to a standstill with disappointment. A small crowd of people have surrounded the area, phones out to snap pictures and take videos. The windows lining the building are smashed in violently, and small plumes of smoke wisp their way out of what remains, the alarms that alerted no one still ringing.

Light footsteps approach from behind you as your own step carefully over the glass to get a closer look. He’d been in his head for only a few minutes after you left, but when he saw you crossing back over to the other side of town, while he was stuck pathetically on the curb, it sparked his brain back up into working condition.

“Huh. Smart cookie,” states Jeon, seeming to finally be back to reality. Enough to make it here, anyway. In less than a second your blade is against his neck as a firm warning. All he does is smile cheekily, raising his palms up so you could see them.

“No need to be hostile,” he tries, hiding the way he gulps when you look away. “Just a compliment.”

“We are nothing more than work partners. I advise you to drop the act now,” you spit, sure you’d break your jaw with how hard your teeth were pressed against each other, hearing the sandpaper sound grinding in your ears. You lower the blade and tuck it away, exchanging it for your gun in hand as you approach the entrance.

It’s a mess inside. The walls are dented, desks broken, drawers and filing cabinets sprawled all over the floor. Random papers make a muddle of everything visible. The computer screens are cracked and wires mangled as if someone with a bad temper had taken a baseball bat to them. Even the potted plants had been bashed in, fragments of terracotta and clumps of dirt spread out everywhere.

“Was anyone working?” you ask, fingers tracing over the splintered edges of the welcome desk.

“No,” replies Jeon, in awe of the state of the office. “The President doesn’t come in, and two of our teams are off carrying out other tasks. We sent our office staff home to keep them out of danger.”

Not one thing untouched. Such great care was taken to ruin every piece of the space - but when no one was home. If the office staff were here, would they have hurt them? Or was it a purposeful decision in favor of the empty building?

Jeon’s shoulders slump, bottom lip jutting from his pout. Upon your questioning brow, he says, “They took my octopus pen.” He stares longingly down at what you assume is his desk, or what was his desk.

You squint in confusion, about to prompt further explanation, but Taehyung comes in through the radio. “We caught the janitor. Don’t know anything yet, but he’s being taken into police custody. We looked for the tunnels, but there’s nothing so far. I think it was a misdirect.”

“I think it was too,” you sigh. “The DA was ransacked.”

The waves flatten into grey static. You can picture the confusion that was rising among the group with Tae’s relay of information. When it comes back on, it is a different voice.

“Ransacked, you said? How bad?” It’s Wendy, the panic blatant on her tongue.

“Everything in it was destroyed…” you say, knowing this was just as much a loss for you as it was them. “They knew where we were and bombed us, and then led us on a chase so they could eliminate one of our bases. Let the others know and we’ll regroup later.”

“Copy that,” says Yoongi shortly, and that ends the exchange.

One of your strongest pieces was impressively knocked off the board. There was no way to get the building back in operating shape in the time span you had to eliminate the threat. While you still had their people and outside resources, the building was essential to the functioning of the agency, and the city along with it. If they had already taken down the home base of the detectives, wouldn’t the Mafia be next? Granted, there was no one set base, but things would surely get fishy if you didn’t act fast. Like Boss said, Fox Lodge crumbled in mere weeks. Whatever your opinion was, you couldn’t deny the Mafia was integral in monitoring the underground of the city, and letting control fall into the hands of such self-serving villains would be far worse than anything already occurring.

Jeon sighs loudly from across the room, spinning on his heels to catch your gaze. He tsks and sweeps a stray strand of hair behind his ear with a delicate hand. “What are you thinking?”

You hum in thought. “It’s a warning,” you conclude, observing the rows of overthrown furniture. “They wanted to show what they’re capable of. Intimidation.”

He purses his lips innocently. “...What next?”

“I don’t know everything, Gguk,” you snap, sending him a fierce glare. “The Agency has to figure out what’s missing, if anything, and then we’ll go from there. Try to figure out a motive or something.”

You’ve been asking for a challenge for years, always unsatisfied with the ease it took to get your way. Laying in bed wide awake all night wanting things to be different, wanting things to have meaning. But with the high stakes, with so much at risk, this was certainly not what you intended.

You have to reassure yourself that you’re capable regardless. Once you get in the rhythm, surely things will be fine. Surely you’d get yourself together and pull through for the sake of the town. When you’ve been biting your nails and staring blankly at a ripped magazine for who knows how long, Jeon interrupts you again.

“Y/N?” The way he speaks your name is gentle and soft, a fondness to it that never failed to pluck at your heartstrings. It’s that special quiet tone of his that you haven’t heard in so long yet could always recall so clearly. It’s a sign of candor coming your way. “It’s good to see you.”

And it boils your blood.

“The park by the marina. Tomorrow at five. Don’t be late.”

☆☆☆

Penny has already started making dinner when you step through the door, just about to slump against the hardwood floor and resign yourself to the eternal slumber. Though she’s only ten, her palate is more tasteful that yours was last year. In times like these, you are grateful for the way she takes care of you sometimes.

“You look tired,” she observes, sparing you a welcome look over her shoulder as she stirs the contents of her pot.

“That would be because I am,” you breathe a huff of laughter, slowly and carefully sliding off your jacket as to not irritate your sore muscles more than necessary. Taking a peek into the pot, your brain allows you a taste of serotonin that you welcome with open, starved arms. “Fettuccine alfredo? Pen, that’s my favorite.”

A small smirk appears on her face at your amazement. “I know.”

You plant a chaste kiss at the top of her head. “You need a trim soon, kiddo. Can barely see your eyes anymore.”

“That makes me look more mysterious though, doesn’t it?” She allows herself a giggle before turning off the heat, giving the pasta one last mix before transferring it to the two identical bowls on the counter. Her technique is a little awkward as her arms reach up to maneuver the tongs, but that’s to be expected of a kid who hasn’t fine tuned her motor skills just yet. Your mouth is absolutely watering as you fumble through the draws for two forks and some sort of napkin.

She hops up on the stool next to you and digs in, splattering sauce all over her chin nonetheless, but as long as she was fed and having fun.

Taking Penny in was by far the best decision you had made with what your life had come to. It was about two years ago when you stumbled upon her crying in a back alleyway during a job, her parents' lives the casualties suffered in a drug trade gone wrong. Further than that, you didn’t pry. You had those moments, too, the ones that felt better tucked inside a secret place in your heart.

Your only option was to take her with you. While he was incredibly beneficial to the Mafia, Yoongi was also hopelessly cold-blooded. He wanted to kill her to end the trail, to avoid suspicion directed at the organization. You ultimately made the call, because while what you did for a living was in no way guided by a moral compass, you still had your boundaries. Fortunately, it was just when you had gotten your current executive position and started making your fair share for the work you did - and while the both of you knew what went on outside of the apartment, inside was a safer space with more love than you could ever afford to show anywhere else.

Housing people was one of the organization’s biggest costs. Most who joined did so out of necessity, whether they were out of work or a place to feel welcome. As long as you took care of her, it was an unspoken rule that they’d go easy on her. Occasionally they made her run errands and do deliveries, as children were an easy way to escape qualms from authorities. More often they used her for bait and leverage over those they needed the upper hand on; There’s no better way to manipulate someone than pretending a little girl’s life depends on their next decision. Usually it worked out the way they wanted and she was sent home, but there were times when you noticed bruises or scrapes adorning her thin arms, or hidden beneath her bangs. At least you could provide her with hope.

“So what went wrong today?”

Were you too obvious, or could she just read you inside and out?

You twirl the pasta on your fork before downing a big bite.

“Got stuck in a pickle for the first time in a while. There’s a lot more on the table than I expected there to be.”

“Obviously,” she says, still shoveling her food down her throat. “I mean what happened?”

You sigh, letting yourself sink into your chair as you recount the order of events that unfolded today. Trying to simplify it as best as you can, you settle on, “I can’t say too much because I don’t want to get you in trouble, but it’s not just the Mafia and the Agency running things around here anymore, so there’s some collaboration going on right now that is getting tough to manage. And these new people moving in on the city… they’re smart. They led us on a goose chase today while they took out the DA.”

“Well, you’re smart too. You can manage it. You always do.”

“I know I’ll have to. It’s more the teamwork thing.” Mindless fingers tap at the countertop. “It was a little bit of a curveball they threw at me.”

“Is the curveball what caused all the bruises?” She looks at you slyly, a teasing simper just begging to make an appearance.

Your eyes roll breezily. “Yeah, it is.”

And all of a sudden the air turns quiet, her demeanor more timid. She looks to you for encouragement before she can even get the words out. With a small prompting nod, she asks, “Is… is it your old partner?”

An awkward chuckle bubbles its way out of your throat in surprise. “Um, yeah. How- how do you know about that?”

It’s a little bit of a shock. You don’t want to make her feel bad, but having this conversation is not one you are completely prepared for. Jeongguk, though his existence in your mind is stormy, is one of those things you always wish you could just keep to yourself, like a small love letter sealed in an envelope and tucked away under a mattress for you to pull out when you want to reminisce, but unfortunately everyone has read that letter and its contents seems to perpetuate underground gossip wherever you walk.

The atmosphere returns to normal when she shoots you a playful look, correcting it to the way it should have been. “I don’t just go to work and come back, you know, people talk to me. Especially some of the other kids my age. They sometimes mention how it’s so cool that I’m living with this legendary assassin, and they tell me supposed stories of… what was it, the Lion and the Scorpion? Yeah, and that he left.”

You bob your head along as she explains, somewhat in awe of her level of awareness of who you were outside of your relationship with her. The observant and lethal disposition you take on at work is a rude juxtaposition to the looser, lively personality you allow out at home. Above all, you wonder if she still thinks you’re cool.

“And what do you say?”

That she laughs at. “Well, it depends on the person who’s talking to me about it. Sometimes I say that you’re really scary and strict and sometimes if I like them I say that you’re really nice… I’m careful about it though, don’t worry. As long as you’re cool, I’m cool.”

Bingo!

“Hey, I trust your judgment,” you state through a mouthful of food, “I condone messing with people sometimes, and if it can harden my reputation around the place, I’ll take it.”

Lighthearted laughter ensues as you eat. The topic fades away and relief starts to take its place, but nothing good can ever last, can it?

“But Y/N…” she trails back, “Why is the Lion a curveball if you worked with him in the past?”

You click your tongue, tapping your fork at the bottom of your dish trying to stitch together the splinters of words floating around your mind into a cohesive answer.

“I’m sure some kids told you about the rumors,” you say, propping your elbow on the table to support your head as you looked at her. “But he and I… weren’t really just work partners.”

“You were dating?” She exclaims loudly, eyes widening.

“Shh! No, no… well, kind of. But not really. Things were just a little bit more than work-related, that’s all. Listen, it’s not all black and white, and you’ll understand what I mean by when you start to care for people like that.”

“Well did you love him?”

She says it casually and straightforward, as if it didn’t weigh the emotional turmoil of years spent heartbroken and yearning. As if it’s that easy.

Penny’s expression floods full of curiosity. She is so investigative and eager, you wish she could be going to school and learning from real teachers that could give her a real education, not just snippets from your memories that you pulled up for her from time to time. If this wasn’t her life, you can’t imagine what she’d be doing because there’d simply be too many possibilities.

“Yeah, I did.”

And yet, as the words spill, you can’t not remember the pain of his desertion. You can’t not remember the one morning you woke up and he was gone, panic floating through the hallways about him, confusion and worry swirling in your head. Just to find out he had defected without giving you a clue. Not considering what it could mean for you. Not even a goodbye.

“Do you still love him?”

You purse your lips, meeting her eyes softly. “That’s why I called him a curveball.”

Penny grasps on to the fact that that was the most she’d be getting from you today. It was a lot more than most days - you blame it on your tattered spirit from today’s tiring occurrences. She leads in the kitchen clean up, scooping the leftovers into tupperware for tomorrow’s meal and tossing her dishes in the outdated washer.

You pass behind her in the tight space, carrying your own empty dish with you. “You don’t repeat a word, got it?” you whisper.

She visibly sinks in vexation, head coming to a tilt as she stares at you. “C’mon, you just said you trusted my judgment! I’m almost insulted you feel the need to say that.”

You let yourself indulge in another laugh. The credit of her sharp vocabulary character no doubt belongs to your influence. “You know I have to.” Nuzzling the top of her hair, you add, “Don’t stay up too late. I love you.”

And for leading a life that was so cruel and devoid of light, crowded with guilt and regret, lacking most that makes you human, nothing ever felt more like home than when she says, “I love you too.”

☆☆☆

The next meeting is only better because of the fresh air separating both sides and the imminent fact that last time’s events have everyone so weary they can no longer think about arguing. It has started to sink in that this is no longer a piece of cake, or maybe that it never was to begin with. As well, a park full of citizens going on walks and taking their day slow is no place to expose yourself. It’s warm for spring, one of the nicest days you’ve had in a while, and you’d hate to ruin it.

There is a large circular expanse of white concrete with different pathways branching off into the park, green shrubbery lining each walkway. Pillars on both sides of each one hold up an awning providing much-appreciated shade. You no longer have to squint and can see everyone clearly.

Namjoon, sulking on a decorative cement bench, kicks off the meeting with a depressing statement on the Agency. “They didn’t take anything physical, but we traced their footsteps back through our computers. It looks like they downloaded a lot of our reports from the past few years and files on both our members and yours.”

“What do you mean?” Yeji’s eyebrows furrow deeply in confusion. “What kind of information was in the reports?”

“A lot of profiles. Skills, incidents you’ve been involved with, current standing position… things like that. On nearly every important person in the Agency and in the Mafia.”

“Why though?” asks Jimin, leaning back against one of the pillars beside Namjoon. “Can’t they find that information anywhere? A lot of it isn’t a secret. Ask anyone around here and they’ll tell you Min Yoongi is a lazy bastard that-” Jeon gives him a light punch on the shoulder, his disappointed grimace almost saying, “c’mon, man.” Yoongi looks like he couldn’t care less.

Taehyung, who has been pacing the narrow concrete walkways, speaks up. “Get to know your enemy better, I guess? Can’t hurt.”

“To be honest, I don’t think they really needed it either. It looked more like it was meant to be taken as a threat. They probably just did that because they could and they had the time,” You say, recalling the attentive wreckage of the Agency.

“Well, I don’t know about that. We know that they’re tricky, obviously, but they can’t know everything. I think they were also trying to get a better idea of what they were up against. Plus, it’s always intimidating when you come into contact with someone and it seems they know every detail about you when you don’t even know your name.”

Namjoon’s take makes sense. His frustrating attitude is an easier pill to swallow if he’s able to make conclusions like that. Not much could scare you off, but if a random person approached you in a fight and began talking about your past, or your personal life, or mistake you’d made, you’d definitely be unsettled, maybe just enough to slip up. With this group, you’re sure that a slip up is all it takes.

Wendy looks like she has something to add, but there’s a frog stuck in her voice box. She gives a shy look to Namjoon and then continues, something perhaps he was planning on leaving out. “To be specific, there were multiple traces of the words “Lion” and “Scorpion” in the information they stole... It makes me think they’ve heard of your, um, past reputation and wanted to see what they could dig up.”

“Oh, great.” You’re unable to help yourself from rolling your eyes.

“Wow,” Jeon muses, “Didn’t know we were so famous.” His playful regard meets your own, but you’re too down to react with anything else but a blank stare before flicking your eyes away as soon as they meet.

He looks good today. You hate how much your brain keeps begging you to take another experimental glance as if one wasn’t enough. His button-up drapes gently over his shoulders and is tucked loosely into his trousers, sleeves folded all the way up to his elbows. Not that you’re paying such close attention.

Namjoon clears his throat. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to alarm you without any pretense, but…”

You raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your front. “Well, I’m glad she spoke up. What if they target us because they think we’re a threat? They already know we’ve been working together.”

Wendy offers a small smile of appreciation, but it is not to ignore how the agents all share looks of hesitation toward each other, visibly uncomfortable with Namjoon’s secrecy.

“Yeah… that seemed kind of important,” Yoongi says, squinting into the sunlight as he tilts his head up. “You can’t keep things from us if we’re working together. I hate this just as much as you do, but we aren’t gonna win if we aren’t honest.”

Jimin sighs. “He’s right. If one side tries to get an upper hand it’ll just cause a rift that makes us easier to pull apart.”

“Okay. That’s fair. I... apologize.” Namjoon is stiff, refusing to look anyone in the eye. He wants to avoid further questioning, but for the time being, you won’t press it. There’s enough on your plate right now.

“Anyway… what’s our next move?”

Yeji’s question goes unanswered. It sits under the afternoon light, the peaceful chirps of birds and casual chatter and boat horns filling in the blank space that no one knows what to do with.

“We don’t have a lot to go off of. The investigation is still looking for identification factors, but it could take time, which, as I’m sure you know, we don’t have a lot of. The most we can do is conduct some interviews with witnesses and passersby, but…” the Vice President looks up at you, “we are counting on them slipping up somehow.”

The dejection in the air is hard to ignore. Everyone feels it. Regardless of how impossible it might be for the two sides to see eye to eye, they can see how hopeless the fight has gotten in a span of mere days.

With the DA out of the picture, all of their employees are either working from home or in last-minute rented offices with limited resources. Never in a million years did any of the executives think they’d see the building that represented their struggle go up in flames. Yet the day it did, they couldn’t be happy about it. It only struck fear.

“So there’s really nothing we can do?”

No one needs to answer for you to know.

“Okay. Let’s wrap this up then. Just be careful from here on out. You know, be cautious of what you say, where you say it. They might be monitoring radio waves, might have bugged places you think are safe.”

In times like these, you have good reason to be a little paranoid. They already knew where your office space was and the time it had been rented. The Syndicate was skilled and definitely had their reach online, and you didn’t doubt it extended to the personal world. There’s nothing money can’t bribe.

It’s disheartening to see how downcast the group is on a day so bright. Everyone begins to mobilize, though slowly, but they get a move on, going back to wherever they need to be or where they want to be. For now, you decide you want to be here.

Waving goodbye to Yeji and the others, you find a nice spot under some shade on a well maintained wooden bench. It faces the water, today clear and calm, and out in the distance is the gleaming modern drawbridge that closes off the port. To the right, the port terminal stretches out long into the river for the large ships that come in, the marina docked with boats of all shapes and sizes tucked in closer to the city behind it. The boats flood in and out, passing you by, the sails floating in the breeze so temptingly you can just see yourself hopping on one so easily and going along to wherever it may take you.

The dream is short-lived, because Jeon’s presence beside you tugs you from your imagination.

“What do you want?” You can feel him looking at you, but you can’t pull your eyes away from the ships drifting by.

It’s a hit to the confidence he strode over here with, but he continues. “What, we can’t make small talk? We’re partners for this, Y/N.”

Any opportunity he sees to make contact with you, he’ll take. He knows why you’re the opposite, but he’s dying to see you, and not just from across a meeting table or a park.

“Partners don’t need to make small talk, they just have to do the job they’ve been assigned and be done with it.”

He exhales tiredly, disappointed in your lack of engagement, like he expected at least a small something more. “Listen, I just wanted to talk to you. I know how things are, and-”

“No, Gguk, you don’t know how things are,” you snap, finally facing him. “You had the past three years to talk to me, but you didn’t. You don’t get to come and take care of things now while it’s convenient for you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It sure looks like that.”

“Well it’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s me wanting to talk to you. Because it’s been a long time and I miss you.”

You make a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, feeling even more let down than you thought you could be. “Yeah, okay.”

It sounds like bull to you. Does he really think you’re that gullible? Does he really think you were going to see him again and run into his arms like a bride who's been tying yellow ribbons around an old oak tree? The anger you felt at the agency yesterday returns, for what happened in the past, for what’s happening now, for all of it. How he can say he missed you when he had all the time in the world, when he was clearly happy after running away from what he had with you, you can’t understand.

Meanwhile, Jeon feels his heart palpitating as he waits for a reply. The explanations want to roll right off his tongue, but he knows this is not the time and place to bring up the subject matter he’s really urging to talk to you about. That conversation will be held soon as he finds it possible. He thought it might be worth it to just start the build-up with trivial chatter, but it’s not working, and probably never will with you.

He picks at his nails, scraping the minimal dirt out. Should he say it? A part of him wants to go for it, and another wants to wait in fear of scaring you. Unfortunately, he thinks it will either way.

“I heard you’ve been taking care of a girl.”

Unbeknownst to you, he’s right.

It steals the breath from your lungs, that residing anger booking it to make room for fear. Though you try to conceal it, you’re sure he’s seen through it, already felt how the atmosphere has shifted. He shouldn’t know about Penny. In fact, no one outside the Mafia should. You can’t meet his eyes, taking more interest in trying to count every strand of fine hair on the space between your knuckles.

It feels just like what Namjoon had talked about, and though you’re sure deep down he wouldn’t try to hurt you like that, it plants a seed of dread in you. In any other world, it might be similar to someone asking, “How are the kids?” and there would be nothing out of the ordinary about it, just a friendly gesture. This instance, however, is layered with a cocktail of warning and concern.

Penny can fend for herself, she’s responsible, of course, but no one is invincible. It’s only up to a certain point, especially knowing that she’s only a child.

“How do you know about her?”

“I still get around,” he says, letting the pause marinate before adding faintly, “Don’t worry. No one that’s gonna try anything knows. I made sure of it.”

