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kbstories · 4 years

Text

impression//expression

“It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.”

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Domestic Fluff, Bakusquad, An Extended Scene About The Joys And Pains of Dyeing Hair

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. No additional content warnings apply. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

⚡💖⛰️🎸📼

You have added Best Bakubro 💣💥!

You have changed the name from “⚡💖⛰️🎸📼” to “⚡💖💣⛰️🎸📼”!

hehehe we’re all set (sent 12:10)

welcome baku!! 💪🏻 (sent 12:10)

God 💡: 👀 (received 12:11)

Simply Mina: 👀👀 (received 12:11)

MT Tape: 👀 (received 12:11)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: shitty hair (received 12:13)

you promised!!! (sent 12:13)

no take backs 👀 (sent 12:13)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: fuck (received 12:13)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: okay two things (received 12:13)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: one i’m muting this so @ me or fuck off (received 12:14)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: two give me your names (received 12:14)

God 💡: wait srsly?? (received 12:15)

God 💡: c’mon bro it’s been months :( (received 12:15)

Simply Mina: yea wth blasty that’s so cold :(( (received 12:15)

MT Tape: answer the people explosion man @Best Bakubro 💣💥 (received 12:17)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: fine you’re staying random numbers then (received 12:18)

God 💡: OH (received 12:18)

God 💡: kaminari denki here!! (received 12:18)

MT Tape: this is sero 🙏🏻 (received 12:18)

Simply Mina: mina!!! (received 12:19)

Simply Mina: @Guitar Hero is kyoka 💖 (received 12:19)

Best Bakubro 💣💥

who? (received 12:19)

jirou!! (sent 12:19)

? (received 12:19)

🔌 (sent 12:20)

ah (received 12:20)

⚡💖💣⛰️🎸📼

Best Bakubro 💣💥: k (received 12:20)

God 💡: anyways (received 12:22)

God 💡: this is the best day of my life (received 12:22)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: shut it jolteon (received 12:22)

God 💡: dude i didn’t even @ u asdfkjsfk (received 12:22)

God 💡: wait omg is that an upgrade?? (received 12:23)

God 💡: did i get upgraded from pikachu to jolteon omg omg (received 12:23)

MT Tape: DIBS ON UMBREON (received 12:23)

MT Tape: we’re picking eeveelutions right? (received 12:23)

!!!! pls pls flareon pls!!! (sent 12:24)

Simply Mina: espeon or sylveon (received 12:24)

Simply Mina: espeon or sylveon??? (received 12:25)

Simply Mina: GUYS (received 12:25)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: this is a nightmare (received 12:25)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: and wtf espeon of course (received 12:26)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: better stats and none of that affection shit (received 12:26)

Simply Mina: the council has spoken (received 12:26)

what about flareon??? (sent 12:27)

plsplspls (sent 12:27)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: kirishima (received 12:27)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: it’s red. (received 12:28)

HELL YEAH ❤️ (sent 12:28)

Guitar Hero: hi what the HELL are you guys spamming about (received 12:30)

Guitar Hero: oh hey bakugou (received 12:30)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: plugs you’re glaceon (received 12:31)

Guitar Hero: i’m cool with that (received 12:31)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: good (received 12:31)

MT Tape: ok kiri i think i get it now (received 12:34)

MT Tape: putting every decision thru the baku filter is so much more fun (received 12:34)

right??? (sent 12:34)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: don’t fucking start (received 12:35)

Simply Mina: too late <3 (received 12:35)

God 💡: our trap card activated the moment you stepped into this chat man (received 12:36)

MT Tape: Bakugou Katsuki has been designated Chief Executive Brain (CEB) of the squad, effective immediately. (received 12:36)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: i’m leaving (received 12:37)

:( (sent 12:37)

MT Tape: … 👀 (received 12:40)

MT Tape: he ain’t leaving huh? (received 12:44)

God 💡: kiri’s puppy eyes once again confirmed as world’s strongest force (received 12:45)

Simply Mina: it’s kiri so we’re all safe tho <3 (received 12:45)

<3 (sent 12:45)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: for the record i hate all of you (received 12:46)

⚡💖💣⛰️🎸📼

Simply Mina: hey hey blasty (received 14:48)

Simply Mina: which eeveelution are you? (received 14:48)

Simply Mina: @Best Bakubro 💣💥 (received 14:50)

God 💡: 👀👀 (received 14:50)

👀 (sent 14:50)

MT Tape: 👀 (received 14:51)

Guitar Hero: ^ what they said (received 14:53)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: eevee, duh (received 14:56)

Best Bakubro 💣💥: i don’t need a type advantage to win (received 14:56)

😭 bro so manly (sent 14:56)

also (sent 14:57)

You have changed the name from “⚡💖💣⛰️🎸📼” to “🦊 Eevee Squad 🦊”!

Best Bakubro 💣💥: fucking fantastic. can we shut up now? (received 15:00)

Best Bakubro 💣💥

see? told u it’s fun 💪🏻 (sent 15:01)

i guess (received 15:02)

like i said u can just ignore the chat if ur not feeling it (sent 15:10)

they’re cool, they won’t mind (sent 15:10)

+ i’ll text u stuff directly if it’s important (sent 15:12)

kiri (received 15:12)

ok ok hhh just saying (sent 15:12)

i know (received 15:13)

you got that shit for ectoplasm yet? (received 15:17)

ummm (sent 15:17)

fucking knew it (received 15:17)

you coming or what? (received 15:22)

!!! o7 (sent 15:22)

Bakugou is staring.

Eyes on the page, Kirishima tries to focus on the function he’s been struggling to get for fifteen minutes now. Something about tangents and right angles? No, cotangents, which is different from a non-cotangent tangent because–

Bakugou has stopped writing a while ago, the fabric-covered pen resting loosely in his hand, his head propped up on a fist.

–the cosine does… something with the sine of X. Division? Maybe? X pops up in a bunch of places, actually, and Kirishima longs for the days math still featured numbers and not whatever nonsense this cos-sin-tan stuff is–

Bakugou is staring right at him, has been for ages now and Kirishima can’t help it. He looks up, only to catch Bakugou looking away, and huffs a nervous chuckle.

“Bro, c’mon. What’s up? Is there something on my face ‘cause you’ve been–”

“It’s black.” There’s a pensive twist to Bakugou’s brow. He breezes through the part of the problem Kirishima’s stuck on like it’s nothing, scribbled down in permanent ink like the monster he is. “Your natural haircolor. It’s black, right?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Kirishima picks his head up from where he’s slumped across Bakugou’s desk, the bean bag he’s sitting on shifting under his butt. Since when does Bakugou care about his hair? It hasn’t been black for over a year, anyways, so what does that have to do with…

“Wait, why do you–”

Bakugou’s eyes wander back to him, landing on Kirishima’s hair for barely a second but it’s enough. With a mortified noise, Kirishima slaps both his hands over his forehead – or more specifically, his roots.

Because Kirishima completely forgot he’s overdue on a redye for a good week and styled his hair as he usually does: gel evenly spread into carefully towel-dried strands, quirk on until it dries, done. He hadn’t looked into a mirror before heading to class or he would’ve seen his tips straying from cherry red to berry pink.

And that jet-black line where it’s growing back out. The roots that are the bane of Kirishima’s existence and that Bakugou saw.

Kirishima groans, curling into himself until his head hits wood with a dull donk. “How bad is it? Don’t spare me, bro, I need to know.”

That rhymes, the part of his brain not burning in the hellfire of shame chimes in. Kirishima firmly tells it to shut up.

“Your hair?”, Bakugou asks from an unknown realm beyond the bit of desk Kirishima’s staring at, a beat late. Probably to treat him to a glare he can’t see.

Kirishima rubs his forehead across his math homework in a miserable nod.

“It’s not more or less shitty than usual, Shitty Hair.” Bakugou scoffs. “What’s the big deal?”

“Oh, nothing”, Kirishima shrugs, his voice a fake-cheerful mumble, “Just that I’ve been walking around like this all day. A whole ass day. Kill me, now.”

“Nah. Wasn’t the idea to ‘die like a man in chivalrous battle’?”

Kirishima shoots him a dirty look. Bakugou doesn’t even bat an eye; he flashes his teeth in a bright smile and knocks his fists against each other, whispering “manly” under his breath and okay, why does Bakugou have to be good at everything, including impersonating Kirishima?

“I hate you”, grumbles Kirishima. Bakugou breaks character to cackle, only stopping after Kirishima balls up his pitiful attempt at math to throw it at his head. Bull’s eye, right on the forehead.

“Oi! That’s your homework, moron.”

“You started it”, Kirishima points at him with his pencil. His notepad is pulled closer with a deep, long sigh. “Now I gotta do this stuff again and stress about my hair. Amazing.”

Ah, the God-help-me eyeroll. It’s been a while. “Just go fucking dye it and come back if it bothers you so much. Can’t be that hard.”

“Says the blond guy”, Kirishima huffs. “Dude, do you even know how long getting rid of this” – a gesture to his roots – “takes? Black hair is a pain to bleach. Literally.”

Bakugou considers his hair with a frown. “…How long are we talking here? Like, an hour?”

A laugh, louder than Kirishima intends. “Try three. Sometimes more, it depends.”

“Three hours?!”

“Or more.”

A little smug, Kirishima watches disbelief bloom on Bakugou’s face. When it comes to this, destroying the innocence of the uninitiated is the only joy he’s got. There’s really nothing fun about sitting through those hours every six weeks, give or take – just plain, boring routine. At least he isn’t anxious about making mistakes anymore, not like his first few times.

It’s definitely worth it, though. Kirishima loves his red hair.

“And it, what. It hurts?”

Bakugou is still processing it seems, a hand going to his own hair. (It looks so soft, that even light color Kirishima has envied since the beginning of time. Such a nice base for any type of dye, especially bright ones or pastels.)

Kirishima scrunches his nose. “The developer does, yeah. Anything over 9% makes your scalp burn like crazy so I stick to 9% and do multiple rounds. I can’t go light enough for the red I want, otherwise.”

“And then the dye?”

“Then you dye it, yeah. Roots first, then the lengths in small strands, let it sit for twenty more minutes or so, rinse it out and then you’re done.”

It’s weird to explain things that have become totally obvious to him step by step, but Bakugou looks strangely fascinated by what he’s hearing. He does likes things to be more complicated than simple in basically any regard, Kirishima muses with a private snicker. Perhaps it’s not that surprising, after all.

“I use pure red on everything but you can mix colors, too, there’s a whole science behind that. And if you decide ‘Hey, I haven’t suffered enough!’, you can do individual highlights as well. But that’s a production all in itself! Ask Kami, he does some wild things to get that lightning bolt just right.”

Bakugou slowly shakes his head. “You people are crazy. That can’t be worth it.” He squints at Kirishima, hums to himself and starts nodding, instead. Vaguely terrified of what’s brewing in that brain of his, Kirishima waits for him to finish thinking.

“Let’s do it.”

There it is, a suitably terrible idea. Also: What?

“Color or highlights?” Kirishima sputters. “Wait, you or me? Bro, I can live with my own mistakes but dyeing your hair is too much pressure. Like, I’ll do it if you really want me to but, um–”

“Color. And you, obviously. Who of us is freaking out about hair, huh? Sure as fuck ain’t me.”

I’m not freaking out about it, Kirishima wants to say. Okay, he had been freaking out a little. Maybe. Not anymore, not with the mental image of Bakugou with Riot-red hair sort of making his braincells implode.

It’s impossible to imagine. Kirishima tries to anyways, fails, shakes his head. Focus!

“But…”

He draws a blank. Actually, Bakugou helping him with his hair does sound kind of fun. Until his patience inevitably runs out and he explodes the pot of dye, or something. Which could be hilarious, too.

“…Homework?”

(Not that he particularly wants to go back to puzzling over non-tangent cotangents – Ectoplasm always seems to know when he didn’t do the thing, though, and Kirishima hates disappointing his teachers more than he does the variable X.)

Bakugou sparks off in his direction. “We got three hours. 'nuff said.” He snatches up the math book they were sharing, Kirishima’s notepad and even the pencil out of his hand, and is out the room before Kirishima has fully registered they’re doing this.

“Shitty Hair!”

Kirishima jumps to his feet.

“Coming!”

“This is so damn messy. How’s your bathroom not stained to hell already?”

Coming up on their third round over his bathroom sink, Kirishima feels little sleepy as he blinks up at Bakugou. That expression of intense concentration hasn’t budged all three rounds, Bakugou’s hands steady yet gentle where they’re starting to dab red dye over freshly bleached roots.

There’s a dot of crimson on his cheek already. After forcing gloves on Bakugou and explaining to him how red pigment is the hardest to wash out – on clothes, skin, hair, wherever it lands – Kirishima isn’t inclined to point it out to him just yet.

“I asked admin about it. They said everything in our rooms is practically indestructible, including the sinks.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, right? They thought of everything, it seems.”

Bakugou continues. Kirishima dozes.

“Your hair is dry as fuck, by the way.”

Kirishima shrugs with his eyes closed, following the nudge to turn his head so Bakugou can get to the back. This is so much more comfortable than doing it by himself.

“Can’t be helped, man. The dye by itself is fine, actually, it’s the bleach that’s causes most of the damage. Oh well, with the gel it’s hard as concrete, anyways.”

“Mhmm. You’ll go bald by the time we’re outta here.”

“Hey!”

“Bald Hero: Red Riot”, Bakugou muses out loud, easily evading the kick Kirishima blindly aims at his shin. “Stop it, you’re gonna fuck up my hard work here.”

He’s smiling though, Kirishima can tell. It’s all in his voice, roughness replaced by warmth when it’s the two of them in Kirishima’s tiny bathroom.

“Stop dissing my hair, then. Besides, I know your secret.”

This Kirishima wants to see. He opens one eye and yup, Bakugou’s brows are doing the thing where they twitch and pull together. Not exactly a frown, more caught off guard than anything. Bakugou’s lips press shut, stubbornly silent as he brushes dye on every inch of Kirishima's hair.

Then: “I’m done. What am I s’posed to do with this shit?”

Kirishima glances at the pot Bakugou holds out to him. There’s still some of the thick liquid left.

“Just pour it on top. Can’t hurt and it’s better than throwing it away.”

Bakugou does exactly that. He tosses the empty pot and the thoroughly stained brush into the sink. Kirishima helps him wrap his hair in cellophane and a towel to reduce the possible mess, relocating to the closed lid of his toilet so Bakugou can take off the gloves and wash his hands.

“Okay, I’ll fucking bite. What secret?”

Lingering on the tension between them, Kirishima grins with all the confidence in the world. “That you like my hair.”

Bakugou barks a laugh. “After I went all Van Gogh on it? You better believe it’s good.”

“Nope, I mean before that”, Kirishima challenges.

“Proof?”, Bakugou shoots back without hesitation.

“Oh, I can give you proof.” Kirishima’s arms cross over the ratty shirt he always wears for this, its fabric dotted and streaked in interlacing shades of red. “One, it’s the first thing you noticed about me, hence ‘Shitty Hair’. Two, you were distracted by my roots growing in so you pay attention to how it looks–”

“I don’t–”

“–and three, you just spent hours dyeing it for me.”

Bakugou’s mouth snaps shut. He growls in his throat, grabbing an additional towel and drying his hands. Kirishima wasn’t aware those are actions that can be done aggressively but hey, he’s learning something new every day.

“Maybe”, Bakugou finally concedes. The towel is thrown in Kirishima’s face when all he does is smile. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Bakugou’s cheeks are dusted pink. Still, Kirishima shows the guy some mercy: Bakugou spent all afternoon fixing both his hair and his math homework, after all.

“Hey, Baku?”

“… What?”

“Thanks, man. You’re a good friend, you know that?”

Somehow, that makes Bakugou look even more flustered. “Whatever, Shitty Hair.”

Because Bakugou is Bakugou, namely a man who doesn’t know when or how to quit, he sticks around until Kirishima can rinse out the dye. He emerges from the shower feeling fully restored, a towel wrapped around his waist and his shirt draped over his shoulder.

“And that’s how you do it.”

Bakugou throws him a look from his sprawl on Kirishima’s bed, manga in hand. His gaze flicks to his hair immediately; his lips twist upwards, obviously satisfied.

“Told ya, it ain’t hard.”

Kirishima chuckles, shakes his head. “You’re so full of shit, dude.”

Now that the hair situation is under control for a few weeks, he realizes how hungry he is. The evening has barely begun, too, which means there’s time for a movie before Bakugou’s ridiculous sleep schedule comes a-knocking, either taking him out or making him cranky. Each scenario has about a fifty-fifty chance of happening.

“Hey, you wanna–”

Out of nowhere, his door bursts open to reveal one Kaminari Denki, out of breath and clutching a very familiar book to his chest.

“Kiri! Please tell me you guys figured out the–”

His eyes fall first on the splattered shirt on Kirishima’s shoulder, the trails of watery red dripping from his hair to his naked chest – and then on Bakugou, hands stained a faint red despite the gloves, that smear of color on his cheek Kirishima forgot to tell him about still very much there.

“Is that blood? What happened? Oh my–” Kaminari gasps. “Did you kill somebody?! Oh fuck, we have to hide the bo–”

“Kami”, Kirishima tries between bouts of laughter, “No, what the hell!”

