#my brain has decided that because the stalking creep is also an officer of the organization | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

internalsealpanic · 3 years

Text

Better Die Than Doubt

Summary: You wince knowing he’s already noticed. You feel the tiniest bit more at ease as he approaches your booth but it didn’t stop your eyes from flickering and searching for something off in the environment. The creeping sense of being watched trails up your spine. You’re sure.

A/n: To no one’s shock, this entire fic was unplanned. I was possessed by the urge to make it (translation: I got the urge to write this and one of my enablers said do it). This story should be treated more or less as a horror story. Nothing is being glorified here except how dorky Jason is. That being said, PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. This fic contains quite a few triggering things and I really don’t want you to be blindsided. Also thanks to @knightfall05x for helping me write this whole thing. Thanks to @batarella (HOE) for action writing tips.

Warnings: graphic violence, stalking, emotional manipulation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, drugging, nongraphic description of rape, and rape aftermath

masterlist

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes. You could practically feel the oncoming headache the way you could sense someone coming down the hall. This is what happens when you’re running on just 5 hours of restless sleep for the last few days. This headache was also not helped by the fact that this was your fifth coffee in the past 30 minutes. You probably should not be drinking this much caffeine this late but intelligent decisions weren’t exactly your strong suit this week. You rub the sides of your forehead feeling another wave of nausea.

You check the time again and groan. It’s been one-and-a-half hours since your agreed upon time had lapsed and yet one Jason Peter Todd was nowhere to be seen. You curse, nerves edging, and mind fraying. To be perfectly fair to him, he is a busy guy, vigilante, and all. You understood that fairly well- and this was sudden to say the least. You can’t really fault him for being a bit late but the long wait was ratcheting up your anxiety. Again, the coffee didn’t help but considering it was the only thing you could keep down since last night, you didn’t have much choice.

Last night.

Your stomach tumbled. You cup your hand over your mouth feeling your coffee traveling back up your esophagus. You let out a long exasperated breath, letting yourself sink into the booth. You look out the window, eyes flickering wildly searching for Jason. Your hands tighten around your mug. The feeling of being watched made you bristle.

Jason, well, Jason wasn’t hard to spot. The man was 6 feet 4 inches of pure muscle and leather. Having a handsome face and a ‘fuck you’ look in his eyes also helped. In short, the man was hard to ignore. You wave weakly to him as he dismounts his bike, a gesture far too small for your usual bombastic self. Jason’s smarmy smile greets you as he returns the gesture with his gloved hand. The motion is slow and cautious, rickety in a way. You wince knowing he’s already noticed. You feel the tiniest bit more at ease as he approaches your booth but it didn’t stop your eyes from flickering and searching for something off in the environment. The creeping sense of being watched trails up your spine. You’re sure.

“Jesus, y/n, you look like Timbo” Jason chuckles sliding into the booth his green eyes shining with scrutiny. You look at him flatly not having enough energy to properly respond to his jab. He winces seeing your lack of reaction. “Rough night, huh?” He asks flagging down a waitress, who looked quite pleased to get away from her previous table.

You nod weakly, slowly as if the fact that it had been a rough couple of days had just sunk in. “Yeah,” you reply, your voice small and a little threadbare. You drum your fingers against your increasingly cold mug. The waitress sets a couple of warm mugs in front of you. Her soft smile makes you uneasy. You and Jason mutter a thanks as she tells you to wave her over if you need anything else. Her warm brown eyes boring into the stark purple bruise on your face. You shrink and smile sheepishly at her.

“I’m fi-”

“I am going to throw these sugar packets at you if you say you’re fine.”

“Damn, ok, Mr.Kettle,” You laugh. His concern startles a genuine laugh out of you. You’re sincerely surprised how lively the sound that comes out of you is. “You know if you keep sounding like that, Jay, you’re gonna wreck the whole stone-cold badass thing you got going,”

“Y/n..”

You huff running your hand through your disheveled hair, trying in vain, to soothe your mind. What was the best way to put it? You swallowed, gathering your lapsing thoughts. “Sooo uh-” The collar of your shirt suddenly felt tight around your neck. “-I-” You breathe. “-I found around 4 or 5 of Blackmask’s boys and Deathstroke-No, I’m not shitting you- in my- my apartment for- well- the third time in the last two months, can I crash at your place? Just ‘til I find a new place. Oh and also how do I get rid of them?”

He blinks as his brain takes its sweet fucking time digesting what you had just said. He leans back groaning and running his hands over his face. He looks like he’d like to deck you if he wasn’t too busy being concerned for your welfare. You shrink again, feeling bad for springing it on him. The decision to leave out the gory details of your hectic week suddenly felt like the wisest choice but you had no doubt he’ll get it out of you at some point.

“I’ll skip the obvious ‘why did you wait three times before moving’ question because I feel like I’m probably going to get an aneurysm from your answer,” Your reasoning wasn’t quite that stupid. You were mucking about Sionis’s operation. The fucker decided to branch out his little enterprise into your city and like hell, you were gonna leave well enough alone. After you had set fire to one of his warehouses, you thought that would explain the False Facers. But Deathstroke? Deathstroke was a mystery. You’ve also been mucking about his business but you two have always been civil if not friendly. Frenemies of sorts, you guessed. You’ve been encountering him a lot in the last few days. You had figured that Blackmask had hired him but considering he threw two men out of your apartment window last night, you’re not entirely sure. You make an affronted noise that Jason elects to ignore.

“What did they do?”

“Aside from necessitating a visit to IKEA? Nothing.”

“Did they take anything? Leave a message?”

“Nope, nothing-” You furrow your brow trying to recall. You shake your head. “-They just made sure I knew they broke in.” You add, shrugging your shoulder. You wince at the movement. Your shoulder still aches from being hit with a bat. Jason’s shoulders shift, moving as if to reach out to you but stops himself. Instead, he continues with his line of questioning. “Sweetheart, there’s gotta be something missing.”

You frown, biting your cheek. Jason rests his chin on his hand, green eyes watching you and urging you to think back. It was either the weight of his gaze or the lack of sleep that was making it hard to recall. You close your eyes and catalog your belongings, analyzing the mental picture you have like a crime scene like how he taught you months ago, breaking it down into the smallest pieces of information and bringing it back into a bigger picture. Still, nothing. Nothing of note was missing. You shake your head and shrug your uninjured shoulder. Jason glares at the immobile one. You shake your head silently telling him it wasn’t from last night which just made him clench his jaw.

“Evidence?”

You shake your head. He frowns baffled.

“Tech?”

You shake your head again.

“Anything personal?” He asks jokingly.

“I-” A cold horror washes over you trailed by embarrassment. Your vibrator had been missing and so were a couple of your lingerie sets. You feel your stomach drop to the floor. “Oh god, Jay- I- Please, let me stay with you.”

“And have them steal my stuff?” He chuckles.

“Please, Jay, like you have anything worth stealing.” Jason frowns at you scrutinizing your face. You level him a glare but it was more in an effort to fight down a blush than anything venomous. Jason’s jaw unclenches and his face breaks into a shit-eating grin. “What color was it?”

“Wha-”

“Bzzzzzzzt ”

If you weren’t blushing before, you are now. Heat climbs up your spine. Your mouth felt dry.

“Well, what color was it, sweetheart?” Jason drawls, his voice dropping an octave. You shiver but bristle just as quickly. You bite your cheek and glare at him. “HA. HA. HA. Funny, Todd.”

“Was it Red Hood Red?” Jason teases, winking and raising his cup of coffee to his lips.

“Nightwing blue” You deadpan. Jason coughed into his drink. You preen with satisfaction.

“Does it make stupid puns while you go at it? ”

“Yup,” You say, the ‘p’ popping. “That’s part of the appeal.” You joke smiling into your mug. Jason snorts. “How is that supposed to be sexy?”

You shrug, a sharper less tired smile cutting across your features. “Dunno man. Nightwing is pretty sexy if you ask me.” You wink.

Jason makes a fake gagging noise. Well, it seems fake with how theatrical the gesture is but with bats? You never could tell. You roll your eyes and giggle. Jason’s shoulders loosen at your bubble of laughter, his face slipping into one of his sheepish smiles. “In all seriousness, y/n, you can stay at my place.”

You smile at him, your usual fluorescent smile.

Click

A man from across the street watches you intently through the lens of a camera.

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

Slade throws the photos across Roman’s desk, each glossy piece of paper containing a candid photo of you looking increasingly frayed and anxious.

Roman marvels at how your usually larger than life figure shrank into your puffy coat, how small and malleable and inexperienced you looked. He notes the panicked look in your eyes in every one of the photos and savors it. He couldn't wait to see it for himself.

In one photo, you're looking over your shoulder as you enter your office building.

In one, you’re tracing circles on a child’s hand with your thumb, beaming brightly as you told some wild tale to distract the child.

In another, you're slumped in your desk chair as you think over a case looking absolutely exasperated but determined.

In yet another one, you're locking lips with a man, his hand trailing up your shirt. Roman made sure to give the man some swimming lessons a few weeks prior.

In the photo in Roman’s hand, you're at the emergency room looking like you haven't slept in 2 days. Your face was bruised and your clothes were torn in several places where Slade had managed to land a blow. Your delicate skin marred with cuts and trickling blood. Absolutely gorgeous.

He examines it closely. The photo was taken just a few hours ago. You look like you're going to cry but your shoulders and jaw are squared more frustrated than scared. There's a fire in your eyes that threatens to level the city. A thrill rides up his spine at the prospect of extinguishing it.

“This is why you wanted to throw my men out the window?”

Slade hums. He shrugs and the edge of his lips curl into a smile. “It was the only way to convince the kid that we’re both after her-” His eye drifts to your face. Appraising but impassive. “The kid’s scared out of her mind and exhausted at this point.”

Slade had a point. Roman had to give him that. It wouldn’t be obvious to the casual observer but it would be plain as day to anyone like Roman who had been studying you for a while. You weren’t quite as meticulous with your appearance as Roman thought you should be (He would work on that later) but the dishevelment in your appearance was obvious. The slight dip in your shoulders in place of the prim posture that you usually employed was a blatant indication of your weariness. And the falter in your smile, the flickering in your eyes, and the number of times you let yourself bite your cheek showed the cracks in your fearless image.

Who knew weeks upon weeks of chaos could weather Minos City’s own budding hero?

In the photo next to Roman’s hand, your laughing face is stark and lively against the drab atmosphere of the diner, bubbling laughter carving life into your exhausted features making you look more like the shining paragon your city has come to rely on. The man sitting in front of you is laughing too. The sharp edges of his grin softened by the fondness in his eyes. It was hard not to recognize him even with such a foreign expression plastered onto his face. Roman crushes the photo in his hand.

“BUT NOW SHE’S WITH THAT SCUMBAG RED HOOD”

“And she’s now with the Red Hood. In his secluded safe house. Weakened and far from help. Most likely thinking that she’s safe under his protection and blissfully unaware of the tracker I put in her arm.”

“I see… It seems like you are worth the pay.”

Slade made no effort in hiding his smug grin.

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

“Jay, I really am sorry about this.” You mumble for what seemed like the fifth time in the past half hour.

“I sincerely hope you’re apologizing for the fact that you neglected to tell me you had bruised ribs before getting on my bike and not the fact that you’re staying with me because two crazy assholes decided your place needed remodeling.” Jason exasperates, pinching the bridge of his nose. You feel kind of annoyed by the gesture but he did have a point especially with your city’s less than smooth roads. You were also pretty banged up. As it turns out, facing off against a bunch of goons plus a master assassin is not good for your health. You swore viciously under your breath. Now, you weren’t expecting Deathstroke to go easy on you despite your rapport but the guy really didn’t have to throw you around like a rag doll. Even with your power to adjust the odds, it was a miracle that you escaped intact.

“Well, Mr.Pot, you ride your bike all the time even with broken ribs.” You bite back. Jason rolls his eyes unaffected by the distilled venom in your voice.

“Well, one of us is a stone-cold badass- ”

“And the other is a sasquatch with a stick up his ass.” You sneer snatching the beer bottle from Jason. Your tone was far too fond and playful to have any actual bite. Jason chuckles at you and ruffles your hair before snatching it back and handing you a bottle of water.

You huff taking the bottle from him and following him to the couch. He sits down on the couch patting the seat beside him. You plopped on to the couch, placing your sock feet on his lap. He grabs your ankles and throws your feet back at you. You just as quickly throw them back on and this time you do it with an absolutely delighted smirk on your face. “Rude,” He mumbles but doesn’t attempt to extricate you again.

“So Deathstroke, huh?” Jason starts, side-eyeing you over his beer. You adjust yourself to sit up a little straighter.

“You mean the asshat who broke my favorite lamp last night?”

“Who the hell has a favorite lamp?”

“Me! And get to your point.”

“Have you two- yanno?” Jason jokes, his eyebrows wiggling and hands gesturing vaguely. Your eyes grow wide and heat creeps up your neck and face. You scowl at Jason throwing a pillow at his face for good measure. He catches it with ease much to your frustration giving you his trademark triumphant grin. You kick at him with no real force.

“NO! What kind of soap opera shit is that?” You giggle into your drink. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before. The guy was skilled and pretty witty. You also had eyes and the man was handsome but something always felt strange about taking it further. You were civil but you kept your distance.

You pout at Jason again causing him to chuckle. “What? I’m just saying it’ll air out some tension~” He suggests winking.

“Oh my actual god, I hate you. I sincerely, truly hate you.” You laugh, kicking at his thigh. Jason makes an obviously fake hurt noise which draws out even more giggles out of you. Some tension in Jason’s shoulders releasing upon hearing the bubbly sounds.

“You speaking from experience, Jay?”

Jason shakes his head and coughs. “Catwoman-” Cough. “Talia Al Ghul-” Cough. “Sorry, sweetheart, seems like I have a really bad cough this week.”

And that is how you spend the rest of the night questioning Bruce’s love life.

“Food is in the fridge,” Jason says pointing to the said fridge which was sorely lacking magnets, sounding like a somewhat tired single parent.

“Do I look like I can keep anything down?”

Jason snatches the water bottle you had abandoned on the side table next to the recliner. “With that big mouth of yours? Sure.” Jason teases lightly booping you on the nose with your water bottle. “Get some rest.”

“Yes, mother” You sighed, burying yourself into the thick comforter he’d given you, crumpled water bottle in hand. He ruffles your hair.

“You know you’re safe here, right? ” The question startles you. You shift uncomfortably, pulling the comforter tightly around your shoulders. You shrug at him, not entirely certain how to answer. You know Jason’s safe house is, well, safe but you also thought your apartment was too. Your stomach twisted.

Jason squeezed your shoulder probably sensing the spiral of your thoughts. He smiles down at you, probably. It was hard to tell with the helmet.

“If you want, I can-”

“No, Jay, I’ll be fine here. You can go on patrol. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

The thing with Jason was that even when he was so big and bulky and hella intimidating, his empathy towards others had a bad habit of always shining through despite the layers of armor and sarcasm. You squeeze his hand, pressing little circles into his palm, and smile up at him. It was forced but it was the best you could do. Jason ruffles your hair again before letting go and making his way to the window.

“Get some sleep.”

“Aye aye cap’n” You yawn settling into a slump on the couch. Jason can’t help but smile fondly at you. You wave him a sleepy goodby before he sets off.

You passed out on the couch, an old habit you never grew out of. You always slept on the couch when you felt uneasy. It may have been some sort of way to separate stress from your bedroom. It sure as shit wasn’t for safety reasons. Your equipment was dispersed throughout your apartment but your weapons were usually stowed away in your room.

You feel a hand running gently through your hair, smoothing away all your apprehension.

“Jay” You grouse, your hand halfheartedly swatting at the hand stroking your hair. You bury yourself further into the warmth of the comforter feeling the need to shrink away from the touch. You feel a soft prick on your neck.

Your eyes fly open.

Shit.

The hand tangles in your hair. It throws you to the wall. The air is knocked out of your lungs. Your ribs scream. You scrabble to your feet. Your limbs fail you. They flail uselessly. Your breaths pick up. Your chest feels like it's caving.

"JAY" You shriek. “HELP.” A large hand grasps your throat. A rush of adrenaline kicks in. You thrash. You kick. Your hit lands. Another grasps your ankles. You scream. You swear viciously. Another grabs at your wrists. Something rough winds around your wrists and ankles.