The way he still knows what you’re thinking makes you shiver. Or want to throw up. You pass over the slight relief of his last statement in favor of the bliss that comes with ignoring it.

When you don’t reply because you simply don’t know what to make of it, he continues. “It’s honorable. But that’s dangerous for you. To have someone important to you.”

“I know that,” you admit.

It wasn’t like you were stupid. Sure, you were an executive, but what did that mean when Penny made you so vulnerable? The same way they used her against their enemies could be used against you in a heartbeat for tenfold the amount they wanted. She was your weak spot.

“You have to be careful.”

“I know that.”

Jeon winces at your icy inflection. He’s like a child being scolded by his mother. His eyes squeeze shut, thoughts circling back to all the words that were just aching to pour out of him.

“Listen, Y/N, maybe we can go get some coffee? Or-”

You have to cut him off before he gets too out of hand, palms hitting your thighs. “I think that’s enough for today, Gguk.”

He wants to object to your leaving, but he doesn’t want to push you. Your deep sigh is proof of the distress he caused in the past and still continues to leave behind.

So much for some nice quiet time on your own, huh? You stand up and turn from him, heading down the exit path. Realistically, you’re glad he doesn’t call out after you, because you know it would just get you worked up and that was the last thing you needed. When you were around him, you felt the piercing image your reputation had created crumbling to ruins. It pains you to think of the consequences of an emotional err during times like these.

Yet still, it breaks your heart to leave.

☆☆☆

“He’s been really getting to you, huh?”

Yeji’s voice is quiet above the cacophony of clinking silverware and incoherent conversation, but intelligible enough for the both of you to hear in your own space.

You smear some whipped cream on your forkful of waffle, placing it in your mouth and letting both the fluffy texture and immaculate taste sweep you off your feet for a moment, as brunch is everything good and great in the world. Or at least in your world, at this very moment.

You swallow before answering, your usual temper tamed by the sedative of a certain portmanteau of breakfast and lunch. “Of course he has. He won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“Well, he does have to work with you.”

As you chew, you shake your head in wide, dramatic arcs. “No, I mean he keeps acting like we’re old friends. After the meeting he asked me If I wanted to get coffee with him!” you exclaimed, “Like no, I’m not getting fucking coffee with you, who do you think you are?”

Yeji flashes her pearly whites at your short fuse, the one she’s versed in remedying. Deft hands lift up her mug for a thoughtful sip.

“Maybe his intentions aren’t that bad. He’s always been happy-go-lucky like that and he’s probably just too oblivious to think about the consequences of what he did. Yeah, pretending like it didn’t happen hurts, but because of what’s going on right now... it might be a blessing in disguise.”

Despite her intimidating appearance, Yeji was an exceptional conversationalist and particularly thoughtful in her advice. It feels more like a talk between two childhood friends catching up over some food, gossiping about people from high school and boy drama. Though it’s not quite that simple, it lets you take a back seat for a little while. Yeji is one of the only people you’d consider a friend.

“What, like making it easier for the mission?”

“Yeah, 'cause if you can push that issue out of the picture temporarily, you can get the job done and either deal with it after or forget about it entirely. And hey, you’re the Scorpion!” Yeji leans across the table in an enthusiastic whisper. “Scorpions are badass and vicious and don’t spend their time getting worked up over men. In fact, Scorpions reel men in and then kill them, especially you.”

You know she’s trying to encourage you, but the thought is spectacularly unappealing. While she was right in what you did, it’s not like you enjoyed it or were proud of it. You hate to be described that way. Perhaps that is your character among the mafia and the image you spread to protect yourself, and perhaps it’s even true when you get in the work mindset, but is that really you? Talk about an identity crisis.

You reach for your water, the condensation slippery on the glass. “That’s just my reputation.”

She sighs, slumping back into her side of the booth. “Okay, scratch that then. What I mean is that, besides the people you’re close to like Penny and I, you’re this astute, intelligent, skilled executive. You’ve accomplished a lot to get where you are. Why are you letting him get under your skin and uproot that?”

Yeji wouldn’t let someone make her feel like that, and she wishes you wouldn’t either. As much as she secretly admires you - for both that reputation and the real you - she cares about you all the same. Maybe one of the only people that does.

“I guess you have a point.”

“You know I have a point.”

“It’s not that easy though, Yeji,” you say weakly, staring down into your glass. “Every time I see him, I don’t know whether I want to kiss him or beat his ass.”

She laughs at your comment, making you crack a smile too. “It happens, Y/N. Love and hurt go hand in hand.” When you look up at her, she reaches a slender hand over the table and interlocks her fingers with your own with a squeeze. “Just tolerate it for now.”

A troubled exhale leaves you at the prospect, but you squeeze back nonetheless.

“I can do that.”

☆☆☆

It's two days later when you get a call from none other than the Lion himself. The time has been passing unbearably, slower than a soul train passing an ambulance. You and Penny relaxed by bingeing an ungodly amount of shows and movies, even delving into your weekly budget for a stockpile of snacks and drinks. But with every laugh that tumbled out of you and blended into the live audiences’, the nervous thoughts of the situation lingered in the back of your mind.

But hopefully, this call will have some good news.

“What’s up?”

“Good news.”

Eureka! For once, you’re happy to be speaking to Jeon.

“Like Namjoon said, they slipped up. Someone wasn’t wearing gloves and left a fingerprint in the DA. Intelligence was able to track it down to a random guy living in the Gambling District. I’ll tell you more about him, but I’m coming to pick you up now.”

You to your feet from your seat on the couch, wedging the phone between your shoulder and ear so you could throw your stuff together. Penny pauses the show for you, sending a raised brow. In silent conversation, you shrug.

God, it’s too early. You’re rummaging around the room for your wallet and trying to process cohesive thoughts simultaneously, and it’s not working out.

You stop to let your hands rub at your eyes. “Okay, but how do we know this was an actual slip up? We don’t have footage to check… it might have been on purpose to lead us somewhere.”

The one thing you had learned in all your time was to play like your opponent. Never underestimate them - especially the Syndicate, who clearly wanted that message to reach you. But if you were trying to get the upper hand on the people you were trying to eliminate, it wouldn’t be far fetched to give them a false lead the same way you had before.

“It’s all we got. And if we are led somewhere, we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay. Talk to you in a bit. I’ll meet you in the parking garage?”

“No need. Already walking up.” In the background, you hear Jeon’s keys jingling as he strides. “Also, we’re stopping for food first. Bye.” A blunt click signals the end of the call.

Shit. He’s coming to your apartment? The current state is an indescribable mess - hopefully he wouldn’t call CPS on you. More importantly, you are still in your pajamas, and there is no way he can see you like this.

“Was that the curveball?” Penny asks with an impish interest.

Your eyes squint. “Take a guess.”

Hurrying down the cramped hallway to your shared bedroom with Penny, you trade your sweats for some comfortable jeans and, with the time ticking down, throw a moto jacket over your hoodie. As the knock on the door sounds, you’re gathering your hair into a ponytail.

When you reach the living room, Penny is already pulling the door open. You hear a greeting, and then Jeon’s head appears around it comically, peeking into the apartment.

“There you are,” he says, looking at your current state with confusion. Not exactly what you might wear to base, but it got the job done. He snickers. “What, did I catch you off guard?”

Trying to hold back your minor pants from running around so much, all you can muster is, “Yeah, a little bit.” You turn to the mirror and pluck a bobby pin from your lips, tucking it into your hair to keep the flyaways down.

“Okay, let’s hit it. Penny, super sorry about this, I’ll finish watching with you later when I get home. There’s food in the fridge, you know where the money is, and I’ll call Yeji to check in on you if it gets late, okay?”

She pouts. “Okay.”

“Hey, you remember the safe word?”

Penny nods dramatically, her dark bangs bouncing, standing on her tippy toes to whisper in your ear, “Cherry-cola… also, he’s really cute.”

You pull away laughing, giving her a light noogie with your fist as her nose scrunches up. She wasn’t wrong, of course. Your time apart did him well, and you assume he must have gotten tips on how to dress because of how effortlessly put together he looked these days. But that's beside the point.

“Love you, Pen. Bye. And make sure your ringer is on.” With a small peck on the top of her head and bidding goodbye with a promise to return, you’re pulling away and leading Jeon out the door, being careful in locking it behind you.

“What’s with the safeword?” He asks, starting down the hall to the elevator. An uncomfortable tilt to his lips fixes on his face. “Isn’t that… kinda inappropriate?”

You roll your eyes, swatting at his shoulder. “Ew. Not that kind of safeword, dumbass. It’s so she knows who she can trust and let inside. There’s a lot of people that I trust that she doesn’t know, so if I have someone swinging by I tell them so she knows she can trust them too.”

He makes a sound of understanding, slipping his hands into his pockets. The way he ambles is spirited yet composed, shoulders relaxed with purposeful steps. Jeon always came and went like low tide in the morning, a calmer view of his personality considering his notorious “devil may care” attitude.

“Can you tell me?” Once he sees the disapproving expression on your face, he continues, “Listen, I already know about her. What if something happens and you need me to get her and you’re too busy dying to tell me?”

Crossing your arms in front of you, you shake your head. “Hopefully that will never happen in the first place, but god forbid…” you cautiously lower your voice, “Cherry-cola.”

“Cherry-cola?” he repeats casually.

You shush him loudly, glaring and speaking through gritted teeth. “The point of a safeword is that not everyone knows it!”

“Sorry,” his lips purse as you press the button and begin waiting for the elevator. “Why that one?”

“It’s our favorite drink. Goes with anything.”

“Well...”

You cut him off with a hand as the thick metal doors slide open and the two of you step inside. “Not a matter of opinion. I don’t want to hear it.”

He raises his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I will respect that, but you know...”

It’s then that you see him giving you a look, an impish smile adorning his cheeks. The dimples that gently poke his skin are the kind that make you feel lucky.

“What?”

His eyes avert, head shaking as he turns away and exchanges his view for his sly reflection in the metal. “Oh, nothing.”

“Gguk.”

A teasing tone coats his tongue as he speaks. “Well, I don’t know, it just reminded me, you know, just pulled the thought from the deep recess of my brain, that.... we used to have one too.”

You almost couldn’t believe your ears, even considering asking him to repeat himself. The arch look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. “Yeah, we did,” you agree. “Not like I ever had to use it...”

He faces you with a disbelieving breath of laughter leaving his open mouth, astonished. “What, did you want to have to say it?”

You shrug nonchalantly, raising your voice to say, “No, no… you were always just a little soft about it, that’s all.”

You can’t help the grin growing on your face as his lips part in offense, one corner slowly turning up in a knowing open-mouthed smile. His lids drop in the slightest manner, barely noticeable if you didn’t pay such close attention, and you have to turn away before your face starts to blaze too unbearably. “Oh, you know I was not soft.”

Both of you are thinking the same thing, no doubt about it. Memories roll back like pristine tapes on a projector, ones that most definitely prove his point.

You clear your throat, unsure of where the conversation is going and not bold enough to let it brew. “Anyway, about the guy…?”

He’s disappointed in your choice to change the subject, the tell in the way his head drops and chews at his lower lip for a split second, but abides nonetheless. “Twenty-six years old, been working at lots of casinos around as a dealer but his most recent job was three months ago at King’s Crown. After that, no record. Unfortunately, we have to take him alive since the investigation has the police involved.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Well, kind of. It’s just limiting when there’s a stipulation.”

“Okay. I will respect that.”

Your callback is the cause of a smile taking over his face. You’re glad he doesn’t mention your attitude - if he did, your dignity wouldn’t let you continue. Maybe it’s your good mood paired with his unexpectedness, maybe it’s Yeji’s advice telling you to tolerate him, but regardless, you won’t deny that it feels better than the anger. With hope of a lead comes hope that this could work out.

“By the way, what’re you in the mood for?” Jeon asks casually, turning to you. “We can do fast food, we can do Firehouse...”

As soon as he says the word, memories from long ago that almost don’t even feel like yours resurface. Firehouse was always your and Jeon’s go-to pizza place on lunch break or for celebration after a job well done. Though you haven’t been there in years, the delectable taste of their pies is still fresh in your mind. It’s tempting, but you don’t want to make the decision. You weren’t that hungry, anyway. Jeon stares, awaiting an answer.

At your shrug, his patience runs out and he fishes his hand into his pocket. “Okay, I’m flipping a coin. Firehouse is heads, tails is the nearest drive-thru.”

He says it naturally, but you know he’s testing the water by the way his gaze lingers, measuring your reaction to see if you’ll be angry with him. Not one, but two fond tokens from the past, all in the span of thirty seconds? At one point, flipping a coin was an everyday occurrence to settle disagreements, whether it be where to eat, what time to close up shop, or whose plan to follow. You know he’s trying to jog your good memories, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

The metal flings from his thumb and lands with a muted tap in his opposite palm. He slaps it over to the backside of his hand.

“Heads. Firehouse it is.” His eyes flick up to yours, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

You grin. “Sure. Wanted that anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. A shy smile crawls up his face, the faint hallmark scar at the edge of his cheekbone shifting. “Yeah, alright. Tell me next time before it lands on something you don’t want.”

The elevator doors open with a ding, freeing you into the open world. If you let the resentment subside for a few minutes, it feels just like it used to when things were okay - you and Jeon against the world.

☆☆☆

“So this is it?”

You’re staring up a beat down brick building four stories high. It’s dilapidated and nearly falling apart, in contrast to the virgin casinos, modern and flawless with intricate architecture and an ambiance of expense just half a mile away. Supposedly, your guy was somewhere in there, and it was your best bet that he had something of value to give you.

Jeon slams his side of the car door, still licking at pizza grease on his forearm, and comes around to stand next to you. “Yeah. Floor two, apartment two.” You laugh to yourself incredulously at his casual antics, but he doesn’t seem to care as he walks right up to the door.

He finds that no buzzer is needed for entry, so with your guns at the ready, you take slow steps inside. Jeon leads, you trailing to the side of him. It’s eerily quiet, not a single person out to encounter, none of the hustle and bustle a usual apartment would contain, not even the sounds of footsteps or moving furniture. Did anyone actually live here?

The floors of the hallways are decorated with faded forest green carpet, stains and dust covering the washed-out fabric. There is an ugly floral strip of wallpaper at the top of the beige walls that are dented and scraped in random places.

You’re careful to keep down the volume of the creaking stairs as you shift your weight over them, but it’s nearly impossible. Upon further inspection, the door frame of apartment two was covered in scratches and markings, thin cobwebs joined in the corners. The door itself looks cheap and it has what seems to be a few drops of blood splattered near the knob. You and Jeon share a look of uncertainty, those gut instincts kicking in to let you know that something was off.

He begins to count down, and on three, you’re pushing in the door. He rushes in first with you on his tail to scope out the sides. The apartment is empty, except…

“Well, that’s fucking fantastic.”

There’s a dead body occupying the chair in front of the television. It’s the man, alright, but his throat has been slit, red coating his neck and clothes, head hanging back over the seat. There’s no smell, though - it couldn’t have been that long since others were here, especially due to the slight glisten of blood not yet dry on his skin.

They didn’t bury him, either. Just left the body out in the open for you to find. One alarming step ahead, just like last time.

“Covering their tracks. They knew he fucked up and took care of him before we could,” says Jeon, scouring the rest of the beaten-down unit. No signs of a struggle, no mess, no nothing. A dead end.

When you pat the body down, reach into his pockets, there’s nothing. When you move to his bedroom and start to search through his nightstand, it strikes you that there might be something invasive about rustling through a dead man’s belongings, but you’ve done it too many times to still be sensitive to it. You peer around his closet, look under the mattress, filter through his drawers, until a certain glint of light catches your eye.

On the side of his bed closest to the window, a small card lies on the carpet beneath, hidden by the frame if it weren’t for the shiny sticker on the back. You bring it up for a closer look in the light.

It’s got his name, picture, and contact information as well as a barcode at the bottom. Not a driver’s license, but an ID card for the Belvedere Casino. The sticker in the top corner makes out a small icon of a spread of playing cards.

You’re about to shout out to Jeon, but stop yourself as soon as you open your mouth. You take a slow once over around the room. Namjoon’s words echo in between your thoughts - Could the place be bugged? They were here not so long ago, and considering how they kept seeming to be a step in front of you at all times, it wasn’t a far stretch. There was no way to be sure, but you had a hunch.

Walking back to the main room, you catch his attention from where he is snooping around the shelves.

“Didn’t find anything. I think we’re out of luck.” When he turns to look at you, you widen your eyes and make an intense gesture with your finger to your lips before pointing a finger from your ear to the ceiling and directing your eyes around the room. You’re grateful when he understands immediately.

“Seriously? Nothing?” he asks timidly.

“Yeah. They got us. We should head back and call for cleanup, see if they can find anything.” You start for the door, pulling it open.

He hums, eyeing the item in your hand as he walks out behind you. “Good idea… I don’t really want to be here anymore anyway. Feels too weird.”

It’s silent all the way down. Was it too obvious? Was the dialogue too strange, too choppy? The two of you reach the street, careful of your surroundings, before getting back in his car.

“What was that about?” he asks, shutting the door as he slides into the driver’s seat.

You hold out the card for him to take. “Look. You know how you said there was no recent record of employment besides at King’s Crown? He’s been working at the Belvedere the past three months.”

He looks at you incredulously. “And?”

For whatever reason, he makes you doubt yourself. Suddenly, that solid idea you had in mind that made you split from the apartment is no longer so solid.

“The Belvedere has to have something. That’s our new lead!” Pulling your seatbelt over your body, you reach for your phone to give the Boss an update.

“He could have just been working off-record and gotten involved with the Syndicate some other way.”

You turn to him seriously. “Jeon. If it’s separate, why bother? Why would he be working for the Syndicate when he has a stable source of income as a dealer unless the two come hand in hand? They have to be hiding in plain sight.”

“And you’re willing to bet all your cards on that?” You almost find the doubt in his voice offensive.

You exhale deeply, trying to push down your temper. “The people in the Syndicate who killed him made sure there was nothing left on him to tell us who he was. No wallet, no keys, no license, no nothing, because they wanted his identity hidden. If he was working for them separately, why would they bother to do that? They would have just killed him and left. But it was about who he was and what he did. Which was dealing at The Belvedere.”

The car goes silent, and Jeon doesn’t reply. He only looks at you blankly, his poker face hard to break through, but not impossible. You know when he lets a hand slip up to tug at the strands at the nape of his neck.

“Good job,” he grins, hooking the key in the ignition and rumbling the car to life. He pulls out of the parking spot and onto the road casually.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You cross your arms in front of you protectively, glaring at him from the side.

“Oh, come on. I never actually doubted you, I was just messing around.”

You scoff loudly, turning to the window. “You’re such a fucking liar, Gguk. You didn’t get the connection until I explained it and the fact that you can’t even admit that you’re wrong, the fact that you have to act like you always knew, blows my fucking mind!”

He makes a left turn, looking out at the road, clearly avoiding you even though you’re stuck in the same damn car a foot away. “Calm down, Y/N. It’s not that serious.”

“But it is that serious! It was going so well, Gguk. We were finally acting like regular partners on a job. You always have to ruin everything, don’t you? It always has to be about you, and how much of a hero you are-”

“I never said I was a hero.”

“But you sure act like it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous? Comes from the guy who claims he was ‘just joking around’ during a serious case like this when you know it’s not like what it used to be.”

“Okay, fine!” He shouts, hands slamming down on the steering wheel. “I did doubt you. I thought it was far fetched.” Jeon's voice booms as he rambles quickly in aggravation. “And then you explained it and I remembered that you’re really fucking smart and I wouldn’t have made that connection myself. And I lied because I didn’t know what else to say. I’m sorry, okay? Are you happy?”

Jeon’s free hand, which had been jerking around as he yelled, finds itself gripping the wheel again regretfully. Silence fills the car, hanging in the air as heavy and solid as concrete. You’re almost scared to breathe in face of all the tension. He looks like he’s about to say something else but stops himself before the words fall out.

The way you were fuming brings tears to your eyes. When your parents died, all you had was Jeongguk. But Jeongguk’s heart had been rooted in the mafia since he was young. The two were mutually exclusive, and your best option was following after him. It was hard to believe the boy you put your trust in so blindly all those years ago had grown into the man sitting next to you now, bringing you to tears with the way he infuriated you. Where did it all go wrong?

“No. I’m not.”

☆☆☆

You’re tired when you go to bed that night, and you’re tired when you wake up. Though you’re barely awake, you can feel Penny nestled into your side, body rising and falling as she breathes. It’s a small comfort, especially after the rough day you had. Last night had been a mess as you tried to hold it together for her, but simply couldn’t.

Today, you’ll be heading over to a motel in the Gambling District to stay at indefinitely with Jeon while you work on the case. You have no clue how long it will take - you’ll be taking a look at the Belvedere, but what comes after that, you don’t know.

It was important to note that somehow, the two of you had moved up to the faces of the mission, even though both sides were working tirelessly in the search.

The last thing you want to do right now is see him, but you have no choice. The sooner you start working and get it done, the sooner you can get home. But for now, you have to start packing. You take another moment to lay with Penny, because when you’ll next feel this safety and comfort again, you can’t be sure of. Then, you carefully unlink her from you and begin laying things out.

