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hobidreams · 3 years

Text

november 1869.

to remember what has been lost; to protect what still remains.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: drama. words: 2.4k contains: descriptions of blood/death, a reckoning.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 26. start from the beginning?

Before Queen Jeonghui’s tomb, you stand with hands bowed in reverence, mind laden with warm memories as sticks of incense burn above your fingertips.

“We all miss you, daebi-mama. I hope you are resting well,” you murmur, letting the smoke mingle with your breath in the air as you bow, deeply. “Happy birthday.”

A little ways away, the single guard that accompanies you is also offering his thoughts to the raised, grassy mound that the queen lies beneath. You’re glad it’s Myungho to come with you today. He’s a good man, one who allows you as much freedom as possible. He understands your need to escape sometimes. Nearby, the horses you rode here are grazing on the field, quietly snorting as their tails swish from side to side.

As you look upon the tomb, you wonder wistfully if mother has found the queen in the spirit world. If they’re playing the game of janggi they so loved in life, when both could find the rare time to continue their decade-long (friendly) rivalry while indulging in cups of strong, dark tea. The thought brings a smile to your face even as fresh tears fall at the remembrance.

In your peripheral vision, you see a swish of fabric, the sign of someone approaching. You give one last bow and slot your incense in the traditional tray, realizing it must be time to leave before it gets too cold and your limbs begin to freeze even under the layers of clothes. You must go back eventually, you know it, but that doesn’t make it easier.

But when you turn, the man that stands beside you wears royal robes — the scarlet fabric and golden dragons unmistakable.

“Jeonha?”

The king’s face holds only sorrow as he holds matching incense in his hands. Staring straight ahead, he bends into a bow, dipping his head repeatedly low, low, lower until he’s almost on the dying, waterlogged grass with it, the lit grey tips flickering in the wind as they are nearly doused from the force of his movements. He bites his lip hard, so hard he draws blood as he punishes his own legs with the bows but he doesn’t stop.

You watch him with emotion clinging to your throat, but you swallow the questions you want to ask as you swipe at your wet cheeks. Why are you here? Why did you change your mind? How are you? Are you okay? All these impertinent questions are for you, to satisfy your own curiosity, and that’s not what he needs right now.

Quietly, steadily, you wait until he has finally stuck in the incense in the memorial ash. You wait until he opens his eyes, red-rimmed as they are, and finds your gaze.

“I… decided at the last moment,” he murmurs. “You… were right. I had to see her.”

You nod. Think you understand everything else he means as well, even if he’s left it unspoken. “Me too.”

“She would have liked that you’re here.”

That simple sentence threatens another wave of nostalgia and longing. You let it pull you under. Sink yourself into it. The mourning, the grief. And the love. The love that was there. The love that still remains, the traces of it held in you both. Your fingers twitch with a sudden, daring want to take his hand. To meet your palms and find the warmth and the life pulse that beats so closely, so resolutely just beneath the surface despite all this pain and all this loss. If you could just reach out. If you could just take another risk…

“Jeonha, run!”

The scream comes from the hill behind you. You both whirl.

The head of the royal guard comes running over with his sword drawn. His teeth are grit, hair blown from the wind that sweeps through the grass, rippling. His blade is already stained with a color that makes your stomach lurch at the implication.

“Hoseok— What’s going on?” The king yells back.

“Rebels! An ambush. We don’t have enough men!”

These few seconds are all the warning you get.

An incredible roar of voices comes exploding up and then you see them. The thick crowd of men that come surging over the hill, fighting their way towards you. The unforgettable clatter of metal on metal desecrates this once-sacred ground. Your legs go soft as you panic, scrambling. You’re trying not to watch as guards and rebels alike are cut down, but the enemies are steadily advancing still. What should you do? Where should you go?

“Myungho, get the horses!” The king barks out. But one look at the steeds tells you that they’re frightened, rearing back as men descend upon them. They’re off, running away on instinct to preserve their own lives while damning yours.

“Jeonha, what are your orders?” Myungho’s grip on his weapon is tight.

“Go. Help Hoseok.”

“Yes, jeonha!”

But as the battle wears on, the dread in you only grows. The king’s men are skilled, but it seems there were only a few to begin with. They are overwhelmed by sheer numbers, yelling for jeonha to escape but he doesn’t move. You don’t know what to do. You are at a complete loss, standing beside him with fingers growing steadily numb. You have to do something. You— You can’t just let it end here, at the hands of these men bellowing with violence and anger and pain.

“Jeonha, w-we have to run,” you stutter, forcing yourself to move, tugging at the fabric of his robes. But when you look back at the opposite side, your only escape route, a throng of rebels come scattering across the grass. Cutting you off; rendering you helpless.

“Myungho, cover the rear!” Hoseok spits out as he takes down another three by himself, the quick whip of his blade reflecting a beam of sun. But even he, with two other guards in front, cannot hold all of them off, though there are less of the rebels now that remain standing.

Caught in the middle, you can only watch your allies strain and sweat. In your heart, you promise desperately that you heal them in the end, if only they will hold on now.

With an awful cry, one of the guards hits the ground and a rebel uses that chance. Breaks through the line of defense and charges right towards you both.

“Fuck the king!” He yells, his face smeared with dirt, his sword raised as his bare feet trip upon the grass but he just keeps coming somehow and you have no weapons and you have no shields but the very first instinct, the most primal one you have is to throw yourself in front of the king and take his pain for him and—

Hoseok dispatches the rebel from behind just as you move a single step forward.

“You…” The king’s voice is hoarse. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at you, at what you just did. Then he’s shoving you aside and stooping to pick up the abandoned sword from the ground.

You realize what he means when he sweeps up his sleeves, adjusts his grip on the worn handle. “Wait, no, jeonha, you cannot—”

“Stay behind me.”

“I cannot allow you to—”

“Do not argue with me.”

Again, he leaves you with no choice but to watch his back.

Fear pounds away in your body like a thousand drums, thunder booming through the pulse of your clenched heart in your ears as the king takes a first brutal swing at an enemy. Somewhat out of practice against the towering man, he’s shoved back by the sheer force of the clash, feet skidding across the wet grass but he refuses to yield. Stubborn as he always is, he rushes in again only to be pushed back. Again.

The king tilts his blade, slices it quick only to have one sent right back at him, barely missing his shoulder by an inch. He doesn’t even flinch as he stands firm. Adapts in the moment and tries a new strategy, a new tactic that has him spinning, robes fluttering in the winter air as his shuddering breath comes out in a puff of white and ends in a fury of red. And again. And again until finally, finally, only the strongest of the rebels remain standing with the few allies you left, along with your brutal, bloodied king.

Before you, all the men are panting, open mouthed, every last one of them desperate for a victory that spells the doom of the other.

“Come on then,” the king goads, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a show of nonchalance even though he’s obviously fatigued. “Attack.”

“You little shit!”

This man is enormous, easily a head above the king and he’s strong, muscles bulging from his torn tunic as he thrusts the sword ahead with surprising speed. The quick rush of air slices through two layers of robes, splitting the dirtied fabric open as the king narrowly escapes without a new scar. But his return stab doesn’t meet a mark and he’s slow on the rebound, steps lost some of the agility he had at the start.

Please. Please, you beg to whatever god may be listening, don’t let him die. But that rebel seems to have an endless strength as he forces the king back, meets him blow for blow for blow and you are so worried, terrified you’re going to see his last moments like this. Like this you will have been with him until the end just like you once stupidly wished. You’re so caught up you don’t realize what’s going on behind you.

“Su-uinyeo-nim! Watch out!” Myungho’s voice cracks as he cries your name, but you turn too slow. Myungho’s on the ground and the rebel that beat him is sprinting towards you, savagery in his scowl, his crude axe already suspended in mid-swing, just a few more steps, just one more shove to land right across your heart and you, you who has never held a weapon before in her life, you who has lived to heal and mend instead of hurt, what can you do right now but die?

“No!”

The scream is hoarse, a furious sound matched with a rush of robes that whip past your own.

You peel open your eyes in time to watch the king take the axe blow meant for you with his left arm. Despite his bark of pain, he swings with his right in exchange and it’s enough. The rebel falls, his axe plummeting uselessly beside him. Then the king falters too, sword clattering down as he finally drops to his knees.

“Jeonha!” You scramble to him. “Oh god, oh god, jeonha, why did you do that— Jeonha, how could you do such a thing? Jeonha!” You part the stained robes, stomach churning at the raw sight of his sacrifice. “We need to fetch you help. You need medicine, oh god, oh god.” This is panic like you’ve never felt it before as you look around, as if some miracle could occur, as if it hasn’t already occurred by the fact that you’re both still alive.

To one side, Hoseok is alone, gasping hard with the enormous rebel lying prone beside him, evidently having finished him off. Myungho has a gash running down his side, but he’s crawling towards you both still with a hand pressed to his wound for pressure. There is no one else. You have to do this on your own. You have to calm the hell down.

Using the nearby sword, you force yourself to focus and stop shaking as you cut strips of the inner layer of your skirt. You have to save his arm even as nausea swims in your mind, nerves making you want to empty your stomach.

“Hah...” The king’s chest lurches as he struggles for air. His eyes are hazy but he manages to fix them on you, as if to ground himself. “You’re… safe?”

Nodding frantically, you start to wrap the cloth around him, willing your fingers not to slip. “I-It’s deep, jeonha. Your wound is so deep.” You’re quietly sobbing as you tie the makeshift bandage to stop the worst of the bleeding. How could he be thinking of you at a time like this? It must hurt excruciatingly so, yet he is still trying to be strong.

Beside you, Hoseok is carrying Myungho’s weight, using the extra cloth to help his ally with his limited medical training.

“…Hoseok.” The king sucks in another long breath. “They… Those rebels were peasants, weren’t they?”

“Yes, jeonha… I think they were.”

He accepts this knowledge silently as you finish your preliminary treatment, but lack the resources to do anything else. You stare at the fresh red seeping through the flimsy cloth and hope desperately that it will be enough for now, until one of you can return to the palace and gather reinforcements to take you home. Feeling your fingers stop, he immediately tries to move his arm but winces, bites his lip at the sudden jolt.

“Don’t move, please,” you instantly say.

The king huffs a long, exhausted sigh as he sinks into the ground. Lets the tension seep out of him, though likely not by choice. His dark eyes flicker to the tomb briefly before they slide closed, the scar ever slashed startlingly crimson across the right side. Despite his best attempts, he is still winded, depleted. Human, after all. After all of this.

You brush matted strands of light hair away from his forehead, and pat at the drops of sweat that linger and prove how hard he pushed himself to fight. He shifts into your touch like a stray animal, allowing you take care of him for once without argument until his breaths even some, settling only in your arms.

“It seems it’s been a long time,” he says softly after a moment, his eyes remaining shut.

“Since?”

“Since I’ve protected someone.”

Your pulse catches. Blood thrums through you as you whisper, “but you did.” Your voice is viscous with relief, and gratitude. “You did.”

Only now do you dare to reach for his hand, to lend him some of your strength, even though you have seen again just how much of it he already holds in himself.

Wrapped in your warmth, he squeezes back just the once. Lets you know he is here, he is here, he is here with you still.

a/n: because i could never forget the way he wielded that sword in the mv. so... how you feel about our king now?

#ficswithluv #btsghostie #yoongi x reader #min yoongi #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts angst #yoongi angst #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #things only continue to shift don't they?

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warmau · 3 years

Text

☆ko-fi au: nostoligic summer romance!au hanbin find other ikon aus here

the sun burns your shoulders and the skin of your heel. you stand on it and bear the pain as you look down at hanbin, whose face is covered by one of those three-dollar nude magazines

"get up"

"can't you see i am asleep?"

the wind blows some small wisps of hair around your face - somewhere in the distance, you hear junhoe chase a beachball down the shore as jiwon yells for him to race back to the rest of your friends

"hanbin, you are not wasting your summer spread out like this, not doing anything. you are not a piece of seaweed."

"you sound like my mother"

you nudge his elbow with your toe

"did you finish your graduate school application?"

"yeah, im working on it right now looking at -"

he lifts the magazine off his face and flips to a random page, turning it around to face you

averting your gaze you make a sound of disappointment

"the deadline already passed, the school is giving you an extension because they know you'll be a great addition to the program. does that not mean anything to you?"

hanbin lets the next gust of wind pull the magazine from his weak grip and float it pathetically to his left

the silence is his answer in a way and search his face, now that you can see it properly, for anything else

his dark eyes are void and highlighted by a shadow of darkness.

his lips are chapped.

the scratch he got from face planting in the public pool's changing room last weak is still sitting on his cheek only half-hidden under a kids bandage

"hanbin, this is your future"

you whisper it - like it's your future too

maybe because somewhere subconsciously buried in both your chests. you both know it is.

"i know"

you turn around and take his apathy as the final stake in the ground

after years of caring about him, of one-sided adoration hidden behind affectionate and worried friendship

you have learned the hanbin is more stubborn than an ox - especially when he gives up

when you find yourself walking home back alone - the sun still blasting an uncomfortable heat onto your skin - you try to pretend the overwhelming feeling of crying isn't itching its way out

i can't help him forever, especially if he doesn't want to help himself

hanbin calls three days later

"do you want to go fishing with me and jinhwan?"

"fishing?"

"jinhwan said he's trying new hobbies."

you are silent for a second, a part of you wants to explode.

what are you talking about fishing! the application asks you to finish an entire song. to show your effort! who gives a fuck about fishing!

the other part of you is dormant. uninterested.

jinhwan is already a successful editor, maybe he can help hanbin find the right path better than i can.

"no thanks."

you hang up first, something you've never done with hanbin

you're both balanced in that sense - you are usually soft and forgiving and never want to hurt anyone's feelings. you just want to keep helping and helping until there's nothing left of you.

hanbin is more strict - people have to prove themselves to him otherwise he cuts them off without a qualm.

you get a text a few minutes later from jinhwan:

are you and your husband fighting?

my husband? i didn't know i finally married that millionaire from my dreams.

haha im talking about hanbin

you purse your lips. everyone in the world wants 'us' to happen.

no. we're not fighting. he doesn't want to go to grad school.

so?

your fingers hover over the keyboard. right, so what? not like it's your business to run your friend's life.

but that's not it. something is so wrong. hanbin will work on music till his eyes and ears bleed. why is it that composing one little thing for this application that is just going to better his life so hard? why is he so against it?

leaving jinhwan without an answer, you throw yourself on your bed and tell yourself that you have to break this habit

you've been putting hanbin over yourself since you were both young

getting in trouble with him when in reality you'd done nothing but try to stop him from doing something stupid

staying up with him when he'd go through bouts of bad insomnia

shoving your own secrets and pain down to comfort him about his own

you have your own life, goal, and dreams

it's your fault for somehow always imagining that hanbin would want to be part of them

"can you please talk to hanbin again."

jiwon, junhoe, and donghyuk take up the space in your car as you pull into the parking lot of the local mall

you turn the key in the ignition, jiwon and junhoe are sitting far apart in the back seat, still managing to look cramped and donghyuk looks at you sympathetically from the passenger side

"im not avoiding him."

"you're totally avoiding him."

again. you want to explode and also say nothing at all. why are there expectations on you as his friend and not the other way around?

"have you guys asked him about his grad school application? you all have your futures planned - and he's lost."

jiwon pops his bubble gum at the worst possible moment and junhoe looks awkward without an answer to come out of his big mouth.

donhyuk puts a hand on your shoulder

"he didn't just give up, you know."

you snort, "it looked that way to me."

opening the door, you step out and tell the little voice in your head that wonders out loud if hanbin needs your help to please shut up

it's two days before the extension deadline. you know this because it pops up as a reminder on your google calendar and you grumble as you delete it.

having his deadlines on my schedule like he's my goddamn boyfriend or something.

you want to enjoy your summer before you go back to school too, so you dig out a big t-shirt and bathing suit to take to the pool

only when you sling the shirt over yourself do you pick at the worn fabric and groan

this is hanbin's isn't it? the coffee stain at the bottom is totally his signature.

someone knocks on the door of your room, half expecting a family member you open it without caution and nearly throw it shut when you see hanbin in the frame

the only thing that stops you from doing so is the look of utter desperation on his face

"hanbin? when is the last time you slept?"

he breaths through his nose and mumbles maybe three or four days ago

you pull him into your room and shut the door, you try to examine him for any other signs of fatigue but he looks otherwise the same

skinny, slightly hunched over and more beautiful than you could ever say out loud in fear of dying on the spot of embarrassment

"is it your insomnia? do you need to go to the doc-"

"i can't compose the song."

you wave your hand to dismiss the sentence, "that doesn't matter right now. you have to take care of your health first and-"

"i can't stop thinking about you."

suddenly irritated with his tone - you snap under the weight of it all

"you cannot blame your inability to finish this application or giving up or not sleeping on me. just because we haven't spoken in a bit-"

"that's not what i meant."

you cross your hands over your chest, you can feel a fire unlike any other of anger lick up your spine

if he is going to pin this on me somehow im going -

"i love you."

"are you crazy?"

you blurt out your words before you really even hear his own. you were expecting him to start spinning some elaborate tale about how not seeing you or you avoiding him had somehow damaged him further

but this is hanbin, and you admit that never has he put the blame on you without you taking it on willingly

so you blink past the initial shock and ask him to repeat himself

he straightens his bad posture, looks at you and sees past the surface level

"i love you. it's making everything else a blur, so i need to tell you."

"you- you should have told me before."

"i thought you'd slap me." he laughs weakly, but it is forced "or that you'd think i was lying to get you off my back about the application."

you soften, your hands uncross and you drop the defensive look on your face

hanbin runs a line from your eyes to your knees

"are you wearing my shirt?"

"i love you too."

the spell of dread that seems to have clung itself into every nook and cranny of hanbin's existence seems to be exorcised when you say those words to him

like a light has entered the part of him that has been pitch black for weeks now

he doesn't kiss you right after you say it, he kisses you two days later when he submits his application with a song he spent thirteen hours on creating

the song is about that light, the kind of easy feeling of being put into the right puzzle with the right person

that's when he kisses you - when he meets the deadline - and you throw your arms around him and the world starts rotating in the right direction again

summer is still left over for you two to enjoy, you rush around the beach with your friends, you go fishing with jinhwan who decides he hates it at some point, and you spend whatever minute you can with hanbin

even if you're with others, your hands are always glued together. you look at him when you think he's distracted. he looks at you regardless, unashamed of the teasing that comes your way

'it finally happened! they realized they're perfect for each other!'

and when you're alone with your legs tangled with his and hanbin's nervous, soft mouth on the slope of your back. that same uncapped love bursts from both of you.

when summer dwindles and hanbin gets an email about his application

he celebrates by pressing you up against the desk and nearly toppling his laptop over

"can i ask you something?" he plays with a strand of your hair after as the sweat sticks you two together "were you so adamant about me getting into grad school because you love me or-"

you rest your chin on his chest and sigh

"yes, but because it'll help you achieve your dreams. and it'll give you a future that's stable. a future that i want for you and-"

you get shy, tucking your face into his skin

"and?"

he asks, but you just kiss him instead.

when it's ten years after - and hanbin has become successful in ways he had never dreamed

you are successful in your own right too

you're equals and your lives are full of each other and your work and everything else

and hanbin realizes when he's looking at rings by himself after work one day what you wanted to say all that time ago

you wanted him to have a good future so that it could tie in with yours

he reminds himself to ask you when he gets home, by what age had you already planned the wedding?

he expects you will stick your tongue out at him when he does, and you do, but he doesn't expect you to cry for half an hour when he pulls the little box out of his pocket.

#nostalgia au #hanbin au #hanbin scenarios #b.i au #b.i scenarios #hanbin #b.i #ikon au #ikon imagines #ikon scenarios #ko fi commissions #slightly suggestive

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jawabear · 3 years

Text

(2) Rule Breaker (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Not my GIF

A/N: so here’s the part two of Rule Breaker. It’s a little bit longer than I originally planned and it is also 87% smut (that’s probably not an accurate figure but you get my point). I hope you enjoy it as much as the first part. This one is happier so...yay. Sorry for any mistakes. Stay safe.

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut

Warnings: fem!reader, smutty things, oral (fem receiving), fingering, *slight* arm kink, can you blame me, Bucky being cute, but also hot, Maybe Bucky is a little shy

Summary: Bucky has another name to add to his list of his amends

Part 1

It had been nearly a month.

Nearly a whole month had past and he hadn’t seen her once. She hadn’t called him or texted him. But he hadn’t called her either. He just assumed that she was done with him now after what he did. But he wasn’t done with her.

“So why don’t you call her?” Dr Raynor asked him as she tilted her head to the side a little.

“She won’t want to speak to me” he mumbled as he fiddled with the leather gloves covering his hands.

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because of the way she looked at me. She smiled but I could see the pain in her eyes. I told you I hurt her. I broke her heart. Why would she ever want to talk to me again?” Bucky question, Dr Raynor could hear slight anger in his voice, something she hadn’t heard in him before. But he was angry at himself, she could tell that.

“Because, if what you’ve told me about her is true, then she isn’t the type of person to cast someone aside after one mishap. Especially not you. You’ve told me she is a forgiving person, James. And she must care for you as much as you care for her, which I can tell is a lot”

“I don’t think she’ll forgive me” he said to himself.

“As a condition of your pardon, you have three rules to follow” Raynor continued “you broke rule number two. You admitted that to me. So now, you have to make amends”

Bucky didn’t say anything and just looked away. For once he actually agreed with her. He did need to make amends. He needed to fix his broken relationship. Fix her broken heart.

“But what if she doesn’t let me?” Bucky muttered under his breath. He was thinking out loud, but it was also a genuine question. What if she didn’t accept his apology? What if she had moved on? Found someone better than him.