The world tilts into an odd angle. Your head feels heavy so do your arms and your legs and everything.

"Jaaay" You slur, the air in your lungs becoming sluggish like everything else. "Jay" you sob again, knowing he wouldn't come. Not when he was so far away.

"Shut up you ….. bitch" You feel a swift kick to your stomach. It barely registers above the haze.

"Hey man-"

"What? The …. man said we …… rough her up."

"We can?"

"Yeah, ……, said so"

Your eyes blink, stupid, and uncomprehending. Distantly, you hear yourself grunting and whimpering. You can feel their blows but your body is too far away, too inaccessible. It was strange to physically feel yourself drift away.

Roman traces the sun shaped scar radiating on your shoulder with a leather-clad hand. The one shot he’d managed to land on you the first time you’d stormed one of his warehouses. You were all cocksure and quick wit and boisterous laughter. You really had the devil’s own luck but it seems to have run out. Not that Roman’s got any complaints. Not when he’s got you laying at his feet, tied up and vulnerable.

He crouches down, hand on his chin. His eyes roam appreciatively over your sleeping form, appraising you like a premium cut of meat. You look pretty against the black silk sheets he’d chosen. He sighs content with his prize. He traces the tip of his knife over your cheek, a dark purple bruise maring your features stark against the stainless surface of the blade. Slade really was quite careless when handling you. Not that Roman has any plans on being any gentler.

He lets his blade drift down, trailing down your neck down to the flimsy protection of your oversized shirt. Your steady breaths falter. You keep your eyes shut trying to gather more information but it’s hard not to focus off the tip of the blade cold against your warm skin even as the blade cuts through the thin fabric of your shirt. A large hand grasps your face roughly.

“I know you're awake, baby-” You blanch still not opening your eyes. The grip on your jaw tightens. You grin like a madman. “It's rude to keep daddy waiting.”

“Sorry, Sionis, I was really hoping not to have to wake up you’re ugly mug.” You sneer, voice thick and raspy with sleep but still full with your trademark confidence. Roman looks more amused than irritated. Your body and mind are still at the cusp of sleep. You wriggle and almost cry out with joy when you feel them move. You mind the hand on your jaw and its tight grip.

“Baby, I won’t tell you a-” You spit in his face, cracking an eye open to see his reaction. A bloody grin spreads across your face like wildfire when you see the annoyance on his face.

“You’re going to regret that” He growls, wiping his face with a torn piece of your shirt.

“Oh please-” Something cracks across your jaw.

“The next time it’ll be the other end,” It takes a moment for your mind to catch on. You stare at the hilt of the blade for a moment before letting loose another smarmy grin. His violent reaction spurs you on. Yeah, you can definitely see why Jason thinks you’re going to age him twenty years. “Oh please, You like my face too much for that.”

“You really wanna test that?”

“Nope,” You say, spitting into his eye and landing a punch square in his face. You cackle like a madwoman when he goes down. You don’t bother hiding the delighted chirps that escape your chest.

Being petty, you give him a swift kick to the face before dashing towards the door. You launch yourself, feeling like you can fly. The copper taste in your tongue almost feels sweet.

Your hand grasps the door when a hand tangles itself in your hair.

Roman throws you back onto the mattress, the springs digging into your back. You scratch and claw and thrash against the large hand wrapped around your throat. You snarl as Roman leans closer, his body pinning yours against the mattress, his weight immobilizing your fatigued limbs. A sweet-smelling cloth covers your mouth and nose, you gasp in surprise, inhaling the scent. Your mind is already sluggish by the time it catches on.

Your vision dims.

You feel hollowed out.

Your limbs fall away, arms drooping and pliant against the silk-covered mattress. The cloth feels too much against your skin. Vaguely, you feel horror prickling up your spine or maybe it was just the springs again.

Roman pulls away. You think you breathe a sigh of relief, feeling the weight of him lifted. He straddles your body, grinning down at you. Your mouth falls open to say something. You want to say that you curse him out or that you threaten him. The sound you make is small. Your tongue feels too heavy. No, something is pressing it down, you think.

Above you, Roman is a towering colossus. You’re vaguely aware of the shifting of his hips. He removes his gloved hand from your mouth and caresses the side of your face with mock gentleness. His movements are sluggish and syrupy. You make another noise when you realize to some degree of horror that isn’t. Your mind felt heavy and useless.

He snaps his fingers. The sound is dull like it's contending with water. A muffled set of steps approaches you. A man, you realize. You don't think you’ve noticed him before. His dark shape is messy and incomprehensible. A red dot flashes stark against his form. The mechanical sounds of a shutter drift in and out of your mind. You turn your head back to Roman at the sound of shifting fabric.

Above you, Roman, already without his suit jacket, loosens his tie, eyes staring hungrily at you. The pit of your stomach feels painfully cold. You blink at him stupidly. He chuckles, grasping your chin to make sure you’re looking at him. You protest against his touch.

“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll be the star of our little show like the filthy attention whore you really are. ” He laughs. It rumbles like thunder in your ears.

The world falls away.

Click

One

Two

One

You feel a prick on your neck.

Hot breaths fan against your face.

Your body is too warm.

You don’t want to know why.

Twenty-five, you continue counting.

You feel fabric shift against you.

Something sharp digs itself into your flesh.

One

Two

Three

Three?

Something’s crushing your windpipe.

Your body is aching. You’re not entirely sure whether it’s from use or disuse and by who.

“Good girl”

Thirty

Twelve

There’s something scraping against your flesh.

Is it a knife?

Hot pants fan against your skin.

Teeth

Four

Fifty-six

“Boss, I-.... going a …. bit too far?”

Smack!

“Do …. You…. to think?”

Two sixty-eight

A hand strikes you. You think your jaw is broken. It hurts but then again everything hurts. All you can do is take it and whimper.

Tears sting against your face.

“That’s right. Just like that. Like that, you little whore.”

Your body is warm again.

You still don’t want to know.

Two

Two?

You’ve counted two before.

You blink.

The haze of your mind lifts.

The coldness of the room seeps in your bones. You’re bare. You take stock of yourself, running your hands over your skin. Everything is still there.

Everything and a few other things. You let disgust and shame roll over you. A sob tears its way out of your chest. Your breath picks up. You feel your mind slipping. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, calling your mind back and steadying yourself.

You take stock again. This time moving your limbs and jangling your joints. They were weak but workable. You’re surprised to find yourself unbound aside from the collar around your neck. You suppose Roman’s confident in his drugs. How long have you been here? You press lightly against your neck, feeling the higher than normal pulsing of your artery. You shift yourself waking your legs up.

You stiffen, gooseflesh spreading over your skin as light filters into the room through the door. Your eyes snap shut, stinging from the sudden intrusion of light. The pulse beneath your fingers jackrabbits. You think you’ll keel over.

“Shhhhhh”

All the strength in your veins floods out, leaving a feeling of cold horror in its place. You scream or you try. Your body feels impossibly rigid. Roman stalks towards you, his footfalls slow and deliberate and too loud. Your heart jumps up to your throat with each step. You inch yourself away from him, drawing yourself up to make yourself feel bigger. He coos at how adorable you are, trying to look defiant. The mattress dips under his weight. Your mind begins to slip away from you again. The world falls away from you. You anchor it, digging your nails into your palms. He cups your face, thumb caressing your bottom lip. You glower at him and bite out something witty. He laughs amusement lighting up his features, the sound grates against your ears.

“Not gonna fight back?” He taunts, pressing his thumb down on your bottom lip. Your body recoils but then goes slack as he runs his hand up and down your side. Shame blankets you but the fear etched into you keeps you still.

Roman loosens his tie.

Your mind falls out of your reach.

“Such a good little slut.” He murmurs against your lips.

You wanted to say.

Instead, your mind starts counting again even as you hear the rustle of fabric.

BANG

A gunshot rings through the thick atmosphere of the room.

Roman curses.

His men stampede.

Another round of shots fire.

Something- No, no. Someone tears Roman off of you.

“Deathstroke?” You croak, your voice sounding foreign and absurdly brittle.

“Do you know anyone else walking around looking like this, kid?”

“Ravager” You snark, lips twitching into a smile. He rolls his eyes underneath his mask. The familiarity of the exchange breathes life into your body. Roman’s hand grips your wrist with bruising intensity. Your breath catches.

No. No. No.

The word loops in your head like a constant rat-tat.

Slade’s foot makes contact with Roman’s head, the force of it unnecessary but satisfactory. The sounds of bone-cracking fill the air. The man falls uselessly to the grimey floor. He shoots him with a couple of rounds for good measure, each shot instilling a pang of finality in the back of your mind.

You scrabble towards Slade, wide-eyed and shallow breathed. You cling to Slade as he bundles your body in silken sheets. He hoists you easily into his arms. You bury your face into the junction between his neck and shoulder, closing your eyes, the image of Roman’s bloody body on the floor pressed into your mind. You sob in relief. Your hands clasping onto Slade, white-knuckled and shaking.

"I've got you, sweetheart," He rumbles, running his hand through your hair soothingly. The tight knots in your body, loosen. You whimper a quiet thank you. “I’ve got you.”

You lift your head only to see Roman twitch.

Your breathing falters.

Fear pricks your spine.

Your mind falls away from you again.

Distantly, you feel Slade’s grip on you tightens.

Distantly, you hear him murmur something.

Everything is too far away.

Your eyes blink sluggishly. The world becomes dimmer with each blink.

A warm spray of water drizzles down over your aching skin. Your open wounds sting but the warm water pooling around you soothes the aches of your bruised flesh. Your eyes focus on the soft off-white of the tile on the wall opposite you. You don’t let yourself about the thin, rusty red film swirling in the water. The air in the room is thick with steam and the scent of lavender.

The absence of grime on your skin makes you feel lighter and gauzy and immaterial. You felt naked and obscene like you had been taken apart and now someone was examining pieces of you. You almost miss it.

“Lean back” Slade grumbles as he lathers your hair with some lavender concoction the hotel provided. Your body follows automatically, eagerly, obediently. You tell yourself you’re just tired. You tell yourself nothing’s wrong with your response. You tell yourself you’re ok. You wince. The warm water around you shifts. You hear it splash against the tile. You flinch at how loud it sounds. You take a deep breath and lean into his touch. He’s handling you delicately as though you would fall apart any second. You might.

Blinking away tears, you watch his face, aware that by leaning back, you’d be giving him a good view of the hickies, bite marks, and knife wounds Roman ‘gifted’ you. There’s a slight twitch in the corners of his lips. He must be disgusted with you too. You want to sink into the hot water and let it burn you anew, but you don’t trust yourself not to drown.

You close your eyes as another spray of warm water pours over you. You melt into it hoping it’s enough to wash the last few days- weeks?- away.

Your hands grasp his face, pulling him towards you. His hands brace against the tub, keeping him from falling in with you. Your arms loop around his neck, your hot breath fanning against his lips. You press your lips against him, searching and wanting. For what exactly? Comfort? Safety? Stimulation? His lips press lightly against yours, not quite a kiss. Slade actually looks taken aback.

The rest of the world floods back in. You peel away, your eyes wide with terror. “Shit- I’m- Fuck! Fuck! Shit, Slade, I- I’m sorry. I- Shit! I didn’t-” Your breathing ratchets up, becoming shallower as the pulsating in your ears grow louder. There’s a tightness growing in your chest that makes you think your ribcage is about to implode. You cover your face with your hands not caring how it didn’t help your shallowing breaths. You can’t look at him. You just can’t. You know you’re disgusting.

Your body wants to come apart, dissolve, and if it can, evaporate. You can’t breathe. You curl into yourself, into the water. A hand grabs at your wrist. You flinch. The hand carefully pries your hand away, forcing you to uncurl. Slade’s other hand cups your face gently, guiding you to look him in the eye. The lack of disgust in his face rattles you.

His thumb brushes against your lips making your stomach twist and your spine curl. He dips his head closer to yours. You kiss him eagerly. He lets out a pleased hum and smiles against your lips. Something cold licks at the bottom of your stomach but it’s overtaken by the need for connection, to fill in what had been hollowed out.

You press closer to him than strictly necessary as you watch the news, chewing on your cheek. He pulls you close, shifting you on to his lap. You don’t protest, eyes glued to the TV.

“Businessman, Roman Sionis, was found with several gunshot wounds to the stomach in one of his warehouses here in Minos City. He is now in stable condition. Authorities say...”

Your jaw falls slack in mute horror. Your stomach tumbles to the floor. You’re hyperventilating. Your teeth are digging into your cheek, you taste copper. Your mind spirals back into the room, back to the dirty mattress, back to Roman.

Strong arms wrap around you, stilling your trembling body against a broad chest. Your body relaxes a fraction. You curl into him, the buzz of nervous energy settling into a quieter panic.

“You’re safe with me, you know that don’t you, sweetheart?” Slade says tracing circles into your palm. You lean your head into his shoulder. You nod easing against him. “I’ll never let that monster anywhere near you.” He promises, pressing a kiss into your hair. A little sob wrenches free of your imploding chest.

Slade keeps his face buried in your hair even as you fall into a lull. It was the only way to hide the triumphant grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take good care of you.”

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

A/n: Thanks for reading. There’s a follow up to this because I can’t cope with bad endings. I had to promise myself a good second part to make the ending horrifying.

The writing process for this fic was basically:

Me: I have this horrifying idea!

My brain: Yes but what if we put a little dork Jason in it.

Me: I guess that wouldn’t hurt.

Me: Ok I have written nearly 2k of dorky Jason where’s the other parts?

Brain: Uh what other parts?

Me: *sighs and spends the next few days spamming @knightfall05x*

taglist:

@batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes, @americasmarauders , @l-horizon11, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell

#yandere dc #yandere blackmask #yandere roman sionis #yandere deathstroke #yandere slade wilson #Black Mask #Deathstroke #slade wilson x reader #Roman Sionis #roman sionis x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #Jason Todd #red hood x reader

248 notes · View notes

thedumpsterqueen · 4 years

Text

Standards of Performance, Chapter 10: Accommodations

From the Beginning, Previous Chapter

AO3 Link

Thank you guys again for being so kind about the new posting schedule (or lack thereof). Your comments and messages and rbs always make me laugh and cry (in a a good way).This is just a lil chapter about them being awkward and cute after The Kiss, and introducing some bigger plot stuff. You'll wanna buckle up for the next one ;)

Summary: You’re the BAU’s newest intern, desperate to prove yourself amongst an established team of much more experienced profilers. Agent Hotchner, the seemingly infallible team leader, sets strict expectations for your performance. He commands your respect without even trying, but is there something more to your relationship than a simple desire to impress your stony-faced boss?

Chapter Summary: Some creep is stalking the team and all you can think about is kissing Hotch.

Words: 2059

Rating: Explicit, 18+. Warnings on AO3.

Pairings: Hotch x Reader, Hotch x You

The BAU had a stalker.

To put it in a way more relevant to your views on the matter: the BAU’s stalker was interfering with the (hopefully) budding spark between you and Hotch.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care that there was potentially unhinged maniac apparently obsessed with the team, it’s just that when you got the slightly panicked phone call from JJ that Morgan, Reid, Garcia, and herself had all found letters on their doorstep professing an alarming fascination with the members of the team, you couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated that the ordeal was bound to put a pause on the progress you two had made.

That is, until you went to leave your apartment in the morning and found an unassuming envelope shoved under the door. You opened it with shaking fingers to a note written on thick cardstock, scrawled in black, seeping ink as if written by an old-fashioned quill.

I’ve been paying attention to your team for some time - quite the impact you’ve made on the world of crime. The heroes of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit! I’m sure the world wishes they had you during Bundy or BTK, hm?

Anyways, I had to see for myself. I must admit, finding you was much easier than I would have anticipated given your ‘status.’ I thought I’d drop you this note to say hi and propose a deal. A Game, of sorts.

The Game goes like this: I leave you notes, and you try to catch me! Easy, yes? This is day 1. How many days until you find me?

Xoxo Talk soon,

You put the note in your bag and, after double checking your door was locked (not that the flimsy deadbolt the landlord had installed would have done much to keep an intruder out anyways), you rushed to the office. You dropped your note on the table in the conference room where the team had gathered and pointed at it tremulously.