Something nice to wear for the casino, clothes to sleep in, essentials for hygiene, an extra pair of socks…

Eventually, Penny stretches out and groans to inform you of her awakening while you roam around the room. Her feet shifting under the comforter push a t-shirt off the bed.

“Sleep okay?” She rubs her eyes. “Yeah, you?”

“Eh. Could have been better.”

While you are away, Penny will be home by herself. The Boss said that she wouldn’t be required for work while you were gone - she could stay home and safe, for your reassurance. It still makes you nervous, of course, but bringing her with you isn’t an option. Yeji promised she would stop in from time to time, and you would be leaving her with a sum of money in case she needs it to order food or something of the sort.

“When are you leaving?”

“I have to be there by one, so probably in an hour or so.”

“Can we make waffles then?”

You sigh, letting your arms go limp at your side. Waffles were a hassle, and the cleanup could be a nightmare, but… something told you it was worth it over the potential mess.

“Sure, go get the machine set up and I’ll come out in a sec.”

It takes a few more minutes to get everything packed, take a few extra bottles of soaps and gels just in case, quickly zipping up your duffle bag and tossing it down onto the bed for when you return later.

Out in the kitchen, Penny has gotten more of a move on. She has already retrieved the ingredients from the pantry, even started measuring amounts out accordingly with the instructions on the back of the box.

You let her have a little fun and crack the eggs this time - though some shell gets in there, it’s nothing you can’t pick out. She makes jokes and you can’t help but laugh, and something about it has its way of calming you down. It reminds you of how precious moments spent together are. Something about the girl just makes you let go of the burdens you carry.

But it’s much too soon that you’re cleaning up. A small ending for a small fragment of your day bound to be filled with things much larger than you’re ready to handle.

The rain falls like feathers when you pull into the lot, plunking consistently on your windshield. You turn the key and take it out, shutting down the vehicle’s rumbling engine, the lights dimming out all around you. You should get inside sooner than later, before the weather worsens, but you can’t seem to bring yourself out of the car. Jeon’s is already parked, meaning he’s inside waiting. But there’s no other choice you have. You’ll have to see him at some point, anyway. Postponing will only anger you further.

You push open the car door quickly, grabbing your bag and darting up the stairs as they clang under your shoes. The droplets smack against your skin and drip down relentlessly. It could be worse, but it is certainly not pleasant. Once you find shelter under the awning, you raise your hand in preparation to knock, but Jeon is already yanking open the door and stepping aside to make way for your entrance.

Inside, you dab at your hair with your sleeve carefully, fixing it in the mirror opposite to you. As clued in by the backpack and laptop already set up on the right side of the singular bed in the room, you deduced he had already claimed it. Therefore, you take the initiative to place your own bag on the left side, closest to the wall.

“So… how are you?”

“I’m fine.” You reach into your bag to begin unpacking a few of your essentials, feeling his eyes glued to you as you move around the room. Even as you plug in your charger, toss your computer on the bed, you could sense his firm yet uneasy presence behind you.

“Have you started yet?” you ask, brushing back the hair that had fallen forward onto your face. You’d prefer to start your work instead of floating around the elephant in the room awkwardly.

He tucks his hands into his pockets. “No, I was waiting for you.” Jeon has been stuck to the same spot near the dim lamp beside the door since you stepped through the threshold. It inclined you to think that maybe he’s as nervous as you are, but you’re sure it’ll pass over in a matter of minutes once he gathers himself.

“Okay.” You exhale in thought, sweeping yourself into a comfortable position on the bed. “I’ll start doing background on the casino and it’s ownership records. You can look into workers or people associated with the man who was killed. Or call the agency, I don’t know. You do you.”

He makes a small noise of agreement, flipping open his laptop. However, with the slow movement of his fingers across the keyboard, the air void of purposeful clicking, you can tell he’s not getting much done. In fact, you can see in your peripheral his stillness, as if he’s waiting to make a move.

When you spare a glimpse over to him, he offers an expression of deep thought, only to say, “There are snacks, too. In case you get hungry.”

Your scampering flow of typing pauses. “Okay.” All you can offer is a brief, tight pull of your lips, what you could barely define as a smile.

Luckily, he seems to receive your message loud and clear, turning back around in his chair to start up whatever he was planning on. You know what you want to get - the information most valuable to doing what you needed to do and confirming what you already suspected, which was in the past records of the proprietorship. It would also be helpful if you could find current workers and see what they were doing; Maybe even more helpful if you could find nothing at all.

The records you stumble upon are nothing short of interesting once you finally break down that barrier. Ownership of the casino had been consistent up until three months ago, when the deed holder - a healthy man of only fifty-six years old - made a business deal and swiftly moved out of the country, only to be found dead in his home a month later. The new owner’s background appeared without even the slightest scratch. The lack of suspicion is suspicious in itself - you don’t think the Falcon would have the place under his own name, but having it under someone who is pristine as a newly minted coin is dubious all the same.

It’s the shut of Jeon’s laptop that sucks you back into the reality of the motel room from your online sanctuary. He stands up to stretch and makes a move for the bathroom. The room is shrouded in the darkness of nighttime, save for the moonlight streaming in through the windows and the sorry excuse for a lamp on your night table. It wouldn’t kill you to call it a night either.

When he emerges, you take your turn, bringing a change of clothes with you so you won’t have to face the tension that might arise if you came back out in just a towel. The shower is pleasant; For a second, if you close your eyes, you’re no longer in the same space with him and can enjoy the time for yourself.

Your heavy heart can’t be kept at bay for too long. Outside the bathroom is a surprisingly accurate reminder of old times, when scenes just like this were the regular, and the feeling was the same. But at this moment, the way you’re avoiding his eyes while you braid your hair in the mirror is a show of just how much things have changed.

“Why are you looking at me?” you pipe quietly over the steady padding of your feet on the carpet, his watch following you hesitantly.

Jeon sits back at the head of the bed, not sure where to direct his gaze anymore now that you’ve verbally interrupted it. His constant attention, and especially the way he doesn’t deny it even in the face of your attitude towards him, leaves you with a weary ache that you’re quickly getting tired of feeling all the time.

A charming, shy smile fixes on his face as his head tilts endearingly, testing the waters. “What, I can’t look at you?”

“Not like that,” you mumble, barely above a whisper, lifting up the sheets to crawl in, leaving as much space as possible between the two of you. When you turn your back to him to look at the wall, you think he might make another teasing comment, but he doesn’t.

“It’s the braid,” he elaborates, as if it’s some sort of excuse sufficient enough to play flirty and cool with you when the situation is anything but. “It reminds me of when we were kids… you used to wear it like that every day.”

It’s almost as if to say, do you remember? But of course you remember. Afternoons spent at the playground, your hair in a loose braid thrown over the front of your shoulder. Mornings spent in the courtyard, scribbling down answers to work that was due in ten minutes. Evenings spent wandering around town, laughing and joking together as kids should. But nothing offered by the times of the past could dismiss the times of the present.

You lean over and tug the chain on the lamp, darkness enclosing your small room.

“Go to bed, Gguk.”

He doesn’t make another sound that night.

☆☆☆

The storm has proven its resilience yet continues to torrent, horribly testing the aging logs of trees and endlessly splattering your windows. Even still, it has something to say, residing anger it wants to make you feel, trapping you inside your room and limiting your options. It’s a deep pain, but perhaps if you were a storm, you’d let yourself drain out every ounce of deplorable wrath until there was nothing leftover, too.

Jeon sits at the small table near the door. He’s been there for who knows how long, flipping through pages, making phone calls that connect no dots, wasting his time. There is nothing that can be done at the moment, not with the state of the weather at least. Weather, a trivial matter, the most popular topic choice for insignificant conversation, heeds your course of action without a known resumption.

In the meantime, you enjoy yourself as much as you can. You make popcorn in the less than appealing microwave and settle in to watch whatever piques your interest in the slightest, meaning there is not a wide selection. Right now, you’ve got on a show about the aliens who have supposedly visited ancient Egypt and other societies bygone, and have been consistently present throughout the timeline of human history.

“Y/N. Let me ask you a question.” Jeon rubs his forehead, slumping over in his chair. “Did you come here with the intention of helping this case, or just to vacation?”

You nod in thought, humming. “Good question. I’d say the former, but I don’t think your question was intended to have an answer. Let me ask you a question then.”

His tired face turns to you expectantly.

You take a pensive breath before raising your hand and asking slowly, “Do you think that aliens provided advanced technologies to the Germans to build new weapons for the Third Reich?”

He stares at you blankly, meeting your still and inquisitive expression for just a moment until he cracks, shaking his head and looking away toward the window, as if he’ll find something better to say out there.

“No, I’m serious,” you insist as you toss another kernel into your mouth, hoping he takes your biting satire to heart. “Because, this guy is saying that the Germans built a flying saucer. A whole fucking flying saucer, called the Haunebu, and no, wait, listen, it was said to use mythical technology from old Indian texts.”

You stare, intent on waiting for a response. Jeon pinches the bridge of his nose, the way his fuse was quickly shortening keeping you bitterly entertained. “You have to work with me, Y/N. Can you please just work with me?”

The joke dissolves and you blankly turn to flip through the channels. “I am working with you. There’s just nothing to work on.”

He puts his head in his hands. “For God’s sake, can you stop? I know you don’t care for me, but if you could just cooperate-”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Care for you?” you repeat, your smile fueled with gallons of flammable offense, sitting upright on the bed. He spins in his chair to face you again, eyebrows knitting together before confirming, “Yeah, care for me!”

A sour laugh escapes you, arms folding over your front. “I don’t care for you? That’s rich, Gguk.”

“No, you don’t! And I don’t think you ever have, quite frankly, because you’re acting like such a bitch to me and can’t even give me a chance!” Jeon stands now, leaning into his words as his hands stretch out in dramatic gestures.

You jump to your feet. ”Why should I give you a chance? What good has that ever done me?”

Jeon’s jaw visibly clenches, his hand shooting up to meet his chin as he eschews your scrutinizing eye. You feel your nails digging into your palms as your fists clench, but you’re sure you’ll swing at something if you stop.

Your throat begins to sting, masking your cracking voice with a low tone. “I almost died for you, Gguk. And a week later, you left me.”

The room collapses under the weight of the elephant. It’s everything you’ve wanted to say for years bubbling to the top.

As soon as the venom leaves your mouth, you know he remembers. The guilt washing over his features says it all, awful clips of the last mission you ever went on together passing through his vision.

It was supposed to be an easy interception of a deal, but Jeon’s inability to differentiate between necessary risk and recklessness cost you your covers. He got away. You were captured.

It was torture at the expense of his safety. Excruciating pain in order to protect him from his own mistake. Your blood spilled, your tears cried, your body hurt. Yet at the end of every video, every call, every threat, your only message to him was that it was okay.

They were the worst you had ever encountered. They wanted leverage over the Boss; They wanted Jeon. And the only way to him was to you. At the time, it was worth it. You wouldn’t give him up, you wouldn’t let yourself become a part of an exchange for his life. You put his over your own in a heartbeat.

And where had that gotten you?

Your depth of a breaking point had provided that desperately needed time to organize a plan of attack, and even though you hadn’t been there quite yet, even though you had been trained and it was far from your first rodeo, it wasn’t anything less than scarring.

Even though the mafia infiltrated and rescued you successfully, the inner turmoil never fully recovered. Though you moved past the nightmares and the flashbacks that hid in your damaged subconscious, the memory never stopped hurting. Especially when he up and left you to deal with it on your own.

“I know,” is all he can muster.

A thrilling laugh of spite rips from your throat. He hates it.

“What? That’s all you can say? You can’t even give me an explanation?”

“I… I was out of options for us, Y/N. After the mission, I knew it was me making you vulnerable. People were hurting you over me, and I didn’t want that for us anymore. I made a plan to leave, and I thought that you could come with me… but I was stupid and in a rush and the deal was only for my cooperation if the Agency helped me out. They wouldn’t let me take you.”

Your usual crisp verbosity fails you now, everything you need to say stuck in your throat. A stabbing anguish falls like bullets in a downpour, a storm born only in the bitterest winter.

“I know I fucked up, Y/N, I know I did. And I’ll always be sorry and I’ll always regret it. And I’ll spend every second of my life trying to make up for it.” Jeon’s lip quivers through his shaky breaths, his eyes now soaked, the ache in his heart unforgiving. “And I know I can’t ever take it back, but you hate me so bad…”

A pained upturn of your lips feeling the grudge of a thousand wrongdoings phases over your expression, for him, for you, for everyone you’d ever known in this sickening lifetime.

“I don’t hate you, Gguk,” you sob through your teeth, wiping furiously at your eyes, “I hate… I hate that I love you regardless of what you do.”

He winces. “Please don’t do that to me.” “Do what?”

Hot streams of tears trickled down his supple cheeks, voice cracking as he whispers, “Say that you love me when you know how I feel.”

“Oh shut up, Jeongguk!” you yell, wet rage prickling your veins as it courses through you. Your cheeks are now just vessels for a dam breaking loose. “I have always loved you!”

And it hurts so bad to say it. The way he makes your stomach flutter feels like a betrayal to yourself. But that smile he wears like a medallion, those eyes that are always searching for you, that golden heart that loved you so well - everything you hate is everything you love. Even when you want to ignore the truth for everything it’s worth and all the weight it heaves on its shoulders, it’s impossible to escape the way you love him even when you wish you could just hate him.

You calm yourself with a shaky breath. “I loved you before, and I loved you after, even when you left and I knew you weren’t coming back.”

“That’s not true,” he sputters, taking a step toward you. “I was always going to come back. Every day, I begged for help to get you out. But the deal I made with the agency was only my rescue for my cooperation, and it didn’t include you, no matter what I tried to do.”

It stings your chest. You have to turn away when your head drops to your palms, but he’s quick to reach a hand to your shoulder for your attention.

“It’s been over three years, Gguk,” you whisper, sniffling as you wipe your running nose with your sleeve. Your voice is clogged in disappointed acceptance. “Don’t lie. Just say my relevance to you faded and you forgot.”

He grasps your arm gently, beckoning your eyes to meet his. While your tears are slowing from tire, his are an endless faucet left on in negligence.

“No,” his tone softens, “No, I was waiting until it was safe.”

You shake your head, the soreness in your chest present as ever as you try to hold it all in. “It was never going to be safe.”

“Maybe. And maybe it won’t ever be. But you have to let me make it right.”

“How do you intend on doing that? Putting snacks in the fridge doesn’t do shit, Gguk.”

He inhales deeply as his lips press together. Jeon takes a careful glance around the room, eyebrows furrowing as he silently pleads with you.

“I made a plan to get you out after the mission is completed. The higher-ups at the Agency agreed just in exchange for you to give a private report with as much as you know for future reference. From there, it’s you going wherever you want, no strings attached, no extra deal you have to make.”

“That won’t work,” you scoff.

“Yes, it will! I promise it will! Listen, everything is already planned. My friends are taking extra care because they trust me. You’ll have new records, a new passport and a license, new everything, and even…”

“Gguk...” You whisper as he continues rambling. “Gguk. Jeongguk!”

He takes in a sharp breath as his words are cut off mid-stream, feeling his heart drop to his stomach.

In a quiet, calm whisper, you explain, “I can’t. I have Penny and other people here that I care about. For god sake, I have money I've been saving for years in that apartment, all our stuff is there, I can’t just leave and not come back.”

The desperation in his voice is now out in the open. “I know. I wasn’t expecting that, but I’m working on her now, too. You just have to trust me.”

For a second, he lets himself swell with hope, but your deep, despondent sigh crumbles him right back down to where he started.

“Gguk…” you start, but he can’t bear to hear it, leaning down to meet your hesitant eyes straight on. Distress clouds his watery pupils as he implores you with every ounce of sincerity he can muster to the surface for you. He doesn’t know how else he can make you see he’s being more honest now than he ever has been in his life.

“It’s okay if you can’t forgive me. I understand, and I’ll never stop being sorry. And, and I’m sorry for how I acted when I saw you again, but I was just so scared.” His lip trembles as he searches for eyes for something, anything. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do because I was so scared of what you’d say and how you’d feel and I thought if I acted like it was fine, it wouldn’t hurt as bad.”

He swallows on a dry mouth, trying not to stammer but his heart denying him that ability.

“I, I thought about you every day. Every day. And I knew it was complicated and everyone told me I should just let go and, and I just couldn’t! I just knew it was you. It was always you. And I am so, so sorry I made you feel it wasn’t.”

By now, you can’t restrain your tears, no matter how hard you clench your teeth or comfort your face. In a moment of deep affliction, there’s no other place to turn but him. The second you pull him to you is relief synonymous with the feeling of when a battered castaway finally spots a plane coming for their rescue; it is joint.

“I wish I could trust you, Jeongguk,” Sobs muffled by his comforting chest, you cry, ”But I don’t know if I can do that. I want to believe you so bad, but I… I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

The comforting warmth of his body is a mean juxtaposition against the harsh sobs that rack through it. Jeongguk smells of something sweet and nostalgically familiar, like sunny beach days spent down by the salty water, plucking seashells from the sand and digging for hermit crabs once the waves pull away from the shore. Light sunscreen and grainy memories that flash by as your brain slides through like film.

“That’s okay,” he mumbles into your hair. Your will splinters in his arms. “Just think about it. That’s all. Just think about it.”

Though you nod against him in shaky assent, it’s not a promise.

☆☆☆

Not the next day, but the day after, is when you decide to make your move.

The casino is a home base, hidden in plain sight. Not even that - crowded by the public eye, and yet not a suspicion raised despite its astronomical numbers being reported over the past few months. Sure, it was bustling full of rich men in need of something to spend their money on, but not enough to sustain those incredible reports.

And under that brittle, flimsy assumption comes your similarly brittle, flimsy plan. Go in, see what you can see. Scout for suspicious activity, chat up drunk patrons and loosen their lips, explore the building a bit. See what you see.

Your fingers are nimble, but your prickling nerves make them fumble as you try the clasp on your necklace. The nail on your pointer can’t seem to hold the small lever down for long enough, even when you twist the chain around so you can lean forward to do it in the mirror. You even consider just tossing it to the side and going without the necklace.

Jeon, standing awkwardly to the side and already having fixed his sleeves in place countless times, glances over to you in the mirror briefly. You sigh when you catch his hesitant watch in the reflection - his shy offer goes unspoken, just a reminder that it’s there if you want to take it. All it takes is a minuscule top of your head to give in.

Resisting Jeongguk is like resisting gravity. It pulls you down sooner or later, no matter how high or far you push yourself off. But at the end of the day, it keeps you grounded.

His footsteps are barely audible on the carpet as he approaches timidly. Light on his feet, as always. You surrender the ends of the necklace to him and tug the pendant back around to the front. The pads of his fingertips are rough as they drag lightly across your skin in the exchange, igniting a flaming feeling in their path. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as he pushes them out of the way with the back of his hand. Considering his extensive training and incredible eye, you’re sure he notices it, but you’re grateful he doesn’t say anything.

You try not to let your eyes wander in the mirror for too long. For your excursion tonight, your dress is one of the best you own - a simple, dark satin gown with a generous leg slit to steal some eyes, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. The deep cowl neck is flattering in its pristine v-shape, especially with the way the pendant hangs itself just above.

Jeon is sporting all black. His shirt is ironed smoothly, fitting well over his shoulders and tucked with care into his trousers and secured with a sturdy belt. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows to reveal his skin, tattoos peeking out in a shamelessly appealing way, and the collar…

Okay, too much. You’ll go into sensory overload if you look any longer. He’s caught onto it, the way a smirk creeps onto his face. He lingers a second longer after he’s clasped the jewelry in place. The Gguk you know flicks his eyes up quickly and throws a small, short smile your way, hands reluctant to pull away as they take the time to drift over your bare shoulders.

You clear your throat, taking the initiative to get on your way. He hides the way his spirit dips at the rejection, but he knows he can’t expect more. Once you’re outside and have locked the door behind you, the night air hits you, cool and fresh and promising. But for what exactly, you can’t be sure.

☆☆☆

The Belvedere is one of the most expensive-looking places in the city - in the months since you’d last worked a case around the gambling district, it had certainly been renovated. At the very front, the casino’s name glows light blue in a thin font while large ivory columns hold up a wide intricate ceiling to shade the pavilion. A wall of luxe glass doors lines the entrance, so sparkly and reflecting you think it can’t be just glass.

As inviting as the front entrance seems, it is not your way in. Too many scrutinizing eyes, too many cautious cameras, too much security for your type of job. That leads you to the side of the building, a small alley between buildings with one side entrance. The agency already looped the footage twenty minutes ago just to be safe.

But of course when you try it, it’s locked.

“And… what now? They’ll notice if we just break in.”

Jeon shrugs. “Maybe not until a little while. Besides, we’re covered.” His pointer finds the camera up above the two of your for reference.

“I’d rather hold off on the damage we do.”

As he racks his brain for another option, your brain tunes in to the muted sound of shoes on linoleum. He raises a question just as you put your ear to the door but your shush quiets him immediately. The footsteps are coming your way.

Just as you feel the door about to open, you tug Jeon to the side next to the door’s hinge, pulling him down by his collar into a kiss. The door opens loudly and his hands, after his initial shock dissipates, find themselves on your waist as your own snake their way around his neck. You make sure one hand covers the side of his face generously and that your hair masks your own, meanwhile Jeon can’t help himself from getting swept up in you.