“You won’t know until you try” Raynor shrugged. Bucky let out a dry laugh at the comment. Something he had heard since he was kid. “You either try and make amends, or I have you arrested for breaking the terms of your pardon”

“That’s a little extreme don’t you think doc?” He questioned.

“Maybe you need a little extreme to motivate you to do the right thing” he frowned slightly still not looking at her. “Now, I know I haven’t met her. But I have met you before, during and after being with her. And if I’m being honest, I much prefer the person you were during being with her. And I’m sure you do too”

Bucky could stop thinking about Dr Raynor’s words on his way home. There was truth in them that was terrifying to him. He knew she was right. He would have to apologise to her and make amends for breaking rule number two. But the same questions he had asked himself were still lingering in the back of his mind. What if she didn’t accept his apology, and what if she had moved on already?

It wouldn’t be difficult for her in finding another partner. She was perfect and could get anyone she wanted. But he selfishly wanted himself to be the only person she’s with. He felt a little sick at the thought of her being with someone else. They wouldn’t be able to make her happy the way he did. But perhaps at the same time, they wouldn’t break her heart the way he did.

There were too many thoughts in his head. So many that it got to a dangerous point where he felt his head was going to explode. The feelings inside him were ones he hadn’t felt since his HYDRA days. Things he hadn’t felt since being with her. The feelings of fear, anger, and sadness.

Bucky needed her.

He knew why he needed her. He knew why he wanted her. She made everything okay.

When he was with her, it felt as though he was back in Wakanda. Back in his calm. With her, the world wasn’t moving at a million miles a minuet. It moved as fast as he wanted it to move. With her, he felt like he was in control. He felt like he was truly free.

And he wanted that freedom back. He hated that his thoughts were clouded again like before. He hated that he felt so conflicted like before. He hated that he felt so out of control, so trapped, so alone just like before. Only she could make him better. Only she could make him free.

It was late now. It was dark out but the streets were just as busy as they were in the day light. Such is the way of people. Such is the way of the city that never sleeps. But aside from that, he was far more concerned with the fact that in all his clouded judgment his feet had brought him to place he longed to be. Not his own home, but hers.

He knew the road to her place probably better than he did his own. Her place was nicer than his, for starters, she had furniture. And more importantly, it was where she was.

But now Bucky began to feel panic more than anything. Panic that he was stood outside her door and she was most likely inside. He began to quickly weigh up his options. Either leave and try and forget all about her, or stay and hope for the best in apologising to her.

Knowing that trying to forget her and moving one would be utterly impossible for him, his only other option was to knock on her door and stage out his apology.

His metal hand knocked slowly three times on the wood of her door. And so he waited. While waiting, he mapped out a vague script of what he wanted to say to her. But there was so much he wanted to say to her that it was nearly impossible to try and shorten it down. Especially since at any second she could’ve opened the door.

But when her door opened, all his thoughts disappeared. His script was torn up and forgotten. All his earlier emotions of anger, fear and sadness had washed away. He was just happy to see her again. He was overwhelmed at seeing her again. Not just with happiness, but relief and guilt to go along side it too. It was quite a strange feeling. But what mattered more was that she was there in front of him.

“James?” She said quietly. She didn’t looked angry at seeing him. Or sad. She looked a little confused. And her confusion only increased at what he did next.

He didn’t really know what came over him. Perhaps it was the overwhelming emotions that cause him to do what he did. He surged forwards, taking her face in his gloved hands and pushing his lips against hers in a desperate kiss. He walked her backwards into her apartment, the door swinging shut and locking behind them.

Bucky didn’t know where here was walking her too. Just to the nearest stopping point he guessed. That was her kitchen table. The place where most their monumental moments happened. It was where they had their first date, where they shared their first kiss, where they shared their stories and when they both first said ‘I love you’. And now it would be the home of his desperate plea for her forgiveness.

He pulled his trembling lips from her but still held her face in his hands. He didn’t care about the tears falling down his face, and he didn’t care that he probably looked crazy, his emotions were building up inside him and his words tumbled from his lips.

“I know I...I have no right to be here. No right to be...kissing you after what I did. But (Y/N)...I want you to know how sorry I am. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I never wanted to. I was just...scared. So scared of being in a relationship. Scared of being with you. Being with someone so perfect. I don’t deserve you. But I love you” he sobbed as he began kissing her again “I love you so much. You are what I’m looking for. I only want you. I only need you”

He was expecting her to push him away which is why he was so desperate to kiss her for as long as he could, he was terrified that this would be the last chance he would ever get to be with her.

She did push him away but not forever. She smiled at him and took his face in her gentle hands, wiping away his fast flowing tears that didn’t cease no matter how hard he tried to conceal them. “You don’t need to apologise to me, Bucky” she whispered “even though it did hurt, I accepted your reasoning. I understand that for someone like you, being in a relationship is probably terrifying. I just wanted you to be happy which I why I let it go. But in a selfish way, I want you to be happy with me. Because I love you Bucky. And I’ll always be here to love you. I’ll always be here for you”

Bucky didn’t reply but instead forced his lips on hers again in a more passionate kiss than before. She smiled into the kiss and slipped her arms around his neck. He moved his around her waist and lifted her off the floor, her legs immediately wrapping around his waist as he carried her to her bedroom still knowing the exact path to take to get there.

He lay her in the centre of her bed, putting her down gently carful not to damage the precious being that she was. He pulled his lips off her and pressed a light kiss to her forehead “you do make me happy. Happier than anyone else has” his hands began to wander over her body and she sank into every touch. “Let me show you how happy you make me” Bucky’s voice was lower now and more rough. It sent a small shiver down her spine and she nodded her head making him chuckle a little.

Bucky’s fingers trialled up under her shirt making her shiver at the cool touch of his metal hand against her warm skin. As his fingers moved up her body, he took her shirt with them. Pulling it over her head and tossing it to the side now trailing kisses down her torso making love to every inch of her bare skin.

“I’m never letting you go again...” he whispered before dragging his tongue down the navel between her breasts, silently thanking what ever god there was above him for the fact she had decided not to wear a bra for whatever reason. “You’re going to be stuck with me forever” he smirked as he looked up at her.

Her hands rose to his cheeks and pulled his face back to hers, pushing her lips against his. “I don’t want to be anywhere else” she muttered against his lips before he shoved his tongue into her mouth.

He hummed against her lips as he licked all the inside of her mouth reclaiming what was his. Her fingers threaded themselves into his soft hair gently tugging on the strands as his tongue still continued its journey inside her wet cavern.

Cool fingers slid back up her sides and the black metal fingers began circling her nipple before pinching it and making her squeak “Bucky” she said breathlessly as he pulled back from her lips looking a little too proud of himself.

“I’ve still got it” he joked making her laugh before he kneaded her breast in his hand. Her head rolled backwards giving him prime access to her luscious neck that he loved so much. Bucky waisted no time in attaching his lips to her neck, sucking on that perfect spot while still gently squeezing at her breast. Her hands fell to his shoulders, gripping them lightly as she pressed her knees against his hips, trying in vain to suppress the wetness forming between her legs.

(Y/N) curled her fingers, rolling the fabric of his jacket in them making her groan a little. She wanted to feel him again. But not with this jacket on, not with his shirt on either. But she was far to content in the lush feeling of the way he so expertly made love to her neck. His tongue massaging her skin before sinking his teeth into it and them going back to rubbing his tongue over it. It was a pattern. A cycle. One that she desperately loved.

But right now, what she would love more than that, was to see that well built body of his. “Bucky” She hummed as she began pushing at his shoulders slightly, a signal for him to pull away. When he did, he looked down at her in concern, worried he had done something wrong.

“What is it?” He asked quickly. Her hands slipped down his front, unzipping his jacket as they went before she slid her fingers up under his shirt tracing the outline of his abs.

“I want to see you..” she whispered dangerously close to his lips. He let out what could only be described as a growl before shrugging off his jacket before sending it off in the same direction as he had her shirt. He sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head before flinging that too to the slowly growing pile of clothes.

When entering her bedroom, he hadn’t bothered to turn on the light. So the only light that could be seen was that from the hallway of her apartment and the light from the bustling city outside. Both made his body glow like a god. He was simply heavenly.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position. It was now her turn to show him some love. She peppered wet kisses all over his chest, paying more attention to his collar bones, knowing he loved it when she kissed him there. He let out a gasp of almost relief at getting to feel her lips on his body again. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he relished in the feeling of her lips and tongue everywhere on his torso and her hands everywhere else.

But as much as he love it, he had to stop her. He was the one who had to make it up to her. He was the one who had to make amends. Bucky brought his hands down onto her shoulders and pushed her away from him, looking down at her as she looked up at him.

Quite the sight she was. The patched of wet on her neck from his kisses shone in the dim but colourful light from the city. Her eyes were somehow both innocent and devious. And her lips were parted, letting out soft pants that fluttered against his skin.

“This is about you, doll” he whispered to her in a low voice as he carefully pushed her back down onto the bed “this is only about you” she didn’t answer him with words but just gave him a kind look which he took as a sign to continue.

And continue he did.

Once again, his mouth fell on her skin, moving further and further down her body. His fingers hooked into the waist band of her pyjama bottoms making sure to get her underwear as well before effortlessly pulling them down and tossing them to the pile. Now leaving her in all her naked glory. Bucky got to his knees again and looked down at her. She was the heavenly one to him. Glowing like a goddess. Shining like a queen. And she was all his. Bucky smiled at the thought before shuffling further down her bed and slowing himself between her thighs, now face to face with her glistening wetness.

“Oh baby” he whispered, more to himself really. He slipped his arms around her thighs to pulled her closer to him. His tongue slipped out past his lips and teased her clit making her whimper as her finger slid back into his hair. He did thins a couple more times before giving her what she wanted.

His tongue flattened between her folds making her moan and arch her back into the air. “Bucky..” she moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair. Her voice trailed off into desperate gasps, rolling her hips into his mouth. He didn’t try to stop her. He was just as desperate for her as she was for him.

His arms tightened around her thighs holding her closer to him, his face now literally buried between her legs eating her out like a starved man. But in some respects he was, he was one month starved of her. He was going to make up for that lost time.

Bucky’s mouth had now fully engulfed her mound making her writhe with pleasure under him, moaning his name and digging her nails into his scalp making his groan in response, the vibrations sent more pleasure coursing through her body. His tongue swirled round and round her clit.

She cried out his name when he sucked harshly on her sensitive bud, her hips bucking up against his mouth “fuck...Bucky..” she panted. But Bucky didn’t respond, he just carried on eating his month overdue meal.

It wasn’t long before she felt her climax approaching. This she didn’t need to vocalise. Bucky could always tell when she was close without her having to say a word. So he went harder making her mouth fall open and her hands go limp in his hair as pleasure consumed every inch of her being. He hummed along with her breathless moans and slowed his tongue, working her through her climax before removing his mouth from her and slipping his arms from her thighs.

“Was that good?” He asked. A rhetorical question. He knew the answer already.

“Yes...” was all she could say, her body still reeling from the intense pleasure.

He kissed his way back up her chest and ghosted his lips over her “do you want some more?” He whispered roughly making her body tingle. (Y/N) couldn’t answer him with words, nor any action. All she could do was whimper in agreement, but that was good enough for him.

Bucky’s fingers wandered back down her sides as he pushed his lips back onto hers in a deep and slightly sloppy kiss, his tongue wasting no time in intruding into her mouth, not that she was in any fit state to deny him access anyway. (Y/N) could feel the cool metal fingers dance along her slick folds and she instinctively spread her legs a little more.

“So you do want more?” He asked with a dark chuckle as he pulled back from her lips again. She looked up at him through her lashes and hazy eyes.

“Yes James...” she whispered knowing what it did to him when she said his name. It drove him crazy. This whole venture had caused great strain in his boxers, he was rock hard but he knew he could hold out for a little longer. He still didn’t feel he had made amends yet.

He sat back in his knees again and ran his hands along the curves of her body, bringing them both between her thighs and dragging both thumbs between her folds. The contrast of his warm flesh and his cold metal thumbs was simply divine. It was making her head spin as he continued to massage her pussy. It was so dizzying that she almost missed his question.

“Which one do you want?” He asked her. She knew it was in reference to which hand she wanted him to finger her with. Ideally she wanted both but she had always favoured his left. Something about that metal arm could work wonders that nothing or no one else could.

(Y/N) brought her hands to his shoulders and glided her right hand down his left arm. The look in her eyes was indication enough that his left was the one she wanted, although, he could’ve guessed that before he even asked. His flesh hand rested on her stomach to hold her hips in place as he sunk two cold fingers into her heated core.

She let out a strangled moan and reached out for his wrist as he began pumping his metal fingers in and out of her soaking pussy. Her eyes bore into the almost black metal of his vibranium arm. She hadn’t, in their month apart, forgotten how much she loved his metal arm, but her memory had failed to replicate just how amazing it made her feel. She became a whimpering and moan mess under his touch, incapable of saying anything other that splutters of his name.

Bucky looked down at his treasure with fond and almost proud eyes. Proud that he was able to bring such a strong willed, beautiful woman down to such a submissive being. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she became utterly at his mercy, she was completely speechless and practically breathless as well.

He didn’t go fast, but he didn’t go slow either. He always knew the perfect pace to set to drive her crazy. His fingers were still just as dizzying as before and she was rendered completely useless under his touch. But that was what he wanted. He wanted her to feel the best she possibly could. He wanted to make her feel the best she possibly could. And he almost was. Almost.

“Bucky...please..” she pleaded.

“Please what baby?” He asked, twisting and turning his fingers inside her making her face twist and turn with pleasure.

“I want...fuck...I want you...” she managed to say. Bucky hummed lightly to himself and eased his fingers out of her, placing her fingers on her clit and guiding them round in circles. She looked at him in confusion but he only smirked down at her.

“I don’t want your pleasure to end, doll” he told her before reaching over to the beside table knowing there would be condoms in there. He was right. He fished one out and took it between his teeth before momentarily climbing off the bed to rid himself of his bottoms layers of clothing.

She watched him with keen eyes as he undressed himself, her fingers still circling her clit as thoughts began to fill her mind of what was to come. With his clothes now gone, he ripped open the foil packet and slipped the item onto his solid length before climbing back onto the bed. He gave her a final look to make sure she was still okay. (Y/N) nodded her head a little, giving him the go ahead.

Her fingers stopped and there was a brief moment between them before he began pushing himself inside her making them both groan in pleasure and relief. “Fuck..” he hissed “I forgot how tight you are”

“Hmm...and I forgot how big you are..” she said, her fingers stroking over his v-line as he continued to sink himself into her.

He let out a long breath as he finally bottomed out in her. He felt weak but in a good way. Perhaps a better way to describe it would be relaxed. He fell onto his forearms either side of her head, his face right up close to hers. “I love you” he whispered.

“I love you” she whispered back with a soft smile. Her hands dropped from his hair falling flat on the pillow, he took it upon his to entangle his fingers with her, gripping her hand lightly as he began to slowly roll his hips along hers.

Out of all the things she loved about Bucky, this was near the top of the list. Not the sex as such. The fact that he always wanted to hold her hands as he fucked her. No matter what position it was, he always found a way to have at least on of her hands in his. She didn’t know why and she didn’t want to ask. She didn’t know if he was really even aware that he did it and she was afraid that if she asked then he would stop. But she guessed that perhaps it was a comfort thing, because it definitely brought comfort to her.

Her room was soon filled with the sound of skin on skin, whimpers, pants, moan and groans, and the sound of them whispering sweet nothing and words of praise to each other as his hips gradually began picking up their pace.

Bucky was in heaven. He had almost forgotten how good it felt to be inside her. To have her slick walls pull him in. She was utterly divine. Despite this though, he didn’t much like hearing the sounds he was making. So he buried his face in her neck again in an attempt to muffled his noises at least. It worked for the most part. She was making him feel so good that he couldn’t suppress his noises, but now the sounds of her were really the only ones he could hear.

And they were music to his ears. Sweet, sweet music as her fingernails dug into the back of his hand. He had now established his pace. Not too fast, not too slow. Not too hard but hard enough to ensure he hit that spot inside her perfectly every time. He wanted her to forget about everting else and just remember this. The here and now. And he though the best way to do that was to send white hot pleasure coursing through her veins, making her see stars and making his name the only thing she could say.

That was most certainly the case. It felt as though her body was on fire. His hips angled perfectly to hit that special spot every time. And his smell. That wonderful smell of his only heightened her pleasure. Filling her nose and making her dizzy. Everything about him was dizzying. But in the best possible way. She wouldn’t have it any different and she certainly wasn’t willing to let him go a second time and risk loosing him forever.

Bucky’s hips seemed to falter briefly as he let out a weak moan, his arms shaking a little too. He was close. And so was she. Both of them were squeezing each other’s hands as he drove his hips just that little bit faster and harder into her, his breath coming out in hot, fast pants against the wet skin of her neck. “(Y/N)...Oh fuck...(Y/N)” he moaned against her.

“B-Bucky...James...come with me” his body shook from hearing his name fall so sweetly off her lips. He managed to pull his head from her neck and slammed his lips down onto her, he always wanted to be kissing her if he could when they came. Just another one of the many things she adored about him.

His breath picked up even more and his fingers began to flex in hers before he rolled his forehead onto hers, their pants of pleasure mixing. He let out a somewhat strangled moan as he came, she followed closely behind him, her walls flexing around his throbbing length as she arched her back into his chest, he knees digging into his waist again.

He began to slow his hips, bringing them both down from their glorious highs. His lips found hers again in lighter kisses. “Fuck...” he whispered “god you’re so good..”

“Me?” She giggled “it’s you who’s the good one”

“Well..” he began between kisses “it takes two to tango I guess”

She all but burst out laughing at this “oh wow!” She said happily making him smile brightly “you are something else Mr Barnes. And I love you for it”

“I love you for a lot of things. That pretty laugh and beautiful smile for one” he told her. He released his hands from hers and slowly pulled out of her before getting off the bed and padding to the bathroom to discard his condom. Whilst he was doing that, (Y/N) sat up, her body still relishing in the pleasure, and leaned over the bed to fish out his shirt before searching for a clean pair of underwear to put on. She also pulled out his boxers knowing he slept in nothing else but them.

She laid them out on the bed before climbing under the sheets and waiting for him to come back. Thankfully it wasn’t long. He walked back into her room in all his naked glory. Her face burned as if she were a teenager seeing a naked body for the first time and not a person who had just been fucked so beautifully by said naked man.

Bucky spied his boxers and picked them up of the bed muttering a thanks as he slipped them on and slipped into bed next to her. Before she had a chance to attempt to snuggle into him, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her neck, holding her flush against him.

For a while, there was a silence between them. It was Bucky who finally broke it by taking in a long breath and letting it back out.

“(Y/N)” he said quietly to her as she slowly ran her fingers through his soft hair. She hummed in response “I really am sorry...for what I did. I don’t really know what I was thinking-“

“Bucky, don’t” she stopped him from continuing his pointless apology “I’ve already forgiven you and I was never angry with you in the first place. I told you already. I understand your reasoning. But I don’t want to hear you apologising any more. It’s in the past. Now, I just want to spend each day with you”

“You will because I don’t want to leave you and I don’t want you to leave me. I want a constant in my life that isn’t just regret or pain. I want happiness and love. And only the happiness and love that you give me”

“I don’t plan on ever letting you go that easy again Bucky. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me”

“Perfect”

15/04/21

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #tfatws #marvel #sebastian stan #angst #fluff #smut #fanfic

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youraveragebtsstan · 3 years

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A Buddie FanFic: "The Things We Never Could Say" (A Season 4, Episode 13 Epilogue)

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Pairing: Buck x Eddie (Buddie), Evan ‘Buck’ Buckley & Edmundo ‘Eddie’ Diaz

Word Count: 2.3k (2,266)

Summary: Buck knew he would have to face his feelings sooner or later, but he never thought he might not get the chance. As his best friend lies in the hospital suffering from the wounds of a sniper, Buck struggles with the idea of losing the love of his life, without the possibility of saying the things he’s always wanted to say. (Events of this Fic take place after the final scene of Season 4, Episode 13. As of writing/posting this Fic, Episode 14 has not yet aired.)

AO3 (Archive Of Our Own) Link: Click Here

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Night had come in a blur.

The sun had faded, smearing itself in the sky, until there was nothing left; not even the moon. The sky was simply dark. There was no need for Buck to look up just to know he was alone. Though, it was nothing more than a feeling… He knew.

For the past few hours, time swayed by drunkenly. Buck swore he was still standing under the sun. He breathed in the daylight, exhaling something of content when the first shot was fired. He didn’t recall hearing anything. Not the sound of the bullet rattling through the barrel nor the screams of those that cried out in a panic as they fled around him. His focus was occupied by more important things.

The look of confusion on Eddie’s face burned, etched in his mind. As his body jerked at the push, he fell limp. A fearful stare gleamed in his eyes as he laid on the ground; the hand that reached out as his blood pooled around him… his blood. Buck could still feel the warmth of Eddie’s blood as it splattered on the side of his face; soaking into his hair, it melted onto his shirt. The stains had already dried, cracking on his skin.

Blinking into reality, the sounds of the faucet drew him in. His head hung low in the bathroom mirror. Leaning against the sink, he watched the water flow down the drain for what seemed like an eternity.

How did he get here?

All Buck could remember was climbing in the ambulance, sitting by Eddie’s side. He remembered holding onto the gurney as they rushed him through the hospital doors. Chaos ensued as doctors and nurses shouted to each other, carting in other victims one by one. He remembered sitting in the waiting room, eventually pacing the halls as his adrenaline struggled to catch up with his surroundings. As he tried to trek through the mess that was his thoughts, he began to get overwhelmed. When did he leave the hospital? He was too afraid to leave; afraid he would miss something important. No, he wouldn’t have left on his own accord. He couldn’t have. Did someone bring him home? He couldn’t imagine driving himself, not in his condition. He was disoriented and absent-minded. Had he told anyone about Eddie being shot? Did Maddie know? Chim? What about Christopher?