“I got one too. I touched it, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rossi interrupted. “We dusted the others; there was nothing. I doubt yours was any different.”

Hotch plucked your letter up and scanned it quickly before tossing it back on the table. “It’s exactly the same as the others. Nothing identifiable.”

“Why didn’t we get them?” asked Prentiss.

“Access,” said Garcia, notably less cheery than usual. The team turned to her for clarification.

“You three are hard to get to,” she explained. “Hotch and Prentiss live in secure apartment buildings. Rossi has a gated property with security that can rival the President’s. Those of us who don’t live the high life are just... out in the open.”

“So that’s encouraging, right? That the unsub either couldn’t or wouldn’t go through the extra trouble of getting to all of us?” JJ asked, hopeful.

Morgan shook his head. “I dunno if you can interpret any part of what this creep is doing to intimidate us as ‘encouraging.’”

“Does it read as intimidation, though?” mused Reid.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Morgan responded. “What’s your take on the language?”

Reid took a millisecond to reread the letter and pursed his lips. “Though the language isn’t directly threatening, the concept of a game implies either winning or losing. He - it’s almost certainly a he - doesn’t mention the consequences for either situation, which could imply that there are none, but that seems unlikely. There’s also the matter of separating himself from others in line three - ‘I’m sure the world wishes they had you during Bundy or BTK,’ not we. He’s trying to distinguish himself to us in some way, which means he wants to be noticed, and I don’t think there’s anything in this language that excludes the possibility of him doing something drastic in order to be.”

“So not encouraging,” said Prentiss dryly. “The question is, why us? Is this personal; did we put someone close to him away?”

“It could be, but the language in the opening seems sarcastic almost, like he’s mocking us,” noted Rossi.

Morgan nodded in agreement. “It’s a challenge. He’s trying to tell us we’re not all we’re cracked up to be.”

The analysis worried you, because you felt you were the only member of the team for whom that statement might have been true.

“So, what then?” you asked. “Review security footage and see if we can find anything?”

“Already did!” chirped Garcia. “Hotch had me up all night reviewing the tapes.”

For the first time, you noticed the dark circles under her standard coat of heavy makeup. You looked at Hotch, expecting to find some shame in his expression, but found none.

“If there was anyone weird creeping around your dwellings last night, I didn’t see ‘em. I even looked through the street cameras in the area. Granted, none of you have a security camera pointed directly at your door, which might not be a bad idea after this -”

“Hold on,” Morgan interrupted, “you didn’t check her apartment though, right?” referring to you. “Cuz she just found it this morning?”

Garcia perked up, but you shot her down with a shake of your head. “Sorry guys, my place isn’t nearly nice enough to have security cameras.”

The team looked unperturbed by that, except for Hotch, who met your eyes with a look you couldn’t quite place.

“What do we do, then? Wait for another letter?” JJ asked.

“That’s all we can do until we have more evidence,” said Hotch, visibly frustrated. He hated waiting, you knew that. You all hated it. It felt like watching a car without its parking brake on slowly start to roll down a hill.

“If that’s all, sir…”

Hotch nodded at Garcia. “You’re all dismissed. Business as usual for now. If he craves acknowledgement, best not to give it to him unless we have to.”

The team filtered out, and you made to follow them, but before making it through the doorway, Hotch called you back. He shifted feet, cleared his throat, and looked at you.

“About the comment you made earlier,” he started.

What comment? You wracked your brain trying to remember if you’d said something rude, or something that hinted at what happened between you two, but came up short.

He noticed the puzzled look on your face and clarified. “When you said your apartment complex wasn’t nice enough to have security cameras. I wanted to say that -” he ran his hand across his jaw, clearly uncomfortable, “- I know the internship salary isn’t impressive, and if you feel you’re unable to afford safe accommodation, I’d be more than happy to talk to Strauss about -”

“Oh, God, no.” You felt as if your face was on fire. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, my apartment is fine - I mean of course there’s things that could be improved - but in no way do I feel unsafe.”

“Well, good. Okay then.”

Before you could make your exit and spare you both from the residual awkwardness of the interaction, he spoke again. “There’s one more thing. Given that whoever wrote this note has displayed his willingness to come to our doorsteps, JJ is staying with Emily for the time being, Reid with Rossi, and Garcia with Morgan.”

You smirked at the last pairing. Leave it to those two to capitalize on a stalker to bunk up together.

“I was going to have the Bureau get you a hotel in the meantime, since he did come to your apartment, but Garcia suggested that since we live so close, you could just… stay with me.”

Holy shit.

There was a pained look on his face as he finished the sentence as if he recognized what an utterly bad idea it was, but hadn’t had the good sense to reject it himself. He looked at you, expecting an answer despite the lack of a question mark at the end of that statement, and you struggled mightily to compose yourself to deliver an acceptance that didn’t appear uncomfortably enthusiastic.

You must have taken too long, because he immediately started to retract his offer. “I already told her it was completely inappropriate; the rest of the team is used to staying together for cases but given you just started, and after the last few days I completely understand -”

“No!” You cut him off. “Sorry, no, that’s not what I was going to say at all. I’d love to. I mean, I think it’s a good idea. I’d feel a lot safer…”

‘With you around?’ Is that too much?

Fuck it.

“... with you around,” you finished, and you swear you saw him push back a smile.

“Alright, then. I’ll let Garcia know.”

You made a mental note to send that woman a thank-you card.

***

As the workday wound down, you were surprised to Hotch turn out his office light and walk out at the same time as you did.

“Early night?” you teased as you walked to your cars in the parking garage, despite it being 7 pm.

He chuckled. “It would have been rude of me to keep you hanging around until I decided to leave.”

Right. You were leaving together. Because you were going back to his apartment. Together. The undeniable domesticity of the moment put a skip in your step, and you couldn’t help but wish this was happening under different circumstances.

“So I’ll just stop by my apartment and grab my things?”

“What? No,” Hotch responded, frowning. “I’m coming with you. The whole point of all of this is to avoid being alone.”

And that’s how you ended up speeding down the highway like a madwoman, leaving Hotch in your dust, taking the stairs two at a time, and frantically scrambling to get your apartment in order. It wasn’t terrible; not as if you had rotting food sitting out or something (probably because you didn’t actually cook enough for that), but the recent caseload and spending so much time with Hotch in the mornings had certainly pushed general organization to the wayside. You shoved the growing pile of dirty laundry into your closet, straightened up the coffee table, and were in the middle of packing your suitcase when you heard a knock at the door.

Giving the apartment a quick once-over to make sure you hadn’t missed something utterly humiliating, you opened the door to an unimpressed Hotch.

“I could have pulled you over for speeding, you know,” he said as he strode into your living room.

“Yeah, sorry,” you said sheepishly, “I wanted to make sure this place wasn’t a mess the first time you saw it.”

He cocked an eyebrow and you realized how that came out - the first time, as if there were going to be many more - and you coughed and looked away.

“Anyways. I’m almost done packing, just gotta grab a couple more things.”

He nodded and you hurried to it, wanting to get him out of your apartment as quickly as possible. Normally you’d have jumped at the chance to be alone in a quiet place with him, but the way his eyes were scanning the room made you nervous that he was learning more about you in a very short amount of time than you felt entirely comfortable with.

***

You walked into Hotch’s apartment for the second time ever to find it just as clinically neat as before, except for a set of sheets and blankets laid out on the couch. Grinning, you gestured to them.

“Thought you said you were sure I would say no?”

It was his turn to be shamefaced. “Just in case. Besides,” he shot back, grabbing your bags from where you’d deposited them by the couch, “You’re taking the bed.”

“Like hell I am!” you scoffed, forgoing propriety. “I’m not making my boss sleep on the couch in his own apartment.”

“Considering I, as you mentioned, am your boss,” he responded, “I will be making that decision.”

You plopped down on the couch. “Unless I just refuse to move.”

He stood a few paces away and glared, but gave up and dropped your bags all the same.

You could have sworn you heard him mutter “brat” under his breath, but that didn’t sound like something Aaron Hotchner would say, did it?

Taglist (I got a bunch of new ones so message me if I forgot to add you!): @stop-drop-and-drumroll @criminalmindzjunkie @xoprincessmel @cevanswhre @addie5264 @klinenovakwinchester @honeyshores @violentvulgarvolatile @masumiyetimziyanoldu @violetclifford @pipersaccomplice @itsmytimetoodream @groovygoob @captainhyenafan @thebadassbitchqueen

253 notes · View notes

dragon-of-dreams · 4 years

Text

Pieces

My Masterlist

Part four to Cracking a Code; Previous Part

Pairing: dark!Steve Rogers x Reader (fem)

Warnings: Swearing, gaslighting, stalking, aftermath of noncon, noncon touching

Summary: The next day can’t be real, can it? Or where y/n goes into work and gets hit by a strong sense of deja vu.

Word count: 2k

A/n: I’m so sorry that this a) took so long and b) has so much plot not much else, but well I promise it’ll get creepier next chapter!

~*~

The next morning you woke before your alarm clock, which was good because it gave you time for the world’s longest and most thorough shower.

And was also terrible because you woke up and it was still real.

It happened.

The intensity with which you scrubbed down your body was straight out unhealthy and you only stopped when you realized how close you were to breaking skin. He’d hurt you, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hurting yourself over him. You were hurting enough as it was.

While that mindset stayed with you, you were also shaking the entire time it took you to put on clothes and get to the office. Leaving your apartment was harder than you had ever imagined it being. For the first time in your life, you could understand those people you sometimes saw on the television, who hadn’t left their homes in years. You’d give anything for a reprive of having to live what was now your daily life. You knew it wouldn’t end and hiding in your apartment sounded oh-so-appealing, if – in your case – completely useless.

You used the short elevator ride down to your apartment lobby for some breathing exercises, put on a smile for your doorman, and in front of the double doors leading out into the Brooklyn sunshine you froze.

You knew Steve wouldn’t be there to follow you around. No, he wouldn’t stoop that low. But then again, he didn’t have to. You were terrified as his words rang in your ears: Good thing I had Buck accompanying you home. As you stared out into the busy street before you, you knew without a doubt, in your heart, that Bucky Barnes, the fucking Winter Soldier, was out there waiting for you. Watching you. Never leaving you. You were fucked. There was no running away.

“Miss? Are you alright?” You turned your head to the porter approaching you from behind his desk where he kept guard over his proverbial sheep, unknowing that you’d been torn by the wolf already.

You forced a smile: “Yes, thank you, uh, “ your eyes flew to his name tag, “George. Work has been keeping me so busy lately I’m turning into the weird professor guy from the movies!” you laughed and George chuckled but eyed you worriedly. “I’ll see you later, Miss. Please take it easy at work today. Tell Mr. Stark to cut you some slack!” You smiled and nodded at him: “Will do. See you tonight” and with that, you pushed through the doors and the pit in your stomach. Out into the bustling life of New York City.

You didn’t look behind you as you briskly walked down the street to the subway, but you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you like the fog creeping in in early October. It was an all-consuming feeling, creeping in from the sea to swallow you whole.

But you kept your head up high. You weren’t a stranger to being afraid, to being bullied. You had been the smartest student in every class you had ever taken and men didn’t appreciate being beaten by a woman. You hadn’t backed down when you were a kid, you wouldn’t bow down now, not to Captain America and most certainly not to the Winter Soldier! You knew you were putting up a façade but if you didn’t you wouldn’t have made it out of bed this morning, maybe never have left it again, but that wasn’t you.

‘Oh yes, the times are changing and those boys better get with the program’, you thought grimly as you stepped into a subway car and crossed your arms, staring at the open doors, waiting for your shadow to make an appearance.

Bucky entered through the doors to your left. You almost missed him, but now that you knew you weren’t looking for blond and beefy but brunette and murdery it was a lot harder for him to play invisible. He was good, but you were better.

But by God was he confused when you approached him. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes. I don’t know what Steve told you about me, or what your involvement in all of this is, but here is what I am telling you: Fuck off. I don’t want to see you or him again, so make sure he gets the message?”

Before Bucky could reply you moved away from him and slumped down in between two elderly ladies, the perfect shield from anyone getting close to you. Even Bucky knew not to harass a woman in front of two NYC ladies. They’d beat him to death with their shopping bags. You smirked at the mental image you had created in your mind, escaping reality even if getting away was only temporary.

Once you were sitting, the pain you had ignored so diligently came back with force. Your lower half was cramping and sore and you wanted to cry from the pain of it, but no, not while Bucky was there. Not ever again, while any man could see. ‘When had you turned to hate men for what one had to you?’ you wondered.

Bucky disappeared one stop before the tower and you were relieved that he seemingly had realized how dead-serious you were.

The second you entered the tower, you were utterly, abnormally calm and finally stopped shaking. You didn’t have a plan yet, but you knew you’d have to get away, away from this place and Steve and all the pain he’d caused you. After all, you could barely move without hurting.

You could go and teach at any university in the country. They’d love to have you. All you needed to figure out how to quit without seeming suspicious. That was going to be difficult because Tony knew you loved your job. But you couldn’t tell him the truth. No one would believe you if you told them the real reason and you had worked too hard to now be labeled as a crazy fangirl/stalker-lady. You huffed. If only they knew who the real stalker was.

You smiled at your secretary, thanked her for the coffee she had bought for you on her way to work. You squared your shoulders and open the door to your office ready to start your day.

When you entered your office you were hit with a strong sense of déjà vu, you started to shiver again and felt all color leave your face. You almost dropped your coffee.

Steve was in your office again. But luckily – blessedly even – so was Tony. What the actual fuck? You cursed in your mind but tried to smile. It didn’t work judging by Tony’s expression.

“Y/n, are you all right?” he asked while crossing the room towards you. “You don’t look too good.” Before Tony’s outstretched hand could touch you, you took half a step back. “I think I’m coming down with something. The flu, I guess,” you mumbled.

“Then why didn’t you stay home?” said a sincerely concerned voice – Steve’s. Sincerely concerned? No, it couldn’t be! Your creepy-man-radar must just be off, right?

“I… I… I promised Jarvis to teach him about the code. I forgot yesterday” you murmured turning to the super-soldier, whose brows were drawn up in concern and he was leaning forward, looking you over as if to check for injuries or signs of your alleged flu. ‘What was going on?’

“Is there anything I can do for you gentlemen?” you asked. Steve smiled at you at that. His smile was stunning. So… open and kind. And WHAT THE HELL??? No! His smile wasn’t kind! He was your rapist! Except that it was. There was no denying that. If your entire body hadn’t been hurting maybe you would’ve started talking yourself into the fantasy that yesterday hadn’t happened, but it did. But his smile was nothing like yesterday. His smile made you want to trust him.

“Well, y/n, I just wanted to congratulate you and Stevie here wanted to thank you for your speedy work. We were able to arrest 20 people yesterday because of the intel you decrypted.”

“Yeah? That’s great” you forced out and turned back to Tony, but your eyes kept straying to Steve.

“Were you working late again, Gaia?” Tony suddenly asked. Shit. Tony had been on your ass to get a life. “No, no, why?”

“Because you look, and please forgive me for being frank here, worn out and really sick. I told you to take better care of yourself. Work isn’t everything, you know?”

You were about to call Tony out on that, after all, he was famous for his work benders, but Steve never gave you the chance.

“Jarvis, when has Ms y/l/n left her office yesterday?” Once more he sounded concerned. ‘Oh, that bastard’ you thought. Steve knew - of course - that you’d lied to Tony. “At 9 p.m., Captain, 4 hours after her workday usually ends, Sir.”

You wanted to strangle the AI at that moment.

“Well Tony, if you don’t mind I will take y/n home, then. She obviously needs to rest and I need to head to Brooklyn anyways to meet with Bucky.” Steve sounded offended that you’ lied, so righteous.

“Yes you do that, champ” Tony agreed, absentmindedly, not noticing that Steve had no right knowing where you lived. “Say hi to Buckeroo for me, will ya?” Steve nodded and added “Tony, you can’t work your employees that hard. We talked about this.” His voice was imploring, and a little disgruntled. What was happening?

“Well with this one it isn’t my fault” Tony replied flippantly as he walked to the door. “Take care of yourself y/n, okay?”

“Tony, I’m fine. I’m an adult, I can decide if I am fit to work or not!” You wanted to sound assertive, but you were rather aware that you begged. Tony just smiled at you and grinned: “What the Captain says goes, young lady, trust me it’s for the best.” And with that, he’d left your office, leaving you alone with your tormentor.