A guard, you think it is, halts when he sees the two of you, but takes it off his radar when he can no longer stand to watch your shamelessness. Or rather, Jeon’s shamelessness. His lips persistently press themselves to yours, nipping and pulling all the while his large hands push into your waist. Something about it makes you think it’s not just for a distraction.

The man shakes his head and turns the opposite direction, walking out toward the street. Before the heavy door falls closed behind him, you reach an arm out to grab the handle. Jeon pulls back slowly, blinking dumbfoundedly. He never thought you’d do such a thing - but clearly, it wasn’t such a thing to you by the way you were grinning like you’d only told a joke. He swallows, mentally slapping himself in a note to get himself together. You’re already stepping inside, and he picks up to follow suit.

You follow the hallway down the main room, and no one raises any concern, probably unable to sense suspicion in their state of inebriation. The two of you weave your way through crowds of people with too much money to spend, quietly thinking of how easy it would be to pickpocket them - but that’s for another time.

A quick scan of the room provides you with the bar, rows of slot machines, pool tables, and a large lounge area filled with the sounds of mindless chatter and glasses clinking. You order drinks to blend in, nothing alcoholic, because as much as you wish you could get drunk and have fun in a casino, that wasn’t the reason you were here. Jeon hands you your coke with a practiced movement.

In a cheesy sort of cheers, he says, “To… the Lion and the Scorpion? Or is that too soon?” He purses his lips, half scared you’ll agree its too soon. It’s relief when he hears the laugh he missed so dearly.

“Not too soon, just a little embarrassing.” You clink your glass to his and take a sip. Jeon leads you over to the dartboards in excitement, one of his favorites to partake in. He chooses the one at the end of the row so you can stand beside him, supposedly to be impressed by his skills and praise him.

“God, this reminds me of Macau,” he sighs out contently. His coffee eyes roam around the large expanse of the hall, seeming to glitter under the crystal chandeliers hanging above you as he walks back from the controls, darts in hand. He gets into position and throws his first, landing for two points in the ring of red. As if you didn’t already know, he adds, “I loved Macau.”

You scoff. “What, because of the way our covers were blown and we had to massacre the lobby, or the sex?”

“Why not both?” He shrugs, smirk creeping onto his face. Another dart leaves his grip, expert aim leading right to the bullseye.

You take another sip of your drink. “Careful,” you warn, “Can’t be too good at this. It comes with questions.”

He hums, and you wonder if he’s even listening. “And you still had blood on your chest. Weirdly sexy.” His eyes narrow jokingly as he speaks just low enough so only you can hear it, and the reaction it pulls from you is exactly what he wanted when he starts to laugh. He lets go of his last dart with a shake of his head, either at the memory or his bad throw that says he’s going fishing.

He turns back to you. At your annoyed expression, he takes another swig of his drink and leans down to your ear. “Seriously though. That was hot.”

You roll your eyes before sending a scowl his way. “I’ll make sure to be extra messy tonight, just for you.” Your eyes crinkle peevishly. The sarcastic tone doesn’t escape him, but he does look hopeful.

“Hey, speaking of, this could be my New Macau. If you’re feeling frisky after the mission.” He throws you a flirtatious wink. While your poker face implies disinterest, your stomach is somersaulting head over heels, and you have a feeling he knows it by the way his eyes linger on you when you raise your glass to your lips.

The phone in your purse vibrates. It’s a text from Yeji - need to get a move on. Jeon already has your gaze when you look back to meet him, but he knows it’s time from your expression alone. With a small nod, he goes up to end the game on the machine’s screen. Instead of coming back to you, though, he subtly taps your arm as he walks past and heads off to the door of the main floor, disappearing from your sight. You wait for a good thirty seconds, let people pass across the camera view at random, before hopping down from the barstool to follow in his footsteps.

You find him waiting in a secluded hallway, away from crowds or casino-regulars. He looks solemn, back pressed against the wall, and you have a feeling that what he has to say might upset you. He thinks so, too.

“Listen, you have to make a decision now. Before we split up, because there’s a chance I might not see you after this.”

You shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.” His eyebrows draw together as he gives you a pleading expression. His eyes flick to both sides of the hall before coming back to you, releasing a deep breath before pushing his hair from his eyes.

“I gave you the time, Y/N. You have to before it’s too late.” Jeon gulps, fumbling for the words. “Just come with me, please. I know it’s a lot to ask and I know you’re scared but you can trust me. I can help you.”

“No, Gguk. You don’t get it - It’s not possible. It’s not an option.” You sigh in resignation. A depleted smile surfaces as you shake your head. “Not in this life.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You did it once, you can do it again.”

“I’m not… I- I won’t. Y/N, please…” His lip quivers, his eyes glossing over.

He can’t accept the answer your silence provides. It’s not enough, not something he’s willing to endure. If it’s going to be a no, he has to hear it loud and clear.

He purses his lips tight. “I’ll flip a coin then.”

“...What?”

“I’ll flip a coin. Heads, you come with me. Tails, I’ll go,” he says shakily, swallowing, “...and I’ll never speak to you again.”

Before you can stop him, he’s wiping away the tears that have not yet had the chance to escape and aggressively fishing a quarter from his pocket, placing it on the tip of his thumb. Desperation burns in him, but you’re paralyzed. All you can do is stare, a fish out of water being held in the grip of an angler who just can’t let go. Or maybe one that’s urging you back out to sea.

His thumb flicks and the coin flies, the sound barely audible in this corner of the building but piercing to your ears. It flips in the air, every rotation executed with purpose - in that moment, as its arc nearly completes, the thought strikes you like lightning and without a second thought, you hand reaches up and snatches it midair.

Jeon is awestruck. He searches for something to say as his fountain of hope runs dry.

Weakly, you mutter, “Okay.” Its compliance, but a strange relief that makes you feel guilty the second it washes over you.

“Okay?”

“I’ll come.”

A tight-lipped smile spreads on his face - it’s the best he can do after such stress. In a heartbeat, he embraces you tightly, broad shoulders enveloping your form. His grip is familiar and only full of good things, even if it might suffocate you. His long, wavy locks brush lightly against your jaw as he buries his face in your neck. For once, you let yourself have that rare moment of comfort.

“I won’t let you down,” he says, a vocal assurance for himself maybe more than for you. He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t say it, but he has to. “I promise.”

It’s his first small triumph tonight. If nothing else, it is a debt repaid. He won’t push for more. He pulls back, lets you fix your hair and readjust your dress.

“Let’s get a move on. I’ll search the main floor, you take a look around the building. Keep in touch.”

You’re about to turn away from him, but his arm catches your wrist at the last second. When you look back to see what he has to say, he has trouble finding the right words.

“Listen… Y/N, I don’t know what it is, but I have this awful feeling. And I’m trying to ignore it, I know I’m probably just nervous, but I just want you to know in case. You don’t have to say anything…”

The hair framing your face bounces as your head begins to shake, trying to deny him before he can even say it. “No, Gguk, I know-”

“No. I...I love you. And you gotta know that, no matter what happens.” His thumb traces small circles on the patch of skin where yours meets your index. Before you have a chance to respond, he gives your hand a tight squeeze and plants a chaste kiss to your cheek, lips plush and sweet against your dimple, his last action as your token of remembrance.

He doesn’t know why he feels so frail as he walks away, wiping away the wetness leaking from his eyes as he tries to calm himself down. Maybe it’s the lack of information, maybe it’s you possibly being in danger again. He tries to push it down as he struggles to resist the urge to look back at you; He’s just all up in his head, right? You can defend yourself, you’ll be fine without him, he reassures himself. You can make rope from kitchen twine.

You’re stuck on your own as the distance between you grows, heart racing as your time to say it back runs out like sand in an hourglass. In less than seconds, his figure has already disappeared around the corner.

A delicate finger reaches up to press the small button on the spyware piece tucked behind your ear. The whisper is low but you mean every syllable, regardless of the leftover turmoil that has consistently tempted you into anger the past few years - “I love you, Jeongguk.”

It’s a shot in the dark for you without his physical presence, but he hears it. It’s barely audible, but he hears it, and rings in his mind for moments after. It makes him feel right, like the moment when everything sifts into the bowl perfectly, no clumps of doubt left behind in the minuscule metal crosshatches. Even if just for a few seconds, the feeling of relief stays frozen in time.

You’re on your way back to the main hall when a buzz from your purse alerts you to an unknown number calling your phone. Typically you’d let it ring, thinking it was spam - but considering this was an agency phone, that wouldn’t make much sense. Your finger hovers over the green accept button, hesitantly pressing down and lifting it to your ear.

The response is immediate. “The Scorpion,” a man on the other end addresses you, sounding much too enthusiastic for your taste. His voice is masked with a changer, the tone fluctuating as he speaks. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. I’ve spent a lot to make this place nice.”

The theatrics elicit an impatient eye roll from you. “Who is this?”

“Who do you think? You’re a smart cookie. There’s a reason they call you the Scorpion, isn’t there?”

He lets the pause marinate and continues, “I actually wanted to meet with you. I need to discuss something vital to you in person, but you’ll have to do some things for me first.”

You begin to turn around, spinning on your heels and intent on heading to Jeongguk downstairs, but the voice on the phone stops you. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, an eyebrow raising at the voice’s inquiry. Keen eyes scan quickly, landing on the faceless lens of a security camera -

“It’s my casino. Of course I can see what you’re doing.”

A skeptical breath escapes you, squinting at the camera focused on your position. “...What do you want?”

“I just want to talk.” It’s casual.

“How do I know it’s not a trap?” “You don’t. But you don’t have any other option, really. If you need convincing… why don’t you check your home security?”

The dubious persona falters as your heart stops. It couldn’t be. You exit the call and open the app on your phone right away, and a sinking feeling hits you like a truck on the freeway, full speed and with reckless abandon. The view from the camera, grey and grainy, displays the apartment in pieces, furniture overthrown and papers scattered. The dread crawls up your spine as your worst nightmare, the one thing you always prayed for despite the lack of faith, comes to life; Penny is gone.

You call the number back.

“What now?” you say, jaw clenched. trying to calm your breathing.

“Take out your earpiece, toss it to the floor, and crush it. I need to protect my location somehow, right? Just a precaution.”

You slowly remove the receiver from its spot nestled in around your ear, thumbing the tiny matte black tech. It’s your connection to the outside, to safety. It’s your connection to Jeongguk. But the Falcon has played his cards right, leaving you with no other option. It falls from your fingertips, clatters to the linoleum, and you crush it underneath your heel.

“Now, your weapons. My guards will come to escort you - hand over your gun and any knives you may have on you. I know you’re sneaky, but now… really isn’t the time. I’ll see you in a bit.” A cold click ends the call and he’s gone.

On cue, two masked men dressed in all black emerge. They don’t frighten you, you know you could take them if you needed to. However, the priority is Penny, so you have to. You surrender your weapons and phone to them, and then they begin to shuffle you away to wherever the Falcon had made his nest.

Despite the nerves prickling like electric shocks, uneasiness itches in the back of your mind. Something about the phone call - was it the strange familiarity that made you feel so nauseous? You couldn’t quite place your finger on what was so off, on what about it pulled the alarm, but something besides the obvious situation at hand was wrong.

☆☆☆

Jeongguk doesn’t have much to go off of. He’s looking for something, anything, that can clue him in. He finds a creepy looking stairwell and decides to take it down. That’s how you find everything in need of being found, right? By following what feels off?

He comes to a storage room full of dusty metal shelves, all lined with boxes upon boxes. He takes a quick sweep of the room, shrugging to himself before delving into one. It’s just piles of text he doesn’t understand, pages and pages of orders and receipts dating back years and years. Maps of the building, information of repairs and inventory and renovations. It doesn’t mean anything useful, until he sees orders under names that ring a bell.

But from where? People he went to school with, maybe? For the life of him, he can’t remember where he knows them from.

He’s frantically flipping through pages, pulling boxes from the shelves and trying his best to read under the dim light. It’s not making any sense, until he lands on orders filed under the name… Jeon?

He freezes, all alone in the middle of a storage room full of thousands of documents, a sickly feeling washing over him.

A trembling hand reaches up to press the button on his earpiece.

“Y/N? I think I just found something.”

He waits, and no response from you.

“...Y/N?”

☆☆☆

The penthouse is in the heart of the city, just a few blocks away from the Belvedere. The view is enough to tell it to you - it overlooks miles of blinking lights and busy streets with which you have an archetypal love-hate relationship with.

You’ve stepped fresh off the elevator into an open room that is in dire need of an interior decorator, or at the very least some basic furnishing. It’s basically empty, the dark hardwood floors even coated with a light layer of dust. Nothing except the moon and the fireplace at the other end of the room illuminate the space.

There’s shuffling, and the guards on either side of you are grabbing firmly onto your arms.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You struggle against them, fighting to get out of their grip, but one of them mutters how it’ll be better for you if you cooperate. You strain against the instinct to escape, every bone in your body screaming disgusted by the forced submission. Handcuffs click into place, and pressure on your shoulders pushes you to your knees. Then, they resign themselves to the back corners of the room.

A door creaks open at the far side of the room. The man sports a dark coat that obscures his figure, and long, dark hair hangs over the man’s face. His steps are slow and calculated on the wooden floor as he makes his way to the fire. Slender, practiced fingers grab onto the poker and stir the fire, glowing orange embers soaring in a blizzard of an inferno. A silver ring glints in the moonlight - one you’d recognize anywhere.

The details flood back, chains of connections like dominoes tipping over the edge of gut-wrenching betrayal -

“...Boss?”

The man pauses, followed by a sudden clasp of his hands in… delight?

He spins on the heel of his oxfords to face you, hair sweeping back as he smiles at you.

“Keen as ever, my dear. You truly are the Scorpion. I know how you feel about your title, but you’re deserving of it.”

A shaky breath leaves your throat, eyes stinging as you make out a low, “What is this?”

At the sight of your panic, the boss hurries over to you, making a show of how he takes your jaw in his hands. Though you flinch, he wipes the escaping tear with a calloused thumb.

“No, dear, no need to cry! This doesn’t have to be difficult. You are just leverage - you won’t be hurt as long as what needs to happen, happens.” The way he shakes his head, the twisted compassion in his eyes, makes you sick.

“Then where’s Penny?”

His sigh is accompanied by a sad smile. “Penny is the leverage over you. In case you get any funny ideas.”

“For what? What is this about?” you press, “What about the Syndicate, huh? Aren’t you gonna tell me what this is for?”

A rush of air, and then a sharp pressure on your throat. The Boss’s blade creeping up your throat - a small burn as he nicks your skin.

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you. You should remember where your loyalties lie.”

You swallow thickly, and he continues.

“The Syndicate is real. Their presence in this city is real - but we are on good terms with them. I help them, they help me. They sacrifice a few men because they do what’s needed for the terms of the agreement, just like us.”

He blew up a building, ransacked the agency, led you on a wild goose chase in search of a threat that didn’t exist? There was always something psychotic about the Boss, that’s why he instilled so much fear in you - his lack of empathy, the lengths he’d go just for a show of power, but a ploy like this?

“And what’s that got to do with me?”

He scoffs. “It’s not about you, my dear. It never was. It’s about your connection to who it is about…”

His grin grows inverse to your pained frown, lips quivering as the realization dawns on you. “Jeongguk.”

“You’re the link, Y/N. I know how much you hate to love him. Only if you were forced to for the sake of the city. The reconnection wouldn’t be easy, but that boy is persistent, and the moment he heard you say those words back, it was sealed.”

You’re choked by the weight of his words crashing down on your throat. It’s horrifying, the way the tears well up and spill recklessly, finding it hard to breathe with your arms restrained. You focus your hardest on the effort to stay conscious, but the nausea is eating away at you.

“He was honest, too. He’s tried multiple times to fish you out of here. And it always rubbed me the wrong way. He’ll leave me behind, but not you? You’re my best, Y/N, but I despise you simply because of what your existence means.”

“You’re going to kill him?” you bite your lip to hold back the sob trying to crawl its way from your chest.

The Boss blinks, tilting his head in a faked compassion. “Only if he makes the same mistake again.”

An alert sounds out from his pocket. He fishes out his phone and holds it up to show you a map with a green dot steady on a location, seemingly yours.

“And it looks like we’ll find out right about… now.”

The elevator behind you opens, and the guards point their guns straight at the figure stepping off. His gun is held up protectively, but he has nowhere to go, face falling as he reads the situation - reads the pain on your face as you stare back at him on the floor.

He lowers his pistol, glaring at the man waiting smugly in front of him.

“Nice to see you again, Jeongguk.”

His lip turns down in disgust, spitting rancor -

“Can’t say the same for myself, Dad.”

☆☆☆

The tension in the air is tight, like a thousand strings of yarn pinned wall to wall and floor to ceiling and impossible to maneuver. The Boss tsks at the cold reunion, more bitter than he had hoped.

“What, you didn’t miss me all these years? I raised you, after all.”

“Raised me?” Jeongguk scoffs incredulously. “Try training me into your personal pawn, like some fucked up trophy for you to flaunt.”

“It was only so you could someday take my spot, son. I treated you the same way my father did me.”

The bitter timbre of his voice is laced with venom, so uncharacteristic of the Jeongguk you know. “Well, I worked out my daddy issues with a therapist. Maybe you should give it a shot. You should also probably mention how fucked up you are to plan a scheme like this just to bring me here.”

“You left, Jeongguk. I’d do anything for my son.”

“Oh, please-”

A loud click, and cool metal pressed against your forehead. Jeongguk freezes, and he knows the stakes. His blood boils from the blatant manipulation. There was a reason he left - he hated feeling this exact moment, and he hated reliving it even more. It was a place he thought he’d never be in again.

The Boss rolls his eyes again. “Always with something to say, forgetting I’m your elder, your father no less. Plan on letting me speak soon?”

His eyes are as cool as Jeongguk’s now. Dark, disappeared from dramatic frills or drawn-out tones. The resemblance is stunning, strikes fear in your heart, both physical and the mannerisms long-buried by time now resurfaced by each other.

When you meet the Boss’s eyes, they show no remorse for someone he claimed thinks of as his best.

Jeongguk’s eyes flick down and back up. Cooperation.

“Thank you.” He pulls the gun away, letting you catch a breath. “It’s simple, son. You agree to come back, and everything goes smoothly. If not, you won’t be leaving this room alive, and neither will she. Can’t have my trump cards playing against me.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“She’s the reason you’re here, how could I leave her out of this?”

“This is you and me. Not her.”

His father muses the idea, chews it up, spits it out. “Okay,” he grins. “Just us. I’d say go until one surrenders, but that’s not how us Jeons do it. If you can kill me, you’re free to do what you want.”

The guards lower their weapons, leaving the room at a snap of the Boss’s fingers, and Jeongguk’s grip on his tightens, knuckles turning white as he nods sharply in agreement. He’s been caught, a three-year-long game of cat and mouse finally come to a standstill. The man he looks at is just another cruel, cold-hearted crook on a power trip. The last thing he wants to do is fight him, because as skilled as Jeongguk might be, his father is equally such. He also has the upper hand: No feelings of remorse.

But he sees you on the floor, and when it comes to your life on the line, he knows he’d do anything. No matter the risk or the cost, he’d play a losing hand if he had to, if just to keep the fear from your mind. He steps past you, eyes speaking of reassurance when they meet yours, but it’s not a promise.

Once Jeongguk has made his way around you to the center of the room, the Boss’s attention falls to you.

“Hear that, dear? This is a family issue. But in case you need any more convincing…”

The same door he creaked through minutes ago flies open, and in shuffles two people. Penny’s figure mirrors your own, arms tied behind her back. Her eyes are red and puffy, hair mussed and clothes wrinkled. There’s no blood or bruising visible, but it kills you the second you lay eyes on her. Your chest heaves silently, panic rising as she is brought in front of the fireplace, led by… Yeji?

The sleek, dark ponytail is unmistakable, and her cat eyes flick over to you in guilt as your words confirm her presence.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths, tears clouding her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

It was impossible to believe how easily everything was collapsing. Maybe your foundations were not as strong as you once thought. Wasn’t it just a week ago you had last spoken to her, taken her advice on working with Jeongguk?

“Again. No need for anyone to get hurt as long as you don’t interfere.”

But would Yeji hurt Penny, even at the Boss’s command? Was she that scared of him? Penny finds you, and you try your best to communicate reassurance, but you fall short. She trembles in fear the same as you.

Without warning, the Boss’s blade flies across the room. Jeongguk side steps, but the red gash sliced along his cheek taunts him for being a second too late. He reaches up a finger to dab at the blood in awe.

His anger fuels him forward. He raises his gun, ringing out shots that bury themselves in the drywall as he closes the gap. The Boss dodges each one. Slender fingers pull the gun from its holster, firing back immediately, glass shattering behind the younger.

Jeongguk zig zags on his feet, blade swinging up viciously at his father while he pulls the trigger in his left hand. The Boss is quick despite his age, no hesitation to his wide, ruthless swings. Jeongguk ducks and spins, changing their positions, knocking a knife from his grasp.

The man laughs. “That was good, but you can do better!” he yells, evading Jeongguk’s relentless swipes. As he taunts, a shard of glass reaches your vicinity. “Or are you too scared to hurt your old man?”

Your fingers bleed hot as you force the shard into the keylock, lifting up the metal lever.