Right, he still had to tell Christopher… He remembered calling Carla shortly after arriving at the hospital; blood smearing on his screen as he swiped to find her number. Thankfully, she and Christopher spent the day together, visiting the park and an ice cream parlor or two. Buck breathed a little easier, knowing Christopher had a few more hours of joy remaining. Carla, being the kind woman she was, assured Buck she would stay by the younger’s side until he went home to clean himself up and pack a bag for the next few nights.

Right, he needed to get moving.

Taking a shallow breath, he glanced toward the shower, eyeing the handle. Buck struggled as he tried to get his feet to move. Glued to the ground, he moved not a single inch. All he needed to do was turn the handle. He had done this countless times, hell he somehow managed to turn the sink on, so why was now so hard? Rolling his neck in frustration, he caught a glimpse of his reflection; he nearly jumped out of his skin. His hair was matted, shirt drenched in sweat and blood. His skin was dirtied in debris; eyes red and glossy, sunken into their sockets. He looked nothing like himself. In fact, he had made up his mind the man before him was a mirage. The pit in his stomach gaped deeper.

Pushing off the sink, he made his way up to his room. He threw open the closet doors, yanking a couple shirts form their hangers. Tossing them in a bag along with a few pairs of boxers and socks he plucked from his drawers, he left his room in disarray. Like a tornado let loose upon his home, nothing was done with care. He felt as if time were slipping through his fingers. Dropping the bag to the floor, he fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. He couldn’t wait to get this thing off his body. He found it hard to move with it on. It weighed heavy on his chest. Unclasping the final button, he crumpled it in his hands, throwing it in the trash can next to his bed. His breath trembled as he breathed in. Though the shackles had been removed, he still trapped; the metal rattling in his lungs. The dried blood on his skin cracked as it crawled along his face.

Buck tried to shake the feeling. It wasn’t real, how could it be?

Trotting down the stairs, he raced to the sink, wanting to drown the sensation in the water. With each step, it’s grip around his throat grew tighter.

Plunging his head under the bathroom faucet, he gasped for air. Cupping his hands, he scrubbed his face, mashing his nose and cheeks in abstract circles. It burned the blood away like acid. His lashes were heavy as they dripped, water falling from his hair, down his nose and back. Small puddles could be found along the floor. Buck braced himself on the edge of the sink. Blowing water past his lips, his breathing lay labored. He gripped the sink tighter; fingers turning a muted shade of white.

Soon, a cry burst from his lips. Through gritted teeth, it resembled a groan of agony. Shaking uncontrollably, tears breached their waterlines. Falling against the wall, he slid to the floor, curling his knees to his chest. He had been sleepwalking. Numb for the remainder of the day, his body functioned purely on autopilot. Finally, his emotions gave in; exhausted and overwhelmed, he cried.

There was no one around to comfort him. No one he could call to ease his racing mind. The one person he needed the most, was the one who left him here alone. He needed Eddie. After all, Eddie was supposed to be there. He promised to have his back, just as Buck swore to have his. He tried to think of Eddie. In a different moment other than today, he played any memory he could think of. Something that would save him from himself. As Buck laid his head against the wall, he stared mindlessly into the faucet.

Funny enough, his thoughts dragged him to another heartbreak. He remembered how he felt the night of the tsunami, ringing and twisting the bands of Christopher’s glasses in his hands. He had spent hours wandering various medical tents, calling out the boy’s name to the point of blistered feet and a scratchy throat. Tears overflowed his eyes as he fought to look Eddie in his… those brown eyes he adored so much. His heart exploded with relief the moment he saw Christopher back in Eddie’s arms safe and sound; knees buckling underneath him. Wrapped in Eddie’s arms is where things seemed the safest.

He remembered how angry Eddie was when he filed the lawsuit against the department. How Eddie saw red that day in the grocery store. The hurt in his voice masked by rage, as he clenched his fists by his side- Buck swore he was going to hit him… He wouldn’t have mind. The rattle of a fist against his jaw would have felt better than the hole in his heart. The hole Eddie dug deeper the more he ignored him; declining his calls and leaving his texts on read. Though he never admitted it, he cried on occasion. While everyone else ran off on calls, Buck often locked himself in the showers, stood with his back against the door as tears streamed down his face. Drawing a wedge between him and his best friend, he hated his pride that led him to isolation. He hated being alone…

So when Eddie was there for him after his world came crashing down, it was no wonder he couldn’t find the words to describe his appreciation. After 12 years of deceit finally coming to light, Buck found himself in a screaming match with his parents. He felt like a child again. Betrayed and neglected, Buck rambled on and on for what seemed like days at a time- Eddie was there to listen. He made him feel heard. Listening to his various monologues through FaceTime, even as Buck began to blame himself, doubling back on his words and dismissing his own feelings, Eddie always made him feel valid.

Eddie was always there… except now. Why couldn’t he be there now?

Why was he laying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life with IVs and monitors taped to him? It seemed so minute, a shot to the shoulder. If only they had rushed Eddie out of there like he begged, like he pleaded, he would have been fine. There would have been no need for him to pack a bag preparing to spend countless nights between a couch and the hospital. He wouldn’t need to tell Christopher his father’s not coming home tonight, if he came home at all. If only they let him pull Eddie to safety, things would have been fine… But instead first responders hid behind their cars, piling on top of each other, holding him down while Eddie laid in the middle of the street bleeding.

God, he had lost so much blood… Why did they waste so much time?

Time… Buck began to think rationally for a moment, his hopes growing high. Maybe if he showered quick enough, he could go back to the hospital and sit for a while- not for hours like he had before, but maybe an hour or two before Carla went home for the night. Though, he would be wasting away in the hallway; knee bouncing, rattling the chairs next to him. He probably would have worn his nails down to nubs before the doctor came back with any news. Buck pulled his thumb from his mouth at the thought; an old nervous habit rearing its ugly head. He clawed at his jeans, finding other use for his hands. Another the image of Eddie came to mind. Reaching out his hand as he laid on his side, Buck reached further, hoping he could feel his touch only feeling the rough touch of denim.

If only this once, he could hold Eddie’s hand.

He wanted to be by his side, waiting until he woke up… He wanted to be the first thing Eddie would see- not just in the hospital, but all the time. On the weekends, when they were both rarely off from work, he wanted to wake up next to Eddie; seeing him roll over in the sheets, sun shining in his face. On lazy afternoons, when Eddie sometimes napped at the fire station, Buck wanted to see that moment again. The man curled up on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, face plastered in bliss. He wanted to wrap his arms around Eddie as he cooked; with music playing in the background, dancing as he often did when he made dinner. Buck wanted to hold him in his arms, his head laying on his shoulder. That would be his own piece of peace.

The more Buck thought, the more he realized the two men had created a special type of love. Sure it was undefined, maybe even unconventional, but it was love nonetheless. As the wise words of a man he once met ran in his ears, Buck found himself laughing. Tears dried on his cheeks, nose no longer running, he remained laying against the wall, his laugh deep and therapeutic. He used to long for a love like this. Hoping for the day he would stumble upon it, unaware such a sacred love could only be made, molded with one’s own two hands- and By God, they had done it! He loved everything that ever was about Eddie Diaz. He had known for quite some time, the feeling of being in love. Constantly hiding his true feelings and for what reason? It was times like this, he wished he hadn’t. If only he had told him before…

That’s it, he thought to himself. As the light bulb flickered on above his head, he wiped the tears from his cheeks. He cleared his throat with a start. Standing, he flipped the handle on his shower wall, water spitting from the head as a result. Staring in the mirror, reminisce of himself began to reappear. He raised his chin, breathing deep. You got this. There was no need in holding himself down, torturing himself with a nonsensical life without Eddie. He didn’t have time to marvel over ‘what ifs’ or hypotheticals. Reality was now; a breath of fresh air compared to the sadness he had been drowning himself in. From that moment on, he would only allow himself to think fact, for fiction was too painful.

Fact, Eddie was going to be fine. The surgery would go well, and he would return home in no time.

Fact, Eddie would tuck Christopher into bed again. He would once again read his son his favorite stories as he drifted off to sleep in his arms.

Fact, when Eddie did open his eyes, Buck was going to be there… Sitting by his bedside, he would be holding his hand, ready to say the things he never could say.

Completed On: May. 23th 2021

Written By: Carmen Feaster (YourAverageBTSStan)

Feel Free To Reblog- Just Give Credit

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p4perthoughts · 3 years

Text

Young Justice Universe

Dick Grayson x Barbara Gordon

I have a theory that Dick and Barbara totally got together in the middle of season 2 (as opposed to the time jump between S2 and S3) and nobody can convince me otherwise

Events take place after Young Justice S2 E9: Darkest

Dick was definitely not feeling the aster.

He was exhausted, much like anyone would be after nearly being blown up. As he walked along he kept replaying the sound of the explosion over and over again in his head. He clutched the flash drive Kaldur had passed to him right before they lost Mount Justice. He could have put it in his bag along with his Nightwing suit for safe keeping, but he couldn’t let go of it. He needed to feel it in his hand to keep telling himself it was worth it. Losing the cave. Almost losing his life. Continuing to lie to everyone else was worth it. It had to be.

As he rounded the corner, he paused and found himself holding his breath. She was there. Of course she was there. Barbara Gordon was sitting on the steps of his apartment building. She hadn’t looked up and seen him yet so his instincts told him to turn around and run. He’d grown distant from his best friend since this whole thing started. Dick was able to lie to the entire team, even the League, all this time because the fate of the world depended on the success of this plan. But he knew that if he looked Babs in the eyes, he wouldn’t be able to do it.

He chose to keep walking forward. Before he could say anything Barbara got up and hugged him. Her touch was a warmth he hadn’t felt in a while. He definitely missed her.

“Are you okay?” She said as she stepped back.

For a second Dick had forgotten what had just happened and that Mount Justice was gone. Reality set back in like a cold punch in the face.

“Yeah yeah. Everyone’s pretty shaken up, but we all made it out...except for those that were taken.” He said while avoiding meeting her eyes.

“Tim said that explosive took out the entire place.” She said in a way that sounded like a question.

So he nodded. But then when he looked back at her, her concerned expression turned into sadness for a brief moment. Dick forgot that Mount Justice had become a second home to Babs too when she joined the team.

They stood there for a minute before Barbara broke the silence.

“What’s actually wrong?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dick said as he headed into the building.

Babs grabbed her gym bag from the steps and followed behind him, “yes you do.”

“I’m your best friend, Dick. I know when somethings wrong.” She said as he pressed the elevator button.

Dick stepped into the elevator and she invited herself in behind him. He chose to not address it so he tried to change the subject.

“What’s in the bag?” He said.

“What’s in your bag?”

“I asked you first.” He retorted without skipping a beat. He missed their banter.

She sighed sarcastically and unzipped her gym bag a little as it still hung on her shoulder. Right, dumb question. He saw the bat symbol on her suit’s chest plate and her cowl. It was past midnight so figures she was out patrolling. That’s two points in her column now cause this is further proof to her he was off his game. He could feel her eyes look up at him, so he knew he was right.

As he pulled out his keys and began opening his door he remembered the flash drive in his left hand. The events of the evening all rolled back to hit him like a tsunami. The harsh words from Wally echoed in his ears. It was worth it he told himself.

When they got inside Barbara made herself at home -as usual when she comes over. She laid down her stuff and headed to the kitchen. Dick put the flash drive on his dresser before heading for the couch. He fell into the cushions with the weight of the universe on him and put his head in his hands.

He felt Babs come back. She sat next to him and comfortably put her legs in his lap. She had opened a bag of chips and offered him some. They sat there together for a while in silence. Just two friends, eating chips, comfortably in each other’s company. Maybe it’s because Barbara knew him longer than almost anyone. She knew everything about him. She knew who he was, both as Dick Grayson and Nightwing -Robin before that. She was everything to him from his first kiss to his best partner out in the field.

Finally Barbara put the bag on the coffee table in front of them and she scooted closer to him. He put his arm on her knees.

“Talk to me, Grayson.” She said.

Dick finally brought himself to look at her. He looked at her and saw her deep, green eyes starring right at him. They weren’t filled with resentment like Wally’s or anguish like Conner’s. They were warm and comforting. He feared that if he told her what he wanted to tell her, that they wouldn’t look at him that way anymore.

He let out a sigh and closed his eyes. She reached for him. As he felt her soft touch on his face, he broke. He told her everything about the mission and the lies.

When he got to the part about Artemis working undercover with Kaldur, he noticed her expression get distant.

“So she’s -she’s alive?”

He nodded. And waited. Waited for her to yell at him. To tell him what he was doing was wrong. That it wasn’t worth it. Or worse, for her to say nothing.

Instead she looked at him and asked, “who knows?”

He told her about their tiny circle that was in on the plan. He told her how he felt lying to everyone on the team, about the flash drive, about how he felt responsible for the other’s kidnapping, about how he almost got his team -his family- killed. He felt like he had been underwater and how he could now finally breathe. He had kept everything bottled up for so long that now it exploded and he didn’t even notice there had been tears until he found himself wiping at a wet sensation on his cheek.

When he looked at Babs she didn’t say anything. She simply pulled him to her and embraced him. His head lay under her chin as he allowed himself to wrap his arms around her waist. Dick steadied himself as he listened to the rhythm of her heartbeat. They sat this way for a while.

Dick pulled away finally when he felt he’d gained control of his breathing and his thoughts. He looked at his best friend and said, “you’re not mad?”

She looked at him and took a long breath.

“No,” she said finally, “for as long as I’ve known you Dick, you never do anything to hurt anyone. Even if that means hurting yourself. I don’t like that you lied, but I understand why you did. I’m sorry you felt that this was something you had to take on by yourself. I’m sorry you felt like you had to be Batman...”

She trailed off at the end. Babs knew more than anyone that Dick no longer wanted to become Batman. She knew from working with him first-hand that Batman was somebody only Bruce Wayne could be. Anybody else would be crazy to try to act like Batman...except Dick did.

“I’m not telling you that you have to let me in on the rest of your mission,” Barbara said, “I just want you to know you’ll always have someone to talk to when things get overwhelming. You’re not Bruce, Dick. Never forget that you’re never alone.”

That was it. Leave it to Barbara to always have the perfect thing to say. He felt like a huge weight had been lifted off him and could feel a relief he hadn’t felt in ages. He looked at her and simply said, “thank you.”

She smiled.

“Soooo,” she said after a moment. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

He raised an eyebrow.

Babs sighed, “I told my dad I was gonna sleep over at Mary’s to finish a project because the original plan was to spend the night on patrol since Bruce is presently out of town but then I heard what happened through the comms and I found myself coming here...”

She was starting to ramble a little. Dick noticed she only did that when she got nervous...and he’s rarely seen Babs get nervous. He hadn’t realized how close they were sitting to each other either.

“Yeah, we can watch a movie.” Dick agreed after he found himself starring at her lips for a little too long.

He tasked himself with finding something to watch while she got the bag of chips and went back to the kitchen to find something else for them to snack on.

Dick couldn’t help but watch her. He loved the way she walked around his apartment like she lived here too. So maybe it had been too long since the last time he’d seen her. Really seen her. Like outside of their costumed extra curricular activities. He missed her. Babs was always beautiful. And it wasn’t weird he thought of her in this way. They’ve always had a special type of relationship. But besides the usual playful flirting between them and a couple kisses -amazing kisses- they were just best friends. Secretly he’d been wishing they were more than that since he was 13 but he knew he wasn’t ready for her then.

Thinking back to their conversation, he realized how much they’ve each grown as people. And more importantly how it felt like they hadn’t grown out of each other as most childhood friends do. No, if anything they’ve grown more into each other. No matter how much time they spent apart, they could always come back together and fit perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle. The sound of a pop from the microwave brought him back outside his thoughts. Then he stood up, like on autopilot and as if his brain had just said “fuck it. Stop being a coward” he walked across to where Babs was waiting on the popcorn. As she turned to address him, Dick took her face in one hand and her waist in the other and kissed her. It was a long and deep kiss. He pulled away a little after to see her expression.

He was close enough that when she opened her eyes again he could see her pupils were dilated as she looked up at him. They were both breathing slightly heavy from the kiss. He could tell he caught her off guard but he didn’t know how to string words together to say how much he just wanted her and was tired of dancing around it. So he hoped his eyes were enough to convey that message. The silence was broken by the microwave beeping. Dick took the bowl out and put it on the side of the stove to let it cool a bit.

“Dick?” Barbara said making him turn around.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He started kissing her back and as their lips moved together Dick felt a warm feeling in his stomach. Is that what people mean when they say butterflies? He’d been with other women but never felt that. He pushed her up onto the kitchen counter and his hands traveled to her waist. Her hands moved from the back of his neck to his hair as she pulled him closer. Her lips were so soft that he never wanted to depart from them and her touch was so soothing that he felt every worry lift off his body making him feel weightless.

The way their bodies moved together was in perfect synch. Like two pieces of a puzzle, he thought to himself. He noticed her hands had gone down to the bottom of his shirt, gently tugging at it. So he pulled apart for a moment and took it off. Her hands felt so amazing as they touched his chest. As their lips met again this time his wandered down towards her neck. He hasn’t realized she was wearing a black tank top that fit her so well until the moment when he began pulling it off her. Their eyes locked as she smiled at him. He couldn’t help but smile back because her happiness was always contagious to him.

Dick realized that if they were going to continue, they shouldn’t keep doing so on his kitchen counter. Without skipping a beat he effortlessly picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her over to his bed.

#dick grayson #nightwing #barbara gordon #batgirl #young justice #young justice invasion #dickbabs #fanfic #dc comics #dc universe #batman #robin #dc #the writers weren’t gonna give this to us so I wrote it myself

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sapphoslibrary · 4 years

Text

Play Me A Song

“Play me a song.”

They’re twelve, hiding from Filch in an old, unused storage room. There’s a dusty, chipping grand piano sitting in the back.

Sirius is sitting on the bench, tapping carefully at the keys. The middle pedal is on the floor, cut clean like someone deliberately removed it. Sirius looks up at Remus’s request.

“Huh?” He says, surprised.

“Play for me,” Remus repeats, sitting on the corner of the bench.

A bit of a smile pulls on Sirius’s lips. “Alright. Any requests, your highness?” He jokes lightly, leaning against Remus’s shoulder.

“Anything, bard,” Remus smiles back.

“Hmm… alright. You know Clair De Lune?” Asks Sirius, hands hovering over the keys.

Remus shakes his head. “Nope. Play it anyway.”

Sirius smiles, and plays for Remus. At home, he always fears missing a note and getting punished. The anxiety is still there, but he knows Remus would never hurt him.

“Play me a song.”

They’re fourteen, sitting together in the Shrieking Shack, waiting for the moon to rise. Remus’s teeth are gritted, his whole body shaking, the fear and pain taking over his mind completely.

Sirius is holding his hand, stroking the inside of his palm. “You need to relax, Remus. Your heart’s gonna explode,” he says softly.

Remus tips his head back against the wall. “God. I can’t, Sirius, I’m fucking burning,” he hisses.

Sirius hushes him softly. “I’m sorry, Re. What can I— what do I do?”

“Play something for me. Please? It’ll help me relax,” Remus whispers tightly. Sirius bites his lip.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you—“

“Please?” Remus repeats, and Sirius relents.

“Alright. Okay, fine. What do you wanna hear?” Sirius asks, letting go of Remus’s hand to stand and cross the room to the piano.

“Fucking anything.”

Sirius glances back at Remus, then at the clock, and starts to play. Für Elise, a classic, one of his favorite pieces. He keeps playing until it’s too dangerous to stay, and James drags him out to the tunnel.

“Play me a song.”

They’re sixteen, sitting in the Potters’ living room. Sirius has just been kicked out of his home two weeks ago, and now he’s living here.

Sirius is still littered in bruises and half-healed lacerations. His current state is progress, but still fucked. Remus just wants to make him feel better.

“Wh— what?” Sirius startles.

“Play something? You don’t have to, but it’s quiet— it would be nice,” Remus says gently.

“Oh, okay.” Sirius doesn’t sound too sure, but Remus doesn’t want to push. “Help?” He reaches out, and Remus picks him up carefully, holding his too-thin boyfriend against his chest.

He sets Sirius down lightly on the pristine white stool, sitting beside him and wrapping an arm around his waist.

Sirius bites his lip, settling his hands on the keys. They’re shaking, Remus notices. Was this a mistake?

Sirius starts to play a simple scale. Suddenly, his hands jerk back like he just touched fire, and a choked sob jumps out of him.

Remus brings the piano cover down in an instant and holds Sirius close.

“Pads, hey, hey, what’s wrong? Did that hurt you? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know— are you okay?” He rambles, increasingly concerned with every violent sob coming out of Sirius.

Sirius shakes his head, fear glistening in his eyes. “Remus, I can’t, they— you don’t—“ he closes his eyes, overwhelmed by unwelcome, unpleasant thoughts.

Remus hushes him lightly, rubbing his arm. “Hey, it’s okay, no one’s gonna hurt you here. What’s scaring you? I’m sorry,“ he says gently, taking Sirius’s hand.

“‘S okay, not your fault. They… they’d always punish me if I played the wrong note. Usually slam the cover down on my hands. If they were mad, I got the belt, one lash for every wrong note. I’m so scared, Remus, I can’t—“ Sirius turns his head, crying softly into the couch.

Remus carefully pulls him into his lap. Scarred fingers card through wavy hair, gentle and loving. “I’m so sorry, love…”

“‘S okay. I just… can’t right now. Sorry,” Sirius sniffles, his voice muffled by Remus’s shirt. Remus hushes him gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It’s okay. I love you,” Remus whispers against his hair.

Sirius just nuzzles closer to Remus, replying in actions instead of words.

“Play me a song.”