You were done for. You knew it. Steve would now pounce on you and break you to pieces and… fuck. You were getting wet. Your brain knew that this was a self-defense mechanism to your body, but your heart felt ashamed. There was no denying that the sex had ended spectatcularly.

You jumped a mile when you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder, ripping you out of your thoughts. “y/n?” Steve’s voice was soft. “It’s time to go home, come on.”

“Don’t touch me” you replied, your voice hoarse with unshed tears.

“Don’t worry, I can’t catch the flu, you could even cough on me, doll.” Steve joked, as he took your coffee from you and placed it on your table. “Any aches, pains or other flu symptoms?” For the first time since Tony left you, you dared look into his face. He seemed so concerned that you couldn’t help yourself and nodded. “Yeah. “ You sounded defeated even in your own head. “Both.”

“It’s okay, angel. I’ll take you home and take care of you.” Steve wrapped his warm, strong arm around you and moved you out of your office. Everything started to blur together, as he called out to your secretary that you were sick and he was taking you home and he moved you into an elevator and finally maneuvered you into a car. You let him. You let yourself be manhandled. You still didn’t understand what was happening. Where was the man who had almost fucked you to pieces yesterday night? At the thought, more wetness gathered between your thighs and you blushed scarlet as Steve got into the driver’s seat next to you. If any of the rumors about his enhanced senses were true, he’d be able to smell you by now.

As Steve pulled into the crazy Manhatten traffic he said: ”Bucky told me about your little argument this morning” His voice was so soft it lulled you in even more, “and quite frankly darling, I don’t appreciate the language you used nor how unappreciative of my protection you are. I know this must all be difficult for you, but there will still have to be consequences for your behavior,” ‘he sounds like a well-meaning teacher’ you thought confused. “but for today, I think you earned yourself some aftercare for taking my cock so well yesterday.” You felt like you’d been hit by a truck. Steve still sounded absolutely casual, but you froze at the slight mention.

His right hand settled on your thigh. “Breathe, darling, deep breath. It’s gonna be alright. I’m gonna take care of you from now on out.”

#fanfic #dark!Steve #Captain America #dark!Steve x reader #marvel #Cracking a code #dark!fic

66 notes · View notes

cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

fox rain | one

→ summary: When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

→ pairing: bts x reader (feat. seokjin) → genre: college!au, crack, fluff, angst → warnings: none unless you count overly graphic descriptions of how stupid seokjin is (i’m sorry for always making him so dumb) → words: 10.4K → a/n: i know i say this a lot, but this literally the STUPIDEST thing i’ve ever written in my life. i’ve lost maybe ten braincells per word in this fic, and i’m proud of it gdi!! some of my best jokes are in this mess, and that’s saying a lot considering my whole life is a joke. also: check bio for the chapter links for now!

— • masterlist | prev | one | next • —

When you feel yourself awakening, for a moment, you think you might have been hungover. The usual disembodiment you feel after a night out of drinking is what greets you when the last dredges of sleep start to fade out of your periphery, added with the insatiable urge to piss the equivalent of the volume of the Atlantic Ocean. There are weights over your eyes, you surmise, because there is no way you will be able to open them long enough to see whether you were actually dead.

But of course, you are still subjected to the curse of human curiosity, which allows you to gather enough strength to squint blearily and access your current surroundings.

You are greeted by the sight of unfamiliar overhead lights and sterile white walls. The window just to your left shows the darkened sky, the moon creeping just behind the evergreen trees. Groaning slightly, you push yourself into a sitting position, a sudden wave of vertigo slamming into you like a supernova. As you survey the room some more, you notice the sound of muffled conversation going on behind the nearby sheer curtain, and the smell of antiseptic wafts its way into your nostrils. You’re in the nurse’s office, you realize belatedly, grasping the threadbare sheets of your university’s barebones version of a hospital bed.

You put your head into your hands, breathing deeply as you try to remember the last thing that happened to you.

Yoongi’s dick. The stupid e-mail. The poem. The conspiracy group. Seokjin on a pedestal giving a TedTalk about himself. Yoongi’s dick. Namboob. Fainting in the utility closet. Yoongi’s dick.

The mental gymnastics that your brain is currently undergoing elicits a sound akin to a dying squirrel from your open mouth, and it must have sounded terribly loud and unnerving because the nurse bursts into the room just a few seconds after. The nurse, who must have been an underpaid med student by the looks of the designer purple handbags decorating her sullen cheeks, looks at you with less genuine concern and more acute abhorrence.

In your drowsiness, you don’t realize that your throat had somehow converted into the Sahara desert when you had fainted, so you are just as surprised as the nurse when you start doing a wonderful impersonation of Sadako instead.

“Hoo bwat meh hey?” you articulate, your tongue feeling like an oversized fist trying to work its way from out of your larynx. At the very least, no one can blame you for not trying your best to sound coherent. Seeing your struggle, the apathetic nurse has the decency to reach behind one of the shelves and hand you a cup of water. You grab it from her, gulping the entire thing in one go all while you proceed to not care about the rivulets of water and drool trailing down your chin and onto your crotch.

“Sorry,” you say, not really knowing why you were apologizing in the first place. Perhaps for existing? “I was trying to ask who brought me here.”

The nurse, unsurprisingly, only gives you an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Some gray-haired twink came in with you on his back. Apparently, you fainted in front of him for no reason, and when we checked your vitals, everything seemed to be fine.” She gestures at your ragged form, almost as if she didn’t believe that they hadn’t found anything wrong with you. You are obliged to share her sentiments.

“You’re free to leave whenever you want. Just make sure to sleep more and eat. University is tough on kids like you,” she says, turning to leave without another look in your direction. Somehow, you feel insulted even though the nurse hadn’t really done anything to you. Perhaps her lack of concern for your mental wellness and the fact that your newly acquired PTSD after today’s events only warranted “a good night’s sleep” as a form of treatment. Ah, the woes of having zero healthcare. Regardless, you decide to take her up on her advice and head home in hopes of acquiring some semblance of sleep after today’s traumatic episode.

Exiting the clinic, you find that almost no one is left on campus, save for the occasional student on their way to their evening classes. Being at your university during the evening had always been an odd sensation for you, as it reminds you of all the nighttime finals you have had to take in the past. Whenever the sun set and darkness enveloped the campus, it is always a given that you would be able to hear someone shouting obscenities from somewhere in the distance, especially since your university is well-known for the bars and clubs that litter its outskirts. Nonetheless, you hopelessly pray that you won’t pass by any drunk college kids, especially on this Friday night.

Just as you are about to cross the street to get to your bus stop, you notice a familiar face waiting by the entrance of the clinic. You backtrack, staring at the back of her head as she inconspicuously tries to peer into the curtained windows like some sort of pervert. Knowing her, your assumption probably isn’t that far off.

You approach her quietly, carrying your footsteps so that she doesn’t hear you until you place your mouth just beside her ear. Even at this proximity, she is none the wiser to your presence. You blow gently against her neck, whispering, “Sera. What the hell are you doing?”

As expected, she shrieks at you in surprise, almost landing a karate-chop on your face but you are saved by the fact that she had as much hand-eye coordination as a dead man in a coffin. You step back as you watch her slice through the air for another few seconds, her gaze wild before they finally land on your smirking face. Realizing that she had overreacted, she straightens up in a huff, glaring at you with as much annoyance as she can muster (but really, who can stay angry at your cute face for long?)

“Trying to look for that hot doctor again?” You joke, peering inquisitively at her hunched form. You wouldn’t be surprised to find a pair of binoculars behind her back at this point, given by how many times you’ve caught her “observing” potential boyfriends.

“How dare––!” She splutters, ears turning red from your accusation. When she shifts slightly, you notice a black object passing through her hands and trying to covertly slip into her bag. Ah. The binoculars.

“How dare I what? Accuse you of stalking a poor med student who is probably overdosing on Adderall as we speak? Oh, sorry for overstepping my boundaries,” you drawl, grinning at her affronted expression. “Unless, of course, you happened to hear about me fainting this afternoon and you wanted to offer me a ride home? Since you’re such a good friend, after all?

She looks at you, alarmed. “You fainted? When? How?”

“Oh, so now you’re concerned. I could’ve died with the image of Min Yoongi’s penis tattooed under the backs of my eyelids, and my best friend never would’ve known… Who, then, would avenge me and clear my name? Who, then, would take care of my growing collection of scantily clad women figurines––?”

“Did you just say you saw Min Yoongi’s penis? Holy shit!” Sera shrieks, eyes bugging out of their sockets. You are sure everyone within a 5 mile radius must’ve heard her, but you didn’t even have the energy to be mortified. Death always did sound like a great vacation idea, anyway.

“Sure, just scream it out for everyone to hear. Maybe we can get him to come back and do it again so you won’t think I’m crazy,” you mutter, grabbing Sera by the sleeve and tugging her towards the parking lot. “You brought your car, right? Bring me home.”

“Jeez, you drop this major bomb on me as if you were just talking about your cat taking a shit on your bed or something, and now you’re ordering me to bring you home? Cheeky,” Sera huffs, but she lets you drag her regardless.

Luckily, her car is parked relatively close because you honestly don’t know how much longer you can take before your knees give out from under you. It seems that despite the little nap you had at the nurse’s clinic, you hardly feel refreshed at all. All you want is to pass out on your comfortable bed for an indefinite period of time and pray for the demon under your bed to drag you to its depths and skin you alive. Knowing your luck, even the demon wouldn’t be that merciful towards a gremlin like yourself.

Sera begins backing up the car, stealing looks at you as you slowly became one with the car seat. You clench your eyelids shut, hoping that Sera would have the decency to respect your space for now and save the questioning for later. That pipe dream is immediately dashed, however, when she starts speeding down the empty streets and opens her big fucking mouth, her shrill voice reverberating in the small sedan.

“Don’t you dare sleep on me now, young miss! You have an entire weekend to hibernate so crank up that brain of yours for two more minutes and tell me what the fuck happened,” she says, nearly crashing over a trash bin in her haste to interrogate you.

“My brain? What’s that? Pretty sure that old thing disintegrated months ago. I think I shat it out when we had Taco Tuesday that one time in November,” you say, missing the way she snorts back in response. When Sera pinches your side to force you to face forward, your fatigue addled consciousness doesn’t even register the pain until a few seconds later.

“Ow,” you whine lamely.

“That literally took you five seconds to react,” Sera whistles, running over a child’s bike in the process. Neither of you look back to check the damage. “Damn, Min Yoongi’s penis must’ve been hella impressive if you’re this mindfucked. Are the rumors true? He must be packing down there, am I right?”

“Please stop saying the word penis. I’m getting triggered again,” you groan, slapping her lightly. She guffaws loudly, shoulders shaking at your misery.

“Sorry, can’t help being a horny bastard. But seriously, what’s the context? I wasn’t even aware you still talked to him after first year. He was your RA at your freshman dorm, right?”

“I don’t talk to him,” you say. You fidget in your seat, hands twisting and turning on your lap. “I mean. We were never close or anything.”

“Then care to explain how you managed to stand in the presence of Min Yoongi junior and behold his glory? Were you guys about to fuck before you realized his penis probably isn’t going to fit? Or, holy shit… Is he actually fun-sized like the rest of his body is?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sera.”

“Oh my god, he’s totally fun-sized!” She gasps, snatching up her phone while you two waited at a stoplight. “Wait ‘til Cassandra hears about this––”

Despite your diminished motor skills, you manage to grab her phone away from her before she can spread any misinformation to the rest of the student body. Min Yoongi’s penis is his business, and consequently, it seems to have become your business as well. Cue existential dread.

“Will you shut up for two seconds and let me explain? No, he is not fun-sized. I will not divulge any more information regarding that subject,” you say. Sera deflates noticeably beside you. “And no, we were not about to fuck. I just happened upon him while he was… in the midst of some recreational activities.”

“Oh, he’s into that type of shit. Understandable,” Sera nods, sagely. You have no idea what her tone might be implying, but honestly at that point you were too scared to ask. “How’d you find him like that, then? Did you hear him tugging his meat and decide to join in? Because honestly, big mood.”

“No!” you exclaim hotly, slapping her once again. “I’m not like your perverted ass! I was just––” You halt in the middle of your sentence, recollections of the past hours swimming through your mind and the fear and anxiety that had taken over you this afternoon starts to consume you once more.

“Hey, you alright? You got pale all of a sudden,” Sera notes, slowing down in her driving as she makes her way to park in front of your apartment. The two of you can see the lights of your crotchety landlord’s living room are still on, and you hope to God that he isn’t peering outside his windows and preparing to call the police on your friend (again).

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just,” you sigh, staring ahead of you and into the empty street. You don’t know why you’re hesitant to tell her what had happened earlier today. Normally, you would be exploding at the seams right now, weeping in despair at the sorry state of your existence. Then again, you’re not sure if you’re ready to go through the agony of reexperiencing the worst 12 hours of your life. Also, you just wanted to go pass out in your bed and never wake up.

In the end, you decide to tell her. Maybe she could offer a comforting shoulder to cry on. “Okay, so don’t laugh but… You remember the poem that got posted on the CCU Love Letters Facebook page this morning?”

Sera nods, confused. “Yeah? What about it?”

You take a deep breath, feeling your palms begin to sweat as hot licks of shame run down your back. You whisper, “Well. Yeah. I’m the author.”

There is a tangible silence inside the car. You’re afraid to look at Sera, dreading what sort of expression might appear on her face. Disdain? Pity? Mirth? Whatever it is, her quietness makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in alarm. You’re about to book it out of her car and make some shitty excuse about needing to feed your goldfish when you hear the locks of the cardoors click shut. You whip your head towards her, eyes widening when you saw the smug look on her face.

Not a good sign. At all.

“Do my ears deceive me? Is Miss ‘i’m-never-going-to-date-because-romance-is-dead’ Y/N really the author of the sweetest and most romantic poem of the century?” she singsongs, her smirk growing with each word that leaves her lips.

“Who ever said I was against romance?” You retort, cheeks flushing so hotly that you’re sure there is steam coming out of your ears. Sera cackles loudly, slamming her hand so hard into the car horn that it causes one of the wandering cats to jump up high into the air. You are half concerned when you don’t see the poor cat come back down.

“Oh please! When was the last time you dated anyone? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date anyone the entire time we’ve known each other!”

“We met in freshman year. You didn’t know how I was in high school,” you pout, huffing crossly. “And besides. I write romantic poems sometimes. You’ve read my blog posts.”

“Yeah, I know but,” Sera giggles once more, switching her phone on to search for something. When she finds what she is looking for, her eyes light up as she shows you the damned poem that got you into this mess in the first place. “You literally wrote ‘how wonderful is it to find that the dips in your hands look awfully lonely without mine in them?’ and you’re telling me that you wrote that?”

You push the phone away, groaning into your hands when you happen to glance at the number of likes on the post. “Fucking 2000 likes? Really? I’m gonna commit seppuku with your 13-inch dildo, I swear.”

As you let yourself descend into madness once more, you feel Sera’s hand pat your back comfortingly, though you can still hear her stifled giggles. “Okay. To be honest, I kind of knew it was you. No one else can write sappy lovesick bullshit like that and be sincere about it. Who the fuck compares skin to moonlight anymore? Are we in the 16th century?”

“You just said you didn’t believe that I’d write it,” you say. “I need people to not think it’s me. It’s so embarrassing as it is!”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think people are gonna think it’s you. There are a bunch of people in our Creative Writing class. It could be anyone,” Sera says, pinching your cheek lightly.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, probably.” Sera hums, her thumbs flying on the screen of her phone. She pauses, chuckling lightly at something. “Though, I must say. You’re incredibly lucky. If you had used your actual e-mail address instead of your… burner one, you would have been found out immediately.”

“Little victories,” you say, wondering if the prepubescent version of yourself would have known that creating [email protected] would eventually save your life 10 years later in the future. Probably not, but you’ll take it all the same. “Will you unlock the doors now, please? I’m gonna sleep the trauma away and hopefully not be alive by Monday, but if I am… then I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“Hold on sister,” she says, restraining you back into your seat with her arm. You cough in surprise, shooting a glare back her way as she keeps you away from your bed longer than you would already like. “If you’re the author of the poem… Then can you tell me who the muse of the poem is? And more importantly, is it someone I know?”