A familiar cackle behind him does absolutely nothing to help their case.

>>Chapter 8.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #mha #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #kiribaku #bnha fanfiction #tumblr will 100% kill the formatting #this fic is also on AO3!! (again the format......)#anyhow final stop in fluff land before we dive into more angst next time :3c #my stuff

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twokinkybeans · 4 years

Text

FALLEN LIKE SNOW - CHAPTER 4: SET, MATCH

Written by @jeranasblog and Kinkybeanlien

Moodboard by @jeranasblog

The rest of the week in Austria goes by surprisingly smooth. Then... The Charity Gala.

Notes: Adult Peter Parker, Fake dating, One sided nemies to lovers, No powers!AU, Mutual pining, Sugar daddy!Tony, Sugar baby!Peter, Fluff, Smut and Angst.

Smut tags (some for later): Wet Dream, Dry Humping, Daddy Kink, Mirror Sex, Dom/Sub Undertones, Bondage, Humiliation, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Fingering, Edging, Lingerie, Dom/Top!Tony, Sub/Bottom!Peter

Read Set, Match on AO3!

When Peter woke up the next day, he scrambled out of the bed as fast as he could, scaring Tony awake too. Memories of the night before flooded back, shading Peter’s face a bright hue of red. He hid in the bathroom for an hour. His reflection in the mirror couldn’t stop staring back at him and he had to take an ice-cold shower, hangover be damned. When he finally gained the courage to walk back out again, Tony had already left for breakfast. Peter joined Tony and his friends but opted to only give them a polite greeting. He kept quiet for the entirety of the breakfast and he was quietly thankful no one brought up his… loose lips. For lack of a better word. That day they all went up on the mountain together. The perks of skiing and snowboarding were that you didn’t really have to talk with anyone. Just wait up for each other a bit further down. And since Peter was often last to catch up, the others would be ready to leave again. It did mean it was absolutely exhausting for Peter. Where the others would get a short break every now and then, Peter had to keep going in one big breath. He wouldn’t even dare to dream to keep up with Harry. The way he went down the slopes was impressive. He took jumps, went off-piste for little bits, and if the slope split in red and black, Harry would always take the black, steep pistes. Lunch at Seppi’s was the greatest reward Peter could’ve ever gotten. He was burning calories at a rapid pace and it didn’t matter how fit he was, his legs hurt and his stomach was growling with the need to be filled. He devoured the Kaiserschmarren like it was his last meal on earth. He even ended up helping Harry down the last of his gigantic plate of spaghetti. Occasionally, he hid behind Harry when some other people would recognize Tony and ask for a photograph. Peter was honestly glad Harry was part of the group. Having someone his age around meant he could talk about stupid, inconsequential things. Like memes. After a while of having his full attention on Harry, Peter felt a warm hand envelop his shoulder. He turned around only to meet Tony’s gaze. The look on his face was tight. Worried… Jealous? “You look tired.” It was a simple comment, yet it somehow held a massive amount of gravity. The man had kept his voice down and Harry already turned to answer his father’s question. One that Peter didn’t hear now that Tony was suddenly so close to him. Peter’s shoulders fell and he scoffed with a nod, avoiding eye contact by staring at his empty plate. “It’s hard to keep up.” “You’re doing incredible for a first time on the mountains, you know that right?” Peter felt Tony’s hand squeeze and pull, urging Peter to look his boss back in the eye. Tony nodded once, the expression on his face a serious one. “Right?” He repeated. Peter managed to smile slightly. He didn’t know what to think of Stark’s piercing eyes resting on him. No, shooting right through him. “Right.” Peter’s reply was breathless and his eyes flicked down to watch how Tony licked his lips, feeling his own part to mindlessly mirror Tony’s movement. Peter blinked twice and shuffled away, forcing his eyes on the drink in front of him. He barely caught Tony’s little smirk. “I think Pete’s done for the day,” Tony said, louder, at the group. “What?” Peter’s eyebrows raised. “Come on, kid, anybody can tell you’re exhausted. It’s okay to take the afternoon off.” Tony patted Peter’s shoulder before smugly leaning back in his seat. If those ski shoes weren’t that chunky and heavy, Peter was sure the man would’ve crossed his legs, resting his ankle on his knee. “Fine, fine-” Peter sighed. “I need a nap. I’ll take the afternoon off if you promise you go spend time with your friends. Not me.” “Deal,” Tony replied quickly, causing Pepper to let out a soft snort. “He’s lying,” she chuckled. Peter rolled his eyes and sighed. “I know.” … Peter and Tony made their way to the Dorfbahn after lunch so they could have a nice walk back to the hotel. Tony arranged for their ski gear to be brought to the hotel by an employee of the gondola. The employee wasn’t very keen at first, but when Tony offered him a - likely too - generous amount of money, the refusal turned to agreement. Peter and Tony casually strolled over the forest path on the other side of the river, towards the hotel. When they were almost halfway, Peter finally found the courage to say something. Though, he did quite enjoy the silence he spent with Tony. The man somehow had something calming about him. It was almost tranquil. Still, things would have to be addressed anyways. Better get it over with fast. “I’m sorry about yesterday, I-” “Oh, you remember?” Tony looked at him surprised and Peter decided to just keep staring at his gigantic moon boots kicking through the snowy paths. “You thought I didn’t?” “You were quite drunk, Parker.” Tony let out a soft laugh and Peter sucked at his teeth with frustration. He should’ve just not said anything. “I… gotta say I was a little scared you thought I’d taken advantage of you when you ran off into the bathroom.” “But you didn’t.” Peter hid his nose behind his shawl and raised his shoulders. “I didn’t.” Tony stretched out, taking a big breath and watching the air condense in front of his mouth. “I’m better than that.” After a few more steps Peter felt like jumping into the rough river rushing next to them when Tony continued talking. “Did you mean it?” “Mean what?” It was a futile attempt at postponing his answer. In reality, it made it even harder to answer what Tony said next. “That you would like me to overwhelm you?” Tony said it so casually, it ached Peter. “Call me, y’know. That.” They both knew what Tony was talking about. Yet, it didn’t matter whether he addressed it like this or if he would’ve just said the actual word. It was still incredibly embarrassing. “I was drunk.” His voice is weak. Unreliable. “Very much so.” Tony put his hands in his pockets and rolled his shoulders, looking up at the clear sky. “People say things without a filter when they are, though.” “Well, I…” Peter didn’t have the right words to counter Tony’s. His brain couldn’t think of anything to defend himself, actually. “You’re using that very filter right now.” That was enough. Peter quickened his pace, overtaking Tony and leaving the man behind him. Stunned. “Hey!” Tony chased after him and grabbed Peter’s shoulder, forcing him to stop and turn around. Peter hated himself for feeling his eyes water. He hated how Tony noticed and seemed worried. He hated this… Strange feeling in the bottom of his stomach. Whatever it was. “It’s okay. If it makes you uncomfortable then we don’t talk about it. It’s all good. You get to sleep in your own bed again tonight.” “What if I don’t want to?” The words left his mouth before he could think them through. Tony’s stunned look shifted to an amazed one. “Then… Then you can stay.” His voice was low, words slow. “Do you want more? More than just sleeping, I mean?” Peter pulled back and hid his face behind his hands. “Yes? No! I don’t know. Not yet. I just-” “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Peter felt two gloved hands pulling down his scarf and cupping his face. He opened his eyes and his gaze met Tony’s. His warm, deep brown eyes captivated Peter immediately. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with me. Or with yourself, or whatever you’re struggling with right now. There’s… Honestly not much I can say or ask of you, especially since you’re here for me, but… would you protect me from my nightmares again tonight?” Peter could only nod slowly. He held his breath. Tony gave Peter an encouraging smile and let his clothed thumbs caress Peter’s jaw. “No funny business. Just two fake boyfriends on a trip to Austria.” The man leaned in with a smirk. “And there was only one bed.” Peter sniffed once and then chuckled, pretending to gasp. “There was only one bed-” Peter repeated, faux-surprised. Tony knew how to break the ice. And he for sure just broke the news to Peter that he knows about fanfiction. And Peter made the mistake of confessing the exact same thing with his reply. “And if you do want to sleep in your own bed, you can go right ahead. No strings attached. No expectations or obligations.” Tony let go of Peter and held out his hand to him. “Deal?” “Are you lying again?” Peter asked cheekily. Tony grinned and waited for Peter to shake his hand. “This time? Definitely not.” Peter smiled up at his boss and nodded, wrapping his fingers around Tony’s palm and giving him one firm handshake. “Then deal.” … The next two days flew by. Peter had permanently moved into Tony’s room… Their room. And it felt right, sleeping next to him. The man had this natural warmth about him that got Peter through the night more easily and Tony admitted he slept better with Peter by his side as well. It was strange. They still weren’t actually together, but it all blended so easily. Peter didn’t even feel like he was acting at the dinner table anymore. He was having fun. With Tony. They talked until late at night about all kinds of things. Fears and dreams. Childhoods and futures. Being over halfway through this vacation felt like a weight on Peter’s shoulders. There was always this lurking fear that Tony would drop him right after the vacation, like he promised he would. Was this a promise he intended to keep? Or would Tony have changed his mind? Just like Peter did? He wasn’t sure. It was the day of the big celebration gala. The Charity Event. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. The party was planned for the evening and Tony had his sights set on a full day of relaxation for both of them. After visiting the hotel saunas, Tony had booked a couple’s massage session. Peter had never gotten a massage in his life before and he was looking forward to it. His muscles needed a break after skiing every day and he couldn’t imagine anything better than spending a relaxed afternoon in the hotel spa, especially since Tony was going to be with him. All the massage tables were empty because everyone was up on the mountains, and Peter was thrilled to be alone with Tony and their masseuses, savoring the moment of silence. Peter did his best not to stare at the billionaire, dressed only in a thin towel, but he couldn’t stop himself from getting a small glimpse. Tony’s body was amazing, muscular and strong, unbelievably fit for a person his age, and Peter had to stop himself from drooling. They were in a public space, no time for an inappropriate boner. When they finally laid on their stomachs, Peter could relax. His face was turned towards Tony and he could see how the other man smiled when he was looking at Peter. He felt calm, enjoying the time he could spend with the billionaire. The hands on his back did wonders for his muscles, kneading his flesh and working every knot out of his body. He felt loose, all the tension leaving him, and his eyes fell shut. The masseuse did excellent work, finding every spot that hurt and treating it until Peter was a puddle of goo. When she worked at a particularly tense spot, digging her fingers in until his muscles finally relaxed, Peter couldn’t stop a loud moan. It echoed across the room, too loud to go unnoticed. Peter died in embarrassment. His eyes open, looking directly into Tony’s and he could see a feral look in his eyes. His pupils were dilated, staring at Peter like how a predator stares at his prey and Peter had never seen such raw hunger on his face before. The look made him clench, his mind providing him with pictures of Tony massaging him, wandering lower and lower until… He stopped his own thoughts and shuddered, struggling with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment, that was highly inappropriate in the situation. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t even know to whom he was apologizing, but he could feel himself blush, turning his head away from the billionaire. “Don't be embarrassed, I know it feels good.” Tony’s voice was filled with understanding and something else, something darker. "M-m sorry, I can't hold back-" "Don't worry.” The masseuse destroyed the mood and Peter wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or disappointed. “Happens to everyone. Feels good when the muscles finally relax.” Yeah, it did, but it felt even better when a certain billionaire was looking at him like he wanted to eat him alive afterward. There was no way he could survive this vacation without jumping him. Peter was screwed. With each passing day, with each flirtatious smile, his self-restraint was crumbling more, and it was only a matter of time until he would give in. Peter tried not to look at Tony during the rest of the massage, kept his eyes closed and focused on controlling his body’s reaction. He was worked up; every sound of the billionaire made him struggle. When the massage was finally over, he didn’t even know anymore whether he was relaxed or even more tense. He just wanted to go to their room and take a long cold shower. One more touch, one more word, and Peter would break. … “Stunning as always,” Tony mumbled as he stood behind Peter once again. The young man was staring at his reflection in the mirror like he did before, but this time he did hear Tony creeping up on him. “Thank you.” It wasn’t more than a whisper. Peter’s eyes shifted to Tony’s in the mirror. His gaze was intense. They’ve been in this exact position before and it has Peter quietly wonder where this was headed. “I haven’t changed yet, though.” Peter was wearing the simplest clothes. A pair of sweats and a plain white T-shirt. He figured that was the most comfortable to wear for the few hours of downtime he had in the hotel room. Peter found out he actually liked studying himself in the mirror. How the lines of his body flowed and changed with his movement. He used to be unsure what to think of vain people. That it’s shallow to ogle at yourself that long; to like yourself and the way you look. But now that it was Tony’s clothes that were hugging his body, he caught himself staring at his reflection more often than not. “Maybe that’s why…” Tony sighed his reply as he pressed himself into Peter’s space more. No touching yet. “May I?” Peter released a shaky breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. He nodded slightly, allowing Tony to press against him. His body was warm and pleasant and Peter felt himself melt under Tony’s touch when his arm creeped around Peter’s waist to hold him tight. Peter’s jaw tensed when he felt Tony’s hard on. Was this actually happening? Tony’s beard scratched the skin of Peter’s neck as he gently rubbed his chin back and forth. They kept their gazes locked together as they felt the tension rise. Their pupils dilated more and more at the realization that things might escalate sooner rather than later. “More?” Tony whispered into Peter’s ear, confirming Peter’s thought process. Goosebumps spread over Peter’s entire body and he shivered. Yes. Yes, he wanted more. More than anything. He nodded again and Tony hummed disapprovingly. “Tell me you want more. I want to hear you.” “Please,” Peter gasped quietly. “More?” Tony hummed again, a little louder this time. The sound vibrated through Peter’s body and went straight to his cock, which was already visibly growing harder in the sweats. The mirror left nothing to the imagination. Neither did the sweatpants. Peter couldn’t contain a soft moan when Tony’s rough beard was replaced with soft lips. Tony’s grip on Peter tightened and he squeezed into Peter’s skin through the white shirt. “So good,” Tony whispered, suckling at Peter’s neck. “So pretty...” That did it. Tony broke Peter. Peter ripped himself free from Tony’s tight arms and turned around to jump him. He pressed their lips together and wrapped his legs around Tony’s waist. The man immediately grabbed Peter’s ass to push the two of them flush together and he stumbled back to sit them down on the bed. Peter ground himself down into Tony’s crotch and moaned audibly when Tony’s tongue entered his mouth. The billionaire’s strong hands helped Peter rub against him, squeezing the student’s ass in the process. Peter whimpered and whined and moaned and he pressed his eyes shut with embarrassment. “I- I can’t hold back-” He heard himself say, thoughts hazy, repeating what he had said during the massage session earlier that day. “Don’t.” The word shot through Peter like a missile. The filthiest noise he’d ever made, escaped his lips, straight into Tony’s mouth. The man groaned back and grinned. “Jesus, kid, you’re perfect-” Peter’s fingers tangled in and pulled at Tony’s hair. “For you,” Peter gasped between kisses. “Wanna be perfect for you-” Suddenly, Tony pulled back and stared at Peter wide-eyed. There was a crooked, open-mouthed smile on his face, eyes filled with wonder and amazement, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. That this was real. Peter felt the same. “Well, then…” Tony’s voice was low and dark. Hot. “I got something for you.” He pushed his hips up, making Peter moan again and press back down. It felt so good. He whined softly when Tony stood them up, placing Peter’s feet on the floor. Peter felt dizzy with pleasure as the man guided him to the living space, hand resting on his lower back as he did all those days before when they pretended to be together. Were they still pretending? Peter wasn’t sure, though, he also wasn’t sure if he cared about that right now. There was a flat, white box on the coffee table. A deep red ribbon held the box and the lid together. “I-” Tony stuttered, which surprised Peter. The man never seemed shy, yet now… “I bought it the night you got drunk.” Tony took a slow breath in through his nose and Peter could literally feel the arousal drip from Tony’s words. “I wasn’t sure about the size, but given that I’ve already bought you so many clothes, I’m guessing I got it right.” Peter turned his head to look up at Tony with big eyes. Tony smiled down at him and patted Peter’s ass twice, causing the young man to buck his hips and whimper. “Go on, open it.” Peter hated walking away from Tony’s warmth, but he complied anyway. He shuffled towards the table, swaying his hips a little more than necessary for Tony to stare at as he went. His fingers curled around the sturdy material and he lifted it, looking back at Tony for reassurance. The man smiled kindly and nodded once. Right as Peter lifted the ribbon to pull it loose, there was a sudden knock on the door. Both men were startled, but one quick glance at the clock on the wall had Tony swear under his breath. “The stylist is here,” he huffed, heading for the door. He pivoted on his feet to give Peter one last look. He nodded at the box. “Do with that as you please. We gotta get ready.” Tony left Peter in the living space by himself, dumbfounded and horny, gift in his hands. Did… Did that just happen? When he realized what almost went down if they didn’t have that stupid gala to go to tonight, he yelped quietly. With the white box still in his hands, he hit himself in the head two or three times before pressing it against his forehead. He opened his eyes when he heard the contents shuffle inside. Peter took a slow deep breath in and only half paid attention to Tony talking to the stylist in the hallway. He then made a break for it, rushing into the room that used to be his at the beginning of the week to open Tony’s gift and see what’s inside. … Peter was buzzing with excitement when he walked through the crowd of the Stark Charity Gala, Tony right beside him. He could feel the hand of the billionaire pressed against his lower back, could feel his warmth through the layers of fabric. It would be a lie to say he had calmed down since the little make-out session, Peter could still feel the lingering arousal in his body. He was overly aware of Tony’s presence, overly aware of the lingerie he wore under his expensive suit. Being shown off by Tony, dressed in clothes the billionaire had picked out for him. It made Peter feel owned and cherished, a heady feeling that made him a little dizzy. “You look beautiful, baby,” Tony whispered into his ear, his lips slightly grazing against his skin. One look in the billionaire’s eyes was enough for him to see the hunger, to understand Tony was as riled up as he had been the entire evening. The word ‘Daddy’ was on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to shout it, wanted to scream it while he was getting fucked by the billionaire, but he swallowed it down at the last second. He blushed in shame when he realized how close he had been to saying it out loud. “God, sweetheart, you are teasing me,” Tony growled softly, his hand tightening against Peter’s back. The billionaire’s voice gave away how turned on he was, although his face remained blank, a fake smile for all the guests. “When I bought you the lingerie, I thought you would wear it for me, not everyone else in the room. Baby, you make me a little jealous.” Peter stared at him with wide eyes. How did he know? He had changed into the set when he was in the bathroom. “Oh, Pete,” Tony’s chuckle vibrated through his body. “I can see it through your shirt. It’s not really clever to wear black lingerie under a white button-down.” Peter’s gaze wandered lower, fixed on the light gleam of black which was visible under his shirt. Suddenly, he felt himself getting hot, felt how all his blood rushed to his face in humiliation. He hadn’t thought about it and now not only Tony but a hundred people, no, a hundred strangers, would see him in lingerie as well. “Don’t worry, I’m just teasing,” Tony reacted immediately as he saw Peter’s discomfort. “Nobody is going to think it’s lingerie, could be an undershirt as well.” Peter was still skeptical, but he relaxed a little. Tony was probably right, there was no reason to panic. “Tony,” a cheerful voice stopped his misery and a man in a military suit approached them. “Long time no see.” Immediately, Tony’s fake smile turned into a real one. “Rhodes, how are you? Glad, you could make it. Can I introduce you to my boyfriend? Peter, this is Colonel Rhodey, my best friend.” “Nice to meet you.” Peter shook his hand; glad they were meeting a friendly face for once. “How come I heard about your relationship from the media and not yourself?” Rhodey tried to look stern but failed. Tony saved himself in his usual joking way. “Maybe I just didn’t want you to scare him away. Peter is a keeper.” He pulled Peter tighter against his side and the student felt himself blushing. Again. Soon, Tony and Rhodey were absorbed in their own world, trading stories from when they were younger, and Peter retreated himself. He liked the Colonel, liked listening to him, but he wanted to give these two men some time alone to catch up. Peter excused himself with a smile, giving the billionaire a quick peek on the left cheek before he disappeared into the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Eventually, he found Pepper and his husband. Pepper and Marcus were greeting him with a hug. “Hey Peter, you met Rhodey yet?” Marcus handed him a glass of champagne that tasted quite nice. “Uh yes, Tony is actually chatting with him right now.” The blonde woman laughed loudly. “Oh boy, you won’t see either of them for the next hour. They can’t be separated once they didn’t see themselves for a few days. Joint at the hip.” Peter chuckled slightly, but he didn’t care. Tony was a good man. He deserved to have good friends and if that means leaving him alone for a few minutes, Peter would gladly do so. “So, tell me, how do you like Austria?” “It’s amazing. The landscape, the hotel, even the food. Have you ever tried homemade spaetzle before?” Apparently, Pepper had because they spent the next half an hour talking about food and Austria, and even though Peter had to pretend to be Tony’s boyfriend, it had never felt as real as it did right now. He relaxed, less afraid to screw something up, and for the first time, he could truly enjoy spending time with Tony’s friends. A few minutes later, Rhodey joined them. “Where did you leave Tony?” Pepper asked jokingly. “Was someone able to separate you two?” For a second, the Colonel pretended to sulk before he grinned at the woman. “No, he had to do his duty. Talk to some guests, convince them to donate. It’s still a charity event, Peps.” “I’m going to look for him.” Peter downed the rest of his champagne and placed the empty glass on the table. “Can’t let him walk around alone before someone might snatch him away.” He winked and earned some laughter while he turned around and searched for Tony. It took him a few minutes until he found his boyfriend and when he did, Peter froze. He had imagined a couple of scenarios. Tony flirting with an old lady, convincing her to donate a part of her fortune, Tony joking with some golfer friends or even Tony arguing with someone who didn’t respect the LGBT+ community as equal. However, Peter was confronted with a woman instead, a woman who was clinging at Tony, her arms wrapped around his biceps and he could see the billionaire smile. His boyfriend. No, his fake boyfriend. Peter could feel tears rising in his eyes and he clenched his fists out of anger. His nails pressed down into his skin, leaving marks on his palms, but he didn’t care. It hurt. He watched how she was flirting with him, how he was smiling and not pushing her away. Everyone could see them, everyone could see that she was touching his boyfriend, fake or not. Pain mixed with humiliation and he could see a few pitiful looks from the crowd fixed on them. Peter imagined he could hear their thoughts. “Poor boy could only keep him for a few months. Of course, a college boy from Queens couldn’t tame a billionaire.” The first tear spilled over, running down his cheeks. He could see her leaning over to Tony, her gaze fixed over the billionaire’s shoulder, looking directly into Peter’s eyes. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him break down, but he couldn’t stop the tears either. He felt a hand on his back, could hear Pepper’s voice in his ears, even though he couldn’t process a single word she said to him. The woman who had been flirting with Tony smiled at him, crude and hateful, before she placed her hands on Tony’s chest and pressed a kiss against the billionaires lips. Peter’s world stopped. He felt numb, his blood rushed through his veins and his heart pumped faster and faster. His whole body started to tremble, and the last barrier broke, hot tears spilling from his eyes. Peter wanted to run away, wanted to hide somewhere safe, preferably in his bed at home. He waited a second, wanted Tony to move, to push her away, but the billionaire wasn’t doing either of it. God, it hurt. He couldn’t take it anymore. Peter turned around, fighting his way out of the room, the pitiful faces blurring in his vision. He couldn’t hear Pepper crying out Tony’s name, couldn’t hear Tony crying out Peter’s name, the laughter of the woman ringing in his ears. The only thing he could focus on was how to get back to their room, to pack his things and fly back home, even if it meant spending all of his money on a ticket. When the door of the gala hall closed behind him and the voices were dulled by the wall, Peter broke down completely, sobbing while he climbed up the stairs that led to the penthouse. His steps were quick but uncalculated. He nearly tripped a few times, but he didn’t care. His clothes felt heavy on his body. No. Not his clothes. Tony’s clothes. He wanted nothing more than to rip them off his body.