They’re seventeen, sitting in the room of requirement two hours past curfew. It’s Remus’s birthday, and Sirius wanted to do something special for him.

It’s a beautiful scene. Little potted plants litter the room, patches of grass in some spots. The ceiling is covered in shining stars, constellations connected by faint lines. There’s a little blanket in the middle with a massive chocolate cake.

After a while, Remus only has eyes for the piano in the back corner.

“C’mon, Remus, you can have the whole world in here and that’s all you want?” Sirius asks lightly, pushing gently against Remus’s shoulder.

Remus smiles. “Of course it is. What else is there?”

“Literally anything, Re. I thought you’d have gotten tired of hearing me whack keys by now,” Sirius jokes.

Remus shakes his head, leaning against Sirius. “How could I get tired of hearing the most beautiful sounds ever? Come on, just one song,” he practically pleads.

Sirius sighs lightly. “Alright, alright, don’t gotta hold a gun to my head.”

Sirius goes over to the piano, sits on the velvet bench, leaving room for Remus to sit beside him.

“What do you wanna hear?”

“What’s that one you always played in first year?”

Sirius smiles, and starts playing.

Halfway through, Remus wraps an arm around Sirius’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Sirius turns to look at him, and Remus takes the opportunity to pull Sirius into a passionate kiss.

“Play me a song.”

They’re eighteen, lying on the floor of the common room. It’s nearly three in the morning, and they’re graduating today.

Graduating. Seven years, sixty three full moons, so many memories. And it’s ending now, just like that. They’ll be thrown out into the real world tomorrow, no one to guide them anymore, just their dumb, inexperienced selves.

It should be a bittersweet day, but really, it’s just bitter. They’re being thrown out into a fucking war, just eighteen year old kids. It’s scary to think about.

“Are you okay, Re?” Sirius asks gently, taking Remus’s hand.

Remus nods slightly, his hands trembling lightly. “I’m fine. Just, uh, sentimental? I don’t know. Emotions,” he mutters.

Sirius hums softly. “Me too. It’s okay,” he assures.

Remus turns to duck his head down onto Sirius’s shoulder, stubbornly holding the tears back. Sirius kisses him gently on the forehead. “We’ll be okay, Re.”

“Yeah…” Remus sits up, wiping at his eyes and pulling himself together. “C’mon, serenade me,” he says playfully after a minute.

Sirius grins, standing and walking over to the grand piano he’s become so familiar with.

“Last time tickling these ivories,” he says quietly, playing a couple scales to warm up.

“I really hate that sentence,” Remus laughs lightly.

“Sorry,” Sirius chuckles. “What do you wanna hear?” He pats the seat, motioning for Remus to sit beside him.

“What about that one you and Peter obnoxiously sing way too much? With the opera bullshit?”

Sirius rolls his eyes, pushing Remus’s shoulder lightly. “God, you have no appreciation for art. And it’s called Bohemian Rhapsody,” he corrects.

“Whatever. Play it, since you’re so artsy.”

Remus watches as Sirius plays, so mesmerized by the beautiful sounds Sirius is creating with just his finger tips. He tilts his head onto Sirius’s shoulder, eyes following the deep-red painted nails.

For the hundredth time, Remus thinks, I am so in love with this boy.

They’re twenty, curled up together on Remus’s couch, dry tear tracks on their cheeks. There’s a letter from Dumbledore on the coffee table that’s bee crumpled up and burnt at the corner from Sirius’s rage.

The letter detailed the mission Remus would be on for god knows how long— living underground with the werewolves. Spying.

“I can’t fucking believe he would do that to you,” Sirius sobs into Remus’s chest. Remus holds him close, hushing him gently.

“Me neither. I’m gonna be okay, though. You’re gonna see me again, I promise,” Remus murmurs softly.

Sirius lets out another choked sob. “You don’t know that! He’s sending you on a fucking suicide mission, Remus, how can you make a promise like that?”

Remus bites his lip, tucking Sirius’s head against his shoulder. “I do know, because I need to see you again, and no one will stop me. ‘M gonna be fine, Siri. Please believe that,” he assures carefully.

Sirius shakes his head. “I can’t, how am I s-supposed to… to—“ he cuts himself off when Remus hushes him again.

“Babe, you’re gonna make yourself sick, please calm down for me. I know you’re scared, I- I am too. But it’s gonna be fine,” Remus reassures again.

“But—“

“Come on, Pads, lets just enjoy tonight, okay? We can talk about it more in the morning, let’s just relax for now. Please?” Remus tries.

There’s a moment of relative silence, Sirius taking deep, shaky breaths to steady himself.

“Okay. Yeah, okay. What do you wanna do?” Sirius pulls back, shifting to straddle Remus.

A light, playful smile pulls on Remus’s lips. “Wanna play me a song?”

Sirius grins, wiping the tears from his cheeks and standing up. He offers a hand to Remus and tugs him over to the keyboard in the corner.

“What do you wanna hear?” He asks, as always, settling down on the wooden stool.

“Clair De Lune? For old times’ sake,” he says, sitting in the small space beside Sirius, leaning against him.

Sirius smiles softly at Remus. “I love you,” he whispers, leaning over to kiss him.

“I love you too.” They pull apart, and Sirius begins playing.

It was the last time Remus heard Sirius play for thirteen years.

They’re thirty-three, finally reunited, living together in Remus’s tiny cottage.

They’re okay now, or something like it. Sirius falls asleep in Remus’s arms most nights. They smile, laugh, and cook together, almost like a normal family. They’re happy, Remus thinks.

Something’s missing, though.

Remus knew Sirius would be different, he just didn’t think he’d be this different. He should’ve expected it, really— but it’s still devastating. There’s nothing left of the Sirius he fell in love with all those years ago. Remus wants to bring back some part of him, no matter how small

“Hey, Sirius?” Remus says softly, sitting beside him on the couch.

Sirius looks up, eyebrows raised slightly, and hums in response.

“Do you think… think you can still play?” Remus asks carefully— he still doesn’t know what the twelve years in Azkaban has done to Sirius’s mind, doesn’t want him to be upset by the question.

“Piano?” Sirius rasps, barely audible. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Yeah. It’s okay if not, I don’t want to—“ Remus starts, but Sirius cuts him off.

“I can try.”

Remus grins, leaning forward. “Really? You would?”

Sirius shrugs. “Sure, why not? Not like I have anything better to do,” he says sarcastically, but Remus can hear the bite of bitterness in the words.

There’s a dusty upright piano in the corner of the room, pressed flush against the wall. There’s no stool, only a little black folding chair, but it works.

Sirius shuffles slowly over to it, settling down and looking at the keys, re-familiarizing his mind with the order of the notes and semitones. It’s mildly confusing and frustrating at first.

“Woah. This is… I didn’t think I’d get to see one of these again…” Sirius mutters, hands hovering over the keys.

Remus crouches behind Sirius, pulling him close for a light kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you get to,” he whispers.

Sirius looks at him, smiling shakily. “Thank you,” he says lightly, emotional.

“Of course. It’s… a little out of tune, but it’s still a piano, right?”

Sirius laughs lightly. “Obviously. I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

Scarred fingers practically float over the keys, slow, unsure movements gradually growing faster as muscle memory sets in. Sirius smiles as he watches his own hands moving as if they’re going on their own, his thoughts melting into pure joy.

Remus is amazed, watching the man he loves so much do what he loves for the first time in 12 years. It’s a bittersweet moment for him, thinking about all that’s changed about this beautiful man, and all that’s stayed the same. It’s exhilarating to watch him find himself again.

“Sirius,” he whispers when Sirius’s hands stop. “That was beautiful.”

Sirius smiles, eyes glassy. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Remus wraps his arm around Sirius, leaning his head onto his shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re back,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

Sirius presses a kiss to Remus’s hair, pulling him close and just holding him for a minute. “Me too.”

#sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #sirius black x remus lupin #wolfstar fluff #wolfstar angst #the marauders #mwpp #angst #fluff #marauders era #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #wolfstar fanfiction #piano

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kingreywrites · 3 years

Text

Even If It Hurts - Chapter 2 - The one they found

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 2366

Summary: There are days when the tears can't help but fall, no matter how much Rapunzel and Eugene don't want them to.

There are days when these tears are shed for family; for the one they lost, the one they found, and the one they created.

Chapter Summary: Despite trying, the words will not come. His breath is cut off by the tears he won't shed, taking too much place in his chest until he feels nothing but them. He doesn't want to cry, but he's not sure if it's stopping talking or keeping at it that will tip him over the edge. Maybe there's no escaping this.

Note: Eugene’s turn >:)

Read on ao3

1. The one they lost ; 2. The one they found

Eugene... Eugene doesn't cry often. It doesn't suit him. People think it's another example of him being conceited when he says he has an ugly crying face, because after all, everyone is ugly when they cry, but it's- it's more complicated than that.

Eugene is an ugly crier. He's a loud crier too, because he can't stand sitting around in deafening silence while his world feels like it's crumbling around him. He needs to move, to talk, to do anything so he can ignore his tears as much as possible and that made him an absolute nightmare to deal with as a child, or so he was told.

He doesn't remember crying often enough to be an annoyance. He does remember, somewhat, the feeling of being scolded by people who were as tall as giants, yelling for him to shut up. He's an adult now, and he's not sure if this is a memory or a dream, but he feels like there's definitely a part of truth in this. He probably deserved the yelling, to be honest, because he must have been impossible to deal with back then. Crying kids were annoying, and the matrons would often let them cry all night instead of doing anything (Eugene knew, because he was the one who got up and read them stories so they could calm down); he had always been extra annoying, making potential families flee with his general attitude. A mix of the two was definitely headache worthy, so they did their best for him to stop crying.

They mostly succeeded.

Eugene can count the number of times he cried in the last five years on the fingers of his hand - and it's exactly once, when he was about to die and leave Rapunzel behind. He had been terrified, for her and for himself, and the tears had come naturally. He had been too tired to fight them. After that, though, he had begun his no crying streak anew, and it was only a deaged Lance that nearly broke it.

Eugene has a soft spot for crying kids, it's not his fault.

But Lance didn't make him cry. Getting hurt during their adventures didn't make him cry, practically betraying the woman he loved most didn't make him cry, meeting his long lost father didn't make him cry-

Except.

Except they go back to Corona, Eugene with one father more and one friend less. They go back, and Rapunzel is a mess, so he tries to be there for her when she needs it, tries to be the support she has trouble asking for. And then, his father- Edmund comes back, with dreams of reconnecting with his long lost son, and Rapunzel is excited at the prospect, and Eugene wants Rapunzel to be happy and... He gets roped into a weird adventure, and despite the still present hurt, Edmund and him make amends.

He still doesn't cry. He has no reason to anymore, after all.

So when the tears come anyway, the overwhelming mix of anger and shame nearly chokes him with how suddenly it takes over him. He flees his conversation with Edmund with the flimsiest excuse, and practically runs to his bedroom in a desperate dash for privacy.

He won't cry. "I won't cry," he repeats out loud, unsure of who he's trying to convince - but his voice wobbles on the last word.

He closes his fists, takes a deep breath, and holds it in for as long as he can in fear of a sob breaking out of his chest. His eyes are burning and nothing is working and he's going to cry but- but-- He grabs the first object he can get his hands on and throws it down harshly, cringing at the sound of broken glass that follows. Through the blurring of his eyes, he understands that it was a glass of water, and that makes him feel like even more of an idiot because- because-

He can't breathe. He stumbles and sits down heavily on his bed, putting his palms over his eyes in the vain hope of stopping the process - but he can already feel the ugly twisting of his face as he tries to keep it all in, and soon-

"Eugene?"

He startles badly, and turns towards the voice, blinking his eyes rapidly. Of course she's here now. "Sunshine," he laughs, or coughs, he isn't sure, and he can see more clearly for now - clear enough to notice the frown clearly forming on her face, or the concern in her eyes. "What- uh, what are you doing here?"

His voice is still wobbling. Kindly, Rapunzel doesn't comment on it.

"A handmaiden heard a crash in your room," she smiles gently, looking at the broken glass on the ground. "She was worried, so she told me."

"Ah. Yeah, that, be- be careful about the glass, I don't want you to cut your feet because of me. Because, you know," he babbles as she quietly makes her way over him, "going barefoot everywhere can be dangerous. Well, you obviously know that, and I'm not trying to tell you what to do but- uh... that's... something to consider?" he finishes lamely.

Rapunzel doesn't answer him, simply sitting down next to him. Her shoulder is warm against his. She smells like strawberry, today, and he wonders if she was in the middle of one of her baking endeavours. He hopes he hasn't interrupted her, all because he grew too angry and threw a freaking glass to the ground like an idiot, probably scaring some poor handmaiden in the process.

"Eugene," Rapunzel repeats, in that way she has of saying his name full of love and affection, and free of any judgement. "Are you okay?"

Once again, Eugene tears up like a baby. He starts looking stubbornly at the wall, in the vain hope that she doesn't see it.

"Oh you know," he laughs, the sound bitter and angry, "just trying to strike a discussion with my dear old father- that wasn't even a father to me until like two months ago!" His voice gets loud again, but the remarks about being an annoying crier are forgotten for a second, as he tries to explain. "And here I come, simply trying to understand hi- to understand my life better, and he- he- he refuses!" Eugene stutters painfully, feeling his breaths getting caught in his chest.

His cheeks are hurting from the way they're scrunching up unnaturally. His hands are balled around the sheets of his bed, and he feels like he's falling apart at the seams, trying to hold himself together through sheer willpower. It's not working. And so he keeps talking, hoping that his mouth will move faster than his mind, and that it'll be enough.

"He's really- He really thinks because he's my father he has a right to decide what's good for me but he- he lost that right," he exclaims, voice breaking on the "lost", heart breaking at the memories. "Each time I think I'm forgiving him, each time... Each time I think we can be family, I remember just how much he fucked up, and how that fucked me up, and I- I-"

He can't take a breath after that, but Rapunzel softly takes his hand, and his lungs somewhat remember what they're supposed to do.

"It's okay to be angry, Eugene," she whispers, her voice so quiet next to his and yet echoing louder in his mind. "No one expects you to be okay immediately."

"Really?" he laughs, a short burst that doesn't convince anyone, "because Edmund expects me to be fine with him. A lot of people think it's so great that I'm actually a Prince, and can't even imagine- can't- he abandoned me!" Eugene explodes. "He abandoned me, as a child, and he knew how much I was suffering, he had all the wanted posters! He knew I was thieving to survive and... And that means he knew about the nights sleeping outside, being so hungry I felt like my stomach was eating itself. He knew about the living out there in the cold, he knew about me nearly getting killed on a daily basis, he maybe even knew about that time I thought Lance was going to die and I was going to be all alone and-"

He can't finish that sentence. He still hasn't looked at Rapunzel, but he feels her thumb slowly stroking his hand, gently trying to calm him down.

"He knew," he breathes out quietly, heart thumping in his chest. "And I know he had his reasons but- but I didn't deserve that. I know I didn't." Rapunzel hums quietly. His head hurts. His throat feels raw, and he remembers that he's an ugly, loud crier, will you shut up Eugene-

But he won't shut up. He wants to, really - he wishes he was strong enough to compose himself but... He hasn't had a proper breakdown in a decade, and it's all crashing down on him, bringing everything he built down with it.

"I asked him about my mom," Eugene admits quietly, "and he didn't want to talk about it. Said it was- a touchy subject for him. As if- as if it isn't for me," he chuckles, feeling really cold. "Two months ago, I didn't know I had a mother, and now I'm grieving a nameless woman I only saw in a painting, all because he- he- because he-"

Despite trying, the words will not come. His breath is cut off by the tears he won't shed, taking too much place in his chest until he feels nothing but them. He doesn't want to cry, but he's not sure if it's stopping talking or keeping at it that will tip him over the edge. Maybe there's no escaping this.

"It's so stupid," Eugene rages, against Edmund and against himself, his voice way weaker than he wants it to be. "I- I should be happy right? But- He's so- he- this is stupid! And- And who even names their kids Horace?!"

Of course that's the exact moment Eugene can't hold back his tears anymore. For fucking Horace, when it was supposed to be a joke so he could get a grip on himself. But maybe it's not just the name. Maybe it's about meeting someone who did so much harm to you, and having to fight them over the simple thing of being called your chosen name, like you had to fight so many people before him; maybe it's about spending years hating everything that made you who you are, before finally coming to terms with your identity, finally seeing something worth loving in yourself, only to discover that it was all a lie anyway.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Eugene starts crying, and tries to hide his face in his hands, but Rapunzel doesn't let go of the one she's holding. His head is swimming. She tugs him towards her, and suddenly he's sobbing on her shoulder, feeling like a pathetic idiot for it. And of course he doesn't stop babbling, about how stupid this all is, and how he shouldn't even be crying anyway, because there was way worse in life and he was fine.

Rapunzel doesn't say much. She tells him to breathe, mostly, and gently congratulates him when he does. She tells him that he's okay. She tells him that she loves him.

She doesn't say much, but she says exactly what he needs.

"I'm sorry," he chuckles wetly, shivering a little when he feels her fingers on the nap of his neck. "This isn’t… You already have a lot on your shoulders, and I'm putting more weight on them. Quite literally."

He hopes for a laugh at the joke, hopes he can pretend again that everything's fine and that he has absolutely no issues with discovering where he's from more than twenty years late.

"Eugene," Rapunzel says instead, her voice tainted by an unmistakable seriousness, "I don't care about what's going on for me, I- I always want you to be able to confide in me." She sounds sad. He remembers these times, when he was worried it was his fault that she preferred to cry alone; if he had done anything that made her feel like she couldn't trust him with her sorrows.

He wonders if he made her feel the same. He wonders if she also feels the same as he does on the subject - not that there's a lack of trust, but a deep desire to protect the other from everything that could needlessly hurt them, even if it's their own emotions. Eugene doesn't rely on others easily; neither does Rapunzel.

After all this time, he's still sometimes surprised to see how similar they can be.

"I'm sorry," Rapunzel breathes out this time, and she keeps him from straightening up as she continues. "I'm sorry I've been so busy and preoccupied, I… I hate that you've been hurting, and that I wasn't here for you."

Eugene's automatic answer is to deny this, but he still has his head on her shoulder, after basically breaking down for who knows how many minutes, so he doesn't think she'll believe him. He is hurting, even if it's hard to admit. He hasn't been quite the same since the Dark Kingdom - since meeting his father, since losing Cassandra, since seeing the love of his life so broken over the betrayal. He hasn't been the same, but he also hasn't allowed himself to be different, because it was never the time for him to simply… allow himself to be sad.

"We're both hurting," he finally answers, tightening his grip around her slightly. "I- I think we're just trying our best, you and me. I think… I think that's okay, for now."

He's still sniffling. His face is uncomfortably hot from the crying, and he really doesn't want anyone to see the mess he is right now. But in her arms, Eugene forgets to care. He forgets about the scoldings he once received, forgets about his fears of being judged, and just hugs Rapunzel for as long as he can.

They stay like this for a long time.

#tangled #Eugene Fitzherbert #Rapunzel #Tangled the Series

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years

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Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.)

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

#everlark #everlark fic #thg #the hunger games #thg fic #everlark fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #everlark fanfiction #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #writing #fic #fics #au #aus

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chaseatinydream · 3 years

Text

pirate king (56) || atz

You don’t even have enough time to scream.

Time seems to slow down just for you, your eyes instinctively drawn to that spot, right there at your right hand, above the bump of your knuckles, where you can see the raised bone beneath soft skin. The silver tip of the blade seems to hover in the air, a mere hair’s breadth from your delicate, human flesh… your lips form the words even before your mind does, but it’s already too late.

“Please, no.”

The blade sinks into your hand.

The feeling, at first, is simple, easy to describe. You feel cold steel against your skin for a split second, paper thin, before the knife enters your hand, cleaving through your flesh with so much ease – almost like warm butter, you think, dazed. Then it shoves through something solid, and you can hear the crunching sounds of the blade puncturing the bones in your hand right next to your ear, ringing through your head again and again… but it doesn’t seem to hurt. You blink, once, twice, mildly confused.

What happened–

Then the pain sets in, and suddenly, screaming doesn’t seem like enough.

Pain as vivid as anything you’ve ever experienced explodes from the wound like white hot firecrackers searing into your flesh, it tears at your skin and screams at you and overwhelms your mind in a cacophony of sheer, bloody pain. You don’t know where the agony begins and you sure as hell don’t know where it ends. It simply comes again and again like sea waves that pound relentlessly at the shore, torturing you indefinitely… it doesn’t end.

“Oh? Does it hurt?” Gunho coos gently and you choke out a sound that sounds inhuman even to your own ears – a twisted, unearthly scream from the depths of hell itself. Even through the blinding pain, you can still feel the metal embedded in your hand, the bones there shattered by the force and pinning you to the deck; even the slightest movement sends shockwaves of torment running down your body.

“Chin Hae!” You hear your captain scream from somewhere in your haze of pain and you cry out weakly, fighting the overwhelmingly instinctive urge to pull your hand to your body and curl up around it to protect the broken limb. But then Gunho steps on your hand, twisting it under the heel of his boot and carving a larger, irreparable hole into your body. You scream again, trying to yank your hand from under him even though doing so hurts so much you can’t see or think straight. You scream and scream and scream, tears cutting through the grime on your cheeks and you can taste salt and iron on your tongue, but you can’t move an inch, nailed to the deck of the Treasure by your own hand.

Gunho frowns down at you, one hand reaching down to card gently through your hair and you scream, thrashing in a desperate attempt to get away from his touch even if it means tearing your body apart. “I know, I know it hurts, sweetheart, but I can’t have you running anywhere while I go after your captain.”

Your captain.

He wants to go after your captain.