Judging by the salacious look on her face, you know it would be a bad idea telling her. Not that you wouldn’t trust Sera with your life, but––actually, you really would not trust her with anything. Now that you think about it, telling Sera would be the equivalent of giving Kim Seokjin full access to your internet search history, and you have enough brain cells in your inventory to know that some things are worse than death.

“Ugh, can we just drop the subject, please? I really don’t want to have an aneurysm inside your car right now. I can see Mr. Park staring at us through his living room window and we both know you can’t afford bail for the third time this year.”

“Oh shit, you’re right,” she sighs, relinquishing her hold on you and allowing you to unlock the door. “But that doesn’t mean I’m letting this go! You’re telling me everything when we see each other on Tuesday, understand?”

“I’d rather die, thanks!” You call out, slamming the door shut. “And besides, I’m gonna try to kill the rumors as quickly as possible before someone figures it out.”

“How are you gonna do that? Don’t tell me you’re going to go to each of the guys and explain? Maybe tell them it’s a misunderstanding?” Sera asks, watching you curiously. The very thought of doing that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. You gaze downwards at the wet pavement, the feeling of impending doom rapidly becoming familiar.

"That would mean outing myself as the author, so that's definitely a hard pass."

"Suit yourself." Sera shrugs, already beginning to pull away from the driveway. She waves lazily at you, before driving away into the night. You stand outside for a moment longer, sighing deeply as you resign yourself to your new life filled with tomfoolery and bullshittery.

At the very least, there is no where to go but up, right?

[Life Lesson #1: It's important never to test fate with foolish declarations of optimism such as this. It only tempts whatever sadistic force that controls your pathetic human life to do their worst. So of course, it gets worse.]

To your credit, you don't spend your entire weekend wallowing in self-pity and despairing at your current situation. You only spend maybe 90% of it doing just that. The other 10% is used to plan your next plan of action.

Like an idiot, you fill yourself with too much misplaced confidence and Flamin' Hot Cheetos. You think to yourself, "Man! I have the whole weekend to think of something to do! Surely my brain will be able to make some sort of plan by the time Monday comes!"

It is a wonder that you are still somehow standing, in a state that some might say resembles being "alive," with how bad your forward thinking is. As it turns out, the weekend slips past you before you know it, with no more than a seedling of a plan than you did during the peak of your mental breakdown.

Suffice to say, you're in deep shit.

Monday comes just as surely as the sun rises from the east, which is to say that time continues to pass despite how much you'd be willing to pay for it to stop. You could live with one kidney, right? (Fate is probably more of a vegan, you surmise.)

Even when the world is ending all around you, it seems that your 8AM music composition class will wait for no one. And so, there you are: dragging your feet to what is usually one of your favorite classes, but with the added bonus of death clinging to your elbows. Perhaps your cosplay of a corpse is a bit too convincing, because most passersby are quick to step around you. Honestly, this is probably for the best, as you aren't sure what type of state your human compassion is at the moment, should someone dare disturb your "peace."

But of course, there is always that one idiot who manages to ruin your day––for the sole reason that he exists, much to your disappointment and chagrin. Hell, even his voice is enough to make your hairs bristle from just how he lilts his words ever so slightly. It is an absolute shame that the shortest route to your class is past his hair salon, so you can only imagine the speed at which your blood pressure rises when you hear him say––

“Miss Park, your split ends! Oh my word, Miss Park! Whatever shall we do but snip, snip, snip all those wretches out of your life, just like how I snip up all my haters! Aha, this is your cue to laugh by the way!” Kim Seokjin guffaws, his stupid voice unable to be muted by ten inches of concrete. Through the hair salon’s windowpane, you can see Seokjin’s hands make quick work of an elderly woman’s hair, his eyes in crescent moons with how loud he laughs. You mentally make a sign of the cross for the disaster that will soon befall that poor woman’s head.

Now, normally you would make haste to your class, with head bowed and shoulders hunched in hopes of that fool-mouthed ninny from seeing you and engaging in some of his usual buffoonery. For whatever brain cells he lacked, Seokjin always seems to have the ability to rope you into his many harebrained discussions, with topics ranging from “how often do you think people think of sleeping with me?” to “do you think if plants could dream, would they dream of sleeping with me?”

You know. The works.

As it is, today is not an ordinary day, and encountering Seokjin has only made you recall the distressing events from Friday. From your panic induced haze, you can only remember murky images of him holding court amongst a crowd of people, telling them how he must be the muse of your damned poem. The faint memory fills you with abject horror as you are reminded, not for the first time, how big his terribly well-sculpted mouth can be and how he will stop at nothing to make sure that everyone believes what he wants. (Despite how horrendous he is as an organism of this earth, you would be a fool to call his looks anything but mediocre. But that’s as far as anything worth praising concerns the likes of him.)

Something takes over you in that moment, something animalistic. As if your dumb monkey brain is going “hoo hoo eek eek… must… eliminate… AWOOGA… BIG THREAT…” and your sensible and empathetic sides are consequently forced to lie dormant in the meantime.

Hence how you find yourself bursting through Spick and Spock Hair Salon, with no plan whatsoever. All you can think of is Seokjin hanging from his balls on the school’s flagpole, and honestly you weren’t all that concerned with how Point A was going to reach Point B(alls). But we’ll deal with that later.

“What was that?” Miss Park hums, her hearing aid somewhat short-circuited with the sensory abuse it has already had to undergo. To Seokjin’s credit, his hands do not falter despite your loud entrance; however, that could mostly be explained by how much louder his own voice is in comparison, but that’s just your humble onion.

“––and basically, Miss Park, there is this poor soul out there who must be dying with embarrassment because their love poem has been exposed to the world without their consent! Now, I may be Aphrodite incarnate, but I am also a gentleman, and so I do not condone force of any kind,” Seokjin drawls, incognizant of the world around him. He continues to apply the perm solution on Miss Park’s curls, the precision at how he works almost impressive if not for the fact that he was entirely abhorrent.

“That’s nice, Jinnie, but will you please shut up? I’m two steps away from turning off my hearing aid, you know,” Miss Park says cheerily.

“STOP WHERE YOU ARE, KIM SEOKJIN! STOP FEEDING LIES TO THE ELDERLY!” You cry, filled with the same type of distress that a young peasant might feel from their first licks of capitalism. Seokjin, the wicked businessman in this terrible analogy, is the one selling his counterfeit goods to the unsuspecting innocent.

Miss Park gasps, turning to Seokjin with betrayal in her eyes. “Oh, I knew it! My perm does make me look older! Just give me the pink highlights like I told you, Jinnie. I saw the youngsters doing it on Facebook,” she says.

Seokjin turns his head towards you in slow-motion, like an ass, and even takes the care to flick his beautifully styled bangs away from his forehead so he can gaze upon you with faux interest. “Oh? Miss Y/N? In my salon? I knew you’d be back here soon enough, especially with those roots… Come, take a seat. Let me bump your sorry 2/10 looking ass to a 2.5/10 at least.”

“If it were not for the laws of this land,” you seethe, cursing him through gritted teeth. You stalk towards him, rolling up your sleeves to show that you mean Business. (Funnily enough, you were wearing a tank top that day.) “I can’t believe you’re even being considered a suspect of the poem’s muse in the first place!”

Seokjin fakes a contemplative look. “Isn’t it because of my moon-like radiance? People have told me that I glow like a newborn babe.”

“You sure have the brains of one,” you retort.

“I heard from my niece that it was because he was an extra in a play as a moon or something,” Miss Park quips helpfully. Seokjin makes an affronted noise, but does not reject her claim.

“You were, like, a prop?” You snicker, forgetting for a moment what you were doing. You watch with wicked fascination as his ears turn red.

“Everyone has to start from somewhere! And so what? I had to hang ten feet in the air with a wedgie the entire time! My battle scars are what make me stronger.” He sniffs, upturned nose and all. You and Miss Park snort, not at all inconspicuously.

He pours the remainder of the solution all over Miss Park’s head and slaps her not-too gently on the back, clasping his hands together gleefully. “Well! That should do the trick. Relax, Miss Park, and let the chemicals do all the talking or whatever.” You take mental note to never come back to his establishment ever again so long as you live.

“Ma’am, if you’d like to save yourself from listening to the avalanche of anger that I’m about to unleash, I would suggest turning off your hearing aid for a moment,” you say.

She shrugs her shoulders, reclining further into her seat and resting her legs on a nearby bench. “Sure. YOLO, as the kids say.”

At her consent, you promptly slap the hearing aid out of her ear so you can scream at Seokjin in relative privacy. Miss Park doesn’t even seem to notice, and this should’ve been an indicator of how fucked up Seokjin’s salon is if she didn’t even seem slightly shocked by your actions. (How could she, when Seokjin literally just dumped fucking chemicals all over her scalp? Isn’t that illegal?)

“I’m going to sensibly reason with you first,” you scream and jab at his chest, being unreasonable.

“Okay, sounds believable,” Seokjin replies, raising a brow. He gestures for you to follow him to where the cashier is supposed to be, except that it is so early in the morning that the other employee that works with him isn’t even in at the moment. You still have yet to know why Seokjin opens the shop at 8AM in the first place.

“Why the hell are you spreading misinformation to random people like that? You know damn well that the poem isn’t about you,” you huff, crossing your arms. Seokjin, the ever-loving twat that he is, matches your pose to mock you. He even juts out his hip the way that you do.

“Of course it’s about me! How could it not be about me? Did you not read the part about how the author looks at the moon and thinks about my skin? Everyone knows that Etude House is dying to have me as their face mask model!”

The prickling urge to strangle him strengthens. “Listen,” you say, teeth gnashing from the effort of keeping yourself from leaping and ending it all. “For once in your life, is it really that hard to believe that the world doesn’t revolve around you?”

“Oh, you’re one of those heliocentric believers? Jincentric is where it’s at, Miss Y/N!” He laughs, slapping his knee at the pure hilarity of his joke. He does not pause once at your disdainful visage.

“Fine! Believe what you want! But I need you to stop telling everyone that you’re the muse of that poem. The rumor won’t die if you keep stoking the flame with your inflamed ego.”

Seokjin ponders your words for a second, looking at you with a contemplative stare. He does not speak for so long that you’re almost willing to let yourself hope that he has acquiesced, until––”When have you ever done anything for me?”

You gape at his sudden accusation. “Excuse me? I’ve done a lot for you!”

“Like?”

You pause, racking your brain. “Uh. I haven’t killed you?”

“Fair,” he nods, stroking his chin. “But that won’t be enough to stop me. I love being admired, so fuck you for even assuming that I would stop talking about myself. However, I’ll do it for a price.”

“Price?” You groan, fixing him with a glare. “You know damn well that I’m poor, but name it and I’ll try to pay it as soon as you can.”

Seokjin grins, his pearly whites much too incandescent with how dark his soul is. “Invest in my JiHope t-shirt business. I need, like, $500 left to reach the first goal of my kickstarter.”

You stare at him, completely baffled. Is this dude for real, or is he just a caricature turned to life? “You’re a heathen, do you know that?” you say, disgust oozing from every orifice of your body.

“I am feeling quite heathen-ish today, thanks for noticing,” he replies, somber. “Does that mean you accept my proposal?”

You hate how his voice sounds even the slightest bit optimistic, because that means he really does think you’re as stupid as he is. “Can you be serious for once? And before you say it, don’t fucking pull a dad joke on me and say some shit like ‘how can I be serious if I’m Jin?’ because I will not hesitate to bite two inches off your dick.”

“That would still leave 13-inches, so to be honest I should be thanking you.” He shrugs his shoulders, unashamed of existing in this day and age. “And no, I can’t be serious. It goes against my brand.”

“Your brand of being a fucking menace to society?” you grouse.

“Exactly.”

You are seriously ready to explode, and it isn’t going to be pretty. Lord knows that Seokjin would hate having your guts splattered on his overpriced Gucci slides. “Please, can you just stop talking about the poem? It’s bad enough that the original post is getting hundreds of likes by the hour, and if I know one thing, it’s probably mostly from your own influence.”

With a hundred thousand followers under his belt, it probably isn’t that much of a stretch. As much as he is the spawn of Satan, he is rather popular among your peers. Not that popularity has ever been a good measure of compassion. Case in point:

Seokjin grins, misleadingly angelic. “Aw, are you calling me an influencer? That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“You’re insufferable!” you yell, glowering at the overly-smug theatre student. You stomp your foot on the ground, pointing a finger in his direction as your nostrils flare in annoyance. Like hell that you’re going to let this shithead make you his bitch! “If you’re not going to do as I say, then I’m going to pester you throughout your entire shift and follow you to class if I have to!”

Big words from such a weak-willed person such as yourself. It does not take you long to realize how fatal of a mistake it is to make such a promise, because you never really stopped to think about the actual logistics of such a stunt (i.e. having to be around Seokjin for longer than your recommended daily dose). You can only imagine what such an experience would entail.

After a 3-hours of watching a buffoon salvaging humanity’s hair-do’s and don’ts (his words not yours), you feel as if his very demonic energy was sucking your life force with a curly straw. You fear that when you close your eyes tonight, you will be haunted by images of his Pacific-wide shoulders and his head tilted back in maniacal laughter as he snips away with less care than a toddler. Well, at least that’s what he appears to be doing, because occasionally you will zone out but then return to the sight of a fairly satisfied customer with glossy looking locks, so perhaps he isn’t as inept as you had imagined.

Your amazement is short-lived, however, when he opens his mouth and the cycle begins anew.

After finishing his last client for the morning, he makes his way to his first class of the day. You are reminded of the fact that you are missing your own morning classes as a result, but you know that you cannot afford to let him off your sight, lest he make a bigger fool of himself (and consequently, make your life a bigger hell than it already is).

You trudge behind him, ensuring that he never strays further than three feet away from you. It’s pretty easy to keep up with him, due to the fact that he always makes a point to pause whenever he sees his own reflection (in windows, shiny surfaces, some poor boy’s bicycle helmet––his narcissism knows no bounds.)

When he finally makes a full stop outside one of the lecture halls, he intentionally sidesteps in front of you. The suddenness of it causes you to bump against his steely back, bruising your nose enough to make you yelp in pain. You’re just about to cuss him out when he turns to face you, uncharacteristically serious.

“Now Y/N, I need you to stay out here in the corridor like a good girl, okay? There’s a strict rule of having no pets allowed,” he coos, making the fatal mistake of trying to stroke your head. He shrieks when your teeth meets his palm, but you are unrepentant.

When you let go, he tries to appear unfazed, blowing you a kiss instead as he saunters off into the lecture hall. Not wanting to disturb the class anyway, you decide to heed his words and squat outside in the hallway, occasionally looking through the small window to glare menacingly at the pink-haired bastard. Despite the holes you wish you were burning into the back of his skull, he remains aloof to your imaginary death ray as he continues to take studious notes of whatever his professor is saying.

On the other hand, his classmates are a different story. They send each other wary looks, wondering why the hell this random person was doing a Jack Torrance impression. When the clock strikes, they all make a beeline for the exit, clearly avoiding looking you in the eye as they speedwalk to their next classes. Seokjin makes it out last, his gait the picture of perfect nonchalance. He has the audacity to look surprised to see you there, like you were an old friend he had not expected to meet until you both reached the pearly gates (or fiery pits, but that’s unimportant right now).

“You’re still here, Miss Golum? Have you been good? I’m honestly surprised that you are as stubborn as I am.” He whistles lowly, shouldering his backpack with a smirk. He walks down the hall towards the exit, not checking to see if you were keeping up or not.

You proceed to bite his penis in half to keep him in place. Okay, not really, but you know… one can dream.

What you actually do is follow him as he heads to the cafeteria, presumably to sustain the mortal body he has chosen to possess. It takes him an agonizing thirty minutes to decide what he wants to eat for lunch, and another thirty minutes to say his extensive list of food products that he will most likely be consuming within the next hour or so. You’ve never seen a fast food worker look so dead before, and you’re sure the poor college student behind the counter had zoned out after Seokjin ordered his tenth happy meal.

As the two of you stand to the side to wait for his order, he turns to you expectantly. “So,” he begins.

“Fa,” you retort, followed by a gasp of shock from the elder.