It only fuels Jeongguk’s fire. A firm kick to the chest sends the Boss stumbling back. Jeongguk progresses, his knife dropping around in his grip, taking the slim moment to drive a sharp ice pick stab to his father's shoulder.

His eyes flick to you, and he doesn’t have the time to pull it back out. His father parries his left wrist outward and the gun is knocked from his fingertips, skidding to the floor, arriving kindly right in front of you. A single shot blasts out and Jeongguk lets out a clipped yelp. Your wrists free from the lock and reach for the solution just inches away.

But it’s already checkmate. The Boss’ blade is pressed up against Jeongguk’s throat, who is on his knees as he clutches at his thigh, crimson seeping through his fingers.

“Has the Lion been tamed since I last saw him?” The Boss mocks. There is nowhere for Jeongguk to go. “I’m disappointed, son. Love has made you weak.”

It steals the breath from your lungs. His eyes dart to your figure, mirroring his son’s actions just moments ago. He dares you to make a move. With his play, you can’t.

But that’s where the Boss is wrong. The man void of love sees it as a shot with a predetermined course from point A to point B, easily interfered with by the right tools, by the right move. However, love should not be mistaken for something meager. It’s an ever-weaving thread, crossing and connecting each and every way. Love does not have to be star-crossed and dire, it is not always a fated, tragic romance. There is no one love to outlast all others - not when it can be one you choose.

Yeji meets your eyes from across the room. The Boss has only a bluff catcher against her, the mistake of expecting loyalty before knowing for sure. It’s a twisted collusion that you never would have chosen, but it’s not your hand to play anymore.

Her vision is blurry through her tears. Yeji takes a breath she’s sure will be her last and releases it shakily. She has to do it now. She thinks of every other woman roped into his scheme, every future Penny that will be taken if it doesn’t end here, and she knows you can do it, because she was never strong enough to.

“Forgive me,” she croaks.

An enraged bellow leaves the Boss, but all too late. She has already fired, breaking the lock that has held you captive all these years. A scream rips from your throat as Penny’s body falls forward and collapses to the hardwood.

Yeji is shredded by the entourage of bullets ripping from the Boss’s gun. She stumbles back, hits the wall, sinks to the floor.

Your hands instinctively reach for the weapon in front of you, hands fumbling as you pull the trigger with the weight of a thousand lives behind your index alone. The Boss falls, knife slipping from his fleeting grip, the third and final seal to the game.

The silence is stunning. Nothing feels real. It’s all shock before the pain rushes in, the inability to breath, the feeling of drowning. It’s utter anguish as you fight to the other side of the room, but Jeongguk holds you back. Pushing past him, only for him to spin you around and make you look him in the eye.

“We have to go,” he says through gritted teeth, voice cracking. His eyes plead with you as they blink away tears. Blood coats his hands, urgently dripping down his wrists as they grip yours. “Y/N, we have to go.”

It dawns just as the day on the glowing horizon behind him that it’s over, but there is no victory in sight.

☆☆☆

The coming days are a whirlwind. Most of the time you’re numb, finding yourself stuck in your mind replaying memories over and over, and wincing to pull yourself out of them to the real world that is not much better. The funerals are a blur, long and tiring processions of black and sympathies you are not capable of accepting that leave your head pounding by the time you finally can sleep. But the dream world is not as kind to you as you would have hoped.

It isn’t the memory of her death. It’s the memory of her smile, bright and tender, that could not see another day to shine. You haven’t stepped foot in the apartment yet. You will at some point, but not yet.

Yeji is another story. It’s a moral dilemma of what your inner compass tells you is wrong and your love for the only friend you ever had. Yeji was not bad, you know that. But it was murder, and perhaps that was why it did not go unpunished. Were her actions the results of weakness, or strength? Of personal desire, or wide-scale consideration? You could spend hours wondering whether things might have been different if she hadn’t done it, but at the end of the day, you would never get the chance to know.

In the meantime, the mafia is collapsing. Those who wanted to leave took their chance the second the news of the Boss’s death came in. Ran away to other cities, shelters, anywhere they could to get away from the struggle of the organization. Others who had nothing else are stranded picking up the pieces. They won’t be able to make a comeback, you know that. They’ll turn to other forms of crime, maybe even those that you’ll have to face again in the future.

You can get away from it all for a few moments of peace, but not much more.

Jeongguk’s apartment is close to the marina. He’s lucky for such a beautiful view. This early in the morning, the world is silent, relaxing without the mindless bustling of life. Boats float calmly across the harbor, sails reaching up to the sky streaked with blossoming pinks and clement oranges. Daybreak’s retiring light glitters as it touches the surface of the water with a gentle hand.

The glass door slides open slowly behind you, and Jeongguk’s presence enters to calm your thoughts. The slight limp in his step is barely visible, and he’s lucky that his father’s bullet avoided his femoral artery. If it did, he’d probably be in a much more dire situation than he has now. Since that night, rumors have surfaced that the Boss missed due to nervousness, or fear. Jeongguk knows that his father’s aim was too sharp to miss, and also that he was a hypocrite.

He takes a seat in the chair beside yours. His hair is mussed from a long night of tossing and turning, the same as yours.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you mutter, tongue coated with exhaust.

He hums. “Me neither.”

The flux of air from his sturdy chest is a comfort that relieves the pain for just a little while. Lifts it away like a fog being cleared, and the weight falls off your shoulders so you can breathe again. His eyes swim with affection, and you’re sure that a thousand particles of stardust must be locked away behind his irises.

It never fails to amaze you how Jeongguk always seems to know what you’re thinking. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

“I know.” It’s weak, barely a whisper. Your head drops to your palms despite your claim. “But it really feels like it.”

He takes a deep breath, atmosphere placid and unassuming. “You did everything you could. Some things are just out of your control, no matter what you do. It’s not fair, but just because you couldn’t stop something bad from happening doesn’t mean you caused it.”

You swallow blearily. “I just don’t even know where to go from here. It’s never going to be the same. So what do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” he speaks gingerly, “Maybe you should get out of here. Start again, somewhere else. I’ll probably do the same eventually.”

Your head begins to shake at the thought.

“I don’t want you to go,” you pause. “I told you that.”

Jeongguk softens. “Oh… okay. I, I won’t then.”

Finally, your head raises to see him properly. His calm guise masks the need of reassurance beneath. “I mean it. Do you remember when you said to tell you the next time so it didn’t land on what I didn’t want?”

He nods slowly.

“When it was in the air, there was just this split second watching it that it hit me. I knew what I wanted. Despite everything,” the corners of your mouth upturn, but not all that happily, “I wanted to choose you.”

Dark, wavy hair falls in front of his eyes, brushing at the healing cut that will certainly leave a scar. His gaze is tender and soft and all that’s good in this world. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And if you asked him, he wouldn’t hesitate to agree.

“I forgive you, Jeongguk. For everything, I don’t care. I’d go through it again and again if I had to.” A fleeting smile pushes the tears from their deep wells. “‘Cause I need you.”

Jeongguk suffered the subtle heartbreak of unknowing for years on end. He’d sit on his balcony just like this, mild evenings under the setting sun, knowing you were out there living under the same sky as him, yet so far apart. He thought of you crossing city streets, breathing the air of the home you loved and hated simultaneously, maybe even sitting out on the fire escape of your own apartment. You were within a radius of just miles, which sounds like nothing compared to how far he’d go for you.

He saw you everywhere. Saw you in every crevice and crack of the city. When the sun was shining brightly, when rain poured like bullets. From the window of the train, from the coffee shop. Retracing his routine steps was hard when he always saw your footprints right beside his own.

It was the feeling he’d been waiting on. At last, he feels contentment in his chest. It’s all he’s ever wanted. His pulse stutters as he thinks that he might just be dreaming, but when he reaches out to touch your clasped hands, steady fingers curling over yours, he knows it’s real. You’re real. It’s pure, unadulterated sunshine splintering over his soul.

Jeongguk stands, holding out his hand for you to take. He pulls you up with care and tugs you into his embrace, warm and kind. His arms around you are safe and sound, and the gentle beat of his heart eases the noise in your mind. It’s the heart that wouldn’t quit on you, the one the angels must either admire or envy. It’s the only thing that feels okay.

One day, things will be better. It’s far away and hard to grasp, but it’s there, waiting for you. Things that are meant to be will find a way, no matter how long it takes, just as Jeongguk and you found your way to this very balcony. But for now, sharing the weight of a heavy heart soothes the lonesome burden of loss, and what it means to love.

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s1utspeare · 3 years

Text

@staidwaters asked for Li Cu and “selcouth” (in reference to this post; send me a prompt!), and since someone ELSE requested selcouth for a character I gave you an extra word lmao. THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE PROMPT!!! I LOVE U!

Also I will put these in a whole collection on ao3 at some point lol.

selcouth—unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet wonderful hiraeth—a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home with maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

There’s a time, when he returns, when he realizes he doesn’t know where home is.

Objectively, of course, he knows where he lives. He knows that there’s an apartment with his father in it and his bed and clothes and things are there, but that’s different. It never quite was a home, but it really isn’t anymore, because it’s just… it’s so small. He’s spent weeks with the stars as his ceiling, even more looking at the same four walls of his room in the Wang compound, so an apartment with beat-up furniture and storage closet that was never used for storing things isn’t that much different from any other apartment he could be in.

He tries going to Su Wan’s first. Part of him wants to because he missed Su Wan, but it’s mostly because he didn’t know for weeks if his best friend was dead or alive, so when he wakes up in the middle of the night with a short, sharp gasp, all he has to do is listen, and he can hear Su Wan breathing next to him in the bed. Also, Su Wan will cuddle him whether Li Cu wants him to or not, so that’s nice.

It doesn’t last, though, because every morning he has to go downstairs and say hi to Su Wan’s parents, and Su Wan’s parents tolerate him, but they don’t really like him, and they really don’t like him now, after he filled their garage with packages and dragged Su Wan off into the desert. Also, sometimes he doesn’t want to be cuddled because that’s like arms pinning him to the ground and it takes all his willpower not to punch a sleeping Su Wan in the face, but to instead lie stiff as a board until morning.

So he packs up his stuff and moves to Hao-ge’s, which is different, but not exactly better. Hao-ge is dealing with his own grief, his own loss, and Li Cu feels in the way of all that fury and rage. He knows, logically, that Hao-ge doesn’t blame him anymore, but he can still see Hao-ge’s face, streaked with tears, his fist pulled back, his voice strangled with anger and pain. Li Cu’s leg throbs.

He stays for three days, just to be polite. He watches their shop while Hao-ge goes out of town to visit some relatives, to figure out what they’re going to do with his grandmother’s things. He knows Hao-ge is probably going to sell the store. It’s not just because he doesn’t want to run it; he honestly can’t, financially. Hao-ge’s not ready to let it go, quite yet, so when he gets back, Li Cu lets him have the space back, to trace over and memorize the corners of his home before he has to leave, makes a mental note to bring Su Wan over to help him pack, to keep him distracted. He didn’t sleep well at Hao-ge’s anyway, especially when he was gone. It was too quiet then.

He can’t couch surf, after that. All the rest of his friends are dead.

He uses some of the stupid money that Wu Xie paid him at the very beginning—and it’s really not even enough, Wu Xie should be putting him through college—to rent a hotel room for a couple nights. That’s nice at first. He has his own space, a big shower, cable tv. But he doesn’t know it, his body can’t relax in an unfamiliar room with big, wide windows and only one lock. He spends two sleepless nights lying on his back, on his side, on his stomach, pacing the carpet. He gives up after night two, when everything’s hazy and dull in the back of his head, and checks out.

He spends the afternoon wandering around the city, toeing past the restaurants and coffee shops and arcades that he used to hang out in, the soccer fields and schools and parks he passed every day. There’s the manhole cover that broke and the city’s never gotten around to fix it, so there are perpetual orange cones around it in a cult-like circle—no, no, don’t think about cults, cones can’t have cults, it’s just a circle, Li Cu, come on—and there’s the statue of a dog near the center of the park near his house and he likes dogs, even more when they’re—not attacking him, they didn’t attack him, the dust of Wu Xie’s grandfather is ground into your bloodstream—and there’s the library that he and Shen Qiong used to go to for story time when they were really young—and now she’s young forever, a bullet in her brain between her eyes she died angry with you she died alone she died at the hands of her family—and eventually he’s on the soccer field and he’s lying flat on his back in the grass but there’s too much light and he can’t see the stars.

He can’t see the stars.

He can’t fall asleep if he can’t see the stars. If he can’t see the stars maybe he’s underground again, maybe—

“Kid, you can’t sleep there.”

He lifts his head, wearily. It aches, heavy on his neck. It got dark at some point, except not right now, because there’s a police officer shining his flashlight into his eyes, and he squints into it.

“Come on,” the officer says, “Go home.”

Li Cu laughs and flops back onto the grass. The police officer mutters something that sounds like a swear word under his breath and comes through the gate, marching over to Li Cu and hauling him, albeit gently, off of the turf.

“You been drinking?” the officer asks. Li Cu shakes his head. “Can’t smell any on you.” The man scoffs. “Jeez, kid, no offense, but you look terrible.”

Li Cu just blinks at him. He’s really tired, actually.

The officer sighs. “Come on, I’ll drive you home. You got an ID?”

Li Cu remembers that his ID is in his wallet which is in the pocket of his backpack and he knows it’s there because he had to use it to pay for the hotel.

He hands the entire thing to the officer, who sorts through it, glancing at Li Cu every so often in concern, and clicking his tongue contentedly when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Alright,” he says, “Let’s get you home.”

Li Cu’s glad this officer knows where his home is, because Li Cu has no idea.

Never mind. Li Cu is pretty sure this isn’t his house.

The police officer rings the doorbell, and unfamiliar chime. A loud, deep voice inside says, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” and then the door is flying open, and a large man with wild hair is staring down at them.

Li Cu frowns because he has no idea who this guy is.

The guy seems to know him, though, because he rolls his eyes, turns back into the house and shouts, “TIANZHEN!”

Li Cu winces, cause his head kind of hurts now, and that was not helpful.

The man turns back to look at them. “What did he do?”

“Uh,” the officer says, because he’s shorter than Li Cu, actually, so he must be feeling very intimidated by this large man, “He was sleeping on the soccer field at the high school.”

The door man snorts. “Of course he was.” He folds his arms, leaning against the doorframe, looks Li Cu over. “Yeah, you look like a mess, Ya Li.”

“Wha?” Li Cu says, because that’s weird, that this strange giant man with large arms is calling him Ya Li.

“That’s what Xiao Wan called you, right?” the man asks. “Su Wan? Your best friend?”

Li Cu gapes. “How do you know Su Wan?” He backs up a step. “Is someone stalking me again?”

The police officer looks very alarmed at that. “Again?”

“He’s joking,” the Person-Who-Calls-Him-Ya-Li says, “No one’s stalking him. His friends came to me for help a while back, but he wasn’t with them.”

The police officer does not seem convinced, but at that moment, a familiar face appears in the doorway behind the Person-Who-Calls-Him-Ya-Li.

“Wu Xie?” Li Cu asks.

Wu Xie looks just as surprised as Li Cu is. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” the officer says, “He was trying to sleep on the soccer field. Which is actually illegal. So I brought him home.” He frowns. “This is his home, right?”

“I don’t know,” Li Cu says.

“Yes,” Wu Xie says quickly. “Yes, you brought him to the right place. Sorry, he’s been a little out of it lately. Stress at school, you know. Not sleeping very well.”

“How’d you know that?” Li Cu asks in surprise, because as far as he can remember, he hasn’t seen Wu Xie since before the Wang compound. There’s a fuzzy memory of an apology, of being carried, but after he’d been thrown out the window, he woke up on a train.

He glares at the windows to the side of the house. He does not trust them.

Wu Xie gathers him by the shoulders and pulls him through the doorway. “Thank you, officer. I’ll make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Okay…” the police officer says. “Um. Get some rest, kid.”

“Mmm hmm,” Li Cu mumbles, even though he knows that probably won’t happen, and Wu Xie shuts the door.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks. “You’re supposed to be at home.”

“I dunno where it is,” Li Cu says. He yawns, widely. How long has it been since he slept? He has no idea.

“You don’t know where your house is?” Wu Xie says slowly, like he’s trying to figure something out. He’ll be able to do it. Wu Xie has a Big Brain.

“My house is where my house is,” Li Cu says vaguely. “I dunno where’s home.”

Wu Xie goes silent for a moment. “I see.”

Li Cu blinks himself into less of a stupor, figures out where his hands went (they were on the end of his arms). “I’ll go back there, I guess. Sorry.”

“No, no, wait,” Wu Xie says, which is funny, because Li Cu hasn’t moved. “It’s late. You’re… really tired. We have a couch.”

“Good for you,” Li Cu congratulates him.

Wu Xie closes his eyes for a second, gritting his teeth. “The couch is for you.”

“You’re giving me a couch?”

“Oh my god,” Wu Xie says.

The Person-Who-Calls-Him-Ya-Li laughs. “You sure chose a good one, Tianzhen.”

“Shut up, Pangzi,” Wu Xie mutters, because apparently he is this Tianzhen person.

“Make him take a nap for an hour,” Pangzi says, wandering off down the hall. “Then dinner’ll be ready.”

“We had dinner earlier,” Wu Xie calls after him.

Pangzi stops, looks at Wu Xie pointedly. “Nope. Dinner. In an hour. So the kid can join us.”

“Oh,” Wu Xie says. “Oh, right. Yeah. Dinner.”

Li Cu might puzzle through this if he were more awake, but he’s really not. “What?”

Wu Xie sighs at him. Li Cu should really stop making him do that. “Alright,” he says, “Come with me.”

Li Cu dutifully follows Wu Xie down the hallway, because he’s followed Wu Xie into worse places.

They come out into a wide-open room, full of books and random vases and boxes of papers and bits and bobs. Sure enough, there’s a couch there, and Wu Xie steers Li Cu over to it, pushing against his shoulders gently to make him sit. The couch is pretty soft, a well-worn type of feel to it, like someone has sat here every day for years and years and filled it full of memories.

“I’m not going to ask if you need to be hom—back at your place, because I really doubt it,” Wu Xie tells him. His voice is coming from below Li Cu’s ears, so Li Cu looks down to see Wu Xie pulling off one of his boots, so Li Cu flops over his knees to pull of the other one, but his fingers get tangled in the laces, and he gives up and lets Wu Xie do it.

Wu Xie sighs at him. He takes Li Cu’s backpack and puts it next to the coffee table, where Li Cu can see it. He appreciates that. It’s good to know where things are. If you know where your things are, you can’t lose them. If you know where snakes are, they can’t bite you. If you know where Wu Xie is, you don’t have to miss him.

“Lie down,” Wu Xie says softly, and the couch really is comfortable, so Li Cu tentatively pulls his legs up and sets his head down and gazes at the lamp next to an armchair.

Wu Xie drags the throw blanket from the back of the couch and settles it around Li Cu’s body, which might be a little overkill, because Li Cu isn’t going to be here that long, he’s just going to rest for a moment, and then he’ll leave. Then he’ll get out of Wu Xie’s way. He’ll go back. Just a few minutes.

Wu Xie straightens up, grunting a little bit, and Li Cu almost says, don’t go, but he bites his tongue. He can’t ask that much of Wu Xie. Wu Xie’s already giving him a couch.

But then, Wu Xie doesn’t leave. He goes over to the armchair, picks up the notebook lying tent-style over its arm, flips through it. Someone’s glasses are on the end table, and that someone turns out to be Wu Xie, because they go on his nose as he takes in whatever the journal says, chewing the inside of his cheek absently and tapping a pattern out on his knee.

Li Cu blinks, slowly. Wu Xie is warm and marvelous, he thinks. He’s fading into a soft glow, backlit by a warm light that reminds Li Cu of something, something good, something he thought he lost, but maybe not. Maybe not.

He falls asleep and dreams he’s home.

#alsdighalskdfj i made myself sad #writing #my writing #fic #dmbj #li cu #wu xie #pangzi #there's a cop in here and he's nice ig but fuck the police #just putting that out there #anyway #prompt fill #ask tag #dad!xie rights #the lost tomb #tomb of the sea #sha hai

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ofdragonsdeep · 3 years

Text

21: Feckless

The youngest true-born son of House Fortemps had a reputation. Some things were more important.

(HW spoilers, character death mention, m!WoLxHaurchefant)

Night seeped through into the rooms of Fortemps Manor. Alone in his room, not even his manservant for company, Emmanellain de Fortemps sat on his bed, staring down at the letter in his hands as though it were a summons to his own execution.

It hadn’t felt real, when the news had come down from the Vault. His little brother - how long it had taken them both to be comfortable with that moniker, precious years stolen by the pernicious hate that stifled the ruling class - gone. He had watched his father crack and break, seen the glassy-eyed shock still written on the miqo’te’s face, watched Artoirel near biting his lip to keep his composure. For the first time in his life, he had found himself utterly without words, at a loss to make any impact at all.

War came for all of them, in the end. He had seen it in the Haillenartes, crushed by the loss of Chloidebaimt during the Calamity. Watched Lanaiatte give herself to the life of the soldier in hopes of recompense, felt the terror that she, too, would be lost. For all that he and Haurchefant had bickered, he recognised the skill his brother had possessed, skill he felt himself lacking. What had happened with the Vanu at the Sea of Clouds had left him trembling in terror, unable to so much as raise his voice in protest. By the Fury, it was cruel to take the competent ones. Would they have missed him? Would his father have broken down to tears at the news of his death? Would it have felt like a hole in the fabric of their family to lose the wastrel, the second-born, the backup son? His father had not loved his mother like he had Haurchefant’s, another failing of the way their society bent them out of shape. Would it have mattered?