Horror and blind rage nearly fills you and for a stupid second, you nearly tear your own hand from the ground in fury; you’d never let him touch your captain. But you’re powerless to do anything as Gunho turns to face your captain, who too, is pinned to the deck with a knife through his sleeve, and there’s no way he’ll be able to fight Gunho off even in your wildest dreams…

“Captain! Run!” You scream out through your tears, your only hand lunging forward and fisting as tight as you physically can in the coarse fabric of his trousers – you refuse to budge an inch in the slightest. Your captain glances over at you in desperation as he sees the state you’re in, the expression on Gunho’s face darkening at your refusal to obey his words.

“ I really wanted to do a good job and bring you in to Commander Kang alive, but I suppose there’s no choice if you’re being difficult.” He crouches over you, drawing another knife from his belt and even beyond the chaotic symphony of pain, fear and adrenaline, terror curs clean like a razor sharp arrow arrow through all of it. “Let go.”

“Chin Hae, let go! Listen to me!” Hongjoong screams at you from behind Gunho, but you neither hear him nor listen, his words echo around in your skull like the ringing of an empty bell before they fade into nothingness. His voice cracks from desperation as he yanks at his sleeve, trying to free himself, but he won’t make it in time.

You know that too.

Let go! Your mind echoes his words, screaming self preservation at you. Let go, let go, let go!

But you can’t.

Instead, the world seems to collapse on itself around you, reducing the entire universe to nothing more than you and yourself. All of a sudden, as if you’re standing in the eye of the hurricane of chaos, a tiny voice speaks up, completely calm and still. You know this voice.

A pair of green eyes stare into yours behind your closed eyelids, burning a hole into your very soul. You know those eyes.

Green as spring’s rebirth, green as the beginning of life.

If you are going to die in the very end, you might as well do it for someone you love. At the very least, this way will be fast and quick, my dear… just let it end...

Right, you think dazedly. I’m dying anyway. So what if it happens now and not later?

“Chin Hae! I said, let go!” Hongjoong practically shrieks at you as he rips his arm from the ground and the sound of the tearing fabric rents the air, but at this point, Gunho’s knife is already poised right above your heart, ready to pierce through your beating heart.

Beating heart?

It feels like being underwater, those first few second when you first submerge your head beneath the waves. When sound disappears only for the space it once occupied to be filled with resounding, eerie silence, do you realise how much you’ve taken it for granted, how the absence of it is terrifying to even your own ears.

Right now, as you search desperately for the beating of your own heart…

You find silence instead.

Before it can fully sink in, the implication of what this could mean, Gunho is ripped from you and thrown bodily across the deck with a shout of fury that’s all too familiar. Your hand stings with heat from the friction burns left on your palm, but you don’t have time to bother with them right now. Yanking yourself upright, you turn towards the source of the commotion as fast as you can.

Gunho’s raising himself to his knees, eyes bright with mirth, sheer, manic excitement painting his face. Even though one of his wrists is bent backwards at a strange angle that can only mean that he’s badly injured, he doesn’t seem to feel it in the least, drawing his sword easily with a grin that borders on crazed.

“I see you’re still as robust as ever, brother.”

“Yunho?” Hongjoong stares at him in shock. And true to Gunho’s words, Yunho is indeed standing there, completely underdressed for battle with only a simple cutlass hanging at his waist. Just standing takes more effort than he can spare, you can already see the sweat dripping from his forehead and neck, the skin there flushed from exertion and paper white. Yet here he is, holding himself upright with sheer force of will, eyes burning with indomitable fire.

“Leave my crewmates alone.”

“Yunho! Stop! The poison will spread through your body if you keep moving and you’ll die!” You cry out, panicked at the state he’s putting himself in, but Yunho cuts your words short with a single sentence.

“There’s no point to being alive if it’s not with all of you.”

Your mouth falls open at his bold words.

“You want to kill me, don’t you, Gunho? Then come at me.” Yunho raises his fists, but you can see his knuckles trembling from the strain. Gunho takes a single, incredulous look at his older brother and laughs at him, his voice ringing out over the chaos of the battle happening on the main deck.

Then the smile melts right off his face to reveal something darker, more terrifying lying beneath that facade of youthful charm that scares you more than you thought it could.

“Are you kidding me, brother? Are you looking down on me?” His voice turns into liquid ice, burning with frost as a snarl leaves his throat. “You won’t even draw your sword to fight with me? You think I’m not capable enough of holding my own against you?”

Yunho doesn’t waver in the least. “I’m not going to kill you.” He says firmly, unmoving. But Gunho doesn’t take that kindly, in fact, it only serves to rile him up even more, his sword practically shaking in his rage.

With a scream, he throws his blade to the side and lunges right for Yunho, tackling him to the ground. The two brothers crash onto the deck with a heavy thud that you feel all the way down to your bones, rolling along as they beat and thrash against each other with all the ferocity of two wildcats aiming to kill.

“Yunho!” You cry out in alarm, stricken with worry for him, but before you can do anything, Hongjoong runs towards you, checking the hand of yours that’s pierced to the deck. Your fingers twitch weakly, as if trying to tell you they’re alright, and Hongjoong’s face falls, biting on his lower lip so hard a drop of bright crimson blood wells up there.

You want to tell him that you’re okay, that you can barely feel the pain there anymore, but your captain’s head falls, eyes unable to meet yours. “I promised I’d protect you, but you ended up getting hurt because of me… you fool, Chin Hae. You absolute fool.”

“Sorry captain,” you croak, not apologetic in the least. “But I couldn’t just not do anything, not when you were there and Gunho was just–”

Before you can say another word, Hongjoong is ripped from your grasp. Everything happens in the span of a single second, a blur of shapes and colours too fast for your eye to process, and in the next instant, what you see horrifies you.

Gunho’s standing against the rail, forearm pressed against Hongjoong’s neck and yanking upwards. Your captain is left dangling in the air, feet kicking out furiously and clawing against the bare skin on Gunho’s forearm, his face turning purple from lack of oxygen and gasping for air, leaving trails of blood running down the younger man’s arms. But Gunho doesn’t even flinch, raising a knife to press beneath Hongjoong’s throat, his eyes completely merciless.

“Will you fight me now for real now, brother?”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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kiriluvbot · 3 years

Text

lvr boy

todoroki has a rough day, and sero attempts to make him feel better. both boys figure out that distractions aren’t always the answer to emotional distress.

—

han !!: hey shou i saw u leave dinner early are u ok?

shou <3: yeah, just a bit drained. sorry i left without saying anything.

han !!: hun u don’t need to apologize, i jus wanna make sure ur doin ok !!

han !!: is there anything i can do?

shou <3: come over ?

han !!: u bet, On my way!

han !!: ive got an idea to cheer u up bb

and that’s how hanta sero got to be hanging from his tape on the rafters directly outside shouto todoroki’s room, over his balcony.

han !!: i’m outside <3

don’t ask him how the physics works; he doesn’t know either. hanta imagined what it must be like to be the fictional american hero, spiderman, and tried to stick his tape from the most secure place on the roof and dangled downward, getting into position as fast as he could so he’d be ready when shouto peeled open the door leading to his balcony.

except he hadn’t exactly said he would be on the balcony.

and it’s cold outside. hanta shivers as a rush of wind sends him waving like a flag outside shouto’s room. he feels more and more ridiculous the longer he sits—dangles?— here, with all the blood rushing to his head. what's taking shouto so long?

inside, shouto is peering into the hall, looking for a familiar head of dark hair. he’s tired. he needs hanta to be able to properly recharge. he misses hanta. he sort of wants to cry, sort of wants to melt into the floor, sort of wants hanta to sweep him up and make him forget everything else in the world.

he frowns when he finds no one outside his door. “hanta?”

where is he?

shouto glances over his shoulder, at the doors leading to his balcony, at the thick curtains blocking out the moonlight.

surely not...

but it’s hanta, and he had said he’d be outside. hanta comes up with the craziest ideas sometimes. but how could he have gotten out there?

shouto shakes his head once, crosses the room with apprehension. pulling back the curtain, shouto nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of hanta sero outside his door, hanging upside down with a tight grip on his tape, the widest, goofiest smile on his face.

shouto slides open the door, the rush of cool wind sending goosebumps crawling over his skin. even being this close to hanta makes him stand up a little taller, already absorbing energy to start recharging. he’s a magnet. hanta is a ball of pure, unhinged light and love. hanta is a source of comfort, a place to come home to. shouto can’t stop his growing smile as it mirrors hanta’s own.

“there you are,” shouto breathes. that overwhelming weight that just kept building through the day starts to lay off, little by little.

“how’s this for a surprise?” hanta’s waving a bit in the wind. his cheeks, nose, and ears are dusted pink. inky black hair waves with him, curling at the ends. his eyes are dark pools full of stars, full of adoration, full of mischief.

shouto could—should—kiss him.

“i’m always surprised with you, hanta,” shouto says, laughing lightly as he steps out of his room, bare feet on the wood of the balcony. they’re close to eye level, and shouto raises his hands, almost unsure, and presses them to hanta’s grinning cheeks.

“gotta keep my boy on his toes, you know?” hanta tries to lean in the closer shouto gets like a moth to a flame, curious eyes searching shouto’s face for any tells of fatigue, of sickness, of sadness. he only finds sleepy awe. “gotta change things up every now and then.”

the two toned boy plants a ghost of a kiss to hanta’s forehead. it’s not enough. “this must be a spiderman thing,” shouto muses. “i know how much you like that guy.”

“naturally. he’s the coolest,” hanta giggles at that, and shouto’s fractured heart starts to mend. his cracked facade from spending the whole day strung out, anxious for nothing, begins to crumble at his feet. hanta has a knack for pulling shouto completely apart, for piecing him wholly together, for taking the pressure off shouto’s shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.

“i remember the movie we watched together,” shouto hums, thumbs grazing over hanta’s cheekbones. “there was a scene similar to this, right?”

hanta’s skin burns under his fingers. shouto watches his adam’s apple dip as he swallows. “something like it, yeah.”

shouto meets his eye, recognizes that mischievous look flickering over his features. he chases the light, takes in every single detail of hanta’s face, every detail he has memorized like constellations at this point, every detail he wants to place a kiss to, every detail he never gets tired of.

then, shouto gets on his tippy toes and tilts forward, holding hanta’s face, and kisses his lover boy, slow and sweet. it’s strange kissing someone upside down, but hanta kisses him back like he’s been anxiously waiting for it to come, like he’ll never get enough.

it’s not enough.

when shouto pulls back, hanta is smiling again, dizzy and red faced. in a single, fluid movement, hanta flips and releases the hold on his tape. he lands, steady on his feet in front of shouto, wind blown hair framing his face like a priceless painting. his grin, his pure, radiating joy and goodness outshines the moon, as if the sun instead resides inside his chest.

he’s too good for me.

hanta’s eyes widen as shouto takes his reddening hands and kisses those, too. kisses his palms. his knuckles. shouto has always loved hanta’s hands; clever and sneaky hands, sure and gentle hands.

he knows the patterns of hanta’s hands like the back of his own, knows the life lines, the callouses, the old scar between his middle and pointer finger knuckles. he knows the pattern of all his moles and freckles and the way they creep up his arms, up his neck, down his chest like a fairy danced to their favorite song over his skin.

after a sharp intake of breath, hanta asks, “are you alright, shou?”

not really. i’m asking for a distraction. do you think a distraction will make it all go away? all this pressure on my chest?

the sincerity of his voice causes shouto to stop in his tracks.

i didn't sleep well at all. i had a nightmare about failing the hero course. i was late to class.

he looks up, blue and gray falling on gravitational black.

i got a 60 on our history test today and i locked myself in the bathroom for three minutes trying to remind myself it’s just one single test.

hanta’s smile is dipping.

bakugo was yelling more than usual. aizawa and iida both told me i was off my game. i spilled my drink in my lap at lunch.

he grips shouto’s fingers and pulls him closer. always closer.

i had to cancel my plans with my mom this friday to retake the test i bombed. i cried after we got off the phone.

shouto has to tilt his head up. hanta sure has gotten tall.

he feels childish trying to explain why literally nothing had gone his way today, why every small thing made him want to curl up and cry for hours. “just—today was a bit overwhelming. everything going wrong and getting too loud, you know? but i’m feeling better.”

now that you’re here.

when hanta leans into his space again, shouto unconsciously warms up the air around them.

“do you wanna talk about it?”

my coffee spilled over the edge of the cup this morning and hurt my fingers and i had to sit on the floor for six and a half minutes trying to suck the tears back into my eyes.

“not really,” shouto answers. it’s not a lie.

“you’re sure?”

his breath is warm on shouto’s face, eyes wide and sincere.

“i’m sure.”

if we talk about it i’m almost certain i’ll cry again.

hanta seems to buy it. his lip ticks upward just a notch. that curiosity turns sly as he releases shouto from his hold, as his hands dance up and over the shorter boy’s shoulders, over his shoulder blades, down his spine.

“totally sure?”

the space between is no space and too much all at once. it’s not enough.

“absolutely sure.” just kiss me already, you maniac.

finally, finally, hanta’s lips find his own, right side up and certain. stars explode in shouto’s chest, behind his eyes. supernova as his fingers dip into hanta’s hair, as he melts under the attention and contact, on his tippy toes.

all too soon, hanta pulls back, humming all the while. shouto nearly pouts at the loss until hanta dips down, those searching hands taking shouto’s thighs.

oh.

the smaller boy squeaks, though he’ll always deny it later, as hanta picks him up and wraps shouto’s legs around his waist.

oh.

he’s… carrying him.

this is new.

“we’re goin’ inside,” is the only explanation hanta offers. his head whips back up in a flurry of glittering hair and a puckish grin. always glittering. always grinning.

shouto holds on tightly, arms around around hanta’s shoulders. he keeps his mouth shut for fear of saying something completely stupid. hanta is talking, though shouto’s been too focused on the muscles of his back beneath his hands to really know what he said. his chin presses into shouto’s collar. shouto wishes it were his lips instead. god.

still holding on to shouto, with those goddamn hands on shouto’s thighs—i’m gonna die—hanta shuts the door and closes the curtain like he’s seen shouto do a thousand times during his nightly shut in routine. shouto considers asking to be let down but—but his hands on his thighs—i’m gonna die, i’m gonna die, this is where it ends—

hanta’s shampoo smells like grapefruit. his hair brushes shouto’s cheek. he wants to bury his face in it, wants to move it to the side and explore every freckle dusting his smooth skin, wants to kiss every single place he can reach—good god, he’s gonna die.

then, incredibly, horribly, boldly, hanta sits at the edge of shouto’s bed. he readjusts so shouto is sitting properly in his lap, legs still wrapped around his waist. those goddamn hands slide down the sides of shouto’s thighs, over the fabric of his pajama shorts, just barely grazing exposed skin, like hanta knows. shouto lifts his head from the crook in hanta’s neck to finally get a good look at him in this soft lighting.

hanta’s cheeks are still painted pink.

there’s so much contact. broad shoulders beneath his hands. solid chest if he drags his hands down. narrow waist if he goes even further, strong abs from swinging through the air and keeping his balance. his hands on shouto’s thighs.

any and all rational thoughts shouto may have had exit stage right.

“this okay?” he asks.

shouto responds with a single nod of his head. he’s distracted, alright.

that’s a good enough answer for hanta. the raven haired boy pressed forward once again, closing the gap, aiming for shouto’s lips but landing right next to them. shouto can feel his smile against his skin. his chest is tight, his fingers subconsciously twisting the ends of hanta’s wavy hair.

everything slows down.

“there’s a dimple here when you smile, you know?” hanta murmurs, a cold pointer finger tapping the spot just to the left of his mouth. he kisses that spot. it’s horribly and surprisingly tender, plucking shouto’s weakened heart strings. “have i ever told you how much i love that dimple?”

“i don’t think so.” his head tilts back.

his lips dip beneath shouto’s jaw. “what about this? surely i’ve told you how much i love this.” his kiss is warm, his laughter tickling as he says, “the freckles here look like the little dipper.”

shouto’s eyes flutter closed as lips press under his ear.

“the little dipper, hm?”

hanta hums and shouto can feel it vibrate through his chest. he pulls back a bit, brings shouto’s scarred hero-in-training hands up to his lips and kisses all ten fingers, all ten knuckles, slowly, making sure not to skip a single one.

“and your hands,” hanta murmurs, thumb rubbing circles on the soft part of shouto’s palm. “i love how capable and powerful they are, how you can create and destroy, how you still choose to be gentle.” a kiss touches down on his right palm, a strike through his heart. the sweetness makes shouto’s teeth ache.

there’s a smirk in his voice when hanta speaks again. “and these,” he says, breath startling warm and close to shouto’s collarbones, peeking out of his t-shirt. fingers dip into the fabric, pulling down just a bit. shouto sucks in a breath as lips land true on the bone. “always wanted to kiss you here, you know?”

what took you so long to do it?!

the part of shouto’s brain that was working to create coherent thoughts is in system shut down mode. he basks under the attention, under the light, under the worship of hanta sero, of his boyfriend, of his best friend. he basks and he melts, completely unsure of how to take it, how to accept it.

“and this—“ there’s a small birthmark at the very base of shouto’s neck hanta has wanted to kiss since they were first years. so he does. “love this here.”

every single bit of you, shouto todoroki.

there’s a pause that makes shouto open his eyes and search for hanta.

the taller boy could carry on all night, reaching out for every small inch of shouto todoroki that he’s in love with and explaining exactly why he loves each minuscule detail of it, but he pauses.

shouto’s brows dip, hesitant.

hanta came here to make sure he was okay.

he holds the gaze of the boy in his lap, of the boy he’s loved since he was fifteen, of the boy he’ll love until he passes on from this world to the next. there’s a blurry daze in his blue and gray eyes, but an ever deeper exhaustion pulls at all his edges. hanta can sweep shouto off his feet left and right, tell him all these lovely things and kiss him until he can’t see straight, but those things are merely temporary distractions.

i’m alright, i promise.

he tilts his head, and his smile is almost sad.

you’re not alright, i saw it in the way you tapped your foot in class, the way you pressed your icy fingers into your forehead, the way you avoided your table at lunch. i saw it in the way you were completely silent during practice, the way you wouldn’t engage in banter with bakugo, the way you couldn’t seem to sit still at dinner. i saw it in the way you left early, in the hectic, cracked state you were in when i got here, when you opened the door.

“hanta?” his voice cracks. shouto thinks, i don't deserve this affection. this appreciation. not from someone as good as you. you deserve—someone who isn’t ready to sob when you tell him you love something about him. hanta—

hanta presses his hand flat against shouto’s chest—no, his heart. he sees the way shouto chews on the inside of his cheek, the way his multicolored lashes flutter.

“i love you here, shouto,” hanta says. “when everything is too much and too loud. when you feel like nothing is going your way, when a split coffee cup feels like the end of the world.”

shouto’s lip purses, blinking furiously. his hands twist into the front of hanta’s shirt as the smaller boy falls forward, collapsing onto hanta’s shoulder with little grace.

“‘m sorry,” is the only thing shouto can muster.

hanta wraps an arm around him, pulls him as close as they can get. his lips press to shouto’s temple, to the stray strands of ruby locks there. “you don’t need to apologize, shou.” his shirt collar is wet. “sometimes… sometimes you just need to talk, you know? you need to let it out instead of leaving it unchecked.”

shouto’s heart pounds against hanta’s chest.

“you asked for a distraction. i should be saying sorry for getting all sappy,” hanta kisses his temple again, feels shouto’s shoulders begin to shake.

shouto laughs at that, small and weak and breathless. i needed to hear it. more than i thought i did. more than you know.

in truth, today isn’t the only awful day the two toned boy has had recently. it’s been every single day, one after the other, but he refused to acknowledge how tired and just plain sad he felt. he thought that if he pulled hanta into his bedroom and closed his eyes, it would go away with time.

and then the coffee burnt his fingers this morning.

that was the final shove. the final push to send shouto hurtling over the edge, stressed and strung out and overwhelmed. he just needs a break. a healthy, peaceful break that doesn’t involve reaching too far or doing something he might regret. he needs to plug in and recharge, to lay it all out on the table and sort through his troubles, to piece himself back together and get back to normal.

hanta hugs him tighter.

and now his resolve and control is cracking and spilling out, through his veins and his bones, through his heart and his eyes. he holds onto hanta like his life depends on it, letting it all out, finally giving in, finally letting go. distraction wasn’t the answer; he could only forget for so long, as more things piled on until it crushed him.

sometimes the world is too much, too loud.

shouto cries into hanta’s shoulder until there's nothing left. until he feels at peace. until he falls asleep in hanta’s arms.

he dreams of hanta with cherry blossoms in his hair, that same glittering grin on his face.

—

*drops this and runs a thousand miles in the other direction”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825064

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tanoraqui · 4 years

Text

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] Epilogue

[now all on AO3!]

The real tragedy is that, while Nie Huaisang got to attend Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan’s wedding, and of course it was lovely and everything it could have been, he had to miss the subsequent banquet, which was the event of the century. A week later he’s already heard a song about it; two weeks and he’s heard four, and more rumors than usually circulate in a year, and even they mostly pale to the reality as reported from the horse’s mouth

“ - I was just going to run around dodging until some ghosts got through, but then Lan Zhan leapt to my defense, catching Sandu with Bichen!” Wei Wuxian grinned at Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang with equal glee, though his smile for the former was much softer. “Jiang Cheng struck back, of course, and they were off - two of the greatest cultivators of our generation, leaping from table to table right there in Glamour Hall, fighting blade to blade - and whip to guqin!”