“Do my ears deceive me? Your first dad joke… And to think, all it took was for you to hang out with me for four hours to initiate you as an apprentice.” He weeps loudly, faking tears in an impressively short amount of time. That doesn’t stop you from kicking him in the shin, though.

“Don’t worry, I’m already dead inside. There’s no soul left for you to consume,” you reply dryly. He tuts, shaking his head.

“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was just about to ask… As much as I have enjoyed our quality bonding time together––”

“I’ll gladly piss on your grave, don’t forget,” you interject.

“––I was wondering why you’re so adamant to dispel the rumors about the poem? You don’t seem like the type to engage in campus gossip.”

Oh shit. Perhaps there is something more than hot air in that tiny head of his.

You flounder about like a fish for a bit, your mouth opening and closing as you think of an explanation that wouldn’t out yourself in the process. You feel your cheeks reddening, only two seconds away from steam whistling out of your eardrums. Broken stammers are all you can manage as he waits expectantly, but luckily, you don’t have to think of a response when a nearby commotion forces the two of you to back away from each other.

A gaggle of freshmen storm through from out of nowhere, forcing the both of you to be swept away as they all made their way towards a pop-up stand in the middle of the court. Accustomed to the borderline cringey overexcitement of the youngest students in the university, you are quick to dismiss their behavior and decide to search for Seokjin, until you hear one of the little freshmen say something that catches your attention.

"You think the t-shirts are still available? Chaeyeon said the hoodies sold out this morning, so I'm scared that we'll be too late," a young girl says, her hands clutched to her chest as she tries to tiptoe over the crowd to survey the state of the merchants just up ahead.

Her friend pats her back assuringly. "Don't worry. The announcement on the page said they're bringing in the reserve stocks from the backroom, which is probably why everyone's here. We just have to get there first." They proceed to elbow their way through the throng of people, and completely disappear from your view. Where they stood, more people soon took their place until a sizeable swarm has taken over half the area of the floor.

Now, this exchange isn't necessarily a red flag to most people, since many clubs and organizations at your university often sold different types of goods to raise funds for their projects. However, given the circumstances that you have become entrenched in the last few days, you can never be too cautious of innocent utterances such as this.

You take a few steps back, trying your best to see over the heads of the crowd that is steadily growing larger. After a few minutes of fruitless attempts to squeeze through sweaty pits and cacophonous teenagers, you are ready to just give up and let it go when the same pair of girls from earlier exit from the side, with numerous folded up shirts in their arms.

You hasten towards them, barely being able to latch onto their shoulders to stop them from escaping. The shorter of the girls squeals in surprise, dropping her prized possessions onto the floor. She turns to you, anger ready to burst forth from her tongue when she looks you in the face. She softens almost immediately, wrath evaporating in the wind. Confused, you're just about to ask her if she knows you from somewhere when her friend cuts you to the chase.

"Oh my God! It's her!" she squeals, reaching for your hand and shaking it so vigorously that you swear you hear your shoulder bones pop out of its socket. The girl who had dropped her shirts just continues to stare at you in awe, her mouth agape as she remains speechless, apparently from your presence alone.

You feel the dread begin to build in the pits of your stomach. "It's me?" you say, pointing to yourself with your free hand.

"Yes! Miss Y/N, you have no idea how happy I am to meet you! We are big fans of your work on the CCU Pen Blog! Your short story about the talking brick wall honestly brought me to tears," she gasps out, eyes twinkling with unrestrained reverence. Judging from the death grip she has on your hand, you can certainly say that this girl isn't lying.

While you are aware of the small following that you've accumulated over the past two years as one of the top contributors in your university's open writing forum, that isn't to say that you have ever met a fan as fervent as the two before you. Still on edge from everything that has been going on, you still can't let your guard down around them.

After a bit of effort on your part, you are finally able to pry yourself away from the girl's tight hold. Coughing lightly into your abused fist, you fix them with a wary glance. They return it with unnervingly excited stares of their own.

"Um. Thank you very much, ladies. I just wanted to ask you about the function going on over there?" you ask, pointing over at the still bustling shop booth. At your query, the girls actually look confused, as if you are the weird one in this interaction.

"You don't know? I thought you of all people should know about the merch sale happening right now," the quieter girl speaks up, bewildered. She bends down to pick up the shirts she had dropped, turning it over to show you the design that you had previously failed to notice. What a terrible mistake you have committed.

(Was the mistake looking at the t-shirt? Was it waking up today? Was it deciding to live after your mother conceived you in the womb? Truly, where does the blame game truly end in this foul existence that you call your own?)

The scream that is elicited from your throat cannot be described as anything from this world, because you are sure everyone in the vicinity might have stopped breathing for a few seconds after hearing it. The macabre quality of your voice even caused the two girls in front of you to flee in fright, leaving you with the wretched t-shirt in your trembling palms.

There, printed on the t-shirt, right in front of your mortal eyes, is an image you would rather that you had not seen even if it meant having to suckle from Kim Seokjin's teets for all eternity.

In all its poorly printed glory, your face is plain as day. Anyone would be able to recognize that it was you: in the middle of chewing what appears to be a whole turkey leg.

There you were, with ketchup dripping down your cheek, sitting just outside the Fine Arts building as you scarfed down the poor piece of poultry because you had been too lazy to cut up into smaller, more refined chunks. Like the fucking caveman that you are, you had held the leg like a police baton, mouth open so wide that you'd think you might have unhinged your jaw to get the entire thing to fit in there.

You think that's all? It gets worse.

Somehow, the perpetrator of this terrible t-shirt just has to make you look even less attractive than humanly possible. Superimposed beside your sauce-stained self is none other than a PNG image of Jeon Jungkook in his prime. With his sleek black hair pushed back to reveal his forehead, you are sure that this photo is the same one that everyone on campus had swooned over just a few weeks prior, when he had been chosen to model in an advertisement for some club's fundraising event. He is the picture of quiet confidence, which might make you laugh on any other day, since the boy is anything but that in his day to day life. You only ever interact with him when you see him manning the front desk of the library, and he always has his head bowed over a book, unaware of the stares of his many admirers.

Clearly, the injustice of having a literal god beside your hulk-ish photo is downright cruel, but this optical torment does not stop there.

Underneath the photos of the two of you, there is a short line of text that is honestly the worst part of the entire thing. In bold, sans serif font, it reads “Y/NKOOK SUPPORTERS INITIATIVE” with a copious amount of black heart emojis tacked on. In a smaller, but similarly visible manner, it also reads “The Moon Poem is about them and I will stand on this rock until I die!” There are also numerous 100 and fire emojis scattered around the entire shirt.

It’s terrible. It’s downright despicable. It’s the worst thing to ever grace your vision, and that’s saying something, considering that you’ve met your fair share of delusional graphic designers.

Another scream rips from your throat––more livid, this time.

It is at that moment when you realize that maybe Thanos was right––maybe some people really do deserve to die for the betterment of civilization.

Perhaps the crowd of eagerly waiting customers can sense the heat from your unfathomable anger, because they quickly part like the Red Sea as you stomp over to the front of the lines where you will likely find the perpetrator of this heinous crime.

There is a young boy with droopy eyes standing by the tables of merchandise, his hands quickly counting wads of bills as he jams them haphazardly into his pink Hello Kitty fanny pack. He doesn't even bother looking up when you approach him, still busy with his profits, when you clear your throat to catch his attention.

"Are you the one in charge of this fucking circus?" You snarl, fists itching to come into contact with his cheeks. He hums disinterestedly, zipping up his gaudy fanny pack with a tired sigh.

"No, ma'am. I'm just the hired help," he drawls, turning away from you as he gestures vaguely at the mountains of goods still left for purchase. "Are you interested in something or what? There are still 30 people waiting to buy, so I'd rather you not back up the line please."

At the end of your patience, you admit that perhaps grabbing the poor boy by the collar might have been a bit drastic. Still, you're itching to know who the source of all this madness is, so you don't feel all that guilty when he makes a choking sound from your act of brute force. Despite your strong grip on his windpipe, his dead fish-eyes do not disappear. In fact, he looks exasperated more than anything.

"Listen lady, are you going to buy something or what? Who even the fuck are you?"

You splutter, staring incredulously at the younger. Who the fuck are you? You aren't the type to expect people to know who you are but you can at least expect that the person selling goods with your face on it would know who you are! Like, how the hell does he not know that you were the same person on the damned picket fans and keychains?

"I don't––what the hell––" you stammer, speechless for the first time in a while.

"OWO what's this? Is this a new campus couple shipping booth that just opened? Do you guys sell JiHope versions too?" Just in time to witness your second mental breakdown of the day, Seokjin makes his convenient re-entrance as he sidles up beside you. He has two burgers in hand, one of which he is halfway done eating.

You gape at him. "Did you buy a burger for me?"

Seokjin snorts, stuffing the entire remainder of the sandwich into his unfathomably large mouth. "No, you idiot. They’re both for me," he replies, with surprising coherency despite the dribbles of meat and bread product spilling onto his chin. You swear you can see him unhinge his jaw just the slightest bit.

He bends down to pick up one of the fallen pins from the floor, groaning at the sound of his back cracking. "Oh shit, that hurt!"

Unable to help yourself despite still having a freshman in a chokehold, you quip automatically "Yikes, that sounds like a couple of dinosaur bones creaking. You alright?"

Not missing a beat, Seokjin replies "Nah. I just can’t help having a bad back with how big my dick is."

The young boy taps you on the shoulder, reminding you once more of the situation you are in. "Can you let go? My shift is over so you can interrogate the next dude instead," he drawls, having the audacity to yawn at you.

Taking pity on him, you do as he asks. He straightens up, pulling his rumpled collar down before unclasping the fanny pack from around his waist. Another similarly dead-eyed young boy (who was incredibly tall, much to your chagrin––obnoxiously tall young men ALWAYS had agendas, take Seokjin for example) takes the bag from him. He gives you a short once over, no signs of recognition present in his expression at all. When he sees Seokjin, however, his reaction is a lot more than you expected.

"Oh my God, Seokjin? Holy shit, I'm a big fan!" The new boy gasps, pushing aside a customer in favor of reaching over to shake Seokjin's hand. Ever the slut for praise and appreciation, Seokjin shakes his hands with the ease of a seasoned politician.

"Aren't we all?" he laughs, haughty. The other boy laughs too, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained admiration. You sneer in disgust at the hearts visibly emanating from his body.

"My name is Soobin, and I just love your performance in last week's production at the Campus Theatre! Would you mind signing my assh––"

"Hold on," you interrupt, glaring daggers at Seokjin. "Did you fucking do this? Did you make this fucking merch booth of me and Jungkook?"

Seokjin frowns, annoyed that you had been impetuous enough to stop this spontaneous meet and greet session between him and his loyal fan. "No, of course not. Who even the fuck is Dungcock, or whatever the hell that dude's name is."

"You fucking dumb piece of shit––" you say, about to bite off his balls for real when your phone begins to ring, saving Seokjin for the time being. You recognize the ringtone to be the one you set for your alarms, and you realize that after all the commotion from this morning, you have forgotten about the tutoring session you are supposed to have with Hoseok today. Since you had cancelled last Friday's session after your spectacular psychotic meltdown, you know that you couldn't possibly skip this one as well.

Shutting your phone off, you groan, fixing Seokjin with your most solemn gaze. "Listen, I don't have a lot of time. I have to go tutor Hoseok soon, and I've already skipped all my classes today by trying to convince your imbecilic ass to be empathetic for once in your miserable life so I'm begging you for the last time––please stop spreading the rumors about the poem," you finish, tears welling up as you finally register the fatigue weighing down your bones. It's only Monday, and you can't wait for the sweet release of death.

Seokjin is silent the entire while. The merchandise boy, Soobin, has already left the two of you alone, becoming disinterested the moment you uttered the word "listen." You're breathing heavily, bracing yourself for the inevitable sound of his windshield wiper-esque laughter. To your complete and utter surprise, his mocking does not come.

Instead, he puts down his second burger, stuffing it inside his back pocket (presumably for safekeeping). He wipes his hands on his shirt, smearing ketchup sauce on it before levelling you with his gaze. He appears like he is about to acquiesce to your demands.

Is this it? Will you allow yourself to hope? Has Kim Seokjin actually developed compassion during the last 20 seconds of your heartfelt plea? Are you finally going to lay to rest the rumor that he does not actually have a second stomach where his heart should be?

Then, "Okay Y/N. I'll do it."

Hope rises just beyond the horizon.

He raises a finger, "But––"

And just like that, hope takes a pounding to the ass (lubelessly) and dies before it even has the chance to break past the peaks of your mountain of crushed dreams.

"––you have to admit that you're the author of the poem and then I'll stop exacerbating the rumors."

You can feel the demon living inside you just itching to climb its way out of your ass and circle its hands around Seokjin's larynx. Hell, you can't say you wouldn't do it yourself. "WHAT? NO!! THAT'S LITERALLY––I'M NOT EVEN––" you scream, shocked and enraged at the same time.

Seokjin rolls his eyes, placing his perfectly manicured hand on his hip. "Save it, babe. I know you're the author. As annoying and stupid as you are––"

"Hey!"

"––you've always been a pretty good writer and I would recognize your writing style anywhere. Not to say that I read your works religiously or anything, but I mean... I see your writing on the newspapers that I use to pick up my dog's shits, so I guess I read them sometimes," he says, not looking you in the eyes. The tips of his ears are turning red, but you hardly notice his embarrassment when you're more amazed that he even acknowledged your talent in the first place. You guys aren't even friends!

"Wow. I don't even know what to say."

"Just admit you're the author and we're good." Seokjin smirks, patting you lightly on the shoulder.

You frown. "Isn't that counterproductive? I want the rumors to stop, not for them to be related to me."

"Which is a sentiment that I cannot fathom at all, since I crave the attention." He sniffs, glowering at you. "You can imagine the sacrifice I am bestowing upon you by having to relinquish this newfound fame just so your little crush stays hidden."

"How benevolent of you," you deadpan.

"And since you didn't deny it, I'm assuming that you are the author after all. Besides, I just wanted you to tell me the truth, mostly so I can bully you for writing sickly sweet love poems about yours truly."

"Okay, I'll admit. I am the author. You got me," you grunt, rubbing your temples. "But there is no way in HELL that I wrote Moonlight Sonata for you. I'd rather eat my own intestines than write anything remotely flattering about you."

"That's what they all say," Seokjin says, sighing dreamily. "To be honest, I knew you were the author from the beginning and I just wanted to annoy you until you caved. I didn't think you would be that stressed over the stupid poem enough to follow me around for an entire day. That crush must be embarrassing, huh?"

"It's not!" you exclaim hotly. You clear your throat, forcing the blush around your cheeks to die down. "It's just... It was supposed to be private." Your voice breaks off into a whisper, vulnerability lacing your words.

It's true––the only reason you wanted all of this to be over was because it was never even supposed to have happened in the first place. Your words and stories were always open to the public eye. You gave and you gave and you gave, although that has never been a problem. You loved sharing your thoughts and feelings; it was one of the greatest things about being writer. You enjoyed hearing how people related to your experiences because it made you feel seen, it made you feel known. You were not alone in this journey, and that had made all the difference.

This time, however, you had preferred to go through this alone. Mostly because even you were not sure what it was that you were going through. How were you supposed to share this part of yourself with others when you did not even know what it was that you were feeling? You had poured every inch of your soul onto those pages, and to have yourself completely barren to the world like it was nothing––

That had been catastrophic to you. But at the end of the day, there was nothing you can do except to try and silence it.

Seokjin considers your sad form, watching you until a small secretive smile inches its way on his lips. You scowl, not liking the way he looks like he knows something that you don't.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Oh, nothing," Seokjin whistles, winking provokingly. He laughs obnoxiously, not faltering even when you kick him in the sin. "Just that I know you have a crush on me and you're just embarrassed to admit it. Thank God that I'm a great actor, so I guess I'll pretend for your sake."

"You're not my––" you start, before giving up mid-sentence. Was there truly any use to arguing with Seokjin? You'd rather not waste any more saliva than you already have. "Whatever. Believe what you want. All that matters is that you do what I asked you to do."