He blinked back the tears, looking back down to the letter in his hand, feeling the sadness settle like a pit in his stomach. Haurchefant had given it to him before Ar’telan and his friends had left for Dravania to challenge Nidhogg. He had questioned it at the time - why him, and not the ever reliable Artoirel? Why even write something so grim as a letter intended to be delivered from the grave? Surely with allies so strong and a cause so just, death would not, could not claim them.

Haurchefant had been carefree about so many things, but this was too important to leave to chance. Emmanellain could not even fathom being in such a situation - loving someone so deeply that you left them an elegy in the wake of your death. But here he was, with a letter to deliver that he wished with all his heart he had never received.

---

He walked the short distance to his brother’s room - no need to put a qualifier on it now, horrible as the thought was - and knocked. Artoirel opened it, looking remarkably composed in the face of all that had happened, and blinked at him in surprise.

“Emmanellain. Is Honoroit not with you?”

“No. I… I sent him away. Can we talk?”

Artoirel paused, a pained look crossing his face. Whether it was for the prospect of talking to him at all or the inevitable subject matter, Emmanellain could not say.

“Of course. Come in,” he said eventually, stepping aside to give Emmanellain room to pass. Artoirel’s room was a neat and tidy affair, a far cry from Emmanellain’s own, presenting the precise picture of a responsible heir to any who might care to look. Which, if he understood his brother’s proclivities correctly, was exactly nobody but the manor staff.

“Sit,” Artoirel said, gesturing to the chair at his dresser. Emmanellain did so, shifting the envelope uncomfortably between his fingers as Artoirel returned to his bed and sat upon it. “There was nothing you could have done…” he began, before frowning as he noted the letter. “What is this about?” he said instead, and Emmanellain sighed.

“He gave me this. Haurchefant,” he said, the name difficult to say aloud. “He wanted me to keep it… Just in case. It’s… for Ar’telan.” Artoirel inhaled sharply, the magnitude of the weight Emmanellain now carried clear to him.

“I see,” he said, a simple statement that meant so much. “Perhaps it is best that you hold on to it a while, then. Ar’telan and his companions have already set out for the Sea of Clouds, and intend to pursue the Archbishop beyond it. I do not know how long it will be until they return, but I… I suspect he will be in a better place to receive it when he does.” His gaze went from the letter up to Emmanellain’s face. “Have you read it?”

“No!” Emmanellain protested. “I enjoy listening to gossip, not spreading it. Besides, they already had to deal with so much.” He ran his fingers across the envelope. “I know it’s not just a letter. But Haurchefant didn’t tell me anything else, and I did not think to ask.” Artoirel seemed surprised by the revelation that Emmanellain was capable of respecting anyone’s privacy, but nodded his head regardless.

“Reasonable,” he allowed. “I will go with you, if you wish. To deliver it.” Emmanellain swallowed down the lump in his throat, refusing to cry in front of his brother of all people. As if he hadn’t done that enough in his life so far.

“I would like that,” he said, voice cracking a little under the strain. “I wanted… not to think about it. As if it would go away. But it won’t. So I have to…” Artoirel walked over, placed a comforting hand atop Emmanellain’s own.

“There is no ‘I’, Emmanellain. Perhaps our history would not suggest it, but we have each other yet. We shall stand together, though the memories still hurt. Come and find me when you are ready.” Emmanellain nodded, wordlessly holding out the letter. Artoirel took it, for a moment, felt the weight of the ring that rested within the envelope. With a sigh on his lips, he passed it back.

“It was entrusted to you,” he said. “Keep it. I know you will not lose something so important as this.”

---

Victory was not the joyful fanfares and cheering in the streets that Emmanellain had come to expect from the history books. Uncertainty hung over the city-state like a death shroud, the dull clouds casting a bitter pall across the sky. Eorzea’s Warrior of Light had returned in apparent triumph, but he had not worn a smile on his face, and only a chosen few had been there to receive him. In the aftermath, he had returned to Fortemps Manor like a stray cat, seeking the comfort of familiarity in his uncertainty, but distancing himself from them all the same.

Emmanellain had seen him sat out in the gazebo next to the manor’s walls, ignoring the pot of tea that bubbled merrily on the constant fire there. His eyes looked out across the street at nothing at all, his body moving only to move the warmth back into his extremities. Emmanellain watched him from the window, nervously waiting for Honoroit to return with Artoirel and feeling like a peeping tom.

“You mean to give it to him, then,” Artoirel’s voice cut in, startling him from his impromptu vigil.

“Yes. Do you think…?” he asked, uncertain, and Artoirel sighed.

“It is your decision. What do you think?” he replied, and Emmanellain turned back to the window, biting his lip unhappily.

“I don’t think there will ever be a good time,” he said. “But now seems as well as any. I know that Father worries about him.” Artoirel made a noise of acknowledgement, glancing out of the window himself.

“For all Ishgard has cost him, it is a wonder he can bear to be back here at all,” he said voice quiet. “Let us go, then. On your mark.”

---

The miqo’te stirred from his reverie as they approached him, looking up at them before averting his eyes back to his knees, a deep and abiding sadness written onto his features. Still Emmanellain marvelled at just how short he was, only beating Honoroit by a head despite being old enough to be the boy’s father. He held himself with a quiet grief now, his shortness of stature not stymying the depth of his heart.

“Ar’telan. Um, do you have a moment?” Emmanellain asked. The miqo’te nodded, once, and with notable effort shifted his gaze onto the three of them. “I… I have something for you,” he said, which felt like it barely did justice to it, but it was all the words he had. “I… It… From Haurchefant.”

The sound of the name struck the warrior like a mortal blow, a fleeting moment of agony on his face. He regained his composure with remarkable speed, though, raising his hands to sign a simple thank you at him, reaching out to take the letter. His fingers were cold, Emmanellain thought, showing the time that he had spent outside to his detriment. Still, Artoirel put a hand on Emmanellain’s shoulder, the two of them sitting on the wooden benches of the gazebo and waiting in quiet understanding.

Ar’telan opened the envelope with reverent care, sliding the letter from it and reading it with careful eyes. Haurchefant had told Emmanellain much of Ar’telan - had told anyone who would listen, really. Emmanellain knew he had learned to read Eorzea’s moon runes from an old copy of the Enchiridion, to better understand the faith of the Fury. Emmanellain could see the need for him to follow the marks with his fingers, though he did not, held back by a sense of propriety. It reminded Emmanellain of teaching Honoroit his letters, after they had first met in the Crozier so many moons ago. Though he did not crane his head to read the text, as he might once have done if he passed unnoticed by another noble’s eyes, he could tell even from their distance that Haurchefant had kept his letters neat, rather than the rushing script he had preferred. Their father had opined his messiness, his lackadaisy attitude the one flaw their sire could find in his youngest son. Emmanellain’s late mother had found far more flaws in him, not least of which was his very existence, and it brought the sorrow back too keenly to think on it overlong.

Eyes read the final paragraph. Re-read it. With shivering fingers - surely it was the cold, or so Emmanellain would say to anyone who thought to ask - Ar’telan reached back into the envelope, and drew out the ring.

It was a simple little thing, made of spruce wood and polished til the varnish gleamed in the light of the fire. Ar’telan stared at it for a long time, long enough for the wind to fill the silence left in the wake, then slid it over his finger. A perfect fit, of course - Haurchefant would have accepted no less, Emmanellain knew. The void he had left behind yawned like a chasm between them, this small, quiet man for whom he had given everything, and the family he had left behind.

“I know that you have found it hard. The Fury knows we all have,” Emmanellain said, jolting Ar’telan from his trance. “But you need not run from us. Haurchefant wanted you to be a part of our family, and it would be cruel to refuse you now.” Ar’telan’s eyes went from the letter, to the ring on his finger, to the three of them, sitting uncomfortably around the paltry warmth the fire pit provided. He swallowed, and for a moment it looked like he might cry.

“...Thank you,” he signed eventually. The letter went back into its envelope, then disappeared into one of the miqo’te’s multitudinous pockets. His fingers twisted the ring uncomfortably, a curious hand going to his neck, then back to his lap.

“My brother speaks true,” Artoirel said. “Though I have not read his words, I know our brother would not have asked for your hand without our father’s blessing. He worries for you.” He shook his head then, stamping his feet on the ground to try and stir the blood in them. “Grief is not easy. It is a road with no end, a wound without succor. But though our paths are different, we can walk them beside each other.” Ar’telan closed his eyes, a single tear falling down his dark skin to land upon the envelope in his hands.

“Am I not a reminder to you? Of everything you have lost?” he asked, fingers shaking. Emmanellain shook his head.

“No. You are a memory of all we had,” he disagreed. “I know that our father would agree. You are welcome here.” He held out a hand, and Ar’telan opened his eyes, looking between the three of them uncertainly.

“If you would have me,” he allowed, reaching out to take it. Emmanellain seized the opportunity, pulling the miqo’te from his sitting position and into a hug, getting a rare yelp of surprise and dismay from the smaller man for his troubles.

“Emmanellain…” Artoirel said, shaking his head in despair. Ar’telan wriggled free, straightening his robes with his tail swishing cautiously behind his back. Emmanellain offered him a grin, unrepentant.

“That’s the spirit!” he said, getting to his feet. “Let’s get back inside. The night is wicked cold at this time of year.” Ar’telan looked between them, ventured the smallest of smiles, and nodded in agreement.

#It is technically possible for me to not write angst #but today is not one of those days #sorry not sorry #ffxivwrite2021 #m!WoLxHaurchefant #I have a lot of feelings about this entire everything #And Emmanellain is a sweetheart who is trying his best #Warrior of Light (solo story)

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geraskierficrecs · 3 years

Text

Part One

Sorry for the long delays, but Tumblr ate the story the first time I posted so I had to rewrite.

Watching Jaskier run from the house with devastation carved into his face hurt worse than any blow he’d been dealt.

Geralt started forward, numb legs sluggish with a grief too terrible to bear, but familiar hands pulled him to a stop.

“Don’t--” Yennefer’s voice was rough with her own demons, but she clung to him with determination in her strange eyes, “--we had to do this.”

“Did you see him?” he snarled, trying to summon anger in an effort to push aside the reality of all he’d just broken. “He--he’s...”

“It’s the only way to keep him safe.”

“He’ll never forgive me.”

Yennefer opened her mouth, but it was another voice who answered him.

“How could you?” They both turned to see Ciri standing next to the doorway Jaskier had disappeared through with a cold fury in her eyes. “He trusted you. He trusted both of you!”

He loved you, she didn’t say. They already knew.

“Ciri...” Yennefer began, but Ciri shook her head.

“How many times will you break his heart before you’re satisfied?” Ciri hissed and Geralt flinched like she’d struck him.

His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he could feel his eyes burning at the thought of how easy it had been to destroy everything they had built with Jaskier here. Geralt tried to remember the way Jaskier had smiled at him--wide and trusting--just that morning when he’d declared that he was heading into town to get some things from the market. Already the house felt empty, cracks appearing in the walls like without the bard to hold it together the house began to fall apart.

If he closed his eyes he knew he would see the look in Jaskier’s eyes the moment he’d seen Yennefer and Geralt. It had been so easy for him to believe the worst.

“It’s not what you think,” Yennefer tried again, hands held out to match the pleading in her expression. “We’re trying to save him.”

Ciri’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and Geralt wondered if she would attack them for what they’d done. “What is there left to save? You’ve taken everything.”

His child surprise didn’t give them a chance to respond. She just turned on her heel and left the house to chase after Jaskier. After a beat, Yennefer followed.

Geralt stayed behind, listening to the ghosts of his own happiness die in the silence of the empty house.

_____________________________________________________________________

It started with a whisper.

“They’re coming for you, Witcher.”

Geralt hadn’t taken the dying words of the hag to heart. It wasn’t the first time one of the creatures he’d hunted promised revenge with their dying breath and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. His mind had been full of anticipation for returning home to his family. To Jaskier.

The next mention had been a fluke.

He’d been passing through a town and, through habit, checked the message boards for any odd jobs he could complete for a little extra money on his way to Novigrad for work. There had been a few of the usual missives from locals searching for missing livestock or begging for someone to assist in work. He scanned them without interest until his eyes settled on a rough piece of parchment, faded by the weather.

At the center of the page was a roughly drawn medallion that burned with dark flames. The page made no mention of any work or needs, just the strange symbol and a short message beneath.

Feras morte.

Death to monsters.

Geralt stared at it for another moment before carefully pulling the page free from the message board and tucking it into his pack. He resolved to find out more while he was Novigrad.

____________________________________________________________________

They called themselves The Order.

They were the kind of fanatical movement that made Geralt want to avoid humanity for good. Their focus had originally been altruistic--to protect humanity from the beasts and magical nightmares that roamed the land when Witchers didn’t arrive fast enough. They traveled in groups to areas plagued by barghest and noon wraiths had terrorized villagers. Through luck and growing skill, they began to make a name for themselves as champions of the people--a more palatable alternative to calling a Witcher for assistance.

With their popularity growing, a more sinister element of their beliefs became more obvious. Since the first Witcher had stepped foot on the Continent, they’d been targeted almost immediately for their unnatural new biology and abilities. Geralt had been run out of more than a few cities just because of the odd color of his eyes so the news that a group of human labeled his Witcher brethren in the same categories as the monsters they hunted wasn’t surprising.

Whatever the Order’s altruistic intents originally, they had wandered into darker realms once they gained a following.

Anything that was not fully human was considered a threat. For the first time in centuries, the Continent was home to witch burnings and mob attacks on children born with strange birthmarks or eerie features. They followed the path of wars and fed on the bitterness that lingered among the survivors. The Order gave the people of the Continent a new target for their anger.

Monsters--though the term became more flexible the longer they were around.

His contacts in Novigrad weren’t sure where the group had begun, but it was easy to track where they’d moved from the trail of bodies left in their wake. Dopplers. Hags. Hedgewitches. All burned to ash on massive pyres left at the edges of each village as a warning to the next--along with anyone foolish enough to try to protect them.

Geralt’s disdain for the blatant abuses of power and widespread violence slowly became tempered by a new fear. The Order seem able to move as they wanted without any response from local leaders too afraid of risking their wrath. They seemed an unstoppable force eager to continue their bloody crusade against anyone or anything that did not meet their standards for purity and innocence.

He was in Temeria when he found the dead Witcher.

There was little left of the warrior aside from burnt, tarnished medallion that had once hung proudly from his neck and the steel sword he must have wielded.

Silver for monsters. Steel for humans.

The blade had been shattered into two pieces that were tossed alongside the burning remains of his bones. Geralt crouched beside it, hands passing over the scarred metal and meager remains of a life spent fighting for people who’d turned on him just as easily.

“Did you know him?”

Geralt turned at the soft voice, frowning at the woman standing at the edge of the trees. Her face was marked with age and deep sadness that seemed unending.

“No,” he said gruffly.

She hummed, looking back at the pyre. “Perhaps it’s better that way.”

“Why’s that?”

The hand that trembled out was blackened along the fingertips with ash as she pointed toward the smoldering pit. “Those he loved lay there beside him.”

Geralt froze, something like horror in his expression. He looked back at the pyre once more, eyes picking out the bits of bones. “What?”

“That’s how the Order got him to surrender,” she said, “They told him they would spare the woman--Anna--and her child that he liked to visit in the village. He’d saved them from the creature who’d taken the girl’s father, you see, and he liked to check up on them whenever he passed by. Sirret was a gentle soul despite his calling--he only wanted to make sure they were safe. So he threw down his sword without a fight when the Order called for it and let them beat him and drag him through the town to the sounds of their mockery.”

“Then they killed him.” Geralt’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white.

The old woman’s eyes were dark with tragedy. “They killed the girl first, after a time. Then the mother was put out of her misery when her injuries became too much. Sirret...the Witcher held on for much longer.”

The broken sword suddenly seemed as morbid as a tomb.

He took a breath full of smoke and death and tried not to think about a bard choking on blood and a foolish wish. “Where did the Order go?”

____________________________________________________________________

“They’re too close. We need to do something.”

“What can we do that we haven’t already tried?” Geralt snapped, “I’ve been hunting them for months, but all I’ve managed to do is kill off a few of their soldiers.”

He carefully didn’t think about the promises they’d spat at him as they lay dying. Promises of pain and suffering beyond what anyone should bear.

Yennefer tossed back the last of the wine in her goblet and scowled down at the mess of messages, maps, and bits of notes sprawled across the table. They’d met at the tavern in the city closest to their cottage in an effort to keep the information far away from Jaskier and Ciri’s wandering eyes. So far, it hadn’t seemed to help.

Yenn had been the only one he’d dared to tell about the Order--as though admitting their presence would allow them to creep closer. Her contacts through Aretuza had made it easier to track where the Order had been most active, but continued to offer no solutions as to how to stop them. Ciri and Jaskier were far too important to risk as targets in someone’s campaign to destroy everything they considered dangerous.

“Whoever they are, they’re going to come for us soon. You know this. They know we’re hunting them--that makes us a threat.” Yennefer’s voice was firm despite the anxiety he could sense hanging in the air around them.

Geralt didn't respond. It was the same argument they’d been having for weeks. How could they protect Jaskier and Ciri from these horrors?

“Ciri will have to stay with us--she’s too valuable to risk letting them get their hands on her. They’d probably consider her to be a ‘tainted’ bloodline anyway.”

“And Jaskier?” he bit out, “Do you intend to leave him behind while you run off with Ciri?”

Yenn glared at him. “You know I don’t.”

Whatever their relationship might have been at one time, the mage and the bard were practically inseparable now.

Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “We can’t let the Order torture him to try to hurt us. He has to be safe.”

The burnt Witcher’s medallion in his pack seemed to laugh at him.

“There’s...” Yennefer sounded oddly reticent and he looked over at her curiously, “We could make Jaskier leave us.”

He shook his head. “He would never do that. Especially if he knew that we were in danger.”

“So we don’t let him know the Order is after us.”

“And say what? ‘Hey Jask..why don’t you stay at the University for the season?’ He’s not an idiot--he’d want to know why.”

Yennefer ran a finger over a drop of wine left on the table, face downcast. “What if we made him want to leave?”

________________________________________________________________

Days later, Geralt watched Jaskier run out of the house and pretended it didn’t feel like his world was burning down around him.

#angst #misunderstanding #miscommunication #breakup #established relationship #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier loves geralt #hurt/comfort #hurt jaskier

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the-peak-of-despair · 4 years

Text

Chihiro x Reader - Reader reacts to Chihiro’s death

anon said: I hear you're good at angst 👀 could I please get a Chihiro x fem reader where the reader is there with Makoto and Byakuya when they discover Chihiro's body and then the events of the trial, in which the reader has to be held back by her classmates when it's revealed what Byakuya did and that he did it for his own entertainment? (like honestly, what the fuck Byakuya??) Sorry if this is too long 😅

Nonnie you hit the right blog because the second I started writing this I did not stop and I think I went legitmately feral on this one. I might be a bit off with the request because I’ll be real I think I got possessed by Edgar Allen Poe during this but I do hope you enjoyed! Get your tissues and say a prayer for the poor souls in the danganronpa-x-reader discord server who got to see snippets of what I was writing before I posted -Mod Akane : )

“Come on, let’s check in the girls locker room first.” Byakuya commands (Y/N) and Makoto, both of them muttering something about why we had to specifically check the girls locker room… (Y/N) notes how the door seems to already be swinging open, but the thought is quickly put away as she follows along into the locker room.

Everything fell in an instant.

Everything fell apart.

“GAAAAAAH!” Makoto basically screamed at the top of his lungs, falling backwards and nearly knocking into (Y/N) as he fell to the ground. When she avoided him and saw what she saw…

“CHIHIRO!” (Y/N) screamed, nearly damaging everyone in the vicinity’s eardrums. The horror set in as tears welled up in her eyes, pouring over and blurring everything from her vision to her very mindset. Chihiro.. Chihiro, her lover, her best friend.. He… he was dead? Someone.. someone killed Chihiro?

Ding - dong!

“A body has been discovered!” Monokuma calls, way too cheerily over the monitor, sparking a rage within (Y/N). Chihiro was dead, and this- this son of a bitch saw it as free entertainment. “Everyone, please gather in the girls locker room!”

The monitor flickered off.

(Y/N) stood in shock, right between Byakuya and Makoto. It was only a second of hesitation before she darted towards him.

Byakuya snagged her by the sleeve. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” He asks, impatient.

“CHIHIRO IS FUCKING DEAD, BYAKUYA!” (Y/N) screams. “H- SHE DOESN’T DESERVE TO DIE LIKE THIS! STRUNG UP LIKE A FUCKING MASTERPIECE! SOMEONE KILLED HER!”

“It doesn’t matter who or what happened.” Byakuya grimaces. “This is a crime scene. You cannot alter the evidence. Unless you would like to be seen as the blackened, I suggest you restrain yourself from touching the scene.”

Byakuya let go of (Y/N)’s sleeve, his iron grip nearly having torn it. “So? Do you still want to get her down?”

(Y/N) grimaced at him, before choosing to look away. “Asshole..!” Tears filled their eyes once again.