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thebiasrekkers · 4 years

Text

Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence (bloody violence), Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,089

Tag List: @prisczero, @pinkpjmin, @btsaudge, @flowerwrites06, @unoriginal-username15432, @halussali, @shrimpmsg,

Chapter 43: Lost

“To lose your path is the way to find that path.”

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

Four Years Ago Seoul – Itaewon; Yongsan District South Korea

Blood.

There was blood in the water.

Jimin looked like he crawled out of a mountain of pig guts, blood smears littering his face and neck. Droplets of crimson dripped from his earlobe as an angry red trail wept from a cut under his eye. Another slash decorated the bridge of his nose and he reached up to wipe at it. His fingers and hand were completely coated in red – scarlet trails dripping down his forearm and staining his shirt.

A shaky hand moved to turn the faucet off; barely aware that the water was spilling from the sink and onto the floor. It sloshed over his sneakers, soaking his shoelaces and creeping into his socks. He barely noticed as he slowly dipped his hands into the overflowing bowl of porcelain. The water turned an even deeper shade of pink and orange, growing opaque to where Jimin could no longer see his hands inside the bowl.

Water continued to slip onto the floor as he moved his wrists methodically, cleaning his hands as best he could. His eyes lingered on the dirty faucet nozzle until they shifted to spy his rosary bracelet on the edge of the dingy porcelain mouth. The silver cross glinted under the artificial light that barely encompassed the room, reflecting the pale green tiling that covered the room from ceiling to floor.

The light in the room blinked rapidly, spazzing out in time with the flash of lightning that brightened the dark and stormy world outside of the bathroom. Every so often, he was plunged in darkness – depriving him of the image of his horrible visage reflecting back at him in the mirror.

But even in the dark, Jimin could see everything.

He could see the body hunched over by the urinals, his neck spurting out blood like a fountain. His arm was twisted back, dislocated until it was eventually snapped in an unnatural way. Blood turned the man’s once white shirt completely red as thick rivers of it pooled from his lips.

An arm peeked out from underneath one of the stalls, the fingers attached to the hand all broken. There was a knife sticking out from the back of the hand as blood blossomed across the tile floor. Near the arm and between the person by the urinals was another body lying face down with one of his arms pulled behind him. There was a white item protruding from one of the shoulders, tearing through the jacket, and upon closer inspection, one would know that it was a broken bone pierced through skin and fabric.

Removing his hands from the pale red water and scooping up his rosary, Jimin shook the moisture from his hands and pivoted on his heels as he slowly wiped his palms down the backs of his pants. Another flash of lightning brightened the room, the clap of thunder rumbling the building and causing bits of plaster to crumble from the ceiling. Jimin crouched down to remove his knife from the man’s neck, more blood spurting out until the fountain grew smaller. Jimin wiped the blade over the man’s clothes to clean it off.

Flicking the blade closed, he slid it into the inside pocket of his blazer. Stepping over the man on the floor, he fished in his pocket for his handkerchief and began to wipe at the blood that was still on his neck while looking over his handiwork. It could have been handled a little less recklessly, but Jimin was forced into a small space and dealing with a trio of idiots who believed they had even a snowball’s chance in being able to go toe-to-toe with him.

Their biggest mistake? Listening to a jealous master who wanted Hoseok dead.

A phone buzzed with life and he paused, silencing his own breath so he could hear where the noise was coming from. He entered the stall and removed the phone from the man’s pocket whose neck he’d broken, spying at the screen. Jimin gently pushed the man off the toilet, dropping the phone into the bowl without hesitation. He watched it continue to ring until the water seeped into the grooves and openings of the device, causing the screen to blink wildly before it finally faded to black.

Pulling his own phone out, he dialed a number and pressed the phone to his face; making sure that it was the cheek he’d just cleaned off. They answered in three rings.

“It’s me,” he said softly, stepping over the bodies as he made for the door, “it’s done.”

The other person spoke and this caused Jimin to smirk.

“Just bring the cleaners here, Hyung. They’ll take care of the rest.”

He opened the door, scooping up his rosary beads off the sink and slipping them into his pocket.

“This will make them think twice before trying to come after you again.”

Jimin shut the door behind him as he hung up the phone, straightening his jacket and slicking his hair back off his forehead. The old building was barely anything to look at, which made the entire situation ideal for this sort of thing. His small group that waited for him bowed to him and he tossed the knife and dirty handkerchief to one of them.

“Get rid of those,” Jimin said, his voice cold.

The young man nodded, wrapping the items and then tossing them into a nondescript plastic bag.

“The talk didn’t go well?” he asked and Jimin grinned.

“It went as I thought it would.”

The man nodded, the others following on either side of him.

“They should have just listened to you in the first place. Then they wouldn’t have gone out that way.” Jimin cast a sideways glance toward the young man. “Because you’re The Crimson Claw, right?”

“Wrong.”

The man peered up at him, his expression clearly showcasing his confusion.

“I had no intentions of talking whatsoever. Because I am The Crimson Claw.”

Present Day Seoul – Cheongdam; Gangnam District South Korea

Jimin took a deep breath, his hands balled into fists at his thighs. His thumb slowly rotated over the rosary beads, completely in sync with his heartbeat. He mentally counted back from thirty. Thirty seconds; thirty beats of his heart. The world was silent in the small enclosure as tiny slivers of light broke through the small holes around the wooden box. The burgundy curtain of velvet brushed against his knuckles, providing a small sense of relief from the suffocation that threatened to overtake him.

The latch across from him loosened as the door opened. Light flooded in from the other side of the diamond grating separating him from the man who was adjusting himself in his seat. When the door closed, they were once again plunged into darkness. Jimin released the air trapped in his lungs, the hand holding the rosary moving to form the sign of the cross in front of him before clasping his fingers together in a sign of prayer.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was three years and six months ago.”

There was a pregnant pause, threatening to swallow Jimin up completely. He took another breath, the sweat tingeing his brows as his chestnut fringe clung to his forehead. Jimin felt the priest’s eyes watching him through the grating and he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. A part of him felt like he was being judged, but wasn’t that expected? It should have been. If it wasn’t, then Jimin judged himself in the stead of his Savior.

“Go on, My Child,” urged the priest gently.

He tried to wet his lips as he floundered for the words. Jimin cleared his throat as he attempted to formulate his sentences, his hands trembling. He shut his eyes tightly, his mouth forming into a thin line. He knew the priest was waiting for him to continue, but inwardly he wanted nothing more than to run from that small enclosure.

It felt like the weight of his sins would crush him.

“I’m a Christian, Father, but we believe in The Almighty and his Grace. Prayer alone cannot save me, but I feel that simply writing things down in a journal could hardly be enough to absolve me of my sins.” The words were less heavy on his tongue and he pressed his back against the wall. “The Blood of Christ has granted me penance. I know this. But I am afraid, Father, of the wrongs I have done in order to secure the futures of my brothers and myself.”

When he opened his eyes again, they quickly adjusted to the darkness; he was used to this. It was the sunlight that hurt his eyes and made it difficult to see.

Old memories flooded his mind, reminding him of the past and of the blood he shed. The metallic taste and coppery odor seemed permanently stuffed in his nostrils back then. His hand was often forced during encounters when he donned the mask of the Golden Jackals’ liaison. It was his job to speak to others in various districts, warning them that despite being a new group and former Jade Fang members, they were not to be trifled with.

They would do things fairly and if that fairness was ever challenged, then it was Jimin’s job to pass the message along in other ways. He was given the name Crimson Claw because he had no issues cutting anyone down that dared to impede his brothers’ paths to success and good fortune. He was merciless when it came to anyone he cared for.

This same mercilessness existed quietly in his heart even when they all lived their simple, country lives in Hwaseong. It was the reason why Jimin was the last to arrive in Seoul after Namjoon made his offer to come back with him to the big city – to reach into the dark and dirty underworld and pull out a flawless diamond. Jimin’s life was his family’s bakery and it was always assumed he would take over. He could never admit to how easy it was for him to embrace the life that Namjoon and the others were suggesting they attempt to live.

Because he didn’t want to show how simple it was for him to smile in that chaotic world. He didn’t want to worry his brothers, or even scare them away. He was more afraid of losing them than he was of losing himself.

Jimin understood the true depth of his heart better than anyone. Because he was a sinner; he bathed in the sin and wore it like a badge of pride. He had no problem hurting anyone if it meant protecting the people who meant the most to him.

He would become the devil himself.

What worried Jimin now wasn’t the storm that was coming. What concerned him was the possibility of losing himself along the way.

“I have hurt people. I have ruined people. We all have. But I cannot confess their sins for them. I can only speak of my own.” He squeezed his fingers tightly together, the beads of the rosary scraping against each other. “I know I cannot bear their sins on my shoulders, but I desperately want to, Father. My brothers are good people; good men. They deserve all the wonderful things this life has to offer to them.”

“You are very kind-hearted, My Child,” spoke the priest, causing Jimin to look up at him, “and God sees that. He knows what lies in your heart every waking moment of your life.”

“If that’s true, Father,” Jimin whispered, “then he knows I’m beyond saving. I’m okay with that, I am.”

“You’re alright with being outside of the realm of redemption?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve found my place in the shadows and I will do everything, anything I can, to keep my brothers in the light.”

Jimin peered down at his hands to look at the sterling silver cross dangling from the rosary beads.

“Forever.”

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diningpageantry · 5 years

Text

You Look Better in Person

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215168/chapters/43275707

Chapter 8/10 of It’s A Handheld Disaster

Word Count: 3030

Chapter Summary: Simon and Baz's first encounter leaves them both awestruck.

BAZ

It’s a bloody pain in my ass, headache of a drive. I barely got halfway through before turning off my music and just focusing on what I’d say--how I’d react. It isn’t just getting Snow, it’s seeing him. An experience that’s completely new to the both of us. Somehow, despite him saying he’s the scared one, I find myself being absolutely petrified. I (only slightly) doubt he’ll reject my offer of help, especially since I'm driving up the country to get him, but I do suspect him to be hesitant of me nonetheless.

Oddly enough, I feel none of that fear towards him. No matter what, I’ll be there for him. I’m not quite sure what to expect, though. Fuck if any expectations I have for him matters, really.

I’d thought too much over the drive. Frankly, I think too much overall. That, I need to stop.

Staring at my phone mindlessly truly proves it, given I don’t have half a brain cell to coherently read the maps as they show me around the city. Eventually, though (through trial and error), I find myself going down the same street twice, trying to spot a local park that's apparently down the road. Google Maps yells at me, telling me I’m rapidly approaching my destination (over and over, between each condescending “Recalculation”).