"Sure thing, Shakespeare," Seokjin scoffs, flicking you lightly on the forehead. "Also, in payment for my services, you are required to watch my next play AND attend at least three of my rehearsals and cheer for me every time I appear in a scene. I require a bouquet of flowers at every appearance."

You're about to argue, (fruitlessly, you might add), when a barrage of buzzes coming from your back pocket stops you in your tracks. You slip out your phone, and you see dozens of texts from a worried Hoseok asking where you are. You reply a quick "otw" to him before focusing back on Seokjin.

"Fine. Whatever. I'll fucking kill you the next time I see you, but... thank you. I know it's hard for you to be kind to anything other than your reflection." You take a deep breath, furrowing your brows. Saying thank you to a troglodyte is harder than it seems. "And thanks for reading my works. We're still not friends or anything, by the way. Hope you remember that."

"Wouldn't dream of forgetting," Seokjin chuckles. "Me? Friends with you? A 10 walking around with a negative 1? Fat chance." He waves goodbye, blowing you an obnoxiously loud kiss before stalking off away from you. The bulge of his smooshed burger has left an unsightly grease stain all over the back of his jeans.

Before you turn to go to the exit, you pass by Soobin who was still busy with customers. You slip a few bills into his pocket, tiptoeing to whisper into his ear. "Here's twenty bucks. Go kick Seokjin in the balls for me."

When the double doors slam behind you, the beautiful sound of Seokjin's pained howl bids you the cheery farewell that you deserve.

796 notes · View notes

lost-in-time-marie · 4 years

Text

Into the Shadows: Chapter Four

After my birthday, September flew quickly away into October; I could hardly believe Halloween was just days away. I thought of the masked figure that saved me often and always wore the necklace he gave me for my birthday. I dared not utter a word of his existence to anyone. I told myself it was because everyone would think I’m crazy, I mean I still hadn’t ruled out egregious hallucinations from the realm of reality, but somehow, I imagined if I said it all out loud, it would be less real, like maybe it was just a dizzy daydream. If anyone asked about the necklace, I simply said it was birthday present from a friend, no one pressed it beyond that, they had no reason to. Except Natasha. Natasha made frequent curious glances at it, sensing the importance and, perhaps more so, that there was something I wasn’t telling her. An instinct that only encouraged her to unveil any secret I could possibly be hiding. It was getting increasingly difficult to throw her off my trail.

James stuck with Natasha, Aleks, and I, or, on occasion, Katy and I. We continued to take to him, but I grew more suspicious too, constantly asking questions about him and his mysterious life, attempting to figure him out. His answers were all the same, and I knew them well, because none were real answers, they were half-answers with absolutely no details or personality to them. I was beginning to feel like Natasha, questioning motives and growing overly suspicious about the smallest details. Overnight James became the most popular kid in school, everybody loved him. It wasn’t hard to see why, with a face like that and an all-too-charming personality. I had not had hardly any run-ins with Ryder, thank god, and actively ignored him in class. I was still mystified by the one time I’d seen him act like a human being in the elementary school office, but otherwise did my best not to think of him.

“Yes, it is a fitting last name for someone so grim,” James joked one morning in Acting, lounging easily at his desk. I had to wade through another sea of swooning girls this morning just to take my seat. Things had been like this when Ryder first arrived, but when his personality became evident, people mostly just teased him. For as much as I disliked the guy, I never participated.

“Come on, James, leave him alone. He’s probably just shy,” I blurted, sitting down and unpacking my things. I hadn’t meant to interfere, although I was usually the first to stand up to a bully, Ryder could handle himself, the words just popped out of my mouth of their own accord.

“All the sudden coming to the defense of your mortal enemy, how mighty,” James teased, sly smile creeping up his face.

“He’s kind of rude, but it’s no reason to be mean, besides that joke is terrible,” I supplied weakly, rolling my eyes. Ryder skulked into class then and the crowd instantly dispersed. It was like his negative aura had a physical effect on people. It bothered me that James bullied Ryder, he seemed much more vindictive about it than the other students, like he had a personal grudge against him, I kept pushing that pesky thought away, but it popped up every now and again.

James kept pushing, “You’ve never said anything before.”

“I just don’t like seeing someone being bullied,” I shrugged, staring at the board, refusing to look at him. James nodded, thoughtful, but didn’t push the matter further; he had an uncanny sense of when he was overstepping his bounds.

“Guess what today is, class?” Mrs. Robertson enthused loudly, addressing her students after the bell rang, “Nomination for roles in the play!” She answered her own question cheerfully. I groaned silently and resisted the urge to slam my head into the desk repeatedly. Mrs. Robertson told us the other day that there would be two days of deciding roles for “Romeo and Juliet”. The first day, today, would be spent calling out each role, any person who wanted that role would raise their hand and their names would be written down, other people in the class could also nominate someone for a role as long as someone seconded it. What an inventive way to force participation, I had thought sarcastically. The second day, tomorrow, each volunteer or nominee would audition for their role; later the parts would be decided and announced, anyone left over would be on the stage crew. I hate plays. I hate participating in plays. I hate that we are performing this play, most of all.

Mrs. Robertson called out Romeo and one or two guys raised their hand. Elizabeth, the girl behind me, nominated James, and Kim, Elizabeth’s desk partner, seconded the motion.

“I nominate Ryder Grim,” Katy’s voice squeaked out shyly. Every jaw in the class hit the floor and every head turned towards Katy. Her round face was redder than a tomato and she squirmed slightly in her chair from the attention. Her brown eyes found me from across the room and pleaded for help.

“I second that motion,” Another, more confident, voice supported. My voice, I realized a second too late. The words had just tumbled out, and before I could take them back, Ryder’s name was added to the list. I don’t know why I did that, perhaps because he despised attention and I despised him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Ryder flash me a baleful look. His gaze was so intense, the daggers shooting out of his eyes froze me in place. My skin bean to crawl with the intensity of his scorn. I refused to turn his way and resisted the urge to flinch and slide away from the daggers he aimed at me. I would pay for this, of that one thing I was absolutely certain.

“Juliet,” Mrs. Robertson called, moving on to the next name on the list.

“I nominate Kristin for Juliet,” James announced loudly. I choked and stared at him with wide eyes, feeling oddly betrayed. I forced my brain to operate to make a refusal, but another voice cut me off.

“I second that motion,” An all too familiar, harsh voice declared. I jerked around in my desk. Ryder sat, overly casual, with his hand in the air. My jaw dropped.

“What?” I hissed. A dark smile played at the corner of his lips, but otherwise the stone mask stayed in place. Payback’s a bitch.

“Okay, moving on,” Mrs. Robertson continued after more girls raised their hand and their names were added to the list. I sat, dazed and numb, in my desk the rest of the class period, trying desperately to compute the events of the period.

The rest of my classes passed easily, thankfully, and the end of the day was fast approaching. After the initial shock of being nominated, and additional height being added to my already heaping pile of hate for Ryder, I formed a quick plan to just bomb the audition, forcing my way to stage crew or some other small role with few lines. Unfortunately, my luck didn’t hold, and my day took another turn for the worst in Chemistry.

“Kristin Hart! Please come up here,” Mrs. Gold called halfway through class. I quickly stood from my desk and walked to the front of the room where she waited for me. Mrs. Gold had assigned book work for us today so she could prepare for what she called “a new teaching method” she wanted to try.

“Kristin, I am partnering you up with Ryder Grim. It has been shown that students can learn better through collaboration. A lot of the students in here really need the boost to their grade, yourself included,” Mrs. Gold lectured sternly, her sharp, beady eyes boring into me over the wiry rim of her glasses. For such a seemingly frail old woman, she was deceptively strong and stern, in fact she was known for making younger students cry. I think she secretly enjoyed it.

“Everyone will meet with their partners outside of school twice a week for extra study time to prepare for the AP exam, this exam is particularly tough and I want everyone to do their best,” She instructed in a brisk, no-room-for-complaints manner.

“Ryder Grim!” Mrs. Gold called. I attempted, very poorly, to hide my horror. This lady actually likes torturing people! Ryder abandoned his book work and walked in that brisk, graceful manner of his to join Mrs. Gold and me at the front of class.

“Mr. Grim, you and Mrs. Hart will meet twice a week outside of school to study Chemistry. You are my best student and highest grade, I trust you two will do excellently together,” Mrs. Gold declared, not bothering to get consent from either of us.

“But-” I finally managed to stutter. Ryder’s jaw tightened, I could almost hear the click of his teeth snapping sharply together, and his eyes held agitation. I was too busy processing my certain doom to appreciate the emotion actually showing on his face.

“Umm, we don’t get along very well,” Ryder said, finally managing a composed, calm voice.

“Right, we don’t get along,” I eagerly agreed, “Surely there’s someone else?” I groped desperately for a way out of this. Ryder nodded his head in support. Wow, what kind of parallel universe was I in where Ryder and I were actually on the same side?

“Work it out. Mr. Grim you will study with Mrs. Hart, both of your grades depend on it,” Mrs. Gold said sternly, staring us down with her dark, evil eyes. I imagined thunder and lightning crashing outside while scary music played. It seemed fitting for my own personal nightmare. Welcome to hell. That’s what I’d told James on his first day; Acting was nothing compared to this.

“You can’t do that!” I blurted, outraged, tossing my hands in the air.

“I believe I just did,” Mrs. Gold retorted with finality as the bell rang. Ryder spun quickly on his heel, collected his things, and stalked out the door. I stared after him, dazed. I walked robotically back to my desk, collected my books, and headed to Sinclair’s class, my mind spinning, searching for any way out of this predicament.

“Today, we start our class project for the beginning of the year,” Sinclair called, walking quickly into the classroom, before the bell rang for a change, and handing out papers with a list of objectives and requirements for the project. I greedily accepted the paper, excited for the interesting project Sinclair undoubtedly had planned. According to his handout, we would pair off, pick one of the subjects he provided, and create a poster board about our research on the subject. I was pondering what subject Natasha and I would choose when a cold hand tapped my shoulder. I jumped and spun around.

“May I speak with you for a second?” Ryder asked, dead faced and monotonous.

“Sure,” I said, confused, following him to the back of class, “What’s up?”

“What two days would you like to meet at the library?” Ryder asked.

“Why didn’t you ask me that at my desk?” I asked sort of dazed, staring at him directly was seriously distracting; maybe that’s why he didn’t look at people when they spoke to him. His angular jaw and pale face were utterly flawless, coupled with intense, bright green eyes and tousled black hair to complete the image. I found myself getting lost in studying him; the sharp angle of his nose, the way his nostrils flared slightly in annoyance, the broadness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips, the confusing way his simple blue jeans and dark grey shirt accented his form in all the right areas. A sharp impulse to reach out and spread my hands over the expanse of his chest crashed over me without warning. It was like a strange spell always around him, making it impossible to think.

“I wasn’t sure if you would be embarrassed,” He replied smoothly with a shrug. I shook my head firmly to clear these troubling thoughts before my imagination had more time to run off.

“Oh,” I said, stunned that he was actually being considerate, and still slightly captivated by his strange aura, “uh, thanks. Tuesdays and Thursdays right after school work for me,” I answered, wondering how I was going to volunteer at the elementary school Monday, Wednesday, and Friday while being tutored Tuesdays and Thursdays and still have a life.

He gave a brisk nod and turned to leave but stopped short. “Do you have a ride?” He asked, turning back.

“I can probably catch a ride with Natasha or just walk,” I answered nonchalantly with a shrug. For the smallest second, I swore indecision flitted across his face, as he stood half ready to turn away, half facing me clearly wanting to say something. All at once, that carefully articulated blank mask slammed into place, as if Ryder suddenly became aware of the emotion leaking out of him. Suddenly, it was easier to think and look at him, I despised that expression, it was much easier not be captivated by him when filled with annoyance.

“Just when I thought you were finally playing nice the stone statue reappears,” I muttered my thoughts aloud, rolling my eyes.

“Stone statue?” Ryder asked, raising a brow.

“Never mind,” I waved him off.

“Oh, good, you guys have paired off, now everyone has a partner,” Sinclair said walking by; counting all the other students I now noticed had paired off. I hadn’t even heard the bell ring.

“What?!” Ryder and I exclaimed simultaneously, but Sinclair continued on, paying us no mind. We glared at each other before turning and stalking off to our desks. Worst. Day. Ever.

I rushed to the elementary campus after Sinclair’s class, eager to be rid of this cursed day, and knowing I had a regularly scheduled meeting on these Monday Wednesdays, and Fridays I volunteered. My feet carried me, as they often did, already knowing the way without any input from me. When I arrived to the classroom I frequented for my volunteer duties, I found my weekly appointment already waiting for me in our usual spot.

“And that’s how my day went,” I finished my tale, attempting to find a position where I remotely fit in this elementary size school desk. I was coloring and recanting my tales with my one of favorite little boys in the aftercare program, Robbie, in a desk two sizes too small, as we did every day I volunteered since I started this year.

“Sounds like a rough day,” Robbie commented, pushing his wavy, black hair out of his face before resuming coloring an elephant purple. Robbie was a sweet little boy, very mature for his age, every day I volunteered he’d ask me to sit with him and tell him about my day. Even though he was only in second grade, he understood almost everything I talked about.

“That’s an understatement,” I muttered. Robbie never talked too much about himself or his day, even though I asked often, I think something about just listening made him feel better. He always had this sad, lost look in his deep blue eyes, it threw off his childishness and innocence. I worried for him; he didn’t play as much with the other kids; he was too often by himself.

“Alright Robbie, your brother is here, time for you to go,” a teacher called through the doorway. Robbie was the last to leave today, his small footsteps echoed across the room as he walked to the door carrying a too-large yellow backpack.

“Come on, Robbie, I’ll walk you,” I said taking his hand and casting a warm smile down at him. He looked up and gave me one of his rare bright smiles. We didn’t talk; he just happily held my hand. I allowed myself a small, pleased smile, glad that I could make him happy in some little way. It had been too heartbreaking, watching his small form retreat, burdened by his large backpack, and, I had a feeling, other concerns that I could not see.

“Be careful getting home, Robbie,” I said, holding open the door to the parent pick up area open for him.

“Big brother!” Robbie shouted happily, running toward a tall, wiry guy standing in the main office. Robbie’s brother turned, scooped up Robbie, and spun him in the air with a musical laugh. He looked over to thank me and froze. I froze too. I stood, still holding open the door, staring into the bright green eyes of Ryder Grim. Who…laughed? Ryder actually just laughed and smiled and played with his brother. For a second, I thought I might be having a bizarre dream. Or my hallucinations were becoming grossly overactive again.

“This is Kristin, Ryder,” Robbie introduced in a bright voice, immune to the awkwardness of the moment, “She’s my favorite volunteer,” he beamed. My mind finally started working again

“Thank you, Robbie,” I smiled politely, “I actually know your brother, he’s the guy I’ve been telling you about,” I cast a teasing glance toward Ryder.

Robbie looked up at his brother, crossed his arms, and furrowed his brow, “Ryder! How come you’re being so mean to her?” he demanded in earnest anger. Ryder laughed and smiled warmly at him. The hard, stone statue Ryder was nothing compared to warm, fluid, easy-going Ryder. His pale skin glowed with happiness and his love for Robbie was evident in his liquid, bright, green eyes. His angular face and broadness seemed less intimidating now; more relaxed and friendly. If the girls in our class thought he was handsome before, they would faint seeing this sort of flawless.

“She’s much more difficult than she seems, don’t be fooled,” Ryder teased, easily hoisting Robbie on his back, before casting a warm smile my way. I looked away to hide my blush, bracing myself against the door as my knees suddenly turned to jelly. My heart started an erratic dance and I tried to ignore its sudden loudness.

“Thanks so much,” I rolled my eyes, unable to stop from grinning. I stepped aside so he could walk out the door I still held open. Ryder grinned, winked, and walked out the door. I heard it close with a click, but I couldn’t recall releasing it. I stood in the main office for a good five minutes dazed, pondering the events of today and the many faces of Ryder Grim.

2 notes · View notes

oumiyuki · 5 years

Note

Hi! Can I request YouMari for prompt 38 please? Thanks c:

#38 = “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Pairing: You x Mari

Genre: Romance, Humour, Fluff

Words: 619

Author Notes

Why, of course, you can! :D

Sorry it took a while. But here it is! XD

May you enjoy~

You has been tailing Mari for a few hours now. She’s not intentionally being a stalker or a creep; it’s simply because she was so bad at initiating skinship…lovey-dovey couple-ly stuff and she actually feels bad for leaving it all to Mari and thought maybe she’d do it today, but..!