(Y/N) spent the entire investigation crying into Sakura’s chest and being held back from the crime scene, clearly too much of a fury of emotions to be able to do anything. How couldn’t she be? Her best friend, her lover, ripped away from her by some selfish fucking asshole who didn’t want their secret exposed.

She didn’t seem present for the first half of the trial.

Everyone noticed.

Within minutes, maybe even an hour she looked so much worse for wear. Eyes that were dead and longing and barely having moved or spoken almost the entire trial. When questioned about Chihiro’s gender, (Y/N) just nodded.

Of course she had known. That’s what most of her classmates thought.

There’s this thing about death. You become so close to someone, you pour your heart into them and they do the same. They’re there for you almost everyday. And then one day, sudden or not.. They’re just taken away.

Of course, it’s inevitable.

But nothing on this Earth could prepare someone for that feeling. That feeling of loss, that feeling of calling someone’s name just out of habit just to end up crying on the floor because it comes crashing down all over again that they’re gone and you’d never see them again. It was a horrible, soul crushing despair that seeped into every neuron and part of your brain and would take forever to let go. It’s a feeling that breaks you down and holds you there.

Of course, (Y/N) was aware of everything happening the entire trial. It was like taking off your glasses or unfocusing a camera. Everything’s still there and if you focus really hard you might be able to see what happens. But the crushing weight of coping with that, the fact that she’d never see Chihiro again, the fact that she’d never kiss him again, never get to hug him, or cry into his shoulder, the fact that one day she had seen him for the very last time and she had never known.

Hindsight is always 20/20.

It didn’t feel like the glasses were put back on, like everything came into focus again, until Byakuya had spoken.

“I tampered with the crime scene, yes, but I am not the culprit.” He states, plain and simple. Not a sign of emotion in his speech or his eyes.

And something about that broke (Y/N).

She slammed her hands on her podium, the noise echoing through the trial room it had been so hard, snapping all surviving eyes on her. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” (Y/N) screams.

“...Elaborate.” Byakuya states simply. It wasn’t a request, or out of confusion, it was a fucking demand.

(Y/N) took a heavy breath. “You are so fucking intolerable! YOU ARE A SOCIOPATH! CHIHIRO IS FUCKING DEAD, AND THIS IS WHAT YOU’VE DONE!?” She begins to scream, and the two on either side of her- Asahina and Sakura- look at her with concern. “I DON'T CARE IF YOU KILLED HIM OR NOT, WHO ARE YOU TO DO SUCH.. SUCH A HORRID THING?!” (Y/N) screams, her throat scratching and voice cracking all as her eyes began to swell with hot tears, making everything blur just a bit more.

“Your senseless screaming has no affect on me.” Byakuya states simply. “I don’t care to listen to someone too clouded by her pitiful emotions to think straight.”

(Y/N) doesn’t even stop for breaths anymore. “YOU MUTILATED MY BOYFRIENDS BODY! DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH OF A HORRIBLE PERSON YOU ARE?! THAT WAS A PERSON! A REAL PERSON WHO I LOVED! WHAT IS IT GOING TO TAKE FOR YOU TO REALIZE THIS IS NOT A FUCKING GAME?!”

“It is a game.” Byakuya shoots back, irritated now. “Your senseless screaming gets us nowhere. If you can’t keep your emotions together, then you will be the next to go. If you crack under the pressure, that is not my problem. I intend to win.” “YOU ARE SUCH A FUCKING SCUMBAG!” (Y/N) screams, and it’s clear she’s ready to hop over the podium and choke the very life out of Byakuya’s eyes. To just.. rip away all signs and life of humanity, to do everything he fucking deserved to have done to him.

What kind of human could be so corrupted to play with a corpse like a fucking barbie doll? What kind of person could be broken, so fucking demented to enjoy watching people, living breathing people who they knew personally who had families and friends and lovers.. What kind of asshole would enjoy watching them die, enjoy the flurry of emotions and pain that comes with it, enjoy the loss, the despair, the grief, the emotional fucking storm that rips your heart in two until it can’t fucking beat anymore?

“(Y/N), you must calm yourself.” Sakura sets a hand on (Y/N)’s shoulder.

“HE TOOK AWAY MY ONLY FRIEND!” (Y/N) screams, snapping away at the touch. “I DON’T CARE WHO THE KILLER IS, HE’S THE REAL MONSTER!” She steps back, like she’s about to hop the podium, but Asahina grabs her from behind, hooking her arms under (Y/N)’s to hold her tight.

“(Y/N), you’ve gotta calm down! We’re not gonna ever find the blackened like this!” Asahina shouts, struggling against (Y/N)’s rapid fighting as she begins to break down all over again.

“I DON'T CARE!” She screams, trying anything to fight against Asahina. “I-I’d rather be dead than al-alone..!” She begins sobbing, before finally losing all the fight in her, slumping over in Asahina’s grip. “I-I want Chihiro back…!” She sobs, the tears flooding her vision and pouring out, gasping for air as if Chihiro’s death itself took away her ability to breathe, her executive ability to function.

(Y/N) finally stops screaming and fighting. Nothing stops her sobbing though, her relentless crying as she falls to the floor like a pile of rags when Asahina finally lets her go as the trial continues. Even through Byakuya’s mockery, nothing can get her back up off the floor.

Chihiro was gone.

It’s so hard. To cope with a loss in such a short time. In a place like this- this fucking nightmare- there was no time to mourn. It was loss after loss with no breaks in between. An academy of nothing but death and despair and pain, where when you lost someone it was game fucking over and you’d never get them back.

(Y/N) didn’t even know if she voted. She didn’t even know if she really saw the execution, or if she saw the blackened, or if she heard what snippy bullshit Monokuma had to say. She only really knew that Chihiro was gone, and that was all that mattered.

She didn’t remember how she got back to her dorm. Her legs certainly wouldn’t hold her up well enough to carry her all the way there. All she remembered was crying, crying like she’d never felt pain before, clinging to pillows that still just barely clung to the scent of Chihiro, like vanilla and coffee, pillows still left with the imprint of when Chihiro would sleep in (Y/N)’s bed.

#chihiro fujisaki #angst #chihiro fujisaki x reader #chihiro fujasaki #danganronpa #danganronpa thh #drthh #danganronpa x reader #danganronpa chapter 2 #x reader #mod akane #this hurt to write and i enjoyed every second #anon

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that-good-trash · 4 years

Text

Burn Away With Me 2

Shoto Todoroki x reader / Dabi x reader????

Warnings: mentions of death, profanity, kidnap, Angst,

Word count: 6,315

Part 1

Summary: Kidnap and murder usually go hand in hand but not like this. The world thinks your dead and you have to watch them mourn you like a princess locked away in a tower. Except princes don’t look for dead girls. You might just have to rely on the villain who took you.

Comment: Sorry I haven’t been posting but I’m back. This took longer than I thought and there will be a third part. I’ve decided to make this a series while I work on other fic ideas. Which if any of you have any suggestions or ideas I totally need inspiration for more one shots and series’s. I hope you all enjoy.

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

You were dead.

At least that’s what everyone thought, was told, had ‘witnessed’. In a way you were dead because having to watch the world exist without you, killed you. Watching Shoto in interviews and reading article about him made you wish you had actually died since he was lifeless. You had agreed to this so you were an accessary to his misery. The one thing you always promised was to never abandon him, to always love him. You had failed to keep that promise. You were now causing him pain and couldn’t even apologize for it.

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

After your Hollywood murder, your vanishing act, you had woken up in an unfamiliar place that smelled damp and musty, like mildew under week old wet carpet. It was toxic to your nose which had become a little sensitive from living a modern clean life. You were wearing a jacket that wasn’t yours that smelled faintly of burning charcoal and cigarettes. While lifting the overly long sleeves you had become aware that you lacked any chest covering. You were naked besides the jacket and silk panties you wore under it. It wasn’t like you had time to pack, hell you actually hadn’t expected to ever wake up again. Trusting a villain was dicey, it could backfire terribly and you couldn’t figure out yet if it had. You were alive. That wasn’t for sure a good thing. The room you were in had a bed, which you were laying in, the sheets were stained and slightly charred in places. There was a single window and two doors, one leading into a closet, the other you didn’t know where. An old suitcase sat in the corner and you didn’t really want to know what was in it. Outside the door you could hear the sound of talking, it was staticky meaning it was coming from a TV or radio. You had gotten off the bed hugging the long black coat against your body as you made your way to the door. Fear flooded your veins. You had no idea what Dabi’s plan had been. While you slept the news of your death spread across all media. You weren’t even aware of this. You were thinking that this was a kidnap ransom thing. As the knob turned you could hear the voices a little more clearly. It was a TV, the light shining down the short hallway. You walked toward it before feeling your heart stop. Across the bottom of the screen was your name, your real name and hero name. It was the words that followed that made your legs give out. Now on your knees with shaking shoulders you read the headline, hear the news caster.

[ L/n F/n – Hero Name, was found murdered in her shared home.]

“Her fiancé Todoroki Shoto cannot be reached at this time but we mourn his lose.” You read the words and listen to the tail end of his sentence piecing together what had happened. The image changed from the inside of the news room to a helicopter view, footage taken hours ago. Your shared home had been surrounded by police vehicle’s and you watch Shoto rush out of his car and directly into the house. A sob escapes as you watch the police and pro heroes look down and away. You couldn’t hear anything other than the helicopter but you could imagine he was screaming your name. What was left behind? That’s when you became all too aware of a throbbing pain in your left hand. Looking down at your hand you scream, your ring finger is missing. How the hell hadn’t you realized this to begin with. There were so many pieces missing to this fucked up puzzle. How the hell did you get here? Where the hell was here? Where was Dabi and better yet your god damn finger? These questions invaded your mind as you watched the screen continue to show pictures of you with claims of death. You weren’t dead and if you were this was one hell of an afterlife. Purgatory was a shitty back alley apartment.

“When we, the public, were informed of L/n’s death everyone wanted to hear what the Todoroki family had to say, specifically Endeavor. His interview shows his conflicted emotions and many are quick to blame grief for his lack of emotion.”

You watch the interview and listen to your future father in laws words. He didn’t care. You had stopped crying as you watched him speak on your behalf. How dare he claim to know what you wanted. If you weren’t aware of the real mastermind, you’d think he tried to have you killed. How could someone be so heartless. You had spent so much time trying to prove you were worthy of Shoto even though your lover told you that you were more than enough. The social pressure Endeavor put on you was suffocating and you were really starting to realize that just by watching some shitty interview he did for publicity. Your hands were clenched into fist despite the pain in your left hand. You stood up a little too fast and fell backward. You never hit the floor, instead a hot hand caught you. You sighed in relief before staring into your kidnapper’s eyes. You weren’t weak or none confrontational. Your eyes burned with fury, your lips twitching with words brewing behind them.

“You son of a bitch, You bastard.”

“Woah, no reason to bring my mom into this, though I will say you’d be right about my father.” He was so smug as he held up his hands in defense against your hissed insults. He had expected tears and fear not an enraged hurricane. “Now calm down, what’s got you so pissed?”

“YOU FUCKING KILLED ME!” Your eyes were bulging out and your breathing was unsteady. Your eyebrows knit together as you glared him down with hell fire behind your eyes. You looked like a savage. Like a crazed lunatic. Instead of looking scared or remorseful he just backup against the tattered couch. His arms crossed and he lifted a brow. His smirk told you that he found this entertaining.

“Um, you seem pretty alive to me doll. You can’t believe everything you hear on TV.” He laughed at his own joke, or maybe the pathetic chaotic state you were in. As you heaved your chest in exasperation. You realized that you’d made a huge mistake. You killed yourself off on your own accord, you should have fought back then maybe you’d be in Shoto’s arms and not on every news station. If you had been kidnapped people would be looking for you but they aren’t. No one is looking for you. In an instant all anger subsided. You were tired, in pain, scared, pissed, lonely, dispirited, you were dead. Your shoulders slumped with no fight lingering. You let the wall catch you before sliding down it. Your head fell heavy into your hands before settling between your bend legs. You weren’t looking at him, but Dabi did seem a tad guilty. He pushed off the couch walking toward you. He dropped down, squatting in front of you. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, you slap his hand away looking at him with feral eyes that had tears bottled in them. A sigh escaped as he stood up, he could hear the TV mention your name. He watched people on the screen hold candles standing along a dark street. This was live. He yanked you off the ground and pulled you out of the apartment making sure he covered you with a scarf he snatched from the rickety coat rack. You didn’t know where he was taking you but when you ended up on the roof of this building you panicked. Was he going to actually kill you? Maybe that would be better for you. Instead you feel your face yanked toward a specific location. This building was old and crumbling but it was tall. It seemed to be taller than plenty of the buildings near it. As you looked off squinting you saw lights in the distance.

“What are you trying to show me?”

“Shh.” You were pissed. What the hell was his problem. Frustrated you cross your arms feeling the cold breeze and get a little less mad and grow shy after remembering again your lack of coverage. You go to ask if you can return to the apartment but he points and you follow. The city lights disappear and in a Disney moment the sky seems to light up. You watch from the ground miles away lights move like waves and from the tops of buildings lanterns fade into the sky. You watched in awe.

“They are mourning the loss of a true hero, you.”

He’s not looking at you but instead watching the lights. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and he doesn’t look at you as you collapse to the cold dirty roof ground. You scream into the illuminated darkness. It’s painful, like a wolf crying out for its mate after receiving a fatal wound. A howl of sorrow and agony. Was Shoto watching these lights mourning you as well? Your knees pressed into the harsh concrete beneath you cutting into them. Dabi stood next to your broken shaking form, his hands sat inside his pant pockets. He was watching the sky letting you fall apart. He had been in a similar situation before, having to mourn his own death.

It felt like hours had passed by the time you ran out of tears. Your knees hurt from the embedded concrete, your hands were shaking and your fingertips had the slightest tint of purple. You were cold, practically naked, empty, and alone. No one knew you were alive besides the person who killed you. The sky was no longer lit up and you wondered if this was goodbye. If this was how your life as a hero ended. You didn’t get a huge battle like All Might at Kamino, or Sir Nighteye’s battle with Overhaul. You didn’t get to retire or die in a heroic way, instead people would remember you as the hero who died in her home, murdered by some mystery villain. You knew in a week you’d be old news and everyone would be talking about this in the future like it was a part of Shoto’s tragic backstory. You stood up before almost falling directly back down. You catch yourself by grabbing onto Dabi. He winks at you which you react to with disgust. He nods toward the door and you walk toward it leading the way. You think for a moment that running off the side of the building would be a good escape plan. He knows what you’re thinking as he links your arm with his own and pulls you along back into the building and eventually into the hellscape of an apartment. You yank yourself free before walking to the couch and falling back onto it with a huff. You were pouting because he had caught onto your plan, because you had to be here in this disgusting shithole.

“This place is gross.” Dabi raises a brow before laughing, his laughter echoes throughout the small room.

“Sorry this isn’t a five-star hotel princess.”

“It doesn’t have to be a luxury hotel; it just has to be livable. The TV looks like it’s from the 80’s and the carpet feels damp. This couch smells like you set it on fire and it’s still burning. The bed room has various stains in various places. I haven’t even seen the bathroom but I imagine it’s even worse, oh god I can’t live here.” You weren’t prissy or someone with high standards, this place was just literal hell and since you were dead it was even worse. You could imagine that Dabi wasn’t going to let you leave whenever you wanted so having to be stuck in this place was going to drive you insane.

“I think you sound be more concerned with clothing than housing. You have a roof and a bed; you have no clothes.” Dabi made a very good point that you forgot in your depression over the living situation. You throw your head back letting out another frustrated sob.

“Fuck, you should have just killed me.” You thought you ran out of tears and yet some slid down your cheek. You were frustrated and wanted nothing more than to curl up against your fiancé while he comforts you but you couldn’t do that.

“This isn’t forever. My plan just needs to go accordingly and you should be free to go. Think of this as summer camp or a stake out mission.” You looked at Dabi skeptically. He stared back lacking any intension to deceive you.

“Tomorrow night I’ll bring you by some clothes. If you really hate this place so much, I’ll let you clean and decorate it. Give me a list of shit you need tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do. Your stuck with me and when I’m not here you are going to be under house arrest. You don’t get to leave and if I find out you tried; I’ll show you exactly why you shouldn’t disobey me.” His eyes darkened at the end. He wasn’t the smug Dabi but one who truly would turn you into ash. Minutes ago, you would have chosen to be burn alive rather than have this as your life but that was quick to change with the hope that you would actually be released. Dabi wasn’t all that bad, scary kind of but not bad. Clothes were a blessing you couldn’t wait for. The ability to make this place livable also enticed you. He really knew how to get you to stop whining. A smile spread across your face and Dabi raised a brow. He expected a thank you, he shouldn’t have.

“You’re still a fucking asshole who kidnapped and ‘murdered’ me so don’t go thinking I like you or want to rely on you. The idea of being burned alive is almost tempting when compared to living here with you as my only company.” All this was still served with your smile. You stood up and let the coat tail spin behind you as you walked off to the bedroom. “I’m a size [Y/size], don’t forget that.”

The door shut leaving Dabi alone in the living room. His head falls backward and a chuckle escapes passed his lips. “Damn, what a weird girl. Can see why you like her little bro.”

His hands dip back into his pockets as he leaves the apartment. Once on the street below the dirty building he looks up toward your window. It’s hidden away in the alley. You are looking out it hoping for a view but there isn’t one. He knows how miserable you are but also knows you’re a fighter who will survive. He lights up a cigarette as he disappears into the night. You are left sitting on a dusty windowsill thinking about your would-be husband, your almost widow. You wonder what he was doing, how he was doing. Were his friends with him? A single tear slips down your cheek and onto the window sill mixing into the dusk leaving a dirty mark. A melancholy laugh puffs passed your lips. You close yours eyes remembering the first time the two of you met. Remembering how falling in love happened slowly then all at once.

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Shoto Todoroki was an emotionless teenager when you met him. You were older than him by a year and met him by complete accident. You both attended UA and he got lost ending up near one of your classes. He ran into you as you rushed to deliver paperwork to the office. More like you ran into him. Instead of swooning over the mismatched eyes and hair like most girls did you pushed passed him. “Sorry gotta go, next time watch where you’re going.”

You had found him outside your classroom afterschool waiting for you. You were confused as he looked at you with about as much emotion as a wall. Hell, you’d seen walls with more emotion. He was like a red and white brick. Your fellow classmates walked around you, some whispering questions amongst each other. You were as confused as they were.

“Um why are you here?”

“You ran into me.” You raised a brow at his blunt accusation. You thought back to earlier and indeed you ran into him. You should have apologized seriously earlier but now you were curious. He waited out here just to tell you that.

“Earlier I was walking down this hallway and you ran into me, then you proceeded to tell me to watch where I was going when you were the one who should have watched herself.” A child, a first year, a stranger was scolding you. A normal person would apologize or defend themselves. You weren’t normal. Instead you laughed at him. He didn’t like that but his irritation subsided into concern. What had he said that was so funny? This seemed like a very serious topic, had he told it like a joke? “Why are you laughing?”

“You seriously waited out here, outside my classroom, just to scold me. Man, you are taking justice pretty seriously, that or I offended your pride as a man. Is it that one? Did I make you feel less of a man because I pushed you while blaming you for my own neglectfulness?” Shoto couldn’t believe how you spoke to him. His cheeks actually heated up from embarrassment and that never happened. People didn’t usually speak to or toward him like this. It was, different? You patted his head when he didn’t speak but just stood there like an old windows computer trying to start up.

“See yah.”

“Wait.” You stopped behind him and turned around. He was facing you with conflicting emotions. “What are you doing right now?”

“I have training, why?” You were put off slightly by his change in attitude.

“Can I watch.” Okay that sounded stalkerish. “I have a classmate who likes to collect information on people’s quirks. You’re from class 2A so I assume you have a unique or powerful quirk. I think he’d like to watch and I have to write a report on quirk studies so…”

Bullshit, it was all bullshit, you knew it he knew it. The janitor that passed awkwardly knew it. This boy would die of embarrassment if you brought it up. A sigh slips out and you can’t say no because you are already late and at least this would give you an excuse to give your teacher. “Sure.”

After getting changed you found four underclassmen staring at you. It was uncomfortable and almost comedic. You never really brought attention to yourself, actually class 2A never really attracted too much attention. The dual hair colored boy stood next to a green haired boy who seemed really excited to see you. The other two consisted of a taller blue haired boy with glasses and a shorter round cheeked brunette. You actually realized you knew all four of them. A grin spread across your face as you pointed at them.

“You guys are from class 1A. I watched you guys at the sports festival and I watched you guys at the school festival. Oh man you are Midoriya Izuku, you’re Iida Tenya, Uraraka Ochako, and that makes you Todoroki Shoto. They all looked amazed that you knew their names. Hell, it was hard to not when everyone talked about the class of villain fighting heroes. They were famous and you had mocked the class heartthrob. It made you laugh because you had classmates that found him hot with his cold demeanor and mysterious scar. When you looked at him you saw a socially awkward kid.