He gestured dramatically, recreating the moment and nearly smacking Lan Wangji, seated beside him, in the face. Lan Wangji simply ducked, expressionless except maybe for the faintest crinkle of his eyes. Nie Huaisang sipped his wine and watched in delight

they’d come under cover of darkness, sneaking up old side-stairs they’d all used during the Sunshot Campaign. Perhaps excessive, but a little caution never hurt anyone

drinking together in Nie Huaisang’s bedroom when everyone was supposed to be asleep felt ridiculously nostalgic, though

“But Jiang Cheng - don’t tell him I said this - is just the tiniest bit much less impressive than Lan Zhan, so I had to leap in in turn - Lan Zhan didn’t realize we were just play-acting, nobody had thought to bring him in on it, he just defended me because it was the honorable thing to do.”

The stars in his eyes put the clear night sky to shame.

“I will not allow harm to come to Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said calmly

holy shit. Holy shit. How had Nie Huaisang missed this one, when he prided himself on keeping up with all the juiciest gossip about his friends.

He refilled Wei Wuxian’s cup. “And that’s when you started the food fight? I heard there was a food fight.”

“Yes!” Wei Wuxian clapped. “I couldn’t exactly use my sword - I’d already boasted that I didn’t need it! But Lan Zhan was going to kick my shidi’s ass, and I had to step in - so I tipped a bowl of soup right in his face!” He ran a hand down Lan Wangji’s chest and frowned dramatically. “It ruined all his beautiful robes - I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn. It was no trouble.”

Now that Nie Huaisang was looking for it, he recognized the slight stiffening of a man absolutely desperate to grab that hand and pull its bearer into his lap and then some. Holy fucking shit.

Wei Wuxian cackled. “It wasn’t! You just kept fighting with Jiang Cheng - so I kept throwing food! At both of you, because sometimes Jiang Cheng kept trying to hit me, too - until not just ghosts arrived but some corpses, too, coming up from the dungeons.” That broken-glass edge to his smile again. “It seems Jin Guangshan had been quite a bad boy, or at least one of his guest disciples had - a man named Xue Yang got called out, I heard? But he disappeared?” He turned to Lan Wangji. “We heard people talking on the road.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji confirmed

“I heard the same,” Nie Huaisang said. “Creepy weirdo. Jin Guangshan is saying the corpses were yours, of course, but it’s a little hard since Zewu-jun found all those notes on demonic cultivation in Xue Yang’s room - and some of them with Jin Guangyao’s handwriting on them.”

“We heard about that - kind of,” said Wei Wuxian. “Is he really in the dungeon himself now?”

“Yes.” Nie Huaisang smiled, and topped off his own glass. “Between that and having reason to believe he’d just given all the Wen prisoners to Nie Sect on a whim, Jin Guangshan is quite displeased with Lianfang-zun.”

he felt a little bad for Lan Xichen, but the man would get over it. He still had one respectable, far superior sworn brother

Wei Wuxian raised his glass in toast and Nie Huaisang met it gladly, and leaned forward again. “So what happened next?”

“Oh, you know.” Wei Wuxian leaned back and waved one hand. “Lots of shouting. The peacock got shijie out of there, so I guess maybe he’s okay for her. A lot more fighting - Jiang Cheng kept doing a really good impression of trying to kill me, Lan Zhan kept stopping him, and I kept stopping Lan Zhan from hitting Jiang Cheng too hard. Jiang Cheng shouted again about how I’d better destroy the Tiger Seal or leave YunmengJiang forever, just like we’d planned, so I threw half of it in the air and broke it with Suibian - and good thing I wasn’t holding it, because even just half of it exploded so hard it blew up half of Glamour Hall! I was nearly knocked out - Lan Zhan had to carry me out on Bichen!”

he spoke airily, except for the last part which he spoke with hearts in his eyes, but there was a weight like a brick to it. Nie Huaisang wondered how much of the supposedly pre-planned drama had come down to split-second decisions about what mattered most

though it was also hilarious to think that anyone believed it wasn’t choreographed, on the part of Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng at least. For one thing, Qinghe had strength; Lanling, appearance and secrets; and the spirit of Yunmeng, true to its motto, was sheer bloody-minded perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds, preferably with as much drama as possible. If Sandu Sengshou and the Yiling Patriarch truly fought to the death, even Huangang-jun wouldn’t be able to stop it, and a mere wedding banquet couldn’t contain the battle - it would be on the edge of a cliff before the entire cultivation world, possibly with the earth on fire around them

it was even more hilarious to think that even if emotions ran that furiously high, either of them would do a single thing to ruin their beloved sister’s wedding day, without her explicit permission and encouragement

“I can’t believe you destroyed a major sect hall without me” Nie Huaisang shook his head mournfully. “Remember when we set off firecrackers in the Cloud Recesses?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji said firmly, while Wei Wuxian burst into laughter.

“Ah, Huaisang-gongzi,” he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “I promise I’ll invite you next time.”

"You’d better!” Nie Huaisang cried. “I mean, you still have half the Tiger Seal to destroy...”

Wei Wuxian shot him a wink that said, that’s true, and you’re my friend, but I’m not biting that hook you’re using to fish for information. Nie Huaisang shrugged, can you blame me? and lifted the wine jug again

“More? You know, you’re welcome to stay more than one night. This is so fun, just catching up - and I know A-Yuan will be delighted to see you again!”

“He really is a cute kid, isn’t he?” Wei Wuxian smiled wistfully, then shook his head. “But no - maybe we’ll say hi to Wen Qing and Wen Ning, but we’ve given Jin Guangshan about four different things to worry about, when he used to have just one or two, but it’s still probably better not to consolidate them.”

Nie Huaisang had to nod to the wisdom of that. (It was a pity the whole tower hadn’t come down on the man’s head, really.) He savored the last few sips of his own glass. “So you’ll be gone in the morning - do you know where?”

“I’ve heard that there’s a shidi of my mother’s starting to make a name for himself as a rogue cultivator - another disciple of Baoshan Sanren. I thought I might find him and, you know, say hello at least.”

His smile was touched with mournful longing, but his eyes held the particular glint that said someone was about to be befriended, or possibly adopted into YunmengJiang on authority of the Head Disciple, whether they liked it or not. It was a very Wei Wuxian expression, and Nie Huaisang didn’t think he’d seen it since they were all young and stupid at the Cloud Recesses

“I am going with him,” stated Lan Wangji, Victim Example #1 of that expression

“Aw, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian, for lack of a better word, snuggled up against him, before turning back to Nie Huaisang and saying with exaggerated disappointment. “He’s finally accepted that I’m not going to go back to Gusu to be cleansed within an inch of my life, so he’s following me around and keeping me out of trouble day by day instead. So righteous! So boring!”

good god, did he not know...?

Nie Huaisang met Lan Wangji’s eyes and found there a well a patience deeper than the sea, and affection just a great Well, he had to toast to that

He raised his last mouthful of wine, to clink against Wei Wuxian’s glass and the cup of tea Lan Wangji had been politely nursing. “Well, good luck to both of you!”

That’s all, folks! Thanks for reading!

#mdzs #the untamed #my fic #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #lan wangji #i think this au may have come to like...16k or so total #that was. unintentional.#i mean this last bit is really just an entire scene that i happened to format with bullet points as i wrote out all the dialogue and stuff #...his bodes ill for the efficiency of my fierce corpse jiang yanli canon rewrite #anyway i'll probably put some minimal polish on all this and slap it into ao3 bc by god i wrote like 16K #IN LIKE 8 DAYS NO LESS #LOOK UPON ME YE MIGHTY AND encourage me to go get some sleep

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bigbrotherlouis · 3 years

Note

i would love a directors cut for the first scrimmage scene from kinda like that this ends in smoke!

boy oh boy okay. i was very conscious while writing that this scene needed to do A Lot: it needed to establish, at least a little, what is standing in for a hockey game, establish the team fighting dynamic, and showcase patty’s powers. that last one, in particular, needed to be really sharp because it sets up the conflict and conceit for the rest of the fic, which is: it’s dangerous for patty to be touched. (original)

They’re close to the last people in the training room, wandering into the nearly full space. Nolan goes pink when everyone stops to look at him, the whole team in their blacks and oranges, the support staff in their whites and navies. (i had a whole world of worldbuilding that i wanted to do with this fic but my momentum got cut off in exactly the wrong way at exactly the wrong time. i might revisit it in the future, but by the end i was just trying to get everything DONE) It’s a clear delineation of team and not team, and Nolan seems to have picked the wrong colour. TK could’ve fucking told him.

“You could’ve told me,” he hisses and peers through the onset blurry confusion. (really enjoyed putting thought into what different emotions could manifest as! confusion makes everything blurry!)

“Told you… oh. No, it’s chill. You’re new and usually it doesn’t matter if you’re in uniform.”

It makes him stand out more, a target on his back. An anomaly. He scowls at his shoes, breathing through the restless energy that’s taken up residence in the room. (nolan being set apart, by choice or not, is a big theme) If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought there was a storm coming, that Laughts had let his lightning go.

The last person on the team must finally find their way in because the door snicks shut with a click audible over the quiet talking. It’s like a signal, the way everyone goes quiet and swings their head in Nolan’s direction. It feels like being pinned and, for a split second, all he can feel is the overwhelming lilt of his own fear. It’s so strong, he half-wonders if he’s projecting or intaking, if someone nearby is getting hunted. (being the new guy is scary)

“Nolan Patrick,” something crackles over the speakers and Nolan flinches. “Welcome to the team.”

There’s a whooping that goes up from the boys, loud and unexpected. TK yells with them and looks like he’s a split second away from elbowing him in the side.

A black-suited figure comes down, one that Nolan recognizes as Coach, with Claude at his shoulder. He nods instead of extending his hand to shake. Nolan inclines his head back.

“Now, Patrick. We’ll get you back in the lab for individual testing soon enough, but we usually like to do the introductory session with everyone else, helps everyone know what they’re working with. No one’s going to intentionally hurt you, so don’t do any permanent damage.” (i did not want to write boring testing and wanted to get to the good part, so i made it work)

“I’ll try not to,” Nolan says after a second.

“Scrimmage first. You’re with Claude. Divide up, boys.” He yells the last part and the crowd starts to split between oranges and charcoals, lining up against opposite walls of the oval-shaped room. TK gives him a mischievous smile and then disappears, reappearing down at the other side of the long, long hall.

“Don’t be nervous, kid,” Claude says quietly, duly scanning the room as he takes in his team. He’s excited, Nolan can feel it patter against his skin like raindrops. “It’s all good fun, eh?”

“It’s training.” (nolan and claude’s dynamic is so important to me personally)

He smiles, sharp. “Fun training. Low stakes.”

Easy for him to say, he’s not being watched by a hundred pairs of eyes from every side, waiting to watch him fail. He doesn’t bother to say this.

“Just don’t get too close to Laughton. Or Coots.”

“I don’t know who Coots is,” he mumbles and Claude snickers, shifting his weight. There’s a warning whistle.

“Alright, Nolan. Are you defensive or offensive?” (i wanted to preserve some structure from hockey so it’s not so different. i messed with lines a little because i couldn’t think of a good reason why defense/offense shouldn’t be mixed, but i genuinely tried to keep people’s positioning consistent with their real life position)

Nolan frowns deeper. “Uh, neither?” Claude swings around to look at him in surprise and he feels his shoulders inching up towards his ears. “Or maybe both,” he offers. “Not sure.”

Claude stares at him for a second. “You were second in the Academy and you don’t even know what’s your positioning?” (i actually couldn’t decide if nolan’s ability was more defense or offense, so i handwaved it)

Nolan chews on his cheek for a second. His ability isn’t so easy to position, isn’t so easy to fit into a designation. It‘s part of what makes him wanted. “Well… yeah. I guess.”

He mutters something that sounds like French and then heaves a sigh.

“Okay, just… don’t get flattened. Or shocked. (foreshadowing!) And don’t permanently harm anyone, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Stay behind me if you need protection but watch out for people coming around back. TK’s sneaky like that.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t hit anyone in orange.”

“I won’t,” Nolan says and Claude grins at him again.

“Watch out for JVR’s teeth.” (this is just claude messing with him)

“I don’t know who anyone is,” he reminds him, mildly exasperated, just as the second whistle goes, and the entire room explodes into furious movement.

Nolan’s done scrimmages like this before, of course he has, but it’s different this time. Different when it’s people who know their boundaries, know their abilities, and aren’t just trying to figure it all out. (i needed a reason for nolan to not keep his cool later, and this seemed as good as a reason as any) No one screams because they got hit by a too-strong blast, or shorts out in the middle of the neutral zone, or collapses. (the flip side is, of course, i then needed to describe the difference between juniors/the real thing) Instead, the two sides flow together like water, easy and fluid, as the sounds of a fight start up. It tastes like ozone again, sweetened by eagerness and fondness. They’re having fun, Nolan realises, like G said.

The two of them hang at the back of their crowd, a thin edge of frustration coming from Claude, and he knows that they’re in the back for him, that Claude usually is up front, leading. (claude likes to play, in every universe)

“We can—” he starts and cuts himself off when a… something… lands in front of them. Claude’s grin turns delighted, eager, hungry.

“Oh, a rematch, ya fuckin’ pigeon?” G says and the monster chirps, sharp teeth snapping. “You’re fucking on.” (i chose JVR’s ability purely to make this joke. every power in here is either carefully chosen for plot reasons, or to make a joke)

“Uh,” says Nolan.

“Watch my back,” he manages to shout and then he’s launching himself at the creature. Nolan whirls around and watches his back.

“So you’re defensive,” says TK, appearing in front of him with a blink. He’s unwrapping a protein bar. (speedsters eating all the time is one of my favourite tropes) “Interesting.”

“I’m not— anything.”

“Okay, Mr. Number Two In The Academy,” he teases back, half garbled from the food in his mouth. “Are you supposed to be guarding?”

“I guess?”

TK snorts. “Let’s see what you can do, pretty boy.” (he’s watched too many bad superhero movies)

He blurs and Nolan feels something crash into his body, an impossible weight that nearly pushes him over. He gets his feet under him just in time, manages to stumble instead of fall, and TK is in the place he just vacated. (this served a lot of purposes! it slows down the fight scene a little so it paces correctly, gives a little more insight into both how TK processes scrimmages and his characterisation a little, and it gives them more time to build rapport.)

“Think I can distract your captain long enough for JVR to pin him?”

“I think you would’ve done it already if that was your plan,” Nolan answers, just as a hand clamps down on his shoulder. TK wasn’t lying about being a distraction, then. “Fuck,” he sputters out and the hand drives him down, impossibly heavy. (there’s a lot of potential abilities that could’ve sparked this reaction-- we see laughts do it later-- but i needed something not permanently damaging but still dire. i know later i say provy’s invulnerable, because that would be a quick way to explain for people, but what’s really going on here is that he’s controlling his density, and that’s what makes him hard to hurt.) Without thinking, he wraps his own fingers around the strange wrist and opens up the connection, funnels everything he can through his palm, and lets loose.

His attacker screams. (a scream and a short sentence like this is a very effective tool in communicating the gravity of a situation.)

There’s a whistle and the whole room freezes, everyone turning to look at the two of them. Nolan’s on his knees and the man is hunched over him, only upright because of his knees braced against Nolan’s back and his fingers in a death grip on Nolan’s shoulder. (figuring out the physical positioning for this was fun)

Nolan can barely see, can barely process anything through the overwhelming shock radiating from every angle, and the terror rebounding between him and his attacker, getting stronger with every bounce. It’s black like oil, all-consuming as it slides across his vision and down his throat, tasting like sulfur. Everyone always said that fire-and-brimstone was anger, but to Nolan, it’s always been the scentflavourfeeling of pure, unadulterated fear. (okay, this is really what i wanted to show with this scene: exactly how dangerous nolan is and how that danger presents. people are wary of him because he can tell their emotions, but even though that’s embarrassing, the fact that he can control their emotions to the point where they forget everything else is where he gets truly scary. that’s why people don’t touch him. he’s also been trained to react on instinct to do the worst damage possible as fast as possible, and paralyzing fear is gonna get him there every time) He chokes, bends over his thighs, as the weight bears down on him. He’s going to be crushed by a stranger slash teammate on his first day. What a way to go. How embarrassing. (a moment of levity to showcase the danger, and to stay true to nolan’s character.)

He lets go out of self-preservation when his forehead bumps his knees, bracing both his hands against the ground, and there’s a burst of awe that cuts through everything like a beam of sunlight. (a clear contrast to the oil description a paragraph earlier) When he looks up, follows the feeling, TK’s eyes are wide.

“But Provy’s invulnerable,” someone says, stunned, and he wrenches himself away, sliding sideways so his attacker— Provy, apparently— can slump to the ground. Nolan’s on his back, staring at everyone who’s staring at him.

“I—” he starts and then stops, licking his lips. His brain is so fried, too much going through his body. It’s a lot of strong feelings, too many for all his defences, and it’s overwhelming. He tries again. “I.” (i don’t know if anyone notices but i do try to adjust my spelling to the spelling the narrator would use)

“Holy shit, Pat,” TK breathes. Provy groans and Nolan refocusses for a moment, touches his arm just long enough to push contentment through, enough to drive away the horror that lingers. It’s as much for Nolan as it is for Provy, clears away the rest of the black oil. “What did you do?” (trying to establish that patty’s not an asshole and

“If that’s number two,” Claude says, “then I don’t want to see what the number one can do.”

Nico can control fire, and can control it really well. It’s pretty sick to see. He deserved the number one. (someone asked me if this is because he went to the devils-- no, that’s just a coincidence lol i just needed a power that was conceivably more powerful than nolan’s)

Provy pops his head up. He’s younger than Nolan thought, closer to his age and TK’s than Claude’s. He’s grinning, inexplicably. (the duality of provy-kind)

“That was incredible,” he says, and the happiness tastes like Nolan’s own. (worldbuilding!) Inorganic, but it’s the most he can do after putting the guy on his back. “But fuck, I never want to do that again.”

“So,” Coach says, shouldering his way through the crowd. Gingerly, Nolan sits up. “Provorov’s invulnerable to most physical attacks—”

“Haven’t been flattened in years,” Provy interrupts happily. Coach cuts a look at him and he snaps his mouth closed. (he’s still just a kiiiiid they’re all so young)

“—and the new kid comes in and does what no one else has done for years. What the fuck do you have sparking under your skin, bud?”

Nolan swallows. Abilities are weird. People are weird about them, even those who have them too, when it comes to ones like his. (patty being set apart, yet again!) It’s one thing to have some sort of physical power, one that you can turn off most of the time, and entirely another to be able to mess with people’s heads. He kept that shit under lock, as much as he could, even through the Academy. It’s normal to not reveal abilities to the teams, helps keep things secure and confidential. It’s why the rankings exist, so the teams spread out across the continent know a little how to prepare. Now that he’s placed, he should be able to talk about it. Could speak freely, if he wanted, but. But.

Anticipation tastes a lot like metal, that much different from the ozone of adrenaline. A complement. Nolan’s mouth is filled with the iron flavour of it as the whole room waits out to hear what he’s going to say. He licks his lips again, tastes it stronger.

“Empath,” he says quietly, and feels the emotions in the room change like the air before a storm. “I’m an empath.”

For a second, everything is too heightened and chaotic to make sense of, the team readjusting with the new information, and then it all settles into something understandable. The cherry-bright smell of curiosity, confusion blurring the sides of the room, fear and anxiety joining the anticipation on his tongue. There’s satisfaction too, humming gently against Nolan’s body, but he can’t figure out where it’s coming from just yet. (the satisfaction is coming from coach, claude, and tk, all for different reasons, but it also hints at emotions from different people having their own tint)

“Oh,” Provy drags out, running a hand through his hair. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“Touch-based?” Coach presses.

“To transmit emotions, yeah,” he says. “Not, uh. Not for input, though.”

“Input, like—”

“Like I can tell what you’re feeling. All the time, as long as you’re near me,” he says and closes his eyes against the shift that causes too.

“Well,” Coach says after a moment. “Looks like we have some readjusting to do.”

and that’s the end of that segment! i don’t know if i accomplished everything i wanted to, but i certainly tried. i really liked how this came out-- it was punchy without being too long and not too many info-dumps. very nice @ me. i think packing a bunch of emotion in (as was necessary, given nolan’s superpower) and taking time to explain it was really helpful for the pacing. also it let me get away without trying to figure out so much emotion. thank you!

#my fic #hockey fic #hockey bros #i'm glad you liked this fic!!!!#i need to respond to your comment #also if this is not the scrimmage you were talking about.... i 'm sorry #personal issues #tk/patty #idiots to lovers #ferryboatpeak #signed sealed delivered

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Text

Play With Fire - part 9

Sorry that it took a while to update! It’s exam season at the moment and I’m too stressed to write a lot.

By god I’m going to make y’all soft for these two assholes though

Masterlist!

***

He lets go of Jaskier’s hand, leaning on the kitchen table, a sense of determination coursing through his veins like he’s never felt before. “Promise me,” he says.

Jaskier looks at him, confused, curious, fire kindling in those icy eyes.

“Promise me that you’re not gonna walk away from me the first chance you get. Promise me I’m not throwing away the last ten years of my life and my freedom of guilt for you to leave me behind.”

Jaskier blinks, then smiles at him, bright and joyful. “Love, I would never. I would sooner kill every person on this damned continent than leave you behind. I would sooner kill myself than walk away from you.”

And Geralt sees nothing but the bare, honest truth in those ocean eyes. He nods. “Let’s get going, then.”

---

He shows Jaskier where he’s stored his knife set - somewhere at the back of a kitchen cabinet, once bought in the naive hope that he might cook his own meals every night, when he’d first bought this house, before being put away and forgotten over the years. They’re still sharp and clean, and he leaves Jaskier in the kitchen, marvelling over the blades, running a gentle finger across the edge, almost cutting himself - while Geralt goes back to the bedroom.

He takes the duffelbag from under the bed, along with the plastic bag of money. It’s not a lot, only a few hundred bucks, and he considers raiding his own bank account before finding De Vries and Stregobor. He sighs, stuffing the money in the duffelbag, along with half his closet. He supposes they won’t have the time to go shopping once they’re on the run.