You swallows hard and stares at her empty hand reaching centimetres close to the blonde’s hand before she pulls back with a deep intake of breath.

Gahh! Why is it so hard to take Mari-chan’s hand?! Or anything!

You looks at Mari’s back sadly; half wishing her girlfriend would notice her struggles and help her, half glad Mari hasn’t so she still can try again.

Ughh…I’m so pathetic at this…

You averts her gaze; desperate, even her brain gives her weird ideas.

Maybe…

You holds her breath for as long as she could till it’s really painful to continue and she started coughing for air, all so she can get her face to be red naturally. Then she splashes a bit of water on her face to make it seem like she’s sweating. You nods to herself and runs over to Mari, taking a roundabout way so she’s approaching from the front.

“M-Mari-chan..!” You calls and just as Mari was about wave hi, the ash-brunette releases the strength in her legs so she falls forwards – eyes closing slowly - the perfect act of fainting.

“You!?” Mari exclaims as she catches the shorter girl in her arms, stepping closer and holding You up so she doesn’t slide to the ground. “Oh dear, I’ll bring you to the nurse’s office right away.”

It worked! I’m closer to Mari-chan now…Wait! But I have to pretend to be unconscious…

You was beginning to regret her life choices now. Why could she not just ask Mari if they could hold hands as a normal person would!? Her Watanabe brain just had to give her the bright idea of feigning unconsciousness!

You guesses she’s in the nurse office when she felt the softness of the bed, but her heart was starting to race as she could also tell that her girlfriend decided to let her lay on Mari’s lap.

Mari-chan..!

Mari’s giggles made You pay attention instead of berating herself. The blonde strokes You’s hair gently before blowing in You’s ears unexpectedly.

You jolts and then flinches and then…opens her eyes slowly to see Mari and her Cheshire grin staring back at her.

Busted huh…

“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention…you didn’t have to go to such extremes~” Mari chuckles at You’s bright red face she hid behind both hands.

“I…I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, okay!? Mou..!” You shakes her head from side to side, utterly embarrassed and wishing for a hole to jump into to hide away from her laughing girlfriend.

Mari showers You with headpats to help the blushing girl, though that just serves to make You even more embarrassed.

“D-Don’t baby me, Mari-chan! I-I…” You glares weakly through her full-red face and averts her eyes again.

Mari giggles once more; loving how adorable the usually suave swimmer can be when it comes to romance and her. “But you’re my baby~ how can I not~” Mari sing-songs as You pouts at her.

“Mari-chan!”

Ugh, this is so embarrassing!

“Next time just tell me instead of stalking around me like a moth to the flame, okay You~?” Mari says with a huge, huge smile.

You’s blue eyes couldn’t grow any bigger. “Y-Y-You knew!?”

“Of course~ You weren’t exactly subtle~” Mari chuckles as she pats You again.

You turns in Mari’s lap, hiding her face away from her girlfriend and screams in her mind.

Ahhhhhhhh!

Author Notes

Embarrassed You is Adorable You and Best You right? XD –chuckles-

Did you think it’d be Mari or You doing the fainting~? Hehe~ XD Both could do, but You doing it came to mind first for me, so~ :P

I hope you enjoyed this, 420honoka! And to anyone else who read this! XD

Leave me a comment if you like~ ;D (We all know You will take a while to recover from this super embarrassing moment of her life! ^w^ And your comments will help with that~ :P)

#youmari #mariyou #watanabe you #ohara mari #love live! sunshine!!#drabbles #fanfiction #fanfic #yuri #fluff #prompts ask

16 notes · View notes

swanandapirate · 6 years

Text

A Muted Hue of Grey (3/14) -- CSBB

Summary: Emma Swan liked being a PI in Boston. It was a fun job, she had an okay income and she was a good one at that, so there was no logical reason to try and leave. Except for the fact that she wanted to, so badly. And, when she received a job offer for what seemed to be the opportunity of a lifetime, she did exactly that. Leave. Run. All the way to London. The job was simple: trailing a man called Killian Jones. Easy enough.

Well, until things get complicated, that is.

Rating: M (later mentions of violence, alcohol abuse, and sex)

Wordcount: 2549

Links: ao3 // ff.net // chapter 1 // chapter 2

A/N: No Killian in this chapter, my apologies, but there are answers to your questions and there's an OC whom I love a lot and I hope you do too

The Big P ( @ofshipsandswans ) and Notorious Nonnie ( @acourtoftruelove ) are epic as always and weren't afraid to go "uhhh Manon??" whenever I did or wrote stupid stuff.

@shady-swan-jones is also epic and never complained when I stalked her about the art she was making, you can find said art here and here!

——————————

A dense downpour covered the streets, distorting the view, a thin sheet of water blurring her sight. Emma walked, all of her senses heightened—her ears searching for any sound that didn’t belong. She did not trust the dark that enclosed her, nor was she pleased with the curtain of rain. She was at a disadvantage and she knew it, knew that this was exactly why he had waited before informing her where their meeting would take place. Why he chose for it to be this late. He wanted the upper hand and Emma couldn’t do anything but to hand it to him. She was but an employee, a hired informant that could be laid off at any moment.

The rain was just a welcome bonus, she supposed as she trudged on, avoiding puddles that had gathered; he was powerful but controlling the weather required some magic that he, a mere mortal, did not possess.

The cobblestones of the alley shone with a layer of rain, the water enhancing the sound of her high boots echoing against the stone. Emma was already regretting her choice of footwear. It was drawing attention to her, attention that might not be wanted.

She checked her phone for the umpteenth time since she had left to be certain and it gave her the confirmation she sought. This was it, it told her, the brightness of her screen causing her to squint against the artificial light. She had reached her destination.

And she was all alone.

That didn’t seem right.

Her eyes slid across her surroundings, searching for a sign of life, a clue that someone else was present, but found none.

“So, Ms. Swan.”

Emma was startled by the voice surfacing out of the shadows. And the man accompanying it.

“What have you found out?” Mr. Gold asked.

He appeared from whatever hole he was hiding, dressed to the nines in a suit that seemed badly tailored, tatty even, loose at some parts and way too tight at others. A golden cane in his hand, only emphasizing his stature and oddity. Who owned a cane? A golden one at that? His brown hair, streaked with grey, was long and stuck to his cheeks thanks to the rain.

“Okay, first of all, Gold,” Emma responded, not wanting to immediately hand him her information, her only assets. “Why are we meeting in some shady alley? It reeks here.”

And it did. Of pee and other questionable substances. A place Emma would much rather not spend time in.

“We need to be covert,” sounded his answer, but it failed to resonate with Emma.

She tilted her head and frowned as a movement in the background caught her eye.

“And we couldn’t be covert in an office or a place where there aren’t actual rats running around?” she questioned, pointing at the spot the rat had just run across.

Gold seemed less worried about the vermin running around; he could fit right in. Birds of a feather flock together and all that.

“Now is not the time to complain about hygienics, Ms. Swan. What have you found?” he repeated, uttering every word as if it was a sentence with a full stop.

Emma recognized that her efforts of convincing him to pick another meeting point would lead to absolutely nothing and so she simply accepted that she was going to look like she was offering Gold drugs in a dark alley. Though, if she was being entirely honest, it was most likely going to look like she was offering him something else.

Just the thought of that made bile rise in the back of her throat and made her want to end this briefing as soon as possible. She cleared her throat as she refocused on the matter at hand.

“After another week, observing Jones from afar has not proven to be very useful or helpful with me getting new information. I’ve therefore decided to switch tactics and, instead, I’m going to try and gain his trust.” Gold didn’t need to know the real reason why she’d had a sudden change of heart, it would only shrink his already microscopic amount of trust in her even more. “It’s now just a matter of him trusting me to get the information you need,” she told him, making sure he believed the ease with which she could handle the situation, even though she didn’t particularly believe in it herself.

His dark eyes slid over her face, assessing and attempting to read her features and even if what was going on in his brain mostly remained a mystery to her, Emma could see the wheels turning in his eyes, could almost hear his thoughts conferring with one another.

At last, he spoke.

“I hope you don’t get carried away, Ms. Swan. We do have a deal and I do not take my deals lightly.”

“Neither do I, Gold,” Emma guaranteed. “I’ll get the job done, don’t worry.”

“You better.”

She should’ve let the meeting end there, let the both of them part ways and not talk to each other until Gold required another briefing. But the hunch that something was off—the thought that she couldn’t in a million years fathom what intel Gold needed on Jones, especially since she spent some time talking to him and getting to know him—couldn’t stop thrumming in her head.

“What is it exactly that you want?” she then asked him outright. “I have already given all of the information I have found so far and there’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I’m not hiring you to ask questions, Ms. Swan. Leave that part to me. Keep your eyes and ears open, report back when you find more, that is all I require from you.” His accent had become thicker, more guttural, acting as yet another warning.

“Okay.” Emma threw her hands up in the air in concession.

She was not going to debate it or ask any more risky questions. The money Gold was paying made sure that she did not have to struggle to make ends meet; she was able to afford everything she needed with one, single job; she wasn’t about to jeopardize that.

“Until next time, I guess.” She shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

“I hope you have something more interesting to tell me then, or I’ll have to reconsider this whole arrangement.”

Gold left the way he had come and vanished into the darkness again. She didn’t wait until he was completely gone to properly roll her eyes in response to his irritating flare for the dramatics that was omnipresent.

Turning on the heel of her boot, Emma left as well, in the opposite direction Gold had gone. As she walked, she gathered her wet tresses, quickly combing them through with her fingers to avoid any knots. The heavy rainfall had luckily stopped, only a stray drop here and there falling out of the sky, and so when she was met with the choice of either taking the bus home or just walking to her apartment, the quiet atmosphere and the clean, crisp air outside made her choose the latter. They were a proven successful approach to clear her head.

One thought just wouldn’t allow itself to be deleted, however.

Or one person.

Jones.

She hadn’t thought a lot about the day they’d spent together, not yet. Maybe because she didn’t want her head clouded before the meeting with Gold but now that that was all over and done, it had free rein to infiltrate her mind again, to revisit the events anew.

As they had left the store the day before yesterday, she had been hit by an immense sense of fear. Not fear of being caught or a fear of sharing too much with him.

No, not that. It was the fear of having to spend a considerable amount of time with someone she just met. She wasn’t a good socializer, her lack of friends could attest to that. One could even say she was absolutely terrible at small talk. So why on earth had she agreed to spend the afternoon with him?

The funny thing, however, was that she’d spent those first moments so struck with anxiety, her thoughts so consumed by it, that she hadn’t even realized how fast time had gone by. How she’d been talking and laughing and listening without any awkwardness trailing the conversation, without any uncomfortable silences creeping in. And that was a new experience altogether.

Perhaps that was the reason she’d been so adamant to avoid the topic, because she wasn’t exactly sure what to think of it.

Or of the fact that she’d given him her cell phone number when he had asked.

She did tell Gold she was planning on gaining his trust, but whether that was the actual reason she’d so easily added her number to his contacts, Emma hadn’t quite figured out yet.

And again that same question from before resurfaced. Killian seemed like an ordinary guy. Nothing about him particularly stood out. No weird vibes, no strange behavior. Just a polite, somewhat reserved—but then again, flirty—dude. Someone who’d managed to make her feel at ease. What would Gold want with information about him, and, more importantly, what was he going to use it for?

Emma sighed as the question remained unanswered, her breath hot against the chilled air. Her feet continued to tap against the concrete, carrying her closer and closer to home. What had first been a pleasant brisk breeze, was now a freezing wind, chilling her to the core. The remaining raindrops falling from her hair certainly did not help.

She spotted her apartment from across the street and excitement ran through her body as she took those final steps. She needed a scalding shower to warm up again. And a lot of hot chocolate to warm up her insides again.

Just as her hand went to open her door, she suddenly realized she’d not bought new hot chocolate when she drank the last packet. She didn't have any chocolate to make it from scratch, either. Shit. Her hand fell from the handle, as she looked around at her surroundings and considered her options. It was already after ten, so the closest Tesco was already closed, and she didn’t particularly feel like taking the bus to the further one that was open until midnight, especially not in her drenched clothes.

Only one option remained. Well, two actually. The first one being going upstairs without and accepting there would be no hot chocolate, even though Emma didn’t feel like getting over her need for chocolate. It seemed like a pretty vital necessity. Option number two it was: the night shop two blocks away.

But she was still getting out of these freezing clothes first.

Emma reemerged from her building with a new set of warm and comfy clothes and made her way to the shop.

The door opened as she pushed against it, a little bell ringing as she did. The shop wasn’t that big and clearly targeted two types of people: the ones that wanted to get drunk and the ones that had gotten drunk and now craved some sort of greasy or sugary—unhealthy to sum it up—food. Emma was neither and so she knew that she’d have to go to the little corner of the shop meant for everyone, where she would find everything.

“Good evening,” she said and smiled to the shop owner behind the counter.

“Evening, miss.”

After her meeting with Gold, she’d had quite enough of people calling her miss. Plus, she frequented this place enough to switch to a first name basis.

“You can just call me Emma,” she told him over her shoulder as she made her way to the rack she knew contained what she desired. After some scanning, she came across the hot chocolate and removed it from the other items. It only took her a couple of steps to reach the counter again.

The young man—he had to be younger than she was or else she’d have to learn his secret—accepted the box she handed him.

“Evening, Emma,” he repeated. “I’m Samir.” He outstretched his hand and Emma grabbed it and gave it a quick shake. “Nice to meet you. This means I can finally stop calling you Rocky Road in my mind.”

“You gave me a nickname?” She cocked her head in surprise, the smile on her face widening into a grin.

Samir shrugged while scanning the box of hot chocolate.

“I do that with everyone who comes in here often. Especially with those who have a tendency to buy the same thing time and time again.” He lifted a dark eyebrow.

Well, if that didn’t say a lot about her late night snacking habits, Emma didn’t know what did.

The cash register ringed and Samir read the price off of it.

“That’s three quid, please.”

Emma’s hand disappeared into her pocket, in search of some change that hid inside. First, she fished out fifty pence and that was followed by a two-pound coin. One last effort of checking another pocket led to one last pound being recovered. “Keep it,” she said as Samir pushed the fifty pence back to her side of the counter.

“Thanks.” He threw the coin with the rest of them and closed the register.

“Can I ask you something?” Emma stored her box in the small shopping bag she’d brought along.

“Sure,” Samir replied, his brown eyes shining, reflecting the openness she felt radiating from him.

“You seem pretty young to own your own business. Or am I just really misjudging your age?”

It might be weird to just ask him that, but the longer she spent looking at his face, the younger he began to look.

“I’m twenty-three.”

That was more or less what Emma was estimating.

“This isn’t my store, it’s my dad’s,” he explained. “I’m filling in for a while. I just graduated uni, so I don’t have anything better to do for now.”

“Oh, congrats!” Emma said, her congratulations genuine as graduating from university deserved that. She’d never managed to do so. “What did you study?”

“Law.” Samir slightly ducked his head as if he was bashful about his choice or his accomplishments while there was absolutely no reason to be.

“You’re a lawyer? Impressive.”

“Well—” He tilted his head. “not so much a lawyer as waiting for someone to hire me to become one.”

She could then see how he’d rather be doing that than selling things to people in the middle of the night and Emma couldn’t blame him. If he’d studied to become a lawyer, was ready to be one, it must be frustrating to not have anyone give you a shot to do what your heart desired.

“I’m certain it will happen, Samir.” She nodded encouragingly. “If I ever need a lawyer, you’ll be the first I call, alright?” Emma winked.

“Fine by me. If you ever feel like visiting me again and having a chat, don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t. I hope you have a good night, Samir.”

“You too, Emma.”

And it seemed like Emma Swan had yet again participated in small talk and had actually gotten a friend out of it.

A friend and hot chocolate.

Monumental.

——————————

Now I'm in the mood for hot chocolate too... Anyways, I hope you liked it and do not despair, our favorite Brit is making his comeback next Thursday and it’s a good one 😏, see you then!

#cs ff #csbb #captain swan #captain swan big bang #cs au #my words and sentences #AMHoG

70 notes · View notes