“You’re L/n F/n! Your quirk is so cool! I read about it in a book Mr. Aizawa had about former students. I would love to be able to see it in action! Would that be okay?” He was enthusiastic and you couldn’t say no. You also needed to get to training because you were even more late now. After a nod they all followed you to the training grounds. Other students looked at you and laughed at your entourage. They made teasing comments while others swooned over Shoto. You rolled your eyes. Training mattered more than some dumb boy. Little did you know how wrong you were at that moment. Running into him that afternoon started a domino effect. He had watched you never looking away as you fought. You were mesmerizing. He hadn’t heard a word said by his friends. It was cliché but he was captivated by you.

After that day Shoto found himself following you a lot. He would meet you after class and watch you train or go with you to the library. It was awkward to you but kind of cute. He opened up to you about his past and you didn’t cry. Instead you smiled and held his hands. You told him that he was strong and that his past would never define his future. He had fallen deeper and deeper in love with you, who seemed so far out of his league. Little did he know that he filled your thoughts. You always wondered what he was doing or thinking. You learned to make soba so the two of you could eat while watching the sunset. He missed being around you when you were at your work studies but he supported you behind the scenes. Eventually the two of you were inseparable, until graduation. You stood amongst your fellow classmates laughing and smiling, beaming with pride that you had made it. Everyone had flowers and gifts except you. You turned when someone had called your name. It was Shoto standing facing you, he had a bouquet of your favorite flowers with red streaked across his cheeks. He said something but you couldn’t hear over the crowds. As you walked closer you tried to hear him better. You kept yelling that you couldn’t hear so he mouthed it slowly and you realized what he said; I love you. Your heart stopped and all of a sudden no one else mattered. The loud crowd disappeared leaving just you and Todoroki. Your legs kicked off the ground flinging yourself the distance tackling him into a hug. He dropped the flowers, wrapping his arms around you.

“I love you too.” He cried against your shoulder because he hadn’t known love like this. Your love was something he gained and his trust was something you had fought for. He loved you and you loved him and that was all the mattered. That time felt so far away but in reality, it was only 3 ½ years ago. You’d been with him for 3 ½ years and engaged for six months. It wasn’t always perfect but you wouldn’t have traded it for anything, except you did trade it. You traded it for some shitty apartment and a death sentence. You were truly the villain of this story.

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It took Dabi two days to ‘find/steal’ the things on your shopping list. He brought you a haul of ‘crap’ and clothing of various sizes. You were miserable but this was one thing that made you smile through the depression. Cleaning supplies gave you something to occupy your time. A small chipped table for the eating nook next to the tiny kitchen, a dresser with mismatched paint and broken drawers. A clean set of blankets, sheets, and towels found a home on the bed and in the closet in the hallway. It wasn’t perfect but you were excited to put them where you wanted. It was like an interior design show for the less fortunate. Dabi sat on the couch with a bottle of bourbon while watching people play hero on the TV. You cleaned around him. He wrinkled his nose when you poured carpet cleaner everywhere. The apartment smelled of bleach and lemon by the time you finished. He was actually impressed, a smirk spread across his face as you flopped down on the couch. The large blanket he got you covered the dirty stains on it. He looked you over, noticing how you looked good in the wore torn jeans and oversized t-shirt he got you. It was casual and he liked it. He imagined from what you had come from that you wore a lot of blouses and skirts rather than this.

“You did a good job. I’d give the place two stars.” You hit him with the towel sitting on your shoulder. He laughed noticing your eye roll. “I gotta leave for a few days. While I’m gone you better behave and maybe I’ll bring you a treat.”

“Fuck you.” He had gotten used to your foul mouth and wondered how such an energetic snarky girl ended up with tight ass Shoto who only showed emotions like confusion and anger. He pushed off the couch. He needed to go back to the league and knew he couldn’t involve you in it. You were dead and it needed to stay that way. The league would use you for a different goal and he couldn’t let that happen. He grabbed his coat throwing it over his shoulder along with a wink and kiss to you. You blinked with an annoyed face before catching the kiss throwing it to the ground grinding it under your foot. His laugh could be heard even after the door closed behind him. You were once again alone which changed your demeanor from aggressive to weary. Your eye lids drooped and your shoulders fell. Your legs found themselves pulled onto the couch with your arms wrapped around them. You watched the news hearing segments talking about Deku saving three people from a fire and Red Riot helping catch a bank robber. You smiled happy for them. You never resented them, instead you rooted for your fellow heroes. They were saving the day while you scrubbed strange stains out of ancient carpet.

“As you all know we recently lost hero/name and it’s been hard to cope. This Saturday is her funeral. It is not an open viewing but we were informed that citizens are allowed to place mementos and grieve afterward outside the building. We are also being told to remind people to let hero Shoto grieve and not to bother him if you see him in public.”

Whatever was said afterword you didn’t hear because you were processing the new information. You were going to be buried, this makes it even more real. Chest tightening you stumbled off the couch reaching for the remote. Silence surrounds you as the TV clicks off. The room in spinning and you feel as if you are actually in a small box being buried. You cover your ears begging the world to stop spinning and for the voices to stop. You hear your friends giving eulogy’s, you hear crying and whispers of disappointment. You were a hero how did you lose. The ground hit you, wait no, you hit the ground. Your legs had given out and you were sobbing into the carpet, you could taste the chemicals you had used earlier. At the moment you didn’t care, not about the taste or about anything else. You had a request for Dabi that you knew wouldn’t fly well. You wanted to attend your own funeral.

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A week after your ‘murder’ came your funeral. There were strict rules enforced by Dabi, you weren’t allowed to leave the apartment for obvious reasons. This rule prevented you from going but you got to watch it. After begging for some kind of way to be there Dabi returned with a laptop that had shaky footage. You didn’t know who was recording it and knew better than to ask. The footage wasn’t perfect but it gave you what you wanted. Dabi offered to leave you alone but you didn’t want to be alone. The sounds of sniffling were caught coming from many guests. The building was gorgeous. Huge with marble walls and columns near the entrance. It felt like you were at a Greek wedding not a funeral. Everyone was adorned in black. You didn’t recognize the people near the camera person. The camera angle moved and you gasped, walking down the aisle leading toward the end of the room where you assumed a casket laid were your friends. You had friends from your own classes but these weren’t them. These were the friends you made through Shoto. Midoriya walked, his hand holding tightly onto Uraraka’s, she was crying. You smiled sadly at her through the screen. They were an adorable couple who you always rooted for. Now they were finding comfort in each other mourning you. Following behind them was Kirishima with Bakugou, Bakugou looked good in a suit but his red eyes made the red around them stand out more. You felt bad since you knew how much he hated feeling or looking weak. Kirishima was smiling but it held pain. There were many other classmates following behind but the camera turned to watch people gather around the front doors. Your hands flew over your mouth and Dabi had to catch the laptop before it fell from your lap. He placed it on the coffee table angling it so you could watch without dropping it. He wanted to scoff at your pain because he couldn’t understand why you would be sad. This was all a game, a show put on for the media. No one really cared for others this much, or maybe they did, Dabi just knew that he didn’t understand why the dead felt bad for the living.

“Please let him through.” Tenya was signaling people to move away from Shoto. Once the crowds dispersed you could see him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in months, his eyes bloodshot with black holes surrounding them. His cheeks were hollowing, and the rest of him looked thinner. He hadn’t been eating. His hair wasn’t styled and seemed messier, longer. His skin was dull and lifeless, like his eyes. He walked like he had no idea where he was going. Tenya held his shoulder walking with him like a guide. Had Tenya been watching over him for you? You hope someone was, you hope someone will intervene and stop his self-destruction. The camera follows as close as it can and you don’t know how much you can watch. In the front, stood rows of chairs for close family and friends. Your mother was wiping her eyes with her head against your fathers’ shoulder. They looked at the casket that you knew was empty. The camera watched Shoto tap their shoulders. They stood up and hugged him. He was apologizing to them; they didn’t take the apology. Your parents were always fond of him. They wouldn’t blame him. Shoto sat down away from them, Natsuo and Fuyumi sat next to him. Natsuo was rubbing his sisters’ shoulder as she sobbed into her handkerchief. The seat next to them was empty, reserved for Endeavor, for someone who wouldn’t show up. Natsuo had told you before that Endeavor didn’t do funerals, he even missed his own sons. You were actually glad that he wasn’t there, he didn’t deserve to be there. Dabi noticed your change from a forlorn stare to one filled with scorn. He knew you had been thinking about Endeavor, he knew because he had felt he same thing. He had been in the same situation watching people cry over him while the person that caused it was MIA. He watched the footage continue and could feel you stiffen up as people got up to speak. Speech after speech drained you of tears and life. You looked like you were actually dying as you watched Shoto stand behind the mic.

“I don’t want to talk much. I could stand here and tell you every tiny detail about F/n that I love, that I miss. I could tell you about her but I won’t. Instead I’ll say this and only this. I will not sleep, I will not eat, I will not rest till the killer is caught. No one even cares that this was a murder. She isn’t dead, she was murdered and while the rest of you cry and live your comfy lives, I’ll be out there taking down her killer.”

A sentimental speech is what you expected but received a promise of revenge. People gasped and shook their heads in disbelief. It was tasteless to people but to you it meant he fell right into Dabi’s clutches. Dabi was smiling with knowing eyes. He already knew this would happen. He knew all along and you couldn’t be mad because apart of you hoped this would get you back in his arms faster. The rest of the funeral went by without much problem. You watched the casket be lowered into a hole and buried with goodbyes and bundles of flowers. Shoto was the only one left besides the camera man. He put the camera down walking over to Shoto. You gasped as the winged hero put a hand on Shoto’s back apologizing for his lose. Shoto didn’t react while Hawks picked up the camera and turned it off. You watched the black screen feeling your hands shake, you slowly turn to Dabi.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.” You did was answers. You needed to know why the number 2 hero of Japan, Endeavors subordinate, was doing Dabi a favor. You had heard about heroes helping villains and selling secrets but this was to close to home. What the hell was happening. “Please Dabi, tell me what’s happening. Why was Hawks there? Why was he recording for you?”

“We all have secrets doll. I can’t tell you to much but I can tell you he owed me a favor and this was how he was repaying me. I needed to see your funeral as well to make sure my plan was actually working. It is and Shoto seems to be playing the game as intended. Soon enough you’ll be trading your stained walls in for your old egg shell white ones. Your pumpkin will turn back into a carriage sweetheart and while your dancing with the prince, I’ll have the kings head on a stick.” You knew he wanted Endeavor but you finally started piecing together exactly how he was going to do it. He was going to use Shoto to kill him or capture him. Either way Shoto was now a pawn on the same board as you. Dabi was playing the game against a cheater, someone who wouldn’t lose easily. Endeavor was not an easy man to break. This was going to be harder than manipulating your husband and you knew that.

“I want to help.”

“You already have. You being dead gives Shoto reason to kill. To go against his hero code. As long as you stay dead and he seeks revenge all goes well. I get what I deserve.” His phone beeps and he’s leaving you. The laptop goes with him, you don’t mind because there isn’t anything you can do on it anyway. You walk to the window watching his figure disappear into the foggy street. What an ugly night. You went to bed and curled up with a book Dabi had brought you.

Elsewhere Shoto stood in the darkness of an alley behind his fathers’ agency. Hawks walked by talking on the phone with someone not noticing the boy’s presence. Shoto waited and slipped into the building before the door closed. He couldn’t be caught using the codes or else they’d know it was him. He knew how to avoid the cameras, how to maneuver the building without getting caught. He found himself outside the large office he had been in plenty of times. To think it would be his father’s final resting place, it was perfect justice. He went to push the door open but hesitated when he heard him talking to someone.

“I offered her money, I offered her positions outside the country, Hell I had other heroes try to seduce her but nothing worked. She was hell bent on staying with Shoto. I couldn’t allow her to ruin his chances at being the number 1 hero. He needed to focus and if he were to marry it should be to someone with a quirk that complimented his. I needed her out of the picture and to think someone else took care of it before we had too.” Shoto knew his father was shitty, manipulative, abusive and so many other fucked up things but this was something else. This was beyond shitty and abusive. This was evil and a power trip. His father may not have killed you but he was going to get what he deserved for playing a part in it. The door opened under his touch and when he walked in his father turned a huge smirk across his face.

“Oh Shoto, I was just going to call you.” He put his phone down and Shoto was able to make out the name of the contact he had just been talking to, Hawks. He thought back to the funeral and pieced together theories. Hawks had a part in this and he was going to find out exactly what happened to you. His arm encases itself in fire the other arm freezing the exits. He stares at his still smirking father. “This isn’t a friendly visit. You’re going to tell me you killed Y/n and then I’m going to decide if I should kill you now or slowly torture you first.”

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cartoonsliveon · 3 years

Text

Captured

Ever since I saw the Impossi-bin episode, and how Donald was written as a “suspected traitor” on the white board, I couldn’t help but think about if F.O.W.L. ever captured any of the Duck fam. And if he captured Donald and Della, how that might just go... *shrugs*

“Ahhh! Della- Ow!!!”

“Hold still,” She snapped, grumbling softly under her breath, “You big baby.”

There was no real heat behind Donald’s glare as he watched his twin sister, only exhaustion... and a little bit of fear. Della continued to tie her scarf tightly around his arm, watching as the light blue fabric already began to darken.

“There,” Her hands hovered in the air awkwardly, she wasn’t sure what to do with them. Let them dangle at her sides or fold them in her lap? She isn’t entirely sure anymore. Donald isn’t looking at her anymore, finding the floor and his feet so much more interesting. The tips of her fingers are tinged red from his blood, and even though this isn’t the first time she’s had to patch her brother up, the sight of it makes her incredibly uneasy. A ball of anxiety makes its presence known to her again.

And Della hates it. Because how in the world did they end up in this situation anyways? It’s a rhetorical question of course, she remembers the adventure clearly. The Stone of What Was, so tiny and unassuming. Louie and Dewey had looked down upon it, so entirely unimpressed with the simplicity of it. Uncle Scrooge tucking it into a satchel, which swayed with his hips and bounced with each jump. The chaos that surrounded the adventure and grew once they reached it. Della’s heart hammers as she reflects. F.O.W.L., in almost full force. The fighting, the lasers, Donald throwing himself at the giant rooster with the metal beak with so much force and rage.

Somewhere in the fighting, the cave’s structure began to deteriorate. Somewhere in it all, Donald and Della had gotten separated from Scrooge and the kids in the midst of keeping their family safe. And instead of finding Scrooge, and the kids, and returning home, they were here. In a cell.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What?” She looks up to see her brother giving her a very pointed, knowing look.

“You’re about to punch the wall. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were,” Donald rolled his eyes, “You had that angry look on your face. The one you always make before you’re about to explode.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did-”

“Bickering like children, are we?”

If looks could kill, Bradford would have been nothing but ash and maybe a few smoking tail feathers. He met their gaze though, as if their combined anger was not a force to be feared or reckoned with. It was as though he were meeting the angry, unforgiving looks of two children than two adults. He can’t help but give them more than a brief once over though, because he’d seen these two grow up after all. Once upon a time, they’d been children just like the triplets and Webby. Up to nothing but trouble and mischief. He eyes the scarf wrapped around Donald’s arm, the bruises darkening along Della’s beak. The disarrayed feathers.

“You aren’t going to get away with this, Scrooge is going to come for us,” Della demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You really believe that?”

It’s such a risky, wildcard thing to say. Bradford knows Donald and Della well. Not as well as Scrooge, but well enough to know that this could strike a chord with them, if done right. To his great surprise, not that he dares show it of course, identical looks of confusion spread across their faces. He sees Donald tense and shoot a side eye look at Della.

Neither of them interrupt or argue, they’re surprisingly silent. He pushes on before the moment is lost.

“You vanished for ten years. You were on the Moon for ten years. The easiest place to look. The closest thing you could have crashed onto. He gave up on you when searches became a financial loss.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. You forced Uncle Scrooge to-”

“And he listened to me,” Bradford snapped back, “If he cared about you and truly, truly believed you were still out there, he wouldn’t have listened to me. If he loved you, he wouldn’t have let anything or anyone stop him.”

His gaze immediately turned to Donald, “No one even knew you were missing. Your month long cruise, spent as a prisoner on the Moon and then trapped on an island. You come back and he gives you nothing but grief and insults. No one even had the decency to try and tell you your sister was back the minute she showed up at the door. If Scrooge cared about you, he would have thought about you and your feelings. He would consider your input. Value your opinions.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Bradford asks, “Did you know your brother raised the boys for ten years bouncing from job to job, sacrificing everything so they could have food on the table and clothes on their backs? Would feel love and protected? He sheltered them. If Scrooge cared about either of you, wouldn’t he have done everything he could to make sure Donald had help? Support?”

“Or what about the way he manipulates you, Della, into doing what he wants without you realizing it? Instigating your competitiveness as siblings? ‘Isn’t there another strong duck you know who’s never lost a fight?’ ‘You mean Donald?’, he played you.”

Donald’s hands folded tightly into two shaking fists, the duck struggling to maintain eye contact with Bradford. Della felt nothing but cold fury start to fill her. She never doubted Uncle Scrooge, not his ability to constantly undermine and defeat his foes, not in his ability to think his way out of situations, not in his strength, and most definitely his love for them. But even now, even though she knows that their uncle loves them, she can’t help but feel something in her twist and squirm at Bradford’s words (possibly that very doubt she has never felt before? She refuses to give it a label).

But she knows Donald doesn’t think the same way she does. His relationship with Scrooge has never been.... as smooth as hers. It’s full of bumps, pot holes, and steep turns. She doesn’t doubt Scrooge’s love for them. Donald doesn’t always feel that same confidence, not about himself. She stares at Bradford, wishing that there wasn’t a plexiglass wall between them. If Bradford is making this.... feeling.... bubble up in her, she can only imagine how much of a struggle it is for Donald to not let his insecurities get the better of him. To remain as impassive as possible. And for that she wants to strangle this good for nothing buzzard.

Especially when she sees the way Bradford stares at Donald now. Not the two of them. Not at just her. But Donald.

“If he doesn’t wipe that smug look off your ugly beak,” Della growls, “I will. Uncle Scrooge loves us. He’s coming for us.”

“Is this really the way you want it all to end? Blindly following a man who has caused you so much grief?” Bradford tsks, ignoring Della.

“What do you want from us Bradford,” Donald’s voice is a heavy sigh, tired and resigned. He uncurls one fist, mainly to grab Della’s wrist. She doesn’t realize, until he strokes his thumb over her knuckles how tightly her own fists are clenched, “Why are you even here?”

“I want the same thing that you want,” Donald doesn’t like how that sounds at all. He doubts the buzzard truly wants what they do, “For all this chaos and madness to end. Your uncle is meddling with things he shouldn’t, and everyone else has to pay the consequences. He has to be stopped. Duckburg has dealt with enough chaos and madness. The world has dealt with enough. Hasn’t it been enough already? Haven’t you both suffered enough?”

Both twins give a snort as they chuckle, both of them raising identical eyebrows as they stare at Bradford. It makes a chill crawl up his spine. The way they do that, being able to act simultaneously in the littlest ways. So different and yet so identical. So similar. It’s chilling to anyone who isn’t used to it. Who doesn’t see it every day like Scrooge and his family.

“If you honestly think that we’re just going to betray our family like that-” Donald can’t help but shake his head slightly at the idea as Della continues for him, “Then you’re dumber than Glomgold. And that’s saying something!”

“Nothing you say is going to change anything,” Della continued, “so you and your stupid lackeys can shove it up your-”

“Not even for the kids?”

Bradford couldn’t help but smirk a little wider when he saw Donald and Della stare at him in silence. The fear shining in their eyes. Perhaps he should have mentioned the children sooner. Perhaps he should have just led with that. But what fun would that have been? What sort of villain would he be if he didn’t make them squirm a little bit and drag up things neither of them wished to dwell on.

“They’re all so young,” Bradford shook his head, “Is this what you want for them? For them to run straight into danger and pay for Scrooge’s mistakes? Haven’t they already suffered enough?”

“Nothing bad has to happen to them,” Bradford reminded, “They don’t have to get hurt. They can grow up, safe, and normal. That was what you wanted, right Donald? For them to be safe? That’s why you cut all connection from Scrooge in the first place. I can make sure they don’t get caught in the crossfire. I can make sure none of my operatives harm a single feather on their head.”

“You’re bluffing,” Della snapped, “You-you’re lying!”

“What would I possibly gain from lying to the two of you?”

Neither Donald or Della had a response to that. And Donald hated it. He hated not having anything to say. He desperately wanted to fly into an angry rage and curse Bradford out in front of him. But he was filled with fear and this little voice, the same voice that told him to take the triplets and leave Scrooge ten years ago, fretting over the kids. What if Scrooge didn’t come for them? What if he did and wandered into the obvious trap waiting for him? What if the kids...?

“I’ll give you both some time to think about everything,” Bradford folded his hands behind his back, “I’m going to test that little theory of yours. If you’re so sure Scrooge will come, let’s see if he’ll be willing to make a trade.”

Bradford expected the two ducks to argue. To say that Scrooge wouldn’t give F.O.W.L. the Stone of What Was. That he’ll see through the trap. But they didn’t. Instead, Donald and Della turned to look at each other. And Bradford watched as they stared at one another, a silent conversation being communicated by the more subtle facial expressions. He turned, leaving them in silence until the door shut behind him.

Donald and Della stared at one another, simultaneously sighing as they let the situation fully seep in and try to mentally prepare themselves for the burden it is about to drop on them.

“Ah phooey,” They mutter together.

#Ducktales #fanfic

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