My heart pounds faster with each rotation of my wheels, making my vision all fuzzy and warped. Exhaling slowly, I peer around and spot someone lying on a bench in the centre of the park, dressed up in a hoodie, sweats, and trainers. They seem to be hugging a duffel bag close, as if everything that's left is inside of it. I can’t quite make much out of them, with to their hood being pulled tight around their face and all, but I can tell that they’re alone.

Once parked, I shoot Simon a quick text, trying to swallow back my fear of what's probably true. That it is him.

i’m in the black volvo in the lot

Suddenly, the head of the person shoots up, then starts looking around as their body rises. I still can’t see their face, shadowed down by the harsh lamp lights, but they seem to be facing me.

That… must be him.

He pulls himself to standing, a slight hunch in his shoulders as he hauls the bag over his left one. He’s broad, and a solid height, too. When the light catches the few hairs spilling from his hood, they shine a deep copper.

Each of his steps feel like a lifetime. Exhausted, heavy stomps of his feet onto the ground as he brings himself closer until he stands barely a yard away from the car. Shamelessly, I stare out the window, wide eyed and barely choking out a breath.

He’s absolutely, unbelievably handsome. Square jawed, curly haired, and blue, blue eyes. He’s got a near rugby build, and a tired, barely existent smile pressing his freckled and moled cheeks into creases. He is, without a doubt, one of the most the most gorgeous humans I’ve ever seen.

His hand rises up shakily, nearly forming a wave as he struggles to keep a face in a readable expression other than wordless, overworked sadness.

My hand slides down my door, finding the lock without me looking and flicking the doors unlocked with a clear click. I watch as he hesitates at first, looking between me and the car a few times. The fluorescent lights flicker as he swallows, neck bobbing along.

Eventually, he relents and slips into the passenger seat without taking his eyes off me once.

At first, we just stare. Silent, carefully timed breaths fill the car as we just look over one another. I must look tired; I feel tired. He looks it, too.

I cut off my own words before I speak. I know he is tired. I don’t even need to ask.

The bag pressed to his chest loosens slightly, slumping down onto his lap as he swallows again. I can’t stop myself from watching him, heart thumping. It’s unreal--he must be unreal.

“Hey,” he whispers, the same shock I’m wearing mirrored onto his face.

SIMON

He’s so beautiful that I can barely think of words. Of all things I could say, of all things I should say, none of them weasel out other than “Hey”.

Granted, I have nothing better to say, given I’d probably be stupid and call him every word I’m thinking of.

I’ve never quite met a bloke who’s as pretty as he is. Slate eyes, brown skin, and ink black hair that starts at a widow’s peak, falling onto his shoulders in the slightest of waves. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he seems alert and a bit shaken, a hand gripping the shifting stick that’s resting clearly on “P”.

I can’t quite think of anything else to vocalize. I’ve cried too much tonight, and it’s really fucking late. I need to rest… I just want…

“Why were you at the park?” He asks, suddenly dropping my gaze. It’s fine, though--my eyes drift back down to his narrow, bony hands, gliding movements over the shift. He pushes it into “R”, pulling the car out of the spot before turning, flicking to “D”, and going. His hands are like the pictures. It’s relaxing.

“Hm? O-oh,” I say quietly, fiddling with the strap of my bag. With a glance from him towards my buckle, I realize I missed a step. Fuck. I click myself in, continuing, “I’d told Davy I-I was going to Penn’s all weekend f-for a school project after our fight, b-b-but I told Penn I was gr-grounded.”

“So…”

“So I’m stuck,” I add, gaze shifting out the window and staying there. “Nowhere to go.”

He’s silent for a second, the only sound filling the air being the popping of rocks under the tyres. Once down the street, and another street, and then another, he finally says something.

“I’ve got somewhere,” he finally starts. When I look at him, he’s avoidant--eyes unwaveringly ahead, and hands gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles are pulled taunt. “It’s a bit far, though. You can nap, if you want. It’ll be some time.”

“Where..?”

“You’ll see when we’re there.” And with that, he’s silent again. Given the flatness of his answer, I don’t feel it proper to argue. Really, I can’t argue at all with the prospect of a rest.

So, I take it. I suppose I’m asleep for a few good hours before I’m jostled awake by the overwhelming, perpetually buzzing lights of a petrol station. It's still dark out.

I peer out to see Baz standing, glancing over his shoulder at the machine as his hands hold the pump. Instinctively, I pull my hoodie closer, finally getting a good look at him in some sort of full light.

Shit. He even looks good at the pump.

He catches my eyes briefly, staring back before quickly turning back away, and acting as if I don’t see him swallow sharply. I act like I didn’t see it either, especially not as he sits back in the car and looks towards me, but not directly at me. “Hungry?”

Always. “A bit.”

He wordlessly pulls up to the store of the station before turning back off the car. “Come on, I’ll cover you.”

Given I only have the little cash I had in my sock drawer on me, I don’t argue. Instead, I step out and follow him, glancing up once I'm entirely trailing behind him. He’s got a few good inches on me, which, frankly, makes me blush a good bit. Who gave him the right to be practically a supermodel?

“Get anything,” he says, and I do. Two bags of crisps, a bottle of chocolate milk, and a shitty, wrapped cinnamon roll. He just grabs a coffee, pouring an egregious amount of sugar and creamer into it before going up to pay. He doesn’t even flinch--just pays.

It feels odd. Looks odd. It’s like Aggie paying--a disregard of wealth beyond a comprehensive point.

Back in the car, he sips his drink, cringes, and waits until I’m buckled back in before going.

I’m up this time, and probably for the long run, as he starts driving again.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, twisting the cap off the milk and hearing the satisfying snap of the breaking seal. “I feel like I should allowed to know eventually.”

“London,” he responds borderline robotically, not bothering a look at me.

“Wait, fuck. London? Isn’t that--”

“Six hours, yes. You’ve slept for well over half the trip, don’t worry.” He risks a quick glance at me, and as if it were magic, I see him relax. His muscles drop the tension, and his seemingly permanent frown loosens to a genuine flash of concern. Then, as quickly as his composure went, it comes back. Like it was a flicker in his system. “Just rest.”

“How are you staying up?”

“Will power.”

I don’t stop the snort slipping out, biting my lip. “You really are a vampire, huh?”

His face relaxes back slightly, spreading into the smallest of smiles. “No, but that’d be more fun.”

I huff in agreement, letting myself grin along this time. “It would be, yeah.”

We fall silent again, but this time it’s a bit better. It’s an odd reminder that this, this Baz right in front of me, is the same one I’ve known for months. It’s just his flesh and blood--living and breathing body. A human.

I want to reach out and touch him, to see if he’s real. I nearly do so, but my mind stops me before my hand grips his. I think he catches sight of my reach, though, because the arm closest to me drops from the wheel, resting palm-up on the centre console.

Either it’s an invitation or a mistake. Both are something I’m dumb enough to work with.

My fingertips skate over his wrist first, glazing over the ridges where his veins sit. They ridge up, rising above the rest of his smooth arm and pumping below my touch. At first, he begins to retract before stopping himself and staying, opened up to me. A careful fingertip moves to trace the lines of his palm, my breath barely under control. He lets me have my time, and slowly yet surely, I settle my hand on top of his, fingers shifting until they’re locked between his.

His hand curls up first, holding tightly to mine, When I look at him, he’s lightly sucking on his lip, keeping his eyes trained forward as his thumb slowly slides over my hand.

If it wasn’t for the weight of the day, I might’ve started crying again. Instead, I find myself staring. I settle my head back onto the comfortable, leather headrest, eyes falling softly onto the sharp edges of his face. I trace them, thankful for each passing car of street light that illuminates the cabin just enough to let me see the details.

His eyes look puffy and dark, dark eyelashes falling onto his skin. His nose sits a bit high, and his brow seems aristocratic. His lips, at a natural downcurve, hang open in the slightest and look a bit shiny when he stops biting them.

He doesn’t put any attention onto me, but holds my hand against his comfortably, keeping the slow drag of his skin against mine. It isn't rough, like mine is, except for at his pads. They're calloused right at the tips.

I space out, watching him attentively until countryside fades into bright city lights, mixing with the creeping sun.

He pulls up into a lot, telling them the apartment number before the car climbs up into a space. Once parked, he lets go of my palm with a sorry look, glancing over me once before stepping out.

He doesn’t let me carry my bag, holding both his and mine in each arm. The walk is brief, and within minutes, he’s pushing a key into a small, comfortable London flat, letting me inside first.

The lights are all shut, and it's got the distinct layer of light dust to show it's been untouched for months. He confirms my sneaking suspicion even before I get to ask it.

“It's my aunt's,” he says away from me, settling my bag onto a chair and his on an adjacent one. “She travels in the winter to somewhere warmer, and leaves me a key to get away.”

“I know. I've followed you long enough, you know.” I'd smile if my cheeks weren't too weak to hold one.

After stealing a look at his blushing face, I drag myself to the bed, running a hand over the sheet slowly. The other side dips with Baz's weight as he settles down onto the edge, staring at the pulling sheets with his hand settling so close to mine.

I must be mad, because I reconnect my fingers with his on impulse.

At first, we're still. I'm standing, and he's sitting. We're statues, dimly lit by the outside life. He must not be brave, or maybe I just might be more stupid, because I'm the first to move. My fingers weave between his, hand pressing closer towards him as we remain in an odd silence.

I wish I knew what I was doing.

Even without a full mind, I know what feels right, and it's being as close to Baz as possible. So maybe I don't need to know exactly what I'm doing, I just need to know that it's good.

BAZ

I wish I knew what he was doing.

I know what I want. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him close. I want us to bathe in the rising sun and forget everything else in the world.

I want his hood off, and I want my fingers in his hair.

I want it so bad that I stop thinking and I do it, reaching my hand out and slowly dragging the cotton-y cloth off. Out springs his hair, clearly darker in the faint lights, but sticking up and unruly. My hand hesitates, fingers hovering above his scalp before I feel his head tilt and rest against my palm.

It's thick. Unbrushed. Uses shit shampoo and probably rarely conditions.

Nonetheless, it's fantastic. I can barely explain feeling of just carding my fingers through it.

Simon's eyes fall only my face, dancing around before falling back shut. I can feel the rise and fall of his body with a heavy breath, making my heart nearly stop.

“Is this okay?” whisper, holding his head carefully. His curls bob with his nod, eyes still settled shut. “How… about sleeping?”

“What about it?”

“There's one bed, and a couch. I can sleep on the couch…”

He shakes his head, keeping against me. “‘M not shy,” he whispers as an odd invitation to share.

I'm definitely not the one to turn it down.

“Neither am I,” I whisper back, hand squeezing his. He just looks towards out touching skin, biting his lip while letting go to unlace his trainers. I take the hint to unlace my own shoes, settling them aside before tugging at the blankets. He shifts, allowing me to turn them down and slip inside. He doesn't follow, lying above the blanket.

“Aren't you cold?” I murmur, turning to my side. He mirrors, propping himself on his elbow.

“Rarely.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, heavy eyes falling back shut.

I want to prove it for myself.

My hand reaches out, fingertips settling hesitantly onto his cheek. Surely enough, his it’s well warm under mine.

His lashes are short, but a gentle contrast against his skin as they flutter back open. They lay on my hand, then my own eyes, lip sucking into his mouth as he bites it. He's dead silent as he extends his hand, meeting my cheek with his palm.

“You're freezing,” he lets out, nose wrinkling. His hand doesn't move away.

“Always am.”

“Damn, I'm sorry.”

Helplessly, my face falls into an open smile, shamelessly relaxing. “It's fine. It's just… how it is.”

His eyes rest back on mine, staying there as his fingers flatten down. Eventually, I feel his thumb rub back and forth against my skin, hand cupping me gently. Like I'm some prized possession of his.

“Is it cold in here? Does it bother you?” His hand moves up and slips into my hair, pushing it back with a slow drag. I feel my heart flutter, mouth parting open as I sink into the feeling.

“No,” I finally respond. There's so much to be said, but it feels like we're tiptoeing around it. A slow, languishing fight for affection from one another, and I don't quite know who's winning. “I'm rather comfortable.”

His head nods, my gentle grip falling out of his hair and settling onto his back. At a snail's pace, his hand slowly untangles from my hair and falls back to my face. As if I'd willed it to, his fingers rest onto my lips.

I risk a quick peck onto them, watching his cheeks flush at the motion. Yet, still, he's silent, keeping his fingers still.

I don't want to stop. I don't want to shut my eyes and rest, but as every second creeps on, so does my exhaustion. It isn't until my eyelids finally fall shut that I feel him scoot closer, arm draping around me.

He smells like cheap soap and chocolate milk. I wish I could smell him forever.

“You smell like cigarettes,” he tells me. His words burn like the guilt in my throat, still rough from the two I'd smoked earlier..

“Don't worry about it.”

A beat. Then, “I worry about you anyway.”

I don't know how to swallow that one.

Instead, I just keep my eyes shut, holding his still-linked hand tighter. “Don't worry about it now. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

He must be right in front of me. I can feel it--his slow exhale near my face. It's warm, and his forehead touches mine as he lowers it for a nod. “Sleep tight, Baz.”

#it's a handheld disaster #carry on #snowbaz #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #mine #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz pitch #simon #baz #i'm so fuckin sleepie rn so i post this. then go sleep. hehehe. i leave u with this.

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urlocalkpoptrash · 6 years

Text

Not Good Enough| Jungkook.

Jungkook x Reader.

Genre: ANGST/fluff.

Warnings: Cursing.

Concept: Kook believed he found the love of his life. Y/N thinks they made a huge mistake.

A/N: THIS IS ALL FAKE, PLEASE REMEMBER. I know we all love kookie baby, and some of y’all get crazy, but this is just fake. I want you all to know I may have cried multiple times while writing this. I warned you guys earlier that I was going to do this!

- - - - - - - - - /

You had met him in the most trying time of his life. He was apart of one of the fastest growing boys groups in the world, he was adored and loved by millions, but he couldn’t find that love in himself. Seeds of self hatred, water by his need for perfection bloomed a deadly weed that wrapped around his heart. When you talked to the members about him, they used to talk about see the stars in his eyes, but nowadays they only saw storm clouds. They said you’d saved him, but you lost yourself in the process.

You had been helping your mom with her cleaning business, after her partner fell off the face of the earth. You loved your mom, but these late night cleanings of the BigHit office was starting to wear on your body.

“Y/N, can you please go clean the floors in the practice room,” she said, pushing back the few grey hairs that had fallen in front of her face.

“Of course, I’ll grab the bucket.” You tucked the cloth you had been using to dust, under your arm.

“And y/n, please knock and make sure no one is in there. If anyone found out that we interrupted the boys, I would lose this job,” her eyes fluttered at the thought.

“I will, thank you for reminding me.” You nodded your head before turning on the wore down heels of your shoes.

You walked down the long hallway, to reach the lobby that had four sets of elevators on each side. You trudged the bucket along, leaning against the ice cold railing. The elevator dinged, informing you that you had reached your destination. You stepped out, the broken wheel, catching on the lip of the exit, water splashing over the rim and landing directly on the back of your jeans.

“Shit. Now I’m going to have a bleach stain on these jeans,” You grunted, tugging the bucket one last time, finally pulling it over the hump.

You grumbled to yourself that you had been saving for these jeans for months, and now they were ruined. You haphazardly threw the door of the practice room open, before you noticed a black clothed blob sitting in the middle of the floor. Your eyes widened as the blob looked up, and his bleached locks shifted enough for you to see his face. Jungkook’s puffy red eyes took you in from the mirror, his chin rested in between the gap of bent knees. You were about to start profusely apologizing for barging in the way you did, and to beg for him to not say anything, but the quiet cry from his crumpled body, stopped you dead in your tracks.

“Are you okay?” You set the mop on the floor, letting it lean against the E in the word entertainment that hung on the wall.

The only sound that he made was another cry. The caution in your footsteps must have relaxed him, because he didn’t jump when you knelt beside him. You leaned your weight onto your knees, resting your hands in your lap. You were surprised when he turned his head towards you, a tear dripping from the sharp edge of his jaw. You lifted one of your hands, letting him watch you, hoping he understood your plan. You reached over, running your thumb under both his eyes, to catch the few stranded tears that didn’t make it down his face. His lips turned up at the corners, which you could only assume was a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

“Are you alright? Do you need anything?” You asked again, placing your hand back in your bleach stained jeans.

“Yeah,” He croaked, “I’m just having a rough night.” He let out a painful chuckle that sent an agonizing shock to your core, “Clearly,” he sniffled.

“I see that. What caused the tears, though?” You lifted a quizzical brow.

“Dance.” He swallowed, as if he was embarrassed.

“Are you just not getting a routine?” You shifted from your knees, onto your butt, pulling your legs to your chest, much like he was.

His cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink when you sat next to him like that, matching his form. He cleared his throat before standing up slowly, taking the position of what looked like the middle of a dance. He smoothly, almost effortlessly transitioned from one move to another. His sneakers squeaking as he did so. It was only a few moves in before he stumbled, and his swollen eyes started to fill with tears again.

“Okay, I see. Do that again, but take each move two beats slower,” you suggested, giving him an encouraging smile.