A burst of adrenaline explodes in his veins, and he feels dizzy for a split second as he’s sitting there, crouching next to the bag. He’s really doing this. He’s running away with a serial killer to evade going to prison for something that may or may not be his fault - depending on the person you ask.

He’s about to become a fugitive.

He’s about to become a criminal.

He’s about to become an outlaw.

And, as daunting as the idea should be - as daunting as it is, he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face. Yes, they’ll have the rest of the world against them, but at least they’ll be on each other’s side.

He stuffs the clothes, the money, his handcuffs, and his gun in the bag, zipping it closed. He barely remembers to put on his shirt and shoes before slinging the bag over his shoulder, leaving the bedroom for the last time.

Jaskier looks up. “Ready, love?”

Geralt frowns, blinking a few times. “Not entirely.” He hands the bag to Jaskier. “Put this in the car, dear.”

Jaskier smiles at him, crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes as he nods, turning around, snatching the car keys off the living room table, heading out of the front door.

Geralt, in turn, goes to the garage. He was supposed to clean out the mess at some point, supposed to make room so he can park his car inside instead of in the street, but he never got around to it. He digs under a few piles of useless rubbish, pulling out three jerrycans of gasoline. He’d once stored them there, just in case he forgot to refuel on his way back from work one day, but he never did, so they just stood there for years, gathering dust and cobwebs.

And now, he finally has a use for them. Just not in a way that he had expected.

He starts with the first one, emptying half of it in the garage - there’s so many wooden planks, bought for building things he never got around to building, he’s sure the fire will catch on soon, here.

He empties the other half in the living room. The other two are spread out over the rest of the ground floor - he supposes that, if the ground floor is completely destroyed, the top half of the house will follow suit. He realizes he never used any of the rooms upstairs. It doesn’t matter anymore, no one will ever get the chance to use them.

He does a mental check, snatching his passport and wallet from his bedroom as an afterthought, just in case. He takes a matchbook from the kitchen, walking to the front door. He lights a match, taking one last look at his house, before staring into the flame, letting it burn up the match until the fire nearly touches his fingers, before tossing it onto the carpet.

He closes the door behind him, just as the first flames start catching on, the gasoline accellerating the fire at a terrifying speed, and as he walks to the car, he can already see the flickering shadows of the windowframes, cast by the flames.

Jaskier looks at him, smiling, as Geralt gets into the driver’s seat, turning the keys in the ignition, starting the car, driving away from the burning remains of his house - the ruins of his life.

---

Going back to the prison is painfully familiar and strangely unfamiliar at the same time. Sure, he’s done this countless of times before, taken these turns day in day out, but never like this - never with someone else sitting next to him, never with any other intention than just doing his job and cashing his next paycheck, never with the knowledge that this is the last time.

He glances at Jaskier next to him from time to time, smiling at the way the brown curls whip in the air coming through the open window, at the way he basks in the sunlight, at the way he looks perfectly relaxed and happy.

And when he gets the overwhelming urge to tell Jaskier that he’s beautiful, he doesn’t hold back, for once.

He stops at the bank on the way to the prison. He looks up as Jaskier says: “Let me.”

He frowns. “Let you what?”

“Get the money, empty your bank account.” He says it so matter-of-factly that Geralt’s almost tempted to just let him, without asking why. Almost.

“They’re gonna suspect something’s up when a stranger empties my bank account.”

Jaskier smiles at him triumphantly, blue eyes shining brightly as he turns around in his seat, facing Geralt. “Exactly! You see, love, I’ve been thinking. They already know I’m a murderer, but they don’t know we’re together now. If I empty your bank account, they might think I’m either holding you hostage or that I’ve killed you and burned your house down. That way, if we ever get caught, you can feign innocence!”

Geralt hates to admit it, but it’s a pretty solid idea. However- “Who says I want to feign innocence? Who says I don’t want to stick by your side if you go to prison?”

Jaskier sighs, reaching forward to softly cradle Geralt’s cheek in his left hand. “If I go to jail, at least let me have the knowledge that you’re still free, love. Let me at least have that.”

Geralt sighs, and even if he’s still reluctant, he can’t say no to those pleading, blue eyes. “Fine.” He takes his wallet, handing it to Jaskier. “Just be careful, dear.”

Jaskier laughs, reaching into the back seat, zipping the bag open and taking the gun out, tucking it into the back of his jeans before he takes the card from Geralt. He’s still grinning as he presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Love, you know me. I’m never careful.”

Adn when Jaskier leaves the car, Geralt remains seated, hands tightening around the steering wheel, engine still running. And when he sees the younger man walking into the bank, he feels a jolt of adrenaline and deep-rooted arousal coursing through his veins at the sight of the gun sticking out from Jaskier’s waistband.

And when there’s no movement or sound coming from the building for a good ten minutes, he waits patiently - he trusts Jaskier to come out of there unscathed. And when he hears a gunshot ringing out through the street, he jumps a bit in surprise, but keeps his eyes trained on the bank.

And when there are no other signs of life inside the building for another ten minutes, he does start to worry a little bit. Just a little bit.

And when he hears police sirens in the distance, he does grow a bit impatient, a bit more worried.

And when Jaskier runs out of the building with another duffelbag full of, presumably, money, grinning wildly, something feral in those blue eyes as he jumps into the car, slamming the door behind him, Geralt sighs in relief and takes off at full speed, in the opposite direction of the sirens.

“Everything okay? I heard a gunshot-”

His sentence is cut off when Jaskier pulls his face towards him, kissing him deeply. Geralt smiles, before pulling away, looking at the road again. “I assume that means you’re fine.”

“It does, love. Everything alright.” He sounds out of breath, unbridled joy and wildness on his features. “Was just a warning shot. No one got hurt, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Geralt nods, slowly relaxing into his seat as he takes a detour around the police sirens, to the prison.

“So,” Jaskier mumbles after a while, “what’s the plan, love?”

Geralt shrugs. “Go to the prison, use the system to find De Vries and Stregobor, pay them a visit, run away together.” He frowns for a bit, letting another idea run through his mind. “Maybe get a dog?”

Jaskier laughs, head thrown back, sunlight bright on his skin, carefree, happy. It’s the most beautiful thing Geralt’s seen in his entire life.

He takes a mental note, photographing this moment in his mind, storing it away to be remembered until the day he dies - just the two of them, the whole world at their feet, at their mercy, the future bright and wide open for them, full of possibilities.

He never ever wants to forget this moment. He doubts he ever will.

***

Tag list babey! (if you want to be added, just send me a DM or an ask, or put it in the comments, whatever suits you):

@just-a-himbo-and-his-feral-bard, @dandelionslute, @weakforjaskier, @the-blondey, @shipwrecked-nawtali, @bygodstillam, @rum-cream, @random-nerd-3, @allthethingshappening, @agentlewomanandascholar, @tschulijulesjulie, @noobtiedoo, @foddle-the-fiddler, @thenameislion-dandelion, @skai6, @thesmileyplant, @hysteria347, @pensandknittingneedles, @freak-fee-blog, @whenrainbowsend, @flustratedcas, @negatjazzy, @bridgehampton, @lookinforsomeabsinth, @dandelion-and-the-wolf, @sweetiepieplum

#play with fire #part 9 #part 9 already???#how the FUCK #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher #uhhhhh #bank robbery?#bank robbery #idk if that needs a tw #discussions of murder #can't believe i'm saying this but there's a lot of foreplay for the murder #maybe next chapter someone finally dies #maybe not #guess you'll just have to stay tuned wink wink #i'm rambling don't mind me

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy, fluff, slow burn, smut, pining, unrequited love.

rating. ... 18+?

word count. ~7600

chapter 8.

You're reminded of how hard things like this are for you, anxiety digging its dull claws into the pit of your stomach and making the slow crawl up your sternum. It's not painful, per se, but the ache is there, evident with each swipe of your tongue, each persistent checking of your phone. You thrive on your own - much prefer it to the demand that sits heavy on your shoulders, working to coax you from your shell.

It's not that the people weren't nice. No, everyone was perfectly lovely.

Taehyung's friends had gone out of their way to chat with you. That is, except for Yoongi, who'd sat in silence next to you for the duration of time it took to eat his slice of cake - strawberry, you noted with deep satisfaction. He'd simply nodded when he'd finished, plate spotless, and walked off, back in the direction of the kitchen.

Even all of Gahyeon's friends were charming, the kind of people you'd want to grow up with. Beautiful women with the same sweet smile and flirtation on their fingertips; appealing men that had laughter rolling off them in tremendous waves as they shared inside jokes. They'd been incredibly kind, involving you as often as they could, asking about your life and interests and hobbies.

No, you didn't have a problem with anyone there. Well, maybe that wasn't true.

Perhaps you were a little frustrated, coloured a muddy green by the monster that lurked behind your uncomfortable smile. You shouldn't have been, though, and that was what drove you mad, pink swiping over your bottom lip in repetitive motions. Not even your Dior Lip Glow - brought out for special occasions and a far cry from your bubble gum balm - could save you.

Because he was right there. So close you could've closed the distance with an outstretched arm, curled your fingers around the turn of his silver-linked wrist and distracted him. Not that you would. Of course not.

You were here with someone else and well, he could do what he wanted.

The knowledge does little to quell the ache in your chest, though.

You'd always known Jungkook's effect on people - had felt it firsthand. The way he could make you feel like you were the only person in the world, as if every thought you had was worthy of his time. You knew the way he laughed, that godforsaken witch's cackle somehow endlessly endearing. Even those two larger-than-usual front teeth of his could be considered positive traits. They all amounted to more than you could ever begin to put into words.

So you try to ignore the way the sound nearly smothers you now, pervades your senses and beats against your eardrums. You turn your focus on something else - anything else - to forget the pealing bells of the girl he's speaking with and how, together, it sounds like music. You bite at nothing, gnashing your molars into oblivion when her voice joins the fray, velveteen and promising. You can imagine the way she looks at him - the same way you had, maybe still did - and how he'd be honey in her hands, seeping between her fingers.

"Actually, I know Jiyeon, too."

Your name tears you from your thoughts, snaps you into reality with a harsh tug. The same feeling comes physically, but far gentler. It's a hand on the back of your arm, just above your elbow. You almost flinch - almost - turning with what you hope is surprise and nonchalance on your face.

"Pardon?" The single word is laced with enough emotion to explode on impact, breaking across the dusty line of your obliterated enamel and slipping into the sharp evening breeze. Whether Dahye - you think that's her name - notices, you're not sure. She simply meets your stare with a pretty smile, delicate chin canted in curiosity.

It's Jungkook that has you reeling back, working desperately to rearrange your emotions, because whatever he'd expected to find in the shape of your mouth, the depth of your eyes - it isn't this.

The second feels like an eternity before it's swept up in the turn of his lips and his lovable laugh.

"I was just telling Jihye—" Dammit, wrong name. "—that we know each other." Something sweeps along the undercurrent of his response, tickling at the ends of syllables without overwhelming. Your eyes narrow, trying to read the answer he offers and everything in between.

Once upon a time, you'd thought you could read him like a book. Now, you're not so sure. The invisible ink disappears into his skin, the spaces between his teeth. They're not shades of gold, gleaming bright for your eyes only.

"What a small world," Jihye chirps, ever the benign figure. "Did you go to school together?"

He answers before you can, nodding in affirmation. "We were both doing art degrees. We got paired up for a few projects and helped each other out of tight spots." It shouldn't hurt, the way he speaks so nonchalantly. You should be bobbing along, offering casual anecdotes that give truth to his words. Instead, you feel as if you're six feet under and clawing at your own grave, sealed there by a one Jeon Jungkook.

Opening your mouth feels like a colossal chore and you're worried you won't be able to speak around the dirt that bites into your lungs. It tastes bitter and angry - gasoline and saltwater.

Neither of them notice, though, Jihye already somehow - no, you knew exactly how - enthralled in some story he's telling. He was an expert at that, after all, weaving colourful pictures with all the practice of Shakespeare. He'd done it for four years straight, dragging you through the fables that littered his brain.

"I'm going to get another drink," you announce, out of the blue, in the middle of their stupid mellifluous laughter.

Jihye waves as you leave. Jungkook would do the same, if he didn't feel locked in place by the sight of your retreating figure.

You make your way through dispersed throngs of people, greeting familiar faces when you pass them. There's Hoseok and Gahyeon standing together by the main entryway, the leading roles in a romance as they duck their heads and giggle together. Jin's booming voice can be heard from the kitchen, somewhere behind the state-of-the-art appliances because you can't see him. The familiar lilac of Namjoon's crown catches your eye exiting what you assume is the washroom, his beer held loosely between two fingers.

"Kim seongsangnim!" The title has him turning his head slowly, as if surprised. You know he isn't, spy it in the flat line of his smile. Still, he puts on a show, glancing this way and that to figure out who has called out to him.

It isn't until you're right in front of him, head barely clearing the slope of his jaw, that he exclaims. "Oh, Jiyeon-ah."

"Do you know where Taehyung went?" The question doesn't surprise him as he cocks his head toward what you assume is the rear of the home. "He, Jimin, and Yoongi-hyung are all downstairs. I was just heading back." Without missing a beat, you follow after him, trading your now-empty champagne flute for another on the kitchen island when you pass.

"Gahyeon's really nice," you muse, trailing after the other. You know you don't need to fill the silence, but you try anyway.

The producer hums in agreement. "Yeah, she is. I think she's good for Hope." You're not sure what that means but you're glad, all things considered. The two were like sunflowers, craning for warmer weather and rays; it made you happy they'd found each other.

"And what about everyone else?" It's a question that comes after a moment's hesitation. Your relationship with he and Yoongi had changed over the weeks, morphed into something more relaxed, but you still wondered where that invisible line sat. You worried, briefly, that you'd thrown yourself across it when Namjoon tosses a look over his shoulder.

"What do you mean?" There's no disapproval in his tone, only careful curiosity.

"Do any of you have someone special in your lives?" Another pause, tasting the inquiry before it can get you in trouble. "Or is anyone catching your eye here?"

You're treated with a laugh and that relieves the tension you're carrying, dragging it off your shoulders with the sound.

"It's not my place to say," Namjoon answers, unflappable. The respect he has for his friends is unparalleled. You like that about him. You feel silly for asking, though he continues speaking, voice softly amused. "I don't think any of us are going to find our next true loves here, though."

Your head cocks. He sounds so sure. "Why not?"

"Didn't you notice that's what most of these girls are looking for? It's hardest to find something when you're actively seeking it out."

Now that he mentioned it, you had noticed the way the other guests had seemed to make a beeline for the six - no, five - men who were otherwise strangers. You'd thought it was a little odd but had chalked it up to their good looks and whatever Gahyeon had shared about them. It clicks into place more slowly than it should. "Oh."

Namjoon chuckles but the sound is friendly, strings of mockery few and far between. "Exactly."

"Jiyeon-ah! You've come to join us!" The sandy strands catch the light before you see the rest of him, Jimin's head popping up over the back of some very comfortable looking chairs. He's half-turned to face you, beaming brightly as another head ascends into view beside him.

"She has a viewing room?" You can't help the way you sound, incredulous and envious all at once. Maybe you'd have to offer to be her live-in maid.

"Isn't it great?" Taehyung's at your side in an instant, brushing past Namjoon who settles into a seat a few feet away. You wave at Yoongi who's sequestered in a corner, playing with his phone and nursing a sizable glass of red wine, before meeting your boyfriend's stare. "I wasn't sure where you went but we got distracted in here." He sounds a little guilty, his lips soft against your cheek.

Your hand finds a home against his chest and you apply minimal pressure - the laziest rebuff you can possibly offer and one he ignores, arms looping comfortably around your waist. "You left me with the wolves." There's absolutely no malice in your words.

"They're not wolves! Everyone's really nice!" Jimin's not wrong.

"I'm kidding," you tease. "Though, Hoseok oppa might disagree." The sound of your snicker is amplified by the others' amusement, even Yoongi who looks up from his phone with a smug gummy smile.

"Did I hear my name?" The devil has materialized seemingly out of thin air, hip cocked as he descends the stairs. Luckily, he's alone.

"No!" You and Jimin chorus in near unison, sharing a conspiratorial grin before laying the rest of your charm - which you possessed nearly nothing of, in comparison to Jimin - on the suspicious brunet.

"Where's Gahyeon?" Taehyung verbalizes the question you're all thinking.

"Upstairs. She sent me to come get you." The answer is followed by a sniff, a wave of his hand as if he's indignant about whatever's been said. You know he isn't - and so does everyone else - but you play along like good sports, hmm-ing thoughtfully and expressing your thanks. "They want to play some get-to-know-you games. One of her friends is a teacher so she thought it was a good idea."

You meet Yoongi's stare over Taehyung's shoulder and you're pleasantly surprised he looks just as unimpressed as you feel. It makes you chuckle, stifling the sound into the collar of Taehyung's shirt.

"What are we, in sixth grade?" Despite the roll of feline eyes, Yoongi has risen from his seat and stepped closer to the stairs.

"Yes, you are." Hoseok's response is emphatic, as if he's talking to children. Then he's grinning, turning on his heel, and disappearing back the way he came. "Come on, kids!"

That garners a response, the remaining five of you shouting after him but doing as you're told, nonetheless, filing back up to the main floor.

"Jiyeon-ah, come sit!" Gahyeon's beckoning you from her seat, cross-legged and comfortable. There are open seats to both sides, and you sink into the one on her right, offering a grateful smile that she returns with ease. "Everyone, sit beside someone you don't know."

The look on Taehyung's face is that of a kicked puppy as she pointedly meets his gaze, gesturing for him to take up root elsewhere. You can't help but laugh, waving apologetically at your boyfriend's back as he drops into a spot across the loose circle, flanked by two girls that greet him warmly.

It surprises you how little it bothers you.

"I guess I'm here."

The last person you want beside you is joining you on the couch, Jihye nowhere in sight. He's got his hood up around his head, pulled forward like some kind of Sith Lord, and you can't ignore such a golden opportunity for mockery.

"Sorry - I'm not the droid you're looking for, Darth Vader." God, you're proud of that one, amusement twinkling in your eyes.

"Oh, right."

He makes a movement as if he's about to move but then whips around just as quickly, hand out, palm facing you. You take the bait, fingers flying to your throat in a dramatic re-enactment of the famous scene. You sputter around an obnoxious gasp, eyes rolling back as he laughs, the sound purposefully - and truthfully, very poorly - rasped out.

It's only when Gahyeon speaks that you're reminded of where you are and who you're with. You're immediately sober, straightening up at the same time Jungkook does.

"So, we're going to play some games to get to know everyone." No one dares scoff at the proposed activity. At least, not to her face. No one wants to see her angelic smile drop - or deal with whatever eccentric wrath Hoseok might unleash. "First, we'll do two truths and a lie. Pretty self-explanatory, right?" A single hand rises now, delicately presenting her generous glass of Riesling. Mischief dances across her expression. "Everyone will say which they think is the lie. For those that get it right, you don't have to drink. For those that do, a sip of your drink!"

"And no baby sips, either!" Her partner-in-crime choruses, raising his shot glass.

You study the near-full flute in your hand. Should you grab another?

"I've got you covered," comes the soft voice from your right and you follow the path of his fingers to the assorted soju bottles by his feet. A brow quirks in silent question and you meet his stare like a concerned mother. "Hobi-hyung told me to stock up before he went to get the rest of you."

You snort. "Well, you definitely did."

"Keep it up and you won't get any." His threat is rounded edges and hardly a threat at all.

It's so easy to get lost in a world with him, one miles away from this one. You have to bite back your response, instead returning your attention to the blonde on your left.

"I'll go first," she chirps, all sunshine and smiles. "I'm twenty-seven, I model, and I'm related to Shin Kwangho." The conspiratorial smile you receive is well-intended, but you're still dumbfounded for the right answer. You hadn't thought to ask how old she was or what she did and neither she nor Hoseok had offered anything up over the course of the evening.

Could you see him dating an older woman? Well, yes. But was she also beautiful enough to be featured on the cover of magazines? Also, yes.

Your brow furrows, fraught with confusion, and you barely hear the whisper above your right shoulder. "She's older than Hobi-hyung."

"Okay, at the count of three, please indicate with your fingers which you think is a lie." You think she'd be a wonderful MC or variety show hostess by the way she patiently studies the room, making sure each other person is ready. She's very much in her element now, surrounded by people she (mostly) intimately knows. "One, two— three!"

Your hand flies up, two fingers held up. Beside you, and along the circle, the same is reflected by most people.

"I'm not a model. I'm an art dealer." It's only Jin that's gotten the answer wrong.

He takes a swig from his bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a flourish before bowing to the winners. "I won't lose again," he promises. Yoongi laughs at that - a sound you hardly catch from where you sit, but that you can read in the way his lips pull back and his eyes crinkle.

"Your turn, Jiyeon-ah!"

Shit. You hadn't expected it to go counterclockwise. You scramble for facts and settle for stealing one of Gahyeon's. "I'm twenty-two, I have a cat, and um—" You're trying to think of a last one, your cheeks filling with air as you inhale deeply, seeking an epiphany in the breath. "—I play the piano."

You're not sure who will get it right. Jungkook, maybe. Taehyung, too. You're not sure how much you've revealed to Namjoon and Yoongi but you know they have a better chance.

"One, two— three!" Gahyeon's quick this time. She can read the room.

The results are varied, with most people holding two fingers aloft. As predicted, Jungkook's got his pointer finger in the air, pride stretching his smile and revealing adorable bunny teeth; Yoongi joins him in the realms of success and so do a handful of others who'd simply hazarded guesses. "I'm twenty-three. Sorry, everyone."

"But you’re twenty-two." The confusion reads like playful belligerence, filling the otherwise quiet circle as people take their requisite drinks. Taehyung's brow is knit, mouth drawn into a flat pout. He looks so cute, you almost want to give him a pity point.