He shook his limbs, letting them flap around his body, hoping that loosening up would help. He did it again, but as you said. It felt awkward and less fluid, but he successfully hit the move he had been missing.

“Do it again, just as slow,” you lifted your hand, gesturing for him to continue.

His bottom lip folded out, an absolutely adorable pout pressing into the lines of his mouth. The image was too much for you to handle, a giggle bubbling up from the pit of your stomach. His eyes widened and his brows lifted when he heard the noise come from your lips. He exaggerated his perfect pout even more, which he was rewarded with a full laugh this time.

“You’re cute, we get it. Now, dance.” You scoffed in a teasing manner.

He grinned and did it again, and again, and again until he could complete the move at regular speed. He finished his dance, his chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath.

“See. I knew you could do it,” you clapped, throughly impressed with his movements.

“You think you can bust in here, with your mop and your grumpy mood and teach me how to dance?” He sat down next to you, the audible pop of his butt hitting the floor echoed against the walls.

“I wasn’t grumpy!” You draped your arms around the front of your knees.

“I specifically remember you saying, ‘stupid bleach, fucking cocky chemical water,’” he tried his best to mock your voice.

“Is this how you thank people? By being a little shit?” You asked, nudging your shoulder into his arm.

“As a matter of fact, it is.” He countered, turning his nose up at you.

“I take back what I said earlier. You’re not cute anymore,” you snorted.

“Alright, now you’re just a liar,” he brought his nose back down, his smile finally reaching the corner of his eyes.

That was how it all started. After that day, you two texted nonstop, and he would make extra effort to come see you. After three months, it became a habit that you would stay at the dorm. The boys always told you how much better he was doing, and thanked you for all that you’ve done to help their brother.

It was close to three in the morning when you rolled over, only to realize your boyfriend hadn’t come to bed yet. The smallest frown tugged at lips. You draped the silk sheets around your chest, securing them with a little knot. The cold wood floors welcomed your sleep induced toes, waking them from their numbness. You whined, immediately regretting that you had gotten up. You dragged yourself to his little office, gently pushing the knob to open the cloudy glass door. The sound must have been enough to get kooks attention cause he turned in his chair, a delicate smile appearing on his tired features.

“What are you doing awake, my baby?” He asked, opening his arms to invite you into his embrace.

You pulled at the bottom of the sheet walking over to him. You curled in his lap, resting your head under his chin. Namjoon always teased that for being so small, you were always the one protecting Kook. You understood that he didn’t mean physically, because Jungkook towered over you. He meant mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. You protected him from the dangerous loop of negative thoughts that had made a permanent residence in his fragile mind. You protected him from the hate that the outside world so cruelly threw at him. You were his shield, and you were his sword.

“Are you almost done?” You mumbled, pulling the sheets over your shoulder.

“Two more minutes, and then I’m done. I promise.” He wrapped one of his arms around your body. His thumb traced the constellations that your freckles drew out on your skin.

Two minutes quickly became two hours, and you had been long passed out, still coiled in your boyfriends lap. He had finally finished the last cut of GCF, letting out a sigh of relief. He leaned over, pulling the golden chain hanging from his lamp. The room immediately darkened, except for the little sliver of light trying to fight its way passed his black out curtains. He followed where the light went, landing on the curve of your nose. He considered your small stature beneath the fold of his arm. Your dark lashes fanned out over your cheeks puffy from sleep, he followed the tender curve of your parted lips, thinking of how many hours he missed kissing you, because he was too busy. The thought wilted one of the blossoming flowers that you had planted in his heart, instead of the weed that was killing him. He steadied his thoughts before standing, and cradling you into his chest.

The room was only a few doors down from kooks office. He gingerly placed you back into bed, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, his eyes starting to burn from the un-cried tears that threatened to fall. Some times his feelings for you were too overwhelming and he didn’t know how to handle them.

“I love you too, kookie.” You mumbled, still stuck in the limbo of being asleep, and still being awake.

It had been almost two years, and one hidden engagement ring later. This was the third fight this week, and you were getting tired of having the same argument over and over. The words had started to lose their meaning, and you had started to resent Jungkook. You hated yourself for that, you hated yourself for believing that there was a world where the two of you didn’t belong together.

“I’m not being distant! You see me just as much!” You threw your hands up, letting them fall back to your sides in defeat.

“Damn it, y/n! You know that’s not what I mean. You barely even look at me anymore when we’re together.” He rubbed his face, groaning.

“Because WE ARE ALWAYS TOGETHER. I get tired of looking at you!” The words slipped out before you could stop them. You smacked your hand over your mouth, forcing yourself not to speak again.

Kook stood in front of you, completely hurt that those words could even come out of your mouth. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, just silence and the harrowing dead space between you two. A visual representation of what your relationship had become.

“I didn’t mean that, you know I didn’t,” you took a step forwards, trying to convince yourself that you didn’t mean that.

He didn’t flinch or move away as you drew closer, he stayed solid as a rock. It wasn’t until your stood on your toes, and wrenched your arms around his neck that he moved. His arms found their way around your waist, his face hiding in the crook of your neck. Tears began to spill over from their prison. How could you be so heartless toward this boy who was fully and utterly in love with you. You had just said one of the most awful things a person could say, and he still found safety in your touch. You were healing the hurt you had just caused, and that wasn’t right. The feeling began to rot away your insides.

That night, you two had laid in bed for hours, holding each other in silence. You couldn’t get the sinking feeling in your stomach to go away, though you tried mercilessly. After Kook thought you had gone to sleep, he slipped himself out of bed and hauled himself down the hallway. You knew he needed some sort of creative releases, he was still in so much pain, that he couldn’t do anything but create. As he left the room, the physical weight that held you down was lifted from your chest, freeing you from your crawling skin. Your limbs had began to ache from laying down for so long, you had to get up and walk around, let them breathe. You slipped on a pair of slippers, learning your lesson from last time, and began to pace the room. You started to notice pieces of kooks clothing just laying around, you sighed, picking up the pants and shirt that had balled up on the floor. As you dragged up his pants, something slipping from the pocket, making a clattering noise as it hit the ground. Your eyebrows furrowed as you bent down, leaning on one knee to get a better look. The shine from the moon caught the beautiful diamond just right. You felt your other leg begin to get weak, causing you to fully fall on your knees. The ring danced in the palm of your hand, burning the skin beneath it. You knew what it is, and the fact that it made you sick was not something you ever wanted to feel, especially not when seeing an engagement ring.

You wanted so badly to be excited and happy, you wanted to run into that room he was in and tell him how much you loved him, but you couldn’t. It was like someone tied cement blocks to your muscles, keeping you from moving an inch. You knew what you had to do, and you had to do it without thinking, without hesitating. You gripped the ring in your hand as you grabbed the nearest bag you could. You began to stuff all of the belongings into it, of course it got full quickly, you practically lived here. You had to accept that there would be a few things you had to leave behind. It wasn’t something you wanted to do, you didn’t want your things around the house that reminded him of you, and the truly horrifying thing you were about to do. You pulled on a pair of the sneakers and tried your best to sneak out. Only to stop for a moment, staring at the only door that was lit up. You could start to feel your heart being chipped away piece by piece. You did love him, and god did you fucking love him, but in the process of loving him, you forgot yourself. You weren’t you anymore, you were ‘you and Kook,’ you had lost every bit of you that made you different and unique. It wasn’t because of him, you made the choice to change, but it was only because you though that’s what he needed. In a way, it was. You were the medicine for a while, but you couldn’t be anymore.

Kook finally finished one of his drawings, closing down the office for the night. He softly let the door click behind him as he walked out, and down the hall. He could tell something was very wrong before even opening his door. When he did, he saw the drawers open, your half of the closet was empty and all your things were gone. To say panic set in, would be an understatement. His body began to shake, fear physically coursing through his aching veins.

“Baby?” He called out, his voice cracking.

He walked out into the living room, his eyes darting around the dark, hoping to see your figure sleeping on the couch, but it was empty. The whole place was empty of you, and his chest began to cave. There is pain, and then there is whatever this feeling was. It ripped a hole directly over his heart, letting the wound bleed out. His legs no longer had a purpose if they weren’t used to stand beside you. They buckled, as he crashed into the floor. A haunting sob tore through his body like a natural disaster. He had never felt this kind of loss or hurt in his life, and he felt foolish for acting this way, but you were his everything. You were the love of his life, you were the stars that shined in the sky, and the sun that broke through the clouds. He couldn’t understand what he did wrong. Was he not good enough for you? Did you stop loving him and he just forced you to stay? Was he hurting you? This was all his fault, that was the only thing he could possibly believe. He never thought he was good enough for you, and now he knew the truth. He wasn’t.

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snatent · 6 years

Text

Wurzt Day Ever

As Bratwurzt McRib awoke one morning from uneasy dreams they found themself transformed in their bed into a giant fuckboy.

On a typical day, this would have been cause for celebration. Brat always felt more comfortable, more natural in their flatter and more angular body. And when the frame lined up, so did everything else in quick succession: posture, gait, self-image, mood. Right in a row, like dominos. Brat was freer this way. You didn’t have to worry about how you carried yourself if there was nothing on your chest to carry.

The catch was no one ever wanted to see them like this. At House McRib, it was the high priestess Amburrla the people wanted: fuller lips, curved hips, trademark glances poisoned with spite. Smug sneers, flared nostrils, arched eyebrows out for blood: all traits not only lauded but expected of Brat should they ever want to be seen on a given day. Looking down at the body they had to work with this morning, Brat realized today was not that day.

And that would have been fine, if House McRib hadn’t been preparing for months to receive a particularly important caravan of merchants and adventurers this very afternoon.

“Lady Amburrla?” came the sing-song call of her lady-in-waiting. It was her incessant knocking that had wrested Brat from their dreams. “We ought to dress you soon, before our guests arrive.”

“Gimme a minute,” Bratwurzt snapped. Then, realizing their mistake, they took a deep breath and tried again. This time, in a clearer, more refined voice:

“My dear, it seems I’ve fallen ill today.”

There was a marked pause from the voice at the door.

“Again?” came the voice. “That’s the third time this week.”

“There must be something going around,” sang the alluring voice of Amburrla. “You really should stay away. I wouldn’t want you to catch it, darling.”

When Brat spoke like this, they could weave words into the air like they belonged there. People came for miles just to hear the priestess speak. Amburrla had many friends. Brat had none.

“Suck it up,” came the terse reply. “If you are unable to receive guests for a third day in a row, Selex fears the legitimacy of our organization may be called into question.”

Brat could feel their nails digging into the sides of their palms. With gritted teeth, they managed to force the corners of their mouth upwards. No one was watching, but Brat always found it easier to center themself as Amburrla if they started with a smile.

“Let me dress myself as much as I can,” said Bratwurzt sweetly. “The less of me you touch the better while I am feeling this way.”

“Make it quick,” was the reply. “Selex is anxious to see you.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Brat muttered under their breath. Of all the drow in this back-asswards organization, Brat liked Selex the least. He was large for a male, and scary. His scarred mouth was always folded into a permanent sneer. Most drow soldiers wore a sourpuss as a permanent feature. For them Brat harbored somewhere between pity and contempt. But Selex’s face only inspired fear and unease.

It was Selex who had found Brat, Selex who had put a roof over their head, Selex who had roped them into this operation in the first place. At House McRib, everyone had a job, and Bratwurzt’s was to keep people from finding out about their terrible secret.

And what a secret it was: there was no House McRib. There never was a House McRib. The tiny palace they had found hidden past acres and acres of thick mushroom jungle had been abandoned for a thousand years- just long enough for people to have forgotten about it- before Selex had discovered it, taken it over, and turned it into his primary base of operations. Operations, Brat had learned soon after, was just a fancy way of saying criminal activity.

Selex needed Brat to entertain, to sneer at soldiers from other houses and, occasionally, to spit in their faces while they begged for their lives. These were all things Brat loved to do, especially because no one in the house could do them better. But Bratwurzt couldn’t take pleasure in the part if it wasn’t convincing.

Brat had developed some tricks for faking it while at school, back when they were still hiding their shape-shifting body from their mother, Matron Styx Lv’Arden. Bratwurzt had been able to keep up that charade for decades; one night would be a cakewalk.

First, the stuffing. Brat grabbed everything soft and malleable they could find: cloths and small scraps of fabric. They stuffed their undershirt, taking great care to check the mirror after every new item. Brat scowled, rummaging around in their chest until they were satisfied. Several pieces of cloth were scratching up against their skin in the worst way.

“The price of beauty,” they said darkly.

Next: The contour. There was makeup in their vanity, an antique Selex had found and given to them. Most of the furniture had come from Selex, in the hope that living the part of a pampered priestess would keep Bratwurzt good at playing it.

The makeup selection was exquisite as well. House McRib imported only the finest colors and pastes imaginable, the kind the ancient matrons in Menzoberranzan used to paint over their wrinkles. Brat used it in every spot they could think of, contouring not only their jaw and cheekbones but their chest as well.

When Brat was satisfied with what they saw in the mirror, they topped off their face with a fresh coating of jet black lipstick. The face looking back at them was hardly recognizable, but they didn’t have time to appreciate their work. The banging on their door grew louder by the moment.

Satisfied with their face, Bratwurzt finally opened the door. Their lady-in-waiting was furious, impatient, a mess of crossed arms and tapping toes.

“Riddell,” said Brat as Amburrla. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

The stout drow woman wasted no time getting to work. “You look fine to me,” she snapped.

“Fine?” drawled Bratwurzt. “I didn’t know you felt that way, darling.”

“I’d wipe that smirk off your face,” said Riddell as she forced Brat’s arms out to their sides and began throwing a dress over the poor drow’s frame. “I have a mind to tell Selex you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

Brat stiffened. A tilt of the head, a clench of the jaw, a sharp inhale. That’s all it took to get Riddell to stop, mid-button, under the piercing gaze of Brat’s red eyes.

“You think you could do better?”

The lady-in-waiting exhaled, recollected herself, and went back to dressing Brat. “Certainly not,” she said. “But if Selex ran into you on the street he could probably find someone worth five times as much if he actually went looking.”

Brat relaxed and let the woman do her work. They shut their eyes as Riddell laced up the boning of the dress and tugged tighter and tighter and tighter until Brat was sure she was doing it on purpose.

Finally Riddell patted Brat on the back and shoved them toward the mirror. “Have a look,” she said.

Brat stared at themself in the mirror, a small smirk on their lips. They didn’t look half bad, although it was a cheap imitation of the real thing. They cupped their breasts with their hands, trying their best to adjust them. Riddell shut her eyes in disgust, mistaking Brat’s concern for some kind of rude gesture.

“Hurry on downstairs then,” said Riddell. “Best not to keep Selex waiting.”

With a nod Bratwurzt made their way downstairs to the main hall where Selex stood in all his surly glory.

When Bratwurzt noticed no one else was around, their entire existence seemed to change. Their posture relaxed. Their face softened. Their voice, as melodic and enrapturing as it was, roughened up with Bratwurzt’s own authentic affectations.

“Selex,” said Bratwurzt in their own, rougher voice. “Has anyone told you that you are lookin’ especially irate today?”

Selex’s mouth opened to bare his teeth. “You are late,” he snarled. “And your behavior is as regrettable as your punctuality. I made you a priestess of House McRib. The least you could do is act like one.”

“Relax,” said Brat with a grin. “I cleaned up nice, didn’t I?”

Selex raised an eyebrow. “You look smaller.”

Brat fidgeted, causing a piece of their stuffing to scratch them in the chest. “Merely the cut of the dress, dear Selex.”

“As long as you are ready, then I shall call our guests to the hall.”

“I shall be eager to receive them,” said Brat with a teaspoon of sarcasm. Then, after a slight hesitation, “Now would you please remind me as to why this particular group of junksellers is so important?”

Selex pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. This was neither the first nor even the fifth time he had explained this to Bratwurzt.

“We are looking for more groups to take care of our work for us. Free agents, who will not be stopped or suspected by drow of other houses. Three are coming, and we must decide which of them to employ.”

Selex’s House McRib was in the business of smuggling. He took displaced drow from downstairs and moved them up. It seemed like a noble thing to do until you realized how much Selex charged. Those who couldn’t afford it, which was everyone, ended up indebted to House McRib for life. Bratwurzt wondered how much of a new life drow had upstairs, answering the call of the debt collector every five tendays.

“Listen well Lady Amburrla,” Selex said in a low growl. He opened his eyes again. They were wild, bloodthirsty, and focused right on Bratwurzt.

"If you cannot prove to me I did not make a mistake in bringing you here, I will dump you right back on the street on which you were found. In worse condition than you were then.”

Bratwurzt’s posture faltered a bit, but they maintained it as best they could. With a few short breaths, they were able to find solid footing on their own two legs. They even managed a small, sick sort of smile.

“In the thirty years we’ve worked together,” said Brat, “have I disappointed you once?”

“No,” said Selex. Brat exhaled.

“You’ve disappointed me hundreds of times. Now go.”

Bratwurzt grimaced at him but rushed to take their place in the main hall: the throne of House McRib. The throne stood at the end of the very long hall on a raised platform that suggested just enough fanfare: not so much as to invite the idea of frivolity, but enough to command respect.

Brat hated sitting on it more than any other surface in the palace. It was hard and cold, because some moron had made it out of shit metal instead of out of something nice, like velvet. When Brat had lived at the Palace of House Lv’Arden, they jumped at every chance to try out that seat. Bratwurzt thought their mother sat on the most beautiful throne in all the world, and when no one was looking they would climb up on it and imagine what it would be like to belong there someday. House Lv’Arden’s throne was an intricate trellis, where moss and fungi had been sown in every nook and cranny. Life had completely overtaken the chair, pillowy mushroom caps cushioning the sitter in all the right places. McRib’s trash chair couldn’t hold a candle to the trellis throne of House Lv’Arden. It could barely even hold an ass, Brat thought as they shifted uncomfortably in it.

Selex had left, presumably to usher in their guests. Bratwurzt leaned on one of the armrests of the throne, resting their cheek against their hand. Their expression heralded a blend of annoyance and disinterest, the so-called Resting Drow Face.

In a moment the doors swung open, and Brat found themself taking a mental inventory of the group walking in. Selex was first, trying (and failing) to be pleasant. McRib’s wizard Fitlei came in after him, a slender drow with an uncertain aura. He was excited, wound-up, wildly gesticulating to the duergar beside him. The armored dwarf, one of the merchants no doubt, was nodding sagely after every sentence.

They had a tiefling with them, a woman with jet black hair and dark blue skin. She was dressed the way Brat pictured the adventurers of the tales: high boots and scrappy clothing, and a long cutlass at her hip. The tiefling’s yellow eyes followed Fitlei’s every move, although from her dubious look and crossed arms Brat could tell she was appraising his intent more than his words. She didn’t have to; Fitlei didn’t have it in him to be deceptive and excited at the same time.

The last to enter was another drow, a stranger, who was decidedly not from House McRib.

Brat first noticed that he was tall- the tallest member in the group by half a foot. Then he noticed the grace. The posture. The way in which this tall drow carried himself, like a willow tree, and when he moved the strands of his long hair seemed to flow with him like water.

Where the other merchants wore practical gear - leathers and furs and armor - this drow wore one of the most infuriating articles of clothing Bratwurzt had ever seen. His robe was yellow and red and not so much covering him as it was draped over him, the way you would drape a throw over a couch before inviting someone to lie on it with you. The robe looked like it was covered in something. What, Brat could not tell from where they were sitting.

In spite of themself Brat leaned forward and squinted for a better view, ruining the disinterested facade they had worked so hard to maintain. Brat studied the strange lines running up and down along the edges of the robe. Were they...zippers? For pockets? On a robe?

Brat’s train of thought was cut short as the robed drow noticed he was being watched. He caught Brat’s gaze for an instant, and before Brat had the sense to save face and look away he winked.

Flushing, Brat jerked their head to look at something, anything else.

With the entire group inside the room, Selex shut the door behind them. Fitlei snapped to attention, his spine straightening out like someone had grabbed him by a string on the top of his head.

“Lady Amburrla, permission to approach?”

Brat leaned back in their seat again. They gestured carelessly with their hand and called out, “proceed.”

Fitlei led the party forward, Selex bringing up the rear. Brat tried to keep their eyes facing the group while also making it abundantly clear to the robed drow that they had not been staring at him, and he was not to wink at them again. No matter where they looked, they couldn’t shake the sense that he was watching. That he knew.

Brat’s eyes found the tiefling and focused on her movements: measured and confident. Her tail flicked every ten or so steps, and Brat tried to remember if that meant something the way it did with cats. They would never know; a drow priestess would never care enough to ask.

“My lady Amburrla,” Fitlei repeated again, when he had gotten closer. “It is my pleasure to present our guests for the evening.”

Brat shifted in their seat to counteract a wedgie and passed it off as feigning interest.

“Gurrgol Rhinefist.”

The duergar stepped forward and bowed stiffly, with his feet together.

“Prudence Apropos.”

The tiefling stepped forward and offered a clumsy curtsey. The cutlass at her side banged against her leg. Brat could tell someone had taught her how to do it in the five minutes they had before walking in.

“Alolo.”

The drow, in one fluid motion, leaned forward, extended his front leg, bent his back one, and bowed so low that his robe hung wide open and exposed his chest. When he looked up he grinned, no doubt noticing that Brat’s jaw was hanging open.

“Alolo,” Bratwurzt repeated, making zero effort to hide the incredulity in their voice. They could see the disapproving glare of Selex from the corner of their eye.

“Yes, my lady,” said Fitlei, fidgeting where he stood.

“Alolo what,” they blurted.

“It is simply Alolo,” was the robed drow’s reply as he bowed again, much more restrained than the previous time, thank Lolth. “If it please Your Superiority.”

Brat’s mouth twitched at the title. They had heard many a brown-nosing drow use the same on their mother. Each time, it had had the same effect: bad. Perhaps it was time to use one of their mother’s old moves. Perhaps it was time to make this one squirm.

“It does not.” Bratwurzt raised their chin and glared down at the offender. If it had any effect on Alolo, it didn’t show on his face. Then again, the trick did work better when the object of Brat’s intimidation was at least a foot shorter.

“Then I shall choose a name if it should satisfy you,” said Alolo with the same smile Brat had seen on his face when he’d caught them staring. “One at random.” He raised a long finger to his chin and looked up as if in thought. “Let me see...Which was the last house I visited? One in Menzoberranzan. Yes, that’s right.”

His lilac eyes locked onto Brat. “Lv’Arden.”

The three syllables delivered one swift punch to Brat’s gut. With no air left to fall back on, Bratwurzt’s voice rose one oxygen-deprived octave.

“A long way if I’m not mistaken,” said Bratwurzt McRib. “I’ve never been.”

Alolo’s countenance never betrayed even an inkling of the intent lurking underneath.

“Perhaps someday,” he said, “I will take you there.”

Bratwurzt stiffened. From either side of the throne they could see Fitlei and Selex, both equal parts confused and concerned, exchanging glances and subtle hand gestures that held more meaning than just expressing their discomfort. But seeing them reminded Brat of the entire reason the three of these strangers had entered their house in the first place.

“That shall have to wait,” they said, forcing a lighter expression, “until after our transaction is complete.”

At this Gurrgol and Prudence perked up. It was unclear how long either had known Alolo, but from how uncomfortable he had made them by speaking so candidly to a drow priestess, Brat guessed it wasn’t long.

“The job,” grunted Gurrgol, bowing his head as though the mere gesture could excuse his companion’s world of insolence. “Please, tell us more.”

“It is to be a delivery,” said Bratwurzt. “Upstairs.”

Every time Bratwurzt so much as uttered the word to potential hires, they would look at each other with open astonishment. Brat had never been above ground, but from the apprehension they’d always gotten from suggesting the task, they knew they never wanted to go.

True to form, Gurrgol and Prudence looked across the way at each other. Alolo did not react. Brat suppressed a snort. Did he not know about Upstairs?

“And the cargo?” asked Prudence. It was a fair question, but one House McRib did not intend to answer.

“Confidential,” Bratwurzt said. “You’ll find the pay reflects this.”

That had struck a chord with Alolo. “We can’t know what it is, but you want us to bring it Upstairs?”

“I’d understand if you aren’t up to the task,” Bratwurzt said, pointing their gaze on him. “We don’t require three for this job. I would imagine the tiefling and duergar are better equipped than you to handle the fire in the sky.”

At this, Alolo raised a hand to his mouth and let out a delicate laugh.

“My Lady Amburrla, what kind of professional isn’t equipped to handle sunlight?” he asked. “Did you bring me all this way just to tell me you have no faith in me?”

Brat seethed. This wasn’t how this sort of exchange was supposed to go. The Lady Amburrla was supposed to sit and scowl and glare, bark orders, and maybe even spit on someone. No one dared raise their eyes or their wits to a priestess of Lolth. The penalty for either was death.

Alolo had done both, but to show frustration was to admit that he had touched a nerve. How much did Alolo know about Brat’s connection with House Lv’Arden? Enough to worry Selex? Enough to get Brat booted back onto the streets of Menzoberranzan? They wouldn’t let that happen.

Bratwurzt swore to themself. None of this would have happened if they’d just woken up the right way this morning. Maybe a skilled performer could have pulled it off, but without the authenticity of their body Bratwurzt was a hack.

With every quip The Lady Amburrla’s credibility grew weaker and weaker. If Brat did not gain the high ground soon, they were finished. But how to get higher than a drow who defied convention, height and all?

Bratwurzt drew themself up in pleasantry. “Of course you are here for a reason. Forgive me, Alolo, for my rudeness. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“Hunger, perhaps?” Alolo offered. “I’ve always maintained one shouldn’t talk business on an empty stomach. There’s no need for negotiations to be so ugly.”

“Of course!!” cried Fitlei, as though Alolo had suddenly triggered the function of his voice. “Yes, we have prepared an excellent spread for dinner, with the expectation that you shall be joining us.”

Selex, eager to end the conversation, stepped forward. “Fitlei will lead you to the dining hall now.” He waved his hand and Fitlei jumped, all but propelling himself toward the doorway. The guests turned to follow him out, but Alolo remained.

“Surely Lady Amburrla is coming with us,” he said.

Selex stepped forward to intercede, but Bratwurzt stood and held out their arms. On top of the raised platform that housed the throne, Bratwurzt still felt taller than Alolo. On two feet, Bratwurzt felt more grounded than they had in ages. Their grace returned to them as blood resumed its flow down their legs.

“If that is what my guests desire. I shall return to you shortly.” Brat dismissed him with a wave of their hand and waited until they heard the door open and close behind the group to collapse in the unforgiving chair.

“What was that about.” It was not a question.

“He mentioned Lv’Arden,” said Bratwurzt, discarding their priestess voice like a heavy cloak. “I just got nervous is all.”

Selex approached the throne, an action he took only when he was certain no one else was around. He leaned over Bratwurzt, grabbed them by the front of the dress, and tugged.

Brat was jerked upward, their face nearly touching the marred visage of Selex. His scowl was so close that Brat could feel the rage radiating from his skin. Maybe that was his breath. Brat didn’t think he brushed.

“If that swordseller wants to bring you back to Lv’Arden, I won’t stop him,” he growled. “I’m sure your mother would be delighted to see you again.”

Brat grimaced as Selex’s breath assaulted their nose. “She wouldn’t,” they said. Selex’s glare did not soften, but after thirty years it was beginning to lose its edge. “Let go of me. You smell and you’re ruining my dress.”

Truth be told, Bratwurzt had spent the last thirty seconds hoping Selex hadn’t ruined their intricately-placed boob stuffing. Knowing the way their luck was going today, however, he definitely had.

Selex released his grip on Brat’s dress, dropping them back on the iron throne with a cold thud. He turned to exit the room.

“Collect yourself and join us in the banquet hall,” he demanded. His voice echoed through the empty hall as he pulled open the door, exited, and slammed it shut.

Alone at last, Bratwurzt McRib took their sweet time getting up from the throne. Sure it was an uncomfortable seat, but given the circumstances of the moment, existing in any position was uncomfortable.

The thought of each new threat only magnified their predicament: Alolo, Selex, their mother Styx. They began to whine. Brat wondered how soundproof the main hall was for a brief moment before deciding they didn’t care.

After several minutes, Brat stopped their noisemaking and shut their eyes tight, rubbing their temples. They were drained, exhausted, and they hadn’t even been out of their bedroom for more than forty minutes.

The thought made them open their mouth to whine a second time.

“Such an unbecoming noise for a priestess of Lolth.”

Brat shot up in their seat. They opened their eyes so fast they had to rub them several times just to be sure of what they saw: the robed drow, standing over him, one hand on his hip.

“And for spider’s sake, if you’re going to play a priestess, at least sit like one.”

Bratwurzt snapped back into position, sitting on the throne as though they were about to redo the whole scene again, from Fitlei leading the party through the front door.

“How much did you see?” asked Brat, hiding behind Amburrla’s voice like a shield.

“Enough that you don’t have to continue that miserable charade,” said Alolo. He ended the sentence with a small, melodic laugh, a refrain of pity and amusement.

“Who sent you?” Brat asked in a low voice, still unsure of which part of the act to drop.

Before they knew it, Alolo was lifting himself up to sit on the arm of the throne and leaning in close. Brat flinched, but they did notice Alolo smelled much nicer than Selex ever had.

“Nobody sends me anywhere,” said the merchant. “I come and go as I please.”

“So you’re not really from House Lv’Arden.” Her Dominance Matron Styx would never have allowed one of her agents to say such a thing, even in deception.

Alolo stretched his arm around the back of the throne, which allowed him to both secure his balance and throw Brat off theirs. “Got to you, didn’t I? So I am right.”

Brat gripped the edges of their seat, looking desperately for an escape plan should the need arise. But the other drow had gotten close; there was nothing for Brat to look at but Alolo.

“How did you know?” they asked.

“Her Dominance announced the death of her heir in the same month that this dusty old palace started to show up on the trade circuit,” said Alolo. “Any idiot could figure it out.”

Brat looked down.

“But Matron Styx’s heir was a real priestess,” continued Alolo. “Not a hack in lazy drag.” He patted one of the saggy lumps on Brat’s chest and smirked when he felt cloth.

Brat’s hands shot up on their own and grabbed Alolo by the wrists.

“Get your hands off me,” they growled.

Bratwurzt wasn’t in the business of violence, just lying and swindling. They stared at their hands gripped tightly around Alolo’s wrists, trying to think of something particularly menacing to say.

“No one’s watching,” whispered Alolo. “You can get as rough as you like.”

Brat flushed and recoiled, dropping the man’s hands as he turned to face the back of the throne.

“You clearly have something you need to get off your chest.”

Bratwurzt refused to dignify the joke with a laugh. Fortunately, Alolo seemed satisfied enough just keeping himself entertained.

“What do you want?” asked Brat.

Alolo smiled, knowing he was about to get whatever that was.

“For now, the truth.” The robed drow leaned away, giving Bratwurzt just enough space to take deeper breaths. “We’ll start with your name.”

“Amburrla McRib of House McR-”

“The name your mother gave you,” interrupted Alolo.

Brat's body hardened like steel. “Doesn’t matter,” they said. “That name is dead.”

Bratwurzt thought they could see Alolo’s face cloud with genuine sympathy, but only for a second. Like adding a tiny lump of flour to a hot liquid and whisking it until it dissolves.

“I see,” he said. “Then what do you call yourself?”

Bratwurzt blinked. Everyone involved at House McRib knew Amburrla was merely an invention, but they never cared to pry further than that. No one cared to get to know the drow behind the facade, stonewalling and ignoring Bratwurzt’s identity like it did not exist.

But this visitor had asked about it.

“Bratwurzt McRib.”

“Like the sausage, ” said Alolo. “How...fitting.”

Bratwurzt huffed. “I thought it was clever until I woke up one morning to find I didn't have one again.”

“Quite inconvenient you didn't wake up that way this morning, given the circumstances.”

“I did my best,” retorted Brat. “I tried real hard to think as many girly thoughts as I could before bed.”

Alolo's eyes widened with mock interest. He drew in closer again, but Brat found they didn’t mind so much. “Girly thoughts? And what would those be?”

“You know,” said Bratwurzt. “Superiority. Murder. Stepping on a soldier while I'm in stilettos.”

Alolo let out a real laugh this time. It was the first noise he’d made that hadn’t felt calculated.

A smile spread over Brat’s face; they’d made him laugh. It wasn’t the way they’d intended to disarm their guest, but Brat would’ve taken anything at this point.

“A shame that didn't work out,” said Alolo, regaining his composure. “Or else maybe I wouldn't be here threatening you.”

Bratwurzt's eyes flicked up to meet the other drow’s lilac gaze. “Be doing what now?”

Alolo walked his fingers up the bare skin on Brat's forearm. Each tiny hair he touched stood on end, sending shivers through Brat's body.

“What did you think we were doing here, Bratwurzt?”

Now was not the time to savor the ring of their own name in their ears, in someone else's voice- in his voice. Now was not the time to focus on how sharp the t sounded coming from his mouth, how he danced over the z to get there. Now was not the time to realize for all the fun it was to say, the name “Bratwurzt” was so much more fun to hear from someone else.

Bratwurzt did these things anyway.

“I thought we were having a nice time,” they said, steadying their voice enough to mask the unease.

“I can’t do both?,” asked Alolo. He stood up then, making his way to the bottom of the throne platform. “Listen, Bratwurzt. I can get a lot of money for returning House Lv’Arden’s lost pet.”

Bratwurzt stood. “You’ll do no such thing.”

Alolo missed the murderous look on their face; he was more interested in his fingernails.

Bratwurzt fumed in their place. It was one thing to be teased and humiliated and undermined in front of people who were already feigning respect for them. Brat would’ve taken as much public torture from Alolo as he was ready to dish out.

But the constant allusions to their old family, their biological mother, had to stop. Bratwurzt had worked far too hard and for way too long to let one meddling merchant force them from their hard-earned freedom.

Alolo let out a very long, very deliberate sigh. “I expected better out of someone with your pedigree.”

A surge of rage split Bratwurzt’s head in two as they lunged for Alolo. Their hands met the front of his robe, and they held him in place with a grip like iron.

Alolo’s face was very close again, but it was Brat who had closed the space between them. The words that came out of their mouth were low and guttural but unmistakably Amburrla’s:

“Compare me to that accursed house one more time and you’ll find yourself wishing you stayed there.”