Jungkook answers for you, shaking his head as his hand drops into his lap. "No, she's twenty-three."

The older of the two ignores the correction. "You said you were twenty-two."

"It was my birthday after we met."

"You didn't tell me?" Now that stirs the group, unease drawing forth conversation as it that might stifle the sudden discomfort. Even Gahyeon looks like she's at a loss for words, turning to Hoseok with a look of alarm in her eyes.

You're locked in a staring match with your boyfriend, unable to read the emotion that flickers across his face.

"Okay, let's keep moving!" It's Hoseok to the rescue, clapping his hands to gather everyone's attention once again. Taehyung breaks before you do, swivelling his stare to his friend as you heave a sigh. You'll deal with this later. "Jungkookie, it's your turn."

You feel him stir beside you, sitting up ever so slightly straighter as he speaks. "I have less than ten tattoos, I'm lactose intolerant, and I've been to Disneyland." You don't even have to think about your answer. He drank banana milk like he was made of it and he'd taken you to the happiest place on Earth for your birthday two years ago.

"One, two— three!"

Your pointer finger shoots up, as does Namjoon's, Yoongi's, and Jimin's. Jin's does, too, after a moment of hesitation. He seems eager not to lose again - at least, not so soon. Almost everyone else seems to have gone with the lactose intolerance lie.

"I've got more than ten tattoos." As if to prove it, Jungkook waves his hand around, showing off the ink that litters his otherwise unblemished skin.

People take their losses easily and the game continues, rolling to the girl next to Jungkook. She's beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way, with pretty eyes and thin petal pink lips. She lists her facts: half Japanese, born in America, and a former idol trainee. Everything seems about as preposterous as the next, so you don't think too hard, instead taking the time to rib your seatmate.

"The tattoo thing wasn't fair. You shouldn't get to use absolutes." You don't really mind - you hadn't lost, after all, but you like giving him a hard time.

He accepts it easily, allows it to slip off his broad back like a duck in water. "And you should've told TaeTae it was your birthday."

You’re not sure what you’d expected. He wasn’t wrong. No, not even a little bit. But you’re immediately on the offensive, mouth drawing into a flat line, sharp as the blade that seeks to slot between your ribs and remind you of your failures.

“I know.” You're begrudging, words barely audible behind your cage of teeth. They're coloured black and blue from an internal assault that drips saltwater into your lungs and has emotion sloshing over the edges like a too-full cup.

He should let it go. Your relationship isn’t the kind where he can ask these sort of things still - and yet he does. Wants to know for reasons he’s not quite ready to face. “Why didn’t you?”

Your answer comes slowly, following a sip of your champagne. Like a good third of the room, you’d guessed wrong.

“We’d just met. I didn’t want to bring it up and make it seem like I expected anything.”

Jungkook has to bite back a laugh because your reasoning is so very you it hurts. “Telling someone it’s your birthday isn’t a bad thing, Jiyeon-ah.” The shrug that rolls over your shoulders and tucks your chin against your chest would indicate otherwise.

He can’t help but sigh and turn his gaze to the next person, carefully choosing his words as he does his next answer.

(It was definitely three. There was no way she’d never had a boyfriend.)

“Imagine if you were in his shoes,” he reasons, finally allowing his eyes to flit back to your face. You’re focused on some point at your feet, not meeting his stare. “Honestly, neither of you are in the wrong. The fact that it’s coming out here, among a bunch of strangers, probably sucks, though.”

You won’t look at him but he can tell you’re listening, sees it in the telltale flex of your jaw and pursing of your mouth.

“Anyway, you should talk to him later. Explain yourself. He’ll appreciate that.”

“I know,” you say in a small voice that tugs at his heartstrings.

Right then and there, he wants to tell you everything you want to hear – lace together stories of happier days and stronger bonds. But it hurts a little, too, so he doesn’t.

He might want those things for you but he wants them with him.

“You got that wrong.” You choose to break the silence with a teasing prod, single digit digging into the taut line of his side. He blinks at you, surprised by the abrupt change in your mood. He knows it’s a façade – can practically see the mask lining your skin and fading into the strands at your temple. You’re holding yourself a little too tightly, the jab a touch too hard to be relaxed.

He takes the shot-sized swig without complaint, all the while meeting your eyes over the mouth of the green glass bottle.

“Careful.” It’s less of a reprimand than a gentle reminder, uttered quietly into the shell of your ear. Even at such a close proximity, it feels far away, shrouded in cotton balls and sugar dust.

You take a second to collect your thoughts, momentarily surprised by the weight of your tongue. You mull over this newfound sensation as it drags in your mouth, swipes lewdly over your bottom lip. “’m fine.” It comes out sounding anything but, vaguely slurred and off-kilter. Still, you push yourself straight – hands steadied against warmth that sears into your palms and flexes with the movement.

That’s not right.

You blink owlishly, eyes tracking movement much slower than you’d intended, and you find yourself drawn into the blinding glory of a smile. It’s amused, lips drawn wide around laughter that sinks into your eardrums and settles like feathers, further buffering the words that slip out in between each breath.

“You’re drunk.” Jungkook sounds terribly entertained when you settle back down, temporarily forgetting your earlier decision to stand up. You were too comfortable, caught between his solid form and the seat cushions.

“I’m not drunk!” And you’re not. A bit tipsy, perhaps. There’s a pleasant glow at the edges of your vision, heat warming you from the inside out as if there’s fire and brimstone in your chest. Sure, things might be moving a bit too slowly – or too quickly, depending on the moment – for your liking but it’s not enough to make you feel sick. It’s just vertigo when you move. You’d be fine.

Another laugh, softer this time, for your sake. He can see the petulance in your stare, the way you huff dramatically as you all but toss yourself against the back of the couch. It’s so dangerous when you’re this close and so beguiling. “Fine, you’re not drunk,” he agrees in a voice that isn’t very believable. “But you are something.”

“Yeah, she is.” A new voice – a familiar voice, you think. Your head swivels, searching for the sound, and lands with a dull thud on the man towering over your shoulder, handsome face scrutinising your own.

“Kim Taehyung!” The excitement forces its way out, spreading like honey over your lips and teeth and coating the words. You’re vibrating with delight, entire body shifting to hold yourself over the back of the couch. The movements aren’t nearly as smooth as you’d hoped, your knee knocking harshly into Jungkook’s hip, but you find your way there. “Where’ve you been?”

If he’s annoyed, he doesn’t show it, boxy smile tugging his mouth into the shape with ease. He’s got a hand on the side of your face, fingers threading into the downy softness at your nape. “You fell asleep on poor Jungkookie.”

The realization is unpleasant, shame climbing the column of your spine and settling comfortably into the hollow of your throat.

“I did what?” You think you might’ve screeched the words if you weren’t on the edge of inebriation, embarrassment painting your face in shades of scarlet and roses. It blooms beneath your cheeks and sinks into every other visible part of you, tipping your ears and nose brightly.

“Yeah, you’re really bad at calling people on their bullshit.” The broad figure beside you has the smuggest expression on his face. If you hadn’t just used him as your own personal pillow, you might’ve smacked it off.

As it stands, that’s probably not the best way to say thank you.

“I thought I was doing fine.” There’s that competitive edge, mirrored between your brows and in your words.

“You were,” your boyfriend reassures, quick to placate you. “But you don’t know many people so I think halfway through the first round, it kind of just went downhill.” You appreciate that he’s trying to make you feel better, softening the blow with his sweet smile and sweeter words.

“Then how come you’re fine?” You demand like it’s a personal affront.

“I don’t drink, remember?”

Okay, fair. “And what about you?” You’ve rounded on Jungkook, finger pressed into the centre of his chest, right over his solar plex.

“I’m not a lightweight.” He’s the opposite of Taehyung – completely okay with obliterating your ego, if only because you’re not not-drunk and anything he says won’t be remembered anyway. That, and it’s just too funny to see you all riled up, inhaling sharply as if to rebuff his words.

You look comical as your hands fly to your hips. It’s less so when you teeter in your half-reclined position, feet unsteady beneath your folded weight as you dare to tip back an inch too far.

Jungkook’s immediately reaching out, palm pressed to the small of your back to prevent you from toppling over, and Taehyung’s hand on your shoulder is gripping you tightly.

“Watch it!” Spoken in unison and shared with a look.

If you weren’t so grateful, you’d groan and tell them to get a room. “Okay, okay!” With their respective touches anchoring you in place, your hands fly up in surrender, held aloft in front of your face like some sort of white flag. “I’ll take it easy.”

“We should actually probably head home.” The words have you focusing hard, fuzzy attention turning to take stock of your surroundings. Most people – though there seem to be far less of them than when you’d less counted - seem to be edging toward the main foyer, ushered into the night by the gracious goodbyes of the hosts.

“What time is it?” You ask in the same instance you’re rising, feet landing on solid ground unsteadily. You wave off the hands that dart towards you, a bashful frown stirring across our chapped lips.

“Just after midnight.” Taehyung as he rounds the couch to you, fingers finding yours with ease before he tugs you close against his side. You’re not sure whether it’s for your benefit or his but you sink easily into him, head settling against his shoulder.

You try to ignore the way the third in your party turns away, hands jamming into the pouch of his hooded sweatshirt. He remains steadfastly removed when he speaks, though he’s soft, polite. “I’m going to see if I can help clean up.”

If his change of demeanour is evident at all, Taehyung gives no indication, simply reaching out to clap his friend on the shoulder. “We’ll see you, then.”

“Get home safely, Kook.” The words are barely out before you’re being led away.

You don’t miss how he turns at the last second, the same wistfulness you feel reflected in the quiet of his eyes.

You could very easily fall asleep like this, coaxed into dreamland by his touch. It feels so good, so soothing, traced into the length of your side and over any exposed skin he can find. You think he’s depositing sleeping powder with his lazy scrawl, inscribing everything left unspoken in the circular movements and sloping edges.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he hums happily into your neck, ignoring the way the hair there tickles his nose and gets into his eyes. He doesn’t mind these little things when he’s locked up in this piece of paradise.

“Thank you for inviting me.” You’re just as earnest, filled with all the eagerness of a budding relationship and untarnished by time.

Still, there are things you have to say. Things you want to apologize for, even if they seem miles away now.

“I’m sorry about the…” Careful, you think. You want to express yourself clearly, paint a picture that makes sense for both of you. Something real and true, despite your love for the abstract. You begin again. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my birthday and I’m sorry if that made it seem like I didn’t want to celebrate with you.” The usual rushed nature of your speech is decidedly lacking, instead lulled into a prudently composed apology. “We’d only known each other for a few days, and I didn’t want it to feel like an obligation.”

You don’t mention how the day had still felt been a dream because you’d spent it with him and that was all you could’ve asked for.

Against your shoulder, you feel his chin and the clear movement of his nod.

“I wasn’t mad,” he reassures with a sweep of his lips, meagre over cotton. “I felt silly—” You don’t deserve him and his honesty, how he bares himself up to you as if it’s the easiest task in the world. “—but I wasn’t angry and I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was.”

Your heart sings in your chest, a robin’s song that has you turning in his arms. It’s a little awkward, first untangling your legs and then hooking your knee over his hip, but it feels necessary. A physical token of how much you want him as you breathe life into the same verbal reminder.

“You know you’re too good at this.” Not that you’re complaining – not that you don’t love the openness with which he holds himself to you, laid plain for your prying eyes.

“Too good at what?” The question comes with a gift in the form of his signature smile. It follows with a suggestive roll of his hips.

You can’t help but laugh, depositing the sound against his bare chest. “Communicating, you animal!” The insult is anything but reproachful, instead dangling smugly over an almost wanton intonation. “You’re never afraid to say what’s on your mind.”

He’s got you held against him like he might swallow you whole and you don’t mind, finding peace in his warmth and softness.

“I just think if you never express how you feel, you’re never going to be able to get past it.” You want to liken him to some sage philosopher, the comparison growing stronger when he hums thoughtfully, gaze lost somewhere above your heads. “And I owe it to you to try, so it’s easier. I want this to work.”

Staring up into his face, memorizing the way his cheeks swell with his smile and his dark lashes frame eyes that crescent into pretty little moons, you understand.

“Me too,” you breathe, pressing a sugar sweet kiss to his bared throat.

You don’t miss the way he tenses around you before relaxing all at once, enveloping you with every part of him. His breath is hot in your hair, his hands familiar around your waist. You’re not sure whether you feel it in your lips or toes when he kisses you but you know it runs through every inch of you like a sugar rush.

It’s him that’s prompting you to drag yourself closer – if that’s even possible – and it’s him that’s got you seeking his taste, dragging your tongue over his bottom lip in some sort of bid for entry.

“Who’s the animal now?” Despite the playfulness in his tone, you can hear the creep of something else. Hunger, need – all the same things painting your breaths.

“Still you.” You murmur in between kisses that edge on sloppy, overly eager as they are. “But I can be, too.” A sharp tug at his bottom lip, edge of teeth sharp around the soft petal. “Not mutually exclusive, you know?” You don’t know how you’re finding words when all you want is him. It’s hard to be coherent around the Taehyung-shaped distraction your mouth is roaming across.

“You’re feisty when you’re drunk,” he quips, breathless against your crown when you descend further than the tantalizing slope of his neck, mouthing over the bare expanse of his honeyed chest.

The comment has you nipping gently, just enough to bloom crimson where your teeth have left little indents. “I’m not drunk.” Three words spoken more concisely than you have all night, driven to enunciation by sheer unabashed need.

“I’m kidding.” It’s less of an apology and more of a purr, stoking the coals that burn heavily in the pit of your stomach.

You’re tempted to remind him of his hubris once again but are rudely stopped by firm hands that rearrange you onto your back like you’re nothing but a ragdoll. By the way you huff, he knows you’re more than that – a girl with a beating heart and needs.

Forearms form a cage on either side of your head, and he lingers for but a moment, only long enough to catch you in a sweet, all-encompassing kiss that has your head spinning. You’re gasping when he withdraws, pitifully inclined to chase him when he slides further down your prone form, settling on his knees between your legs.

It’s a beautiful sight – better than the Mona Lisa or David or any of the greats.

His palm is soft on the swell of your hip, fingers tucking beneath the flimsy lace that nestles against your skin. He continues to feel the patterns that run through the material, smoothing it once, twice, before dragging it lower and lower in marginal increments. You feel like you might explode when it’s caught halfway down your thighs, stuck between his knee and complete freedom.

“Raise your legs, jagi.” The request shoots electricity up your spine. You don’t even have to think twice, doing exactly as you’re told, ankles brought parallel with your hips.

The scrap of fabric is gone then, loftily tossed across the room without a second thought.

You almost laugh, the sound bubbling forth but replaced by a keening moan when he sinks two fingers into you. Without time to adjust to the sudden intrusion, the burn is incredible, softened only by the slick that coats your thighs and drips over his fingers. He stretches you lazily, with slow measured pumps of his wrist; somehow, you’re already standing on the edge of a precipice, bliss calling your name from the abyss below.

He must see it in your face, framed between your pretty thighs that spread for him, calves resting heavily on his broad shoulders. “You’re so wet.” You don’t think you’ve ever been so turned on by his voice, the way the velvet depths fill your ears with a melody. They play over the chords of your heart like practiced hands. “So ready and beautiful.”

The realization is fully formed with his words. You are ready.

It’s an epiphany and Taehyung – darling Taehyung – gives you exactly what you want. He adds a third finger with the utmost care, angled in such a way that he can brush the pad of his thumb over the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. He ghosts a kiss over your calf, words disappearing against your skin. “Where are the condoms?”

You can’t even bring yourself to feel shame as you gesture wildly toward your side table. It’s just out of range for you but he closes the distance easily, his much longer reach allowing him to dip into the confines of the drawer.

Seeing the packet in his slender, capable fingers has your pulse speeding up, a nervous flush colouring your entire body. You know it isn’t unease that has you quivering, a bow strung too tightly beneath him.

“Please, Tae,” you can’t help the way you sound when he withdraws his fingers and - god have mercy on your poor soul - sucks the digits into his mouth. Glistening with your arousal, they disappear between pouting lips and return pristinely clean.

“Yes, jagi?”

He’s teasing you, taking his time in tugging his boxers off. You think you’d be mad if he weren’t so flawless, golden perfection sat bare before you. When you don’t respond, he takes his time in tearing the corner of the package and discarding same off the side of the bed. His movements are excruciating as he pinches the tip and rolls the condom over the leaking swollen head of his cock.

“What do you need?” The way he winds you up should be illegal, as should his expression when he drops back onto the bed, settling between your bent knees. There’s only darkness in his eyes, the entire ring of hazel engulfed by pupils that threaten to devour you.

You reach for him, a child seeking the thing they love most. You half expect him to draw away and giddily coo when he leans into your hands, allows his angelic face to be cradled between your palms.

“You. I want you.” No, that’s not quite right. “I need you.”

You think you might’ve given him the great gift in the world when he beams, shattering every wall of yours and sweeping shadows from your insides. He’s glorious sunshine, consuming warmth that pervades every inch. Sliding forward, his arm falls into place at the side of your face, delicate touch drifting through the silk of your hair. “Tell me how badly.” He asks so sweetly, you can’t deny him.

“So badly. Like I haven’t needed anything before.” Perhaps loose lips could sink ships, but you think they might also find buried treasure. You’re certain of it when you pull him to you, his frame fitting snugly against yours - a missing puzzle piece.

You feel him, heavy and hot between your legs. The way he rocks against you has you pawing at his chest, hands falling from his cherubic face. He rocks himself forward experimentally, enticed by the ease with which his straining cock glides through your folds, never delivering in the promise you so terribly need fulfilled.

“Tae,” you whine, features twisted into a picture of anguish as he catches your clit and then disappears. He doesn’t move again, instead studying your face as if he might find the answers to all of life’s questions buried in your smile, the lashes that flutter up at him.

“I’ve got you.” He does – hook, line, and sinker.

And then he pushes into you with one fluid flex of his hips. He fits into you like you were made for him, your aching walls drawing him deeper and deeper until he’s bottomed out and snuggled between your legs. You immediately lock your ankles around him, heels digging into his back in a bid to bring him closer.

It takes herculean effort to not fuck you until you’re seeing stars but Taehyung’s reward is the way you look.

He wants to imprint it into his memory forever. The way your mouth falls open, lips parted around his name like a prayer. How your back arches and he wants to bury his face into your cleavage.

“So beautiful, Jiyeon.” He finds you somehow, driven by the insatiable need to swallow your moans off your tongue. He sets a leisurely pace that has him drawing out slowly to admire every drag of you around his cock and you whine each time he nearly fully withdraws before thrusting back into you with a heart-wrenching smile. He loves the way you sound, all needy and breathless. “You feel so good,” he murmurs against your mouth, tongue dragging lasciviously over the corner where your own lolls. “Taste so good, too.”

In true fashion, you’re filled with delight at the praise, raising your hips to meet each measured, tantalizing roll of his. “Please, Tae. Please.” You’re not sure what you’re asking for, only that you need more. There’s a molten lava burning through you, swallowing everything in its sight, but it isn’t enough.

“Please what?” He’s straightening above you and reclining, dragging your legs from around him until they’re resting in the crook of each elbow. It’s a powerful position that has him admiring every curve of your body, his cock twitching as he smoothly pushes into you again. He can feel your need like an onerous wave but he’s feeling playful.

“Fuck me!” It explodes out of your mouth, wrenched forth by the teasing he’s been doling out.

“But I am,” he sounds almost dejected when he says that and your eyes snap open only to be greeted by his too-smug grin. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Two can play that game. “Well, then do better.”

That’s what pushes him to your figurative level, dragging him to hell. He grips your hips in his hands and tugs you forward with little care, burying himself to the hilt with a sharp breath. You quake with the sudden aggression and mewl with delight when he begins ramming into you with purpose, meeting his each and every thrust eagerly.

This is what you needed – to be consumed wholly, in no half measures.

“Oh, Tae.” His name barely makes it into the air when it’s snapped back with a gasp. The pad of his thumb is sweeping over your clit in time with each of his thrusts. It’s insistent, near punishing, as he pistons into you.

He's no longer Cupid playing a harp, drawing you slowly but surely to the edge; he's Lucifer in a mad descent toward Earth and you're caught in his wings. The knowledge that he's there at the edge with you, fingers laced with yours as he dives toward release, has you clenching around him. Fingers seek purchase anywhere you can find it. First down his back, carving mountain ranges over muscle, and then into his inky strands, tugging with abandon. You're so close you can feel it, a sob wrenched forth when he shifts and the new angle has him dragging over your g-spot with each thrust.

Between the pitching moans and your fluttering walls, he's free-falling, entire body vibrating with tension. He snaps forward with a wrecked grunt, signalling his impending doom. "Come with me, jagi. Please." His hips stutter, his motions uncoordinated and sloppy as he chases his end.

When Taehyung's lips find yours once again, your own name returned to you with aching adoration, you join him.

White paints your vision and the inside of latex and you're unravelling, held only to the physical plane by arms that soothe over every part they can touch. Over your thighs, across your hips, up and back over the swell of your heaving chest. Even half-wrecked and fumbling, he's an angel, taking care of you like it's his job. He guides sweet nothings into the shell of your ear, his tongue laving hotly over your neck, as he slows his thrusts, finally coming to a sated standstill.

"Are you okay?" With the fucked out look in his eyes and the way he gingerly extracts himself from your arms, pressing kisses to every salt-sweet part of you as he goes, he's divine. Even the very mundane task of knotting the condom and tossing it into the trashcan beside your bed is somehow ethereal. You don't think you'll get over it.

"One hundred percent."

notes. a small part of me was like, "why is there so much debauchery?" but then i thought, "why not."

anyway, the next chapter will explore her and jungkook's relationship through flashbacks, as well as some good ol' bro bonding and other goodness.

thank you for reading, as always! xo

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