It was funny how potent anger was. Bratwurzt hadn’t been able to look Alolo in the eye for more than a handful of seconds, but now their glare held Alolo in place as firmly as one of Fitlei’s spells.

Alolo looked almost stunned, his mouth open but not exactly agape. He blinked several times before his lips curved into a wry smile. Slowly his hands reached up to grasp Bratwurzt’s.

“So you can still act the part.”

Bratwurzt scowled and let go of Alolo’s robe, but the other drow would not release his grip on their hands.

“You put a little bit more of that into your work, and you might just make it out of this mess alive,” he purred.

“If you don’t let go of me, I will kick you in the nuts,” Bratwurzt spat.

“Styx just would have done it.”

With a sharp inhale, Bratwurzt thrust their left knee upward. Before it could make contact with anything, they felt themself hurling back until their behind met the hard seat of the McRib throne.

“But neither of you could land a hit on me,” Alolo concluded.

Every time he smiled, Bratwurzt couldn’t help but fantasize about using their dagger to rearrange the features on his handsome face. But if they couldn’t touch him…

“If I scream, every soldier in House McRib will swarm this room,” they spat. “Selex will be the first in line to cut you down.”

“No, we’ll leave them out of this,” Alolo said at once, as though it was for him to decide.

Bratwurzt opened their mouth to call for help, but Alolo was on them in an instant, covering it with his long sleeve. Bratwurzt struggled underneath him, their screams muffled into little more than grunts. They grabbed onto Alolo’s arm to remove it, but they could do nothing.

“I have no business getting involved with the familial squabbles of House Lv’Arden,” Alolo said hurriedly. “I’m not going to tell.”

Bratwurzt stopped their struggling, but their narrowed eyes betrayed their distrust.

“In return,” said the robed drow, “I need something from you.”

Brat was powerless without the ability to speak; all they could do now was listen.

“I want a favor.”

Bratwurzt tried again to speak into the drow’s sleeve. It came out as another wordless cry, but Alolo took it for a question.

His smile sweetened. “I haven’t thought of it yet. You don’t have to worry, Bratwurzt. I won’t ask for anything you can’t give me.”

Brat tried tugging at Alolo’s arm again to get him to remove it from their mouth. This time his blackmailer obliged, and they allowed themselves several deep breaths before continuing.

“So I’m just writing you a blank check that you’re gonna come and cash in. When, exactly?”

“Who knows?” was the reply. “It could be decades, Brat. But the moment I know what to ask for, I’ll be back.”

Alolo’s expression soured for a moment before he continued.

“And don’t go getting yourself caught and executed before then. It’ll only complicate things for when I do have to collect. The best thing you can do is put your years at Arach-Tinilith to good use.”

Alolo had guessed correctly that Bratwurzt had studied the ways of a priestess of Lolth at the academy in Menzoberranzan. Alolo had also guessed correctly that Bratwurzt had resisted every temptation to embody the horrific tenets of Lolth’s demands.

“Enunciation is your friend, Bratwurzt. What good are your words if I can’t feel them crawling up my spine?”

Brat opened their mouth to say something but thought better of it. How could you make words crawl up someone’s spine?

“But you are trying,” said Alolo. “I’ll give you that.” He took Bratwurzt’s head in his hands. “You’ll just have to do better so you don’t get found out again. Remember, you owe me.”

The way Alolo’s voice curled around those last few words send shivers dancing up Bratwurzt’s spine, and all at once they knew what they’d been doing wrong.

As Amburrla, Bratwurzt sneered. “If someone like you walks through that door again, I’ll be more prepared this time.”

Alolo laughed once. “Honey, there is no one like me.” He released Bratwurzt’s head then and turned to head toward the door.

Bratwurzt waited several minutes before sending for Selex. The captain of McRib’s guard entered, more annoyed that Bratwurzt still had not joined the dinner party.

“As a high priestess of House McRib, this is my decision,” decreed Amburrla. “We shall send all three to the surface. When they get there, the dwarf and tiefling are to kill the drow.”

Selex considered the priestess’s words for a moment. Bratwurzt had never before displayed an interest in the “family business” beyond their own responsibilities. But he could not deny that it was their right. And if it forced Bratwurzt into this expected state of drow aggression, the best he could do was encourage it.

“It shall be done,” he said, barely hiding his smile.

Six tendays later, a messenger delivered a package containing only the cutlass of a tiefling swashbuckler. It was addressed to “McRib’s Brat of a Priestess.”

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dammit-stark · 6 years

Text

Assassin AU: Part 2

This is the second part to a Criminal Minds assassin AU I wrote a LONG while ago. A few people have requested a part 2 such as @marvelfanlife and @telominasanasia. The first part was written over a year ago, and this has been sitting on my list unwritten for almost as long. I hope you guys enjoy it!

You are revealed as an undercover FBI agent who manages to track down the team and finally arrest them after months of research then you explain to them how you were able to trick them and survive their attacks.

Part 1 can be found here.

/////////

“The BAU?” Rossi offered up another possible name for their little team. Turns out, they liked acronyms, and everybody nodded, enjoying the way the letters blended ominously together, without meaning.

“I think the BAU is actually already a unit of the FBI,” Spencer brought up, grimacing.

Everybody just laughed, cold with the bitter irony of it, “Even better.” Derek chuckled, tossing up a pocketknife and catching it as it fell down (as sickeningly cliche as it was, he looked like an absolute badass while doing it).

“The BAU it is.” Hotch said, standing up, “Now I think some of us have some work to do.”

Garcia responded with the click of her keyboard.

/////

They had a name now. A calling card. You watched them as they started to integrate it into their kills. The BAU. A small chalk drawing would left at the turning point of the crime, the climax, when the exhilaration and anticipation of the kill was higher in ratio than the calm patience of waiting for the right moment. They let themselves be known, drew themselves ever-so-slightly into the proverbial limelight. And they had no idea who you were.

“I’ve got the target in my sights” Hotch said, his voice low and measured in his walkee, “5. 4. 3. 2…”

A shot rang through the courtyard, deafening as it reverberated against stone and brick and statue. Hotch’s chest was heavy as he stared, watching through his scope, waiting for the fall of the body. It didn’t come. The target made the walk away. Dammit.

Hotch, with his walkee off, cursed colorfully. It had been his only chance. The BAU (he liked the way that name ringed more and more everyday) lost track of the target’s trail after this. He packed up his rifle, tucked it into its incognito case, disguised as the average briefcase, and snuck out the backdoor of the building he had used. Hotch dispersed into the crowd as another face. He didn’t leave a calling card.

From behind a pillar, you were still trying to catch your breath. That had been a close one, almost too close. You were almost glad that the investigation was coming to a close, though you wouldn’t really be glad until the culprits were behind bars.

“Hotchner has probably left the building by now. It’s the second tallest one, with the green awning out front,” You breathed into the mic on your wrist, “We should have everything we need to indict them.”

It was about damn time that the BAU found out who they were dealing with.

/////

You caught Hotchner first. He was the hardest, the most elusive, the most well trained, but he’s the ringleader and without him in custody your entire plan would evaporate in your hands.

Hotchner glared at the double-sided glass as if he knew you were watching him, he follows you when you move with his eyes, his furrowed brows complacent with his placid glare. You don’t dare reveal yourself, not yet, not until you have what you need to destroy them.

Rossi was next, he’s the oldest, but also the most influential among third parties. Once Rossi and Hotch were out of the game, the rest of the ‘BAU’ began to smell the stink and started to scatter, but not before your team managed to grab JJ, Spencer, and Emily and place them all into custody.

Garcia was still out there, hiding behind her computer screen like it was an iron shield, and Derek was undoubtedly preparing for a harrowing fight.

You and your team worked for this for months and now you were so, so close. The countless hours of research and surveillance accumulated for this single moment of confession and arrest was astonishing, so much sweat was put into putting the BAU behind bars.

“Boss? Can I come in?” You knocked on Captain Lewis’s door, a soft ‘of course’ responding, “I wanted to update you on the BAU case. We have them all in custody except for Garcia and Morgan. Do I have permission to begin interrogations.”

“No,” Your boss replied, grim and frowning from the shadow of gray walls and bureaucracy and more gray walls, “Not yet. Not until they’re all here. We need to get them all.”

“But-”

“No ‘but’s, get to work.”

“Of course, Scratch. I’ll get them.” When you shut the door behind you, a vague ‘you better’ sounded from the office and you couldn’t help but agree.

It was about time to put an end to the BAU.

///////

Hotchner was not playing. Not one bit. Every once in awhile he’d glare, at nothing in particular, a wall or a cop in the wrong place or even his own reflection at one point, but for the most part, he just sat there and stared off into the distance as if doing so would somehow open a hole in the wall that he could jump out of.

Six hours in and you were starting to worry that it was actually possible, what with his determination and all that. But that was absurd. You shook yourself out of it. He was an elusive, highly intelligent criminal, but that was all he was. Sure he scared you. He was mysterious, with an empty past like a pit for you to fall into, nothingness and darkness laid out to distract you. It was a plan, a trick, a distraction.

You stood behind the glass of Hotchner’s interrogation room and never left.

////////

“M’am!” An agent appeared in the doorway of the Observation Room, “We have a location on Morgan!”

Your skin lit, like an internal tornado warning the stink of smoke before the fire, and you took off at a run toward your desk to put on your Kevlar, “Call SWAT. And make sure there’s extra-extra backup. This one’s gonna our up quite the fight.”

Your team, an uncomfortable mirror of the BAU loaded into the SUV’s, dark and foreboding, like horse-like hearses meant for knights in black armor, off to save the world.

The sirens and lights and reds and blues of the scene was eclectic, like a circus of knife-throwers on steroids. Your team dispersed, scattered, delved in, became part of the situation, examined every aspect, every clue, until SWAT entered the building at your go ahead.

“This is it,” You breathed out, “Let’s get this sonofabitch.”

You filed into the building after SWAT, simultaneously tentative and anxious and eager all at once. Morgan was at its exact middle, a strategic position with no windows but multiple entrances so he couldn’t be cornered but could see all his attackers. You never forgot how intelligent these people were, as forward-thinking as chess players in assassins’ bodies.

“Well, well, well,” Morgan said fists raised, lips smirking, dripping with sarcasm, “I did not expect to see you guys here. Welcome to the party.”

The fight that followed was everything Morgan’s reputation promised.

One of your teammate’s was hospitalized, and you should have stalled, should have shrunk, reprioritized, anything really, but you shifted into a higher gear and bowled over the metaphorical snow drifts that the BAU’s collective force of nature had delivered upon you.

You were so close to finishing the entire ordeal. So close.

At 11:49 PM, Derek Morgan was taken into Federal Custody. The BAU was down to a single member left to interact in society.

////////

When you reported back to HQ for debrief, the office that had stood watch on Hotchner’s interrogation room said that he had stared at that damned wall the entire time, except for of course when he stood up and paced (which he had yet to do) ten minutes earlier.

“Ten minutes ago? You’re sure?” You asked the officer, your stomach fell even before he replied.

“Probably a little more than ten minutes ago, but just about, yeah, why?”

“Derek Morgan was signed into our custody 13 minutes ago.”

The “Oh,” That fell from the officer’s lips was extremely unsolid and even more so disconcerting, almost as bad as the feeling in your stomach.

////////

The problem with trying to catch Penelope Garcia was that nobody had ever seen her. It was impossible to know what exactly she looked like.

If files were put online that revealed her identity, she, as Master of All With A Microchip, simply removed the information from whatever hyper-complex government database she needed to and went on her merry way.

Garcia wasn’t like the others where a trail of mysterious, half-baked witness statements followed them like blood on a careless serial killer’s single fourteen-year-old stolen sneaker (not that any of them can say so from experience, they skipped the serial killer phase/profile entirely and graduated immediately to hitmen). She hid behind a keyboard and a desktop, away from windows and doors and witnesses and she covered her tracks incredibly well, which made it quite difficult for law enforcement to find her (which was also, coincidentally, kinda the entire point behind the lack of a trail in the first place).

Scratch still wouldn’t let you go at the BAU without the whole team under your belt.

So you kept digging, like incessant, workaholic miners that refused to stop despite the lung poisoning and permanent stink, the stinging in their eyes.

One of your partners found the first loose-ish string that would lead to an end. An origin.

You had just about nothing filewise on Penelope Garcia, no beginning, no middle, no end. The only even hint at a product of the nothingness sandwich was a flimsy story about excess torrenting when the government had decided to crack down. Garcia, granted, didn’t believe that the story was deemed useful enough to expunge from reality. Her mistake lies in that doubt.

Building back from the small story was difficult, incredibly difficult actually, producing flimsy results laced with conjecture, well it was more like educated conjecture, but still. Eventually a beginning began to form, like a story of Penelope Garcia’s life, until a middle built itself. Your team compiled the possible locations of the UnSub. It was your job to construct the ending to her story.

Once you knew where to find her, getting a hold of a Penelope Garcia was a piece of cake. You needed entirely less SWAT (though yes, some SWAT did indeed attend, for extra precautions). For the most part, she came willingly.

The only thing she did was ask about her team, if they were hurt, dead, etc. You’d be touched if you were one to sympathize more with these people, but you kept in mind that they were deadly assassins that barely spared lives and not worth your time.

It was finally your time to shine. You had an assassin to talk to.

\\\\\

Hotchner was staring at that damned wall like it held the answers to all the questions of the universe when you stepped out of the shadows, commandeering the room for the sake of your own domineering presence. You see it when it happens, just past his eyes, the flicker of recognition and doom and, “You’re the target.” He says

In his head, he berates himself. He should have known it was a trap.

You smile, “So you recognize me?”

Hotchner’s gaze is hard and cracked, “I never forget the face of my targets.”

Your unrelenting utter lack of sympathy flickers again, doubtedly, but it remains sturdily in your head, a moral that would crumble if you forgot.

“However,” Hotchner continue, crossing his arms like he was the boss, but he was handcuffed and restrained with a bounty on his head, and you would never let him lead, not again, “I’ve yet to see the face of a target up close.”

He said it so quick, so casual, the underhanded mention of a personal kill count, your blood boiled with the dangerous intimacy of the whole thing. You sat down across the metal table from him, tried to recount every miserable minute of hunting him down that you had endured for the past months.

“And yet,” You said, hoping your words bit with intent, “I’m still here,”

Hotchner just stared at his wall.

“We tracked you down. Did you know that? We watched, waited, everything in between. Your little group, what do you call yourselves? The BAU? You’re quite the elusive bunch. Highly skilled, too. I’d almost be impressed if you didn’t have a murder count so high we’ve lost count.”

Hotchner didn’t respond for a long moment, then turned to you, cocked his head, “Aren’t government agencies supposed to keep meticulous records? You could lose your job for not keeping count.” Then he turned back to that damn wall.

You stood up. The “interrogation” was over. For now.

Hotchner was left to stare into silence.

//////

It was one in the morning when the texts and the calls came in. The night-shift officers were frantic, but you pieced the situation together pretty quickly between shrieks of “Oh god, I’m going to get so fired,” And you were dressed with your shoes on and your keys in your hand before the officer had even finished explaining the situation.

At the station, you felt like you were burning. The entire station could have suddenly burst into flames and you wouldn’t notice through the red-orange vignette of your own anger. The pencil in your hand burst in two as the officers looked like little, lost puppies who had been kicked by their owners.

“What the hell do you mean they’re gone?”

A few officers stammered flimsy excuses. You wanted to holler and hit and fire some people, but you knew it wasn’t their fault. You did your best to calm down, but it was really difficult when so much work was wasted. The BAU had probably hatched the plan before even Hotch had been put into custody.

An officer handed you a burner phone that they had found in the trash. There was a single message on it: “Wheels up in 15.” You shivered and shook and slammed the phone onto a nearby desk. Scratch would not be happy to hear about this.

You looked into Hotchner’s interrogation room from behind that well-acquainted single-sided mirror. There was a burning hole, still smoking slightly, with wall remnants scattered on the ground. The hole was in Hotchner’s wall, where he hadn’t stopped staring.

///////

Hotch smirked at his team.

Three of their, um, consultants (do they count as consultants if they’re criminals consulting for other criminal deeds?), Luke Alvez, Tara Lewis, and Alex Blake had gathered to follow through with the constingency plan. BAU association with the three consultants had yet to be figured out by federal agencies worldwide.

“Thanks for the help,” He said, impassive, ungrinning. There wasn’t much on his mind besides the face of the target that got away. The faces usually torture him, taunt him and his misdeeds, but it’s nothing like this, with the what have’s and the what will’s floating around like loose shoelaces that refuse to tie.

Rossi put a hand on Hotch’s shoulder, “We need to get on the jet before Agent Y/L/N figures out where we went,” He guides a pensive Hotch onto the plane, and instructs the others to follow, “Let’s get this bird in the air.”

Once again, you’re on the hunt for the BAU.

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #fanfiction #aaron hotchner #hotch #derek morgan #penelope garcia

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86-was-his-year · 7 years

Text

The Contaminated Chapter 4

Warnings: Just some minor swearing

I was very excited to meet Rose. Hearing of another girl that was alive and had he own free will had me hurrying to pull the clothes onto my wet body. even though I was distracted with my excitement, I couldn't stop thinking about my encounter with Frank. He was very... Polite and was not hungry for a women like most men were now that the apocalypse has been brought on. He made my stomach flutter as I thought about him. I didn't even know him.

"It's just been too long." I said rolling my new socks on before slipping my sneakers on. It has been a long time. I haven't had a boyfriend since I was 16 and still in highschool, let's just say that was a waste of time a good memories about all men. But, Frank was changing them. In the 10 minutes that I got to spend with him he has been on my mind.

I looked in the mirror one last time. I didn't know when I would again and it was good to keep a clean image of myself in my head. It's kind of like looking into the past, this is how I would look going to school or out to a family dinner. Family. I haven't seen them since they left to go up north for a family thing. I chose to stay home for work and to watch the house. In the beginning I spent the whole time wondering when they would come back or if they would. I stopped after two weeks.

I looked back up and realized tears had begun to fall down my face at the thought of my family. I wonder if they found a safe zone? My dad was always going on about the end of the world but, we never listened. At least my mom and sister's didn't, I choose to take lessons on how to shoot, how to apply a tourniquet, and what not. I wiped my tears and straightened out my clothes, waiting for my red face to go back to normal.

I expected to walk out of the bathroom to find Gerard or even Rose. What I didn't expect was Frank leaning against the wall parallel to me, eating an apple and quietly speaking to himself. I was so shocked I almost closed the door again and waited till he left. I didn't though, I kept my cool. For the most part.

"Oh, hey. I was just waiting here so nobody else walked in or anything." He said with a smile. His half eaten apple was forgotten and clutched in his right hand.

"Oh, thanks!" I said beaming back at him. The fact that he stayed to watch the door on his own made the butterflies take flight in my stomach again.

"It's really no problem. Is there anything you need before I take off?" He said bringing the apple up to his mouth again. His lips were thin and a pale pink. They curled around the edges and made it look like he was permanently smirking. They looked so soft even though they were rough and chapped. When he was done taking a bite of the apple he wiped away the tart juice that rolled down the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and that broke me out of my trance.

"Um, could you show me to Rose? I'd really love to meet her." I said turning off the light to the bathroom and shut the door. I had cleaned a bit before I had left so I wouldn't feel guilty when someone else had to go and clean it later. Frank's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and he nodded.

"Sure, if you're ever looking for Rose, try the art section first. That's like her corner of the store. Ray's always in the prescriptions, Mikey's by the graphic tee's, Gerard's mostly by the art stuff too, and I'm always up at the front guarding the doors with Bob." Frank said gesturing around the store with his hands. I noticed that while Gerard kept his things at the front of the store, Frank had everything with him. His rifle was strapped to his shoulder as well as his bag.

"Oh, I heard you had all the idea's and stuff for the checkout lines and stuff. That looks pretty sick." I said smiling as a soft blush burst into his cheeks.

"It's really nothing. I've always wanted to be an architect and Gerard said we needed stations and a safe place to sleep. It sucks though, I can't sleep in there. My own work and I can't enjoy it." He said dramatically. His tattooed hand fell over his heart in mock sadness, and for the first time in years I laughed. The noise sounded dry and unfamiliar as it hit my ears. I stopped in shock and stared at Frank in awe. "Are you alright?" He said turning serious when he saw that I had stopped.

"Nothing, it's just I haven't laughed in a long time." I said putting my hand up to my throat lightly.

"Where have you been all my life?I live to serve thee. I shall make thee laugh forever." He said bowing poshly. I laughed again and water prickled at the edges of my eyes for the third time today. It felt amazing to laugh again. It was like a spark had his dead leaves and it had erupted into a forest fire in my stomach. It was almost nostalgic.

"I... Thank you." I said holding my stomach.

"Stick with me kid, We're going places." He said throwing his arm around my shoulder once he was close enough to me to do so. He continued walking with me glued to his side now that his arm was resting on my shoulders. It almost felt like a hug and it was very unfamiliar yet again.

As the aisles past me I could see that they were stocked and full, almost waiting for customers to come in and spend money on them again. They television sets could be seen from the distance and the dust they had collected over the years had turned the once black screens a beige color. Most of the T.V's that could be reached had smiley faces or curse words written in the dust. Frank had said that they needed to stop looking so gross so he had done that. From that information I could already tell he was the jokester of the group.

"Here is the lovely Rose. Be careful she might try and tackle you. She hasn't seen another girl in a long time either. Have fun!" He said pointing down the aisle to reveal a girl sitting with a sketchbook in her hands. She was scribbling away with her pencil as she shook her foot back and forth. Her tongue was stuck out in concentration dn her eyebrows were drawn to the middle of her forehead.

Her short, curly brown hair framed her face as she looked down at her picture. Big framed glasses hung low on the tip over her nose and it was almost like she was so in the zone that she was forgetting to push them up. The black t shirt she was wearing hung loose on he body and her black ripped jeans showed scars and recent cuts that decorated her pale knees. She wore black converse that were tied tightly around her ankles and double knotted in the front so they were secure if she had to start running.

"Frank, go away I'm busy." She said as she scribbled on.

"You have a visitor." Frank said in a secretary like voice. I stifled a giggle as Rose just shook her head and cracked a small smile.

"If it's Gerard tell him that I'm very busy right now." She said shifting around on the cushion she was settled on.

"Actually her name is Gracie." Frank said giving me a soft side glance.

"Her!" Rose's head immediately shot up at the word and she stared at me in awe. She dropped her pencil and sketchbook and stood up quickly. "Oh my gosh. You're a girl!" She said walking fastly over to where Frank and I stood.

"Well, I hope so." I said looking down at my outfit. When she reached me she enveloped me in a tight bear hug, making me squeak and gasp for a proper breath.

"Okay, Rose don't kill her. It's only her first day." Frank said shoving his hand in between us both. Rose backed away but still was in arm's length. She smiled at me like I was a million dollars in check that she had just won.

"I'm sorry it's just I haven't seen a girl in... such a long time. Okay Frank, go away I'd like to speak with Gracie." Rose said flapping her hands in Frank's direction.

"Okay, okay. Just, don't kill her." Frank said as he turned around to leave, giving me a small smile before fully turning around to walk away.

"So, are you okay? How did you get here?" She asked sitting back down, motioning for me to follow.

"I'm alright now. The guys brought me back when they found me in a car wreck." I explained sitting on the floor with her.

"Wow. Were you all alone out there or did they bring more back?" She asked picking up her sketchbook and pencil again.

"Yeah, I was alone since the beginning. It's funny I worked in a Walmart just like this one back when it all started." I said looking at the art aisle. The style and layout was the same as the one I had back home but, wasn't every Walmart like this?

"Woah. Were you caught in it when they attacked?" She asked while scribbling on her page again. I could vaguely make out a head of hair and an eye with the way the book was tilted but it looked pretty good from what I could see.

"No, My boss Tyler, gave us free shit and let us go home. He told us about the virus and I had time to board up the house before it officially hit. I watched the news until the screen went black and the power went out. It was fucking scary." I said fiddling around with my hands so I had something to do. I really missed art and seeing all of the supplies made my fingers itch to pick them up.

"Here," She said taking a pencil and a book off the shelf. "You draw?" She asked tossing it in my direction.

"I used to before all this shit happened. It's been so long I'm pretty sure I lost all the talent." I said chuckling. The black book was a bit dusty and smelt of really old book but when I opened the page it looked good as new.

"You can write your name on the cover. So if you keep it here Gerard will know not to fuck with it. You can keep it there's plenty more here and in the back stock room." She said motioning towards the back of the store with her pencil.

"Awe, thanks!" I said writing my name in the inside before putting my pencil on the page. I let my hand follow the face I made in my mind. I had made a couple mistakes as Rose and I talked. We talked about high school and our last relationships, what we did before the break out. it was like having a regular sleepover. It was crazy how much we were alike. We both listened to alternative rock and we liked to draw and sing. It was good to talk to someone who understands what it's like being alone.

"I was all alone in this store for months before Gerard and the gang showed up looking for shelter. They looked like a shit show, man. Covered in blood and dirt. There was a hoard after them and they seemed pretty nice. I put blind faith in people a lot. But, I helped them take the shufflers out and they offered to leave but, I asked them to stay. Being alone can drive you mad." She said flipping to a new page before starting again.

"I know what it feels like to be lonely. It sucks." I said finishing up the last details in my drawing before holding it out to look at it. I blushed at who I had put down and quickly flipped it to a new page.

"It really does."

#my chemical romance #my chemical frank #Frank Iero

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dwestfieldblog · 7 years

Text

UNNECESSARY WORDS

Unwanted advice, cautionary tales and Strange things in different systems....

Good evening...but I'll soon change all that...This is a song of hope....hope you like it... (Arf arf arf, etc)... get ready to learn the answer to the famous Zen koan: 'What is the sound of no audience clapping?' A living joke, well worth the price of submission, er admission. It's only a stage on the journey. I know why the bird cage sings....19 new songs (82 minutes) with all lyrics and tracks, recorded over 25 hours (so far...There is afierce savage joy in having an idea from nowhere and manifesting it almost complete within a day or even ten minutes after writing it. Almost like magick. The heart wants what it needs. And I WANT.

Surfing high on a crest of pure Gonzo adrenalin, anticipating the wipe out....'Discipline, discipline, we need some discipline in here'....Too right... Just on the off chance.....Voiding the Subject, ha ha....fire of the heart. Blessed Be. Amen, ahem.

In Prague this month (end of April) the next Million Marijuana March...arf again... A march?? A loopy shuffle perhaps. 'What do we want?' Errrr... Cakes and chocolate? When do we want it? Giggle giggle giggle.... Why are we here? Oh, wow..... wow..... Ohhhhh...... err... what? Legalize it, you know it makes sensimilla. Bonfires on the lawn...Yum yum.... Psyche-delicious. Try three glasses of dark ginseng wine with fine powdered October mushrooms and a certain deep breathing exercise for a minute. The aeons open, time dilates and cries: 'Use your teeth!'.

'It never got weird enough for me'. (Hunter S Thompson.) 'Virgin Mary was tired, so tired'... of all the vanilla guerillas and the weekend warriors. Either go away or go all the way...(as Grace Slick used to sing). This wouldinclude rebelling against your own self, you weakling plastic amateurs. 'Persistence is all'. Crocodile tears from 'Onion Peelings'. The wolf is outside the door and has the key...and Satan will save your soul...for his private collection. But the devil has all the good tunes eh?

Anyway...God blessed Dr Eric Pearl by gifting him with The Reconnection. Precious few 'healers' deserve to be rich. Conduits all.... Hmm.. 'I think if you have therapy, it can have the effect of making you less productive but more creative'. John Cleese. 'What I like about laughter is that when people laugh, they can have new ideas' Dalai Lama from the same interview.

Some recent heart melting moments walking around in Spring rain, watching little creatures in small boots... one small boy, holding his grandfather's hand, scientifically stamping his foot in puddles. Or a girl alone alone, sitting thinking in waterproofs outside a circle of her schoolmates at a bus stop. I still deeply regret not having had a child of my 'own'. The Easter Oestrogen kicking in. Deep sigh. Too late old one, the end of your line of DNA. A good thing too... But the sadness hurts. It hurts and pain makes me angry. Wounded and damaged... go for a walk in the woods, lie down and die eh? Good to have a backup exit plan.

Meanwhile, some real news... Erdgogan the Turkish gargoyle assumes complete control, anyone with a mind and heart of their own over there is going to have even more serious problems from now. Cracks me up with a pure evil delight that the good folk of England, seeking to stem the brown flow of refugees from Muslim countries have now signed a contract with Turkey, part of which hinges on lifting the need for visas for their citizens to travel to the U.K. Meaning...yes, you get it....

NEVER trust the mass, NEVER follow them...or those with a cult of personality. Follow yourself. When making mistakes, make sure that they are your OWN mistakes. Speaking of which...

Early election in England. Ho Hum. A mandate for bloody Brexit. As said last month, one of the main reasons I am against it (other than the immense gullibility of the masses who have allowed their emotions to manipulated by opportunists who could not give a flying one for their country (note for English students, the expression is'not to give a flying f**k, meaning not to care at all.) is that 'we' are doing more and more BAD deals with scum swine to make up for the debt paying and coming shortfalls in revenue etc. Not just with Duck Fart and the Gargoyle but with Saudi Arabia too...last year, they were elected to the UN Human Rights Council. Think about that for less than ten seconds and cry a little inside. A country who refuse to evendiscuss their Rights record with anyone.

Speaking of which again...North Korea blah blah, let's hope China can bitch slap some sense into that pudding boy before the missiles start. Be a good test of their famous on-line capabilities if they could disarm all Kim Wrong Un's weapons before they can be fired.

Nationalism and xenophobia being encouraged and pushed along down the danger roads... Europe swells a little more each month with pregnant fascism. Notice how much Putin is smiling in photographs in the last few years? Cover his face and read his eyes. The master agitator.

Meanwhile, back again closer to home with the poor little middle aged ghost boy... the cold turkey is freezing me out...Trying to rail against all of my negative addictions at the same time, not because I enjoy suffering but because I demand to be a control freak of what I can be. Being controlled by that which I cannot/ do not really want to stop doing is not a good way forward for long. Many things are not a useful distraction. Sooner or later, physical control is taken away from us and all we are left with is our Inner Will. Spirit itself cannot be broken but the mind which believes in it, can.

I surrendered to music decades ago. Give yourself to that which you consider beautiful.But fuck, the darker sides are sexy eh? Inhale the ether and pick up a quill pen by candlelight.

Certain things should NEVER be mixed (would you like a list?) My recent alchemy was more twisted than I am. Throw caution to the winds but don't be surprised when it blows back (or up) in your face. Be certain of your chemical sources and never ignore the warnings written in memory. Just change the prescription and the scenery. And never get involved with crazy people unless your sense of fascination and love is stronger than the fear and doubt... And blackouts do not count as sleep. When the mind feels like rotating helicopter blades, the heart like a celestial lighthouse and the synaesthesia takes over again, channel the mania or fall.

Everyone is an artist, an architect, an engineer on the astral, aware of it or not. The imprints shift in waves, the waves shift an imprint and the accumulation constructs a reality for similar minded/vibrating types to visit. Heaven and Hell are self fulfilling prophecies, states of existence in dimensions of fluid Light. Once yet again, for the 23rd time, the map is not the territory. Frequencies resonate....

Pretended ignorance is no defence. Unless one is truly a moron. Hello friends! Lack of knowledge of the basics is a dire weakness after a certain age, all else is lie. A meeting mask to mask. Un-censor yourself. Be real. Arf.

Occasionally though, you meet one of those whose level of intellect just makes them arrogant. At that point you start to think that various despots had the right idea...

Can't seem to stop writing 'songs' (he says, thus removing the blessing) The Westfields have been fallow for two or more years of desolation, seedless, drained, barren and now the whole damn farm is fecund and raring to go...it will all end in tears of one kind or another. Haven't bled for two weeks, so that must be good eh? Unless all the solid blood is now inching its way to my heart or brain. ...................................................................................(One day later I bleed onto a handwritten song I spent some hours on, rendering half of it illegible forever. Looked good though. A couple of weeks ago, I sent an sms saying 'I feel amazing' ... a couple of hours after that, had collapsed on a park bench and then blacked out in the bathroom. Dave, STOP tempting fate. Grow up boy. Who in time and space do you think you are? A drop inside the reservoir...

Studio fun...trying to play the piano...forget it...the well tempered klavir meets the bad tempered pianist. Perhaps better to stop trying and just play it. If I could actually write music I wouldn't go to bed until I collapsed. Why sleep? Way too many fans and critics seem to believe that musicians et al take drugs as mere recreation. The majority of musicians take drugs to be able to WORK, stay awake to record a thousand ideas, chase a riff, a sequence, a verse, play gigs, travel in crap vans, on crap buses, unwashed with permanent red eyes and aching bodies...and more drugs to make sure they get some sleep when too much adrenalin is still burning. Some of them take drugs to 'escape' themselves but this often has the effect of being surrounded by mirrors of the inner self. Which can lead to pure horror.

Still, stretching the perception is always useful. Up to a point. Of no return. All together now... 'We cross the Rubicon'....' Serenity is a problem when you get this close to Heaven'....Still in Coilworld two months later and loving it...'out of light cometh darkness'...

Next female T shirt seen in Prague (after the 'Special/Unicorn'one last month...'Change doesn't scare me...staying the same Does'....and a third girl wearing 'Goodnight Male Pride':-)

An hour ago (and sober/straight) I laughed so hard about Hairy Pothead and the Philosophers Stoned that I triggered yet another nose bleed, my own thought police won't even let me laugh now. ARF. Cynics often sound like realists but they really aren't. Never trust a cynic. And never trust anyone who says 'Don't trust anyone'. Get pissed, destroy? Get kissed beneath a May tree and ignore the news,read the energies...

Next batch of answers to my random sms... 'What advice would you give to ANYONE in the world'? Been sending these to all ages and sexes....

Don't Lie

Do things you will not regret

Look for your Honour

BeHappy.**************************************

And don't forget kids: 'Eternal damnation and suffering await all those who question God's infinite Love'. So sayeth Bill Hicks.

A ladder up to the stars, the old Tree of Life

Follow the flow of theheart

Spheres they will open by Grail and by Knife

The snake sends you back to the start.... (DW)

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